#and having that autonomy in your hands feels so GOOD

[uncanny-tranny]

I think so many people are so deeply alienated from themselves that they have no clue how to exercise their free will and autonomy. For some, this alienation runs so deep that they are afraid of their own autonomy and humanity. It is completely understandable why one would have those feelings, but it can be worrisome.

I want to help others who feel this way, so here are small things I have done to exercise my free will:

Add "guilty pleasure" songs to playlists and actually listen to them (I have a ton of late 1990s-early 2000s music I listen to now proudly that I never listened to in the past out of shame)

Getting the décor item, bath set, bed spread, ect. in the patterns you like, even if it's "childish" (I got a dinosaur-themed wastebasket from the kids' décor section and I adore it)

Taking a new route to get to a place you go to often

Eat dessert first

Celebrate well, and often

Collect things that are "odd" or don't seem like an "acceptable" thing to collect (somebody on my "for you" page collects dandelion crayola crayons and it was so cool!!!!!!)

Incorporate one new piece in an outfit you wear frequently (e.g., a new chain, a necklace, ribbons, bracelets, ect.). Challenge yourself to add onto the outfits if you feel up for it.

Sing along to songs without worrying that you sound "good" or your intonation is completely accurate

Read a book from a genre you weren't allowed to read as a kid (comics, thrillers, mysteries, anything!)

Walk without having a specific destination or goal

Pick up a new craft without expecting yourself to master it or to ever be "good" enough. Get your hands messy.

I don't want to shame anybody for not feeling as though they have free will or that they are exempt from exercising it. However, I wanted to give ideas so that you might read this list and find your own ways to express your intrinsic autonomy and will. You deserve to be a person, to feel alive, not just living. That is what our lives are for.

[i-love-ptv]

Hand Prints and Good Grips…✱*.:｡✧

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Childhood Best friend!Reader

Trouble brews once Mary walks into the twins’ juke joint, and you just wanna be the girl Elias likes.

wc: 6,103

warnings: porn with lots of plot, jealous!dom!Elias, sub!reader, clit slapping, face-sitting, cunnilingus, unprotected p-in-v, dirty-talk, degradation (not tew much but it’s there), overstimulation (r receiving), rough sex, manhandling, slight tit sucking/licking, marking, creampie (gulp??), language, one klan mention, shitty southern writing

an: HEY GUYS!!! THIS IS MY LONGEST FIC EVER WOOHOO! (ignore how it took me a month to make it, i’ve been going thru it man) i’m literally obsessed w sinners so hopefully i did stack justice! do y’all even read these? anyways

feedback is always appreciated n welcomed <3

Your hair was starting to cling onto your forehead as if you were drenched in sticky molasses.

The air was humid and dry; of course, this was a Mississippi custom, but it doesn’t help that there’s dozens of bodies stomping and prancing around.

Though you can’t complain much, considering that you were right here with them—dancing as if you hadn’t in years.

In a way, you haven't. You haven’t felt a rush of autonomy and euphoria quite like this before.

With everyone being nothing but working busy-bodies, there’s been little to no time to plan big events such as tonight. The lack of excitement has been a major factor too.

Hence why as soon as the Moore twins came back into town with the intention to open up their very own juke joint, everyone was on board.

The pair hadn’t been seen here in seven years.

Seven long, cruel years without the twin you’ve grown to love.

Stack.

Well, he was Stack to everyone else. But to you? He was still Elias. Your ‘Lias.

Seven years without his lingering touches and pearly smiles.

You weren’t the only one that missed him, it seems.

Your sister told you that when she went down near the train station, she was right there waiting for your Elias.

Mary was waiting.

You don’t have a clue as to how she knew he was coming home before you did, considering that nobody from the Delta had heard from him except for you. And a letter from him was rather rare.

Mary had nearly thrown a fit once she saw him; it didn’t help that Elias had turned down her persistent advances.

The lack of contact obviously sent her over the edge.

Apparently she mentioned their former relations; their connection being a secret to none.

You were envious of this; never jealous, but overcome by a feeling of want.

Growing up with the twins meant that the three of you were as close as can be. That being said, though, they looked at you as if you were their little sister. It was fine when Elijah assumed the role of a family member, but Elias?

Just thinking about it makes your heart ache.

You longed for the flirtatious remarks that he’d give off to any and every woman, a night filled with intimacy plagued your mind constantly.

But you got over it.

You had to. Not only for the sake of your friendship with Elias, but also because of his prolonged absence from town.

That’s why tonight—right now, you had to pump the breaks and focus on celebrating the twins’ success.

Speaking of success?

You making your way over to the bar with your wobbly heeled-covered feet was a success. Surprisingly.

“Someone’s been dancin’ a lil too hard, huh?” Annie chortles, looking at you with nothing but sisterly-love, and a bit of amusement.

“Only dancin’ I was doing was during my cooking—nothin’ like this in a while,” you exclaim with bliss through a beaming smile. You huff as you sit down in front of the bar. “Y’got anythin’ good back here?” You motion to the bottles Annie has surrounding her.

“Better than good,” Annie replies before ducking down and searching below the counter.

You brace your hands on the counter and slightly peer over at the woman, but then she pops up quicker than you can plop back down onto your chair. She quirks a brow at you before placing a bottle down in front of you.

“What’s this?” You question; if Annie didn’t know any better, she would’ve thought that it was Christmas morning with the way you were looking at the bottle.

“Authentic Irish beer; straight from the north side of Chicago. Different from the rest they’re sellin’.” She replies. “Your man brought it specifically for you—made me promise I wouldn’t give it to nobody else, no matter how much they was payin’.”

You bite back a smile at her words; you knew exactly who she was talking about.

“He fixin’ to be Mary’s.” Your lips straighten, it’s bittersweet.

“That so? ‘Cause that ain’t what I heard,” Annie muses, making you pause. You savor Annie’s words as if they were your holy grail. Was there a chance that Elias looked at you the same as you did him?

You crane your neck and your gaze is set over your shoulder—over at him.

He catches your eye and he gives you a cheeky smile, to which you return rather eagerly.

You hadn’t had a single nonchalant bone in your body it seems.

Your shared staring was cut short as Mary forced Elias’ attention back onto her, but it wasn’t exactly a hard task for her.

Something about her was just so easy and simple, despite the ring shining on her hand that matched another man’s being anything but simple. The way that they connected even after all these years made you feel as if you swallowed a jar of mud.

After a few sips of beer, you can’t help but let a smile rest on your face. Elias knew you’d love it, and it makes your heart dance.

Speaking of dancing, your dearest friend Pearline struts up to you with a grin that soared for miles.

“What’s got you cheesin’ all hard?” You raise your eyebrows at her, making her giggle.

“Y’know the Preacher’s boy? The one that was just singin’?” Pearline’s nearly jumping out of her skin with excitement.

“Lil’ Sammie Moore? Course I do, why? What’d you do Pearl?” You gape at her and hold her hands tightly in yours.

“Well…” She trails off. “Let’s just say, he showed me he ain’t a boy, but a real man.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of the sockets as you exclaim a Pearline! that could probably be heard for miles.

Pearline gushes, “He made me feel things I ain’t never felt before.”

“Not even with your mister?” You gasp.

“Not even close. And that’s not all,” she pauses before looking around, then leaning in towards you.

“I wasn’t even able to freshen up. He didn’t want me to,” Pearline whispers.

You shout, then look around in embarrassment at your outburst; you shake Pearline vigorously by her shoulders and giggle some more.

You decide to look around the joint, and you coincidentally catch Sammie looking right at the back of Pearline’s frame in utter awe.

You nudge Pearline, and she looks over at him with you. The look that she throws his way is nothing short of flirtatious.

“He looked at ya like he wanted t’take a bite,” you snicker.

Pearline looks at you mischievously, “Funny, considerin’ he already did.” You can’t help but laugh.

“So, y’thinkin’ bout singin’ like he said?” You ask.

Pearline hums, “Maybe. ‘M thinkin’ you should too.”

“No, not happenin’. Not a chance,” You scoff playfully.

Pearline whines and grabs your wrists. “C’mon, sista! When’s the last time you got the chance to do this?” She pouts, and tries hardest to make puppy-dog eyes at you.

“Besides, this could be y’chance to make a move on Stack. Ain't that whatcha been waitin’ for?” She drags.

You falter at the question she poses.

“Tonight’s the night, sista.” Pearline murmurs softly.

It’s crazy how you always get in your head when it comes to him.

The thing is, you weren’t one to throw yourself out there just to entertain a man. No, that just wasn’t your style.

But God—tonight? His suit was fitting snug in all the right places, his grills glimmered dangerously in the dim lighting, and his eyes always found yours, recklessly.

You couldn’t resist Elias Moore.

And right now, you’re starting to wonder if you ever could.

“Y’better wrap that scarf on tight, Pearl,” you say as you grab her arm and start walking with her to the front. Pearline shrills and claps her hands with glee.

You saunter towards the stage with a pep in your step and your arm linked with a perky Pearline. Your heels clack on the wooden floors as you come face-to-face with the band and none other than Delta Slim, who’s now grinning at you.

“Been tryin’ to getcha to sing for years girl, what’s with the change o’ heart?” He questions with a smirk, as if he already knew the answer. You’re sure that he did with the way that his eyes looked past you and towards Elias.

“It’s a nice night, figured I’d try sum different,” you shrug, trying to mask your sudden embarrassment. Pearline intertwines her hand with yours and uses her other one to gesture to the band. You inhale deeply while looking at her; she gives you a look of reassurance.

The patrons of the juke joint grow silent at the sight of you two taking your stances and the band readying their instruments.

Pearline starts humming and you lightly stomp your feet on the stage, starting to form a beat as the band follows.

Elias feels as if his heart was being weighed down by a ton inside of him. He held his breath—scared that the rise and fall of his chest would make him miss the steady view of you: parading around as if everything outside the joint had come to a halt.

You looked completely, and utterly divine up there; moving swiftly and effortlessly, as if you owned the very ground you were stepping on.

You were absolutely ethereal in Elias’ eyes.

And he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t falling even harder for his sugar as of right now. He was the only man that could get away with calling you sugar; he knows it, so does everyone else in the Delta—and Elias can’t help but let his pride swell every time he thinks about it.

Your body sways carelessly as if you were one with the words that escaped your lips, but your eyes are grounded—powerful, even. Speaking of them: your glittering orbs meet his, your gaze nothing short of a vixen’s.

Though, the interlocking of your sights is interrupted when Mary makes her presence known yet again at Elias’ side. He can’t help but sigh at the intrusion.

Luckily, Elias’ ever-growing agitation fades when the patrons of the juke let out their elation around him. The band’s playing picks up, as well as you and Pearline’s voices.

Don’t let it shine, shine, shine once more

Pale, pale moon, pale, pale moon

Everyone chants and stomps rhythmically.

“I wanna sing, like I hear the crickets do,” Pearline sings seductively while peering at Sammy as she struts.

Pale, pale moon, pale, pale moon

“I wanna hoo,” you and Pearline sing simultaneously, harmonizing beautifully as your backs meet and you both slide to a crouching position.

Pale, pale moon, pale, pale moon

“I wanna howl,” the two of you sound as if you were straight out of a folktale—like one of those myths of the sirens that Annie had explained to Elias once before. You and Pearline then reside in a crawl as you look at the crowd with a sense of hunger in your eyes.

Mary gets ahold of Elias’ tie, but he quickly removes her grip from him—without even breaking eye contact with you. He knows she’s interested in spending the rest of the night with him; maybe in hopes of rekindling an old flame.

But how could Elias be interested in another woman when his woman—his sugar—was looking at him so deliciously.

You grin slyly at him, biting your bottom lip before licking your teeth.

Pale, pale moon, pale, pale moon

“I wanna scream,” Pearline sings, as you mouth the three words to Elias.

Three little words that have Elias fucking mesmerized, hypnotized even. You have him in a trance, right where you want him, and you both know it.

Elias wishfully thinks that the pick up in your breathing isn’t just from all the dancing you’ve been doing tonight. He bites his lip at the thoughts running through his mind.

Mary can’t even say that she recognizes the look that Elias gives you, for she has never been on the receiving end like you have been. Her frustration and jealousy boils over, and she eventually huffs before walking away from Elias, and out of the juke joint.

Elias doesn’t mind one bit, and he sure as hell doesn’t when the song finishes and you hug Pearline with excitement as the joint nearly turns upside down. You’re jumping up and down and Elias can’t help but smile til his cheeks hurt.

Elias feels a hand slap somewhat roughly on his shoulder. He knows good and well it’s his brother, with or without the wave of tobacco radiating.

“Came out here after the game finished, saw the way she was lookin’ at’cha, too.” Elijah grumbles.

“Breathtakin’, ain’t she?” Elias remarks breathily, not even turning to his brother—keeping his sights on you, as you hug Slim and the rest of the instrument players.

“Not ‘bout how I feel, ‘s ‘bout how you feel,” Elijah sighs. This makes Elias turn towards his brother.

“Don’t know what’chu waitin’ on, already been years,” Elijah then pauses before continuing, “Don’t be surprised when somebody see what’chu see.” Elijah trails off, almost ominously, and nods his head in your direction.

Elias follows his twin’s trail of sight and spots you: talking to a man he ain’t even seen before. You were beaming, your hair a little frizzed up by the humidity, your lipgloss smudged a little onto your shimmering skin.

Speaking of your lipgloss—whoever you’re talking to decided to rub his finger below your lip to wipe it away. Right now, Elias’ demeanor resembles the snake him and his brother killed earlier: cold and unmoving.

You glance around the sea of bodies, and Elias takes this as a sign. He starts to walk up to you, but not before having to mumble several ‘excuse me’s while side-stepping quite a few people—who seem to not be able to hold their liquor.

He finally reaches you, and he gets a glimpse of you over the guy’s shoulder, who has no idea he’s even there.

“We got a problem?” Elias murmurs, making the stranger nearly jump out of his skin.

“N-nah man,” the man chuckles awkwardly as he faces Elias.

“I reckon we do, since y’talkin’ to my lady,” Elias replies, sizing him up as he takes a step closer to him. The man takes a step back in return.

“I ain’t know, I-I’m sorry, Stack,” the man trembles meekly. Elias only hums. The man glances between the two of you before making himself scarce.

Elias stays in the same spot for a beat, before turning and giving you a look that says let’s go, before walking towards one of the back rooms of the joint. You hesitate, before inching behind him.

“So I’m y’lady now?” You don’t bother to tone down the sass in your voice.

“‘S what I said, ain’t it?” he mumbles, not even looking at you.

You scoff, “Yeah, well, y’got a funny way a’ showin’ it.”

Elias pulls you into a dimly lit room and finally faces you as you stand before him. “What’s that s’possed to mean?”

You narrow your eyes at him before speaking. “Means I saw you messin’ with ole Mary.”

“She don’t mean nun to me,” Elias guaffs. “Why d’ya think she left already?”

You roll your eyes and begin to head out the door you just came from. You’re not sure where this attitude just came from, in all honesty. The moment your eyes met him while you were on stage, it felt as if everything else had faded away, and it was just the two of you.

Maybe it was the irritation caused by Mary that left you in a sour mood now, you’re not sure. You know it won’t be beneficial to you nor Elias in this moment, but you can’t help it.

Elias grabs your wrist before you can get too far away from him.

“She ain’t nun, y’hear?” If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he almost sounded desperate. You stay quiet.

“Asked you a question, sugar. ‘N with that attitude of yours, I ain’t fixin’ to repeat myself.” His lips ghost the shell of your ear as he speaks, and heat twinges through your stomach. Elias seems to take notice of the subtle switch in your demeanor; he smirks and his chocolate brown irises darken even further.

“I…I don’t believe you,” You almost whisper, but still meet his gaze.

Almost immediately, he responds with, “What I got to do to convince you, baby?” Elias matches your tone, but there’s still a hint of assertiveness conveyed through his words.

You don’t speak—it’s almost like you couldn’t, but you release your wrist from his grasp gently.

Elias’ jaw clenched slightly, but you still spot it. He looks as if he’s pondering his next words.

“‘S not makin’ sense, darlin’. I mean, you were acting like a whore on stage, now you don’t want me to touch you?” He cocks his head at you and your lips part—like it was reflex, and maybe it was. Elias clicks his tongue.

Your breath picks up, and if your mind weren’t turning fuzzy, you would’ve chided yourself for making a fool out of yourself in front of a man—Elias at that.

The man you’ve yearned for longer than you can even remember.

“I ain’t no whore,” you speak, finally regaining your senses.

“That right, sugar?” You can feel Elias’ breath on your heated face, and all you can do is nod in return.

“Y’wanna know what I think?” Before you can answer the question Elias poses, he murmurs lowly, “I think that deep down….You are a whore—and you needa be fucked like one.”

Despite the vulgarity of his words, the way that Elias places his palm across your cheek is soft—loving, even.

You press your thighs together through your dress unconsciously, desperately seeking even an ounce of friction to cool the impending heat between your legs.

Elias takes the hand that rested upon your cheek and moved it to the stiff rim lock that resided on the door’s surface.

Thank god—You’d hate for the likes of someone such as Sammie barging in and being witness to sin hotter than the Mississippi sun.

Elias then starts to walk you back to the table that remained bare in the dingy-lit room, removing his suit jacket and vest, followed by his tie. The backs of your knees meet the edge of the firm table, making you stumble just a bit. Elias takes it upon himself to lay you down onto the table.

You rest on your elbows as you look up at the six-foot-something man in front of you, and you can’t help but swoon. His beating eyes look down at you lustfully—almost as if he were a predator, and you his prey.

It made you weak.

Weak at the hands of a man you’d been waiting on while he had the time of his life in Chicago, with all sorts of Italian customs. Your actions are beyond halfwitted, but you make no effort to straighten yourself out anymore.

Elias takes his warm hands and spreads your knees with ease after unbuttoning his shirt, making you yelp involuntarily at the near-abrasiveness. He licks his grillz and lets out a short, deep chuckle; you feel it vibrate your bones, while he aligns himself so that almost he’s eye-level with your warm core.

“Elias, wait—“ You whimper meekly,

He hums disapprovingly, letting out a firm ‘mm-mmn’. He rips his gaze from your thighs to your eyes, “Been waitin’ for years, sugar, not sure if I can any longer.” He repositions his hands, lifting your dress and hitching it up to your upper thighs, nearly to your pelvic bone.

Elias massages your thighs with an iron grip, it’s not yet rough, but not exactly gentle either. His switch between the two is making your mind reel.

He kisses up from your knee almost to where your dress bunches up as he removes his button-up, leaving him in his undershirt. He then says, “…So, m’sorry if I lose m’manners,” he breathes hotly against your skin, “But I don’t think I can live without destroying this pussy for a minute longer.” He damn near groans.

His mouth hovers above your clothed cunt—he purposely breathes in a way that makes you squirm at the feeling you’re unable to run from. As you shudder and tilt your head back, you suddenly hear a rip and you feel a gust of air.

You gasp and look down, where you’re met with Elias looking up at you cheekily, with one half of your panties in his mouth, and the other in his hand.

“‘Lias!” You exclaim.

Elias feigns innocence, “Told ya I ain’t mean no harm.” He then averts his focus to your legs, and he leaves a kiss to your mound.

“Y’not gon let me freshen up, will ya?” You ask quietly, already knowing the answer.

Instead of answering, Elias takes his tongue and trails it from your hole to your clitoris, and you puff out the air you didn’t know you were holding in.

Elias seems to enjoy your reaction, for he then gives you another long lick.

And another,

and another,

and you guessed it, another.

You press your lips together, muting your sounds, and Elias ‘tsk’s at the sight.

He nips a bit of the skin next to your lips, making you choke on your own spit. “Don’t like how quiet you’re bein’.” Elias reprimands you.

“Stop t-teasin’ then,” You manage to huff.

Elias chuckles in disbelief, “Wanted to be gentle, but y’makin’ it hard,” he then lifts you up from the table, and places his back where you once laid. He hooks your legs over the sides of his head, your pussy now inches away from his plump, shining lips.

Elias’ typical, million-dollar smirk is back on his face, but there’s something more sinister behind it—your legs would’ve buckled if he weren’t holding them.

“You’re a whore, jus’ like I said y’were.” His southern drawl makes your stomach twist in knots, despite the familiarity. Before you could get a word out, Elias placed you onto his face.

You mewl at the feeling of his tongue swirling around anywhere, and everywhere.

Your clit, your lips—it was almost as if he were starving.

There was no rhythm, no harmony and contentment, just the actions of a man on a mission.

A mission to make you scream louder than the birds on your farm.

Then, abruptly, Elias leaves a small, yet firm slap to your clit. “Admit it,” he says between licks. “Admit that you’re a whore.” He leaves another slap.

You don’t respond, too caught up in both the pain and pleasure. Your head hangs back and your eyes are clenched shut, and Elias grows impatient.

He removes his mouth from you with a ‘pop’ and almost snarls at you, “Thought I told ya Ion like repeatin’ myself.” He slaps your clit again, this time with more force.

“Okay—Okay! I was bein’ a whore tonight, ‘m sorry!” You cry out as your back arches.

Elias starts to lower you towards his grinning face, and you shiver at the feeling of his cold grillz.

Instead of teasing kitten-licks, Elias sucks at your slit and lets his tongue roam freely, without a care in the world. You writhe and whine on top of him, your body bending back and creating a dull aching sensation.

His advances are relentless, and you have no chances of escaping his grasp; he readjusts his grip as soon as he feels you start to slip away from him. You don’t know whether to clench around his tongue as he fucks you with it, or to cry–you end up doing both, and this continues on for who knows how long.

You’ve stopped counting the number of orgasms you’ve had after the second one–you think–but you think Elias has been keeping track. He’s muttered ‘jus’ one more, sugar’ maybe three times now, and you don’t know how many you have left in you at this point.

After what feels like hours, Elias finally lifts your hips up, allowing you to slide down and straddle his hips with your head resting upon his chest.

The beating sound of his steady heart fills your ear, and you try to match your breathing with Elias’. You feel a vibration as he shakes with laughter. You slightly drag your head up just enough to peek at his face, and he looks down at you with amusement.

“We ain’t done, not yet, peach,” he chuckles breathily at the wave of surprise that washes over your face.

You fumble with your words, “What d’ya mean? ‘L-Lias, I-I’m spent!” You continue to tremble in his arms.

“Y’still talkin’, ain’t ya, sugar?” He scoffs, it’s antagonizing. And before you can utter anything else, Elias flips you around onto the table, so you now lay with your back on the wood once again. Your dress rides down a tad at the sudden movement, and Elias holds your back, lifting you so that he can push your dress up past your breasts.

Elias lowers your back, before leaning peck your nipples. You bite your lip, but quickly let out a moan once he blows air onto your nipples, watching almost menacingly as they harden. One hand tweaks one of your nipples, as the other drags down your rib cage.

His hot, glistening tongue swishes around your tits, as he leaves sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to your skin.

He sucks harshly as you whimper beneath him. One of his hands leaves your body and goes down to his slacks, he unbuttons them with ease without even looking, as he continues to leave hickies on your chest.

He untucks himself from his underwear, and you can’t help but buck towards his cock in anticipation.

“Easy, girl. You’ll get it when ya prove y’deserve it,” Elias mocks, you whine in response.

“I deserve it, more than anybody else–y’know that, ‘Lias,” You plead in hopes of him giving you what you want.

“That right, baby? All this yours, nobody else's?” He challenges, starting to stroke his length.

You squeeze your eyelids together, almost as if you were personally pained by the question.

“Damn right,” You huff as you look at him with a sudden wave of fire blazing through your eyes. Elias scoffs with a mixture of incredulity and mirth.

“Yeah, baby–always been yours. Glad ya finally came to y’senses.” And with that, Elias pushes inside of you, and you let out a broken gasp.

Elias quickly finds his pace as he thrusts in and out of you rapidly. He nearly pulls entirely out of your dripping cunt–and you think he’s going to tease you again, but he then slams back into you roughly, making you cry out as your back arches into him.

You’re now chest-to-chest with Elias as he continues to pump into you with little regard to your overstimulation. The contact of skin makes your toes curl in your heels. Elias grunts at the feeling of you clamping down on his cock and bites forcibly at the flesh of your neck.

Elias groans–almost as if fucking you were the key to heaven’s gates. He takes his large palm and pushes it down onto your torso, making your sweating body meet the barely-covered, rumbling wood.

You weep helplessly and squirm as he keeps you pressed against the shaking table.

“Mmnf–”Lias! Please!” You cry yet again, but without knowing the reason behind it this time.

He doesn’t respond to your watery blabbering, instead putting your legs on either side of his shoulders. Elias slowly–and almost lovingly–kisses your ankle, before unclasping the latch of your heel and sliding it off of your foot, letting it hit the floor with a thump that neither of you seem to catch through the sounds of your bodies meeting.

You two damn-near become one.

He repeats his actions on your other leg, but this time he kisses from your calf to your ankle before removing your heel and letting it meet the ground with your matching one.

His hand grips at the ankle he just kissed, using it as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded; like an anchor. He then sucks and nips at your leg, quickly marking just above your ankle with a red bruise, which you know will be purple by the time the sun rises for morning.

You hiss when he bites a little too roughly, and he shows his sympathy by licking at the irritated skin, soothing the tender ache.

“That feel good, darlin’? Tell “Lias how much y’love it, peach, c’mon,” Elias coos, lifting his shirt up so he can get a proper view of your sex.

You babble through sobs intelligibly, mewling something along the lines of ‘so so good, ‘Lias!’—at least that’s what Elias makes of it.

“Can’t hear ya, baby. Ya gotta–fuck! Ya gotta speak a ‘lil louder f’me, hm?” Elias manages to speak through his panting and groaning. You bawl, hot tears dripping from your cheeks down to your chin.

“It feels so good–oh god—‘Lias!” You shriek, not caring about the volume of your crying. “Please don’t stop! Please, please, please–” You ramble with a slur.

If Elias ever felt guilty at the way he man-handling you, seeing your fucked-out expression made all his worries wash away at the sight of you: tongue hanging out, as your tears dribble into your open mouth.

Your panting grows more frantic, little ‘uh-uh-uh’s being let out more frequently as you feel another orgasm course through your veins. “‘Lias—cummin’! S-sh-it, I-I’m cummin’!”

Elias firmly plants his feet on the floor, repositioning the arm on your stomach onto your other leg so that he can fuck you even deeper–deep enough to create a slight bulge in your stomach with his throbbing tip. “Yeah, that’s it. Fall apart on this dick, y’know y’want to, sugar. Been dreamin’ ‘bout it f’years, huh?” He taunts.

You try to answer him, honestly! But he’s hitting your cervix just right and his abs rub against the backs of your thighs–it’s too much.

Elias thought you’ve learned by now that he doesn’t take silence for an answer, so to remind you, he gives your spent cunt a more forceful slap than before.

“Fuck—Yes! A-always been wantin’ you, ‘Lias,” you wail. “I-I never let nobody touch me! Nobody but you!” You exclaim without thinking.

This fuels Elias to quicken his pace; he almost fucking growls at your words, and he tightens your legs around himself–right now, as he feels himself getting closer and closer to climaxing, he has no plans on pulling out.

He continues to heave words of encouragement as fucks you ruthlessly through your orgasm.

You moan and blabber as your vision turns white, and your ears start to ring. Your toes curl and flex, and your nails scratch at the table, hands desperate for something to hold. Your voice then gives out, as your tongue lolls out of your mouth yet again.

Elias gives you a few more earth-stattering thrusts, before his seed fills your puffy, aching hole; the guttural groan that leaves his throat ups in pitch–nearly turning into a whimper.

He pumps his cum into you once more, before releasing your legs from his grip and laying down on top of you. As he half-lays-half-stands against the table, he feels as if a cold bucket of water was dumped onto him.

He can no longer focus on the tingling feeling that shoots from his skull to his toes, but now on the fact that he was the first man you’ve been with.

You spent your first time with him–in a rickety building he bought from a Klan member, on an even dingier table.

Elias then taps your face, just enough to get you to come back to your senses. You open your eyes with a lazy grin at the feeling of his seed mixed with yours, but when you’re met with his panicky expression, you quickly push yourself up–to the best of your ability.

“What? Wha’s wrong, ‘Lias?” You question worrisomely.

He allows himself to catch his breath before speaking, “Y’serious?” It’s all that he says.

You furrow your brows and tilt your head at him, “Bout what? Y’scarin’ me, Elias,” you chuckle awkwardly.

Had you said something you shouldn’t have?

A million thoughts run rampant throughout your mind.

“‘Bout all this,” he flails his hand, motioning to where your bodies had just met. “Was that really ya first time?” He speaks loudly, and you feel mortified.

Your breath catches in your throat. You confirm his worries, your voice softer than a freshly picked feather, “Yes.”

Elias takes a step back, and it takes everything in you not to reach out for him. Instead, you sit up fully and push your dress back down to your thighs. You twiddle your thumbs idly, seeking for even an ounce of comfort as Elias pushes his shirt back down and tucks himself back into his boxers after wiping himself off with a rag. Despite his glowering, he hands you a rag so that you can wipe away the slick from between your thighs.

Did he regret spending the night with you? Did he find the fact that you remained a virgin because of him embarrassing?

“Why you ain’t tell me, girl?” He exclaims, “I wouldn’t have said and done all that foolishness if I knew you ain't never been with a man before!”

You feel your soul come back into your body. “You would’ve been all sweet with me? That whatcha sayin’, ‘Lias?” You can’t help but giggle.

“Ain’t nothin’ funny, woman! I was all rough with you ‘n–” You cut him off with a kiss to his lips, wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling him closer to you. You fold your arms around his neck, and you feel his hands drift down to your waist and squeeze lightly. Your nose nudges his, his breath fans your face as yours does his.

You break the kiss when you feel yourself losing your breath, and you gaze at Elias lovingly.

“You were perfect, I couldn’t imagine it any other way,” you whisper.

“Well for starters, could've gotten you a bed in the house ‘stead of a table in this dark ass room,” Elias grumbles.

You grin, “I think the lightin’ was just fine. Added ambience ‘n all that.” Elias pouts, and you peck his lips.

“I don’t care ‘bout the details, “Lias. Long as it was with you.” Your tone is as sweet as the finest honey in Clarksdale, and it pulls on Elias’ heartstrings.

“Y’really waited all these years….For me?” He whispers.

“Course I did, couldn’t imagine bein’ with anybody else.” You speak just as softly. You recognize the guilt that crosses his face, despite his best efforts to mask it with his bravado. “Don’t feel guilty, please. I don’t blame you for nun.” You caress his hair. Silence fills the room as Elias deciphers what to say, you just hold him tenderly until he’s ready.

“I-I love ya, more than y’know, sugar…” He trails off before finishing his sentence, “I jus’ want ya to know that. I have since we was young.” He looks at you with adoration and love in his eyes.

“I love you too, Elias Moore. Have since you stood up to my daddy on his farm f’me when we was seven.”

He smiles, but it’s tight lipped, making you frown. “Jus’ wish I could’ve admitted it sooner. Then this would’ve went down differently—would’ve been better.” He sulks.

You take your thumb and index finger and pluck his lips, making him shout ‘hey!’ with a laugh.

“Stop beatin’ y’self up, Elias. I told you, I’m perfectly happy here, right now. Ain’t nun gon’ change that a bit.” You scold him.

“If ya stop all that moppin’, I’ll let ya try again tomorrow, however y’want,” you giggle mischievously. Elias’ eyes light up almost immediately, the way he perks up reminds you of a puppy that was just given a treat.

Elias roars with laughter and squeezes you, before lowering you back down onto the table, he presses nearly all of his weight onto you.

You squeal and cackle as he tickles your sides, “‘Lias!”

You lay wrapped up with Elias, you felt as if you could lay there forever, and honestly in this moment, you wanted to.

Clarity and revelations do the body good.

Everything was good.

Until you heard a commotion on the other side of the door.

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 09. Oh no!

PREV PART Trigger warning: (past, current) mental + physical + emotional neglect, (name) pretends everything is fine, talking down of oneself, Reader isn't out towards the batfamily yet, mental gymnastics, disabilties are finally talked about, guilt, I think this is my longest chapter yet, pls tell me if I missed any warnings main m.list        series m.list

When you woke up your body felt sluggish as you try to remember what happened, you must have a fever, why else would Alfred be at your bedside sleeping. Seeing him there reminds you of the times your heart ached for his comfort, for the times you wished he would finally stand up for you. But he didn’t, he never takes your side.

Their reaction to you passing out must’ve been extreme, because the moment you tried to manoeuvre past Alfred Dick was there, standing in front of your door with a panicked expression. “You shouldn’t get out of bed,” he says with an attempted smile. It just makes you narrow your eyes and spitefully stand up. You ignore how the room spins and how your pain spreads to your neck and fingertips. It’s almost as if Dick can sense your discomfort (it would be a first) because the moment you lose your balance he’s there to keep you standing straight. “you really are stubborn.”

His words weren’t meant to make you flinch, but they still did. You don’t trust him, and you might never, anything negative from him puts you on edge (even if his statement is true). You never know how any of your siblings will react, and quite frankly you always found Dick the most difficult from all of your siblings. Impossible to read and always wearing that fake smile, he always used that smile when he interacted with you, keeping his real smiles for his true family. “Don’t touch me,” you hiss, raising your voice enough to wake Alfred up and enough for Dick to step back.

“(name),” he whispers as he moves towards you, checking your temperature with his hand not allowing you to flinch away from him. “Good, no fever….” Yet your eyes look anywhere but at his.

“Now that you’ve done the bare minimum to keep yourselves from wallowing in guilt,” you start, ignoring how Alfred’s face falls, how Dick’s breath becomes ragged and uneven. “I want you both to leave, I need to change for school.”

“You don’t seriously think you are going to school,” Dick says as his eyebrows furrow, his arm crossed on his chest. “not after passing out like that.”

You laugh, you couldn’t help it. Now they want to care for your health. “Didn’t you guys not send me to a hospital after I was viciously beaten and possibly had internal bleeding?” you shot back, and finally they look guilty. Their guilty faces and nervous ticks make you smile, finally you feel heard. “I pass out quite often, especially since then, I am going to school so get out, I’m going to be late.”

“At least let me drop you off,” Dick says before Alfred can protests. “it would make sense, Damian’s classes are in one of your school buildings today.”

You laugh. “Oh, he doesn’t want to be seen with me. Don’t you know?” But when you see Alfred’s nails digging in his palm you start to feel guilty. Perhaps Jason’s right and you are being a piece of shit. “But fine, I suppose, just get out I need to do my hair and put my uniform on.”

They listen, but once you close your door Alfred and Dick stare at each other. Having a conversation with each other with just their eyes. You are hiding something about your health, and they’ll force to the doctor if they must. “I’ll brief Damian of the plan,” Dick tells Alfred. “I’ll try to get more information out of them.”

Alfred nods and sighs; “Duke has been helpful but evasive, but it’s clear he doesn’t trust us.”

Dick nods, and he can’t help but think; ‘Who would? If they knew what we did?’

“He’s honouring (Name)’s autonomy,” Dick acknowledges as he brushed his hair back with his hands. “more then we have ever done…”

Awh, the poor bats are becoming self-aware, and guilt is weighing heavy. Too bad that it isn’t enough to compensate for your pain.

You, who had quickly done your hair (honestly you tried, it looks terrible but it is too much for you to handle right now, so it’s alright) and put on your uniform, was now in the kitchen, grabbing a quick bite to eat and make some lunch. It was important to nourish your body after such a health incident. You need to take care of yourself, alright? Otherwise Maria and Duke would absolutely hound you on this. You just wish Cassandra wasn’t here, analysing your every move. “You’re in pain,” she says simply. “you have been for a while.”

“Wow,” you say without thinking, looking over your shoulder slightly amused. “you’ve only noticed now?”

“I’m not talking about mental pain,” she says, and that makes you freeze, dropping your lunch box in your bag and you couldn’t be more glad about getting one with an extra safety lock. “you are ill.” You chuckle, you couldn’t believe it. Cassandra knows, and she has known for a while. “Is it because of Jason?”

You turn around as you place your back on the counter. “What has Duke told you?” you aren’t angry with him, no, whatever he told them, it doesn’t matter. He’s just trying to help. “Or is that just a small personal theory?”

“A theory, Duke has been evasive with his answers,” she admits, her eyes narrowing as she tries to read your body language. But it comes up the same as always, on edge, in pain and angry. “said that he wouldn’t break his future sister’s trust.”

“Huh, so Brucie is adopting him,” you comment.

“But he has told us the full story about what Jason did,” Stephanie says, coming into the room pretending as if she hasn’t been eavesdropping from the moment she realised Cassandra was trying to get answers out of you. “I’m sorry, if I knew-”

You scoff, cutting off her sentences. Your eyes watering, you always wanted acknowledgement of what happened. You wanted these girls to tell you what your family did was wrong. But it’s too late now, and Cassandra could read that. She could see your shoulders tense, biting your lip as you try and keep your breathing steady. You feel unsafe, and she wonders if she didn’t ignore your pain. If she realised the damage they were doing to you, would you be happier? Would you be healthier?

Oh, having a moral compass can be quite difficult, can’t it?

“I don’t want none of your apologies,” you tell them, your eyes look dull and they feel lifeless. Something Stephanie often saw with the victims her father created. Is she just as bad as her father? At this point she would say to a degree. And if you will allow her to, she’ll do anything to make it right. But there is no time for that, Dick is here to drive you to school. “and our conversation is done, Cassandra, be sure to keep your mouth shut.”

While Stephanie hasn’t heard the whole conversation you two had (and could you really call it a conversation?) Cassandra obviously asked something about your health. Something that you have hidden from them all, even legally.

Well illegally, seriously, how did you perfect replicating Bruce’s signature? Even Tim couldn’t replicate it to that degree, if he were to compare your falsified signature with one of Bruce’s actual signatures it barely has any differences (Barbara would love to learn from you). The ink only looks thicker on your falsified one, Bruce always kept his pen-strokes light and precise.

But there is no time to ponder about that right now, they need to focus on you actually getting into Dick’s care. He bugged it with one of his earpieces so that the bat-family could analyse you interacting with Dick and Damian. The two you always interacted with the most before Jason’s attack, but even that was limited.

When you got into the car, you notice how Damian was sulking. Something you’ve never seen him do, besides that one time that Bruce scolded him loud enough that you could hear him from your room. You ignore him and buckle yourself in, joining him on the backseat. “Don’t you want to sit in the front seat?” Damian asks confused, and you shake your head. No way in hell are you sitting next to Dick.

“I don’t like the passenger seat.” Liar, liar pants on fire~!

Damian’s eyes narrow and scratches the skin under his nail. ‘huh,’ you think, absentmindedly. ‘we have similar anxiety ticks.’

With that Dick drives away, trying to build up a conversation. But truly, you couldn’t give a shit. You’re texting with Duke, you have chemistry the first hour, and you want to make sure that he knows that you don’t blame him for letting Bruce adopt him and such. That you just hope that he would keep your back and stay close to you when he joins the family.

Truly, aren’t you embarrassed by this? How insecure can you be?

‘Ofc, I won’t! I swear I’ll explain everything once B signs the papers. Thank you for not being mad :)’ The text makes you smile, once Duke swears something, he keeps that promise. He’s more trustworthy than your mother, she always had her fair share of secrets.

‘I could never be mad at my favourite brother, and you didn’t out me so that makes me not being mad a lot easier /hj’ you sent back before closing your phone, closing your eyes in as you feel stress leaving your body. You’re excited to see him again, you can’t wait to tell your friends about Duke joining your family. It would make your time left there a lot more bearable.

The thought of not being alone withyour ‘family’ anymore made your frown disappear. But it returned the moment you got closer to school. “Drop me off here,” you say, ignoring how Damian’s hand itches. Clearly wanting to grab your uniform jacket. “my friends are waiting for me.”

Dick nods, knowing he shouldn’t push you. You’ll just shut down even more, and it would become even more difficult to re-connect connect with you. He could feel bile rise in his throat the longer he thought about what he has done, about the behaviour he has been complicate in. Oh, but how can he make you see that it was all for the best? How can he make himself see that it was all for the best?

He can’t, he should be on his knees begging for your forgiveness, but he knew that it wouldn’t be enough. He just doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know where he went wrong.

“That was a disaster,” Damian says when he can see you running up to your friends. Dick sighs, but he agrees. Damian knows it, he can see the disappointment on his older brother’s face, it makes him angry at you. But at the same time, why was he angry at you for their behaviour? Why did he give up your love for Jason when he was clearly in the wrong? Is it because of his time in the league, or is there still hatred in his body for you just simply existing?

Oh, what can the bat-family do when all they’ve done is estrange themselves from you? Can they redeem themselves, or will Duke take their place? Will your friends take their place besides your side?

With Duke you would still be apart of their family, but if you were to estrange yourself further from them, go no-contact and acknowledge your friends as your family and only allow Duke in your life they would have no excuse to try and make you understand their side. To try and get you to forgive them.

Because if they right their wrongs, you’ll have to love them. Right?

NEXT PART well, I am using this chapter as a distraction, my grandpa is getting better already tho! And I'm allowed to visit soon, so he's out of any danger zones, if you have any feedback do tell me. I have too many ideas of how to transition to the full yandere part and my brain needs to slow down fr.

taglist: @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @bunniotomia, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @princessbonnie-bell, @seemee3, @pix-stuff, @venomsvl, @amber-content, @stove-top96, @frank-vanderboom, @leeiasure, @1abi, @shadowytravelerlover, @chericia, @lithiumval, @lingxio, @cssammyyarts, @marsmabe, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @miashico, @alwaysholymilkshake, @1cxndy, @kittzu, @rtyuy1346, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @artistwithcreativeburnout, @alishii, @vanessa-boo, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @91-kya, @ryuushou, @jjsmeowthie, @justthere1956, @depressed--therapist, @xzmickeyzx, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @plsfckmedxddy, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @trashlaternfish360, @leogf, @dirtydiavolo, @lilyalone, @welpthisisboring, @kenman00001, @nxdxsworld, @icefox8155, @ironsaladwitch, @holderoflostmemories, @asillysimp, @wisefuncherryblossom, @eyeless-kun, @marina27826, @muggleloveralways, @ironsaladwitch, @shyenemyperson, @iamaunknownsecret

[quickestgold]

Still Alive: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Part 2 of Still Life

Synopsis: Delivery complications during the birth of your son leave Jack caught between grief and hope, life and loss. In the stillness that follows, those who witnessed it begin to confront their own silent trauma, navigating recovery, healing and bonding with a newborn.

Warnings: Angst, but also comfort this time; Very graphic descriptions of a traumatic birth, massive blood loss, life support, mentions of maternal death stats, abortion, overall pretty heavy, please take care!!

Word count: 3.4k+

A/n: Can you tell I'm incredibly passionate about reproductive health and bodily autonomy!! This turned a bit political... whoops!

Also, you guys basically held me at gunpoint to write this lmfao… hope you like it!! name and shame special mentions: @florenceivy @bungurus @happyfox43 @pearlofthepitt @angrytimemachineduck @pear-1206 @yousigned-upforthis @blushinginapril @theblackestvalkyrie @csigeoblue @xxemmarldxx @travelingmypassion <3

“You did so good, my love." Jack whispers. "So fucking good.” He wraps a blanket around you both, trying to shield you from the cold, from the storm, from everything.

The placenta came out whole. That should’ve been the end of it.

The start of your little family.

Robby watches the three of you fondly, though his movements stay clinical and focused.

Jack, now fully stepping into the role of husband and father, lets him take charge.

With a calm, gentle bedside manner, Robby cleans you as gently as he can with the supplies he has available, assessing the extent of your perineal tear and preparing to suture.

The aftermath of the miracle of life, raw, exposed, brutal.

You don‘t feel any of it. The world rests on your chest, a warm, perfect weight. Your baby’s tiny breaths brush against your flushed, clammy skin.

For a few peaceful seconds, the three of you breathe in perfect harmony. A beautiful rhythm that creates an unbreakable bond between you.

Your souls tied together by invisible strings.

The emotions, the hormones and the love are overwhelming.

But bliss never lingers. Never long enough.

The surgical blanket between your legs suddenly turns dark.

Then comes the gush.

A wave of blood pours out of your body. And it keeps coming.

To much. Too fast.

Robby reacts instantly, but he can‘t keep up.

Jack’s eyes grow wide, his face goes pale.

Primary postpartum hemorrhage.

You’re not supposed to die giving birth. Not here. Not now.

Not with Jack watching.

But you‘ve seen this before. Too many times.

Women bleeding out on tables.

Partners gripping their hands, helpless, as the world stops making sense.

The devastating truth is, maternal death rates in the U.S. are shockingly high and for women of color, the risk is even two to three times higher.

It‘s bias, delayed care, systemic neglect.

It's a lack of research, a lack of funding.

A deep, persistent lack of interest in women‘s health.

Our pain sidelined.

Ignored.

Normalized.

The system continues to fail women and people with a uterus.

Jack knows that. Robby does too.

That’s why the moment the bleeding starts, they don’t waste time. They’ve seen how fast a name turns into a number.

How a tragedy turns into a statistic, that ultimately changes nothing.

Robby calls out for Jack to assist, before starting a uterine massage to stimulate contraction.

Jack’s eyes flicker to Robby’s, his hand deep inside you. That part doesn’t register until later.

You don‘t respond to the pain. Not a good sign.

You‘re going into shock.

Robby‘s gloves are soaked. Your blood literally on his hands. The massage isn‘t working. Not fast enough anyway.

Robby shouts orders at Dana, voice trembling, then turns to Jack. “Start the IV.“

Jack's trained for this. But he hesitates.

Frozen.

Jack never freezes.

Always calm and collected, even during the most chaotic, traumatizing cases.

Robby knows the feeling. There have been one or two instances where time stood still for him too. Where his body was suddenly not his own, even though others counted on him.

He needs Jack, now.

You need him.

Robby is only thinking in units, how many you‘ve lost, how many you need.

This isn’t a slow bleed. This is the kind that kills people.

Fast.

“Jack!” Still no answer. “Dr. Abbot!“ Robby‘s desperate yell finally snaps Jack back into professional mode.

He moves. Slides out from under you, gently guiding you onto your back, cradling your head.

He rushes to switch out with Robby, now massaging your uterus with one hand, the other pressing firmly on your abdomen.

Robby swiftly takes your boy from your arms, leaving you dazed and confused.

“It‘s okay, he‘s okay.“ Robby’s eyes lock with yours for a second. “We need to stop the bleeding.“

You don‘t hear any of it, your world being ripped from you.

Robby passes the baby through the elevator door to Dana, who cradles him close, rocking gently.

Jack returns to your side, settling at your head again, cupping your face.

Robby works quickly. He inserts a Bakri balloon through your cervix, inflating it with sterile fluid to put pressure on the uterine wall.

You don‘t see any of it.

The world just... stops.

It’s been a week since Jack and Robby fought to save your life.

A week since you bled out on the cold elevator floor.

A week since you took your last breath on your own.

Jack hasn‘t left your bedside, except maybe the odd trip to the bathroom, but otherwise he's been still.

The image of a tube down your throat forever burnt into his mind. Your exhausted body hooked up to machines that he knows keep you alive. That breathe for you now.

As a doctor, Jack knows the truth: one flipped switch and you’d be gone.

But as a partner, as a new father, he clings to the hope that you‘ll come back.

Jack feels paralyzed, fear, guilt and helplessness weighing him down.

The life you have built together is on hold, a deep stillness filling the air.

All he can do is wait for something to change. Either one way or the other. But in this moment, time seems to stand still.

It’s also been a week since your son was born.

Sometimes, Jack has to remind himself of that. That there's a whole new life now, suddenly depending on him.

But ridden with guilt, he finds himself unable to care for your boy in this time of crisis.

Dana brings the baby in sometimes, places him gently on your chest. Skin-to-skin. For the baby and the mom.

Those are the rare moments Jack lets himself feel it. The love. The dream.

A glimpse of what was supposed to be.

Until the sadness floods back in.

He failed you. As a husband. As a doctor.

How could he not save you?

“She‘s so still.“ Jack says under his breath.

“She‘s still alive, Jack.“ Robby‘s voice is kind but firm. He sits across from him on the other side of your bed, watching Jack carefully. “She needs you to believe in that.“

Jack just stares at you. “We‘ve both seen how most of these go“

“I know.“ Robby looks at you then your boy resting calmly on your chest. “But we‘re not there yet."

Robby picks up your son's tiny hand. Instinctively, those small fingers wrap around Robby’s.

“He has your smile“, Robby laughs softly.

Jack‘s frown lines soften. “And her eyes.“

The realization makes Jack smile. Robby gives him a nod, as if he just proved his point.

“Add some silver to those curls, a bit of unhealthy cynicism and a dash of existential dread… voilá!“

That earns a chuckle.

Jack rolls his eyes. “We both know I’m the healthy one.”

“Healthy is a stretch, brother.“ Robby raises an eyebrow. “I have talked you off a ledge or two.“

Jack snorts. "Ditto. Why did I even give you my therapist‘s number if you‘re not gonna use it.“

“What makes you think I haven‘t.“ A smile tugs at Robby‘s lips.

“Get out.“ Jack stares. “Have you?“

“Yes, actually“, Robby’s tone turns proud.

“When?"

He doesn’t need to answer. Jack already knows.

They both look at you.

The irony isn't lost on Jack. He is the one that hasn‘t made an appointment since it happened. Too afraid to leave your side.

When he thought about losing you before - and he has, of course, he‘s seen too much loss, too much death - he always knew he would find himself on a roof not soon after.

But now. Now another life depends on him. Regardless of whether you leave them.

“You know what happened isn‘t your fault, right?“ Jack puts the question out there, though he knows the answer.

Robby just shakes his head. And in that moment Jack realizes the guilt that‘s weighing on Robby too.

He wants to shake him, tell him he couldn’t have done more. But he also understands. Somehow, sharing the guilt makes it all a little more bearable.

“She wants you to be godfather.“ Jack says before he can overthink it. “I do too, in case that‘s not obvious.“

Robby‘s eyes widen in surprise, too stunned to speak.

“I know, I know, first the baby‘s name, now this.“ Jack furrows his brows. “If I didn‘t know any better I‘d be jealous…“

Back in his body, Robby finds his voice. “When you say it like that, he kind of does have my nose…“

“Careful, fruitcake-“

“I swear to god, Abbot, if you call me that again-“

A soft cry cuts through the banter.

Both men go still.

Jack stares at his son.

The frown lines on Jack‘s face, suddenly deep as ever. Jack realizes that he hasn‘t actually held his boy. Not really, apart from the few short moments when he places him on your chest.

And certainly not like a father should.

Whereas Robby has visited the NICU after every shift, occasionally even during his breaks. Checking, caring, guarding.

He's ready to hold him if Jack is not.

Robby's seen it many times. How deeply partners are affected by birth trauma too. It‘s the kind of silent pain that eats away at people.

The guilt, the helplessness. The shame, for even feeling this way, when it didn‘t physically happen to them.

The scars cut deep, even if they aren‘t the ones that carry them.

Their partners are the ones fighting for their lives, so surely they have no right to feel so broken. They have to be strong for the both of them. To hold the family together.

But as doctors, they know that‘s not how it works.

And yet no one speaks of it.

So they suffer in silence.

And even though Jack has all of the practical and theoretical knowledge, he still falls victim to it.

Robby doesn‘t push, he‘s just there.

Still.

But this time, Jack moves first. He reaches for his boy, lifts him into his arms. Holds him against his chest.

The crying fades. Jack’s doesn’t.

Tears fall down his cheeks as he rocks the baby gently.

“We‘ll be okay." He whispers into his son’s soft curls. "You, me and your mommy.“ He exhales, eyes shut. “She loves you so much. And I know she can‘t wait to meet you."

Jack has felt lost since the moment your eyes closed. But now... he finds you again.

In your baby’s eyes.

And he can‘t help but feel a wave of love wash over him.

You made this tiny human together. And he‘s every bit as beautiful as you‘d expect.

All the pain, the sadness and the fear briefly stop for a moment of peace.

Jack stays like this for what feels like hours. Robby was called away for a critical case at some point, though Jack didn't really notice when he left.

He doesn‘t notice Dana standing in the doorway either, until she raises her voice slightly to speak. “You‘re a natural, Jack.“

Her words are kind and affirmative and just what Jack needs.

Dana is perceptive like that. Always knows what to say to make others feel better even when her own life is falling apart.

Even in times of deep crisis, she is the first to step up and help.

And that‘s what she did for you.

When Jack and Robby were working on you, desperately trying to stop you from bleeding out, her helping hands were a safe haven for your boy.

But it also affected her. She was used to compartmentalizing, but seeing her colleague, her friend, on the floor, pale, not breathing and still, left a scar.

And she too feels like this is something she can‘t speak of. Because again, what right does she have.

So she carries it with her. Silently.

She feels it every time she comes into your room to brush your hair. When she moisturizes your face and hands. When she strokes her thumb over your frown line.

She tells you about her day and your boy‘s.

Jack is there too of course.

He never leaves.

It‘s the only time when Jack allows himself to rest his eyes for a bit, a deep trust that Dana's watching over you.

“Want me to take him up to the NICU?“ Dana offers gently.

“Thank you." Jack contemplates for a moment before shaking his head. "I‘ve got it.“

He moves to stand, his eyes flickering to you then back to Dana.

“I‘ve got her“, she assures him with a warm smile, taking a seat next to you.

As he moves towards the door, Dana suddenly stops him. “What the hell did you to her hair, Abbot?“

Jack just shrugs innocently.

Dana scoffs, lightly cursing under her breath. "Men."

Jack returns a small smile, leaving your room for the first time in a week, cradling his newborn.

Like many times before, Robby spends his break in your room.

Dana has just finished your beauty routine. Fixing the mess on your head that Jack clumsily left.

Robby watches the two of you fondly. There are no words needed. Just a silent appreciation of the people in his life. In yours.

He thinks back to when he picked up the phone to call the therapist Jack recommended. He was sobbing, hands shaking, voice trembling, breathing unsteady. Just minutes earlier, he had put you on life support. No time to process.

And of course, it brought everything back. The memory of taking Dr. Adamson, his mentor, his friend, off ECMO. The grief still raw.

So Robby dialed the number and made an appointment. A tiny win in itself. Although, he'd later realize wasn't so small after all.

The therapist was nice enough. Though Robby felt like he was being assessed. Because, of course, he was.

Doctors make the worst patients. Especially, in therapy.

They know too much, often feel they're above being treated. Above being helped.

Physician heal thyself.

Collins' words echo in his mind.

Robby remembers when Heather told him about the miscarriage.

His heart broke for her.

Though he wasn't the father, so was it his place to feel devastated?

Or when she told him she had an abortion, long after they broke up. He wanted to cry. Not because he didn't respect her decision. It's her body and he would have supported her no matter what.

No. Because she was scared and alone. Felt like she couldn't come to him and tell him. To share the weight of her choice.

He believes he failed her.

Like he failed you.

He should probably make another appointment.

There've been a few breakthroughs in the couple of sessions he's attended. His therapist made him start a journal. Write down all the things that plague his mind.

So he does. The words practically pouring out of him.

Robby writes about how partners are mostly an afterthought when it comes to birth trauma.

How they're expected to be strong, to support, to hold down the fort and to move on.

How there are little to no resources for families and loved ones.

How there's no funding, no research and too much stigma.

How much it would help people feel less alone if they could actually talk about it.

How birth trauma doesn't begin and end with the person giving birth.

And mostly he thinks about you in this bed, still, unconscious, far away. How it’s simply to much to bear alone. But he cannot bring himself to translate those thoughts onto paper.

Not when there‘s still hope.

The monitors beep. A sudden change. Something is different.

Your eyes flutter, your muscles twitch, the sound of faint gags fill the room.

Robby rushes to your side, quickly assessing if you're ready to breathe on your own.

You pass the criteria, so he orders Dana to prep for extubation, attempting to calm you down.

You try to inhale, but it’s wrong. Your throat is on fire. Your jaw tight.

A hand finds yours. Dana. "You're okay, honey. You're okay."

But something’s in your throat, a deep panic tears through your chest and you choke, eyes widening.

Someone else is speaking, pleading. "I know, I know it hurts. We’re getting it out. Hang on for me.” The voice is too familiar, but you can‘t place it.

You gag, something slick is pulled from deep inside you. It feels like you're being sliced open.

The second the sharp object leaves your throat, you gasp like you're taking your first breath. Like you've drowned and you're coming up for air.

You cough and cough, terrified and breathless. Eyes heavy.

Then you hear his voice. Again. Clearer this time.

Your eyes flutter open, focusing, trying to find something to hold onto. That makes sense. Anything.

"My love."

Jack.

Jack steps closer, cradling your head, his other palm resting gently on your chest. "You're still here." He says it like he's convincing himself.

Your eyes soften, your breathing steadies. You barely take in your surroundings, your only focus is Jack.

"You're okay." He's clinging to your face now. "God, I missed those eyes."

Your thoughts clear. Memories start flooding back.

Michael. But the words don‘t leave your throat.

Jack studies your face, patiently.

You try again. A whisper.

"Michael."

"I'm here", Robby answers, though you swear he's made that joke before.

You attempt to shake your head, though it's more of a twitch.

"I know you're not talking about me." Robby admits, gesturing to someone in the doorway.

The you hear it. Tiny cooing filling the air.

Your sweet baby.

A fragile sob escapes your lips. You look at Jack, who helps you sit up just enough.

Every muscle aches, every joint throbs, every scar burns, but a sudden energy surges through you. You lift your arms just enough for Dana to place your boy into your waiting arms. Like you found the missing piece of the puzzle. Like you're finally where you belong.

Jack wraps his arm around your shoulders, his other hand steadying yours as you cradle your boy.

"He has your smile", you whisper lovingly, gazing up at your partner.

Robby and Jack share a look and you wonder what that's about. Though it looks like Robby feels very much validated.

"All I see is you", Jack counters, adoration and devotion in his gaze. Jack leans in to press his forehead to yours, your lips quickly finding his in a gentle, needed kiss.

When you pull apart, you turn to Robby and Dana.

"You were there..."

They look at you, unsure where you're going.

“It matters”, you continue. “All of it. So don’t… don’t carry this alone.”

A beat. The room goes quiet.

"You nearly died and you're worried about us?" Dana chokes.

“I want Mikey to know… that the people who brought him into this world are the ones who stood still for us when everything else stopped.”

You take a breath.

“Will you be his godparents?”

Dana nods fast, like she’s trying to keep tears from falling.

Robby stands there, arms crossed, head bowed. Evidently moved by your question, but there's something else.

You groan, narrowing your eyes. "Jack already asked you, didn't he?"

Robby hesitates, scratching his neck and looking anywhere but at you. There's no way to talk himself out of that one, so he confesses.

You drop your head back onto the pillow with a theatrical sigh, then shoot Jack a look. He raises his hands in mock-surrender, a genuine smile growing on his lips.

You turn back to Robby, expectantly.

"Of course", he smiles. "I'd be honored."

"I don't know if I should be glad or offended you didn't ruin the surprise for me too", Dana deadpans, turning to Jack.

Jack scrambles to change the subject. "You know... Robby went to see my therapist."

"You what?" You blink. “Oh my God… I called it. Group therapy is happening.”

Robby tries not to look too smug.

You turn to Jack, still grinning. “Does that make him the stable one now?”

Jack groans, “Don't start.”

There's a refreshing lightness in the air, that none of you have felt for a while.

You know the road to recovery is long and that healing is a process. You'll grieve the time you've missed with your son. The milestones you weren't there for.

But the people in this very room were with you during the worst time of your life and you know you’ll make it through this too.

Together.

You hold your son closer. And Jack holds you.

In that moment, you realize that trauma is shared and that naming it is a kind of healing.

Ok I need to stop, this story already got away from me, didn‘t intend for it to be so long but here we are. Please lmk what you think <3

[yeyinde]

slowly being led into a very (bad and) codependent D/s relationship with Price is all I can think about right now.

It starts off small, too. Casual touches. It's what he's known for—tactile; a man of raw, untempered physicality, and you wonder if the absence of touch makes his palms itch sometimes—and you let it happen. Let it grow. Evolve. Shift from a breath to a kiss. Morphing from a ghost to something substantive. Corporeal.

His knuckles grazing your forearm when he stands beside you. His hand on your lower back. Correcting your form with both hands. Smothering his chest against your spine. Then—

His hand on your thigh. Slipping lower down your back until his pinky lifts over the curve of your ass. Possessive. It reeks of ownership. But you don't tell him to stop.

It's grounding. You're not sure why. It just is. Like counting to ten. Focusing on some distant object. One, two. His hand on your wrist. His thighs pressed tight to yours. Hands on you, always, until it feels as natural as breathing. Three, four.

These touches usually accompany his voice. The low grit of a command dragging over gravel. Nails against sandpaper. Whispered demands just for you. Only you.

Or, at least, that's how they start.

Optional. Suggestions. Things you can prise apart with your own will. Agency still glueing to your throat but—

Not for long.

His touch finds its way there, too.

Fingers against your neck. Your jaw. Cheek. It feels natural to let them slip between your lips. And as strange as it is (isn't), there's nothing really dirty about it. It's not sexual. Not yet. It's just—

(there's a hole in your throat aching for his fingers to fill)

Five, six.

He offers another suggestion, but when you go to answer (agency, autonomy), his fingers find their way inside your mouth, snuffing out the protests between thick, grizzled knuckles. Something inside of you shifts, a subtle subluxation, at the raw, heavy taste of him on your tongue.

He lowers your chin with a slight pressure against your jaw until you're staring at his throat. Submissive. He groans, fingers twitching. Calls you a good girl when you keep your gaze there. Always. Even with other people around. Alone. Supplicant.

It becomes a routine, much like everything else, to have his fingers inside your mouth; pacifying. Stealing the voice from between your teeth.

And choices—so many of them, too. You hadn't realised how many decisions you had to make in a day until it was muffled between the salty, geosmin tang of rough, calloused fingers stroking your tongue. Freeing in a way that you can define in simple words. Can't explain to your friends when they ask why you're acting like you're feening for a cigarette whenever he's away from you. Jaw gnashing. Pacing. Skin itching. Burning. Unsettled. Raw. Nothing makes sense without his hands on your body. His taste on your tongue.

You try to replicate the feeling on your own by shoving your knuckle between your teeth at work when the noise, the choices, scream too loud in your ears. Your head. In your bedroom—two fingers down your throat, two sliding between your folds. A lit cigar burning, untouched, in the ashtray you bought. Perched as close to the edge of your end table as you could get it. Musk, leather. Something strong. Something that smells like him drenching your sheets. But it's not enough. It's never enough.

It isn't him.

You edge around this perverse neediness like its an open, infectious sore. Something has to give. Something has to break—

It doesn't take long until your mouth falls open at the sight of him, eager. So eager. You need it, and nearly sob when he peels his fingers away from your needy mouth, and tells you he has to leave again. But his gaze slants towards the case of cigars with a little grunt that makes your mouth water. A quiet good girl uttered as soft a rustling sheet, stuffing the hole in your throat for a little while longer. Soothing the ache.

Seven, eight.

Somewhere along the way, it just makes sense to sit on his lap instead of a chair. To keep your tongue tucked between two fingers, swallowing down the taste of him as he goes about his own routine. As if you're not even there. A paperweight against his chest.

Maybe he needs this as much as you do, too.

And that's good, really. Because you can't focus without him. The world is too much, too loud; too big.

It makes it easier to give in. Cut your lease. Let him pack everything you own into the back of his car.

(He groans like you've gutted him when you tell him you've already handed in your resignation two weeks ago.)

In private, in his office (your home now, too), you kneel on a satin pillow (when you're good), head bowed against his thigh, breathing in the heady musk of him. Gasoline. Iodine. Agar. Smoke. His hand falling down every so often to stroke calloused fingers against your nape. Tobacco. Worn leather. Fresh ink.

Your head is empty in these moments, forehead pressed against the cotton of his trousers. Deliciously so. You hadn't realised how much you think, either, until he cupped his hand around the back of your head and pushed your nose into his thigh. Mind reeling. Looping. Crowded. Loud. Until—

The scratch of a pen on paper. Metal sliding against wood. The hollow thunk of his hand dropping against the surface. Breaths. The whine of his chair when he shifts. A grunt. Empty, empty—

And when the catch of a zipper fills the air, you let his hands guide you to where you need to be, lips already parting at the slightest brush of his knuckles on your cheek. Open, willing. Empty.

He feeds you his cock without a word because none needs to be said. You know what to do. He's been training you for this moment from the onset. And the realisation of it settles around you like a blanket; that thing inside of you shifts again, sliding into place.

This is where you belong.

His hand on your crown. His growling voice in your ear. "Look at me when you swallow my cock, sweetheart—mm, that's my good girl."

(Nine, ten.)

[sweetcalebb]

Bad Fight

⋆˙⟡ you and caleb have a fight after he decides to put some stranger in his place, stripping you of your autonomy. again

cw: angst

a/n: this is for my avoidant girlies 🫶🏻

──★ ˙

The tension was suffocating. Tonight was supposed to be a fun and relaxing—a rare break from both of your jobs. But Caleb had ended up telling some guy off for looking at you and ruining the whole night.

God.

What right did he have to just.. do that?

You sounded like an asshole, but Caleb was always hovering, always trying to play the knight in shining armor. But you weren't the little girl that needed saving anymore and he didn't seem to get that.

Now, you were silently walking up to his apartment a few steps behind him, your chest tight and your cheeks burning from frustration.

When he let you in, you didn't even thank him. Just walked past. And it killed him. He sighed, running a tired had through his hair before shutting the door and following after you.

"Hey, are you seriously still upset?"

Heat shot up your spine. It was that 'seriously' he threw in there that really made the churn in your stomach worse. He said it like he couldn't believe you were mad at him, like what he did was so noble.

But you pressed your lips into a hard line, refusing to answer.

"Okay. So that's a yes."

Still nothing.

Wordlessly, you shrugged off your coat, then draped it over his couch. You knew you were being a bit childish. The cold shoulder? Yeah. That was never the way to go, but you didn't trust your voice right now.

Caleb let out another sigh, taking a few steps forward. "I'm sorry I screwed up our evening," he breathed out, hand twitching at his side like he wanted to touch you. "But I'm not sorry I told that weirdo to back off."

You paused, desperately trying to swallow back the thousands of angry words trying to spill out.

Stop it.

For a moment, it was silent. Just you trying to hold it together, and Caleb, standing there, waiting for you say something. To snap at him, yell at him, anything.

But you never did.

"Can you at least..." He trailed off, unsure of what to say. "Can you at least look at me? Or say something?"

You licked your lips, the words just on the tip of your tongue.

Reel it in.

He means well.

Slowly, you turned around. You stared at him for a second, thinking of your words carefully before finally opening your mouth.

"I.. I know you mean well, but what you did back there—it didn't feel good. It felt.." you paused, afraid of what this might cause, "humiliating."

A flicker of hurt passed through Caleb's eyes.

Humiliated?

The word rang in his ears, made his jaw clench and his brows pinch together. He humiliated you? Him caring humiliated you?

He couldn't help the small scoff that slipped past his lips. It wasn't mocking. Wasn't angry. Just disbelieving. "So me caring about you was embarrassing?" The hurt crept in unbidden and he hated it, but he couldn't stop it.

"Did you even see the way he was looking at you?" he asked, voice edging on something rougher.

You sighed. "Caleb—"

"He was being disrespectful," he continued. "Basically undressing you with his eyes."

Your breath quickened, your stomach burning with frustration. "And I could've handled it myself."

"How?"

For a second, you hesitated. How would you have handled it? Would you really have said anything? Sure, you could say you would've, but if Caleb hadn't stepped in back there, would you have? Really?

"I would've said something," you responded, the words weak, even to your own ears. And Caleb caught it. The waver in your voice? He didn't miss that—the sound that told him you weren't sure, but still answering just for the sake of argument.

"Right."

Heat rushed through your veins at that single-word. Right. Right, as if it was impossible for you to defend yourself.

"This is the problem," you spat, instantly regretting the bitterness that laced your words, but committing to it anyway.

"What is?"

"This!" you said, exasperated, hands making some incomprehensible gesture between him and yourself. "You don't even let me try to protect myself."

The words felt like a punch to the gut. This? As in him? Something hot and ugly was crawling up his throat. He should've stopped it. In any other circumstance—where he hadn't seen some stranger ogle you like you were some piece of meat—maybe he could've been calmer.

But he had watched some guy ogle you, and now he was the one in the wrong for standing up for you?

"You think I like always being the one to step in?"

Caleb should've shut his mouth right then and there, but the words were already out. He couldn't stop now.

"You think it feels good to always be on edge," he continued, voice rougher than he intended, "wondering if I’m crossing a line or just doing what you won’t?"

The last had more bite than the rest and your breath instantly caught in your throat.

Then, in a fresh wave, it all came back, frustration washing over you.

"You're not listening!" you seethed. "It doesn't matter what I can and can't do! I'm not asking you to play hero!"

Your voice shook with the weight of your emotions. "You choose that on your own, and I keep asking you not to!"

Caleb huffed, shaking his head as he took a small step back. "Okay, so next time I should just watch?"

Your throat closed up, angry tears welling in your eyes.

Not now.

Please not now.

"No, that's not what I'm—" You paused, trying to swallow back the tears threatening to spill down your cheeks.

You hated this.

You hated crying out of frustration.

"That's not what I'm saying," you finished, your voice losing the bitter edge it had just seconds ago.

Caleb let out a soft exhale. He caught the slight shake in your voice, the way you'd silently pulled back.

Fuck.

He was being an asshole.

Caleb softened, but for a while, neither of you said anything. You wouldn't even look at him, and that alone was devastating. Caleb hated that he'd done this, that he'd let himself get carried away, trying to prove he was justified rather than listen to you.

His voice came out quieter when he spoke again. "What do I do? I mean, I can't—I can't just watch people do shit to you. But I also can't defend you." He let the words settle before continuing, "So what do I do?"

You ran a shaky hand down your face. "Forget it. Just—" You shook your head, turning on your heel and rushing toward the guest-room, the one that was reserved just for you.

Panic flared in Caleb's chest. "Pips—"

But you were already gone, slamming the door behind you.

Caleb stood in the doorway, his heart pounding in his ears. The apartment was suddenly quiet. Empty.

You always slept in his room when you were over. Even after fights. Even when things got messy.

So he waited up in bed for you.

10 minutes had gone by, and nothing.

15 minutes. Still nothing.

Then 30. And it was becoming painfully clear you weren't coming to bed with him tonight.

He knew he should give you space, so he tried to sleep, but he kept replaying your fight, kept replaying the way the angry set of your brow softened the moment he'd gone too far.

Then he thought about the tears in your eyes—

God, the tears.

He was horrible.

Caleb couldn't stand this. With a heavy breath, he reached toward his nightstand and grabbed his phone, thumbs moving shakily across the keyboard.

Caleb: i messed up.

Caleb: i didn't hear you.

Caleb: i'm sorry.

Caleb: can i still kiss you goodnight?

Meanwhile, you were in bed, cheeks puffy and eyes rimmed red, staring at his texts. You wanted to say yes. Wanted him to come in through the door and fix everything with a little kiss and a few sweet words.

But the fight kept replaying in your head. The bitterness, the almost mocking lilt he couldn't quite hide.

It hurt.

Too much to just let him in again.

You: not tonight.

[tsuutarr]

You’re not sure how long you’ve been trapped in the water god’s temple, the presence of sunlight absent in the depths of the sea. The only light source comes from the bioluminescent algae, plankton, and animals that decorate the halls.

It’s all very pretty, but… it’s hard to get used to being stripped away from everything you’ve known and loved so suddenly. Not to mention the fact that the water god is adamant about making his presence known to you at every second. He never leaves you alone, constantly having his large hands on you as he carries you around like a trophy.

You’re honestly exhausted, your sense of autonomy fading away as your only sources of comfort are the water god and the aquatic animals that roam the temple’s halls. If it were any other situation, you’d have found the talking turtles and dolphins very cute, but you don’t find much wonder in anything nowadays.

After all, how can you have a sense of wonder when you don’t belong to yourself anymore?

Resigned to your fate, you sit on the water god’s lap as he feeds you your dinner as always. 

“Pretty pet,” he hums as he forces you to chew, his large hand on your jaw. “Are you enjoying your meal?”

The silver lining is that the food here is pretty good. He surprisingly has a variety of fruits and other things you wouldn’t expect to find in the sea, but you’re not going to ask any questions. You don’t think you’ll like his answers.

Instead, you nod as best as you can while his grip is on you.

Pleased, he gives you a toothy grin, his teeth sharp and edged. “Good. Eat up, pet. This meal is my gift to you, after all.”

You blink up at him, confused.

Lowly, he chuckles, before nuzzling your hair. “I’m sure you’re aware of what they say about mermaid meat, no?”

The food in your mouth suddenly feels heavy and stale, too sour for your tongue.

“It’s a great gift, isn’t it? Now, you and I will be together forever.”

If his hand wasn’t on your jaw, you’d have thrown up. But, with him pressed so close to you, you have no choice but to swallow down his unorthodox gift.

[youryanderedaddy]

Pandora

tw: female reader, non-con, free use, sedatives mentioned, prolonged captivity, meta

You often think about your old life, even though you promised yourself - and keep promising yourself, that you won't. You think about all the little joys and freedoms you took for granted - the small, cozy flat you were renting for cheap in a shabby, but hip neighbourhood. Choosing whether to go to a lecture or skip it, those hazy mornings when you'd wake up with your head pounding and a cold compress plastered on your forehead by a caring friend after a wild night. What a privelege it is, you realize now, to be at the center of your own life. To have sugar for breakfast or coffee at midnight, to fuck whoever you want and go out every weekend - to hold your friends and your loved ones close, and to have the option to be picky, very picky, to choose who gets to be in your life. Because for normal people, for all those other star-eyed 20-something year old girls, freedom is the default, a statement of enpowerment, liberation, living the life - for the first time, as an adult.

And you want to spit at their pretty faces. You feel the same way towards yourself from the past - you want to take her by the shoulders and shake her until some wisedom falls off, because she, they, don't know how good they have it. That autonomy is not always a mere state of being, but a continuous figh against the forces gripping it with tooth and nail, making you a slave, a shell of your former self. And he is no different.

He crawls onto the bed with a complete lack of grace, making it creak, the soft foam sinking in under his weight, and you fight a tired groan, imagining the same heavy, sweaty mass of a body laying over you, drowning you in a sea of pretend-softness, of pillows and bloodied feathers, into a dip that could be both a sex hollow, and your personal coffin, eventually. And although you wish you still had the tact to find your own bleak thoughts distateful, the severe repetitivness of this little "exercise", you're assured, would turned even the most sensible into cynics.

"Shh, it's okay." He whispers, covering your mouth with one warm, sweaty palm, muffling all the little sounds you can't help hissing through your already fried vocal cords, while the other strokes your hair gently, but all you can think about is grease. Grease, because he hasn't let you leave the bed in approximately eight days, give or take, ravenously hungry for your flesh. Grease, because he's still wearing that wretched blue uniform, soaked in machine oil - because if you close your eyes, you feel like it's dripping down onto your face and into your mouth through the gaps of his thick crooked fingers.

"It's okay, baby, be good now. It will over in a second. Just lay back and relax." Matt explains slowly as if you're stupid, as if you haven't been in this situation before, in this exact position on your back like some animal in heat, and God, you really hate his name. It's so simple, so honest - sounding, almost sweet, and it makes you want to reach out and claw his eyes out.

Now that you think about it, you hate his eyes too. They are brown, if slightly warm when the sun hits, but no matter how you look at it, there is nothing extraordinary about them. Or about his nose, or his lips, or his ears, or his cheeks; through and through, he's completely ordinary just like every other man on this planet. And perhaps you hate that the most, because in your dreams, in your nightmares, monsters are inhuman. Either inhumanly terrifying with big ugly horns and teeth as sharp as a dagger, or inhumanly beautiful, with hands so soft they pull you in before they devour you. Monsters are not boys like Matt. And things like this don't happen to normal, ordinary girls like you. And yet.

"Shit, you're so tight, n-ngh." In the heat of the moment he grabs the fat of your thigh, squeezing it for leverage - and it allows him to thrust into you harder, harder, pumping in so fast it almost frustrates you.

He's completely obsessed with you, keeping you tied down to his bed day and night, trembling over the possibility of you somehow breaking free. He fucks you as much as he wants, whenever he wants, because there is nothing you can do about it, besides lay there and take it. You'd scream if his hands weren't in the way. You'd fight if you weren't numbed down to your very bones with sedatives, unable to move an inch. But despite all his twisted efforts, the sadistic thrill of seeing you fully at his mercy, only a tad more human than a blow-up doll, he's never satisfied. Never slows down, never tires - over and over and over again, and you're exhausted.

"A-angel, you have no idea h-how perfect you look like this. F-fuck, I want to be inside you forever." Matt moans, breathing into your hair, staring at you forehead-to-forehead from above, and for a split second, you stare back.

And just for a second, you let your hell break loose. Somehow rehearsed, somehow repetitive, familair tight warmth washes over you, starting from your abdomen and spreading well into your lungs, making it hard to inhale. It's as if your throat muscle clamps down, refusing to let the tears go, to let them pop in and show their ugly heads to the world that, frankly, can't see you anyways, because he took you and hid you deep into his tower. And no one can see them now.

"I can't believe I found you, my love. I am never, ever letting you go. We never have to part again. Now we can truly be together forever." He mumbles feverishly, shoving into you with sloppy frenzy as he always does when he's close to climax. He pushes your whole body down and brings your legs up, bottoming out just to jut in again with newfound ferocity. And then he kisses your temple softly, very, very softly, as if to apologize for the entire thing. But it hurts nonetheless.

As the tears gloss over your eyes, burning your retina with acidity, you wish you could scream. Alas, dolls can only sing when their key is turned - and yours already sinked to the bottom of the ocean, never to be found again.

[pomegranate-eater]

WHAT A FOOL CANNOT KNOW ABOUT ﾉ YANDERE DR. RATIO

Summary: Trying to break up with Veritas proves to be impossible to accomplish. You provide sound arguments, but he knows how to shoot them down. Unfortunately, he needs you, just as much as you need him — whether you have yet to discover this truth or not.

cw: gn!reader, controlling relationship, dubcon-esque touch, manipulation and coercion, coddling and overprotectiveness, possessiveness, love bombing, diet restrictions, suggestiveness. word count: 5.5k.

Note:  Divider by @/saradika-graphics.

“You ought to do what?” Veritas’s stern voice expresses derision, as if scolding you for yet another idiotic idea of yours.

“I want to break up with you, Veritas,” you repeat yourself grimly. Your arms are crossed as you try to keep yourself standing, feet firmly glued to the floor to demonstrate your oath to your decision and avoid susceptibility to his upcoming counterarguments. The light colors of your living room, carefully designed to be a peaceful mood maker, are also incapable of soothing your ‘wrath.’

He knows what you’re doing – spilling on the floor in front of you are packed bags, you have your shoes on, those two things meant to signal you are supposedly unswerving in your conviction about leaving. All because of one suggestion your closest friend has made: something about your genius boyfriend Veritas Ratio being controlling. He finds your delusions to be laughable, but also in need of being eradicated by a firm hand.

“Well, in such predicaments, one usually provides enough arguments explaining their decision. Care to elaborate?” the taunt in his voice is sufficient enough to amplify your angry fervent.

You inhale deeply through your nose; you are well aware of the obligation to argue your case well enough for it to be taken seriously, based upon logic — not foolish. Your first thought is to make an (objectively reasonable) accusation, but you know better than make yourself appear hasty. “I’ve been concerned about the way you treat me. I cannot help but fee—notice that you tend to make a lot of choices for me or question my own. It feels like I am deprived of autonomy and am being patronized. I recognize your good intentions,” no, you don’t, “but there’s still limits of mine, that if they are being crossed, they will make your behavior unhealthy.”

His behaviour is pretty confusing to your person who’s supposed to know him well as his partner. It is pretty much the antithesis of his persona — the real Dr. Ratio doesn’t serve answers on the silver platter. He’s used to steering people towards right directions by putting them through challenges so they can actually digest their situation, derive conclusions, and learn.

With you, it’s as if he views your independence differently — you stubbornly stick to your ideas, have your own ways of dealing with issues, faulty or not, as they make you, so there’s not much hope for your improvement. You don’t want to be perfect or participate in some unspoken race — and so he makes ideal choices for you, so as to not let his ‘ignorant’ partner lose on any opportunity, or even hurt themselves. 

(From what you eat, and wear for the weather; through checking your locations and asking overly intimate questions; to speaking for you during bigger decisions and choosing which activities are better for your brain.)

This ‘guidance’ is a form of benevolence in his dictionary, as he’d typically judge any other individual like you a lost cause, and unworthy of his patronage. To you, it’s only about being in the palm of his hand, and you’ve suffered enough from his iron grip in the last couple of months — you felt trapped, caged, and so out of control it made you claustrophobic.

Veritas sighs with exasperation; it’s evident he doesn’t share your precarious sentiment, and while you don’t know that, needs to breathe the same air you do. “When I take the wheel, it is not inaugurated with the intention to control you, as you probably assume. The blame about you needing it so often is not to be placed on me, but your disinclination to self-realization, and tendency to risk taking and sacrificing your health. And when I debate the choices you’ve made, it’s out of worry and care. I can shape the delineation of the consequences of your decisions before they’re even made,” he informs you with a rather… chiding tone. 

“Oh, so you think you always know better than me, about you?” you finally snap with indignation. This is all so… humiliating and infantilizing to hear — perhaps he can’t accept you for who you are, or is overprotective — as you can’t possibly be such a failure of a person! You make no more mistakes than others, and not willing to incessantly think about a better life is you saving yourself from the stressful pressure; you’re just being a human.

“Statistically, I’ve managed to reach safer conclusions in the past than you would,” he smiles a little as he says that. He sits down on the couch, subtly showing you he’s still in control, as he’s not scared of putting himself in a vulnerable spot. You wouldn’t be surprised if he were to pull out some sheet with such statistics right now and put his doctorates to a good use.

You have enough of his murky righteousness, walking to be in front of him and shove your accusatory finger in his face. “You can’t know me better than I know myself! And regardless of your supposedly caring intentions, are you going to ignore the unhealthy part? How all of this is coddling, patronizing, dehumanizing about basic freedom?! Because even if I make bad choices and mistakes, this is how I learn!” 

You’ve been feeling so suffocated in this relationship, and you find his treatment detestable; if there’s anyone ignorant, it’s him not acknowledging your suffering and anxiety.

He scoffs. “You are also no child. You had your entire life frame to ponder over your mistakes and align yourself to do better. If you still make minor and, frankly speaking, blunders on a daily basis, I’m afraid you might be the problem, and so it becomes my responsibility as your boyfriend to safekeep you from such.

You put yourself in unnecessary stressful situations, make choices that are bad for your health, and refuse to see outside of your stubborn scope, obstructing better opportunities — all which I help you avoid when I lead you.” 

You are no child yet he treats you like one.

You decide to trail off of the wagon of logic. This isn’t even logic. OF COURSE you are not a perfect human with no fault, yet so is anyone else! Perhaps you do create mishaps and cling to what’s not good sometimes; however, you doubt this ever justifies the controlling and coddling dynamic he’s been serving you for the duration of your entire relationship, foretelling you reaching anti-mundane, anti-ignorant magnificence, in a safe environment. That’s why the universe allows you to operate every right to unleash your dissatisfaction — simply cut him off and leave.

“I’m leaving. I have enough of you, of your reign, of your superiority—” you seethe when you turn around to pick up your bags and march out of the living room on your way to the new life, but then arms wrap around your torso and draw you close to the autonomy sucking ghoul’s chest.

“Where do you think you’re going?” surprisingly, your theoretically ex-boyfriend doesn’t sound angry when he murmurs this question into your ear — it’s more like a velvet, comforting whisper of a peaceful sea. Your back is pressed against his chest and he keeps you caged to him.

“Let me go, Veritas!” you exclaim all ardent with panic, struggling in his arms.

“I’m afraid my lover isn’t in the right headspace to be using their mind with dexterity. You’re making a big decision when you’re upset at me — not to mention addled with the agitation — whilst without trying to resolve the issue first… even you can admit it’s not the wisest idea, hm?” his voice speaks egregiously for him softly, the juxtaposition to his previous spitfire-scholar manner and vernacular vocabulary. 

You don’t like where this farce is heading — he’s not usually this lenient, even if he’s not necessarily cold like a bad boyfriend would be (he does realize the inclination to be affectionate), and his temper eager to prove you wrong is gone…

“Veri, this decision has been made based on many accumulated memories, not just now,” you deflect, the craving to indulge in his warmth keeping you somewhat calmer. You still squirm in his arms but he doesn’t budge.

“Yes, but even those moments you recall have been potent with big emotions. Since you came to me to express your issue with me only just now, about the break up, I had never seen a chance to fix it. I don’t think such an omission is fair.”

As you stare at the spacious window facing the darkening evening sky busying itself with lighting on the awful neons only overstimulating your muzzy mind, you think he’s partially correct — you haven’t been most straightforward about his overwhelming behavior, but what was there to discuss? If he proclaims to know you well, so you possess knowledge about his game: as long as you wouldn’t try to leave him, he’d do nothing about your complaints, only hold a clincher over your head to say you’re ungrateful. 

If someone is willing to control you for all there is about you, grabbing your stems to make you grow towards completely different directions, you doubt this gardener can ever change. His feelings about how you live come first, ignoring your angst that comes from the dehumanization and your relationship’s enclosure of control has been bringing.

“There’s nothing to fix! You’re just stuck up on being as much in control of my life as possible! I don’t care whether choices I make are more or less stupid than the ones I’d make! You can’t take away my autonomy because you’re bothered by me not being perfect! Do you know how suffocating and overbearing you were to me lately!” the volume of your voice is raised to almost deafening decibels. You trash in his arms again, finally hitting his body with yours so hard that he trips and falls back onto the couch… with you — a mishandled move, as you’re now trapped again, on his lap.

Veritas is momentarily taken aback by the new position, but he then proceeds to take advantage of it, also soaking in your misapprehension of his character. “Being perfect?” his arms tighten around your midriff, and one of his hands cups your throat, not yet squeezing. If he was angry before, he’s raging now. 

Your interpretation of his intentions, whether objectively correct or not, feels like the biggest insult to his feelings and ambitions. He’s assured he hasn’t been trying to make you perfect or control you — instead, his goal was to protect you from your own stupidity and to take care of you and your health… if it helps you reach the best of your potentials, that’s only a bonus. “What you claim is utterly disrespectful, and for how shameful it makes you, expresses your lack of gratitude,” he hisses, as his fingers are beginning to dig into your neck a bit too hard to be considered safe. No, you’re not allowed to leave—

He realizes his mistake when you stiffen up under him and from the angle of his eyes, he can observe some fear — his mind tells himself how asinine he is to let his emotions control him, even if he’s actually afraid of losing you. He lets go of your throat and cups your face instead, the other hand soothing your waist, this time opting for a more gentle voice again, “Look at me.” 

He delicately cranes your head to the side, until you’re meeting with a sight of his face and are resting the back of your head on his shoulder — he peers at you with something pensive yet of lover’s ownership it’s unsettling to witness. His breath is grazing your skin and you feel inappropriate (involuntary included) for this situation’s arousal. 

“What do you want from me? I have told you, your intentions don’t conceal or fix the unhealthy effects your leadership causes,” you heave a sigh, suddenly feeling exhausted, to the point where you no longer are trying to leave his unwelcome hold — you’re assuming he’ll get weary eventually as well. You really wish you could just grab your things that are now taunting you by lying just a few feet away, but are so unreachable in your position. “You’re too damn pushy. I can’t even eat what I want.” You know you’ll binge on nice snacks once you’re gone.

“Have I ever hurt you?” he asks smoothly, the husky voice spreading vibrations down your torso. You don’t like how the forced proximity is built with the suave tone falling straight into your ear canal. His thumb moves away from your jaw to stroke your lower lip, causing it to tremble against your good conscience.

The question still manages to throw you off, and is not incentivizing you when he’s ignoring your main concern. “Not in the most straightforward way. You haven’t physically or verbally abused me; however, this doesn’t mean I feel comfortable or happy with what you do to me,” you say hesitantly, staying vigilant.

“I see. Does your unhappiness imply you weren’t content with me for our entire relationship?” there’s an odd sadness in his tone and eyes. It’s something you haven’t seen in him before, even in his rare but happening moments of failure; you have to dig your feet hard into the floor to not let it sway your perception and make you pity him.

Unlike him, you’re not heartless.

“Of course not,” you scoff, not realizing you’re subconsciously resting your body on his with less tension in your muscles. “I’m not saying you were a bad or neglectful partner. But it wasn’t rainbows and unicorns in the moments I highlighted!”

Your words seem to create something even more wistful in him, a force powerful enough he glides your hair back with a gentle hand. His voice gets even quieter, “I never intended them to feel that way. However, can anyone postulate about their relationship out there having its moments be one hundred percent idyllic?”

You can’t gauge if his proposed perspective is manipulative or he genuinely feels sorry. The question makes you assess your previously stated claims again for a second, but you’re still not giving up. “No, that’d be an utopian dream. Still… if there’s behavior that can be described as unhealthy, it should be taken care of. For me to stay with you, you’d have to leave my own choices for me. You should be allowed to go no further than to counsel me.”

There’s an almost indistinguishable twitch in his eye, but he doesn’t let go of his disposition. He finally grants his hand a fall back onto your waist again, and you look ahead of yourself, not willing to strain your neck. It is when you try to pry off his arms once more, wanting to at once face him properly.

He stops you, infuriating as he ignores your lack of consent to be held for nth momentum; this time it’s worse, as his hands wander across your hips and stroke them, as if possessively. If you could see his face, you’d notice the slightly obsessive hunger for not much of your body, if not keeping you — he really can’t let you get away from him, for he might lose his mind.

(Emotional disturbances due to breaking up would affect his work anyway.)

Your body stills, and you curse him when his action spills sensitivity in that lower area, an unthinking sparkle of something pleasant you are familiar with — he’s always been skilled and dedicated in making you feel good, physically. He also knows how to notice you, all the good parts others can’t, and what sort of worship to indulge them with. Not to mention, his immerse knowledge gives him enough of bargaining chips to manoeuvre your life, body, and mind with ease. “Let me go—” your demand comes with a quiver.

“Haven’t you noticed something?” Veritas interrupts your bewilderment with an inquiry, and his right hand dips under your shirt, teasing the soft skin of your stomach, while the other goes up from your hip till the dip of your waist. Both the touch and question stops you in your tracks, as your skin is ignited and screaming for more.

“N-noticed what?” your tone is of a squeak, embarrassingly highly enough. You force yourself to cover his hands with yours, pausing their work.

He doesn’t swat your hands away; he moves his with yours, slyly forcing you to map your own body. “That the quality of your life has significantly improved after you entered the relationship with me, not degraded. Your health included. That speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

You realize that he is right, as your life indeed is now technically better than it had been before — you score better opportunities, you have someone you can depend on, your life is quite comfortable financially, you feel good physically, and you are loved. He doesn’t do worse things than those occasional instances of dictating. For a moment, your motivation wavers; but then you remember how he’s made you feel for past months, and also, your friend’s words.

(“Some men are like this. They lure you in with affection, undivided attention, and luxuries, so once they know you’re too attached to leave, they can do anything to you.”)

Right, his suggestive touch — it has no place to exist when you’re having such an important conversation! You trash with all the vigor you could muster. “You’re just manipulating me! You’re suddenly being all soft and groping me when I’m trying to talk to you seriously!”

Veritas only sighs, exasperated, muttering, “It was to help you relax, so you can take a more conscious approach. But if you insist…” Surprisingly, he lets you go — even that is up to be questioned, if him respecting your boundaries isn’t some scheme either.

You quickly stand up back on your feet and turn around, not hiding that you’re fuming again. He stands up too and your heart skips a beat. What he says next throws you off.

“Please, give me your hand,” Veritas requests politely, using proper etiquette. So unusual. Typically, his requests are orders, as he finds them to be absolute in their vital importance.

Is he trying to be nicer to you, for you? Is he finally regretting his treatment, once you scared him with the possibility of leaving?

“For what?” you ask with suspicion, tapping your foot with impatience. Perhaps you should just make a run for the door and leave, even if it wouldn’t be most mature-sounding. You’re further dissatisfied at the thought of running into him as your ex at your workplace.

“I want to show you something. It might clear any false conjectures that you seemingly have about me,” he informs curtly. It raises your interest just as he anticipated — of course curiosity can be a strong force, that is, a useful tool for his grasp over you.

He thrives with satisfaction when you submit by raising your hand in the air. He cups it in his, gently as if it’s a brittle porcelain (affectionately like he knows you secretly crave him to be), and places it over his heart — it’s a horse running a race, thrumming and threatening to escape his chest. “Can you palpate how fast my heart is under your fingers? Does that sound like the heart of a man indifferent to you or your misery?”

Your stance on accusing him of malicious conduct has been slightly faltering the entire conversation, as you can’t deny that Veritas is a good debater, knowing how to make you look at things from a different angle — his proof is extremely flattering to you especially. Or rather not as much flattering, as romantically gratifying — to be loved is a most wonderful feeling. The little show is made to be even better when you’re the only person he ever becomes vulnerable with — starting with something simple as you having a chance to see him without his plaster head on, daily at that.

Your friend’s words still ring in your head, however. Your almost-ex is still a genius and he’d definitely know all about what heart tempo expresses what; therefore, maybe know how to adjust its pace to the perfect tune… “You… could be faking it. To make me forgive you.” Yet your fingers twitch on his chest, desperate to give him some pleasure too. 

You want to touch him. It is easy to dream of being back in his arms, safe and loved, saved and loving, be the fool indifferent to his misbehaving — it’s the only way a heart knows how to protect itself from being shattered.

It is only just now that you realize how scared you are to be on your own in the wild again — the truth about how he had made you dependent on him for choosing the safest and most convenient life is terrifying and disturbing. You were forcefully ripped away from the feeling of danger or bigger perturbation in your daily situations, it is easy to feel out of tune with the rhythm of the world. It’s as if you need to go back to baby steps to know how to function properly again. 

Going to work, you can handle it. Shopping, you can handle it. But what if one day, you’ll somehow mess up filling the tax form, and you’ll be accused of fraud, and then thrown into jail— you need him to keep you protected. Or something happens at the guild, and you need him to vouch for you. 

You don’t even think it’s his fault you feel that way — you’ve been manipulated into thinking you were simply living in the dark, your back turned against those dangers, and he has opened your eyes to notice what could have happened due to your irresponsible choices.

Veritas’s eagle eyes notice your discernment and irrationality; still, he only lets out a sigh for what feels like a thousandth time, knowing admitting he has this advantage over you will further frighten you. His hand squeezes on your and actually trembles, unused to being so open, and afraid to let it go should you choose to walk away from his life. “What will it take for you to believe me? Should I ask another genius, maybe Ruan Mei, to prepare a truth serum for me to confess, no matter how… embarrassing it could be for me? Because a lie detector certainly is faulty.”

Your face scrunches and you barely hit his chest as a protest. Lower in the hierarchy of the Intelligentsia Guild, you still had a (dis)pleasure of working with that shady woman too many  times. “I wouldn’t trust that woman, so I would have no guarantee you’re not making some deal behind my back,” you rebut.

“Then Screwllum. You find that man to be trustworthy, no?” his fingers steeple together with yours and your heart jumps — it’s such a feeble and shaky movement you cannot believe he’s being soft. And him willing to make himself exposed in his proposed method…

You do trust Screwllum. He’s strict but fair. 

“You… you’re serious, aren’t you? You would go that far in order to prove your affections for me?” you can no longer hide your hopes in your voice. Amid your anger and wanting to leave, it was easy for not-at-all-old feelings to resurface, mixing into poison with your fear of dealing with things on your own — new for you separation anxiety. Leaving is easy, but dealing with the sadness and paranoia after isn’t. While his questionable behavior is not making you happy, you can’t say the latter of the two is worse.

Maybe, you really have been too harsh on him. Maybe he can compromise about his control, if he does care.

“Yes. If this is the only way, I won’t hesitate to do it, no matter how hard it could be for me to attempt something so… hazardous,” he claims with determination.

You exhale out a shaky and overly carbonated with the previous concerns breath; if he would subject himself to being under the influence of some truth substance, your logic tells you there’s no reason to doubt his love, especially with his heart’s behavior around you. If he wanted you trapped, wouldn’t he have done so easily a long time ago? 

“No… you don’t need to. I believe you, Veritas,” you admit with a forced smile. There’s still something that feels off about the situation, the lingering intensity of his gaze, pushiness, and aversion to acknowledging less healthy monuments of your relationship; but you also have more arguments towards pro than against, and assume he’s willing to ease on his tendencies, as he did admit he didn’t mean to be controlling. A man who loves you, would he really want to hurt you so much? He’s never outright hurt you — and what made you uncomfortable can be negotiated.

You see a tension disappear in his shoulders and he lets go of your hand in pursuit of your face. With that, it’s clear he doesn’t want to say anything else that’s embarrassing, assuming you’re back in his arm — or rather, have never left. But as he’s leaning in for a kiss to seal the deal and let it speak for him and his vulnerable soul, you stop him, “But can you promise me you’ll interfere with my decisions less from now on? It’s still overwhelming.”

Your voice sounds awfully positive, as if you think you’ve got him wrapped around your fingers now, enough for him to regret his actions; it irks him. “Love, we have just discussed that. I’m not doing this to control you nor patronize you. The issue instead is you not being used to being taken care of and stubbornly clinging to your independence,” his voice becomes stern again, but he’s making sure to maintain understanding and some warmth in it. You’re much more volatile now.

“What? No! It’s not a matter of independence but you stealing my autonomy,” you’re up in arms again and he knows he has to soothe you. “I could be more dependent on you and I’d still want you to let me choose. It’s about the principle, a basic human right—”

“Which one of your friends has filled your head with such crafty and repugnant designs?” he suddenly asks and your eyes widen.

“Huh? It’s my own conclusion…” you say defensively. It’s true that it was your friend’s bystander perspective that allowed you to perceive  the mistakes of his you failed to see on your own; however, after this one conversation you had, you couldn’t help but agree. “If others notice that you’re wrong, there must be something true about it…” Sure, some of the choices he’s made for you have improved your life, but it’s about lack of consent here. Not to mention, not allowing you to make errors like any other human is surprisingly more negative than the modus operandi of perfect life, as it takes away from the human experience.

“And I think your friend is just jealous that you are lucky enough to be dating a handsome genius and they aren’t,” he states bluntly.

The suggestion immediately brings up different memories where your friend would have passively joked about how lucky you are, or complaining how there's little of charming, interesting, and intelligent men like Veritas… which contradicts them warning you about him not so much after. Have they been naive at first too, or have they been making you doubt your own partner so they can snatch him for themselves? Sabotaging your relationship?

“I— they wouldn’t do that—” you stutter, desperately chasing to defend your friend’s honor.

“Be honest with me. How many times in our relationship have you truly felt uncomfortable?” he takes a step forward and you instinctively take a step back, overwhelmed by the intensity of his question.

“Well, there were a few instances, and you even control my diet—” you take a few more steps, creating sounds too loud with your shoes for your ears now buzzing with trepidation, not realizing you’re about to hit a wall of the living room behind you.

“A few instances. When no one is devoid of being made to be uncomfortable every so often, me included. What you eat is both nutritious and still tasty. Are you seriously going to let these few, inconsequential moments dim many more positive ones?” You get the message that you are starting to sound ungrateful and spoiled, a bit naive too — yes, him deciding for you doesn’t feel nice, but some sacrifice is necessary for your wellbeing or stability. Relationships aren’t black and white — not every rule will cooperate in every relationship, and not every partner will be perfect. You mustn't create unrealistic standards you’d see only on social media.

As Veritas moves forward again, your back finally hits the wall of the living room, and your only support is with your palms against it. Your breathing rattles when he places his hands on the sides of your head, towering over you and trapping you. It’s the birth of night now, and with no artificial lights yet turned on, you see his irises shine like a molten metal.

His roseate eyes cause you to freeze and turn into a stone as if he’s some god possessing such power, their intensity undeniable — he needs you with him and he’ll have you. For his and your sake.

“Don’t let one fool take away everything from us. You matter to me,” he exclaims his promise with a destructive love and your name, and before you register such, he grabs you by your nape and thigh he slightly lifts, and kisses you to convey and solidify his words.

You don’t reciprocate at first, having your own doubts linger, and you’re further flustered when he steps between your legs; but when his finger rubs that one spot on your neck and his hand wanders up your thigh, it’s easy to sink into his wonders.

You whimper against his lips when his palm on your leg wanders dangerously high, almost seeking out the most pleasurable and sensitive areas. His lips move on yours with undeniable practice, pecking and teasing with a tongue, sucking on your lips; and when you open your mouth to inhale starved air, he inserts his tongue in. 

One squeeze on your leg is enough for your arms to finally wrap around his shoulders and your eyes close; although, it’s still him who has to do the most work, as you remain overwhelmed by the entire discussion.

The kiss lasts for what feels like infinity and yet it’s not enough.

When he lets go of your nape and watches your face painted in yearning, he knows that he now has you. He strokes your cheek, letting the magic of his touch deceive your defenses once more. “Will you stay with me? I’m sure we can reach some compromise; albeit, don’t expect me to let you get loose and undisciplined,” he warns calmly, finding difficulty in not sounding giddy.

When you nod, he thinks how much he hates the way you make him feel — this obsession — as instead of feeling just victorious over you, he also feels his own longing. He’s not against the idea of love as a whole — it’s only human and he can’t judge others for being in love, therefore only human — but he’s not a big fan of it participating in his life, messing up with his head, logic, and perfect schedule.

Regardless, he’s also most elated, naturally. His relationship’s end with you has been rescinded, and he can spend his days with you again. The vivid imagery of you with someone else is upmost abhorrent and should be condemned. Not that he’d let you go; he’s smart enough to bring you back, but wouldn’t it create a peril of losing your trust and love.

“Good, excellent even. Go unpack your things and I’ll make us dinner. Perhaps some wine indulgence won’t hurt today…” he murmurs the latter, thinking of rewarding you for being so compliant and saving him from depression. He helps you stand up properly, knowing you’re putty in his arms after the kiss.

You don’t even have time to whine about how his meal will be all healthy and chosen for you again. (He’d tell you it’s about your wellbeing anyway, and is he wrong, when you’ve been feeling more energized lately?)

After you leave, Veritas pulls his phone out of his pocket. Through the spyware he installed on his phone (only a safety concern about you, of course), he watches a new message appear in the log. You accusing your friend and blocking them the next second, as you threaten them so they won’t get in your relationship’s business, is nothing but satisfying to witness.

For the foolish you make him, you also make him feel alive and closer to what being human means, living by your own rules. Stronger than a real fool like you should be, contradicting all he knows about rigorous discipline and logic. You’re the challenge and risk he thrives on and wants to watch develop in real time, the forbidden fruit to feast on; this notion is in some ways also liberating. 

Believe it or not, he does care for you — he just cannot see a beloved person’s potential go to waste, any menace and harm to come, or let your health degrade, as he’d feel a failure of a lover. He also can’t deny the inherent, selfish need to possess you, and keep you away from the world, as if only he can truly appreciate you properly — if he needs you, who is to deny him? 

He’s not letting you go, even if it’s destined to ruin you both.

[greatmoldone]

What I think everyone gets wrong about TF141

By everyone I mean the fandom as a whole

I can tell so many of y'all haven't played the game

Also I do not condone the actions of any of these war criminals. This is just a character study.

John "Bravo 0-6" Price

I guess the biggest pattern for this guy is that he's a cuck. 💀 It's obviously wish fulfillment for smut and not intended to be a character study but like it kinda rubs me the wrong way sometimes.

Also gonna point out the fact that Price tends to be written as 100% correct all the time. Always the good guy who is doing the right thing and I feel like that just undermines the whole point of his character being morally grey. He's willing to do bad things for the greater good from his perspective. That doesn't mean that his perspective is always correct. Don't fall for that propaganda that the series tries to push.

He cares about people more than the politics which is great but don't forget he's fucking ruthless. The first mission of the game you literally see him throw a man in a bomb vest over a railing when he thinks Gaz won't be able to deactivate it in time. Sacrifices for the "greater good." But not that man's greater good. He also threatened a man's family to get information out of him, whether he was bluffing or not. He put the gun in someone else's (Gaz's) hand and left it up to him.

Where are my unreliable narrator fics of him??

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

"UwU softboi" Nah, fam. This man is ANGRY. That's like his character introduction. He's pissed that the people in charge won't let him act. He wants more autonomy to be more aggressive and I've seen him reduced to "good boi Wyll" from Baldur's Gate 3.

I do agree he has a softer side 100%. Gaz's anger comes from a place of compassion. He's tired of watching people die or get hurt when he could have done something. He wants to act first to prevent worse outcomes later. Just look at Clean House. That whole mission is messy with blurred lines of morality but ultimately they feel justified in the end because they stop a worse ending.

But as someone who is also extremely angry, that shit will come out in less than favorable ways. Getting into arguments because you're mad at the situation, blowing up at seemingly small trespasses, etc. It doesn't mean he won't catch himself and correct but let the man get frustrated and angry in your fics please. Also let's be honest when has a military been good about getting their soldiers therapy.

I probably don't even need to address the fact that he's completely overlooked so much. I think we all know the reason for that. Hm.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

I feel like this is the most widespread misunderstanding of a character ngl. It kind of baffles me.

He's not a dark sexy booktok romance archetype. I feel like everyone projects ideas onto him because of the mask?? Something something about a blank canvas.

From what we see in the games, he's sarcastic but focused, a little grumpy but caring enough to distract Soap with dumb ass dad jokes in Las Almas. Like that's such a telling moment for me. Soap is the newest guy in the reboot. He's alone, injured, has no weapon, and is surrounded by enemies that will kill him without hesitation. But Ghost is able to guide him over the radio and coach him in survival while keeping his spirits up with banter.

He complained about Johnny at first but clearly grew to like him so I feel like he's also stubborn, but not entirely prideful. He's a soldier after all, you've gotta ditch that pretty early on or you won't do well. Would absolutely rag on someone to show affection.

He's also loud as fuck. Idk why no one has talked about this. Bro basically yells every voice line except for a few occasions.

He's a bottom but a lot of y'all aren't ready for that conversation.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Golden retriever ADHD personified. Is he a bit goofy at times especially with banter? Yeah, sure but I fail to see where everyone is getting the idea that he's this class clown. Bro is incredibly focused and takes his job seriously because it's literally life or death.

Also where is the idea that he's some feral sex fiend coming from?? I get playing things up for fan service or indulgence or whatever. That's fine, lean into whatever you need to for your fic but I feel like the characterization of him I see the most is this strange collective consciousness of Soap where everyone is building off each other's depictions of him and not based on the character himself.

Ultimately it's fanfiction, people can write what they want. I'm not going to tell you to stop, but these are just patterns I've noticed that can be a lil irritating when I'm trying to find something that feels in-character. Or something that isn't just wish fulfillment porn.

[bullet-prooflove]

Misery: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader (feat: Baz Cody)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @fadeinsol @akotafi @yousigned-upforthis @cowardlycandy

Summary: Baz starts to notice there's something wrong with Pope.

Companion piece to:

The Professional - Pope meets the love of his life when Smurf hires her to crack a safe.

Ethical Thieving - You introduce Pope to a new skill set.

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.

Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.

Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.

Everything - Pope's family life clashes with your time together.

Positive - Pope didn't expect for it to happen sooner rather than later.

Four Bullets - Smurf finds out about you and Pope, leading to dire consquences.

Pope unravels after he ends things with you.

He doesn’t think, he doesn’t feel, he just shuts down, doing what he’s told when he’s told. His motions become mechanical, his responses automatic. There’s no joy in his world, no colour, there’s just the relentless numbness, drowning out his thoughts, stealing away his autonomy.

When he lies in his bedroom at night he stares at the ceiling and he thinks about you, about the baby, his little girl Freya. He remembers your words on the phone, each one piercing through his skull like an ice pick.

“I can’t do this on my own Andy, I can’t raise this baby without you.”

“You have to.” He had told you as Smurf’s fingertip had traced over the sonogram. “Because I’m not coming back Dylan. I made a choice and it isn’t you.”

You’d hung up then and now Pope wonders if you kept Freya or if he’s the reason his child never got to see the light of day. The guilt of that, it gnaws at him, it eats away at the remnants of his soul as he thinks about putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger, over and over and over again.

But there can be no end to his misery. So he stays on this earth, in this No Man’s Land, existing like some kind of fucked up ghost, haunting the house he grew up in, praying that he catches a bullet during their next job.

“What’s wrong with him?” Baz asks Smurf after a couple of months watching Pope stare at the wall. He’s stopped engaging in conversation, he eats when prompted, speaks when spoken to but the rest of the time he remains silent.

“New meds.” She says but Baz knows when someone’s broken. He saw it in Julia before she left, he sees it in her twin now.

It’s at breakfast a few days later that he finally puts the pieces together. They’re all seated around the table, gathered there for a family meal when Deran pipes up.

“I saw Dylan on the water the other day. She got herself knocked up, won’t tell anyone who the father is.”

Pope’s shoulders stiffen, his fork scraping against the plate.

“She’s always been a wild girl.” Smurf says as she helps herself to more orange juice, filling both his glass and hers. “It would have been better for everyone if God just struck her there and then, let her and her little bastard float away with the waves.”

Pope’s head jerks up, his nostrils flaring. There’s that look in his eyes, that wildness Baz has only ever seen right before he goes batshit fucking crazy. His hand grips the fork so hard that it starts to tremble. His knuckles turn white as he takes a deep breath, struggling to compose himself.

It’s then that it occurs to Baz what he’s seeing right now, that for the weeks he’s been watching his brother bleed out slowly unable to cry for help.

It's a few hours later that he’s able to get him alone. Pope sits on the edge of one of the loungers, his gaze fixed on the drain at the bottom of the pool, his elbows resting upon his knees. Baz takes a seat beside him and Pope doesn’t even acknowledge his presence, he’s too lost in the news that his child is alive, that you decided to keep her after all.

“It’s your baby isn’t?” Baz says quietly into the air between them. “It’s why you’ve been at the beach so much since you got out of Folsom, you were with Dylan.”

“I didn’t know she kept the baby until today. I thought…”

His voice cracks as he turns his head away and it fractures something deep down inside of Baz because out of everyone in this God forsaken family Pope deserves to have something of his own, he deserves to be happy. But Smurf, she will never allow that, not with Dylan, not with a woman who challenges her in that way.

“She threatened to kill them when she found out, to put four bullets in the baby. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t…”

A sob rips from Pope’s chest and it tears at Baz’s heart so see the strong one, the unbreakable one falling to pieces beside him.

“All I want is to be with my family.” Pope rasps, chasing away the salt that leaks down his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I want to go to sleep next to the woman I love, to feel my daughter kick when I read her stories. I just want to be with them Baz. I just want to be with my girls.”

“You will be.” Baz says, clasping his brother’s shoulder tightly. “Let’s figure this shit out, let’s find a way to make that happen.”

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[orphicsun]

Trying to dom Abby but you ultimately fail🫠 NSFW CONTENT, 18+ please and thank you!!

Finally, Abby said yes.

You’d practically begged and pleaded for her to let you try fucking her. You wanted to make her feel good for once, but she usually refused. Today, however, she humored you.

Now, here you were, laying between her meaty thighs. You had the strap-on tied tight around your hips, and you had to hold back from laughing every time you looked down at your cock. You felt comically pathetic. Still, you wanted to fuck her. You wanted to prove you were just some dumb whore who she needed to take care of, and that you could fuck her too. Wow, were you proved wrong.

You were hesitant to hurt her, but Abby softly assured you she’d be okay. You slid the tip into her tight heat and watched as it disappeared. Then, you started fucking her. Now Abby had to hold back from laughing. You had no fucking idea what you were doing, just copying whatever you felt like she would do to you. The pace was sloppy and you were already growing breathless. You were getting embarrassed, too. Soon, you had to stop and Abby gave you a curious glance.

“You okay, baby?” She asked, voice gentle and sweet despite her wanting to snort at your little flustered, red face.

“I can’t do it, Abby. I need you to fuck me.” You blurted out quickly.

At that, Abby nodded with a soft smile and gently unbuckled the harness, opting to get one of her own favorite strap-ons. She sat back down onto bed and she looked so fucking appealing with the obscene silicone sticking out from her lap, which made you a bit jealous. You couldn’t focus on that feeling for long, instead focusing on the butterflies she gave you. Her soft blonde braid and how little sweaty tendrils hugged her face made you ready to get split open by her own strap.

“Get on my dick, baby.” Abby ordered in a still sweet voice, and you were thankful she was giving you the opportunity to have power in some way. You loved that about her, that she was still set on giving into your wants.

You slid down onto the silicone length and let out a breathy moan. It was a good feel of relief after so much embarrassment.

You were soon frantically bouncing on her cock while she’d occasionally buck up into your greedy pussy. You couldn’t help the wave of pleasure that bubbled up through you as she fucked up into you, and even just sliding up and down against her cock made your cunt ache with the need to cum.

“You like this, baby? Like me fucking you while you get to bounce on my dick?” Abby asked, and you almost came right then all over the toy.

Instead, you whined in response and had to keep from being even louder when her hands gripped your hips so she could begin a steady pace of ravaging your poor pussy. The sound of your skin slapping together was absolutely pornographic, and Abby could see the way your pussy swallowed her cock entirely. You were making the sweetest sounds at the feeling of her pistoning herself into your cunt, hitting your g-spot in such a vulnerable angle.

Soon, you just couldn’t take anymore. You cried out her name, and juices spilled from between your legs and all over her lap. Your legs were trembling, threatening to cause you to fall onto her. Her pace didn’t falter until she felt you finally come down from your head-splitting orgasm.

When you finally collapsed on top of her, she held you tightly and kissed your temple. She rubbed soft circles into your skin, loving how you still fluttered and twitched at her touch. She’d definitely let you ride her again, at least the next time she felt inclined to let you have some autonomy during sex.

NOTE: Wasn’t my best work I’m sorry☹️ I promise I’m working a huge fic though I’m trying to focus on that more than short stuff

[flwrkid14]

Tim and Jason: Caught Between Healing and Fear

note: completely inspired by this amazing post! tysm to @timdrakewhump for letting me use it as inspo!! <33

Tim doesn’t flinch around Jason. Not exactly. It’s more of a stiffening, a tightening of his shoulders, a flicker in his eyes that he knows Jason catches. He hates it. Everyone else has moved on. Dick forgave. Bruce rebuilt. Even Damian, with all his sharp edges, has softened into something survivable. But Tim? He still expects a hit that doesn’t come, still hears the echo of fists in the dark.

And that? That’s on him, right? It has to be. Because if everyone else can move on, why can’t he?

They don’t talk about it. Not directly. The bats have always been good at side-stepping, at smoothing over the cracks with enough shared history to pretend the damage never happened. They act like everything’s fixed, like Jason is something fragile they have to keep close, hold together. They ignore the way Tim’s shoulders tense when Jason’s voice gets too loud, the way his hands shake when shadows fall just right. They brush off his excuses to leave the room or, worse, look at him like he’s the problem.

“Jason’s trying, Tim.” “He’s better now.” “Don’t hold onto the past.”

But Tim isn’t holding on. He’s bracing.

Every patrol with Jason is a test. Every sparring match, a gamble. Jason keeps it light—punches pulled, jabs softened with crooked smiles—but Tim knows what Jason’s hands are capable of. He remembers the brutality, the raw fury that doesn’t vanish just because it’s been filed down to something more manageable. He knows Jason’s trying. He knows Jason’s better. But there’s a thin line between better and safe, and Tim’s still learning how to balance on it.

When Jason starts spending more time at the manor, no one questions it. They welcome him with open arms, eager to fill the empty spaces his absence left. He’s part of the family, they say. He needs support, they insist. So Jason sits at the dinner table, helps out on patrol, lounges on the couch like he’s always belonged there. And Tim... Tim watches from the corner of the room, a shadow on the periphery, pretending he doesn’t notice the way everyone else orbits around Jason like he’s the sun.

They send Tim on solo missions now—so Jason can have space. They say it like it’s a good thing, like they’re doing Tim a favor. More responsibility, more autonomy. He should be grateful. And he is. Or he would be, if it didn’t feel like being exiled. The irony isn’t lost on him. They don’t want Jason to be alone, so Tim has to be.

The apartment is quieter than the manor, the kind of quiet that presses in too close. No hum of the Cave, no distant footsteps of someone always nearby. It’s fine. He’s used to it. He tells himself that every night, like a mantra. He likes the solitude. It’s familiar, comforting in a way that makes his chest ache. But sometimes, when the silence stretches too thin, he thinks about calling. Jason always picks up now. He’d probably offer to come over, bridge the gap that Tim never asked to be there.

But what would Tim say? Sorry I still see the blood on your knuckles? Sorry I can’t forget how it felt to be the replacement? Sorry you came back, and I thought it would fix things, but it didn’t?

He doesn’t call.

They’re terrified of losing Jason again. They hold him close, desperate, like he might slip through their fingers if they let go for even a second. Tim understands that. He really does. He remembers the hollow ache that filled the manor after Jason died, the way grief settled into the walls like a permanent stain. No one wants to go through that again. They’d do anything to keep Jason safe, to keep him here.

But no one asks what Tim gave up. What he’s still giving up.

Jason is here, but Tim feels like he’s the ghost.

Sometimes, when they’re all gathered together—Bruce at the head of the table, Dick and Steph cracking jokes, Duke helping himself to another slice of pie—Tim looks around and wonders if anyone would notice if he slipped away. Just stood up, walked out, and didn’t come back. Would they miss him? Or would they be too busy watching Jason, making sure he doesn’t disappear again?

He catches Jason watching him sometimes, eyes sharp and knowing. Jason’s not stupid. He sees the cracks. Tim wonders if he feels guilty, or if he’s just waiting for Tim to say something, to break the silence that’s grown too thick between them. But Tim won’t. He can’t. The words stick in his throat, heavy and bitter.

So he stays quiet. He goes on solo missions, patrols alone, comes back to an empty apartment that feels less like home every day. And he tells himself it’s enough.

Because it has to be.

[yeyinde]

touch starved reader with an oral fixation x kidnapper!Simon who’s all punishment and no physical affection? Please Simon just a little kiss? with tongues? :( (i just wanna make out with this man while my heart aches for him)

by Allah, you people are dogs. i will write the filth as usual.

DEAD DOVE, 18+ | dubcon. kidnapping. mean!Simon. dom!Simon. masking corporal punishment as affection. kissing. size kink, size difference. some thigh riding. degradation + humiliation (verbal). non-con pet play. marking (heavyyyyyy mentions of Simon biting you like a chew toy). choking. daddy kink (but in the awful, demeaning way). manipulation. forced affection. coersion. forced/manufactured dependency. brief mention of Simon stepping on your back to hold you down so he can whip you w a cat o nine tails. yanno. the usual Friday night.

idk. there's something so hot about you, completely naked, riding Simon's clothed thigh as he holds you up by your neck. tongue out, desperate for a kiss while he just mocks you the whole time.

It's survival. 

At first.  

A means of masking the innate horror of being stripped of your agency, your autonomy, by a man you barely even know. One you met once before (fate sealed), and now—outside of your apartment complex where he was idling by the foothold, smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the brick wall, head turned. Gaze narrowed as you approached. 

Waiting for someone, you assumed, thinking nothing else about the matter. 

Nothing else, except—

He looked familiar. You think you saw him before. He was staring at you. Hadn't stopped. Hasn't said a word, either. The silence was oppressive. Heavy. Your hands fumbled with the keys. Shaking. Trembling. 

He's pretty, you thought, suddenly. In the way car wrecks can sometimes be. Jarring and awful and hideous, but—

Mesmerising. 

Macabre. And that's what he is. Everything from the mask on his face (skulls, go figure), to the absurdity in his size, his width. The way space itself seemed to move around him, bending and distorting just to let him pass. His own gravitational pull. Magnetic. You feel it tugging on you as he pulls another lungful of smoke. Another. Another.  

(like an hourglass, a timebomb, almost. you wonder what will happen when it runs out—)

He gives you the creeps. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. A visceral sense of unease curdling in the pit of your belly as he keeps staring, staring. Eyes—crystalline under the broken headlamp, washout into crushed topaz—drilling into your back, sharp enough to flay skin. Everything inside of you says to run, but your key won't fit inside the lock. Won't—

Ever. 

And hindsight has always been a bitter thing, hasn't it? Cruel in her mockery. Had you known, then, that he wasn't a workman loitering by the complex, waiting for a friend; or a low-level drug dealer casting webs into the plum hewn aether, it might have saved you. Might have. 

Maybe. Because he was there, waiting for you, all along. 

Life has a funny way of paying back good deeds. All it took for your life to crumble down around you, rubble falling off of a shaking mountain, was kindness. Was seeing a large man in the pouring rain, already drenched. Black clothing sticking to the granite contours of his body, and offering sanctum in the shape of a rusting umbrella you found at a thrift store for three dollars. 

(“here,” you said, chipper. All smiles. “i live just down the street, and you look like you need it more than i do. do you want it?”

and he—

he simply stared. stared. his eyes liquid, molten, as they carelessly dropped, roaming down the length of your body at his own leisure. leering. assessing. it was odd. weird, but—

he huffed, then. seemingly satisfied by whatever you measured up to in his head. his neck lulled back, and he gazed at you from down the crooked length of his nose, tucked neatly away under the thick band of a facial mask. skulls. how could you be so stupid? 

slowly, like he was trying not to startle a mare, his gloved hand reached out, curling thick fingers around the hilt of it. he tugged once. in your stupor, you forgot to let go. embarrassment flooded in. he huffed again, quietly amused, as you untangled your numbed fingers from the umbrella. 

in your distraction, he moved closer. smelled of ash, of mildew. sweat and stale cigarettes. there was something predatory in the way he slipped through space. a preternatural quiet. an eerie stillness. 

you hadn't realised he was there, looming, until he rasped out, “more ‘n you could ever realise, pet.”

and you're sure why you do it. did it. but your hand slips into your shopping bag, eyes widen. heart thundering in your chest. 

“are you hungry? i, uh, i just bought some apples, um—”

his eyes are lavascapes. shackles. chains. “i could eat.”)

And now—

Forced to play this strange cat and mouse of his where he treats you like soot on the bottom of his shoe, and you pretend that it's affection. Love. How godless.  

Protection, he calls it. 

("mine," he whispers, orison soft, into your ear. "ain't go' nowhere else to go, do you, pet? world's big. would eat a small thing like you up. safer here. wit' me. only me.") 

You wonder what he'd do if you told him the biggest danger here was the madness nestled inside your head, the one that sometimes made you look at him like he was your salvation instead of the warden holding the end of your leash in a firm hand. Unyielding—like everything he does. Is. 

Withholding, too. Everything must be earned. Nothing given. Nothing handed out. And you know that this is a ploy, a tactic. Subterfuge meant to chisel into your sense of self, dehumanise you. Turn you into a simpering, obedient little doll for him to play with as he wishes. You know this, and yet—

It's survival, you promise yourself as he tugs on the hook latched to your collar, testing it for weakness. Survival, when his hands—bare, bare; warmed skin against skin, you could just weep—brush over your throat, nails skimming goosebumped flesh as he wedges one, then two inside, hirsute knuckles tickling your pulse. It tightens the collar to near choking. Intentional, you know. He likes it when you beg—for air, for food, water, him. 

Vile man. Awful. 

(You want to roll on your belly at his feet.)

This cold, cruel touch lights a fire under your skin. It's been months since he's last done so. Always wearing gloves when he has to. Using paddles, belts, when you misbehave. Never his bare hand. Not anymore. 

(“m’hand is for good girls,” he slurred, words merging, meshing together, painted with exertion. He wedged his boot against the small of your back, holding you down, and cracked the end of a cat over your bare ass, thighs. Unbothered by your howls, your screams, as the whip bit into your skin. You've never so much as been hit as a child for misbehaving, and now, as an adult, you have a madman standing over you, introducing you to something called a cat o’nine tails—a favourite in the army, lovie. “bad girls,” his boot pressed down harder, heel digging into your spine. “Bad girls get the whip—”)

Bad. Bad. Because you tried to run, to leave him. He dressed you up, called you Mrs Riley, and you—

Ducked out the back door when he turned away for a second. 

Stupid. It was poor timing. A test. He set you up, measuring your loyalty to him, your commitment, and you failed. Failed. 

(“this is what ‘appens when spoiled little cunts get their way too much. they act out, don't they? bitin’ the ‘and that feeds. you'll learn soon enough, though—”)

Ghost—sir, sir (master, maker, god; you'll call him anything he wants if he touches you again)—pulls his fingers away, depriving you of his touch once more. And it's all so stupid. So fundamentally wrong, deplorable, but you follow. Needy. Whining for it in the back of your throat. 

It's been months. Months without touch. Without sensation outside of leather lashing across your thighs, your ass; harsh, gloved fingers digging into your jaw, braced against the back of your head, as you swallow down his cock in an effort to prove to him you've been good. So good. Can be good. His good girl. 

You need to touch him. Need his touch. Ache for it, for something outside of this nook he placed you inside of, denied the privilege of living upstairs with him after you tried to escape. 

You want to. Badly. Your fingers twitch. Ghost sees it. Hums. 

“Need somethin', pet?” 

Your mouth is dry. You swallow. It burns. It hurts. “Yes—”

“Yes, what?”

“Sir—”

Behind the mask he's yet to take off for you fully, only ever hitching it under his chin to devour your cunt whenever you've been good, his jaw tightens, the fabric bunching up. 

You reel back from the look of sheer displeasure etching harsh lines into the hollow gaps of his eyes. Heart thundering. Stomach churning. 

“Mas—” he cuts you off with a soft sigh. Marked with his irritation. “D—dad—”

Dad. A new one. Daddy. He didn't seem like the sort to be into this type of play, not with his sardonic, deadpan eyes. His mockery. His dessicated humour, awful and biting. You'd have sooner expected him to laugh at you—in that slow, deep hum he gives; a little chuff, full of condescension and jeer—than to get off on it. On you, kneeling between his legs with your chin braced against his palm, mouth open, tongue out, as he fucks into the tight clench of his fist, groaning as you beg daddy to give you a taste. 

It's gross. Disgusting. 

It's not done for anything else other than to humiliate you. To crush you under the heel of his boot—little bug—so that you will always know where your place is in this scenario. His little wife. Mother, mum—

He pulls on the leash, jerking you forward. Purrs, “good girl,” and then steps back, moving away from you. Cruel. Dismissive. You hate him, hate him—

(Need him so deeply. With every fibre of your being—)

You watch him as he goes, mourning the loss of his presence already, as he paces around your space, your cage. Broad shoulders barely fitting inside. Head ducking to avoid hitting his crown on the popcorn ceiling. It's strange seeing him here like this. Prowling. He usually comes when he wants you, when he needs to enact more merciless punishment on you for whatever perceived evils you committed (not greeting him with a kiss when he walked in, not letting him suffocate himself in your cunt when he had you sit on his face, not making him cum all over your face quick enough when you knew he had other engagements to get to—), or when he ruts, heavily, between your thighs, cold and detached. Seeking pleasure from your icy flesh, and giving nothing in return but white hot agony. 

Him here, idling in your presence, is revolutionary. 

“S–sir—?”

He hums, quiet. Sits in the chair as you gather the fragments of yourself littered on the ground. His mood is malleable, it seems. 

You push, fingertips sinking into the putty of his agreeable temperament. “Can I—”

You waver when his sharp eyes raze over your bare body—clothes are for good girls, after all—pupils sloshing over the edges, bleeding into midnight blue. 

Your body is a battlefield. Every inch of skin branded with his mark—pretty, thrawn rings of teeth tattooed in silver, haloed in black and red, desecrate your flesh: neck, collarbones, breasts, belly, thighs (a particular favourite of his), ass, mons; all bitten through, chewed up. It weeps when you move, has blood trickling down your skin. The cracking scabs make him coo, poor thing, all bloody fer me? and he licks at them, sucks, until only a pinkish wound in the mimesis of canines remains. 

Uprooted, turned into something new—

His chest expands when he settles his gaze on the sliver of space between your spread thighs. Concealed in tenebrous, hidden from his leering, lecherous view. He cocks his head, considers something unknown to you. His thoughts, his mind, worlds away. Untouchable. 

(only to bad girls, he’d snarled out when you asked why—)

“Testin’ my patience still?” He doesn't rip his gaze away from your cunt, speaks to it sometimes more than he speaks to you. “Thought this alone time might’a cleared your ‘ead.”

You flush. Embarrassment roiling through you. His displeasure is a palpable thing. Heavy. You hate the weight of it. 

“I need—I need you.”

Another toneless hum. “‘Course you do. Ain't got anyone else.”

He's awful. Hideous. You want to rip his tongue out of his mouth. “I—I want you. Please.”

Ghost doesn't answer. You stopped expecting him to a long time ago, his moods odd measures of ebbs and flows; passive and mild, cracking terrible, awful jokes as he strokes your back, hands riveted to your skin, and then biting and caustic the next. Pushing and pushing until you lash out, snap, so he has a reason to push you down, punished and smothered under his bulk, as he ruts into you like a beast, a man starved. Tells you it's for your own good. That you need him. Would be lost without him. 

Bludgeoning a hole into you wide enough for him to crawl inside of. Poisoning you from the inside out with the same nocuous rot that flows in his veins. 

Maybe that's been his agenda all along. Maybe. To make you want him as badly as he wanted you. Desperate, obsessive. Going so far as to follow you home, lost little mutt waiting in the shadows outside of your door until you threw him another bone. And when that didn't work, when the food stopped being enough—

He took you. Held you captive in his house deep in the wilderness. A place so endlessly green that you sometimes stare out at it—unfathomable sea of phalthos and jasper—and feel dizzy. You'll get lost out there—

just like he says. 

As he turns your obsecration over in his head, you wait, supplicant to this man as you rest on your knees. Pretty pet with a golden collar adorned in gems. 

Fitting, you find. With his head cradled against his thick knuckles, you can't help but shiver at the way he looks shrouded in the gloaming embers of a fading twilight. Leonine. A king perfectly at ease in this thick, caliginous atmosphere.

His eyes burn, magmatic, in the low light. Vats of endless ink. Black holes that will swallow you whole if you get too close. But he's poised. Contemplative. Assessing. 

And then grips the end of the leash tight in his other hand. Tugs.  

You obey the wordless command, crawling on your hands and knees to where he's spread out on the recliner. Laxed, dripping with a careless indifference as you wander to him, resting your chin on the spread of his knee. 

Looking up, up, at him, waiting. Wanting. 

There's so much of him—a fact that has been the catalyst to your downfall the moment you saw him standing under the awning; this massive creature. Thighs wider than the width of your body. Burly forearms. Broad shoulders. He's big. Indomitable. Thick, endlessly so. But there's a give to his body. Valleys of softness hiding corded muscle. Firm, but—

Your fingers sink into the soft give of his belly when you reach out, bracing against stomach. Pulling yourself further into the bracket of his spread thighs, inching closer to him. 

He meets your reverent stare, eyes liquid along his lower lash line.

“Thought you were gonna keep me waitin’ all night,” he muses, giving another pull on the leash. It destabilises you. Your nose bumps into his sternum, and you moan at the sting. 

There's a dissonance in the back of your head. A hairline fracture in the line that keeps a degree of separation between pleasure and pain. They meet against the crack in the divide, merging into a abysmal polyphony conducted by his hand. 

He watches, amused, as you whimper, sniffing harshly against the burn. It's not bleeding, and not broken—small mercies, you suppose—and you let it simmer into a dull ache as you slowly clamber into his lap.

Ghost leans back as you settle, greedily taking in the sight of your thighs stretched wide over his leg, cunt pressed, tight, against the rough scrape of his jeans. The touch burns. He hasn't touched your pussy in weeks—

“C’mon,” he urges, hand spanning the width of your lower back. Coaxing. “Show me ‘ow good you can be.”

It's all the permission you need. Slowly, slowly, your hips start to gyrate, dragging your slit over the coarse material. The friction is agony. You need more—

He draws his other hand up, curls it around your neck, forcing your head back, back. You gasp, staring at him, dizzy, from down the slope of your nose. The clasp of the collar digs into your skin. It hurts. It's too much. 

you don't want him to stop. 

His hand is huge. It spans the entire length of your neck, thumb to your pulse, pinky grazing the hollow of your throat. It forces you to lift your chin higher just to let him fit.

He likes it, too, you know. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of his bare hand, scarred and thick; dusted with a cropping of fine hairs along his scabbed knuckles, sitting against the whole of your throat. Swallowing you up. Can feel how much he enjoys the sheer depth between your sizes when his cock twitches, stiffening more

The look on his face is appraising, anatomising. There's a cold measure of distance in his gaze. A barren polynya. You want to cross it. Chart these untamed lands until they're deeply ingrained within your being. Cimmerian effigy burning to keep you warm. 

It's survival, you think, and arch into the palm of his hand. 

He holds you like a doll. One hand on your lower back, pressing your cunt to thigh. The other tightening around your throat. Bare skin against bare skin, and oh, you could just cry—

But this is not what you need. What you want. And he knows. He always does. Knows the inside of you like it's written down—inked on paper. Thumbs through the makeup of you, chapter by chapter, until no mystery remains. 

“Tell me what you need, pet. Beg for it.” 

“Let me—” his hands tighten, choking the air from your throat. Crushing your collar against your neck. “Lemme—kiss you, please, please—”

Tighter. Tighter. The world around you swims under a thin ocean. Phosphenes swim, untethered, in your periphery, ghosting along the curve of his shoulders. He might kill you yet. Keeping going, going, until those brittle, bird-like bones in your neck snap—

You'd let him, you think, muscles falling lax. Submissive. Just the way he says he likes even though you know he fucks you harder, touches you more, more, when you act out. Misbehave. 

“Kiss me?” He taunts, words abrasive. Strident. Scrubbing hard against your skin. “Ain't that jus’ the sweetest thing I ever ‘eard.” 

You burn, blister. “Please—”

“Reckon I ought to. Kissed your pretty cunt ‘fore I even kissed your lips, huh, pet?” 

Your chest folds over itself. Stomach knotting. Balling tight. Unease is a razor blade scraping your nerves. 

“Simon—”

“Ah, ah—” his hand tightens. Vicious. Chiding. “You ‘aven’t earned the privilege of sayin’ my name, ‘ave you? Cheeky thing. Might ‘ave to take a cane to you next.” 

“No, no, no—! I'm—”

“Sorry?” He mocks, cocking his head. Condescension drips from the corners of his eyes. 

“Please, sir—”

“Dad is gettin’ tired of this attitude of yours, pet—” his fingers dig into your skin, hard. Biting. A warning, you know. The blunt press of a blade to your jugular. But it thrums along the suture line to your desire, a wellspool of murk coiling low in your guts. You throb, cunt clenching down around nothing. Achingly empty. “Thought we got rid of it this time ‘round. Learned our lesson.”

The words are frank, prosaic. Had you any sense of self still malingering in the back of your head, you might have struck him for the blatant disrespect. But as you struggle to reach for it, pawing around in the vacuous abyss for any fragment of who you were before this, before him, you know—without any doubt—that none exists. Nothing. He’s too ingrained in your marrow, hewn into your skin. Copper sutures holding his filament within you. Cradled between your thighs, nestled in the rotting vacancy of your heart. 

He knows you. Every part—

“We did—we did, da—daddy, please—” 

It’s shallow. Muffled, like he’s trying to swallow it down, but you feel it rumble through his broad chest. A guttural sound. A groan. Drenched in pleasure, in want. So thick, you could almost taste it. 

He hides his need under a layer of derision. 

“Such a needy thing, ain't you? Desperate little slag like you wouldn't last out there, would you?” 

His hand digs into your hip, pushing you off of his thigh. Eyes skewering into the wet stain on his trousers. A huff spills out—the sound a near perfect mimicry of crushing charcoal in your hand. 

“No. You'd be eaten alive. Torn to pieces. World's too big for somethin' like you.”

Mindless, dazed, you nod. Arching into him. The leather leash snaps against your chest. “Yes, yes—”

His cock presses into your thigh, hard, fat. Your mouth waters. Drool dribbles down your chin. 

He smells of tinder when he leans in close, blood drenched words biting into your skin. “messy today, aren't you? Be lost without me. Tha’s why you wear a collar, isn't it?”

Pitifully, you nod. Eyes full of tears. Each word is a bludgeon into your resolve. Into your sense of self. 

But it earns you his affection, and his thumb presses into the corner of your mouth, unhinging your jaw until it falls open, lax. He holds you like that, mouth lax with his hand still around your neck. The other lifts away from your lips, goes to the thick band around the bridge of his nose, slips inside. 

There's no buildup to it. No lingering sense of anticipation. Practical, detached, he merely tugs it down, and lets it snap under his chin. 

Your breath is punched out of your lungs at the sight of him. Barefaced. Scarred. His nose is crooked; a jagged hook with scar tissue delineating the spots where it's been broken too many times. His lips are—

Full. 

Mangled. 

Scars run in thick slashes over them, denting the flesh in places. Burn marks line his pale flesh. Charcoal rubs into his eyes, highlighting the whites of his lashes against smeared soot. 

He's—

Pretty. 

Like a car crash. Calamity. The broken remains of a town after a hurricane, a tornado, ripped it apart. Ugly, brutal. His face looks like it's been mauled by a bear, a tiger. Scarred and hideous, and—

You shiver. His eyes drop, landing on your own lips. The soot on his brow flutters down, lands on his eyelashes when he lifts his brow up mockingly. Derision curdling an awful smirk on the corner of his mouth. Crooked. Like him. Like his teeth. His nose. His boxy jaw. His lips—

You kiss him. 

Can't help yourself, really. There's a pull. Gravitational. Magnetic. You need, need, to taste him. To quench this ache in your jaw that makes you want to wrap your tongue around something, play with it between your teeth. Soft and sweet—

Ghost's lips are plump beneath yours. The thick scar tissue is almost velveteen when it glides over your bottom lip. You moan into it, into the feeling; victory—however pyrrhic—swims like mercury in your veins. Finally. 

And he doesn't kiss you back. Doesn't make any effort to reciprocate at all, but he's not tense beneath you. Not stunned. Or reluctant. He’s pliant. Malleable. Agreeable, willing to let you devour his mouth, his taste, as much as you want. Doting. Letting you spoil yourself on him. With him.

Because you need him, don't you? 

Like the air you breathe. The food he gives you—apples, always, on rainy days; salmon and rice in a pretty bowl with your name etched into the porcelain—and the attention, the affection—

(suck my cock, pretty girl. don't make me put a gag on you—deeper, you can take it, can't you? take my fat cock all the way up inside your sweet little cunt—my pretty girl—)

—it’s all so divine. 

His hands on your body, your throat, spasm. Once. Just once. Against your leg, his cock twitches. Leaks prespend into the demin. You rut against his thigh, aching for it. Whimpering—

And then he's groaning into the kiss, snarling out your name until it wedges between your lungs, syphoned in from his scorching breath. Another brand in the shape of him. 

Ghost kisses the same way he eats—messy, sloppy; all teeth and tongue, and full pretty lips. Clumsy, like no one taught him how to properly hold his silverware and he's trying to mock what he saw on television. Brumish. A broken, contemptuous pastiche of sumptuosity. A starving dog, snarling around its plundered morsel. Protective. Possessive. 

It coils around you. Thick, smothering. 

He sucks your tongue into his mouth, catching it between his teeth. The sting brings tears to the corner of your eyes, and when you pry them open, you find him already staring at you (always, always, always—), lidded. Heavy pools of desire shaded in the brume of a winter dawn. A bonfire flickering in the distance of a whiteout. Sanctuary from the cold—

He seems to catch himself. Expression flickering. Warbling around the edges. It closes off in a blink. He pulls back. Locks into the ashlar veneer of this indifference he wears like a suit of armour. 

But you saw it. It was there. Within reach—

“Need me, don't you?” He drawls, timber a needlepoint between cruelty and desire. Sultry, low. Husky. He knows what it does to you. How he can unravel you at the seams with just his voice alone. “Need me so fuckin’ much, pet. Would be lost without me—”

“Please, Simon,” you whisper, feather-soft. Cunt throbbing, pulsing. Needy. “Please—”

The strident reprimand for using his name doesn't come. His hand tightens around your throat, unconscious. A paroxysm that has pleasure carving itself down your spine, electric. 

“Come get it, then,” he rasps, voice wrecked. Raw. Curling at the edges, thickening his accent until the words elide. 

Hand to your throat, he drags you close. Closer still. Keeps you sat pretty on his lap as he pulls you in for a bruising, hungry kiss. Tongue shoving between your teeth when you gasp.

His kisses are always hungry, but this is different. Greedy. He devours you whole. Eats you alive. His hand falls to your lower back, holding you tight to his chest.

You moan into it, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Squeezing until your knuckles blanche, joints twinging in discomfort. 

After months of nothing, this alone is bliss. His taste soaking onto your tongue, drenching it in the bitter tang of sage, wheatgrass, and stale cigarettes. Intoxicating. It leaks into you, nocuous. Infects from the inside out. 

His plan coming to fruition, you think. What he sought out to do all along, ever since you wandered close to this untameable Tartarean guard, and offered yourself up to the jowls of a starving beast. 

He pulls away with a heavy breath, eyes charing around the edges; brittle briquette. 

“Gonna be a good girl from now on? Come upstairs, be a good mum for dad? Or am I gonna ‘ave to cane this—” his hand drops, grabbing a fistful of your ass in his hand, fingers digging into the skin between your cheeks. Possessive. It cracks like a whip down your nerves. “—tight lit’le arse?”

You shake your head instantly. Quickly. “I'll be good,” you whisper into his chin, tongue flicking out to lick across his scars. The dried sweat on his skin tastes briny. Reminds you of the ocean on a brumous November evening. The incipient yawn of a ravenous hurricane gathering its lot on the shore. 

Sirens blare in the distance. Fear curdles in your guts, sits heavy like a stone. An anchor. 

“So sweet f’me,” he mutters, words deepening as his head falls back, letting you pepper kisses across the underside of his jaw. Mouthing along the constellation of scars. His voice is rumble. It shivers across your lips, tongue. Shakes the marrow in your bones. “Better stay this way, pet.”

Into his pulse, you murmur, “I think you like it better when I’m bad.” 

You can feel the snarl brimming in the back of his throat. Your ass stings with the phantom burn of when he lashed out with the whip. It drags a whimper out from deep within your chest. 

His hand tightens around your neck. A warning. “Got some guests over f’dinner tonight. Would love to finally introduce them to my sweet little wife—” deft fingers slip across the dewy skin of your folds, knuckles grazing over your drenched hole. The touch makes you squirm. “But if you’re gonna be bad, then I’ll leave you locked up down ‘ere.”

“I’ll be good,” you swear, words a hushed breath over his jugular. His finger flattens, drawls soft, slow circles around your clit. “Ah, I’ll—I’ll be so, so good, Simon—”

“Good girls deserve rewards, don’t they?” His palm flexes possessively around your throat when you nip at old scar tissue. “Maybe I’ll let you sleep in our bed tonight instead of in your dog house. We can ‘ouse together. I’ll fuck you proper—” he roughly shoves two fingers into your hole, leering when you gasp, back arching in a bow. “Know this pretty pussy has been achin’ for me, ‘asn’t it? Gonna breed it full—”

There’s static in your head, ringing in your ear. The noise distorted, pulled underwater. You think you say something, plead—no, no, no, anything but that—but his hand tightens around your throat, fingers pushing up, up into you, notching against that spot inside that makes your head swim, your vision flicker. The abyssal chasm inside of you aches, rages; its waters swell, currents frothing, slamming against the ceiling of its iron prison, and—

Simon pulls away. Fingers stilling inside of you. No friction, no relief. Hypoxia renders the world silent. Muted. Held in stasis, stagnating at the edge of a gaping precipice he holds you over, secured by the fragile curve of your neck, fine bone china. 

Phosphenes swim by. The chossy wobbles.

This distance is agony. You need to be closer, closer, to crawl inside of him, to live in the brackets of his ribs, safe and protected from the world he warns you about. Stone cold. You mewl, whine—

“Gonna be my good little wife?”

Gasping with broken lungs, you nod. Nod, nod until you’re nauseous. Dizzy. Sick—

His spit cools on your lip. Your hackles raise, body shuddering in revulsion—some primal part rears, hisses it’s infectious. Wrong. Get rid of it—

“Not gonna run?”

Slowly, you lick your lips, catching his sickness on your tongue. Swallowing it down until it sinks like a stone to the bottom of your belly. Heavy, for such a small, damning thing. 

How absurd, you think. How absolutely mad. 

Then you whisper, paperthin, “kiss me again, please, Simon—”

And he moves. Liquid in the gloam. Made more for shadows, midnight, than for golden apricity, where the light is harsh on his face, unveiling ruins and ravines; monoliths meant to be paid tribute to in the dark. Your hands lift to his jaw when he moves in, catching your lips in a bruising, biting kiss. 

His touch is searing. Owning. He isn't laying claim: no, you're already his. 

It's possessive and angry. No finesse. All slate teeth and tender tongue. They slide together in a strange game; little fawn stupidly nipping at the tiger's heel. He lets you, groaning into your mouth when you arch back, hips pushing into his fingers, taking him deeper. A pale pantomime of what's to come when he lays you on his soft bed, sweet and divine, and buries himself deep. 

It should scare you. Ought to. And maybe it does. Survival, you think, but you still pull him closer. Deeper. Because it’s bliss, you find. The world around you falling dead. Silent. Pulled into a vacuum. Teetering on the edge of a black hole, event horizon. He drags you in. 

Simon hums, pulling you closer. Touching you—soft, sweet. Palms a gyve. Shackles, chains. His fingers lift from your neck, trailing down the slope of your throat until he reaches the golden loop of your collar's hook. His gaze glides, magmatic, down to where your leash dangles between your heaving breasts.

It's almost tender when he grabs it into his fist. When he pulls, pulls—

Your back arching. His fingers slipping deeper inside your cunt. Obedient little doll.

When he lifts his eyes, the look you find is hot enough to char bone. You taste blood in the back of your throat—

Into the seam of your mouth, he purrs, “good girl.”

—and you swallow it down with a moan. 

(after all, you know better than to run from starving dogs—)

[artemisia-musings]

A Broken Man Can Love Again

Minors DNI! 18+ only

Summary: Leon is tasked with training a new agent. He vows to protect her, but doesn't expect to fall for her.

Tags/Warnings: Fem reader, no use of Y/N, suicidal thoughts, violence, protective Leon, smut, trauma dumping lol.

Note: I've been super depressed lately so this fic has been kinda therapeutic to write. Protective Leon makes my heart flutter. Also this is my first time writing smut! Hope you like it <3

Leon Scott Kennedy worked best alone. It was easier that way, safer. He found it was often easier to work if he didn’t have some soft-hearted inexperienced rookie trailing along after him. He couldn’t stand to get attached to them, only for them to perish. He had seen far too many good men and women die at the hands of evil. The weight of every death hung heavy on him, a reminder of his failures to do what he had long ago promised to do. Save everyone. If he can’t even save his goddamn team, how is he expected to save the world?

Seven years since Racoon City, seven years since his autonomy was stripped away. He supposed it was for the best, although Leon couldn’t help but feel jealous of those who had to choose what to do with their lives. Claire was never given the choice between death or service, no, she got to run off and play humanitarian. He gritted his teeth, knowing he was being unfair. Of course, if Claire had known leaving him and Sherry would have resulted in them being kidnapped she would have helped. He tried not to hold it against her. He tried to remind himself that at the very least, he was still helping the world, saving it from those who would seek to destroy it. But as he walked down the halls of whatever government agency he was aiding that day, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hatred for those who had been given a choice to be there.

Most people he came into contact with at work didn’t even believe in B.O.W’s. And why should they? The government wiped the slate clean every time, burying the events so that the world wouldn’t panic. Very few government agents knew the horrors of the bio-weapons, and even fewer were properly trained on how to deal with them. The survival rate for agents like himself was low, to say the least. Hell, Leon felt like he had seen most of them die himself. Ripped apart, crushed like a bug, necks bitten and torn. He had become so desensitized to gore and violence over the years that it hardly even phased him anymore. Leon worked best alone, so his annoyance when it was announced he would be training a new rookie was astronomical. 

“Hunnigan, you have to be joking right? I’m the last guy they want training someone,” he argued, pacing the office of perhaps the closest thing he had to a friend in the government. 

Ingrid Hunnigan, ever the level-headed individual, merely shrugged. “They thought your experience with B.O.Ws, along with the recent success of your Spain mission, made you the best candidate to train her.” Hannigan paused from clacking at her keyboard. 

“If things go well, they will most likely make her your new partner.” She said it so casually as if this wasn’t a tremendous update. 

Their relationship was one built off of duty. Ever since his mission in Spain last year, he had taken a liking to the no-nonsense woman. She let him complain and whine about his job; about his loneliness. And while she couldn’t do anything to help him, she was able to provide him with a small amount of validation and comfort. The field support agent was perhaps the only person aside from his higher-ups who knew of his forced involvement in the agencies. 

“If she lasts that long,” Leon grumbled under his breath. Hannigan cast him a sour look but Leon shrugged it off, knowing he didn’t get a say in the situation- he never did. Choice wasn’t something in his job description, if he had a choice he wouldn’t be here at all. Or would he? For the past seven years, he had been trained to be an agent, trained to be the perfect weapon against eldritch abominations created by capitalistic psychopaths, and before that he had spent years at the police academy, training to serve. All his adult life he had been taught to serve and obey, and he was pretty damn good at it too. An obedient little soldier, ready to die for his masters. If Leon had a choice would he still be here? He couldn’t fathom the possibility of a normal life anymore, not with the knowledge that the world was so corrupted and ugly, ready to implode at any moment. Leon never had the option to choose this career, why anyone would be beyond him? 

Mumbling a goodbye, he left his friend before returning to his own office. He slumped down in the chair, booting up his computer. Might as well figure out who his partner is anyway. Leon knew it was a bad idea to get attached, but curiosity killed the cat. Pulling up her file, he was surprised to see how young she was, not even past her early twenties yet.  Most recruits tended to be older, and more experienced in military combat and whatnot. An unease washed over him as he read her file closely, a pang of anger sparking in his chest. The girl was in a similar boat as him. Wrong place, wrong time. Welcome to the club, kid. She had been present during an isolated virus outbreak at a University football game and had the unfortunate accolade of being one of the few survivors. Anyone with the capability to stand up to an infected tended to capture the attention of the government. Leon gritted his teeth, trying to calm the rage that brewed inside him. Had they blackmailed her into agreeing to join? Threatening her family, her own life, if she didn’t comply? He hadn’t even met her yet and he was already miserating over her. 

Leon looked closer at her photo, taking in the saddened but hopeful spark in her eyes. Was she trying to see the bright side of the situation? Did she think she would get to be a hero? Leon let out a sigh, leaning back in his chair as he tried not to dwell on the potential of losing another person, another partner, another friend; the heart can only handle so much. “I’ll try and keep you safe” he murmured to himself, glancing back up at the photo on his screen. This time it would be different. It had to be.

_______

It was a sunny day when he met his new partner. Leon stood in the training room, rays of light beaming through the windows as a suit-clad man escorted the young woman in, no doubt her handler. Leon sucked in a breath, remaining stoic as they approached, trying to calm his racing nerves. Despite what he might tell others, Leon wasn’t exactly well-versed in talking to women. He used to consider himself a smooth talker in college, but ever since he left the academy, his exposure to flirting opportunities had been limited, to say the least. The closest he had gotten to flirting was with Ada last year in Spain. Can it be called flirting when you have a knife to their throat? However, one night in seven years was still a losing streak in his eyes. 

The nameless suit briefly introduced the woman, whom upon hearing her name called, hesitantly reached out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Agent Kennedy,” she greeted awkwardly. 

Leon huffed a chuckle, an eyebrow quivering in amusement as he slowly reached for her hand. “Please, just call me Leon,” he insisted, shaking her hand. It was soft, not yet hardened by callouses, and her grip was weak. Hands that had not seen battle. They shouldn’t see battle at all. She shouldn’t be here to begin with.

As the agent departed, Leon took in the sight of his new trainee. He had been told she had been put through basic military training, but it would be up to him to prepare her for the unpredictability of bio-weapons. Without hesitation, he unsheathed his knife, slashing it toward her and she yelped in surprise, arching backward to avoid the blade.

“What the hell?!” she protested, dodging yet another attack from him. Her movements were clumsy, but fast- he could work with that.

“You think a bio-weapon is gonna give you a heads up when it’s about to kill you?” He retorted, his knife nicking her cheek. “You think a corpse is gonna ask permission to bite you? That a mutated beast is gonna wait for your turn?” The girl grits her teeth, dodging and weaving his slashes. “You have to be ready for anything because these things will not hesitate to kill you.” His blade came into contact with her arm as he knocked her down and she fell with a grunt, glaring up at him. Leon bit back his tongue, ignoring the way her frustrated look pained him. It was for her good, he couldn’t let her training be easy, not if she expected to live through the next few years. As much as Krauser was a psychotic sadist, Leon couldn’t help but admit that his brutal training methods had been useful. He reached out his hand, the young woman hesitating before taking it. 

“ That’s one hell of a hello,” she grumbled, and a smirk formed on Leon’s mouth. He pulled her up to her feet, giving her a pat on the shoulder.

“Don’t take it personally,” he chuckled softly. “Now, let’s go get you bandaged up.”

____________

The seasons start to change and Leon starts to dread going to work less. Despite the colder nip in the air, he feels warm, and eager at the prospect of seeing his rookie. She has acclimated well to her new role, and while Leon wishes he could punch the son of a bitch who forced her to enlist, he can’t help but feel a spark of gratitude that she was here. 

The rookie isn’t overtly chatty, and Leon can tell she still doesn’t fully trust him. He can see it in her eyes, like a deer eyeing a wolf. She’s polite and respectful, dutifully calling him honorifics and obeying commands, but Leon isn’t fooled. 

There is snow in the air as he makes her run through an obstacle course. After all, not every mission she’s sent on is going to have pristine weather. She’s miserable, he can tell even from afar. She trudges through the snow, hauling herself over wooden walls, leaping over logs, and swinging from a rope. By the time she practically collapses over the finish line, her ears and nose are tinged red from the cold, and he can see her breath in the cold winter air. 

“You took too long,” he said plainly, checking his stopwatch. “You took nearly five minutes, you can’t pass unless you do it in under two.”

The girl is panting, trying to regain her breath. She glances at Leon, a look of annoyance plastered clear on her face. “Fuck off” she wheezes, and a bead of sweat rolls down her forehead. 

Leon can’t help but laugh at her crass words. He remembers how difficult it is, trudging through the snow or mud through the finish line. He’s lost count of how many times he’s done this over the years, how many times Krauser pushed him until he was at wit's end. Leon doesn’t want to be a cruel footnote in the history of her life. He doesn’t want her to look back on this chapter of her life with disdain as she remembers him. Leon isn’t sure of what he wants, or what he needs to give up to admit what he suspects deep down. He shakes his head, trying to push any conflicting feelings down deep inside him, burying this fleeting hesitation along with the rest of his hopes, dreams, and suppressed emotions. Leon isn’t here to get sentimental, he’s here to make sure this rookie doesn’t get murdered on her first mission. 

“One more time” he orders, looking away from her and back over to the snow-covered course. “After that, you can take a break,” Leon adds, almost hesitantly. He shouldn’t be soft with her, but as her face lights up at the prospect of being able to rest, he can’t help but feel his heart flutter with a palpitation of happiness. He watches as she takes off once more, a newfound sense of energy overtaking her as she maneuvers the course. Leon can’t help but feel mesmerized as he watches her in a trance-like state, a surge of pride washing over him as she sprints over the last obstacle, gasping for breath as she crosses the finish line. 

“One minute and forty-six seconds,” he said, stopping the timer as she smiled triumphantly. 

“Nice to know your reward motivated, perhaps from here on out I’ll carry a little bag of treats for you,” he snarks, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips as she rolls her eyes at him.

“Woof” she responds dryly, “Now I believe I was promised a break?”

Leon nods, smiling to himself as he leads her towards the concrete building. “Let’s go rookie, I’m pretty sure the dining hall made hot chocolate,” he says.

“Is it good?” she asks, trailing after him.

“Not at all,” he admits. She laughs, throwing her head back as she does so. Leon can’t help but stop in his tracks, admiring her beauty as the snow falls around them.

__________________

It’s a quiet night, far too quiet for Leon’s liking. It’s the kind of silence that puts him on edge, reminiscent of a calm before the storm. He knows deep down he’s safe in this military facility, that there is no monster lurking in the dark shadows of his room, but he can’t bring himself to fully believe it. He tosses and turns in a light slumber, waking up in a cold sweat, heart racing and mouth agape. Nights like these aren’t uncommon; he's used to waking up in a panic. Not even in sleep can he escape the ghosts of his past, the terror that has plagued him for years. The line between nightmare and reality doesn’t exist for him, and he dreads the prospect of sleeping again. He pushes himself out of bed, his body aching from the thin mattress as he throws on a random t-shirt. He ran out of his hidden liquor supply a few weeks ago, but perhaps the kitchen has something that could calm his nerves. Leon feels weak admitting that alcohol is one of the few things that allows him to temporarily forget his trauma. He’s a man on a mission as he slinks through the halls of the base, careful to be quiet. He’d hate to have to explain to a commanding officer why he was out at this time. Sorry about that General, I was just looking for some spare booze cause I had a nightmare! That’d go over well. The kitchen is unlocked and seemingly abandoned as he peeks his head in, making a beeline to the cupboards. Lady Luck is on his side as he finds a small bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Bingo. The sound of sniffling startles him, shooting his head up to see the rookie curled up by a window, moonlight pouring down over her as she meets his gaze.

“What are you doing here at this hour?” Leon asked, trying to keep a fragment of authority in his voice. It comes out cracking, his voice still husky from sleep and raw with emotions.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she says, wiping at her eyes. “You?”

“Tried to sleep, didn’t go over well,” he mumbled, grabbing two glasses. “Care for a glass?” he asks, already pouring one for her. He knows the answer.

“Please” she mutters, rubbing her forehead. Leon knows this look all too well. He pours them both a hefty shot, placing a glass in front of her as he takes the opposing seat to her. The rookie grabs the glass, swirling its contents around as she drinks deeply. 

“I can tell you want to say something, might as well get it off your chest,” he offers, drinking from his cup. When he was in the academy Leon used to hate straight liquor. It burned his throat and made his eyes water, stinging on the way down. Now, Leon enjoyed the burn, it reminded him he could still feel. He didn’t even flinch any more as he drank it. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” the rookie sighs. Leon can see that her eyes are glassy and bloodshot, with heavy bags under her eyes.

“I might be the only one who does,” he countered.

The rookie doesn’t say anything at first, just looking at him with a haunted expression. “I had to shoot my friend,” she said, turning her gaze to the window. The moonlight shines down on her, casting her in an ethereal glow.  “One of those infected bit her, tore a chunk right out of her arm. She swore up and down that she was fine, but after a little bit she had to sit down,” she paused, pursing her lips as she got lost in the memory. “I was holding her hand when she died, was with her to the end. But then she came back, thought maybe I was going crazy, that maybe God was looking out for me. Then she looked at me with those pale dead eyes and lunged at me. Had to put a bullet in her head.” The girl tensed, a tear rolling down her cheek.

“You did the right thing,” Leon assured her. The rookie doesn’t look very convinced, just shaking her head.  “I had to shoot my boss,” he murmured in exchange. “First day on the force back in ‘98, I was wandering the halls of the Racoon City police department when I found him. Never even got a proper chance to meet him, everything had gone to shit by the time I had arrived,” he paused to chuckle dryly. “His name was Marvin, only knew him for a few hours, but he died saving me. I wouldn’t be here without him.” Leon paused, feeling a lump in his throat. He quickly took a sip of his whiskey, not wanting to cry in front of her. “He turned too and came back as one of those creatures. Had to shoot him, right in the head,” he sighed, feeling his eyes dampen with tears.

 “Sometimes I think about all the ways I could have helped him, how maybe if I had just done something differently he would still be alive. God, maybe if I had gotten there sooner I could have saved more people..” he trailed off, realizing he was rambling.

 He clears his throat as he notices she is staring at him, a pitiful look on his face. No, it wasn't pity. Leon was far too familiar with pity, he faces it damn near every day. He can hear their hushed whispers in the office as they huddle around the water cooler, casting glances at him as he passes by. His story is infamous in the agencies he visits. Leon isn’t some fabled hero or even a person. He’s a tragedy that people love to revisit. He can’t let the past die, not when it’s become so woven into his sense of self. The girl doesn’t regard him in pity, but rather a look of mutual sorrow and misery. She doesn’t try to dab at her tears as they begin to fall more freely. 

“It was my fault my friend died,” she said, her voice thick with choked-back sobs. “I was the one who had dragged her to that game, where they released the virus,” she sniffles. “It was chaos, the stampede to leave the arena must have been worse than the infected. All you could hear was screaming, an endless roar of it. All I could focus on was her hand, gripping it to make sure she didn’t get lost in the sea of people. We were both so hopped up on adrenaline we didn’t even notice she had gotten bit,” she had to pause to take a deep breath, and regain her composure. 

“Swat team had come, every police officer in the county too,” she shakes her head as if trying to get rid of the memory. “Not that it made much of a difference, pretty sure most of them perished in the end. I grabbed a gun off of a fallen cop, and the two of us managed to get away from the crowd.” Her face scrunches up as she recounts the night. “If I hadn’t made her go, she’d maybe still be alive.”

“It’s not your fault she died,” Leon said softly, hesitating before reaching his hand out to grasp hers. “We can’t ponder on the what-ifs, at least that’s what I read in one of those psychology magazines.” This makes her chuckle, her lips curling into a small smile as their eyes meet. It’s a strange way to bond, trauma dumping in the middle of the night, but it feels as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, making it a little easier to breathe.  Moonlight drapes over them and Leon wishes he could freeze time. 

______

Gunshots cut through the silence as Leon observes the rookie shoot. Her brow is furrowed with determination, a scowl on her lips as attempts to shoot the targets in the head. Body shots at best might stun an infected, and probably won’t do jackshit against a larger mutated beast. Headshots guarantee damage to some extent at least. Her posture is perfect—confident, determined—but there's a flicker of something else in her eyes, something that catches his attention. Anger, maybe? Or frustration? The gunshot rings out again. Another headshot. The cluster of bullets digs deep into the skull of her target, her scowl morphing into a satisfied smirk at the small victory. 

“Not bad,” Leon said, a strange sense of pride welling in his chest.  “You know your way around a gun.” She pauses, lowering the weapon as she turns to look at him. Her expression shifts into something he can’t quite place.

“Thanks, the only thing my dad ever taught me,” she said, huffing a dry laugh. “Hated it at the moment, but I suppose I’m thankful now.” Her words are flippant although her body has tensed up.

“Didn’t get along so well I take it?” Leon questioned, cocking an eyebrow as he leaned against the wall. He can feel a familiar pang in his chest, the tug of commissary. 

“That would be an understatement,” she rolls her eyes, Leon watches her carefully as she clicks the safety on and places the pistol on the table, her fingers lingering on the cool metal for just a fraction of a second too long.

“He was better than some fathers... but looks like I got served a helping of daddy issues anyway. He died a few years back, sometimes I’m almost thankful he passed before..” she trails off, gesturing to the room. Her words hang in the air between them, far more intimate than she probably intended. Leon stays silent for a moment longer than usual, not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because he’s unsure if he should say anything. There's a softness in her voice he didn’t expect. He struggles to remember his father, his family was taken from him when he was little. Sometimes if he tries hard enough he can see flashes of his face and feel the warmth of his embrace. But that’s all they are. Flashes of his past.

“I get it. Doesn’t always go the way we want, does it?” Her gaze flickers over to him, catching his eyes for just a moment, and that’s when Leon feels the change in the air. The weight of the conversation lingers, and the quiet moments stretch longer between them than either of them is comfortable with.

“It never does,” she says at last, sighing as she combed her fingers through her hair. “What about you? You close with your old man?”

“Old man died along with the rest of my family when I was a kid,” Leon says with a shake of his head. He pauses, searching through the distant memories as he tries to recall what his father was like. “I don’t have any bad memories of him, but don’t have many good ones either. He’s more of a feeling that haunts me.” The rookie just looks at him with an unreadable expression, as if she’s scanning his face. 

“I guess we’re both haunted,” she says at last, breaking the silence between them. Leon can’t help but feel his lips tug into a smile. Vulnerability is not something that comes easily to him these days. It’s a weakness, something that can be used against him. Open yourself up too much and people are bound to steal bits and pieces from you. However, around the rookie, Leon can’t help but feel his walls weakening, baring his scars to her. He knows he should feel terrified to let anyone see the broken pieces of him, but all he can feel is relief that someone can see the real him.

_________

Leon can feel his heart in his throat as he sits down in Hunnigan’s office. It’s like a lump he can’t swallow, his esophagus tightening as if he’s about to choke. He knows why he was called here and it’s a moment he has been dreading since the rookie was assigned to him. He watches silently as his friend and colleague flips through the reports that he has provided on her, updates on her training and progress. The decision to send her into the field. To risk her life, to trust her on missions that could end in bloodshed or worse. He watches, almost disassociated, as Hunnigan flips through the reports on her progress.

“Everything looks good. Excellent, even,” she says, her voice smooth, confident. She adjusts her glasses, casting a rare smile in his direction. “You must feel proud.”

He just shrugs, unable to calm the nervousness swelling in his stomach.  “I’m ecstatic,” he grumbles gruffly. He knows he’s being rude, she’s congratulating him on doing his job. He trained her and turned her from a survivor to an agent deemed worthy of missions. But Leon hates the idea of her out there in the field, risking her life. Too many what-ifs float through his mind, the unpredictability of their line of work fueling doomsday scenarios in his head. 

Hunnigan doesn’t miss the bite in his tone. She glances up, her brow furrowing in mild concern, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she returns her focus to the papers in front of her, her fingers tapping lightly against the desk.

“I’m sure she’s ready,” he mutters under his breath, but it doesn’t sound convincing, even to himself. Leon’s hands twitch, itching to grab something—anything—to release the frustration building inside him. He can feel his stomach twisting into knots, and the air feels too thick to breathe.

“Leon, you did everything you could,” she says, her tone more measured now. “You trained her. You gave her the tools. Now, it’s up to her.”

Leon huffs, running a hand through his hair in frustration. His jaw clenches. “Yeah? And what happens when it’s not enough? When the situation’s too much for her? You know how unpredictable this job is. I know how unpredictable this job is.”

He stands up abruptly, pacing in front of her desk, every step fueled by the tight knot of anger and fear in his gut. His voice rises, rough with emotion. “ I didn’t sign up to watch her get torn apart, to watch everyone I fucking care about die!” hd snaps. “I did it…to protect people, to save lives. How many lives have been lost because of me? Because of my failures?” His voice trails off, the anger morphing into bitter sorrow.  Finally, he grits his teeth and mutters, “I’m not letting her get killed out there.”

Hannigan smiles faintly, but it’s not one of triumph. More like understanding. “Then trust her, Leon. She’s ready. And she’ll prove it to you.”

He opens his mouth, ready to argue again, but something in her expression stops him. With a sharp exhale, he takes a seat again, tension still coiled in every muscle. It will be different this time. 

________

It’s a quiet night, one of those rare peaceful moments that Leon always savors.  Tonight was supposed to be a celebration, a recognition of the hard work and training that had earned her a spot among the rest of them. She had passed, she was ready for missions, ready for the chaos and carnage that came with this job. And yet, all Leon could think about was the heavy weight of what that meant: ready to die.  He takes another gulp of whiskey, the burn settling somewhere in his chest. He had taken her to a nearby bar, and it by no means was an elegant establishment. The decor was dated and dusty with the patrons even more so. Leon couldn’t help but find it charming, however.

She’s sitting across from him, smiling, talking about the future, trying to hide her quelling nerves. The dim lights of the bar cast shadows over her face, her body swaying slightly as she tapped her finger along to the beat of the old jazz music that permeated from the dusty jukebox in the corner. She sips at her beer, glancing at him from the corner of her eyes as she notices him staring at her. 

“Do I have something on my face?” she asks, suddenly self-conscious as her hand rises to dab at her lips. 

He shakes his head, his lips tugging into an easy smile. “Do you want to dance?” he asks suddenly, his voice low and steady, almost like he wasn’t giving himself the chance to second-guess it. Her eyes widened a fraction in surprise. He hadn’t been one to make impulsive moves, especially with her. Still, there’s something in the way she holds her gaze that makes his stomach flutter. A chuckle escapes her, and she leans back slightly in her chair, putting on a dramatic sigh. 

“Smooth,” she teases, but she doesn’t hesitate. She slides her palm into his, letting him pull her up with a small, amused shake of her head. “But I guess I’ll accept.”

“I’m hurt,” Leon says, gasping in mock offense as he pulls her gently toward the dance floor. 

“And here I thought we had something special!” He spins her around as he pulls her close to him, hands resting on her waist as they sway to the beat.  A soft laugh bubbles out of her, warm and light, before she looks up at him, the playfulness in her eyes softening for just a moment. 

“We do,” she says quietly, her voice taking on an almost shy edge. “I don’t think I’ve been able to properly thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

The words hit him like a sudden gust of wind. Leon pauses, his heart skipping a beat. “Don’t mention it,” he says with a smile. His hand tightens slightly around hers, but he doesn’t let go. “You’re a damn good agent. You’ve earned everything.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes are focused on his face now, as if in a trance. His breath catches in his chest, and for a moment, the music around them seems to fade into a dull hum. It’s just the two of them now, dancing slowly, the rhythm of their steps matching the thudding pulse in his own heart.

Her hands slide up his arms, fingers brushing the edges of his shoulders as she pulls him into an embrace,  He can feel the warmth of her body, the soft thumping of her heart against him. Leon’s own heart picks up speed, not used to such physical displays of genuine affection. 

The distance between them feels like it’s finally being bridged. Something unspoken lingers in the air, a fragile tension that neither of them can ignore anymore. His hands find her waist, and he pulls her just a little closer, feeling the slight hitch in her breath as she melts into him.

She stays quiet for a moment, her body moving gently with his, the music guiding their movements. 

“Leon,” she whispers, her voice low but sincere, “I don’t think I ever said it, but… I trust you. More than anyone.” A lump forms in his throat, and he closes his eyes for a second, steadying himself. He pulls back just a bit, enough to look into her eyes. 

“You don’t have to say it,” he says, his voice soft. “I know.” The space between them, once filled with the unspoken tension of their roles, seems to vanish. And in that moment, Leon realizes that it’s not just trust they share—it’s something deeper, something neither of them had been willing to acknowledge until now. Her hand rises to his chest, pressing against his heart as their faces draw nearer. The soft glow of the bar lights paints everything in shades of amber, casting them in a haze of fleeting warmth.

“Leon,” she murmurs again, her voice barely a breath against his lips. He doesn’t need her to finish the sentence. He can feel it in the way her body trembles just slightly as she leans in, her lips so close to his that he can almost taste the moment. Without thinking, he closes the distance between them, the kiss soft and gentle, all things Leon isn’t used to. It’s a slow realization, a gradual unfolding of something neither of them had anticipated—but something that feels right. The world outside this quiet moment fades away. All that’s left is the warmth that Leon has been seeking for so long.

_________________

Everything has gone to hell. It started decently enough, a typical case of a B.O.W that had been released into the public, stirring up terror. It all went wrong so fast. An explosion rattles through the air, and Leon can feel the heat from the flames, the force pushing him back, falling onto the pavement. The pain from the impact is forgotten as he hears her scream. His heart stops beating as he forces himself up, finding a new sense of adrenaline as he races to where the creature has her cornered. It's one hell of a genetic fuck-up, a big hulking beast with withered skin that looks like it’s been burnt. Elongated limbs drag on the ground as it skulks toward her, bony claws decorating the tips. Its gnashing teeth are aimed at ripping into her throat, the beast's mouth is already stained with blood. Leon can’t think straight, the only thing in his mind is her. He races as fast as his strained legs can carry him, a wild frantic look in his eyes as he raises his gun to aim. The creature has her in its grip, its mutated hand grabbing her by the throat, threatening to crush her windpipe as it dangles her above the pavement. 

“No!” Leon cries out, feeling as though his entire world might shatter. Her legs are twitching and kicking, eyes bulging out of her skull as she opens her mouth in a vain attempt to suck in even a breath of air. Leon aims and sends a cluster of bullets towards its skull. The beast roars in pain, flinging the girl against the pavement as it lumbers towards him. Leon grits his teeth as he sends more bullets flying toward it, and by some sheer luck, one manages to go right through its eye. He breathes out a sigh of relief as it finally stumbles forward, succumbing to the fatal blow. His victory is short-lived though, his eyes falling on the rookie. She still hasn’t moved, remaining limp on the cold cement. Leon kneels beside her, ignoring the pain from his own aching body as he gently cradles her in his arms. She is pliable and unmoving, like a ragdoll in his arms as he brings her to his chest. Her lips are tinged blue from lack of oxygen and her neck is inflamed from the strangulation, but Leon breathes out a sigh of relief as his fingers find her pulse, a steady thump emanating from her. As the chaos fades away, reinforcements finally arrive at the scene, Leon holds her in his arms, unwilling to let go. A medic approaches, trailed by a pair of agents. 

"Please," he bemoans, trying to quell the fear in his heart as the medic kneels down beside him, gently taking the girl from his arms. He watches intently, trying to ignore the growing tightness in his chest. She was hurt. He hadn't been enough to protect her and she had gotten hurt. He feels tears prick in the corners of his eyes and he has to remind himself that he is being watched and judged right now. Leon forces himself to remain stoic, however on the inside, he can't help but lament that he failed her. 

____________

The days following the mission were quiet. Leon had invited her to rest in his apartment, not trusting those bastards to give her the proper time to recover. It was strange having another person in his space, hell, he wasn’t used to having his own space. The apartment was a place he felt he hardly spent time in, being shipped around at the government's whim. It was nice to have something in his name though, and even nicer to have someone share it with him. The rookie made his sterile apartment feel more like a home than it ever had before. Leon fell into the role of caretaker quickly, letting her rest in his bed as he brought her tea for her throat and helped bandage her wounds. She would lament, saying she wasn’t dead yet and could care for herself, rolling her eyes playfully whenever he poked his head in to check on her. He couldn’t help himself though, part of him was still in shock that she was alive, that she had come out of that mission with her heart still beating. Leon knew his feelings weren’t strictly platonic, not after the kiss they had shared at the bar, not after the soul-sucking fear he had felt after cradling her limp body amidst the aftermath of the chaos. Feelings were a luxury he hadn’t let himself indulge in in years. This isn't lust, he knows that much. Lust is like a quelling fire that burns in his gut, one that’s hot and heavy and must be put out lest he be driven mad. No, how he feels is not a burning passion, but a steady flame, like laying by a crackling hearth and letting the warmth wash over him. As he looks into her eyes, he feels as if he is home. Leon isn’t sure if he has ever experienced love, but he imagines that this is what it feels like. 

One evening as they are sitting on the edge of his bed, only half paying attention to a movie he had rented, he turns to look at her, feeling his chest swell with that warm fuzzy emotion again. He doesn’t have to put up a facade of strength and bravery, a performance of a loyal government agent. With her, she sees him for what he is. A scared broken man. Leon can’t afford to be vulnerable very often, neither of them could, but perhaps for now they could both step out of their protective shells and be who they are.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, mesmerized by her. She turns to meet his gaze, eyes wide in surprise. She doesn’t say anything at first, the silence deafening as Leon starts to wonder if perhaps this was a mistake. 

“I love you too,” she finally admits, her hand reaching for his as he meets her halfway, tenderly holding hands as if they were a pair of schoolchildren in the playground. Leon can feel his heart swell, his mind growing fuzzy as he tries to wrap his head around this feeling. Relationships are impractical in this line of work, and he can’t be certain of his future, much less one he could have with her. To calm the flood of emotions that are coursing through him he does the only thing he knows that can calm him. He lurches forward like a man possessed, crashing his lips to hers as his hand comes up to clasp his face, her palm gently grasping his cheek as if he was a piece of treasure that might slip through her fingers less she is too rough. It’s an odd feeling, to be cherished Leon thinks to himself as he kisses her. He doesn’t think of himself as worthy enough to be cherished, to be loved at all. In his mind, he is unworthy, just a broken man who isn’t sure of what exactly he is doing, not used to making his own choices in life. But as the kiss grows more heated, Leon can only think of one thing he wants to do. To worship the woman he loves.

Leon falls to his knees before her. He doesn’t believe in God, not anymore at least. But as he looks up at her angelic face, he imagines this is what God’s love must feel like; warm and comforting, ever-present as he feels the adoration inside of him, seeping into his bone marrow. She spreads open her thighs and Leon doesn’t hesitate to close the gap between them. His tongue is pressed flat against her core, licking a steady stripe up her slit. He can’t tell if it's her musky sweet scent that makes him feel as though he has been electrocuted or the way she parts her lips and moans, but the feeling shoots straight to his groin. 

“Don’t hold back angel, I want to hear you sing” he murmurs into her folds, pressing kisses to her clit as she arches her back as he wraps his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves. He buries his face into her core, her legs twitching as they wrap around his head, pulling him in closer. She’s whimpering and moaning as Leon has his mouth around her clit, tongue swirling around it as he slowly sinks a finger into her. The tightness is warm and wet and Leon can’t help but groan at the feeling. He sinks his finger into the knuckle before pulling out, slowly easing another one into her. He pauses as she adjusts to the feeling, holding still to simply bask in the way she looks. Mouth open, frozen in wanton pleasure as she starts to squirm, a silent plea for him to continue. Leon happily obliged, building up a steady pace with fingers, the room echoing with a mixture of her moans and the squelching of her arousal. His fingers thrust into her at an angle, finding that special spongy spot as her breaths came out in pants. Leon couldn’t help but feel a smirk tug at his lips as he began to repeat his motions, watching in awe as her chest heaved and her stomach tightened. A few quick kitten licks to her clit had her throwing back her head, her fingers entangling themselves in his hair. As she comes undone, he continues to work her through her orgasm, fingers finally slipping out as he pulls his face back, his chin glossy with her arousal. He crawls up her body, running a hand along the curves of her face as he presses his lips to hers and he can’t help but melt into her. She is everything he is not, and he feels as though he has found a missing piece of his soul.

“I love you,” Leon murmurs, breaking away to gaze into her eyes. He can’t bring himself to care about the ramifications of his actions, the potential discourse of his admission of affection. At this moment, he is not an agent, he’s just a man in love. 

“I love you too,” the rookie whispers back, reaching up and placing a chaste kiss on his lips. Leon groans softly, feeling all too aware of his growing desire. The rookie reaches up, wrapping her arms around his neck, and pulls him back to her. 

“I’m ready if you are,” she says, her lips ghosting over his ear. Leon suppresses a shudder as meets her lips in a kiss, his free hand grasping the base of his cock as he runs in through her slick folds. With a groan he slowly sinks into her, the warmth enveloping him as he loses himself to her. He stills for a moment, the pair basking in the feeling of becoming one before Leon slowly starts to thrust, pulling out before gently thrusting back up into her. A whine leaves his mouth before he can stop it, the pleasure is all-consuming as he keeps up a gentle thrust. Her arms cling to him, a hand trailing down his back. Leon can’t tell where he ends and where she begins, all he can feel is the tightening of his stomach, his pace becoming more erratic as the coil inside him grows taut. He raises her thigh, pulling back slightly to worm a hand between the two of them, his calloused finger on her clit as he massages it, building up the pace until he can feel her clench around him, her whines and moans growing to a high pitch. Leon watches as her body begins to shake against him, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead as he waits for her to finish.  It’s a beautiful sight to watch her come undone against him, her cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. With a final grunt, he pulls out, his hip bucking upward into his hand as cums on her stomach, his body shaking from the feeling.

He falls beside her, his hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, his chest heaving from exertion. His arms wrap around her, pulling her close to him as he closes his eyes and presses a kiss to her temple. There are no words to be said. The night will soon end and it will be a new day. Leon isn’t sure what the future holds for them as their lives are not theirs to control. If he could freeze time he would spend an eternity like this, pressed up against her, frozen in a kiss until the end of time. Leon couldn’t think of a more beautiful existence. 

Note: I hope you've enjoyed this! Posting makes me nauseous lol. If there are any errors I apologize!

Tag:@tarantulasnot

[fangsandfeels]

I gained the next level of appreciation for how well Dragon Age 2 understood trauma, the ugly side of it.

I don't blame Fenris. I understand why after enduring years and years of abuse, humiliation, having your autonomy, your memories, everything that constituted you including your own name stripped away from you, you have no empathy for anyone reminiscent of your abusers - especially if nobody came to save you in the end and you are the only one fighting for your life and freedom. I understand why upon hearing how someone (who reminds you of your abusers) suffers unfairly, the only thing you can say is "Good" - and lash out at anyone trying to tell you off for it. Where all these fucking preachers were when you were suffering? Why even in the land that is supposed to be different from your own hellhole, your word and your experience still don't matter?

I don't blame Anders. I understand why after being betrayed by your own parent, after the decades of listening how you must suffer for the sin of being born, being confined to isolation, being treated like a monster while being a child, being denied the simplest of comforts, you fiercely defend people who share your abilities - because nobody else would ever look out for you and them. Of course you would clash even with someone who has legitimate reasons to be negative towards people like you because your own wounds sting more than their pain. You have dealt with the Chantry's vile propaganda for so long, you no longer take things at face value. Of course, Chantry would say that the foreign land where mages rule is foul, and corrupt, and full of blood magic and demons! So many times rumors, lies, and twisted religious depictions have been used to abuse, lobotomize, and enslave you, you're no longer letting it happen - and you only believe what you see and hear. And all you see around is injustice and indifference. And you're only the one screaming into the void, raging against the horrors everybody else is willingly blind to.

I don't blame them both for losing their mind in their own ways while the rest of the group silently wondered why they couldn't just be normal.

Personally, I don't think there was any chance for them to become friends or make peace during the events of the game. The "I suffered so I don't want anyone to suffer like I did" or "I'm a bigger person" are pretty lies and half-truths at worst. At best, they are mindsets only possible after someone who suffered finally feels safe and can be out of their survival mode. Which is not really true for Fenris and Anders, even during the final act of the story.

Even on high friendship or romance, Anders is still self-destructive, ready to die at Hawke's hands after launching his plan in motion. Even with a friend/lover at his side, he is alone in his head, in his vision of the world, in his pain.

Even with proper support and help, it takes Fenris three years to accept a relationship, but it doesn't change his perspective and if you don't have enough of his trust, you lose him to his trauma-based response.

I may be overthinking it, but I am truly thankful to the game for not toning down the complex, hard and uncomfortable aspects of trauma. People have always been in love with the concept of the perfect victim (who hates only "the right" bad guys and suddenly knows when to be tolerant, nice and accepting and doesn't say any rancid and hateful shit ever), but it became particularly aggravating lately.