#Adjustable hinge head strap

[yannawayne]

i. what's up danger?

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established relationship, Mild sexual jokes, Making out, Blood, Explosions, Mentions of Child Abuse, Good Aunt-Mom Selina Kyle AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

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༻⊰───⋅

“Uh, good morning?” you offered weakly, trying to give a casual shrug despite the mess around you. “Mom, this might sound insane. But, I think I might have accidentally discovered superpowers.”

Selina stared at you, blinking slowly as she processed the scene before her. Her lips twitched as if she were trying to hold back a laugh or perhaps some form of disbelief.

“Accidentally discovered superpowers?” she echoed. “I think you've been around your boyfriend and his family too much. Baby—”

Before she could finish, your hand instinctively reached out. With a flick of your wrist, a web shot from your fingers and latched onto the door behind her. In a heartbeat, the door was yanked from its hinges, splintering as it flew across the room and crashed into the wall with a resounding thud.

Selina’s eyes widened in shock as she turned to face the now doorless doorway. She blinked at the empty space where the door had once been.

“Well,” she said, “I guess that’s one way to explain things.”

༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 9:02 PM - Catwoman’s Apartment, Gotham City.

SELINA'S DEFT FINGERS SLID over the fabric of the dress, adjusting and smoothing it until it drapes perfectly over your figure. The elegant emerald gown shimmered softly under the dim apartment lights, the material flowing luxuriously against your skin.

"You didn’t steal this, did you?" you murmur, adjusting the necklace that rests delicately around your neck. "I’d rather not end up in jail tonight."

"The dress? No, it’s one of my old ones," Selina scoffed, turning away and handing you a pair of black heels. "But if anyone asks about the necklace, just say it’s a family heirloom. Which, technically, it is."

You shot her a pointed look. She rolled her eyes with a smirk.

"Oh, hush. I haven’t stolen anything in... at least a month," she drawled.

"A month, wow! That’s a new record," you teased, slipping into the heels.

Selina laughed and shook her head. "Don’t get too comfortable. Just because I’m on a hiatus doesn’t mean I’ve gone straight."

"Well, let’s hope your hiatus lasts at least through tonight," you winced.

She smirked, giving you a once-over. "Trust me, darling, tonight is all about you."

You were about to respond when Selina suddenly snapped her fingers.

“Before I forget...” she said, reaching into one of her drawers. She pulled out a thigh strap and wrapped the leather around your leg, fastening it securely. 

Then, she slid one of her blades into the strap. You rolled your eyes but accepted the gesture with a resigned nod. It was Gotham, after all—being prepared was always a need.

“Damian’s got me covered tonight,” you say, trying to reassure her. “You don’t have to worry so much.”

Selina paused, her hands still on the thigh strap, and gave you a skeptical look. “Sweetheart, I worry about you all the time. It’s not that I don’t trust Damian—he’s solid. But Gotham? That’s a different story. Where those Bats go, trouble’s sure to follow.”

You chuckled, adjusting the strap to make sure it was secure. “We’ll manage, mom.”

Selina Kyle might not have been your biological mother, but she became your mother the moment you were placed in her arms years ago. In that instant, the blood that bound you was inconsequential compared to the unspoken promise she made to protect you.

To Selina, you were her child. Not because of any legal ties or shared genetics, but because she chose to be your mother every single day.

And to you, Selina was more than just an aunt. She was the lifeline who stepped in when everything else had crumbled around you.

Selina and Maggie, your biological mother, had both grown up in a fractured family. Their father was a vicious drunkard. Their mother, Maria, was a ghost in their lives—emotionally absent and detached. 

When Maria died, the world turned colder. The sisters were torn apart: Maggie was adopted by a warm, loving family, while Selina was abandoned to the unforgiving grip of Gotham’s orphanages. Those grim streets, steeped in shadows and danger, carved her into Catwoman.

But darkness has a way of creeping back into the light, no matter how hard you try to keep it at bay. Maggie, who had managed to build a life of stability and warmth, became a target for the shadows of Catwoman’s past. 

Black Mask.

Kidnapped, tortured, and left to die, Maggie was nothing but a ghost by the time the attack was done. Her husband was slain in the carnage, and the only remnant of their family was you— barely a toddler, too young to grasp the gravity of your loss but old enough to feel its weight.

With no other family to turn to, she took you in, binding her fate to yours and vowing to protect you from a world that had already taken so much from both of you.

Her life wasn’t easy. She was young, barely in her twenties, struggling to make ends meet in one of Gotham’s most unforgiving neighborhoods. The meager jobs she managed to scrape together were barely enough to cover the rent, let alone the needs of a growing child.

Selina's decision to take up the mantle of Catwoman was never about the thrill of the heist or the allure of jewels; it was about survival—yours and hers. Gotham demanded a price, and she chose to pay it herself, risking her life each time she donned the suit to give you a chance at something better.

You grew up with a keen sense of the world, your intelligence uncovering bits and pieces of her double life. The mysterious disappearances, the luxurious items that mysteriously appeared—each clue painted a picture that you slowly began to understand.

When the time came for the truth to be revealed, it wasn’t easy

Selina’s hand glided across her vanity, fingers brushing over the cool surface before settling on a sleek black clutch. With a flick of her wrist, she turned and handed it to you.

You accepted it with a gleam in your eye, stepping back as you held it close. A playful twirl sent the emerald fabric of your gown swirling around you, catching the light in a way that made it shimmer. 

“Well? What do you think?”

Selina’s stern look melted away like ice under a warming sun. Her gaze swept over your outfit, absorbing the delicate neckline, the tailored fit around your waist, and the gown’s fluid cascade to the floor. 

In this small, quiet moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift. For just a heartbeat, she allowed herself to pretend that the two of you were simply a normal mother and daughter, sharing a simple, beautiful moment together.

“You’ve always had a way of making everything around you look better,” she purred. “You’re going to knock the whole school off their feet. Damian’s going to need a crowbar to keep the other guys away.”

Selina reached out to adjust the straps on your dress, her touch precise and caring. Her fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, the movement as gentle as a whisper.

“Just remember, darling,” she spoke slowly, “it never hurts to stay safe.”

Ruby-red manicured nails tapped your cheek as she straightened up, a knowing look in her eyes.

Pause. Your eyes widened as you caught the hint of her meaning. “You’re not saying I—”

“I was at that age,” she interrupted with a mock-serious tone. “I’m just saying you should be prepared. Especially with the way that boy looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger. Make sure he wraps something else too.”

A flush of embarrassment rose to your cheeks. You sputtered and fumbled with the clutch in your hand. “Mom! What the hell?! I think that’s enough advice for one night!”

BEEP!

Just as Selina was about to respond, a car horn blared from outside, slicing through the evening’s quiet. Both of you turned towards the window, where a Porsche 911 emerged from the darkness. It looked painfully out of place against the backdrop of your neighborhood—cracked sidewalks strewn with trash, graffiti-streaked walls, and the occasional flickering streetlamp battling the encroaching shadows.

“Looks like your chariot awaits,” Selina said, her hands sliding up your shoulders as she gently nudged you toward the door. “Have a great time, but keep your wits about you. Gotham’s never as calm as it seems.”

With one final hug, you stepped out of the apartment and descended the narrow, dimly lit staircase. As you reached the bottom, you emerged into the cool night air, where Damian stood by his car parked right under a street lamp.

He was impeccably dressed in a deep black suit that seemed to swallow the surrounding light, giving him an almost smoky allure. An emerald button-up shirt peeked from beneath the jacket, its rich hue a perfect match for the striking color of your dress. 

Damian’s smoldering gaze warmed as he saw you approaching, a small, approving smile curling at the corners of his lips. He lifted two fingers in a beckoning motion, and though you rolled your eyes, you stepped forward.

“Beloved,” he greeted, extending a hand to you. “You look stunning.”

“Hi, handsome,” you grinned, taking his hand and stepping closer to press a gentle kiss against his lips. Damian responded with a soft hum, his arm slipping around your shoulders as he tilted his head slightly. The kiss deepened just enough to make the moment linger, leaving a warmth that held between you. 

Just as you were about to lose yourself completely, Selina’s voice sliced through the night air. 

“You’re going to be late!”

Damian pulled away from you so abruptly that it looked as if he’d been yanked back by an invisible force. His face flushed a patchy red, a blend of embarrassment and irritation. He shot a sidelong glance at Selina, his eyes quickly shifting back to you.

Damian huffs, releasing a sharp exhale through his teeth. “Shall we go?”

The click of the car door echoed as Damian opened it for you, his lips twisting into a scowl. You settled into the plush passenger seat, the soft fabric of your gown rustling as Damian carefully lifted it to prevent any creases. 

While you adjusted yourself in the seat, you glanced back and waved at Selina, her silhouette framed against the windows. A snort escaped you as you noticed the deadpan look Damian shot in her direction.

Damian was always somewhat awkward around Selina. As Robin, his view of Catwoman was clear-cut—she was a criminal to be dealt with. And yet, he still held a deep respect for her as your mother.

Once he settled into the driver’s seat and started the engine, the car roared to life with a smooth, powerful purr. The sleek vehicle glided down the streets with impressive speed, Damian navigating through traffic with a confidence that bordered on recklessness. 

As he shifted gears, the radio flicked on, filling the car with a soft, pulsing beat.

This may be the night that my dreams might let me know All the stars are closer All the stars are closer All the stars are closer This may be the night that my dreams might let me know

Tilting your head back into the seat, your hair bunching around your shoulders, your thoughts drifted to the first time Damian took you for a drive. Both of you had been sixteen then, and his aggressive maneuvering had left you gripping the seat, your heart racing as if you were in a high-speed chase. Now, though, the thrill was familiar, adrenaline thrumming steadily in your blood.

The ride was brief but exhilarating, and soon the car pulled into the school’s parking lot. Sleek cars and limousines lined the lot, each more extravagant than the last. Students and their dates, dressed in their finest formal wear, mingled and laughed, making their way toward the entrance.

Stepping out of the car, the crisp night air greeted you like a refreshing embrace, carrying the delicate scent of fresh flowers and the faint strains of classical music wafting from the entrance. The soft glow of string lights and lanterns illuminated the path ahead, casting a warm, golden hue over the scene. Damian drew you close, his arm slipping around your waist as you walked together.

The ballroom was stunningly elegant. 

Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their shimmering prisms scattering colorful reflections across the polished marble floor. Tables draped in white linens, adorned with fresh roses and flickering candles, lined the room. The dance floor gleamed under the ambient light, already alive with couples swaying gracefully to the gentle strains of Franz Liszt. 

The whole scene practically screamed old money.

You were going to die.

You’d never quite get used to events like these. Over the years, you’d been to your fair share of galas and charity balls, mostly because of your relationship with Damian and that brief, awkward phase when Selina was involved with Bruce.  

Each time, you had a knack for stumbling through social minefields, unintentionally insulting high-profile guests or spilling wine on someone’s multimillion-dollar gown And, without fail, the next day’s press would seize the opportunity to spotlight you and your social faux pas.

Gotham Academy, with its glossy veneer and elite crowd, was just another arena 

It was a breeding ground for rich fucks, each one more insufferable than the last. The halls echoed with the chatter of kids who had everything handed to them, their lives a far cry from yours. The only reason you’d managed to slip through those gilded gates was thanks to the Martha-Wayne scholarship. Without it, you’d still be stuck in the middle of nowhere with your mother, scraping by on whatever scraps you could find.

“Ya amar, are you going to keep staring at the floor? Or may I have the honor of requesting a dance?”

Damian’s voice cut through your self-deprecating spiral as he snapped his fingers in front of your eyes.

Blinking up at him, you pursed your lips. “I don’t know... this is a really interesting floor.”

Damian raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Oh, really? Pray tell, what makes it so interesting that you’d rather stand here instead of dancing with me?”

“I don’t know. I could stare at it all night,” you hummed, crossing your arms. “Plus, we’ve got to keep our thing going, you know? I can't give in that easily.”

“Our thing? What thing?” Damian blinked.

“The thing where we act like we hate each other but still want each other carnally,” you said, throwing your head back as you laughed.

"Tt," Damian deadpanned, reaching out to grab you by the waist. He lifted you off the ground, your feet barely brushing the polished marble beneath. You wrapped an arm around his neck and giggled, holding on as he carried you toward the center of the ballroom.

“You never miss an opportunity to mortify me, do you?” Damian scolded, gently setting you back down on the floor. Both of you assumed a waltz stance, your hands finding their places on each other’s shoulders and waist.

“I think I just enjoy keeping you on your toes,” you replied with a grin, swaying gracefully with him as the music enveloped you.

Damian's lips curved into a wry smile, despite his grumbling. "You know how much I despise these games you play, Cat."

“Oh? Cat?” you laughed, the rich, velvety fabric of your dress brushing against Damian’s sleek suit as you danced. “Are we going for the classic Batman and Catwoman trope here? Because once Selina retires, I could always take up the mantle of the next Catwoman.”

Damian’s smile dropped, replaced by a look of exasperation. “Please do not. I fear what will become of you then."

“Why not?” you asked, batting your lashes coyly. “Does the idea of me as Catwoman not thrill you?”

Damian made a noncommittal sound, his ears tinged with red as he averted his gaze.

“Don’t get shy on me,” you said with a grin, your voice dropping to a teasing purr. Your hand glided up his jaw, your touch lingering just enough to be felt.

A shadow of something intense flickered in the depths of his jade-green eyes. Damian’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, his gaze narrowing into a mock glare that barely concealed the warmth beneath.

“I guess I would not... be entirely opposed to that idea,” he muttered.

He led you into a slow dance, his movements fluid and graceful, reminiscent of those quiet, moonlit nights in his manor’s kitchen. You recalled late evenings when the room was bathed in the soft, silvery glow of moonlight streaming through the windows. On those nights, the world outside felt far away, leaving just the two of you swaying gently to the soft strains of music playing from his phone’s speakers.

It was moments like these that peeled away his walls. In the soft glow of the ballroom lights, the tender, affectionate side of him emerged—like a rare flower blooming in the quiet of twilight. Each layer revealed a deeper, more intimate part of him, offering you a special kind of attention that made every shared glance and touch feel intimate.

“This crazy, almost maddening attraction I have for you makes me feel like I want to stab myself,” Damian murmured as he spun you around, the fabric of your dress flared out like a blooming flower at his feet.

“Wow, you really have a way with words,” you said with a smile. “Admit it—you love every second of it, don’t you?”

Damian’s lips curled into a smirk.

“Perhaps,” he conceded. He drew you back into his embrace as he guided you across the dance floor, your bodies moved in perfect harmony, like two pieces fitting together in a delicate puzzle.

The world around you seemed to blur into a gentle haze of soft music and swirling lights. Damian’s gaze, however, remained sharp and vigilant.

“I don’t like how they’re staring at you,” he murmured, his green eyes narrowing as they scanned the crowd. His voice carried the familiar edge of possessiveness. “Perhaps they need a reminder of whom you belong to.”

“Damian, no—”

Before you could protest, Damian leaned in, closing the distance between you with a smooth turn of his head. The kiss was tender yet heated, his teeth gently tugging at your bottom lip.

Anyone who glanced your way would see Damian Thomas Wayne with his lips pressed against yours, making it clear who he was with. It wasn’t the first time he’d been so overt—there was that incident when you both ended up in detention because he couldn’t keep his hands off you by your locker.

You whined softly, trying to pull away, a thin strand of saliva connecting your lips in a delicate, glistening thread. “We’re in public—”

“Shut up,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough yet tender, before diving back in. The breath you had been holding escaped in a slow, shuddering sigh, mingling with his as he drew you closer, his hands firmly cupping your hips.

Damian seemed to swallow every sweet sound you made, chuckling softly as you mumbled curses against his lips, your grip on his tie tightening. The world around you blurred into insignificance, leaving just the two of you enveloped in a bubble of intense sensation. Your breaths came in ragged bursts, eyes fluttering open and then closing again, lost in the heat of the moment. When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless and flushed, the lingering electric buzz of the kiss still crackling in the air between you.

Damian and you locked eyes, his face blank until a shit-eating grin slowly spread across his face.

"I hate you so much," you scowled. “You’re impossible, Damian Wayne.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice a low, teasing whisper. He leaned in, using your own words against you. “Admit it—you love every second of it, don’t you?”

Before you could respond, he tilted your chin up, his lips brushing lightly against yours as he whispered, “Let them see. They’ll just have to get used to the sight.”

The kiss was softer this time, more tender, as you swayed gently against him, savoring the moment of calm.

BOOM.

Without warning, the tranquility was shattered by a deafening explosion. 

The sound of shattering glass and a violent burst of energy tore through the ballroom, turning the once elegant space into a scene of utter chaos. Crystal chandeliers swung erratically from the ceiling, their light flickering in disorienting patterns as debris rained down like confetti. The room erupted into a frenzy of screams and frantic movement as everyone scrambled for cover.

“Holy shit!” you gasped, your voice barely piercing through the screams and destruction.

CREAK.

A sudden, ominous groan echoed through the room, drawing your gaze upward. The chandelier, swaying precariously, seemed to shudder as its support gave way. Then, with a heart-stopping creak, the massive fixture began to fall. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Damian’s hand shot out, grabbing your arm with a firm grip. 

“Move!”

You scrambled to keep up with his rapid pace, but your long gown snagged on the edge of a flipped table, sending you sprawling to the floor with a jarring thud. Your hand slipped from his grip, and Damian, realizing you were no longer beside him, turned back in a surge of panic.

With no time to guide you gently to safety, he yanked you up from the floor. He pulled you both behind the overturned table, using it as a makeshift barricade.

The chandelier crashed down with a thunderous roar, sending shards of glass, splintered wood, and shattered fragments spiraling through the air. As the debris rained down, you screamed and reached out desperately for Damian. Without hesitation, he rushed to your side, enveloping you in his arms. He pulled you close, pressing your face into his chest and shielding you from the rain of debris with his body.

Finally, the noise of destruction faded into a heavy silence. Damian lifted his head slightly, peering down at you.

“Are you okay?” he panted, voice edged with worry.

Shaken up, you heaved and shook your head vehemently, unable to find the words through your trembling fear.

“What the fuck was that?” 

"I don't have a single clue," Damian shrugged, eyes still scanning the room as he peeked over the edge of the table.

From the smoke emerged a middle-aged man, suspended in the air by his mechanical arms—sleek, metallic, and bristling with a variety of intimidating gadgets. The arms whirred and slashed through the air with deadly force, carving through the walls and sending more chunks of debris down.

“You think you can just throw away everything I’ve built?” the man roared. “This school, this place, it’s all been a mockery of my work, my life! I’ve sacrificed everything for this and you’ve repaid me with nothing but scorn!”

Damian cursed under his breath. He settled back down, biting off the fingertip of his glove and pulling it off with a grunt. Pulling up his sleeve, he tapped an emergency button on his wrist, activating a silent alert to his family.

“We have to go,” Damian whispered. He shrugged off his suit jacket and wrapped you in the fabric, pulling you close. He lifted you effortlessly, cradling you in his arms as he sprinted through the chaos.

He carried you swiftly through the building’s hallways, the shrill sound of distant alarms and the echo of your hurried footsteps reverberating off the walls. When you finally reached a safer location, he paused briefly, his sharp eyes scanning the area for any further threats.

“I’ll be okay,” you said, your voice trembling as he gently set you down. You gripped his hands tightly, trying to steady your breath. “Do—do you have your suit?”

“It’s in the car,” Damian grumbled, frustration evident in his voice as he ran his thumb over your knuckles.

“I’ll stay here and start helping with evacuations,” you say, already moving to slip out of your heels, the shoes discarded onto the floor.

Damian opened his mouth to protest, but you cut him off, shaking your head firmly.

“No,” you said firmly, your scowl sharpening. “None of this again. I make my own decisions.”

Damian’s expression hardened. “You’re not a trained fighter. You’re not supposed to be in harm’s way.”

"It's just evacuations. I’m not going to be fighting," you met his gaze as you stood up straight again. “And I’m not going to stand by while others are in danger.”

“Fine,” he said begrudgingly, “but stay hidden and keep away from the villain.”

“I know,” you said softly, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. You met his gaze lovingly before turning to re-enter the chaos. The corridors were now a frenzy of frantic students and faculty, desperately trying to evacuate.

Damian shot you one last look before sprinting back toward the parking lot.

You slipped back into the ballroom, heart pounding in your chest. The smoke swirled around you, as decor and debris lay strewn across the floor. Amid the chaos, you spotted a girl trapped beneath a toppled table, her muffled cries barely reaching your ears. Clutching your dress in your hands to avoid tripping, you hurried over to her.

“Hey, we need to move!” you called out, shoving aside the debris and wrestling with the heavy wood. With a determined push, you finally freed her from the wreckage. She wobbled as she stood, but you swiftly caught her, your grip steady and reassuring. “You’re okay now. Let’s get out of here.”

“Where’s everyone else?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Everyone’s heading for the exits. We need to move quickly,” you replied, guiding her toward the nearest emergency exit. The sounds of the villain’s rampage echoed through the room, punctuated by the distant wail of sirens.

Once the girl was able to get back on her feet and run on her own, you rushed to assist another group, directing them towards the exits and making sure they stayed calm.

SWISH.

There was a sudden, sharp slice, and you snapped your head back toward the ballroom. Damian had reappeared, now clad in his suit.

“Robin?!”

With a decisive, diagonal slash, his katana cleaved through one of the villain’s mechanical arms. The blade sliced through the metal with a sharp, resonant hiss, and the arm’s severed end burst into a cascade of dazzling sparks. Pieces of twisted metal flew through the air like shrapnel, their jagged edges catching the erratic light from the shattered chandeliers.

His cape, a deep, blood-red shroud, billowed behind him like a dark wave, trailing in his wake as he moved. The clash of his katana against the villain’s mechanical arms echoed through the room, each strike a precise blur of red and black. 

Amidst the fight, your eyes were drawn to a figure huddled in the far corner. The student, paralyzed with fear, was frozen in place, eyes wide and fixed on the destruction unfolding before them.

Without a second thought, you sprinted towards them, nimbly navigating through the scattered debris and overturned tables. As you reached the student, you crouched beside them and gently placed a reassuring hand on their shoulder.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay. Alright? We’re going to get through this, but you need to move—now!” 

The student’s terrified eyes flickered with a glimmer of hope as they slowly began to rise with your help. Their breath came in shallow, panicked gasps, each exhale mingling with the smoky haze that filled the air. You grunted, your muscles straining as you slipped your arms beneath their shoulders, lifting them to their feet.

"Move!" you urged, guiding the student toward the doors. Their feet stumbled over the debris, but you kept a firm grip on their arm, pulling them along through the chaos. As you hurriedly navigated the wreckage-strewn floor, you felt a strange tingling sensation creeping up your leg.

It started as a subtle prickle, almost like static electricity, but quickly grew into an unsettling sensation that made your skin crawl. You glanced down, trying to pinpoint the source, but the shifting shadows and debris obscured your view. 

The legs of a spider, sleek and shadowy, crawled up the fabric of your emerald dress. Its tiny, pulsating body was nearly camouflaged against the rich material, and its eight eyes glinted with an eerie green glow, peering out from the shadows of the gown. 

Oblivious to its presence, you continued leading the student toward the safer part of the ballroom, focused on ensuring their escape.

The spider’s glow intensified, its eerie green light pulsating with an ominous rhythm as it crawled up your arm. Just as you pushed the student to safety, a sharp, burning sensation erupted where the spider sank its fangs deep into your skin. A piercing scream erupted from your lips.  The searing pain surged through your body, radiating outwards from the bite like a fiery wave. In a frantic, instinctive reaction, you slapped at your bicep, your nails digging into the skin. 

Panicked, Damian’s head snapped in your direction, eyes widening in alarm as he spotted you writhing in pain. In his moment of distraction, a metal arm swung violently towards him. The arm connected with a sickening thud against his side, the force of the impact sending him hurtling through the air. 

Damian crashed into a wall with a bone-jarring slam and his body crumpled to the ground, the force of the impact visibly shaking him. He lay there, gasping for breath, spit and blood spilling from his chin.

Groaning, he raised his head, feeling the crack in his mask press against his face. Strands of dark hair fell over his single exposed eye, partially obscuring his vision. Squinting through the haze of pain, he cursed under his breath as he saw the villain advancing toward you.

The spider's venom surged through your veins, a wave of searing, unbearable pain radiating from the bite. You stumbled and collapsed to the floor, struggling to stay upright. Pain tore through you as you crawled toward a nearby pillar, your fingers clawing weakly at the surface

Through the haze of your deteriorating vision and the throbbing fog that clouded your mind, you could barely make out the figure of the villain advancing toward you. His mechanical arms whirred with a menacing hum, their sharp, glinting edges catching the dim light of the ruined ballroom.

The last thing you saw before darkness swallowed you was a blur of red.

With a snarl, Damian lunged, his katana slicing through the air with deadly intent. The blade crashed into the villain's mechanical arm, the impact resonating like a gunshot. Sparks exploded from the severed joint, showering the room in a cascade of crackling light as the villain staggered, his metal limbs convulsing with malfunction.

Sliding across the debris-strewn floor, Damian executed a perfect skid, coming to a stop on his knees. He positioned himself between you and the advancing threat, his katana held in a poised, defensive stance.

“Is this all you’ve got?” Damian seethes. “A pathetic tantrum because your grandiose plans fell apart? You’re nothing more than a washed-up has-been clinging to your failures.” 

“You think you know what it’s like to sacrifice everything? To watch your life's work crumble? You have no idea what I’ve lost! My research was going to change the world!”

The villain’s mechanical arms flared up in response, their whirring growing louder as he prepared to strike again. Just as an arm was about to land, the piercing whir of a batarang sliced through the air. It struck the villain’s mechanical arm with precision, a bright explosion erupting from the impact. Damian grunted as he braced himself, holding firm against the shockwave, his muscles straining to keep steady. One hand instinctively dropped to your head, shielding you from the force. 

The villain recoiled in surprise, momentarily disoriented by the sudden blast, his movements faltering as the shockwave threw him off balance.

Suddenly, the room was engulfed in darkness. The lights flickered and died, plunging the space into a pitch-black void. Shadows danced along the walls, punctuated by loud bangs and the crackling of debris.

Through the darkness, Batman emerged, his imposing figure cutting through the shadows. The sound of his cape rustling was almost like a herald of doom as he got into a fighting stance.

“Robin,” Batman’s voice was a low, commanding growl, “take the girl. I’ll handle it from here.”

Damian wasted no time, swiftly scooping you into his arms. The icy chill of your skin against his own drove a spear of terror through him. The panic clawing at the edges of his mind was a monster he couldn’t afford to face, not now. He focused on keeping you as steady as possible, though your limp form felt like dead weight against him.

He tore out of the ballroom, his shoes skidding on the polished floor as he barreled into the hallway. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale burning in his lungs, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. The entrance was just ahead.

Bursting through the doors, Damian propelled himself into the open air. The scene outside was pure pandemonium. Parents screamed for their children, kids clung to each other in terror, and the harsh wail of sirens pierced the night. Ambulance lights flickered like distant stars in the dark, red and blue blurs.

Now outside, Damian spotted a group of paramedics and, without a second thought, sprinted toward them. His hands shook slightly as he laid you down on the gurney, the coldness of your skin searing itself into his memory.

“She’s unresponsive,” he rushed out in a pant. “Pale skin, cold to the touch. Vital signs are unknown. She needs immediate attention.”

As he spoke, Selina rushed over, her fur coat billowing with each urgent step. The strands of her short, dark hair whipped wildly around her face, framing eyes wide with fear.

She bent down to your level, her breath visible in the cool night air as she placed a trembling hand on your forehead. Her fingers, warm against the alarming chill of your skin, recoiled slightly at the clammy coldness that greeted them. Selina winced, her gaze hardening as she took in the stark contrast between your deathly pallor.

“What happened?” she demanded, her voice taut with concern.

A paramedic, swiftly assessing your condition, replied, “We think she’s in shock. We’ll stabilize her and check for any other issues.”

Selina’s eyes, reflecting a storm of emotions, darted between you and Damian.

“Go,” she urged Damian, her voice carrying a firm edge despite the underlying tremor of her fear. “I’ve got this under control. Go take down that bastard and make him pay for what he did.”

Damian hesitated for a heartbeat, his gaze lingering on you. Every muscle in his body screamed to stay, but there was still a threat that left no room for hesitation. He nodded and without another word, turned and sprinted back toward the building. His cape flared out behind him, a streak against the night sky.

Selina's eyes followed Damian's retreating figure momentarily before refocusing on the paramedics. She watched them with sharp eyes, taking in every action and every word. Her hand never left your forehead, each pass of her thumb trying to provide comfort that her heart couldn’t.

As the haze of unconsciousness began to lift, you slowly became aware of your surroundings. The dim, unfamiliar light filtered through your closed eyelids, and a dull, persistent ache from the bite lingered in your arm. You winced, raising a hand to your arm to find that the pain had subsided, leaving only a faint, dull throb. There was no scar, just a vague sense of discomfort. 

Was that just a dream?

Before you could think about it anymore, your aunt's face was already in your peripheral. 

Selina's voice caught in her throat as your eyes began to flutter open. Her grip on your hand tightened involuntarily, a mix of relief and worry playing across her features.

"Hey, there," she said softly. "You gave us quite a scare, sweetheart."

You stared at her in confusion, teeth chattering against the biting cold. Selina’s eyes softened and she shed her coat, the plush fur rustling softly as it slipped from her shoulders. With gentle hands, she draped the coat around you, the dense, velvety texture brushing against your skin. The rich, warm scent of her perfume mingled with the coat’s embrace. As the coat enveloped you, its heat began to seep into your shivering body, gradually easing the icy grip of the cold.

“You’re going to be okay,” she whispered, the words more for her own reassurance than yours.

The night was supposed to be a celebration, a rite of passage, a milestone to cherish. Instead, it had turned into yet another brutal reminder of what Gotham’s streets truly were: a merciless battleground that chewed up hope and spat it out with a sneer.

God, this city was shit. 

Selina sighed, pushing those thoughts aside for the moment. The priority now was clear: get you home and into dry clothes.

"How are you feeling?" she asked softly, her fingers tracing a path along your cheek as if trying to reassure herself that you were truly okay. 

“Dizzy,” you mumbled. A soft groan escaped your lips as you tried to shake off the haze clinging to your senses. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, only to snap open again with a jolt as a sudden realization struck you.

“Damian—where—” you gasped, your voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. In a frantic attempt to sit up, you tried to push yourself upright, but the paramedics and Selina were quick to intervene. Their hands gently, yet firmly, guided you back down onto the gurney.

“Whoa, easy there,” Selina murmured soothingly. “Don’t push yourself. The paramedics said you’re in shock. You need to stay still for now.” 

You could feel the gentle pressure of her hands, steady and reassuring, as they anchored you in place. Her eyes, bright green, locked onto yours, conveying more than words ever could. She took a breath, her gaze flickering to the paramedics who were working swiftly around you.

“And Damian is... with his father,” she said, her voice trailing off as she gave you a look, the unspoken meaning in it clear.

Selina’s gaze shifted back to the paramedics with her usual air of confidence. She squared her shoulders, her tone now authoritative.

“Is there a chance I could take her home?” Selina asked, brushing her fingers through your hair with a gentle but firm touch. “It’s getting late, and I’d really rather have her safe in her room.”

The paramedic, a no-nonsense woman named Helen, gave Selina a critical once-over before shifting her gaze to you. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, took in your pale face and the faint tremors still running through your body.

“Well, she’s stable enough for transport, and we’ve done the basic stabilizing procedures,” Helen said, her tone pragmatic. “But she’s still in shock, and it could be risky to move her too quickly. Are you sure you can handle her?”

“She’s my kid. I’ve dealt with worse, believe me,” she replied with a wry grin.

Helen’s gaze softened slightly, though her voice remained stern. “Alright, but she’ll need monitoring for the next 24-48 hours. Light meals, plenty of rest. And no strenuous activity. She should see a doctor as soon as possible.”

Selina’s fingers idly traced patterns on the back of your hand as she listened intently to Helen’s instructions. 

“I’ll make sure all of that’s taken care of. Thank you,” Selina said, her voice carrying a rare note of sincerity. Helen nodded, seemingly satisfied with Selina’s response. She handed Selina a card with basic instructions and a phone number to call if any complications arose.

Despite your reluctance to leave while Damian was still knee-deep in the battle, your hazy mind and Selina's insistence eventually led to you being pushed into the back of your aunt's sleek convertible.

The drive was a blur of city lights and concerned glances from Selina. You leaned back, your head resting against the cool, smooth leather of the seat. The gentle hum of the engine beneath you was a steady, rhythmic comfort, a small solace amidst the turmoil. 

"Don't worry," Selina murmured, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to check on you. "Damian can handle himself. And the Bat will make sure he's safe. You rest. I'll tell you if anything happens to him."

Her words were a quiet promise amidst the rush of the city outside. You nodded weakly, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing heavily on your eyelids. As the city sped by, its neon glow and shifting shadows blending into a dreamlike haze, you closed your eyes. The fatigue finally overtook you, and you drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

༻⊰───⋅

 Sunday , 9:02 AM - Your room, Catwoman’s Apartment.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

There was a deep, throbbing ache in your arm, an insistent rhythm that seemed to pulse with each heartbeat, dragging you reluctantly from the depths of sleep. Your eyelids fluttered open to the soft, golden light spilling through the curtains, bathing your bedroom in a warm, comforting glow.

Through the thin walls, the distant murmur of the waking metropolis began to seep in—honking horns, the rhythmic rumble of early morning traffic, and the intermittent chatter of pedestrians starting their day. Occasionally, a siren's wail pierced through the background noise, a sharp reminder of the city's ceaseless pulse.

Faintly, through the walls, the muffled sound of the living room TV drifted to you.

“Good morning, Gothamites! Looking for another beautiful day here in the city. Clouds to start off with, but a pleasant afternoon ahead. Temperature’s in the high 40s—”

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

With a groan of frustration, you reached out to silence the blaring alarm clock. As you swung your arm toward it, the clock was crushed under the force. It slammed into the table, which splintered and buckled under the impact. Wood cracked and shattered, sending fragments skittering across the floor. The sudden and violent destruction jolted you fully awake. You stared, wide-eyed and disbelieving, at the mess, your arm still extended in mid-air as if it was frozen.

“What the—?” you muttered, your voice trailing off as you inspected your hand. It looked like your hand, perfectly normal and familiar. Just a normal hand.

Carefully, you climbed out of bed, wincing as you surveyed the mess of splintered wood and scattered debris strewn across the floor. 

You paused. A sudden, sharp tingle pulsed through your arm, like an electric jolt that raced beneath your skin. It was both invigorating and disorienting, sending a rush of awareness through your senses. Instinctively, you turned your head, your reflexes sharp as your hand darted out to catch a fly that had buzzed too close.

To your shock, your fingers closed around the tiny insect with a reflex you didn’t know you possessed. You stared at the fly, trapped gently between your fingers. Carefully, you opened your hand and let the fly go. 

It darted away, disappearing into the room. 

“Okay... That was new,” you muttered, shaking your head as if trying to clear away the confusion.

The tingling in your arm surged again, sharper and more insistent this time. You winced, the sensation both alien and unsettling, your mind struggling to grasp what was happening. Instinctively, you extended your hand, your gaze fixed on it in growing confusion.

Then, without warning, your fingers curled involuntarily, and something shot out from your wrist. A thin, silvery thread erupted into the air, glistening with a strange, iridescent sheen. 

THWIP.

The web snaked through the room, swift and fluid, before anchoring itself with a solid thunk against the wall. The sight of it—a web, unmistakably organic, stretching taut and firm—left you gaping in shock.

“What the actual fuck,” you freaked out. You took a hesitant step forward and tugged on it, half-expecting it to dissolve under your touch. But the webbing held firm.

You tried to pull it away, but it stayed stubbornly in place. Grunting, you pressed a foot against the wall for leverage and yanked harder. The webbing resisted with surprising strength, and a series of warning cracks echoed before a chunk of concrete broke away, crumbling under the strain.

The sudden release caught you off guard, sending you stumbling backward. You lost your balance and fell hard onto the floor, the impact knocking the breath out of you. For a moment, you just lay there, sprawled across the hardwood, your chest heaving as you tried to make sense of what just happened.

“What the fuck did I just get myself into?” you muttered to yourself, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up in your throat.

When you finally moved to stand, curiosity got the better of you. Experimenting, you aimed your hand at different parts of the room, determined to understand this strange new ability. 

This time, when you extended your hand, the web shot out with precision, latching onto a nearby lamp. You gave it a pull, and the lamp skidded across the floor toward you.

There was another tingle, and you perked up. The sensation was almost electric, a ripple of anticipation that seemed to focus on your bedroom door. As you turned toward it, the door swung open and Selina stepped in, dressed in her pajamas.

"What's with the noise...?” she trailed off and froze in the doorway, her eyes widening as they took in the chaos of the room. Broken wood and scattered debris covered the floor, interspersed with strands of glistening webbing clinging to the walls and lamp.

“Oh,” Selina murmured in surprise. She stepped cautiously over a particularly large piece of broken wood, her eyes darting around the room. Her gaze lingered on the webs, her brow furrowing as she raised an eyebrow at you. 

“Uh, good morning?” you offered weakly, trying to give a casual shrug despite the mess around you. “Mom, this might sound insane. But, I think I might have accidentally discovered superpowers.”

Selina stared at you, blinking slowly as she processed the scene before her. Her lips twitched as if she were trying to hold back a laugh or perhaps some form of disbelief.

“Accidentally discovered superpowers?” she echoed. “I think you've been around your boyfriend and his family too much. Baby—”

Before she could finish, your hand instinctively reached out. With a flick of your wrist, a web shot from your fingers and latched onto the door behind her. In a heartbeat, the door was yanked from its hinges, splintering as it flew across the room and crashed into the wall with a resounding thud.

Selina’s eyes widened in shock as she turned to face the now doorless doorway. She blinked at the empty space where the door had once been.

“Well,” she said, “I guess that’s one way to explain things.”

You stood there, face heating up as you tried to pull your hand back. “Y-Yeah, I think I need to work on my control.”

Selina shook her head, a frown on her lips. “Okay. First... Let’s get this mess cleaned up before the landlord starts asking questions. And maybe—just maybe—try not to redecorate the whole apartment with your... spider silk.”

༻⊰───⋅

A warm mug of coffee was placed in your hands as Selina settled beside you. You took a sip, but your knee continued to bounce in an anxious rhythm. She had called the school earlier to inform them that you would be taking it easy for the week, citing sickness as the reason.

You cast a glance at the puncture marks on your wrists with a mix of disgust and unease.

Oh, you felt sick alright.

"Alright," Selina said, taking a sip from her own coffee mug and setting it down with a clink. "We need to figure out what’s going on and how to handle it. The sooner we get a grasp on this, the better."

You nodded absentmindedly, flexing your fingers around your mug.

Selina sat with a laptop positioned between the two of you, its screen a chaotic mosaic of open newspaper articles and news websites. Humming softly to herself, she clicked through the pages, her eyes darting across headlines and images. The rhythmic clatter of her clicks was punctuated by occasional pauses as she focused on key details.

“Am I a meta?” you blurted out, staring at your reflection in the dark liquid of your coffee.

"Well," Selina began, her tone measured, "based on what we've seen so far, you're likely displaying meta-human traits. Though," she added with a wry smile, "I'm pretty sure I’m human despite the whole cat shtick. Same goes for your mother. Your father...well, that’s a different story."

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "What do you mean by that?"

"Secretive guy. Kind of insane," Selina murmured to herself. "He did genetics research—"

She paused.

"Wait a minute," she said, her voice trailing off as she seemed to piece together something significant. "Your father was involved in genetics research..."

Selina licked her lips before grumbling and typing into the laptop. The screen flickered, and she pulled up a dense academic paper with your father's name prominently displayed. The title read: "Genetic Enhancement through Arachnid DNA Integration: Potential and Pitfalls."

She stared at the screen for a moment, a mix of disbelief and concern crossing her face. "Total nutjob," she muttered, shaking her head.

You squinted at the screen, trying to make sense of the technical jargon. "So... what’s it say?"

Selina’s fingers danced over the keyboard, scrolling through the dense paragraphs. "It describes experiments involving spider DNA to enhance human traits—strength, agility, and reflexes. Medical use too."

RING!

The sharp ring of your phone shattered the silence, jolting you both. Startled, you fumbled with the mug in your hand, which slipped from your grip and tumbled toward the floor. Your reflexes kicked in, and your foot shot out, catching the mug mid-fall with a swift kick, sending it flying back up into your hand. You blinked.

Selina’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, her gaze flicking from the mug in your foot to you. She grabbed a notepad from the desk, her pen already poised, and began scribbling furiously.

“Fast reflexes,” she muttered.

You scrambled to set the mug back on the table, your hands slick with sweat as you snatched your phone off the couch.

"Hello?" you answered, nervously wiping your damp hands on the fabric of your jeans. "W-Who’s this?"

"Beloved?" Damian’s voice crackled through your phone, sharp with an edge of worry. Arabic curses slipped through his words. “I’m sorry for calling so late. I didn’t mean to. I was knocked out after the confrontation.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “You got knocked out? What happened?”

"Just a minor inconvenience for someone of my skillset," he said dismissively. "I’m fine now. But what of you? Father mentioned that Selina told him about your sudden absences from school.”

You hesitated, glancing at Selina, who shook her head vehemently. She pressed a finger to her lips, urging you to stay silent about the spider situation.

"Fine!" you squeaked. "Totally fine. Just... family matters."

Damian’s voice was laced with skepticism. "Family matters? Are you sure you’re alright?"

"Yep," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady despite the strain. "Absolutely. Just... you know, the explosion rattled me a bit. The paramedics said I needed some rest for a few days.”

"I can head over to care for you—"

Selina rolled her eyes and extended her hand.

“Give me the phone,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. You hesitated for a moment, but the stern look on her face made it clear you had no choice. Reluctantly, you handed it over.

"Damian," she greeted him with a sickly sweet tone, "this is Selina. Everything is under control here. There’s no need for you to come breaking into my apartment."

There was a grunt before Damian responded, "Miss Kyle, I insist. It’s no trouble. I should be there to help. As any partner would."

Selina’s eyes flashed with irritation as she leaned against the couch, arms crossed. "I appreciate your concern, kid. But it’s really not necessary. She’s fine."

"Fine?" Damian’s voice took on a mocking tone. "After a confrontation like that? I highly doubt it. Recovery after such an incident can be complicated.”

Selina scowled. Her voice cut through the phone line with a sharp edge. "Damian, do you seriously doubt my abilities as a guardian?"

There was a pause.

"With all due respect—"

"I've got this!" Selina hissed. "She's safe, she's resting, and you're not needed here right now. Understood?"

There was another pause before Damian reluctantly agreed. "Understood. But if anything happens—"

"You'll be the first to know," Selina assured him "Now, go take care of yourself. I have got this handled."

"Fine," Damian said, still sounding begrudging. "Take care."

Selina handed the phone back to you, her expression exasperated. “He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.”

“You couldn’t even imagine,” you snorted as you pressed the phone back to your ear. “Hi, baby.”

Damian’s voice crackled through the speakers, the faint static only adding to the gruffness of his tone. 

"Tt. Hello," he grumbled, his tone falling flat. You couldn’t help but snicker, the sound escaping despite your best efforts to stifle it. 

“Don’t be mad,” you whisper into the phone. “I’ll only be gone for a week. You’ll survive. Mom's right—I’m in good hands. You need to focus on recovering too.”

“Anything at all. Father and Alfred have confined me to my bed, but the window to my bedroom remains open. The sheer ignorance of their restraint measures astounds me—they failed to account for my skills in evading such confinement.”

"Please, don’t try to escape through your window on my behalf. I really don’t need Bruce lecturing us again,” you groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. 

“Very well,” Damian said with a hint of a pout, “but do remember, I am at your disposal if you should require anything.”

“Uh huh,” you hummed. “I’ll see you soon. Take care of yourself, Dami.”

“And you, my beloved,” he said, his voice softening. “Until then.”

There was a beep, and the call ended. You sighed, letting your hand drop.

Selina took a sip of her coffee, her lips curling into a wry grin. “He’s just like his father—equally obsessive and protective. Must run in the genes. That or we just have a knack for ensnaring emotionally constipated men.”

You laughed, a light, nervous sound that filled the room. As you tried to drop your phone back on the couch, you were met with unexpected resistance. The phone stubbornly adhered to your hand, as if it had decided to become a permanent accessory.

“Uh…” 

You squinted at the phone, wriggling your fingers and trying to shake it off. No matter what you did, the phone remained firmly in place, glued to your palm.

"Sticky hands?" Selina suggested, glancing at the notepad in her hand now filled with scribbled notes and observations. She made a note with a touch of amusement, her pen moving quickly across the page.

Grumbling under your breath, you made a few more attempts to pry the phone off your hand. “Looks like it. Just another thing to add to the list of weird,” you huffed.

With furrowed brows, you used your other hand to grip the phone, attempting to twist it away. In your distracted state, you failed to account for your newfound strength. The device crumbled under your grip, shards of plastic and glass exploding across the couch.

You stared at the wreckage in disbelief, your heart sinking. Not missing a beat, Selina quickly scribbled down “Enhanced strength” on her notepad.

You grumbled as the remnants of your phone fell to the floor, a mix of frustration and embarrassment washing over you.

"Can't we—can't we call Batman for this?" you asked, your hand nervously tangling in your hair. "Why'd you stop me from telling Damian anyway?"

Selina’s expression turned severe. Her hands gripped your shoulders firmly, guiding you to face her.

"Listen to me. Batman, Damian, or anyone else cannot know about this right now."

"What—Mom—"

"Not a word," she cut in sharply. "This is meta-level stuff we're dealing with. The Bats don’t handle metas well. We need to keep this under wraps until we fully understand it. The last thing I need is Bruce doing something to hurt my daughter."

Your face fell as her words sank in.

Selina’s grip on your shoulders relaxed slightly, and her gaze softened. Her voice took on a gentler, more empathetic tone. "Power frightens people, especially when it’s something they don’t understand. When they encounter something extraordinary, their confusion often morphs into fear. And fear... well, fear can make people see threats where there are none."

She took a deep breath, her expression grim. "Batman, in particular, has contingency plans for every potential threat, even for his closest allies. We—I can't risk him viewing you as one." Her fingers tightened on your shoulders, a silent plea for understanding.

"Alright," you said quietly, trying to steady your voice. Lying to Bruce was one thing. But Damian... Damian was different. The thought of deceiving him felt like a weight pressing heavily on your chest.

Selina seemed to sense your hesitation. Her gaze softened, and she placed a hand gently on your shoulder. “I know it’s not easy,” she said, her tone soothing. “Damian is—”

“Different,” you finished for her, the word catching in your throat. “He’s always been there for me, and now... I’m just lying to him.”

Selina nodded. “I understand. But you know, that boy looks up to his father. There’s no telling he won’t spill something. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

"I get it,” your lips pursed. “But... what do we do now?"

Selina’s expression shifted from intense to thoughtful as she took a step back, her grip loosening. She glanced at the scattered remnants of your phone, then at the notepad filled with her hastily scribbled notes.

"Well," she sighed, "we need to find another space. I think you've done enough damage in our apartment."

 ༻⊰───⋅

NEXT ->

[rhiannonsknife]

── SHATTER YOUR ILLUSIONS OF LOVE

— summary: lucy finds something interesting in an abandoned store. it’s not what she thinks it is.

— warnings: fem!reader. implied lesbian!reader. nsfw content. mdni. strap-on usage. for the sake of the fic, we gotta ignore the sanitary aspect of this.

the wind howls through the cracked windows of the abandoned storefront, rattling the metal grates hanging half off their hinges.

you’re leaning against the weathered brick wall right outside, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently, and your eyes scanning the empty street for signs of trouble.

traveling through the wasteland was a gamble already, and stopping anywhere for too long only upped the odds of drawing unwanted attention. but lucy had insisted she needed to check inside, claiming she’d seen ‘something interesting’ through the remains of grime-streaked glass.

that had been ten minutes ago.

“lucy,” you call, raising your voice over the wind. “are you done yet?”

her laugh echoes from inside, light and carefree, followed by her reply: “almost�� lucy calls. there’s a long pause, then the unmistakable sound of something heavy clattering to the ground.

you groan, letting your head fall back against the wall. this wasn’t unusual; lucy’s curiosity was perhaps simultaneously her best and worst trait. she had a knack for finding weird, useless junk and being way too excited about it. not that you minded. most days, her by wasteland standards unique disposition was the only thing keeping you sane. not today though, today, you’re cold, tired, and running low on patience.

finally, the door creaks open behind you.

“hey!” she calls. “look what i found!”

you push off the wall and turn to face her…and immediately feel your brain short-circuit.

lucy stands before you, beaming like she’s just stumbled upon the wasteland’s greatest treasure. she’s wearing…something: leather straps crisscross her chest, looping around her shoulders and down her torso in a series of buckles and loops. the centerpiece, an empty ring attachment, sits just below her chest. clearly not where it’s supposed to be, but it’s not like lucy knows that. nor does she seem aware of what she’s put on to begin with.

it’s a strap-on harness.

“oh my god,” you choke out, heat rushing to your face so fast you feel dizzy with it.

“what?” lucy looks down at herself, tugging lightly at one of the straps. “pretty cool, right? it was just lying there in the back of the store! i think it’s some kind of…uh…” she frowns, tilting her head as she spins to give you the full view. “tool belt? or maybe armor? either way, it’s really sturdy! feel this leather!” she grabs one of the straps near her shoulder and holds it out to you.

you don’t take it. matter of fact, you can’t. you’re too busy trying to remember how breathing works, because all you can think about is the way the harness fits snugly against her body, though entirely wrong, the leather gleaming faintly in the dim light, and how absolutely oblivious she is to what it actually is.

“lucy,” you manage, voice embarrassingly high-pitched. “that’s not- it’s not- oh my god, take it off!”

she blinks, startled by your reaction. “what? why? did i put it on wrong?”

“no, i mean…yes, but that’s not the point!” you gesture at her frantically, as if that’ll somehow distract from the mortifying situation. “it’s just- it’s not what you think it is, okay?” you try to explain, pointing at the leather “that is not a tool belt!”

lucy’s brow furrows in confusion as she adjusts the straps around her shoulders. “then what is it?”

you gape at her, torn between laughter and sheer disbelief. how do you even begin to explain this to her? clearly, she hasn’t seen those in her vault.

“it’s- it’s a-“ you cut yourself off with a groan, burying your face in your hands. there is no way you’re explaining this to her. absolutely not.

“what?” lucy presses, her curiosity clearly piqued. “what’s it for?”

“nothing!” you yelp, your voice cracking. “it’s for nothing! just take it off before-” you gesture vaguely at the very much empty street. “…before someone sees you!”

she glances around, perplexed, following your outstretched finger. “but no one’s here…?”

“that’s not the point!” you can feel your cheeks burning hotter by the second. “lucy, just- just trust me on this, okay? please?”

lucy hesitates for a moment, clearly not understanding but willing to humor you. “alright, alright,” she finally agrees, reaching for the buckles. “but i still think it’s a good find! i’m keeping this!”

you turn away as she starts to unstrap herself, both to give her privacy and to avoid spontaneously combusting from sheer embarrassment. despite all the dangers of the wastelands, you’re pretty sure traveling with lucy maclean is what’s actually going to kill you.

by the time lucy gets the harness off and stashes it in her pack (for some unfathomable reason), the sun is starting to dip low on the horizon, painting the scenery in streaks of amber and rust. after a full day of walking and scavenging, this crumbling storefront seems as good a place as any to settle down for the night.

“well,” you say, clearing your throat and trying to move past the initial awkwardness, “i guess this place’ll do. better than sleeping out in the open, at least!”

“it’s not bad,” lucy says cheerfully, looking around the store’s interior again.

the place, from which you can only assume that it is the ruins of what once was an adult store, is mostly empty, save for a few rusted shelves, a broken counter at the far end and a few boxes left in the old shelves.

there’s no sign of wildlife, which you consider a plus, and the building’s thick walls provide decent protection from the wind. “way better than that place we stayed last week. remember that weird smell? ugh…”

you hum in agreement, busying yourself with clearing a space on the floor. truthfully, it isn’t the worst spot you’ve camped in.

“you take first watch,” lucy says, dropping her pack with a soft thud. “i’ll take a quick nap and take over in a few hours?“

she’s adapting to how sleep works out here, at least, and you nod your head. “i could use some quiet time anyway,”

lucy nods, satisfied, and stretches out on the ground, rolling up her jacket like a makeshift pillow. “wake me if anything weird happens,” she says, closing her eyes.

you lean back against the wall, rifle propped an arm length away, trying to ignore the ache in your muscles and the stubborn heat still lingering in your cheeks.

now, the image of lucy in that harness races unbidden through your mind. it comes in flashes; pictures of her, with a strap now firmly attached to her body. lucy, on top of you, her face pressed to the crook of your neck as she rolls her hips. behind you, with her fingers curling up in your hair as she forces you back against her. above you, with your lips stretched around her-

you shake your head violently to banish it. you need to focus. there are bigger problems in the world than your ridiculous crush on someone who might not even swing your way at all.

but, of course, lucy doesn’t make it easy.

after barely twenty minutes of silence, she stirs and sits up, rubbing at her eyes.

“couldn't sleep?” you ask, raising a brow at her.

“nope,” she reaches into her bag and pulls out the leather harness again. “i keep thinking about this thing…” she mutters, running her fingertips over the ring.

you groan, dragging a hand down your face. “lucy, just drop it! it’s-”

she doesn’t. of course she doesn’t,

instead, she flips the harness over in her hands, fiddling with the straps as she examines it from every angle. instinctively, you reach for your rifle just to have a distraction.

“i mean, it’s pretty well-made,” she muses, tugging on one of the buckles. “whoever made it must’ve known what they were doing. and it’s got this…ring thing? maybe for carrying tools?”

“it’s not for tools!” you blurt, louder than intended. lucy looks up, startled. “well, then what is it for?”

you sigh, setting your rifle aside.

“can't you just let it go?”

you stare at her. lucy is watching you with those wide, curious eyes, completely oblivious to the mortifying reality of the situation. a part of you wants to lie. to make up some ridiculous story about it being part of a long-lost survival kit. another part of you knows you’re a terrible liar, and that she won’t drop it until she gets a real answer.

“well, i could,” lucy shrugs, “but you're being…weird about it, which makes me think it's actually kind of important! and now i really want to know!”

you glance at the open doorway, down rows of shelves, the faint breeze stirring the dust on the floor, as if hoping for some kind of divine intervention to save you. it doesn't come.

“fine,” you mutter, standing. “come on!”

lucy grins triumphantly, bouncing to her feet and following as you lead her to the far corner of the store.

she trails after you, harness in hand, until you crouch down by one of the dusty shelves, brushing aside cobwebs before pulling out one of the few remaining boxes you passed by earlier. it’s heavy and battered, but the faded label on the side is still legible and it is still sealed shut

“alright,” you say, placing it on the ground before you. “this,” you tell lucy as you pull a knife from your belt. “is the counterpart to what you're holding!”

without another word, you cut the plastic open and, after some more layers of carefully sealed packaging, pull out the bright neon-pink silicone dildo. you hold it up just long enough for her to get a good look before tossing it back into the box.

lucy blinks, eyes wide, and for a moment, she says nothing. then her mouth opens in a soft “oh,”

she kneels beside the box, staring at its contents with an unreadable expression. “wait, so...” she picks up the dildo again, and turns it over in her hands, her brow furrowing as she connects the dots. “this goes with the harness?”

“yes,” you say quickly, folding your arms across your chest. “and that's why i didn't want to talk about it. can we move on now?”

lucy, on the other hand, doesn't seem remotely embarrassed. if anything, she looks intrigued.

she puts it back in the box and stands, holding the harness up to her hips as if testing its fit.

“so it's, like... for, uh... intimacy stuff? sex?” she asks, her tone genuinely curious.

“yes, lucy,” you say, your voice tight as you force your gaze away. “it's for ‘intimacy stuff’,” then, after a beat of silence, you decide this might be your only chance to get your truth out as well: “specifically for people like...like me, i guess?”

she looks at you then, her eyes softening slightly. “like you?”

“yeah,” you shift uncomfortably under her gaze, heart pounding. “you know? people who don't really, uh, like guys…that way…?”

understanding dawns on her face, but instead of recoiling or making a joke, she simply nods. another pause, then: “so, like, women who…prefer other women?”

your throat feels dry. “yeah. something like that,”

lucy looks back at the harness, a thoughtful expression on her face. then, to your utter horror, she starts fiddling with the straps again, this time more deliberately.

“what are you doing?” you ask, your voice rising slightly.

“trying it on,” she replies matter-of-factly, stepping into the harness and pulling it up over her hips. she tightens the straps with surprising ease, the leather settling snugly against her body. “it's comfortable,” she says conversationally, running her fingers along the waistband.

all you can do is stare at her dumbfounded. “lucy,”

she glances at you, her face the picture of innocence. “what? you said it's for people like you, right? i just want to see what it's like!”

“people like me using it,” you practically hiss. “not people like you…wearing it around like it's a pair of pants!”

lucy laughs, but there's a glint in her eye now, something playful and teasing that wasn't there before. she shifts her hips slightly, the leather creaking, and you have to fight the urge to look away. or worse, stare.

“calm down” she says. “it’s not a big deal, right? just a harness!”

your heart pounds in your chest as lucy tilts her head, watching you with that same curious gaze. there's no judgment in her expression, nor is there discomfort. just a quiet, steady interest that leaves you completely off balance.

“look,” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. “you...you don't understand what you're doing right now!”

“don't i?” her tone is light but her eyes are searching yours. lucy steps even closer, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “you're blushing,”

“i'm not-” you take a step back, bumping into the wall behind you. “i'm not…blushing!”

“you totally are. is it the harness?” she pauses, her voice dropping just slightly. “or is it…me?”

your breath catches in your throat. for a moment, you can't think. you can't move. the tension in the air suddenly feels electric, heavy with the weight of everything you haven't said and everything she might not even realize she's doing.

“lucy…” you manage. “you should- uh- you should probably take it off now, yeah?”

she only grins, clearly pleased with your reaction. “why? am i making you nervous?”

yes. absolutely. but you don't tell her that. instead, you stand frozen as lucy leans just a little closer, the leather harness shifting as she moves. the air between you is stifling now, charged with something you can’t quite name. she hasn’t moved back. if anything, she’s standing closer, the faintest grin on her lips, her eyes locked on yours.

“lucy,” you say again, but her name catches in your throat, sounding more like a ragged plea than a warning.

“yeah?” she asks, her voice teasingly playful.

you glance down at the harness, that stupid harness, and then back at her, hoping she’ll take the hint. lucy doesn’t. instead, she shifts her weight again, the leather creaking softly. you swear she’s doing it on purpose now.

“why are you…” you trail off, biting your lip. “why are you doing this?”

her smile falters slightly. “i don’t know,” she admits. “i guess i just…like seeing you like this,”

your breath hitches. “like what?”

lucy tilts her head, her eyes searching yours. she pauses. then, her gaze flickers to your mouth and heat floods your face. you try to think of something -anything- to say, but the words won’t come.

“do you want this?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper now.

you nod your head slowly, your throat feeling too tight to speak.

her smile softens, and she takes another step forward, close enough now that you can feel the warmth of her body through the faint chill of the room. “good,”

and then she kisses you.

the shelves behind you clatter as your body is forced back against them by lucy’s own, trapping you against the metal.

it surprises you how fast her mouth is moving. how desperate and hungry. in all the times (more than you’d ever openly admit) you pictured yourself kissing her, she’d been the careful one. you should’ve known better than that. way better.

now, she is all over you, eager hands cupping your cheeks as she presses you against the cold surface. your whole body shivers as lucy licks into your mouth experimentally, humming when you gasp in response.

“for the record,” she mumbles against your mouth, barely breaking away from you enough to get those words out. “you want to have sex with me?”

you almost laugh at the absurdity of the question, would lucy not force one of her thighs between yours, keeping you on the tip of your toes with a strangled gasp. it doesn’t occur to you to question where she knows all this from. instead, you just nod, panting as she pushes her knee further up.

pleased with all those reactions she’s getting from you, lucy hums. “and you want me to use…that?” she nods towards the now unsealed box at your feet.

“uh huh,” is all you can manage. it seems enough for lucy, who flashes an excited smile before walking over to pick it up from the floor. for the first time, you dare to breathe.

she fumbles with the box momentarily, struggling to free the toy from its plastic packaging in her excitement. before you can offer your help, she has figured it out and carelessly tosses the container aside, leaving only the dildo in her hand.

“hm,” lucy hums, taking it in from all angles under the dim light.

“this goes through the…” you start breathlessly, nodding toward the ring that sits right above her still fully clothed pubic bone.

it’s not often that you find yourself longing for a life a little more like lucy’s. this is one of those rare moments though. the things you’d do to have her in an actual bed, in a place that belongs to just the two of you. somewhere where you can actually take your time to undress her, see her fully, and not just rushed glimpses in the barely lit space around you.

“okey dokey,” she fumbles with the toy, experimentally tracing the buckles and straps before pushing the dildo through its designated hole.

then, it’s just you, her, and the shuddered breath you exhale into the small space left between you when lucy steps closer again.

you briefly wonder if it would overwhelm lucy if you’d go down on your knees before her right then and there. if you’d force her down your throat and show her just how much of her you’re willing to take. but then you turn to look back at her and decide that this is not the time.

lucy is watching you attentively, her eyes darting between yours and the strap attached to her body. there seems a newfound sense of pride in the way she carries herself as you feel her press against your inner thigh. it draws a gasp from you, an expression on your face that lucy instantly mirrors: mouth agape, eyes slightly widened.

it is your hushed, shaky “lucy, please” that sets her into motion.

her fingers, once resting on your hips, jump into action before you know it; roaming all over your body. into your hair, over smudged, dirty clothes, underneath them…her nails briefly scrape the expanse of your stomach, the fabric of your shirt riding up your torso, and lucy seems satisfied with the way you exhale into her open mouth. then, she drops them lower.

it doesn’t take her long to unbuckle your belt and pull it free from your pants. the setting doesn’t allow any slower, more sensual undressing. instead, you push your pants down your legs until they’re polling around your ankles and you can easily step out of them, leaving you exposed from the waist down except for your underwear -which is doing a terrible job in covering the arousal there.

you’ve been wet from the moment you started fantasizing about her, and your little make out session has only made matters worse. lucy, who’s pushing her fingers past the waistline of your underwear, notices too when she’s met with your wetness once they slide through you.

“fuck-“ you mutter, your head falling back.

lucy studies you attentively once her fingers find your clit, rubbing it in clockwise circles underneath the fabric until your thighs are trembling and instinctively closing around her wrist.

“sit,” she orders, jerking her chin towards the shelf pressed against the back of your thighs.

stunned into silence, you hop onto the cool metal, your legs spread enough for lucy to stand between them. her palms stroke along your thighs as she bites her lip, now able to see the wet patch your arousal has left in the fabric of your underwear.

“can you take it?” she whispers, immediately earning herself an eager nod from you.

lucy pulls you forward until you’re sitting on the edge, then forces your legs apart further with a sudden motion. only once she’s reached out and pushed your underwear aside, does it seem to occur to her that she’s never been on this side of things before.

nervously, she glances up at you. “i’ve never-“ lucy begins, gesturing downward.

“that’s okay!” you interject instantly. at this point, you don’t care what she does, as long as she does it inside of you.

“okay,” she echoes, before focusing on the matter at hand.

absentmindedly, though it sends another wave of arousal down to your center, lucy uses what’s left of your wetness on her fingers to coat her length in it. you watch breathlessly as she pumps her fist along the silicone shaft until it's glistening with the makeshift lube.

immediately, you wrap your legs around lucy, closing your ankles behind her and urging her closer. she complies gladly.

her eyes flicker up to your face when she lines herself up and moves forward. your fingers reach around lucy’s back, desperately grasping for something to hold onto as her cock sinks into you inch by inch. her nose nuzzles against the side of your neck as she fills you up slowly, her breath warm against your skin, until she’s pushed it in as far as it’ll go and your bodies are nestled flush together.

“good?” lucy whispers, slowly pulling back just enough to look up at you.

“mhm” you hum, struggling to keep your eyes from rolling to the back of your head.

her hands fall to your waist again, squeezing you gently as her eyes remain fixed on where she has pushed into your body, where the toy is pressed against your walls just right.

“can i move?” lucy husks, looking like she’s barely containing herself from doing so.

for a moment you wish that her impatience was actually justified. not that it isn’t already, you are dying to see her in a similar position, but you wish she could feel you too: all around her, taking it greedily, sucking her in deeper.

once again, you nod.

pressing your palm between her shoulder blades is about all the bracing you get to do before lucy starts to move. she pulls her hips back slowly as if she’s testing the waters, before slamming into you faster and deeper than expected.

“o-oh!” you gasp, your mouth falling open over lucy’s shoulder. the relief of finally feeling her against your g-spot is immediate and has you seeing stars behind your closed eyelids.

you arch your back against her, involuntarily searching for more as lucy starts thrusting into you more confidently. you meet each of her thrusts, gently lifting your hips from the shelf to rock back onto her strap. like this, she’s fucking you properly in no time, falling into an easy rhythm.

the sound of your skin slapping together echoes through the otherwise abandoned store, accompanied only by your occasional ragged moans. you don’t bother to hold back anymore, not when you’ve spent half of your travels fantasizing about her like this.

it only vaguely registers that lucy’s mouth is pressing against the side of your neck, sucking on the soft skin there as she keeps fucking the strap into you. she’s reaching depths you could never quite find with only your fingers during your rare attempts to find some sort of relief, depths that have you trembling already.

“lucy please!” you cry, unsure what you’re even asking for as one hand holds onto the back of her neck whereas the other grips the edge of the shelf for dear life. “please,”

“does that feel good?” she asks, her voice genuine and amazed despite her relentless pounding.

“mhm, so good!” you nod. your legs are shaking around lucy, trembling more with each thrust that makes you gush around the strap.

the longer lucy moves like this, the more confident she gets in her own movements. despite the occasional grunts of exhaustion, she does not let up. it doesn’t take her long to find the perfect angle either, your cunt throbbing once you feel her right where you need it the most.

too eager for your own release to feel embarrassed, you drop your hand between your legs, rubbing your clit at a pace that matches the one lucy has set.

the space around you smells of sex and her hands are carefully holding your legs apart, keeping you open for her. the shelves creak under the force of her pace, slamming against the wall so loudly you will have to check if the noise has attracted any unwanted attention once she’s done with you.

for now, all you can focus on is the pleasure in your system, which only intensifies when lucy starts talking: “god” she groans, eyes narrowed down on your body to watch the way you take the full length of her strap over and over again.

she pulls out almost all the way once, the motion agonizingly slow so she can see the way you part for her as the silicone slides from your body. the toy is glistening with your wetness in the barely lit room.

“fuck-” she grunts, before snapping forward and sinking back into. there’s sweat collecting at her temple from the efforts of her constant rolls of her hips. “are you close? tell me!”

your weak whine seems to sound agreeable enough for lucy to double her efforts. not once does she falter, her hips thrusting forward effortlessly and desperate cries of her name are all you can manage. they're your only prayer as she gets you closer and closer to the edge.

“that’s it,” she praises absentmindedly, her eyes glued to what she can see past the fabric of your underwear and the frantic movement of your wrist as you rub yourself to the rhythm of her thrusts. “that’s it!”

lucy seems almost as eager to make you cum as you are yourself, panting: “are you gonna cum?” as though she can hardly believe that she’s the one to get you there.

“oh my god, are you gonna cum on my- on my cock?” the distant realization dawns upon you that she doesn’t even know the proper words, but the way she’s put it -albeit clumsy and unsure- works. it is what you ultimately need to be pushed over that edge.

a breathless “oh my god!” is the only response lucy gets before your orgasm rips through you. with a prolonged moan, you slam your head back, only vaguely aware of the dull pain as your body convulses around her strap.

your hips are still rutting back and forth uselessly, grinding against your hand as she stills inside of you. when the pleasure finally subsides, your body goes slack and you fall against lucy with her strap still buried inside you.

her arms wrap around you soothingly, pressing you as close to her chest as the current position allows. you stay like this for a while, just enough for you to catch your breath and ground yourself. the stillness of the night settles back into the store as the two of you adjust in the dim light. she pulls back gently and you pull your jacket tight, brushing stray bits of dust from the sleeves, while lucy fumbles with her gear.

the wind that blows through the creaks in the wall seems louder now, as the silence between you stretches on. finally, lucy dares to speak. “well,” she begins. “this has officially been my favorite pit stop so far!”

you can’t help but laugh, your cheeks heating up all over again as you carefully reach down to push your underwear back into place.

“and these?” she jerks her thumb down to the strap that’s still fastened to her body. “these are definitely coming with us!”

you freeze mid-motion, “lucy, you can’t just carry that around like it’s-“

“like it’s what? a perfectly good survival tool?” she interrupts. “come on, think about it! it’s sturdy, lightweight, multipurpose and-”

“multipurpose?” you cut in, raising a brow.

she shrugs, unbothered. “sure. you never know when you might need something to hold up supplies!”

your lips part to protest, but no words come out. instead, you watch as she unbuckles the harness. this whole situation is ridiculous. it’s so lucy. you feel warmth spreading through your chest at the sight.

she glances over at you, her head tilted when she catches you staring. “are you alright?”

you nod quickly, forcing yourself to look away before your face betrays you again. “yeah,” you swallow audibly. “yeah, i’m good!”

but you’re not. not really. because she kissed you. she kissed you, and then she fucked you, too. and now, instead of brushing it off like another one of her impulsive experiments, she’s acting like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like it’s you that’s natural to her.

“alright,” she says, her voice pulling you from your thoughts. “let’s set up camp for the night. i’ll try to get some actual sleep this time!”

you nod again, following her toward the back of the store where the shadows are deepest. as you lay out your bedroll, you glance at her from the corner of your eye. she’s humming under her breath as she secures her pack.

this wasn’t just a one-time thing, you realize as she packs up both the harness and its counterpart. it wasn’t just a kiss or a moment or something you won’t speak about in the morning, otherwise she would not be keeping this.

it was lucy, and it was you.

and whatever comes next on your travels, you know there’s no going back from this.

— a/n: my first lucy fic!! you can thank @lottiesgrl for this, they helped me turn my silly little idea into…something!!

[pathologicalreid]

for the fear of falling apart | part five

there's one last chance for everything to fall apart, but this time you aren't at the center of disaster - Spencer is

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | epilogue

series masterlist

who? spencer reid x jareau!reader category: angst content warnings: lots of future talk (marriage and pregnancy), takes place during 15x10 "and in the end", explosions, the chameleon arc, spencer's hospital stay, sibling loss, diana's alzheimers, canon cm violence word count: 7.34k a/n: so this is the last part! i can't resist doing an epilogue, so a cutie little "where are they now" part on the horizon, but this was always the way it was going to end. as always, telling me your thoughts is the sexiest thing you can do.

“She’s not a threat,” Spencer pointed out, carrying on a conversation with you while he adjusted the straps of your bulletproof vest, pulling it tightly around you to cover as much of your torso as possible. You’d complain about him taking away your ability to breathe but if it brought peace to his busy mind, you could sacrifice your full lung capacity.

You flattened your palm against the SWAT truck for support while he resumed tugging at the Velcro straps of your Kevlar, “Speak for yourself! You’re not the favorite stepdaughter of a woman that you can’t stand.”

Deciding your vest was as secure as it was going to get, Spencer stood up, sharing a look with the SWAT commander before turning his attention back to you, “Why are you the favorite stepdaughter again?”

Dramatically, you tilted your head back and looked at the sky, “Because JJ had a child out of wedlock. I’m the favorite by default.” It was funny to think of your stepmother choosing you as a favorite, but you supposed the pickings were rather slim. “Hey,” you continued, “There’s an idea.”

“Uh huh,” Spencer responded mockingly, “Pick a new subject, please.”

Rolling your eyes, you rested fully against the armored truck, scuffing your boots against the gravel driveway to Everett Lynch’s house. “You’re no fun,” you accused, trying to use your family issues as a discussion to pass the time before you had permission from Emily to put your plan into motion.

Spencer hummed in response, watching your sister as she answered her phone and hopefully received instruction from Emily. You didn't like lingering out here like sitting ducks, no matter how many armed agents there were with you.

Matching JJ’s gaze, she nodded to you and Spencer, letting you know that Emily had given the go-ahead.

Quickly, Spencer slipped his phone from his pocket and dialed the number that he had previously memorized. You heard the phone ring as he held it up to his ear, and then a woman’s voice came through, “No, Roberta my name is Dr. Spencer Reid and it’s important that you listen to me right now.” He fed the Lynch matriarch instructions over the phone, “Even though you have the gun, the moment your son realizes you’re not gonna shoot him, he’s gonna get the upper hand.”

You couldn’t make out her response, but based on the way Spencer’s eyebrows were pinched together, you worried he wasn’t getting through to her.

“Yes,” he answered over the phone, “but first you need to let Olivia walk out of there, okay?” The next step was simple enough, and not long after he spoke, you saw the teenager run out of the house.

JJ had the opportunity to take the Chameleon out earlier that day, but he’d used Olivia and her diabetes as a bargaining chip. You lingered with Spencer while JJ ran out to meet her, gently guiding her behind the barricade to the waiting ambulance. 

Instinctively, you set your hand on your firearm as a single gunshot rang out from the house, “Roberta,” Spencer urged, “that warning shot is what’s about to give you away, but we can help. Are you ready for us to come in?” He waited almost too long before speaking again, “Roberta?”

He looked back at the SWAT captain as everything hinged on Roberta’s response, and when Spencer gave the order to breach, you took your spot next to the armored truck. Your instructions were very clear, you were in charge of Everett once he was apprehended, and JJ was in charge of Roberta.

Across from you, JJ’s phone rang, you couldn’t hear either end of the conversation, but you could see the fear in her eyes when she looked up at Spencer and all of the other SWAT agents headed toward the structure. You took a few steps forward, trying to follow after Spencer, but JJ shouted your name and caught your attention right as the bomb went off.

The blast warped your perception of time. You looked back at the house on fire before your eyes automatically searched for Spencer. Everything was moving in slow motion, but even so, there he was, on the ground. “Spence,” you yelped before scrambling forward, dropping to your knees at his side.

Spencer started to rise from the driveway, propping himself up on his elbows. He likely couldn’t hear you, based on the way your own ears were ringing while you checked him over for injuries.

“Are you okay?” You asked him anyway, “Baby, can you hear me?” He tried to sit up, but you settled your hands on his shoulders, “No, it’s okay, stay down.” You continued to speak to him, taking time to shout instructions for the now scrambled first responders.

JJ called your name again, causing your head to snap in her direction, “Your head is bleeding,” she told you, jogging toward you and Spencer.

You rose on shaky legs as your sister took your face in her hands, frantically checking the wound that you couldn’t feel. Waving away paramedics, you urged them to assist the downed SWAT agents instead of you, “It’s fine, Jayg,” you breathed, straightening yourself out and keeping an eye on Spencer.

“Are you feeling alright?” You whispered to Spencer, noting the lack of focus in his eyes, you resisted the urge to wave your hand in front of his face.

He hummed in response, “I’m fine.”

Unable to help it, you frowned at him. ‘Fine’ had been his only sensation from the moment you arrived at the hospital in Reno until now. ‘Fine’ was a term used by people who were avoiding any genuine emotion, and you couldn’t entirely blame him. Last you heard the casualty count from the explosion was up to seven – including Everett and Roberta Lynch.

He’d gotten an MRI at the hospital – not that you’d given him much choice – and it came back clear, so the rest of the team wasted no time in having the jet prepared to return to Quantico.

It wasn’t the silence that unnerved you, it was the absence of activity. Your sister sat in one of the chairs, periodically turning her head to check on you, Rossi and Matt had claimed their own spots throughout the aircraft, and you and Spencer were sequestered next to the galley. Everyone seemed to be disassociating from the events of the day.

You willed Spencer to pull a book out of his bag and start reading. You silently begged him to do something that you could find comfort in. Instead, he noticed you staring and leaned over to gently kiss the unmarred side of your forehead.

Taking a raincheck on Penelope’s vision-boarding, you made sure the two of you got home in one piece. “Do you need to clean it?” Spencer asked, gesturing to the mark on your forehead.

You kicked off your shoes in the entryway, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes as he sat down on the couch. “No, maybe in the morning,” you responded. “Are you gonna come to bed?”

“In a bit,” he offered, leaning his head back to look at you one more time before you disappeared into the bedroom.

There were a lot of things about the day that didn’t make any sense, but the one thing you couldn’t wrap your head around was Everett Lynch’s suicide. Not to be mistaken with sympathy, you didn’t understand how his particular personality type could choose to blow itself up. He was too confident, too narcissistic for that.

The doubt kept waking you up, each time you hoped to find that Spencer had finally come to bed. Once the clock struck four in the morning and he still hadn’t come to lie down, you crawled out of bed, expecting to find him asleep on the couch.

Your heart dropped when you found him on the floor, dried blood crusted around his nose, deathly still.

Phone, phone, phone – where was your phone?

Grabbing his phone off of the coffee table, your head spun as you dialed 911, crouching next to him as you tried to make out the sound of his breathing.

In a four-in-the-morning fugue, you went through the motions, answering all of the dispatcher’s questions, all of the paramedic’s questions, and all of the nurse’s questions.

The emergency department nurse looked at you sadly, not much more than a pile of limbs in a stiff plastic chair, “Is there anyone I can call for you?”

Swallowing thickly, you shrugged in response. You wanted her to call everyone and no one at the same time, building up walls around yourself made of materials that you couldn’t name. You needed to call Emily. You needed to call Diana. Frowning at the nurse, you gave it another moment of thought before responding, “My sister.”

JJ didn’t answer.

The nurse tried her twice and you called once from your phone, but there was no answer.

Spencer didn’t wake up. Dr. K didn’t seem confident that he would.

Like a metronome, the steady beeping of Spencer’s vital monitor nearly lulled you to sleep until the ringing of a phone interrupted the pattern. Your phone buzzed in your pocket and your stomach lurched at the realization that your sister was finally calling you back, “I have been trying to reach you all morning.”

Your sister was silent on the other side, and you wondered if you had come on too strong. “What happened?”

The world was falling apart around you. Your castle was crumbling with you in it. You looked longingly at Spencer before you answered, “I think he’s dying.”

Time passed in an inordinate pattern, convincing yourself that hours had passed when it had only been minutes. You had moved your chair to Spencer’s bedside, tracing the scar on the inside of his palm in time with the steady rising and falling of his chest.

“Have you been here all night?” Your older sister’s voice rang from the doorway, she didn’t wait to be welcomed in, immediately moving to the side of the bed opposite to you.

Your eyes followed her hand as she gently set a palm on his shoulder, her blonde hair curling around her face as she studied Spencer’s appearance. Quickly, she caught herself, straightening up and making her way around the bed so that she stood behind you, smoothing a hand through your hair like she did when you were just kids.

Penelope followed behind JJ on a delay, her skin paling at the sight of Spencer in the hospital bed. She stood at the foot of the bed, placing her hands on the footboard and taking several deep breaths.

“I went to bed without him last night. I wasn’t sleeping well, so when I woke up at four in the morning and he hadn’t made it to bed I went to see if he had fallen asleep on the couch, but he was just… on the floor,” You told them absently, watching Spencer as he slept and recalling the way you had found him in the apartment. His body contorted from falling on the ground with a puddle of blood beginning to gather beneath his head.

You couldn’t look at them. You couldn’t look away from him knowing that it could be the last time you see him alive. “What do you need?” JJ asked, continuing to smooth down your hair.

Clasping his hand in yours, you nodded to yourself reassuringly, “Can you call Brookfield? I need to talk to Diana. If she’s lucid enough, can you ask if they can bring her here? If he… she should be here.” Sinking into an abyss of unknowns, at the very least you knew that he’d want his mother here with him.

The two blondes shared a wary look, and you steeled yourself for a difficult conversation. Penelope left to call Brookfield on your behalf, but JJ stayed behind, dragging one of the plastic chairs over to the bed so she could sit next to you. “We got the casualty report back from the medical examiner in Reno,” she informed you; her voice was low – the tone she took up when she wasn’t sure how to navigate a situation.

You nodded in understanding, waiting for the bomb to drop.

“There were six SWAT agents, Roberta Lynch, and Orlando Gaines,” she told you gently, watching your face for any sign of a reaction.

You frowned, expecting her to add Everett Lynch to the tally later on for dramatic effect, but the moment never came, “Oh,” you breathed, looking at Spencer.

JJ continued to explain that, based on the blueprints of the house that he had pilfered from one of his victims, he had likely escaped using a tunnel system beneath the house. The Chameleon was in the wind, and Spencer might just be his latest victim. “We know he’s not done though,” JJ tried to reassure you, “He’ll resurface somewhere.”

“We don’t know where and we don’t know when, though,” you told her, an edge of despair creeping into your voice. He should’ve died. Everett Lynch should be dead, and you shouldn’t be sitting next to Spencer’s hospital bed right now. “And Spencer might die for no reason,” you added. There was a slight chance that you could, someday, find comfort in Spencer succumbing to injuries sustained in a blast that took out The Chameleon, but with Lynch still out there, you were struggling to find any glimpse of a silver lining.

Your sister looked at a loss for words, reaching out her hand and dropping it to your knee when you didn’t take it. She mumbled something about letting it go for Spencer’s sake, but Spencer was unconscious, if you held on to your grudge against your sister, he was none the wiser. It brought you back to something he had told you after Grace Lynch shot you – I don’t want you to forget your anger.

Glancing over at her briefly, you took a deep breath, “You should get back to Quantico – the team will need you to catch Lynch.”

“No,” she said, pinching her brows together, “I’m going to stay here.”

Pursing your lips, you gave her a sidelong glance, “Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you going to stay here, JJ? Do you want to stay at the hospital for my sake or for Spencer’s?” Keeping your hand tucked into his, you didn’t budge when she pulled her hand off of your knee, and even then, you had your answer. “I’m asking you to please, go back to Quantico and find Everett Lynch. Spencer will have me, his mom, and Penelope with him and I need you to find the person who did this to him. I’m asking you to go, so you aren’t staying for me.”

She was looking at you in pure disbelief, “Ducky, I don’t-“ She faltered, “I thought we were all friends again. You told me you understood where I was coming from.”

Nodding in agreement, you recalled the conversation you had with her while Spencer was with Cat Adams, “I told you I understood how you could be in love with him because I’m in love with him, but I have limits, JJ, and there comes a point where I just can’t understand why you keep using your love as a weapon.”

“I- I’m not,” she insisted, but you could hear the unease in her voice.

You shrugged, “Maybe it’s not your intention, but you are fighting a one-sided battle. You’re married and Spencer and I are engaged, and you have single-handedly destroyed our relationship.”

JJ scoffed in disbelief, “You and Spencer seem to be doing just fine.”

“I’m not talking about me and Spencer, I’m talking about me and you,” you corrected her. “At Rossi’s wedding, you told me that you had meant what you said to Spencer when you were in the pawn shop, and every day since then you have refused to give me the space that I’ve asked for.” Your hands shook as your eyes flittered between her and your fiancé, “You’re my big sister, JJ. You’re always going to be my big sister, and I am always going to love you because of that, but we aren’t friends, so don’t try to pretend you’re doing this for me.”

She tilted her head to the side, “I didn’t want space – you’re my sister.”

“But I needed space,” you emphasized, the one thing that JJ had never seemed to understand. You were the one who got hurt in the process, “I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired, and I can’t pretend to be your friend anymore while you can’t even be a decent sister. You tell me that you and Spencer have all of this history, that you’ve known each other for fifteen years, but you’ve been my sister for thirty-two. You keep asking for me to hear you out, and yet you haven’t once listened to me. Go back to Quantico, go find Lynch, and be my fucking sister.”

You couldn’t be friends with someone who had been long harboring a crush on your partner, and it didn’t make sense for you to make any exceptions for her. “Okay, I’ll um… I’ll go,” she told you, hesitating for a moment before she nodded to herself and walked out of the room. You knew what you told her stung, you were sending her out with her tail between her legs, but you didn't have the gracefulness to coddle her anymore.

Slowly, you leaned your head down, gently setting your chin on the sidebar of Spencer’s hospital bed, keeping a watchful eye on him even as tears streamed down your face.

Your eyes were dry by the time Diana arrived, being guided by one of her nurses and intercepted by Garcia, who had known better than to ask any questions when your sister left in a hurry. With your sight zeroed in on the rising and falling of Spencer’s chest, you listened to the conversation, “Oh, Diana, hi,” Penelope said, unable to hide the panic in her voice, “Hi, it’s Penelope. I work with Spencer. I’ve come to see you before,” she explained.

Garcia had tagged along multiple times to see Diana at Brookfield, which was likely why they were so receptive when she called the facility. “You’re almost as tall as I am,” Diana responded and your heart sunk, worried that she might not be stable enough to face this.

“Diana,” Penelope continued gently, “Spencer fell, and he hit his head really hard, and he’s not conscious.” Her words were carefully chosen to avoid raising any alarm.

“Well, let’s wake him up,” Diana insisted, and you straightened up at the sound of footsteps approaching, “Let’s see him.”

Penelope practically stumbled in behind her, “No, wait.”

His mother nodded, not even acknowledging you as she walked in, “He’ll listen to me… Spencer,” she called to him. Seconds later, you saw it, the moment the switch in her brain flipped and an internal war started, “it’s not him,” she murmured. “No. No, no, no,” the conviction in her voice broke your heart, “This is not my son.”

Silently, you sat back in your chair, trying to think of something you could say to her to reassure her, but you couldn’t even console yourself.

Then she reached out for his hand, turning his wrist over and exposing the inside of his wrist, the small star-shaped scar that marred his skin facing the ceiling, “Oh, my baby,” she breathed. “Oh, my baby,” she leaned over Spencer, smoothing his hair away from his forehead, cupping his face with her hands, and begging with an unknown force, “Oh, please.”

Unable to tolerate the sight of her begging for Spencer to wake up, you quietly got up from your chair, hugging your arms around yourself before walking out of the room.

For years, Diana and Spencer had been all each other had, and you couldn’t imagine what this was like for her. To have her son fighting for his life in the hospital while she spent every day trying to hold on to fleeting memories of him. You couldn’t watch her, afraid of losing him. It wasn’t supposed to work like that – parents weren’t supposed to have to bury their children.

You thought about calling your mom, knowing she’d drop everything and drive the four hours to come be with you, but maybe it would be cruel. It would be cruel to have her watch a parent lose a child when she had lost her own.

Leaning your head back against the taupe walls of the hospital, you glanced over at Penelope, giving her a stiff smile.

“Hey, you,” she said, shoving her laptop in her bag before making her way over to you. “How are you holding up?”

You laughed humorlessly, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes before looking back up at her, “I’m not entirely sure that I am.”

Her eyes were filled with grief, and you knew that she was another person in Spencer’s life who didn’t deserve more loss, “Can I get you anything? Have you eaten?”

Food had been approximately the last thing on your list of concerns today, but you hadn’t eaten since Reno yesterday. You shook your head, “I’m not hungry,” You were actually a bit queasy, but you weren’t entirely sure if you were nauseous from your current predicament or if it was because you hadn’t eaten anything. “Maybe later,” you tried to appease her.

“Okay,” she sighed, “I don’t know what happened between you and JJ, but I do know that something happened. I might not know what it’s like between sisters, but I do know what it’s like to be a sister.” Garcia gave you a soft smile, “Do you need to talk about it?”

Desperately. Your chest ached at the idea of being able to talk to someone else about what had gone down between you and your sister, but you shook your head, “I’m sworn to secrecy.”

The understanding expression on her face deepened the ache in your chest, but she reached out and pulled you into a hug, “I know the two of you will figure it out.” She pulled away, sweeping tears from under her eyes, “I know you said you’re not hungry, but I’m going to go down to the cafeteria and I’ll get you something to pick at. You look like you need it.”

You smiled at her concern and gave her a small wave as she made her way through the hallways. It was sweet that she had faith in the sororal bond between you and JJ – even more than you had, but you just didn’t see it the way she did. There had always been an expectation of you and JJ growing up that you’d always make up because you were the only sibling that each other had left.

That expectation had led to a lot of issues being swept under the rug, maybe too many issues, but you couldn’t forgive JJ, not fully. Even under the weight of the obligation to forgive her for the sake of your familial tie, you couldn’t let this one go. JJ had broken any semblance of trust between the two of you, and even if you worked to rebuild that trust, the cracks were always going to be there.

When you and Spencer had fought and you knocked a bowl off of the counter, he made a remark about how the bowl could be fixed with kintsugi, but the bowl would always have cracks, no matter how pretty the gold looked in the seams. You and JJ would never get back to where you had been, and now, you were sure that you didn’t want to go back.

Wiping a few stray tears from beneath your eyes, you nodded to yourself before walking back into the hospital room, introducing Diana and Dr. K before the doctor gave you some information, telling you that Spencer’s brain was bleeding.

Tilting your head to the side, “No, I made sure he got an MRI at the hospital. The doctor there told us it was completely clear,” you assured her, remembering how you refused to let Spencer board the jet without getting an MRI.

Dr. K nodded, “We got the scans sent over from the hospital in Reno, there’s a small bleed that was possibly overlooked. From what you’ve told me, it seems like they were overwhelmed and needed to get other people through,” she told you, making it seem like no more than a clerical error.

“So…” you dragged out the vowel, trying to wrap your head around this reality, “His brain’s been bleeding since yesterday?”

The doctor affirmed your suspicions, “Boarding a plane with even the smallest of brain bleeds can have catastrophic consequences. In Spencer’s case, it’s caused intracranial hemorrhaging. Parts of his brain are shutting down and other parts are struggling to survive.”

Your stomach flipped at the mention of his brain shutting down, the term was far too close to brain death for comfort, “Is he… is he already gone, then?” You asked, faltering over your words.

“No,” she gave you some reassurance, “There’s a chance that his brain bleed will resolve on its own.”

“But not a good chance,” you observed, taking Spencer’s hand in your own. “Is there anything that can be done?”

The doctor adjusted the tablet in her hands, “The conservative approach would be surgery. It may reduce the swelling around Spencer’s brain faster. There is risk, it could cause seizures and even more bleeding,” she explained to the both of you.

The image in your mind of brain surgery didn’t bring you any reassurance, you looked up at Diana. Until you and Spencer got married, she was his next of kin. Spencer didn’t have any kind of healthcare directive for a situation like this, and you weren’t entirely sure where to go from here.

His mom shrugged at you, shaking her head, “I thought it was Tuesday, and it’s not Tuesday. So, I can’t tell you,” she answered, looking at you helplessly.

Turning your head to Dr. K, you asked, “Could we have a minute?”

The doctor gave you both an understanding look before stepping out of the room.

“What would he want?” Diana asked you, looking at you expectantly, “I don’t want to make the decision.”

Abhorring the idea that you would be the one to make the decision, you looked up at Diana, “I’m not sure,” you admitted.

“He always says he trusts you the most,” she told you. “Oh, for years in his letters, he’d always talk about you. Even before you started dating – it was always about you in a way I’d never heard him talk about anyone,” she continued, nodding as if she were convincing herself. “If he trusts you that much, then I have no problem trusting you.”

You didn’t want it to be up to you, and before you had the opportunity to answer, the alarm on Spencer’s vital monitor started going off. “Oh my god,” You breathed, moving back to allow the nurses space as they crowded around Spencer’s bed.

“What’s happening to my boy?” Diana asked, placing her hands in front of her mouth in shock, “What is happening to him?”

Watching quietly as he seized, you listened to his mom cry out for him and decided you wanted to wait a bit longer before resorting to surgery.

Picking at the bread of the sandwich that Penelope had gotten you from the cafeteria, you found yourself more amenable to sipping at the water she had brought you than you were toward actually eating something. According to Garcia, the team was hot on Everett Lynch’s trail, but she wouldn’t give you any more details than that.

Periodically, Spencer’s hand would twitch, but you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. You tried not to get your hopes up, not until Dr. K said something reassuring.

With the doctor in the room, there were four pairs of eyes watching his every move, no matter how minuscule. You leaned back in the chair, gently tracing the lines in his palm, “His… his eyes are fluttering,” you observed aloud, not daring to look away, afraid your mind was playing tricks on you.

“That’s a good sign,” Dr. K said, leaning forward and observing the same thing as you.

Penelope inclined her head to look up at the doctor, “Is he gonna be okay?”

She looked uneasy, “He’s putting up one hell of a fight, but it’s still too early to know for sure,” she answered diplomatically, checking something on her tablet before excusing herself.

Shortly after, Garcia’s phone started to ring, she brought it out into the hallway, letting you know she’d be right back.

Leaving just you and Diana in the room with Spencer, you watched as she continued to smooth his hair back, being able to see the maternal gesture made your chest ache – you never knew how many more moments there would be. “Has he been here before?” She asked you, “In the hospital, like this?”

You nodded slowly, moving through a fog of exhaustion as the day came to an end, “Yes,” you told her, memories of Briscoe County bubbled to the surface.

“Were you there for him?” She continued, wondering if someone had been there for her baby when she couldn’t be.

You had sat around his hospital bed with Alex and Penelope, waiting for him to wake up while Penelope set up Doctor Who figurines throughout the room. “Yes,” you answered again.

“Oh,” she sighed, “How awful,” she commiserated.

While a corrupt precinct wasn’t a new concept to the BAU, that case had been particularly difficult on the team, and there had been a day, much like today, where you weren’t sure if you’d ever be able to tell Spencer you loved him again.

You didn’t tell him you loved him before going to bed last night.

“It was, actually,” you remembered, previously buried memories of time spent in hospital rooms. Months ago, your roles had been reversed, and Spencer had been the one begging you to wake up.

After a moment, Diana leaned forward a bit, “Spencer,” she spoke to him, “I saw some cumuliform heaps today. His favorite clouds,” She added the last bit for you, “I plucked that for him,” she explained as Penelope came back into the room. “Everything is up there, and we pluck what we want when we want, and we let go what we don’t.”

Penelope grinned, “That sounds very good. Okay, I am plucking a memory about Spencer’s eyes, and they are brown with gold on the outside,” she posited. 

Diana hummed, “I think they’re gold on the inside.”

Tantalizingly slowly, Spencer’s eyes started to open, and your heart raced as a mix of emotions flooded through you. As your eyes met him, you smiled sadly and whispered, “Gold on the inside.”

“Hey,” Garcia said, the smile plain in her voice, “we were just plucking eye memories of you.”

He returned the smiles in the room, “I heard you.” Spencer hummed, “Forgot how much I loved those clouds, mom. You helped me remember.”

Diana grinned, any remaining trace of grief wiped from her face, “I did, huh?” Well, maybe I can come back tomorrow, and we can watch clouds together,” she offered.

“Am I still dreaming?” He asked rhetorically.

“Sweetie,” she cupped his cheek with a maternal gentleness, “You are very much alive.”

Once Diana was on her way back to Brookfield and Penelope – still not providing you with any details – left to go check in with the team, you rested your head on the armrest of his hospital bed, maintaining a watchful eye on him. “I love you,” you whispered to him after Dr. K left for the night.

He hummed, tired eyes looking back at you, “You’ve said that three times in the last ten minutes.”

“And?” You inquired, furrowing your brows.

The corner of his mouth quirked up, “And I love you too.”

You smiled at him, “Thank you for having a traumatic brain injury so I could delay my stepmother’s visit.”

At that, he fully grinned up at you, “It was all part of my plan.”

A thousand words rested on the tip of your tongue, asking him how he was feeling and about healthcare directives and how he chose his favorite cloud, but everything felt so important and so inconsequential at the same time.  

“You should go home,” he spoke before you had the chance to, “Get some good rest, sleep in a real bed.”

You shook your head succinctly, “I’m gonna stay here.”

He raised his eyebrows, “The nurses will keep coming in all night and wake you up,” he insisted, knowing well enough that the hospital chairs did not make for a good night’s rest.

“Then it’s a good thing I don’t have anywhere to be but here tomorrow,” you told him, thumbing the fabric of his hospital blanket as you insisted on staying.

Spencer shifted slightly on the bed, trying to get a better look at you, “You need to take care of yourself.”

His concern comforted you, but you still shook your head, “If I don’t stay here next to you, I’ll drive myself crazy. This is the best place for me.” You picked your head up, reaching out to cup his cheek and smiling to yourself when he leaned into your touch. “What’re you thinking about?”

His head lolled lazily on the pillows, brown eyes – with gold on the inside – studying your features like he was trying to make sense of something in his muddled brain, “I had a weird dream.”

Most of the time, Spencer didn’t give credit to dream analysis, so when he had dreams that he deemed inexplicable, he’d make his head spin trying to find a logical reason. “Maybe it’s a side effect of the seizure medication they put you on,” you proposed, skimming the apple of his cheek with the pad of your thumb.

Spencer didn’t look convinced, “I saw people while I was unconscious.” His attempt at explaining gave you more insight on what he was struggling with, he had a complicated relationship with the concept of the afterlife.

“Oh, yeah?” You asked softly, hoping the two of you could talk it out.

He nodded almost indeterminably, “Strauss, Foyet, Gideon,” he elaborated, opening his mouth to add another name, but he faltered when the time came.

“Your brain was looking for manifestations of guilt,” you analyzed, each of those deaths had affected him in one way or another. “Using your past traumas against you,” you continued.

He still seemed unsure, “I’m not sure that’s all of it, some of it, sure, but…”

Your chest ached at the confusion in his gaze, “Was there someone else you saw?”

He sighed, leaning his head back against the pillows and looking at the dimmed fluorescent lights of the hospital room, “A little kid. A girl,” he told you, closing his eyes as if he was trying to recall the child from his dream.

“Well,” you considered it, “If your brain was using the other three as a manifestation of guilt, maybe the little girl is a manifestation of hope. The part of your subconscious telling you to stay formed her to represent the people you can still help.”

Spencer frowned deeply, looking at you again, “I guess I assumed there was a deeper meaning to it.”

You raised your eyebrows, “What else do you think it could be?”

“I thought…” he faltered, “I’m not sure.”

“Are you alright?” Spencer asked you, already starting to walk through Dave’s house to where everyone was gathering on the patio.

You stood in the foyer, pressing your lips together as you shifted the strap of your purse over your shoulder before finally hanging it up. Looking up at Spencer, you dropped your arms to your sides, “What?”

His eyebrows furrowed in concern, “I asked if you were alright. Are you?”

Your eyes widened, “Oh, oh yeah. It’s just weird, you know? Pen leaving,” the half-truth slipped easily from your lips.

“It feels like everyone’s changing except for us,” he said, returning to you in the foyer so that the two of you could walk outside together.

“Ha,” you said humorlessly, “Right.” Penelope was leaving, having decided that Silicon Valley was too far for her, but landing a job with a nonprofit in D.C. and leaving the BAU behind. Emily was house hunting in Denver, not for a permanent move, but for something for her to share with Andrew.

You and Spencer were staying with the BAU, he wanted to split time between consulting and teaching, similar to what he had done during his sabbaticals. “Well,” he ceded, “We’re not changing much.”

The two of you emerged onto the patio hand-in-hand, being on the receiving end of welcoming smiles that had an air of relief. Everyone was still in that phase of remembering how grateful they were to have him around every time they saw him. “How ya feeling, kid?” Rossi asked, standing around the table with Krystall.

Spencer set his hand on the small of your back before responding, “Feeling great, and I’m starting back next week. Can’t let the team be down two members,” he mused, looking down at you reassuringly.

Next to you, Tara scoffed, “Oh, come on, teaching and consulting? You’re making me look bad.”

“Just doing what I love,” Spencer replied candidly.

Luke raised his champagne, “Hey, I will drink to that,”

You prepared yourself to turn down a drink, thinking up an excuse until Penelope stepped out onto the patio, “Uh, you’re not supposed to start the festivities until the belle of the ball has arrived,” she jokingly protested, giving everyone a little twirl in a very Garcia-fashion.

Leaning into Spencer slightly, the two of you watched as Luke put his hands up in defense, “Don’t worry, okay? ‘Cause this is gonna be the first of many.”

“Penelope!” Kristy called out from across the table, “Congratulations! Here I thought we were coming to celebrate Dave’s retirement, but Matt said it’s your farewell party. And you had like a hundred offers,” she said, beaming from across the table.

Garcia waved her hand in faux humility, “Oh, that’s only if you round up, but yes,” she said excitedly. “Anyway, it’s a nonprofit, it’s close to here, and the dress code is all FBI conservative like I’ve been having to do,” she said, ignoring the doubtful looks that were shared around the table.

“I’m still in denial that you’re leaving,” JJ told her mournfully, a slight frown on her face.

Matt shook his head, “It won’t be the same without you.”

“Better not be,” Penelope scolded, her tone suggesting that she found the idea ridiculous.

Emily leaned over the table to clarify for Kristy, “Dave decided he wasn’t going to retire. He didn’t want the team to go through too much of a transition all at once.”

“That’s ‘cause Dave’s never gonna actually do it,” Krystall interjected, saying what many members of the BAU had also thought.

“Hey,” Rossi protested in mock offense, “Look, being with you all, doing what few others can, that’s where I belong.” He turned to Garcia, “But this night is not about me. To our beloved Penelope – a salut.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Luke and Penelope wander off to the patio, the two of them seeking out water. You made a mental note to ask her what it was about just as Spencer approached you, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?”

You waved off his concern, making your way over to the house, hoping there were hors d’oeuvres remaining in the kitchen. “I’m fine, this is Pen’s night,” you explained to Spencer as he followed you.

“Right, that’s reassuring,” he responded sardonically, trailing close behind you through the kitchen.

Turning back to him, you pleaded, “Can you let this go? Just for now.”

Spencer frowned, “I thought we were working on our communication.”

Silently, you cursed him for bringing up your therapist’s – who was likely going to have a field day when she found out – tactics. “Spence,” you complained, hating how your voice sounded like a whine.

“Y/N,” he answered in kind.

Groaning, you looked around the kitchen before dragging Spencer into the pantry by his shirt. You flipped the light on and looked up at him, “I had my yearly physical this morning.”

He knew this, in order to remain eligible to stay in the field, everyone needed to have a yearly physical performed by an FBI physician. The concern on his face deepened, “I- Are you okay?”

“I’m pregnant,” you breathed, the words that had been balancing on your tongue for the better of the day. You wished you had been able to give him a better announcement. A card or a onesie, anything would have been better than turning Rossi’s pantry into a confessional.

Instantly, you saw the gears turning in his head as he tried to do the math, “That would mean…” he started, eyes widening as he came to different conclusions.

You nodded, “I’ve been pregnant. They couldn’t give an accurate estimate based on just the blood test and I’ve been trying to figure it out, but-“

“Eight weeks,” Spencer answered, the concern refusing to waver as he studied your appearance.

He was looking for signs and trying to remember symptoms, and you didn’t blame him. You had always assumed you’d have some idea, but you were so shocked that the FBI physician had insisted that you lay down before driving home.

The same surprise was pasted across Spencer’s face now, his hands tentatively placed on either side of your waist, thumbs hovering over your abdomen, “You were pregnant when the house blew up in Reno.” His voice solemn as he held back any excitement, “Did the doctor… is everything alright?”

“He said if anything had happened as a result of the blast, we’d know by now,” you offered some reassurance, having shared the same worry when you found out that morning. You wanted him to be happy, because once Spencer was happy about this, you could be happy.

Spencer shifted his weight, “But you made an appointment with an obstetrician, right?”

Slouching slightly, you looked up at him, “First thing Monday morning. Spencer-“

“If I had known, I never would’ve let you go to Nevada,” he interrupted, instantly protective.

“Spencer,” you startled him, “Are you happy?”

He paused and your chest ached more and more with every moment he remained silent, “Did you think that I wouldn’t be?”

You released a small sigh of relief, smiling at him sheepishly, “It’s just… it’s a surprise,” you offered quietly. “Is it awful timing?”

“No,” he insisted, pulling you in by the waist and wrapping his arms around you. He leaned his head down, tucking his face into the crook of your neck, “It’s perfect,” he reassured you. “I love you,” he whispered, voice muffled as he held you tightly – held you together.

The two of you remained that way until a knock at the door came, “Hey, uh,” Luke’s voice rang out from the other side of the door, “If you guys are doing freaky shit in Rossi’s pantry he’s gonna be pissed.”

Standing up straight, you clasped your hand over your mouth in an attempt to cover up your laugh. Spencer looked equally as amused, dropping a kiss to your lips before reaching behind you to open the door, revealing Luke and his impish grin.

He threw his hands up in the air, looking at the both of you as he walked backward out the door, “I was sent in to get you. Rumor has it they’re about to play the belle of the ball’s favorite song.”

You and Spencer shared a knowing look, “Heroes,” the both of you said in unison.

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[augustwinesworld]

in love with “I look in peoples windows”

if you’re willing to share do you have any headcanons about Noah 🥹 since he’s also kinda unconscious, what kind of kid is he? What type of relationship does he have with his mom? What is he obsessed with/are his interests ?

i just want to know more about these characters you’ve created!!!

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬—𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

series description: 

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x  female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe?

notes: Hiiiii, omg I am so sorry it took so long to answer this! I had a lot of shit going on last week, so I didn't write anything (and wasn't planning to tbh). Between exams, a three day opening event at the gallery, my birthday, and some other things I was very much overwhelmed. But finally, this headcannon is complete and I hope you like it<3<3

NEWS FLASH! : NEW CHAPTER WILL BE COMING OUT THIS SUNDAY, 18/05

word count: 2.1 k.

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆ 

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

Noah used to be obsessed with Dinosaur King:

The cards, the DVDs, the battered Nintendo DS game with the cracked hinge. His room is still a shrine to it: plushies arranged like sentries on the bookshelf, the limited-edition holo cards in a binder under his bed. Legend has it the only thing that soothed him as a colicky baby was the sound of Jurassic Park playing in the background—Mom swears by it, even if he now covers his eyes during the T. rex scene (but peeks through his fingers).

But that was, you know, a year ago. Back when he was a kid. Now he rolls his eyes and says things like “I outgrew it,” but the second someone gets a dinosaur fact wrong—like claiming Velociraptors were the size of humans—he’ll practically combust. He’ll start with a scoff, then a “That’s not even close,” and launch into a very serious correction, complete with citations. Then he’ll go back to pretending he doesn’t care, cheeks a little pink.

He plays junior hockey, has from a very young age, but only started playing in a team three years ago. The ice is the one place where all the noise in his head seems to hush. He wears his Pittsburgh Penguins every game day, knows the team’s stats better than his times tables, and can name every position on the ice. 

Noah plays center, because of course he does—he’s the kind of kid who needs to know where everyone is, what’s coming next, and how to quietly keep things from falling apart. Center demands focus, balance, foresight; it gives his overactive brain a job and his anxious heart a place to breathe. He’s not the fastest on the ice, but he sees things—reads the play like a puzzle, always thinking three moves ahead. It’s the one place he doesn’t feel too much--it’s just enough.

The rink smells like cold rubber and somebody’s gross old socks. It’s loud, too—like whistles and stomping and parents yelling even though no one can really hear them over the buzz of the ice machines. 

Noah squints under the bright lights as he adjusts his helmet. It’s too tight. Again. “You’re gonna squish my brain,” he told Mom this morning, wrinkling his nose while she buckled the strap. She just kissed his forehead and said, “Squished brains make better decisions.” Dumb. A bit lame. But still kinda funny. He laughed.

Logan skates up and shoves him, grinning. “Race you to the bench after,” he says.

“Last time you tripped.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

They bump shoulders. No one's mad. Logan makes a gagging noise.

“Ugh, dude, you smell like syrup.”

Noah shrugs. “Had pancakes.”

“Yeah, I can tell. You’re like, sticky through your gear.”

“You’re just mad 'cause your mom made oatmeal again.”

Logan scowls. “That was private.”

They both start giggling, helmets clacking as they lean into each other, the kind of laugh that gets stuck in their throats.

Coach then shouts something about spacing and lines from the other side of the ice, but it’s kind of whatever. Noah just nods. He knows the basics: chase the puck, don’t fall, pass to Milo if he’s waving his arms around like crazy. He wipes his glove across his mouthguard and spits onto the rubber mat. Feels cool doing it. Like a real player.

The ref drops the puck.

He goes.

The ice makes that squeaky sound under his blades. His lungs burn, in a good way. He doesn’t see Mom, but he knows she’s watching. She always is. She claps louder than everyone, even yells his name sometimes—Noah hates that part—but today, when he glanced up at warm-ups, she was smiling with her hand over her mouth, talking to Logan’s dad. Mr. Harper. He’d laughed at something she said and leaned in a little. He’s standing kinda close. Like...close.. Noah doesn't know why he noticed. Or why it made his stomach feel weird. He just skates harder.

He wants her to watch. Just her.

LOOOOOVES boardgames. Especially the ones with many rules that his mom can’t understand so he has to explain with the utmost patience.

His routines. He likes knowing that every Friday night means takeout and a movie, or that Mom will play with his hair, leaving one or two braids hidden behind his hair after a bath if he’s tired. These things soothe the low hum of anxiety he doesn’t always have words for. Also, pancakes for dinner every Sunday. Chocolate chips for him and blueberries for mom. 

He shuts down emotionally under pressure. Especially if he’s scared or feels like he’s disappointed someone. So he might say, “I’m fine,” and then refuse to make eye contact for the rest of the night.

He gets jealous. Especially when it comes to his mom. If someone takes up her time—whether work, or even a friend—he might act out in subtle ways. Maybe he interrupts more. Maybe he pretends to “need” something he really doesn’t.

Milo’s sitting at the kitchen island, feet swinging, watching Noah’s mom slice apples like she’s doing magic.

“That smells so good,” he says, wide-eyed as she pulls cookies from the oven. “You should open a bakery or something.”

Noah stiffens. “She’s just making snacks,” he mutters.

His mom laughs, brushing flour from her cheek. “Milo, you’re sweet. But trust me, no one would buy cookies shaped like blobs.”

“She’s so nice,” Milo whispers to Logan, who’s already elbow-deep in the cookie plate.

Noah hears it. Hears all of it. And suddenly he’s on the verge of dying. “Mom,” he says loudly, climbing onto the stool beside her, “my throat kind of hurts.”

She turns to him, brow knitting. “Oh? Do you feel sick?”

“No,” he says, too fast. “But maybe you could make tea? Like the one with the honey and the—” He pauses, glancing at Milo.“—the kind you only make for me.”

There’s a beat. His mom looks at him for a second too long. Then she nods, brushing his bangs from his forehead. 

“Alright. Tea for the patient.”

Milo tries to ask her another question—something about the cookies—but she’s already moved to the kettle.

Noah shoots him a look. Not mean. Just... his. 

Like: mine.

Logan, clueless, stuffs another cookie into his mouth. “You’re so weird, dude.”

Noah shrugs, smug now. His mom's back was to Milo, and that’s what mattered.

He can be bossy with other kids. Especially younger ones. He thinks he’s just being “helpful,” but really he hates chaos and wants everyone to do what makes sense to him. This is when his dad’s rigidity shows up.

He’s prone to catastrophizing. He once got a B on a math quiz and whispered, “I’ll never get into a good school”—and he was only nine. A stomach ache? “What if it’s cancer.” Therapy’s been helping him name the spirals when they start, but they’re still real: fast, quiet, and hard to steer once his brain starts running.

A mildly anxious, overthinker. He overthinks, he spirals sometimes, but he's learning. He doesn’t always say it out loud, but it shows in the way he chews his sleeve or double-checks things that don’t need checking. And when he does speak up, he might say, “You should’ve called,” instead of “I missed you,” but the meaning still lands.

The house is quiet when you open the door—but not quiet enough. The TV is still on, humming low in the living room, and the lamp beside the couch casts a low glow. Your mother is passed out under a blanket, one slipper dangling off her foot.

You step further in, careful not to wake anyone. Then you hear it: the soft shuffle of bare feet on tile.

“Noah?”

He appears in the hallway, pajama pants wrinkled, hair flattened on one side. He’s holding his stuffed raptor by the neck, thumb pressed to the seam where the stitching came loose last week. His eyes are wide, but not upset. Just…watchful.

“You were gone a long time,” he says. Not accusing—just stating the facts. His voice is quiet. Even.

“I know, baby,” you say, setting your bag down by the door. “There was a delivery. Complications. I got stuck longer than I thought.”

He nods, like he’s tucking that away somewhere—filing it, the way he always does. You can see the questions lining up behind his eyes—how bad were the complications? did the baby make it? what if it happens again?—but he doesn’t ask.

He glances at the clock. “It’s really late.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” he says, chewing the edge of his sleeve. “I just thought maybe something happened.”

You cross to him and crouch down, brushing his hair gently back. He leans into your hand, just a little, like something in him finally lets go.

“I’m okay,” you say softly. “You can always call me. Even if Grandma’s here.”

He nods again. A pause.

“I checked the front door twice,” he says. No smile, just the truth of it. A quiet ritual. A way to feel safe.

You kiss his forehead. “I’m proud of you.”

And he holds your hand all the way down the hall.

He picks up on things quickly—tones, looks, when something’s off. He’s the kind of kid who’ll go quiet when a room turns tense, or who’ll suddenly say, “Are you mad at each other?” when no one’s said a word. It’s not precocious, just… tuned-in. Like someone who’s had to watch carefully, who’s learned to read the air before stepping into it.

Kind but grounded. He has his mom’s warmth and sense of care—the kind of kid who offers his snack to someone who forgot theirs, or comforts a crying classmate—but he also knows when to draw a quiet boundary. He might say, “I think we need space right now,” the same way his mom would calmly de-escalate a tense room.

Funny in a dry, observational way. Robby’s sarcasm filtered through a 9-year-old’s lens. Not mean-spirited, just blunt. He might deadpan when someone tries to fix something with duct tape, then go help anyway.

The pizza place smelled like garlic and the floor was sticky in some spots, but Noah didn’t mind. He liked this kind of busy—clinking plates, soda fountains hissing, Logan talking with his mouth full across the table. He liked it even more when his mom was here, sitting next to him, her jacket still zipped halfway up from the cold outside.

She was smiling politely. Again.

Logan’s dad had been talking for what felt like forever—mostly about the game, a little about his job (something boring, Noah couldn’t remember), and now about how impressive it was that she managed to come straight from work to the rink, and still had energy to take the boys out to eat.

“I’m just saying,” he added, leaning back in the booth like he’d landed a punchline. “If there were a Hockey Mom Hall of Fame, you’d be in it. With a statue and everything.”

Noah stared at him. Then turned slowly to his mom. She looked like she was trying not to laugh—or maybe trying not to roll her eyes. Hard to tell.

“She’s not even a hockey mom,” Noah said, voice flat. “She doesn’t even know the rules.”

His mom choked on her water. Logan giggled into his Sprite.

Logan’s dad blinked. “Well—I mean, she shows up. That’s the important part, right?”

Noah didn’t answer. He just took a bite of pizza, deadpan. Chewed. Swallowed.

Then: “Statues are weird.”

There was a pause. The kind adults make when they’re trying to figure out if a kid just insulted them. His mom reached under the table and squeezed his knee gently.

“You okay?” she murmured.

Noah shrugged. “Mhm.” He took another bite.

He wasn’t mad. Not exactly. He just didn’t like the way Logan’s dad kept looking at her, like she was extra impressive for being tired and kind and good at things. Like that was rare. Noah already knew that. He didn’t need someone else pointing it out like it was a surprise.

Across the table, Logan slurped from his straw way too loudly before adding, “Dad, are you trying to be embarrassing, or does it just happen naturally?”

His dad raised his hands in mock offense. “Hey, I’m charming. This is peak dad charisma.”

Logan snorted. “You sound like the car guy on TV. The one who yells and wears too much tanning lotion.”

Noah, still chewing, finally cracked a smile.

Logan’s dad looked over at Noah’s mom like see what I deal with? but she was just sipping her water, amused and entirely unsurprised.

Noah leaned into her side a little, just enough to feel her shoulder against his. Statues were weird. But this? This was fine.

Protective, especially of his mom. He doesn’t always understand what’s going on between her and Robby, but he feels it. If he thinks someone—especially his dad—is upsetting her, he doesn’t lash out; he just gets quiet and watchful. He notices everything, even when he doesn’t say it.

taglist: @snowflames-world, @nosebeers, @midnghtprentiss, @delicatetrashtree, @thestrals-and-firewiskey, @rosiepoise88, @miss-me-jack, @jojodojo02, @whimsicalfungiforager, @whos6claire, @melsunshine, @foolishseven, @misshoneypaper, @iceb1ink1uck, @kmc1989, @vlightning95, @girl-who-loves-books, @qardasngan, @madprincessinabox, @equallyshaw, @memoriesat30, @justobsessedwithyou,

© AUGUSTWINESWORLD : no translation, plagiarism, or cross posting.

[melancholyshadow]

Bailey…. You should totally consider writing pussydrunk Naruto…

WHO SAID THAT WHAAATTT?!?!?!

WELCOME HOME - N. UZUMAKI

PARING: naruto uzumaki x f!reader

WARNINGS: smut (mdni 18+), afab!reader, established relationship, takes place in the last era, somnophilia, so...dubcon(?), oral (f!receiving)!

SUMMARY: after two weeks away, naruto just can't wait any longer.

WORD COUNT: 1.2k

A/N: IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG, you literally requested this last year. i got so behind with school, and super sick, and then i was going to post this for valentine's day but obviously that didn't happen. i hope this was worth the wait, and i hope you and everyone enjoys!

MASTERLIST

It was well past three in the morning as Naruto approaches your apartment. 

He opens the front door of your home, it creaks loud enough for him to cringe. He hopes the squeak of the hinges didn’t wake you. When he doesn't hear any commotion coming from your bedroom, he drops all his belongings, softly, into their usual spot on the floor near the couch. 

Naruto tip-toes down the hallway, and makes his way towards the bathroom. But not before he peeks into your room, and as he suspected, you were splayed out across your sheets, in a deep sleep. He desperately wants to join you, but he was sure you would scold him if he didn’t shower first.

He quickly strips himself of his usual attire, and steps onto the steaming shower. The water tried its best to loosen his aching muscles, an audible groan followed. His eyes watch as some dried up blood and caked-on dirt disappears down the drain. He washes himself, throughly, even getting the dirt from underneath his fingernails. 

The bed practically calls out to him as he steps into your room. He trudges to ‘his’ side of the bed, and nearly collapses next to you, careful to avoid any stretched out limbs or strands of tangled hair. Almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out. 

When Naruto woke up, only a couple hours had passed. 

The sun was peeking over the horizon, it emanated light around the bedroom. He was still spent from his two-week long mission, his body stiff as a board. However, as he lay there in your bed, he couldn’t seem to lull himself back to sleep. No matter what he tries. So, he turns onto his side, so he could now face you. 

And, as usual, you were quite the sight. 

He swore he could have stared at you for hours. Your hair was tousled against the white pillow case, one of your palms rested between your cheek and pillow, squishing your lips into an adorable pout.  

As his eyes dance across your face for a little bit longer, they slowly worked downwards. Your upper body was clad in a thin tank-top, one of the straps falling loose on your shoulder. Your duvet lay rumpled across your hips, but Naruto had a hunch, you were clad in nothing but a pair of cotton panties.

It didn’t matter how cold it was outside, you always seemed to refuse to sleep in pants. 

Not that he was complaining. 

You seemed to shift under his gaze, turning onto your back, the comforter now only strewn across one leg. Which confirmed Naruto’s hunch about your pant-less state. The fabric of your tank-top bunched upwards, revealing some of the skin on your stomach. Without much thought, his fingers grazed over the sensitive section, running back and forth. 

A sleepy whimper passed your parted lips at the contact. 

The sound immediately stirred something in Naruto’s gut, and boxers. 

Gods, it had been so long since he had seen you, touched you, tasted you. 

That’s when it seemed to hit him. 

An insatiable hunger. 

Not for food, but for you. 

He moves carefully down the bed, discarding the flimsy duvet. He uses his large hands to slowly spread your thighs, trying to make room for his wide shoulders between your legs. Once he adjusts his position, so as not to wake you, his eyes caught a glimpse of something interesting.

 A damp patch decorates the flimsy cloth of your underwear. 

His lips find purchase on the inside of your left thigh. He places open-mouth kisses against the delicate skin, starting near your knee. Slowly, those same lips work further and further inwards. Your body rustles at the closeness of his warm breath on your core, your legs try to close around him. Naruto grips your hips, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the plush skin. 

As he leans further into the apex of your thighs, he leisurely drags the tip of his nose against the soft fabric, taking in your intoxicating scent, something he yearned for on his mission. He couldn’t wait any longer, so his tongue began to slide across your panty-clad cunt. Concentrating on the area of your clit, his own spit soaking the soft material. He hears a small huff leave your nostrils, along with feeling the muscle in your stomach tensing under his palms. 

Even through your underwear, he gets the slight taste of your heady arousal, it was a sliver of everything he had been craving over the last two weeks. He curls his index finger around your panties, pulling them to the side, exposing your cunt to his peeping eyes, she glistens under the low light of the morning. 

The wave of the cool air rushing against your exposed core made you take in a sharp breath through your lips, body squirming. He salivates at the sight of you. With a flat tongue, he licks a long stripe up the entire length of your folds. His taste buds tingle at the unfiltered taste of your essence. 

The tip of his tongue travels towards your clit once more, circling the bundle of nerves. This was the first time a real intimate moan passed your lips, and you were beginning to rouse. This didn’t stop Naruto though, as he continued his attack on your cunt. 

“N-Na…” His eyes shoot up to look at your dazed expression. “W-What are y–hah…” The words seem to die in the back of your throat, as he began suckling on your clit. Your hands cling to his blonde locks. 

You wake to the feeling of your arousal and his saliva dripping down onto the mattress. “Gods, I missed you.” He mumbles against you, the vibrations of his words made you buck your hips against his mouth. You could feel the beginnings of the tightening of your muscles in your abdomen. 

“N-Naru…” You try to say his name again, but your brain is still foggy with sleep and now with arousal. All you could do was grind your cunt against his face, and he wasn’t letting a drop of you go to waste. His cries and babbling words only add to ache between your thighs. 

At this point, he’s just making out with your folds, completely entranced by your taste. Your skin was already hot to the touch, you could hear your heart in your ears, and your abdomen was tight. “Naruto-o!” You exclaim, nails now surely leaving crescent shapes into his scalp, but he didn’t seem to mind, as a long gargled groan left his lips. 

The tremble of that groan sent a shiver down your spine, you felt your walls flutter and back arch further off the bed. Heat pools in your lower back as your chest stutters as you take in a breath. Out of instinct, your legs close around Naruto as that tight coil in your stomach snaps. 

Naruto doesn’t seem to notice, as you come down for your high, as he continues his fervor. You have to practically push him away by his shoulders. When he finally comes out of his trance, he looks up at you, head lolling to the side against your sticky thighs. 

Your hand moves from his hair to his cheek, rubbing your thumb across his warm skin. He hums in approval, and you smile down at him. 

“Welcome home.” 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mission Control 24

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

He’s leaving again. It’s harder now after everything. After that intruder. You shouldn’t want the soldier to stay but being alone is dangerous. He might be a threat on his own but he protects you all the same. It’s a twisted way to think of it but you could be the one he keeps safe or the one he tears apart tendon from toenail. 

He’s in his body armour, his cowl under his arm. You watch him march toward the door but he doesn’t reach it. He stops and looks at you. His eyes haven’t yet fully glazed over. You sit, paralysed for a moment, before you find some strength. 

You get up and cross to him, limping on your tender foot. It’s healing, slowly, but it will never be like before. You don’t know what to do. He’s blank as he looks back at you. 

You reach to squeeze his wrist, “I’ll be here.” That’s stupid. He knows you’re not going anywhere. He takes a deep breath and twists his hand up, slipping free of your grasp to latch on. He grips you tightly and dips his chin. His way of saying I will come back. 

He lets you go and faces the door. He pulls the cowl over his head and secures the strap. You see the shift in his posture, the tension as it nestles in his jaw. He marches on and the door opens and closes to punctuate his departure. 

You exhale and hug yourself. It’s still cold and desolate. More so without him. You hate to feel that way but now, he’s all you have. 

You hobble across the room and take the blanket from the couch. You sit by the fire and start your vigil. You rise only to tend to your basic needs; food, bathroom, otherwise, you doze or stare, feeding the flame so it keeps a steady crackle. 

Time doesn’t exist in this place so you don’t try to track it. The day melds into the night. Nothing changes. Not until the clatter. 

Your heart peaks. Adrenaline surges through the dulcet drone of your existence. You shake as you shrug away the blanket. The world hazes as the door handle turns and the hinge grind softly. Panic swells over you, a stone in your chest. You can’t breathe. 

It’s another monster come to attack. You lunge for the iron poker by the fireplace. You whimper at the weight on your injured foot but it fades into a pulsing thrum. You turn to face the new invader. You’ll fight, just as hard as the last time. 

You know by the footsteps alone that you’re wrong. It’s him. The soldier. You know the cadence of his gait. Your grip eases on the poker and as he appears, you let your arms fall, pointing it to the floor. 

He tilts his head and stops to stare back at you. His armour is dusty, his fingertips grimy, and his boots leave water in the stead. He approaches you, step by step. He looks down at the poker and reaches to grip it below your hand. 

He raises it and arcs it in a mimic of an attack, stopping it before his face. He brings his other hand around yours and moves behind you. He moves your fingers, adjusting them to clasp it firmer. He guides both your hands around the handle and he guides it back. He brings it down in a harsh slice. He does it several times. 

He squeezes and backs away. He gestures with his hand. You shake your head. He mimes the motion of swing the poker. He’s teaching you how to do it right. How to hit to damage. 

“I can’t--” 

He wags his finger. You have to. You sniff and turn your focus to the poker. You raise it again and swing. The air whips around your effort. He nods and wiggles his finger. Again. He unhooks his cowl and slips it off. He tosses it on the couch. 

He moves toward you. He surprises you as he bends and carefully moves your feet. He stands again and sets his own stance, waving his hand between the both of you. You do your best to replicate his posture. He nods and backs up. 

You try again. He urges you on with another point. You keep doing it. Over and over, each time more confident than the last. You’re left breathless. You aim the pointer down into the floor and lean on it. 

He stares then slowly bends his arm. A thumbs up. It’s almost comical. 

Then his eyes narrow and his face grows sombre. He shakes his head. He snatches up his cowl then goes to the kitchen. He opens the cupboards and examines the contents. He hooks his chinstrap to his belt and the helmet dangles against his thigh. 

He takes a milk crate from the corner and sweeps the contents of the cupboard into it. You gasp and come up next to him. What is he doing? 

He’s determined. He doesn’t notice you as he continues to clear out the cupboard. You watch him in confusion. 

“Are you leaving?” You ask fearfully. He stops and looks at you. His cheek twitches and his brows arch. “Are we leaving?” 

His lashes flick and he goes back to shoving packets in the crate. Your heart pulses. You could ask where but you know won’t get a question. 

“What do we need? Food? Blankets?” He nods as he turns to the fridge and opens it up. 

“Okay, I’ll help,” you say.  

He pauses and turns to face you. His face contorts and he mouths two words; thank you. You nod then hesitate. He goes to turn back and you grab his arm, releasing him as he shifts back again. You take your hand to your chin and push it towards him. 

“Thank you,” you say. “This means ‘thank you’.” 

He squints. He lifts his hand and looks at it then repeats the same gesture. The idea clicks in your head but you don’t know much more than that. 

“Sign language,” you explain. “I only know please and a few other things...” 

He makes the gesture again. You blow out a long breath and recenter yourself. You pivot as he returns to the fridge. 

“Blankets, clothes, got it,” you say to yourself.  

You limp out of the kitchen and grab the blanket from the floor. You’re scared and confused. You don’t know where he’s taking you or why. Still, it can’t be worse than this place. 

[antinousletmehit]

˚₊‧꒰ა Chapter 39 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

⋆˚࿔ Book 2 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

୨୧┇pairing: Telemachus x reader

୨୧┇warning, suicidal themes

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

The door to the cabin slammed open so hard it nearly flew off its hinges. “WE WON!” Eurymachus bellowed, stumbling in first, already waving a half-full amphora of wine over his head.

Behind him, Druses, Cassander, and Pisistratus poured in, all grinning like madmen, their armor still smeared with blood and dirt, but their spirits higher than ever. Acrisios was being guided carefully by Antinous, his blinded eyes still adjusting, but even he wore a smug grin. “By the gods, I never thought I’d see the day!” Druses declared, tossing himself into a chair as he reached for another jug, ignoring the way it nearly tipped over.

Cassander was already pouring drinks, his hands steady despite the chaos, while Pisistratus simply sighed and shook his head at the madness. Telemachus, still seated on the bed beside his wife , exhaled through his nose and pinched the bridge of it as if trying to summon patience.

“Really?” he muttered.

“Yes, really!” Eurymachus slurred, shoving a drink into Telemachus’ hand. “We finally kicked those Skiaphos bastards into the dirt, and now we’re celebrating, whether you like it or not!”

Y/n, still curled up with Phebie in her lap, looked up in bewilderment as Cassander plopped down on the floor near her, tipping his cup in her direction. “And you, my lady,” he said dramatically, “have the honor of being our most hard-won treasure.”

Antinous, standing stiffly in the doorway, scowled. “She’s my sister, Druses.”

Cassander raised his hands innocently. “Fine, fine. I’ll drink to her as a survivor, then.”

“Enough talk,” druses interrupted, shoving another amphora into Eurymachus’ hands. “Drink!”

A loud clang echoed as someone slammed their cup against another, and just like that, the entire room erupted into a full-blown victory feast. Telemachus, still holding his untouched drink, glanced at Pandora. She was watching the chaos with wide, almost uncertain eyes, the noise and rowdiness so vastly different from what she had grown used to. But then, slowly, her lips twitched into something small—a ghost of a smile.

For the first time in years, she was surrounded by the voices of home.

——

The ship rocked gently on the waves, but that didn’t stop the chaos unfolding on deck. Eurymachus and Cassander, already deep into their victory celebrations, had somehow managed to round up a small group of women—skiaphos camp followers who had been brought along to tend to wounds, cook meals, and now, apparently, entertain.

Eurymachus had a woman draped over his lap, laughing as he dramatically poured wine into her mouth, only for half of it to spill down her chin. “Ah, my beauty, you must learn to drink like a warrior!” he teased, wiping it away with his thumb before taking a deep swig himself. “A true war hero deserves a feast and fine company!”

Cassander, meanwhile, had two women on either side of him, his arms slung around their shoulders. “Eurymachus, I think you’ve been holding out on me. Where’d you find this one?” he gestured toward the dark-haired woman currently toying with the strap of his tunic.

“She found me,” Eurymachus said smugly, leaning back. “What can I say? War makes men irresistible.”

Druses, sitting across from them with a disapproving scowl, rolled his eyes. “You’d think the two of you actually won this war by yourselves the way you’re acting.”

“We did,” Eurymachus retorted without missing a beat, grinning. “We fought, we bled, we conquered. Now, we celebrate.”

Cassander raised his cup in agreement, while the woman on his right giggled and pressed closer. Antinous, standing near the railing, let out a long sigh. “Gods, you two are insufferable.”

“And victorious,” Eurymachus shot back, before turning back to his companion. “Now, where were we?” The ship sailed on, the sounds of raucous laughter, slurred praises, and playful flirtations carrying over the waves.

——

Telemachus wiped the sweat from his brow, still feeling the tension of battle in his bones, before turning to Antinous. “Where’s Acrisios?” he asked. Antinous, who had been standing with his arms crossed, stiffened at the question. His usual sharpness dulled into something more solemn. He didn’t answer right away.

Telemachus frowned. “Antinous.”

Instead of speaking, Antinous simply turned and walked toward one of the cabins. Telemachus followed, his steps growing heavier with each one. Antinous finally stopped in front of a door, hesitating for a moment before pushing it open. Inside, the room was dimly lit by a single flickering lantern. Acrisios sat on the edge of a cot, his posture rigid. Thick bandages wrapped around his eyes, covering the wounds that had stolen his sight.

Telemachus inhaled sharply. Acrisios, upon hearing the door open, tilted his head slightly. “Who is it?” His voice was calm, but there was an underlying tension to it—one that made Telemachus’ stomach sink.

Telemachus stepped forward. “It’s me.”

A small, tired smile tugged at Acrisios’ lips. “Ah… I should’ve guessed.” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “Bet I look like hell.” Telemachus didn’t answer. He just stood there, taking in the sight of his warrior, his friend—reduced to this.

Antinous leaned against the doorframe, his jaw tight. “He took a strike to the face during the fight. It—it got his eyes.” A heavy silence settled between them.

Finally, Acrisios gave a short, bitter chuckle. “Guess I’m no good to you now, huh?”

Telemachus clenched his fists, his throat tightening. “Don’t say that.”

Acrisios turned his head toward the sound of Telemachus’ voice. “I can’t fight. I can’t even see the damn sea outside.” He exhaled. “So what do I do now?” No one had an answer.

Telemachus felt the weight of Acrisios’ words press down on his chest, suffocating in a way that no battlefield ever had. He stepped further into the room, the wooden planks creaking beneath his boots. The dim lantern cast long shadows along the walls, flickering against the bandages covering Acrisios’ eyes. Acrisios let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “No smart remarks this time, Telemachus? No grand speech about how I’ll make it through this?”

Telemachus swallowed hard, his hands twitching at his sides. He wanted to say something, anything, to ease the suffocating air of loss hanging over them—but what could he say?

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “I—” He clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply. “You’re still one of us, Acrisios.”

Acrisios gave a humorless smile. “One of you? A warrior who can’t fight? A man who can’t even see his own reflection?” His fingers dug into the edge of the cot. “I should’ve died on that battlefield. At least then I’d still be Acrisios the warrior, not Acrisios the blind.”

“Shut the hell up.”

Both men turned their heads at Antinous’ sudden outburst. He was still leaning against the doorway, arms crossed tightly, his knuckles white from how hard he was gripping his forearms. His usual sharp smirk was gone, replaced with something unreadable.

“You think you’re useless now?” Antinous scoffed, pushing off the frame and stepping closer. “Because you lost your sight? That’s it? You’re not special, man the fuck up.”

Acrisios’ face hardened. “That’s it? Antinous, I—”

“You’re still breathing,” Antinous cut him off. His voice was rough, edged with something dangerously close to emotion. “You’re still here. That should be enough.” Acrisios opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat.

Telemachus knelt down in front of him, resting a hand on his knee. “You think we’re just going to leave you behind? After everything?”

Acrisios let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

Telemachus gave him a firm squeeze. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

Silence stretched between them.

Acrisios eventually sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Damn it,” he muttered, voice cracking just slightly. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Antinous sat down on the cot beside him, exhaling sharply. “Yeah, well. Life’s a bitch.”

Acrisios let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah.”

Telemachus stood up, looking between the two men, before placing a hand on Acrisios’ shoulder. “We’ll get through this. We always do.” Acrisios didn’t answer right away, but after a moment, he gave a small nod.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

@procrastination20 @jackiepackiee @barrythestrawberry041 @blessedbyahuntress @f3r4lfr0gg3r @permanently-nothere @eyuunho @jackintheboxs-world @simpingmyassoff @sunshinewhosketches @sugarlillycookie @kaguraaaa @doodle-with-rhy @0anodite0 @cocosparkel @tati-the-fangirl @dazedemery @tsmaruchan @xo-cuteplosion-xo @galaxygurlll @pjopinkk @h0ne4bee @minteaspoon @zendoesstuff @yuvany @i-liketoast

[quinloki]

CYOA - Silvers Rayleigh

Professor Rayleigh/fem!Reader

Summary: Your grades are shit, and it was really just a bunch of small crap that piled up. You've been able to claw you way to passing grades for most of your classes, but you can't seem to make the mark with your art class.

Professor Silvers is willing to work with you.

CW: Story is dubcon/age gap overall - Bondage, sensory deprivation, exposure, fantasizing about your art teacher

Part 1 -:- Part 2 -:- Part 3 -:- Part 4 -:- Part 5

Part 3: Imagination

You consider things for a moment, and then give a shrug. 

Maybe it’s the bravado getting to you. Maybe it’s the thrill of it. Maybe it’s the simple fact that you might be willing to actually fuck your art teacher, but you can hide behind the needs of his project.

Maybe you just figure the old man doesn’t get many thrills at this point in his life.

Whatever the case is, you strip your clothes off carefully, neatly folding them into a small pile, before taking off the matched set lingerie and setting it down on top of everything else. Professor Silvers doesn’t say anything, but you can see the amusement on his face as you walk over to the chair.

“If this is the most useful option, then I can handle it.” You assert, sitting down on the plush leather seat. “It’s just us down here anyway.”

“Indeed,” he hums, stepping near. “Pardon me.” 

Rayleigh’s hands on your legs are warm, a little dry, a little rough. The grip is firm, but considerate. He helps you get your leg comfortably into the restraints of the chair. There’s hinges on the cuffs, and flip latches to hold them closed. The first two cuff just before your knees, and the second set hold onto your ankles.

Once your legs are in place, he gets your wrists in the cuffs just above your head. It’s all spaced out enough that your arms aren’t stretched uncomfortably above your head, and your legs aren’t stretched either. You are immobile, effectively, but there’s enough give that there’s a bend at your knees and elbows. With the seat beneath you, it’s actually really comfortable.

Aside from the fact that you’re completely on display.

“I’m going to play some music,” he explains. “Nothing too loud, just enough to give you something to listen to other than the sound of my pencil on paper.” 

“Sure,” you agree. It was a common tactic during art class. It was a lot easier as a model to change your pose every few minutes when you couldn’t hear the sounds of people drawing. At least for you and some of your classmates, it just felt rude at first to move too often, but for anything more than a sketch, pictures would be taken, or sometimes a short video that would be looped was used for reference.

“I’m going to put a blindfold on you as well.” He explains, turning on some soft music before coming back over to you. He’s got a supple black leather sleeping mask in his hand that’s trimmed in fur. “I want to add the anonymity to the designs, but I also thought it would be less embarrassing for you.”

“Less?” You shift in the chair a little, looking at the mask and suddenly feeling very vulnerable.

“You can let your mind wander,” he explains with a warm smile. “Instead of watching me look at you.”

“Oh.” You can feel the blood rush through you, heating your face. “Y-yes, that’s probably a good idea, I agree.” 

You can’t look at Rayleigh as he slips the mask over your eyes. He adjusts it, moving your hair as needed, and making sure the strap that held it in place wasn’t making you uncomfortable.

“Comfortable, young lady?” 

“Yes,” you answer, an embarrassed smile on your lips. “Much as I could hope to be.”

“Hang in there, I won’t be too long.” He says reassuringly. “If you cramp, or need to stretch, speak up.” 

“Y-yes of course.”

You think you felt his fingers against your thigh for a split second, but the sensation was so light you barely twitched, sucking in a soft breath at something that was gone before you could even really register it.

It was probably just the tension from being in the chair.

Naked.

Exposed.

You can’t help it when your toes flex, and your fingers fidget. The music is keeping you from hearing the sound of his pencil on the canvas, but it’s also keeping you from hearing him at all. You don’t know where he’s set up, or what angle he’s drawing from.

Unable to see or hear your mind does wander, but it wanders to the worst possible thing.

A very vivid image of the professor comes into your mind. He’s down to his boxers like he had been the first day of class, the faded, but skillful mark of tattoos on his skin, wrinkled and tan but still snug against a body that was well-toned. He’s knelt between your thighs with a paint brush in his hands.

The vivid oil paint smears coolly against your skin, the paints the only thing to cover you. He’s declared you his canvas, his perfect little piece of art.

Don’t move. If you twitch you’ll ruin his work before the oil has time to set. It’s a shame he doesn’t have all of his things with him, while he paints you into something even more alluring than you already are, but you can be a good student, right? If he slides the handle of this paint brush into your

Wet,

Needy,

Desperate pussy.

You can hold onto it, right? You can help him out, can’t you? Keeping it right there, maybe just a little deeper, it’s such a thick handle you wouldn’t have any trouble holding onto it, right?

You breathe in deep, scattering the thoughts from your mind and trying desperately to sneak a peek past the mask on your face. You can’t see anything, but you know the song playing is different from what was playing last time. It’s hard to say how much time has passed, since you zoned out in your own little world for a while there.

Breathing out slowly you try to focus on the music and just enjoy it. 

Maybe it was the chair, or your lack of senses, but you didn’t even make it to the next song before you could picture him between your legs again. Leaving a trail of kisses down your chest, to your stomach, his fingernails marking soft lines down the backs of your thighs. The scratchy sensation that was just on the edges of ticklish, the soft nibbling of his teeth against your tummy as he gets closer to the throbbing mound just a little further down.

You couldn’t close your legs. If he wanted to eat you out you couldn’t stop him. If he wanted to rail you until you forgot your name you couldn’t stop him either. You were at his mercy right now, fantasy or not. He could do everything to you that your mind seemed to desire.

Hell, given his experiences he could probably do things to you that not even your mind could conceive. 

It’s a different song again. You wish you knew for sure if you had made it longer than just three songs, or if you had already endured several more than that. It was just so hard to focus, especially since you could feel how wet you were.

The seat you were on was comfortable, but you were starting to think there was a slightly stiffer bump in it. Nothing hard enough to be painful, but stiff enough you could feel it kind of prodding you. Maybe it was what was making your body react even more than your own imagination.

You weren’t gagged, of all the things that you were restricted from doing, it wasn’t like you couldn’t talk to him. So you could either quietly endure until he was done, or speak up and get an idea of how much longer you’ll be in this thing.

And maybe how long you’ve been in it.

tag list: @nocturnalrorobin @hellcatsworld @verdantwyrmcat @alwayssassydreamer @fleetadmiralsoffice @anon-germany @hakiofdreams

[thedroneranger]

Tip of the Cap (Bradley's Version)

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw

Synopsis: Bradley rarely covers up his sun-kissed curls, but the one time he does...

Note: Tip of the Cap, started as a Bradley Bradshaw fic 😱 Struggling to finish it, I swapped the main interest to Jake and BOOM! it came together. However, the challenge of seeing through a Bradley version has been heavy on my mind, so I give you Tip of the Cap (Bradley's Version). Let me know your thoughts!

This one is for my Bradshaw Baddies™, in particular, @roosterforme and @cherrycola27—enjoy!

Warnings: 18+ only, smut.

Word count: 3.0k

That. Fucking. Hat.

You leaned your palms on the edge of the dresser as you thought about Bradley trotting around in denim cutoffs and his backward baseball cap. Rarely did he cover up his sun-kissed curls, but today, at the annual squadron beach party, Bradley had chosen to don a well-worn UVA baseball cap. 

And he looked good. 

A smile pulled your lips as you thought about Bradley’s cheeky grin while he backpedaled on the hard-packed sand, watching the play he just called unfold. The little curl trying to escape his cap through the adjustment strap hole had you shaking your head in disbelief.

Lost in thought, you hardly reacted as he sidled up behind you. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his mustache tickling you. His hands wandered down the beach cover-up you were still wearing, pulling your body against his.

You made eye contact in the mirror that ran the length of your dresser as he sucked on your neck. The moan that escaped you made him smile as he continued to leave hot kisses down to your collarbone. Then he nipped the spot where your shoulder met your neck and you purred. You reached back to rake your fingers through his curls, and instead, your fingers met the taught fabric of his hat. A pout overtook your lips as your nails scratched against his hat. 

Bradley ghosted his mustache along your jawline. Planting a kiss on the hinge, he snagged his cap by the bill and placed it on your head. Too big, it fell over your face. As you adjusted it, he kept peppering your shoulder with kisses. By the time you got his cap adjusted, Bradley was done teasing you and strolling to the ensuite bathroom. The muscles in his back subtly shifted and his shorts moved just enough you could see the defined tan line low on his hips. His lower back dimples taunted you. 

With a sigh, you turned back to the mirror and shared a frown with your reflection. Your lower lip rolled between your teeth as you thought. Standing to your full height, you placed his hat on the dresser, and then slipped your beach cover-up over your head.

When you got dressed that morning, you had picked a modest swimsuit, knowing the beach party was a work event. However, it didn’t hurt that the suit was also one of Bradley’s favorites.

All day long, you taunted him whenever an opportunity arose. A number of times, you wiggled in his lap, grazed your chest against his, or bumped into his crotch. Each time, you knew he was doing his best to keep his reactions PG-13 in front of his colleagues.

On the ride home, Bradley couldn’t keep his hands to himself. You did your best to seem unfazed as the calloused pad of his thumb stroked the soft skin of your inner thigh. Every so often, his thumb would sneak into the baggy leg hole of your cutoffs and would innocently graze the crotch of your bathing suit. Payback for your earlier behavior.

Goosebumps hatched on your arms as your thoughts wandered back to Bradley quarterbacking the dogfight football game. Listening to him bark out plays and yell at his teammates to get into position. Even thinking about him pushing his Caravans up his nose had you lusting. 

And that damn hat. His answer to your warning about making sure he wore enough sunscreen to remain a golden marshmallow instead of morphing into a boiled lobster. 

Bradley started the day with his hat forward, the bill shielding his eyes along with his sunglasses. The minute he and his fellow pilots divvied into teams for football, he cocked it backward. A couple drives into the game, he ran for a touchdown. Successful, he scanned the beach and locked eyes with you. Bradley gave you a beaming smile and tipped his cap. Instantly, heat pooled between your thighs.

That heat was pooling again as you thought about his taut muscles, raspy voice, mustache and that fucking UVA baseball cap.

Then it hit you.

One more look toward the bathroom door, the water was still running, you hustled to the closet. Both pieces of your bathing suit fell to the floor as you crossed the room. Once in the closet, you thumbed through until you found what you wanted—his favorite Hawaiian shirt. 

You shrugged on the garment and buttoned it as you walked toward the bed. One of the last times you wore this shirt, you and your best friend took some polaroids that you tucked into Bradley’s duffle before he deployed a few days later. Once he found the photos, his only request was for you to model it next time you were together. Bradley nearly fucked you on the hood of the Bronco when you picked him up wearing the shirt tucked and tied so it look like an off-the-rack top. 

Just as you were climbing onto the bed, you spied his ball cap on the dresser. Bradley was still in the bathroom, so you grabbed the hat and ran back to the bed. Nestled among the pillows, you arranged yourself with your head resting in the crook of your elbow. With your free hand, you adjusted the hat one more time and waited.

Finally, Bradley emerged. A towel slung low on his hips, he darted toward the closet. However, he did a double take and changed course when he saw you. “What is this?” He stood at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed over his broad chest and his eyes locked on you.

You unbuttoned the shirt and had the thinnest sliver of skin showing. Your fingers trailed the valley between your breasts, down your stomach and stopped at your pubic mound. Bradley’s eyes tracked your fingers as they teased your cleft.

“Teasing you until I get what I want,” you said matter of factly, keeping eye contact with him.

Bradley’s lips quirked, trying to restrain a smirk. He unfolded his arms, placed a knee on the bed and climbed so he was hovering over you. He supported himself with a hand on either side of your head and his knee slotted between your thighs as you looked at each other. “Sweetheart, you pretend like you haven’t been teasing me all day,” he said. 

“Did I?” You cocked an eyebrow, and then looked between the two of you as you dragged an index finger down his chest, his abs, and then dipped it into the roll of his towel. “Enlighten me.” You met his gaze while you tugged on the terrycloth, causing it to fall open. 

His mustache shifted as his smirk bloomed. Bradley kept your gaze as he gently parted his shirt, letting his fingers ghost your skin until you were fully exposed. His head dropped to your chest, kissing and sucking each nipple until they peaked, and then trailed kisses down your stomach. 

“The little black number you wore.” His tongue flicked into your belly button. “Every time you came in contact with me at the party.” Bradley pressed a kiss just below your navel. “Every graze. Every nudge. Every time you ‘settled’ into my lap.” He continued to let his lips brush against your skin.

Pleased with your reactions, Bradley sat back on his knees, pushing his towel on the floor and stroking himself until he was completely hard. 

You watched him with hooded eyes. A whine escaped you as you let two fingers sink into your folds. Dipping into your wetness, you spread it around your lower lips as you watched Bradley.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He moved to push his thighs underneath yours and rest himself against your core. Gently grabbing your wrist, he pulled your fingers from your heat. You held your breath as you watched him guide your hand to his lips. He pressed a kiss to the pads before pushing them into his mouth. Yours fell open a little as his tongue swirled around your digits. His cheeks hollowed as he slowly pulled out your fingers with a soft pop.

Your eyes were locked on him, awaiting his next move. Bradley adjusted his grip to hold your palm face up. You watched as his saliva pooled on it. Using his tongue, he spread his spit around your palm and then positioned it around his cock. Loosely, you gripped him and lazily slid your hand up and down. 

He sighed and ran his hands along your thighs as you continued to stroke him. As you got into a rhythm, he thrusted into your touch. “And now, you’re wearing my shirt,” he revived the conversation.

“What?!” You feigned surprise, sitting up and forgetting about him to grab at the fabric around you. “This is yours?!” You held a fistful of fabric in his direction. Bradley couldn’t help but continue to smirk as he leaned toward you. 

Focused on him, you only remembered his baseball cap was perched on your head when his eyes floated to the bill—the only thing standing between your lips and his. Suddenly, the ball cap was resting backward on his half-dry curls and his body rolled over yours, pushing you flat into the bed. A hand on either side of your head, his thighs pushed yours wider as his lips and mustache glided along your neck and collarbone.  

“My shirt. My hat.” Bradley said between kisses. “My pussy.” His teeth sank into your neck at the same time as he seated himself inside you. An rapturous moan left your lips, and your hands flew up to his shoulders, nails digging in. You snarled at each other—teeth sinking deeper, nails digging further.

Your breath hitched each time Bradley snapped his hips. Eyes wide, you rested your heels on the small of his back as he rutted into you. He pulled his head up to watch your expressions—you were getting louder with each thrust. He smiled. 

The head of Bradley’s cock ground against the spot that made you see stars, so your eyes rolled back. “My hat, my shirt, my pussy,” he repeated like a chant. He kept hitting that spot, you could feel the warmth building in your belly. “Tonight, I’m gonna wear ‘em all at the same time.” The rasp in his voice alone nearly pushed you over the edge.

He hit that spot a few more times, sang your praises, and then you were coming. He hissed as your nails left raised pink streaks on his shoulders and down his arms. He continued to watch your face as he worked. Your eyes squeezed shut as you rode out your orgasm, clenching around Bradley as he continued to pump into you. A few soft grunts escaped him as he relished the feeling of you fluttering around him.

Your eyes flitted open to meet his hazel ones. He watched you as your hand moved from his shoulder to his jaw, and your thumb came to rest on his lower lip. Bradley pushed his lips against it a few times, matching the pace of his hips, and then his warm tongue met your thumbpad. He sucked on it before he tilted his chin to let your thumb rest there. You then ran it along his jaw as you stared at each other.

“It’s my turn, sweetheart.” Bradley gently grabbed your wrist and pulled you upright as he sat back on his haunches. You settled into his lap, still on his cock, and your arms wrapped around his shoulders.

Bradley’s hands rested on your ass. One hand came back, and an open palm met your skin, sending a crack into the silence. You yelped and your hips canted forward. Bradley smiled as his teeth eclipsed his lower lip. His palm met your backside again, and you, again, yelped and canted forward. He spanked you a couple more times, enjoying your sounds and the forward motion of your hips.

Your ass was red, your skin hot, but you enjoyed the sting. You were so wet, you could feel your arousal running down his cock onto his balls. “You like that?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “You’re so wet, you're getting me all wet, sweetheart.” You mewled as you leaned into him and captured his lips with yours. 

Arms still secured around Bradley’s neck, you scooted back and forth to get friction against your clit. Bradley smiled into your kisses. “That’s my girl.” He matched your motions, which caused you to moan between kisses while you moved in tandem. 

Before long, your micro movements weren’t enough. Bradley was wound tight and wanted long strokes to get off. His hand crept to your neck, and he gently tugged you away. You were hard pressed to break your kiss, and you demanded that Bradley stay buried inside you as you changed positions. 

Before you were flat on your back, Bradley helped you take off his shirt, leaving you completely exposed. Meanwhile, he slipped the garment on and hovered over you. His gaze was smoldering, pupils blown, and his hips picking up speed with each thrust. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he cooed. Bradley’s head lolled back for a moment. You studied his chin, neck and chest while he was blissed out. Unable to control yourself, your hand came to his lower stomach. Bradley groaned and tilted his head forward so he could see you. He watched as you ran your knuckles his happy trail. Then, your hand slipped lower until your index and middle fingers were in a V-shape around the base of his cock. 

Bradley continued to thrust as you applied light pressure. Involuntarily, he groaned and you smiled. You continued to coax him toward orgasm with your fingers and pussy. 

“Fuck, sweetheart.” Bradley’s version of saying he was close. One hand planted beside your head, the other now on your neck. His fingers applied pressure to the sides. You wrapped your free hand around his wrist. Bradley watched you to make sure you were ok with the amount of pressure.

Bradley’s current pace had you on the path toward another orgasm. Your fingers shifted from Bradley’s cock to your clit to help make that a reality. Bradley praised you for taking care of yourself and shifted so his thighs pushed your legs wider. The head of his cock kissed your cervix with each thrust.

The moans it induced from you was enough for him to shoot you full of cum. Bradley managed to keep pace as he came so you remained on track toward your second orgasm. As you pulsed around him, he slowed to enjoy the feeling. 

Your mixed cum was oozing out as he continued to thrust and you continued to milk him. Some of it smeared onto your fingers as you continued to massage your clit. You brought them to your lips to lick clean. Bradley made the most desperate sound that pleasantly surprised both of you as he watched your fingers near your mouth. 

Much to his pleasure, you brought your fingers to his mouth instead. He happily accepted them. First, licking from the base to pads and then letting you slip them past his lips. He swirled his tongue around them, bobbing his head to match his languid pace. Once satisfied, he hollowed his cheeks as you pulled them out. “Mhmm.” His tongue swiped his bottom lip, hoping to catch any remnants. You laughed and leaned up to press your lips to his. 

Bradley’s lips ventured to your cheek and down your neck until he was kissing your chest. You whined as he slipped out of you. You watched as he kissed down your stomach and stopped at your pubic mound. His big hands gripped your hips and pulled you to the edge of the bed. He knelt on the floor, looping one of your legs over his shoulder and pushing the other as wide as the hinge of your hip allowed. 

He kept eye contact with you as he kissed each of your pussy lips. And then, with a broad tongue he slowly lapped up your mess. You watched him, letting your fingers tour over rivets and seams of his hat.  

Your thighs and your outer lips clean, you watched as he rested his hands on either side of your heat and gently spread your pussy. The cool air hitting you had you holding gasping. Bradley watched your face as he softly blew on your clit. You arched your back a little bit off the bed conflicted by the sensation. 

Bradley started with a single stripe from your hole up to the hood of your clit. Then he dipped his tongue between your clit and your lip, repeating the maneuver on the other side. He was tender with his clean up, caressing you enough to feel good but not overstimulate. 

When he stopped spreading you, he placed a final kiss on the cleft of your pussy. Then Bradley slipped out from under your legs and helped you sit up on the bed. 

He stood between your knees. It was his turn to shower you in soft touches as you peppered kisses on his stomach and licked away your cum. You couldn’t help but smile as he looked down at you. His wild curl still trying to escape the adjustment strap on his hat and the open edges of his shirt fluttering slightly had you smiling. Finished with cleanup, you closed your eyes and let your chin rest against him. 

“You interested in another round, sweetheart?” He asked softly. He stroked your hair and waited for your answer. 

“What are you going to wear?” You teased. 

A smile graced his face as he stepped away from you, heading toward the closet. “Oh, I have an idea.”  

Palms supporting you, leaned back on the bed and watched as he disappeared into your walk-in. About a minute later he emerged, wearing one of his flight suits. He left the front unzipped so you had a view of his tanned chest and abs. The apex of his zipper drew your attention to where he wanted it most. 

Your gaze floated back to his face. Of course, he topped off the look with his damn UVA baseball cap—wild curl included.

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[followyourfleart]

𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑶𝒑𝒆𝒏

Chapter 12 -

Day 2 of the mission to get back the dam is going just as you thought it would - long, painstakingly deadly and smothered in blood.

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Trigger Warning:

Gunshots, attempted murder, and murder

Please be cautious when reading this chapter! Your mental health matters.

Word Count: 9.2 k

Previous/Next

Drip

Drip

Drip

Water leaked from the rusted pipes overhead, droplets falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern into the puddle forming at your feet. The sound echoed in the quiet, a steady metronome that only seemed to amplify the stillness around you.

You had never been this close to the dam before. From a distance, it was just another piece of the landscape, a monolith of gray stone and steel standing against the rushing waters. But up close, it was massive, towering over you like some ancient fortress, its cold walls worn down by time and weather.

The air smelled of damp concrete, rust, and the faint scent of moss creeping up the cracks. The low hum of the turbines reverberated beneath your feet, sending a faint vibration up through your boots, a reminder of the power surging through the place. Or the lack of now.

You adjusted the rifle slung over your shoulder, fingers tightening around the strap as you took a step forward. The sound of your boots against the damp floor was swallowed up by the cavernous space.

Nathaniel was by your side, his presence solid but silent as he swept his gaze over the surroundings. He barely spoke, but that wasn’t unusual. Nathaniel had always been quiet—watchful in a way that made most people uneasy. But now, in the damp, echoing belly of the dam, his silence felt heavier, as if it carried an unspoken warning.

The group had been split up, and you and Nathieal were handling securing the first floor. You knew Joel and Tommy were on the opposite side, and would meet with them in the maintenance room after securing the East and West wing respectively. 

“You head down, check the doors,” you whispered, keeping your voice low. No reason to be loud—not yet. “Make sure no one else pops out on us.”

Nathaniel turned to you, his gaze flicking between each door along the corridor, lingering on them like he could see something you couldn’t. His body tensed just slightly, his hand shifting along the strap of his rifle. His hesitation was brief, but it was enough to set your nerves on edge.

“I’ll be right behind you,” you added, softer this time.

He gave a small nod, then moved forward, his steps careful, deliberate. You followed close behind, your own footfalls quiet against the damp concrete floor.

The hallway stretched out ahead of you, dimly lit by a few flickering bulbs mounted along the walls. The doors you’d mentioned lined both sides—old, industrial things, thick metal with rusted hinges. Some were slightly ajar, revealing nothing but shadowed rooms filled with forgotten equipment and dust-covered control panels. Others remained shut, their locks rusted over, the paint peeling away in jagged strips.

Nathaniel reached the first open doorway and paused, his head tilting slightly as he listened. He didn’t step inside, just stood there for a moment, fingers flexing slightly over his rifle’s grip.

You swallowed, your own nerves prickling.

Nothing. No movement, no sound beyond the quiet hum of the dam.

Nathaniel exhaled through his nose and moved to the next door, his posture rigid, shoulders tight.

You kept watch, sweeping your gaze along the length of the corridor, watching the way the shadows shifted with each flicker of the overhead lights. Your ears strained for anything—any sign of movement, any indication that you weren’t as alone as you hoped to be.

As you both moved down the hall, the weight of the silence pressed down on you like a heavy blanket, thick and suffocating. Every step felt too loud, every inhale like a sharp whistle in the cold air. The dim, flickering lights cast long, shifting shadows against the damp concrete walls, warping familiar shapes into something eerie, something that made your skin crawl.

You dragged your fingers absently over your throat, wincing at the faint ache beneath your touch. Your breathing still wasn’t right—not after what happened. The bruises along your windpipe made each inhale feel tight, shallow. It wasn’t enough to slow you down, but it was enough to make you hyperaware of every sound you made. Enough to make you paranoid that even your own breath could give you away.

Nathaniel moved ahead of you, his posture tense but controlled, his rifle lifted just enough to be ready in an instant. His head turned slightly, sweeping his gaze from one side of the hall to the other, cataloging every door, every crevice, every possible place a person—or something worse—could be hiding.

The sound of something dripping echoed down the corridor. A pipe leaking. Maybe rainwater pooling through a crack in the ceiling. You tried to ignore it, but the steady rhythm of it felt like the slow ticking of a clock, winding down toward something inevitable.

A sudden noise from deeper inside the dam made you freeze.

A shuffle. A scrape.

Then, a quiet thump.

Your heart slammed into your ribs.

Nathaniel had heard it too. He turned his head slightly, just enough to meet your gaze. His expression didn’t change, but you could see it in his eyes—the sharp glint of tension, the quiet calculation happening behind them.

He lifted two fingers, signaling toward the next doorway.

You nodded.

With careful, practiced movements, you adjusted your rifle, pressing your back against the damp wall as you approached the door. It was cracked open just enough to let a sliver of darkness spill out into the hallway. A stale, metallic scent lingered in the air, and something about it made your stomach turn.

Nathaniel was already in position, standing just opposite you on the other side of the doorframe. He raised an eyebrow—ready?

You exhaled slowly through your nose, fingers tightening around the grip of your weapon.

Then, in one swift movement, Nathaniel nudged the door open with his boot, sweeping inside first with his rifle raised.

You followed immediately after, eyes scanning the room, breath locked in your throat.

It was dark. Darker than the hallway. The only light came from a small, grimy window near the ceiling, where weak moonlight filtered in through a layer of dirt and grime.

The room was cluttered—old desks shoved against the walls, rusted metal shelves sagging under the weight of forgotten tools and supplies. Papers were scattered across the floor, their edges curled and yellowed with age.

And then there was the body.

Slumped against the far wall, head tilted at an unnatural angle. Blood had pooled beneath it, though it had started to dry, turning tacky against the concrete. A gun lay loose in their hand, fingers curled around the grip like they hadn’t wanted to let go, even in death.

You swallowed hard.

Nathaniel stepped forward carefully, toeing a piece of paper aside with his boot. He crouched near the body, expression unreadable as he examined the gun, the blood.

Then he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Not fresh.”

You followed his gaze, your stomach twisting at the sight. He was right. The blood had lost its bright, wet sheen—it had turned dark, thick, and congealed against the cold concrete. The smell of it, coppery and stale, lingered in the air, heavy enough to settle at the back of your throat. This hadn’t just happened. It had been hours. Maybe even days.

“Shit, is that…” Your voice trailed off, but you already knew the answer.

Nathaniel’s jaw tightened. “One of the guards?” He finished for you. His gaze flickered over the dead man’s uniform, over the faded patch sewn into the fabric, barely visible beneath the crusted blood. “Yeah. It is.”

You let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers against your temple. The situation was getting worse by the second. If the raiders had managed to take out one of the guards inside the dam, then they were already deeper in than you thought. And if this guy had died days ago—

“We have to move faster,” you said, stepping toward the door. Your hands moved on instinct, checking the hallway beyond for movement, for shadows that didn’t belong.

“Agreed.” Nathaniel’s voice was steady, but you could feel the urgency in it.

You turned back to see him prying the gun from the dead man’s hand, his fingers working carefully, prying stiffened joints apart. The guard had held onto it even in death, his grip so tight that his knuckles were still frozen in place. Nathaniel had to flex the fingers open one by one before finally tugging the pistol free.

Without hesitation, he tucked it into the extra holster at his hip. More ammo was always better.

Clearing every single room was taking painstakingly long, your muscles coiled with tension as you moved, every step measured, every corner checked and double-checked. Your back ached from staying on high alert, body constantly pivoting, ready for anything. The silence was unbearable—the kind that made every creak of your boots sound deafening, every breath feel too loud.

The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit by flickering emergency lights. Each door you passed was another risk, another potential ambush. The longer you searched, the clearer it became—whoever had done this had been methodical. They hadn’t come in guns blazing. They’d come with a plan.

You stopped in front of the maintenance room. The door wasn’t locked. The handle was busted, hanging by a few stubborn screws. Your fingers hovered over it for a second, exchanging a glance with Nathaniel. He nodded once. You pushed forward.

The room was a mess of machinery and panels, blinking lights casting eerie glows across the walls. You weren’t an engineer, but even you could tell the damage was bad. Wires dangled like severed limbs, circuits fried beyond repair. Several panels flashed an angry red, warning signs blinking in steady intervals.

“Broken turbines…” you muttered under your breath, stepping over a tangled mess of wiring. “Wires disconnected… shit, these fuckers really wanted to mess us up.”

Nathaniel let out a low breath, scanning the damage. “Surprised they didn’t think about it earlier,” he replied. His voice was flat, but you could tell he was just as pissed off as you were.

He moved toward the door and grabbed a nearby metal pipe, jamming it against the handle, barricading it as best as he could. It wouldn’t hold forever, but it’d buy you time.

Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “They cut off more than just the turbines,” he muttered, nodding toward another busted panel. “They got to the security system too. Cameras are down.”

That sent a chill down your spine.

“Then we’re fucking blind,” you whispered.

Nathaniel exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”

Your stomach twisted. If the cameras were out, then Tommy and the others had no idea how many raiders were still inside, how deep they’d gotten. You couldn’t just sit here.

“We have to get to the control room,” you said, stepping back toward the door. “If we can restart at least part of the system, we can—”

A noise.

Both of you froze.

Footsteps.

Coming from the hallway.

Your breath hitched, and your fingers curled instinctively around your gun. Every nerve in your body was bracing for impact, for the worst—

If it was Joel, he would have—

“Red Bird.”

The tension in your chest cracked just slightly, the weight of those two words pressing through the silence.

“Fuck…” you breathed, lowering your gun but keeping your grip firm just in case. You waved a hand toward Nathaniel, signaling him to move. He hesitated for only a second before exhaling sharply, cracking the pipe off the handle and unlocking the door with slow, deliberate movements.

Tommy’s face was the first thing you saw. His usually warm features were gaunt, his eyes sunken deep into his skull. He looked exhausted, worn down by hours���maybe even days—of stress. Behind him, Joel stood rigid, his gaze sweeping the room with sharp precision, taking in every detail before locking onto you.

You held his stare for only a moment before he pushed past Tommy, closing the distance between you in three long strides. His presence was immediate, overwhelming, like a storm rolling in fast. His eyes, dark and unreadable, scanned you quickly—your face, your hands, the way you were standing. His fingers twitched at his sides, a restrained movement, as if he was stopping himself from reaching out.

“I’m fine,” you murmured before he could say anything, shaking your head. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth either.

Joel didn’t look convinced. His gaze flickered to your throat, where bruises lingered, ugly and deep. His jaw clenched, muscle ticking, and for a moment, he looked like he might say something. But he didn’t. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, stepping back just enough to let Tommy take the lead.

“We need to get the power back up,” Tommy said, his voice hoarse. “We got folks workin’ on it, but they cut off more than just the turbines. We don’t know how many of ‘em are still inside.”

“Perfect,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your tone like venom. “And we’ve already found one of our own. Dead.”

Tommy exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. His shoulders were taut, barely containing the frustration simmering under his skin. “Shit,” he muttered. “We gotta focus on what’s next.”

You shifted your weight, trying to swallow down the bitter taste in your mouth. “What’s next is making sure there aren’t more of them waiting to be found like that.”

Joel, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. His voice was low, steady, the kind of tone that carried weight without needing to be raised. “Then we stop wastin’ time standin’ around.”

There was no arguing with that.

Nathaniel adjusted his grip on the rifle slung over his shoulder, nodding toward the hallway. “We need to get a count of who’s missing. If we’re down more guards, it means there’s either more bodies… or hostages.”

A sharp, unpleasant thought twisted in your gut.

Hostages.

It made sense, but that didn’t make it any easier to stomach. If whoever did this had planned on taking prisoners, that meant they weren’t just here to destroy Jackson. They wanted leverage.

Tommy clenched his jaw, his voice darkening. “Then we better find ‘em before it’s too late.”

The hallway stretched out ahead, dimly lit by emergency lighting that flickered inconsistently, casting long, shifting shadows across the walls. Each step you took felt like a risk—like something could jump out from around the corner at any moment. The silence wasn’t comforting. It was the kind of quiet that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Joel moved ahead, his steps near silent despite his size. You weren’t sure if it was experience, instinct, or both, but he carried himself like a man who had walked through worse halls than this, seen worse things waiting at the other end.

You just hoped this time, whatever was waiting wouldn’t be more bodies.

But deep down, you weren’t that hopeful.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Once the four of you stepped out into the open air, relief should have come—should have washed over you in a wave of reassurance that the worst was over. But instead, you felt… separate. Detached. Like you were watching from a distance as the others fell into the arms of the people who cared about them.

Molly wasted no time in reaching for Nathaniel, her hands cupping his face as she twisted his head side to side, searching for any injuries. “Jesus, Nat,” she muttered, her brows pulling together. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Nathaniel, ever the stoic one, gave a half-hearted scoff. “Wasn’t exactly having a great time myself.”

Molly ignored his sarcasm, her fingers brushing over his jaw, then trailing down his arms as if checking to make sure all his limbs were still in place. It was rare to see her like this—unguarded, her usual biting remarks softened by something rawer, something real.

A few feet away, Maria stood close to Tommy, her gaze sweeping over him with careful precision. She didn’t reach for him the way Molly had reached for Nathaniel, but her presence was grounding, her touch restrained but deliberate as she finally placed a firm hand on his arm. It was a quiet confirmation. You’re here. You’re okay. Tommy, for all his usual bravado, leaned into it—just slightly, but enough to be noticeable.

You stood there, watching, your fingers flexing idly at your sides.

No one rushed to check on you.

Not that you expected them to.

Joel was there, a few steps away, but he didn’t move. He didn’t reach for you, didn’t close the space between you like the others did. He just stood there, his dark eyes flickering over you, scanning, assessing. You could see it—the calculation behind his gaze, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly like he wanted to do something but didn’t quite know what.

Your throat tightened, but you pushed past it, forcing a smirk onto your face. “Don’t look so worried, Miller. I didn’t even get a scratch.”

Joel didn’t smile. He didn’t argue, either. He just exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, before finally muttering, “Yeah. Right.”

Then, just as quickly as he’d let his concern show, he turned away.

The moment passed.

Molly was still fussing over Nathaniel. Maria and Tommy were already walking back toward the rest of the group. And you?

You were just standing there.

Swallowing hard, you rolled your shoulders, shaking off the invisible weight pressing down on you. It was fine. You were fine. You didn’t need anyone hovering over you, didn’t need anyone checking for wounds or cupping your face like you were something fragile.

You’d gotten used to it.

Still, as you turned to follow the others, you felt it—that absence. The space where something should have been. The ghost of a touch that never came.

Molly’s eyes drifted away from Nathaniel, her relief at seeing him intact shifting into something sharper, something more urgent. Within seconds, she was in front of you, her hands gripping your shoulders, grounding you before you even had the chance to realize how much you needed it.

“You okay?” Her voice was steadier than it should’ve been, but her eyes betrayed her—trained on your neck, fixated on the deep, ugly bruises blooming across your skin like a sick reminder. Her fingers twitched slightly against your arms, like she wanted to do more but didn’t know where to start.

“Anything happen?”

“Nothing.” It came out too quickly, but you didn’t correct yourself. “First floor’s fine.”

Molly didn’t look convinced, and the longer she stared, the harder it became to hold the weight of her gaze. She let her hands rest against you, neither pulling you closer nor letting go, just there. You exhaled, steadying yourself. “Just…”

She caught onto your hesitation immediately, her brows knitting together. “Just what?”

You swallowed. “Found a body.”

Molly stiffened.

“Don’t know who,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “But I know it was one of ours. One of the guards assigned to protect the dam.”

Molly exhaled sharply through her nose, her hands dropping from your shoulders. For a moment, she just stood there, processing, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“I hate to say I knew it was coming…” she muttered finally, her voice hollow. “But God, it’s still terrible to hear out loud.”

Her expression darkened, her usual sharp humor stripped away. You watched the way her shoulders tensed, the way she turned her head slightly like she needed to look anywhere but at you. It wasn’t just anger or sadness—it was something deeper, something closer to dread.

You glanced over at the others. Joel stood beside Tommy, his posture rigid, arms crossed over his chest like a shield. They were speaking in low, grave tones, voices just quiet enough that you couldn’t catch the words. But you didn’t need to—you knew that look, the hard set of Joel’s jaw, the way his fingers flexed subtly against his biceps like he was barely keeping something restrained.

Molly exhaled, her hands coming to rest on her hips as she followed your gaze. The weight of everything hung between you, thick and suffocating.

“But at least we know who we’re dealing with,” you continued, your voice steady but laced with steel. “And we know how far they’re willing to go to hurt us.”

Molly’s jaw clenched, and she nodded once. The air around you felt charged, tense, like a blade waiting to be drawn. You looked her straight in the eye, making sure she felt the weight of your next words.

“That just means we give them ten times worse.”

A slow smirk pulled at the corner of Molly’s lips—one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. A smile devoid of humor, sharp as a knife.

“Now that is the kind of math I like,” she muttered, tightening her grip on the strap of her backpack.

Maria’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. “Alright! Listen up!”

The words sliced through the murmurs, silencing every conversation in an instant. Maria wasn’t one for theatrics—when she spoke like this, it was because something serious was about to go down.

“We’re going in,” she continued, her voice steady but fierce. “We’re going in, and we’re taking back what those bastards took from us.”

The energy in the room shifted. It started as a low ripple, a murmur of agreement rolling through the crowd, but it quickly gained momentum. People nodded, fists clenched tighter, weapons adjusted. The determination in the air was almost tangible.

A few voices rose in response, quiet at first, but then stronger. It wasn’t exactly a battle cry—no one was foolish enough to start shouting—but it was a promise. A whispered oath passed from one person to the next, each word dripping with the weight of their anger, their resolve.

Maria didn’t waste time reveling in it. She moved quickly, separating people into groups, forming the plan of attack. Every person had a role, a purpose. There was no room for dead weight.

You already knew your assignment before Maria even turned to you. Your job was as simple as it could be—at least on paper. Protect the engineer.

The girl who had helped hitch the dam to Jackson in the first place. The one who had made sure the water kept running, the lights kept flickering, the town stayed alive. Without her, none of this would be possible. And that made her a target.

You turned your head, searching for her among the crowd. It wasn’t hard to spot her—she stood out, not because of her presence, but because of how much she tried to shrink into herself.

She was young, maybe early twenties, with plain brown hair that fell just past her shoulders, blending in with her warm brown skin. There was nothing particularly striking about her appearance, nothing that would draw attention in any other circumstance. But here, in the midst of a brewing war, she was the most important person in the room.

She wasn’t a soldier. She was like you. Her hands, though calloused from years of work, weren’t made for violence. They were built for precision, for carefully threading wires together, for making things function when the world tried to tear them apart.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t scared. You could see it in her posture, in the way her hands twitched at her sides, in the way her eyes darted from person to person, as if gauging whether she could trust them with her life.

She didn’t have to worry about that with you.

You stepped toward her, making sure she saw you before you spoke. “You stick close to me, alright?” Your voice was calm, steady, meant to be reassuring.

Before she could answer, a hand brushed just above your elbow, the touch light but enough to make you jump. Your head snapped to the side, only to find Joel standing there. His fingers barely lingered before he pulled back.

“No wandering, no hero shit,” Joel added, his voice low but firm, cutting through the air like a blade. His eyes flicked to the engineer. “You focus on your job, and we’ll focus on ours.”

The girl swallowed hard, her throat bobbing as she processed both of your words. Still, she nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line of determination. “Okay.”

Simple. No wasted words. Good.

Joel exhaled, satisfied with her answer, but he didn’t leave just yet. Before he turned, his grip tightened around your bicep—not hard, not painful, but firm enough to hold you in place. His presence loomed closer, the rough scratch of his beard almost brushing your temple as he leaned in, voice a whisper just for you.

“Stay by my side,” he murmured, the quiet intensity in his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “At all times. If things go to shit, then I want you right next to me so I can get you the fuck out.”

The weight of his words settled in your chest. There was no room for argument, no opening for your usual stubbornness. This wasn’t just orders. It was something else—something heavier.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay even. “Alright. But the same goes for you. Be next to me so I can help you too.”

A beat of silence. Then, barely audible, you swore you heard the smallest chuckle under his breath.

“Thanks.”

The warmth of his grip vanished as he stepped back, heading toward Maria and Tommy. They were gathered with a group of settlers, all of them armed to the teeth, their weapons catching the dim light. There was an energy buzzing around them, a mixture of anticipation and dread.

You let out a slow breath, forcing the tension in your shoulders to ease. Then, turning back to the engineer, you caught her watching Joel as he walked away, her gaze lingering like she was trying to piece him together.

“I’m sorry,” you said, breaking the silence. “I haven’t asked your name yet. I mean, I know who you are, just haven’t personally…” Your words trailed off as you awkwardly rubbed the back of your neck, your eyes flickering up toward the dam, searching for something—anything—to fill the gap in conversation.

The girl blinked before quickly straightening, as if shaking herself out of a daze. “My name is Gemma. Gemma Callaway.” She held out her hand, fingers slightly shaky but her grip firm when you took it.

“Callaway…” you repeated, nodding as if the name carried weight. Maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t. “Great meeting you.” You exhaled through your nose, glancing around at the sea of tense faces, rifles being checked, blades being secured. “Not the best place to meet someone, huh?”

Gemma let out a short, dry laugh, her lips twitching into something that barely resembled a smile. “Yeah, I usually prefer first introductions over coffee. Not while standing outside an old dam, about to possibly die.”

You huffed, shifting your weight onto your other foot. “Coffee sounds a hell of a lot better than this.”

Her eyes darted back to the crowd, watching as Maria barked out last-minute instructions, Tommy murmuring something to Joel, who nodded with that same ever-serious expression locked onto his face. Gemma’s fingers twitched at her sides, betraying her nerves.

Gemma’s question hung in the air between you, her uncertainty clear in the way she fidgeted with her fingers, twisting them over and over again like she was trying to hold onto something solid. Her voice had been quiet, hesitant, as if she was bracing herself for the weight of your answer.

“Yeah,” you said after a beat, tightening your grip on your gun. The cold metal pressed against your palm, a grounding sensation that yanked you back from memories you didn’t care to revisit. “Couple of ransacking trips. Clearing out places. It’s been years, though. I’ve been a teacher in the meantime.”

That last part made her pause. “A teacher?”

You glanced at her. “What, that surprising?”

She hesitated before shaking her head. “No, it’s just… I guess I didn’t expect someone going out on a mission like this to be  a teacher.”

You let out a quiet huff, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “Comfortable job. It’s easy to not want to go back out once you get used to it.”

Gemma nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

But you weren’t sure she really did. Because you hadn’t just been a teacher. You’d been something else before that, something you weren’t eager to talk about.

Before Jackson, before the warmth of a classroom and the quiet, structured life that teaching provided, you had been out there. Fighting. Surviving. Making the kind of choices that haunted you in the dead of night.

Going back out meant reopening wounds you had spent years trying to close.

“You scared?” you asked, cutting into the silence before your thoughts could spiral.

Gemma let out a breathy laugh, though it lacked any real humor. “Terrified.”

“Good.” You gave a sharp nod. “That means you’re thinking. Stupid people aren’t scared. Stupid people get killed.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, the weight of your words settling in. Around you, the group began moving forward, boots crunching against the dirt as they followed Maria’s lead. The steady rhythm of movement was almost hypnotic, a wave of bodies pushing toward a singular point. You and Gemma drifted with them, carried along by the tide of people.

“Just… there’s so many people relying on me,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“You did it once, what… five years ago? You can do it again.” You reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, hoping to pat her worries away.

“It’s different now,” she said, shaking her head. “I have a kid. I need my kid to be safe, you know?”

Your stomach twisted into knots.

A kid. Someone waiting for her. Someone looking for her.

You forced a thin smile, one that you hoped she wouldn’t notice didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Then I guess I’m keeping you safe until you step back onto your porch.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

A gush of steam slapped your face, and you almost choked on your cough trying to stay silent. Gemma looked up at you, her wide eyes filled with concern while you waved her off.

Focus, you wordlessly told her, going back to watching your end of the hallway. She returned to her work, completely focused on the panel, bent over wires and circuits. Joel had the opposite direction, steady, silent, always watching.

Your mind swore it heard noise from your left, a shuffle from your right. Tricks, this dam was playing mind games with you. And for some reason, it was working.

Your hand was so tight on your gun it was imprinting onto your skin. Your skin was glistening from sweat, even though it wasn’t hot. Snow was still outside and seeping into the dam. Every nerve in your body was on fire, but you bite your tongue, because if you panicked, Gemma would jump out of her skin.

The plan Maria had proposed was simple; scout the first floor, then have 4 teams of 6 go and secure the second and third. Next, while those 4 teams occupied the raiders, Gemma would go painstakingly slowly through each panel on all three floors, checking for what she needed to fix in the main control room on the 3rd floor, with you and Joel by her side.

No had spoken for the last hour, and Gemma was just finishing up the last panel on the second floor with a huff and a small smile at her work. Truly, she was an expert.

She stood up, bag of supplies full and her notepad of everything wrong with new markings. She looked to Joel, who took in the both of you before motioning to the hallway that led to the stairs.

All your steps were too loud, you felt like they reverberated throughout your body like waves. You kept your head moving, looking into the darkness only illuminated by hanging yellow bulbs.

“Watch your-” Joel’s mouth opened, before it was shut down by the loud clang and whimper of metal hitting metal, of a body crying out in pain.

Gemma was on the floor, clutching her knee. All her stuff, every darn wrench, screwdriver, and material laid out on the floor. A piece of metal flooring was lifted, its edges sharp and dyed red with fresh blood. You didn’t have to see to know Gemma was definealtly bleeding.

For a moment, no one spoke. Dared breath.

Then, you heard it. Thudding of boots, sounds of angry yelling

Shit, shit, shit!

Your boots slammed against the metal grating as you half-dragged, half-shoved Gemma forward. You dove for her notebook. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps, nearly drowned out by the chaos behind you—shouted orders, pounding footsteps, and the sharp ping of bullets ricocheting off the steel walls.

Move. Move. Move.

And then—they came out of nowhere.

A flurry of movement, the flash of gunmetal, the unmistakable click of safeties switching off. You barely had time to react before Joel was shoving you both back, his voice a low, urgent growl—“Run!”

Now, you were sprinting blind, tearing through the second floor of the dam with no clear way out. The emergency lights flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across the narrow walkways. The place was a goddamn maze, pipes and catwalks twisting in every direction, each turn looking more like a dead end than the last.

Think. Think. Think.

You reached an intersection, your heart slamming against your ribs as you tried to orient yourself. Left? Right? Forward?

A bullet whizzed past your head, embedding itself into the rusted wall beside you.

No time to think.

You grabbed Gemma’s wrist and pulled her toward the left. “Keep moving!” you barked, voice raw with adrenaline.

“I— I can’t—” she choked out, stumbling again.

You didn’t let go. Didn’t stop. “Yes, you can! Just fucking run!”

Another gunshot. Closer this time.

You risked a glance over your shoulder—three of them, dressed in patchwork armor, rifles raised. You could see their faces now, twisted with the kind of determination that meant they wouldn’t stop until  you were dead.

Your grip on Gemma tightened. “Stairs! Go—now!”

She practically threw herself onto the stairwell, her hands scrambling against the railing as she half-ran, half-slid up the steps. You turned, raised your gun, and fired off two shots—one hit the railing, the other clipped the shoulder of the guy in front. He grunted, staggering back, but his friends kept coming.

You wheeled around and bolted after Gemma. Only two words echoed in your mind. Joel. And turbines.

The turbines. Right.

You shoved Gemma forward. “Keep going—we get to the turbines, we get the hell out of here!”

“I don’t know where the fucking turbines are!” she cried, voice on the edge of panic. 

“Yes you do—just stay with me!”

The stairwell twisted downward, the air growing colder the deeper you went. The gunfire above had slowed, but you knew better than to assume you were in the clear.

They were still coming.

Gemma tripped on the last step, catching herself against the wall. You barely gave her a second before pulling her forward again, bursting out into an upper-level corridor. Dim emergency lights flickered overhead, casting eerie red glows over the rusted pipes lining the walls.

A crash echoed from somewhere behind you—metal against metal, maybe a door being kicked open.

They were close. Too close.

Up ahead, a heavy door sat slightly ajar, steam curling from the hinges. A faint, rhythmic hum vibrated through the floor—the turbines.

“There!” you gasped, gripping Gemma’s arm and hauling her toward the door.

You shouldered your way inside, immediately raising your gun, eyes sweeping the room for threats.

Empty.

Gemma collapsed against the nearest console, her entire body trembling. “Jesus Christ,” she whispered, pressing a shaking hand to her mouth, her breath coming in uneven gasps.

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your hands were shaking too damn much as you yanked the door shut behind you, twisting the heavy lock into place with a metallic clang. You braced yourself against the cold steel, inhaling sharply through your nose. Your pulse was still hammering, the echoes of gunfire ringing in your ears, but you forced yourself to shove it all aside. You didn’t have the luxury of breaking down. Not here. Not now.

Gemma looked at you, her wide eyes still glassy with panic, her chest rising and falling too fast. She looked like she was about to fall apart. Like she was two seconds away from cracking into pieces.

You grabbed her notebook off the console and threw it onto her lap. “Work,” you ordered.

She flinched at the sharpness in your voice, but she didn’t argue. Her fingers curled around the edges of the notebook, knuckles pale with tension. You saw the exact moment she forced herself to take a breath, to focus. You could practically hear the switch flip in her brain as she pushed herself up from the console and turned toward the mess of wires and screens before her.

Even with the lack of proper materials, she dove in, her hands moving with mechanical precision. The turbine loomed over her, the massive machine making her look small in comparison, a dwarf against a giant. She flicked switches, adjusted dials, yanked open panels. The hum of electricity pulsed through the room, vibrating through the floor, mixing with the distant echoes of shouting from above.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to move.

Your gun was still hot in your grip as you paced toward the opposite side of the room, scanning for anything—any other way out, any sign of movement beyond the grated walkways above. The emergency lights flickered, casting jagged shadows along the walls.

The shouts upstairs were getting louder. Closer.

Shit.

You turned back to Gemma. “How long?”

She didn’t look up. “I don’t know.”

You ran a hand down your face. “Guess.”

She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple with the back of her wrist before refocusing on the console. “Fifteen minutes. Maybe less.”

That wasn’t going to cut it.

“Make it ten.”

“That’s not how it works,” she snapped, her voice tight, the stress cracking through. “I can’t just magically fix the whole damn system faster because you tell me to.”

You clenched your jaw. You knew that. Of course you knew that. But you also knew that you didn’t have fifteen goddamn minutes.

You turned back toward the door, listening.

The gunfire had stopped.

That was worse.

It meant they weren’t wasting bullets anymore. It meant they were moving carefully. It meant they were looking for another way down.

Gemma was muttering under her breath, flipping through her notebook, her fingers moving over the worn pages. The paper was stained, corners bent, smudged with old grease.

She was good. You could tell. The way she worked, the way she moved—she’d done this before. This wasn’t just some theory she had learned and hoped would work. She knew what she was doing.

You just had to buy her enough time to finish.

The metal walkway above creaked.

You snapped your head up.

Gemma stilled. “What was that?”

You raised a finger to your lips, motioning for her to stay quiet.

The sound came again—soft, deliberate.

Footsteps.

Someone was already in the room with you.

Your stomach turned to stone.

Slowly, carefully, you raised your gun, stepping away from the console, scanning the overhead walkway. The shadows made it impossible to see clearly, but you could feel it. The weight of being watched.

Gemma didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Your finger curled tighter around the trigger.

A single, drawn-out second passed.

Then—

A shadow shifted above. A figure moved, slow and deliberate, rifle raised.

Not one person.

Two.

Shit.

You had to act first.

You turned, grabbed a nearby wrench off the console, and hurled it at the far side of the room. It clanged against the metal, echoing through the turbine chamber. The figures above flinched, their heads snapping toward the noise.

You didn’t wait.

You grabbed Gemma’s arm and yanked her down just as the first shot rang out, the bullet slamming into the console where she had been standing a second before. Sparks erupted from the impact, casting a brief, electric glow through the dim turbine room.

The gunmen shouted—harsh, frantic words that were drowned out by another round of gunfire. The noise ricocheted off the steel walls, turning the space into an echo chamber of chaos. Their movements were erratic, shadows darting above like restless phantoms, shifting between the walkways, their shapes distorted by the flickering emergency lights.

You spared a quick glance at Gemma. She was frozen, eyes wide, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. She looked seconds away from completely shutting down.

No time for that.

You pulled her with you, keeping low, moving swiftly along the grated floor. She stumbled, barely keeping up, her boots scraping against metal. Your grip on her arm was tight—probably too tight—but she wasn’t protesting. Her hands were shaking so bad she could barely hold onto her wrench.

Above, the shadows split.

Fuck.

They were flanking.

You could hear the heavy thud of their boots as they moved, one staying high, the other descending. They weren’t panicking anymore. They were closing in. Calculating.

You yanked Gemma toward the cover of an overturned workbench, shoving her down behind it. She hit the ground with a muffled grunt, pressing herself against the cold metal.

Your heart was a hammer in your chest, every beat rattling in your skull.

Think.

You had to think.

Your gun was loaded, but that didn’t mean shit if you didn’t know exactly where they were. Firing blindly would only give away your position, and from the sound of it, they already had the upper hand.

You risked a peek over the edge of the workbench.

A shadow moved along the catwalk.

Another figure was descending the stairs on the far side of the room, rifle raised, scanning.

You had seconds before they found you.

You looked at Gemma. Her breath was coming too fast. She was still on the verge of breaking apart.

You gritted your teeth and leaned in close. “Listen to me. You stay down. You keep quiet. No matter what happens, you don’t move unless I tell you. Got it?”

She nodded, but it was jerky, unconvincing.

“Gemma.”

Her breath hitched. She forced out a whisper. “Got it.”

Good enough.

You took a slow, steadying inhale. Then you shifted your weight, tightening your grip on your gun.

The man on the stairs was closer now, the barrel of his rifle swinging in an arc, searching.

Your shot had to count.

One breath in.

One breath out.

You rose just enough to take aim—

And fired.

The bullet hit home, slamming into his shoulder. He cried out, stumbling back into the railing. His gun clattered against the steps as he crumpled, blood spattering the steel.

You barely had a second to process before the second shooter returned fire.

The first bullet missed, but the second shattered against the edge of the workbench, sending shards of metal flying. You ducked, dragging Gemma lower as she let out a strangled gasp.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath.

You could hear the injured man groaning. He wasn’t dead. He was still a problem.

And the second shooter wasn’t stopping. He had the high ground, which meant you were completely pinned.

You needed an out.

Your gaze darted around the room, scanning. The turbine. The emergency ladder. The electrical panel—

That was it.

You turned to Gemma. “Can you trigger a surge?”

She blinked at you. “What?”

“The power grid. Can you overload it?”

“I—” She hesitated, glancing toward the console. It was across the room, fully exposed. “I’d have to—”

Another bullet struck the bench, cutting her off. She flinched.

You made a decision. “I’ll cover you. Just do it fast.”

Gemma hesitated. “I—”

“Gemma, go!”

She sucked in a breath and nodded. Then, with one last glance at you, she bolted.

The shooter spotted her immediately.

You fired before he could.

Your bullet missed his head by inches, but it was enough to force him back. He ducked behind a pipe, returning fire, but his shots were rushed now, less precise. He wasn’t expecting you to be this aggressive.

Gemma reached the console.

Her hands flew across the controls, yanking levers, twisting dials. You couldn’t see what she was doing, but you prayed she knew what the hell she was doing.

Another bullet tore past your arm. You hissed, barely dodging in time.

Then—

The lights exploded.

A surge of electricity pulsed through the room, flickering wildly, sending arcs of blue-white energy snapping through the air. The turbines groaned. Sparks rained from overhead panels.

Then—darkness.

A thick, swallowing void that devoured the entire room in an instant.

Your breath hitched. You blinked rapidly, but it didn’t make a difference—you couldn’t see a damn thing. Not your gun. Not your hands. Nothing.

But if you couldn’t see them, then they sure as hell couldn’t see you either.

“Gemma!” You shouted, voice raw. “Get the hell out! Run!”

No answer. Just the hurried patter of her footsteps retreating, metal screeching as she shoved open a panel or a door—maybe both. She was getting away. Good.

If they heard you, if they came for you instead of her, then so be it.

You shifted, adjusting your grip on your gun. Your fingers brushed against your thigh—damp. Blood. Yours? Maybe. No time to dwell on that now.

A sound cut through the dark.

Metal scraping against concrete. The first shooter was getting up. His rifle dragged against the ground—then stopped.

Silence.

A silence so deep it pressed against your ears, as if the darkness itself had weight.

You swallowed hard, pressing your back against the cold steel wall, tracing the grooves with your fingertips.

Should you move? Stay put? Keep this guy occupied, let Gemma get as far as possible?

A thousand possibilities ran through your head at once, colliding, tangling, demanding action.

Then—

A whisper.

Not words. Just breath, close, too damn close.

He’s hunting you.

You turned your head, slow, measured. Listened.

The air was thick with static energy, the faint hum of machinery that had just died still clinging to the space.

Then—a shift.

Boots. Careful. Deliberate. Someone moving with the kind of patience that said they’d done this before.

He was testing you.

Waiting for you to make a sound.

You exhaled through your nose, adjusting your weight on the balls of your feet.

Another step. Closer.

You gritted your teeth. He’s too close.

You moved.

Not away—forward.

You launched yourself toward the sound, body slamming into solid weight. The impact sent both of you crashing to the ground, your knee jamming hard into his ribs.

He grunted, the breath knocked out of him, but his reflexes were fast. Too fast.

A fist connected with your side, knocking you sideways. You hit the ground, rolled, barely dodging as his rifle swung wildly in the dark.

Shit.

You scrambled to your knees, hands searching—gun, gun, where the hell was your gun?

Another movement. Above.

You ducked just as something heavy—a boot—swung toward where your head had been seconds ago.

You lashed out. A fist, an elbow—anything.

Your knuckles connected with flesh, the impact sending a shockwave through your arm.

The shooter reeled back. A sharp inhale—pained. Good.

You lunged again, tackling him with full force, sending you both careening into another console. Your back screamed as you hit metal, but you didn’t let go.

You gripped the front of his jacket, driving him backward, slamming his skull against the railing behind him. He cursed, struggling, but you didn’t let up.

With a brutal shove, your body hit the ground, face slamming against the cold, hard floor. The air was knocked out of your lungs, and your chest burned as you gasped desperately for a breath that wouldn’t come. 

Ropes appeared around your wrists dug deep into your skin, making it impossible to move your arms, trapping you further beneath him. His weight pressed down on you, suffocating, and you could feel every inch of his body on top of yours, forcing the air out of your chest.

Something cold and rough burrowed into your face, pressing hard against your skin, making you gag. It wasn’t just his weight—it was the barrel of a gun, digging into your cheek. The metallic smell filled your nose as you breathed in, and the lack of air made your vision blur. The world around you went hazy as your stomach twisted, threatening to spill its contents. You fought the rising nausea, swallowing hard, but it didn’t stop the panic creeping into your veins.

Not again. Not again…

Your thoughts felt scattered, jumbled, crashing into each other like waves in a storm. Fear swamped you, the familiar sense of being trapped threatening to drown you. You have been here before. You had fought back, survived before. But now? You couldn’t breathe. Your body felt weak, helpless.

Gotta move…

The thought flickered through your mind, sharp but fleeting. You couldn’t stay like this. You couldn’t let him win. But it was hard to focus, harder still to push back against the overwhelming weight of his presence. Your body screamed to move, to escape, but the ropes held you down, each twist of your body only tightening the restraints.

Joel...

His name was a lifeline, a thread that tethered you to something real, something that could still save you. You needed him. You needed to survive. You had to get free. But every movement felt sluggish, like the world was moving slower than you, dragging you under.

He shifted slightly above you, and you took the momentary shift as an opportunity. With every ounce of strength, you tried to buck him off, but it was useless. He was too heavy, too strong, his body pinning you to the floor, and the more you struggled, the more the gun pressed against your face. You tried to twist your neck to get free, but it was futile. His weight, combined with the ropes, kept you helpless.

His voice came then, low and mocking, as if he knew you were trapped, as if he knew you wouldn’t escape. "Tell God that you tried."

You gave one last wiggle, and used your legs, arching them up and hitting his back. He snarled, and twisted to pin them down.

Now… now, now, now!

You lifted your entire body, using every ounce of energy to throw him off balance. His body crashed onto its back, and you scrambled, stumbling against the consoles for any leverage. The darkness around you was suffocating, the lack of vision disorienting, but you couldn't afford to hesitate. You needed to move. The cold, metallic surface of the room scraped against your skin as you pushed yourself up, your hands reaching out blindly. A groan echoed behind you, and you could hear the shuffle of his feet, his erratic breathing cutting through the silence.

He was getting back up.

No. No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

You didn’t have time to waste, didn't have time to think about the bruises on your body or the exhaustion seeping into your bones. You couldn't wait any longer. The faces of Joel, Gemma, and the others flashed through your mind. If you didn’t stop him now, he'd go after them next. He’d finish what he started. You couldn’t let that happen.

Save yourself, Joel’s voice rang in your head, low and urgent, a memory that had burned into your mind in moments of desperate clarity. You knew what he meant. You had to survive this. You couldn’t let him win.

Your boot connected with something soft—his nose, maybe his mouth. The impact rang out through your body, and you didn’t stop. You stomped, bringing your heel down harder, aiming for anything—his throat, his face, his chest. Anything to put an end to this.

You felt the warmth of his blood seep through the fabric of your boot, staining your skin. The pressure of his body underfoot lessened with each brutal strike, his struggles slowing. You didn’t care. You kept going, each hit landing with a sickening crunch that rang through the air like a twisted symphony. Bone, flesh, you didn’t know what was breaking, and at that moment, you didn’t care.

Your mind raced in a blur, heart thundering in your chest as you let your instincts take over. You were in survival mode. You weren’t thinking—just acting. The force of your stomps echoed with each strike, and the groaning beneath you became quieter. With every punch of pain, you wondered—who was it breaking? Him or you? You or him? Was it even possible to stop this?

The pain in your limbs flared with every step you took to bring him down, but you couldn’t stop. Not now. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Every hit felt like it was ripping through you, the exhaustion threatening to overwhelm you, but you pressed on.

Then, the sound. A sickening crack—bone snapping, followed by a gurgling sound that made your stomach lurch. It was him. His body gave a violent jerk, then stilled.

A breath. Then nothing else.

You froze. The silence around you became unbearable. Your body tensed, heart pounding so loud you swore it could be heard in the next room. You waited, but there was no movement, no sound. His blood gurgled out from the wound you had created, pooling beneath you.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Your thoughts were a jumbled mess—was he still alive? Did you do it? Was it over? The shock coursed through your veins, paralyzing you. The adrenaline that had kept you going suddenly drained from your body, leaving you shaking, weak. You should’ve felt relief, but all you could feel was the cold weight of what you had just done. The violence that surged through you in those moments left you empty now, drained.

Your legs felt like they could give out at any second. The world around you seemed to tilt, the room spinning. You couldn’t hold on much longer. Every step toward the exit felt heavier than the last, your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Your strength was fading, draining with every heartbeat. Your breath was shallow, strained. It felt like you were walking through mud, each step requiring more energy than you had left.

You gasped, a strangled breath escaping as your vision blurred. It was all too much. The noise, the violence, the shock—it had caught up with you. You stumbled forward, almost falling, but somehow your feet found their way to the door. You could hear the faintest echo of the sound of blood splattering against the floor, the sickening reminder of what you’d just done.

And then, everything went black.

Rip. Long ahh chapter

Happy Reading!! ♡♡♡

[aliypop]

Ain't That Loving You

Word count: 1.032

Prompt: It's 1960, and Elvis is a worrywart over his expecting wife , Cecelia, who's supposed to be bedridden

Warning: Time Period Language,

Pairing: POC OC x Elvis

Note: I'm Back!

Taglist:

@darkmoviesquotespizza

@sissylittlefeather

@richardslady121

@thegettingbyp2

@presleyenterprise

@dkayfixates

@rjmartin11

@thetaoofzoe

@your-nanas-house

@zayurir

@60svintage

@sillybookmarks

@leapresley

@everythingelvispresley

@dreamondina94

@elvismylove04

@pocketfulofpresley

@elvispresley1956

@poeandmoonknightgirl

@eapep

@iloveelvis2

December 1960 Graceland

Cecelia waddled through the lavish halls of Graceland, her heart full of anticipation as she navigated the space with her seven-month-pregnant belly. Each step felt cumbersome and joyous, a reminder of the life growing inside her. She hoped that Elvis wouldn’t catch her out of bed; the soft sheets were becoming stifling, and the confines of their shared space were driving her to the brink of restlessness. She yearned for a breath of fresh air and a moment of freedom from the confines of their cozy nest. As she gracefully navigated the expansive halls of the mansion, a tantalizing aroma wafted from the kitchen, causing her to pause. She couldn't resist the urge to indulge in her usual pregnant snack of applesauce paired with the hearty meatloaf that had been prepared for dinner the previous night. To her delight, there were still generous portions left, a surprising find considering how much Elvis had raved about the dish. She smiled softly at the thought, a flicker of warmth in her heart amidst the fatigue. As she continued trudging along the path, each step felt heavier than the last. Her gaze dropped to her swollen feet, which had become a painful reminder of the months that had passed. The shoes she wore, once comfortable and easy to slip on, now felt like a burden. Elvis had taken it upon himself to help her with them, patiently bending down to fasten the laces and adjust the straps, a small yet intimate gesture that spoke volumes about their bond. She appreciated his care, even as she wished for the day when she could tie her own shoes without struggle.

“Aw hell…” Elvis muttered under his breath as he shook his head in disbelief. He stepped through the door, the familiar creak of the hinges echoing behind him. His gaze fell upon Cecelia, who sat at a polished wooden table, her brow furrowed in concentration as she sifted through a stack of his future movie scripts and contracts. The room was filled with a mix of scattered papers and the lingering scent of fresh tea resting on her belly, creating a warm yet cluttered atmosphere. Cecelia looked up, meeting Elvis’s tired eyes with a mix of concern and curiosity, as if she could sense the weight of his thoughts just by the way he entered the room.

"I know what you're going to say..." Her voice was soft yet defiant, echoing in the dimly lit hallway.

"Doll, you're supposed to be in bed..." He stood there with his hands firmly planted on his hips, attempting to muster a stern expression. His brow furrowed, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the hint of a smile.

She glanced up at him with wide, playful eyes, the kind that could soften even the strictest of hearts. "I know, but I was going crazy in that room..." She held a steaming mug on her stomach, the warmth radiating against her skin, oblivious to the little chill lingering in the air.

He had tried to be angry at her, to maintain some sense of authority in this playful tug-of-war, but the truth was, he simply couldn't find it in himself. How could he manage frustration when she looked so utterly enchanting, exuding a mix of mischief and charm?

"Are you balancing a teacup on your stomach?" Elvis asked, watching her, trying to look over her stomach. Her laughter shook her belly, causing his blood pressure to go over the roof,

"Darlin', it won't hurt the babies."

"I-I know, I just worry, I don't want you doing too much," He responded,  

"Elvis...Is something bothering you, dear?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You only stutter when you're nervous or worried..." She added, trying to sit up, his hand behind her back as he helped her wiggle to sit up,

"It ain't nothing..."

"Elvis... Aaron... Presley...."

He flinched at the sound of his full name, a reminder of the weight he carried. "Alright, fine. I'm worried that I ain't gonna be a good daddy..." He let out a heavy sigh, his eyes distant. "What if I can't provide for us... What if this all fades away and—"

Cecelia, with her warm smile, gently patted a space beside her on the overstuffed sofa, "Then we'll still love these babies the best we can, with all the right kind of love," she reassured him, her eyes sparkling with optimism. "Besides, this mansion ain't going nowhere..."

Elvis wished he could share her confidence, but as he gazed out at the sprawling grounds, shadows of uncertainty loomed large in his mind. With the way the film industry was shifting beneath his feet, doubt gnawed at him, leaving him to wonder if the life they had built could truly withstand the test of time.

"I know... I... What if they don't like me...."

"Well, they kick when they hear your voice so... That's a lie."She smiled,

"W-Well what if I'm too harsh on 'em,"

"You don't have it in ya," She cuddled him,

"What if-"

"Elvis, I truly believe you are going to be an incredible father. Your compassion shines through, and it’s evident that your love is already reaching, even while they're in the womb. The bond you’re forming now is so powerful; it’s as if they can already sense your warmth and devotion. Your commitment to being there for them will surely shape their world in ways you can't yet imagine."

"How are you so confident..." he inquired, stepping closer to her, his voice a low murmur that seemed to weave into the stillness around them. She paused, her gaze steady as memories flickered behind her eyes. "I felt it then," she replied, a soft smile curling her lips, "when I said 'I do' in that beautiful little chapel in Germany last year, surrounded by your nervousness of being a good husband, and by best forever." She kissed him as he humed,

"Keep that up and we'll have three kids..."

"Throw in a footrub and I'll stay in bed all week."

"Promise?" He smirked,

"Promise." She laughed as he picked her up carrying her upstairs,

"ELVIS!"

"See you're already practing for tonight."

[iansdreamer]

The Burning Nightmare || MIITO

Pairing: Mito/Christian yu x Fem!Reader ౨ৎ

Genre: Horror, thriller, dark romance, angst, and fluff. ౨ৎ

Warnings: This story contains murdering, drugging, smut, stockholm syndrome, and psychological terror. All of this is fiction and not depicted from DPR IANs real life. ౨ৎ

Word count: 1.5k ౨ৎ

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

You stirred awake to a heavy stillness. The air felt thick, dense with dust and something metallic. Your eyes fluttered open, barely adjusting to the dim lighting—a single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly as if it had just been disturbed. The basement around you was lifeless, the corners swallowed in shadow, the silence unnatural.

It took you a moment to understand what you were feeling—tightness, pressure. You blinked harder, the fog in your head slowly lifting. Your wrists ached. That’s when you noticed the ropes. They were knotted tightly behind your back, rough against your skin, digging deeper with each subtle movement. You winced. Your shoulders throbbed from being held in such an unnatural position.

A sick wave of confusion crept over you as you tilted your head downward. The dress you wore last night—midnight blue, sparkly, delicate straps—was gone. In its place was an oversized t-shirt, baggy over your frame, paired with a simple pair of cotton shorts. They smelled like fabric softener. Clean. Fresh.

But that only made it worse.

Your breath hitched.

Had he…?

You trembled, the idea of him changing your clothes settling like ice in your veins. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying not to let your imagination spiral—but it was already too late. The thoughts clawed their way to the surface, cruel and intrusive.

You let out a shaky breath and tried twisting your wrists, testing the ropes. No give. Just more raw skin.

Above you, the old floorboards creaked. You froze. The sound was soft at first—light footsteps. Slow. Intentional. Then came the faint groan of a door opening, and before you could even brace yourself, you heard it. That rhythmic thump of descending steps.

He was coming.

The basement door cracked open, the hinges whining as it swung wider. Your breath lodged in your throat. You didn’t want to look—but you did.

He stepped inside, bathed in the faint overhead glow. Now dressed entirely in white—white linen shirt, white pants, barefoot like a ghost. His presence filled the room effortlessly, like the air shifted to make room for him. His eye—the one that still held sight—shone like liquid obsidian, sharp and beautiful in the most terrifying way. The other, clouded over, gave his stare an uncanny edge.

"Hey, darling," he said, voice light, sing-song, like he was greeting a lover at the door. His grin spread slowly, unnervingly wide. "Missed me?"

You didn’t answer. Your instincts screamed to run, to fight, to do something—but you could only inch backward, pressing your spine flush against the cold, gritty wall behind you.

Nowhere else to go.

He took his time walking over. Each step was unhurried, deliberate, as though savoring the moment. He crouched in front of you, resting on the balls of his feet, his face leveling with yours.

Then, his fingers reached forward—slow, gentle. They threaded through your hair, brushing against your scalp with care that felt so out of place it made your stomach turn.

"Why… why are you doing this?" you rasped, your throat dry, lips cracked. It felt like the first words you’d spoken in hours, maybe longer.

He let out a quiet laugh. Not loud—just a breath of sound, but it sent a chill through you. It wasn’t joyful. It was... indulgent.

He leaned in until you could feel his breath fan across your cheek.

"Baby…" he whispered, voice suddenly syrupy, almost reverent, "I've been through hell trying to find you."

His hand, still tangled in your hair, drifted to your cheek. His thumb caressed the side of your face like he was trying to memorize it by touch. The contrast between his tenderness and the tight ropes biting into your skin made it feel all the more wrong.

You swallowed hard. "W-why have you been looking for me?" Your voice wavered, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stood up—sharp, swift, like something had clicked into place inside him. You flinched.

He turned away, pacing slowly toward a set of drawers tucked into the shadows of the basement. His movements were smooth, too fluid, like he was rehearsing a dance he’d performed a hundred times before. He pulled a drawer open with a soft creak, rummaging inside until he retrieved something flat, worn at the edges.

A sketchbook.

He returned and sat down cross-legged in front of you, holding the book with a kind of reverence, like it was sacred.

“See this?” he asked, voice quiet now.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You just watched as he flipped it open, page by page.

Drawings.

Dozens of them.

Each one of you.

Your breath caught in your chest.

One showed you laughing, head tilted back with joy. Another—your eyes downcast, solemn. Others showed you crying, asleep, looking away, unaware. But it was you. All of you. Page after page after page. Some looked like they were done from memory, others like he'd been watching from somewhere close.

You blinked back tears. From fear. From disbelief. How could this be real? You didn’t know him. You had never met him before last night.

He must’ve seen the horror on your face, because his grin returned—wide and boyish.

"I know what you’re thinking, my love," he said, closing the sketchbook with a soft thump. "But I swear I’m not crazy."

You didn’t move. Your heart thudded in your chest, loud, uneven.

He let out a long breath, eyes softening. “I’ve known you for a long time,” he said, almost like a confession.

You frowned, your confusion showing before you could mask it.

He chuckled.

“I’ve been dreaming about you since I was a teenager,” he continued. “Every night. No matter where I was, or how old I got—you were always there. Calling for me. Reaching for me. Needing me.” He paused, letting the silence stretch between you. “And I’ve been needing you. More than you’ll ever understand.”

You stared at him, stunned. This was beyond obsession. It was delusion—and deeply rooted.

He knelt in front of you again and, before you could recoil, he pulled you into a slow, lingering hug. His arms wrapped around your trembling frame with unsettling familiarity.

You wanted to cry—not from comfort, but from the overwhelming sense of being trapped inside someone else's fantasy. You weren’t a person to him. You were a dream he refused to wake up from.

His lips hovered near your ear, breath warm against your skin.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he whispered. “Just like you’ve taken care of me… in all those dreams. Okay?”

His voice was so gentle, so heartbreakingly sincere, it almost made you forget how dangerous he was.

He finally stepped back, the warmth of his breath lingering in the cold air as if reluctant to leave you. Then—without a word—he reached for the ropes at your wrists.

The ropes fell away one by one, his fingers slow and deliberate, as if untying a gift. Your breath caught in your throat—not from relief, but from confusion. Why was he letting you go? You didn’t trust it.

As the last knot loosened, you flinched and pulled your arms in, cradling your wrists. They were sore and lined with deep red indentations. You didn’t dare look him in the eye.

He didn’t say a word. Just stood there… watching.

You forced yourself to your feet, slow and unsteady. The basement smelled like mildew and old dust, but your mind was already reaching for something beyond it—freedom. Air. Light. Anything but him.

The silence stretched.

Then his voice cut through it—light, amused.

“Run if you’d like,” he said. “It makes things more exciting.”

You didn’t hesitate. You bolted past him and up the creaking stairs. Your heart thundered so loudly it drowned out every other sound. Once at the top, you stopped to scan the hallway.

There were so many doors.

Too many.

You grabbed the nearest doorknob and flung it open. Darkness.

Another.

Darkness.

Another.

Black void, no end in sight.

You spun in a circle, frantic. Each door revealed the same bottomless night, like portals to nowhere. No windows, no cracks in the walls. The hallway was a maze with no exit.

Panic swelled in your chest.

Behind you, you heard the soft thump of his footsteps on the stairs. But he didn’t rush. He moved slowly, like a predator letting its prey exhaust itself.

You backed against the wall, breath shallow. When you felt his presence behind you, your legs buckled. His hand landed gently—too gently—on your shoulder.

“There’s no leaving me, baby,” he whispered, voice brushing your ear like smoke. “You’re all mine now.”

You turned your face away and sank to the floor, trembling. You didn’t even feel yourself crying until your vision blurred with tears. You curled into yourself, hoping to disappear.

“Why are you doing this?” you whispered into your knees. “Please… please let me go…”

But your begging only seemed to entertain him.

He crouched and scooped you into his arms like you weighed nothing.

“Don’t be scared,” he murmured. “You’re safe here with me.”

Safe. That word shattered something in you.

[thecglcatalog]

CG/L Cage Options

Babycakes is baby-caged in metal confinements for ageplay slaves. Heavy pieces are lovingly hand-finished to remove any and all sharp parts, then white-glove delivered to your door!

Classic Cradle Cage.  Welded-on steel rockers at front and back of this slave cage’s outer floor can be stabilized by included rubber wedges, then released to rock gently with slave’s movements or your light push!  A beautiful little prison with vertical iron bars all around, solid top, hinged front door with padlock hardware, it’s 2.5” wide, 3.5” long.  Have little suck-a-thumb crawl inside for a secure trip to dreamland!  Waterproof rubber floor tray.  Rockers have rubber tread feet to spare your floors.

“Bottled Up” Babyslave Cage.  Hexagonal floor big enough for most slaves to sit knees-up or cross-legged has a round steel bar rising from each corner, oval mesh panels between the bars to keep hands inside.  On top: a ring of steel that supports two potential caps: one a plain mesh ring, one a transparent plastic bottle nipple!  Your humiliation toy can be made to step over the bars and crouch inside – then turn three convenient wingnuts to secure your chosen topper.  Waterproof rubber floor tray.  Specify height: 3”, 4”, 5”.  Specify nipple plastic color: Air Blue, Sunset Pink, Dim Grey.

“Bottled Up” Facets Babyslave Cage.  Gorgeous convertible dodecahedron cage keeps slave curled up in a meditative position.  With just enough space for shift from knees-up to ankles-crossed, slave is trapped inside the dodecahedron of weighty steel bars with head emerging from the top.  Some of the facets hinge to open, swing back to lock in place, confining slave inescapably!  And just when your pet thinks their artful display is complete, you can produce the made-to-match baby-bottle nipple that snaps into the top facet, creating a clear plastic prison for their head.  Waterproof rubber floor tray.  Specify nipple plastic color: Air Blue, Sunset Pink, Dim Grey.

Bondage Bird Cage.  Luxurious and elegant standing display cage shows off baby within a two-foot-diameter floor space, while vertical bars arch gracefully to meet at a seven-foot peak, where an eyebolt holds wrist cuffs or the included, adjustable perch for wooden-pony riding time.  Front third of the cage swings out so slave can be placed inside.  Smooth metal floor.

Kneel-Up Perforated Posture Crate.  Ideal for finishing schools and training facilities, tall rectangular cage is comparatively lightweight, with sheet-metal sides punched out in a grid of large hollow dots.  Front door is sleek metal grid.  Ask slave to kneel inside and slide metal-capped wooden dowels through the perforations to hold them in place, teaching elegant habits – or creating a brutal position-holding punishment.  Hinged front door with integrated lock; waterproof rubber floor tray.

All-Fours Grid Posture Crate.  Similar concept, heavier and more suited for home and dungeon use.  Every wall of this cage is a one-inch grid of weighty metal, giving ample choices on where to slide the metal-capped rods that maintain position … or let slave curl up on its side for a nap.  Hinged front door with integrated lock; waterproof rubber floor tray.

Nightie-Night Twin Mattress Cage.  Square straps of welded steel are “woven” together to create an open-walled crate exactly the right size to receive any twin mattress.  As a small-space or stacking crib alternative, it’s tops!  Handy side bolt easily changes the hinged lid from a convenient one-part lift to a three-parter that can be opened in stages, padlocked down separately, in case you need to access only part of baby for tickling, feeding, or stimulation.

Play Gym Cage.  Functional and isolating for your little one’s care and service, this L-shaped half-cage has multiple functions!  Its base is a sturdy metal grid with comfortable rubber floor tray, low surrounding bar – but on one end, three square-barred walls and a roof confine the top half of a baby slave!  Just lay baby down on the mat and swing shut the arch-bottomed double doors that hinge to the tall end; if needed, snap on the custom-fit, sheet-metal door covers that cut off baby’s view of what’s going on down there.  Slide the steel-capped play gym bar through the metal walls, equipped with hanging toys to grasp and bat at – then baby is distracted and can have its feet hooked to the tall cage wall or strapped to the discreet pull-out gyno stirrups at the base.  Whether for punishment, inspection, diaper change, naptime, or playtime, this age-regression slave cage will become essential to baby’s comfort … and yours.

Specify metal finish for your chosen cage: silver, gold, rose gold, coin copper, black enamel.

Find more cages to suit themed nurseries and playrooms in our Red Barn and Gamewarden’s Classic signature nursery sets – or in the Deluxe Zoo Play Set.

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 4 - Post #3: Life During Wartime

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

GIF by myriadimagines

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 3.2K (third post in Volume 4)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

_______________________________

III. “Fucking farrick,” you grumble, trying to jam the locker door back onto its hinges. When it finally eases open, you grab your rucksack and head for the exit without changing out of your coveralls. 

You never remove so much as a shoe once you're inside the refinery. Showers were available, but no one used them. Cameras surveilled practically every inch of this facility. And just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t in here, too.  

Stepping out from under the dim artificial light, it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust to the riot of color. It’s early morning, barely past midnight, but the sky is awash in brilliant yellows and oranges, alight with swirling pink clouds. 

Lakaran’s nearest sun only dipped below the mountains this time of year, never truly setting. When it sank behind the peaks at this hour, the ridgeline became a deep indigo against the horizon, its glaciers reflecting back the sky’s warm glow.  

Ehki is what the Lakarani called their star. Grandmother, it meant. Her daughter, Amular, was the world, and Ehki traveled around her in an unending circle to carefully watch over her children. So tonight, when the sun finally fell into darkness, and there would be several hours of real night for the first time in months, the Lakarani would throw a gigantic party while Grandma Ehki wasn’t looking. 

You know you should hurry up and leave before someone accuses you of loitering, but instead, you pause to take in the view. A small, inconsequential act of rebellion. The scenery is breathtaking up here. The air is thin and crisp. It’s the best part of your day to stand on this spot and take in the majestic landscape right before making that sharp turn toward the escalator. 

The view from the west side of the slope is decidedly less sublime. 

The scale of the encampments surrounding the processing plant is almost impossible to take in at first glance. The structures are a jumble of materials built on top of each other in layers that look more like debris washed up by the river than a deliberate settlement.

The skyline is dominated by the refinery’s cooling towers belching out steam that smelled acrid and made the air thick with humidity. The water used for cooling went right back into the river, along with the encampment’s sewage. Which is why you absolutely refused to eat anything fished or gathered downstream.

You step off the escalator and see Humia waiting for you outside the checkpoint. The security guard reaches for your bag, not bothering to look up or make conversation while she searches its contents. She doesn’t care to ask for your name either—just waits for the familiar beep of the transponder at your wrist to confirm your exit as you walk through the gate.

“How’d it go today?”

“Good,” you answer brightly, patting the bound folio strapped to your stomach. “I found this fire safety and evacuation handbook with a very detailed floor plan of level nine. Raceways, server rooms, access panels…I’ll have to ask my partner about the utility lines, but we might be able to bore into the operations center from an adjoining room.”  

“That is good,” she nods enthusiastically. "This is your partner, Nito? He’s the tech guy?”

“Yeah,” a reluctant smile tugs at your lips. Humia probably wasn’t envisioning a furry thirteen-year-old when she used the phrase tech guy, but that would be a fun little detail for her to discover later. 

Or sooner rather than later? You still haven’t heard anything from the Razor Crest about when to expect their arrival on Lakaran. Which is absolutely fine. Definitely not a big deal. Nope. Not at all something that you’ve been overthinking for the past eighteen days straight. 

Nope. It’s not at all distracting to obsess about how, after months of tortuous yearning, you finally had sex with the Mandalorian and have not spoken to him since. 

Gods, why is it suddenly so hard to breathe just thinking about him?

The fact that you spend most of your nights alone, willing yourself to recall the memory of his hands on your body while the tears can fall without shame…has been, you know, not great for your mental health. 

So that’s why, a few nights a week, you take a break from drowning in insecurity and play at the Sabacc tables. 

Guess that’s out of the question now. You’ll need to avoid Johar Kessen like the plague.   

“Nito’s been dredging through the Imperial archive for more information on the refinery. The stuff he’s found is incredible. All of the records from when they built this place.” 

“Good,” she smiles appreciatively. 

As you descend toward the encampment, the rocky mountain path splits into three parts. Two fanned out onto the raised perimeter wall made of poured concrete and scrapwood that traced a broad circle around the sprawling camp. It had been constructed by the Tagge Corporation to help with mudslides, but what it really helped with was surveilling the Lakarani. 

You and Humia take the main path through the center of camp. 

The hut you shared was higher up on the slope, which was a blessing when it rained but a pain in the ass when you had to walk uphill after eating your weight’s worth of bean cakes for dinner or hauling laundry back home from the wash house. 

“Another option is turning one of the technicians, but I’m not having a ton of luck in that department. I can usually wrap scientists around my finger, but engineers are so tricky. It takes them an ungodly amount of time to realize you’re trying to fuck them.”

“For what it’s worth, I would turn for you in a heartbeat,” you say, holding your face between your hands, eyes wide with adoration. “Those dark lashes are criminally lush.”

Humia swats away the compliment. “I could steal a key card, but I have no idea how long it would take for someone to discover it’s gone. That might hold us to a very narrow time frame depending on when it’s reported missing.”

You follow her up the winding footpath that leads homeward. The camp is much easier to navigate this time of day, when everyone is still asleep. “I like the idea of entering from an adjoining room. That way, there’s no exposure in the hallway. Even if we’re in uniform, five people on the cleaning crew, when there are usually only two, will be immediately suspicious.”

The Mandalorian’s solution would undoubtedly be to come in through the front door, rifles blazing, but that’s not an option in this scenario. You have to secure the operations center before anyone from the Tagge Corporation realizes the refinery is under attack. The risk that they would activate the facilities’ containment protocol is too great. It would condemn not only everyone on site but anyone within five leagues of the processing plant.

“We could stuff Serenio and Davik into the cleaning cart?” Humia chuckles at the implausibility of this suggestion.

“I doubt we could even push the cart with Davik stuffed inside. He’s built like a stack of boulders.”

“I told him to quit training in the fighting pits. He’s going to attract too much attention.” 

“Why does every population center in this galaxy require some kind of fighting pit? It’s a weird kind of calculus. One communal latrine per 20 persons. One fighting pit per 100 persons.”

She rolls her eyes, “Do you know a more straightforward way to earn money than two people beating the shit out of each other? Though, I don’t think Davik does it for the money. He’s just like a puppy that chews all your socks if he doesn’t get enough exercise.” 

“He’s so young,” you sigh, feeling suddenly guilty. “Him and Serenio, both.”

“Most soldiers are,” Humia scoffs. “Revolutions don’t offer a very robust life expectancy.”

“That’s true. I didn’t expect to make it out alive when I joined the Rebellion. And I appreciate the protection. But I can’t help seeing them as children.”

She tosses her head with a derisive laugh, “I didn’t expect you to be so tenderhearted.”

No doubt she thought it made you weak. But you’re wise enough to know empathy took far more bravery than cynicism. “Just because I can recognize the cruelty of this life doesn’t mean I’ve made peace with it.”  

“That’s rather noble coming from someone working with a Mandalorian.” 

Your neck turns sharply to catch the look on her face, but she’s already ducking around the pilings and cantilevered beams bracing your neighbors' houses against the mountainside.  

“You don’t like Mandalorians?” It seems like an odd prejudice. 

“No,” she sneers. “They say they are bound by codes and honor, yet they show nothing but selfish indifference toward the plight of others.” She stops abruptly on her heels to glare at you, brushing strands of auburn hair from her eyes. “And I like your Mandalorian least of all.”

He’s not my Mandalorian, your heart sighs.

The hateful disdain in her words is like a slap to the face. Humia rarely revealed the depth of her emotions. What could inspire this level of rancor from an otherwise inscrutable woman? And why bring this up now?

You cough, clearing your throat to mask the apprehension in your voice. “I didn’t realize you already knew him?”

“I don’t need to know him. I know what he’s done.” But it’s a reflexive response, not a real answer. So you wait. “They’re all mercenaries,” she says, compelled to explain herself. “Condemning their souls for money. They profit from the misery of others for the sake of themselves.” 

You can tell she desperately wants you to ask, What has he done?

It’s not the first time Humia had hinted at a bitter history between the Mandalorian and her leader, Ubaa Dir. But you don’t take the bait. If you’re missing some part of the story, you want to hear it from his lips, not hers.

Instead, you remind her with a wry grin, “Well, now you’re working with him too.”

“I suppose that’s true,” she concedes. “Wars make for strange bedfellows.” 

An image of them together flashes behind your eyes, and the irrational taste of jealousy fills your mouth. Don’t be absurd! Hadn’t Humia just admitted she'd never met Mando? 

Lucky for you, she lets the moment pass without escalation. Her tone shifts, and she places a companionable hand on your shoulder.

“I’ve heard Kessen fights in the pits. We could go to watch him sometime? Belen’s right, you know, he’s got a crush on you.”

“I have no idea why,” you begin, but Humia raises her hand to cut you off.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Kasya. Hiding under workwear and bushy eyebrows won't change that.”

“Now, why would you bring my eyebrows into it?” You tease, as though it might erase her vitriol from moments ago. That is until you catch sight of the security guard standing on your front porch. “Is it okay that he’s waiting here for you?”

It’s the same guy she brought home last week. When he spots you walking down the path, his face breaks into a wide grin. He waves, looking giddy, as though he might jump off the steps to run for her.  

“This one, I can turn,” she mutters, slowing her pace. “I’m glad he told us how to block the transponders…but he’s fallen harder than he should. If he starts getting heartsick, it could be a problem.”

“Poor kid. You bat those lashes, and what hope do any of us have?” 

“See,” she looks at you askance, nudging you in the stomach with her elbow. “That shit is why Kessen likes you. You’re so sweet with your friends and no one else. He wants some of that honey for himself.”

You snatch at the opportunity to throw her off the subject. “Why Humia Fenrik, are we friends?”

“Why, yes, Kas,” her voice is laden with gooey sarcasm. “You’re my best friend. That’s why I got you this job, remember?” She adamantly refuses to change the subject. “Some men like a challenge. And Johar Kessen is very bored stuck out here with the likes of us, guarding all these soulless corpos.”

“So by challenge, you mean, like how I’ve given him absolutely no indication whatsoever that I’m interested?”

“Are you worried he might recognize you from the Rebellion?”

“What?! No, I’m sure he was much higher up the food chain.” Rumor was that Kessen had led special operations forces during the war. “Kinda sad that he went from Rebel hero to working for the Tagge family.”

“There’s your angle,” Humia says, snapping her fingers. “It would be good to have him on our side once the fighting starts. And Kessen might be elite for a bodyguard, but I bet they treat him like a piece of furniture, same as the rest of us. He must hear things.”

You cock your head at her. “Then maybe you should approach him?”

She’s probably already considered it, but come on! She didn’t have to rake her eyes over you like a bawd house madam ready to offer up her best girl. 

“I’m not the one he wants.”

“Listen, I’m flattered you think so highly of my charm, but I do not have the skill set.” You’re at least tactful enough not to say, I’m not like you out loud. This is Humia’s job. She’s very good at it. And it’s not your place to approve or disapprove of the way she went about it. “I’d be too nervous.”

You remember each time you had to quietly lock yourself in the privy to heave up the contents of your stomach whenever the Mandalorian asked you a pointed question, thinking, He knows! He knows I’m lying! 

Which…yeah, it turns out he did. “I think I’d have a panic attack and blackout.”

“Your cover story is a psycho ex-lover. Of course, you’re nervous.” At that, Humia gives you an appraising look. “You’re living under a stolen identity and seem to be doing just fine.”

“Exactly! Because I don’t talk to anyone.” A sudden knot lodges in your throat. “Have you asked Serenio to approach anyone?”

One of the refinery executives had an unsettling interest in her. You clean the facilities overnight, so there's rarely any staff on-site, but whenever he worked late, he made a point of saying hello to her. A good opportunity to practice his Twi’lek sign language, he claimed.

You know it’s a mistake to ask about it as soon as the question leaves your mouth. She immediately becomes defensive. “Serenio is loyal unto death. She would do whatever I commanded.”

Humia didn’t have to add, unlike you. It just hung in the air unspoken. 

“But Serenio is trained for combat, not espionage. And she’s green as a pea shoot.” 

“Ah, so I’m overripe?” You arch a bushy eyebrow at her. "Just falling off the vine. Thanks for that!"

“I’m just saying Johar Kessen is very attractive and likable. You wouldn’t have to pretend. It’s not much of a heavy lift, surely?”

“Okay, the sleeping with him part I could probably manage. But as soon as I ask Kessen a remotely leading question, he will immediately know what I’m up to!”

“There’s no need to tie yourself into knots,” she snaps. "Just be honest. You think it’s beneath you.”

Humia’s back is rigid, and her jaw is clenched tight. She looks so proud yet so vulnerable that it breaks your heart.

Is this why she’s so angry? She'd been seething all day, spoiling for a fight. It makes you question whether her anger about the Mandalorian is sincere or just an attempt to provoke you.

“Humia, this entire operation is built on your intelligence work. You think I look down on you because I’m horrified or judgemental about what you do. But it’s the opposite. I recognize what a dangerous game you’re playing and know I don’t have the courage for it.”

You wish you could give her a hug, but this was not the time or place to dwell on what was at stake. Or the weight of what she carried on her shoulders.

“Fine,” Humia huffs, shaking off the tension. “Just think about it.”

Oh, you’ve had plenty of time to think about it. Sleeping with Johar Kessen is not going to happen for a number of reasons. 

Chief among them is he would discover that—contrary to your fake documents—you are not human. Which would inevitably lead to the discovery that you are not, in fact, Kasya Hawat. That secret would give him leverage, and you simply refuse to hand someone that kind of power over you.  

But you can’t tell Humia this. Because then she would know that you aren’t human, and that is something you don’t plan to share with anyone here on Lakaran. At least not yet. It’ll be another fun little detail for her to discover later.

Kriffing hell! Now you’re doubly glad she doesn’t know. Given the course of this conversation, you have no doubt she’d insist that you use your influence to dig through Kessen’s thoughts and memories for something useful. That’s why Hapan courtesans were so highly prized—one of the few professions the Consortium allowed to leave the Hapes Cluster—and why they made the best spies. 

Amongst those other reasons…you have no idea how Mando would react. Though, if you had to guess? You’d guess poorly. 

While there’s the whole sworn warrior of Mandalore—I can’t call you mine—complication, you know how he feels about you. A man who struggles with trust would not find it easy to share. His sense of duty and commitment to the job might oblige him to accept it as a necessary tactic, but you aren’t willing to risk it driving a wedge between you. Things are already too delicate.

Aaand now you’re thinking about Mando again. 

Fuck, you miss him so much. You awoke every morning wanting him. You wanted to hear the sound of his laughter, to touch every inch of his skin with your fingers and feel his heartbeat under your lips to know he was really all right. You wanted to feel his body over you, under you, inside you… 

Ugh, you’ve already thought about him about a dozen times today. What’s once more.  

“Okay, I’ll think about it.” You lie, hoping she’ll let this go for now. “Will I see you later?” You ask, looking meaningfully at the security guard waiting impatiently on your porch.

“No. Unless you’re going to the bonfire tonight?” Her gaze became conspiratorial. “Kessen will probably be there. All those corpos love Lakarani culture if it means slumming it up with us. He'll have to keep them out of trouble. Your pocket is chirping, by the way.” 

“What?” you ask, distractedly patting down the front of your coveralls. “Um, sure. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“If not, we should meet for morning prayers at the shrine tomorrow. Make our report.” Humia says, beckoning the guard over to join you. “Why are you smiling at your communicator?”

"Hmmm?"

The Razor Crest had just arrived on Lakaran.

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

Continue reading: Volume 4-Post #4: Say goodbye to the old me.

Back to Volume 4 - all posts

[fools-gambit-fic]

Chapter Eleven: In Bloom

(Read on AO3)

"Don't hold back, okay?"

Chapter Eleven: In Bloom

     The instructions Leon had been given were brief, but somehow vague enough that he had no clear idea what he was meant to be doing.

     "Arrive early!  Bring your halberd!"

     Even more intriguing, Vishnal had delivered them in the same tone he'd used to suggest Leon see what happened when he tugged at his harness; chipper solicitous mischief, the barest hint of an apologetic whine around the edges, too adorable to resist.

     And so Leon—who typically preferred to snooze until the sun was high and bright—arrived at the palace while the morning was still dewy and blue, his spear on his back.  He stepped into the atrium, exchanged the customary bantering greeting with Venti, then headed for the butlers' quarters, where his mysterious assignment awaited him.

     He only made it halfway down the hallway before a cheerful voice rang out from the kitchen.

     "...I hear sandals!"

     Leon rounded the corner to find Vishnal standing at the kitchen table, a long narrow parcel laid out before him.

     "Don't tell me you can actually tell the difference."

     Vishnal shrugged casually, and Leon couldn't help but notice that he was already dressed for swordplay; sleeves rolled, hair messily tied, hands sheathed in gloves.

     "Of course I can.  Most people wear different shoes, and everyone has their own unique gait.  If I can hear who's coming, I have a better chance of anticipating their needs, so if I find myself spending a lot of time around someone, I usually make an effort to memorize the sound of their walk."

     His expression as he explained himself was so serious that Leon couldn't help but laugh.

     "...You're pretty intense, you know that?"

     The illusion was quickly broken as Vishnal blushed, the familiar softness settling over his features once more.

     "Thank you...  I think."

     Leon gave him a companionable pat on the head, then rested his chin on his shoulder to get a better look at the mysterious package.

     "It's probably your best quality...  Anyway, what do we have here?"

     Vishnal snipped the twine and slid back the paper, revealing an elegant leather case.

     "Well...  I realized I've been neglecting my defensive tactics, and I had some Gold saved up, so I ordered myself a set of parry blades."

     The case was opened—snappy latch, silent hinges—and Leon saw a peculiar pair of swords nestled inside; much like the simple steel blades Vishnal practiced with daily, but with one interesting difference.

     "Huh.  I was reading about these at Kiel's a while back."

     Both blades were deeply notched along one side, meant for catching an assailant's weapon and thwarting their attack.  Vishnal picked up one of the swords and inspected it thoughtfully.

     "You'll have to lend me that book!  I only heard of them recently, but I knew I had to get my hands on some.  And...  Well, they're not exactly something one can use on their own..."

     Leon was suddenly aware of the weight of the halberd on his back, straightening up and absent-mindedly adjusting the strap.

     "...What about Forte?"

     Vishnal sighed woefully.

     "Forte refuses to swing at me.  Says we're poorly-matched, and she'd probably kill me."

     Unbidden, a deluge of bloody memories flooded Leon's mind; the red in the dirt, the weight in his arms, the gleaming cruel staples.

     "Vish...  The last time I came at you, I did almost kill you."

     Undaunted, Vishnal lifted one of the swords from the case, reverently stroking the straight edge of the blade with a leather-clad thumb.

     "...I almost killed me.  If I can manage not to fall on my own blades, we should be safe.  And besides..."

     Then he turned to face Leon, who was caught somewhat off-guard by the fire in his violet eyes.

     "...Besides?"

     Vishnal picked up the other blade and crossed them over his chest, smiling smugly.

     "I doubt you could hit me anyway.  Not while I have these."

     It was an unusual look for him, and Leon felt a sudden urge to smack—or kiss—it right off his infuriating, beautiful face.

     "You sound awfully confident."

     Relaxing to hold the blades at his sides, Vishnal looked Leon dead in the eye, haughtiness still purring in his throat.

     "Then why not take me down a peg?"

     Leon reached out to grab his jaw with fond, playful roughness, forcing the gaze to linger.

     "Keep talking like that, and I might have to."

     Vishnal shook off his grip with ease, turning pertly on his heel and heading for the fields.

     "Then it's settled!  Come, now."

     Leon—who never could bring himself to turn down a dare—followed almost too eagerly, though anxiety still squirmed in his stomach.

     "If I hurt you..."

     Already, Vishnal was easing himself into his battle stance; grip firm, legs apart, eyes ablaze, lithe and ardent and earnest.

     "...Then you'll carry me to the Clinic.  You've done it before."

     It was almost pitiful, how powerless Leon was to resist him.

     "If you insist, I guess..."

     ...Oh, he's going down!

     Caution forgotten, Leon drew his halberd and charged.

     At first, there was a thrill of fear; of what would happen when the speed with which he'd leapt into action met Vishnal's lackluster reflexes, at the sharpness of all that clanging steel and the softness of his opponent's vulnerable body.

     But all of that vanished in a single, squealing, brain-rattling instant.

     "...Ha!"

     Vishnal was unharmed, panting with exhilaration and grinning ear to ear.  Leon was unsure of exactly what had happened, other than that his palms stung and the clatter of metal was still ringing in his head.

     "Don't get so comfortable!"

     He charged again, intending to merely tap Vishnal with his spear, the way they did during sparring matches at the Temple.  But before he could get within range, the notched blade had his halberd again, tilting it awkwardly to the side and nearly ripping it from his hands.

     Vishnal, infuriatingly, was overjoyed.

     "Don't lose your head!"

     Another thwarted strike.  Leon gritted his teeth in rage.

     "Now you're just making me mad on purpose!"

     Leon jabbed at Vishnal savagely, fearing for a moment that he had lost control and would actually harm him instead of simply tapping him on the shoulder to end the match.

     Of course, there was nothing to worry about.

     "What?  Can't take what you dish out?"

     Vishnal parried him effortlessly, the sharp tug on his weapon nearly pulling him to the ground.

     "Gah!"

     They went on like this for a while; Leon charging, Vishnal parrying, Leon growing more and more furious as he was yanked this way and that by those nasty little notched blades.  Their game was quickly descending into sweaty brutality, and it was all he could do to remind himself that it couldn't go on forever.

     Just stay cool.  He'll screw up eventually.

     Vishnal was quick, and the parry blades combined with his new joy in battle made him quite the formidable opponent in this incredibly specific instance.  But in the end, he was still clumsy and given to overthinking his moves.  It was inevitable that he would leave himself open.  All Leon had to do was keep on striking until his defenses failed him.

     And eventually, after much strife and fussing, they finally did.

     Leon saw an in, jabbed Vishnal roughly in the collarbone with the blunt end of his weapon, threw the spear like a javelin so it stuck in the dirt several yards away, and tackled him to the ground.

     Through it all, Vishnal went right on laughing.

     "...Oh my!  That got to you!"

     His words caught in Leon's brain, as roughly as the blades on his spear.

     "Ah!  Shut up!"

     Vishnal didn't shut up.  He lay cackling in the dirt, and finally released his grip on the blades so he could wrap his arms around Leon and stroke his back soothingly.

     "Good heavens, Leon!  Get a hold of yourself!"

     Leon didn't want to be soothed.  He wanted to keep being mad, but it was already a lost cause.  Before long, he was laughing as well, leaning into Vishnal's touch as he gently scritched the fuzz on his back with his lovely gloved hands.

     "Just...  Don't fight anyone seriously with those!  Someone's really gonna want to hurt you!"

     Vishnal's eyes glittered innocently, though his mouth was set in an acidic smirk.

     "Do you want to hurt me?"

     In truth, he did, but not exactly in the way he'd been talking about.  Almost questioningly, Leon wound a few stray locks of Vishnal's hair around his fingers.

     "Not unless you want me to."

     Then he clenched his fist, savoring the way Vishnal grimaced as he arched his back beneath him, his voice breathy and strained.

     "...Shall we blow off some steam, then?"

     Leon smiled fondly as he gazed into the soulful violet depths of his eyes.

     "Good idea."

     As Leon lifted him from the field, Vishnal craned up to whisper in his ear.

     "Don't hold back, okay?"

     I couldn't even if I wanted to.

     That thought was both wonderful and terrifying.

~*~

     Clorica settled into the shadows of the overgrown garden behind the Flower Shop as she half-listened to Amber telling some long, rambling story in her joyful, lilting voice.  The Earth beneath her was soft, the sunlight was honeyed and dappled, and moss softened the outer wall of the shop just enough to make a comfortable place to lean.

     This was normally when she would have fallen asleep, but she found that her mind was too busy.

     "...Anyway, it got me, and it poisoned me just a little, but I had my hammer with me, so I whacked it good, and...  Clorie?  You falling asleep?"

     Clorica listlessly shook her head, with as pleasant a smile as she could manage.

     "No.  Just listening."

     Amber beamed, her colorful wings fluttering giddily.

     "Okay!  Where was I...  Oh!  The hornet.  I felt a little bad for it, but I got a lot of honey.  Well, not a lot a lot.  It didn't take me very long to finish it."

     Her mind wandered a long, lazy path; honey to tea, tea to work, work to Vishnal, Vishnal to Leon, Leon back to Vishnal again, and inevitably to what—if anything—she could do about whatever was happening.

     Eventually, it occurred to her to smile at Amber again.

     "I bet not.  You're the honey queen."

     Amber raised her hands triumphantly, shaggy green hair gleaming as she twirled in the sun.

     "Maybe I should have a honey crown!"

     Clorica giggled, forgetting her troubles for the briefest moment.

     "Wouldn't that get a little sticky?"

     Amber unconsciously cleaned her sensitive antennae with her fingers as she mulled this over.

     "Maybe...  But it might draw bees?"

     Clorica quirked a questioning brow at her ebullient friend.

     "...That's a good thing?"

     After one last twirl, Amber responded with a self-assured nod.

     "They might lead me to more honey!"

     What was there to do but laugh?

     "Right."

     Both girls giggled brightly until Amber went off on her next tangent, and Clorica tipped her head back to watch the clouds roll by through the verdant filigree of leaves.

     ...You don't even know what's wrong.

     That, of course, was half the problem.

     To all appearances, Vishnal and Leon were still getting along fabulously.  They kidded and bantered and goofed around, and generally did their best to wear one another out and exhaust their reserves of restless energy.  She often caught Vishnal working with a moony smile on his face, and it seemed he was always coming to her with new marks and some terribly lewd story of what they'd gotten up to the day before.

     But increasingly, she had also caught him looking far-away and wistful, or heard the squeak of him anxiously fidgeting around on the mattress at night.  He was clingier and more demanding than ever, and seemed particularly emotionally unstable.

     She genuinely felt for him, but it frankly made her tired.

     And increasingly, she found that her sympathies lay with Leon.

     Clorica knew all too well how easy it was to get more involved with Vishnal than expected, because she had come to realize that the very same thing had happened to her.

     I never meant to...

     Before she could finish that thought, she felt a small insistent hand on her shoulder.

     "Hey!"

     She blinked sleepily at Amber's dainty, perplexed face.

     "...Huh?"

     Amber plucked a honeysuckle blossom off the lush vines that crawled up the wall of the shop, popping it into her mouth and babbling as she chewed.

     "I said these taste good, and I asked if you knew how to eat 'em!  I mean...  Not like me.  Like most people do."

     Clorica smiled faintly as she turned her head toward the flowers, resting her cheek on the cool moss and breathing their sweet fragrance.

     "Oh.  Yeah.  I do."

     Amber regarded Clorica gravely as she ate another flower.

     "If you're feeling sad, you should have one."

     Clorica shrugged indifferently, but found herself delicately plucking a blossom from the vine all the same.

     "...Who says I'm sad?"

     Carefully, she twisted off the flower's green tip, gently drawing out the pistil until a drop of nectar appeared.  She touched it to her tongue, and allowed its fragrant sweetness to spread through her mouth.

     ...I never meant to fall in love with him.

     Clorica had liked Vishnal from the day they met, and quickly grew to love him as a friend, but pursuing him felt out of the question.  She didn't know what life held after her apprenticeship, where she would go next, or when they would inevitably part; swearing to keep in touch, slouching on with their separate lives.

     Moreover, he wasn't what she needed in a partner.

     Her family having been all too eager to make her aware of her own shortcomings, Clorica knew that she needed someone who would discipline her and protect her from herself; a stern brow and a firm hand.  Not a sweet, deferential, melodramatic klutz, with plenty of weakness of his own to overcome.

     And yet...

     "You look all gloomy."

     Clorica put on a wan smile.

     "I'm just sleepy."

     ...And yet, she found herself pursuing him all the same; perhaps not for romance per se, but for something.  She was restless, frustrated, and woefully untouched back then, and it had made her recklessly brave.  As awkward and mired in work as they both were, it was obvious that they were one another's best chance, so it was only sensible.

     It helped, of course, that Vishnal was absolutely dreamy.

     He was tall and bright-eyed and chivalrous, plush-haired and soft-cheeked.  His delicate ivory skin deepened to an unexpected, delicious milky brown in the summer.  His posture—at least when he was standing still—was always impeccable.  There was an unpretentious gentleness about him that made her melt.

     Even his clumsiness was rather endearing, once she had come to care for him.

     "...Oh!  Have more, then!  Sugar gives you lots of energy!"

     As though to demonstrate, Amber flapped her wings wildly, kicking up a gust that ruffled Clorica's bangs and stirred in the white blossoms, filling the air with their temptingly sweet scent until she simply couldn't help but take a second taste.

     "Okay.  Guess I'll partake, then."

     She pulled up another drop of nectar, sucking at it thoughtfully.

     He always knew we were just playing.

     Perhaps it would have done her well to remember that Vishnal was painfully serious and sincere in everything he did, even if it was only meant as play or practice.  But they were both content enough with the arrangement, so it never seemed to matter much.  They played, and they experimented, and slowly became inseparable.

     On occasion, she disciplined him, and protected him from himself.

     And now it was dawning on her that maybe this was what she really needed, no matter what she'd been told.

     I needed someone to rely on me.

     And Vishnal—who had been taking care of people since he was the world's most tightly-wound child—so badly needed someone to rely upon.  The way a man lost in a desert needed a cool drink of water, or a sailor at sea needed a bushel of juicy oranges so his body wouldn't start falling apart.

     Clorica sighed as she flicked the spent blossom away.

     Leon was a lot of things—many of them excellent—but "reliable" wasn't exactly one of them.

     Amber had done her best, but it was becoming clear to Clorica that sugar alone wouldn't sustain her.  She was quickly growing too tired to think, and welcomed this as a relief as she slumped against the mossy wall, drifting down into green, sun-dappled dreams.

     (...You have to make a choice, don't you?)

     When she finally woke, the light that filtered through the leaves was well past evening's fire, and had mellowed to the powdery blue of incipient dusk.  There were stippled indentations where her cheek had lain on its bed of moss for a few hours too long, and the taste of nectar had gone sour on her tongue.

     Most perplexing of all, she was adorned with wreaths of flowers; crowning her head, draping her neck, frothy and strangely funereal in the eerie gloaming.

     Amber was nowhere to be found.

~*~

     Vishnal blinked in the soft blue light, awakening to what felt like just another dream; instantly and surreally lucid, yet disoriented in that curious way that always seemed to accompany waking after the sun had gone down.

     Where...

     ...His room, obviously; cool and quiet in the fading evening, blankets nested around his curled bare form.  There was a brief pang of sorrow at having missed the day, but as his memory began to reassemble itself, it quickly faded.

     I suppose I did more than a day's worth of living, didn't I?

     Vishnal sighed contentedly into the pillow, feeling warm and relaxed all over.  He was deliciously sore inside and out, and his muscles were too flaccid and exhausted to hold the nervous tension that usually plagued him.  All was very tranquil and still, and he supposed there was only one person to thank.

     Leon had wrestled him down and hollowed him out, and all he had to do was lay back and say yes.

     It seemed the list of things he wouldn't do had shrunk by one.

     Stretching his achy shoulders and rolling onto his back to regard the skewed rectangle of dusky light drifting its languid way across the ceiling, he absent-mindedly pressed on the growing bruise where the butt of Leon's spear had collided with his collarbone.  Stomach fluttering a bit at the shiver of pain, he let his hand wander up his neck; sucked red and purple, still slightly warm and damp under his fingertips.

     "Don't hold back, okay?"

     He hadn't.

     Leon had tossed Vishnal onto the bed and unleashed the full force of his lust and fury, impatiently tugging off his clothes and nibbling at every inch of freshly-exposed skin.  To both men's relief, he had mostly gotten the hang of Vishnal's uniform, and had him down to his harness after a few hectic minutes of tugging and fiddling.

     Getting out of his own diaphanous clothes seemed to require little more than relaxing his posture and letting them fall about his feet, and Vishnal looked on in wonder as Leon slipped into view; his fine brown skin and well-hewn muscles making him resemble an icon of polished wood or faceted topaz, his long comet-tail of hair and the patches of silvery floss that adorned his body pale and stark against that rich warmth.

     Leon grinned, and his sharp canines flashed in the morning light.

     "Ready to get what's coming to you!?"

     "I anticipate it!"

     Vishnal was eager yet complacent, for it began much the way it had in the early days; Leon bearing down heavily, biting at his neck and pulling roughly at his hair, enthusiastically grinding him into the bed.  By now, Vishnal had been taught this same lesson many times, but—being a slow learner, after all—he was grateful for it all the same, and arched his back willingly, pressing against Leon and anticipating the familiar denouement, quick but satisfying.

     Instead, Leon stopped and pushed himself up, regarding Vishnal at arm's length.

     "I...  I think I need to do more to you this time."

     "Oh?"

     His eyes glittered hungrily, and his smirk showed his keen fangs, but Vishnal couldn't help but notice the nervous twitch in his ears, and the slight breeze kicked up by his thrashing tail.

     "Yeah."

     "What do you have in mind?"

     Vishnal felt a bit silly for asking, because they both already knew.

     "You should know I've never done this before.  But I've been doing a lot of reading, so I think I can figure it out."

     "Sounds like you're a sight more prepared than Clorica and I were the first time."

     There were times—this being one of them—when Leon showed another side to himself; sincere, silly in a way that differed from his usual silliness, strangely and poignantly vulnerable.  In Vishnal's mind, this was the very thing that pushed him over the line from "attractive" to "irresistible."

     "Okay, I'll say it again...  You two have a weird, weird relationship."

     "Be glad for it.  It means I already have a bottle of body oil right in that drawer."

     After a moment's nervous laughter, Leon opened the nightstand drawer and retrieved the bottle obediently.

     "Remember...  Well, I haven't done this before.  I don't want to hurt you."

     "I know you won't."

     Vishnal turned onto his stomach, trying to make himself as welcoming as possible.  Leon still seemed slightly apprehensive.

     "No, I don't mean like, 'trust me," I mean 'hold still and let me work."

     "Oh.  Of course."

     This being one of Vishnal's particular talents, he eased into his task quickly; allowing Leon to tilt his hips into position, trying to keep his shivers small as he felt appreciative hands running along his back and flanks and tugging authoritatively at his harness, gasping through clenched teeth as Leon firmly gripped his waist.  At this, Vishnal felt a brief sting of mortification—having spent the weeks he usually took to get in top shape for summer recovering in bed—but he relaxed just as quickly.

     Judging by the way he was tracing absent-minded circles with his thumbs into the soft valley between Vishnal's ribcage and hips, Leon obviously liked what he felt.

     "...You ready?"

     "Gods, Leon...  I've been ready for fifteen minutes or a fortnight, depending on how you count!"

     Vishnal started as a loud clap rang out; the back of one thigh stinging sharply, the sensitive nerves tingling in a perfect outline of Leon's firm hand.

     "No getting impatient!"

     "Right.  Excuse me."

     That hand slid up to grasp his waist again, and before the sting even had a chance to fade, Vishnal yelped as he found every cavity within him suddenly filled.

     "...Are you okay?"

     "Not if you don't keep going!"

     Vishnal was slightly disappointed when his backtalk didn't earn him another smack, but he supposed Leon was a little busy.  The thrust of his hips was slow and methodical, so different from the heated desperation he had come to expect, and Vishnal experienced it as crashing waves inside him, knocking him down again and again.  He thought he'd been prepared, but Leon was girthier than what he was used to, and it sometimes felt as though there was scarcely room to fill his lungs.

     It was almost too much, yet Vishnal already felt like he could never get enough.

     He did his best to hold still, to do his part and not be a distraction, but the pleasure was so great that his body could barely contain it, and he sometimes couldn't help but squirm or cry out.  Fortunately, Leon was there to keep him in line; grabbing him by the harness when he thrashed around, pulling him back up by the hair when his muscles slackened and gave out, pressing his face into the pillows when he got too loud, striking him on the buttocks and thighs when he got even louder.

     Vishnal endured it all greedily, feeling almost disappointed when the pressure building inside him told him that his work would soon be over.

     Leon, too, seemed close to the edge.

     His thrusts had become more erratic, and he had begun muttering to himself; a strange staccato full of sharp consonants and musical rolling vowels that Vishnal couldn't understand.  It was hauntingly beautiful, but it made him worry that he had somehow broken Leon's brain.

     Thankfully, it didn't take him long to realize what was going on.

     He was hearing the language that Leon had prayed in, long, long ago.

     It seemed a sacred temple had formed around them, and without Leon firmly keeping control, Vishnal surely would have screamed it down; nerves singing from sacrum to brainstem, a bright line of light racing upward to explode behind his eyes, hectic stars to keep him from blacking out in bliss.

     Leon pulled away, leaving him hollow but strangely fulfilled.

     They exchanged a strange, glittering glance before falling onto the bed, where they lay back-to-back for nearly an hour, getting their bearings and catching their breath.

     Vishnal watched the trees outside his window sway in the breeze, the fading blossoms spiraling down.  He could feel the rise and fall of Leon's chest, and the soft fuzz on his back gently brushing his skin.  The feeling was comfortable and soothing, like when Clorica played with his hair.

     Just as he felt himself drifting off, Leon cleared his throat.

     "...Do you want lunch?"

     "No.  I think I want a nap."

     The mattress creaked as the weight of Leon's body lifted, though his heat lingered for a few seconds more.

     "Okay.  Guess I'll head home, then.  See you tomorrow."

     "See you."

     By the time it occurred to Vishnal that he could have asked Leon to stay, he was already gone.  Blearily, he staggered to the washroom to clean himself up, undid his own harness, let the ropes fall to the floor, and collapsed onto the bed.

     The sun that fell across his pillow was friendly and warm, velvet-red behind his eyelids.  It shone down on him as he fell into a thick, dark midday slumber.

     And when he finally awoke, it was nearly gone.

     Vishnal watched the blue glow fade, until a warm light clicked on in the hallway and a familiar set of footsteps echoed through the Castle.

     "...Clorica?"

     She was standing in his doorway now; eyes sleepy as ever, a wreath of honeysuckle and Pink Cat crowning her tousled lilac head.

     "Yeah?"

     He hoped her day off had been as enjoyable as his own, but he somehow doubted it.

     "Join me?"

     A lazy smile spread across her soft features in the evening gloom.

     "Of course."

     She settled in next to Vishnal on the bed, the heavy sweet scent of the blossoms she still wore tickling his nose as they crumpled against the pillow.

     I'll tell her in the morning.

     Vishnal smiled contentedly as the pleasantly cloying floral vapors lulled him back to sleep.

[ask-emile-sdv]

Another Autumn (Emile x G/N Farmer Drabble)

Word Count; 1112

Genre; fluff

A/N; artem here! I thought it would be a good way to dispense lore so I made this little drabble <3

Autumn.

A beloved month for many. The smell of cinnamon, the sight of crimson, and the sound of laughter. The crisp air felt sharp in Emile’s lungs, as he swept a bead of sweat from his furrowed brow. He shivered slightly from the cold, despite the warm sunlight beaming down on him.

He wasn’t one for autumn, actually. The flowers were nice, sure, but the season itself was just another bitter reminder of being alone. Every time someone found out about his distaste of it, they would always gasp and go “Why? I mean, it’s autumn! Don’t you like the Spirit’s Eve festival? Dressing up with friends?”

As he dug his hoe into the fertile earth below, he let out a belligerent chuckle. Dressing up with friends? Spirit’s Eve? What a joke. The only memories of that damned holiday was the chiding remarks from his parents to his cousins and siblings, about taking him with them as he would stand in his ill-fitting hand-me-down superhero costume. A tacky thing it was, he wanted to be a vampire but his parents insisted on wearing the old costume.

The air would be thick with an awkward feeling as he trailed behind them, always the last to get candy, always the first one to get lost in the maze, always the one not knowing where to look in photos.

Always the one forgotten.

Then the new school year would continue, walking with his head cast down at the cracks in the sidewalks, uncomfortably walking in his new school shoes which were always a little too big. “You’ll grow into it,” his mother always told him. He would fiddle with the straps of his backpack as he waited for roll call, sitting in the cold plastic chair full of static in the cold autumn air.

“Hoa- Wa…” The teacher would squint and adjust their outdated glasses “Hon…”

“Hoàng.” He would say, quietly. “I go by Emile.”

He would feel everyone’s eyes on him, gazing into the top of his head, before completely overlooking him for the rest of the school year. That’s how it went every year, every autumn.

He was knocked out of his reminiscing as he heard someone open the gate, the squeaking of the hinges cutting through the garden. Looking up, his eyes met the farmer’s. Sighing, he squinted at them in feigned annoyance.

“I’m busy, what do you want? Look, if you’re asking where my trashcan is-”

“Emile! Hey! You mind taking this off my hands?” The farmer shoved a bag of quality fertilizer into his gloved hands.

He paused, confused. “... Fertilizer?”

They flashed him a grin, oh yoba, that grin. He felt his heart flutter, his face like a peony. They scratched the back of their head sheepishly.

“Yeah, accidentally bought too much off of Pierre, aha. So I thought hey! Why not hand this off to Emile!”

He felt his pulse through his fingertips as he held the bag, racing. “... You thought of me?”

They let out a light hearted chuckle, “Well, yeah! Of course, why wouldn’t I? After all, we’re both planting our new crops… Do flowers count as crops?”

“Of course they are, they’re floriculture.” He scoffed, “You should know this, farmer.”

“Right, right…” The farmer glanced at the turned dirt below, “What are you planting?”

Emile’s tea colored eyes lit up, as they always did when flowers became the topic. “Fairy roses, sunflowers, mums- the usual fall flowers. I’m moving them from the greenhouse.” He looked at the sack of bulbs by his feet, “Also preparing for winter flowers, such as snowdrops.”

“There’s winter flowers?” The farmer asked, kneeling down to take a look in the bag.

“Of course! There’s poinsettias, camellias, winter pansies, etc..” He excitedly listed off, “Oh! There’s also Christmas roses- those are nice. They have this lovely white color, but as the blooms age they can darken into pink or even green! You can deadhead those, so they can grow more white blossoms. They mean ‘Relieve my anxiety’ along with innocence and hope, so they make a great present for the Feast of the Winter Star and-” He quickly shut himself up. Shit… I said too much, Yoba, I must sound so annoying…

“Why’d you stop?” The farmer questioned. He looked up, and to his surprise they were staring intently at him, leaning closer for more. So close, in fact he could count every lash that surrounded their mesmerizing irises. He swallowed nervously.

“W… What do you mean ‘Why’d you stop’?”

“You kinda just- cut yourself off there.”

“Well,” He cleared his throat, “I’m sure someone like yourself wouldn’t be interested in this, after all you specialize in produce so…”

“But it’s interesting.”

His eyes widened, “You… You think what I’m saying is interesting?”

“Yeah, why do you sound surprised? It’s cool!”

He felt a strange feeling, one he’d never felt before. He felt… Heard. Seen. The farmer was looking at him so expectantly, with so much care. Care for the impromptu lesson, no, care for him.

The wind blew around them, carrying along leaves of scarlet and orange. But despite the cold breeze, he felt warm- almost too warm. “Well… I-I suppose if you came all this way, I might as well grace you with my knowledge!” His cheeks heated up, painting them rosy and bashful, “D-don’t think I’m doing this for you though. I just… I've just been working hard all day and I need a break. that’s all!”

The farmer tapped their chin, “A break, huh?” They hummed in thought, “Hey, why not tell me more about this over at the saloon then?”

“Oh, at the Stardrop?”

“Yeah, over some wine?”

“Well.... That sounds nice…. B-but you’re paying!”

The farmer laughs, putting their hands up in mock defense. “Yeah, yeah. I suppose I have to pay tuition for your classes somehow, right?”

Emile huffs, turning to the side. “That’s right, farmer-” He’s cut off as they take his hand and lead him out the garden, “Woah! Hey!-”

They looked at him with bright eyes as they dragged him to the saloon, “Cmon, let’s go!”

Emile cracked a small smile, shaking his head as he let them lead him to the townsquare. The crunching of the garnet leaves under their feet could be heard, the smell of cinnamon emanating from the saloon as Gus prepares his fall menu, and the sound of the farmer’s laughter echoing in his ears and ribcage. A sound so lovely to him, that he could just listen to it on repeat over and over again as if it was a love song.

Maybe he’ll give autumn a chance this round… Because this time he isn’t alone.