#and like is having his blood a good thing or a bad thing they are getting confused. bc ace said before dying that he has a demons blood...

[zomgcaleb]

time of the month

-`♡´- synopsis — based on this drabble, extra blurb at the end.

-`♡´- tags — bunnyhybrid!xavier, bunny rut cycle, m!masturbation, xavier stealing your clothes, panty sniffing, pillow humping, mutual pining, scent kink, spitting (once), mating press, handjob, oral f!receiving, overstimulation (?), multiple orgasms m!receiving, xavier calls you master, cockwarming, biting, breeding kink, aftercare, whiny!xavier, kinda pathetic!xavier, sex with feelings, porn with plot, love bombs, marking, premature ejactulation, xavier passes out (he's fine), dom!xavier, tummy bulge, creampie, unprotected p in v sex (be safe please)

minors do not interact — 18+ only!!

wc — 6.2k

quick context — male bunnies typically lose consciousness temporarily after ejaculation

notes — not proofread!! i haven’t written a fic like this in quite a while, so i hope it’s somewhat coherent and you enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it ^^

He could feel it. It wasn’t far away. The blood in his veins felt like fire. An invincible flame that nothing could quell… except…

You were none the wiser of this ordeal, hacking away at the vegetables you’re preparing for the soup you’re making for dinner.

Xavier bounced his leg to the rhythm of his thoughts. You’d surely be getting suspicious by now, about the stains on your pillows. His heart plummeted when you confronted him about it, the limp pillow case dangling from your fingers. To his fortune, his lucky stars, you begin to ramble about a supposed leak in the ceiling. ‘I knew our insulation was getting bad but not that bad’ you’d told him. The relief he felt came in strong intense waves and in blew a high he carried for days. You’d hadn’t caught him yet.

You’d hadn’t caught him so he can do it again.

But his streak soon ends when you came home from work early one day and a strange knock sounded at the door. It was a maintenance worker. A maintenance worker who took a look at your insulation systems and said they were perfectly fine.

A maintenance worker who just replanted the seed of doubt in Xavier’s garden of ecstasy. How was he supposed to spend his ruts without his only outlet? Now that he thinks hard about it, they’ve been lasting longer and longer. It seems his makeshift methods have grown stale.

Maybe he should pretend to run away. No, that’s stupid. Maybe he’ll come up with a distraction…But, what kind of rouse would last a whole week?

Xavier shakes his head to calm his racing heart and huffs dejectedly. He listens to calming sounds of your kitchen tools clanking softly and with a twitch of his ear his eyes shoot open.

Maybe… he can convince you it was your idea.

He’s seen the way you look at him when you think he can’t see you. He’s noticed the glimmer in your eye when you take care of him. He’s even noticed the way you touch him, or rather, that places you touch. If he thinks hard enough he can still remember the feeling of your fingertips on his neck as you checked his temperature after his last rut. You’d been so worried he’d shut himself away and his chest tightened painfully at your confession that night.

You’d thought you’d done something to upset him.

He can’t let things go how they are for much longer.He’s starting to make you doubt yourself.

It ultimately comes down to two outcomes. None being good. You either find out of his naughty endeavors eventually, or his long, grueling, unsatisfying ruts will give him away anyway.

His brows crease in distaste.

Before he can spiral anymore into his rabbit hole you call him sweetly from the dining room. Dinner was ready.

He was certain now. Or at least more certain than he was.

You both sat at the table to eat, like you normally would. However he couldn’t shake the feeling of a watchful eye…like usual. He tried not to make anything of it really. He was a bunny hybrid. His fluffy ears were hard to miss. But due to his earlier turmoil he paid closer attention this time. To what you were looking at.

He was wearing a rather old t shirt. It’s been out through the wringer a number of times, used for various activities like painting, cleaning. Whatever you wouldn’t want on a shirt you actually like.

He was doing laundry last week when he noticed the collar had been snagged. Not enough to really make him think to throw it away but it wasn’t too noticeable... Except since now that he wears it, it sags pitifully below his collarbones.

You definitely noticed.

He’d trailed your wandering eyes through his peripherals right to his neck. At first he wasn’t sure what to do with his finding. It wasn’t until he finally looked over at you that your eyes meet and he sees a glint of something.

Of want. Of desire. The same one he has when you bend down in front of him…or when you lick the batter off the spatula and moan in delight..or when he smells your perfume in the bathroom after you’ve left for work…

It was then, he knew exactly what to do.

The tests started small. A fleeting touch here, a lingering stare there, hugs that last for a little too long. But it wasn’t enough. Not to make you crack.

He needed to get you to act first. And quick. It wasn’t until his skin starts to burn deliciously when you touched him and his brain starts to fog with—indecent—thoughts of you that he gets his rude awakening.

His rut was coming, and fast. He needed to up the ante somehow.

He lays helplessly in his bed. His body suffering from a heat wave all too familiar. It was faint, few and far inbetween but its effects showed no mercy. His hands clutched a shirt you’d gotten together at a new park stand that sold lemonade. It was a grand opening souvenir you’d gotten from the tender and you’d been so happy with it. It was big on you, too big. You’d both shared a laugh at the time when you slipped it over your top and it draped down to your knees.

The graphic was stupid and hard to look at. He thinks if he thought hard enough he’d be able to come up with something better. Something less of an eyesore.

But right now…he couldn’t seem look away.

He’d waltzed into your room the next day with innocent intent, trying to find a pen to finish the grocery list, when he saw the crumbled yellow fabric of it tangled in the sheets of your bed. He held it up, chuckling as he reminisced. But before he could put it down he gets a whiff of you. Your perfume, your deodorant, the conditioner you use; it even smelt faintly of him. It was enough for him to take it.

And now, it was clutched tightly between his fingers, sniffing wildly at the ugly fabric as each wet schlick of his other hand filled the room. His breath hitched softly, his voice catching in his throat. The smell of you was faded and weaker than before as it’d been a while since it’s left his bed, but it still quelled the heat growing in his core nonetheless.

If he closed his eyes he could picture your hand instead of his, gripping his weeping cock tightly—possessively. He’d be so pliant, yielding to your every word yet you’d tease him anyway.

“Please….” Xavier wheezed. His voice was strained and rightfully so. His cock bobbed against his abs, demanding attention with his angry pink tip. Spurts of pre-cum glisten against the ambient lights of his room.

He wants to touch you. His hands need to grip and kneed at your hips—at your waist, to fondle what ever he can reach and burn the feeling into memory. He’s so tired of looking longingly from a distance. To not be able to have you whenever he wants.

Oh, how he’s wanted to kiss you sweetly before bed every night. Or hold you from behind to nuzzle into your neck, only to bite softly into the juncture of your shoulder. You’d gasp in surprise, so cute and helpless pressed against him like that.

“Hah…“ Xavier’s hips thrust into his hand. Faster. Tighter. His hands start to get sweaty and his hair sticks to his forehead. He was already so close, the rising heat of his orgasm was only getting stronger and his stomach drops.

With a long lingering sniff of your shirt he presses it to his tip as his cock twitches. A groan rumbles in his throat as hot white ropes erupt into the fabric, soaking it almost completely. He chants your name softly, mumbling to himself as he fucks himself through his high; his thrusts slow and he hums at the warm feeling of cum coating his fingers. The once vibrant yellow turns into a muddy mustard variant and he only stares down at it with a glaze over his eyes.

It’s ruined…looks like he’ll have to borrow another one.

Xavier sighs. His ears are flopped over his pillows and his tail flicks behind him.

What can he do to occupy your head like you do his? How can he get under your skin?

Under… your skin…

Well, if you liked his ogling his neck, you should like this, right?

He’d woken up the next morning and did his usual routine—with a slight tweak. Brushing his teeth, making his bed, changing out of his pajamas…Only this time instead of digging around in his drawer and throwing on the first feel of soft cotton up and over his head, he just…didn’t.

He was shirtless and shivered at the unfamiliar breeze of the cold AC against his chest before strolling out into the hallway.

-`♡´-

It was almost as if he’d developed an estranged allergy to wearing a shirt the next two days.

You’d wondered what the sudden interest in this behavior was considering Xavier wasn’t exactly the type to do such a thing so excessively. Not to mention bunnies were prone to temperature change and if anything it made you worry. It didn’t last long enough for you to ask about it but you kept it in mind.

You kept in mind the sleek curves of his collarbones…and the ripples of his back when he rolled his shoulders— the dip of his back to the twitch of his cute little cotton tail.

But mostly his unusual behavior, of course…

You’d thought that maybe it was just a fleeting habit, something that would show its head for a bit before going dormant.

Well it didn’t.

It was movie night. The one night out of the week that was designated for the both of you to relax, unwind, to make up lost time with each other. And relax you did—until you didn’t.

You’d hadn’t even managed to sink into the couch properly before Xavier walks over to you, casual as ever, dressed so non-casually.

The obvious bulge in his sweats was staring at you through the whole movie. You tried not to make eye contact but the act was almost impossible. You wanted to look. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. However, that didn’t stop your cheeks from heating, or quell your racing heart at the thought that…you could just.. grab it. What kind of owner would that make you though? Taking advantage of your sweet bunny? You worry your lip in between your teeth as you move to sit on your hands.

You didn’t want him to shut himself away. Again. You went a whole week without seeing him and it crushed you. You hated it. So you keep a comfortable distance in hopes that you won’t upset him.

This was only the beginning.

Eventually it got to the point where he’d walk around in nothing but a towel every night after his bath. His actions seemed more deliberate after a while.

He’d hold your hips to slide past you in the kitchen. he’d lean over you and peer at you from above with those beautiful blue eyes when you sat on the couch. He’d sit and watch an episode of your favorite show next to you, legs spread and skin still glistening with water.

It wasn’t until tonight that he’d seemed to have had enough.

“Why won’t you touch me?”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise and you start to choke on your own spit. You shove your bookmark in the book you were reading and practically toss it onto the table by the couch.

You clear your throat with a curt grunt before facing him with teary eyes. “Xavier, what are you talking about?”

He stands there, looking down his nose at you with an unreadable expression. His eyebrows are scrunched and he can’t quite seem to meet your eyes, opting to stare at a spot on the floor. It was extremely mundane compared to you.

“It’s…I’m so..hot.” He whispers. His fingers twitch at his sides.

You soon wear a look of concern. Now that you’re looking at him his chest is heaving a little heavier than normal. His forehead shines faintly with a sheen of sweat and you tilt your head confused.

“What do you mean? What’s the matter?” When he doesn’t answer right away you shift to the edge of the couch and widen your knees, just enough for him to fit through. You sit up straight and pat your lap. “C’mere.”

Hesitantly, he sinks down to his knees before you, nestling in between yours with his hands in his lap. He sneaks a glance at you but quickly turns away.

You press the back of your hand just above his eyebrows. “You are hot…” you trail off. Before you think to stop yourself, you drag your hand along his neck and he flinches. You retract your hand as if it had been burned. “…and flustered.” You whisper. “Is that why you’ve been acting so weird lately? Are you getting sick?”

Xavier sighs. “It seems…I am.” His velvety voice echoes throughout the living room and suddenly the air feels hard to breathe. His hands move from his lap to trail his fingertips up your calves. When he reaches your knees his fingers draw petite patterns along your knee caps. “But…there’s only one way to take care of me when I’m this way.”

Finally, he meets your eyes and you see it. He looks hazy, almost drunk off the tension that swells in the room. Your breath becomes shaky and you feel like you can’t move. Probably because, you can’t. Not anymore.

Xavier’s hands rest beside your hips and he rises, slowly, almost predatory. If the situation had been less intimate, you’d laugh at the irony. All you can do right now is stare at him in anticipation and you start to lean back instinctively as he gets closer. Your elbows catch you as collapse under him.

Your gaze flickers down to his shirtless torso but you look away shamefully. Xavier’s fingers quickly grip your jaw and turn you to face him. Your noses are almost touching and his eyes bore into yours with something desperate.

His warm minty breath hits your face when he speaks. “You seem to know all about how to deal with bunnies, right? Then…” he takes your wrist in his grip and spreads your palm over his chest, “you don’t need any hints?” He keeps his gaze level with yours and he starts to push your hand. Down, down, down. You feel the divot between his pecs and soon the ridges in his abs. It wasn’t long before you were dangerously close to the waistband of his abnormally low pajama pants. Ones that appeared to have a suggestive tent growing in them.

Before you can reach it you resist against him, your arm twitching to pull away. He stops but he doesn’t let go of your wrist.

“Xavier you..w-we can’t.” You try to contain the way your body warms at his ministrations yet, your voice is breathless as if it was punched out of you.

You startled slightly when his knees hit the floor, his body shakes and crumples into your lap. He talks before you can.

“Why?” His voice was deep, deeper than you’d ever heard it and firm, albeit shaky in his current unfamiliar condition. “Why—Why won’t you…” his breath is heavy against your thighs and his back heaves with every inhale.

Your eyes are wide in surprise. Your eyebrows crinkle when you suddenly remember something, something you’d buried inside your head a long time ago when you first looked into homing a hybrid like Xavier. It was a notice that warned new partners of… particular seasonal behaviors. It clicks in your head and your hand hovers over Xavier’s head reluctantly.

“Xavier, are you…in some sort of heat?”

His body jolts and you feel something hard brush against your legs. It’s as if the dam breaks and he keens loudly at the feeling. He tries to catch his breath to reply. “I—hah—I want you to make it go away. Please...” His big, glassy blue eyes look up at you and your body gets shocked with arousal. “…Master.” You gasp quietly and feel the heat flare in your core. You fidget slightly in his grasp. Is this really happening?

You reach out to him and cup his cheek, an innocent gesture, but the second he feels your touch it’s like he can’t live without it. He shoves his face into your palm and his lips part to moan. His hips start to pick up a languid rhythm as he humps against you.

“I tried so hard to get your attention. You didn’t reach out to me, not once. Didn’t even look at me.” Xavier shakes his head frantically. His thrusts get firmer and rock with intent before coming to a jarring halt. His head drops from your hand and the tips of his bangs tickle your thighs. “Do you…regret bringing me here?”

You grip his face and lift his head up to face you. You use your fingers to scrunch his lips into a small pout. You lean down and press them into yours, kissing him with a longing you’ve held for a while. You hoped he could feel it. He groans sweetly and you separate with a soft smack. “Xavier I could never regret you. I wanted to touch you I just.. I didn’t want you to think I was taking advantage of you.”

He perks up at this, looking up questioningly at your confession. You shake your head dismissively and smile before pecking his forehead, letting go of his face to push coaxingly against his shoulder. “Switch with me. Let’s take care of you, bunny. Yeah?”

His breath hitches in his throat and he groans, eyes squeezing shut to nod aggressively. He quickly takes your spot and now it’s you who’s leaning over him, plopping down to sit on his thighs. You take a moment to truly breathe him in. Xavier was a gorgeous man. Even now with the new and unfamiliar shift in your dynamic, this was the first time you could truly admire him. No sneaking glances or peeking through cracks in the doors, or staring at him through photos you’ve taken together. And this time, he’s actually looking back at you, with the same feverish want.

You start with his ears. They’ve been bobbing on top of his head, standing proud as if begging for attention. You couldn’t help yourself when you reach up to touch them, gently grazing and caressing the fluffy outer shell, just the way he likes. He grunts and you feel his hips stutter. His hands quickly find purchase on your thighs and you feel his fingers dig into you firmly.

You glance down at the sizable bump that sits right below his waistband. It throbs angrily as if trying to escape its confines, trying to get to you. His eagerness is really turning you on.

Your eyes drag up, and up, past the faint veins under his belly button and the chiseled creases of his stomach. Right to his collarbones. You salivate at the thought of finally being able to take the soft, almost porcelain skin into your mouth and ruining it with pretty, red and purple splotches—like you’ve always imagined.

Your eyes settle on his face and dark, half lidded eyes look back at you. His long lashes flutter with anticipation and he tries hard to keep himself from squirming.

However, the second you dip down to take the skin between your lips, he blows caution to the wind. You sink your teeth into the junction between his neck and shoulder and he whimpers. Right into your ear. The sound rings through your ears and clouds your brain, and you don’t register the way you start to bounce at first. It was the pitchy moans and cries that sounded soon after that snapped you out of your haze.

His hips start to buck, searching for something, anything, to tame the heat in his abdomen. He groans with frustration when he realizes you’re sitting too far back and grinding against the fabric of his pajamas is not enough. Your name flows from his mouth in a sickly sweet plead.

You hum into his neck and lick over the mark tenderly, giving it a firm suck before you grab his hips and press them down into the couch.

“Be still, baby. Let your Master claim you. You want that, right?” You purr, choosing another spot to nip the skin between your teeth. He nods, wrapping his arm around your waist while the other trails up your back to tangle his fingers in your hair. Every suck, every lick made him twitch but he endured it. You finally pull back and he looks dazed. His cheeks are red and flushed, and there’s red marks littering his lip where he’s sunk his teeth into it.

Before you can act he thrusts forward, smashing his lips into yours. His hands come to cup and hold your face as he leans back, taking you with him. Your hands are spread over his chest for stability as he devours you and swallows the noises you make. He tugs at the hem of your shirt and you pull away to rip it off, tossing it somewhere on the other end of the couch.

“So pretty…” he mumbles, softly palming the lacy fabric of your bra. He leans forward to kiss the peaks of your boobs before trailing sloppy open mouth kisses up your neck to your jaw. You sigh, dragging one of your hands down his torso, to hook into his pants. With a swift tug you pull them down and tuck them under his balls, his cock slouches from its own weight to rest on his stomach.

You curse at the sight of him. It was smooth like the rest of him. The head was a pretty pink, glistening in so much pre you start to wonder if he’d cum already at some point. You take him in your hand and immediately his head is thrown back. He arches towards you, a whimper on the tip of his tongue. Thanks to his leaky tip it easy for your hand to glide against his length. It soon leaks over the top of your fingers and you bite your lip at the feeling.

“Mmm. S…Stroke me faster, Angel. Please.” He whines breathlessly, his chest heaves violently with every breath and his thighs shake and tense. “Faster, faster, faster…” you follow his instruction, your grip tightening and all that fills the room is the naughty shlicks and moans coming from Xavier. “Yes. Thankyouthankyouthankyou.”

Finally, finally. He feels your soft skin touch him like this. It was euphoric. The tension in his core was about to snap and he had no time to prepare. This was so much better than what a pillow could give him, or a shirt. His eyes roll back under his eyelids and he can’t seem to shut up. Your hands slide and grope at his chest and he feels an overwhelming rush of adrenaline that he can’t ignore. With what strength he has he hoists himself up to nuzzle into your neck, huffing the sweet scent of you and pressing heated kisses to wherever he could reach. Between the pace you’re going and the weight of you on top of him he’s going to blow his load. Right now.

His body goes rigid and his hand flies up to grip your wrist. “Don’t stop. I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum—m’cumming.” His cock was hot to the touch and pulsed aggressively in your hand. White runny ropes of cum stream out and down his tip, running over your fingers to pool at his base. He continues to writhe and wiggle, thrusting into the comfort of your hand through his orgasm.

You loosen your grip when he starts to grunt, giving one last stroke before it flops between you. It was…still hard. As a rock.

Suddenly you feel as though you’re about to fall backwards. Your legs hug his waist and your arms are thrown around his neck. Xavier props you up in his arm and hold you close with the other. “Hold on to me.” He whispers.

You nod, placing a soft kiss just below his chin. He hums, rubbing your back soothingly with his thumb and placing soft pecks of his own against the span of your neck.

Soon your back hits the soft padding of your bed and you grab at Xavier to follow suit. You pull him into sweet kiss and you both hum in delight, Xavier shifts from where he lays comfortably on top of you, pinning you to the mattress.

“I really want to taste you, Angel. May I?” He sits up on his forearms and litters your face with kisses. Kissing your eyes, your nose, your cheeks, your temples. You giggle and his heart sings at the noise.

“Yes, bunny.”

He sighs softly, pressing a final kiss to your lips before he sinks down. His lips kiss and lick down your navel to the start of your pajama shorts. He hooks his fingers into the elastic and pulls, tossing them to the side. All that’s left is your panties. They’re a beautiful light blue with lace trim with a cute little bow on top. He thanks his lucky stars for this moment. You looked like some kind of sexy present for him to unwrap. Only for him.

He groans at the wet patch right in the middle. Right where the entrance of your cute little cunt was. Just leaking, begging for him.

“It’s for you.” You call out. He looks up at you through his lashes and the view is burned into brain. You’re bashful now, having being spread open for him like this. Your face is flushed and the curves of your body align perfectly in this angle.

He curses to himself, opting to caress the skin of your inner thighs with his lips. He stops and glances at you again with those deep blue eyes. “I think…” another kiss, “it’s only fair to give you some of my marks as well.” He happily decorates your thighs with purple marks of his own, even forming one into the shape of a heart. You moan dreamily, trying to fight off the urge to close your legs around his head already.

He shoves his nose deeeep into your panties, inhaling deeply at the scent of your arousal. His ears twitch above him and you can even see his tail wag briefly.

“You smell so good. Mm.” He nuzzles into your cunt and his nose catches your clit. It was also mindnumbing how sensitive you were. You jolt with a gasp and your thighs threaten to close on him but he wraps his arms under your legs to keep them apart. His fingers make dents in the soft skin, the sight was erotic.

He places a few more kisses to your cunny before licking a fat stripe right down the middle. Your hips buck at the stimulation but it wasn’t quite enough. You pout down at him. “Don’t tease me, Xavier.”

He chuckles, so quiet it was almost to himself you think. “You got to have your fun. Now I’ll have mine.” He gives your clit a sloppy kiss and pulls your panties to the side. Your slick clings to crotch, seeming as if it didn’t want to let go but it finally pops off, connected by hypnotizing strings.

Xavier groans and wastes no more time. His lips wrap around your clit and suck, your back arches off the bed in ecstasy. Hot waves of heat shoot through your limbs and you keen at him, reach down to card your fingers through his hair and rub at his ears. He moans into your cunt and the vibrations make you shiver.

“You feel—hn—so good.” You cry out shakily. Your hands tighten their grip against his scalp and he grunts, the bed started to wobble as he bucks against the mattress. You feel a pop in your lip as you bite it, the faint taste of copper fills your mouth. His tongue moves up and down in a steady pace, catching and swirling around your hard bud. The tip of it teases the rim of your entrance before easing in, your legs resist and against his grip to close but to no avail.

“You’re so pretty. So pretty, Angel.” He slurs. “Think of you spread for me like this when I touch myself. Love how your body squirms, just from my mouth.”

He spits on cunt and uses it to glide across your clit in quick circles.

“I need you, I need you so bad.” Xavier kisses around your labia tenderly only to dive back in, swallowing whatever he’s able to take from you.

“Xavier, baby, please.” Your hips grind in tangent with his face and you feel your eyes cross. One of your hands moves from his silky strands to grip the sheets instead.

“Gonna cum for me, Master? Give it to me. Let me have it, let your bunny have it—please.” His thrusts start to stutter and he whimpers. His hand leaves your thigh to grab yours, untangling your fingers from the sheets to intertwine them with his own. “Cum for me so I can fill you up.”

Your core tightens and snaps all at once. With a wanton moan you arch into mouth, squeezing his hand to ground you. He squeezes back, eyes fluttering shut as he erupts into your pretty bedsheets.

The room is filled with heavy panting and soft groans. You sounded so good together.

You’re still basking in your afterglow when Xavier sits up, climbing over you with a new glint in his eye. You glance down to see his raging erection is still seeking satisfaction.

“Angel, I need to be inside of you. Please, sweetheart open.” He grabs at your legs that lay limp between his and his hands under your knees to throw them over his shoulders. His brows furrow at the burning sensation of his skin. The tip of his cock kisses the soft plush of your entrance and he looks at you, swooping down to take your lips as his hips push forward.

You’ve never felt so full than you do now, the walls of your wet cunt cling to his cock like a lifeline. You moan into each other at the stretch, his hands once again searching for yours, desperate to ground himself to you like and anchor at sea. His mind is lost in you and only you can find him.

His touches are firm but gentle. He works you open, taking in every jolt and twitch of your body. The feeling he was chasing was finally his, the warm suction of your pussy was slowly taming the fire that lit his bones. His voices catches in his throat.

He needed more. More more more more.

Xavier pulls away from your lips with a soft smack but he doesn’t stray far, he leans forward to touch his forehead to yours and your breaths combine.

“H-How do you feel, does it hurt?”

You shake your head firmly. “Good. Can feel you…” you grab his wrist and drag it over you, pressing his palm flat against your stomach. “Right here.”

“Shit.” Xavier feels the push and pull of his cock inside you, and his jaw drops at the revelation that every inch of him has been accepted by you. He’s touching parts of you that no one else will ever come close to and it makes him crazy.

“Go faster.” You whine, hooking your heels into his lower back. “I can take it, bunny, promise. Use me to feel better.” You coo at him.

“But I want this to be special.” His pace picks up and you see a line a drool start to spill over his lip. “Love you. I love you…loveyouloveyouloveyou—“

He attacks your neck, licking and sucking colorful spots in places he knows you can’t hide. He wants people to see. See that you’ve been ravished in a way they can only dream of. At the end of the day, you’ll come home to him and he wants everyone to know it.

It doesn’t take long for his thrusts to become damning, forcing you into the mattress only for your cunt to bounce back up at him, taking him deeper than before.

“Yes!” You squeal, pawing and scratching at his back. “I love you, Xavier! I love you...”

Your name falls from his mouth pitifully, a cry you respond to by peppering his face with small pecks. Your hands fall to cradle his face and your eyes snap shut as your walls clench around him.

“Say you’re mine. Tell me.” He pleads his hands knead your waist and you’re sure you might bruise tomorrow.

“I’m yours! Only yours. Forever and ever.”

His eyes open to gawk at your sweat covered bodies and he watches his cock disappear inside you. A rubber band is forming in the pit of his stomach and his breath hitches.

“Mine. My angel. Gonna fill you up. Gonna give you a big pretty litter. You’d want that, right? I’ll fill your cute cunt whenever you want. Keep you nice and happy and full. Full of me.”

Your mouth hangs open as loud moans escape your throat. His hand comes up to dig into your cheeks and pries your mouth open wider.

Tuah.

A wet blob coats your tongue and your teary eyes open to meet his. The look he gives you sends an intense warmth down your spine.

“Swallow.” Xavier releases you and you close your mouth, shuddering as it travels down your throat. “Good girl. So so good. I knew you’d be perfect for me.”

You whine, touching his chest, his shoulders, his arms, trailing your hands down his hard torso. He coos at the feeling of your fingertips gliding over his hot skin. He takes your hand and flattens it on the left side of his chest. His heart beats against your palm as if it wants to kiss it itself.

“D’you feel it? I’m yours. Master.” His thrusts start to lose rhythm and he pants heavy, using his free hand to rub frenzied circles on your clit. “Please, cum. I want to feel it.”

Your core pulses at his words as if they were the last thrush of water before the dam breaks. And break it does. You clutch him tightly, pulling him down to smash his chest against yours and the synchronizing of your heartbeats comforts you through your high.

Your cunt contracts and twitches violently, and with a long drawn out groan, Xavier shoves his cock as deep as it can go. His cum is hot like lava and you moan as it fills every crease, every crevice, every ridge and nook it can claim.

Finally his hips come to a still and he drops your legs to wrap around his waist, before the full brunt of his weight relaxes into you.

There was a comfortable silence, the sounds of your fatigued breaths filled your ears and you hum. Your fingers run through Xavier’s sweaty hair and you kiss the crown of his head. He nuzzles weakly into your neck.

“You okay, bunny?” You wince at rasp in your voice before peering down at him. His chest has slowed significantly and he’s… really heavy.

“Xavier.” You call out again, using your shoulder to jostle him. Your heart skips in concern when he doesn’t answer and with what strength you have left you rock back and forth enough to flip the both of you over. You quickly balance yourself on his lap, and clench slightly. He was still nestled warmly inside you.

Your hands take to his face, poking and prodding, trying anything to get a reaction. Eventually, his eyelids flicker and he opens his eyes albeit slowly. You sigh in relief and he turns to look at you. He props himself up his elbows, giving you a delicate Eskimo kiss.

He hums. “We’ll have to try this position next time.” His cock had softened a good while ago now, but he still grinds up into you, soft and teasing.

Your face flushes at his vulgarity. How can he say something like that in such a casual tone? You decide to ignore it. “Y-You had me so worried. What happened? Are you okay?” You whisper.

“I’m sorry I worried you, Angel. I’m okay. It’s common for bunnies like me.” His eyes squint cutely and he yawns. “M’sleepy.”

You smile and lean down to press a lazy kiss to his lips. “I’m sure you are, stud. Don’t fall asleep just yet, we gotta clean up.”

He groans reluctantly, but hops to his feet with you in tow. You yelp at the burst of energy and giggle as he blows small raspberries into your neck, carrying you into your—shared—master bathroom.

extra —

You wake up to soft chirps of your name and groggily open your eyes. The sky was still dark but the sun had just started to rise, casting the room into a light cool blue.

“Xavier? Whas’ wrong?” You whisper. Your eyes shoot open when you feel something hard poke into your ass.

He grunts as his hips jerk against you. “M’sorry m’sorry I..I’m really hot.”

This was going to be a long weekend.

-`♡´- tag list — @froleineeeee @hitorim106 @silverbrain

[sharktttu]

yandere batfam x neglected doctor reader

(A/N: ok so this is my first time publishing any of my writings so I hope that everything is somewhat cohesive and understandable. and um yeah open to any feedback.)

Prologue

Sometimes I really miss my mom, shes not dead or anything but I was taken out of her care by officer Gordon because our home got one to many CPS visits at the wrong time.

Now I wont lie and say that life with my mother was amazing but at least she had the decency not to give me false hope. Everyday it was the same thing she would come home after work and start drinking, now she wasn't that mean of a drunk if you learnt to stay out of her way, which I did and not the easy way

My mother would always tell the truth and not sugar coat anything, she had hit me a few time as a kid yeah it was never full on beatings, maybe a slap or two here and there if I pissed her off but I loved her because she never left me hoping to spend time with her, she would never give promises that she couldn't keep, and she would never give me a sip of a normal life just to leave me in that dark again. My mother was my constant and I was taken from her.

My new "family" of geniuses though could never get that wrapped around their heads. they would give me false hope. Hope to get invited to family movie night, hope to have a normal family dinner without any conversation becoming super awkward just because I sat down to eat with my "family".

everyday I strive to be better, to prove myself, but with each new addition to the family I became smaller and smaller.

I came a few months after dick, I was about 6 about years 5 younger than him. I had no idea of what I did to him but he just didn't like me. He didn't hate me or love me I think I was lower than he last resort. I think it was all the stress and trauma he had from experiencing his parents death and trying to cope with it while Bruce trained him to become Robin. I never blamed him he had It harder than me.

Next came Jason he was okay. I could obviously tell that he liked dick more than me but that was okay, you cant come between a good old fashion brotherly bond right? he was nice and all but wasn't a constant for me to rely on. When he died yes I was sad, death was always sad to me it never mattered the person. But I wasn't as heart broken as everyone else because he was just another person that lived in the manor for me. I still cried I mean I was only 9. When he came back he acted like a completely new person, that's when I learnt about the family business. He then became a bad constant.

then Tim came in he never noticed me and I was always way to busy to even talk to him because I was desperately trying to gain the attention of Bruce even a look. after a few failed attempts and a retry with dick I moved on to try and get times attention, but all he did was call me annoying and push me away.

Cassandra in my eye was the best she was like the older sibling that I had always wanted. to bad she didn't see me in the same light. Cassandra saw me as a nobody just a kid that was taken in out of obligation and to look good to the press. I knew she was right and was just pointing out the obvious but It still hurt.

Barbra was neutral she was never there, not in a avoiding me way but in a I'm always working kinda way. I liked her she was a constant.

Stephanie was also a neutral but a little worse, she was the one that was never there in the I'm avoiding you kinda way. she just saw me as some annoying little kid so she just busied herself with work to try and not talk to me.

Damian was the one who treated me the worse. first he saw me as competition but as soon as he learnt I was made from a "whore one night stand" I soon became a beating block for him. always throwing insults at me. saying that I was lucky to even have Wayne blood with my "dirty blood". his words hurt the most but he was a great constant I think that he was my favorite sibling for reliability, of a reality check.

Bruce my "father" I don't really have much to say about him he was the least constant. in front of the press he'd treat me like I was actually one of his kids, like I was actually apart of the family. but I knew better than to get my hopes up. I learnt pretty quickly that he has a reputation and I was expected to help him keep it up. I knew that if he wasn't expected to attend an event with his kids then he wouldn't bother to spare a glance at me.

Alfred was like a mentor to me. He taught me so many things and he really did try to keep me from finding out the truth of what my family thinks about me but one against seven is not fair. he was my best constant, a constant that could give me a break from my harsh reality. A constant that would allow me to be a kid again. Alfred was my favorite constant.

(okay so what are y'all thinking I already have chapters 1 and 2 planned, any feed back is appreciated 😼)

[skeltnwrites]

A Family Affair ✶ part one!

In a fit of jealousy over Nancy’s perfect new boyfriend, Steve falsely claims to be dating someone too. Robin recruits you to help Steve out, despite the fact that you’re practically strangers. | MASTERLIST

⤷ Fucking Brad ›› Hawkins Elementary puts on Peter Pan, Steve has FOMO, and you have all sorts of crazy plans 8k

Fucking Brad. Brad, with his slim waist and his broad shoulders and his chiseled jaw. Brad, who doesn’t slouch and can grow a full beard and always smells nice. Brad, who is the better version of Steve in every way. He’s the Ken of Barbies. He’s what every man wishes he looked like at thirty-two. He’s like Steve, if Steve had Botox injections and a gym membership. 

And God he has stupidly good hair. All layered and cropped like it’s trimmed every other week. But effortless in the way it sits perfectly on either side of his face. He probably hasn’t had a bad hair day in his life. And even worse, Steve’s yet to find a single gray hair on the man’s entire head.

It’s too good to be true, obviously. You can’t be that attractive and a good person. Steve doesn’t make the rules. 

But Nancy seems happy. And as a good ex-husband and father of her children, Steve’s trying to be happy for her and her new boyfriend. There’s just this sharp little shard of his heart that never quite slots back into its old place. And every time he thinks he’s patched it up, Brad comes along and knocks it loose again. 

The divorce took a heavy toll on Steve. He’ll admit that now, almost a year down the line. He lost weight, then gained twice as much back. He pushed Robin so far away that they didn’t speak for two months. It really changed him. It made him question things he used to be so sure of. 

Nancy was never cruel, not even on their worst nights. But the arguing became constant. Steve slept in the kids’ rooms more than his own. He became obsessed with finding solutions that Nancy didn’t care to try.

She was never cruel, but she did break his heart for a second time. So maybe that’s part of the reason he tells her a little white lie. 

It happened last week. Steve had been out of town for the weekend and subsequently didn’t have the kids for a whole week straight since Nancy couldn’t swap days with him. And this is the longest he’s not seen them in… probably ever, so he’s extra excited to pick them up. He even offers to drive to Nancy’s house on the other side of town rather than meet her somewhere halfway. But guess who pulls into the driveway at the same exact time as him? Brad. 

And Caroline, bless her sweet little second-grade heart, beams across the yard, right past Steve’s car up to Brad’s. Steve remembers watching in a daze, the scene unfolding in slow motion. His heart wrings itself in his chest just thinking about it. Caroline, his firstborn, his baby girl, his own flesh and blood, betrayed him, for fucking Brad. 

It’s not fair. Nancy breaking his heart is one thing, but his daughter? At this rate, he’s not sure he’ll live long enough to walk her down the aisle. And like hell he’ll let Brad be the one to do it. 

Steve steps onto the driveway and quickly receives the same armfuls of enthusiasm Caroline treated Brad with. He kneels to hug her back properly, both arms around her waist as he sprinkles kisses along the side of her head. 

“You’re back!” Steve feels the shape of a big smile through his shirt. 

“I missed you,” he says, pulling back to see her lovely face, “so, so much.” 

Caroline is proof that Steve’s done something right in his life. He finds more and more evidence every day. It’s in her kindness to strangers and her bottomless well of curiosity and her sunbeam of a smile that weirdly looks like a smaller version of his own. He used to hate the way his teeth looked in his mouth but now he wonders why.

He’s received comments about their alikeness since the day she was born. She obtained his hooded eyes, his square jaw, and his strong nose. She has lighter eyes, like Nancy’s, and lighter hair, like Steve’s when he was her age. But still, Caroline’s his carbon copy, his mini-me. 

“Missed you too, like, more than the whole universe.” 

“Woah! More than the whole universe? That’s a lot of missing to do.” His fingers crawl across her chest until she arches away in a fit of giggles. “Is your poor little heart okay?” 

Brad waves incessantly from the top of the driveway until Steve glances up. He’s not an asshole, he waves back, but he can’t help his smile curdling into something sour. 

Caroline, of his two children, is by far the least likely to lie to him. She burst into tears the last time Steve caught her red-handed and over something so insignificant he couldn’t even tell you what it was. But her words feels hollow when the memory of her picking Brad over him still stings fresh. Logically, Steve knows it wasn’t a malicious decision. Caroline’s a daddy’s girl to her core. But just knowing doesn’t make the hurt ache any less. 

Steve pulls Caroline up as he stands. “Where’s your brother?” 

“Mom said he can’t play outside ‘cause he got in trouble at school.” 

“What happened?” 

“He threw rocks at someone.” 

Steve presses his lips together with a hum. “Not good.” 

Caroline beats him to the front door, swinging it hard enough to shake the house. “Dad’s here!” she announces. 

Steve’s still in this weird limbo about entering the house without Nancy’s permission. To his knowledge, she’s never cared when one of the kids has invited him in, but it feels sort of wrong because he hasn’t lived there in quite some time. 

It’s a quaint little home at the top of a hill, purchased in their early twenties when Nancy was pregnant with Caroline. So many years of his life, etched into floorboards and door frames and garden stones that he rarely ever sees anymore. 

In the foyer, a riot of blonde fur slams hard into Steve’s knees. He’s expecting it, delighted more than anything to greet his honorary third child, Daisy. Eighty pounds, a golden retriever with more energy than Steve knew a dog could have. She was a Christmas gift from Steve to the family, a surprise Nancy has slowly grown to love over the years. Still, she would’ve been happy to let Steve take her, Daisy’s always been more his than hers, but signing the lease on a place that doesn’t allow pets complicates things. 

Steve’s crouched on the floor, receiving a face full of wet kisses when someone smaller barrels into his side. 

“Daddy!” 

Steve’s hand catches the carpet before he falls, his free arm slinging around his youngest, Andrew. “Hi, buddy.” He pulls him in for a forehead kiss but pushes him back for a better look at his face.

He’s got big brown eyes, round like Nancy’s, and feathered with a long set of lashes. He’s a fair mix of their genes, Nancy’s button nose and pointed ears but Steve’s thick hair and plush lips. He’s like Daisy, with endless reserves of energy and no off switch, but he’s half the dog’s size, tiny, even for six. 

“Hi.” 

“Hi. How was school?” 

“Good,” Andy smiles, words whistling in the gap his front teeth left behind. “I got something from the treasure box and I had music specials today.”

Steve gives his shoulder a loving squeeze. “That’s fun. I heard you got in trouble though, hmm?”

“Barely. It wasn’t really bad. I had a timeout but mom says I still can’t play.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll talk to Mom.” 

“Talk to mom about what?” Nancy frowns from the doorway, crossing her arms over her chest. 

One thing from their marriage that Steve doesn’t miss is Nancy materializing out of thin air. She’s quiet and quick on her feet, always appearing at the most incriminating moments. He can think of a dozen times he’d gotten in trouble for letting the kids do something she already forbade. 

Steve shifts his focus to her begrudgingly. He presses his lips into a cordial, tight-lipped smile. “Why can’t he play? He said he had a time-out already.” 

“Because he didn’t do what I asked, Steve. I know you like to let the kids get away with everything, but in my house there are consequences.” 

“Okay,” he raises his eyebrows and his smile slips away, “unnecessary.” 

She breathes a quiet sigh, hooking her fingernail under the fresh tear in her tights. “It’s been a long week.” 

“Sorry.” Steve means it because he’s been there, but he doesn’t waste much sympathy on Nancy these days.

Brad fills the leftover silence as he zips down the stairs, his fingers drumming along the handrail in time with his hums. “Steve!” he grins. “How was Florida? Catch some sun?” He cruises over to Nancy with a much gentler excitement, pecking her head with a soft, “Hi, honey.” 

Steve wants to gag. No, he wants to projectile vomit all over their nice floors. He stands and chooses to look at Nancy as he replies the simplest, “Yeah.” 

Nancy stares blankly back at him. He used to have some kind of superpower when they were in love. Could read her mind by looking at her eyes alone. But these days he can’t tell her frown from her smile, let alone her thoughts.

“Is your dad doing better?” she says. 

“Yeah, he’s– yeah, fine. He’s home now.” 

“Good.” 

Andy pulls Brad down to his knees, eager to funnel a “very important” secret into his ear. Steve tries, but he can’t decipher any words over Nancy’s voice. 

“So, can you take him?” she asks.

“Where?” 

“The dentist. Are you listening to me? I said his appointment is after school.” 

A vein pulses on Nancy’s forehead, though Steve isn’t privy. His attention swings across the living room behind her like a compass needle, always pointing to Andy and Brad. They’re both giggling, falling onto the couch like ragdolls. Steve’s never had worse FOMO in his life. 

“Yeah, sorry, yeah. I’ll take him,” he answers finally. 

“He’s been complaining about his mouth since last Tuesday. Think he has a cavity.” 

Steve nods. Nancy nods. The silence is awful. 

She turns her nose to the stairs and he knows she can’t bear the awkwardness either. “Andrew go get your stuff. Caroline!” 

“What!” 

“Come on! Dad’s waiting!” 

Andy shrieks and Steve turns instinctually. It’s a happy shriek, he finds, paired with pleads of, “Again! Again!”

Brad nods knowingly, slotting his hands under the boy's armpits and swinging him up and up and up until he launches him right back into the couch. 

Andy’s thrilled, of course. But Steve doesn't know how to feel. There isn’t a sound he loves more in the world than his kids laughs’, but his body tells him what is happening right now is all sorts of wrong. 

“Oh and don’t forget about the play on Friday,” Nancy adds. 

Steve can’t answer. He can’t fucking think over the sound of his molars grinding against each other. A switch flips in his brain. 

“It’s at six I’m pretty sure. Care’s pretty nervous so just, I dunno, don’t bring it up maybe.” 

“I’m bringing someone,” he blurts. 

Nancy shifts her weight from foot to foot, her stare sharp as a thumbtack, pinning him right to the floor. Why the fuck did he just say that? 

“Who?” she asks strangely. Her mouth is smaller like she’s mad. But her eyes are curious, a sudden softness to them. 

Steve clears his dry throat but finds no relief. He hasn’t fucking thought this through. He shrugs, his chin tipping toward the floor. “Just this girl I’ve been talking to. She’s…” He chances a glimpse up but steers his eyes away from Nancy’s the second they land. “It’s kinda gettin’ serious, so, you know.” 

“Really?” 

He squirms at the way she says it. He feels like he’s in trouble and about to get an earful. “Yeah,” he swallows, “Yeah. She’s great. You’ll like her.” 

“How long?” 

“Hmm?” 

“How long have you been seeing her?” 

His eyes rove across the ceiling as he pretends to count the imaginary days he’s spent with his imaginary girlfriend. “Ya know, a few months.” He frowns for show, “Give or take.” 

Nancy chuckles wryly. She very clearly doesn’t buy it. And of course, she doesn’t buy it, they were married for a third of his life, she knows Steve inside and out. Steve is officially, utterly, and irreversibly doomed. 

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” he slips in nervously. 

“Right.”

“Yeah, so…” 

“Okay, well, I look forward to meeting her.” 

“Okay. Me too. Well– to you meeting her. I’ve met her, obviously.” 

Her mouth twists in a struggle to hide her amusement. “Okay, Steve.” 

This is pathetic. Steve’s never been more embarrassed in his life. Ten-plus years he’s had to make a fool of himself in front of Nancy and nothing will ever top this. 

Tiny arms curl around his legs and he knows they’re Carolines before he’s seen them. She’s a foot taller than Andy and ten times as gentle. Her ear presses into Steve’s side, her hair newly pinned with a set of plastic butterflies. Steve’s positive she gets prettier by the day and he’s just grateful to have anyone besides Nancy to look at. 

Andy hustles down the stairs not long later, sneakers swinging from his wrist by the laces, wearing a backpack twice the size of his chest. And with both kids in sight, Steve cuts straight for the front door, encouraging a round of goodbye hugs and kisses for Mom from the safety of the porch. 

On the ride home, Caroline has a deck of questions about his trip. If Grandma and Grandpa still live in that big house on the water. If the airplane ride was bumpy or not. His favorite– if he ordered the fish tails (popcorn shrimp) from that restaurant they all went to last time. 

Eight years he’s been a dad and to this day the infinite questions never fail to fascinate him. And even more remarkable, how Caroline remembers things from years ago like they happened this morning.

He hadn’t told her why he went to Florida or the real reason she couldn’t come. Steve’s dad had a minor health scare, and if it weren’t for his mom calling in hysterics, he probably would have saved the PTO. He spent most of the trip in the hospital, listening to his dad fuss about every possible thing he could find to complain about. 

Nancy preached honesty when it came to explaining things like this to the kids. But Caroline’s a worrywart. Steve couldn’t let her spiral, certainly not over his dad of all people. 

He’s very happy to be back home. And even happier to be distracted from his poor decision-making by the bottomless pit that is his daughter's brain. But time flies when you’re having fun as Steve apparently says now. Dinner goes fast, and bedtime even faster. 

The kids are asleep and he’s left to simmer alone in his stupidity. He replays the conversation with Nancy on a loop, each turn twisting the words until he can’t tell what’s real apart from what he wishes to have said. He fucked up, that much is clear. And for what? A fleeting satisfaction if Nancy had believed him? He truly can’t think of a time in the last ten years he’s said something so dumb. 

Steve dials Robin’s number and slips the phone against his ear as he opens the fridge. He stares at his groceries, or lack thereof, and listens to the phone ring and ring and ring until he’s turned over to Robin’s answering machine. 

“Hi, you’ve reached Robin! Or, well, it's not, obviously, because you're talking to a machine. Anyway, I’m probably busy doing something incredibly important, so, leave a message, and I’ll call back– unless I forget— which, statistically speaking, is very probable. Sorry.” –Beep! 

“Hi, um, this is Steve.” He shuts the fridge door and swipes the takeout menu from the magnets on the side. “I’m having an… emergency type of situation and if you really, truly love me you’ll call me back, like, as soon as you get this. Yeah, okay, bye.” 

Robin’s at work he’s pretty sure. That or sucking face with her new girlfriend, Lin. She’s busy a lot nowadays, Steve just as much. It’s put a weight on their friendship but Steve can’t imagine his life without her. She’ll surely call him a dumbass or an idiot or the classic dingus for what he’s done. But being snarky with each other is their love language; he looks forward to it. 

Steve’s three or four Cheers’ reruns deep when the phone rings. He rocks himself out of his recliner and takes the half-empty pizza box in his lap back to the kitchen. He’ll be the first to admit, his evenings aren’t all that glamorous. But things could be worse and he’s happy with the majority of his life’s choices– minus the most recent one, obviously. 

The phone slides against the pizza grease on his fingers. He pins it between his ear and shoulder to swipe his hands down the front of his shirt as he speaks, “You know, you’re lucky this isn’t a life-or-death emergency. I’d have been dead hours ago.” 

“Uh-huh. Tragic,” Robin rasps. “I’ll write your eulogy for you. ‘Steve Harrington: untimely death by dumbassery.’” 

“That’s not a real word, genius.” 

“It is now. I’ve made it one.”

“You can’t just make it a word. That’s not how it works.” 

“No, it is. Check your dictionary.” He hears the clinking of pans, water running in a sink. “But wait, what did you do? Lock your keys in your car again?”

“Ha, no. I wish.” 

“Forget to pick up the hellspawns?” 

“No, Rob.” 

“What? It’s happened before,” she laughs in that scratchy way she does. He can picture her whole face like she’s stood there beside him. “I dunno, I’m tired. I give up. What’s the crisis?” 

“Um, so, I told Nance that I’ve been seeing someone and that it’s serious and I’m bringing her to the kid’s thing on Friday.” 

Robin’s silent long enough for Steve to pull the phone back and check if the call’s still connected. But her laughter builds slowly, rattling through the speaker in beats. “Oh no, Steven.” 

“Yeah, so…” He shears the last bite off of the pizza he was working on before and tosses the crust back into the box.  “I’m fucked.” 

“You could say that.” 

“Thanks for the encouragement.” 

“Sorry, sorry. I mean, fuck dude. Why’d you say that?”

“I don’t know, okay? It was stupid. I fucked up.”

“Big time.”

“I have to figure something out.” 

“Can’t you just say it fizzled out? You had a good run, but you weren’t right for each other, cue dramatic sigh, problem solved.”

“No! She knows, Robin. She fucking knows I was lying. She was giving me that look she gives Andy when he’s done something he’s not supposed to.”

“Heh, I know the one. God, that’s hilarious. I love her mad face. Was she doing that weird lip thing, like she’s trying to suck them back into her skull?” 

Steve cuts off his own laughter, “Probably– I don’t know! I was panicking, bad, you should’ve seen me.” 

“Oh, I would pay so much money to see a video of this. Were there cameras? Where was this at?” 

“No, no, I have to do something. I need to bring someone to the show.” 

A beat. Two. “What? You want me to revive straight Robin? I can’t walk in heels to save my life, you know that.” 

“Jesus, no. She knows you're gay, dude.” 

“Then who?”

“I dunno.” Steve throws his hand in the air. “You know people.”

“I know people?”

“Yes?”

“You’re right, hold on, let me get out my address book and just call every single woman I know. ‘Hey, how do you feel about pretending to be my friend’s boyfriend so his ex-wife doesn’t make fun of him?’ Sound good?” 

“Yes! Exactly!” 

“Maybe while we’re at it we just start calling random women in the phone book. I saw a billboard with this sexy lawyer lady today.” 

“Robin.” 

“Steve,” she chuckles. “Come on. This is crazy. You have to see that.” 

“I don’t care, Rob. You don’t get it. Nancy is dating America’s next top model and I’m,” his words feel sticky as bubblegum, “I’m watching shitty TV and eating shittier pizza by myself.”  

Robin sighs. “Don’t act like I haven’t been a good wing-woman. I’ve tried to set you up with people.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not ready to date anyone for real, I just– I just want to pretend for a night, that’s all. I don’t want Nancy to think any less of me than she already does.” 

Robin sighs again, worse. He feels bad about bugging her but she’s his best friend and she bugs him to the same extent with her own relationship problems. He listened to her cry for an hour about a fight she had with Lin last week.  

“If I help you… will you promise me that you will move on and go on a real, actual date with a woman who is not Nancy Wheeler?” 

Steve’s about to say ‘I’ll do anything’, but the sentence catches in his throat. 

Robin complains about Steve’s dating life (or lack of) about once a week, if not more. It’s been a year since the divorce, yeah, but he’s short on time with two kids and a second full-time job that affords him the first. He’s not in any rush to do awkward first dates or even worse breakups again. 

But fuck, he’d rather die than face the consequences of his own actions. “Fine, yes. I’ll do it.” 

“Hallelujah.” 

“Please, just call a couple of your friends for me. One night, that’s all I’m asking.” 

“Honestly, I definitely know a couple of people who’d do it for a hundred bucks.” 

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “If that’s what it costs to keep my dignity then so be it.” 

He hears Robin’s breathy smile. “You’re so dramatic. Shelly might do it for free. She doesn’t exactly look your type though.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“I dunno, Steve. We both know Nancy has a better gaydar than you.” 

“I hit on one lesbian at the height of my divorce-depression. I was desperate, okay?” 

“You hit on two, actually. I do count, still. And she was like the most butch woman I've ever met. You guys basically had the same outfit on.”

“It was a good outfit!” 

Her laughter is loud through the speaker. And before he realizes it, he's laughing too. In retrospect, that woman very obviously was a lesbian and not at all his type. 

“Wait,” Robin gasps, “what about Y/N!” 

“Who?” 

She repeats your name with even more emphasis. “She was at my birthday thing. You definitely met her.” 

Steve describes a vague version of the person he thinks is you. His memory is hazy. 

“Yes! Yes! You wouldn’t stop showing her fucking pictures of the kids.” 

“Excuse me, she wanted to see them.”

“No, I think you need to ask her that again, pal.” 

Steve reconsiders that moment he met you. He recalls a polite smile and how you had several nice things to say about his kids. He remembers you being pretty but it was too soon post-divorce for him to process that information then. 

“Oh my God,” Robin roars, “How did I not think of this sooner? You guys are perfect for each other, I’m telling you!” 

“Wait, wait, Robin. This is just pretend. I’m not actually dating her.” 

She scoffs. “Will you give her a chance? Please? This can count as your real date.”

“No, absolutely not. No. I can’t– I already know her. That’s weird.” 

“Oh my God. You’re making dumb fucking excuses already. You better hold up your end of the deal, Harrington.” 

“I will, I will. Just not her. We’ll figure it out after, okay?” 

The line is silent but he can almost hear the gears in Robin’s head cranking out a new negotiation.  

“I’m serious. Don’t tell her it’s a date.” 

“Ugh. Have you no faith in me anymore?” 

“Will you ask her? Seriously, Robin, please?” 

“Yes, whatever, I’ll ask her. But don’t come crying to me when this blows up in your face.” 

“Don’t tell her it’s a date, Rob. I mean it.” 

“I knowww.” 

“Thank you,” he sighs. He feels like a load of bricks just dropped from his back straight to his stomach. 

“But I really think you and Y/N should come to that romance retreat with me and Lin. She knows the owner so I’m sure she could snag us another couple of tickets.” 

“Mmm. Sorry, no. I’m actually busy that weekend, ‘member?” 

“Oh, I know you did not just lie to me right now. What is this, a compulsion?” 

“Oh my God. I was kidding,” he laughs. “But also hard no. I’m hanging up.” 

“You can’t avoid all your problems forever.” 

“Whatever. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight. Love you, dingus.” 

“Love you.” 

Steve slots the phone back in its cradle and presses his hand into the countertop. He thinks of you again, your face, your clothes, your voice– what had you said to him? He turns you in his mind like an unravelled spool but there are way too many loose ends. 

He agrees with Robin, this is a bad idea. He can’t imagine you’ll drop everything to help a guy you met one time. And if for whatever reason you do agree? You might be really awkward or rude to the kids or a kidnapper! He really, really hopes Robin doesn't befriend kidnappers. 

She assures him you are not a kidnapper when she calls him the next night. She also tells him he’s won the lottery and somehow you’ve agreed to this ridiculous plan. You’ll pretend to be his girlfriend in front of his kids and ex-wife and her boyfriend, just to save him from some embarrassment. Steve thinks you might be crazy but Robin promises you’re a match made in heaven. 

Steve jots down your phone number and thanks Robin until she hangs up on him. But he doesn’t call you yet. He chews on the plan all week and decides it still tastes bad. Very, very bad. But what choice does he have now? He’s groveled with Robin until she gave in and asked you and you’ve actually agreed. He’s in too deep now. 

It takes him three tries to dial your number all the way through. He only works himself up to the final digit with the mental image of Brad and his stupid, sparkly teeth. Steve's stomach starts cartwheeling as the line trills. 

“Hello?” 

He freezes. He doesn’t know what he expected you to sound like but your voice throws him for a loop. Every sentence from his practiced speech erases itself from his memory. 

“Helloooo?” 

Steve forces all the air from his lungs until he makes a strangled sort of noise. “Hey– sorry, um– hi, it’s Steve. Uhh, Robin’s friend.”

“Oh! She said you’d call.” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Here I am.” 

You chuckle back but are otherwise quiet, waiting for him.

“So like–”

“How did–”

“Sorry,” you say overtop each other. 

“You go,” he begs. 

“Well, I mean– so Robin gave me the run down already, but like, how exactly do you want this to go?” 

“So,” Steve takes a deep breath, “my kids are both in the school play over at Hawkins Elementary. It’s this Friday from six to seven-ish. All I need you to do is just show up and pretend that you’re my girlfriend.” He cringes through the last part. The more times he explains this plan, the more outrageous it sounds. This might as well be a form of torture. 

“Just show up and watch the play and agree that we’re a couple if somebody asks? That type of thing?” 

“Yes, exactly. Yes. My ex-wife and her boyfriend will be there, so probably just them and the kids.” 

“Right, Robin said. But how much should I– how do I say– should I hold your hand, I guess, kiss you, things like that?”

“No, no,” he swallows so hard you probably hear it too. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” 

"Would you..." you pause for a while. He fears you’re backing out. “Would you want to meet up, maybe? Like, sometime before the play?” you ask. “We could talk more about boundaries and, I dunno, how we met, our first date, all of that junk. In case it comes up.” 

Steve doesn’t think that’s really necessary. He only needs you for one hour, the majority of which you won’t be talking. You’re really just there to sit beside him and smile. But you are doing him a massive favor, if it makes you feel better, it wouldn’t hurt to discuss it in person.

He lets you pick the time and place and thanks you endlessly before he hangs up, very much ready to crawl into bed and never come back out. 

His second impression of you doesn’t stray far from the first. You’re sweet, maybe a little too sweet for someone who barely knows him. And you must be smart. You have enough wits about you to question him and this plan. Maybe, with you there, it won’t completely fall apart.

But as luck would have it, Steve is forced to cancel on you last minute– thanks to Brad, of course. Well, it’s not really his fault his sister goes into labor but Steve likes to pretend it is when Nancy asks if he can take the kids that night. He reschedules with you once, then again when you can’t make it. But shit happens and things don’t work out how he hoped. Neither of you can make it work before the play. 

So Steve pulls up to Hawkins Elementary with his heart lodged in his throat like a stone. He’s about to make the biggest fucking fool of himself if you don’t show and he’s only about forty-five percent sure that you will. As of yesterday, you were still game, sounded excited, even, to come. But maybe you forgot about the whole thing or maybe you’re chickening out because you never solidified where you had your first date. Steve wouldn’t blame you either way. 

Brad’s already seated in the front row of the auditorium, Nancy likely dropping the kids off at their classrooms. Steve slinks around the back to a denser part of the audience hoping not to be seen. But it’s Brad. He’s got twenty-twenty vision, no doubt. He flags Steve down as soon as he turns around, standing and waving emphatically, leaving Steve no other choice but to sit with them. 

Brad talks his ear off, to no one's surprise, but Steve’s mind is stuck somewhere else. His eyes skip between the lavish rose bouquets in Brad’s lap to the measly assortment of pink and blue daisies in his own. It’s silly to worry the kids would love him less over something like flowers, but he can’t help himself. 

Nancy joins with a knowing smirk and immediately asks about Steve’s plus one. He feeds her some generic, bullshit line about you and how you’re trying so very hard to make it, and he decides Nancy must fucking hate him. She knows it was a lie. She just wants to watch him burst into flames and char into a corpse of embarrassment and regret. 

There are less than two minutes to showtime. The audience is buzzing, the auditorium doors are closing, and the bench space beside Steve remains unoccupied. He turns around for one last pathetic look behind him before his dignity is tarnished forever. 

But there you are! Stood up against the back wall, searching and searching until your eyes lock onto Steve’s and your whole face brightens like a sunrise. 

Steve waves, a little shy suddenly, but largely overwhelmed by the complete one-eighty his heart’s just spun. And it only worsens as you make your way up to the row. 

You look fucking unreal Steve realizes. You pat a pretty dress down your thighs, two big bouquets wedged in the crook of your arm, and shimmy past the family seated beside him with a dashing smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” you say to him, so genuinely apologetic Steve can’t remember the reason you’re there in the first place. You bend to wrap your arms around him, his nose tapping the sugared sweetness of your perfume. 

His brain reboots itself, a blank slate. He’s completely forgotten about Nancy and Brad until you lean across his lap to address them. 

“Nancy,” Steve coughs, “um, this is Y/N. My girlfriend.” The words trip off his tongue slow and he thinks it can’t be more obvious that he doesn’t mean them. 

But while his head is busy imploding on itself, you’re acing introductions. You’re smiling and waving, your voice stays so calm— exactly the reassurance Steve needed. He peels his eyes off your face for a glimpse at Nancy’s and nearly laughs. 

Her brows are up, obscured by her bangs, and she blinks like she’s got something caught in her mascara. Priceless. 

“Y/N, this is Nancy and her boyfriend, Brad,” Steve finishes. 

“Nice to meet you,” Brad smiles, squeezing Nancy’s knee until she does the same. 

The pretending is clumsy at first. Steve’s arm hesitates on its course behind your shoulders. And you go stiff as a board the first time his fingertips brush your bare arm. You overcompensate, laughing at something that’s not all that funny while Steve rambles on about how you met when no one even asked. But eventually, you find a balance somewhere between too much and too little.

And Steve can’t stop fucking smiling. You’re polite, funny, really pretty, you’re perfect. You’re more than what he hoped to have tonight. 

The lights dim and the curtains part, Steve’s excitement shifts toward the stage. His hand remains on your shoulder but his attention is reserved solely for his kids. You cheer for them just as loud as he does, for two children you’ve never met in your life. You remember their names and are eager for Steve to point them out when they appear. You’re a convincing girlfriend. You actually seem to care a whole lot. 

Caroline is a fabulous mermaid. She has a tail made of sequins and glitter gel down her arms. All those hours of practice were worth it, Steve nearly cries watching his little girl recite her two lines to a T. 

And Andrew plays a scruffy dog called Nana. He has no lines but he makes several appearances throughout the show, barking with flawless comedic timing for a kindergartener. Steve’s biased when he thinks his kids are the best actors here, of course, but he couldn’t be more proud. 

Touching you doesn’t become any less strange as the evening rolls on. Your thigh is smushed to his. Your back warms the inside of his elbow. He hasn’t touched anyone like this since Nancy, maybe besides Robin who doesn’t really count. And perhaps that’s pitiful, he’s not touching you all that much. But he likes it, which, is probably even more pitiful, you being his pretend girlfriend and all. 

The main cast of fifth graders bow, the crowd erupts with applause, and the lights flicker back on as the big curtains close. 

Nancy is staring at you when Steve checks her way. It’s not the first time he’s caught her tonight but he still isn’t certain that she fully believes this whole thing. At least you’re here and you seem normal and you’re a much better actor than Robin gave you credit for. That’s a mission fucking accomplished in Steve’s book. 

“They did really good, Steve,” you say in his ear. “They’re both adorable.” 

His smile is immediate. He won’t miss an opportunity to rave about his kids, not even to a stranger. “Did you see Andy’s run? He does this little skippy-thing, I dunno where he learned it.” 

“Mhmm! And Caroline, she’s only eight? She seems so much older the way she talked.”

“I know! She was so worried before, I can’t believe how good she did.” 

Nancy is one of the first parents to her feet. Brad collects her purse and the flowers as she scans each exit for the quickest route. Her face is rigid as she explains, “I’m going to get Caroline if you’ll…”

“Yeah,” Steve nods when she looks. 

Nancy’s eyes veer from his to yours for the briefest second before she turns around. Her chin juts up to Brad. “Ready?” 

He works a hand across the cardigan on her back and starts for the end of the row where parents squeeze and squish by each other toward the hall doors. 

Steve waits until their bodies bleed into the rest of the crowd before he faces you again. His lips tilt into a funny line, his eyes alive under the auditorium lights. “I kinda think that worked?” 

“Are you kidding?” you laugh and knock your shoulder into his. “She kept staring at me! She totally bought it.” 

Steve’s smile pinches up into his cheeks. He thinks you're really quite beautiful. It’s not new information to him, he noticed the first time he met you, bumbling up behind Robin in her kitchen. And he remembered just last week when she brought you up out of the blue. 

But today that knowledge feels different. Today you’re all smiles and sweet touches and sneaky glances. It’s doing something scary to his heart. 

Steve stands quickly. He’s hot all over, uncomfortably aware of the sweat accumulating under his clothes. Being sardined against every other parent in the school will do that. Plus, there’s you and your nice face. Still, somehow, he misses the heat of your thigh pressed to his. 

“She’s smart, Nancy, I mean… I dunno,” he worries. 

You stand too and your hand finds a home on the back of his arm. “No, no. It worked. Trust me.” 

“Trust you?” He can’t help but grin at your nonchalance. He wishes he could be like that, but having kids makes you worry more. 

You grin back and shrug. “Yeah, trust me.” 

Well, he can’t not trust you. Not when you’re looking at him with all the confidence in the world and squeezing his arm in gentle reassurance. 

His cheeks ache from smiling by the time you make it to the hall. He gestures one way and you follow him past doors and bulletin boards and as many children as there are adults. And finally, he turns through an open classroom door and it’s just absolute chaos. 

A ball pops against a ceiling tile, Steve’s heel slides under a stack of notebook paper, and a string of kids fly between his hip and yours, all in one blink. 

You recognize Andrew faster than Steve expects, pointing him out where he’s barking at a child sprawled on the rug. The other boy stops giggling as you approach, prompting Andrew to spin around with the crazed expression of a real puppy looking for trouble. 

His costume is even cuter up close, a painted snout and a fur-onesie with a floppy-eared hood to match. Andrew barks at Steve, crawling across the carpet on all fours until he’s panting at his father’s jeans. 

Steve squats down to his level, a gentle hand on either side of the boy's neck. “Oh, nooo. They didn’t turn you into a real dog, did they? Are we going to have to feed you from Daisy’s bowl now?” 

Andy slurps a rope of spit back in his mouth and rolls his eyes. “I’m just pretending, Dad.”

“Ohh,” Steve laughs, pressing him impossibly closer. “You did so good, bud. Proud of you.” 

“Did you see me? When I barked at the pirates?” 

“I did! I actually thought it was a real dog.” 

Andrew cackles once, throwing his head down on Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve pats his fuzzy back. “Tired?” 

He blinks up at you curiously and shakes his head. 

“Andy,” Steve cranes toward you, “this is my friend, Y/N. Can you say hi?”

He lifts his head and barks, high-pitched and snappy as a chihuahua. 

Steve tilts his ear away and pinches Andy’s side until the barking turns to giggles. “In English, please.” 

“Hi, Y/N,” Andy squeals out between the remainder of his laughter. 

“Hi, buddy.” You kneel beside Steve and fawn, “You did such a good job!”

Andy pokes his tongue through the gap in his smile. He looks you over entirely and bats his long lashes like a paper fan. 

“I got these for you,” you say, tipping the colorful blooms toward his face. “This one’s for your sister. Here.” 

He chokes the plastic-wrapped stems in his tiny fist, half his face hidden behind a rainbow of petals. 

“Here, bud,” Steve takes one of his bouquets from the floor and tucks it in with yours, “this one’s from me.” 

Andy can’t see much of anything with his nose pressed to a daffodil but he loves them all the same. You pick yourself off the floor, your laughter spilling like the sun. 

“Let’s go find your sister,” Steve says, a hand braced on Andy’s shoulder as he stands too. 

Andy looks between you and Steve in amazement. “She was a mermaid. Did you see?” 

“We did,” Steve answers. “She was a great mermaid, don’t you think?” 

“Yes. She was all sparkly.” Andy slips his small hand into Steve’s, then automatically offers you his other.

You find Nancy, Brad, and Caroline outside the school near the parent pickup circle. Brad’s got Caroline’s hand in his, her feet tracing the edge of the sidewalk like a balance beam. 

She jumps off the curb when she spots Steve, tripping over her toes before breaking into a sprint for his arms. 

Steve kneels right there on the asphalt. “Hi, baby,” he laughs. She sets her elbows on his shoulders as he kisses her on each cheek. “Did such a good job up there!” 

“Did you see me!” she yells. “I wasn’t even scared! I didn’t forget my words like I thought I would.” 

Steve thumbs the corner of her crinkled eye where eyeshadow glares silver under the moon. “I know! My big girl. I’m so proud. Know that?” 

She giggles, her fingers scrunching around the cellophane wrapping in his hand. “Are these for me?” 

“They are. For my best little lady.” 

She sticks her smile in the bouquet and sniffs. 

Steve is oblivious to the heart-warmed grin on your face. But you watch the scene unfold, feeling an unexpected fondness for a family that isn’t yours. You’re only a guest in their little world, an outsider looking in— but even from here, it’s undeniable. He’s a great dad.

“Hey, I have someone I want you to meet,” Steve says. 

You’re so enraptured by the moment, you completely forget that’s your cue. Steve beckons you over with features that echo Carolines, not just in emotion but in shape too. They’re cheek-to-cheek looking at you like a pair of very happy identical twins. 

“Hi, Caroline,” you wave and offer the same hand to shake.

She smiles big and wraps her smaller fingers around yours. “You came to see our show?”

“I did! You were a really amazing mermaid, you know? I especially liked the dance with the sea stars.” 

She shrinks away, suddenly sheepish as she thanks you. 

“Oh, here,” you shift the bouquet in your arms toward her, “before I forget, these are for you.”

“Another! Oh my gosh!” Her beaded hair-tie clinks as she pivots. “Mom! Look! I have three flowers now!” She takes the bouquet at the base and books it toward Nancy who’s engrossed in a conversation with Brad. “Can I keep them in my room, please? And can we get some more vases tonight? I’ll water them, I promise, Mommy.”

You have a fondness for his kids Steve doesn’t often see in the eyes of strangers. They're quite rambunctious a lot of the time and while the elderly compliment him and his genes occasionally, this is different. Affection softens every line of your expression and there’s joy stitched in each sweep of your lashes. It’s endearing as it is strange because ultimately you are still very much a stranger. 

Steve trusts Robin’s judgment more than his own sometimes. If love for his kids were a race, she’d take a very close second against him. She takes her duties as an aunt very seriously and so he’s confident you’re as great as she says. But still, he doesn’t know you personally. He can’t know your intentions for certain. And he might feel guiltier about that in the context of introducing you to his kids— if you weren’t so undeniably wonderful.

You idle beside Steve, a short distance from the rest of the crew. He places his hand on the small of your back and you exchange quiet smiles. 

It’s mostly for show. He feels the weight of Nancy’s gaze in his peripherals. But an ounce or two of Steve is motivated purely by his own self-interest.

He misses these simple acts of affection. Tracing the veins in someone else’s palm, kissing their eyelids, counting their lashes. It’s human nature, a need, he supposes. A need he’s been trying to convince himself is much more of a want. 

And you’re so very gentle with him. It’s really driving him mad. 

Nancy must tell the kids it’s time to go because they’re scrambling over in a cacophony of goodbyes. Steve gives them each a big squeeze and a little shake for the road. Caroline hugs you like you’re no different than the rest of them, while Andy, ever the little charmer, asks your name for the third time. They disappear behind the first row of cars, their voices carry far but fade into all the rest. 

When Steve turns, he finds you already looking at him. 

“They’re really great,” your smile worsens and Steve’s stomach capsizes, “your kids. You should be proud.”

The joy is contagious, infecting Steve with the same toothy smile, spreading through every cell in his body straight down to his jumping heart. “I am,” he manages. 

“God,” you shake your head at the stars, “I can’t believe that actually worked.” 

Steve closes his eyes and exhales a rough laugh. “You’re telling me.” 

“Did I make you uncomfortable at all? I didn’t want to do too much.” 

“No,” Steve promises. “No, no, it was perfect. You did great. Thank you.”

You throw your hand up in dismissal. “Don’t. That was… weirdly fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “is that fucked up?” 

“Not any more than me asking you to do this,” he snorts. 

“How long exactly do you plan to do this for? I could probably do most evenings but mornings are trickier with work.” 

Steve blinks unceremoniously. “Oh, I– well, I was just gonna tell her it didn’t work out, actually.”

“Really?” 

He struggles to understand your squinting. He didn’t expect you to question this part. “Yeah?”

“You want it to be believable, don’t you?” 

“Well, yeah–”

“Then you have to sell it, Steve. Give it a little buildup, some emotion. It would be so obvious if you ended it now.” 

He searches your face, not sure what he’s hoping to find. But there’s at least some level of authenticity there. “You’d want to? To keep going?”

“Like I said,” you frown, “weirdly fun.” 

He hums. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Okay.”

“I say we make a few more appearances, you know, as a happy couple. Then, we stage the breakup.” 

“What, in front of her?”

“No, not necessarily. But we plant the seeds. We aren’t as affectionate, we get a little worked up over something stupid. I don’t know. Just enough to make her catch on that things aren’t all that good. That’s believable.”

Steve stares at you for a long minute before his smile turns a sinister shade. “You’re crazy, aren’t you?” 

You huff but there’s no heat behind it. You’re grinning too. “I thought you had more manners than that, Steve.” 

“Yeah, well, if it's any consolation, I also think you’re a fuckin’ genius.”

“You’ve been a nice boyfriend, so, I’ll let it slide.”  

He rolls his eyes like a kid. He likes talking to you but he isn’t sure what else to say. 

“So, see you next time then?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “yeah, I’ll call you. Thank you.” 

“‘Kay. See ya.” 

There’s a beat before you go, a split-second where Steve could hug you, kiss your cheek, touch your arm. He’s not exactly sure what the protocol is for this type of situation, though. He makes the executive decision not to subject you to any more PDA lest you get the wrong idea about him. But the way you’ve got this all planned out, he’s not so worried anymore. 

“Bye,” he waves. 

You walk the same path Nancy and his kids had, the back of your head slipping behind the bed of a truck. There’s something about you. Something fun, something that makes him feel alive again. And a fake relationship isn’t really harming anyone if you’re both enjoying yourselves. So why the hell not? 

[beforetimes]

On the role reversal au: Binghe's pov of Shen Yuan falling into the abyss

Like? Binghe dissociating over the cognitive dissonance of his sweet, precious disciple being a demon. He pointed his sword at the boy demon, convinced that he would show his true nature. Hurls accusations. Because he had to believe the kindness was a trick of Shen Yuan's or else where would that leave the one absolute he believed in in this fucked up world?

Except Shen Yuan starts pleading. Begging his Shizun to let him explain. To believe him. To let him live, to let him leave.

And it's the most selfish, greedy part of him that snaps out in anger through the haze of his mind that Shen Yuan, the caring, doting boy he needed to be able to even find the will to crawl out of bed some days was not allowed to leave him.

He finally sees the earnest, desperate, begging eyes full of tears, asking Shizun not to hurt him. Not a demon, just Shen Yuan.

No, no, that can't be right, can't be real, because if it is, then he'd just stabbed his most precious disciple, hurled heinous accusations at him. The sweetheart of a boy who is the reason he has the will to even get out of bed some days. Shen Yuan has to show his real colors as a demon or else- or else-

The cliff crumbles under Shen Yuan. And Binghe sees the thing that will replay in his worst nightmares to come:

Shen Yuan, as his mind registers that he's falling, instinctively reaches out to Binghe, silently pleading one last time for Binghe to save him from falling into hell, despite everything Binghe had done not moments before.

And Binghe had done nothing but watch him fall.

Shen Yuan had only ask Binghe to listen. Pleaded that he was still the same boy.

And Binghe had let him fall.

Binghe had let him die.

Shen Yuan, who had continuously reached out to Binghe through ups and downs, reached out one last time for Binghe to save him, and Binghe had let him die.

It was no different than if Binghe had actually pushed the boy off the cliff himself.

Binghe falls to his knees and wretches. Among the grass, he spots glints of familiar, shimmering silver. The shards of Xui Ya that had broken when it couldn't handle the outpouring of Shen Yuan's demonic Qi.

He had thought the blade perfect for Shen Yuan when he'd received it. A beautiful blade for a beautiful soul. A perfect mirror of who Shen Yuan was. How could Binghe have said such awful things to him, when it was clear to anyone who looked at his blade and seen how perfect he was?

And, he thinks back, was it not Shen Yuan who had tried to convince Binghe that some demons could be good too, just like how humans are both? Had Shen Yuan some inkling into his origins and tried to test how Binghe would respond to such a revelation? Hadn't Binghe punished him for that?

Had Shen Yuan died believing Binghe scorned him? Hated him for his blood? When he needed Shen Yuan just to keep breathing? No. No-

His fellow peak lords, when they find him, have to pry the shards of Xui Ya from his hands lest he cut his own fingers off with how tightly he holds them

this crazy ass post you're ruining my life. but like also. yes. all of this. yesss.s.s......

i'm ngl i think when i eventually do write this full fic out i'm going to have to rewrite the abyss scene sooo many times. i'm already anticipating it. because there are just so many things going on at once that it'd be a disservice to go with the first draft and leave it. and picking who's pov to go with will be! so hard!

bcz wow you really laid out binghe's thought process so well. sort of disbelieving yet numb and conflicted and!!! the idea that he wouldn't know whether or not to regret shen yuan falling into the abyss until he was already on the way down is! so good! love that bad!

thank you kindly for putting this in my inbox i will be chewing over it for many days while i plot this fic :^)

and that detail about xiu ya ohhhh don't even joke lad. i wonder if there'd be a canonical way to explain luo binghe maybe like. stopping the healing process from reaching his hands so he could look at the scars and be reminded of his failure.

masterpost

[m00ntunaart]

*gasp* DRAGON DIN? OF MY OWN DESIGN? 🤩 Eek thank you for drawing him! I’m so glad other people seem to like this crossover! I should stop being surprised, but I never expect other people to be into my niche AUs. A pleasant surprise for sure.

As for my thoughts, you didn’t have to draw dragon Din to get me to yap lol. I would have done that if anyone even IMPLIED they maybe wanted to hear my AU ideas. But hey, I’ll take a Dragon Din bribe 😏😂

The Bad Batch:

I’ve actually thought about little about this already, and even asked my IG followers about it. But in my AU all the clones are MudWings, and the Batchers are too. EXCEPT they are MudWing hybrids. Each of them are half MudWing, half another dragon species. My idea for this is that all the clones are made by a “Kaminoan” (some SeaWing) who uses an old Animus object to clone Jango Fett (the original MudWing) and make the clones. Something along those lines at least. And either there’s a weird blood moon/eclipse during the cloning process of the batch which leads to them being hybrids (it was unintentional), or like Dooku (Jedi still have Force powers in this AU) does something to their eggs that turns them into hybrids. Speaking of them being hybrids, their mixes are:

Hunter - NightWing/MudWing

Wrecker - MudWing/SandWing

Crosshair - IceWing/MudWing

Tech - SkyWing/MudWing

Echo - just MudWing (he was a reg) but he does have his prosthetics still after Skako Minor

Omega -  just a MudWing BUT she’s an Albino MudWing (like Rex)

I choose NightWing mix for Hunter because I picture his design to be mostly MudWing looking (with a slimmer NightWing build) but half of his body is black (mimicking his canon half skull tattoo). Plus his “NightWing” abilities kinda work as his enhanced-senses from canon. He doesn’t have any REAL NightWing abilities. BUT he has a very light form of ‘future telling’ that allows him to ‘see’ a few moments into the future to tell when, how and where someone MIGHT attack. But it’s not 100% and he can’t see more than 60 seconds ahead. He can’t REALLY tell the future.

Wrecker is a SandWing Mix just because I kinda didn’t know what else for him. He’s the most ‘MudWing’ like in my mind, so I didn’t think any other dragon species really matched him. But the desert durability of the SandWings seemed to be good for Wrecker. He’s the team’s tough guy (with a sweet heart).

Crosshair is a IceWing mix because what else would he be? The paler colors? The cold personality? Duh, he had to be a IceWing Mix. Plus it could maybe add to his grumpy personality. He’s always in a bad mood because he has to live in hot/temperate biomes when he’s basically half Arctic animal. He’s sweating his ass off lol.

Tech is a SkyWing mix because he’s the pilot (In canon)! Tech’s big thing (aside from being the technology guy) was being the team’s pilot and being good at racing! He HAS to be a SkyWing mix to me! He’s the best at flying! Plus it seems like a lot of SkyWings are grumpy in personality, and Tech is absolutely one of the grumpiest/snarkiest of the team (maybe excluding Crosshair).

Echo is just a normal MudWing because he was just a regular clone before he joined the Batchers. However Skako Minor (or its AU’s equivalent) still happens in this AU and he gets a bunch of augmentations/prosthetics. He’s also just a lot more scarred and paler than the average clone.

Omega is ALSO just a MudWing, not a mix. BUT she’s albino! So all white with pale eyes! (Just like Rex in this AU). Plus in my AU she’s an undiscovered Animus.

And speaking of Animus, I need to talk about my thoughts on the Jedi/Force Sensitives/Animus in this AU:

So in this AU, being Force Sensitive and being an Animus are two separate things. Though you can be both at the same time, but you don’t need to be both to be one of them. Force sensitivity still works the same in this AU to canon. Some dragons are just born with connections to the force (and hence can use powers). Many of them are taken in by the Jedi. The Jedi work basically like how the Jade Mountain Academy does in WOF. They adopt all force sensitive dragonetts from all tribes and take them to the Jade Mountain (this world’s Jedi Temple) to be trained. It’s the only place in the continent that has dragons from all tribes regularly living together. The Jedi aren’t aligned with any tribe specifically, but I imagine this AU’s version of the Clone Wars is like ‘The War of SandWing Succession’ in WOF. Where all the tribes align too one of two sides (Separatist vs Republic) and the Jedi end up aligning with the Republic (I haven’t decided which tribes are part of which group). ‘Being Animus, though, is separate from being Force Sensitive or Jedi, and works the same to WOF canon. Animus’s are just born with the power (it’s relatively hereditary), and anything they say becomes real, but the more they use the power they slowly lose their mind and become violent. Being an Animus is VERY VERY rare, and is thought to be an extinct ability even. Long ago the blood lines that carried the Animus ability were killed off. BUT this isn’t exactly true. In this AU Anakin Skywalker is the first Animus born in centuries! A force sensitive Animus at that! Which is why the Jedi are so scared to take him in at first. He’s super powerful, and the Tribes might attack the Jedi if they find out they are harboring the first Animus in centuries. I also imagine at this time, it’s been so long since Animus’s have been around, and so much information about them has been destroyed. So the Jedi actually don’t know about how Animus who use their powers start to lose their minds (which comes back to bite them as obv Anakin uses his powers and eventually falls to the darkside, loses his mind, and becomes Darth Vader). ‘I also Mentioned Omega is a unknown Animus, and I imagine in this AU, part of the Batchers’ adventures include finding out she’s a Animus, hiding that fact from everyone to protect her, and trying to find out more information to help train her.

‘But anyways, OMG THATS A LOT OF YAPPING. I hope this was what you were hoping for? These are my more thought out ideas for this AU. I still haven’t thought out things like Palpatine or which Tribes are aligned with which Star Wars groups (other than I’ve decided the NightWings are The Children Of The Watch). But hopefully that will satisfy ur want for lore for a bit. Because it’s all I have rn lol.

Thank you again for the BEAUTIFUL art and interest in my stuff! People wanting to hear more on my silly crossovers always makes my day!

Mandalorian characters as Wings Of Fire dragons? Uh, YES PLEASE.

Welcome to stage 5 of "MoonTuna draws the most self indulgent nonsense that no one asked for".

But anyways, yeah! My rambling thoughts on the characters and this AU:

Din Djarin (NightWing):

I imagine Din as NightWing because in this AU I picture the Death Watch/Children Of The Watch as the NightWing Tribe. And after the Death Watch’s war against the other Mandalorians, they go into hiding on the volcano island (like the NightWings do in the WOF books).

And Din is the tribe’s Beroya (Hunter), so he’s one of the few selected from the tribe to leave the island through the hidden tunnels to go back to Pyrrhia to hunt food for the tribe. 

During one of these trips I imagine he find Grogu! Who in this AU is a human (scavenger)! Because if everyone is dragons in this AU, then it just makes sense that Grogu is the human instead lol. Plus then Grogu is still small enough to be in a satchel Din carries around, like in the show.

But Grogu still has his Jedi powers in this AU. Which has never been seen before in humans. Thus ‘The Mandalorian’ type shenanigans where Din takes Grogu around trying to figure out WTH is up with this infant human.

(Also side note: in this AU I still picture there being Jedi/force sensitive dragons (the Jedi Order probably works similar to The Jade Mountain Academy. Where the Jedi are from all the tribes and live in the Jade Mountain. 

Also in this AU NightWings DO have their mind reading/future seeing powers. But like in the books, they loose them once they move to the island and don’t know why.

ALSO ALSO Animus still exists! But they work more like Force Sensitive where it’s just born in some dragons, and isn’t necessarily hereditary. And it’s SUPER rare. So rare that many believe Animus’s don’t exist. (I imagine Anakin Skywalker is the first Animus in centuries))

Cobb Vanth (Sand Wing):

Cobb is super straight forward. He’s a SandWing because he’s a cowboy from Tatooine. Of course he’s SandWing. Though in this AU I imagine he’s a lot like Thorn from the books, in that he’s the Marshal/leader of a town (Freetown) in the desert that isn’t under the Sand Kingdom’s rule. Also I imagine he’s one of the first dragons Din meets when he goes out on his journey to find information on Grogu. (Since the tunnels from the NightWing Island to the Rain Forest to the Sand Kingdom are all connected basically).

Boba Fett (MudWing):

Okay so Boba just had to be a MudWing. He had to be. Though it was less because of Boba’s character and more because he’s a clone. The clones all being close to each other, having battalions, and calling each other brothers? Uh, that’s like MudWings in the books to a TEA. So yeah, the clone troopers in this AU are MudWings, hence Boba also is a MudWing lol. Though I also liked it because older Boba Fett (and the older clones we see in the shows) are a lot bulkier and muscled with age. They get DILF bodies is what I’m saying lol (except for like Hunter apparently, he gets to keep his twink dad body). So the big MudWing body type works well for Boba and the clones. 

Fennec Shand (RainWing):

Fennec to me was a RainWing MOSTLY because as an assassin, her being able to camouflage and make herself look like other dragons was super RainWing coded. Plus having the subtle but deadly RainWing venom just matched her energy so much. Plus I love the idea that Fennec is kinda a “outcast” in RainWing society. Her ‘resting’ colors are dark, she knows how to fight and kill and LIKES it. She left the Rain Forest because the RainWing life style was nothing like her personality (very Glory from WOF like). Plus it plays into the idea that no one expects her to be dangerous or competent because she’s a RainWing, and then she murders you violently while still looking like a goddess (is my Fennec love showing yet? lol). Plus it’s why she and Boba get along, he treats her from the start like the dangerous criminal she is, and not like some ditsy RainWing. Also idk how Boba and Fennec taking over Jabba the Hutt’s palace works in this AU, but if so Fennec is definitely the one mainly running the show from behind the scenes. She was born to micromanage.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

See The Road You're On

Elks Chapter 1

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Female Reader Chapter Rating: T. (Nothing explicit for the first few chapters.) Chapter Summary: The man you've had a crush on since he showed up to Jackson just so happens to be your favorite student's caretaker... and he just saw you do a brutal face plant in front of his home. Chapter Warnings: FIX IT FIC ALERT, pov switching (joel is in bold), soft jackson joel, pining, yearning, outbreak and quarantine zone memories, ellie has a smart mouth, anxious reader, mentions of blood and an injury from falling, everyone lives happily ever after, joel and ellie don’t leave jackson (no hospital, no revenge, no bad things happen), early 2000’s indie rock, reader has a backstory Words: 6,565

A/N: Well folks, I did it... another Elks rewrite, as mentioned in this lengthy post. Today marks a year since I posted my first fic. There's a lot of cliche "wow, what a year it's been" feelings, but just know how grateful I am to you for reading my words. I wouldn't be here without @forspringcleaning, I'm forever grateful for her and our shared delulu🪿. Thank you to @mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, @secretelephanttattoo, and @devineconjuring for being my writing and grammar hand holders. I can't imagine my life now without the five of you, so y'all are stuck with me. (Also, an extra shout out to Mothy for calling Joel a slut in my Google Docs.)

Elks Masterlist Masterlist Playlist Chapter Song: “Myth" by Beach House

The world ended the day after you bought your first homecoming dress. You had begged your mom for it—a beautiful deep forest green sequined gown with a sweetheart neckline that perfectly framed your prized gold daisy pendant. You twirled in the mirror of the dressing room, feeling like a princess, sparkling under the fluorescent lights of the department store. Life seemed perfect.

On the morning of September 26, 2003, your alarm blared you awake, pulling you from the dream of dancing under glittering chandeliers with a handsome prince. The only concern floating around your teenage brain was the grade you’d receive for your AP English essay.

You survived yet another monotonous day at high school. On your way home, your essay with a bold red A+ was safely stored in your messenger bag. With your guitar strapped to your back and headphones on, you listened to what would be the last lyrics before everything changed:

Hold your glass up, hold it in Never betray the way you’ve always known it is One day, I’ll be wondering how I got so old, just wondering how

Twenty years later, hardened by life in the Denver Quarantine Zone and gently softened by your now-comfortable life in Jackson, you’re still waiting for your first dance.

—-

Art and music have always been at the forefront of your life; you’ve never allowed anything to take away your creativity, continuing to create despite the pain of losing everyone you’ve loved to the plague roaming the earth. You create for yourself, using art as a way to soothe your thoughts and anxieties. You create for the Settlement of Jackson, to give back to the town that has given you a good life for the past five years. Most importantly, you create for your students at the school you’ve taught at since your arrival. 

The fifteen years spent in the Denver QZ tried to steal your colors and mute your songs. Joy became more difficult to find as each year behind the imposing iron gates passed. The only sources of happiness were your small group of friends and your students in the desolate school you taught at. You never graduated high school; there was no pomp and circumstance, just a teaching job assigned to you because you were young and still remembered most of your high school education. That’s how your career was decided. It's funny how an apocalypse job search happens.

You tried to carve out as much of a life as you could under the overbearing and always watchful eyes of FEDRA soldiers, but it never felt whole. When the opportunity to leave Denver arrived, thanks to your kind neighbor’s sister, you grabbed the few items you could and ran away from the only state you’d ever called home. 

Now, five years after your escape through the wasteland of the world to a better existence in Jackson, your life is filled with art, music, and purpose. Art supplied by the jars of paints you learned to make, and what the patrollers bring you back. Music from the CD player in your house and the guitar you strum. Purpose from the weekdays spent teaching your impressionable students, who have actual well-rounded futures, no longer doomed to become FEDRA fodder, along with the Saturdays spent working at the library you run out of your classroom. 

It's a good and comfortable life here, even if the nights are lonely and the only company in your small cottage are your cats Ripley and Penny. Some extra lonely nights, when the moon sits high atop the mountains, you can’t silence the thoughts that there’s nobody in your life who creates beautiful things for you. Too many nights you find yourself thinking about the man that lives down the street from you.

Joel Miller. 

He’s so intimidating. Handsome and caged off, like he’s your own little museum piece you keep to yourself now that museums are obsolete. You’ve never seen anybody more gorgeous, not even in the faded celebrity magazines you cut up to make collages. Soft, full lips always hidden under a frowning mustache that rests below a large hooked nose. His dark brown eyes often focused forward, always appearing in thought underneath furrowed brows. Dark, wavy hair that matches his eye color, with soft silver streaks painted throughout. His body is strong and broad, often hidden underneath a tan flannel-lined jacket.  His hands are large, matching the rest of his features, with thick fingers that seem capable and dexterous; you can tell they’re efficient for any task you ask of them. His skin is golden, born that way and bronzed by years spent outdoors. He’s tall and big–so big. Somebody who has always been a protector. The precious pages of your notebook quickly deplete when you try to sketch and master the lines of his face. Maybe you could get the minute details if only you could stop being so afraid of the feelings he stirs inside you.  

You’ve been enamored with him since he first showed up in Jackson. Your life, and all of those feelings you’ve tried to avoid for years, upended by his presence. 

It was a normal day, like any other, when you walked into the Tipsy Bison to drop off some extra shoelaces and push pins for the community swap basket. Your eyes paused on the long communal table where your friends Maria and Tommy sat with two strangers. 

A small teenage girl with a tight ponytail and a tattered sweatshirt was talking animatedly with her mouth full. You know kids well after all your years of teaching, and you could already spot her tenacity across the room. Sitting next to her, bent over a plate of food and clutching a fork in an untamed way, was a man with a mess of graying hair and a permanent scowl plastered on his handsome face, his eyes staring straight forward, void of kindness. You wondered when the last time somebody created something beautiful for him was. 

You quickly flitted over to the corner where the communal basket sat and deposited your items, and as you turned around to head to the exit, you noticed the handsome stranger looking right at you. His eyes darted away right as yours widened at his attention before you made your hasty retreat out of the room.

That night you wrote a song about a once warm and inviting cabin sitting in the woods, now cold and desolate with tattered floor boards and a cracked window.

—-

The girl you saw at the Bison with the handsome stranger shows up in your class the following week. Ellie quickly becomes your favorite student thanks to her love of art and smart mouth. She’s always so eager to learn in the mornings before heading out with the other older kids for patrol and community training. 

She doesn’t shut up about your handsome stranger. Joel. You’re able to parse together a few facts you hold close to your heart:  he’s Tommy Miller’s older brother, Texas born-and-raised, grumpier than everyone else, and loves coffee. Everything she tells you makes you think about him more. 

Sometimes you’ll see him walking down the road headed right towards you, but a quick tuck of your head or dash around the nearest corner helps alleviate the panic of being near him. One night you see him at the Tipsy Bison, drinking whiskey with Tommy in the corner. Your eyes staring unblinking before you realized how anyone could look over and see the way you’re ogling; you quickly created an excuse, telling your friends why you needed to head home, too overwhelmed by his presence just a couple of tables down. Seeing him stirs up so many foreign emotions inside you, but you like the rush. You like having your little crush, as long as you can keep your distance from him.

—-

“Jeez, what were they thinking when they named these bands? The Shins? The Strokes? The Yeah Yeah Yeahs? Did every band just pick a random word and put The in front of it?” Ellie questions as she peruses your CD collection while you grade papers. With training for the older students canceled due to the winter snow outside, Ellie had decided that you needed company in your classroom after school.

“Seems like it, doesn’t it?” you answer. “I’ll have to play them for you one day, those were some of my favorite bands when I was your age.”

“Really? Wicked! I’d love that!” She looks up from your CD book with an enthusiastic smile. You return her smile, happy for the bond the two of you share. “Joel loves music too. Wonder if he’d like any of these.” Your pen pauses and your heart races at the mention of his name. You feel foolish for the crush you have on your student’s “father.” 

“I’m sure there’s something in there for everyone,” you say, stacking your papers and capping your pen. “I think we should get going before the sun sets, El. I’ll lock up.” 

“Aw man, there’s nothing to do at home,” she sighs. 

“Sorry, kid,” you shrug. “I’m helping at the Bison tonight.” 

“Fiiiiiine,” she sighs as she grabs her backpack and jacket. “Bye, Teach!”

Watching her leave, the thought plants in your head that she’s only a couple years younger than you were when the outbreak happened. You vow to be there for her in any way you can. 

—-

The world thaws as winter turns to spring, the sun stays up longer in the Wyoming sky each day. With clear roads and longer days, patrollers are able to venture farther from the gates, giving them a better chance to scavenge and bring their finds back. The wish list posted above the communal basket in the Tipsy Bison is filled with requests. 

Residents ask for a broom, a TV input cable, a glue gun, crayons, and other utilitarian items to help make life easier. You think about writing down the one thing you wish for the most: a new CD player. Your prized possession finally spun its last song a couple of days ago, making your home fall silent without your constant companion of music. The irony isn’t lost on you; your just-as-ancient guitar now lies silent against the wall, the crack on the neck finally broken from overuse. You don’t write down your main wish, instead choosing to note that the school needs chalk and you need a new oven mitt. 

That’s how life goes now, you’ve learned to live with much less before, and you’ll learn to do it again.

—-

When Joel Miller arrived in Jackson, he doubted he would ever feel at home. But now, as he approaches the white house with the mailbox labeled MILLER, he feels that feeling he hasn’t felt in almost two decades… a sense of peace.

Hell, he and Ellie have called Jackson home for six months now. He has a job, he’s met a couple people he can stand to be around, and he has a warm bed to sleep in every night. He has a home, even though he still feels like he’s a lost man.

His back aches when he bends over to remove his mud-caked boots by the door, a testament to the hard day’s work he put in helping Tommy haul bricks to repair one of the buildings on the main street. He welcomes the discomfort, it’s just like old times, the Miller brothers working together again.

He’s already thinking about the scalding hot shower he’ll take to soothe his muscles when he opens the front door.

His backpack almost slips out of his hand when he sees you in his living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He quietly closes the door, trying to stay as silent as he can. It’s you… Ellie’s teacher—the one she won’t shut up about. The pretty girl he saw at the Tipsy Bison all those months ago, the same pretty girl he sometimes watches when he thinks nobody is looking, the same pretty girl who he catches darting away each time he thinks their paths might just cross.

You're bent over a large sketchpad, pencil in hand, with Ellie beside you.

Both of you are so focused on whatever you're creating, the music coming from the stereo is loud enough that neither of you notice his entrance. He stands frozen in the doorway, taking in the sight of you in his home.

"The perspective is all wrong," Ellie groans. "I can't get it right."

"Here," you say, angling the paper. "Try looking at the paper like this, and imagine you're standing, looking at the tree."

“Ohhhh, shit,” Ellie happily exclaims.

“Language,” Joel reprimands, surprising himself. “And I thought I told you not to touch my stereo, kid.”

—-

The deep timbre of a Texas-accented voice shocks you. Your heart begins to thud against your chest, goosebumps spreading along your body; you’re frozen on the floor while you attempt to hide your internal panic.

Joel is home.

Of course he’s home. This is HIS home, and you’re in it breaking HIS rules by listening to your favorite mixed CD on HIS stereo system, which is much grander than your pitiful broken CD player. Why did you think letting YOUR STUDENT, who’s half your age, convince you this was a good idea?

He gives you a half smile when you turn to him, mouth slightly agape at the sight of him. Joel Miller is in Joel Miller’s house with you. 

“I know, relax!” Ellie’s response drips with her unshakeable sarcasm as she turns the stereo off. “This is the teacher I told you about. Her stereo broke and I invited her over so she could play me some of her stuff,” Ellie reasons. The kid is never not convincing. “I’m being active in the community like you asked me to,”

You quickly stuff your CD case into your backpack and stand, trying to escape the anxiety of being in the cozy Miller household with the not-so-cozy-looking Mr. Miller. 

“Mm,” Joel grunts out before turning to you and reaching his hand out. “I‘m Joel.” His big hand envelops yours when you softly grab it to say hello. 

You nervously give him your name, trying to calm your panicked heart. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep any boundaries. My stereo broke a couple days ago and she knew it upset me.” You nervously stammer feeling like a thirteen year old in trouble again as you begin to fiddle with the gold daisy chain around your neck.

“Don’t worry about it,” he insists, glancing at Ellie. “I can look past this if it means you’re getting out of that damn garage.” 

“She has way better music taste than you. None of that twangy sad music you try to get me to listen to,” Ellie replies, rolling her eyes. You wonder if every conversation they have is Joel putting a rule down and Ellie defying it.

“I-I need to go, I promised Helen I’d help at the Tipsy Bison tonight.” You’re not due for another hour but you can’t fathom the idea of being around Joel Miller for any longer.

“Well, you’re welcome back whenever you want… right Joel?” Ellie looks at him, angling her eyebrow, knowing she’s going to get the answer she wants from him. 

You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. It’s almost too much… and then Joel looks at you with warmth in his eyes.

“Of course. S’pose any friend of Ellie’s is welcome here,” Joel hesitates with a smile, his deep brown eyes crinkle in the corners. He’s ridiculously handsome this close, it’s staggering. 

“Thank you again Ellie, I’ll see you tomorrow, make sure you bring your notebook.”

Joel opens the door for you and steps aside, as you pass him, your shoulder brushes his chest. You pray he doesn’t hear the way your breath hitches.

You hope the distinct woodsy smell of Joel’s house on your jacket will linger for a while. You almost trip when you realize you’ve left your favorite mixed CD in Joel’s stereo.

—-

Joel knows you’ll never be able to tell how many times he’s listened to your CD, and yet every time he plays it a pang of guilt sits within him. Funny that this is what he feels guilty about after all of his years.

The truth is, he doesn’t recognize any of the songs, and about half of the CD doesn’t appeal that much to him, but damn, he would love to hear you explain why you chose each song.

He hasn’t even taken your CD out of the player, too afraid to hurt a relic of yours. He really likes track 8. There’s a haunting guitar, a slightly whiny voice telling him to “cheer up honey, I hope you can.” He can feel the lyrics in his soul, he likes the way the static sounds, the strumming of the guitar, the hopelessness in the singer’s voice.

He often plays it on repeat, imagining you listening and humming along with your sweet voice.

He wonders how old you were when everything happened, where you’re from, how you got here… why he’s so drawn to you.

The song begins again, he closes his eyes and thinks of you.

—-

Weeks pass. Spring arrives, the ground softens, trees adorned with bright green leaves sway in the gentle breeze rolling off the mountains, and the flowers bloom along the vast gardens of fruits and vegetables. Everyone’s days turn longer with more tasks to accomplish. A sense of hope and rejuvenation fills the air for everyone, no longer bunkered down and locked away by the snowy weather. 

Your favorite mixed CD has fallen victim to your inability to be anywhere near Joel. Strangely, it brings a sense of nostalgia to you, kind of like when you'd forget a CD in your friend's car or in your locker over winter break. It's not like you have anything to play it on, your house still sits silent, your stereo and guitar still sit broken and unusable.

Though, during the early days of spring, you’re hardly ever home. You've been filling your time with extra work: assisting with spring planting in the community gardens, organizing the supply room at the schoolhouse, and taking more shifts at the Bison. Jackson is your home and you love making it better.

Today’s a warmer day than usual, the sun shines bright and hot in the clear, blue Wyoming sky; all you can think about is getting home and taking a long bath after helping out at the community garden.

Your quick footsteps pitter patter against the warm asphalt in front of Joel’s house. Your heart always starts to beat faster when it comes into view.

This sweltering afternoon you’ve certainly lucked out, he’s in his yard working on repairing a broken fence post. Your steps begin to slow as you see him set the hammer down, wipe the back of his hand across his sweaty brow, and stretch his back.

Panic sets in at the realization he could look right over and see you in the state you’re currently in. You’ve been up to your knees in soil since school ended, watering and deadheading plants while letting the dirt on your skin bake in the warm sun.

Your anxious steps pick up pace, failing to hop over the divot in the road you always remember to avoid. A trip and a fall ends with you landing hard on your stomach knocking the wind out of you. You can just make out the fall of heavy boot steps on the ground over the sound of your lungs gasping for air as you turn over.

“Whoa whoa whoa, you okay darlin’?” Joel asks. His broad body eclipses the bright sun when he bends over your body splayed out on the pavement. “S’alright, s’alright, breathe.” 

You lose even more breath at the sight of him. The sheen of sweat against his skin makes it glow bright. This is the first time you’ve seen him without a jacket or flannel, you can’t help but stare at the constellation of freckles on his neck that you’ve never noticed. His biceps strain the fabric of his short sleeves when he reaches to put a comforting hand on your shoulder. 

You can’t tell if you’re still panicking from your fall or the stress of Joel seeing you as pathetic as you think you look. He called you darling and you feel like a fool. 

"I'm alright—I-I'm sorry... I'm alright," you manage to say between breaths. A whimper of as you attempt to stand but it hurts far too much. 

“Hold on, hold on, there’s no need to rush, you took a mighty fall. Ya’ got a big cut on your knee, let me help you,” Joel says, his eyes scanning you, worry etching his furrowed brows. 

“No, no, I’m okay really, I-I’m really okay.”

“S’alright now, I have some peroxide and bandages in my house. Ellie’d kill me if she knew I left you here hurt ‘n alone,” he implores reaching his hand out. "I want to help you, come here."

“I– okay,” you grab his hand, his strong fingers wrap around yours, oh god he’s so warm. “I-I don’t want to bother you.”

“Now, I’ll have none ‘a that, come on,” he helps you stand steadying you with an arm around your waist, the adrenaline of being this close to him makes a bit of the pain fade, though the humiliation remains. 

He slowly leads you up his walkway, his hand firmly splayed against your hip. Your head rests against him, close enough to feel the dampness of his sweaty shirt on your cheek.

You’re back in Joel Miller’s house, the realization isn’t lost on you that you’ve felt like an idiot both times you've been here. What is your luck?

Joel gently helps you settle on his couch, placing a pillow behind your back for support. "You alright?” he asks, his voice drags heavily with concern.

You nod, keeping your eyes focused on your bare legs, marred by dirt and gravel mixed with blood.

“Just relax for a second, I’ll go grab everything." He retreats, his loud boot steps get fainter allowing you to take a deep breath, trying to regain your composure. 

Your solitude now allows a chance to look closely at Joel’s living room. The last time you were in his house you were far too anxious to focus on anything. But now you can look around, and realize that despite his reputation for being gruff and irritable, his home is quite warm and inviting.

Wood carvings sit on shelves, a couple of tattered sports magazines lay on the coffee table, a chipped owl mug sits atop a book on the side table next to a chair. All of it presents quite domestic and comfortable for a single man and an adopted daughter in the apocalypse.

Your eyes roam along the beige walls and pause when you spot a familiar painting hung near the front window. An elk stands alone, amongst a field of flowers, large antlers reach into the light blue sky. You painted it just a few months ago, using your favorite water colors. You gave it to Tommy for Christmas, as a thank you for always making sure you have first dibs of paints that patrollers bring in. Why does Joel have it?

“Don’t have any large bandages but I got a gauze roll,” Joel startles you when he takes a seat atop the coffee table across from you. 

“That’s my painting? I painted that… for Tommy,” your inner thoughts escape your mouth, surprising you.

He turns and follows your eyes to the small piece of paper pinned on his wall. “You painted that? S’good. Saw it on my brother’s wall and asked him if I could have it. He was kinda reluctant but I told him how it reminds me of the painting I used to have over my bed before… everything.” The last word comes out as a huff, like he still doesn't know what word to use for these last twenty years.

“I love elks, they remind me of where I’m from… I’ve always liked painting the wildlife I grew up around the most,” your eyes remain focused on your painting. “Herds of elk used to live near my Dad’s home in the mountains, I used to hear their calls during the mating season.” 

“S’nice to remember those small moments, I guess your painting helps me,” he gently muses. 

“I’m glad,” you whisper.

He clears his throat as he begins to prepare the supplies. "Let me clean up those knees," he lowly says.

You nod, grateful, but still embarrassed.

Joel delicately lifts your leg and places it on his lap, resting it against the soft strength of his thighs. Your heart feels like it’s going to burst out of your chest when you look down at this intimate moment with your dream man. Your breaths escape your mouth in rapid succession, your only hope is Joel blames your panic on the threat of the peroxide and not his close proximity. 

“S’gonna sting,” he warns before pouring the clear liquid onto your knee. Your breath catches in your throat when it hits your sensitive skin and burns. You suppress a whimper and feel slightly dizzy at the sight of him bending forward and delicately blowing on your wound. His breath cools the heat of your burning skin but lights a fire inside of your body you haven’t felt in years.  He glances up, his dark brown eyes stay focused on your face. “Doin’ alright?” 

You nervously chew on your bottom lip and nod. “Y-yes, yeah,” you mumble, “I-I’m okay it just hurts a lot to move.” Heaven forbid you tell him the truth, that you’re acting this way because he’s the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen, and now his hands are on you.

"I know, that gravel is a sucker," he gently reassures, picking up your other leg and placing it on top of his lap. “S’bouta sting again,” he warns. 

You try to focus on the burn of the peroxide and not on Joel’s fingertips resting against the back of your knee. He blows on the peroxide as it bubbles again, your heart skips a beat when his deep brown eyes meet yours again. You get the sense that he knows exactly why you’re responding the way you are. 

He lifts a faded gray wash cloth up and wipes both of your knees with the utmost tenderness. He picks up the fabric bandage, and lifts your knee higher to rest your foot against his broad chest. 

“Place a finger here so I can wrap you,” Joel directs just as gently as his touch. “Tell me if it feels too tight.” His hand tightens around your knee while he slowly winds the gauze around your leg and bandages your wound. “How’s that?” 

You bend your leg back and forth and place it on the floor. “Feels good, thanks.”

“Course,” he says, lifting your other leg higher to start. He smirks when you place your finger on top of the bandage without him asking, and begins to wrap the gauze around your other leg. 

“I’d try to take it easy the next few days, give you a chance to heal,” Joel utters, tucking the bandage in and smoothing it down. 

“I will. Thanks for all your help… you really didn’t have to,” your voice breaking with embarrassment. 

“You don’t have to thank me, Ellie’d kill me if she found out I left you hurt in front of my home,” he cracks a smile at the mention of her name. “She talks about you a lot, I should be thanking you for giving her a reason to love goin’ to school.”

“She’s one of the best parts of my day,” your smile matches his when you think about her and her smart mouth, “I love having her around, she’s always so eager to learn… and give her opinion."

“She's always showing me some new art way she learned from you or talking about a band she wants to hear that you told her about. You mean a lot to her.”

“She’s a special kid.”

“She is,” he says, his deep brown eyes looking into yours. You’ve never noticed just how much his dark eyes glisten. Like the perfect color of black coffee. 

The sweet shared moment turns more awkward as you both maintain eye contact and nod over your shared adoration of Ellie. It feels like he’s looking at you under a microscope.

“Well, I should get going,” you say cutting the tension before scooting forward on the couch.

Joel rises, reaching out his hand to help you. The warmth of his hand sends a shiver across your body as you stand, trying to hide the wince of pain when you put weight on your scraped knees.

"You sure you're alright to walk home?"

“Yeah, I think so,” you respond. “I’ve already taken up enough of your time. Thank you for everything.”

“S’no problem at all,” he says, placing a hand on your back as you walk towards the door. "I'd feel better walking you home… just to make sure."

“Oh, um—” you stammer, caught off guard by his offer. “I’ll be okay, I don’t live far at all. Plus, it’ll be good for me to get used to walking with the bandages on.”

“If you insist, at least take it slow.”

He helps you down the few steps, you spy his tools laying abandoned on the lawn. “I hope I didn’t keep you from finishing your fence,” you apologize.

“I’ll manage… take care of yourself,” his hand retreats from your back when he opens the gate for you. 

“Thanks Joel, you too.”

You really shouldn’t have looked back at him to get one last glimpse, he’s beautiful, especially now lit by the slowly setting sun. 

Walking away from him as confidently as you can, you feel his eyes follow you the whole way. You’ve never been so thankful to see your little cottage, escaping behind the protection of your front door before you grin and grab your paints and brushes. You sit at your kitchen table and paint a picture of an elk, this time with golden toned fur and deep brown eyes. 

—-

His heart beats with an unfamiliar feeling as he watches you hobble down the road, too proud to glance back, obviously too embarrassed for your own good. If only you knew how often he thinks about you, how closely he listens to Ellie when she talks about you, how many times he’s replayed that old mixed CD of yours with your name and the pretty faded flowers drawn on it… maybe then you’d look back at him. 

You fell in front of his home like an angel falling from the sky. He picked you up and bandaged your wounds.

Today, you gave him a purpose, he loves having a purpose. Some days he feels that purpose dwindling behind the protective gates of Jackson. Ellie’s comfortable here, she doesn’t need him as much, what with all of her friends and teenage responsibilities. She’s thriving here, and he’s left feeling adrift. He’d never admit it, not even to Tommy. At least there’s always patrol and the freedom that provides him.

Maybe he just needs more of a purpose, more of a reason here, maybe then he’d be satisfied. 

He steps back into his home, glancing at the couch you were just sitting on, before retreating to his studio. He unwraps his tools and picks up the perfect block of wood. Running his fingers over the smooth surface, he envisions the intricate lines he’ll carve for the fur, he feels a whisper of intimidation at the thought of shaping the delicate antlers.

Woodworking has been a new discovery for him, he’s always been better at settling his thoughts when his hands are occupied. He thinks of the first time he saw you all those months ago when he makes his first deliberate cut.

—-

Saturday mornings are always busy, running your library never allows you the luxury to eat breakfast at the hall like everyone else does on the weekends. You’re always turning to the left rushing towards the schoolhouse while everyone takes a right heading to eggs, pancakes, and coffee. This particular Saturday you’re moving slower thanks to your injured knees and the large box of books that patrol brought you from their runs. 

“Mornin’," Joel shouts, quickly striding towards you from the hall exit. “Lemme take those for you.” 

“Oh, hi,” you say as you pause in your tracks. You’re a little flustered to see him, completely thrown off when he stops in front of you, reaching out and taking the box out of your hands. “You really don’t have to take–"

“None ‘a that,” he shushes, effortlessly lifting the box of books higher. "Where are we going with these?"

"Just over to the school house for the library," you nod your head towards the little brick building.

“How are the knees doing?” he asks, slowing his gait to match your slower pace.

“A lot better, thanks.”

“Glad to hear.” 

You fish the key out of your pocket, unlock the door, and let Joel follow you down the hallway to your classroom. You flick the lights on, fluorescent bulbs buzz illuminating your second home. 

The thought of Joel seeing your second home, filled with your’s and your student’s art makes you nervous. The walls are covered with colorful drawings and paintings, shelves lined with worn books, and various art supplies organized in labeled containers.

You sit in your chair to rest your already aching knees, you’d still be halfway to the schoolhouse if it wasn’t for Joel’s kind assistance. 

“You can put the box on my desk,” you direct, rubbing your sore knee. 

He places the box on your desk, before his eyes shift to the bright mural on the wall behind your desk. “Wow, I haven’t seen something like this in a long time. S’beautiful,” he murmurs in awe. 

A grin lifts your tired face before you swivel in your chair to look at the mural. “Goodness, thank you. I just finished it a few weeks ago. I really wanted to make sure the kids had something fun and colorful to focus on while in class. It was hard for me to work in this plain, white room for so long. It took a long time to save up enough paint.” 

He slowly walks over and places his hand on the cinder block wall. “Bluebells. The flower of Texas,” he faintly whispers.

His large fingers trace the lines of your painted indigo petals, it feels almost forbidden to see such soft tenderness from hands that are usually so tough and strong. He had touched you with the same gentleness when he bandaged your scraped knees. There was once softness surrounding all of Joel, the permanent grimace and rough reputation for him brought on by the harshness of existing in this world. 

He turns to you, keeping his hand on your mural. “Where you from?” he asks, curiously gazing into your eyes.

“I was in the Denver QZ.”

“No, where were you from before everything?”

“Oh, sorry. Still Colorado, just more in the mountains,” you say, concentrating on the columbine flower painted next to the bluebell. “Florissant to be exact. It’s a little town famous for dinosaurs. I was very lucky to be where I was when everything happened—just far enough to escape.”

“Nice state, I went skiing there once as a teen, had plans to go again before… everything,” he turns to look back at the bluebells again.

“Big of a Texan to compliment Colorado,” you jest, as you stand up, picking up your library supplies from the desk. A smile tugs at your lips as you move around the desk.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Good one.”

You start placting down your hand-painted placards on the tables, each card illustrated with a different genre. 

He walks over and picks one of the cards up and admires it. “These are real nice,” Joel says picking up one labeled ‘Science Fiction’ with a painting of stars, and a rocket. “Can I help you?”

“If you want, just pick up a pile of books and put them on their respective tables. Children’s, Mystery, Romance, Non-Fiction, Sci-Fi, Miscellaneous.” 

He dutifully picks up a stack of books. “You do this by yourself?”

“Usually. I’ll sometimes have help, but I think everyone here works so hard during the week that they like their slow Saturdays. I wouldn’t want to ask them to give up sleeping in.” 

He holds up a thick paperback with yellowed pages and a burgundy cover. On the cover, a muscular, orange-toned man with flowing blonde hair cradles a wispy brunette damsel. “I take it with a title like ‘Burning Tenderness’ it goes in romance?” Joel winks. You’d never imagine you would ever see someone like him joke, let alone wink.

“Well, I’d fire you on the spot if you placed it in non-fiction.”

His bellowing laugh echoes across your classroom. You like hearing him laugh. 

—-

The library is set up in record time, a half hour before opening, thanks to Joel’s help.

You take a seat on the edge of your desk to rest your knees. “I’ve never gotten done this early before. Between your help with my knees and today I feel like I owe you something. Is there any way I could repay you for your kindness?” 

He sighs, glancing back at your mural. His brows furrow as his eyes move over the painted wall. “Those bluebells you painted,” he inhales a deep breath, “do you think you could paint some of those for me in my house?” 

You’re stunned by his request, his words taking a moment to register. Paint for Joel Miller? In his home? “You… want me to paint for you?”

“If you’d be willing,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“Oh my, I’d love to,” your face lights with a smile. “I can start it anytime.”

“D’you want to come over Monday after you’re done at the school? I already told Ellie I’d spend the day with her tomorrow.” 

“That sounds great,” you reply, not believing your luck that Joel Miller is inviting you over to his house.

“Alright, Monday it is. Should probably get going ‘n start my day,” he says, raising a book in his hand. “Taking this as payment for my work today.”

“‘As I Lay Dying?’ Didn’t pin you as a Faulkner fan,” you muse, opening your logbook to note the title down.

“Liked the horse on the cover.” 

“So Texas,�� you chuckle, shaking your head. “It’s a good book. Enjoy it Joel.”

“See you Monday. Good luck today.” 

“Yes, Monday,” you respond, trying not to smile too hard. “Thanks again for all your help.”

“Course,” he nods before walking out the door. 

Today’s going to be a great day, it already started out better than you ever could have hoped.

—-

Back home after a busy day you sit in your favorite chair with your cats on your lap and sketch bluebells until you fall asleep with your pencil in hand.

Divider courtesy of @/saradika-graphics

perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

Tagging some mutuals and those who requested. (As always, let me know if you'd like to be put on or taken off.) @secretelephanttattoo, @sawymredfox, @moonlitbirdie, @arcanefox207, @almostfoxglove, @pascalssbabyy, @toomanytookas

@jolapeno, @goodwithcheese, @msjarvis, @itwasntimethatdidit40, @burntheedges, @magpiepills, @maggiemayhemnj

@ace-turned-confused, @lorettafudge, @jennaispunk, @lotusbxtch

@sunnytuliptime, @sizzlingcloudmentality, @cheekychaos28, @ashleyfilm

[paladin--strait]

Could I request prompts 6, 27, and 44 with Timo Meier? Can you also add that his parents are with reader at the game?

always there - timo meier

prompts: teacher! reader, "i'll take care of you.", and player going crazy when he gets chirped about reader

tw!: fighting, mentions of blood, mentions of bullying and bad home life

-

it's no surprise that the devils and rangers always have a rivalry, especially during the playoff rush. a few days ago, i gave two of my students tickets to see the game as a prize for being such great students.

the way their faces and their parents faces lit up when i kept my word and gave them the tickets was the highlight of my day. the seventh grader, parker, was being bullied, the sight of him sitting alone at lunch tugging at my heartstrings. nina had many friends but was having trouble in school.

parker told me one friday when i pulled him out of class that the kids don't want to hang out with him because he's different and not cool enough. his trembling voice and the way he fiddled with the paracord bracelet on his wrist made me bend down to his level, reassuring words leaving my mouth softly.

nina told me the previous day, a thursday, that the reason she was having a hard time staying alert and paying attention in class was because she was having a tough time at home. her parents fought, often times so loudly she couldn't sleep. she said the only reason why she seems so happy at school is because she can see her friends, and because she enjoys learning new things my class. she's always been a bright and smart young girl, and seeing her struggle so much made my heart throb with sadness.

i announced to my class the following monday that two students who do well for the whole month in my class, not only by grades, but also by the way they treat others, will get a special surprise of their choosing. (within reason, of course.)

at the end of the month, which wasn't far away from when i told them the idea, i announced the students were parker and nina. the way the gasp left parker's mouth, soon replaced by a toothy grin almost made me cry on the spot. nina was so excited, a grin on her face as her friends congratulate her for winning.

all children should be treated with kindness and respect, and since i didn't have very many students this year and there was just enough time in the school year for everyone to be chosen, i decided the idea was a great way for some kids to maybe make new friends, while treating all of them equally with things they love. almost like a reward system.

it made me excited to find out that parker and nina both have at least one thing in common. they both love hockey. since timo and i are engaged, i have connections to take them and meet the players before the game. when i offered to this to them, their excitement and the way their heads nodded made me buy tickets on the spot. i let them pick out who they wanted to see the devils play and of course, they picked the devils vs. rangers.

and now we're here, two kids on my right and timo's parents on my left, our seats right up on the glass. the kids received jerseys from the players, covered in signatures. they also received hats and a puck each. timo's mom, claudia, taps my shoulder, leaning in.

"it's so sweet that you brought some students to see the game with you. timo told me about what you're doing for your kids." she smiles wide, a hint of proudness in her eyes. "it's an amazing idea. i'm sure those two will end up good friends, i can already tell."

i nod with a smile, looking over at nina and parker. they're laughing, jumping up and down while watching the players warm up. "it's crazy how two completely different kids can get along so well."

she leans back in her seat, "when timo told me what you do for work, he sounded so incredibly proud of you. at first, i couldn't understand why. but now, i absolutely do."

i smile gratefully. "thank you, mrs. meier. my job is so important to me. these kids bring me so much joy, it's incredible. makes me so happy to see them getting along."

a nod comes from her, and we continue to talk throughout the game. since about halfway through the first period, there's was something unusual about timo. like something in him flipped, a side of him i've never seen. his parents see it too, i know they do. they're just keeping quiet.

my heart pounds as the third period begins, something's wrong. i can tell. and sure enough, three minutes and seventeen seconds in, it all comes crashing down. timo's on the opposing player in an instant, punches thrown. it's not like a normal fight where they hold on to each others jerseys and kinda throw each other around a bit. no, this was a fight.

everything around me seems to stop and i feel a hand on my left take mine, presumably timo's mom. i watch them fight, blood all over each others faces and jerseys. timo's helmet is long gone, his jaw clenched. i can see him yelling as he fights, eventually taking down the ranger player.

i release a breath i didn't know i was holding as the refs pull him off, pulling him to the tunnel while he continues to yell. he walks off, a little wobble in his step from his skates. he disappears down the hallway for the rest of the game, i look over at his mom, she's already looking at me.

her face is full of worry, brows furrowed and lips parted. i already know what she's gonna ask, and i shake my head. i don't know what that was about. i look over at the kids, their eyes full of awe and wonder. they're fired up from the fight, i know they are by their expressions.

my knee bounces up and down until the end of the game. i walk the kids to their parents and they all thank for me for the experience. i muster my best smile i can manage at the moment, giving them hugs and telling them i'll see them at school tomorrow.

timo's parents have already left, needing to get on their flight to go home in a few hours. i walk back to the hallway, where nico and jesper are pacing the corridor. they rush to me as soon as i come into their view, their words rushed and nervous. i tell them to slow down, and prepare to hear what they have to say.

nico speaks, "timo won't talk. he won't talk to anyone. he's still sitting in there in his gear, looking down at the ground. he wouldn't even let the trainers touch him to clean his cut." his brows are laced together, his signature look of haunted worry. "we thought made you could talk to him?"

i nod, "yeah, i can try."

i slowly make my way into the locker room, looking around and seeing timo in his seat, still in his gear like nico said. i approach him slowly, the door clicking shut behind me. i hear a shaky breath come from his direction as i get closer, he's probably smelled my perfume. "baby...?" i whisper, kneeling down in front of him.

his eyes are focused on his skates, even though i'm right there. i place my hand on his knee, my other reaching up to cup his cheek. he tenses up at my touch, finally meeting my gaze. his eyes are red, puffy and swollen, wet with unshed tears he's been holding back.

"i just wanted to protect you..." he whispers, his voice cracking. it's clear he hasn't drank anything since he got in here, so i hand him his water bottle and make him drink.

"what are you talking about? you already protect me everyday." i say, moving to sit beside him after moving nico's stuff. "what happened out there?" i move his hair out of his face.

he looks over at me, "trocheck, he was chirping me about you. talking about the kids you brought with you and how you...would look so good with his kids. he kept talking about how he was gonna take you from me and...i just couldn't take it, i'm sorry. i'm so sorry..." he looks down, a sniffle leaving his nose.

"oh no, my love. don't be sorry. you did what you thought was right. and don't worry, i would never leave you. never ever ever. you're the only one for me, the only one who can protect me and care for me, i promise." i say, taking his hand in mine and rubbing his knuckles with my thumb.

he sniffs again, "i know you wouldn't, but the way he was talking about you...i would never want to hear those things about anyone, the things he said i would never repeat." his words make me frown, but i won't push him to tell me.

"you don't have to repeat them. now, how about you change into your regular clothes, get your nose fixed up and meet me outside, yeah? i'll give you some time." i smile softly, kissing his cheek before i stand up. he nods his head, slowly taking off his gear as i walk out.

nico and jesper are still there, now joined by stefan. it's clear they're worried about their friend, and i couldn't be more grateful for them. they've done so much for timo, always so kind to him.

"is he okay?" jesper asks, his normal worried face still there. "where is he?"

"he's changing, i just left to give him some time."

"what happened? did he tell you?" stefan asks, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

"yeah, he told me. he said trocheck was chirping him about me and how he was gonna take me from him or something. but timo told me, that he said stuff he wouldn't want to hear about anybody, or even repeat. he's really upset." i sigh, leaning on the opposite wall.

jesper leans beside me as stefan speaks, "yeah, i figured that's what it was. if i'm gonna be honest, i heard some of what he said. i was hoping it wasn't about you, sad to hear it was."

i nod, my lips pursing together. the guys eventually say their goodbyes and timo comes out a few minutes later. he still looks upset, his face puffy and his head hung low. i cup his cheeks, picking his head up to look at me.

"hey, don't be upset. i appreciate you sticking up for me, i really do..." i smile softly, rubbing his cheekbone with my thumb. "how about...some ice cream?"

it may sound silly, but timo loves ice cream. he eats it when he's sick, happy, sad, angry. it's like his comfort food, something he knows he can depend on to make him feel better. he nods, and i lead him out to the car, his hand in mine.

i drive to his favorite ice cream shop, going through the drive thru and ordering his favorite ice cream and mine. i thank the lady behind the window, and pay her. i wait for my card to come back, and hand timo the ice cream.

i drive to the nearby park, pulling into a parking spot and getting out. we sit on a bench in front of the huge fountain, the sound of the flowing water and the moon shining down on us is comforting. we sit in a comfortable silence, eating our ice cream.

i sigh, setting down my empty container and lean into his side, his arm coming up to rest on my shoulder as he finishes his ice cream. he sets his trash with mine, and leans in to kiss my cheek.

"thank you, my love." he says, a small smile now on his face. "you always know how to make me feel better."

i laugh softly, moving my head to kiss his hand that rests on my shoulder. "i'll always take care of you, baby."

we watch the water flow through the fountain, the water glimmering under the moon. it's peaceful, just what we need after such a long and stressful day.

"we should get going, you have a rowdy group of kids to teach tomorrow and i have morning skate." timo says, standing up and holding out his hand to help me stand.

we hold hands as we slowly walk back to the car, a yawn leaving my lips. every second with timo is so interesting. he brings such light to my life. it's like a new adventure everyday, and i could never be more grateful for him.

[kenyummy]

Heyyo!!! I'm loving the series of the Ballad of the Bygone. I do want to ask where is the original MC (DC! MC) in the DC universe? Did they die? Gotten isekaid to the Marvel universe?

Also, will the family, specifically Jason, have some guilt for using MC as a replacement for DC! MC. Like, their original little sibling disappeared.

MY FIRST ASK AARFGGG IM SO EXCITED ok guys ❤️❤️❤️

i kind of briefly brushed over it in the first chapter (or the second if u the count the prolouge i guess) but the reader originally from the dc universe was kind of switched with the reader from marvel.

(ill use spidey and dc!reader respectively to represent the two)

dc!reader is with aunt may right now, and is obviously pretty freaked out but is actually enjoying themselves with how loving Aunt May really is. shes nothing like bruce and since dc!reader isnt spidey, she can spend a lot more time with them.

their bond with harry and mj is still the same and all in all their life just seems to be a lot better over there! though they wonder who spidey is exactly (and why that suit looks so darn familiar), and why the world seems to be mourning their loss...

on the second topic of your ask—yes! guilt is a huge driving factor for what makes the fam go a lil cuckoo !!!

they messed up baddddd with dc!reader, they made them feel unwanted and bitter... so they need to fix it! they don't know you two aren't technically the same people at first, but when they find out, they're both relieved and upset.

you're not them, sure—but it's like they can start over with a new blank slate. even if they can't fix what they did to dc!reader, they can make it up by loving you as much as they possibly can!!! you don't have all those bad memories—but you don't have any of the good ones, either.

(those "good memories" were the reason why the dc!reader kept trying in the first place—in one of the chaps i wrote they were hinted at being "desperate" and that's solely bc they missed those good times they spent w dick jason alfred and bruce!!! but spidey couldn't care less—bc they have none of those memories).

their memories w dc!reader are so little and few that they can hardly remember what their personality was like, which is why it's so easy for them to "replace" dc!reader with spidey. it's a mix of that and their soul consuming guilt to make it all up to them—that drives them to get that bad

jason would feel one of the guiltiest—i purposely didn't write him as unknowingly neglectful, but more like a mix of the fact he's barely ever there, and that he doesn't want to ruin the old memories you have of him.

he's so different now—he's changed into somebody he doesn't even know, and whenever he looks at you, all he sees is that little kid he used to play hide and seek with. he can't bear to ruin your image of him into a cold blooded killer.

but when he finds you there—bleeding out after becoming a victim to the horrors of gotham—he just can't leave you alone like that anymore. he feels just so awful, that he has to make things right. he'll spend time with you again; he'll take you for a ride on his bike after midnight, even if Bruce hates it, hell—he'll even play hide and seek with you again, just to make it right.

but when you're revealed to not be dc!reader... well, like dick and bruce—he's too far gone to even care at that point, as much as he hates to admit it. it's hard for him to see you two as two different people—because he still sees you as that little kid.

he starts believing you are the dc!reader at some point—he keeps asking if you remember this, remember that, remember that burger place you all went to whenever joker was recaptured—and whenever you tell him you don't, he only shrugs it off as you being forgetful.

just because he simply cannot handle the fact that he messed up, you got hurt, and now he doesn't have a chance to make it up to dc!reader. you two are practically one and the same to him—because he didn't get to see you grow up, he didn't get to know you—this is his chance now.

(but deep down, the guilt eats him up inside. deep down he knows this isn't his [name]. deep down he knows he's just using you as a way to channel the feelings that consume him).

deep down—sometimes, he can't find it within himself to even care. as long as he has you.

thank you for asking even if I yapped ahahasggaaga

[marisakage]

Natsuko Hirose & Luke Braveheart Dynamic Analysis

Few episodes ago, Luke Braveheart monologued about how despair had him all cornered to the point he lost sight of his purpose and dare I say his will to live all along. He was born and instantly got bestowed with the title of a "Hero" a weight that no child should bear. He spent 18 years of his life mastering the arts of the sword, discarding everything that made him /him/ His aspirations, his hobbies, his interests, the things he hates, the things he loves and his dreams. None of it mattered. He had to be a hero for everyone. He is a Hero and he'll be nothing but a Hero. For 18 years, all he did and kept doing was slashing and shedding blood. He had to think of nothing but the safety of his people. After all, he is a beacon of Hope to them and not by choice.

But no matter how many foes he executed, there was no end to them. It was a cycle of killing and having to kill some more, with no light at the end of the tunnel in sight. A perpetual vicious cycle of hopelessness and helplessness is what all of this was. But Luke held onto Hope that eventually all things come to an end, good and bad. Surely, there will come a day where these foes will cease to be and that the world will finally know respite and peace. Surely, he'll be able to step down from this daunting title that has been forced on him. That he'll be able to live the rest of his life as plain Luke. Just Luke.

But none of that happened. He kept slitting and slashing and killing endlessly. With each wave, an ally, a dear friend, a family member dies. Luke had to be the witness of so many tragedies. Friends that once used to brim with so much life and vigor reduced into lifeless chunks of meat. He had to bear witness to all of that. In a way, the universe was mocking him and the title that he had to bear.

Deep down, he was aware of the cruel harsh cold reality he was in but decided against admitting it. Until he reached a wall. A realization that all of this isn't worth it anymore. This whole Hero act led them nowhere. The monsters kept coming in tremendous waves. People kept getting annihilated. Friends kept leaving him. He was on his own like he's always been. There was absolutely no hope in sight. What was he fighting for? Who was he protecting exactly? Why even bother when everything's been in a continuous state of stagnation? With each wave, his sanity slowly but steadily slipping away until he was met with nothing but dread. Dread of living and state of existentialism.

What was he there for? What was his purpose? Why was he brought upon this world? To bring it salvation when there was none to begin with? When the world was doomed from the get go, clearly mocking him? Everything is pointless. Protecting the Soul Crystal is pointless. In fact, it is the very thing that brought tragedy and agony upon them. Once represented Hope for the nation, now turned into a symbol of Despair. It is the cause of their woes. His woes. It is the reason he was stripped away from living his youth, from being a normal person. Forcefully put on a pedestal with humongous expectations only to fail them. Luke Braveheart found solace in the act of bringing an end to the source of his suffering, The Soul Crystal, pronouncing the end of the world. Its "salvation". He almost committed the deed. He was impossibly close to achieving it. But the unexpected happened. Natsuko happened, popped up out of nowhere, from nowhere, no amount of fortune telling or prophetic visions could possibly foretell the coming of Natsuko.

She came and brought the "reason" and the "purpose" but more importantly, the "person" of Luke. The phrase may sound awkward but it's intentionally written that way. Luke solely dedicated his entire life defeating abominable beings leaving no room to know anything about himself. His own person.

Through Natsuko, he learned and realized that he has a talent for cooking. He enjoys baking myriad of dishes, traditional meals and even those beyond the scope of his own world. He learned that he has knack for making hairdos and coming up with creative hairstyles for Natsuko. He learned that he enjoys seeing his friends all happy and merry when they taste his food. He learned that he enjoys gardening and looking after all the plants and flowers that color his palace. He learned that he has it in himself to have fun even on the battlefield. He learned that he could slow down and take a deep breather. He realized that he could appreciate the little things that bring him joy and mirth. He realized that he could step down from being a Hero even if it's temporary. That he could finally be himself for a while. That he could learn about who Luke Braveheart is.

But the biggest realization akin to an epiphany hit him so hard and it was that he has learned what being in love is and experienced it. He, who was stripped away from the most basic things an average person could experience, finally was able to learn what First Love was. For he fell in love with the very "reason", the very "purpose" and the very "person" who showed up in front of him seemingly out of nowhere. As if she's a miracle. A blessing. A star illuminating the dark bleak night sky but ultimately fated to fade away.

What was his purpose? Why was the title of "Hero" conferred upon him? What did he fight those atrocious and hideous-looking beings for? What did he live for?

Natsuko. Natsuko is the answer. Natsuko is his "reason" and his "purpose" and thanks to her, he shedded away the blood-stained title and became his own "person". He lives for Natsuko. He fights day in and day out to protect the world that Natsuko lives in. And he will fight till the bitter end just to ensure that Natsuko lives the rest of her life in comfort and serenity. That's what he is here for. That's why he's alive.

The massive burden on him made it so that even in his love declaration, he is self-sacrificial enough to keep the very reason of his being alive at the cost of his very own life. Within that poignant juxtaposition lies the purest form of love. Love. A word that seems to encapsulate Luke and Natsuko's dynamic.

Natsuko, hailing from a foreign land, was thrown into the universe of her favorite childhood movie. A flop of a movie that no one could've fathomed except for Natsuko who was inexplicably drawn to it. Natsuko dedicated her entire life finessing art. That tragic story ignited something in her. A fire to craft her own story. A passion to breathe life into her creations. To breathe life into characters very dear to her heart. She worked, grinded and hyper focused on that goal. Not batting an eye on her surroundings, on those she affected with her contagious zealousness. Unbeknownst to her, several people had experienced their first love because of her but she hadn't. She didn't have the time for that, after all, she had a goal that she was working so hard towards. To no one's surprise, her efforts have paid off and she reached the very pinnacle of her career as an artist and as an animator.

But heavy is the head that wears the crown. With her newfound position as a renowned animation director came taxing expectations and responsibilities. She knows she mustn't disappoint anyone, not her superiors, not the industry she works in and definitely not the fans who are waiting for her next project with bated breath. She mustn't let anyone down cuz she's a prodigy, a virtuoso. And one wrong move could spell the end of her entire career. The pressure weighed on her for years until the crackling sound of fire started to evanish.

What was once unadulterated passion, now morphed into dreadful duty. Natsuko's passion turned into her biggest fear. She couldn't live with herself if that outcome came to be. In fact, she preferred escapism and death over dealing with any of it. She found solace in putting an end to her own life if it meant that she'd run away from the scrutiny of the masses. That's how much of a coward she was.

Art, once a passion, turned into the source of her woes and suffering much like the Soul Crystal was to Luke. Natsuko took it upon herself not to rely on anyone and not to seek any form of help. She was completely submerged in the depths of darkness and despair, especially after being hit with the realization that her creations, her drawings and her art have been the cause of all the chaos and mayhem that befell the nation. Her art became a weapon of destruction rather than a tool of happiness and creativity. That was her state until a certain light has emerged.

Luke Braveheart, a fictional character of a tragic story, was a Hero who had to battle hundreds and thousands of enemies to protect his nation. He lost people who were dear to him but kept persevering until he was met with a fate worse than death. Becoming the Ultimate Void. The very thing he was fighting so hard to prevent from occurring.

Natsuko, back then, was enamored by the tragedy of Luke Braveheart. So much that he pushed her to pursue art. So much that she scribbled his figure million times on her notebook. So much that she could draw him with her eyes closed. So much that all of her allowances and the hard-earned money was spent on buying his merch. So much that her room was filled with nothing but his posters and figurines. So much that she couldn't bat an eye on her surroundings and on the people that she's affected with her passion cuz she was that fixated on Luke Braveheart. So much that she spent all-nighters learning the process of animation just so she could breathe life into Luke, running, walking, fighting and screaming. So much that he is the very "reason", the very "purpose" of which she's an artist. She became the "person" that she is, she reached the pinnacle of her career, she achieved the unthinkable thanks to Luke Braveheart.

Luke Braveheart was her passion, the fire that never ceased to crackle, the very essence of her being. Luke was her first love. Luke was the light that emerged from where she was completely overwhelmed by her own sorrows and woes. Luke Braveheart saved her by giving her a purpose in life. Just like how Natsuko saved Luke by giving him a purpose back.

There's beauty in knowing that Luke and Natsuko share a dynamic where they're both in a perpetual cycle of saving and protecting each other. Granted, Luke is a fictional character and he exists whether Natsuko interferes or not. But indulge me with this when I say that we're talking about Luke Braveheart who is not a fictional character.We're talking about the humble down-to-earth guy who likes cooking and coming up with unique hairdos. The very guy who fell in love with Natsuko. Natsuko saved that guy. But it all circles back to how HE gave her a purpose from the very start, from when she was but a 9-year-old kid. And she treated him in kind by blessing him with one too, without even being aware.

He sought to protect the world she's in yet ended up losing her. So in protest, he cursed the world itself because he lost his very reason of being and living. However, Natsuko is alive, was only temporarily engulfed by the bleak space of her doom and gloom, but she was saved by none other than the reminder that Luke Braveheart is the reason she's alive, the reason she pursued art at all and the source of her passion and joy. So now, it's her turn to emerge like the light he was to her and save him from the brink of self-destruction.

The intricate layer of their bond, the duality of despair and salvation, of burdens and purpose, and how they became each other's reason for being. It is poetry itself. Love as salvation, not just in the romantic sense, but as something deeply transformative and reciprocal. Their dynamic isn’t just about affection; it’s about identity, about rediscovering oneself through another. The way it was framed and told, Luke giving Natsuko a purpose long before she even realized it, and her returning the favor in a way that changed the very fabric of his existence—it is next-level storytelling.

It’s the kind of love that goes beyond the surface, beyond attraction or fleeting emotions. It’s like they were always meant to find each other, even across the barriers of fiction and reality. It is the very definition of soulmatism. Natsuko and Luke's story transcends that of the typical confines of what makes love /love/ and I find that ethereally beautiful and powerful.

[bunni-v1]

HIHI! Before I make my request, I just wanna say that I absolutely ADORE the way you write the crk characters! The posts you have about Shadow Milk are scarily accurate. On another note, I really enjoyed the Burning Spice x reader hcs, and for my request, could you maybe do some Burning Spice NSFW hcs?🤧🙏 I haven't seen many people do requests for him, so I figured I'd step up and ask!

Burning Spice NSFW Headcannons

🍓Girl, I gotta clear out my askbox AGAIN. I clean it out and then y'all come back with a vengeance. Anyway, you were the first person to rq this, so congrats, you get the special answered ask! Yay! Anyway, Burning Spice is SUCH a challenge for me because we have virtually no content of the guy. This is 90% guesswork on my behalf, so please give me grace lol. Sorry if these are short and kinda bad, my motivation is low rn lol

Tw: NSFW; Rough Sex; Marking (like, bruising and biting); blood mention; predator/prey dynamic mentioned

Info: Burning Spice Cookie x Reader; NSFW

-Burning Spice Cookie is surprisingly lax about sex. It's not something that interests him too much, because once you've done it so many ways, you cannot do much more spicing it up.

-Pre-corruption he had sex semi-frequently with various different partners over a long period of time, but the closer he got to corruption the more... boring sex became. There wasn't much appeal other than dominating his partner, and even then, once he did that it was kind of nothing.

-He's experienced and he's very good at what he does, but he doesn't really care to initiate in most cases. Despite what most might think of him, he values the time he spends with you. Sex seems like it would be a waste of it, so he just doesn't bother with it.

-Unless, of course, you seem to be into the idea. Then his tune changes. Oh, his little warrior wants to try something different? Alright, sure, but he won't hold back on you. (He does, of course, because he can't have you crumbling on him.)

-Your first time with him is... interesting. He is, in all meanings of the word, considerate of you and your well-being the whole time. But, he's also doing everything in his power to see what makes you tick. How far can he push you this time before you need to tap out, how many orgasms can he get, how hard can he get your legs shaking?

-He likes to push you. A big part of his style of sexual intercourse is dominating. In most cases, he likes to go as hard as he can as fast as he can, but he has an inhuman tolerance when it comes to you. So he takes his time figuring out how to dominate you.

-He likes things that puzzle him, he likes having his mind challenged, he likes to have something for his mind to do. With sex, this is especially important. He gets off on the thrill of figuring you out, he wants to see the way you react to everything.

-He's big on predator/prey dynamics, like, really big on them. He likes to set you loose and give you a fixed amount of time to throw him off your trail. Run, hide, set traps, and he'll come after you like a wild animal starved for weeks. You always think you've got him, but he waits until you're comfortable to strike, and he takes you wherever he finds you - so hiding in public isn't a smart idea... or it is... depends on what you're into.

-Speaking of, he is a big proponent of public sex. Like I said in his initial headcannons, he loves to show you off. You both have a lot of pride in being the other's partner, so why not show it off in every way possible?

-Usually, this manifests as him having you bounce on him on his throne while loyal followers come and praise him. They'll be showering him with flowery words and begging for his acknowledgment, but his eyes are only on you. He soaks in your nervous expression, loving the way you shy away from the other cookie's eyes.

-It also can be more ritualistic. What I mean is that, he very well enjoys having people watch, so why not make a festival out of it. The two of you will be on a huge platform, surrounded by rich silk sheets and the eyes of his most loyal followers. They cheer the two of you on, shouting praises and exclamations of joy as you reach your climax.

-Do not think that this means he's in any way okay with sharing. He is not, it's a one-way ticket to get crumbled. If any cookie is foolish enough to even propose the idea they don't live to tell the tale. Look, enjoy, but don't touch.

-A lot of sex with him actually starts as sparring. You are very weak compared to him, so he rarely goes out of his way to spar with you, but he does. When he does, it always ends with you bent over and babbling his name like a mantra.

-He can't help it, the way you fight him with such a cute determined little expression really makes the cogs in his head turn. Flushed face, chest heaving, oh you look heavenly. Wouldn't you look nicer with him splitting you on his dick? Yes, he seems to think so.

-He likes it when you fight back against him, make him work for his own high. It's just what he wants. Kick and bite and punch and scratch as much as you can, he wants to see the marks you leave on him. He wears them with pride, just like you should his.

-And he does mark you up, very well. Your body is littered with bites from him, and you have several new bruises where he restrains you. The most prominent ones are on your thighs, the perfect outline of his fingers practically burned into your dough.

-You always bleed when he bites, his teeth are sharp, and he never cleans it up. He likes seeing the crimson jam dribble down your body. It's a beautiful sight, the very essence of you leaking out for him to see. When he's feeling particularly romantic, he'll smear it across his lips like makeup, and kiss along your body leaving a trail of blood-soaked kisses in his wake.

-Something else to mention, he very much likes to see the two of you connected. He enjoys watching himself sink into you, and he does it in silence. To him, it's beautiful to see your bodies meld together. Even more so, he likes to see evidence of himself in you.

-So, he always cums inside and he never uses protection. He likes to see his cum leak out of your abused little hole, he'll scoop it out of you after the fact with a scary reverence in his eyes. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, but he cleans you up well, so it's best to let it be.

-He also likes to feel himself while he's inside you. He'll press on your stomach so he can enjoy the way he fits more directly. If you squirm, it just makes it all the better for him. The pleasure is only heightened by your wiggling, so keep it up.

-Okay, we have to acknowledge his size. It's impossible not to do so with how big he is in the game - he is significantly larger than every cookie we've seen so far.

-His dick is large, like very large. It's more... normal... than Shadow Milk Cookie's, but it's not regular by any means. It's big, nearly eight inches long, and about five inches thick. It's the same color as his dough all the way up to the tip, which is a deep reddish-brown color.

-The tip is flat and wide, and it's the same thickness along the entire shaft. The first push-in is always the hardest, but as soon as you adjust, it's easy to take the whole thing... well... what you can fit at least.

-Oh, one last thing, his dick is ribbed. Several bumps line the shaft in a nice pattern, and it rubs you inside like a dream. He knows the effect it has on you too, and he uses it to get you to melt against him like butter.

-He's rough, and he goes rather hard and fast, but he can slow it down sometimes. It's rare, and it isn't something he thinks to do in most cases, but occasionally... just sometimes, you'll get a sweeter side to him.

-That doesn't mean it isn't intense, though. It is intense, even more so than his other style of sex. But it's for different reasons this time.

-Instead of fucking he is making love to you, which seems to be out of character, but I promise you it's not. He loves to show you his devotion to you, and a great way of doing that is through sex.

-If you are, for any reason, feeling insecure he uses sex as a means of expressing just how much you mean to him. Words can only do so much, gifts and mortal possessions are meaningless in the grand scheme of things, but this? The physical connection between the two of you? It's something more, something deeper than anything else he could give you.

-He holds you close, usually facing him on his lap, and slowly ravishes you. There is to fighting or bruising or biting like this, just raw passion that he has for you. Not an inch of your skin is without his burning touch, the heat between the two of you fogging your mind until you can no longer think.

-The pace he sets is slow and deep, each thrust and movement a deliberate show of his admiration for you. It's only then that you'll hear him praise you, words of affirmation spilling from his lips like warm honey, encouraging you to keep going for him.

-What is the most intense, what gets you shaking, is the way he looks at you. His eyes are unblinking and affixed to your face with nothing but sheer devotion and love. He doesn't let you shy away either, you need to look at him, to see how much he adores you. Only once you are jelly against him will he be satisfied that he has done his part.

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet + ch 48

a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... all chapters

WARNINGS FOR THIS FIC: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, VIOLENCE, YANDERE SH!T. Minors DNI. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘 (Thank you Scarlett for uploading the beautiful don John gifs, you're so amazing!! ❤❤❤)

48.  hostile takeover

You find yourself stuck in the middle of a fuck ton of drawn weapons, both crime syndicates distrustful of the other. The paranoia of the group is surely only made worse by the party tray that made its way around the circle, and you sense the room is one wrong twitch away from erupting. 

“What the fuck was that?” demands don Juan, clearly expecting a double cross. The drug kingpin has his arm around your neck, using you as a human shield with a gold plated gun gripped in his other hand. 

“I could ask you the same question?” demands Dante, clearly shaken by the explosion, his eyes saucer-wide. 

“You think I blew up my own boat? When were you going to tell me you pulled the tail of the fucking Baba Yaga?” snarls Juan beside you, fierce as a cornered jaguar. “You took his woman? Are you loco?”

“It wasn't your business,” Dante insists, and the lie so infuriates Juan that he squeezes you in his strong hand, hard enough to bruise. 

“Ow, hey, watch it motherfucker,” you protest through gritted teeth. 

“Shut up, puta,” snaps the jefe. “Or I'll do worse.”

That's when Juan’s head explodes beside you, and the room erupts into chaos, broken glass showering all around.

Everyone's first instinct is to dive for cover. Splashed in blood and you fear, bits of Juan’s brain matter, you snatch up the golden gun and do the same. Unclear on what is transpiring, the two organizations start shooting at each other. Under a hail of bullets, you keep your head down, and fire at anyone who presents you with a target. 

John’s here. 

You believe it to the marrow of your bones. He's out there somewhere in the darkness, maybe even on the boat. If you could just get outside…

Can you make a run for it? Ironically, you think that maybe this was the best fucking timing to try a lil’ Columbian bam bam–if your heart doesn’t explode first. You have plenty of energy, so much that it's hard to sit still and wait, even if deep down you know your survival depends on perfect timing.

Somehow, you have to make it all the way across the lounge, past several heavily armed trigger-happy people, to the door outside–or the broken window–or the staircase that will take you down a level. 

The good thing is: you feel invincible. 

The bad thing is: you feel invincible. 

Fuck.

One of Dante’s thugs sticks out his head and you fire off a round, only clipping him, your aim fucked by shaking hands. He retreats with a string of curses and a trail of blood. Someone tries firing over the couches at you, and it’s your turn to use every blistering bad word you’ve ever known, plastering yourself to the floor, trying to make yourself as small a target as possible. You hear it when their gun clicks empty, and you hope it's your chance. You slip off your ridiculous shoes so you can run, and you make to scramble past. 

Someone tackles you to the floor, knocking your gun from your hand. Your training with Mariko finally kicks in, and you fight to hurt, throwing your head back in a vicious headbutt as hard as you can. You feel his nose crunch against the back of your head. “You little bitch!” 

You realize it's Luca again, and you fight twice as hard, biting his arm that he tries to get around your throat. You grapple on the floor, and a wildness rises in you like nothing you’ve ever known, fueled by drugs and all your pent up rage. Not even when Dante’s commandos raided John’s cabin, did you feel this feral determination to survive at any cost. 

All you can think is that John is out there, and you want to see him again.    

You manage to get on Luca’s back like a spider-monkey, your arm latched around his throat and your legs locked around his middle, squeezing as hard as you can. He’s bigger than you, so much stronger, and in a ditch attempt to dislodge you he stands up. 

One of the cartel soldiers sees a target, and puts three bullets in his torso. Somehow the bullets miss you–at least you think they do–and Luca collapses back to the ground. Your gun is in reach, and you grasp for it. When he tries to prevent you with a hand on your ankle you twist to put a bullet in his head. 

As horrified as you are relieved, you hunker down to catch your breath, your heart racing.

That's when you see him. 

Through the bank of floor to ceiling windows, you watch the man you love mow through mafiosi like blades of grass on the outer deck. He is savage poetry in motion, shooting, kicking, striking–he blocks a punch, uses the momentum to turn to get off a shot, uses the first attacker as a human shield, before moving on to the next. One by one, they all fall down. 

Mesmerized, you watch, unable to look away from the carnage. You witness him commit murder, again and again, and your heart is filled with nothing but unadulterated love for that man. He is your monster, and now these fuckers get to feel his wrath. 

Unfortunately, you’re not the only one watching him through the windows. Someone opens fire with some kind of submachine gun, and John throws himself over the side in a quick bid for cover. 

“John!” 

He doesn’t climb back up, and all you can think is the worst. Was he hit? Did he fall to the deck below? Or even into the ocean? You have to get to the lower deck, and without any more thinking you run for the aft staircase, laying down cover fire as you go. Bullets rain all around, but somehow none find you. 

A cartel man is just making his way up the stairs, and you launch yourself with two feet forward and a battle cry, knocking him down and landing on his ribs with all your weight. You’re both stunned upon landing, but you get your wits first, and you empty the rest of your clip into him. 

You take his gun before running to your next point of cover. 

In your manic state you almost feel like you are stuck in a video game, as you duck around corners and shoot at Dante’s men, hyper-focused on your task. How many fucking bodyguards did he bring on this yacht? 

He definitely broke the twelve passenger rule. 

Pinned down behind a bar, you trade fire with someone ahead. You’ve lost count of how many bullets they fired. Your mind feels like a tilt-a-whirl, hopped up on cocaine and adrenaline. They let off another salvo of shots, and you scream as loud as you can, going very still in hope of baiting them into leaving their cover. You wait…and you wait, your heartbeat like a snare drumroll in your ears.  

Finally, you hear footsteps crunching broken glass, and you prepare to fight again. 

You hear a squelching sound, and the thump of a body hitting the ground. 

Confused, you watch the puddle of blood seep across the floor, fixated on the spreading pool of crimson. Then, you see a foot cased in shining black patent leather. Your gaze travels up a long suit-clad leg, and by the time your eyes reach his face they are filled with tears. 

“John!” 

He seizes you, dragging you into his lap behind the cover of the bar, his arms like bands of steel around you and his ravenous mouth on yours. He kisses you like you are the oxygen he needs to live, licking into your mouth, eating you, consuming you. Gladly you take the fury of his passion, even as your lips become sore and your teeth clash and he grips you so hard it hurts. 

This is the truth of your love with John Wick. It is pain, and pleasure, not always in equal parts, but you know more than ever that you would pay any price to have him, and maybe you wouldn’t even change a thing. 

Every fire you have walked through to get to this moment has tempered your love into something hard, sharp, and unbreakable. This man is your alpha and your omega. 

He is the reason you breathe.  

“Are you alright? I saw that fucker hit you,” he demands when at last he surfaces for air, holding your face in his blood-stained hands. His thumb traces the spatter on your cheek, all that’s left of don Juan’s head. 

Crying and laughing, you nod rapidly, your words spouting like automatic fire. “I’m fine. Everything is fine now. I knew you’d find me. Jesus Christ I missed you!” 

Through the shadow of his chagrin he seems amused by the delivery of this tirade. “Not as much as I missed you.” Then his eyes narrow, looking at you in a way that has never failed to make your tummy flutter. “Young lady, you are in so much trouble.” 

Once, this might have scared the piss out of you. 

Now? You’re not sure if it’s the drugs or the pure elation of being reunited with him, but all you can do is laugh. “Am I?” 

“Yes. I should bend you over my knee right here.” His big hand caresses your bare thigh, up to trace the high high hemline of your sparkly blood-spattered dress. He glares down at it with a fixation that could start a wildfire. “What the hell are you wearing?” 

“I think it’s a bedazzled napkin.” 

“Hmm,” he growls, unable to stop himself from groping your ass under the dress. “Somehow I hate it and like it too much.” 

You whine, clutching his lapels desperately as the tips of his fingers drift towards your center, his lips on your neck. On a scale from one to ten, how bad an idea would it be to fuck during a firefight? You’re having a hard time talking yourself out of it as his middle finger tests your aching hole, finding you wet and wanting. 

“Fuck, baby.” He forces himself to draw back to look at you, his eyes blown midnight dark with desire. From this close he studies you again, sweeping over your features, your eyes, to your mouth, to your eyes again. You're not the only one having trouble remembering where you are. “Your pupils are huge. What are you on?” 

“They made me do a line of cocaine to test the product and I’ve never tried it before,” you say quickly, unable to stop yourself. Your heart is a neutron star, spinning, spinning, burning bright. Now that John’s here, you’re not half as scared as you should be. 

John lifts his eyebrows, smiling wryly at you, the source of your high-energy revealed. 

“It probably won’t last much longer. You’re going to be fine, honey. Where’s your necklace?”

“They took it. But I swallowed the tracker. How long has it been? I’ve barely eaten anything in days, I was afraid to.” 

“My clever girl. It’s been over a week.” He continues to inspect you as you talk. When his search reaches your hand he frowns, regarding the damage with an excruciating regret shining in his dark eyes. “Kitten, I am so sorry.” 

However, you just shrug tearfully, buzzing inside like a happy hive of bees. You didn’t know it was possible to feel so happy, as you do reunited with John. You don’t think it’s just the cocaine that’s making you feel like you’re made of pure dopamine.

 “I’m ok. I’ve got nine more.” This wins you a huff of laughter that is a balm for your soul.

“I brought you something.” He reaches into his breast pocket again, producing something small and shining. 

Your ring. 

“Oh John…” More tears spring up in your eyes, clouding your vision as you offer him your right hand, knowing it won't fit any other fingers in your left. He slides it on, and maybe it's silly, but it does feel like a crucial piece of yourself has been restored again. “Thank you.”

Again, he holds your face in his hands. You know you must look like a wild creature, wide-eyed, wind-blown, spattered in the blood of your enemies. And yet he still looks at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. 

“God, I love you.”

You feel like the richest woman in the world. 

“I love you too. Can we go home now?” 

The corner of his mouth pulls in that rueful smile, and he nods. “Yeah.” 

Naturally, that’s when a fresh wave of combatants arrive, someone shooting your way from the corridor whence you came. “Go,” says John, draping you with his kevlar-lined suit jacket, pointing towards the front of the boat. “I’ll be right there. If you see a Chinese man in a suit killing gangsters, don’t shoot him, he’s with me.” 

“What?” 

“Caine. He’s on our side. Go. You’ve done so good, baby. It’s almost over. Go.”  

You don’t really have time to think about what he’s told you. He shoves you in the right direction, and you run, ducking low, trusting John to cover you. When the enemy starts shooting at you he picks them off ruthlessly with deadly precision. You don’t see the aftermath, because you make it down a hallway and then out to the deck again. 

The chaos feels more distant there. You hear people shouting in Spanish and Italian, fighting over the other smaller boats that arrived with Juan’s flotilla. You hope John has his own secreted away somewhere on the dark ocean. You creep along, not really knowing where you should go, waiting for John to catch up to you. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

You hear fighting around the curve of the deck ahead. Gripping your gun, you move forward to get a look, ready at this point to mow down any mobsters or narcos who might get in your way. 

But someone’s beating you to the punch. A Chinese man in a suit, as John so aptly described him, is making mincemeat of five men [attempting] to stand against him. His deadly movements are poetry in motion. He has a gun, but he barely uses it, opting for the lethal grace of a sword cane instead. As you watch him you realize he is pulling this off blind, and your amazement skyrockets. 

You cannot look away from the carnage, and this proves to be a very big mistake for you. 

You feel something hard poke you in the back. “You stupid puttana.” 

You recognize Dante’s voice as one of Caine’s opponents falls at his feet. 

As you try to turn he shoves the barrel of the gun into your ribs again. “Don’t fucking move.”

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

all chapters *loco - crazy *puttana - bitch, whore

[arandomao3user]

. . . Quite literally f#-% everything BATMAN AU WHERE RENA WAS NEVER DELETED FROM DC HISTORY!!!

—

Rena was tempted in high school, peer pressure and all, to try out drugs, Jason convinces her otherwise et cetera , et cetera...

Our queen.

Note, Rena was introduced when Jason was still a ginger and had a circus background, so we scrap that because we liked street (b)rat Jason Todd in this house hold! MY AU, MY RULES!

Anywho, Jason gets a civilization girlfriend (take that, Tim and Bernard!) and, y'know, couple-y teen things and they're GOOD together, Jason makes Rena wanna be a better person, make good choices. They talk about the future, trying to get into the same college, Rena hangs out at Jason's when neither he nor Bruce are injured, they make plans to go to prom together and talk about different career paths...

Then Jason dies.

Rena finds out from the paper after blowing Jason's phone up for a week with no response, Bruce was to... He didn't even think to tell his sons girlfriend, forgets entirely till he sees her at Jason's funeral, but can't bring himself to speak to her, he doesn't know how, he's never been good at emotions. Rena speaks to him though, she's heartbroken and distraught and hurting, so bad, and she's went through all their pictures twice, printed them out, looks through their texts on her stupid Wayne tech flip phone Jason got her... But she tells him that Jason loved him, he was a good Dad. He doesn't know what to do, or say, but he tells her if she ever needs anything to give him a call.

Rena doesn't, she doesn't know what to do after Jason dies, after she loses him, it's spinner as some dumb accident but she doesn't believe that for a second, but she's no detective, she's no super genius or brilliant prodigy, she's no Jason Todd. So, she winds up where all Gothamites do when they reach eighteen with no plans: Crime Alley, the slums, whatever you wanna call it...

She tries several times to convince herself to do drugs, anything, really, even weed but then she thinks back to her stupid first love, Jason's smile, his eyes, that dimple, the way his bangs curled... And she ends up angry and smoking a cigarette like they used to do together.

Then the Red Hood shows up in Gotham, which was no biggie, they pop up and disappear all the time. She barely pays the name any mind outside a laugh, and when she hears he's recruiting goons? Oh, please, that's hilarious. But, hey, she's homeless, she could use the cash, and she's nineteen.

She's confident— Jason taught her to be that— and bold when in the face of this guy that's practically a walking weaponry of swords, guns, knives, she thinks there's a croawbar... But, she laughs it off and really, really didn't expect to get the job. But, she's hired as a goon, one of the Red Hood's, and for some reason he's... Funny around her, and perhaps she's a bit funny around him.

He reminds her of Jason, from the books she's spotted him reading, the brand of cigarettes he smokes, the way he fiddles with his lighter, how he talks, his mannerisms, and perhaps she's just projecting way, way to hard. He hates the Joker, and who didn't have some beef with that clown? He's obviously a Gotham native, Crime Alley born— though you're less born in Crime Alley, more like a mold that forms and gains sentence, she thinks.

Then the Red Hood ends up in the apartment she managed to afford on her new salary, and he's injured, his throat was cut, and she's right there— freaking out just a tad, because woah, they live in a place where blood is the norm but that is a LOT— and he says no hospitals, no clinics, or says it as well as he can. Rena helps him out, patches him up, her Mom was a nurse, so she knew a thing or two.

She asks him, "Why did you come here, boss?" and he didn't answer immediately, she thinks he might've fallen asleep by that domino mask, and really, he looked so, so familiar. Then, he answers with this tired, groggy voice Jason used to get before they fell asleep watching movies while her parents were at word— they'd both worked nights— and he goes, "You always made me feel the safest."

—

Red Hood was gone by time she woke up the next morning, with crumbled up hundred dollar bills on her counter, a small note that said "to get the blood cleaned out." and she had to laugh.

She doesn't see her boss for a month, and when he is back, he doesn't say anything. He's mad, news broke out that the Batman and Red Hood had a confrontation.

Rena works for the Red Hood for a bit, watches him continuously fall in and out with the bats again and again, he disappears to run with his little wayward hero group, and she stays on the sidelines as one of his most trusted...

She gets tired of contemplating, tired of suspicion and maybes, and Rena finds him on the rooftops one day, climbs her way up, ignores his shock and snatches his cigarette to take a hit before demanding— confident, that's what Jason taught her to be— she asks if it's him.

There's no sorrow, no heartbreak in her voice, she's never wanted to be one of the emotional girls, and she's certainly never held onto hope before. Hood doesn't immediately answer, his helmet was clipped to his belt, his face was expressive without it.

He doesn't confirm it, doesn't deny it, "I'm not who I used to be."

"That's not what I asked." She retorted, handing the cigarette back after taking a final hit.

"What would you do if it was? If I was him?" He almost laughs, because he was no fifteen year old kid anymore, he wasn't that kid anymore, far from it, "Couldn't fall in love with me again." He states it, bitterly.

First loves and all.

"I'd need to have fallen out of love with you in the first place to fall for you again."

He snorted, fond, the smiles certainly matched, "That's cheesy."

The wind ran through their hair, and Jason took his final mask off to look at Rena, and to answer his question? She definitely could fall for him again.

—

This was the, uh, Jason Todd x Rena supremacy post. Uh. Yeah.

—

[briius]

people tend to forget jon when they discuss tower of joy and why certain characters acted in the way they did. in the end, it's about jon and his backstory. and even though you can argue about other characters, it still revolves around jon and people's feelings about him (this post is obviously if you believe in r+l=j) because I see sometimes people villainize rhaegar (although he has a lot of rightful criticism) about him having lyanna guarded by the kingsguard without really thinking of why. in the end lyanna couldn't do much because she was pregnant, even if she regretted going with rhaegar or if she still was in love with him. if she returned to the rebels she could be safe because they would think she was kidnapped (no matter what actually happened) and obviously feel bad for her, but her child would not be safe and would most likely be harmed or killed. and she obviously did care for jon no matter what you think her thoughts about rhaegar were in the end.

He could still hear her at times. Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave his word, the fear had gone out of his sister's eyes.

AGOT Eddard I she was obviously worried about jon’s well being and was genuinely scared for his future until ned promised her. i think people tend to forget lyanna’s love for him when they discuss tower of joy. in the end it’s not her feelings for rhaegar or hatred for robert making her stay there, it’s her love for her son, because her staying is the only way to ensure his safety. these thoughts are reinforced when the sack of kingslanding happens. 

He remembered Rhaegar's infant son, the red ruin of his skull, and the way the king had turned away, as he had turned away in Darry's audience hall not so long ago. He could still hear Sansa pleading, as Lyanna had pleaded once.

AGOT Eddard IV first of all, sansa is pleading for lady’s life in this scene because she loves lady, and ned is comparing it to lyanna and how she pleaded the same for something before. it’s obviously a parallel for lyanna pleading for jon’s life and her care for him. second of all, the kingsguard had no idea if ned and co. would harm baby jon because of what happened with rhaegar's other children. all they knew was that ned and robert were close friends, and they had no knowledge of what Ned was like as a person or what his intentions were. because the kingsguard didn't try to stop ned from seeing lyanna, they tried to stop him from seeing jon and if he wasn't born we don't know how the kingsguard would have acted the same with ned and co. ned even explains why the kingsguard is there in his fever dream and why it revolves around jon.

"Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him." "Ser Willem is a good man and true," said Ser Oswell. "But not of the Kingsguard," Ser Gerold pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not flee." "Then or now," said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.

AGOT Eddard X in the end, the kingsguard sees this as their duty. they wouldn't be there if it wasn't for jon because they saw protecting him as their duty. and this conversation also reinforces why lyanna has to protect him and why he isn't safe, because people will see him as a danger to the throne and the new dynasty. what i'm trying to say is that jon is very central to the tower and joy and the characters' actions around it, and if you ignore that you'll misunderstand why they act the way they do. however, i do think it's incredibly sad that lyanna, who longed to be free, was trapped at the end of her life. especially because she was trapped by the same thing she tried to escape from. lyanna and her life reminds me of the scene in gilmore girls when lane says “it was such a small window, a peephole really. it was the briefest of windows. i barely got to do it, i barely got the chance to be a person”. when talking about her freedom and life.

[funpoire]

Yuu after a overblot

note: mention of scars, blood and broken bones. headcanon maybe occ. If you want more post like that you can send request.

To me, book 6 and Rollo overblot were very violent overblot (the other too but for my yuu sake it will be these two). The thing is that every time there is an overblot it seems no one is hurt (let’s close our eyes to Lilia's situation). There is so much potential to make some angst or hurt/comfort and make your character get hurt. I know Yuu can’t be very useful during the fight. They don’t have magic but could still find a way to be useful. Also in book 6, it’s pretty hard not to get involved in the battle.

I think for Book 6:

When Yuu come back they look like they came back from hell. Messy hair, bag under eyes, hurt, puffy eyes because they cried a lot or maybe got hit, maybe both.

Let Yuu have a break. Can’t feel any of there muscles especially legs after they had to run and walk for a day straight.

Will get a scar because of grim attack.

Will probably spend a few days in the infirmary and or in a isolated room in Pomefiore.

Have bruises everywhere. With the amount of attack it’s hard to not get involved but also because the styx solider wasn’t very gentle when they attacked.

If Yuu was hurt to the point they had to go to the hospital I like to think Idia would pay for it because of guilt.

Eat like there is no tomorrow. I think it has been said but the food in Styx wasn’t a 5-star meal and after all the emotion Yuu was hungry.

Even if Yuu is not from Pomefiore doesn't mean they can eat anything. Get ready for a full mean made for Yuu to heal faster. Full of protein and veggies.

Free food for Yuu. All the snacks they want will be delivered. Just don't let Vil know.

After this there is no way Yuu is not been seen as on of the coolest guy of the school. What do you mean you had no magic and you survive styx and overblot ghost ?

To get better Yuu gets a t-shirt saying “I survived Styx (and 6 overblot)” Everyone finds it funny except Idia.

If Yuu get hurt to the point to get a caster everyone will doodle or write on it. Word of encouragement and thanking.

Princess is treated by Adeuce after going back home. They tough Yuu was gone or worse and when they came back they were looking like a zombie.

Yeah, Ace is not letting this slide. Yuu get ready for Ace being a total ass because he was super worried.

Ace and Deuce don't want to let Yuu go. If Deuce will said it's because he is worried and only want their good. Ace will deny about being worried and talk about how he don't want Yuu to cause more trouble.

In a way, Adeuceyuu gets closer to this experience. All of them being worried and yuu getting hurt make them more true to their feeling.

Could also make them hurry to confess if you want. At the same time, I also think this is not the best moment to confess. But it's a good moment to realize your feelings. If you get what I mean.

For my Yuu he tried to get grim who was falling and hurt his should by falling down. shoulder dislocation or something like that. Maybe less painful but still something that hurt.

A very traumatic moment in your life mean a new look. For my Yuu he end up by shaving his hair. Yes, the buzz cut got him.

Finish by getting traumatized by the event.

I think for Rollo overblot :

Rollo overblot is him on fire. What could make more sense is to get burn scars. Not too bad but enough to keep a mark.

The type of fight where Rollo trying to protect the magicless finish by hurting them.

I forgot the event i be honest so maybe it was in the event in the first place but Yuu got trapped in the other side of the school. Rollo wanted to only hurt the mage and since Yuu is a magicless he decided to put them in some room. He is like “Yeah don’t worry we need to fix something on your costume stay here for a moment”. Then lock the door.

See to get out of this situation only two scenarios: 1) jump out of the window (hope it’s not a very tall jump) and 2) break the door.

Yulanda could have tried to fight it, trying to get Rollo back to his normal self and end up getting hurt, hard.

Yulanda would choose the first option. She doesn’t think rationally under pressure. Also, she would sound cooler if she said she got out by the window than by the door.

She will be finished by being slightly burned and with probably a broken bone but she rings the bell so that’s fine for her. She finishes in the infirmary with pride.

see also :

yuusei - yulanda - more overblot talk

I think I reach every twst topics in 2 weeks and already feel like my blog has grown. I still struggle to reach 10 notes in an hour but it takes time you know. This post is also rambling, not my fav but I need to get this out of my head.

[bg3daydream]

Not like the tales (Davrin x Rook Fanfiction) Chapter 3

Davrin x female Rook Thorne

Summary: Canon divergence, Rook is already a grey warden when Davrin joins, and she's put in charge of his joining and his first weeks as a recruit and junior warden. Their relationship developes into more than just partner wardens, despite Rook's best efforts, since she knows that the life of a warden is a life of loss. Rook is a Dalish mage (I made a poll and that's the option that won).

Tags: Romance, friends to lovers, hiden feelings, slow burn, fluff, angst, hurt/emotional hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence and blood, eventual smut, canon divergence, eventual happy ending.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Masterlist of my fics / AO3

I feel like there's only 3 people reading this but here, a new chapter: Davrin's joining.

“Davrin wants to join.”

Rook announced as she walked into Ser Arthur’s office, feeling somber and defeated.

“Yes, that much was obvious.” Ser Arthur nodded. “What took you so long?”

Rook shrugged. “I showed him the outpost, then introduced him to Ser Blasco, he saw him fight and thinks he’s good, I agree,” Rook recited, trying to remain emotionless, while Ser Arthur nodded, pleased. “Then I left him to eat something.”

Ser Arthur lifted an eyebrow at that. “Not sure that was your smartest idea…let’s see if he keeps it in during the joining.”

“Or perhaps he’ll die during it and at least he’ll have had a last meal.” Of tasteless, bland porridge.

“Rook…” Ser Arthur sighed.

After Darvin snapped, Rook had told herself she should remain emotionless, and stop meddling in Davrin’s joining and his decision, but she couldn’t. She never could.

“Ser…this is wrong, keeping the joining secret from people, they don’t know what can happen to them! We’re feeding them blighted darkspawn blood! If they don’t die in the joining we’re condemning them to eventual madness and death. It’s wrong.”

“Rook.” Ser Arthur’s eyes were kind. “Everyone knows warden’s lives are dangerous and lead to death. Davrin knows it, and he wants to join.”

“But he’s so young, and he doesn’t know what a warden's life is like, not really,” she insisted. “He doesn’t know what can happen to him in the joining, and even if he doesn’t die, we’re tainting him, it’ll drive him mad, it’ll kill him before he’s even fifty…”

“Just like it’ll happen to yourself,” Ser Arthur said calmly, as if it were nothing, as if it had never kept her awake at night. “And to everyone in this place, to every warden who’s not killed by darkspawn, such is the life and the sacrifice of a grey warden.”

“And it doesn’t seem wrong to you that we do this to people blindly, among other things.”

Ser Arthur looked at her, his expression unreadable, for a moment before he spoke again, his voice firm now, back to his veteran warden role.  “Our chalice is not the official, but it’ll do. We have some blood stored but after this time is…questionable. It could do, though.”

“No.” It was bad enough that Davrin had to drink it, at least it should be fresh. “He’ll get his own, I’ll find him some darkspawn.”

“Alright. Best get going then, the sun will set soon.”

*

Rook found Davrin outside, sitting on the ground against the wall of the training grounds, which were empty now. He’d gotten a knife and a piece of wood that he seemed to be carving, and he got up when he heard Rook approaching.

“Recruit,” Rook greeted, trying to sound formal like Ser Arthur, trying to separate her thoughts and emotions from her duty, even though she was never quite good at that. 

She looked at the carving in his hands, which seemed to be some kind of animal.

“It’s a halla…or it’ll be when it’s finished,” Davrin explained. “It’s, uh…it’s for you.”

“For me?”

Davrin nodded, for once he didn’t seem cocky or confident, but bashful. “An apology,” he explained. “I shouldn’t have said something like that to you, before.”

Rook looked down, fidgety. “There’s no need. You didn’t say anything untrue.”

“It was still wrong to tell you that,” Davrin insisted, his voice genuine. “So I want to give you this… if it’s okay.”

“Thank you, Davrin, really.”  His gesture made her feel shy, at the same time that warmth seemed to spread across her chest. Her lips curled up into a smile that she couldn't stop. 

When was the last time someone had gifted her something? Something handmade no less…

“I’ll finish it after the joining,” Davrin said and Rook’s smile faltered…would he finish it? Or would he be dead? “Did you talk to Ser Arthur? Do I join now?”

Rook nodded, trying to ignore her feelings. “Yes. Get your weapons, we’re going to find darkspawn, we need their blood for the ritual.” Rook wondered if she was saying too much, but she didn’t care, and she hadn’t vowed to keep that detail secret.

For all his excitement about his joining, Davrin seemed wary at her words. “Their blood?”

“Yes.” Rook nodded. “But I can’t tell you more about the ritual, I’m sorry, I would if I could but I’m sworn to keep it a secret.” And she hated it.

“It’s okay, I understand,” Davrin assured her. It didn't make her feel better, if anything, she felt worse.

“Okay…then get your gear and let’s go,” Rook tried to sound firm, confident. She tried to harden her heart. 

She didn’t feel like she was succeeding.

They got ready quickly and left the outpost, making their way through the woods. Soon enough, they’d reached the old entry to the deep roads. Rook couldn’t feel darkspawn, but still, she hoped that if she made enough fuss, some of them would come out.

“See that?” She pointed at the small sinking hole and Davrin nodded. “It is a deep roads entry. These are the kind of places from which darkspawn come out, as wardens we have to spot them and close them, I’ve sent word to Weisshaupt already,” she explained.

“Alright.” Davrin nodded, frowning at the entrance and studying it, though he didn’t get close, as if waiting for her command.

“This one is almost closed and abandoned but I’ll try to attract some darkspawn out of it,” she said as she got close to the sinking. “Be ready.”

Rook summoned her magic, striking the ground around the entrance with lightning, doing her best to aim so some of it would get inside, and soon the ground and air around it were crackling with her lighting magic. 

Soon enough, she began to feel a faint tingle inside her skin, as unpleasant as ever. It wasn’t strong enough for discomfort, though. There might not be many darkspawn coming out, but it’d be enough.

“They’re coming,” she announced, stepping back to stand next to Davrin. 

As always there, the few darkspawn that crawled out of the hole were nothing out of the ordinary, and she didn’t think Davrin would have trouble with them. “Attack,” she ordered.

Davrin didn’t wait to be told twice, charging against the darkspawn. Rook didn’t rush to attack, instead, she watched Davrin fight, but she made sure that no darkspawn could catch him unaware and that they wouldn’t swarm him. 

She didn’t think Davrin had fought darkspawn before, but he wasn’t bad at it. He was a quick thinker and adapted fast, cutting through darkspawn and seemingly noting his patterns and way of fighting. He was smart and a good fighter, and Rook hoped it’d keep him alive during his life as a warden.

She gave instructions and warnings here and there, putting down the darkspawn that threatened to get too close to Davrin, and if he noticed that she was watching him more than she was fighting, he didn’t say anything about it.

Soon, all the darkspawn were dead.

Rook took a jar from her bag and handed it to Davrin. “Collect the blood,” she instructed.

Davrin frowned at the jar, as if wary, but he nodded and carefully did as told, his face stoic. Once the jar was full, he gave it back to Rook. “Ready.”

Rook nodded, feeling more and more defeated and somber at the thought of what came next, certain that Davrin wasn't going to back down and change his mind. 

“Let’s go back.”

*

Rook knew it was useless, hopeless, but as she and Davrin stood outside the door of the room where she knew Ser Arthur was waiting for them, she couldn’t help but stop before walking in.

She had to try again, one last time. She stood between Davrin and the door, and looked at him.

“Davrin…please, listen. I know you’re struggling now but you’re a good monster hunter, you’ll make a life out of it, you’ll be renowned,” she began, and Davrin seemed surprised, but he stood silent, letting her speak, his face solemn as he listened to her. 

“Collecting that darkspawn blighted blood wasn’t the worst part of the joining, not by far. Life as a warden is blood, blight, darkness and death. Once you walk in there, there’s no going back, you can’t change your mind, you must join no matter what. But you can still leave. Just…please, think about it again.”

Davrin did seem to think it, and for once, he seemed unsure and torn, even for the briefest of moments, which allowed Rook to have a tiny sliver of hope, but soon it was gone as he shook his head.

“Thank you, Rook.” He gave her a small, tense smile. “But I’m doing this. I want to join.”

Rook didn’t say anything else, feeling so defeated that she could cry. She nodded and walked with Davrin silently into the room. 

Ser Arthur was waiting for them, chalice in hands. He looked at Rook and she took out the jar with darkspawn blood, that he poured into the chalice. He handed the empty jar back to Rook and then walked to stand in front of Davrin.

It was clear that Davrin was nervous, but he stood firm in front of the veteran warden, holding his gaze.

“The grey wardens were founded during the first blight,” Ser Arthur began the speech Rook had heard in another couple of joinings. “In the fight against annihilation, those first grey wardens drank darkspawn blood, and mastered their taint.” Ser Arthur paused for a moment, letting Davrin, who was looking at the chalice, process his words. “You must drink too, Davrin.”

“You want me to drink that? Blighted darkspawn blood?”

“Yes, as we all did before. ” Ser Arthur nodded. “This blood is the source of our power, it makes us immune to the taint, allows us to sense darkspawn, to slay archdemons. This ritual can kill us, but it's what gives us our power and our strength.” Davrin looked down, swallowing hard as he took in Ser Arthur’s words. “You must drink now,” the warden said, soft but firm, as he handed the chalice to Davrin.

Davrin looked at the chalice and the blood in it. He seemed nervous, so different from how confident he’d appeared early that day. 

After a quick glance at her direction, almost as if looking for support, which Rook wasn’t very sure she could offer, Davrin took a deep breath and brought the chalice to his lips, quick and decisive, grimacing as he drank.

As the first waves of pain hit Davrin, Ser Arthur took the chalice from his hands and stepped back. Davrin groaned, turning around to give Rook a look of confusion and fear that felt like a stab to her heart, before he cried out and fell to his knees.

Rook couldn’t help herself, running to his side and kneeling next to him as he cried out in pain again, but she didn’t know what to do. She doubted there was anything else she could do now. 

She hated this. Davrin was in pain and he was scared, looking at her with watery eyes, almost as if he was trusting her to help him, but she couldn’t, and it killed her. She should have shot lightning at him until she made him run away. Now he was in agony and he might die. 

Between grunts and cries of pain, soon Davrin passed out, which was a small mercy, but he was still groaning and writhing in pain.

“Do something!” Rook demanded Ser Arthur, no matter if she knew there was nothing to be done.

“It’ll be over soon enough,” Ser Arthur said calmly. “He’ll live, Rook. He’d have died already otherwise.”

Rook guessed she’d have to believe him. She’d always liked Ser Arthur, but now she couldn’t help resenting him. How could he be so calm while Davrin lay there agonizing in pain. 

Rook reached to wipe the sweat from Davrin’s forehead, pushing away his wet curls, hoping that Ser Arthur was right and this’d be over soon, with Davrin alive. Eventually, he stopped writhing, but he was still groaning and muttering, Rook wasn’t sure if in pain or due to the nightmares he sure was having, or both.

Rook was about to call out for Ser Arthur again, when Davrin woke up with a start. He sat up, looking around with confused and still scared eyes, gasping for air and coughing.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” she told him softly, relieved.

Unsure of what to do, she reached out to him and as she did, Davrin took her hand, holding onto it as if for dear life. He was still panting, and pain seemed to still hit him from time to time, making him groan and curl onto himself, but he wasn’t saying anything.

“You are now a grey warden,” Ser Arthur formally announced. “Take time to recover and come to see me when you’re ready, we must talk,” he instructed him and Davrin nodded, or tried to. His eyes were unfocused and he seemed a bit out of himself.  “Congratulations.”

Ser Arthur looked at Rook as if he were going to say something else, but he didn’t. Instead, he just gave her a nod and walked away, leaving them alone.

Once the veteran warden was gone, Davrin curled up onto himself with his legs bent close to his chest while he kept holding her hand, and he rested his head on his knees as he groaned in pain again.

“You'll be okay,” Rook said quietly, trying to soothe him and hating that she couldn’t do anything else. “You made it.”

“I think I’m going to throw up all that blood,” Davrin muttered.

“It’s okay, it’s done its job already, you can throw up if you need to,” Rook told him, but Davrin shook his head as he kept taking deep breaths.

Eventually, he lifted his head to look at Rook. His face was clammy and covered in sweat, but his breath was even and his eyes were focused, as if he were recovering.

“Better?” She asked him softly and Davrin nodded. “Then let’s get out of here, okay? I’ll get you some water and show you to the bedrooms so you can rest.”

Davrin nodded again, took a deep breath, and got up on shaky legs, groaning.

“Okay?” Rook asked, worried. Davrin took in another breath, squared his shoulders, and planted his feet more firmly on the ground, nodding again.

“Alright…” She let go of his hand to go pour some water from a jar, that Ser Arthur had thoughtfully left there, into an empty cup that she handed to Davrin. “Don’t worry, no more odd drinks, just plain water.”

Davrin took a sip and gagged, but he managed not to get sick, and he kept drinking until he finished the water. “Thank you.”

Rook said nothing and nodded at him to follow her out of the room. “You’ll be sharing a bedroom with Marcus and Alan,” she explained as they walked to the chambers.

The outpost was so empty that most wardens had been allowed to get a bed in empty rooms, a luxury Rook wasn’t used to, but it was decided that the junior wardens should share a bedroom so they could bond and not get too pampered, since they’d be sharing in Weisshaupt and pretty much any other outpost where they were sent.

Davrin walked in silence next to her, and Rook noticed him shuddering from time to time as if the pain were not totally gone, but she decided not to say anything about it.

“Here,” Rook said as she pointed at a closed door, “is where you can wash, we collect water every morning from the river and melting snow, for drinking and washing,” she explained.

The water was cold and the place was colder, especially for the new junior wardens who came from noble families and were used to hot baths, but Rook guessed Davrin wouldn’t be one to complain much and he was probably used to cold water.

“I’m disgusting right now,” Davrin snorted weakly but Rook waved him off. He’d just gone through the joining, he should not have to freeze in cold water first thing after that.

“Don’t worry about that now,” she said as she kept walking to the bedrooms area. “Here we are,” she said, walking into a small room with four single beds pushed against the walls.

Alan and Marcus’ beds were hastily made and covered with several blankets. There were a couple of chests on the ground at the feet of the beds for them to leave their things too. 

The other two beds were bare but someone had placed a set of sheets and blankets on one of the mattresses, as if for Davrin, and also an open chest by the feet of the bed. Inside it, there was a warden uniform, the one they used on their downtime around the outpost, and Davrin’s weapons were there too.

“It seems you got a bed assigned already,” Rook commented and Davrin let out an appreciative yet tired murmur.

He flopped down on the bare mattress with a quiet groan, leaning against the wall and tilting his head back, closing his eyes as he sighed.

“That bad, uh?” Rook half-teased.

Davrin chuckled, opening his eyes to look at her. “Could be worse.” He shrugged. “But…yeah, I feel like shit.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done but wait it out,” Rook sighed, giving Davrin an apologetic look. “I’m sorry…the joining…I couldn’t tell you, I wanted to, but we’re sworn secrecy, I’m sorry.”

“Rook, hey.” Davrin stopped her apology. “I know. It’s okay.”

Rook sighed, shaking her head…it didn’t feel like it was okay. “If you need something or if you have questions…”

“Too many but I don’t even know where to start.” Davrin chuckled and then grimaced as if it made him hurt again. “Are all joinings like this? Yours?”

“I haven’t seen many joinings but yes, it’s always like this, I think,” Rook answered, shifting her weight from one foot to another. “Mine…I don’t know. I doubt there was any ceremony, I was dying and probably blighted, it was when my clan was killed, so they did the ritual joining to save me.”

“Shit…”

“I was too far gone to feel the pain so…” Rook said, looking away when Davrin gave her a sad look, she didn’t like how it made her feel.

“I had these weird dreams while I was unconscious…” Davrin began, and Rook was glad he was not asking about her and her joining anymore. “About darkspawn I think…it was because of the joining, right?”

“Yeah…” Rook nodded, grimacing. “Welcome to your new life, you can sense darkspawn, they can sense you, and you’ll be having nightmares and seeing them when you sleep pretty much every night. Didn’t I tell you it’d get even better after the joining?” She joked humorlessly.

“Great,” Davrin snorted.

“It hasn’t happened to me, but apparently, grey wardens can hear the archdemon talking and that’s how we know there’s going to be a blight,” Rook kept explaining.

“Well, that’s useful…” Davrin mused. “Why can we do that? Just because we drank their blood?”

“Honestly? No idea.” Rook shrugged. “I assume that, yes, it’s because the blood, I think we’re tainted and connected to the archdemon somehow, I guess that’s why we are the only ones who can kill archdemons.”

“Useful too.” Davrin nodded.

“Yes, and the warden who kills the archdemon dies,” Rook just blurted it out, there was no need or way to sugarcoat it.

“What, how?” Davrin frowned at her. “Why?”

“We don’t know, we only know that it happens.” Rook shrugged. “The archdemon dies but so does the warden who killed it.”

Davrin seemed to think for a moment but then he nodded. “It’s worthy, though, dying, if it means you killed the archdemon and stopped the blight,” he said firmly. “Come on, don’t say it’s not worthy.”

“I…” Rook sighed. “I guess it’s worth it, ending the blight and killing the archdemon…Don’t be so eager to die, though, it’s the job of a veteran, usually.”

“I’m not eager to die, I’m just saying it’d be worthy to stop a blight.” Davrin shrugged.

“Yeah, well…do you want to know more fun things about the warden’s life?” Rook asked. It might be too soon to give him the full, grim talk, while he was still shuddering from the aftershocks of the joining, but he had to know.

Davrin nodded. “I want to know it all.”

“Well, as I told you, we’re tainted somehow and connected to the darkspawn,” Rook began, fidgeting. “So, if we don’t die in service, eventually, we start having more and more nightmares, it’s like the taint ends up driving us mad, we hear more voices…it’s called The Calling.” She tried not to think much about that yet she thought about it every night. “We have a life expectancy of thirty years or so, then the taint gets to us."

“Shit…” Davrin muttered a curse, looking down in thought, and Rook wondered if he might finally regret joining, but then he shook his head and shrugged. “It’ll be a life worth living, though, spent fighting the darkspawn and helping people. Don’t tell me you don’t think so.”

Rook rolled her eyes. “I can think that it is worth to help people and kill darkspawn while at the same time thinking that is bullshit we have to die like that, just like I think that keeping the joining and everything it involves a secret, is bullshit,” she snapped.

Davrin gave her half a smile. “I’m not disagreeing with you. You’re right. I’m just saying that helping people and fighting darkspawn will be a life worth living even if short…besides, I rather keep telling you that, than start shitting myself because apparently, I’m going to hear darkspawn and archdemons in my dreams, and if I haven’t died in thirty years then I’m going insane.”

Davrin sounded confident but his smile faltered for a second, while the look in his eyes said that he was not as unbothered by all Rook was saying as he appeared to be.

“I’m sorry, Davrin…” Rook sighed. She’d let him join and condemned him to that life and that death, but what else could have she done.

“Hey.” Davrin nudged her leg with his foot gently. “You tried to warn me, you really did. This is not on you,” he told her. “Besides, I don’t regret it, I’m not sorry. I do think that this is a life worth living.”

Before Rook could say what she thought about that, although she wasn’t even very sure of what she thought, the door opened and Alan and Marcus walked in.

“Congratulations on not dying,” Alan said, making Davrin snort and Rook glare at him.

“See, I told you he’d make it,” Marcus said as he nudged Alan with his shoulder. "They told us you survived the joining, and so Laura told us to get your things ready here but to not bother you for a while.”

“Yet here you are,” Rook said sternly. Davrin nudged her leg with his foot again, rolling his eyes at her with an amused smirk.

“That was really nice of you, thank you,” Davrin told the junior wardens, smiling.

“Did you puke?” Marcus asked as he sat down at the end of the bed while Alan went to stand next to Rook. “Alan puked,” Marcus said and Alain glared at him, seeming mortified.

“No, I’m proud to say I kept in all the darkspawn blood,” Davrin joked darkly and the other junior wardens grimaced. They seemed to have welcomed Davrin nicely enough, and Rook was glad of it.

“Okay…I’ll leave you junior wardens to speak.” Davrin should make friends and probably those three had things to talk about as new wardens, she didn’t want to get in the middle of it. “Davrin, remember you have to go speak with Ser Arthur before it gets too late.” The sun was setting already.

“Alright.” Davrin frowned at her as if wondering if something was wrong since she was leaving, but she smiled at him in what she hoped was a reassuring way.

“See you later, Rook.”

*

Rook was in her favorite tower of the outpost, sat down on the windowsill, looking at the stars, trying not to think of joinings or callings. 

The door of the tower opened and Rook frowned at it. Everyone knew she could usually be found there, but nobody had ever come to bother her…was there something wrong?

It was Davrin who walked through the door. He looked better, as if he wasn’t feeling sick and in pain anymore. He’d washed and changed clothes, now wearing the downtime wardens uniform, with the collar of the shirt opened and the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and he hadn’t bothered with the belt.

“You look good,” Rook said aloud without thinking, looking away at Davrin’s raised eyebrow and barely concealed smirk. “Better, I mean.”

“I feel better,” Davrin said, approaching her. “You disappeared. They told me you’d be here.”

“You need something?” She asked, looking at him again.

Davrin shrugged, sitting down on the other end of the windowsill. “Not really.”

“Then you should be sleeping,” Rook told him. “Tomorrow is your first day of training.”

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping too?” Davrin retorted and Rook shrugged, looking at the stars again.

“I don’t sleep much.”

“The nightmares?” Davrin asked softly.

Rook let out a noncommittal hum. The nightmares, and memories, and every other thought… She sighed and looked at Davrin. She should probably check on him instead of getting lost in thought. 

“Everything okay?” She asked and he nodded. “How did it go with Alan and Marcus?”

“Good, we had fun.” Davrin grinned at her and Rook nodded, pleased.

“It’s good if you three are friends, joining almost at the same time and training here together, probably you three will be sent on missions together,” Rook explained.

“Good.” Davrin nodded. “Will you be sent with us?”

“I don’t know…maybe? But I doubt it.” Rook sighed. “I don’t know when I’ll be sent on a mission next or for how long they will keep me here.”

Davrin scoffed. “It’s unfair that they punish you for disagreeing with the First Warden.”

“For being disrespectful to a superior,” Rook added but Davrin just shrugged.

“Still…I’ve fought you, I’ve seen you fight darkspawn, it’s wasteful to have you here instead of out on missions,” he insisted.

“We just met, there’s plenty of time for you to realize too that I’m a shit warden,” she half-joked and Davrin huffed and rolled his eyes at her, exaggerating the gesture to make her smile.

“Nobody here thinks you’re a shit warden,” he told her. “Everyone I’ve heard talking about you today was saying good things.”

Rook made a sound, unsure of what to say, feeling rather bashful, and she went back to looking out of the window and to the stars. After a moment of silence, she looked at Davrin again, who seemed to be in thought.

“Junior warden, off to bed,” she told him. “Or you’ll regret it tomorrow on the training ground.” Davrin opened his mouth but Rook didn’t let him speak. “It’s an order.”

“Alright, alright…” Davrin chuckled, getting up. “But you should listen to your own advice.”

“In a moment…” Rook answered vaguely.

Davrin nodded, giving her a soft smile. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

Rook nodded. “Goodnight, Davrin.”

***

I wrote and rewrote and edited this chapter a million times and I'm still unhappy about it but I'm just going to post it...it's not like I have that big of a public to be worrying so much about how it reads 😅 But I don't know, I'm not content with this chapter, but I can't keep editing it.

I'd like to tag @the-bear-and-his-sunbird @mythals-whore @sugar-peanut-cat @cute-ellyna and @thedissonantverses since you seemed interested the last time I talked about this, apolgies if this is inconvenient.

Thanks for reading, if you liked this, please let me know in a comment, and as always, reblogs are more than welcome.

Excuse my English, it’s not my first language.

[cavernsandcod]

BELLADONNA - II

SERIES M.L | AO3 VERSION | PREVIOUS | NEXT CHAPTER

CONTENT WARNINGS: NON-CON KISSING/TOUCHING (no smut). stalking. obsession. violence. blood. injury. fear. strong language. POV switching, TBI johnny; a.k.a MWIII spoilers by default. not proofread or edited. (stalker!soap x reader)

WC: 5.5k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this ended up longer than expected, but i'd argue it's one of the key chapters for the rest of this fic. i cannot stress enough to please HEED THE WARNINGS, YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN CONSUMPTION! // divider credit @/cafekitsune

Your eyes are wide as saucers when they meet him.

They glow in the morning light, lapis and agog. A lake so clear you can see into its frozen depths, jagged mountains surrounding it, dusted with frost, caked with ice. The flail of your limbs seems to do nothing against his strength, except egg on his delusions. When you buck your hips and bend your knees, his own tightens, their bony caps digging into your hips until it's painful.

“Ye know,” he grits, squeezing you tighter, "for someone running scared, ye sleep like the dead." His accent rolled thick with disapproval.

A sudden noise from outside the room—a door slamming, children yelling—made your gaze slice from him to the door. There are people here, people that might help. You don’t have to die like this. Salty streams flow down the bend of your cheeks, trickling to your ears, along your collarbones until your neckline is soaked.

Johnny notices and knows what his bird will do before she does. He wants you clever; he always enjoys a challenge. The pad of his thumb digs into your jawline until you let out another noise that makes his heart skip.

Your lungs release oxygen as you let out a piercing shriek against his palm. It’s strained and muffled, interrupted by sobs. He counters it by lobbing your torso against the floral bedspread until the rest of your breath is knocked out of you and your exhales are coming out as wheezes.

“Enough.” His words are sharp, pearly teeth gritting. “Ah’ll do that again if you move, lass. But ye won’t do that, righ’? You’ll be good?”

The ache radiating across your spine motivates you to nod your head. Your screams aren’t heard here, or perhaps nobody cares enough to break down the door and intervene.

“I take my hand off,” he starts, jostling your head gently, “and ye won’t scream.” It’s not a request; it’s an order.

You can’t lie with pure weight and muscle crushing your ribs for long. The look on his face indicates that he’d sit like this forever if he had to. The thoughts race through your head as the pressure releases from your mouth and then, eventually, your chest. Is he what you expected? Is he merciful? Is this going to be quick?

“Sit up… There we are. See—no’ so bad is it?” His hands splay between your shoulder blades, anchoring you until you’re upright. Your sniffles continue, but he doesn’t pay them mind. This is all natural to him.

His other hand curls under your chin, tilting your head up until he overtakes your view. “Need ye here with me, love, payin’ me due attention. Aye?”

“Yes,” you whisper, meeting eyes for a flash and swallowing.

He’s leaning in now, and you wonder if he’s going to kiss you, and then he’s doing just that. The angle is awkward, his mouth not in line with yours, pecking the side of it and trailing below your eye and down. He trails over a streak of tears until your face is somehow wetter than before, making you wince in discomfort.

It’s a relief when he stops somewhere along the way.

You have to commend yourself for not coming apart more, considering the situation. You’ve been stuck in His maze for months, eluding and evading all the warning signs that irrevocably lead to this moment. All those scenarios in your head where you were a hero, fighting back, have proven futile. When the beast is directly in front of you, touching you, every muscle paralyzes itself.

Things have gone upside down, and you’ve metamorphosed into stone, gone complacent. The fighting, valiant girl turns coward.

His wet lips press to the furrow of your brows before he retreats. The shag carpet snags on his boots as he takes a step back, eyeing the setup you have. You peer at your phone still on the nightstand, calculating how quickly you could grab it and dial. If you could do it before it’s inevitably wrestled from your hands is a long shot.

He turns his attention back to you and looks like you voiced the entire plan out loud, then stashes your last lifeline in his tee pocket. The admonishment you are expecting never comes. A loss of hope is worse than any lashing he could give.

“Ye mind if I have a look?” You do mind. The bed creaks when he lifts your duffel onto it and starts rustling through it like his own.

He pats down the sides. “Cannae risk hurting you yerself with somethin’ in here.” You wish you could.

You aren’t sure what he’s hoping to find in there; it’s all essentials. Drab and remarkably unerotic outfits for ‘blending in’, the basic toiletries, and your wallet. You let out a shaky breath and pray that the nightmare ends.

Johnny holds a pair of black panties, rubbing the satin between his thumb and middle digit. “Bet these are a vision on those hips.” He grins, but all you see is a predator baring its teeth. The words come off so bona fide that you physically recoil and turn in on yourself. Following a discontented shake of his head, he stuffs everything inside the pack without care and then tosses it aside, a grimace on his chiseled face, as if your lack of approval wounds him deeply.

Your phone is out of his pocket and in front of your face when you look up, automatically unlocking from face ID. The reflection you make eye contact with looks ill; she is not you, can’t be. You are a withered variant of the person you used to be.

The screen illuminates his face as he thumbs through it, digging into your photos—most he’d seen months ago on your profiles. You thank God that there isn’t anything particularly embarrassing in the collection. Small victories. His collectedness makes you wonder how he’s going to strip the remainder of your dignity from you. He is searching for the right accelerant to douse you in.

It’s only when you see him swiping through profiles that you realize what he’s looking at now. Soap's scarred fingers grew tauter, his expression darkening with each swipe.

A notification sound pierces the tense atmosphere, causing you to jolt. 

“Hey, beautiful. Wanna grab coffee?” He recites the words like they are putrid. All the boyishness in him before evaporates in an instant.

Johnny scrunches up his face and lets out a pained groan, pacing back and forth as he works through the betrayal. “Danae believe this, lass— flirtin’ with every Tom, Dick, an’ Harry that comes yer way. Meeting strange men fer bloody coffee.”

You can’t make heads or tails of what he’s saying, but the heat radiating off him is enough. 

His fingers rake through his hair when he returns to your side of the bed and towers over you, tapping his boot like he is about to scold a disobedient puppy. You muster the courage to pitch up your chin and hope your regretful demeanor begs enough mercy. His chest rises and falls rapidly, fists balled at each side of his wide frame, jaw clenched like it’s wired shut.

“Please.” You whisper, walking on the tightrope of a quiet tremble. The monster in front of you keeps scowling.

It’s not a question anymore; he’s going to hit you. Maim you. Sculpt your delicate brain like clay. Dig in his nails until the finished piece bleeds enough crimson to satiate him.

The air crackles around you, a sharp pain between your ribs before your head slumps toward your lap. Each sob comes in waves, raw and reeking of sheer devastation. Reality settles beside you like a thick, unavoidable smog, weighing you down like a dull ache. The hourglass is full; you are going to die.

All you ask is that it comes quickly while your head is down.

The mattress begins to sink beside you. A muscled bicep slithers around your torso, his body a heavy, fervid overcast.

“Ach, none of that, birdie. Hate to see ye cryin’.” He swipes away the tears as quickly as your ducts can produce them. The man nuzzles his head until he rests between your clothed breasts. His other arm hooks under your thighs and tucks them up until you’re a small bundle he cradles. “Just need a bit of guidance, baby. That’s all, eh? Am not mad anymore.”

His words are a rare nectarine. Deceptively soothing. Soft like cotton. Your sins have been absolved, and nothing is your fault now.

You aren’t sure where you can put your hands without touching him. So, they ball into the sheets while you calculate the best way to defuse the bomb.

You let your eyes flicker around the motel room now that he can’t see them. For apparent reasons, you’re feeling particularly trapped now.

“Why are you doing this? You can just p-pick another girl.” The emotional whiplash makes your head spin. “I— I won’t tell anyone.” Your hiccups persist as you grovel with the devil.

Johnny lifts his head, mouth downturned and eyes pathetic. “Another girl?” His bottom lip is all but quivering when he leans back on his haunches in front of you.

“Ye’re… not understanding this, dove.” His voice is low like his head, which he scratches like he’s recalling something important. Your hands are dwarfed when he takes both into his, caressing your knuckles. “Was supposed ta move on from ye a long time ago. Couldn’t, though. Ah knew you were meant to be mine, hen, the more I got to ken you. Goddamn face of an angel kept me hooked.” His globes scan you up and down before he bows toward you again, latching to your mouth head on this time.

He sucks on your bottom lip until your jaw loosens enough to let him in, tongue licking at the roof of your mouth. The kiss borders on animalistic, and you find your eyes wide open the whole time.

It parts, but a rope of saliva connects you two. “Fuck, hen, ah knew you’d understand—” The panic in your eyes is null and void to a man so far gone. Even as your nails bite into his forearms until the skin bleeds, he does not budge. The room shifts into a chasm of wet noises and the involuntary, soft whines you let out.

Johnny’s fingers flex against your shoulder before inching their way south, his body growing more eager and impatient. The protests linger and die on your tongue, never making it past your lips. He kneads your tits through the thin cotton, enclasping and releasing the fat on your chest empirically. Like he’s trying to get a feel for them rather than warm you up.

His kisses taper off when he’s in between the cleavage, and his entire posture slumps. Dead weight on top of you, beginning to tremble.

A war wages inside you between what you should feel and what is at heart. Animus and trepidation dwell in your frontal lobe; You should be screaming, fighting, clawing his eyes out, and running for the hills. The man you’ve been running from has been reduced to a puddle, aching and whimpering like a kicked, mangy mutt—and you feel pity for him.

“Shite,” he hisses, but the frustration seems to be more aimed at himself than you. Warm droplets seep into your shirt where his brunette head lays on you. His toned shoulders shake each time he weeps, but his thumb rubs patterns along your belly.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out and saves you. Somehow, he’s got you more at his mercy than ever before.

Time passes, but you lose track of how much. All you know is that your limbs have gone stiff with pins and needles and your mind is running wild. Can you get out of this? Could you get the upper hand? The man lets out a deep sniffle and seems to get his bearings, returning to his haunches on the mattress.

“You must think I’m—” he flicks a hand toward the ceiling, “—some sort of headcase, but I’m no’. Swear it.” The bed groans when he shifts his position to sit on the edge with hunched posture.

“I don’t think that,” you gulp, barely camouflaging the fear invading your bloodstream. How the words betray all the rancors for him that dig into your flesh like barbed wire. The way your voice shakes is a dead giveaway, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

His smile starts at the corners of his lips, a small, subtle tug that grows as if it’s stretching against something tight inside him. You can’t deny how delicate and sugary it appears. But knowing all he’s done to you, the warmth feels potent enough to poison you.

“Oh, bonnie.” He extends a hand to run a knuckle along your cheekbone, cerulean spheres turned soft. It makes you freeze, but you figure it better than him straddling you again. “Think ye’re the only thing I’ve done right with. Cannae let you go now, can I?”

The only thing. Thing. You’re nothing more than something pretty to conquer. The plastic, twirling ballerina in a music box she can’t free herself from.

After a few moments of what looks like heavy contemplation, he rises to his feet. The suite feels calm, eerily so once he’s collected himself. The hum of the air conditioning is the only thing you can focus on without breaking apart. Stark air runs down the back of your neck until goosebumps form, but you know that’s not why you’re shaking.

He steps in front of you and leans downward. His lips press to the top of your head in a long—and what feels like bittersweet—kiss.

“Goin’ to get some air. I’ll be back.” The low rumble of his brogue reminds you of reality.

Instinctively, you glance over your shoulder when he rounds the bed and heads for the door, but he’s already peering back at you. “Be good.”

The door slams shut behind him.

You’re alone.

This is your only chance.

A stream of smoke curled into the evening as Johnny leaned against the motel’s eroded exterior wall. Sparse light poles did nothing to illuminate the lot, leaving it dim and foreboding to the average eye. The parking lot was nearly empty at this hour, only a few scattered vehicles casting long shadows across the asphalt.

His bonnie is good at hiding; this place is a dim, dead end, for sure. But, thankfully, its his job to track targets much more inconspicuous than her.

Watching her was fun, bordered on pleasurable. Learning her ins and outs, playing his games to corner the prey. And finding her was the thrill he had been aching for.

In spite of that, nothing felt as it should be.

He was supposed to feel complete once he had her, touched her. All the nights Johnny spent staring at the cracked ceiling in his flat, picturing how she’d be. How having a beauty tucked away somewhere might make him feel man again. So, why didn’t he?

As he takes a long drag, he lets his lids flutter shut. He needs to get it together. She’s here, she’s his. It won’t be long before she’s at home with him, safe and finally living the vision he’s had for her. Poor thing doesn’t see it now, but she will. A soft, warm lass to wait up for him and keep him sound.

That’s what his mates kept telling him while he was recovering. As if all he needed was a quick fuck to set him straight. But the hookups never worked, never stuck for long. Johnny never did “casual” very well, even before the bullet. Once his fangs are in, he can’t let up.

Sweet talking his date in the bar came natural, and so was taking them home and making them feel euphoric.

He thought they’d be it for him. Despite that, their side of the bed was always vacant come morning. Nothing left but the wrinkled sheets, sometimes a flirtatious note that led nowhere.

Johnny snuffs out the cig under his boot after tossing it, still watching the traffic race by. He should get back to her soon, and hopefully be on the road by morning. If he treads lightly, he figures she may see it his way. It was smart to come out here and clear his thoughts, since he’d nearly lost his head going through her phone. Scared her, too. He can’t do that again; it’s not her fault that she doesn’t know better. The image of all those dirtbags and their messages replays in his mind for a moment, making his jaw tense. That won’t happen again, either.

His eyes shift toward the flickering vending machine a few feet away.

Coming back in there with a peace offering, like her favorite sweet, seems like a good place to start.

His shadow casts on the blinds, and so do his steady exhales of smoke. You don’t have long, maybe five or ten minutes to get as far as you can on foot. Maybe flag down someone sensible and never have to see your admirer again.

You inch off the bed, darting to look at him every few seconds. Your skin practically buzzes with anxiety, reverberating through your chest and making it tighten. He could burst through that door any second and catch you in the act, and then who knows what’s in store for you. That’s why you’re fighting the ever present urge to stay in that spot and rot.

You need to try. It’s something you owe to yourself.

Every creak of the boards beneath the carpet makes you cringe. Your breaths are too shallow, and too loud for comfort. You press your lips into a tight line and slip on your shoes, tugging on the tied laces to ensure they won’t get you killed.

Your legs wobble as you tiptoe toward the bathroom and step inside, cursing at every small squeak of the door. You latch it once it’s closed. It’s not strong enough to stop him, you know it, but any obstacle in his path will be better than none.

The gnawing fear blooms bigger now that the small washroom confines you. You turn on your heels and lock eyes with the small window above the toilet. It’s the only way—tight and by the skin of your teeth.

A door opens in the distance, and you freeze. The silence feels like a tortuous lifetime. You wait for the door to be broken down. For his arms to swallow you whole and never let go.

It never does. The drone of voices in the next room over makes you let out a sharp sigh of ease.

Your hands convulse as you tug on the latch with a knee digging into the lid of porcelain. It doesn’t budge until your teeth are gritting and a bead of sweat runs down your brow.

The handle lets loose with a thud. Every limb is taut as you climb atop fully, a constant throb across your entire body. As you push on the pane and open it to its full capacity, the crisp air engulfs the room. The smell of the grass, the roar of engines and horns, the rush of the breeze, It’s relentless, but it’s also your freedom.

It takes every ounce of your dwindling strength to grip the edge and lift yourself. The burn of your biceps is almost enough to rip you from it, but sheer adrenaline keeps you going.

The narrow frame feels like it's crushing your ribs, making every inch of you squeezing through agonizing. You expect hands to wrap around your ankles any second. To bite down and tug you back inside. The thought in itself makes you hasten more than before.

The fall is shallow, but your ungraceful dive knocks the wind out of you. Damp, beryl blades on top of dirt do nothing to cushion the descent. Your mind says run, now, but your body won’t let you yet. Not while your lungs sputter and your blood vessels surface on the points of impact.

You fight the dizziness when you begin to roll onto your stomach, digging your palms into the earth as an anchor. Pushing yourself up, you feel like a fawn learning how to orient itself. There’s nothing but woods behind the building. The fog is a ghostly veil that cakes onto every tree, concealing the paths between them.

The momentum is a tremor, coming in waves that causes you to teeter back and forth, hands at the ready to stop a potential tumble. He’s probably back now. You need to move. Faster. You expel a groan when you force yourself to get going.

Without looking back, you begin to sprint the uneven ground. The concealment of the forest feels welcoming, but the landscape does not. Every stick scapes against you, each rock almost making you go facefirst into the dirt. It feels as if the earth itself is conspiring against you; it plays games of sabotage for its own amusement.

You’re deep in now. Swallowed by ancient trees that conceal the trails, if they exist out here. All that you rely on is the notion that any way is safer than what awaits you back there.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, echoing in your ears like it will burst through flesh. Animals chirp and birds caw from the pound of your feet. The metallic taste on your tongue lets you know that it won’t be long before you’re out of fuel. Each glide takes another ounce of it and adds to the pain.

The underbrush begins to elevate the further you go, slowing you down. A stream gurgles in the distance, split up by larger, sharper rocks. It carves a path through their shards, causing them to glisten. If you cross here, he may be able to lose you.

Your shoes squeal, caked in mud and icy waters while you tiptoe across the stone barriers, arms out cautiously. Your socks are soaked, swishing with every step. The ground is more uneven across the water—jagged, with roots that twist like hands threatening to snatch you. Moss softens the trees and fallen logs, now invaded by the green, sodden coating.

A soft stir distracts you; the sound of leaves rustling that is too close, and then a twig breaking in two. It propels you into overdrive again. Has he caught up already?

A sharp, jagged root, hidden beneath the layer of fallen leaves and moss, catches your ankle. Your foot twists, and for a moment, everything goes still. The shock of the twist radiates up your leg, the pain crashing through like a tidal wave.

You cry out, and the next thing you know, you’re falling—crashing through the underbrush, limbs flailing for something to catch you. A low, guttural sound escapes your throat as you hit the forest floor, knees slamming into the dirt, hands scraping against the base of a tree.

A raw, biting ache travels from calf to toes, making any mobility impossible. Though your hand is pressed to your mouth, you know your sounds of agony aren’t hushed.

The stillness of the forest feels suffocating now that you’re sedentary.

A thousand eyes are watching from the shadows.

The baggie rustles as he plays with it; it’s your favorite snack. Maybe it’ll be enough to get you engaged, at least.

Johnny stops in front of the door when his phone vibrates. The last thing he bloody needs is another interruption when he’s so close to his girl. No matter what, or who it is, he won’t be dropping everything again. Last time he did, she slipped away.

His eyes roll when decides to check the message. It’s only Kyle asking how he’s getting on, if he’ll meet soon for drinks. Somehow, the friendly concern annoys him more than if it had been something important.

All the company he needs is here.

When the door opens, he expects to find her in that same spot. Like a delicate, ossified sculpture.

The room is empty, a stillness that feels too unnatural, too deliberate. A chill spreads through Johnny’s spine, seeing that her imprint on the bed was the only trace of her left.

Could she have—? No, she wouldn’t. She was fine when he left, sweet as pie.

The bathroom door was shut, briefly putting a pause to the panic fluttering in his chest. With a sigh, he rapped a knuckle against the wood.

“Lass? Are you in there?” He shifts awkwardly, chewing his lip. “I brought ye somethin’ to eat.” He expects to hear movement behind the door. The sink running, feet shuffling.

That she’ll open the door and prove all his suspicions wrong. That his girl wouldn’t run off when the going got tough. 

His ear presses to the door after she leaves him hanging, his pulse starting to hammer. Only the whistle of a faint breeze on the other side; not his bird.

The bag in his hand is forgotten, tossed aside as he steps back. He’d done the maneuver more times than he could count. Somehow, this was more nerve wracking than doing it with bullets whizzing by him. In one swift, driving motion, Johnny’s foot stuck above the handle, splitting the wood on impact. The weak hinges let loose instantly, blowing the bathroom door wide open.

Frigid air hits him full force, blowing from the window above the toilet. Dirt prints on the lid, fresh scratches in the paint, scuffs on the frame, and she was nowhere in sight.

His eyes burned into the evidence, full of wrath and what feels like an intense betrayal. “FUCK!” A feral growl bounces off the grimy tile, followed by the squeal of his wet boots when he turns on them, snatching his bomber off the back of a chair.

The forest line loomed in the distance when he rounded the building, shrugging his jacket on. No doubting she was somewhere lost in those trees, stumbling around. She couldn’t have gotten far, not without knowledge of the terrain. Johnny didn’t have much of that either, but he did know next to everything about tracking.

Through storms of all kind, bombs and gunfire, night and day—it was all on his belt. As his feet sunk into the mud, starting into a tactical sprint, he kept his eyes trained for smaller, reluctant tracks. They wouldn’t be hard to find on soft ground.

He should’ve known better.

With some daylight left, he could use his own eyes to guide him. Every few feet, a disturbed patch of dirt or broken twigs would steer him. Sweat glistened on the pallor of his flesh, his training working overtime to listen to the land.

He was too soft on her.

The ground gets steep here. Too steep for the average civilian to navigate quickly. Her tracks are messier here, long drags and claw marks rather than solid steps. Poor thing probably stumbled and raked her way up the hills, thinking she was getting herself ahead.

Played like a fuckin’ fiddle—

His jaw ticks every time he feels he’s gaining on her. Promised himself, and indirectly her, he would not lose his head again. That he could learn to not always be in control. But this? This is maddening.

He couldn’t fight the ire lining his gullet like a black tar.

When he reaches the sound of icy, rushing waters, he puts himself in her shoes. She crosses those rocks, hoping to outsmart him by taking the long way. Thinks he can’t play out every gait and qualm her untrained, exhausted body would have. The way across is easy for him, not winded and wearing footwear with proper traction.

The wind bites into his cheeks and hands, making them flush. Insects chirp and buzz, sticking to his sweat. Every moment, the sky grows darker, navy clouds rolling in. Freezing rain will surely flush her out; turn her lips blue, dust her hair with frost, leave her huddled against the gelid ground until her body shuts down.

Each exhale becomes a fleeting cloud as he goes through the maze of split trees, slowing down to a trek.

Somewhere ahead, concealed behind a thick pillar of bark, someone moans. Starts to rustle against branches—lets out a groan when he imagines they are pulling themselves to their feet.

Johnny stops, cocking his head.

A hand emerges, caked in moss and mud as it guides the body connected to it.

His bird limps, tilting back and forth as she trials a jog. Another strained groan expels when her palm rests against the next tree, her head darting in every direction. Her foot wobbles when she tries to lift off, and knows he’s seen enough.

All it takes is two glides—less than a second. Johnny’s fingers dig into the delicate muscle of her shoulder, jerking her in his direction, until his stomach presses against her back like iron. She flails, her throat straining to scream, but neither sever his grip.

One arm snakes across her belly; it undulates rapidly as her lungs hyperventilate. His other hand is meant to control her jaw, keep her from  breaking his nose with a headbutt.

Her teeth sink into his thumb, breaking the skin until his hand retracts from her face. She tosses her head back, right as he turns to the torn digit. It nails him in the jaw, makes his molar tear into the inside of his cheek.

“Dammit—” The words taste metallic, his tongue glazed.

She takes an unbalanced leap forward, scurrying through the leaves. Another howl echoes through the woods, drowned by the pressing wind and highway. Sticks crush under his footing when he lurches, pushing through the migraine behind his eyes.

His biceps bulge when he forces her into a bear hug, her face toward him this time. The whole way through, her words are unintelligible, a mix of fury and panic.

“Stop it!” He hisses, hand cupped under her jaw. Her back digs into the bark, and he’s finally got the upperhand, in a wide stance to keep her in place. All he wants is for her to stop running. He’s not out here to hurt her, she’s hurting herself.

Hot tears run down her cheeks. She looks at him like some sort of monster, a cruel beast that only wants to rip her apart. It’s not true. “Listen to me. Ah need ye to calm down before ye—”

Her arm whips through the cold mist. It feels like slow motion, a hiccup in time. The hard side of her fist collides with his temple, striking the agitated scar tissue there.

His vision doubles, a deafening ring in his ears. Flames churn in his stomach, accelerated by the stabbing in his cranium. He can’t see, can’t hear anything but static.

Utter delirium forces his hand.

The hold on her jaw tightens, and he thrusts it. “Stop. Fighting.” Each word was punctuated by another shove of her soft skull against the unyielding bark.

His world goes still. Not a sound. A weight slumps against his chest, one that isn’t screaming anymore.

It isn’t until then that the reality dawns on Johnny. He blinks rapidly, finally adjusting his vision back to normal. She’s limp, lips cracked slightly in unconsciousness. Something like guilt swarmed him as he assessed the injury, wondering if he’d gone too far. If she’d make it through.

All his pain vanishes when he’s zeroed in on hers. The sun has vanished fully, a darkness surrounding him. He scoops her up into a cradle carry, his legs already moving before he has her weight settled. Right now, she feels like nothing, because all this is his fault.

He finds sure footing despite the murky forest, relying on moonlight and how close the sound of water is. And then, eventually, when the sounds of traffic grow closer, he knows he’s made it through the chase again, only backward.

Orbs of light, a flickering green sign in the distance reveals the lot, which is just as lifeless as before. Last thing he needs is someone seeing this and getting in the way.

He can handle this. She’s going to be fine.

Once he reaches his car, he’s able to fish out his keys. It takes a bit of deliberation, but he’s able to get the back door open and drape her across the backseat, knees slightly bent. Her head, still seeping, lulls to the side when it meets the leather. She’s on her side, and it almost looks like she’s sleeping if it weren’t for the obvious.

The door shuts. Johnny leans his back against it, staring out at the barren landscape.

All the previous confidence vanishes the longer he stands there, scrubbing a hand over his face. He has no plans. No idea where to go from here. Doesn’t know how long she’ll have without stitches.

He can’t do it alone. Both of them will end up dead, he knows it.

Johnny moves before he knows exactly why. Tugs the screen from his pocket and opens the contacts, before tapping one.

It rings for a century, feels like a taunt that makes his hands shake.

It ends, he expects the automated voicemail to signal defeat.

Instead, the person on the other line answers with a stoic greeting, if it can even be called that.

Johnny swallows, closing his eyes so he can spit up his ruin.

“Ghost? I need yer help.”