#Dave McCall

[elmo330]

I never really got the Mark Wahlberg hype until I watched Fear (1996). Literally nobody talks about it and there is somehow only two fanfics.

[jeewrites]

🌈 Sunshine & Rainbows 🌈

Pairing: Dave York x f!reader Equalizer 2 AU: What if Dave survives the fall from the watchtower?

WC: 10.1k (whoopsies) Rated: Explicit, minors do not interact

Content/Warnings: Dave is divorced from Carol (no kids), reference to previous smut, Dave gets a few nicknames, reader is also an assassin but sassy, reader has a nickname and hair that can be pulled, mention of traumatic injuries to Dave, medical jargon, discussion of physical therapy, stalking/murder/torture not described, please remember I had to google “How to preserve an eyeball” for this fic, is murder a love language?, arson, treadmill hate, use of daddy just once, no y/n

A/N: My first Dave fic and my first fic challenge! I got ‘amnesia’ to pair with Dave for @burntheedges's Roll-A-Trope Challenge! I had so much fun trying to wrap my head around Dave as someone who leans towards fluff and feels, so I hope you enjoy my take on our favorite murder daddy. Thank you to @bloviating-vy for being the best beta-reader and encouraging me to write fics in the first place. Dividers by @saradika-graphics. Roll a Trope Masterlist

It’s the pain that wakes him. Every part of his body screams. The tight stretch of skin, itchy and hot. Bruises to the bone. Bones shattered. The sun shines too bright despite the curtains. The increasing beep of the monitor is too loud. How is it possible to hurt like this?

He hears the shuffle of footsteps and the murmur of voices just above the screaming of his body before a shadowy figure appears. He can sense them to his left, but not see them. Is this how he dies? Drowsiness steamrolls him and he slips back to a blissful drug-induced unconsciousness.

It’s been 48 and a half hours and no check-in from Dave. You stare at the burner phone, willing it to beep or ring. Anything. But there is no text. No call. Just the flick and snap as you flip the phone open and close.

Dave has never, ever missed a check-in. Has he come close to the 48-hour deadline after an op? Sure. But never late. And never this late.

You’re not exactly in panic mode yet because it’s Dave, one of the most ruthless and effective killers you know. But you can’t help the anxiety starting to build in your belly and another feeling you can’t quite pin down. It’s not like you love him. But god isn’t he a good fuck, perfect for blowing off steam between covert ops. 

And he understands what you do. He understands you and you understand him. Plus, he was the only one who ever almost got a jump on you when a client hired both of you without telling one about the other. That was almost a clusterfuck that ended up being the best fuck of your life.

The burner phone stares back at you, silent. Fuck it. Now it’s time for you to do what you do best. Find people. Find Dave. 

The doctor keeps calling him John — as in John Doe. While he can’t for the life of him recall his name, he knows definitively, John is not his fucking name. He’s also tired of talking. He doesn’t have any answers, just more questions piling on top of the questions the doc, a psychiatrist, keeps lobbing at him. Everything still hurts, a dull, perpetual throb throughout his brain and body punctuated by acute pain if he happens to breathe wrong.

He’s in a different building since the last time he awoke in crippling pain. This place seems like a public-run long-term health care facility out in the boonies instead of the large hospital downtown he was in before. The doctors and other health care professionals seem harried and perpetually understaffed. While his room is relatively clean, the decor is dated, all the walls a sickly yellow or green. And everything smells strongly of disinfectant. It could be worse, he supposes, at least it’s clean here. 

The psychiatrist leans forward towards him, “Let’s call it a day and let you rest. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

He grunts in response.

Something in his gut tells him to be wary of this doctor, of sharing too much if he ever remembers a goddamn thing. He knows he can trust his gut when it comes to reading people. Watching a steady flow of doctors, nurses, aides, social workers, and janitorial staff in his room, he doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows when someone is trustworthy or a threat. He can read body language at the most minute level with startling clarity.

The head nurse Kathleen is no nonsense and won’t tolerate any bullshit. Nurse Sally does the bare minimum and has sticky fingers. Gotta keep an eye on that one. He likes the neurologist who doesn’t sugar coat things. He’s pretty sure his physical therapist, Ryan, is secretly a sadist.

The night nurse, Brian, is a steadying comfort, always checking on him, “Doing all right, boss?” in the quiet loneliness of the evening. Brian alleviates the pressing annoyance of not knowing his own name by constantly switching up nicknames for him. Calling him buddy, champ, or hot stuff much to his amusement. 

He also knows someone tried their damndest to kill him and make it hurt in the process. Gouged out left eye, stabbed between the ribs, sliced tendons, broken bones, internal bleeding, wrapped in a myriad of bruises and tossed from a significant height. He’s been told repeatedly what a miracle it is that he survived at all, washed up on the beach on the brink of death before being found.

For now he bides his time, giving his body the opportunity to heal and recover. He knows he won’t get far in the current condition he’s in after the multiple surgeries and months and months in the ICU. In physical therapy he can barely manage to walk a few steps without assistance, and he’s still adjusting to the eye patch and the use of his remaining eye. He’s relatively safe for now, he thinks, identity a mystery and off the beaten path. Although a small part of him wonders why no one has come to find him. Did he not have family, friends, or anyone who missed him? 

Dave doesn’t make it easy on you to find him. Of course he doesn’t. Before he went private, or over to the dark side he liked to say, he made sure to replace all of his biometrics in various government databases with false ones. You have to go old school and retrace his steps from the sparest details he did share with you. Brant Rock the text message had read.

You find Resnik, Ari, and Kovac in the local morgue shortly after the hurricane blew through. Kovac and Ari are identifiable easily enough, but Resnik takes a moment, having most of his face blown off. It’s a shame about Kovac and Ari, they were good enough guys and you didn’t mind working with them on occasion.

But that bastard Resnik had once joked, thinking you were out of earshot, what a good fuck you’d be and you were so vulnerable with only the four of them around for miles and miles. You had slid the safety off your weapon at the same time you heard Dave threaten to rip his balls off through his throat if Resnick dared to try anything with you. You were planning to do worse, but hey, it was the thought that counts, right? That was when you knew you could really trust Dave. Resnik, not so much. 

As you approach the next cold locker, for a moment you can’t breathe, suffocating in the thought that the next body you pull is going to be Dave. But to your immense relief, it’s not Dave. Dave isn’t in any of them. It’s not until you slip out of the morgue into your car a few blocks away that you realize you’ve been holding your breath. You allow yourself to sob, forehead against your steering wheel. Crying, such an unfamiliar sensation. Where was he?

It takes you nearly two weeks to find Dave. Listed as a John Doe at the big trauma center downtown, you disguise yourself as a nurse and sneak into his ICU hospital room late one night. Nothing prepared you for his condition. 

“Did Mac do this to you, Yorkie?” you whisper as you trace your fingertips along the ashen skin of his forearm. It seems like the only part of him that is uninjured. The only sound in the room is the hiss of the ventilator and soft beeping of the heart rate monitor reminding you he’s actually alive. Barely. He’s unnaturally still for a man always on the move. You gasp softly when you take in his face, his beautiful face marred with wounds and a patch covering his left eye. Your chest tightens as you turn away to collect yourself.

Refocusing, you pull up his chart. The more you scroll, the more your rage builds at Mac or whoever did this to Dave. Your Dave. Severed tendons and ligaments, shattered ribs, crushed vertebra, multiple stab wounds, ruptured spleen, so much internal bleeding it’s a miracle he’s even alive. What the fuck happened?

He is in no condition to be moved. No matter, you think. While he heals, you are going to hunt down who did this to him and exact revenge. Excruciating revenge. Before logging out of the system you program it to send you any alerts to changes in his condition or if he’s moved to another facility.

Before you leave, you take one last look at Dave, gently run your fingers through his soft brown hair, marveling at how peaceful he looks despite the myriad of tubes plugged into him. You almost make it out of the room without shedding a tear until you really see his nose. Broken, shattered, scarred. Even if you don’t love Dave, you love his beautiful, strong aquiline nose. The way he’d nuzzle it into your neck in rare, soft moments. Press it against your mound when he pulled pleasure from you over and over. The quiet moments after you were both sated and sleepy, and he’d let you trace his brow, the strong curve of his nose, his plush lips, as he anchored you against him.

You are going to fucking destroy whoever did this to him.

The doorbell footage at Dave’s apartment confirms that Mac is the culprit behind Dave’s injuries. 

The Robert McCall visit. The tense conversation outside with Dave and his guys and Robert. The false cheerfulness, the underlying tension bubbling underneath in the clench of Dave’s jaw, the threat from McCall to Dave and the guys, “The only disappointment in it for me is that I only get to kill you each once.” You bristle with barely contained rage at his words.

Good thing you know enough about the human body to resuscitate it. Looks like you’ll just have to give Mac a lesson on how to kill someone over and over. How unfortunate for him.

The most popular bets to his previous profession are linguistics professor or foreign service.

He discovered his fluency in Farsi when he overheard family members of another patient speaking it in the hallway outside of his room. It took him a moment to realize he understood what they were saying. Shortly after, he overheard several nurses conversing in Spanish and realized to his amazement he understood them too.

“Wonder what else you can speak, professor,” Brian the night nurse muses as he pulls out an assortment of chocolates in a gift tin. That’s a new nickname. “Here, have some French chocolate. Someone gifted them to me when they were discharged.”

He reaches for one gingerly, focusing on the pincer grip to pick a chocolate up. It has been a struggle learn how to use his entire body again once it healed enough to be subjected to OT, PT, talk therapy, and other forms of torture.

He frowns at the sweetness of the truffle as he takes a bite. 

“No good?” Bri asks.

“Too sweet,” he mumbles. “But thanks.”

Belgian is better, he thinks to himself before pausing. How does he know that?

Brian grins at him before setting down the tin and checking his chart, “That just means more for me, champ.”

Glancing at the tin, Dave stifles a sharp inhale when he realizes he can read the French printed across the lid.

Discovering or rediscovering who he is has been… interesting. Some of the discoveries raised his spirits, like discovering his impressive ability to guess who was walking into his room based on the sound of their gait or how much a person weighed within a few pounds. Some discoveries though left him questioning what kind of person he really was. An emotional rollercoaster he’s ready to get off of immediately. If only he could just fucking remember!

Aside from being able to read people insanely well, he’s put together that he’s a bit of a control freak and likes things neat and orderly. The bullseye tattoo on his left hand had one nurse guessing that he was an olympic sharpshooter, but no olympian in recent memory remotely looked like him. He knew he had been found in a camo pullover and cargo pants, or what remained of it. Another nurse guessed that perhaps he liked hunting for sport. After all the speculation around the bullseye tattoo, Brian started only referring to him as killer. Curiously, he didn’t seem to mind that nickname. The wedding band tanline made him wonder if he is recently divorced or actually married, but took his ring off for more nefarious reasons. Was he a cheater? Did he have kids? What kind of man was he? 

The strangest discovery came the first time orange slices appeared on his lunch tray. He found himself comforted by the smell of citrus as he ate them. Relaxed even, for the first time since he woke up. And also inexplicably aroused. His body had been so broken it had been months since he felt any tingle or whisp of desire, the feeling so unfamiliar it shocks him. What kind of kinky shit was he into?

That night he dreams of rain forests and citrus, relaxing in a familiar embrace he can not name. He wakes up the most refreshed he’s felt since he woke up in the ICU, body screaming in pain. And yet still he can’t explain why.

Sweat pours off of him as he grips the side rails of the treadmill. The PT room is absurdly bright and cheerful for the types of torture it routinely sees.

“You did great, man,” Ryan, his favorite physical therapist, praises. “Going to be running marathons in no time.”

He just grunts in response. He hates running. This he knows in his bones. Hates it. But he has come a long way from barely managing a step with assistance to walking on the treadmill for the first time. A stupid long painful way.

A sudden frustrated yell across the room jerks his attention to one of the newer patients across the room just as an exercise ball is flung in his direction. He reacts before can think, ducking and moving, assessing in a split second the source of the danger and prioritizing three different options in subduing the threat. He misjudges the distance of a table corner, bruising his hip as he dashes by. Damn his depth perception issues, he thinks. Just another thing to work on.

He surprises himself when he finds himself expertly pulling the patient off balance into a chokehold until security arrives. His body knows exactly how much pressure to put to neutralize the threat without killing him. Why does his body know this? Christ.

“Holy shit, man!” Ryan exclaims, helping to pull him up from the ground. “Where’d you learn to do that!”

“Can’t remember,” he groans as he feels his body protest the sudden intense movement. “Think I set myself back with that stunt.” He slumps over in a chair as sharp pain shoots up both his arms. He allows Ryan to fuss over him before one of the aides brings him back up to his room in a wheelchair. One step forward, three steps back it feels like.

It’s not until he’s settled into the privacy of his own room with a healthy dose of painkillers does he start to tally all of his mysterious abilities. He rubs the itchy scruff growing on his face with irritation. He hasn’t had a proper shave since he got here. And he probably won’t, at least not until his fine motor skills get better to do it himself. The staff are just too overworked here. He huffs to himself. He’s probably more of a danger to himself than anyone else right now. 

With all his language skills, keen sense of observation, and now apparently mad jiu jitsu skills, what did it add up to? Who the fuck was he?

In the weeks following your visit to see your Dave in the ICU, knowing he has a long road to recovery gives you the time and space to track and hunt Mac. In true Dave fashion, he didn’t give you much to work with, just one single conversation about Robert McCall, but that is all you need.

Shortly before Dave missed his check in, he let you wrap yourself around him as the big spoon after having his way with you. He was uncharacteristically spooked, he told you, after running into his former team leader while out on a run. Robert McCall, Mac, was presumed dead. Dave swore he saw him die that day over seven years ago, setting off a chain of events leading to Dave going private with his guys. The impact of Mac’s death, the grief and the disillusionment that followed after leaving the service. 

You knew about the job in Brussels—Susan—and the difficulty Dave was having tying up loose ends. Especially now with Mac resurrected from the dead and digging into Susan’s murder. He briefly mentioned Mac showing up at his apartment and confronting him and the guys a few days after the unexpected reunion. The doorbell footage you found confirmed this conversation.

You asked him if Mac was now a loose end.

Turning to face you, his eyes darkened with affirmation, “But I have a bad feeling about it, Sunshine.” 

Mentally you beat yourself up for not pressing Dave more about this bad feeling at the time because you were too busy preening at the pet name. It marked the first time Dave ever met you at your place, raising an eyebrow at your maximalist design choices. It’s like a rainbow and unicorn threw up in here, he had grumbled. Too bright, so sunshine-y. You’re just jealous your place looks like it was decorated by someone allergic to color, you had quipped before he hauled you over his shoulders into the bedroom with a growled I’ll show you jealous, Sunshine.

You tried to smooth the furrows between his eyes. “Can I help?” you whispered before pressing a kiss to the curve of his nose.

He tensed before pulling back to look at you, “No. Don’t want you anywhere near him, baby. Mac’s a killer. He — he taught me everything I know.”

You protested but the look he leveled you with ended the discussion even if you wanted to push back and insist. 

“You’re helping right now,” Dave consoled you, laying you back and slotting himself between your legs. “Reminding me I have this to come home to.”

The brief realization he had referred to you as home, quickly disintegrated at the pace he set, burying himself in you, sliding deep into the place only he could reach— the place you think of as his. He left early the next morning, pulling a black beanie over his head before kissing you goodbye. “See you in 48, Sunshine.” 

You believe Dave when he said Mac was a killer, the best he knew. So you are meticulous in your tracking. In rare form, you make sure your contingency plans have contingency plans, even if you prefer flying by the seat of your pants. You only allow yourself to feel the quiet thrill of the hunt in order to keep the raging fury that threatens to make you slip up at bay. You summon patience you didn’t know you possessed as you slowly lay your trap and draw Mac in. 

Robert McCall has a weakness for damsels in distress. And for extracting his own sense of justice in situations he came across, serving as sole judge, jury, and executioner. It rankles you to see him decide the fate of others, to right a wrong according to him and him alone. 

But who are you to judge him when you decided to be his judge, jury, and executioner? So you lure him in and give him exactly what he always looked for. In the end, he is just like any other man really. A talented man, a ruthless killer sure, but he could never match your cunning combined with your wrath, your fury at what he did to Dave. 

You keep the feelings at bay as you set the trap in motion until he is soundly in your snare. And even then, you don’t let the rage get out of control because you know your weakness in close combat. You won’t give him an opening to escape or kill you because you can’t stay cool and collected.

By the time you’d laid your trap for Mac, you got a ping from the hospital notifying you of Dave’s transfer to a long-term rehab facility. You pat yourself on the back for the perfect timing. Execute the target and then go check on Dave.

In the end, Mac isn’t that much different from any other kill you executed on the job. Just more satisfying in the end. You did it for Dave, afterall. Your Dave.

He decides that even if he doesn’t like the colorful scrubs the new nurse aide wears, she seems trustworthy enough, even if he struggles to get a more accurate read on her. It’s the first time he’s had trouble reading anyone since he woke up. So he sets aside the puzzlement as Brian introduces him to her. Maybe it’s because of how pretty she is, beautiful really, and how attracted he is to her, a pull that takes him off guard.

“Hey Killer, want to introduce you to our new nurse aide,” Brian says, gesturing to her as she stands a bit shyly next to him. “She’s gonna be helping me out so I don’t feel like a vampire all the time with these night shifts.”

“Killer?” she blurts out making an incomprehensible face before hiding behind a small smile.

“Gives me a reputation. I don’t mind.” He shrugs, smirking at the nickname. “At least until I figure out my real name, no one’s going mess with me. Nice to meet you…?”

The aide makes a funny noise in her throat as he extends his hand to shake hers. She recovers quickly as she takes his hand in hers. Something flickers behind her eyes, something warm, familiar before it fades away as she murmurs her name, Sunny, and tells him to let her know if he needs anything. The pull towards her strengthens as soon as his hands envelope hers, so soft and warm, that he doesn’t want to let go. Something feels so right at her touch. He murmurs her name before she pulls away to make the rounds with Brian.

You aren’t prepared to see Dave. You thought you were. You mentally talked yourself through it before you made your way up to his room with your new supervisor, Nurse Brian. You memorized everything from his chart, and know that he still has severe amnesia, still struggling with remembering anything at all, but nothing prepares you to be in the same room as him and not have a flicker of recognition across his face. His remaining deep brown eye levels a coolness at you that you haven’t seen since the first time you met and tried to kill each other. 

This is bad. After everything, the missed check-in, the frantic searching, the revenge-ing to avenge him, the utter lack of recognition across his beautiful face cracks something in you. You barely recover enough to shake his hand and leave his room upright, telling Brian you have to go to the restroom before meeting any other patients.

Tears prick your eyes and you try to calm your breathing, not wanting to face the tsunami of feelings crashing down on you. When did these feelings for Dave get so out of hand? 

You haven’t needed anyone since you cut off your abusive family and left home to find your way in the world. You learned to be alone, thrived at working alone in a corner you carved out for yourself. You filled your home with art and color and brightness after you realized you had the power to make your own sunshine. Who else would? Definitely not your shitty family. 

And plants. So many plants, your bedroom painted a shade of deep, lush green. Filled with plants. It was like your own personal rainforest. So what if you worked in the dark, creeping in the shadows, a killer for hire? It didn’t mean you had to make it your whole damn personality.

Oh, but Dave. He was the unexpected cherry on top, a force of nature who brought more exciting ops to your life, along with mind-numbing pleasure. Intermittently at first, then regularly. You liked the control you’d cede to him after months of dancing around each other, building trust, moving from fucking in seedy motels after ops to his place or yours. The way he could fuck your worries and stress straight out of your pretty head. Apparently something had shifted without you realizing. Pesky feelings.

Fuck. You care. More than you were willing to admit before Dave almost died. You were too full of rage to feel anything else. You convinced yourself that the revenge you sought when you hunted down Mac was exactly that. Revenge. But now that the rage and fury had ebbed, you face down the why behind your need for revenge, realizing you did what you did because you cared. About Dave. Maybe you lo — lov — Fuck. What if he never remembers what you had together? What exactly did you have with him before, anyway?

He looks good though, even with the patchy scruff and fading scars across his face. The slightly lost expression on his face. Even if you can sense his discomfort in his body, in the way he sits by the window pretending to read a book. He looks so different, skin warm and golden, so alive, from the last time you saw him in the ICU. And his nose, the nose you love healed after all, healing back into its original strong curve.

As much as you want to run back into his room, yelling his name and shaking him until he recognizes you, telling him everything, you know you have to steel yourself for this next part, to allow him to heal and remember at his own pace. Wasn’t that what the doctor had written in his chart? Pushing him too hard will have less-than-ideal outcomes. 

You sigh as you wash your face and take a deep breath. This part of the journey is going to be infinitely harder than finding Dave and killing Mac. But at least now he has you to help him jog his memory and watch his back. You lift your head up to walk out of the restroom, refusing to acknowledge the question prickling down your spine. What if he never remembers you’re his Sunshine?

It storms the first night of your shift, winds howling as you make your rounds and tend to the patients assigned to you. You do most of your menial work with one eye watching Dave, learning his routine and keeping tabs on him. It comforts you to know that he has a genuine rapport with nurse Brian, and has been making significant progress in his physical therapy. You get a sense he doesn’t trust the psych doc very much and has been frustrated at recovering his fine motor skills from the nerve damage in his arms. Must be why he doesn’t shave much, you think to yourself. The facility he’s in is fine for a publicly funded place, but you can tell the staff is overworked and underpaid. Your hourly wage is laughable. And everything is painted in this drab yellow that is an insult to the color. You’d read in his chart that the local precinct had put out feelers trying to identify the resident John Doe without much luck. You hope the luck holds out long enough for Dave to heal sufficiently so you can break him out of here before someone who shouldn’t find him does.

The bright flashes of lightning and roaring thunder keep you awake in the wee hours of your shift, strong winds whipping tree branches against the building, even as the patter of rain threatens to lull you to sleep. As you walk the sterile corridors, passing by Dave’s room you hear him yell out in panic, in fear.

It’s all you can do to stop yourself from sprinting into his room, ready to take out whoever is attacking him. You realize in the darkness of his room, illuminated only by a small night light, Dave is alone in his room, still asleep.

You realize he’s having a nightmare as you watch his eye work beneath his eyelid as he mutters, “Show yourself. Show — Show yourself Mac…” before trailing off. His face winces in pain as he jerks under the covers, panting to catch his breath before flinging his arms around like he’s trying to throw a punch.

For a moment you’re frozen, unsure of what to do as you realize he’s likely reliving his last encounter with Mac in real time. Careful not to use his real name, you put a firm hand on his arm to calm him, hey hey hey, to wake him up before he strangles himself in his sheets. As you make shushing noises he jerks the arm out from your grip, grabbing a hold of your throat before gasping awake, right eye wide in terror.

He apologizes profusely once he really wakes up and gets his bearings. It’s the same dream that haunts him every time it storms outside. Bubbling up from his subconscious every time it storms. He’s up high on a tower or lighthouse by some body of water. Rain whips across his face as the waves crash against the shore. He’s impatient, livid, but also… scared? Somehow he knows the before version of him would never admit the last thing.

He’s waiting for someone who is a danger, a threat. What’s taking so long? He remembers yelling, calling a name, Mac, — who is Mac?— before the dream shifts and he’s in indescribable pain. The most pain his body has ever felt slashes through him, punches into his ribs before he’s falling, falling, falling. It’s the icy cold that wakes him every time, shocking him back to consciousness. But this time he wakes up looking into the eyes of the pretty new aide with one of his hands clutched around her throat.

Well, this isn't the first time he’s had his hands around your throat. The dirty thought skitters across your mind, although that situation is preferable to this one. The thought amuses you, even as you start to feel the oxygen deprivation. It is a nice memory though, you think, being bent over your sink while Dave took you from behind. Arching you up with the tug of your hair to watch him in the mirror. It was after the one time you were almost late for a check-in and he was punishing you for it. For making him worry. If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late, Sunshine. Simpler times, you think. 

You inwardly sigh and try to figure out how to get out of his chokehold without hurting either one of you. You settle for anchoring one hand to the one on your throat and twisting out of his grip while leveraging his elbow as gently as you can manage to avoid setting him back in his recovery. 

He’s still gasping for breath as you try to soothe him with your voice, now scratchy from his grip. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” you comfort as you pat his back.

He starts apologizing immediately, a litany of shit, I’m so sorrys, until you level him with your best stare and quip, “I see where you get your nickname from, Killer.”

He stops long enough to bark out a laugh, before asking again if you really are okay. 

“I should be asking you that,” you respond. “Seems like a hell of a dream.” You see him retreat back into himself, at whatever horrors had surfaced in his mind.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you venture, sliding a hand over his. It’s clammy and cold. You feel him start to pull away before stopping.

“I think it’s what happened… before,” he finally answers with a thick swallow, looking away. “No one needs to hear that shit.”

You squeeze his hand for encouragement. “Try me.”

To your surprise he does. After Dave recaps his nightmare as best he can, his hand still in yours, you begin to think that you let Mac off way too easily. Shoulda tortured him more before pulling the plug, you frown internally. Because holy shit, that man really put Dave through the ringer. 

“Thanks for — for listening, I think it helped,” Dave squeezes your hand and looks at you with a surprisingly soft expression. Soft Dave, you never thought you’d see the day.

“Of course, Killer,” you squeeze his hand back before offering to get him some water. He accepts and hesitates as if he wanted to ask you something else. You stand but linger by his bedside giving him a moment.

“Will you — will you stay? Just for a bit, until I fall asleep?” 

After you get him some water, you stay — your hand in his — until he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

He decides he likes Sunny, not just because she’s pretty, but because she keeps him on his toes with her quick wit and dark sense of humor — to match his own he learns — that makes the days go by faster. Just another thing he learns about himself that just brings more questions than answers.

He can’t help smiling as she checks in with him for the day, wanting to know if he needs anything. “Brought you a present,” she smiles at him so brightly it leaves his brain stuttering to respond. “Your room is so boring, figured you could use a plant.”

She places it by the window before turning with a look to see if he approves. He does. He doesn’t know why but the little green thing feels familiar, a comfort like home. He scratches at the irritating scruff on his cheek before finding his words to thank her. 

“I have some extra time today, do you need a shave?” she asks, like she can read his mind. “Looks itchy.”

“Yes. Please.” The look of relief on his face must be palpable because she immediately leaves to grab a razor and shaving cream. 

The thought that she could read him so well, as if his mind is an open book screams to the front of his mind. His stomach twists at the thought. A creeping suspicion fills him as she approaches with the razor. What if she actually knows who he is, but he just doesn’t remember her? It would explain the inexplicable familiarity that came whenever she visited his room. What if the sunny personality is all an act and she’s actually a cold blooded killer sent to finish him off? Perhaps he should be more suspicious of her. He’d only known her for a week and she is the only person he couldn’t get an accurate read on. 

His chest constricts at the recurring fear that someone had wanted him to hurt badly before trying to kill him. It really was only a miracle he survived. And now he was willingly allowing this stranger into his personal space with a sharp object. Could you kill someone with a disposable razor? Not ideal, he thinks, but possible.

“Everything okay?” she asks him as she sets up the side table with shaving accessories. 

He hesitates, conflicted with his most recent revelations as she moves closer to him.

“Look, if I was going to sever your jugular a disposable razor wouldn’t be my first choice,” she dramatically rolls her eyes at him before looking at him for consent to start.

He lets out a nervous giggle, a sound he’s pretty sure he’s never made in his entire life.

“Not my second, third, or fourth choice either, okay?” she continues. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m not the one with the nickname ‘Killer.’” 

She has a point. And she did just bring him a plant. And comfort him after one of his ridiculous nightmares the very first night she was here. If there was a moment when he was most vulnerable, that was her chance. He pushes away the feelings of suspicion and nods, allowing her to get started.

He couldn’t help leaning into her touch as she gently washes his face and smoothes on the shaving cream. The way the fading light from the window caught the flecks of colors in her eyes as she focused on the task at hand. He couldn’t help but think how cute she looks with her furrowed brows, all her attention on him. He decides the odds are low she was there to kill him considering how careful and gentle she is. He closes his good eye and allows himself to enjoy himself. Who knew getting a shave was such an intimate experience? He could feel himself relaxing under the warmth of her touch and the delicate scent of her citrus-y shampoo wafting across his nose at this close proximity. Something tugs on his mind at the scent, but she interrupts the thought.

“So what do you think, Killer?” she asks.

As he cracks open his eye, he realizes she’s holding up a small mirror. Time slows down at the same time his heart rate speeds up as he takes in his clean-shaven reflection. It’s like he suddenly remembered why he walked into a room after forgetting all this time.

His name is Dave. Dave motherfucking York.

When he says his name out loud, you let out an audible gasp you tried to cover as true surprise.

“This is huge! Dave, do you — do you remember anything else? Last Name?” You blurt out. 

His lips briefly purse before his face flickers just for a moment, his tell, before he shakes his head no. 

Liar. You immediately know he’s lying to you. He fucking remembers. You can see the cogs whirring in his brain, assembling all of the new information he unlocked when he looked at his reflection.You busy yourself tidying up the shaving accessories, watching him from the corner of your eye, hoping that he recognizes you.

It’s coming back to him, you can just tell from the way he’s holding himself up now, even just sitting in the chair, his posture is different. The lost expression is gone. The calculated, commanding presence of the Dave York you know is emerging right before your eyes. 

Dave York is remembering.

He startles you when he speaks to you again, low and almost menacing, “Don’t tell anyone else. I’m not… ready to share yet.” His expression flashes dark at you.

Ah yes, the patented Dave I’m-telling-you-not-asking-you York.

“Of— of course. Take all the time you need,” you respond.

The next time you glance at him, he has that expression on his face where he’s assessing someone, assessing you, deciding if they are a threat or not. Great, the last thing you need is Dave trying to off you before he remembers who the fuck you are. 

“I promise. I’m not going to say a word,” you try and reassure him. 

He offers a nod, a dismissal really, before turning to look out the window, back to whatever memories may be emerging from the abyss of his mind.

You’d think that Dave remembering would be a good thing, but unfortunately the feds figure out who he is at the same time. You’re on shift, loitering by the nurses’ station when you see two nearly identical government looking guys turn the corner into the wing of the facility just after dinner. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, you think. And they reek of federal agents. FBI, specifically. Shit.

Dave has been more withdrawn since remembering his name. Brooding by the window. Typical Dave. You keep up your act, checking on him and chatting with him, hoping really for any glimpse of recognition, but still none so far. You can tell he’s still assessing you, trying to decide if you really are just a peppy aide or dangerous foe waiting to strike.

You busy yourself nearby as the feds chat with Brian, eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Wait, that guy’s wanted for murder AND treason??” Brian exclaims. “But he’s so… docile.” You quietly snort to yourself at that word being used to describe Dave York.

“And a whole list of other things, but those are the big ‘uns,” one of the feds responds.

They continue to chat with Brian, trying to determine how much Dave remembers and what condition he’s in in order to transport him.

“Psych notes still say he doesn’t remember very much. But physically he’s actually almost ready for out-patient rehab,” Brian scans the electronic chart.

“Gotta put in the transfer ’n get him to our medical facility,” Tweedle Dee nods to Tweedle Dum. “We’re going to post someone on the floor to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“Well, as long as they’re discreet,” Brian warns. “Don’t want to disturb the other patients on the floor.”

“Roger that,” Tweedle Dum responds before pulling out his phone to make a call.

The agents nod at Brian before walking back down the hallway. You see them briefly stop outside of Dave’s room before continuing on their way. 

Well, it looks like you’re breaking Dave out of here whether he remembers you or not. This should be fun. Hopefully he doesn’t try to kill you in the process.

Dave senses something is off before he even sees the two feds walk by his room on the way to the nurses station. He knows they’re there for him. By their gait and posture, they don’t seem like they’re in a particular rush to storm his room, so he bides his time, even as he slips a scalpel up his sleeve. He can’t run. All he can manage is a quick walk with a limp. There’s no way he can run fast enough or long enough to evade two federal agents, even if they look like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Fuck, he thinks. He should have pushed harder in PT. 

He resumes sitting by the window, angling himself into a better position to attack if they decide to take him in today and waits. Hopefully, it won’t come to that. 

He holds his breath when the agents walk by his door again, pausing for just a moment. He makes sure to observe them so he’ll be able to identify them again if, when, they return. Fuck, he needs to come up with an escape plan. 

He lets out a sigh of relief as they walk away. What the fuck is he going to do? Where is he even going to go? He’s sure he doesn’t have much time, a day at most. Of everything that has returned to him, he still cannot remember any of the safe houses or stashes of money/fake IDs he’s sure he has… somewhere. 

Remembering has been… more bitter than sweet. His rough childhood and divorced parents both deceased, his own divorce from Carol, the stint in the military, black ops, the DIA, before going private. Then it all gets hazy. Were the dreams about Mac real? But how could they be if Mac was dead? Was Mac actually still alive? Remembering all of the heavy stuff was like grieving it all over again, all at once. It was fucking depressing.

As he shuffles to the bathroom to splash water on his face to help him think more clearly, he hears someone walk into his room. By the sound of the light stride, it’s the pretty aide that still talks to him even if he almost strangled her in his sleep. What if she’s making the move to kill him now, after all this time, because she saw the feds coming to take him away? As she rounds the corner, he moves out of instinct, pinning her against the wall with a forearm to her neck, scalpel out and ready. 

She lets out a squeak as he expects, before he cuts off her airway. What he doesn’t expect is her to roll her eyes at him as he presses a scalpel to her jugular.

You aren’t sure when Dave got a hold of a freaking scalpel, but it doesn’t surprise you in the least. Of course he found something sharp to play with.

“Why the fuck aren’t you scared?” he demands. “You got a death wish or something??” 

He eases his forearm off of your throat, but still holds you pinned against the wall. You inwardly sigh. In another time and place, this would just be foreplay, but right now the scalpel is still just a little too close to comfort. Probably shouldn’t push it with him, not too much anyway.

“That’s what you want to ask me, Yorkie?” you croak. You decide on no sudden movements though, in case it spooks his hand to twitch in the wrong direction.

He frowns at the pet name. Right, he never told you he remembered his last name. Oopsies. 

“You’d never hurt me,” you whisper. “At least, the Dave I remember wouldn’t. Not — not unless I liked it.”

Your eyes search his brown one, for anything, any recognition, but still none comes. Why are you tearing up? It’s not like he’s crushing your windpipe anymore. 

“How do I know you’re not the one trying to kill me?” he growls. Well, at least he sounds like the Dave you love. Love? Wait, what??

“Don’t you think if I wanted to kill you, I woulda done it the first night?” You roll your eyes again. You’re getting impatient now, if anything just to have the pointy blade removed from the vicinity of your neck. Maybe you could have done without the eye roll though.

His brows are still furrowed and you are so tempted to raise your hand and smooth the double crease away with your thumbs. You miss the way he’d melt under your touch, even if he’d never admit to liking it. He stares you down for a handful of breaths before you see the moment he makes a decision that reflects across his face. 

The moment he shifts the blade an inch away, you pounce, leveraging the blade away from him and reversing your positions. Shoving him up against the wall, you flinch when you hear his head smack the wall a little harder than you prefer, even if you know you’re not strong enough to hold him there very long. You press the dull side of the blade against his inner thigh, right at his femoral artery.

“This bring back any memories, Yorkie?”

He blinks hard a few times, as if he is surprised to find himself pinned against the wall by you. He glances down at where you have the scalpel pressed against his inner thigh before looking back up again and you brace yourself because you think he’s about to fight you off. Then you realize he’s looking at the plant you left on his window sill and then back at you, really looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

His eye widens as he softly inhaless, “Sunshine?”

The citrus bodywash, the plants, all the fucking plants, the too colorful scrubs. His Sunshine. Unlike all his other memories that came back gradually in waves, with you it was like a switch was flipped and he went from not knowing you to now remembering everything. He feels a surge of emotion — relief, excitement, desire — but the most prominent is trust. He has someone he can truly trust, who knows him, again. 

All it took was a scalpel to his femoral artery. Figures. How he met you is a core memory after all. 

He feels you lessen your hold on him, tucking the scalpel away, eyes wide as you pull away from him in disbelief. But he doesn’t want you to be further away from him, he wants to keep you close. And so he tugs you flush against him.

“Say my name again,” you ask, eyes still wide.

He brushes a thumb across your soft cheek and takes in your bright, discerning eyes. “My Sunshine.”

“You really remember,” you whisper, pressing your face into his chest for a deep inhale, before looking back up at him. “I missed you so much, Yorkie.”

He just looks at you, takes you in, tracing the outline of your lips before pressing his mouth to yours.

You and Dave don’t get much of a reunion, a single kiss, before you hear footsteps approaching. By the sound of the gait heavily favoring the right side, it’s your supervisor Nurse Brian. You immediately move, pretending to prop Dave up over one of your shoulders like you’re helping him to walk before Brian turns the corner.

“Everything okay here, Sunny?” Brian calls out as he approaches.

“Yep, all good. Just helping Killer here back from the bathroom. Looks like he… tweaked his knee pretty bad in PT,” you respond, trying to hide how breathless you are from one kiss. Dave gives you the most dubious expression before you elbow him in the side and give him a look that says just go with it okay?

Dave has never been a fan of improvisation like you, preferring his contingency plans having contingency plans, all neatly laid out in his cute little spreadsheets. Which… you can appreciate. You love a good spreadsheet, but sometimes flying by the seat of your pants is just so much more… fun and exciting. Maybe this is why the two of you make such a good team, a bit of intense control and structure and, well, a lot of whatever it is you feel like doing in the moment.

You can tell the moment Dave decides to play along when he drops a chunk of his weight on you and you nearly stumble trying to keep the both of you upright. You keep up a rambling monologue at Brian as you settle Dave back into his bed while Brian shuffles awkwardly around the room, obviously trying to herd you out of the room. Your spidey senses tingle — something is about to happen. Before you leave the room, you surreptitiously slip the scalpel back to Dave and give him the most reassuring look you can manage. 

Just outside Dave’s room Brian finally spills the news that the feds got approval to transfer him later tonight. Perfect, you think. Just enough time for a bit more improvisation to break Dave out of this place. And get you out of here too. If you have to give another sponge bath or assist with another bowel evacuation you might start killing people.

“Turns out Killer is actually a killer,” Brian whispers, shaking his head. “I’ll be damned. Just make sure you don’t go into his room by yourself anymore.”

Boy, do you have news for your supervisor. 

During your next break, you comb the facility looking for something to create a distraction. A big one. As you pass by the PT room, the small row of treadmills call to you and a burst of inspiration hits you. Yorkie will be so pleased. He hates running.

The fire is a lot bigger than you expected. Apparently all the foam roller things in the PT room are also highly, highly flammable. Piled together by the treadmills you rigged to spark, you didn’t expect it to make quite the towering inferno it did. But you know what? Mission accomplished. 

In the chaos of the fire alarm and subsequent evacuation, you sneak Dave off in a wheelchair (and the plant you brought him, gotta save the little guy too!) and into a car you had borrowed before you started your very brief career in healthcare. Parked in an alleyway cleared of cameras, you almost giggle at the getaway going so well. The only person you had to kill was the fed left to watch Dave’s floor. Yorkie, on the other hand, is still tense with apprehension apparently.

“We’re not clear yet,” he growls as you flip on the radio and peel out of the alleyway.  

“Don’t make me tranq you,” you threaten with a smile. “Raining on my brilliant plan.”

He grumbles something unintelligible while pinching the bridge of his nose, but keeps quiet as he looks out the window as Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car comes on over the radio. As the miles roll by, it occurs to you that it’s the first time he’s been outside of a hospital or facility in almost a year and the uncertainty of the future, now on the run, sobers you up a bit for the rest of the drive. 

It takes a subway, a bus, and a boat, and another borrowed car, before you make it back to your place. You didn’t want to give the feds a chance at tracking either of you, so you took the extra long, long way home. You’re both quiet most of the journey, only communicating when necessary when switching modes of transportation. 

The only time he asks you anything is when it starts to rain, water streaming along the wide windows of the bus. He whole body jerks when he remembers something he wanted to ask you, “Mac. Was he the one who… Is he — is he alive? Or dead?” You can hear the absolute terror in his whispered confusion.

You slide a hand over his to calm him, “He was alive. He didn’t die all those years ago.” You can feel his entire body tense even more. “He’s gone now though, Yorkie. Can’t come after you anymore.”

He stares at you, stiff as a corpse.

“I took care of him for you, baby.” You pat his hand, willing him to take a breath and relax. 

He continues to look at you, wanting an explanation, but you’re not about to confess to murder and torture on a bus, even if it is mostly empty. 

“Later, Yorkie,” you murmur as you snuggle up next to him, hoping he will finally relax. There’s still a way to go before you both get home.

He crashes immediately after getting to your place. You can tell he’s overexerted himself and is likely in more pain than he’s letting on. Still too wired from being on high alert and making sure Dave was okay on the long trek home, you curl up in an armchair by the bed and just watch him sleep. Perhaps you’re afraid if you take your eyes off of him for a moment, he’ll vanish again. 

There’s a warm shaft of light emanating from the bathroom, casting soft shadows around the room, highlighting the outline of his form, those broad fucking shoulders and soft brown hair. He’s so still you’d rush to check for a pulse save for the slow steady rise and fall of his chest.  

Even with all the progress he’d made in physical therapy, he still has a ways to go. You push aside the concern and anxieties of tomorrow to appreciate that he’s warm and safe in your bed right now. Your eyes trace his face, those plush lips you’ve only gotten to kiss once since he remembered you. Following the arch of that nose you love to the two deep furrows between his brows. How does someone look so grumpy even in their sleep? It delights you.

When you can’t take the distance, however short, from Dave, you slide into bed as slowly as you can. He’s usually such a light sleeper, but he doesn’t move an inch. You gently smooth a thumb between his brows until you feel him melt. You close your eyes and allow his steady breathing to lull you to sleep.

“You’re going to cook? Breakfast?” you almost fall out of bed as you try and untangle yourself from the sheets, still half asleep. Who is this man and what has he done with Dave York?

He grumbles something before raising his voice, “I miss real eggs. That place only ever made the powdered shit.”

You shrug and gesture at him to knock himself out, while you busy yourself with making coffee. Coffee always first. Then food. This is the correct order of things. As you hear the fridge door swing open, you feel Dave freeze, standing stock still while letting all the cold air out. Ugh, Dave.

“Sunshine…” he seems to be at a loss for words. “Why the fuck do you have an eyeball in your fridge?”

“Oh, I forgot!” you exclaim. “It’s your welcome home present, Yorkie.” 

His head pokes out from behind the door and he frowns, “You know it can’t replace the eye I lost right?” 

“Oh, I know. It’s what’s left of Mac,” you explain as you slide by him to grab the oatmilk for your coffee. The eyeball stares down at you, suspended in formalin, from its clear jar on the top fridge shelf. “Eye for an eye right?” 

He just looks at you and then at the jarred eyeball in the fridge, and then back at you, speechless.

“Well, except he’s dead and you’re not.” You smile and shrug as you finish stirring the milk into your coffee and take the first blessed sip, extra pleased with yourself. “You’re welcome, Yorkie.”

“Fuck baby, sometimes you scare me you know that?” 

You just smile at him, looking so at home in your colorful kitchen with his tousled hair and grumpy expression before you go to sit on one of the kitchen island stools. “I think that’s exactly why you love me.”

He rounds the island counter and cages you in with his arms. You take in his handsome face, so handsome it’s sometimes hard to breathe, as he just takes you in. He finally rumbles, “Yeah, I guess that’s why I do.” 

“Yeah?” you look at the floor at the admission, swiveling back and forth on the stool, not quite ready to look at him again.

He tilts your chin up with one hand, “You really take care of Mac for me? All by yourself?”

You consider reminding him that you offered to help in the first place, but somehow an I told you so felt like it would ruin the moment. You just bite your lower lip instead.

“Mmh hmm.”

“Why, baby? I — I almost died,” he presses. “He coulda killed you! You didn’t know then if I was even going to make it or not.”

You frown at this. Did he not understand?

“And I’m still so — so broken. Never going to fully recover and be who I was. Not worth anything to anyone anymore.”

He definitely does not understand. And you haven’t had enough coffee for this conversation. You quell the urge to roll your eyes as you grasp the front of his shirt and pull his face down level with yours.

“Yorkie, that’s exactly why I killed him.” Your words are firm even if you feel yourself shaking at what you’re about to admit. “He doesn’t get to try to kill the person I love and get away with it.”

His eyebrows shoot up at your disclosure, that pesky L-word. Should it really be a surprise at this point though? After everything? Even if it terrifies you to admit out loud. You did all of this because you love him. Your Dave.

“After I — I saw you in the hospital, everything Mac did, there wasn’t another option,” you murmur. “You mean everything to me, Yorkie.”

Dave forgets about the stupid eggs as he drags you back to bed and reminds you exactly why you love his nose so much. Fuck, you missed this. 

You suppose from one assassin to another, there’s no declaration of love like getting all murder-y and revenge-y for them. It might as well have been a proposal of marriage. Even with so much uncertainty about your futures and how much rehab Dave still has to go, you figure as long as he doesn’t start trying to back seat assassinate, you’ll both be fine. You’ll take care of your Yorkie until he can be Murdah Daddy again.

[firsttarotreader]

Dave York - The Moon

The seventh character of our series “Pedro’s Characters as Tarot Cards” is Dave York. Dave’s card is “The Moon”.

The Moon is about uncertainty, confusion, deceit, hidden truths and things not being what they look like. It represents illusions and secrets. You know when Alice from Alice in Wonderland sees “the moon” and she thinks that is really the moon, but in reality it’s the Cheshire Cat’s smile? She is fooled by the illusion he created for her. This card’s energy is of mystery, misunderstandings and clouded judgement. It’s important to listen to your intuition to find the truth, to understand what is truly going on, to go beyond the surface.

Dave York is our Moon character because he is the Cheshire Cat’s smile fooling McCall. He poses as the former friend and work partner, the family man, the noble man of the law. He pretends to be investigating the murder he committed himself, when he had already fooled Susan and hidden his real intentions from her until the very last second. Under the surface, he was a ruthless murderer, who had a group of friends working with him as hitmen for hire. In front of McCall and his own family, he worked for the government, he was a good father, husband and friend, charming and loyal. His motivations, his true feelings and thoughts were hidden, he kept them as secrets, and McCall had to figure it all out during the movie, using his own investigation methods and, of course, his intuition that something wasn’t right. Dave was not what he looked like at first sight.

Next up, Javi Gutierrez!

[laurfilijames]

"I'm getting too old for this shit. Seriously, I could use a beer and a lie-down."

[sdpubliclibrary]

Home Alone

[nerdieforpedro]

There ain’t no getting off this train we’re on @daddy-dins-girl 🖤🖤🖤 Murder Daddy buddies for life. A hill we die on 😤 @iamasaddie You with us?

[murdrdocs]

MURDRTOBR !

thirty one nights of classic, horny, fun.

requests: closed + note from celeste

𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 FORMIDABLE COOL. ETHAN LANDRY OCT 01

an exclusive with the infamous ghostface killer from the recent 6th installment

manipulation, p in v, choking/breath play, mean!ethan, ghostface!ethan

other articles include ...

INTERVIEW 001 - ,, mean!hobie brown + degradation. OCT 03

INTERVIEW 002 - ,, sub!stiles stilinski + thigh riding. OCT 05

INTERVIEW 003 - ,, ethan landry + period sex. OCT 07

𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 SAW YOUR END. VOID STILES STILINSKI OCT 11

in a shocking interview, you reveal your attraction towards the nogitsune, despite all of the havoc he has inflicted on your loved ones. including the owner of the body he possesses.

fem!reader, void stiles, slight dubcon, manipulation, impact play, forced impregnation, snowballing, choking

other articles include ...

INTERVIEW 004 - ,, theo raeken + manipulation OCT 8

INTERVIEW 005 - ,, mean!rafe cameron + degradation OCT 10

INTERVIEW 006 - ,, officer! miguel o'hara + playing dangerous OCT 12

𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 YOUR HAZE. VOID STILES STILINSKI OCT 17

this week we sit down with you and are blessed with the revelation that stiles stilinski really likes your fangs and craving for human blood.

vampire!fem!reader, void stiles, heavy manipulation, oral sex (f receiving)

other articles include ...

INTERVIEW 007 - ,, ethan landry + suffocation + oral OCT 15

INTERVIEW 008 - ,, eddie munson + non con voyeurism OCT 16

INTERVIEW 009 - ,, rafe cameron/sarah cameron + stepcest OCT 18

INTERVIEW 010 - ,, ghostface! jj maybank/rafe cameron + dubcon OCT 21

𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 BUT YOU'RE NOT MINE. MIGUEL O'HARA OCT 25

in this tell all, miguel o’hara details the time he got with you. well not you you, but the you in another universe. the faces are the same, so he wonders: what else is the same?

fem!reader, dubcon + cnc, size kink, dacryphilia, oral sex (f receiving), p n v

INTERVIEW 011 - ,, robin buckley + voice kink OCT 24

INTERVIEW 012 - ,, theo raeken/stiles stilinski + voyeurism OCT 26

INTERVIEW 013 - ,, finnick odair + filming OCT 28

INTERVIEW 014 - ,, mike schmidt + filming OCT 29

INTERVIEW 015 - ,, stepsis!hazel callahan + filming + blackmail OCT 30

INTERVIEW 016 - ,, hazel callahan + corruption OCT 31

rules.

respect the authors wishes; do not request any kinks not on the list; if unsure about anything, contact me! most if not all works are dark content. minors pls dni !

characters.

Chad Meeks Martin, Charlie Walker, Corey Cunningham, Dave Lizewski, Eddie Munson, Ethan Landry, Finnick Odair, Hobie Brown, Hazel Callahan, Harry James Potter, Jackson Whittemore, Jake Seresin/Hangman, Jake Sully, JJ Maybank, Miguel O’Hara, Mike Schmidt, Namor, Peter B. Parker, Peter Parker (all), Peter Quill, Quinn Bailey, Rafe Cameron, Robin Buckley, Rodrick Heffley, Sam Carpenter, Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski, Steve Harrington, Steven Grant, Tara Carpenter, Theo Raeken

kinks.

Age gap/age difference, Blood Play, Bukkake, Car sex, Cock ring, Cuckold, Double Penetration, Exhibitionism, Femdom, Filming, Groupsex/Gangbang, Hate Fucking, Heat, Knife play/danger kink, Mommy kink, Monster fucking (vampires, werewolves, incubus/succubus), Mutual Masturbation, Pegging, Piss/Bladder control, Public sex, Sex Pollen, Size difference, Somnophilia, Stepcest, Voyeurism

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[jeewrites]

It’s a trap! Don’t do it Dave! 😆

[wardenparker]

Woo hoo! big congrats on the 2.5k. now onto the prompt: I think a Dave York and "I'll protect you" combo could be interesting

Dave York. 1,269 words. "I'll protect you." Co-written with @absurdthirst

Wounded Dave, description of wounds, cursing, character holding a gun. Takes place directly after the events of Equalizer 2.

The address for the farm where you live is pretty straightforward. He’s had it since the day you closed on the property nearly ten years ago. Never needed it until now, but he’s glad that he had kept. Moving is slow, unable to be as stealthy as he once was with the nerve damage and loss of vision in one eye. It takes him nearly three days of watching the small clearing with several buildings before he decides to creep into the house when you are away.

Grocery shopping is only a small project, but you do it once a week at the break of dawn on Sunday morning when most of the devout town in the valley below your little farm is either at church or having a family meal. Most people don't bother with you after so long. You have your little farm and you're mostly self-sustaining at this point. There is fishing and hunting in the area so no one notices when a few extra fish or one more deer go missing every once in a while, and you only need to venture into the local grocery store for a ten minute trip of things you simply can't buy or make yourself.

Or sometimes, like today, you just need a little treat. A bag of chocolate chips and some bananas make their way back to the farm with you in what is probably your most decadent purchase in a year.

Something is different when you get to the farmhouse, though, and even the simple act of walking through the front door has you on high alert. The house feels different. Smells different. And you glance down at the threshold to see mud caked in your entry way. Just a dab of it, but it's enough to have you carefully and silently dropping your groceries inside the doorway and filling your hands instead with the gun you carry every time you leave the house. It's small, concealed, but effective.

"You have to the count of three to get out of my fucking house," you call to whoever it is that has snuck in, in your absence.

He’s got to give it to you, you haven’t slipped. Your senses are just as sharp as they had been when you left the team. Purposefully making noise to alert you to the direction he’s coming from, Dave manages to shuffle forward enough to step into the doorway. “Might take me longer than three seconds, Slim.” He huffs, calling you by the nickname that you had begrudgingly adopted when you realized it wasn’t an insult. They had been talking about your slender fingers and how you could do some of the delicate work they couldn’t. He’s exhausted and ready to collapse, but he keeps his lone eye on the gun in your hand.

You recognize his voice faster than his face. It's been ten years since the last time you saw Dave York and he's in rough fucking shape. In fact, he is the smell that first alerted you to your house being compromised when you got home. He reeks like three days in a swamp. But it isn't until he comes around the corner that you understand why.

"Fuck, Dave." One look at the wreck he's become after whatever the fuck happened to him and you're slipping the gun back into its holster and rushing forward to keep him upright long enough that he can make it to an actual seat instead of collapsing on your floor. "What the hell happened to you?"

“Bad day.” Dave jokes weakly, barely managing to not lean all his weight against you as you guide him to a chair. His wounds are still bleeding, seeping through the bandages that he’s managed to wrap around them and to be honest, he’s got a fucking infection or ten. “McCall.”

“Ah, fuck.” For whatever it’s worth, you never liked McCall that much. Too self-righteous. Smug about being intelligent. Sanctimonious to the point of irritation. Parting ways with the team a decade ago had been a blessing. “Is he gonna come track you down while I’m cleaning you up, or do we have time to figure out how bad a shape you’re actually in?”

Dave grunts in pain after he tried to shake his head. “He— he thinks I’m dead.” He hisses. “I should be.”

"Stop trying to move, you dumbass." 'Affectionate heckling' is what you once called the name calling on the team and apparently you haven't lost that touch. Although it shouldn't surprise you – the other reason you left the team when Dave and some of the other guys were getting into mercenary work is because you've had feelings for Dave York so long that it feels like part of your DNA at this point. "Let me get my kit and a wash basin. We'll get you cleaned up and rebandaged and figure out how fucked you are. Okay?"

“Same old Slim.” Dave grunts, but it’s warm, softer than he would have talked to anyone else on the team. Not that he can talk to them anymore. They’re dead. He thinks about Carol and the kids and his stomach twists, knowing that he has to stay away now. He will be a danger to them if he shows up again. His entire world is gone and now he has to figure out what to do.

"Do I even want to know what happened?" The farmhouse isn't large, and once Dave is leaning against the counter you dart across the room to scoop up your groceries and get the few cold things put away before you head into the bathroom to retrieve your first aid kit and a basin of clean water.

“Shit went sideways.” He can always be honest with you; in a way he couldn’t be honest with the team or with Carol. You know his soul. Even as dark as it is. “We tried to clean it up and there was a casualty that was McCall’s friend.”

“The rest of the team on your heels?” If they are, you’ll need to prep. There aren’t enough places for four guys to sleep in this house, but you’ll make it work.

“Everyone’s dead.” Dave murmurs quietly. There was no way anyone else survived. Hell, the only reason he survived was because the water was freezing. Slowing down the bleed out and the storm washed his body away before McCall could do anything else.

"Fuck." That has you stopping in your tracks, whipping around on the spot to turn and look him in the eye. The one he has that is still working well. The wreckage of the powerful man you had fallen in love with so many years ago and pined for ever since makes your chest ache in a hollow and long-forgotten sort of way. Like your heart had forgotten how to beat, but even the sight of a bruised and beaten Dave York is enough to bring it back again.

"Don't worry," you murmur, reaching out to put your hand over his. "We can keep you hidden up here as long as we need to." It's no small feat, but you have and would do far less for this man. "I'll protect you. I promise."

Closing his eyes, Dave relaxes, knowing you will keep your word. He’s always known you’ve had his back, even when you left the team. You left because of him, because of Carol, and not for the first time he wishes he had followed you. “I know, Slim.” He murmurs softly. “You’re the only one I trust. Always have been.”

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer @shakespeareanwannabe

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[for-a-longlongtime]

The One Thing I Need To See In Gladiator II

(it's not what you think)

I absolutely 100% need Pedro's character to kill Denzel Washington's character.

(gif above and below by @perotovar)

No, I don't even care about specifics.

WE NEED JUSTICE FOR DAVE YORK.

As @theywhowriteandknowthings once said about/from the POV of Robert McCall (Denzel's character):

and @wyn-n-tonic was spot on, too:

They truly did Dave dirty, and I just feel like this needs to be set right in Gladiator II. Perfect opportunity.

(gifs by @pajamasecrets)

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

[pedropascalsx]

Gif by me.

Kinktober: Day Eight: Sex Pollen/Fuck or Die.

Dave York x F! Reader.

Warnings: Dub-con due to sex pollen.

Summary: You inhale a mystery powder on a job.

Word count: 1489

Thanks again to @absurdthirst for her incredible prompt list 🩵

The building is eerily quiet, the supposed party that’s happening on the second floor is either a blow out or you’ve been given the wrong day. Still your feet climb the stairs and you make your way towards the banquet hall with your boss on your heels.

He says nothing and it makes you feel more uneasy, and the expression etched on his face doesn’t help. He’s pissed. This is clearly a setup or a waste of time, but neither of you can leave until you check to see if your target is on site.

As you approach the door, Dave steps in front of you, signalling for you to unstrap the pistol attached to your upper thigh. His fingers fan out around the doorknob and he twists it open revealing an empty room and you both sigh.

He slams the door behind you both as you step into the room and you notice the envelope with his name taped to the wall. “Dave,” you call out, before signalling to the envelope.

“Open it,” he snarls, “It’ll be McCall. Taunting me. Letting me know he’s always one step ahead.”

You nod before taking a few steps towards the wall and pull it off, opening it immediately and falling into a fit of coughs as a plume of powder breaks free from the envelope hitting you in the face.

“Fuck,” you splutter, before throwing down the envelope and attempting to cough up the powder you’ve already inhaled, not noticing him run up behind you, and pick up the envelope himself.

“At least one of us had the sense to put on gloves,” you say, as you notice him examining the white powder and trying to ignore the fire starting to burn in your veins.

“It’s potent,” you murmur, as it starts to intensify, “Fuck, it’s hot in here.”

“No, it’s not,” Dave says matter of factly, with a snarl and a flash of his teeth. “We need to get back and find out whatever the fuck this is.” He reaches out and grabs your arm, leading you back towards the door and hurrying you downstairs and out the building.

By the time you reach his car, your whole body is burning, your limbs are tingly and you’re soaked in between your legs. “Fuck, Dave,” you murmur, as an uncomfortable need starts to rip through you, an arousal so strong that it’s painful.

“This wasn’t McCall,” he growls, “This isn’t his style.” The engine roars to life and Dave seems unaware of your predicament, “Whatever you’ve inhaled Ari will be able to identify it and we can reverse it or sit with you as you ride it out.”

You writhe uncomfortably in your seat, squeezing your thighs together desperately to get a little bit of friction and some relief from the fire that’s burning there. “Dave,” you whimper, as he speeds towards the safe house, “It fucking hurts.”

“Where does it hurt?” He asks, still focusing on the road.

“Ev-everywhere, but uh, fuck,” you moan, cutting yourself off with a cry as he rounds the street corner and pulls up to the safe house.

“Come on,” he orders, as he swings open his car door and starts running up the stairs towards the house. You groan loudly before stepping out and following him, almost keeling over as you reach the front door and the burning in your stomach becomes too much to bear.

“How much did she inhale?” Ari asks, as you finally step into the house, arms clutching your stomach.

“Not much,” you answer for Dave, “But it was like a cloud of smoke, I moved away before I could take a big inhale.

“Go to your room,” Dave orders, as you become more and more unsteady. “We will let you know what it is.”

**

Peeling off your dress you cringe at the amount of slick that has dripped down your legs, your panties soaked with your arousal as it continues to burn in your veins. “What was that shit?” You murmur to yourself, before throwing yourself on the bed and slipping your fingers between your legs to start to work away some of your need.

The relief is almost immediate, your bundle of nerves crying out with pleasure the second you press your fingers to it. You close your eyes and let yourself fantasize about Dave, as you find yourself doing most nights, and in no time you’re biting your lip to stop yourself crying out loudly in pleasure.

For a few moments you relish in your orgasm, letting yourself come down and exhaling as the burning seemingly dies out. But after just a few seconds the fire is back, and more intense than before, ripping through you like wildfire and sending your pleasure receptors into overdrive. You slip your fingers back between your legs and rub your clit as fast as you can, desperately working your bud to quench the thirst you feel like you’re dying of.

**

“It’s a type of pollen,” Ari tells Dave, “It’s used primarily in sex clubs where they have people to monitor its users, because it can kill you. The trick is to not engage with it,” he says with a shrug, “It wears off pretty quickly as long as you don’t get your heart rate pumping, but if you do, it can last for hours.”

“Shit,” Dave cusses, “It makes people… aroused?” He asks, with a rise of his brows. “I guess I'll let her know.”

“Yeah,” Ari murmurs, “Whoever left that for you to find, figured you’d be alone and wouldn’t be able to fight off the effects by yourself.”

Dave nods, and makes his way to the door, hurrying out and towards your bedroom and pushing open the door without knocking.

**

“Fuck.” He grunts, as he catches you rocking against your hand, tears dripping down your face as you try to work yourself through it.

“It won’t stop,” you cry to your boss, “Whatever it is, it won’t stop.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he says, surprisingly softer than you’re expecting, before walking towards you. Your fingers are still working their magic as he does, “You’re going to rub yourself raw.” He tuts, “It’s sex pollen. I’ll explain later, but you’re not going to be able to fight in by yourself.”

You whimper as he gently touches your legs and asks, “Can I help?”

Silently you nod your head ferociously as he drops to his knees, wrapping his hands around the backs of your legs and pulling you closer to him.

The first swipe of his tongue feels like heaven, he’s meticulous with every motion he makes as he focuses on your clit. After a few dozen flicks of his tongue, he pushes his fingers inside your dripping hole, fitting two with ease and curling them up against the spongy spot.

It doesn’t take long until you’re cumming on his face, rocking your hips up and tangling your fingers in his slightly overgrown hair before your thighs squeeze around his head.

He pulls his head away, as he studies your face for more pain, and it doesn’t take long before it’s flashing up again. “Need you.” You murmur, “Please, Dave.”

“My fingers or my tongue?” He asks, as he dips his head back down, licking a wide stripe from your clit and all the way down.

“Your cock,” you whine desperately, and he chuckles from between your legs.

“You sure?” He asks, before pushing himself back up.

“Yes,” you almost scream, watching as he works his belt and pulls down his pants and underwear in one clear sweep. “Please.”

“Whatever you need, baby girl,” he smirks, before pushing himself into you with a sharp snap of his hips.

He’s thick enough that it hurts, it’s overwhelming and exactly what you’re needing, and he fucks exactly how you imagined. Hard and fast. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as he pounds into you, fucking you into the mattress and drowning out the pain coursing through you and replacing it with pleasure. He wets his tongue and presses down on your clit, rubbing the softest circles as his hips continue their deliciously harsh treatment on your cunt.

With a scream of his name, you clamp down on him so tightly that his hips stutter and a cry of your name slips out of his mouth. Your cum drenching his cock as he works you through your high and with a dozen more thrusts he’s painting your walls and extinguishing a little more of the fire inside of you.

He grunts as he pulls out of you, dropping back down to his knees to see his cum dripping from you, before pushing it back in. “I’ll give you my tongue and my fingers again, and then I'll be ready to go again, baby,” he soothes as he can tell it’s starting to flare up again. “As many times as you need.”

[ladamedusoif]

How are people still resisting the Pit?

Pedro Pascal in the Equalizer 2

[creedslove]

Proving Dave York's marriage wasn't going that great - Equalizer 2

First of all, I'd like to remind you all besties that I'm a Dave York apologist and I will forever defend this man no matter how many atrocities he's done (and were those really atrocities? Debatable) and I have also villainized Carol and I have zero regrets about it, so let's go:

• Exhibit A: The trip to Belgium

Susan and Dave are in a virtual meeting talking about the recent case, she knows shes gonna have to travel all the way to Belgium to investigate and invites Dave, who immediately goes like "and leaving this shitty office?"

But, what if the office isn't really his main problem? What if Dave was also looking forward to leaving the house for a little while? A trip to another country seems refreshing and also the belgium chocolate? Dave's excited... And as a husband and a father of two not once he thinks of bringing his family some chocolate? It's a sign of a stressed man who needs some time on his own

• Exhibit B: the hotel hall

Dave and Susan are going over the evidence they found in the crime scene, gathering hypothesis on what could've happened and Dave says there's no records of the victim cheating on his wife with anyone, not even flirty texts and Susan is like "come on, Dave women fuck around too"

And that's Dave's reaction:

He's like: well....

(also, sorry for the horrible quality of the pic but you besties get the point and also his tummy 🤤)

And then Susan asks him when was the last time Dave sent his wife flowers and all Dave says is: "noted, noted"

So that indicates it has been a long time since Dave has sent her flowers... So the romance is dead, and if the romance is dead so is their sexual life. Was Dave thinking about the possibility of Carol herself fucking around? And let's face it, she probably is

• Exhibit C: the kitchen scene

Commonly used to prove the point that no matter if Dave's an assassin, he's also a good father, the kitchen scene reveals more about his marriage than anything else; we see Dave's got a huge, beautiful house, and then we go to the kitchen. It's spacious, nice, and modern... And messy. One of the kids is whining about grapes and going to the dentist and the other one is doing the homework and Dave and Carol? Absolutely no sign of a loving couple, no pecking on the lips, exchanging glances, a little flirting... Nothing. They are just ignoring each other, Dave's got his cup of coffee and hand and checking his phone as if he's alone.

Then when Carol goes to answer the door, he's giving his youngest daughter attention, he is a good dad, but it isn't a heartwarming interaction between them, and above all, he seems bored, like yeah the kids are cute but he's got more important things to do

And then, when Carol takes a while to come back with McCall, Dave calls her by her name twice, of course he raised his voice because she was in another room and he wanted her to hear him, but it always seemed just so dry and harsh to me and I couldn't exactly figure why it was like that, until I finally got it:

no pet names at all

Seriously?! No darling, honey, baby, sweetheart?! Just a simple dry "CAROL" a couple of times and that's it? It smells like a marriage crisis to me...

• Exhibit D: the driveway scene

The scene where McCall runs into his old team and promises to kill them all; there's enough tension as it is, they all know McCall means business and he is low-key threatening Dave's family by pretending he's so nice and friendly and wanting to get a ride

(I just need to address how dumb and careless is to allow McCall, a man she's never seen in her life get a ride with her and get so cozy around her kids, I mean yeah, he's her husband's army buddy but he's also an old man who also happens to be a complete stranger and he suddenly wants to be around her and her kids, I mean, fuck off)

And Dave knows it's likely one of the last times he's gonna see his family... And what does he do? Does he hug them? Give Carol a peck on the lips? He does NOTHING!!!

So you know what it means? Carol wasn't worthy of her husband, they didn't love each other anymore and Dave would be way better off with me instead 😉🤪

[bonezone44]

The Hollow, prologue (18+)

Dave York x afab!Reader

tags for the upcoming story: stalking, manipulation, panic attacks, anti-american military sentiments, pacifism vs. violence debates, the "assassin life", control issues, smut.

Reader Immersivity: No skin tone or hair is mentioned. Reader is able-bodied, can sit in Dave's lap, and has a big butt. Reader is recovering from narcissistic abuse.

A/N: Due to the current political climate, I thought 'why the hell not?' and decided to get this first little bit published.

-masterlist- -story masterlist-

+++++

“One day, you’re an asset. The next, you’re a fucking afterthought.”

Dave used to love his time in the Marines. It was birthed from naivety and camaraderie. Driven by hormones and hopeful ideals about what the troops were doing to rescue the world from self-annihilation. As if the United States was the father of the globe and all the other countries were his children. And the American armed forces were his right hand–beating the ungrateful ignorants into reverent compliance.

Dave had been honored to follow in the footsteps of the star-spangled patriarchy. He had been taught that war and discipline were his duties as an American and as a man. That all those who could, absolutely should. And the country’s naysayers and protestors were a nagging thorn in his side. ‘How can they be so ungrateful?’ He had wondered. ‘How can they spit in our faces when we’re out there sacrificing our lives so that they can live in peace?’

Even then, Dave knew his years in the Marines were temporary–he knew it was only a stepping stone towards something greater for himself. He climbed the ranks quickly and it wasn’t long before he was recruited for more specialized operations. 

Dave had eventually found a home in the Defense Clandestine Service. He had found purpose. He had found a family alongside his partner, Robert, and his teammates, Kovak, Ari, and Resnik. Their missions were dauntless and dangerous–and just as crucial to achieve. Every success gave Dave an invincible, god-like high and every failure, though rare, had his mind and body plummeting into anguish and disrepair. (High risk, high results and all that.) McCall had been there for all the good days and all the bad weeks and months. He had been a guiding hand for Dave. A trusted companion. A friend.

McCall's death had cleaved a cavern inside of Dave’s chest–something hollow, tender, and exposed. And three months later, when his team was disbanded, he blamed himself and split in two. A schism dividing him into what he was before and what he would become. 

He wanted to start from scratch. He wanted to reset his existence back to day one and leave his mother’s birth canal with wiser, shrewder eyes.  But there was no ‘scratch’. There was no way to blank his slate. He had spent too much of his childhood idolizing soldiers. He had had too many experiences in the military to completely rewrite his path. And once he was able to find perspective on his choices, he realized that some of those naysayers and protestors had been right all along. The thorn in his side had been a seed and instead of plucking it out, he watered it and let it grow.

For better or worse, Dave had acquired a particular set of skills. And without nationalistic ideology coloring his point-of-view, he created a personal philosophy to ease the ambivalence he suffered. 

‘There is no sin. There is no virtue. There are only actions and consequences.’

Dave left the world of government and went private. He earned his license and began working as an investigator at a prominent law firm in New York City. His life had lost much of its intensity, but he was determined to adapt to a softer existence. He was determined to experience this so-called ‘peace’ he had spent the first third of his life fighting to preserve. And he was finding it, in bits and pieces over time. And the taste was euphoric enough to keep him wanting more. He was no longer working towards some hypothetical greater good. He was simply out for himself and whatever satisfaction he could find.

Then you decided to show up.

----

[baronessvonglitter]

if love be rough with you, be rough with love | chapter 13 | "the best worst day of your life"

Dave York x f!Reader

Word count: 4,211

Summary: a little more backstory on the reader's complicated history with her father, and some slice of life moments you and Dave have to be quiet about. Oh, and there's a sex tape involved.

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, use of weapons (gun range), fingering, restroom sex, unprotected piv, rough sex, slut shaming, oral (m & f receiving), facial, come eating, fluff(!), Dave is bad with feelings (ofc), TW for unaliving of a family member and themes of grief, Dave gets a lil bit stern with the wifey, reader wears lingerie and has hair long enough to pull, light bondage (reader has slight marks but otherwise unharmed), filming a sex act, there's a lot so if I've missed anything please let me know!

Author's Note: honestly I wrote this while in captivity (staying with family in the aftermath of the hurricane) and so it's quite meaty 😏 Guns freak me out, so knowing very little on the subject I did the most basic research on the handling of them so mistakes are likely. ALSO there is a brief mention of Robert McCall, though not by name, so it can be assumed that this takes place in a separate universe where the events of the film happen differently or not at all.

Series Masterlist

"Dominant hand on the grip, index finger on the trigger. But not yet," Dave adds, gently placing your index finger to the side as he helps you position the gun within your hands. "Support hand underneath," he says, placing your non-dominant hand where it should go. "This is how you keep control of the gun," he explains. "Keep your arms out straight, no bending. It makes it easier to hit your target."

It's exciting, you have to admit, holding a weapon in your hand. And with Dave behind you, his breath ghosting your ear as he gives you directions, it's sexy.

"When am I ever going to need to use this?" you ask, looking up at him through your protective goggles, batting your lashes at him.

"Sweetpea, you never know who the bad guys are," he murmurs, his hands stroking your sides. "Now get into position, feet shoulder-width apart."

You do as he says, keeping your arms straight, hands in position around your gun, finger inching towards the trigger.

"A couple deep breaths, in and out," he whispers into your ear. Damn, he loves the way you look like this, and as much as he wants to grab your ass, or plunge his hand deep into the front of your jeans to cup your drooling pussy, he knows it's safer not to do them while you have a gun in your hand.

"Hold your breath while you aim and shoot, and exhale after you take the shot. When you're ready, pull the trigger slowly." He dares a quick kiss to your cheek before setting your headphones back in place and his as well. He stands behind you at a small distance to let you do this on your own.

Deep breath in, out. Arms straight. Another breath in.. you aim, and your finger gently squeezes the trigger, and a shocking thrill goes through you as the gun fires. You exhale, inhale, and fire again at the white target outlined in black. You repeat until you've emptied the magazine and the paper target zips towards you on a string. There are bullet holes in the right shoulder, two in the chest, two completely off the mark, and one right through the head.

"Whoa, nice headshot," Dave says admiringly as you both remove your headphones.

You blush and beam with pride. "Really?"

"I thought you hadn't done this before," he casts a teasing glance at you, lips curled up in a smirk.

"I haven't!" you giggle. "God, it felt so good! I felt so powerful, so.."

Dave finds your enthusiasm endearing, and his cock twitches at how hot you looked shooting the target, the tautness of your limbs and the look of determination on your features. What he wants more than anything is to make you his, right here and now. He cups your face and kisses you, for the first time not caring if anyone around sees. Then he curls a finger through the belt loop of your jeans and leads you around the corner. "Not the most romantic place, but I can't wait," he says as he brings you inside and locks the door.

"I'm okay with the lack of romance," you giggle before he captures your lips in a savage kiss. "I bet you never brought your wife to a public restroom for a dirty quickie," you end on a gasp as his hand goes into the front of your pants, roughly shoving his fingers inside you, grinning when he finds you already drenched, fitting snugly around him, as he walks you to the sink, facing you forward as he towers behind you, pulling your jeans and panties down together, then his.

"No, she hasn't," he whispers in your ear. "She's not a cock-hungry little slut like you. Now bend that pretty ass over, sweetpea." He gives your ass a good smack as you do so, kneading your cheeks with his hands. There's no buildup, no foreplay, no taking his sweet time. He wants what he wants and right now that's you, your tight hole swallowing his cock, devouring it as he slams into you, hands on your shoulders as you flounder for purchase, ultimately resting your hands on the sides of the sink.

The unmistakable sounds of your flesh slapping with each thrust fills the air, resounds in the tiny, tiled room. Your strangled cries rise to his ears. You're trying to be quiet but he knows you can't last long without screaming his name, screaming obscenities. "Christ, are you coming already, sweetpea?" he teases, feeling the tense pulsing of your pussy around him, signaling your impending climax. "You're too easy. All I have to do is stick it in and you go crazy, huh?"

"Dave," you moan, shivering as you come undone around him, your cunt milking him, but he keeps going, intent on driving you crazy as you go over the edge as many times as he can get you to. The man is like a machine.

"Fuck yourself on me, baby," he says, hands off yours hips as he lifts your shirt, exposing your pink lacy bra. He pulls the cups down, freeing your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers as you move your ass against him, indeed fucking yourself on him until you come again, a high-pitched squeal emanating from your sweet lips.

"There's my good little cumslut.. look how fucking wrecked she is.." he holds your face up to the mirror. "Tits hanging out, panties pulled all the way down, pussy stuffed with my fat cock.. she just wants to be used, wants my cum. That right, sweetpea? You want my cum?" He smirks as you nod. "Gotta earn it, baby. What are you gonna do to earn it, huh?"

"Anything you want," you gasp, trying to hold back, the feel of him filling you and stretching you. Even though you're sopping wet it's a sting as he crams into you. He likes it that way, and he knows you like it that way.

"Get on your knees for me, sweetpea. Come on, right here on the dirty ground for me."

You do just that, pulling your jeans up a little to give you some padding but Dave tsk tsks and tells you to keep them down, your bare knees on the cold hard restroom tile. You take his cock into your mouth, tasting your own juices on him, your pussy tightening around nothing as your mouth descends down his thick shaft, slowly, letting your teeth scrape against him.

He hisses but instead of pulling away he grabs your hair and pulls you forward. You gag, taking all of him in your mouth, your nose pressed against his neatly trimmed pubic hair. He keeps you there, watching your eyes water, until he pulls you back, a long string of thick saliva between your mouth and his dick. "Don't bite me ever again," he warns, his voice cool and even. "Just for that, I'm not going to let you swallow." He pulls you forward again but with less force. You open your mouth wide, receiving him again, forcing your gag reflex to ease off as you curl your lips over your teeth, bringing him in until you feel him at the back of your throat.

"So delicate," he murmurs. "Still so innocent, but you're growing into such a good little slut for me.. now look up at me, keep your eyes on me."

A knock at the restroom door. Dave tells them "Fuck off!" while his eyes never leave yours.

You suck him off, eyes on him, watching his head roll back as you lift his shaft to draw your tongue softly along his balls, one by one, and putting them in your mouth to suck before releasing them with a loud pop. Dave groans, his cock twitching. You hold out your tongue and he taps the head on it, thick and heavy. "Play with your tits, sweetpea. Play with yourself while I come on your pretty face."

You palm your breasts, gasping as you pluck at your nipples, hardened pebbles of nerve endings, and the other hand goes down to play with your pussy, slipping between your folds and gathering your cream, slipping it into your mouth. Dave groans again, taking hold of his cock and stroking it, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. "Christ, girl, you're such a fucking little tease. I'm gonna show you what bad little sluts like you get.." he strokes faster and you know he's on the brink. You jump a little when the first warm splash hits your cheek, then several more warm globs land on your nose, your lips, your forehead, almost the same places that Dave usually kisses you. He's sending you kisses of a different kind.

"Yeah.. yeah.." he moans, his movements slower as he finishes coming on your face, his dick deflating. You scoop up his cum from your face and lick it off while he watches with a darkened expression, helping you, feeding you his cum from right off your face. "That's your reward, sweetpea, for doing so well with your gun training today. And for handling my gun so well," he adds, a little smirk on his lips.

Later in the afternoon, jogging side by side at the park, you breathe in tandem with one another, keeping the same beat. You bet even your hearts are beating in unison. You look good in your new Lululemon's, and the minute you're alone again he's going to tear them off you, buy you some more to replace them only to ruin those too because he can't handle the way your ass bounces as you jog ahead of him. But right now you're just running. No headphones, no AirPods, no music save each other's breathing, the small grunts and sighs that leave your mouths, reminiscent of the sounds you make while fucking.

Taking a small break, you sit at a park bench, sipping cool water from your thermoses. There's a small pond, peaceful in the autumn breeze, and in the silence you share, your fingertips find each other on the seat of the bench.

"This was the best day," you tell him, a little smile on your lips, knowing he'll probably tease you for your sentimentality.

He leans back in his seat, a placid smile on his face. "It was nice, wasn't it?"

"What was your best day?" you ask, wishing you were at home so you could rest your head on his shoulder.

"Best days don't interest me," he says. "I like days that change your life."

"Oh." You smile, taking in the sound of that, thinking of your own. "What was a day that changed your life, Dave?" You assume there have to be plenty, given his life experiences, his age, his marriage, his children.

He appears to think it over, mentally flipping through the Rolodex in his mind containing things he would tell you and things he might never want to. "The day I lost a good friend," he says, his eyes taking on a faraway look, so different from the Dave you've come to know: cold and calculating or warm and friendly, depending on who has his attention.

"What happened?" you ask, your hand on his arm in a show of support, wanting to do more to make that smile return to his face, knowing if you weren't in public you'd get on your knees, stuff your ready and willing mouth with his cock and let him skull fuck the pain and sadness away.

Dave takes a deep breath, looking around as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. "He died," he said shortly, obviously not wanting to dwell on the topic. When his gaze settles on you it's not dour as you expect, but pleasant. He quickly takes your hand from his arm and kisses it, only risking small moments between you out in public.

"Do you want to talk about it?" you offer, hoping for a morsel, some breadcrumb he can give you about the life he had before you, what shaped him. When you have shared so much he has given so little in return.

"I don't," he says simply, with a sigh, looking out over the pond. And that's all you get. You learn to live with the small pieces he gives, doling them out like rewards for your love and loyalty.

"What was yours?" he asks you in the car on the way home.

"What do you mean?" you ask, your hand resting on his on your thigh.

"The day that changed your life, sweetpea."

"Oh." You'd forgotten about the question after Dave had successfully evaded going into detail about his. You know right away what the answer is, the little dark cloud that's always been there, staining the memories of what should have been the happiest time of your life. "When my father died," you reply, staring straight ahead as you come to a stoplight.

He's quiet a moment, absorbing your words, and when he looks at you there's protectiveness in his eyes, a sort of superhero look in him at the way he sets his jaw. "You said he was bad to you and your brother, and most of all to your mom."

You nod.

"What happened, if I may ask?"

It's a little odd that he asks the same question he'd evaded just moments before, when you were trying to get inside that head of his, see what makes him tick.

"Was it bad?" he asks, looking at you intently, his hand caressing your hair.

A beat passes by, then another, and another. The light turns green and he drives on, his hand on your lap squeezing your thigh as if to remind you he'd asked you a question.

"He was killed."

"Killed.." Dave repeats. You see his mind working overtime, piecing together this history of you. "Killed as in..?"

"Murdered. Home invasion."

You remember seeing the flashing red and blue lights of the police cars parked in front of your house, the ambulance, the yellow police tape, watching detectives cross under that tape, going in and out of your house as if it was nothing, but they wouldn't let you or your mom through. Nobody would answer your questions. Your brother had refused to even come out of the car, staying stock still in the backseat, eyes wide, taking in the entire scene before him.

Then you saw it, and you had to do a double take. A body was brought out on a stretcher, covered in that awful black tarp that you'd only ever seen on TV. You just knew it was him. And your mother's wail of agony pierced the air, became part of the background noise as your reality became suspended, the moment stretching out into an agonizing eternity.

A detective tried to calm your mom, who looked like she was about to sink to her knees in grief. She was taken aside, led to the open backseat of a cop car, given a blanket around her shoulders. In a daze you watched your dad's body lifted into the waiting ambulance, its lights off, siren silent. No emergency for a dead man.

The night was a blur of questions, the same ones asked over and over again. Questions about your dad, his habits, what enemies he had. He was a police captain, he probably had a lot of enemies. You didn't have much information for them.

It was your eighteenth birthday and you'd been out celebrating with your family when your dad had had to leave. Why he'd gone home, no one could explain. He'd left in a taxi so you could drive your mom and brother home later.

A robbery gone bad, so they called it. Precious family items were taken, namely your mother's jewelry and pieces from your own collection: your class ring you'd only just received, and a gold plated bracelet you were given as a baby at your christening, bearing your name in perfect cursive.

No clues, no fingerprints, and no suspects. The neighbors had only called the police when he complained about a neighbor playing their TV too loud. Eventually the case went cold. Your dad was buried. You barely remembered the funeral. The photo of him they used in his obituary showed a man in his prime, a look of noble austerity on his face, so different from the cruel, manipulative, abusive man your family knew.

At your graduation people paid their respects to you, mentioned him in the religious invocation. Your dad was a pillar of the community. You made a habit of accepting condolences, accepting the way your life had become.

You had to move. Your mom refused to continue to live in the same place where your dad had so violently lost his life. And so she and your brother made their way to Tennessee while you stayed behind for college, moving north to pursue your Master's..

You're back in the driveway before you've finished your story. Dave's holding your hand, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles. "Sweetpea," he murmurs, trying to collect his thoughts. "That's awful." He lifts your chin with his finger. "I'm so sorry, baby."

"It was my worst day," you confirm. "To say that it changed my life is an understatement."

Dave asks, "How did it feel, saying goodbye to the man who was responsible for the suffering you endured for so long?"

You look at him, this man who has also put you through a different kind of suffering. The first man to really see you, the first to fuck you, the first to risk everything just to be with you. The first man who really loves you.

"It felt like justice," you answer. "As much as it hurt to lose him that way, to watch my mother lose her husband, I couldn't tell anyone how happy I was that I was finally free of him."

The look on Dave's face changes, becomes one of almost adoration.

"You really cared for the friend you lost," you say with utmost thoughtfulness. "And it changed you.. made you stronger? Or made you worse?"

Suddenly that look of adoration is gone, replaced by a guarded detachment. he doesn't give you an answer, once again leaving you in the dark.

Since your heart-to-heart about the best/worst day of your life, Dave has been taciturn, keeping to himself. But by now you know how to handle his moods.

It's actually your idea for the sex tape.

On the weekend you return home, not needed at the York's. You give Dave a call, and hang up in a huff when it rings and rings, ultimately going to voicemail.

There's more than one way to skin a cat..

Stripping off your clothes, you make yourself comfortable on the bed, letting your fingers glide over your skin. You're thinking of Dave, of his hands on you, and they drift across the slope of your breasts, over your belly, and just before your touch slides down further, you put your phone on video mode and place it between your legs.

Dave stretches in his chair, taking a small break from his work. Carol's baking something with the girls; the sugary sweet aroma permeates through his home office door, making his mouth water. He checks his phone, seeing a missed call from you, as well as a video message. Upon opening it his eyes go wide.

Your fingers tease your folds, swiping smoothly over your clit before dipping inside, your ring and middle fingers slipping into your glistening slit, over and over. He watches, transfixed, listening to the music of your moans, knowing when you're close by the increasing urgency of your gasps.

He's removed from his trance by a knock at his door. Carol is there, a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies on a plate, fresh from the oven. "Snack break?" she smiles.

"No thanks, babe," he falters for a moment. "I've actually got to tend to something at the office."

"But it's Saturday.."

"Carol," he says sternly. "I don't want to hear it right now."

Your video starts playing again, the sound muffled in Dave's pocket. he shuts it off quickly.

"What was that?" Carol asks suspiciously.

"Some stupid TikTok video someone sent me. I don't understand those things." He shakes his head. "Hey, I'll take a rain check on those cookies." His hand on his wife's shoulder is encouragement enough to make her smile before he leaves.

As soon as you open the door for him he's on you, stopping whatever words of greeting you have with a scorching kiss.

"I take it you liked my video," you say smugly, breaking the kiss and pulling away so you can give him the full view of your lingerie: scarlet lace bra, matching lacy thong, and fishnet stockings.

"Wanna make another one?"

"Put on a little show for me, sweetpea."

He's pushed down to the bed. The phone is recording, the ring light shines perfectly on your swaying hips, 'Dance for You' by Beyoncé playing in the background. You grind yourself on his lap, feeling powerful as you feel him start to rise beneath your teasing touch. His hands roam your body, mapping out every curve, getting lost in the contrast of your silky skin and the velvet of your blood-red lingerie. His fingers burn you everywhere, in the best way.

"My girl's hungry, isn't she?" One of his large hands dips into your panties, finding you deliciously wet. "Oh yeah, she's already drooling." He licks you off his fingers then goes in for seconds and feeds that to you. "But she has to be patient."

Dave gets situated on the edge of the bed, and like clockwork you kneel before him to unbuckle his belt. Once you have him free from his boxers your mouth wraps around his base, taking him as deep as possible, and his hands cup the back of your head, lacing his fingers together.

Your tongue stiffens, teasing the under-seam of his dick, making his breath shudder. You'd smile if you weren't concentrating on making your mouth Ziplock tight.

Being a careful man, Dave isn't entirely comfortable being filmed, but there's something raunchy about the way you're showing off for the camera. It brings out a wildness in you that he knows has always been there.

When he tells you he's close and urges your head down you stay still, allowing him to use your throat. You moan in surprise as he comes, and before swallowing it, you show him the puddle of cum on your tongue, some of it dribbling down your chin.

"My girl did so good," he growls, pulling you up to the bed, switching places so he's now kneeling before you. There's an ache between your thighs that only Dave can ease. You run your fingers through his soft brown hair as he peppers kisses across your chest, down your abdomen, and rips your flimsy thong off you.

You whimper as Dave's lips and tongue work in tandem to orchestrate your pleasure. In praise of him your moans are loud, high-pitched. He's relentless with you, wanting you to come hard for him and for the camera. You scream his name as a hot surge runs through you, thighs clamped around his head.

Dave licks up and swallows your honey, watches with lust-filled eyes as you scoot back on the bed, legs open. "Tie my hands," you murmur provocatively, "with your belt."

He wastes no time, slotting your hands between the bars of your headboard, deftly making an effective knot that won't hurt you (too much) or be too complicated to release you from. Then he slides over, free of his clothes, and tastes you once more before moving over you and fucking you slow then fast, hard then gentle; your legs around his waist, then over his shoulders, chuckling darkly as you struggle, seeing how much you like it when you gush, ultimately crying out his name as you come once, twice, thrice.

"There's my girl, coming for me," he grunts out, voice filled with pride. "You know I love coming on that pretty face.. but tonight I want to fill you up." And, moments later, the camera closes in on your cunt, swollen and absolutely wrecked, shiny with your juices. You give a little push and his cum dribbles out.

"We look so good on camera," you say contentedly as you cuddle with him, finishing the viewing of your sex tape. You're unbound now, your wrists a little pink but otherwise unharmed from being tied up.

"Damn right we do," Dave agrees, giving your hair a soft kiss. "This stays between us, right, sweetpea?" He tries to keep the worry out of his voice.

"Just between us," you assure him.

"Good." He looks satisfied. "You know, I was thinking.. you know I'm a perfectionist.. and even though we did some stellar work, I think we can do better."

You grin at his implication. "Round two?"

"Round two," he nods. "And three, four, five.." his count disappears as he pulls you on top of him, burying his face in your neck as you giggle.

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dividers by @saradika-graphics 👑

@guelyury @untamedheart81 @auteurdelabre @darkheartgatita

[exquisiteserotonin]

Honestly, my favorite Pedro character to write.

Our Misunderstood Murder Daddy, Dave York

He is my favorite to portrait. Dave just wants to be loved. #JusticeForDaveYork