#From the Real to the Symbolic City | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chrissssssmut · 18 days ago

Note

Reader gets sold at a slave auction by Nayeon and Jihyo. Once they arrive at the girls shared penthouse the girls give the reader an option, Submit willingly or The girls make him submit the hard way. Some smut would make it better

SIGNED TO SUBMIT

Dom!Nayeon & Dom!Jihyo x Sub!Male Reader

Tags: titfucking, orgasm control, heavy edging, teasing, double dom, powerplay, degradation, cumshot, cum on tits, cum on mouth, rough sex, messy

You remember the sound of the contract being stamped. Official. Heavy. Final. The auction might’ve been just symbolic, some weird, elite kink club ritual — but the moment Nayeon whispered “Sold” in your ear, you knew you were theirs. You had signed up for this. You had wanted this.

...You just didn’t realize what this would feel like.

The penthouse door clicked shut behind you. Luxurious. Silent. A few steps inside and your shirt was already being pulled off.

“Clothes off,” Jihyo said simply, standing by the window, backlit by the city. Her tone didn’t rise — didn’t need to. Her presence filled the room more than her voice ever could.

Nayeon was behind you, smirking, lips brushing your ear.

“You heard her,” she whispered, dragging a finger down your spine. “Unless you want me to rip them off. I wouldn’t mind.”

You quickly started undressing. Nayeon giggled, watching you fumble with your belt.

“So obedient already?” she teased. “Didn’t even need the leash yet.”

“I like that,” Jihyo said, approaching. She looked you over once — then ran her fingers through your hair, tugging gently but firmly, tilting your head up to meet her gaze. “But we still need to be sure. So I’ll ask once, and only once.”

Her voice dropped, husky. Dominant.

“Do you submit to us?”

Your breath hitched. You nodded. She raised an eyebrow.

“Words.”

“I submit,” you murmured. “To both of you.”

Nayeon gave a delighted hum and slid her arm around your chest from behind, nails lightly scratching. “Then we’ll take such good care of you, baby,” she purred. “Just… our way.”

They led you to the bedroom. Clean lines. Velvet sheets. A single, black velvet box on the bed.

“On your knees,” Jihyo said. You obeyed.

Nayeon opened the box — inside, a thick leather collar, a single silver ring in the center. She held it in front of your face like a gift and a threat.

“This is your last chance,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Once this goes on, we play for real. You obey. You beg. You take what we give.”

“And you don’t cum,” Jihyo added smoothly, crossing her arms. “Not unless one of us gives permission. Understood?”

You swallowed.

“Yes. I understand.”

Click.

The collar was fastened. Tight, but not uncomfortable. Heavy. Real.

“Good boy,” Nayeon whispered, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Now the fun starts.”

You were on your back, wrists bound to the bedposts. Nayeon straddled your stomach, wearing nothing but thigh-highs and a silk robe that barely stayed on her shoulders. She trailed a riding crop across your chest.

“Jihyo says I can’t break you yet,” she pouted, flicking your nipple lightly. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t make you beg.”

Jihyo stood by the foot of the bed, arms folded, watching.

“Nayeon,” she warned. “He gets three strikes. Don’t be the reason he fails test one.”

Nayeon’s smirk widened. “Oh, he’ll fail. But I won’t.”

You gasped as the crop struck your inner thigh — not hard, just sharp. Teasing. Nayeon leaned down, brushing her lips over your ear again.

“I want to hear how badly you want it,” she whispered. “I want you to cry for it.”

Her hand wrapped around your cock — slow, deliberate strokes, her thumb cruelly avoiding the tip just when you needed it most.

“You feel that?” she asked sweetly. “That ache? That’s mine now.”

You moaned. She didn’t stop. Just kept edging, stroking, teasing. Every time you twitched too close, she stopped. Laughed. Slapped your thigh.

“Not yet,” she’d say. “Beg prettier.”

“Please,” you groaned, hips bucking.

“Strike one,” Jihyo said coolly from the corner. “No thrusting. He knows better.”

You froze. Nayeon giggled and flicked your cock with the crop. “Ooh, naughty. She’s gonna punish you for that.”

Jihyo moved to the bed. Her presence changed the air. She leaned down and gripped your jaw.

“Color?” she asked, voice low.

“Green,” you breathed.

She nodded — then smacked your cheek. Not hard. Not painful. Just possessive.

“You’ll learn,” she murmured, crawling over you. “Tonight, you learn who you belong to.”

She slid her soaked panties down and straddled your face.

“Lick.”

You did.

You had no idea how long it had been. Your face was covered in Jihyo’s slick, your body trembling from Nayeon’s relentless edging. The room spun. You couldn’t think.

Nayeon was whispering filth into your ear, jerking you off with cruel, slow strokes. Jihyo sat on your chest, feeding you her fingers.

“You want to cum?” Nayeon cooed. “Beg Jihyo.”

“Beg me properly,” Jihyo said. “Or I’ll edge you until sunrise.”

You sobbed. “Please. I need to. I’ve been good. I need it. Please, Mistress—please.”

They shared a glance.

Nayeon smiled. “Aww. He called you Mistress first. How cute.”

“Let him,” Jihyo said.

Nayeon leaned down, lips brushing yours.

“Cum for us, baby.”

You exploded. Loud. Messy. Shaking.

And Nayeon didn’t stop.

“Oh, did I say once?” she said sweetly. “Oops. Guess we’ll go again.”

Your body wasn’t yours anymore.

It belonged to them—every inch, every twitch, every pathetic whimper ripped from your throat by the lips, hands, and voices of the two women who owned you.

You didn’t know how long it had been since Nayeon fastened the collar around your neck. Time blurred under their touch. There were no clocks in the penthouse bedroom. Only Jihyo’s commanding presence and Nayeon’s cruel smirk. Only their bodies. Their orders. Their game.

You were their toy, strung up on satin sheets, wrists bound to the corners of the headboard, legs spread wide. Naked. Hard. Dripping.

And they were still nowhere near done with you.

Nayeon dragged a single fingernail along your thigh, her pink tongue flicking across her lower lip. “Still hard,” she murmured with delight, looking up at you from between your legs. “You’re more obedient than I expected.”

“More desperate, you mean,” Jihyo said coolly from the chaise by the window. She hadn’t touched you in over twenty minutes—she didn’t need to. Her gaze alone kept you squirming. “Look at the way he’s panting. He’s starving.”

Nayeon giggled. “Aww. Poor puppy.” She leaned in, her breath ghosting over your cock. “How many times did I edge you already? Four? Five?”

You swallowed hard. “S-six, Miss…”

“Good boy,” she purred, giving your tip a slow, wicked lick. “You can count.”

From the other side of the room, Jihyo’s voice rang out—calm but absolute.

“Don’t you dare cum.”

Your entire body tensed.

“I-I won’t.”

“You better not,” Nayeon said, pumping your shaft with two fingers, wet and sloppy. “Because if you do…” She grinned and pressed her cheek to your thigh. “We’ll ruin you.”

Nayeon dragged her tongue along the underside of your cock, featherlight, teasing. Her pace was torturous—long licks, soft sucks, just enough stimulation to drive you insane. Every time your hips tried to buck, she’d pull away and slap your thigh.

“Don’t move,” she warned, sing-song and cruel. “Only good boys stay still.”

Jihyo finally rose from her seat and made her way toward the bed, her robe sliding off her shoulders. She climbed on slowly, her movements regal, unhurried—like a queen inspecting her property.

She straddled your chest, hair cascading over her shoulders, then leaned forward until her lips were just above your ear.

“Are you suffering?” she whispered.

“Yes,” you breathed, trembling. “So much…”

“Good.”

She moved forward without another word, planting her knees on either side of your head and settling her heat right over your mouth.

“Open.”

You obeyed instantly. Her taste overwhelmed you. You moaned into her, tongue working desperately as she began to grind down, slow and commanding.

Below, Nayeon took you fully into her mouth—warm, wet, suffocating. Your legs jerked.

“Strike two,” Jihyo said calmly, hips rolling. “We said no bucking.”

The sensation was unbearable—your cock throbbing in Nayeon’s mouth while Jihyo’s pussy smothered your face. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. All you could do was feel.

Nayeon bobbed her head slowly, humming. Her hands pinned your thighs down while she hollowed her cheeks and edged you right to the brink—again.

And again.

You cried into Jihyo, tongue still working even as your muscles twitched and your brain screamed.

“I can feel you,” Nayeon murmured between sucks. “You’re right there, aren’t you?”

“Hold it,” Jihyo demanded, fingers tangling in your hair. “Or you’ll regret it.”

You tried. God, you tried.

But then Nayeon did one thing differently.

She moaned.

A single, sweet, guttural sound that vibrated through her throat—and that was it.

You snapped.

Your orgasm hit like lightning—hot, fast, impossible to stop. You groaned into Jihyo’s folds, helpless as your cock pulsed and spilled down Nayeon’s throat.

She pulled back with a pop, and a string of cum snapped between her lips and your tip.

“Oh my god,” she said gleefully. “He came. He actually came.”

Jihyo pulled off your face slowly, licking her lips.

“Did he really?”

You nodded weakly, chest heaving.

“I… I’m sorry…”

Nayeon giggled, licking your cum off her fingers like frosting. “That wasn’t permission, puppy.”

Jihyo’s eyes darkened.

“That was a mistake.”

They untied you, only to flip you onto your stomach, your body still twitching from the orgasm. Nayeon climbed onto your back, pinning you there with her weight as she leaned down, her lips against your ear.

“You’re not getting another one tonight,” she whispered, dragging her nails down your spine. “Not unless we say.”

“And you’re going to learn what it really means to wear that collar,” Jihyo added, wrapping a leash around it and giving it a light tug.

Nayeon reached around to cup your oversensitive cock.

“Still hard,” she marveled. “Perfect.”

She gave it a stroke.

You screamed.

“Aw, did that hurt?” she asked sweetly. “Good.”

Last night, you were theirs.

No—you were wrecked. Stripped bare, physically and mentally. Orgasm denied, pushed to the brink, and then… punished. They had reduced you to nothing but moans, apologies, and heat.

You remembered Nayeon's giggles as she slapped your cock when you whimpered from overstimulation. Jihyo's palm on your ass, the way she muttered, "You're learning."

Eventually, it ended.

Your body collapsed in their arms. They cleaned you. Draped a silk robe over your sore frame. Jihyo whispered, “Good boy,” as she adjusted your collar and pulled you into her chest. Nayeon cuddled behind, her hands tracing the marks she left on your thighs like a sculptor admiring her own work.

That was the last thing you remembered.

You woke up tangled between their bodies.

Nayeon was already awake, phone in hand, casually scrolling through pictures of you from the night before. Her smirk widened when she noticed your eyes flutter open.

“Morning, baby,” she said sweetly. “Sleep well after cumming without permission?”

Your throat was dry. “Yes… Miss.”

She reached over and tugged the leash still clipped to your collar.

“You’re not off the hook. You’ll pay for it today.”

You felt Jihyo stir behind you. She rolled over slowly, her arm draping across your waist. Still drowsy, she nuzzled into your shoulder.

“He needs food first,” she murmured. “We broke him last night. Let him eat. Then we break him again.”

Nayeon sighed dramatically. “Ugh, fine. I’ll cook. But don’t think this means you’re safe.”

She leaned over and kissed your temple.

“You’re just in the eye of the storm.”

They let you rest. You ate. Showered. And for a few hours, it almost felt like they’d forgotten you were their plaything.

Until Jihyo stepped back into the bedroom with nothing but a towel over her chest and gave a single order:

“Kneel.”

You dropped instantly to your knees.

She let the towel fall.

Her full breasts bounced softly as she walked toward you. “Good. Now crawl to the bed.”

Your knees hit the carpet.

“Slower,” Nayeon said from the doorway, arms crossed, robe barely clinging to her shoulders. “I want to watch him struggle.”

You made it to the edge of the bed, heart racing. Jihyo sat down, spreading her legs, guiding your head between her soft thighs. You expected to be smothered again.

Instead, she grabbed your hair, leaned back, and cupped her breasts.

“I want you between these.”

She spit on them first—slow, messy—then squeezed her tits together and gave a single nod.

“Put your cock between them.”

You stood shakily, cock already half-hard. She guided it between the soft weight of her breasts and gave one commanding squeeze.

Your knees buckled.

“Stay still,” she said, and began to move.

She slid them up and down slowly, her tongue flicking over your tip every other stroke. You whimpered, trying to stay upright as pleasure coiled in your belly again—too soon, too much.

“Oh, look at him,” Nayeon purred from the bed. She began rubbing herself lazily while watching. “He’s already falling apart. You’re such a slut for tits, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Miss,” you groaned.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’m a slut for Mistress Jihyo’s tits.”

“Say it louder,” Jihyo snapped, squeezing tighter, stroking faster.

“I’m a slut for your tits, Mistress!”

“That’s better.”

Jihyo leaned forward, letting her spit dribble down onto your cock, her cleavage hot and slick.

She moved faster.

“Don’t you dare cum,” Nayeon warned, fingers now buried between her thighs. “You cum without permission again, and I’ll ruin you.”

You trembled.

“I-I don’t think I can hold it…”

Jihyo smirked and let your tip rest against her tongue again.

“You’re going to.”

You gasped—your orgasm just a breath away.

Then Jihyo stopped.

“On the bed,” she said firmly.

You collapsed onto it, twitching, dripping precum onto the sheets.

Nayeon grinded against your thigh, breath hot on your face.

“Now the real torture starts.”

Your body was already shaking before the real game began.

You were still tied, half-limp, cock twitching after Jihyo’s brutal titfuck session. Nayeon leaned over you with a sadistic smile, one hand on your thigh, the other trailing slow patterns along your chest like she was deciding where to carve her name.

“Oh, baby,” she cooed, mock-sympathetic. “You’re already sore? Already aching?”

She gave your tip a light slap.

You twitched and groaned.

“You’ve got at least five to six more loads left in you,” she whispered. “And we’re gonna take every single one.”

“She’s right,” Jihyo said, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the bed, watching you like a queen observing a trembling offering. “We’re not stopping until you’ve got nothing left.”

It started with Jihyo crawling onto your lap, straddling you with her toned thighs and lowering herself slowly onto your cock. Her expression barely changed as your shaft stretched her open — practiced, controlled, her pace devastatingly slow.

You sobbed.

“God… Mistress…”

She cut you off by grabbing your throat — not choking, just holding. Her grip firm. Possessive.

“You don’t get to call God,” she said calmly. “You call me.”

She sank all the way down.

Your hips bucked instinctively. Her hand squeezed harder.

“Stay still.”

You tried. You failed. You couldn’t help it. She was so warm, so tight. You were still on the edge from before. It didn’t take long.

“M-Mistress—please—I’m close already—”

“Then cum inside me,” she said coldly. “Now.”

The command broke you.

You came hard, deep inside her. Jihyo held herself down on you, keeping every pulse buried inside her, watching your face twist in sweet agony as your body trembled under hers.

She didn’t move. She didn’t let you go soft.

She leaned down, whispered into your ear.

“That’s one.”

Before your body could relax, Nayeon shoved Jihyo off of you with a dramatic roll of her eyes.

“My turn,” she said with a wicked grin, crawling over your chest.

She lined your cock up to her soaked entrance and slammed herself down without warning.

“Fuck,” you cried out, body jerking.

Nayeon laughed, grinding her hips in fast, messy circles. “Oh, are you already sensitive? Poor thing.”

She didn’t give you time to answer. She started bouncing — fast, hard, brutal. Her tits bounced with each slam, sweat gleaming down her neck. Her hands grabbed your shoulders, her thighs clamped around your sides.

“You don’t cum,” she warned, voice breathless, “until I say.”

You tried. You failed again.

Your balls clenched. Your vision blurred.

“M-Miss—can’t—!”

“Now,” she hissed, just as your tip hit her deepest spot.

You came inside her hard — again. This time messier, twitchier. Your hips buckled. You cried out something halfway between her name and a broken apology.

She rode you through it, milking every drop.

Then she leaned back, smirking.

“That’s two.”

Your cock was slick and twitching, but still hard.

“Up,” Jihyo ordered. She knelt at the edge of the bed, spreading her thighs slightly, pushing her tits together in your face.

“Use them. Cum on them. Make it messy.”

You didn’t even have to stroke. Just the pressure and friction of her soft skin around your cock was enough.

You whimpered as you fucked her chest desperately.

Nayeon crouched beside you, watching like a proud handler.

“Look at him,” she whispered. “He’s so fucking desperate now. He needs to cum on you.”

Jihyo grinned.

“Do it. Cum on my tits. Don’t you dare hold back.”

Your body convulsed. You groaned through clenched teeth and spilled everything across her chest, ropes of cum painting her skin and dripping down to her stomach.

She let out a low moan and smeared it with her fingers.

“That’s three.”

“Still not done,” Nayeon sang, grabbing your leash and dragging you to her.

She knelt between your legs and sucked you in without a word.

You were overstimulated beyond reason. You couldn’t think. Your hands were fists in the sheets. Nayeon’s mouth was heaven and hell — too good, too wet, too much.

She moaned around your cock as she bobbed her head faster.

Jihyo came over, breasts still dripping with your cum, and whispered:

“Give her everything. On her tongue.”

Your hips bucked involuntarily — and you came again, right into Nayeon’s mouth.

She swallowed every drop and then smiled, licking her lips.

“Four.”

You didn’t know how you were still hard.

They flipped you onto your back again, and the two of them mounted you together — Jihyo on your face, Nayeon on your cock.

Their moans mixed, their bodies grinding in sync.

You had nothing left.

And they kept going.

“Cum,” Jihyo ordered again.

“I own this cock,” Nayeon moaned.

You came. Again.

You didn’t even make a sound. Just a broken whimper as your body spasmed and gave them everything it had left.

Nayeon collapsed onto your chest. Jihyo pulled off your face, panting.

You were soaked in sweat, cum, spit — everything.

They kissed over your limp body, Nayeon stroking your hair while Jihyo wiped her tits with a towel and tossed it onto your stomach.

“Good boy,” Jihyo murmured.

“Broken,” Nayeon said with pride.

“And tomorrow,” she added, licking your cheek, “we start again.”

552 notes · View notes

thatonegrimm · 5 days ago

Note

Hello! I've been loving your Saja boys stuff and I was wondering if I could throw a request into the mix please?

Saja Boys with a Cottagecore girly reader? A reader who's not really bothered with pop music and big city life. She's all flowers, old teacups, baked goods and wild gardens. Very practical magic "Throw salt over your left shoulder, put rosemary by your garden gate, plant lavender for luck and fall in love whenever you can" type of girl.

I think it'll be a super cute concept and the boys deserve a simple life 🥺

Aww, thank you!! I’m so glad you’re enjoying the Saja Boys! 🥹💖 And this idea?? Adorable.

A soft, cottagecore reader who’s all flowers, teacups, and quiet rituals while the boys stumble around trying not to set the garden on fire? Yes please—and you’re absolutely right, they do deserve a simple life sometimes. 😌🌿

🌙Saja Boys x Cottagecore!Reader🌿

---------------------------

🧿 Jinu

You pour him tea in a delicate cup—thin porcelain painted with tiny roses, a little chip on the rim you never bothered to fix.

Jinu holds it like it might shatter. Like he might shatter if he doesn’t do it right.

He notices everything. The way salt lines your windowsills. The rosemary bundle hanging above your stove. The sigils drawn in chalk behind your doorframe—subtle, small, brushed into the grain of the wood like you’ve done it a hundred times.

“You know those aren’t real wards,” he murmurs, fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic.

You tilt your head, smile faintly. “Then why do you feel safer here?”

He doesn't have an answer.

But that night, when you’re not looking, he traces a protection symbol into the sugar bowl. It’s sloppy—off-balance. You stir it into your tea anyway, take a sip, and kiss his cheek.

“See?” you whisper. “Now it’s working.”

He doesn’t deny it. He just drinks his tea—sweetened, quiet, steady.

And stays.

----------------------------

💪 Abby

Your house always smells like fresh bread. Even when you haven’t baked in days. Even when it’s storming. Even when Abby’s carrying half the world’s weight on his shoulders.

Here, everything is soft.

Sun-warmed wood floors. Crooked shelves filled with mismatched mugs. Wildflowers growing in disorganized chaos out your kitchen window.

He sits at your table like it’s a sacred ritual. You hand him a slice of still-warm bread, buttered and dusted with sugar.

He eats it slowly. Reverently.

“Do you miss the city?” he asks once.

You shake your head. “I like waking up to birds. Not sirens.”

He thinks about that all day.

That night, while you’re tending to the garden, you catch him quietly building something out near the lavender beds.

It’s a bench.

Not perfect. A little uneven. But sturdy. Handmade.

“For you,” he says gruffly. “So you have somewhere to watch the seasons change.”

Your hand slips into his without a word.

---------------------------

📚 Mystery

He never knocks. Just… appears. Like the shadows deliver him straight to your garden gate.

And you always know.

You open the door with two mugs in hand—steam rising gently from herbal blends he never asks the name of. One for him. One for you.

“I figured you’d come,” you say, as if it’s already written.

He doesn’t reply. Just steps inside your cottage like it’s a place the world forgot—candle-lit, scent of rosemary and rain-damp soil clinging to the floorboards.

Your reading nook has no power, just books and dried flowers and too many blankets. He settles beside you wordlessly.

Later, you press a dried bloom into his palm. “Chamomile,” you murmur. “For stillness.”

He stares at it. Doesn’t blink.

Then folds the petal into the page of his book and says, almost too quietly, “You don’t ask for anything.”

You smile. “Neither do you.”

---------------------------

💋 Romance

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says dramatically, as you hand him a plum tart on a floral plate.

You just hum, dusting sugar off your fingers. “Only if you have a weak constitution.”

He watches you move through your cottage like you belong to it—barefoot, a ribbon in your hair, apron smudged with flour. You talk to your basil plant. You hang bundles of thyme like wards. You write grocery lists in calligraphy.

“You’re dangerous,” he mutters.

You glance back at him, amused. “Because I fed you?”

“Because you fed me with intention.”

You laugh. “You act like I’m casting love spells.”

“You are,” he says seriously. “And they’re working.”

Later, you find your rose salt dish filled with tiny origami love notes. No explanation.

He just kisses your hand next time you serve him tea and whispers, “Teach me that kind of magic.”

------------------------------

🔥 Baby

You don’t ask where he’s been.

You just nod toward the basin at the garden gate. “Hands first. Then come in.”

He obeys.

There’s soot on his hoodie. Something wild in his eyes. You offer him lemon balm tea without blinking. He holds it like he doesn’t know what to do with the warmth.

Your house is soft. Too soft, maybe. Lace curtains. Mismatched chairs. A garden that refuses to grow in straight rows.

He sits stiffly, trying not to break anything. You hand him a chipped teacup. The one he cracked last week.

“I fixed it,” you say. “Still holds tea. Still beautiful.”

He stares at the gold-laced repair—kintsugi, you called it—and then at you.

“You’re weird,” he mutters.

“And you keep coming back.”

His eyes narrow like he wants to argue. But he doesn't.

Instead, he takes the cup in both hands and sips slowly, like learning softness won’t burn him.

--------------------------------

M-List

#abby x reader #baby x reader #jinu x reader #mystery x reader #romance x reader #saja boys x reader #kpop demon hunters #kpdh x reader #kpdh

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nightingale-prompts · 10 months ago

Text

Saving Batboy

First | Previous | Next

It was as though he was being led through the city. Dick seemed to know exactly where he should go next as he drove.

Dick turned off his location as he closed in on Joker's location. If anyone had doubts about what would happen tonight they knew now. The clown dies tonight.

Batman never did it because he knew there would be no coming back once he crossed that line but he was not Batman.

Tim knew the moment Nightwing's symbol disappeared that he had found Joker's location. He knew he could track him still based on where he was before but he held off. The last time Dick crossed the line and killed the Joker, Tim was there to stop him. In the time since Tim had grown to regret it. Especially after Jason's return. He should be avenged after everything that happened.

Tim never put much thought into what happened when he was kidnapped just like Danny. Joker Jr was just a nightmare and everyone pretends it didn't happen. His past self doesn't exist to him and the gaps in his memory are better as they are.

If Dick was really going to finish this then Tim wasn't going to stop him. Bruce's code was his code alone. What of the Robins that suffer for it? What about his kids that he loves to the point of self-destruction if they die?

It was clear to Tim now. Batman isn't strong enough to kill Joker. If he can't handle it, someone else would.

Maybe Dick just cared more. Or maybe he had seen this happen too many times to sit by and let it happen again. The cost be damned.

Tim took a deep breath. He knew it was a bad move but he shut down the bat computer. No one could locate each other for the next 10 minutes. Enough time to give Dick the lead he really needs. All the comms are down and no information can be shared.

Tim looked up and saw Alfred putting down a cup of tea for him. Tim felt like a child caught doing something wrong under Alfred. But Alfred nodded wordlessly before turning to leave. He cast a forlorn glance at Jason's robin uniform before ascending the stairs.

****

"I was hoping Batman would come for the little bat. Oh sorry, I mean the boy." Joker mocked holding Danny by the back of the neck.

The teen's body was limp. His silver locks stained a rusty brown from dried blood. Blood covered his back and legs. If there had been any doubt if the wings were real there is none now.

"…" Nightwingwing said nothing. His fist clenched.

"You know I debated skinning him next. That fur of his would be a lovely shawl. It's so soft. But it looks like I won't have the time now." Joker provoked, running a hand through the boy's white neck fur.

"Get your hands off him." Nightwing demanded, his eyes locked on Danny for any signs of life.

"You know I am so curious what he was doing here. I was about to build a new trap here for fun when I stumbled upon this little guy here. Practically gift-wrapped. Did he run away from you? Just like you did from good ol'papa bat." Joker's smile widened sickeningly "This all feels so familiar, doesn't it little bird? Are you going to finish what you started?"

"I'm never letting you hurt my family again." No witty one-liners. No games. This bad joke ends today.

****

Batman had scoured the area. He memorize the last location Dick was before the system went down. He wasn't these kids' father for nothing he knew what they were doing.

When sound came back he had already made it to the abandoned factory. The comms rang back to life as the sounds of crying came through.

"Nononono…please no. Wake up. Please wake up." It was Dick's voice. "It's okay. I'm here now. So just wake up. We need to get home soon. Your favorite show will be on soon. WAKE UP! YOU CAN'T DIE!"

Batman bolted to their location and found Dick hovering over Danny trying to resuscitate him.

His son looked at him with pleading eyes.

"I can't hear his heart. He's not breathing." He let out a shaky breath. As distressed tears ran down his cheeks.

Bruce knelt next to them. Danny didn't react to the pressure on his chest. The pain should have at least caused an involuntary jerk if he wasn't too far gone.

Bruce signaled Dick to move back as he checked Danny's pulse again. Nothing. And he wasn't breathing. Bruce looked at his son. Deep down Dick probably knew.

"I'm sorry. He's gone." Bruce said simply as he took off his cloak.

Danny looked so peaceful. Like he was sleeping soundly. Bruce hated that his own suspension had been the thing that had prevented him from having a relationship with his own grandson. He felt foolish to not realize that of course Danny and Batboy were the same. It was a brilliant disguise. But he'd never get to say this to the boy.

Bruce wrapped the boy in his cloak.

"Come on. We'll fix this." He told Dick, carrying Danny for him.

The journey back to the manor was silent until.

"I'm sorry." Bruce said.

"Don't. Just Don't. He's my son. Its my fault." Dick rasped his voice scratchy from crying.

Bruce felt a bitter sting. That was exactly what he felt when he lost Jason and what happened with Tim. When Damian lost his life. These pains didn't go away.

When they arrived back in the Batcave Bruce laid Danny's body on the table. The others were notified about what happened and had already gathered.

Barbara looked like she had bawled her eyes out as she hugged Stephanie.

Damian had pressed himself close to Tim as the older brother told him that it was going to be okay.

The new hole in the wall was clearly Jason if his bloodied knuckles were any clues.

Cassandra paced the floor deep in thought. She was moments away from starting a new crusade.

Duke stared off into the distance. His anger boiling under the surface. All he could think about was the number of lives ruined by the Joker and even in death he took another.

Dick stood still as a statue. Thinking about if Danny could be brought back and even if he was his wings were gone. What if he was gone for good? Could he live like that?

Never had he understood Bruce more than in that moment.

Bruce braced himself for what would come next. He had a plan to bring Danny back at any cost.

But suddenly a sound broke through the tension.

A sneeze.

A fucking sneeze.

It came up from under the cloak.

Everyone snapped to look at the body hidden under the cloak. It shifted under the heavy black blanket groggily and yawned. Then Danny jumped up twisting to feel his back.

"What happened!!" He yelped.

#dc x dp #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #dp x dc prompt #danny fenton #danny phantom #batman #nightwing #dick grayson #dc comics #bruce wayne

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draconicks · 2 months ago

Text

THE CALLING

pairings: remmick x indigenous!reader. this is very self-indulgent because i am indigenous! warnings: 18+, slow burn, blood, gore, owls as symbolism, dirty talk, stalking, possessiveness, non-consensual turning. a/n: in this fic, remmick has the ability to shape shift - i couldn't get the idea out of my head and i really wanted to incorporate southeastern tribal culture into the story, especially cause that's where i am from.

tags: @beboppbaby @madkingcrowley

The deep Mississippi marsh had called to you, your name breathing from the weeping trees and in the symphony of cicadas. The wind carried through the house you had once called a home, the doors hinges squeaking ever so slightly.

It had felt surreal, time no longer felt real as you stared down at the pictures that decorated the shelves.

Family photographs from when you were a small child, a toothless grin adorning your face in the pictures. You didn't even recognize the people, feeling little familiarity with the woman and man in the photo.

There was a certain disconnection you had felt once you returned to the home, the warmth was still there, but it had become foreign to you.

Moving from the Delta to the city where people were cold towards one another wasn't an easy adjustment, but it didn't take long before you became accustomed to the city life.

It became all you knew, all that there was - an extreme contrast from where you grew up, where everyone knew each other and where everyone was family; a community.

But, coming back home from the city life had made you jarred.

You didn't really think of coming back home - you never would have thought you would, not after the deaths of your grandparents.

What did make you come home was the calling of your name from the marsh.

Life is funny like that; always keeping you on your toes and leading you places where you never expected.

It didn't help that you had always felt drawn, felt compelled to this specific location, like some entities were calling you home; the place where your flesh and blood meshed with the water and soil, where your family and ancestors had bore their children and died on the same grounds.

It was beautiful.

At the same time, it was chilling - the history that was here.

You could always feel it, even away from home, like a thrumming in your body and eyes on you.

It never failed to make your heart race, you knew someone or something was always watching over you, shadowing your every step.

Always.

"You listen here, child," Your grandfather had said, "This here land is yours. No one can take it, even if you tried to give it to ''em," He leaned forward and gently cupped your face, "Your family is here," He waved around the air with his hand, "And when you need them, they will always be here."

A shiver ran down your spine at the memory.

Your grandparents were the apples of your eyes, always there whenever you needed them, which was a lot growing up. The relationship between your father and mother had always been distant, cold, but when it came to Ome and Papa...it was different.

They were there, not just doing the bare minimum. They loved you something fierce, their love was a warm hug on a chill, Autumn evening, waiting for you to arrive. You never expected that treatment out of your parents.

However, they were no longer here - your parents or your grandparents.

The hearth that raised you was just as you left it, but it was empty. Fragile. Just as you were.

That had been the reason you'd left to begin with - nothing changed around here. And you weren't going to stay in a community where you saw no future for yourself, so you saved up enough money and bought yourself a train ticket.

Then, you were out of there.

But, the deep thrumming and the calling within you never stopped.

And neither did the eyes shadowing your every move, like razors on your back.

You sighed and turned your back on the shelves, sitting down on one of the dusty chairs that still sat in your old living room. It didn't surprise you that your parents didn't take anything with them when they moved out.

They somehow knew you would be coming back.

You furrowed your brows, it was just too uncanny how it seemed like fate was dragging you back here - like you were born to leave only to return to your roots.

Some people that did such a thing never came back, while others did.

Others made home where they journeyed.

Papa used to always tell you that home wasn't a place, it was in your heart.

But, you knew that was only half true.

---

The moon was full, the scent of petrichor and honeysuckle flooding your senses. The wind gently blew through the trees, waving the limbs.

You took in a deep breath, breathing the marsh in - just as it breathed you in.

It was peaceful. Bliss. Just as you had remembered, a place where you could lean into and know you would be caught if you were to fall, where you knew that you would be watched over.

You began to slowly rock in the chair, your heels digging into the wood below.

Just then, the wind shifted, not harshly, but just enough to make the cicadas hush for half a second.

The thrum in your chest stilled, replaced by a hollow pause - like something was waiting.

You stopped rocking the chair and squinted at the far end of the driveway.

The shadows at the edge of the marsh, near the drive, shifted with more purpose than they should have. A figure then stepped into the moonlight, quiet as mist, dressed like a man.

You slowly stood up, walking toward the edge of the porch. Not many people came out this far out of town.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" The figure asked. You blinked, you didn't recognize the man.

Almost as if he sensed your caution, he playfully threw his hands up, "Sorry, if I spooked you, I was just on my nightly walk and couldn't help myself to stop by." His accent sounded slightly off, almost forced, but that didn't bother you too much.

Cautious, but still curious, you walked toward him, feet still never leaving the porch "May I help you?" You asked the stranger.

He came forward a little bit, the moonlight illuminating his features, making your breath hitch ever so slightly.

He was gorgeous.

He had a sturdy build - his white button up shirt and dark pants clung to him, highlighting every crevice of his body. He had dark hair that covered his forehead, and complimented his features.

He was clearly not from around here, though - your instincts told you that. "My name is Remmick," He paused, eyes raking your body up and down, "I'm just passing through." He flashed you a grin, too sharp at the sides and too plastered.

A chill ran through your body, but your core squeezed.

"Well, nice to meet you, Remmick." You weren't good at faking friendly. "Where you from?" You asked him, tilting your head. Something about him rang old - old like the roots of the cypress trees.

But not the kind of old that belonged to this land.

He didn’t answer your question right away. Just stood there, that too-sharp grin lingering like a bad taste in your mouth.

"Nowhere special," He said finally. "Everywhere and nowhere, depending on the year."

That wasn’t an answer, and you both knew it. But something in his tone made it sound final.

You shifted your weight, "You some kind of traveler?" You asked him. A feeling of dread began trickling down at you as soon as you asked the question.

The wind picked up again, curling around your ankles like it was trying to warn you. Your Ome used to say that when the trees whispered too loud, it meant someone didn’t belong.

Remmick let out a soft chuckle, his eyes then locking onto yours, "Somethin' of that nature, I been here a long time." His brown eyes danced - you weren't sure with what, but he looked at you like how a cat looked at a toy.

"Odd time to be out walking," You said, folding your arms loosely. "Especially this deep out. Roads are easy to get lost on, if you’re not from here."

"Oh, I don’t get lost," Remmick said smoothly. "I tend to find what I’m looking for.

His eyes darkened, the weight of them made your skin tighten, like your body recognized something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

You’d felt watched before—but this was different.

This was personal.

"You live here alone?" He asked, voice gentle, but wrong in some invisible way. Like a bell rung just off-pitch.

You turned your head, eyes never leaving him, "Depends on who’s asking."

That made him smile wider. The cicadas hadn’t started up again. "Fair enough," He murmured. "I just noticed the place - the porch light, the quiet." A beat of silence, "It called to me."

That stopped you.

It called to me.

Not many folks talked like that. But your family did. Your people did. Remmick wasn’t one of them.

You two stood there for a minute, eyes never leaving each other, one of you rigid, the other one...hungry. The weight of the tension became unbearable for you, you had to say something.

"Well," You cleared your throat, "I best be heading back in now, it's getting awful late."

His teeth glimmered in the moonlight, canines looking too sharp, "Yes, I agree with you," His voice deepened, "You stay safe now."

It felt like a taunt more than courtesy.

You never left the porch before Remmick left your sight, and when he finally left, you exhaled a breath of relief.

Then, you heard an owl hooting.

The owl’s hoot echoed low and long - close enough to feel in your chest. Owls didn’t usually call this near the house, not unless something had stirred them.

Papa used to say owls were messengers. Ome would whisper when she thought you weren’t listening, "Don’t look ‘em in the eye," She'd said once. "They see more than we do."

You cast one last glance toward where Remmick had vanished into the woods, but the trees had already swallowed him whole - like he’d never been there at all. No crunch of underbrush, no footfalls, just quiet.

---

The next day came slow and sticky, the Mississippi sun pouring down in thick sheets that clung to your skin and made the house creak like it, too, was sweating.

You moved through the house, but your mind had wandered, drifting back to the porch, to him.

Remmick.

All night as you tossed and turned, the sound of an owl hooting outside your window had kept you wide awake. Owls didn't come to this side of the Delta either - which made you nervous. It hadn't been the first owl you'd seen, but it was enough to make you wary.

No matter how many times you told yourself he was just a traveler- some odd man with a silver tongue and a stranger’s charm - you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had brought something with him.

Something that didn’t belong to the land but recognized it all the same.

You still felt that gaze again suddenly,like knives digging in your back and the thrumming slowly made its way up from your toes up to your neck. The memory of the moonlight lingered too. The way it had spilled over his skin, made his smile too bright, too sharp.

You began to bury it as you prepared your regalia.

The movements were grounding, familiar, brushing out the fringe, checking the beadwork your Ome once did by hand.

You breathed in the cedar oil you’d dabbed on your wrists, hoping it would quiet the buzz beneath your ribs.

By the time the sun dipped low behind the trees, you were on your way to the pow wow grounds, your shawl folded over your arm and your heart feeling heavier than it should.

The sky was on fire - rose gold and rust - and the scent of frybread and smoked meat danced on the breeze.

The gathering was small but full of life.

Children darted through the grass in a blur of color, ribbons trailing behind them like comets. Aunties sat in circles, gossiping and teasing. The men stood off to the side, nodding to the beat of the drum, arms crossed, eyes soft.

You found a spot at the edge of the circle, close enough to feel the rhythm of the drums in your bones but far enough to keep your eyes on the treeline. You told yourself it was nothing.

But your instincts knew better.

Miss Marla was already in the middle of a story, she sat just outside the main drum circle, her voice as rough and warm as a gravel road after rain.

Everyone quieted when she spoke—elders and toddlers alike.

"Back in the old days," she said, "before the river changed Her course and the fences went up, there was a creature that walked like a man but fed like a beast. It didn’t cast a shadow. Didn’t breathe. It could slip into your dreams, wear the face of someone you loved, take the guise of a night bird, but it had one weakness—it couldn’t lie to the land."

The little boy next to you gasped softly.

"The land always knew."

A few children squirmed in their seats, but the adults didn’t laugh. They knew better.

Suddenly, your heart began to beat a little harder, like your body was sensing something that you weren't just yet. Confused, you brushed it off and tried to refocus on Miss Marla.

The cicadas were still singing in the trees, but you could hear something else beneath the forest, it hummed in your chest like a warning.

You scanned the edge of the circle without thinking. Just beyond the last firepit, where the light faded into shadows, you saw nothing. And yet…

That feeling.

The weight of being watched.

You hugged your shawl tighter around your shoulders, suddenly cold despite the heat. The story went on, but the words began to blur, Miss Marla's voice growing distant and fuzzy.

All you could focus on was the way the moonlight had lit up Remmick’s face the night before—and how the trees had gone quiet, and most importantly, the feeling of being watched.

The way the Earth held Her breath.

Miss Marla's words seemed to go completely mute, your mind somewhere else.

Your body was thrumming, your eyes couldn't seem to stop flickering to the forest.

The calling.

And then, from the tree line...

A scream - high, sharp, and raw.

It ripped through the field like rough hands on fabric.

Everything stopped. The crowd froze, heads snapping toward the woods. The children went silent, the elders’ faces turned grim.

You stood slowly, heart hammering. The scream had sounded human… but not right. Something about it curled your stomach, like it had come from a mouth that didn’t quite know how to scream anymore.

Miss Marla didn’t flinch. She just stared into the trees and muttered low under her breath, a prayer you barely caught. "Eyes wide, children. That ain’t no animal."

Fear tore through you, your nerves hijacked and your hair standing straight up.

Your stomach was getting twisted in knots, and you began to lightly tremble. 'What the hell is happening?' You thought to yourself.

Miss Marla's scanned the circle carefully, observing every single person. But her eyes, once soft turned sharp once they landed on you, her gaze resembling that of a mountain lion - predatory and fierce, "Y/N," her voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyes shot towards her, "Is there something you need to say?" She asked, her voice knowing. You couldn't even think of a response.

You were just as stunned as everyone else was.

But, deep down, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, you were to blame.

Blame for what? You weren't so sure just yet.

With a shake of your head, you casted your gaze onto the fire pit, and you watched as the flames danced and licked upwards into the sky.

---

After the dances had ended and the elders began to gather their young to leave, you stood off to the side, watching your family as they packed up their belongings.

Some were still spooked by the scream, while others had pushed it to the back of their minds.

You kissed and hugged your cousins goodbye, wishing them farewell on their short journeys back home, the little ones ran up to you, sticky with sweat and grins.

You leaned down to hug them, pressing your face into their hair, inhaling cedar and sweet grass. You kissed the tops of their heads and gave soft goodbyes, your voice caught somewhere between love and unease.

"Y’all be safe now," you said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Auntie Marie pulled you into a hug next, her arms sturdy and grounding. "You coming back to the house?" she asked. "We’ve got leftovers."

You shook your head. "Not tonight. I need some quiet."

She didn’t press you. Just gave your hand a soft squeeze. "Be careful driving home." You nodded.

One by one, the cars began pulling out. Headlights flared, laughter faded, and smoke from the fire pits rose into the darkening sky. You stayed put, the crowd thinning until you stood alone at the edge of the clearing, the lingering hum of something that refused to die with the drumbeat.

When the last car disappeared down the gravel road, the silence settled in.

Heavy.

Your ears rang from the sudden absence of voices. The trees loomed taller now, the shadows deeper. You didn’t want to move, but didn’t want to stay. The thrumming got stronger.

Somewhere behind you, in the woods, a twig snapped.

You turned sharply, expecting - what? You weren’t sure. But all you saw was shadow. Shadow and trees, and the glow of the dying firelight at your back.

Then, you saw it. Perched on a low-hanging branch at the tree line, still as stone, was an owl.

A barred owl, feathers soft and streaked with dusk, its wide eyes catching what little moonlight peeked through the canopy.

It didn’t hoot, it just stared - not at you.

But through you.

Something in you twisted—both in fear and in recognition. The kind that comes from blood memory, from stories told so often they’d become part of your bones. Ome’s voice whispered through your mind, low and steady.

"When the owl comes quiet, watching, it means the veil’s been brushed. It’s a spirit, child - sometimes a messenger. Sometimes a warning."

You swallowed hard, the warmth draining from your limbs. It wasn’t just the owl itself. It was the stillness around it.

No cicadas.

No frogs.

No wind.

Just that gaze.

And suddenly, you were back on the porch, bathed in moonlight, with Remmick’s too-sharp smile and the trees holding their breath.

The way the cicadas had gone silent then, too.

The way he had looked at you - like he knew something you didn’t. Like he could see straight through the years and the land and the skin you wore.

Your mouth went dry.

The owl blinked once, slowly, but it didn’t break eye contact. It didn’t move, and you felt seen. Marked.

Just for a second, in the way the moon curved against its feathers, the silhouette looked wrong. Not like an owl at all.

Like the shadow of a man.

You stepped back instinctively, hand brushing the beaded fringe of your regalia like it might anchor you. The owl finally turned its head, unnaturally slow, and took off, wings spread wide and ghostly, disappearing into the trees without a sound.

You were left standing alone, but you didn’t feel alone.

Not anymore.

---

Hot sweat covered you from head to toe, your bedsheets tangled around your body as you jerked from side to side, your chest heaving with terror.

It was off, it was all off.

You were in your apartment back in the city - everything looked the same, felt the same, but the outside was different, there were no street lights, not sound of cars passing by, nothing.

Dead silence.

The closet just across from your bed was slightly opened, the shadows covering the dresser that sat neatly next to it - covering the chair infront of the mirror. You never left your closet door open, but you were unable to get up and close it.

Panic surged through you.

You couldn't move.

You tried to bend your fingers and your toes, but nothing moved, not even slightly.

Then, you heard a deafening creak from across where you slept. The closet door opened achingly slow, long claws gripping the wood as the creature made its presence known.

Blood red eyes glared down at you, hungry and possessive. Your breath caught in your chest, your body going cold with horror as the creature stepped out of the closet, the silhouette only showcasing a shadowy outline.

"I've waited for you, sugar,"

The voice was deep - too deep for a human and raspy, like it had something caught in its throat.

It then closed its eyes and took a deep sniff, turning its head up towards the ceiling, "You smell just as divine as the day you left," it looked back down at you, taking steps towards the foot of the bed, "I can only imagine just how good you taste," the voice growled towards the end.

Your heart hammered so fast in your chest you thought you were going to pass out.

"I've been calling for you to come back home, my love," it tilted its head, admiring you, "Everybody missed you while you were gone."

'Everybody?' You thought to yourself, you didn't know what the creature was talking about, but it began to slowly loom over you, the mattress dipping as its weight pressed against your body.

Cold.

You whimpered, wishing you could move away, but you were completely paralyzed.

"I missed you the most, though," the creatures eyes trailed downwards, over your chest, your belly, and downwards, between your thighs. The creature then smiled - sharp, bloody fangs filling its mouth, grotesque and beautiful.

The creature tsked, its claws resting on your waist, sharp and freezing, "You always had belonged to me though, from the moment I laid eyes on you," it said, turning its head up slowly and locking its eyes onto yours.

Covetous.

Your eyes flickered toward the window, and there you saw a floating black feather.

"And now," the creature leaned forward, its face buried in the crook of your neck, "I'm going to take what's mine." Your eyes widened, wanting desperately to fight back, punch it, kick it, something, but nothing happened - not even as it's tongue licked your neck, fangs piercing down and-

You screamed, your throat raw and desperate, your body shooting straight up from the small bed you slept on.

For just a second, you were unsure on where you were, but then you looked outside through the window and you saw the familiar marsh trees - lined up in a row in-front of the house.

Relief filled you, your heart slowing down and the room seemed to breathe you back in again, calming your nerves.

It was just a dream.

It wasn't real.

You looked down at yourself, sweat was soaked through the sheets and the comforter felt sticky, like the humidity had seeped through the worn fabric. Disgusted, you stood up and began to strip the bed, including the pillow cases.

Hopefully, you'd be able to get better sleep the next night.

As you gathered up the sheets, you slowly felt the familiar crawling feeling of something watching you - this time, it was different.

It felt impatient, ready to pounce.

Your stomach twisted in knots, but you pushed the feeling down. It was too late at night to be dealing with this.

You moved through the rooms, gathering your clean sheets. You were too tired to worry about a comforter - it was too hot anyways, so once the bed was made, you laid back down and attempted to doze back off to sleep.

The last thing you saw before closing your eyes, were two faint, red dots, peeking down at you from the treeline.

---

The kettle whistles just as you finish telling Aunt Marie everything - the owl perched outside your window the night you came home, the strange energy that swirled around you at the pow wow, and that dream you had your first night back.

The scent of chamomile tea fills the kitchen as Aunt Marie turns off the stove.

She doesn’t look at you right away.

Instead, she sets the kettle aside, her movements slow, deliberate. You hear the creak of the old floorboards under her house shoes as she walks back to the table and sits across from you, her face shadowed by the low light.

Her eyes are fixed on her hands, which are clasped tightly together—knuckles pale, a silver ring glinting faintly on one finger.

"You said his name was Remmick?"

You nod. The name still tastes strange in your mouth, like it doesn’t quite belong to this place.

Aunt Marie looks up then, and the softness in her face is gone. Something older and harder has replaced it - something that reminds you of your Ome when the weather was about to turn bad and she just knew.

"You need to be careful with that man," she says, voice quiet but firm. "There's something...off about him," she murmured as she stirred her tea.

You frown, leaning forward.

There was definitely something off about him, but what were the chances of him being connected with the owl? A white man turning into an owl made you almost smile, if it weren't something you were considering right now.

Aunt Marie sighed, fanning the heat, "Did you give him your name?"

You shake your head, you never even gave him your name, but you knew his.

Her expression softens, relief coating her weathered features. "Well, atleast you're smart enough to not give him that."

A chill runs down your spine.

He didn't need to ask, because he could have possibly known already.

You brushed the thought away, it was impossible.

"The owl was your warning, though," she says softly. "Our people have always known that. It watches, it waits. It carries messages from the other side, from the ones who walked before us. And what you felt at the pow wow—that wasn’t just energy, girl. That was your blood remembering something your head forgot. That was the land calling you back—and calling you to protect it."

You feel your throat tighten. "Protect it from what?"

Her gaze darkened, her hand falling to her lap, "I don't know. But, you might - sooner or later."

You blinked rapidly, not sure what to make sense of what she was saying, whether it was a threat or a promise or both. She then looks up at the ceiling and closed her eyes, her chest moving slowly up and down, "You've always had the gift." she whispered.

You frowned, "That's what Miss Marla and some of the elders used to say."

Aunt Marie dryly chuckled, her gaze landing back onto you, "Well, they're right. You've always been able to look through the veil, baby, you just ain't never paid close attention." Her words made tingles go up your spine and radiate across your arms.

She then leans across the table and gently grabbed your hand, a soft smile etching onto her face, "People who are able to listen to the ancestors and hear their words have the gift."

She releases your hand and stands, walking to the her purse, where a tight bundle of sweetgrass hangs. She pulls a strand loose, lights it, and lets the smoke curl through the room, circling you both.

"This is for whatever it is that ails you, my dear. Everything will be okay soon."

---

The night air was still, very little wind compared to previous nights. You sat there on the porch, arms wrapped around your knees, blanket draped across your shoulders. The cup of untouched tea sat besides you, no longer warm like how you preferred.

Your thoughts churned - from the owl, to Aunt Marie, to Miss Marla's words at the pow wow... to Renmick.

You scoffed, there was no reason why a stranger should be taking over your brain this much, but it no longer surprised you. Nothing really surprised you.

You closed your eyes and listened to your surroundings - the beat of the cicadas, the creaking of the wood beneath you, the frogs in the nearby water, the inhale and exhale of the marsh and it's deep humming, almost lulling.

The sound of a twig snapped.

You looked up, and there he was; same as before - at the end of the drive near the tree lines that were lined up on the side of the house.

The hairs began to stand up one by one, goosebumps blanketing your skin. He looked the same as the other night he had showed up - same white shirt, same dark pants.

Same too sharp grin.

He didn't speak at first, just watched you, a familiar glint in his eyes.

You take a deep breath, "Hello, Remmick," You adjust yourself in your chair, "You on another walk?" You asked him.

"I only came cause you left the light on," He said, his voice soft yet filled the space between y'all. You turned your gaze up at the light bulb above you, its light flickering slightly.

"Yes, I tend to leave my outdoor lights on, no matter what time of day it is," You responded to him.

He then began to take steps towards you, like he was being careful, but was still at ease with himself. He walked with a purpose, nonetheless, shoes shuffling against the earth.

Remmick spoke up, voice just slightly louder, "I'll make mental note of that next time I come around," He stopped in his tracks, "May I sit up there with ya?"

You hesitated, but nodded once and gestured to the empty chair across the porch, just a few feet away from you.

He shot you a grateful look before passing by and sitting down in the chair - you had noticed he scooted it closer to you, but you paid little mind to it.

You two sat there for just a little while, absorbing the moonlight and the fresh air. Knives stabbed into you all over your figure, and the thrumming in your chest hadn't paused, it shifted - no longer in your sternum, but instead in your core and stomach.

Remmick was watching you, analyzing you.

The awkwardness and tension began to settle in, and you felt the urge to break it, his eyes boring straight through you.

"So, how long you been here?" You asked him, turning to him. Sitting directly under the porch light, his hair appeared slightly darker, a reddish tint peeping through.

Remmick smirked at your question, "I'm not sure. I've been here for...a while,"

You quirked a brow, "How long is a while?" You had never seen or heard of him before, so you thought that maybe he had moved to the Delta sometime after you had left.

Suddenly, and maybe it was your imagination, but right after you had asked him that question, it had looked like a flash of red went across his eyes.

It was for barely a second, but your heart had stuttered once you saw it.

His tongue peeked out over his lips, leaving a glisten of spit in its wake, "You sure do ask a lot of questions," He tapped his foot, "I moved here a long time ago."

A beat of silence was exchanged between the two of you. He wasn't going to elaborate and something told you not to press.

He then spoke, "What about you?" He asked. You uncurled your arms from around your legs, "I was raised here,"

You continued, "My whole family was. We were raised here - died here. I think I might have been the only one to leave," You said.

"I was raised primarily by my grandparents, although I lived with my mother and father. Ome and Papa were the ones who taught me everything there was to know about everything; life, medicine, my culture," Your eyes flickered to Remmick, "Spirits."

You swallowed before continuing, "Ever since I left this place, I've felt a calling to come back, like I had unfinished business. I guess, I've felt this way since I was a child - that no matter where I would go, I would always been drawn to come back here."

Remmick nodded his head in understanding, but there was something in his eyes. The curiosity and charm was gone and seemed to be replaced with a longing, a longing you had never seen before. The shadows from the porch covering his head.

"Aye," He said softly, "I sure wish I felt that way about a place, I don't think I'll ever feel that way again,"

Again.

Before you could open your mouth to speak, he looked at you and beat you to it.

"You sure are beautiful," He leaned closer to you, "I didn't get the chance to tell you before."

You blinked.

Then, you felt heat running up to your ears, "Thank you, Remmick. That's awful sweet of you."

He chuckled at your reaction, "I can't lie, not allowed to, so just know that I'm telling the truth." You couldn't help the smile on your face, although now you had even more questions.

Despite the friendliness that Remmick was displaying, you couldn't shake the deep feeling of something feeling off. Something felt too foreign, too intense about him.

You couldn't put your finger on it, but your instincts were raising flags within you.

At the same time; you felt drawn.

You just couldn't help but wonder more about him - it was eating you alive.

"Do you plan on staying here?" He asked you, his gaze venturing off.

You furrowed your brows, you really weren't sure if you were going to stay, but you knew that you were back here for a reason.

What reason? You were still figuring it out. You were trying to figure everything out.

"I'm not sure," You sniffled, "I might, but I really don't know." Remmick nodded his head stiffly, almost like he was containing something.

A whip of coldness then settled in the air.

"If you do leave, where would you go?"

The trees paused and the air went still for a second - as if they too heard the tone of his voice. The question sounded innocent enough, but his voice was suddenly too deep, almost gurgled.

Like the creature from your dream.

Fear penetrated you, your hair standing from head to toe. The shadows began to eclipse the rest of his features, now you were unsure as to what you were exactly looking at, like a man but not quite.

You couldn't find the words to say something back, but he then chuckled and stood up, the shadows covering his entire body, "I think it's time I head back home," His voice had returned to its natural state, but the effect it had on you were still just as apparent.

"I'll see you later, darlin'." His eyes flashed for a second.

Red.

It wasn't your imagination.

After you stepped off the porch, you immediately flew up and into the house, slamming the door shut behind you.

You needed to contact Miss Marla - and soon.

---

Your eyes darted under your lids, frantically searching for something out of nothing.

The sheets were tangled up around your body, cocooning you in their own little sanctuary as you twitched in your sleep, your legs and arms flinching.

The moon over the Delta had turned to blood, cascading a red glare over the land.

You stood barefoot in the marsh, skin damp with sweat and river fog, your breath quiet as the trees breathed with you. Spanish moss hung like funeral veils from the cypress branches, the air thick with something older than rot. You knew this wasn’t the real world—no chirps, no wind moved the reeds.

You’d been here before.

A chill ran through your body, you felt him before you saw him.

A dark figure, cloaked and red eyes then stepped from between two trees like it had always belonged to this place, like it was the creature's home and you were a visitor.

You took a step back, ready to run before the figure then changed. You couldn't believe it.

Remmick.

He was shirtless, his pants unbuttoned and what appeared to be dried blood coated the hem of his jeans. A gold chain was hanging loosely on his neck, moving slightly with each step.

"Hello, sugar," He whispered, voice like silk dipped in ash.

You didn’t speak.

Words were useless here. He moved closer, and the wilderness pulsed around him, every creature gone silent, every shadow leaning toward his form.

"I can smell your blood - your soul - through your dreams," He said, leaning in so close his lips nearly grazed your ear.

"It sings of fire, of bone, of old deities you still whisper to when you think I’m not listening." He took a deep inhale, his nose pressing firmly against your jawline.

"Perfect." He purred.

Your breath hitched.

He reached out - cold fingers grazing your neck, your collarbone, dragging over the ridge of your shoulder like a memorized ritual.

"Do you remember what it felt like, last time?" he asked. "When we were here in the marsh together, when you cracked open and something older slipped between us?"

His mouth brushed your skin, not biting yet - just pressing, lingering, teasing. A ghost of a smile, a genuine smile, threatened to break out on his face.

Two arms snaked around your waist and yanked you closer to him, your body completely flush against his, not letting you go and having no plans on doing so.

Then, without warning, the marsh changed.

The trees bled sap the color of ink, running into the water beneath. Howls and hoots began to echo all around you, meshing into what sounded like human screams. Clouds churned and hissed with unseen wings, the sound of Jericho's trumpet to be expected, but never coming.

Remmick’s eyes turned black, no iris, no white, just endless dark.

"You brought me here," he hissed, voice now layered, inhuman.

"You called me with your grief. Your land is dying, your bloodline hunted, and still... you dream of me."

His hand snaked between y'all and pressed against your chest, palm flattened against your flesh, but not to comfort.

To hold your heart still.

"I helped call you here." That made you break, a vicious sob ripped from your throat. You tried to twist out of his grip, but that only made him hold you tighter.

"I need you to let me in," he whispered. You squirmed and wiggled against him, but it didn't bother him any. If anything, it made him fall deeper in awe.

"I need you to let me in completely - not just in your dream. Let me bury myself within you, in your soul. I will make you just like me - so you can remember everything that’s been taken from you. Forever."

"No, no, no," You cried. This couldn't be happening, this wasn't real, this wasn't going to be your fate. You were back in the city, far, far away from here, far away him.

He then leaned opened his mouth, revealing a line of fangs - saliva dripping down on the sap beneath your feet.

The hand on your chest moved up to your throat, not squeezing but not gentle and he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

A sharp pinch.

You woke.

The room was almost completely dark, the only thing you could see was from the moon peeking through.

And a single whisper in the air, soft and trembling:

"Next time, you won’t wake up."

---

You sat curled on the edge of your couch, hands clutched around a lukewarm mug you hadn’t sipped from in an hour.

The nightmare still clung to you like smoke. No amount of distraction, tea, or whispered prayers could fully shake it loose.

You had half a mind to call Miss Marla, you even picked up the phone before hanging up, guilt wracking you still from the day before - you still thought you were tied to it.

Besides, what were you even going to say? "Something is watching me", "I think a nightmare creature wants to devour my soul?" "The man that I've been seeing might want to kill me?"

No.

But Miss Marla would’ve understood. She always did. She saw the signs before anyone else did—like she had been born watching shadows dance behind the veil.

She always told you since you were a small child, that you were someone who could bring people - spirits - from the beyond the veil.

You never took it into full consideration until now.

Sharply, you jumped up and grabbed your coat hanging next to the front door. You had to see her face. You had to hear her voice, just to make sure - just to feel assured.

As you drove through the Mississippi marsh, the sun had began to dip behind the trees, leaving behind a canvas of purple and orange and red in its wake, leaving behind the day creatures and welcoming the night.

Although you knew you weren't in a time rush, you couldn't shake the feeling of running out of time. You had a gut feeling - no, not gut - a deep, intuitive feeling - that this was going to be it.

You knew it, and the marsh knew it.

The loud calls had turned to whispers, no longer echoing through your ears.

Instead, it became hushed, tedious, with something dark and predatory rearing its head - rushing hastily to call your name, claim you.

What was it? You knew, but you didn't want to accept it.

The air had become too heavy, too still. No cicadas. No frogs. Just the dull rumble of your tires against dirt and gravel.

When you pulled up to her farm, her porch light was off and the horse pen was wide open.

Odd.

Miss Marla never let her house go dark. Not once. And she sure as hell never let her horse gate wide open.

Immediately, dread twisted in your guts.

You stepped out cautiously, gravel crunching underfoot, your breath puffing white despite the spring warmth. A sense of wrongness pressed in around you like fog.

"Miss Marla?" You yelled out, voice trembling. No answer.

The door was open. Not wide, but just enough. You hesitated at the threshold, but something deep in you told you needed to find out what had happened.

You looked down and your body went cold.

An owl feather.

Taking a sharp breath in, you pushed the door open.

The smell had hit you like a train - pungent.

The entire house reeked of copper and soil. Like something rotten had sunk into the floorboards, and made its way underneath the house.

Gagging, your hand flew to your mouth, eyes watering immediately.

Then, there she was. You stumbled back a step, stomach clenching—but it was too late.

You saw her.

Miss Marla was there, slumped in her chair beside the coffee table. Her head bowed like she’d fallen asleep - but the stillness was all wrong. Her eyes were open, glassy, staring at nothing. Her throat torn, mouth slack.

Blood, old and dark was painting across her lap, running from the large gash that protruded from her throat. Her hair, from the midway down, was soaked.

Your knees nearly gave out beneath you.

Tears spilled hot down your cheeks as you backed away, hand clutched to your chest, bile threatening to rise in your throat.

This was a message.

You didn’t remember getting back in the car, didn't remember starting the engine and reversing down the narrow road.

All you knew was the pounding in your ears, the shaking in your hands, and the single, terrible truth sitting in your gut like a stone:

You weren’t safe. Not here. Not anymore.

---

The screen door slammed behind you, you wasted no time in running to the bedroom to grab your bags.

Your body moved on instinct, grabbing your suitcase, stuffing it with whatever you could, your hands shaking, breath coming fast. You’d just left the station, hours of being watched, questioned.

Nobody could believe it, that someone would target her.

But, what made it even more grotesque, was that it had appeared someone had ripped her throat out with her mouth. When you explained this to the officers, they had tried to downplay it until they were dispatched and had seen it for themselves.

The blood had been everywhere.

But, after they were done questioning you, they ordered that you stay put, so they would know where to find you when they needed any answers to their questions.

Yeah, right.

It had been night by the time you left the police station. You knew that time was limited and you needed to get somewhere, not then, but now.

Trembling, you grabbed the phone and dialed, every second an eternity until the line clicked. Relief ran through you, grateful it went through.

"Aunt Marie?" Your voice was barely coherent.

"Baby, what's going on?" Her voice was hushed, but full of concern, she'd been worried over you since the last time she had visited you, which felt like forever ago, but you knew it had only been roughly a few days ago.

"It’s Miss Marla. She’s—" Your voice cracked. "She’s dead."

A beat of silence and then a sharp breath. "How?"

Tears stung your eyes, a painful lump forming in your throat, "Her throat was ripped open, it looked like something-"

"You’ve got to get out of there. Now. Come here. Bring salt and bring your thread. But you don’t look back, you understand me? You don’t look back." You heard her hands tremble over the phone.

Before you could respond, deep, painful thrumming erupted in your chest. You winced, grabbing your chest and clenching the fabric.

And then you heard it.

That low, wrong owl call outside the house.

Slow. Purposeful. Close.

You turned toward the front window, heart already sinking. He was standing just beyond the porch.

Remmick.

Not a shadow this time, a voice on the wind, or a creature from your dreams. He was a man.

Impossibly still. Eyes black as drowned night, the last sliver of sunlight caught the edge of his jaw, the faint curve of a cruel smile.

He stepped toward the screen door.

You dropped the phone. Aunt Marie’s voice was still calling your name, but you barely heard her, all focus on the man that was approaching you - hunting you.

"I always knew you’d come back," Remmick said gently. “You tried to run, but this land… this land calls you home. Just like I do."

"Stay away," You whispered.

He stopped before the entrance of the home, patient and hungry, his teeth no longer dull, but instead a row of knife-sharp fangs.

"I knew what you were before you did," he said. "You walk the boundary. Between flesh and spirit. Between root and bone. You think you hid it, but it’s in every step you take on this dirt."

He tilted his head, eyes glinting and mouth wide.

"You speak to the dead when you dream. You feel the breath of your ancestors in the wind and think it’s just instinct. But it’s more than that. You’re a beacon. You shine through the veil like a lantern in fog - and I saw you. I felt you."

"That’s not your gift to take," You said, voice shaking. "It belongs to the land. To my people. To me."

His gaze sharpened. "It belongs to whoever’s strong enough to claim it."

Bile rose in your throat, "You mean destroy it."

"No," He said, stepping close, eyes devouring you. "I mean preserve it. Through me. Through us."

He pointed up at the entrance of the door, his patience beginning to wear thin, "You need to let me in, darlin'" He purred, "Or else, I'm gonna pay your little auntie and cousins a final visit."

Ice spread through you. You knew he was being serious.

For a split second, you thought of the sweet grass in the kitchen. Maybe if you lit it and prayed he would go away? No. Maybe some garlic from the cupboard.

You shifted, he took a step back, letting you know he would do it.

Tears fell down your face.

You could barely breathe. “Why me?”

His voice dropped, velvet and grave-deep. "Because, sugar, I love you. I’ve loved you before you were born. Before your name was ever whispered by firelight. You’re not just connected to the dead - you belong with them. With me."

Lips pressed firmly in a thin line, you took a step forward. You weren't going to risk the life of your cousins - barely old enough to be in school and the life of your aunt who only wanted to help you.

Besides, you knew that Remmick was partially right, you did belong with the dead; your ancestors. You always had.

"If I'm going to step out, I need you to back away." Your tone was flat, completely devoid of emotion. This was it.

A flash of victory passed over his face, and he began to step back, leaving you plenty of space to walk outside to him.

Your steps were heavy, like you were stepping in quicksand rather than wooded floor. The closer you approached him, the happier he got, his hand extending out to you. His claws protruded, curved and black. "I'm here for you, baby."

Once you reached the entrance, you took a deep breath. One more step and you were his.

Your eyes darted. He was standing about 5 ft- maybe 6ft from the door, and there was an opening on the porch, next to one of the chairs, where it led straight to the marsh. Could you make it?

He beckoned you, fingers curled in a 'come hither' motion, "Come on, I gotcha'." He whispered.

It's now or never.

You darted.

You slapped his hand out of the way and took off, feet as quick as you could possibly bear it. Your throat and lungs burned, the marsh opened to you and ushered you in, the scent of it -

Two rough hands snatched your waist.

Cold and territorial.

"Now, now, pretty thing," He whispered against your ear. "We both know that you can't run or hide from me, so don't bother tryin'," He pressed his face against yours, lips on your cheek as he inhaled deeply.

"You make the dead sing, and I am so, so tired of silence."

You struggled and began to scream before his hand slapped over your mouth. "Now, don't make me upset now - screamin' won't get you nowhere,"

He bared his fangs.

"Screamin' was what ole' Marla had done," His voice hushed, "But, that didn't last for very long - not before she invited me in,"

Your heart ached, the thought of Miss Marla-

A guttural wail bubbled up, unleashing into his palm as he tried to shush you, his nose buried in your hair, "It's okay, baby, I won't make it hurt too bad now,"

His head trailed from your hair to the crook of your neck, before nuzzling against you. Hot, wetness hit your throat, his tongue lapping at the fragile skin. You stilled, too scared to move. This was it, this was how you were going to die.

Remmick opened his mouth.

Then pain - blinding, searing - as his teeth sank into your neck.

Your knees buckled, his arms tightened you against him, never letting you go. Loud groans of ecstasy came from him, as if it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. It reminded you of vulgarity.

Darkness blotted your vision, replacing the lightness as you began to feel yourself drift away.

Time unraveled.

You saw the faces of your ancestors, you heard their screams, you watched them vanish.

The world dimmed.

Your heartbeat faded—

And stopped.

When your eyes opened again, everything was different.

You could feel the earth like a drum beneath your feet. You could hear the ghosts calling. But they did not answer you anymore, instead they watched you.

Remmick looked down from above you, smiling - triumphant and adoring, blood coating his chin and shirt.

"You were the one who heard them," He said, brushing your hair from your face. "Now you are one of them."

You were no longer just of the land. You were cursed to haunt it.

Forever—

with him.

#sinners 2025 #remmick sinners #remmick x reader #remmick x indigenous!reader #jack o'connell

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witchywithwhiskey · 9 months ago

Text

when in hell, do as the demons do

pairing: demon posing as a tattoo artist!steve rogers x tattooed!female reader (number and type of tattoos aren't specified but it's more than two)

summary: new york city tattoo parlors have a tradition of offering special deals on friday the 13th, but when you decide to try out a new shop in brooklyn, you get much more than you paid for—and end up selling your soul to a charming demon.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, monsterfucking, dubcon because magic, sex pollen elements, nonconsensual bonding, soul bonds, demon tricks, bdsm (no safe word but with check-ins), choking, sadism/masochism, pain play, very brief blood play, nipple torture, pussy spanking, face slapping, rough body play, finger sucking, dacryphilia, fingering (f receiving), degradation kink, master kink, praise kink, pet names (baby, sweetheart, plaything), begging, teasing, dirty talk, dry humping, biting, marking, cockwarming, aftercare, happy ending

word count: 14.5k

a/n: here's my first halloween fic for 2024! i came up with the idea on friday the 13th last month and liked it for a halloween idea so here we are! this is the fic i was talking about in my poll here, which helped me decide to make steve a demon, but i'm not great at world-building/magic-building so if the magic doesn't make sense, i'm sorry! i just wanted to write some sex pollen-y tattoo artist smut and it turned into a whole thing. this fic really got away from me 😬 whoops. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!! ♡♡

halloween fics masterlist

The first time you heard the story—the urban legend whispered around New York City tattoo parlors—you were getting your second tattoo. You were young, but not so naive, and yet, when the woman named Wanda Maximoff told you the tale in her vaguely Eastern European accent, a chill raced down your spine.

It went like this: There was a young person who wanted to get a tattoo, and they were lured into an unfamiliar shop on Friday the 13th by the special deals they were offering. (Where the shop was located in the city varied based on who was telling the story, but Wanda had said it was a small parlor tucked into an alley in the Bowery.)

The person in the story didn’t know the shop or the artist, but they were so enthralled by the artist’s beauty and work that they made the hasty decision to get a tattoo of a symbol they didn’t understand. It was the last decision they’d ever make, because by the time the tattoo was done, they’d been unknowingly enslaved to a dark force—having sold their soul to a demon.

When Wanda had finished the story, her piercing green eyes stared at you long and hard, her mouth twisted to the side as if she was stopping herself from saying more than she should. There was a warning in her expression you didn’t understand, and you hadn’t been able to stop the fear that burrowed into your heart. For a second—just a second—you’d believed the strange, witchy woman.

Then you’d scoffed, laughing away your fear, and insisted the story must’ve been started by a grumpy old tattoo artist who was tired of the influx of customers on Friday the 13th. It was well known that most New York City tattoo shops had special deals every Friday the 13th, and you asserted the story was just supposed to frighten away naive tattoo novices who’d get something impulsively and regret it later.

Wanda had pressed her lips together, an inscrutable look on her face, but only nodded once before returning her focus to your tattoo. In the silence that had followed, you’d been left alone with your thoughts, and you mulled over the story, repeating your rationalizations to yourself until you believed them.

But a sliver of fear and intrigue remained for the rest of your session and when you were done, you were relieved to leave Wanda and her creepy story behind. Something like that—accidentally selling your soul to a demon when getting a tattoo—didn’t happen in real life, and it certainly wouldn’t happen to you.

That’s what you told yourself, and you believed it. Until, of course, it did happen to you.

Over the years, you heard the story repeated time and time again in countless tattoo shops across the city, and the fear you’d felt listening to Wanda recount her version of the tall tale transformed into curiosity, then a dark kind of delight. It wasn’t something you wanted to push away, but to hold close to your heart, to cherish.

As you got older, you found yourself telling the story to younger folks when you crossed paths with someone who hadn’t heard it. And every time you told the story, you found yourself unconsciously replicating Wanda’s Eastern European accent, making the story as scary as you could.

Each time you saw apprehension in the eyes of those you told the tale to, something inside you unfurled and grew stronger. You’d smirk when the tattoo novices scurried away, some leaving whatever shop you were in entirely, and a shiver would race down your spine, so much like the fear you’d felt when you first heard the story, but it was no longer that. It was a quiver of devilish mirth.

You told yourself it was normal, how much fun you had scaring off the younger folks in the tattoo shops you frequented, laughing along with the artists you knew so well. You told yourself you were just taking part in tradition by repeating the story. You told yourself there wasn’t a darkness in your heart that was wakened by the story, and craved something you didn’t quite understand.

That’s what you told yourself, and you believed it. Until you walked into Hell and your entire life changed.

Hell was the new tattoo shop that had opened in Brooklyn at the start of October, though you’d been hearing talk of it for months before then. You’d been curious about it, and the fact that none of your friends or any of the artists you frequented knew much about it made it all the more intriguing. They didn’t know who owned the shop or who was working there, and you were desperate to find out.

It wasn’t a conscious decision you remembered making, but late in the afternoon on Friday the 13th, you took the subway to Brooklyn, getting off at the stop closest to Hell.

The day was brisk, the chill of autumn clinging to the air even as the sun shone brightly above the city. You wore a thick sweater, a skirt and some tights with your most comfortable boots to make the trek deep into Brooklyn, and you were glad for it. It was a longer walk than you’d been expecting, but pleasant enough while the sun was high.

By the time you made it to the shop, though, the sun was dipping low behind the brownstones of the nearby neighborhood and your cheeks were chilled from the crisp autumn breeze. It was a relief to see the red neon sign for Hell, and you skipped quickly down the last block to push through the door of the nondescript exterior.

You were met by a rush of artificial heat that made you smile, pleased by the respite from the frigid autumn air, which swirled around your ankles as the door closed behind you. The warmth of the parlor kissed your cheeks and thawed through your icy fingertips while you looked around.

You were surprised to find that Hell was unexpectedly inviting.

Inside, the tattoo shop was decorated in dark colors that fit the theme: inky blacks, vivid reds, luminous yellows and burnt oranges. But, though it could’ve been dreary, Hell looked alive and lived-in, with cozy black leather sofas in the waiting area, and artwork decorating much of the wall space. When you looked closer, you saw that many of the pieces depicted creatures of the dark.

As you studied the artwork, you noticed a theme: Demons cavorting with human women, specifically fucking human women. You felt a tingle of something bloom between your thighs. The art was salacious and wicked, and yet, you didn’t feel disturbed by any of the imagery, only intrigued. Even a little bit aroused.

A clearing throat pulled your attention away from the art and to the redheaded woman standing behind the counter. She asked if you needed help.

As you approached, you noticed she was beautiful, and had a cold smile on her face, her green eyes watching you in a way that unsettled you. It took you a long moment to realize her gaze reminded you of Wanda, even though the women looked nothing alike. But you felt uneasy as you walked up to the counter.

Your smile was tentative as you inquired if the shop had any Friday the 13th deals, adding that it was tradition, just in case the woman was new to the city.

Her green eyes raked over your face in an obviously assessing look, and you felt like your heart and soul were being judged. You nearly huffed a laugh at the thought, because it was so ludicrous, but managed to keep still and remain expressionless while the woman stared at you.

After a moment, she smiled again and the expression was friendlier, like she was greeting an old friend. She introduced herself as Natasha Romanoff and apologized because all but one of the artists had gone home for the day since their appointments were done and they didn’t get too many walk-ins, being a new shop and all.

Just then, a man stepped behind the counter as if appearing out of nowhere—though, at the time, you rationalized that you’d simply been staring so intently at Natasha, you hadn’t noticed his approach. Without missing a beat, Natasha introduced the man as Steve Rogers, the owner of Hell and the only artist still around on that Friday the 13th.

“What willing sacrifice do we have here, Nat?” Steve asked, sidling up to the counter and pressing his hands on top to lean toward you.

The first thing you noticed where his eyes—such a pure, beautiful blue that they looked like the perfect, endless sky. But as your gaze wandered over his face, you realized his eyes weren’t his only gorgeous feature. He had a strong brow that gave way to silky blond hair; a straight, sloping nose that led down to a pair of plump, pink lips with just enough of a cupid’s bow, that you wanted to lick it.

A rush of warmth filled your cheeks at the thought and you dropped your eyes to Steve’s broad shoulders, pausing to admire the way they filled out his simple black t-shirt. His thick biceps were covered in stunningly intricate tattoos, all done in dark ink that contrasted with his pale skin. They extended down to his hands, still planted flat on the counter.

As far as you could see, there was only a small space of bare, unadorned skin at the base of Steve’s throat—all the rest of him seemed to be covered in tattoos that snaked beneath his t-shirt. You wondered idly if his tattoos covered his whole body, eyes trailing down to the black jeans he wore, and quickly shoved the thought aside.

Raising your gaze back to Steve’s face, you hoped your expression wasn’t giving away your thoughts, but the charming grin that spread across the hot tattoo artist’s face made you think he had an idea you were checking him out. And he liked it.

“Or should I say,” Steve went on in a slightly lower, more rumbly voice, leaning further across the counter with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. He was close enough that you got a hint of his cologne—leather and firewood—and you couldn’t help the way your body reacted, warming and tingling and yearning for him. “What sweet thing do we have coming to barter their soul for some new ink?” He winked at you, all charm, and you nearly swooned.

“I-I was just asking if you had any Friday the 13th deals,” you stammered, unsure how to act under the blinding light of Steve’s charm. You’d known and talked to your fair share of attractive tattoo artists in your life, but Steve was on another level. He was hot and alluring in a way you couldn’t put into words, which was how you found yourself blurting, “It’s tradition.”

Steve’s grin hitched higher, and he stared at you a second longer before ducking down behind the counter to rifle through the shelves.

“Well, I’m not one to turn my back on the old ways,” he said, lifting his head to catch your eye. He gave you a look that made your knees weak, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief like he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having on you, before returning to his task.

Finally, he seemed to find what he’d been looking for and stood up, brandishing a piece of paper on which some simple tattoo designs were sketched. It looked like any other sheet of designs you’d see in any other tattoo shop, and you didn’t think anything of it, turning your attention back to Steve’s handsome face.

“We didn’t have anything planned,” he explained, crossing his arms and leaning down on the counter.

The position made him slightly shorter than you, while emphasizing the expanse of his shoulders and the thick mucles of his biceps and the veins of his forearms. It was only because his hand pointed to the paper, pulling your attention away from his big body, that you remembered he was telling you something.

“But if you pick from these, I’ll charge you $113—how’s that sound?” He raised his eyes to yours, and you noticed how long his eyelashes were.

For a long moment, you just stared at Steve, your mouth slightly parted while you admired his beautiful face. You had the urge again to lick his cupid’s bow, and your body warmed pleasantly as you imagined doing exactly that. Sitting in Steve’s lap and licking him all over…

With effort, you managed to pull yourself from the tattoo artist’s spell, shaking your head to clear it while you processed what he’d said. The price he’d named was a typical deal for New York City, even with the Friday the 13th discount, so you nodded absently.

“That sounds good,” you muttered, bending over the counter to look at the sheet of paper he was still pointing to. Even his hands were attractive, with skulls tattooed on the backs and other symbols you didn’t recognize decorating his knuckles. You couldn’t help but think his hands would make a pretty necklace if they were wrapped around your throat…

Shaking your head again, you furrowed your brow and forced yourself to focus on the paper with all the designs. There was some cute Halloween-themed stuff, like black cats, witch hats, ghosts and the like. There were also some stylized numbers, like 666, and a couple pentagram designs along with other symbols you recognized.

But the one that caught your attention was something you’d never seen before. It was made up of exquisitely delicate curving lines that formed what loosely looked like an infinity symbol. There were some twists to the design that made it look harsher, more archaic.

“What’s this?” you asked, pointing to the design that called to you and looking up at Steve. Your breath caught in your throat when you met his gaze, and your voice sounded awed as you went on. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

A secretive, conspiratorial smirk tugged at the corners of Steve’s lips and he leaned in a little closer, his scent invading your senses and his breath ghosting over your cheek.

“It’s a design of my own making,” he said, his voice pitched low and intimate as he looked at you in a way that made warmth curl around your heart and trickle down to settle low in your belly. “It’s special—why, do you like it?”

It took a tremendous amount of effort to pull your gaze away from Steve’s, but you forced yourself to look back down at the paper, your finger tracing the sweeping curves and the sharp points of the design.

“I do,” you said slowly, thinking about where on your body it might look nice. There was a spot on your ankle where you felt it would look good, like an anklet. But before you could get too attached to the design, you lifted your gaze, giving Steve a serious look. “It’s not a tribal symbol, or any kind of cultural appropriation, right?”

Steve placed a hand over his heart, like he was making a vow, and said, “I promise it’s not from any culture of man.”

His strange answer piqued your curiosity, but you brushed your questions aside. Later, you’d understand his odd turn of phrase, but in the moment, you chalked it up to Steve playing into the theme of his shop. You figured anyone who named their tattoo parlor Hell would be a little peculiar, and you didn’t think it was a bad thing. Especially when he was so hot.

Looking back down at the paper, you let your eyes trail over the looping design a few times, feeling yourself sinking into…something. A thrilling shiver raced down your spine, a mix of delight and terror that you found intoxicating and you had to shake yourself to remember where you were and what you were doing.

Raising your eyes to Steve, you told him you wanted the design, and once the words were past your lips, you felt a sense of rightness. You weren’t the type of person to get tattoos impulsively, but this one was calling to you, and you didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to get a tattoo from the hot shop owner.

Besides, when in Hell…

Steve slid the paper off the counter and stood up straight, his eyes going sharp as he looked between you and the design. You got the same sense you had with Natasha, that Steve was judging your heart and soul and determining whether you were deserving of the design you’d chosen. You found yourself hoping desperately that he decided you were.

After a moment, an impish smirk pulled at Steve’s mouth before his expression shifted fluidly into one of theatrical uncertainty.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, drawing out the tension of the moment and stroking his jaw like he was thinking. “I was hoping to save this design for someone special.” His blue eyes pinned you with a searching look, a charming smirk on his lips. “Are you special, sweetheart?”

Steve’s charm was turned all the way up, and you felt flustered under the weight of it. Not to mention that the way the pet name rolled off his tongue made you want to do anything he asked. Twisting your fingers self-consciously, you ducked your head a little.

“Well, I—I don’t know,” you admitted, but for some reason, your thoughts strayed to the dark pleasure you sometimes felt when you frightened others with scary stories. Did that make you special, or just a little bit depraved? You didn’t know, but you hoped it was both, and that both were equally appealing to Steve.

The tattoo artist leaned back down on the counter, the veins of his forearms bulging from his skin as he crossed his arms. Since he’d ducked down, he could easily catch your lowered gaze.

“Tell me, pretty girl,” he purred softly, his tone inviting you to lean in. So you did.

A soft smile curled your lips when you smelled his cologne, and you relaxed a little while he kept talking in that alluringly deep voice of his.

“Where would you like my design on your body?”

A shiver of desire thrummed beneath your skin at the implication of Steve’s words. There was something so enticing about the way he’d phrased his question—his design on your body. It called to the darkness buried deep in your heart, and you began to suspect he somehow knew you were a little depraved. Like him.

Steve held your gaze for a long moment, and you thought you saw something shift in the depths of his blue eyes, like a shadow passing in front of the sun. But it was gone just as quickly, and you questioned whether your eyes were playing tricks on you.

Shaking yourself free of your strange thoughts, you finally managed an answer. “My ankle.” But it seemed your mouth had a mind of its own, because you found yourself flirting with the hot tattoo shop owner, a smirk curving your lips as you went on. “Do you think my ankle would be worthy of your design, sir?” you asked with feigned innocence.

As you watched for Steve’s reaction, you were rewarded with the sight of his eyes darkening, his pupils blowing wide like he greatly enjoyed the fact that you were flirting with him. His mouth spread into a hungry grin and he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully while he considered you, finally coming to a decision.

“Mm, I think your ankle is the perfect place for my design, sweet girl,” he rumbled, smiling to himself like he’d made a joke only he understood. Then his fingers were trailing lightly along the line of your jaw, distracting you with the tingling warmth they left in their wake as he stood up. “I’m going to enjoy this very much,” he murmured enigmatically before pulling away.

Your mind was too frazzled by his touch and how bereft you felt without it to wonder over his words. Besides, he was already calling for Natasha, who emerged from the back of the shop to help you through the rest of the intake process. It was only then that you realized she’d left you and Steve alone at the counter a while ago.

She slid smoothly in front of you with that friendly smile of hers while Steve retreated into the back to begin setting up. Natasha walked you through all the paperwork, none of which was new to you. That was why you felt comfortable not fully reading the fine print.

You should’ve read the fine print.

Once everything was signed, Natasha led you into the back and showed you where to stow your purse. She pointed to the privacy screen where you could take off your tights and boots, then helped you into the tattoo chair at Steve’s station.

When you were settled, Natasha bid you and Steve a good night and grabbed her own things before leaving out the back door. It was a little abrupt and you were left feeling confused.

You asked Steve if the shop was closing for the night—it seemed a little early, especially for a Friday. And he explained that he’d decided to close the shop early since they had no more appointments and were unlikely to get any other walk-ins.

For a moment, you fretted over keeping him late, but he waved away your concerns.

“There’s no where I’d rather be than tattooing my design on you, pretty thing,” Steve murmured charmingly while he pulled on some black latex gloves.

The earnestness in his voice soothed your anxiety and you relaxed back into the black leather chair, your legs propped on the footrest while Steve created a stencil of his design. Soon, the two of you were so engaged in a discussion about where exactly on your ankle to place the tattoo that you forgot you were alone with the handsome owner of Hell.

After trying a few things, you decided to have the beautiful design lay across the front of your ankle, the sides wrapping around to the back so it’d look like a permanent adornment. You smiled when Steve complimented the placement you’d chosen and felt heat suffuse your cheeks at his praise.

It all felt mostly familiar to you, someone who’d gotten a fair amount of tattoos in your life. But what you hadn’t been prepared for was the way Steve’s hands would feel on your body, the smoothness of the latex belying the warmth of his skin as he curled his fingers around the back of your leg to pull your foot onto his lap.

Warmth cascaded from the top of your head down through the rest of your body in a gentle, tingling shower, settling heavily between your legs. You pressed your thighs tight together, both to stave off the ache that was building there and to make sure you didn’t accidentally flash the hot tattoo artist.

You weren’t looking at Steve’s face, your gaze tracing the dark black ink decorating his skin and curling beneath the cotton of his shirt, but you thought you saw something flicker over his expression as he took in your reaction to his touch. You almost thought you saw dark shadows creeping into his gaze, blotting out his blue irises and making him look…demonic.

But when you flicked your gaze up to his, his eyes were a normal, glittering blue. You gave him a small smile and internally shook yourself, chalking up the moment to a trick of the light.

It was dim in the back room, with only a few warm lights positioned in Steve’s corner of the space. Natasha had closed up the rest of the shop, leaving you and Steve alone in the space, which was separated from the front by a wall and a doorway covered in a thick, maroon curtain.

The walls of the shop were painted black and covered in more of the same artwork you’d seen in the waiting area. The main difference was all the tattoo equipment and the floor that was a bare dark wood, instead of the burnt orange carpet that covered much of the front room.

Hell was dark, eerie and intimate, and you suspected the atmosphere must be getting to you, that was the only thing that explained what you’d seen in Steve’s eyes. Yes, that must be it, you told yourself, settling into the chair and letting Steve get to work.

The buzzing of his tattoo needle filled the silence and you prepared yourself for the pain that you knew was coming. Little did you know just how much pleasure you’d feel that night as well.

Nothing about the tattoo process seemed amiss until more than halfway through, when you began to feel a strange kind of tingling in your ankle where Steve worked, the sensation slowly creeping up your leg. It settled heavily between your thighs, making your core ache with a yearning emptiness as your slit leaked wetness into your panties.

It wasn’t painful, the tingling feeling, but it was unnerving, like it didn’t belong to you, and you couldn’t understand where it was coming from.

“Uh-uhm, Steve?” you started, a hint of a whine in your voice, though it was mostly drowned out by the concern you felt. You sat up straight, forcing yourself to ignore the urge to rock your hips and grind yourself against the leather seat of the chair. “Can we take a break? I feel…weird.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Steve purred, instantly pulling the needle away from your skin and wiping away blood and excess ink with a small towel. After he’d deposited the tattoo gun and cloth on his station, he turned back to you, blue eyes filled with concern as he removed his gloves. “You ok?” he asked, his warm hands massaging the back of your leg that was still draped in his lap.

The urge to moan at the feel of his bare hands on your skin was almost undeniable. It felt so good to have his strong fingers kneading your muscle and you flopped back into the chair, pressing your lips together to stifle the sound of pleasure that wanted to slip free. But you couldn’t stop the way your hips squirmed, your body aching for something…

“I think so,” you said, finally answering Steve’s question with a tremulous smile. You still felt the odd sensation pulsing up your leg and slipping between your thighs, prompting a delicious throbbing in your core, but forced yourself to ask, “There’s nothing strange in the ink, right? Something I could be allergic to?”

An allergy was the only explanation you could come up with, even though it didn’t really make sense. You’d gotten plenty of tattoos, surely you would’ve had an allergic reaction years ago if that had been a possibility. And the way you felt wasn’t like any allergic reaction you’d ever heard of.

You looked at Steve with wide, imploring eyes, hoping he could make sense of what you were feeling.

He shook his head, his fingers working higher to knead the muscle of your calf, nearly pulling a moan from your lips that would’ve drowned out his answer.

“I promise the ingredients are all-natural,” he said, his tone earnest and reassuring. “There’s nothing that would cause an allergic reaction.”

Your head fell back against the leather chair, missing the way Steve’s mouth curved into a devious smirk, and tried to gather your thoughts. The strange tingling sensation had calmed, you thought, having been replaced by the feeling of warmth that Steve’s touch inspired.

Shaking yourself lightly, you told yourself it must’ve just been the tattoo needle hitting a nerve or something. You’d never had that feeling before with any of your other tattoos, but it must’ve been something to do with Steve’s method. It hadn’t been painful, so it didn’t mean something was wrong. It was fine. You told yourself you would be fine.

“Ok,” you said softly on a sigh, letting yourself sink into the comforting massage of Steve’s fingers. Your body felt a little heavy, a throbbing desire pulsing in your core, but suspected it had more to do with the hot tattoo artist’s fingers than anything else.

Blinking your eyes open, you met Steve’s steady, patient gaze.

“We can keep going,” you said, giving him a smile that you hoped looked brave.

You must’ve succeeded, because Steve’s mouth curved into a pleased grin and his hand slid higher up your leg and settled on your thigh just above your knee, giving it an affectionate squeeze. His big palm on your bare skin sent a riot of sensation through your body, and when he squeezed you, you felt a mirroring clench of your inner muscles, your body aching to be filled.

“That’s my girl,” Steve murmured affectionately, his blue eyes glimmering with so much proud satisfaction that you felt your face heat and you ducked your head to hide a giddy grin.

Steve gave your thigh one last squeeze before pulling away to put on a new pair of gloves and refill his tattoo needle. While he worked, you couldn’t help but close your eyes and sigh silently, your skin feeling much too cold without him touching you.

For the rest of the tattoo, you tried to sit still while the tingling warmth rolled through your body, settling deliciously between your thighs and teasing your throbbing core until you were dripping into your panties. You had the absurd urge to spread your legs, to beg Steve to fill you—with his fingers, his cock, anything, so long as it put an end to the ache pulsing insistently in your body.

You tried to be good, to be still and quiet so Steve could finish your tattoo. But apparently you weren’t doing as good of a job as you hoped.

“If you keep squirming, ‘m gonna have to tie you down, pretty girl,” Steve rumbled, his head bent low over your ankle while he worked diligently.

His voice was so low and deep, you swore you could feel it in your belly, the delicious rumbling tenor teasing your clit, and your hips shifted again, your thighs clenching tight against your needy slit.

“Sweetheart,” he growled in warning, his hand gripping your foot firmly and tugging on it hard enough that you slid a few inches down in the chair.

It took every ounce of your self-control not to whimper with desire at the evidence of Steve’s strength. Your imagination flooded with visions of him tossing you around in his tattoo chair, bending you over while he pressed his bulge into your ass or flipping you onto your back and folding you in half so he could pound into your pussy.

A whine clawed up your throat, desperation flooding your body and making you want to writhe and beg and plead, but you bit it all back. Forcing yourself to be still, you asked, “Are you almost done?” in a tight, tense voice.

“Almost done,” he confirmed, his voice soothing. He looked up briefly, giving you a rakish grin. “You can be good for me, can’t you, sweet girl?”

Your heart lurched in your chest. It was all you wanted, to be good for Steve. So you nodded eagerly and tried to relax back into the chair. Your fingers were digging into the padded leather of the armrests and you pushed yourself deeper into the reclined seat, doing your best to ignore the heat and desperate, aching, insistent need pounding through your body.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you said on a small huff, your eyes shut tight so you couldn’t see Steve’s reaction. Your voice was little more than a whine as you went on, “I’ve never felt like this.”

You heard Steve chuckle, the sound rolling over you like a deep, delicious wave. Then, just barely over the buzzing of the tattoo needled pressed to your skin, you thought you heard him say, “Just wait, sweet thing,” in a dark, ominous voice you hardly recognized.

But you didn’t have a chance to try to parse out what he meant, because suddenly, you felt the sensation of a cold, hard shackle closing around your ankle.

It felt so real, and so at odds with the sensation of Steve pulling the needle away from your skin, that your whole body jerked. Quickly, you sat up and stared down at your leg, but there was no metal cuff. Only the tattoo. Finished.

Fresh black ink shimmered from your skin, and you had a brief moment to appreciate the artistry of Steve’s work, the beautiful, intricate design of the symbol. The phantom feeling of a manacle wrapped around your ankle remained, and you looked up at Steve, finding him wearing a smug, devious smirk.

You couldn’t make sense of his expression, and in the next breath, it didn’t matter, because the fire that had been simmering in your blood suddenly blazed into an inferno. You couldn’t help the pained cry that fled your lips as you fell back into the chair, desire burning a demanding path through your body and tearing through your mind.

Your legs fell open on the leather seat, a pornographic moan slipping from your lips when the cool air of the tattoo shop brushed against your inner thighs. Your fingers tugged fussily at your sweater, trying to claw off the once-cozy garment that suddenly felt too heavy and constricting against your scorching skin.

Your eyes swiveled in your head, seeking and finding Steve, who was standing beside the chair and staring down at you. His gaze was lit with a depraved fire and his mouth was curled into a delighted grin.

“Aw, poor little plaything, are you feeling hot and bothered?” he cooed at you in a mean, patronizing tone that was so at odds with the charming affability you’d come to expect from the tattoo artist that you felt like you’d been slapped.

A pathetic whimper slipped from your lips, and Steve’s eyes seemed to glow brighter, his smile hitching wider, growing more hungry and more eager at the same time. Leaning over your squirming body, Steve stroked the tips of his fingers down your cheek.

Your body’s reaction to his touch was instantaneous. The burning, blistering pain of need calmed enough that it no longer hurt, and you chased Steve’s fingertips instinctively, associating his contact with relief. He let you nuzzle into the palm of his hand, chuckling darkly when you sighed happily, your mind moving too slow to process what was happening.

“Should we get this cumbersome sweater off you, sweet thing?” Steve murmured, his hands curving around your shoulders before stroking down your sides. His thumbs brushed over the tips of your breasts and your spine arched off the chair, pushing into his touch, needing more.

You were so hot, so achy, so needy, and you somehow knew Steve was the only one who could help you feel better. Distantly, you knew it was highly inappropriate to let your tattoo artist undress you, even one as hot as Steve, but in that moment, you didn’t care. His touch through your sweater wasn’t enough—you needed him to touch your bare skin.

So you nodded frantically, whimpering, “Yes, please, Steve, help.”

The man laughed, a dark, evil chuckle rumbling from his chest.

You didn’t understand what was funny, but you didn’t protest because his big hands slipped under the hem of your sweater and he touched you properly. His palms were warm, his fingers calloused and rough against your belly.

You sucked in a surprised breath when his touch sent sizzling tingles of pleasure through your body, gathering in your throbbing slit and making more wetness gush into your panties.

If you’d been in your right mind, you might’ve felt embarrassed over how wet you were from Steve sliding his hands up your stomach, but all you could do was revel in the pleasure his touch brought you. Your mouth curved into a delirious smile as you stared dazedly up at the supernaturally handsome man like he was the center of your universe.

Slowly, almost torturously, Steve slid your sweater up until it bunched above your breasts and he paused. His hands wrapped around your ribs, thumbs stroking over your skin beneath the band of your bra. He stared down at you, his blue eyes nearly glowing with hungry desire as his gaze raked over the lace containing your breasts.

Your chest heaved with your gasping breaths, and you took the moment to try to settle. The fire in your blood didn’t burn painfully with Steve touching you, but you still wanted—no, needed—more. Your hips squirmed in the leather seat and a whine clawed up your throat until it spilled free.

“Steeeve, please,” you begged, staring up at the tattoo artist with wide, imploring eyes. At the same time, you lifted your arms above your head and sat up a little in an effort to get him to pull your sweater the rest of the way off. Instead of spurring him to move, though, it had the opposite effect.

Steve went still, closing his eyes like he was savoring the sound of your whining voice and begging words. When he opened them a moment later, they appeared darker—the soft, sky blue of his irises darkened to an almost midnight black, with inky swirls of darkness creeping in from the edges.

Then he blinked, and his eyes went back to normal.

You were too distracted by your body’s need to think much about the fact that his eyes had gone nearly pitch black—that he’d looked, for a moment, like one of the monstrous demons from the art adorning the walls of Hell.

Your delirious, desirous mind let the moment slip by unquestioned, instead focusing on your lust—and on Steve.

“Lift up for me, pretty thing,” he cooed, his tone almost gentle despite the grit and gravel in his voice.

You did as he said, lifting your back away from the chair so he could pull your sweater off, leaving you in just your bra, skirt and panties on his tattoo chair.

In the short moment when Steve’s hands deserted your body, the blazing inferno of need returned. You groaned in pain, reaching for Steve and latching on to his wrist. The burning sensation abated the second you touched him, but you didn’t stop there, dragging his hand back to your body and sighing in further relief when you pressed his palm to your breast.

You didn’t know if Steve pushed you back into the chair or if you fell back and he followed, but he leaned over you, his big hands kneading your tits through your bra. A moan tumbled from you as you sank into the feeling, melting beneath his touch. It just felt so good—and the rougher he got, the harder he groped your tits, pulling and pinching on your nipples through the lace of your bra, the better it felt.

“That’s it, plaything, moan for me—let me hear how much you love it when I abuse your tits,” Steve growled, leaning so far over you that his head blocked out the light above the chair. His face was contorted into a greedy expression, his eyes sharp and hungry as he watched pleasure dance across your features. “You’re such a dumb little doll, you have no idea what’s heppening to you, do you?”

His tone was mean and mocking, but your body responded to the deep tenor of it all the same, wetness gushing between your thighs while your hips writhed on the leather seat, seeking something to grind against.

Your mind was hazy with lust and pleasure and confusion. It took you a long few moments to understand what he’d asked and when you did, it sparked a bit of fear. But even that dissolved into pleasure and you moaned, your hands clinging to Steve’s wrists—not trying to pull him away, just anchoring yourself to him.

“Wha-what’s happening to me?” you whined breathlessly, blinking your eyes up at Steve with an equal amount of uncertainty and trust. You still didn’t realize he was the reason for what was happening, but you’d come to learn that soon enough. Not that it would matter.

“Oh, baby, you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about that,” Steve cooed, his tone changing so quickly back to gentle and reassuring, it nearly gave you whiplash.

Still, pleasure swirled in your chest at the sweet praise in his words, even if they were more than a little condescending. A smile curled the corners of your lips, but you forced yourself to focus. There was something you wanted to know—something Steve knew, and you were determined to get the answer from him. You knew it was important, even if you couldn’t remember why.

“Steve, pleeease,” you whimpered, your words dissolving into a moan when he shoved the lace cups of your bra down and pinched your nipples harder, pulling and twisting them until your spine was arching up off the leather seat. It took you a long moment to remember your train of thought and continue on. “Tell me, Steve, please, I can handle it—what’s happening to me?”

A wide smirk spread across Steve’s face and his eyes flickered with shadows that seemed to want to consume his gaze the same way he looked like he wanted to consume you. Bending over your squirming, twitching body, Steve’s face hovered just above yours, an evil kind of mischief in his expression.

“If I tell you, do you promise you’ll take it like a good girl?”

Images assailed your imagination—Steve shoving his cock deep in your cunt, growling at you to take it like a good girl while he fucked you like a bat out of hell. Steve pounding into your mouth, grunting his pleasure as he spilled down your throat and ordered you to take it like a good girl. Steve stretching your ass around his cock, smoothing a hand down your spine as he cooed at you in that meanly patronizing tone to take it like a good girl.

A loud, debauched moan slipped from your lips as bliss pulsed through your body. It took you a long moment to push the images from your mind and gather your scattered thoughts enough to blink your eyes open and nod up at Steve.

“I’ll be good, I promise,” you said fiercely, knowing somewhere deep down that if you were a good girl for him, the visions you’d had would become a reality. And you wanted so badly for them to become a reality—at any cost.

A devious, delighted grin spread across Steve’s face at your answer, satisfaction shimmering in his eyes. Then one of his hands let go of your breast and skimmed down your body, over your hip and down your leg until his fingers circled your ankle, just above the tattoo he’d given you.

“This design you chose, it’s not just something I designed—it’s my mark,” he purred, putting emphasis on the last two words as if you’d know what that meant. But you still didn’t understand what your tattoo had to do with what was happening to you. His explanation just made you more confused.

“What does that mean?” you whimpered, your voice desperate and pleading. You wanted to understand, you wanted to be good for Steve and grasp whatever it was he was trying to tell you, but the meaning of his words was still out of reach.

“Think hard, sweetheart,” Steve cooed, his voice turning sweet in a way that had your belly swooping deliciously.

When you still didn’t seem to understand, Steve’s hand slid down, his palm covering your fresh tattoo and you gasped. His touch against the mark felt like he was yanking on a thread that had been tied behind your belly button. It felt like you were tethered to something…to him, you realized.

You were tethered to Steve by some sort of magic. The mark he’d tattooed on your skin had bound you to him…

All the air fled your lungs as comprehension sank into your mind. Your face twisted in shock and understanding, though the expression didn’t last long.

“There it is, that’s my girl,” Steve praised, squeezing your ankle and pressing his palm more firmly down on the mark.

The touch dragged a reluctant moan from you as pleasure swirled through your body, and you weren’t certain if it was your own or the result of the bond between the two of you. When you got control of yourself, you glared up at the devious tattoo artist, letting him see the betrayal written plainly across your face.

“Oh don’t look at me like that, baby,” Steve rumbled, his other hand wrapping around the front of your throat and tipping your chin up while he bent down until there were mere inches between you. “You heard the story, and you ignored its warning.” He tsked at you, shaking his head when you only narrowed your eyes in anger. “You weren’t careful about getting tattooed on Friday the 13th and now you’re enslaved to a dark force—you’re enslaved to me.”

He didn’t give you a chance to react to that declaration, only closed the distance between your lips, covering your mouth with his own to steal a kiss. And, god help you, what a kiss it was.

Steve’s mouth slanted perfectly to yours, his lips soft and seeking as they brushed against yours. His tongue flicked out, licking along the seam of your lips as if asking for entry, and you were helpless to the pleasure he offered.

Your lips parted with a soft gasp, an invitation if ever there was one, and he wasted no time slipping in. Steve took possession of your mouth, plundering your body while his hands held you firmly pinned beneath him.

It wasn’t long before you were moaning into his mouth and kissing him back, your fingers plunging into his soft, blond hair and nails digging into the skin at the nape of his neck until he was growling into your mouth.

His hand around your neck squeezed harder, choking you lightly in retaliation for the bite of your nails and you pulsed with so much heat, you cried out sharply, the sound transforming into a whine of need.

Steve nipped your bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood, and the coppery taste mixed with the heat of his tongue as he licked it from your mouth. When he pulled away a moment later, you could see the traces of red staining his lips—though that wasn’t nearly as disturbing as the sight of his eyes.

Writhing shadows had blotted out the blue irises of his gaze, leaving only two fathomless pools of darkness shimmering in the warm lights of Hell. A shiver raced down your spine, unease and curiosity filling your chest as you stared at the suddenly inhuman visage of the handsome tattoo artist.

Steve Rogers was still attractive, even with the unnatural eyes of a demon, but the shadows in his gaze changed the terrain of his face. His teeth looked sharper in his mouth, and the curve of his smirk looked more cruel. His jaw looked more angular and his body seemed bigger, broader, more intimidating as he loomed above you.

And yet…

You liked how Steve looked when he’d shed the pretense of humanity. He was somehow, impossibly, hotter. More dangerous, sure, but also freer in a way that you found enticing.

It took you a moment, your mind swimming with pleasure and the tingling remnants of his kiss, to pinpoint exactly what you liked about seeing Steve without the guise he must’ve been wearing. He was more himself. And this version of him, this demonic visage, called to the darkness inside of you in a way that made you feel like he belonged to you just as much as you belonged to him.

Pressing a palm to your forehead like you could push that thought straight out of your head, you forced yourself to focus on the present. “Nooo,” you moaned in a small voice, mostly to yourself because you were already thinking it wouldn’t be so bad to belong to Steve, especially if he belonged to you, too.

But, for all you could feel the bond between you and the demon strengthening and solidifying as your tattoo healed supernaturally fast, his desire and lust mixing with your own, he still couldn’t read your mind. And he must’ve thought you were protesting the newfound connection between the two of you.

“Ohh yes, sweetheart,” Steve growled, his fingers digging into the sides of your throat and tipping your face up so he could see your eyes.

The two shimmering pools of darkness were writhing with agitation, and you stared at them in wonder, your mouth falling open with awe. They were just as beautiful as his human eyes, looking like the surface of the deep ocean at night.

“You’re mine, pretty little plaything,” Steve rasped, his voice low and dark and vehement, like he was determined to make you understand your new reality. “Your heart, your body, your soul—it’s all mine,” he went on, pausing only to capture your lips in a brief, but searing kiss, like he was marking you all over again. “You’re bound to me for eternity, baby, enslaved to all my whims, and I bet you know what I want rigt now.”

You did know. You could feel Steve’s lust slinking through the bond, flooding your body and creating the burning need that was so painful when he wasn’t touching you. But beneath it, you could feel your own desire, too. The yearning you’d felt for the tattoo artist that had only grown since you’d discovered his true nature as the demon from the Friday the 13th legend.

Watching your face keenly, Steve let go of your ankle, grabbing one of your wrists and bringing your hand to the bulge in his pants. It was so big and hot and hard, even through the stiff denim of his jeans, that you whimpered. But you didn’t pull away, letting Steve use his grip to make you stroke his cock. And when he groaned his pleasure, your fingers tightened, giving his thick length a curious squeeze.

“This is what you do to me, pretty girl, this is why you’re the one I chose,” he growled, his voice so deep, it sounded animalistic. “I knew from the moment you walked into my shop with your sweet little skirt and your dark little heart that you were going to be mine—and now I’ve got you.”

It occurred to you to ask what he meant about your heart, but you suspected you knew. He’d looked deep into your heart and soul saw the darkness there—and it was exactly what he wanted.

The knowledge that you were what he wanted filled you with a sense of pride, and you took over from Steve. You stroked his cock through his jeans without his guidance, squeezing him while you stared up at him, devotion written across your face while you pressed your throat into his hand, knowing the tattoos on his fingers were making a pretty necklace.

“You’re my precious little plaything, aren’t you, baby?” Steve cooed at you, sweeping his thumb over your jaw and swiping it across your lower lip. “Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy being mine.”

You ducked your head, taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking on him, your eyes going heavy lidded as you nodded your agreement. Steve grunted a pleased sound.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl,” he purred, pressing his thumb onto your tongue and pushing deeper into your mouth. “You’re gonna be such a good fucktoy for your demon master, aren’t you?”

You could feel Steve’s cock twitch beneath your fingertips and you squeezed him harder, moaning when you felt an answering pulse deep in your cunt. The burning desire that had been held at bay by the realization of what exactly he was and what he’d done to you returned with a fury that would not be ignored.

“Yes, master,” you murmured obligingly after tipping your head back to slide him from your mouth. You pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb and smiled up at Steve, your eyes hungry and eager.

The demon’s gaze darkened further somehow, filling with greed and lust and just about every sin you could imagine—all promising to do dirty, filthy things to your body in the name of slaking the desire that burned brightly in both of you.

“I knew you were perfect,” he growled, grabbing your throat and pulling you in for another kiss. His mouth was hot and demanding, his kiss inciting the fire in your body to burn hotter, making the throbbing between your legs impossible to ignore.

While he kissed you breathless, your fingers kept stroking his cock through his jeans, your other hand sliding beneath the hem of his t-shirt to rake your nails through the thin trail of hair dusting his abs. Both of you groaned at the contact, Steve’s tongue plunging into your mouth as his hips thrust against your palm.

Just as quickly as he’d dragged you into the kiss, Steve pulled away, shoving you roughly back into the chair. Your back hit the padded leather, a light, “oomph,” of surprise tumbling from your lips. One of his hands gripped your thigh possessively, fingers digging into your soft flesh while he leaned down and pulled a lever somewhere on the chair.

The footrest dropped away, allowing Steve to step between your legs, his hands groping roughly at your thighs, your hips, your tits. A low rumbling growl sounded in his chest every time his hand touched a piece of your clothing, as if they offended him personally. You squirmed in your seat, trying to find the words to beg him to take off the rest of your clothes, but all you could manage was a desperate whine.

“Are you still feeling hot, baby?” Steve asked, his tone playfully condescending as he skimmed his hands up your bare legs and tugged on the hem of your skirt—which, at that point, was barely covering anything with the way your legs were splayed open around his hips. “Should we get rid of the rest of these tiresome clothes?”

You were nodding your head before he even finished his question, his hands making quick work of unzipping your skirt and tugging on it until you lifted your hips so he could drag it down along with your panties. He stepped back so he could pull them off your legs, raking his gaze up your body and pointedly looking at your bra.

“Take it off, fucktoy,” he growled, his tone going mean again.

The quick change of his mood had you gasping with surprise, even as his rough voice made you gush more wetness between your thighs. You didn’t know if you’d ever get used to the demon’s mercurial moods, but you liked the unpredictability—it meant you’d never grow bored.

Scrambling to do as Steve said, you pushed forward from the chair to unclip your bra and ripped it off, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. When that was done, the demon shoved your legs open and stepped back between them, pushing your legs up to drape over the armrests of the chair.

“Good girl,” Steve rumbled, stroking his hands down your thighs, digging his fingers in suddenly, hard enough to make you squeal and squirm. He chuckled, looking like he enjoyed your reaction, and pushed your legs wider, spreading you so fully, you felt a twinge of discomfort in your hip. But the pain was soothed away a moment later by the pleasure throbbing through your body.

A sharp exhale gusted from Steve the moment he laid his eyes on your bare pussy. He was staring down at you like you were everything to him, like you were the center of his universe. He looked like he was a mere second away from getting down on his knees and worshipping at the altar of your body.

More surprising than the way he was looking at you was what you could feel through the bond tethering you to the demon. You could feel his devotion in your soul, the sensation curling round your heart and filling you with a sense of adoration that was both yours and Steve’s.

As much as you were his, you knew, with absolutely certainty, that he was yours, too. For better or for worse.

But the longer Steve stared down at your body, his hands unable to stop touching you—exploring every inch of your skin, his palms cupping your breasts, thumbs stroking over you nipples before he curved his fingers around your ribs and skimmed down to your hips, feeling you, learning you—the more you began to believe it wasn’t so bad being bonded to a demon.

You hadn’t noticed your gaze had drifted away from the demon, staring unseeingly over his shoulder while you reveled in the feel of him touching you, until his hand came down sharply on your slit, slapping your pussy so sharply, you cried out in surprise, tears springing to your eyes. Pleasure and pain burned through you, writhing and fighting for dominance, and you were helpless to the sensation.

“Eyes on me, fucktoy,” Steve growled, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up at him. His fingers dug into your cheeks, his face looming over yours while his hand came down again, spanking your cunt and making your whole body jerk in the leather chair from the sharp, stinging pleasure. “You’re my dumb little cock slave, and you’ll look at me like a good girl when I’m playing with you like you’re my own personal fuck doll—got it?”

The demon punctuated his seething question with another spank to your pussy, and it was the hardest of all, but though you expected pain, you felt only pleasure. A loud, pornographic moan, spilled from your lips while your mind swirled, your whole body throbbing like you were one big nerve ending.

Forcing your eyes open, you found Steve watching you expectantly. You gasped for air and scrambled for words “Yes, master,” you cried, surprising even yourself when you shouted, “I’m your good little fucktoy!”

Steve seemed appeased, a satisfied smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth while his fingers rubbed through your drenched folds. “You are, baby,” he assured you. “You’re such a good little plaything for your master.”

His words were an alluring purr, soothing you. Then, he surprised you by shoving three of his fingers into your cunt, making your whole body shudder from the unrelenting and sudden fullness.

“Oh god,” you moaned, pleasure ricocheting violently through your body. You squirmed in the chair, feeling your pussy spasm with delight, your wetness gushing out of you and dripping down between your ass cheeks, making a mess on the chair.

“God’s not going to help you now, sweet thing,” Steve rumbled with a smirk, pulling his fingers out of you before pushing them deep into your sopping wet hole again. “You sold your soul to me, He has no dominion over you anymore—you’re mine for eternity.”

His thumb rubbed your clit and you cried out helplessly, barely hearing his words as your body focused on the pleasure he was giving you. He pushed deeper, his fingers stroking a spot inside you that had your spine arching and your hips bearing down on his delicious intrusion. You were so wet, he fucked you easily with his three fingers, spreading them wide to stretch you open.

“Oh fuck,” you whined, your whole body shaking with need while the demon fucked you slowly with his fingers. You watched them slide into you, your folds swollen and puffy from his rough spanking. He was moving with a torturous laziness and you squirmed, mewling for more, “Faster, Steve, please.”

Suddenly, Steve’s fingers pulled free from your obscenely wet pussy, and a second later they were being shoved into your mouth. Your sweet, musky taste exploded on your tongue as the demon pushed them deep, making you gag on his slick fingers while he loomed above you.

“What did you call me?” he seethed through gritted teeth, the dark shadows of his eyes roiling like a churning sea.

“M’m sowwy,” you mumbled around his fingers, drool dripping down your chin and tears spilling onto your cheeks.

Steve’s mood immediately calmed at the sight of your tears and he made a soft shushing sound as he pulled his fingers from your mouth. “There, there, my sweet little plaything,” he cooed, leaning down to kiss and lick the salty tears from your skin. “I like it better when you call me master—can you be a good girl and call me master?”

The way Steve was bent over you, the bulge in his jeans pressed into your leaking cunt and you rubbed against him like a cat in heat, your hole aching to be filled, but you knew you had to answer his question first.

“Yes, master,” you whimpered, “I’mma be a good girl, I swear.”

“That’s my girl,” Steve purred, swiping the drool from your chin and pressing a kiss to your mouth. It was sweet and slow, his mouth praising you without words and making your head spin with the feeling of affection slipping through the bond.

When he pulled away, Steve gave you a stern look, his brow lowered over his black eyes and his mouth pressed into a firm line.

“Now, I can feel you rubbing your cute little cunt on my cock, baby,” he rumbled, his hands groping your thighs, but not pinning you down to make you stop. So you kept humping against him, your body shameless in its need for him. “But I want you to use your words—what do you want from your master?”

“Fuck me, master—please, oh g-fuck, I need your cock, master, please, please, please give it to me,” you babbled, blinking away the last of your tears to stare up into the handsome face of your demon.

You could still feel his lust and desire and fondness thrumming through the bond he’d created, but beneath that, deep in your own heart, you felt your own affection swell. You’d had a crush on Steve before he’d sealed the bond, and—god help you—those feelings didn’t waver in light of his trickery. If anything, every touch, no matter how rough or soft, only strengthened them.

Steve’s fingers dug into the plush flesh of your thighs, his grip possessive as he stared down at you with a satisfied smirk.

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you beg for me, baby—not for a millennia, at least,” he murmured, ducking down to capture your swollen lips in a kiss.

At the same time, he rubbed his bulge against your sensitive pussy, making you cry out so that he could swallow the sound down.

Kissing him back, you whimpered into his lips, need burning through your body and making you impatient. Your fingernails raked down the front of Steve’s chest, reveling in the way his firm muscles contracted, and the sharp little breaths he took.

You hooked your fingers under the lower hem and tugged the shirt up with a desperate whine until Steve yanked it off over his head, breaking your kiss for only a second.

Your fingers explored the smooth planes of Steve’s chest, brushing over his beautiful tattoos as you traced his hard muscles. All the while, he kissed you, devoured you, his own hands kneading your thighs and your tits and plucking at your nipples until you were writhing mindlessly beneath him.

“Please, master,” you keened, arching your spine and pushing your tits into his palms. “Fuck me, pleeease!” You tugged demandingly on the waist of his jeans, your fingers fumbling to undo the buckle of his belt.

Steve only chuckled maddeningly, rubbing his clothed cock into your sopping wet pussy while he pressed kisses to your jaw.

“C’mon, baby, you can beg better than that, can’t you?” he rumbled, his tone playful and warm, but it quickly turned dark and demanding. “Beg me to split you open on my dick, to fucking ruin your pretty little pussy with my fat demon cock—use your filthy mouth, sweetheart, tell me all the dirty things you want your evil master to do to you.”

“Oh fuck, yes,” you groaned, squirming beneath him and humping shamelessly against his bulge. “Please, master—please ruin me, hurt me, abuse me,” you cried, not knowing where the words were coming from, but you suspected they were being ripped right from that dark place deep in your heart, your soul. “Fill my holes with your demon cock and pump me full of cum, wanna be bulging with your seed, master—wanna be your dumb little fucktoy for all eternity. Make me yours, please!”

You cut off on a broken, desperate sob, and Steve’s mouth covered yours with an animalistic roar, kissing you hard—like he was branding you all over again. It made you moan louder, kissing him back just as fervently.

Your head spun from Steve’s kiss, but you could feel his hands fumbling between your legs. Then, the hot, hard length of him smacked against your swollen, smarting pussy, making you cry out into his mouth.

Steve drank down your sounds greedily, like they were the nectar of the gods. His tongue pushed into your mouth, licking into you as if trying to lap up your pleasured noises straight from their source.

“You’re fucking perfect, baby,” Steve praised when he pulled away, his voice silky and earnest in a way that made your heart warm in your chest.

His mood had switched again, and you didn’t think you’d ever get tired of the way it could shift like the wind. It was exciting and thrilling—like riding your own personal roller coaster. But no matter how his mood seemed to shift, you always felt his affection through the bond. Your demon was just fickle about how he liked to show that affection.

“Such a good fucking girl for me, ‘m gonna give you exactly what you want, sweet thing,” Steve went on, rubbing his hot, hard length through your drenched folds, coating himself in your wetness. “Gonna bury my cock in your holes for an aeon, keep you dumb and drunk on my cock, gonna make you my precious little plaything.”

“Yes, master, please,” you whimpered, your hands finding Steve’s waist and pulling your bodies closer, your ass sliding to the edge of the chair. “Fuck my tight little hole, please—please!”

Something in Steve seemed to snap, and with a snarl, he folded you in half in his leather tattoo chair, pushing your knees to your chest and lining up the head of his cock with your weeping entrance. In the next breath, he shoved his cock deep into your cunt, splitting you open with such a delicious mixture of pain and pleasure that your screams filled the whole of Hell.

Steve gave you only a moment to adjust to the sheer girth of his thick, massive cock before he pulled back and snapped his hips forward, the sound of his thighs hitting your ass making a loud clapping sound.

Your mouth fell open, the most obscene, pornographic moans coming from your lips. Against your will, your eyes slid closed.

Grabbing the back of your head to hold it still, Steve slapped your cheek—hard—making your eyes fly back open. The stinging pain blurred into a deep, aching pleasure, and your cry of surprise devolved into a lewd moan.

“What did I tell you, fucktoy?” Steve growled, slapping you again, harder. The pools of his eyes churned dangerously, his mouth twisted with determination as he reminded you of his earlier command. “Keep your fucking eyes on me.”

Though you knew his strikes were meant to be punishing, he was keeping a tight leash on his strength. His hand smarted but he never truly hurt you.

It was more degrading, feeling Steve slap your face, and you enjoyed it much more than you would’ve expected. The sounds of your desperate, depraved pleasure spilling freely from your lips.

When you managed to focus your gaze on your demon, you found Steve watching you with a smug smirk on his face.

“Do you like it when I slap you, sweet thing?” he cooed, his hips driving into yours, fucking you deep and hard with his thick cock while he held the back of your head. He didn’t wait for an answer, slapping you again, letting your face twist to the side before forcing you back to look at him. “Do you want me to hurt you more, pretty girl?”

“Yes, master!” you cried, surprising even yourself. But you were greedy for the mixture of pain and pleasure Steve offered, finding you were quickly growing addicted to the wicked way he made you feel. “Play rough with your fucktoy—please, master, I want it!”

“Good girl,” Steve purred, grinning wider and using his free hand to slap your tits, your thighs, anywhere he could reach. The sharp smacking sounds joined with the clapping of his hips against your ass and the obscene wet noises of your pussy being fucked. “You’re such a perfect little plaything, baby, taking it like such a good girl for your master.”

Steve leaned more heavily on top of you, his hips pressing his cock so deep, you sobbed with pleasure, feeling like he was pushing into your cervix. Pain and pleasure made your mind spin, and your hands clung to Steve’s thick biceps, your nails digging sharply into his skin.

Your demon hissed out a breath at the bite of your nails, his hips stuttering and fucking more powerfully into you. He slammed against a spot deep inside your cunt that had you thrashing beneath him in the leather chair, clawing at him even more.

“Fuck yeah, sweetheart, hurt me back,” he growled, his tone taunting you meanly as he went on. “Show me what ya got, I can take it.”

Darkness rose inside of you, and though it was tempting to believe it was solely the effect of the demon’s mark on your body, you knew it wasn’t. This was the darkness that had grown within you over the years, the one that had called out to the demon and had been so pleased when he answered your call by binding you to him for an eternity of sinful servitude.

Skimming your hands up to Steve’s shoulders, you didn’t miss the way he looked a little disappointed at your light touch. You curled your lips in an impish grin—the only warning you gave him before you dug your nails deep into his skin, dragging them down over his inked shoulders and biceps as hard as you could.

Though you didn’t break skin, dark red lines appeared on his pale skin where it shone through and Steve groaned loudly, his hips twitching before he picked up his pace. He fucked you faster, with punishingly violent strokes that had you babbling an endless stream of pleasured noises.

“That’s it, plaything, let it out—take it out on me,” he growled encouragingly.

You didn’t know what exactly he was prompting you to let out, but you suspected it had something to do with the darkness churning in your chest. And his reaction, his pleasure in response to the pain you’d given him, lit something inside you. The darkness unfurled further as you finally let it free, and you felt Steve’s encouragement through the bond you shared.

Tilting your hips up so that Steve could pound harder and deeper into your pussy, you reached around to his lower back, raking your nails up the long length of his muscles. You pressed so deep, you would’ve gouged into a human’s skin. But your demon was made of sturdier stuff, and he simply grunted in pleasure, fucking you harder—so hard, it nearly hurt.

Steve was glorious above you, his demented coal-black eyes staring down at you with a fathomless greed you could feel thrumming in your own heart. It made you want to hurt him. It made you want to love him.

Frightened by both impulses, you grabbed Steve by the back of his neck, digging your nails into his skin as you pulled him down. Instead of kissing him, though, your face buried into the crook of his neck and you sank your teeth into the spot at the base of his throat, the one free of ink, biting him hard enough you thought you might actually pierce the demon’s skin.

He tasted like fire and smoke and salt.

Steve’s growling groan rumbled in his throat and you felt it against your cheek, moaning in answer while you licked his warm, golden skin. You sucked on him hard, wanting to leave your own mark on your demon, sinking your teeth in further while his cock pressed deep inside you.

Your demon allowed it for a moment, then his hand wrapped around the front of your throat and he pushed you away, pinning you hard against the back of the tattoo chair while he climbed on top of you. The back gave way until you were laying flat and Steve’s big body was covering yours.

The chair rocked dangerously, but stayed upright and Steve caged you in beneath him, fucking you in slow, lazy strokes.

“You bite me like that again, sweetheart, and ‘m gonna blow my load way too soon,” he grumbled, glaring at you, though there wasn’t any heat to it. Especially since you could feel his pleasure through the bond.

“Oops,” you said, unable to hold back your giggle. Steve didn’t look nearly as amused as you felt, so you forced yourself to look a little contrite as you pouted and simpered, “Sorry, master.”

Shaking his head and huffing a laugh, you felt his humor slip through the bond and saw his mouth flicker in a smile.

“Baby, baby, baby, what am I gonna do with you, huh?” he purred. Tilting his head to the side, he considered you with smirk. “You’ve only been bound to me for an hour and I’ve already corrupted you, sweetheart.”

He ducked down, dragging his nose from the base of your throat up to your jaw, nipping at the spot just below your ear that had you moaning softly. Your legs clung to his sides, holding him close in the cradle of your body while he kissed your neck.

“Mmm,” you hummed in agreement, even though you both knew it was the darkness in your heart that had drawn him to you in the first place, not that he’d corrupted you. “I guess you’ll just have to keep me, master,” you said sweetly, lifting your hips to meet Steve’s languid strokes, gasping when the tip of his cock hit that spot deep inside you that had you seeing stars.

At your words, Steve huffed a laugh, burying his face in your neck and mumbling against your skin, “As if I’d ever be able to let you go.” He rocked into your body, wringing another moan from you as he grunted his own pleasure. “Fuck, your cunt feels so good, ‘m not gonna last much longer.”

“Master, please, ‘m so close,” you whimpered into his ear. You wrapped one of your arms around his broad shoulders while your other hand dove into his soft, blond hair. You clung to your demon while he dug his arms beneath your back, holding you pinned beneath his body so he could rut ferociously into you.

“Bite me, baby,” Steve growled, pounding into you with short, hard thrusts, grinding the base of his cock against your clit with each one. “Mark me—show me I’m yours.” His voice was a desperate, greedy rasp, his need thrumming through your body through the bond, and you couldn’t think of doing anything but indulging him.

Your teeth sank deep into Steve’s neck, in the one spot that wasn’t covered in ink, and sucked hard on his skin, licking his throbbing pulse point at the same time. He growled wildly, his thrusts turning harder and meaner, his fingers slipping between your bodies to find your clit and rub ruthlessly.

You didn’t know which of you came first because it seemed like you both pushed each other over the edge in the same instant.

The coil of pleasure deep in your belly snapped suddenly, and pleasure exploded through your body, leaving devastation in its wake as you screamed your release. At the same time, Steve groaned, long and loud, his cock throbbing deep inside your cunt while he spilled his seed into your fluttering channel.

Your demon kept fucking you as you both rode out the waves of pleasure, your body clinging to his and milking his cock while he held you crushed to his chest.

Your gasps for air turned to deeper breaths as you slowly came down from your peak, and you were distantly aware of Steve hauling you up from the chair and spinning around to sit while you sprawled in his lap.

As you recovered together, Steve’s fingertips danced up and down your spine while your head lay on his inked shoulder and you watched the red indents of your teeth slowly fade from his neck. A frown pulled at the edges of your mouth, and you wondered how on earth he’d managed to get tattooed if it was so difficult to leave a mark on his skin.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked in a deep, gruff voice, like he’d been on the brink of sleep.

It took you a moment of being confused about how he could’ve possibly seen your frown before you remembered the bond. You still felt the tether to him, like a string tied behind your belly button, but you didn’t feel a tug on it until his palm skimmed down to your ankle and his hand closed over the tattoo he’d given you, which was healed somehow.

“How did that heal so fast?” you asked, sitting up twisting around to look at your ankle. The sweeping, delicate curves peaked out from behind Steve’s hand, and you brushed your fingertips over the inked lines with wonder.

“There was a drop of my blood in the ink,” Steve answered, and when you looked at him, he wore a mischievous smirk. “I told you the ingredients were all-natural, didn’t I?” he asked charmingly and shot you a wink, making you laugh and shake your head.

But then your eyes fell on the spot on his neck where you’d bitten him. He’d healed so fast, you couldn’t see any trace of your teeth anymore, and you brushed your fingers over it sadly. Steve caught your hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to each of your fingertips.

“There’s a special method to tattooing a demon,” Steve answered your unasked question, skimming his free hand down his chest and over all the other ink on his skin. “I can teach you how,” he offered.

Your eyes had drifted down to his chest, tracing the lines of the tattoos that had been hidden by his shirt, but at his words, you glanced up—and were surprised to see the darkness had receded from his eyes, leaving them a bright, sky blue. The look he was giving you was earnest, and you felt it reflected in the bond that hummed in your body.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, ducking your head into the crook of his neck and licking the spot you wanted to mark.

He still tasted like fire and salt and smoke and you wanted to savor him for an eon. With a sigh, you gave into the urge, licking and kissing him idly while you cuddled into his chest. Steve held you securely, your body still impaled on his half-hard cock while his cum dripped out of you, and you thought you could stay like that forever.

Instead, after a few moments, you asked, “So what happens now? Do you take me back to hell or the underworld or whatever?”

A chuckle rumbled in Steve’s chest. The sound reverberated through your sternum where you were pressed together and you smiled into his neck.

“I figured we’d stick around Brooklyn for a couple decades, then we can head down below,” he murmured, tracing patterns on your lower back with one hand while the other gripped your ass possessively. “I think you’ll like it there—I’ve got all kinds of fun toys to play with.”

You could hear the depraved excitement in his tone and snorted a laugh. But then something occurred to you and you pushed up from his chest to sit back so you could see Steve’s face. He looked confused by your suddenly serious expression.

“When you say toys, you don’t mean other people you’ve bound to you, do you?” you asked him with your eyes narrowed. Your focus was almost entirely on the bond, waiting for his reaction. You knew you’d be able to tell if he was lying, or hiding something.

But you felt only amusement from him, and watched as a grin spread across his face. “Nah,” he said, his hand wrapping loosely around the front of your throat to pull you in for a kiss. “I’m not actually the demon from the urban legend,” he confessed. “It’s just one of the ways we trick pretty little humans like you to sell your souls to us—you really should’ve read the fine print of that contract you signed.”

You huffed an exasperated laugh, because what else could you do, and kissed your demon again. He chuckled into your kiss before deepening it, his mouth sliding possessively against yours. When he pulled away, he nipped your lower lip, soothing the sting away with his tongue as he growled into your mouth.

“You’re the only soul for me, sweet girl.”

Your heart beat harder in your chest, and you felt his deep affection swirling with your own in your belly, twining together around your heart to create something real and deep. It was something that would grow and strengthen over the millennia you spent together.

You knew in that moment that there would be no running from the demon you’d unknowingly bound yourself to, and that you wouldn’t want to escape him anyway. Steve may have tricked you—and you’d make him grovel for your forgiveness for at least a century for that—but he was yours now, just as surely as you were his.

“You’re the only demon for me, Steve Rogers.”

You moaned for your demon when his hands grabbed your hips and began bouncing you on his hardened cock. His cum was still leaking out of your cunt, making a mess of both of you, but neither of you cared. Your kisses turned messy with your grunts and groans of pleasure, your bodies pushing each other toward the edge of another release as you gave in to the insatiable need you both felt for the other.

It would be a long time before that need was finally sated—so long that it was no longer Friday the 13th by the time you stumbled out of Hell, Steve’s heavy arm draped around your waist. His strong body kept you upright on unsteady knees while he walked you to his brownstone around the corner.

For years after that fateful Friday the 13th, you helped Steve keep up appearances as a tattoo artist, playing his devoted girlfriend during the day. Then at night, he took you home and made you his personal plaything, bending you over and fucking your ass with his fat demon cock or unloading his cum down your throat.

In the rare moments when you weren’t fucking, Steve taught you how to tattoo, and the method of how to tattoo a demon specifically, all so you could leave your mark on his skin. You tattooed an outline of your teeth marks on his neck, in the spot he’d left open for you since the night you’d met.

You’d even included a drop of your blood in the ink, even though Steve said it wouldn’t strengthen the bond. But afterward, you did feel like you were close to him, and he admitted he felt it, too.

Years later, Steve surprised you by asking you to marry him, and though you thought it was a little unnecessary, you said yes. It just seemed a bit like overkill to have a whole wedding ceremony when your souls were already bonded for eternity, but you had to admit it was a good time. Plus, all your friends and family cried happy tears—even the demons.

Finally, when it began to get suspicious that you and Steve weren’t aging while the humans around you were, Steve passed on ownership of Hell to one of the other artists and he took you down below to the real thing. He carried you across the threshold of his house and welcomed you home, where you’d live happily together until you decided to go topside again.

There in hell, Steve spent centuries shattering you apart with his cock before rebuilding you, only to break you down into his dumb little fucktoy all over again. Together, you used every toy Steve owned. You were your master’s good little plaything while he delivered pain and pleasure that sent you to new planes of existence.

Then, of course, Steve taught you how to use them all on him, too, because your demon master liked a little bit of pain, too.

You’d loved your time in Brooklyn with Steve Rogers, the tattoo artist and owner of Hell, but you loved your time in hell with your demon master even more. Together, you allowed yourselves to be truly free and give in to your darkness together. You allowed yourself to love him, and let him love you in return.

It was everything you could have dreamed of, living a happy life for the rest of eternity with your demon in hell.

And all you had to do was follow one rule: When in hell, do as the demons do.

#steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfic #demon steve rogers #steve rogers au #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers imagine #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans characters #chris evans smut #halloween fic #witchywithwhiskeywork

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mommykye · 3 months ago

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Big Bad Wolf

alpha!ceo!Natasha Romanoff x omega!fem!reader

summary: Rushed by loss and besieged by enemies, Natasha seeks an heir in the enigmatic omega, Y/N. Their first encounter sparks intrigue, but Natasha's iron walls threaten to extinguish the fragile connection before it ignites, leaving the future of her empire shrouded in mystery.

part 1

word count: 4.9k

Request are open

masterlist

The panoramic windows of Natasha’s penthouse suite, usually a canvas displaying the vibrant, sprawling cityscape, now served only as vast, reflective surfaces. They mirrored the disquiet churning within her, a turbulent sea trapped behind a polished facade. Days had bled into one another since the support group meeting, yet the encounter with Y/N replayed endlessly in her mind. It was a fragmented, jarring film reel she couldn't seem to stop, each awkward pause, each sharp word, each flicker of hurt in Y/N’s expressive eyes, and the quiet finality of her departure echoing against the backdrop of her luxurious, yet profoundly isolating, living space.

The rich textures of the room, usually a source of comfort and a testament to her hard-won control, now felt like opulent shackles. The deep pile of the Persian rug, usually soft beneath her feet, now seemed to absorb her restless pacing without offering solace. The smooth coolness of the Italian leather furniture, typically a symbol of her refined taste, now felt cold and unyielding against her touch. Even the warm glow of the strategically placed lighting, designed to create an atmosphere of sophisticated tranquility, now seemed to highlight the emptiness, the echoing silence that had become her unwanted companion. She found herself drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the distant hum of the city a stark and indifferent contrast to the internal storm raging within her.

A fleeting image flickered in her mind, unbidden and surprisingly vivid. The same panoramic view, softened by the warm hues of a setting sun, but different somehow. The stark lines of the modern furniture were softened by colorful throws and plump cushions. Instead of echoing silence, the air was filled with the joyful chaos of children’s laughter, the small, excited voices of little alphas and omegas chasing each other, their tiny hands leaving smudges on the pristine glass. Toys, bright and scattered, lay abandoned mid-play. And in the midst of this delightful disarray, Y/N sat on a comfortable armchair, a gentle curve to her pregnant belly, her eyes radiating a quiet contentment as she watched the children, occasionally offering a soft word or a loving smile. Natasha, in this imagined scene, felt a warmth spread through her chest, a sense of belonging she had never truly known. This wasn’t the sterile perfection of her current life; it was messy, vibrant, real. It was a home.

The vision, however fleeting, was potent. It was a life far removed from the harsh realities of her childhood in the Red Room, a life where vulnerability wasn't a weakness to be exploited but a bond to be cherished. A life where an heir wasn't the sole purpose of connection, but where love and genuine affection formed the foundation. But then, the sharp edges of reality intruded. She barely knew Y/N. This idealized future, this sudden longing for domesticity, was absurd, a phantom limb aching for a connection that hadn't even begun to form. And even if… even if there was a possibility, could she, Natasha, ever truly offer someone like Y/N a safe and loving space, free from the shadows of her past? The thought was both tantalizing and terrifying.

She shook her head slightly, trying to dislodge the fanciful image. It was a dangerous distraction, a sentimental indulgence she couldn't afford. Yet, the contrast between the imagined warmth and her current isolation was stark and unsettling.

A soft click of the door broke through her reverie, pulling her back to the cold reality of her penthouse. Yelena sauntered in, her usual playful energy radiating from her like a tangible aura. She leaned against the doorframe, a knowing smirk already gracing her lips. The faint scent of something sweet and slightly burnt – likely a failed baking experiment – clung to her clothes.

“Still brooding by the window, Nat?” Yelena’s voice was light, but held a teasing edge. “Planning your next corporate takeover or just replaying your disastrous attempt at making a friend?”

Natasha didn’t bother turning from the view. The distant city lights blurred slightly as she focused on the internal landscape of her regret. “It wasn’t a disaster.” The lie felt weak even to her own ears.

“Oh really?” Yelena pushed off the doorframe and strolled further into the room, her footsteps silent on the thick carpet. “Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you managed to scare off a perfectly lovely omega with the grace and charm of a cornered wolverine. And I even caught a whiff of her distress pheromones afterward. Poor thing probably thought she’d stumbled into a den of angry alphas.”

A sigh escaped Natasha’s lips, carrying a hint of genuine remorse. “I didn’t mean to.” The admission felt surprisingly difficult, a crack in the carefully constructed wall of her usual self-assurance. The scent of her own faint alpha pheromones, usually controlled and masked, had likely spiked during the tense exchange, adding to Y/N’s discomfort.

Yelena perched on the arm of a velvet armchair, her gaze sharp and perceptive. “I know you didn’t mean to, Nat. That’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t mean to be prickly, but it just… happens. Like a reflex. Years of deflecting and guarding yourself don’t just vanish overnight.”

Natasha finally turned, leaning against the cool glass. The reflection staring back at her was a familiar stranger – sharp, composed, but with a flicker of something akin to… longing? “I’m used to people having agendas. To looking for weaknesses. Their omega sub-gender often plays into those manipulations. She just… seemed genuine. Unassuming.” She remembered the soft curve of Y/N’s cheeks, the way her eyes held a warmth that seemed to radiate from within, the comfortable fullness of her figure that spoke of a gentle acceptance of herself. It was a stark contrast to the polished, often performative, interactions she was accustomed to.

“And that threw you, didn’t it?” Yelena’s tone softened, a hint of understanding replacing the teasing. “Someone being genuinely kind, genuinely curious… especially an omega who didn't seem to be playing any games… it’s not exactly your everyday boardroom encounter.”

A small, almost imperceptible nod was Natasha’s only response. The memory of the subtle floral and earthy notes of Y/N’s natural omega pheromones, a comforting blend that had felt surprisingly grounding, lingered in her senses.

“So,” Yelena continued, rubbing her hands together with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Operation ‘Win Back the Intriguing Omega’ is a go?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, a hint of her usual skepticism returning. “There is no ‘operation.’”

“Oh, come on,” Yelena scoffed. “You’ve been staring out that window for days. You’re practically radiating regret. Besides,” she added with a wink, “Kate’s been singing Y/N’s praises non-stop. Apparently, her sourdough starter is legendary. And she makes the most incredible, slightly oversized, but utterly delicious cookies.”

A faint smile touched Natasha’s lips despite herself. “Her sourdough starter? And oversized cookies?” The image of Y/N, her hands dusted with flour, carefully shaping imperfect but heartfelt treats, was surprisingly appealing.

“Apparently,” Yelena confirmed. “And her knowledge of obscure herbs is unparalleled. Kate’s convinced she could single-handedly cure the common cold with a sprig of something she foraged in the woods. She even mentioned Y/N’s incredibly soothing natural scent when she’s calm, something about chamomile and warm earth.”

“Kate exaggerates,” Natasha said, but the edge in her voice was gone. The thought of Y/N possessing such a calming presence was intriguing.

“Maybe,” Yelena conceded. “But she also said Y/N is resilient. That she’s been through things and come out stronger. That she has a quiet confidence that’s rather… disarming. That sounds like someone who could handle a grumpy alpha, don’t you think?”

The thought resonated with Natasha. Strength wasn’t just about physical prowess or corporate power. Y/N possessed a different kind of strength, a quiet inner fortitude that had shone through even in their brief, tense encounter. The way she had held her gaze, even when clearly uncomfortable, spoke volumes.

“So,” Yelena pressed, her enthusiasm building. “What’s the plan? Grand gesture? Public apology? Maybe a strategic deployment of highly trained operatives to locate her favorite bakery and shower her with those legendary oversized cookies?”

Natasha shook her head, a genuine smile finally breaking through her usual reserve. “No operatives. No grand gestures. I just… I’d like to talk to her again. Properly this time.”

“Properly,” Yelena echoed, a hint of amusement in her voice. “As opposed to your usual method of communication, which involves veiled threats and intimidating eye contact, possibly accompanied by a subtle release of dominant alpha pheromones?”

“Something like that,” Natasha admitted, a wry smile playing on her lips. “But I don’t even know where to find her.”

“Leave that to me,” Yelena said, pulling out her phone. “Kate’s got contacts. Besides,” she added with a sly grin, “a little intel gathering never hurt anyone. Especially when it involves a potentially legendary sourdough starter.”

A few taps and a brief conversation later, Yelena hung up, her expression triumphant. “Got her. Apparently, she volunteers at a local community garden a few days a week. And today is one of those days.”

Natasha’s heart gave a small, unexpected flutter. A community garden. It seemed a world away from the polished steel and glass of her corporate life, yet somehow, the image of Y/N tending to plants, her hands in the soil, felt… right. Grounded.

“So?” Yelena prompted, already heading towards the door. “Are we going to go cultivate some… understanding?”

Natasha hesitated for a moment, a flicker of her old apprehension returning. But the image of Y/N’s gentle smile, the quiet strength in her eyes, and the unexpected pull of her calming pheromones spurred her forward. “Let’s go.”

They descended the numerous floors in the private elevator, the silence punctuated only by the soft whoosh of the mechanism. As they stepped out into the bustling lobby of Romanoff Industries, Natasha felt a strange sense of shedding her corporate armor, if only slightly. Today wasn’t about mergers or acquisitions; it was about something far more personal, far more uncertain. The usual respect bordering on fear in the eyes of her employees felt oddly distant.

Yelena, ever attuned to her sister’s moods, clapped her on the shoulder. “Relax, Nat. Just be yourself. Well, the slightly less intimidating version of yourself. Maybe try not to accidentally trigger her flight response with your alpha aura this time.”

Natasha managed a weak smile. “No promises.”

——timeskip——

As the sleek black car idled across the street from the vibrant green space, Natasha felt a familiar knot of anxiety tighten in her chest. The community garden buzzed with a gentle energy – the murmur of voices, the snip of shears, the earthy scent of soil mingling with the sweet perfume of blooming flowers. It was a stark contrast to the sterile efficiency of her usual environment, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if she’d made a mistake even agreeing to this. The air itself felt different, less controlled, more alive.

“See? Nothing to be afraid of, sestra,” Yelena chirped, her gaze fixed on the activity outside. “Just a bunch of… well, gardeners. Harmless, mostly.” She paused, sniffing the air dramatically. “Definitely a lot of beta pheromones. A few other omegas, judging by the sweeter notes. And… hmm, a couple of other alphas. Keep your claws sheathed, big sister.”

Natasha didn’t reply, her eyes scanning the figures tending to the plots. The sunlight glinted off watering cans and tools, and the air, thick with the promise of spring, carried a subtle mix of pheromones – the grounding earthiness of betas, the bright floral notes of other omegas, and even a faint, underlying hum that she instinctively recognized as belonging to other alphas. It was a sensory tapestry so different from the carefully controlled atmosphere of her penthouse, where even the air filtration system minimized natural scents.

“You’re going to psych yourself out before we even get out of the car, Nat,” Yelena said, a playful nudge in her tone. “Remember what we talked about. Be… approachable. Like a fluffy kitten. Or at least a slightly less grumpy bear. Maybe try suppressing the urge to assert your dominance with a subtle pheromonal pulse every five seconds.”

“I am perfectly capable of being approachable,” Natasha retorted, though her gaze remained fixed on a woman with a wide-brimmed hat carefully pruning a rose bush.

“Sure, and I’m the Queen of England,” Yelena quipped, rolling her eyes. “Just try smiling. You know, the one that doesn’t look like you’re contemplating a hostile takeover. And maybe try not to smell quite so much like you own the entire Eastern Seaboard.”

Natasha huffed, but the corners of her lips twitched almost imperceptibly. This was ridiculous. She was Natasha Romanoff, a woman who negotiated multi-billion dollar deals and commanded the respect of entire industries. Why was the prospect of a simple conversation with one omega, a slightly chubby omega with kind eyes and a talent for sourdough, making her feel like a teenager before her first dance?

Suddenly, Yelena’s breath hitched. “Oy, smotri! Look!”

Natasha followed her sister’s gaze. Walking along the sidewalk beside their car, her figure framed by the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, was Y/N. She was wearing a flowy sundress, the soft fabric swaying gently with each step, and her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, tendrils escaping to frame her face. She carried a small woven bag over her shoulder, and there was a peaceful, almost ethereal quality to her movements. The faint scent of chamomile and warm earth that Yelena had mentioned was now more distinct, a calming aroma that seemed to cut through Natasha’s anxiety.

Before Natasha could even formulate a coherent thought, Yelena’s door swung open. In a move that was as swift as it was utterly unexpected, Yelena was out of the car and moving towards Y/N with a determined glint in her eyes.

“Yelena, what in God’s name are you doing?” Natasha hissed, mortification flooding her senses. This was not how she had envisioned this… whatever this was supposed to be. The subtle scent of Y/N’s surprise and a flicker of fear began to mix with the calming chamomile.

Yelena reached Y/N just as she was about to pass their car. With a surprising display of strength, she grabbed Y/N’s arm.

“Hello there, golubchik,” Yelena said, her voice deceptively sweet, but her grip firm. The shift in her pheromones was immediate, a subtle but unmistakable hint of alpha dominance underlying the sweetness.

Y/N’s eyes widened in alarm. “Hey! What are you doing? Let go of me!” Her voice was sharp with surprise and a dawning sense of panic. The calming scent of chamomile was abruptly overpowered by a sharp spike of fear and distress.

“We need a little chat,” Yelena said, her smile not reaching her eyes. Before Y/N could fully react, Yelena was practically frog-marching her towards the open car door.

“Get your hands off me! I’m calling the police!” Y/N struggled, her protests growing louder, a mixture of fear and anger in her tone. The peaceful atmosphere of the garden was abruptly shattered by the sounds of her escalating distress. Several nearby gardeners turned, their expressions shifting from mild curiosity to concern. The air now crackled with a palpable tension, the natural pheromonal balance completely disrupted.

Natasha’s face burned with embarrassment. This was a disaster of epic proportions. She scrambled out of the car, her mind racing, trying to salvage this unbelievably chaotic situation. Her own alpha instincts flared momentarily, a protective urge towards Y/N warring with her utter mortification at Yelena’s tactics.

“Yelena! Stop it! What are you thinking?” Natasha’s voice was low and urgent, but Yelena seemed completely unfazed, her focus entirely on the struggling omega.

“Get in the car, mishka,” Yelena commanded, practically shoving a resisting Y/N towards the back seat. Her grip tightened as Y/N tried to pull away, the scent of fear emanating from her now sharp and acrid.

“I said let go of me, you crazy woman!” Y/N yelled, her voice trembling slightly. She tried to pull away, but Yelena’s grip was like iron. Her woven bag slipped from her shoulder and landed on the sidewalk, spilling a few gardening gloves and a small trowel.

“Just get in,” Yelena repeated, her tone brooking no argument. With a final heave, she managed to maneuver a flailing Y/N into the back seat. Yelena then slid in after her, effectively trapping Y/N between herself and the car door. The small space now filled with the clashing scents of Yelena’s forceful alpha, Y/N’s fear, and Natasha’s rising panic.

Natasha stood by the open door, aghast. Passersby were starting to stare, their gardening forgotten as they witnessed the bizarre scene unfolding. The subtle pheromonal balance in the air had shifted, the undercurrent of alarm and distress now palpable. One of the alpha gardeners started to move towards the car, a protective growl rumbling in his chest.

“Yelena, you can’t just kidnap people!” Natasha exclaimed, her voice a strained whisper.

“I’m not kidnapping her,” Yelena said, her tone surprisingly reasonable considering the circumstances. “I’m facilitating a conversation. With a bit of persuasive encouragement.”

“A conversation that started with you physically assaulting me?” Y/N interjected, her voice tight with fury. “Let me out of this car right now! You have no right to touch me!” Her plump cheeks were flushed with anger and fear, and her chest heaved with rapid breaths.

“Now, now, no need for hysterics,” Yelena said, patting Y/N’s arm in a gesture that was anything but comforting. “We just want to talk to you about Natasha.”

Y/N glared at Natasha, her eyes flashing with indignation. “Talk to me? After the way she acted at the support group? I have nothing to say to either of you! You were both incredibly rude and dismissive.”

Natasha finally found her voice, though it was laced with mortification. “Look, Y/N, I m am so sorry about this. Yelena’s methods are… unconventional. To say the least.” Her own pheromones were now a confusing mix of apology and a desperate attempt to defuse the tense situation.

“Unconventional?” Y/N scoffed, her voice rising in disbelief, a sharp contrast to the gentle cadence Natasha had briefly heard at the support group. “This is assault! Physical assault! I could press charges! And frankly,” her gaze sharpened, focusing directly on Natasha, “after your condescending attitude the other day, the way you dismissed my experience like it was nothing, I’m half-tempted to! Maybe a night in a cell would teach you both some manners!” The scent of her anger intensified, a bitter tang now mingling with the lingering fear.

“And you would be entirely within your rights to do so,” Natasha conceded, her gaze unwavering, her voice low and sincere, devoid of any corporate edge. She could feel the weight of Y/N’s anger, the justified indignation radiating from her. “But please, hear me out. This… this,” she gestured vaguely at Yelena, still perched beside a clearly distressed Y/N, “is not how I wanted to approach this. My intention was… different.” The word felt inadequate, a flimsy shield against the reality of Yelena’s actions.

“Different how?” Y/N challenged, her arms still crossed defensively, her body language radiating distrust. “Did you plan on sending your goons to ‘facilitate a conversation’ at my home? Maybe leave a threatening note attached to a bouquet of poisoned flowers?” The sarcasm dripped from her voice, sharp and laced with genuine fear. The subtle tremors in her hands betrayed her outward bravado.

Yelena, ever the pragmatist, though her methods were anything but, cut to the chase. “Alright, here’s the deal, dorogaya. Natasha here,” she gestured towards her sister with a flourish, her hand nearly colliding with Y/N’s nose, “is socially challenged. Think of her as a highly intelligent, incredibly capable, but utterly inept puppy when it comes to feelings. She doesn’t always say what she means, and sometimes what she means comes out sounding like she’s declaring war on your entire existence, possibly including your beloved sourdough starter. It’s a communication quirk. A deeply ingrained, possibly irreversible, communication quirk. But! She actually feels bad – genuinely bad – about how things went at the meeting. She’s been moping around her ridiculously oversized apartment for days, smelling faintly of regret and expensive whiskey, and occasionally sighing dramatically while staring at the city lights.”

Natasha shot Yelena a look that could curdle milk, a silent promise of severe and immediate retribution flickering in her eyes. Her own alpha pheromones flared briefly in annoyance, a low growl of displeasure rumbling in her chest, before she consciously suppressed them, reminding herself of the precariousness of the situation. Her sister was making a mockery of the situation, downplaying her own atrocious behavior, but somehow, amidst the absurdity, there was a kernel of truth to her awkwardness.

“And,” Yelena continued, her tone shifting to something resembling a hostage negotiator laying out terms, “if you agree to go on a date with her… in a few days… say, next Wednesday evening? A proper date, involving polite conversation, actual smiles (from Natasha, hopefully), and the distinct absence of any physical coercion… where she will be charming and attentive and will not say anything even remotely resembling a threat, and will probably even compliment your… lovely dress… then we will let you out of this car, unharmed, right now. What do you say? It’s a simple yes or no. Though, we strongly encourage a yes.”

Y/N stared at Yelena as if she had sprouted a second head, her plump cheeks still flushed with indignation, her breathing still shallow. “Are you out of your mind? A date? With her? After all this? I’d rather be locked in a room full of rabid ferrets! At least then I’d have a legitimate reason to bite someone! And the authorities would probably be more sympathetic!”

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Yelena wheedled, her earlier aggression vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a surprisingly earnest expression, her voice softening. “Think of it as a peace offering. A chance for Natasha to show you that she’s not entirely a heartless ice queen. Maybe she’ll even tell you embarrassing stories about her childhood in Russia. Those are always a hit. Besides,” she leaned closer to Y/N, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “she can be surprisingly generous. Think good wine, excellent food maybe even a small, non-threatening gift.”

“She made it pretty clear what she thought of me at the meeting,” Y/N retorted, crossing her arms even tighter over her chest, her chin jutting out defiantly. “I don’t need her pity, or her… generosity. I need her to understand that her words have consequences, that other people have feelings!” The scent of her hurt resurfaced, a subtle undercurrent beneath the anger.

Natasha stepped closer to the car, her expression earnest, her voice low and sincere, the usual steel replaced by a genuine plea. “Y/N, please. I truly didn’t mean to offend you. My… my reaction was rooted in my own… experiences. My own insecurities. It wasn’t about you. I… I’m not very good at… this kind of thing. Social interactions… they don’t come naturally to me. Especially in… emotionally charged environments. I tend to…default to defense.” It was a rare and painful admission of vulnerability, and it cost her a significant amount of pride to say it, to lay bare a weakness she usually guarded fiercely. The scent of her own uncertainty, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in her alpha pheromones, betrayed her discomfort, a stark contrast to her usual controlled aura.

Yelena seized the opportunity, sensing a crack in Y/N’s resistance. “See? She’s practically begging! Just one date. A few hours of your time. And then, if you still think she’s a monster, if she says anything remotely offensive, you can unleash your inner rabid ferret on her. What have you got to lose? Besides a perfectly lovely Wednesday evening and the potential for a surprisingly good meal?”

Y/N looked from Yelena’s determined face to Natasha’s surprisingly vulnerable one. She was clearly still furious and shaken, the scent of her lingering distress still palpable, a knot of fear and anger radiating from her, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes – perhaps curiosity, a desire to understand the woman who had so easily dismissed her, or maybe just the sheer absurdity of the situation was starting to wear her down, the outlandishness of it all bordering on the darkly comedic. She glanced at the concerned faces of the onlookers, the alpha gardener still hovering nearby with a protective air, then back at the two sisters.

“And if I say no?” Y/N challenged, her voice still laced with suspicion, her gaze sharp as she assessed their resolve.

Yelena’s smile tightened, the playful facade momentarily slipping to reveal a hint of the steel beneath, a reminder of the ruthlessness that lay beneath her often-teasing exterior. “Then we drive around until you change your mind. And trust me, dorogaya, we have all day. Natasha has… very comfortable car seats. And I have a playlist of truly terrible Russian pop songs that I’m sure you’d just adore.”

Natasha shot Yelena another warning glare, a silent plea for her to stop digging them into an even deeper hole. This was not going the way she had hoped, not that she had any clear idea of how she had hoped it would go. Kidnapping was certainly not on the agenda, nor was the threat of bad Russian music.

After a long, tense silence, the only sound the distant chirping of birds in the garden, Y/N let out a frustrated sigh, the fight seemingly draining out of her. Her shoulders slumped slightly, and the sharp scent of her anger began to recede, replaced by a weary resignation. “Fine,” she conceded, her voice grudging, the word feeling like it was being dragged from her. “One date. Wednesday evening. And if either of you pulls anything like this again, if there’s even a hint of coercion or condescension, I swear I will have you both arrested. And I know a very good lawyer. One who specializes in… unusual cases.”

“Excellent!” Yelena clapped her hands together, her earlier aggression vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by an almost childlike enthusiasm. “Wednesday it is! Seven o’clock? We’ll pick you up. Where do you live? Is it far? Do you have any… dietary restrictions? Natasha can be surprisingly accommodating when she wants to be.”

Y/N just glared at her, the scent of her lingering annoyance still a palpable barrier. “Just tell me where you’re taking me. I can meet you there. I am not getting into a car with either of you again. Not unless there are flashing blue lights involved.” The thought of being trapped with them was clearly still abhorrent.

“Alright, alright,” Yelena said agreeably, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “We’ll text you the address. Something… classy. Not too intimidating. Maybe that little Italian place with the surprisingly good tiramisu. They also have excellent vegetarian options, if that’s your thing. Now, let’s get you out of here before someone calls the actual police. Or that rather large alpha gardener decides to intervene with his pruning shears.”

Yelena unlocked the car door, and Y/N practically leaped out, putting as much distance between herself and the black sedan as possible. She retrieved her fallen bag and its scattered contents, her movements still stiff with residual anger and fear. She shot Natasha one last, wary look, a complex mix of emotions swirling in her intelligent gaze – anger, suspicion, and a flicker of something Natasha couldn’t quite decipher – before turning and quickly walking away, disappearing back into the leafy paths of the community garden. The calming scent of chamomile slowly began to reassert itself as she moved further away, a fragile peace returning to the disturbed air.

Natasha watched her go, a strange mix of relief and apprehension swirling within her. She had secured a second chance, albeit through the most bizarre and borderline illegal means imaginable. The concerned glances of the remaining gardeners felt like physical accusations, and the nearby alpha’s protective growl still echoed faintly in the air.

“Well,” Yelena said, brushing off her hands as if she’d just completed a particularly challenging task. “That went… interestingly. You have to admit, it was certainly efficient. And now you have a date! See? I told you I could fix things.”

Natasha just shook her head, utterly speechless, the absurdity of the situation washing over her. “Interestingly? Yelena, you practically kidnapped her! That alpha who was heading over here looked ready to tear you limb from limb! We could be facing assault charges!”

“Details, details,” Yelena waved a dismissive hand. “He was probably just worried about his prize-winning tomatoes. The important thing is, you have a date. Now, let’s go home. I think we both need a very fat shot vodka. And maybe you should start practicing your charming smile. The non-hostile takeover version. And perhaps work on your opening lines. ‘So, about that support group…’ is probably not the best way to start.”

As they got back into the car, the scent of blooming flowers and damp earth seemed to linger in the air, now tinged with the faint undercurrent of Y/N’s lingering distress and a surprising hint of her own resilience. Wednesday evening suddenly felt like a very long way away, a looming precipice of potential disaster or, against all odds, a chance at something… more than just another corporate negotiation.

#marvel #natasha x you #natasha romanova x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff #kate x yelena #yelena belova #yelena black widow #black widow #yelena boleva #kate bishop #yelena belova x reader #kate bishop x yelena belova #kate bishop x reader

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athenalvss · 2 months ago

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TELEPATÍA (Bruce wayne !)

request: I own hc about the reader falling madly in love with Batman, and he also do but the problem is that she's not interested in Bruce Wayne more to not like him especially for his playboy persona.

summary: Bruce Wayne seems a little determined to win you over at each of the galas you share and that exasperates you, but you don't know that you are deeply in love with his secret version.

a/n: idk what I just write

pairing; Bruce wayne x hero! fem reader.

open request — batman masterlist

The first time you met Bruce was at one of the galas that the Gotham City elite had put on, and being part of it you were practically obliged to go if you didn't want to break business ties with some of them, and it was there where you met Bruce Wayne.

I mean, personally, cause who didn't know Bruce Wayne? The orphaned boy turned billionaire. The heir to one of Gotham's largest fortunes. The missing man who returned to live his life between parties, scandals, and magazine covers. They'd mentioned him to you before. "I'm sure you'll love him, he's so charming," "He has a magnetic presence," "He's fascinated by intelligent women..." But when you saw him in front of you, you only thought one thing: "How disgusting."

He arrived late, with that arrogant smile and that "the world belongs to me" air. The murmurs followed him like a shadow. He approached you with a drink in his hand, his tuxedo perfectly tailored, and a confidence that bordered on insolence.

"I didn't know Gotham's business included such interesting and beautiful women. Have we met?" he said, as if you were already exhausted.

You held his gaze without smiling. "If we'd met, believe me, you'd remember." And without further ado, you walked softly out of his sight, leaving him with the words on his lips.

From that moment on, you knew he was going to be a problem. Men have a hard time with acceptance, and he was no exception. Bruce Wayne wasn't used to being rejected. And you weren't a woman with much patience for people like him.

What you didn't know back then was that that arrogance hid someone much more like you than you cared to admit. The man who patrolled the city every night with you. The man you knew as Batman.

To you, Bruce Wayne is a symbol of frivolity and superficiality: parties, women, fake smiles. You believe there's nothing real about him; he was truly an idiot if he thought he could win you over even a little with Batman waiting for you every night.

So every time Bruce Wayne tries to flirt with you, it only makes you want to leave even more. Because if he knew who you share your early mornings with… If he knew who you truly give your time and trust to… You find it pathetic. You even feel a little sorry for him. cause there's nothing Bruce Wayne can give you that Batman hasn't already shown you…

The first time you met Batman was on one of Gotham's many dark nights. You had received information about an illegal shipment of experimental weapons arriving at the port.

You infiltrated alone. Silently. Precisely. Until everything went wrong. An ambush. Bigger bodies, more heavily armed. You were good, very good, but not immortal. When you thought it was the end, a shadow fell between you and the gunfire. Silence. Sharp blows. One movement after another. And when you were able to stand again, he was there: Dark. Tall. Utterly imposing.

"You shouldn't be here." His voice was deep, as if the city were speaking through him.

"Don't tell me what to do," you spat at him, furious that he hadn't anticipated the ambush.

Batman, your beloved Batman, a respectful, chivalrous, caring, protective man, should you follow the list? It had fascinated you from the very beginning.

You didn't know exactly when it started. Maybe it was the night he covered you with his cape when you were shivering from the cold on top of a building. Or the time he wordlessly left a clean bandage beside you after a fight. Or when, after a particularly tough mission, he just sat with you, staring out at the lights of Gotham, without saying a word.

Not knowing each other's true identities was a real mess, but you liked staying that way. There was a certain seduction game going on, and they enjoyed it that way, even though you could only see each other at night.

And when you joined the Justice League it was even cooler, you were able to meet people with the same ideals and ideas for a better world, and you could spend more time with your mysterious lover.

When you joined the Justice League, the rules were clear: No one knew anyone's civilian identities. No real names, no addresses, no pasts. It was for safety, but also out of respect. They were a team, not a family.

Well, that didn't really happen like that, maybe no one knew their real names or their faces, but it was inevitable not to create some kind of friendship, once after a gala night you returned to the watchtower and met some of the members of the league, including Batman, and you began to tell them the situation and your feelings for that man who was stalking you at the galas.

"I'm fed up," you said, slumping into one of the armchairs.

Wonder Woman raised an eyebrow, amused. "What happened to you this time, huh?"

"Bruce Wayne." You sighed, rolling your eyes. "That guy shows up at every gala, like he owns the city... which he does. But he's so... insufferable. He follows me around, smiles at me like he knows me. What does he think? That I'm going to fall for an expensive suit and a perfect smile?"

Superman laughed. "Why don't you give it a try? Maybe it won't be so bad."

"Four words Superman, he.is.a.Playboy."

And Batman sitting next to you just remained silent, as was usual when the league members were there, he had to maintain his serious image.

Everyone talked about their lives, but they had never talked about who they were, and perhaps they never knew, well... almost no one knew.

It was during an emergency meeting. A mistake on a mission nearly cost one of the members their life. And when Batman opened the information he'd stored, it revealed everything he knew: their names, their revealed faces, their abilities and weaknesses—enough information to destroy each member of the team.

That broke the League. The atmosphere in the room remained tense. The betrayal. Everyone looked at him. Some with anger. Others with disappointment, and you could only stand there with your heart in your hand. You had trusted him even without knowing who he was. Why had he done that?

And you... you could only stand there with your heart in your hand. You had trusted him. Batman. Without knowing his face, his name, his life outside the suit. You had trusted him more than anyone. You had fallen in love. And now... you knew he had spied on you, watched you, recorded you as if you were a threat.

"Why?" was all you could ask. Not as a hero. Not as a member of the League. But as someone who had just lost something too deep.

The silence was brutal. No one interrupted you. No one stood up for him. You didn't know if it was more the pain of betrayal... Or the pang in your chest that came with the certainty: he'd known who you were all along.

"I needed something safe. Something that could stop them if ever… if something bad happened." His voice was low but firm. "Someone has to think the worst, even if no one wants to. And if that means them hating me… I'm fine with that."

And without waiting for anything, he ran his hands through his hood and threw it to the ground before looking up, allowing the entire team to see his face.

You really saw him, you couldn't believe it. Bruce Wayne. The insufferable idiot at the galas. The one you thought could never understand you. The one who made you roll your eyes with every arrogant smirk...

One by one, the League members began to leave. He gave Bruce a look filled with unspoken words, and then simply nodded, as if that battle wasn't going to be fought there. And so, there was silence. Just him and you.

The silence between you grew even thicker. He took a step toward you, carefully, as if everything could still shatter with a single movement. You looked at him, at Bruce, at Batman. And it all felt too real.

"Do you know what hurts the most?" you said, your voice barely trembling. "That it was you all this time. That I looked you in the eyes, that we argued at those damn galas, that I told you things and you just stayed silent."

Before he could respond, you hit him. A sharp slap, not hateful, but with the full weight of frustration and pent-up betrayal. He didn't even flinch. He just nodded, his eyes lowered.

"I deserve it" he muttered.

"Of course you deserve it!" you responded angrily, but it was no longer pure anger... just that knot in your chest that unraveled into the words, "You made me fall in love with a version of you, and they were the same."

And then it happened. You grabbed him by the collar, pulled him close, and kissed him.

It was wild. Intense. Almost a declaration of war. And he responded as if he'd been waiting for this moment forever. Not like Batman. Like Bruce Wayne, like the man who loved you.

When they broke apart, they were so close they could feel each other's breath. And you smiled faintly. "I hate you a little."

"I can live with that," he said, with an awkward but genuine smile.

#bruce wayne imagine #imagine bruce wayne #dc masterlist #bruce wayne masterlist #bruce wayne headcanon #bruce wayne angst #bruce wayne fluff #batman x reader #batman x fem reader #bruce wayne x reader

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callsign-swan · 2 months ago

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Back To You

Valentina finds a way to control Bob and The Sentry: His wife.

Warnings: addiction (bc, yk, Sentry), thunderbolts spoilers, canon divergence

A sense of foreboding filled her as she stepped into the elevator. The message had been cryptic, but the reward was too good to be true.

The lack of elevator music had the bad feeling in her stomach intensifying. As it travelled up, she checked the message on her phone again. It was the right building in the right city, in the right State.

Part of her couldn't believe it was this building. When her husband first went missing, she didn't believe he would end up here.

Months of searching had led to this moment. He had been clean on her wedding day, all thanks to her support. Cooking him healthy, nutritious meals, taking him on walks.

There were good nights and there were bad nights. A lot of bad nights. Nights were he wasn't her husband, he became someone else. Someone she didn't know.

But she was still there, holding his hand, stroking her fingers over his palm. Bringing him back to himself, running her fingers through his hair and kissing his lips.

But then, one day, after what felt like weeks of bad days, he disappeared. No word, nothing. He just... left, giving her no clue as to where he was going.

But she searched. She searched and searched, turning up nothing. Nobody knew where her husband, the man she loved so dearly, was. Nights spent crying herself to sleep, trying not to go down the same path he did. It would have been so easy to slip, to put herself into his mindset, all for the sake of finding him.

The only thing keeping her hope alive all of these months was the fact that a body was never found.

But then she got this message. The address. He's here. There was only one He it could be, only one He she cared about.

The elevator doors didn't ding before they opened. They just slid open. There was nothing remarkable about it.

Funny, she thought this moment would be something... more.

People, laying on the floor. Some had blood, some had bruises. All of them had the shit beaten out of them.

Wide eyed, she looked from person to person. Why had she been brought her, forced to witness the aftermath of all of this violence.

But then, she looked up.

His hair was longer, blonde, too. The suit was flashy, to say the least. But it was him. It was her Bob.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was running towards him. "Bobby," she said through a gasp as he threw someone to the side like they weighed nothing

It was him. It was her Bob. The same eyes, blue as the deepest ocean, lighting up the moment he saw her.

Nothing else in the world seemed to matter to him. He called her name, a quiet desperation in his voice. When she threw herself at him, he caught her easily.

Eyes closed, Bob wrapped both arms around her. He held her as close as he possibly could and breathed in. Her, it was all her. Her ring was still on her finger, a perfect symbol of what their marriage should have been. His was long gone, pawned off for drug money. God, he had been such an idiot back then.

But, fuck, that didn't matter to her.

She pulled away from him, looked at his face. "You've gone blonde, Bobby," she whispered as she took him in.

There was something so sweet about the way he laughed. His eyes searched her face, as if he couldn't believe she was real, she was really there.

"I looked for you," she said as she settled her hand on his chest. "Everywhere, Bobby. Where did you go?"

"'m sorry," he whispered. "I was tryina get better so that I could come home to you. I don't know what happened after that."

Finally, she looked around. The people on the floor, with the shit beaten out of them, were gone, disappeared into the elevator while Bob was distracted with her.

Her hand touched his cheek, just holding. Soft, familiar hands against his cheek were exactly what he needed, a sweet, gentle touch to heal him. "Doesn't matter," she mumbled. "I found you."

She kissed him, the ground disappearing from beneath her feet as Bob lifted her up. He didn't mean to, maybe it was a sign his control was slipping.

When they touched back down and pulled away from each other, Bob frowned. "How did you find me?" He asked.

She scrambled to pull her phone from her pocket. "I got a text telling me where to find you," she said.

His arm dropped to her waist as he pulled her against him. His way of keeping her safe. "You brought her here?" He asked Valentina.

Valentina looked behind the couple, at Mel. Of course this was her doing, her genius plan. What better way to control the power of Sentry than with his wife?

"I did," Valentina said, nodding her head.

Bob reached out for her hand. He gasped it and shook, thanking her over and over again.

But then his attention turned back to his wife. This was where she belonged, by his side. Not in The old avengers tower, but in the apartment they shared.

His job at The chicken place barely paid for anything, and her office job wasn't doing much more. But that was their home.

When Valentina ordered him to kill the others, Bob refused. Why should he, when they were no threat to him? Besides, he had something much more important by his side.

"C'mon, Robert," Valentina said. Her fingers danced across his wife's shoulders before she gripped her arm and pulled her back. She moved too fast for Bob, even with all of the power he had.

But he couldn't risk hurting his wife.

Valentina had found his weak spot and exploited it. For the safety of his wife, Bob would do anything.

#robert reynolds #robert reynolds imagine #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x you #robert reynolds fluff #bob reynolds #bob reynolds imagines #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds fluff #thunderbolts #thunderbolts imagine #thunderbolts spoilers #tbolts spoilers #mcu #marvel #mcu imagine #marvel imagine #thunderbolts x reader

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citranna · 5 months ago

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There’s a new kid in Park Row.

Jason knows every single kid on the street, and this one is distinctly not one of them. Hell, judging by that scraggly bright red sweater, he’d be surprised if he’s even from Gotham. Still, the beat up sneakers and pants that are one size too small show he’s not gonna be a target for robbery.

He’s been here for about what, two weeks now? The kid’s been popping in and out of corridors and thin gaps between buildings, alert, without having a solid address. He hasn’t been seen with anyone consistently either. No parents, probably. If he had any Jason would’ve figured out where they live by now. The question is why he’s here. What could a street kid be looking for in Gotham that he wouldn’t get in his (most likely) better home city?

He’s careful when approaching him. The helmet scares the little ones, so he dawns his domino instead. Hands up and away from his body and at a respectable distance, Hood greets him.

“Hey kid.”

The boy turns his head around quick, eyebrows shooting to the top of his head before his eyes alight with recognition. Good, he knows him. It’ll make things easier. An uneasy smile spreads across the kids lips as he offers a small wave in greeting.

“Yeah, nice to meet you. What brings you to Park Row? You looking for something?”

The boy does nothing but shrug. Real helpful. Then again, it could be because…

“Can you speak?”

He brings his hand up and tilts it side to side. A symbol for ‘So-so, ish’. He could work with that, weirder shit has happened in this alley. He fishes into his breast pocket for a notepad and pen, thankful the kid doesn’t seem panicked in the slightest at the motion. Carefully, he draws closer to hand him the items.

Up close and directly under the moonlight, the kid looks around ten, but if he’s anything like the kids in the alley and himself at that age, he’s probably malnourished. He’s probably more like twelve, give or take.

The boy nods his head in thanks (cute that he has such good manners) and scribbles down a sentence in okay-ish handwriting, turning the pad to show Jason.

‘Can’t talk right now, lost my voice. I’m just looking around here.’

Jason scoffs. “There’s better places to look around, y’know, even if you don’t got cash. If this is just for fun I’d pick a better, cooler spot.”

Another line gets jotted down, faster than the last. ‘It’s cool, I think. It’s nice in its own way. I won’t be staying for much longer anyways.’

Interesting. His mouth opens to ask for more, but he finds itself quickly slamming shut. Although this kid is among the most friendly and open one he’s met (and oddly a smooth talker too—Jason feels compelled to just believe him and not question him further, but he’s able to push that weird feeling down) but it’s probably best not to push his luck and pry further.

“Cool, cool. If you ever need a place to stay for the night, there’s a new shelter right down the street we just built. My uh…office, is nearby too.”

The kid nods, a glint of knowing mischief in his eye. Jason waves, letting him walk calmly away from the direction of the shelter and straight towards the subway system where he disappears every night.

Yeah. Gotham’s definitely haunted.

#I’m so post crisis Billy brained right now I’m sorry #Jason doesn’t realize how he fits Bruce’s favorite adoption requirements until later #and then he REALLY prays it’s a ghost and not a kid #Billy Batson #dc comics #citranna writes #Shazam #captain marvel #Jason Todd #red hood #batfamily

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icarusignite · 3 months ago

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My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (p.1)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Civilian! GN! Reader

Summary: In a city where kindness is fleeting and warmth feels like a myth, a reclusive vigilante crosses paths with another ghost orbiting the same darkness. What begins as cautious companionship spirals into something tender, fragile, and terrifying. But when fear drives him away, and violence drags you to the edge of death, Jason Todd is forced to confront the one truth he’s always run from: some things, once lost, can’t be stitched back together. And some things are worth bleeding for.

Warnings: Stabbing, mentions of blood and injuries, Jason is kind of a jerk in the beginning, but forgive him for it, he's got attachment issues lol. Hurt/comfort, angst. slowburn. YEARNING, lots of yearning, my boy is a yearner

Word Count: 8.5k

A/N: I am not a medical professional lol so I can't say how accurate this is lol, but just go with it for the angst vibes. This is super self-indulgent lol, I wanted the kind of fic that causes you physical pain so here we are. This was getting a bit too long so I'll post the second part later, lemme know if yall wanna be tagged.

This is my first time writing for DC or the batboys, but the brainrot is real. This is technically a part of a bigger Jason long fic I'm working on but I just really needed to get this scene out lol

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

You were friends, weren't you?

You'd like to think so. It made it easier to explain away the ache in your chest every time he left without a word. Or the warmth that bloomed beneath your ribs when he showed up, battered and brooding, yet somehow still seeking you out.

But then again, did vigilantes even have friends?

Arms folded loosely across your chest, you leaned against the doorframe of your cramped kitchen, watching him from across the dimly lit room. Your apartment was small, embarrassingly so, and the light above flickered in that way you kept meaning to fix. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and cheap chamomile tea, curling around your ankles like smoke.

He sat at your wobbly kitchen table with his boots carelessly propped on the worn wood, the laces still muddy from whatever hell he'd clawed his way out of tonight. His brow was furrowed, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as he wound a fresh bandage around the gash on his arm. A grimace tugged at his mouth as he worked, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

His mask lay discarded beside the pile of bloodied tissues, a splash of crimson on your table that felt far too symbolic. You hated how used to the sight you'd become. It no longer made your stomach turn the way it once did. Now, it just sat there, like a guest you hadn't invited but didn't dare ask to leave.

You wanted to help. You always did, but in the careful months since he'd tumbled, quite literally, into your life, you'd learned not to offer unless he asked. Red Hood—or Red as you had fondly dubbed him because you still didn't know his actual name—was a man built of walls and wreckage, of hairline fractures hidden behind sardonic grins and barbed quips.

He didn't like prying. So neither did you.

You still remembered the first time you'd met him. Your life had been steady, if not dull, up until then. A slow existence filled with microwaved meals, cracked book spines, and long, lingering silences. Then, as if fate had grown bored with your monotony, he had crashed into it. One minute, you were walking home from work. The next, you were the sole witness to something that had no business existing in your version of reality. Guns, masks, blood. Gotham in all its gritty glory.

You were stubborn enough to get involved. He was—well you didn't quite know why he let you get involved.

You told yourself it was just curiosity. Maybe it was. But even now, as he sat there in your kitchen like he belonged, you weren't sure what tethered him to you. The case you'd helped him with had ended days ago. Loose ends tied. Threats neutralized. And yet he hadn't stopped coming.

That first time he'd stumbled through your bedroom window with a bullet wound, all adrenaline and snarled curses, you'd expected him to leave as quickly as he came. But he hadn't. He'd let you stitch him up. Said nothing when you offered him a drink, or when you laid out an old quilt on the couch. You hadn't known his name then, and still didn't. But you knew his face. You knew his eyes. You knew the way his shoulders stiffened before a storm of emotion, and the subtle quirk of his mouth when he found something amusing but didn't want to admit it.

He reminded you of a stray cat, too proud to ask for affection, but too lonely to stay away from the warmth you offered. So you gave it.

Quietly. Patiently. Repeatedly.

You'd begun to anticipate him in all the little ways you shouldn't have. Setting out a second mug when you brewed tea in the middle of the night, because somehow, without fail, he would appear just as the steam began to curl from your chipped porcelain cup. Leaving the bathroom light on, knowing he preferred patching himself up under its dim, humming glow. Folding the throw blanket on the couch just the way he liked—creased at the corners, but not tucked in. He hated feeling confined.

You kept extra ramen in your pantry. Started buying that brand of granola bars he always grumbled about but never left untouched. And now, here he was again in your space, holding his pain in the same way you held your thoughts.

Tight, hidden, private.

You watched him from the doorway and wondered if he saw you the way you saw him. If he noticed the weight of his presence, or how your world tilted subtly every time he stepped into it. If maybe, just maybe, he was coming back not because he had nowhere else to go, but because you were here.

No, that was stupid. You were a lot of things, but you weren't stupid. The city had no room for the foolishly naive.

But were you friends?

You wanted to ask him, but you didn't. You were afraid of what the answer might be. Hope was a delicate thing, and in a city like Gotham, it never lasted long.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. Sometimes, when the silence stretched long and unbothered between you, you found yourself playing a strange little game in your mind. You tried to guess his name.

It had started as a harmless, idle curiosity, but it had grown into something you clung to when his presence lingered long after he'd gone. The guessing had become a comfort of sorts, as though naming him might make him more real. Less myth. Less mystery.

He didn't look like a Robert. You imagined a Robert might wear boat shoes and a pressed polo, maybe even a handlebar mustache if he was particularly insufferable. A Simon would have round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a fondness for spreadsheets. Anthony? No, far too smug. He'd be the kind of man who winked at waitresses and thought himself charming. Luke maybe, if he had more of a boyish softness to his features, but Red? No, he had an edge carved into him, all angles and tribulations.

Occasionally, when he sat slouched like this, the flickering bulb overhead casting harsh shadows over his jawline, you'd swear you had seen him before.

Not like this, with blood seeping slowly through bandages and a half-gloved hand trembling ever so slightly from the adrenaline still wearing off. But somewhere, in the back of your mind, there was an echo. A fading image of a photograph you might've once seen in a crumpled newspaper. Something about a billionaire's dead son. An obituary that featured a smiling young boy with bright eyes and a future that might have been written in gold leaf and marble.

You'd dismissed it as fast as it came. You never paid attention to socialite tragedies. The world of gala dresses and legacies was so far removed from yours that it barely felt real. Besides, that boy was dead, buried in some manicured graveyard you'd never be allowed into. And this boy was sitting in your kitchen bleeding all over your table.

Alive.

Though, perhaps not for long, if he kept living like this. He had the same regard for his own life that you had for the cracked mugs in your sink. Tolerated, but barely.

You watched him fumble again with the blood-slick bandages, the crimson staining through like watercolours blooming on canvas. He was trying to wrap his shoulder one-handed, which clearly wasn't working. The angle was wrong, and the effort was shaky.

You bit your lip and told yourself not to interfere.

He never asked nor expected your help, and that unspoken boundary hovered between you like a landmine, one you dared not disturb. And yet, eventually, you couldn't take it anymore.

You crossed the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps, like approaching a wild thing that might flee at the first sudden movement. He stiffened, the line of his back going rigid as you rounded the table, but he didn't look up. Didn't flinch. Didn't utter something sharp and dismissive, like you half expected him to.

You took it as a good sign.

Without a word, you pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. For a heartbeat, the room felt breathless. He tracked your movement with the wary precision of a soldier, but he didn't stop you. When your fingers reached for his arm, he tensed beneath your touch, muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring, but he didn't pull away.

That was enough.

You worked in silence, your touch careful and clinical. You unwound the soaked bandages and tossed them aside, grabbing the rubbing alcohol and clean gauze. You murmured apologies when he hissed at the sting, but you didn't stop. If he could live through getting stabbed and shot at, you figured he could endure a little antiseptic.

His skin was warm beneath your fingertips—fever-warm, maybe—but sturdy. He was littered with half-healed wounds and fading bruises, scattered across the landscape of him like constellations only he could decipher. There was a story written in each of them, and you hated that you wanted to read them. To know the ugly details. To understand.

You tamped the impulse down. This wasn't about curiosity. It was about care.

Your gaze lingered longer than it should have. At the sharp ridge of his collarbone. The sinew of muscle taut beneath tattered fabric. The way his calloused hands tightened into fists when the pain surged, but never once tried to stop you.

You should probably get him some lotion for Christmas. The thought rose unbidden, absurd, but somehow entirely fitting. "For your dry, murdery hands," the label might read.

If this... whatever this was... even lasted until then.

When you were done, you gave his arm a light pat. It was gentle, like punctuation at the end of a sentence you didn't know how to finish. Then you stood, discarding the bloodied tissues, and scrubbing your hands clean. You moved on autopilot, draining the tea that had long gone cold and replacing it with a fresh cup—extra honey, just the way you'd learned he liked it, even if he never said it aloud.

Then, because you were helpless against the urge to say something, you leaned one hip against the table and smirked faintly.

"Careful, Red," you drawled, "if you keep getting hurt like this, I might start to think you have a thing for my first aid skills."

He didn't answer right away, but his lip twitched. It was a breath of a reaction, but it was there, and for someone like him, that was practically a sonnet.

You sipped your tea, letting the warmth sit on your tongue before you spoke again. He hadn't touched his yet, staring down at the swirling amber surface like it held answers he hadn't figured out how to ask for.

"You're less chatty than usual," you remarked casually. "And I say that knowing full well you're already a man of, like, four words max."

Nothing. Not even a smirk this time.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were brooding. Which, y'know... shocker."

Still nothing. No anger, just quiet. It was oddly unlike him.

"You don't have to tell me, of course," you amended quickly, not wanting to come off as nosy. "Whatever it is. I just—you're carrying it like it's made of concrete."

You pressed your lips together for a moment, then tried to fill the space again, your tone lightening, the way you knew he preferred it when things got too close to raw.

"I mean, if this is about the tea, I can make it again. Stronger. Less... 'grandma's house' and more 'man on the run.' I just figured you liked honey, seeing as you keep finishing the jar and pretending it was like that when you found it."

That earned you a tiny huff, maybe a laugh, maybe a scoff. You were not sure which, but it was something.

Emboldened, you tilted your head and gave him a crooked smile. "Or maybe you're just disappointed I haven't guessed your name yet. I'm running out of options, you know. I've gone through the entire cast of Friends at this point."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"No, really," you continue, warming to your own ramble. "Ross? Too whiny. Chandler? Too annoying. Joey? ...Well, I could see it, but you'd have to say 'how you doin' at least once to convince me."

When he didn't respond, you wondered if you'd made a mistake with the reference. Did vigilantes have time to watch sitcoms? Maybe you could convince him to partake in a marathon with you.

You let the inevitable silence stretch for a beat, then wrinkled your nose and glanced at him over the rim of your mug.

"So, just for my own peace of mind, you are housebroken, right?"

Your guest didn't look up, but his head tilted curiously. One eyebrow quirked the tiniest bit, the closest thing to a response you were likely to get when he was in one of his moods.

You gestured broadly toward the red helmet on the table, the scuff of his boot across the wood grain, and the faint trail of dried blood from the kitchen. "I mean, it's starting to feel like you live here, Red. And if that's the case, I should start charging you rent. Or at the very least, make you take out the trash once in a while."

No response.

"Because I don't just let any emotionally constipated vigilante bleed all over my apartment. I have standards too."

A twist. Barely there, but his mouth moved, almost betraying a smile. You held onto that like it was gold.

"I'm just saying," you went on, folding your arms dramatically, "if you're gonna keep showing up here at three a.m. looking like you got in a fight with a deli slicer, you could at least pretend to be a little more domesticated. I don't know, maybe wipe your feet at the entrance? Use the actual door? Bring flowers?"

His voice, when it finally came, was roughened by fatigue. "You want flowers?"

You blinked at him, caught off guard. "Okay, well now it's weird because you asked. If you actually show up with flowers, I'm going to assume there's a bomb in them."

He let out a quiet huff. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.

"And don't even think about roses," you added, waving a finger. "Too cliché. You're more of a—I don't know—carnivorous plant guy. Like a spooky Venus flytrap. 'Cause nothing says housewarming present like a plant that eats things."

His eyes finally lifted to meet yours. They were unreadable, but the heaviness behind them seemed to ease, just a little.

"You done?" he demanded, gruff but not annoyed. More like he was indulging you.

You were not, and the next words spilled out in an involuntary confession.

"Sometimes I think about how strange this all is. You. Me. This. Whatever this is." You gesture loosely between you. "You're out there dancing with death on a nightly basis, and I'm here pretending tea can fix bullet wounds."

You don't mean for the smile that followed to be so sad, but it was.

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

For a moment, he was utterly still, the kind of stillness that lived in the eye of a storm. His response came frayed like it was coming through a static radio.

"Why?"

It knocked the air from your lungs. It wasn't quite an invitation. Not quite a wall. A wound, maybe.

You wanted to ask what was bothering him. Wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand, just for a second, to tell him without words that he was not alone. That he didn't have to be.

Jason hadn't meant for the question to sound like an accusation.

"Why?"

It slipped out sharper than he intended, but it had tumbled off his tongue before he could stop it. And now he sat there, watching you across the table, your hands wrapped around that chipped mug like it was the most natural thing in the world to sit across from someone like him and say:

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

Something in his chest tightened. An ache, deep and reflexive, like a muscle spasming around an old injury. You had said it so simply, like it was obvious, like it wasn't a concept that felt foreign when he tried to believe it.

Glad? To see him?

It couldn't be real. No one was glad to see him. Not really. Not anymore. And the way you'd looked at him when you said it made his defences flare up like an allergic reaction.

He had to ask. Why.

Why would you be glad to see someone like him? Someone who showed up at your window uninvited. Someone who never told you his real name. Someone who brought death on his heels and stayed too long.

Your lack of response only made it worse. You looked at him like he was the one not making sense.

Of course, you were glad he came back.

He hated how fast the words came after that, how he couldn't stop himself from lashing out.

"You shouldn't be."

He said it like a truth he needed you to believe, even if he didn't. Said it hard, like if he drove the words deep enough, they'd take root and push you away before he got used to the idea of you staying. Because he was growing too attached. That much was certain.

It had started creeping in quietly, like a burglar. He hadn't even realized how bad it had gotten until he caught himself during a patrol, slipping off to some rooftop, hand digging into the inner pocket of his jacket for the burner phone you had the number for.

For emergencies. That was all it was meant for. That was the excuse he told himself when he'd scrawled the number down and pressed it into your hand.

You never used it. You never called or even texted. You let him keep his secrets, and that should have made it easier to let go. It didn't. And he'd found himself checking that phone anyway, half in agony, half in hope.

He still had it. Weeks past the point when he should've tossed it and gotten a new number, like he always did. But he kept this one. Maybe one day, you'd need him. Maybe one day, you'd use it. Part of him hated how much he wanted you to.

He stared at your tea across from him now. You never asked if he wanted any. You just knew.

And that wasn't all.

The second mug you always left out on the counter after midnight. The way you started keeping extra bandages under the sink. That one faded hoodie you folded up and left on the back of the couch after he complained—once—about the cold. The cabinet with the snacks you didn't like but kept stocked anyway.

You made space for him without asking anything in return, without ever pushing.

It made his skin itch. It felt like walking into a dream that would crumble the second he touched it. Too temporary. Too good. Too false. Like one of those illusions, fate gave people like him, just long enough to feel warm before it was ripped away again.

Because nothing good stayed. Not for someone like him. Not in Gotham.

But somehow, impossibly, you kept leaving the light on, and he kept coming back.

You tilted your head slightly now, watching him from across the table, your lips pressed into a gentle smile. There was no fear in your eyes. No judgment. Just the quiet patience of someone waiting for a wounded animal to decide whether it wanted to be held or bite.

Jason Todd only knew how to bite, even when he didn't mean it. Especially when he didn't mean it.

Before either of you could speak again, he stood, the legs of his chair scraping sharply against the floor. The untouched tea on the table wobbled in its cup but didn't spill. Not yet. It waited, just like you did.

"Don't," he snapped suddenly, dangerous in the way a wounded beast growled before it struck. "Don't look at me like that."

You blinked, startled, rising instinctively from your chair like you could fix it before the moment broke entirely.

"Like what?"

"Like I matter." The words were bitten off. "Like this means something."

He didn't mean to say it, but it was already happening, and he couldn't stop himself. The vulnerability curled in his gut like something shameful. Something that had to be punished before it grew too loud.

"I'm not some stray you can keep feeding and expect it not to bite your hand." He stepped back from the table like your kindness was something venomous. "You think leaving out tea and wrapping up my arm makes this normal? Makes me safe?"

You flinched imperceptibly, but Jason saw it. You always wore your heart on your sleeve, letting your emotions bloom too brightly across your face. It made you easy to read, and he knew when his words hit home, when the warmth drained from your expression, replaced by sheer hurt. He felt it, sharp and sudden in his chest like a splinter lodging deep into scar tissue.

But he kept going. He had to.

"I don't need your pity. I don't want to be your goddamn charity case. This—whatever the hell this is—you don't owe me shit."

"Red—" you started, but he cut you off.

"You think this makes you a good person? Taking in the stray? Letting me bleed on your damn floor so you can feel better about yourself?" He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I'm not your project. I'm not here so you can collect your brownie points for being the kind one. You're not getting anything out of this, so why the hell do you keep doing it?"

Your breath caught, but you didn't move. You didn't yell back. You didn't tell him he was wrong. You just stood there, with that same stubborn gentleness in your eyes, and it drove him mad.

"Jesus," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, pacing now. "You need to stop. Stop caring. Just stop."

"I never did it for something in return," you whispered.

"Well, maybe you should have."

The silence after that was suffocating, and Jason stilled. His chest heaved. He couldn't look at you. If he did, he might stay. If he did, he might say something tender, something real. And then he'd ruin you.

You inhaled shakily. "You think I'm doing this for points? That I'm keeping score?"

"You should be," he hissed. "Because all I've done is take. All I do is take. You keep giving and I keep showing up like some parasite, and for what?"

"Because I care," you said finally, too tired to hide the yearning in your voice.

"You shouldn't. I'm not one of the good ones. You think you're doing something noble, letting me in, playing Florence Nightingale. But I'm not who you think I am, and the sooner you stop pretending otherwise, the better."

He stared at you, waiting for you to yell. To scream. To say anything that would prove him right, would make walking away easier.

But you didn't.

You just stood there, hands limp at your sides, lips parted like you wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. And God, your eyes looked so betrayed, like you were trying to understand where everything had gone wrong. Like you had failed some test you didn't know you were taking.

Jason hated the sight of your heart breaking in real-time and knowing he had done it.

You swallowed thickly. "I didn't ask for any of this. I just... I just wanted you to be okay."

Jason's breath hitched.

You weren't crying, but your voice shook like it might come to that if he pushed one word further.

"I've been careful," you added, quieter now as if the room itself might judge you for the confession. "I never ask you to stay. Never asked for anything at all. You're the one who keeps coming back. How am I to blame for that?"

Jason looked away. The guilt hit like a bullet, right where it could do the most damage.

"You should've," he returned flatly. "You should've asked for more. That way you'd see exactly how little I have to give."

He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to tell you that you were the only good thing in his life that hadn't asked anything of him.

Instead, he said, "You should've slammed the door on me the first time I showed up. That was your mistake."

You didn't have the heart to point out that he hadn't used the door. You didn't follow him either. Didn't plead, didn't reach for his hand or beg him to stay. That hurt worse than anything else.

He was right.

You were too kind. Too kind to call him out on his bullshit. Too kind to tell him to go to hell. Too kind to stop him when he stepped toward the window and opened it, cold air spilling in like water from a broken pipe.

And in your generosity, Jason realized the worst part.

You still would've left the light on for him.

Even now.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as the window slid shut, sealing in silence and sealing out the sound of his retreating steps.

A sinkhole opened in the pit of your stomach, swallowing the remnants of warmth that had once lived in the corners of the space, and it left you hollow, like a house with the doors blown off. His departure felt too much like a goodbye. Too much like a half-finished letter, the ink smudged, the signature missing. The last page of a story ripped clean from the spine.

You stood there for a while as if the air might stitch him back into the room if you stayed motionless enough. As if the chair he’d occupied might creak under phantom weight. But nothing moved. Nothing stirred.

You doubted he’d ever show himself in front of you again, and even if he did—somewhere, out there beneath Gotham’s godless sky—you wouldn’t know where to look. Not that you would, of course. You weren’t foolish enough to chase after someone who didn’t want to be found. If he didn’t want to see you anymore, you would not burden him with your presence. You would not be a nuisance.

When the tears finally came, they gouged hot trails down your cheeks. You bit your lip to keep from making a sound, unwilling to fill the void he’d left behind with your grief. At least you had your answer now. You and him were not friends. Maybe vigilantes didn’t have friends. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be yours.

And oh, how that simple truth ached more than any goodbye ever could.

It had been three weeks since the boy you had grown attached to cleaved himself from your life, not that you were counting, of course. You would never be so pitiful as to tally the days in his absence, to chart the sunrises without him like some widow mourning a love that had never been named.

And yet…

The calendar pages turned with a slow, dragging inevitability. The hollow ache in your chest had become something familiar. Manageable. You were slowly adjusting to the shape your life had taken before he’d ever crashed into your world.

Still, there were nights when the wind howled a little too loud and the tea kettle hissed just before three a.m., and you found yourself setting out an extra mug. You never filled it—not always. But sometimes, on the worst nights, you did. You'd place it gently beside your own, the steam rising between them like the ghost of a conversation.

Come morning, it would sit there untouched. Cold. Filmed over. Forgotten by everyone except you. You couldn’t blame yourself for hoping.

Tonight was another late shift at work. The kind that stretched you thin until your bones ached with exhaustion and your thoughts blurred into fog. The headache had bloomed sometime after midnight and now throbbed relentlessly behind your temples. You pulled your cardigan around yourself as you stepped out into the Gotham streets, rain slanting in bitter sheets from a sky as grey as mourning.

Of course tonight, of all nights, you’d forgotten your umbrella.

Your shoes squelched with every step, the water soaking through the soles and into your socks. Streetlights flickered overhead, some sputtering, others long since dead. You kept your eyes down, focused on the familiar path home, on putting one foot in front of the other, but even so, you felt that prickle on the back of your neck, the kind you couldn’t shake off, no matter how tightly you wrapped your arms around yourself. The streets were too empty.

You tightened your grip on your keys, slotting them between your fingers like jagged little weapons. You were half a block from safety. Just a little farther.

And then hands. Cold, foreign, and wrong. Fingers like iron gripped your arm and yanked you sideways into the yawning dark of a nearby alley.

A gasp tore from your throat, but you didn’t scream. Instinct moved faster than thought. You lashed out with your keys, catching your attacker across the face—or somewhere, you weren’t sure, but the sharp hiss of pain told you it had landed. You tried to twist away, but the alley wall met your back, and your heart hammered like a trapped bird in your ribcage.

It wasn’t a mugging. He didn’t reach for your bag. He didn’t demand anything. He just came at you with precision, with intention.

And then… he was gone, like a shadow pulled back into the deeper dark, vanishing as swiftly as he’d come. You stood there stunned, breath ragged, mind catching up with what had just happened. It wasn’t until the adrenaline began to fade that you felt it.

The pain.

Hot, sharp, deep. A burning throb in your side, just beneath your ribs. You reached down with trembling fingers and they came away slick and red. It was difficult to see the exact shade of carmine that marred your hands in the dark, but the heat of it told you all you needed to know. It clung between your fingers in syrupy ropes, and beneath it all, the pain bloomed sharp and insistent, flaring like a cruel reminder every time you breathed.

You’d been stabbed.

A hollow, almost hysterical laugh escaped your lips, grating the back of your throat. You’d been fucking stabbed. Of course, you had. Tonight was already a monument to misery. Why not crown it with something poetic?

You weren’t sure what the weapon had been—a knife, a shard of metal, something small and quick—but whatever it was, your attacker had taken it with him. You weren't a medic, but even you knew that you weren’t supposed to take the weapon out of the wound. Not if you wanted to avoid bleeding out like a gutted street urchin.

There was nothing left in you now. Only the blood, warm and gushing, and the panic rising in your throat as your body betrayed you with a wave of nausea so fierce it made your vision blur. The heat in your side was unbearable. Blinding until even that faded, replaced by a strange, iciness that spread from the wound outward, curling beneath your skin, settling into your bones.

So very cold.

Your knees buckled beneath you, and you collapsed sideways against the grime-caked alley wall, cheek scraping brick as you slid down into a crumpled heap. Your breath came in shallow gasps, as though your lungs were filling with broken glass. You pressed your hands harder against the wound, but it was futile. The blood seeped past your fingers, indifferent to your desperation.

Time lost meaning. Minutes blurred into hours, or maybe hours into seconds. You couldn’t tell. You sat slumped over yourself, trying to remember how to breathe properly, how to think, how to gather even an ounce of strength to get back up.

Eventually, with twitching fingers, slick with your own blood, you fumbled in your pocket for your phone. The screen flickered to life, glowing too bright against the dark. You’d smeared the glass red, ruined it, probably.

You didn’t care.

Your thumb hovered over your contacts. And then… faltered. Another laugh bubbled out of you, fraying at the edges.

Who were you going to call?

Your coworkers? You only ever spoke to them in clipped pleasantries, trading shift schedules and dead smiles. Your manager? God, she’d be annoyed more than anything. You could already hear her, full of barely-veiled condescension.

How dare you get yourself stabbed when we’re at our busiest? Do you know how difficult it will be to find someone to replace you on such short notice? Honestly, it’s selfish. You clearly don’t care about the team’s success.

Your laughter splintered, turning into a strangled sob, and your shoulders shook violently from the effort of it.

It’s not like you had any friends.

And even if you did, what could they do now? Friends were for sunny mornings and warm café booths, for midday walks and shared sandwiches in the park. What sort of friend could help you now?

No one was coming.

You sank deeper into the concrete, the phone slipping from your fingers, the bloodied screen flickering like a dying star.

The cold crept in intimately, then. Not just the cold of the night, but the one that nestled in your marrow.

This was it. This was how you'd go. Alone, and irrelevant. In that moment, all you wanted—more than comfort or help—was for someone to notice you were gone.

Your fingers quivered as you scrolled through your contacts again, the names blurring before your eyes, all of them meaningless, until one, in particular, made your thumb falter.

His.

You stared at the entry. The number he’d given you with all the solemnity of a last resort. For emergencies only. The implication had been clear. You had never used it.

Yet here you were. Bleeding out alone. Surely this counted. What constituted a greater emergency than your slow descent into death? You should call him. He owed you that much, after the countless nights you’d nursed his wounds, brewed tea for his unravelling nerves, offered wordless comfort when he couldn't meet your eyes.

You hesitated.

He was the one who had left. He’d made it clear that your concern was unwanted, that your presence was a burden, a kindness too foreign for him to accept. Who were you to claw back into his life now, demanding something from a man who had nothing to give?

Besides, he had probably thrown the phone away already. Changed numbers. Burned the whole thing and permanently severed all connection to you.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed down the lump forming there.

You had helped him expecting nothing in return, and if your care had ever truly been selfless, then you couldn’t call him now. You wouldn’t dishonour whatever shred of dignity remained by asking for something he never offered.

He told you not to rely on him, and you were nothing if not obedient. Even in death.

But would he even know that you'd died?

Would he hear about the nameless person found lifeless in some forgotten alleyway? Or would you be just another unclaimed cadaver, swiftly removed with nothing but a toe tag to mark your end?

The thought struck harder than the pain in your ribs.

No. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t right.

You were no one—yes. An inconsequential creature tucked into the shadows of a city that never slept, but you were not nothing. You had existed. You had loved. You had helped. And whatever little sliver of self-worth burned in your chest would not let you die like this, like some discarded scrap on the edge of the world. You wanted to at least have the dignity of dying in your own home.

With a choked cry, you forced your blood-slicked palm against the wall, fingers scrambling for purchase. Your legs screamed in protest, and your vision went white with pain, but you pushed, staggering to your feet like a marionette with half its strings cut. Your body bent nearly double, every breath a dagger in your ribs, but you moved. You moved because you had to. Because you refused to die here in this piss-stained alley, where the rats would be your only mourners and your story would end in tragic comedy.

Step by agonizing step, you dragged yourself toward your apartment building, each footfall a prayer, each gasp a rebellion.

You were not going to die out here. You refused to.

By the time you reached the entrance to your building, your body was little more than a shuddering husk, hollowed out by blood loss and sheer willpower. The stairs loomed before you like a joke, an unscalable mountain for someone with no air left in their lungs. You cursed the building for not having a damned elevator, cursed yourself for choosing this place, this street, this life. But then you remembered, with no small measure of desperation, that your apartment was on the first floor. Just one flight. Just a few steps.

You could do this.

Each stair was its own Everest. Your hands gripped the banister like it was the only thing tethering you to this world, your knees buckling with every upward shuffle. By the time you reached your door, your vision had gone obsidian around the edges, the hallway swimming before your eyes like you were underwater.

Your fingers fumbled at the keyring, sticky with blood. You dropped it once. Then again. The keys jangled to the floor in a wet scatter, and you nearly screamed in frustration. It took everything in you to bend down and retrieve them, the movement setting off a white-hot flare in your side. When at last you managed to force the key into the lock and shove the door open, it felt like winning some futile, cruel battle.

The moment you crossed the threshold, your legs gave out. You caught yourself clumsily on the edge of the doorway, panting. There was a trail of red already soaking into your welcome mat, smearing across the floor where your shoes dragged in rainwater and the city’s muck.

You thought of what a mess it would be in the morning. Not your pain. Not your fear. The mess.

Of course. Always worried about the inconvenience.

Your bed beckoned, soft and warm in memory, but you knew better. The thought of dying there, of ruining the sheets, staining the mattress, and leaving some poor cleanup crew to find you sprawled like a ghost in a coffin of cotton, made your stomach turn.

No, you couldn't do that to them. You couldn't be a burden, even in death.

So you turned instead toward the bathroom, dragging your feet unsteadily. The mirror reflected something ghastly as you passed, but you didn’t look long enough to register it. The bathtub was where you would go. Easy to clean. Contained. Not that you had plans to die, not really. Just a precaution.

You collapsed inside it, the porcelain biting cold against your rain-soaked clothes. You had meant to only sit on the edge, to open the cabinet, maybe fish out the old first-aid kit, the one you’d used on him more times than you could count. But that thought was as distant now as the stars. You couldn’t move anymore. Couldn’t lift your arm, couldn’t reach the faucet, couldn’t even curl properly into yourself.

The chill was everywhere, gnawing its way into your bones. Your side throbbed, your hands were numb, and your clothes clung to you like a second, sopping skin. The bathroom ceiling blurred above you, a dull white light flickering in and out of focus.

Maybe if you could just turn the shower on, and run the hot water, it'd warm you. Even that was beyond you, and your eyes slid shut.

Just five minutes, you told yourself.

You’d rest for five minutes and then you’d wake up. You’d patch yourself up, and you’d clean up the mess.

Jason Todd stood outside your apartment door, a greasy pizza box balanced in one hand, the old burner phone cradled in the other. He hated how long he stood there, staring at your door like some coward at confession, trying to summon the nerve to knock. The light overhead flickered erratically, buzzing like it, too, was mocking him for coming back with his tail between his legs.

He didn’t do apologies. Not well. Not in words. Nonetheless, this was the closest thing he could offer. A peace offering. Your favourite pizza and an irrational hope tucked in his chest that maybe you hadn’t stopped waiting for him.

He told himself it was just a coincidence when his patrols started curving past your building more often than necessary. Gotham was dangerous, after all. Plenty of reasons to keep an eye on your neighbourhood.

That didn’t explain why he always ended up outside your window. Why he paused there, hidden in the shadows with his helmet in hand, unable to resist the pull of light spilling through your curtains. Why he’d squint through the fogged-up glass, watching the shape of you as you went about your night, a ghost in your own home.

Sometimes you’d sit at the little table by the kitchen window, two mugs set down instead of one. One of them always remained untouched, placed directly in front of the empty seat he used to occupy like muscle memory. And god, those were the worst nights, the ones where he caught you staring at that vacant spot, eyes glazed with thought, fingers wrapped around your own mug for warmth that never quite reached your face.

It gutted him in ways he didn’t want to examine. Routine was memory. Memory was grief.

You’d left the light on most nights, like you always did. Once he’d seen you crack open the window just a sliver, as if you were expecting someone to come climbing through. He hadn’t moved from the fire escape that time, just sat there like a coward in the dark, watching you wait.

You hadn’t closed it again until dawn.

Here he was now, standing at your door like a man with something to offer, when all he’d ever done was take.

It had been three weeks, not that he was counting. Three weeks since he’d stormed out, spitting venom at the only person who'd offered him a lifeline. He’d told himself he was doing you a favour by leaving. Sparing you. Protecting you. But all it had done was leave him bitter, clawing at the emptiness where your laughter used to sit.

So he’d come back. He was even doing it your way this time. No rooftop skulking, no slipping through your window like a thief in the night. He’d wiped his boots on the doormat like you always nagged him to, grumbling under his breath about manners even as he indulged your rituals.

It was then that he saw it.

The mat was wet, and not just from rain. It was stained with something thicker than water. His brows furrowed. He crouched down, pressed his fingers against it, and brought them up to the light.

Blood.

A chill knifed down his spine. The pizza box slid forgotten to the floor, and the burner was shoved back into his pocket with numb fingers as he stepped forward. He reached for the door and froze. It was ajar, just enough to be wrong.

Jason’s jaw clenched as he pushed it open, inch by inch, his muscles tense. The air inside was still, but not in the comforting, quiet way. It was stale, coated in something metallic.

The hallway beyond the threshold told him everything he needed to know, and nothing he wanted to. There were smears. Streaks of blood that dragged in uneven trails across the walls and floor like someone had been pulling themselves, struggling to crawl. It didn’t take a detective to know it hadn’t happened more than a few hours ago. It was still wet in places.

“No,” he muttered under his breath.

He followed the trail, dread festering like rot in his gut, stifling in its certainty. The apartment bore the signs of someone trying—and failing—to get to safety. A chair half-toppled in the living room. A phone on the floor with bloodied fingerprints on the cracked screen. The bathroom door half-open, swinging slightly on its hinges.

Inside, Jason’s boots crunched over scattered pill bottles, cotton pads, and disinfectants. The cabinet had been ransacked, the sink stained, and the floor a battlefield of debris. However, it was the bathtub that rooted him in place.

The shower curtain had been torn from its hooks on one side, hanging askew like a shroud, and there at the edge was a hand.

Unmoving, and painted the same devastating hue as his discarded helmet.

“No, no, no—”

Jason surged forward. His fingers trembled as he grabbed the edge of the curtain and yanked it back. His heart stopped.

There you were, curled up like a broken doll. Blood had seeped through your clothes, and pooled beneath you in a slick that had long gone cold. Your face was too pale. Your lips were tinged with blue. You looked like you'd been dying alone.

And he hadn’t been here. He’d left you.

“Shit—” The curse ripped out of him as he dropped to his knees beside the tub. “Shit. No, no, no. Stay with me. Don’t you dare fucking do this.”

His eyes raked over your body in a frenzied scan, finally landing on the crimson bloom beneath your ribs, still seeping sluggishly into the sodden fabric of your shirt.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, yanking his jacket off and pressing it hard against your side. “Just—fuck—open your damn eyes. Please. I can’t—just stay with me.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry out. You didn’t even stir.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he pleaded again, trying to keep pressure on the wound while reaching up to cradle your face. His fingers brushed over your cold cheek, the dampness of it jarring. “Shit, you’re freezing.”

Your skin had the waxy hue of someone far too close to death.

“Don’t do this.” His voice cracked around your name. “Don’t you fucking do this to me.”

He ran his thumb across your temple, trying to coax warmth back into your skin. “You’re not allowed to go out like this.”

He wanted to rage, to tear apart every alley in Gotham until he'd found the bastard who’d done this to you and buried him in pieces, but he couldn’t leave you. Not again.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours. “I was trying to keep you safe, you stupid, stupid—all I did was get you hurt.”

The blood kept leaking through the fabric under his hand. He tried not to look at it. Tried to focus on the flutter of your breath instead, shallow and shaky as it was.

“You stayed up for me. Every night,” he continued hoarsely. “Kept the light on like a goddamn lighthouse. You set out mugs for a ghost, and I—I let you.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. “I thought if I stayed away, you’d move on. Forget me. Be safe.”

He brushed back the damp strands of hair plastered to your forehead and nearly flinched at the chill of your skin. “But you didn’t forget. And now look at you.”

Another shallow breath rattled from you. Not enough. Never enough.

Jason let out a bitter laugh. Half relief, half devastation.

“You always patched me up without question. Let me bleed on your couch like it was normal. Told me to stop tracking blood in like it was mud, like I was just some dumb, messy roommate. You made me think I could be something other than this.”

He gripped your jaw gently, coaxing your face toward his, needing even your closed eyes on him. He had seen worse wounds. He’d inflicted worse wounds. But never before had his hands shaken like this, not even when pulling bullets out of his own flesh. Not even when bleeding in the dark with only adrenaline and resentment keeping him alive.

You weren’t moving, and that terrified him more than anything else.

He hadn’t wanted to look. Had clung to the jacket pressed against your side like it might reverse the damage, like he could will the blood to retreat into your body, but the pressure wasn’t enough. He had to see it, to know what he was dealing with.

"Sorry...I’m gonna lift your shirt now. I need to—I need to fix this.”

As if you could hear him. As if that mattered.

Nevertheless, his entire demeanour softened when speaking to you, even now.

Almost reverently, Jason tugged the fabric of your shirt upward. It clung to your skin, soaked through with blood and rain, and he had to tear it gently around the wound to reveal what lay beneath.

It was sickeningly deep. Ragged. A puncture wound, just below your ribs, the edges dark with drying blood, the center still weeping. It hadn’t clotted. It wasn’t going to.

“Shit,” he grunted, clenching his jaw as a fresh wave of helpless fury surged through him. His hands hovered, uncertain. “You weren’t supposed to…”

He wasn’t supposed to let this happen.

His gloves were already off, discarded god knew where when he found you. And now, he reached for the cabinet above your sink, flinging it open and pawing through it until supplies tumbled out. A crude first aid kit: gauze, antiseptic wipes, a needle and thread in a plastic pouch. Nothing close to sterile. Nothing close to what you needed, but it would have to do.

Jason fell to his knees beside the tub again. His fingers were too numb, but he forced them to work. He yanked the antiseptic open with his teeth, nearly choked on the smell, and drenched a clean cloth with it.

“This is gonna hurt,” he uttered another apology as he dabbed around the wound. You didn’t flinch. That silence hit harder than a scream.

He took a deep breath and threaded the needle.

“I’m not good at this,” he told you. “You usually do the patching. I just sit there like a jackass and make fun of your tea.”

A breathless huff escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

“But I’m gonna try, okay? You just—you stay with me. Just for a little while longer.”

The first stitch was agony. Not for you, but for him. The needle pushed through skin with resistance, your blood sticking to his fingers. He cursed under his breath, eyes burning as he worked. He tried to be careful, gentle even, but he didn’t have time for grace. He just needed to stop the bleeding.

One stitch. Two. Three. The jagged edges of the opening puckered beneath his efforts, but slowly the worst of it began to close. He wrapped it after, thick layers of gauze and the remains of your shirt to press against it.

Then his hands fell still.

“Okay,” he consoled, brushing hair away from your brow. “Okay. That’s… that’s the worst of it.”

You didn’t stir.

“You’re not dying,” he repeated as if he could manifest it into truth. “I didn’t just fix you up so you could fucking die on me anyway.”

He leaned down and brushed his lips against your forehead, tasting rust.

“I’m not losing you.”

He had come here thinking it would be the beginning of an apology, but now it might as well have been a eulogy.

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