#dave york from the equalizer 2

[gasolinerainbowpuddles]

Dave York soaking in your whimpers as you try to sink down onto his thick cock and struggle to fit it all

Dave York unable to hide his smug smile when you're already whining his name but you've barely started fucking

Dave York giving you degrading little nicknames that make you so wet and make your cheeks hot with pride and shame

Dave York massaging the fat of your ass while he has you bent over and spread open for him

Dave York who pours all of his aggressions and frustrations of the day into drilling your shit into the mattress, face down

Dave York who gets annoyed when you haven't taken care of yourself for the day because how can he ravage your body when you haven't prioritized and cared for it

divider by @saradika-graphics

this is all @guiltyasdave's fault btw

[joelscruff]

forget my charms (dave york x f!reader) 18+

a/n finally watched equalizer 2 and he's been living in my mind rent free! i don't really know what this is tbh, it was kind of a challenge to myself to try and write a drabble because i'm notoriously bad at keeping fics short & sweet. so i'm not sure how i feel about the lack of real story here but we go anyway! enjoy & please be sure to read the warnings! summary: your new boss gives you a memorable first day. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: fingering, lap sitting, power imbalance, infidelity, unprotected p in v (doggy), creampie, finger sucking, dirty talk, praise kink, tie used as a gag word count: 1.5k

You only met him this morning. It had been brief, his office just one stop of many on your guided tour the first day of your new job. Your co-worker had tapped lightly on his door, opened it a crack and told him he should come meet the new hire. Your stomach had turned when you'd heard him sigh deeply on the other side - you were already feeling out of place, more than a little like a fish out of water, and the concept of disrupting the boss on the first day wasn't appealing in the slightest.

But he'd been gracious. He'd come to the door and opened it wider, stood beneath the arch with an appraising little smile on his lips as he looked at you. It had been memorable, the way he'd taken your hand in his large palm and squeezed, peering at you with something attentive in his eyes, almost... intrigued. Welcome, he'd told you, it's lovely to meet you.

And now, only hours later, his fingers are in your pussy.

Pumping slow and deep, rhythmic and filthy as you lounge in his lap with your legs wide and your head resting languidly against the heat of his neck. He's got your skirt pulled up, one big hand spread firm over your trembling belly while he fucks you with his middle and index. The flickering blue of his computer monitor is your only source of light, showering his office in a dim glow.

You whimper and his fingers still, lodged deep inside your heat. He hushes you softly, strokes your tummy with his thumb and leans back slightly in his chair.

"Shh, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice low and husky, "Don't want the night crew to know what we're doing in here, now do we?"

No, you certainly don't. Can't even imagine what the reaction would be were anyone from the office to know you're being fingered by the boss on your first day. You bite down on your lip and lean back into his lap, look down with hooded eyes as he slowly resumes the slow plunge of his fingers. They're so thick, coated in a clear gloss of your release that glows blue in the light. He places his thumb on your clit, applies pressure, and you let out another pathetic whimper.

"Ohh, poor thing," he admonishes gently, "You want something in your mouth to help you stay quiet?" his hand comes up to brush against your face, "Hm? You need something to suck on?"

Your brain feels empty but you nod anyway, eyelashes fluttering as he wastes no time in slipping the middle and index of his left hand past the wetness of your lips. You suck immediately, closing your eyes and feeling them roll behind your lids as he fucks two of your holes at once, just taking, using.

Is this why I'm here, you can't help but think to yourself, did I only get this job so he could play with me like some kind of doll?

You can't quite believe you're even in this situation. You'd stayed late in order to make a good impression, still had some things you needed to figure out at your desk anyway. Everyone else had slowly trickled out of the office, until you'd realized all that remained was you and Mr. York. He'd smiled at you through the open blinds of his office, leaning back in his chair with his legs wide and his arms stretched behind his head. He'd brought one down when your eyes had met, crooked his finger as if to say, Come here for a minute.

You'd gotten up from your desk and entered his office, anxiety building in the pit of your stomach. You'd hoped you weren't about to be reprimanded for something you thought would impress him.

But he didn't reprimand you. He didn't mention the fact that you were staying late, didn't ask about how the job was treating you, if there was anything you needed, no. Instead, he'd looked you up and down again with that assessing, calculative stare and murmured, "Can you come sit in my lap for a little while, sweetheart?"

You suppose you could've said no. Probably should have, actually. That would have been the most logical thing to do - slam the door and quit your job, maybe even sue for harassment. Anyone else probably would have. But you'd taken one look at his crotch, seen the noticeably thick shape that bulged against his thigh, and realized he'd been sitting there watching you for who knows how long. He'd gotten that hard just from looking, assessing.

Fuck it.

"There you go," he breathes softly now, peering at you with dark and imploring eyes as he fucks your mouth and pussy, "That's a good girl, honey, I know," his brow furrows when you whine around his fingers, "I know, baby. You're doing so good."

He rocks you in his lap like you belong there, and it's impossible not to feel the way his clothed cock throbs against your ass. You want to see it so badly, want to touch it, taste it - but he doesn't give you the opportunity. Instead, he circles his thumb against your clit until you're shaking in his arms, hands gripping anything you can reach - the chair, your knee, his wrist. Your orgasm rolls through you and his fingers muffle the sound of your whines, your gasps, until your bones feel like jelly and your heart has slowed. He stills his movements again and lazily pulls all four fingers out of you, watches you breathe deeply and fall back against him with goosebumps rising on your skin.

"Get up now, baby. Bend over the desk for me," he tells you in that low voice, "Show me your pussy."

You pull yourself out of his lap on extremely shaky legs but obey his orders, inching forward a little to position yourself against his desk. You can feel his eyes on you as you reach back and pull yourself apart for him, show him where his fingers have invaded and explored, opened you up and made you drool.

"Juicy little thing," you hear him murmur, and then his belt buckle is jangling and you know what comes next. Legs still trembling, you keep holding yourself open and push yourself further down onto the desk, skirt pulled high and panties still hanging off one of your ankles.

He's filling you up in no time at all, cock plunged deep to the hilt and so much bigger than you'd anticipated. His tip kisses a spot inside of you that you're not sure anyone's ever been able to reach, and against your own volition you moan, low and long, full of pleasure and desperation.

You hear him tsk somewhere above you, "You really can't stay quiet can you?" He says it softly but it's full of condescension, like it's starting to genuinely bother him. Before you can apologize he's reaching down for something, still bottomed out completely inside of you as his arms and hands seem to do something out of sight. A few seconds later his blue polka dotted tie appears in front of your face, and then he's carefully settling the soft material between your lips, pulling back and tying it meticulously behind your head. A makeshift gag.

"Gotta learn to be quiet when I fuck you, okay?" he breathes, raspy and dark as he slowly pulls his cock from your pussy, only to feed it back to you again just as slow, "You don't want us to get in trouble, do you?"

No, sir, you want to whisper, but you can't. All you can do is nod slightly and grip the desk when he starts to fuck you in earnest, thrusting deep and hard before pulling out and doing it all over again. Your thighs quiver and shake against the cool wood, and as you lay there and let him take, you spot something out of the corner of your eye.

A framed picture of a family - his family.

You avert your eyes, turning your head slightly to see where his left hand is gripping your shoulder as he fucks you - you spot the wedding ring immediately. Christ.

But you don't stop it. You don't push him away, you don't leave. Even though you probably should. Even though the logical part of your brain is screaming at you that what's happening really shouldn't be, especially now that you know he's a married man.

You just let him use you. You let him fuck and fill you until he's gripping your hair in his fist and his cock is spasming and pulsing inside of you. You let him release his entire load inside your pussy, bare and messy. And then you let him pull you into his chair, tug the tie from your mouth and situate you back in his lap, still impaled on his cock.

Neither of you speak for a solid minute. He catches his breath while you try not to look at the photograph, to forget its existence entirely.

"The last one quit the first day," you hear him mumble, voice edged with tiredness, "But you won't, will you?" He thrusts shallowly inside of you, holds you against his chest as his cum starts to leak out and dribble down the hefty shape of his balls. "You'll let me do this, huh?"

What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

[laligraves]

decisions

dave york x fem!reader

[18+] | wc: ~1.4k summary: Dave tries to end things. dave york masterlist | AO3

warnings: mean!dave, infidelity (dave is cheating on his wife with reader), Equalizer 2 AU, NSFW, some proofreading, no use of y/n or too many details on reader's appearance (reader has hair dave can pull), degradation, oral, unprotected sex, creampie, cum eating

a/n: i wasn't originally going to write for dave york but he's actually my favorite pedro boy 💖 i think he would be so mean and passionate and romantic and and and-

“I’m not here for that,” Dave snaps in anger. “We’re done, I can’t keep doing this anymore.” 

You sit on the edge of the hotel bed, a pretty pout on your face at Dave’s words. Your fingers trace up your thigh and you slowly lift the bottom of your nightie.

Dave’s eyes flicker from your silky thighs to your tits that are dangerously close from spilling out of the thin fabric. His jaw clenches but he resumes his pacing and drags a hand through his hair. 

“I think–I think my wife knows. She can’t–she’ll take the kids–”

His wife, Carol. He never says her name, only ever says wife. You assume it’s to remind himself of the oath he made to her. Maybe it’s shame and guilt, a way to keep himself grounded. Even if he doesn’t wear his ring when he comes to see you. 

With a small smirk on your lips, you stand from the bed and make your way to Dave. He tilts his head back to look up at the ceiling just as you stand on your tippy toes and place your hands behind his neck. 

“Don’t,” he whispers. 

He closes his eyes and you see his throat move with a harsh swallow. 

You run the tip of your nose along his jawline and breathe in his cologne. It’s the same one you bought him on your joint trip to Paris a few months ago. 

“If that’s what you want,” you whisper, hovering your lips right over his, “then we’ll stop.” 

You take a step back and turn to walk towards your dress and heels that sit on the chair by the bed. Before you can even take two steps, Dave’s hand slides through your hair. 

He presses his front to your back and pulls your hair, forcing you to look at him. Dave’s other hand reaches up to your neck to tilt your head backward. 

His lips land on yours in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue with a taste of possessiveness. Dave squeezes your neck in warning, you assume because of the smile plastered on your face as you kiss him back. 

You know he won’t ever end this. He’s in too deep, too infatuated and crazed by you to actually leave. 

You grind back on his bulge and elicit a moan from him. Just as quickly as the kiss started, it ends with Dave pushing you face first into the mattress. 

“You have no fucking respect for what’s sacred,” he hisses. 

Dave yanks your hips back and flips up your nightgown. He lands a harsh slap to your naked asscheek, switching from one to the other, uncaring of your yelps of discomfort.

You gasp for air, whimpering at the swipe of his fingers through your folds. 

“I was a good husband before I met you,” Dave says in anger. 

“Then go back to your wife,” you snap. 

Dave removes his fingers and spanks you again, landing one right between your legs. 

“Fucking brat.”

He stays fully clothed, only taking a few seconds to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. You feel him notch the tip of his cock at your entrance and in one smooth thrust, he’s fully inside of you. 

“Oh fuck,” you moan, twisting the comforter in your hands. 

"Nothing to say?" he laughs, relishing in the way you twist and turn on the bed.

His fingers sink into your hips and he begins to fuck you in hard, punishing thrusts. The sarcastic remarks you had ready, waiting on the tip of your tongue, are now gone–fucked out of your head by Dave. 

His cock stretches your sensitive walls, bumps that sweet spot inside of you, but it’s all a little too much. He’s large, not just in length but a man so much stronger than you, that can manhandle and move you in any way he wants. 

The anticipation of seeing Dave, having him snap at you in anger–of course it made your pussy slick with need. But you’re so used to him being needy, licking your pussy until you cry or making you dry hump him while he kisses your lips swollen. 

There are random moments like these, where he’ll focus on his own pleasure. Missions go wrong, he loses funding for his projects, and he’s left with a sense of failure and rage. 

Carol is too soft for his tastes. A perfect, catholic wife who doesn’t see the need for sex outside of procreation. 

Then came you, temptation and sin all wrapped up in red silk and stilettos. 

You were the first to lead his hands around your neck and moan “tighter, please.” He wore his wedding ring that first night, imprinting the warm metal on your skin, and yet you still left purple bruises and bite marks on his chest, hoping his wife would find them. 

“Hurts, baby?” Dave coos, sliding a hand down your arched back. 

A stuttered “y–yes” falls from your lips, cheek pressed to the mattress and mouth open in a perfect o. 

With each of his thrusts, his heavy balls slap over your wet folds. You pussy swallows his length, tightens and flutters, fights through the discomfort of his size. His groans echo throughout the hotel room and his hands only grip you tighter to him. 

“Good,” Dave mutters, “you deserve it.” 

“Yes, yes,” you moan, shuddering as he spanks you again. 

“Such a fucking slut, yeah? Sleeping with married men,” Dave groans, pistoning his hips faster, “ruining good–shit–good marriages.” 

His hand reaches to swipe at your swollen clit in harsh circles and you push back, turning your head to scream into a pillow. 

“You think that because–” he groans, shuddering as you tighten around him, “you have such a perfect, little cunt, you can ruin my life?” 

You’re hanging on by a thread. His tip kisses your cervix, reaching the end of you while you bounce your ass back onto his hips. Your pussy ripples over his cock, finally reaching that point where it’s unimaginably slick and sticky. 

You want to respond. Remind him that yes, your pussy is a perfect little hole for him to fuck and destroy. Instead, you whimper and grip the comforter while a full body shudder courses through you and your belly tightens. 

“Dirty fucking whore,” Dave hisses, “you fuck other married men like this?” 

You’re so close, with heat flooding your belly and your brain becoming numb. Dave removes his fingers from your clit, and spanks you again in three successive slaps. 

“Answer me when I–fuck–ask you a question.” 

“No, no, no,” you chant, reaching for his hand and placing it right back. “J–just you, Dave. Only you.” 

“That’s right,” he murmurs, swirling your clit with your juices, “this pussy is just for me.” 

His movements become sloppy, pounding you harder than before. Dave’s cock fills every centimeter of your cunt and suddenly you're cumming, shuddering on the bed and screaming into the pillow from the force of your orgasm. 

His groan echoes through the room and he presses his hips onto yours, pumping you so full of his length that your whole body jostles with each thrust. 

“I’m gonna cum in this slut pussy,” he mutters, giving you barely any warning before the flood of warm liquid inside of you. “Remind this cunt,” he moans, too far gone to understand what he’s saying, “who owns her.” 

You’re sure at this point you’ll be sore tomorrow, from your pussy and the vice grip he has on your hips. 

Dave throbs, slams his cock into you until you’ve milked him dry. He collapses on the bed next to you, sweaty and still fully clothed with only his wet cock now resting on his belly. 

His hands reach for your head and pushes. You immediately understand what he wants and with trembling limbs, you move down to his stomach and swallow as much of his cock as you can. 

It’s covered in your combined mess, sticky and salty and only for you. His fingers thread through your hair while you suck and lick away the evidence. Your eyes flutter closed and you let him gently fuck your mouth with his now softened cock. 

“Pretty whore,” he grunts, trembling from exhaustion, “look at how well she cleans up my big cock.” 

He eventually strips out of his clothes and drapes your body over his. The both of you lay there, letting the hotel AC cool your sweaty skin while he drags his fingers down your spine. 

“What am I going to do about you?” he asks, watching as you slip into a deep sleep.

[punkshort]

The Stranger

Pairing: Dave York x f!reader

Summary: An unexpected visitor barges into your new apartment, turning your whole life upside down, then disappears just as quickly. Or does he?

Warnings: infidelity is mentioned (reader gets cheated on by OC), language, threats of violence, heavy making out and some sexy situations but no smut

WC: 3K

A/N: When I wrote this, I had still yet to see The Equalizer 2 but I wanted to write an assassin fic and Dave was just right there. So, for the sake of this story, Dave doesn't have a family and he has a cover job. K bye.

Written for @undercoverpena April Showers Challenge

Collection Masterlist

Sunday Night

The apartment was small and a little dirty, but it would do. It would have to. The choices were limited on such short notice, and beggars can't be choosers.

The last thing you thought you would be doing the night before you started your new job was unpacking what little belongings you had in the middle of a goddamn thunderstorm. In an ideal world, you would have waited to move in when the weather was expected to clear, but when you walked in on your boyfriend of four years naked in your bed with his ex-girlfriend only a week ago, you would have moved in the middle of a blizzard if you had to.

That was how you found yourself late Sunday night drenched in a mix of your own sweat and rain, unpacking the last of your clothes from wet cardboard boxes. Making your bedroom the priority was a must. The last thing you needed on top of everything else was wrinkled clothes and a bad night's sleep for your first day of work.

If only you knew what your night had in store.

You were just starting to unpack the boxes for your bathroom, cursing under your breath when you noticed the towels at the very top and bottom of said box were soaked in rain water, when you heard a pounding on your door so loud, you almost screamed.

Nobody even had your address yet. Too embarrassed to tell your friends what your boyfriend - ex-boyfriend - did, the only people who knew you were moving were your parents, and they certainly wouldn't be blessing you with a surprise visit on this side of town after dark.

Tip-toeing out of your bedroom, your hair a half-dry and tangled mess, you slowly crept towards your door. Just as you were about to peek through the peephole, you heard the deadbolt unlock and the door swung open, only to be stopped by a laughably weak, eight link chain.

"Alvarez, it's me, open up," a gruff voice said through the crack in the door. He sounded panicked, but at least it wasn't a home invasion. This man just didn't realize Mr. Alvarez was no longer here and he must have had a key.

Combing your hair back from your face, you tentatively stepped into the beam of light that stretched into your living room from the hallway. When you locked eyes with your stranger, all dark and mysterious, your throat constricted. You could only see part of his face, just one eye and half of his soft looking mouth, but your heart still fluttered a bit in your chest.

"Who are you?" he frowned, eyeing you up and down, and suddenly you felt incredibly self-conscious standing in your own apartment only wearing your white tank top and sleep shorts.

"Excuse me? I live here. Who are you?" you countered, crossing your arms defensively. The man scoffed and tried to get a better glimpse of your apartment, as if he were expecting another person to emerge.

"Where's Alvarez?"

At that point, you felt a little bad. If this man knew Mr. Alvarez well enough to have a key, what you were about to tell him would be devastating, so you sighed and motioned for him to step back.

"Let me undo the chain," you explained, and he paused for a moment, his eyes lingering on your chest before taking a step back and allowing you to close the door and slide the chain off. When you reopened it, you finally saw all of your mystery man. He was decked out in black: black ski cap, black leather gloves, black jeans and jacket, and he dripped rainwater from each article of clothing, creating a small puddle in the thin carpet right outside your door.

"I'm so sorry, but Mr. Alvarez passed away a few weeks ago," you said sympathetically, and while, in your experience, men tended to be less emotional, you didn't expect his response.

"Well that's just fucking great," he muttered, and for the first time you realized he was out of breath. Red flags began to pop up everywhere: the dark clothes, the indifferent response to a friend's death, the fucking hand hidden behind his back. How didn't you notice that before?

You went to quickly shut your door but his hand shot out and stopped you.

"I'm sorry, but I'm gonna need to come in," he said, and your eyes went wide. Your parents warned you this side of town was bad, but the very first night?

"No!" you protested, putting all your weight into pushing on your door, but he wedged himself so you couldn't close it.

"I left something in here and I need it," he explained through gritted teeth.

"Nothing was here when I moved in," you said, still pushing on the door, "I have my phone and I'm calling the police!"

It was a lie. You didn't have your phone. It was still charging on your bed, but you had hoped that would make the man leave. Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect.

The door shoved open and you flew backwards, falling onto your back with a yelp, a sharp pain shooting up your spine.

The man entered your apartment and quickly shut the door behind him before glancing around.

"Are we alone?"

You scowled at him, about to lie, but you realized there was no point so you didn't say anything. He sighed and reached out an arm.

"I'm sorry," he said, and for the first time in your brief interaction, you heard some emotion in his voice. You stared hesitantly at his still wet, gloved hand before grabbing it and allowing him to pull you back up as you rubbed the back of your head with a wince. "You okay?" he asked, his brows furrowed and when you realized both his hands were visible, you relaxed a fraction.

"I think so. What the hell? Who are you?"

"I'm-"

He was about to explain when you both heard heavy footsteps running towards your door. In the blink of an eye, he reached forward and slid the chain back into the lock and deadbolted the door. There wasn't a second to spare because two fists began pounding heavily on the door from the other side.

You gasped softly and stepped backwards, eyes wide and filled with fear. That was when your mystery man pulled out the handgun from the back of his pants, silencer already attached, and your mind went blank.

This was how you were going to die.

"Open up!" a man's voice shouted from the other side as he began to kick at the door, making you jump. The intruder turned to you just as a rumble of thunder shook your building.

"You gotta make them leave."

"Me?" you whispered in a panic, "how do you expect me to do that?"

"They want me, and if they know I'm here, they'll kill me. Do you understand?" he asked, matching the volume of your voice while grabbing your shoulders.

Your lower lip began to tremble and he noticed.

"You can do this," he assured you, walking you backwards towards your bedroom as the shouting and pounding got louder. And as you stared into his deep brown eyes, you started to believe him. "I'm gonna hide and then you gotta tell them I'm not here. Can you do that?"

"If they just want you, why don't I just let them have you?" you asked as he continued to walk you backwards.

"Because they'll kill you, too," he said, his gaze never wavering. "These guys don't leave loose ends."

Fear shot through your body like the bolt of lightning outside your window.

Once he got to your bedroom, he released his grip on your shoulders and headed for your closet. He opened the accordion doors and pushed your clothes aside before sliding in against the wall.

"Just convince them I'm not here. You just moved in, you have no idea what they're talking about, okay?" he said, holding your gaze until you slowly nodded. Then he snapped the doors shut and shuffled your clothes around, leaving you all alone.

As you walked back towards your front door, you snagged a towel from the open box of bathroom stuff and wrapped it around your hair. You could do this. You had to.

You took a deep breath, your hand curling around the brass doorknob, and yanked it open, the chain still holding the door in place so you only saw a glimpse of the men in the hall, but you could see at least four.

"Can I help you?" you asked, trying your best to sound annoyed and not scared for your life. "You interrupted my shower," you added, pointing to your wrapped hair.

"Where is he?" the first man asked. His head was bald but you could see some stubble coming through, indicating he must shave his head.

"Who?" you asked innocently, and the man sneered.

"You know who."

"Actually, no I don't," you said, crossing your arms. "This is my apartment and I was enjoying a quiet night in before you arrived."

"Oh, yeah? You wear a men's shoe, size eleven?" the beefy looking guy asked, quirking an eyebrow as he stared down at the floor. Your eyes slowly drifted down and noticed a wet and dirty outline of your stranger's boot pressed firmly into the ancient beige carpet.

"No," you said, meeting his eye again. "But my boyfriend does. And he's out getting us dinner. We just moved in tonight," you told him confidently, squaring your shoulders and fucking praying the chain would hold if push came to shove.

You saw the men behind him exchange glances and shift their weight as they mulled over what you said. It was working. All you could hear was your own heart pounding loudly in your chest, the rain beating heavily against the glass windows of your living room, and in the distance, another soft rumble of thunder.

The bald man shot one more cursory glance into your apartment before meeting your eye.

"Must have the wrong unit."

You smirked.

"Honest mistake," you said, bravely holding his gaze as the group of them slowly ambled back towards the stairs. Once they were out of sight, you shut the door and twisted the lock, letting out a shaky breath. Your arms and legs were weak, head fuzzy from the adrenaline when you remembered a stranger was stuffed inside your closet.

Stumbling back towards your bedroom, you swung open the closet door, breath shallow and fast just to find him leaning up against the wall, a floorboard in your closet removed, revealing a now empty cash box, and holding up a piece of lingerie.

"For your boyfriend?" he questioned, and your fear quickly transformed into anger when you snatched it from his hand and tossed it on the floor next to his feet.

"Get the hell out of here," you told him, voice trembling.

He gave you a cocky smirk and pushed himself off the wall.

Gazing down at you, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes, he lowly asked "got a towel I could use?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced your feet to move towards the open box in the middle of your room, snatching up a clean towel and tossing it to him before pulling your own towel from your head and dropping it by your feet.

You watched for a moment as he plucked the ski cap off his head, revealing a thicket of dark brown, wet hair and used the towel to help flick away the moisture. Then your eyes landed on his gun, now tucked into the front of his jeans.

His gaze followed yours and smirked, thinking you were looking at something else.

"See something you like?" he asked, making you blush.

You swallowed roughly and took a step back. "Are you going to kill me, now?"

His gaze softened and he dropped his towel next to yours.

"No."

You eyed him wearily, still not believing him until he took the gun from his pants and tossed it on your bed, a good five feet away, leaving you both defenseless.

"Better?" he asked, and you raked your eyes up and down his body.

"How do I know you don't have any other weapons on you?"

He grinned and took another step forward, his eyes darkening. "You wanna frisk me?"

Your cheeks flushed with heat and you looked away, but he pinched your chin, the leather soft against your skin, and tilted your head back in his direction.

"Tell me something," he murmured, his eyes boring into yours, "you really got a boyfriend coming back here?"

He could see your face fall and he instantly felt regret.

"No," you said softly, your eyes now pinned to the floor with shame, "we broke up. It's why I just moved in here."

He frowned as he studied your face. "Why did you break up?" he asked, his fingers still gripping your chin.

"Caught him cheating on me," you told him. Why could you tell this perfect stranger your deepest shame but you couldn't tell your best friends?

He tsked and inched a little closer. "He's a fucking idiot."

Your eyes snapped up to his in surprise, only to find desire and need reflected right back.

Before either of you could overthink it, your mouths crashed together, your arms wrapping around the back of his neck and his hands pulling at your waist, dragging you against him as you devoured one another. Your fingers raked through his still damp hair, his skin smelling like the rain and sweat and gunpowder, the combination intoxicating. His tongue slipped past your lips with a groan, his exhale coming in quick, hot puffs against your cheek as he walked you back toward your bedroom wall. Once your body made contact with the chipped paint, he reached down and snagged the backs of your thighs, wrapping your legs around him while his tongue swirled aggressively around yours.

When he ground his hips into you, his hardening length rubbing against the ache between your legs, you gasped and tipped your head back.

"I don't even know your name," you whispered as his lips traveled down your neck, nipping and biting playfully as he went, the rain sounding like little musical notes against your singular bedroom window. He just moaned against your skin, his teeth dragging lightly over your collarbone while you rolled your hips against him, desperately some seeking relief for the fire he started between your legs.

He yanked you from the wall, a small squeak of surprise slipping past your lips, fingers digging into his broad shoulders as he carried you to your bed and dropped you down next to his gun. His assault on your neck never stopped. You arched your back, wishing he would take off those damn gloves so you could feel him when his phone suddenly trilled in his pocket. His lips stalled and you held your breath, each of you frozen in the moment wondering how you managed to find yourselves in such a compromising position so quickly.

"Shit," he whispered, reaching into his pants pocket, and you knew right then and there it was over.

He glanced at the screen and gave you an apologetic look.

"I'm sorry," he said, pushing himself away from you and snatching up his gun and hat. "I gotta go."

You sat up on your bed and pressed your legs together, hoping your face didn't look as red as it felt.

Before he left, he glanced back at you, his eyes falling to your mouth, watching as your teeth sunk anxiously into your lower lip, chin bright red from the burn of his five o'clock shadow.

"Thank you," he said, his gloved fingers clenching and unclenching at his side. And before you could respond, he disappeared with just a soft click of your door, making you wonder by morning if you had dreamed him up.

Monday

As expected, you hardly slept. Sleeping in a new place all on its own had its challenges, but after almost dying a handful of times within an hour, a good nights sleep was pretty much out of the question.

You don't know why you did it, but as you were getting ready for work, after a lukewarm shower, you foolishly grabbed the piece of lingerie your stranger discovered in your closet and put it on under your clothes. Maybe you wanted a reminder of him, or maybe you just wanted to feel more confident.

Arriving ten minutes early, the rain drying on the sidewalk but the smell still thick and heavy in the air, you strode up to the front doors of the financial consulting firm, hoping that the amount of coffee you poured down your throat that morning would be enough to keep you at your best.

The perky blonde from HR was showing you around the impressive building as she led you back to the department you would be working with. You were longingly eyeing the fresh fruit in the break room when you turned around and nearly ran smack dab into her back, stumbling a bit in the process.

An apology died on your lips when you found yourself looking past her, gaze falling onto an all too familiar looking man inside an office less than ten feet away, his phone cradled between his shoulder and ear as he typed into his computer, a concentrated look painting his impossibly handsome face. His dark, soft hair was neatly combed, his plush lips twitching into the receiver as his muscular shoulders stretched the fabric of his light blue button down, and when he reached for a file, his eye suddenly catching yours.

Neither of you looked away while he continued to give one word answers over the phone and you barely recognized that the HR girl was showing you your new desk. A desk right outside his office. All you could think about was what his hair felt like between your fingers, what his mouth felt like when he left those marks on your neck you had to cover that morning with makeup.

How he left you, needy and aching for more.

Then your eyes flicked to the shiny name plaque next to his door frame: Dave York.

pt. 2

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[wardenparker]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

______

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My Masterlist!

[jeewrites]

🌈 Sunshine & Rainbows 🌈

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grunts in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No good?” Bri asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You asked him if Mac was now a loose end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His name is Dave. Dave motherfucking York.

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

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

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

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

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

Dave York is remembering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit, shit, shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This bring back any memories, Yorkie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boy, do you have news for your supervisor. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stares at you, stiff as a corpse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmh hmm.”

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

You frown at this. Did he not understand?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[javier-pena]

back in july, i started a little monthly fic rec project and then immediately life got in the way of me reading fics and i had to skip august and september. so this list isn't just fics i read in october but also fics i read during the other two months.

that being said, i sure read some absolutely life-changing stories these past few months and i'm so so excited for more people to discover these fics! please check the warnings on the stories before reading them and please please let the authors know that you loved their work!!

i’m also always looking for fic recommendations, so feel free to send me your favorites!

billy butcher (the boys)

fucking diabolical by @macfrog

you move in across the street. butcher notices.

logan howlett/wolverine (x2)

all's fair in love and viscera... by @sceletaflores

logan wants to spar...

oberyn martell + dave york (game of thrones/the equalizer 2)

gold rush by @guiltyasdave

“you like him, princess?” oberyn asks, a grin obvious in his tone. you nod silently, your eyes still trained on the man behind the boat’s steering wheel. “so do I.” 

joel miller (the last of us)

a helping hand by @toomanystoriessolittletime

Living in your best friends house while yours is getting renovated leaves you getting to know her husband Joel better. After finding out your husband is cheating on you, and learning Joel is about to serve his wife with the divorce papers, a drunk midnight phone sex call from your husband leaves you and Joel to finally give in to your growing feelings for each other.

a minute from home by @agentmarcuspike

a mysterious man with a motorcycle saves you from a terrible date.

bad habit by @strang3lov3

After Joel catches you smoking, he gives you something else to put between your lips.

brat! by @shellshocklove

joel is having a brat summer.

decode by @tonysopranosrobe

joel really loves doing favours for you. like hiring you as a babysitter and teaching you how to suck dick.

do your worst, little dove by @mountainsandmayhem

joel lets you take charge for once.

heavenly bound by @ozarkthedog

the world crumbled before you could experience the touch of another. Joel does his best to keep you innocent for as long as he can.

inhale, exhale by @sp00kymulderr

this world is not made for intimacy and both of you know it.

my kink is karma by @alltheirdamn

your boyfriend breaks up with you, so you decide to get revenge ...

shhh...just a little bit more, part three by @mountainsandmayhem

joel miller caught you working where you shouldn’t be after you promised to quit. now he’s taking matters into his own hands.

frankie morales (triple frontier)

sit back, baby by @almostfoxglove

you’ve got a crush on your neighbor across the hall and finally get the chance to show him you care.

take you to the hilltop, and tell you you're pretty by @jolapeno

you book a guided hike tour for one when on your trip, not at all expecting your guide to be so damn hot.

frankie morales + santiago garcia + benny miller (triple frontier)

in the woods by @tonysopranosrobe

a camping trip with your boyfriend frankie and his friends takes a turn when you stumble upon a mysterious substance in the woods.

javier peña (narcos)

like a fever by @pedgito

there’s sweaty javi p and office sex, that’s all you need to know.

the man who has returned home by @jolapeno

this week’s sex diary - the man who has returned home

unscripted desire by @gothcsz

you’re a camerawoman that shoots pornos. javier peña is the pornstar you can’t stand. why is it that you’re always so affected by him?

dave york (the equalizer 2)

a long time coming by @guiltyasdave

you were supposed to go to a concert with your best friend. you end up going with her dad instead.

my own fic from october :)

three's a crowd (frankie morales + joel miller)

you’re in love with frankie and he is in love with you, but you both have no idea how to act on it. until joel miller comes along.

[missladym1981]

Ok let’s try this again shall we? Marcus Pike kept getting cut out of my damn photo but I finally got him to stay . Again, sorry. Here once again is the damn ledger.

Top row from left to right

1. King Lear- Edmund

2. Lobby Hero- Jeff

3. Much Ado About Nothing- Don John

4. Maple and Vine - Roger

5. Sand- Ahmed

6. Hamlet- Horatio

7. Trolius and Cressida- Thersites

8. Lorenzaccio-Piero Strozzi

9. Orphans - Phillip

10. Graceland - Juan Badillo

11. Nikita- Liam

12. Red Window- Jay Castillo

13. The Sixth Gun- Special Agent Ortega

14. CSI - Kyle Hartley

15. Old Comedy from Aristophanes Frogs- Diony

16. Body of Proof - Zach Goffman

Second row Left to Right

17. The Mentalist - Marcus Pike

18. Burn Notice : the fall of Sam Ace- Comendante Veracruz

19. Wonder Woman - Ed Indelicato

20. Law and Order SVU- Special Agent Greer

21. Charlie’s Angels- Fredrick Mercer

22. Brothers and Sisters - Zach Wellison

23. Lights Out- Assyrian

24. The Good Wife - Nathan Landry

25. Law and Order- Tito Cabassa

26. Without a Trace- Kyle Wilson

27. Law and Order CI- Reggie Luckman

28. NYPD Blue- Shane “ Dio “ Morrisey

29. Touched by an Angel - Ricky Hauck

30. undressed- Greg

31. Buffy the Vampire Slayer - Eddie

‘Third row Left to Right

32. TWMT- Javi Gutierrez

33. If Beal Street Could Talk- Pietro Alvarez

34. The Great Wall - Pedro Tovar

35. We Can Be Heros - Marcus Moreno

36. WW84- Maxwell Lord

37. Bloodsucking Bastards- Max Phillips

38. Kingsman : The Golden Circle- Agent Whiskey

39. The Equalizer- Dave York

40. Prospect- Ezra

41. Triple Frontier- Frankie Morales

‘Row 4 left to right

42. The Bubble- Dieter Bravo

43. House Comes With A Bird - Nico

44. Strange Way of Life- Silva

45. Freaky Tales- Clint

46. Drive-Away Dolls- Santos

47. The Uninvited- Lucien Flores

48. The Mandalorian - Din Djarin

49.Game of Thrones- Oberyn Mother Fuckin Martell

Final row of epicnessssssss left to right

50. The Materialist- TBA

51. Narcos- Javier Peña

52. The Last of Us- Joel Miller

53. Gladiator lol- General Marcus Acacius

54. Merge Mansion- Tim Rockford

55. SNL- Mr. Ben

56. Fantastic Four- Reed Richards

57. The Wild Robot- Fink

58. Housebroken- Claude

Sorry again for the fuck up. Sometimes shit happens but they are fixed now. Thank you have a good night

[guiltyasdave]

it’s 2 am and i’m trying to sleep, but i’m thinking about my man dave (david 🫠) york.

i feel like the equalizer 2 script only gave us a pretty vague understanding of his personality, because they didn’t see the need to give us more, since he’s supposed to be the villain and (spoiler) dies at the end.

however, some people (me) want to know more about him and understand him better, and i think the main reason for that is the way that pedro portrayed him. pedro gave him just enough softness that you want to empathize with him, and they did his character dirty by not exploring that more. in my professional opinion as ceo of the dave york agenda and all that.

that man has probably been through hell and back, thought that one of his closest friends had died, was most likely suffering from survivor’s guilt and was trying to provide for his family. i’m not saying that he didn’t the right thing by deciding to start murdering people for money, but i’m also not saying that i don’t get it on some level. a more nuanced look at that could have made for a much more complex and, quite frankly, better “villain” than the one that the movie gave us.

anyways, live laugh love dave york and give me more fics that focus on his emotional turmoil, i need them.

[wildemaven]

you, me & john mcclane | dave york

→ pairing: dave york x f!reader

→ word count: 4342

→ content warning: 18+ blog; friends/idiots to lovers, mentions of food and alcohol consumption, blind dates, mentions of bad dating history, miscommunication, soft dave, carol and dave are divorced but rockstar co-parents, fluff, pining, reader is wearing a dress, no descriptive features of reader, die hard is a Christmas movie, equalizer 2 au, I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything

→ notes: im really hoping this reads well because i struggled getting it finished. words became rough to work with. part of the holi-dave universe, but can be read as a holiday one shot too. big thank you to @gnpwdrnwhiskey for listening to me ramble about these two!!! somewhat beta'd, but not entirely.

→ masterlist / holi-dave masterlist

5 minutes late. Not that you’re keeping track. Although, it’s hard not to when the hostess keeps checking in to see if your date has arrived because they can’t hold your table all night, as you wait in the front lobby of the restaurant. Actively trying your best to convince her your date should be arriving any minute— nearing 10 minutes late now. 

You want to be annoyed. You want to call it a night, order your meal to-go, make the trek back home so you can slip back into something less revealing with more layers to fight off the almost freezing temperatures that you hadn’t accounted for when you got dressed earlier. Then once you’ve cocooned yourself in a blanket on the couch, you’ll call your friend and laugh at what a horrible matchmaker she is. 

Blind dates have never been your thing. Sure, you have heard plenty of success stories from friends and family about meeting their partners on a blind date, falling in love and getting that happily ever after kind of romance that you’ve always wanted. But that's never been the case for you. You weren’t convinced blind dating would ever produce any sort of cosmic connection like you’ve always heard about. You could barely get a second date from the ones you’ve been on. 

You decide to stay, give this whole thing a chance and see what happens— that is if he ever shows up. 

The frigid air billows in at the opening of the restaurant door. The cold biting at the exposed skin your dress isn’t covering, as you curl into yourself,  turning away to shield your body from the air that’s spilling through the entranceway. 

You scan the restaurant for what seems like the hundredth time now. All the couples and families seated comfortably as they enjoyed their warm meals. Probably discussing their upcoming holiday plans and their excitement for the new year ahead. 

Glancing down at your phone, it’s approaching 15 minutes late now. Sadness begins to settle in the pit of your stomach. Clearly this date isn’t happening tonight and it’s time to call it like it is, you got stood up— also not a first for you. You tuck your phone back into your purse and make your way over to let the hostess know that she can give your table away. 

“Oh my gosh! Dave?” Recognizing a familiar face standing next to the ‘wait to be seat sign’.  

“Hey— Hey! How are you?” He says with a smile, instantly moving in to give you a warm friendly hug. His cologne, all masculine and refreshing, wafts about as you lean into him— you envy whoever gets to revel in it tonight.  

“I’m good, thanks.” You tell him, as you step out of the way of the couple who just walked in to check in for their reservation. “What are you doing all the way over on this side of town? You picking up dinner for you and the girls? They would love their chicken tenders, super crispy. Molly would love the garlic aoli, it’s really good.”

“Uh, yeah— I mean no, sorry. The girls are with Carol tonight. Things ran late at the office and I’m supposed to be meeting someone for dinner.” He doesn’t mean to be rude, his attention focused on glancing at the seated guests. 

“Oh! Same. Except I’m not the one running late, my date is.” You glance back over your shoulder to the restaurant door, still no sign of your date. 

“Oh yeah? Maybe he’ll have a good excuse when he shows up.” Dave says, giving the restaurant one last look before setting back against the wall to give you his full attention. 

“I hope so, I’m starting to get hungry. Do you know what they look like? Maybe they’re somewhere else in the restaurant? I think there’s a back room through those doors.” You point towards the back of the restaurant. You’re in no rush to leave and start your sulking, so you might as well help a friend out. 

“No. It’s a blind date. Literally don’t know a single thing about them. Was just told to be here at 5pm.” The opening of the front door grabs his attention, another well dressed couple enters. He breathes out a sigh, head falling back against the wall, wishing he was anywhere else but here waiting to have dinner and forced conversation with a stranger. 

“Then how are you going to know if they’re here or not?” You laugh, situating yourself next to Dave on the wall. 

“The dress. That was the only thing I told to look out for— that she would be wearing a brown dress.” He says casually as he checks the watch on his left hand. 

A brown dress should be easy enough to spot. Taking a look around to see if you might have better luck spotting his brown-dress-wearing date. It’s nothing but bold reds, soft whites and classic black scattered through the room of guests— no brown dress in sight.

When the hostess glances over to you with her annoyed look, you decide to call it a night. Straightening up off the wall, you prepare to bid Dave a goodbye and make your way home to see what can be done to save the rest of your evening. You adjust your purse strap on your shoulder and start pulling at where the silky fabric of your dress had ridden up. Smoothing over the wrinkles to make sure it’s laying right. You freeze the second your brain registers exactly you’re wearing tonight. 

You look up to where Dave is still standing, focused on the ground, hands folded together in front of him. Suddenly becoming keenly aware of every detail about him. Ones that you hadn’t bothered to notice or pay attention to when you said hello only minutes ago. 

“Dave… you’re wearing a gray t-shirt and leather jacket.” Your voice barely above a whisper as you try to convey the realization that you’re starting to come to. 

“Yeah. Carol told me to wear it. Said it made me look less CIA or whatever.” He pulls open the  jacket front, revealing more of his shirt underneath, very much gray and definitely less CIA. He lets the jacket fall back into place, checking his watch for the second time. 

“Dave…” Attempting to get his attention again. Your eyes widen once all the dots have been fully connected. 

“Yeah?” Dave looks up from his watch, taking in your shocked expression.  

“Dave, I’m wearing the brown dress Carol picked out for me— I’m your date, Dave.” His eyes trail down your body— brown silk dress. The same brown silk dress that Carol said his date would be wearing when he arrived at the restaurant tonight. 

“Carol set us up?” You both say in unison. 

Staring at each other, you’re both completely dumbfounded at the thought of being set up. 

*

You met Carol by chance one morning 3 years ago at a local coffee shop you stop in everyday before work. It was unusually busy in the small coffee shop, which led to your orders being mixed up.

A 10 minute chat while you both waited for the kind baristas to remake your drinks quickly turned into a budding friendship between you. Purposefully arriving for coffee in the mornings so you could catch up on the latest news and tv shows you both loved before jetting off to work. 

Before you knew it you were meeting up for dinner  and drinks regularly, booking girls trips and attending concerts during the summer, but your favorite was joining Carol and her girls for movies and pampering.  

When you met Carol, she had already been divorced for almost 3 years. You admired how well she was juggling life and work as a single mom. She attributed it to having a great co-parenting relationship with her ex-husband. 

It was months later when Dave and you had officially met at a summer barbecue Carol and him were throwing for the girls and their friends. Inviting all the families to come enjoy the warm weather and grilled food. Carol had invited, forced, you come and hang out for a few hours. She insisted Molly and Alice had begged for you to be there, learning early on it was hard to tell either of them no. 

Carol had warned you Dave was quiet. Reserved felt like a better description. Because with you, he was anything but quiet. 

After helping Carol set out food and drinks, both of you retreated to a quiet spot on the porch as the chaos of tiny screaming girls took over the backyard. A comfortable silence between you once hello’s and brief pleasantries were shared.

Dave liked that about you, not forcing a conversation with someone just because you were in close proximity. He found that annoying with Carol’s other friends, always wanting to talk to him and never picking up on his lack of interest. He found you both had a similar aversion to groups of people you didn’t know. Watching the barbecue activities unfold from a distance and only making yourselves known when needed. 

Silence was soon exchanged for friendly banter and bouts of laughter. The space between you had become nonexistent as you both shared bits of your lives. Walls began to fall. A sudden eagerness to know more about the worlds you both existed in. A full fledged friendship formed in a matter of hours. 

From that day on, you were invited to all gatherings whether it took place at Carol’s or Dave’s homes. It became a song and dance of sorts. Always seeking each other out once things were in order. Finding a quiet place on the sidelines to avoid unwanted attention and small talk with literally everyone else. 

Unbeknownst to Dave and you, Carol had been keeping tabs on you both over the years. She wasn’t blind to the bond that had quickly developed between you two. The small touches to Dave’s arm when you were deep in conversation. When you would lose yourself in laughter and lean into him when he said something funny. The way Dave’s hand settled against your lower back when he introduced you to someone you hadn’t met before. Carol’s favorite was how, aside from her and the girls, you were able to make him genuinely smile like no one had done in a long time. 

It was after a recent failed date you had gone on, mentioning how hard it was to find someone decent enough to be in a relationship with, that Carol decided to take matters into her own hands. Conjuring up a plan to set you, her closest friend, and Dave, her ex-husband. A little nudge both of you seemed to need. 

*

“Look, Dave. I completely understand if you’re not into it and want to leave. No hard feelings at all. But we’re already here and have a table waiting for us to enjoy ourselves— which I’m sure the hostess would love for us to either sit at sooner than later. So, maybe we just do that. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?” You find it hard to read his blank expression, hoping it’s just pure shock and not that he is repulsed by the fact that he was set up with you. 

Are you even his type? Could he see something beyond just a friendship with you? Not things you had ever really worried about until just now. The thought of being rejected by not just someone, but by Dave had you distracted with embarrassment and worry. 

A smile begins to form on his face, the tension he’d been wearing when he first arrived no longer evident now that he won’t be having dinner with just anyone, but with you— something the two of you have never done alone before tonight. 

“I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be, now. Let’s go enjoy ourselves.” Sensing your internal panic he attempts to calm your nerves, reassuring you that he fully wants to be here. He takes a step closer to you, his hands curled around your shoulders, thumbs gently sweeping in over your bare skin in a back and forth motion. Worry melting from your face instantly. 

“Okay.” Your head tilts to the side as you smile sweetly at him, taking in the softness in his eyes. There’s a part of you that’s sure nothing will come of this evening, just two friends merely entertaining the fact that they were set up. But you’d be lying if you said there wasn't a small part of you that bears hope for the possibility of something flourishing from this evening. Whichever outcome, you’re relieved it is Dave. 

It’s not long until you’re seated at a small table for two, draped in white soft linens. The overhead lights set to a low muted level, allowing the tabletop candles to elevate the restaurant's evening ambiance. A musician sits at a small piano in the corner, playing a rendition of some holiday song, its nostalgic tune mingling with the hushed voices conversing about. 

Drinks and warm appetizers placed among the candles, festive florals and white porcelain tableware. Your meals were discussed and deliberated then placed with the waiter, leaving you both alone in a hushed nervous state. Neither of you quite sure what to say, unsure whether or not you address the elephant in the room— Carol’s secretive matchmaking tactics. 

“How are the girls?” You decide to stick to the safety of topics you both know. Hoping the ease of familiarity will lead to a more relaxed dialogue as the night passes. 

“Good. They’re good.” He says, in a very to the point Dave response. The waiter breaks the stagnant bubble surrounding you to refill his water, Dave giving a nod of gratitude before directing his attention back to you. 

“That’s good.” You quietly release a shaky breath.  

“How’s work?” Dave asks after taking a sip from his glass of aged whiskey. He sets it back on the table, before relaxing back into the chair. His arm propped up by the armrest, chin resting between his thumb and forefinger and his eyes focused on you. 

You briefly fixate on the flickering light that dances across his ambered irises, the glow of the candle’s flame reflecting in his eyes. A  golden brilliance that’s so vividly captivating, you can’t help but feel the warmth that gleams from them— how have you never noticed their allurement before? 

“Good. Great, actually. I got that promotion I was telling you about last month.” You don’t miss the way he immediately smiles at your answer. 

“I knew you would get it. Congrats!” Dave is proud of you. 

He had hoped he hadn’t overstepped when he encouraged you to apply for the position. Agonizing over it with him during a potluck dinner Carol had put together a month ago. You weren’t so convinced you had it in you, but Dave knew otherwise. He knew how hard it had been for you, working tirelessly to prove your worth in a male dominated field. But he also knew how well you held your own against the pressure of being scrutinized doing your job just because you were female. You just needed a little encouragement to make it happen, and Dave was more than happy to give it to you. 

“Thank you.” You say gratefully. He raises his glass up to you, grabbing for your white wine,  your glass meets his in a clinking celebration. 

A rich note strikes from the piano. The warm cadence of a new song catches your attention, drawing you to look over at where the musician's hands move effortlessly over the keys. After a few chorus plays through the second half, you redirect your attention back to the table. Your heart flutters with vibrancy at the way Dave is already looking at you. A reverent gaze that gives you the idea that his eyes have been drawn to you the entire time.

“What?” You ask. Your playful confusion has Dave chuckling, his fingers rub steadily over his bottom lip. 

“Nothing. Just—“ Dave knows the moment he says it, there’s no turning back. He’s been silently gauging your demeanor. Noting how you fiddle with the silverware when you’re talking. Or the way you look at him with a subdued intensity, not allowing yourself to truly express your feelings to him— or for him. 

With a deep breath and burning confidence, Dave’s willing to take a leap of faith to break the nervous tension that is strung tightly between you both.

“Just what?” Encouraging him to continue. Your fingers twisting your napkin in your lap, each revolution pulling it tighter and tighter in your grip. 

“Just admiring how beautiful you look right now. Something I never fully allowed myself to do before this evening.” He sees the way you react to his words. Relief or a validation of your own feelings. 

“How come?” You have a feeling you already know, but you want to hear him say it. 

“You’re Carol’s friend. I didn’t want to ever make you uncomfortable.” 

“You’ve never made me feel anything but comfortable, Dave.” It’s the truth. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so comfortable or safe with anyone. “But I get what you mean. With you being Carol’s ex-husband and that unspoken understanding of respecting her boundaries as her friend. I guess I’ve always been happy with being just your friend, too. But clearly she has a very strong opinion about us though.” 

You both laugh, knowing how determined Carol gets when she has a feeling about something. 

You both take a moment. No words needed or spoken. Neither of you are willing to wipe the absurd smiles off of your faces, while you stare at each other with an unbridled sense of fondness. The rest of dinner carries on with a better sense of purpose and understanding between you both. Endless conversation exchanged well into dessert. An eagerness to know more about each other before the evening’s end. 

*

It’s a velvety darkness that welcomes you the moment you both step out onto the sidewalk outside the restaurant. White tuffs of clouds drift through the sky, shrouding the moon and stars' usual intense glow for diffused lambency. 

The town’s streets are filled with an abundance of Christmas lights hung from store fronts and wrapped around tree bases, providing a perfect backdrop for an after dinner stroll. 

“Do you want to take a walk? Look at the lights before we call it a night?” Not really wanting to rush home any time soon, hoping to rack up more time with Dave as possible. 

“Sure. Here, take my jacket though, you’re gonna freeze out here.” He could tell you were trying to bravely endure the cold air nipping at your bare skin, but the goosebumps covering your arms and the slight shivering would have you freezing in no time. 

He doesn’t really give you an option, draping the leather jacket over your shoulders. The warmth is welcomed as you pull it tightly against you, grateful the moment a brisk breeze picks up and sweeps through the air. 

“Thank you.” You say as you both begin to walk in step together down the festively lit sidewalk. 

“Of course. Any time.” Dave says with a soft smile. His hands tucked securely into his jeans as he does his best to keep the chilly air at bay. 

A group of carolers offer a special serenade of Christmas classics, Dave and you both stopping to enjoy the merriment their harmonies add to the atmosphere. Dave tosses a few generous bills into their tip jar before you both continue your stroll. 

“What are your plans for Christmas?” You know him and Carol have a great system for the girls, always making sure they both get equal time with them. 

“I get to have the girls Christmas Eve this year. Well open gifts Christmas morning and do our tradition of pancakes for breakfast before Carol picks them up.” You love that he has a special tradition with the girls, there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for them. 

“Carol said they’re asking for a dog this year?” Remembering how Carol had mentioned the girls had been begging for a dog for the better part of the year. So it was no surprise when you had heard they were forgoing Barbie’s and clothes in hopes to add a new furry companion to the family. 

“Yeah. They sat us down last week with a full blown presentation on why they think we should get them one.” 

“What was one of their reasons?” Knowing full well Molly and Alice probably had a decent list of all the reasons for getting one. 

“I think the top reason was that a dog would make me less grumpy.” His brows pinch together with his signature grumpy expression, the reason seemingly obvious at this moment. 

“Oh my god, Dave! They deserve a dog just for their efforts alone!” You bite back a snicker, loving how the girls didn’t hold back one bit. Although, you do find his grumpy expressions cute and charming. 

“Go on, laugh it up.” He shakes his head at your teasing. “What about you? Do you have any plans for Christmas?” Dave asks. His shoulder lightly bumps against you as you continue to walk in a close proximity to him. 

“If you call feasting on a rotisserie chicken straight out of the container while rewatching Die Hard an unhealthy amount of times, plans— then yes, I have plans.” You try to say with a straight face, but fall into a fit of laughter when you see the empathetic look on Dave’s face. “I’m kidding, mostly. I usually spend Christmas with my parents, but they’re out of town this year. So it’s just me— and John McClane.” 

“Hey.” Dave grabs your hand, pulling you to a stop with him. His eyes flitting over your face, his thumb brushing over the top of your hand he’s still holding. “Why don’t you come over once Carol gets the girls. I can make dinner and we watch Die Hard a healthy amount of times together, if you want?”

There’s a warmth that radiates through you at his offer. You feel giddy at the thought of spending Christmas, alone, with Dave. You don’t know quite yet what this thing that’s blooming between you is, but you trust that Dave will catch you— especially with how you’re thoroughly falling for him. 

“I’d love that— oh shit! Dave, come here!” Your hand now wrapped around his as you try to pull him from where he’s standing. His stubborn body is rooted in place, not moving as you continue to hold him while looking at something overhead that caught your attention. 

Dave catches your line of sight. Looking up to see a bundle of mistletoe hanging from the shop sight you both were standing under. He looks back to you, panic stricken by the sight of the green foliage dangling above. He steps closer to you, his lopsided grin slowly becoming a more pronounced smile. 

“Dave, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s just silly mistletoe.” 

“Isn’t there some sort of thing about bad luck if we don’t?” He slowly starts to lean in towards you, his eyes searching for any kind of hesitation in yours. 

“I don’t think that’s a thing.” You murmur. Your stomach flips with anticipation. 

“I guess there’s only one way to find out.” 

His lips are softer than you could ever have imagined. For even the briefest of kisses, it feels electric and warm. 

Dave pulls back slightly, his gaze oscillating between your lips and your eyes, taking in the blissed out look you have. Silent confirmation that you were craving it as much as he was. 

It’s dizzying passion when Dave’s lips crash into yours. One of his hands cradles the back of your head as the other snakes around your lower back, pulling you flush against him. Taking advantage of the way your mouth opens for him, his tongue moving over yours with a fiery fierceness. 

It feels right and perfect as you continue to revel in the way he deepens the kiss with each passing breath. His jacket falling from your shoulders to the ground as your hands clutch firmly at the front of Dave’s t-shirt. Your mind is a fuzzy mess of thoughts, swirling about, all focused on Dave and this monumental release. 

A whine escapes when Dave pulls away for the second time. His forehead resting on yours. Mouths hanging open, vapor puffs hitting the cold air as you both try to catch your breath. 

“Dave York. Great conversationalist, devoted father, devastatingly handsome and exceptional kisser— checks all my boxes.” You purr at him. 

“Hmm. The first two seem like a given. Handsome?” Asks as he continues to hold you close to him. 

“Mmhmm.”

“And what was it? Exceptional kisser?” Cradling the side of your face, recalling exactly how you described the kiss. 

“No complaints from me. At all.” Your teeth catching your bottom lip, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling in his soft chestnut hair. 

“Not a single one?” His nose gently nudges against yours. 

“Well— maybe one. My only complaint would be if you never kissed me again.” You shake your head. The thought of never feeling his lips against yours again would be soul crushing. 

“I guess it’s a good thing I look forward to doing it again.” He assures you. 

“That so?” 

His fingers lightly grip your chin, bringing your lips closer to his. This time the kiss is slower, gentle, still conveying just as much affection and intentness as before. 

“I definitely could get used to more of that.” You say breathlessly. 

“Yeah? How about we take things slow? You promise me another date. I’ll promise to keep kissing you— exceptionally well.” A promise he’s more than willing to keep. 

“I like the sound of that.” Pulling him back for another kiss. 

[creedslove]

Imagine our sweet Dave looking at his future fiance quietly. She doesn't know he is standing in a corridor, looking at her when she is changing in her bedroom.

They are not living together yet, they are just dating for a few months and she is still a little shy around him at times.

She has her sports bra on, because it's more comfortable than regular bra, but Dave wants to take her for some fancy dinner so she wants to change. The sports bra is a little tight and she has to make a little silly dance to take it off. Something she is jumping, sometimes wiggling her way out of it. Dave loves it. He finds it beyond adorable when she is jumping and grunting a little, because the bra is stubborn and long hair is not helping in this situation. He is smiling and laughing very quietly. He is in trouble, he thinks to himself.

When his soon to be fiance is wiggling her hips to help a tight dress fit through her wide hips, Dave takes a deep breath and admires her. Thongs, so it's not visible under the dress, love handles so soft, his fingers always dig dip in her flesh, exposed back with a back fat shaping her body the way he likes it, wide shoulders with freckles and moles he wants to kiss. It's beautiful view.

When the dress is on, she is out of the bedroom. The large mirror is in the corridor and she wants to take a look at herself in the outfit.

-You ready? - she can hear Dave's voice from a living room. He was quick, so he was not spotted staring.

-i think I have to change. I look so ridiculous in that tight dress. It looked good in the store, but I'm not sure now. Dave loved the dress on her. Belly pouch, breasts, wide hips. Everything so visible, but hidden.

-I think, this look needs a little something to be completed. -His voice low and think like honey. The necklaces Dave helped her put on was supposed to be a gift for later that evening, but seeing the beautiful woman in front of him, he wanted to spoil her as soon as possible. He wanted to see her smile and gasp in surprise.

Dave loves his soon to be fiance. His soon to be wife. 🍓✨

I have never seen Equalizer 2, but from clips and fantastic I think he is my top 5 for sure. Dave deserves so much love and kisses. There is something about him.

Dave York x f!reader

A/N: omg bestie, you painted this picture so well, it sounds just perfect to picture him like that. It sounds sexy and intimate and I'm sure you worded it better than I could ever do it! ❤️ Thank you for this beautiful scenario, and yes, he does deserve all the love and affection in the whole wide world ❤️

• Dave's heart raced as he watched you from afar, he could never believe his luck in knowing you were his, it still felt too good, it was unbelievable, but it was real: you were his, his fiancee and soon to be wife

• he just loves you, all of you, so much of you it feels overwhelming to him at times: but he loves your body, your soul, your personality and everything about you, just the mere fact of watching you hidden is enough to make his heart flutter, the desire grows inside of him, whenever he sees those clothes sliding through your soft skin, he wants to run his own hands through your body, but it's still too soon, not just yet, he needs to watch you a little longer, he loves that sight

• and once you're standing there like a damn goddess, Dave can't help but feel the need to walk to you, it's like being hypnotized and he can't stay away, so when he places his hands on your shoulders and sees your hesitation, your shy eyes, the way you bite your lips and mumble you are considering changing, his heart breaks, you should never be insecure that way, not when you are beautiful, breathtakingly gorgeous

"this dress looks beautiful, just like you entirely, you're not changing it, baby girl, it looked good at the store and now it looks even better"

• he assures you, showing you he's not gonna let you change it, he loves the way you look, you are perfect, you are his, and if anything, he would just change one single thing about you: he would add some jewelry to you, because you glow more than the finest precious stone, so he decided to grab the velvet jewelry box he got on his way from work and handed it to you; he was going to give it to you during dinner, but why not at that moment?

"there, now you look perfect, everything about you is perfect baby girl, look at yourself"

• Dave commanded while his hands squeezed your sides, holding you in front of the mirror, as he nuzzled your neck, kissing and nibbling your shoulders

"see how perfect you are? Your body, your hips, your breasts, all of you baby girl, I fucking love it"

• Dave's kiss was hungry, he was feeling you up, running your hands through your body as his fist gripped your hair, he loved you, all of you and he was going to take you, even if you two arrived a little late for dinner, it didn't matter, you were his priority

• the way Dave turned you around, kissing you even more hungrily and placed you on the bed, getting between your legs as he parted them, kissing and nibbling your thighs and groaning at how you squirmed for him

"you're not gonna remove this dress, got it, baby girl?"

• he told you, allowing you only to lift your hips up and roll up your dress, so you could spread your legs for him. Dave let out a groan at the sight of your beautiful silky pair of panties, it was so sexy and inviting, but he needed it to be gone, wanting you bare and exposed for him

• he pulled your panties to the side, kissing your inner thighs and spreading your slippery lips apart, his tongue immediately savoring your addictive taste; he could spend the whole night there, the way your sensitive clit flicked in his tongue as you whimpered and your legs shook slightly whenever he suckled on it

• your finger ran through his hair, pulling it closer and closer to your cunt, wanting more of your boyfriend's devilish mouth on you; your heart raced, your body felt on fire and you couldn't hold back any longer, you called his name repeatedly, wanting him more and more, as you felt yourself getting closer to your bliss, you finally came into Dave's mouth

• you clenched, so sensitive at how he licked and kissed all over your cunt as you tried recovering from your orgasm; he smirked at you, kissing his way up and then your lips, making you taste yourself in them

"see baby? Told you you looked perfect, now we're finally ready to go"

____

[suzdin]

Two For One

(Dave York x Max Phillips x f!reader)

Summary: You move from Texas to Boston to live with your boyfriend, but he dumps you soon after the move, and you’re forced to find your own place and get a job. You meet two men a few months later, Max Phillips, a regular at the coffee shop you work at, and Dave York, your neighbor. Things begin to heat up soon after.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, pre-vampire Max, pre-Equalizer 2 Dave, small age gap (unspecified), no use of y/n, some angst, mention of self-unaliving, mention of divorce/familial trauma, mention of weapons, romance, no fluff, alcohol use, drug use, smut, graphic depictions of sex, rough sex, bondage, degradation, dubcon?, dom!Max, spanking, fingering, public masturbation, stalking, I’m not used to doing warnings I’m sorry if I missed anything, Max is an asshole and Dave is creepy, forgive me idk what I’m doing 🤷‍♀️

——

Dave York is an empty husk of a man ever since the divorce. Even more so since he had sunk all of his life savings—what little was left of it, after all was said and done—into some shitty, grossly overpriced apartment in Boston just so he could give Carol and the girls the space his ex-wife had specifically requested.

He wasn’t fool enough to believe he and Carol could somehow recuscite what once was there and now lost. That was a bridge that had been crossed and burnt to cinders years ago, little more than dust in the wind at present.

In spite of himself, the desire was still there on the longest, loneliest stretches of nights, lingering; hardly a flicker, but it was there.

Not to mention his girls. He missed Mollie and Alice so goddamn much. Twice a month visitations were not enough to diminish his need to be near them, protect them. It was even harder on his daughters, which was plain enough to see by their tear-streaked faces at the beginning and end of every weekend, with the middle being some kind of hazy, unsatisfactory torpor.

If not for them, he would have chosen somewhere cheaper to live. Mexico, maybe.

But he hadn’t. He’d chosen Boston, because it was just close enough to be within a day’s drive of the home they once shared in Virginia, but far enough for Carol to be satisfied that he wouldn’t randomly show up outside of scheduled visitations.

The reality of it all was enough to make him want to say fuck it and put a gun in his mouth. He’d do less damage to the girls that way, he thinks. A one and done.

That was until he met you.

He first noticed you at the bagel shop across the street, smiling pleasantly at the man handing you your everything bagel with extra cream cheese. Then again at the laundromat down the street, trying but failing to hide your lacy underthings from view; he was impervious to stop himself from stealing a glance at them when your back was turned.

It didn’t take him long to deduce that you lived in the building next to his. It was smaller, with only eight units, unlike his, which happened to be twelve. He’d learned that you lived on the top floor, in the smallest unit: a studio apartment at the end of the hall, which faced the street.

You were always so polite. Buttoned up, almost. You weren’t the typical, loud, crass Bostonian he was used to: you weren’t a local. The slight sweetness to your voice suggested maybe you were from somewhere in the south. It was faint, but it was there.

He would catch you carrying in groceries to your building sometimes. He always asked if you needed his help, but you never did, because you never had more than one or two bags worth. He never saw you with anyone, and the meager amount of groceries you had only cemented the idea that you lived alone.

He would occasionally find you bringing home liquor bottles, usually tequila or vodka, but even on those nights…it was only you.

In fact, in the weeks since he had first laid eyes on you, he hadn’t recalled ever seeing you with anyone.

It unsettled him to think of you up there, in your tiny studio apartment, drinking alone. Was there something—or someone—you were trying to forget?

He should be the one drinking with you.

There’s a small window in his bathroom where he has a scant view into your apartment, facing your front door. There isn’t much to see—fleeting glimpses if anything, a blue wall with pictures he can’t quite make out—but it’s enough for Dave. He likes to watch you leave for work, as he can often see your hand reaching for the keys you have hanging by your front door.

He’s gotten himself off a few times just seeing your soft, lovely hand, imagining how it would feel wrapped around his cock.

Dave doesn’t think he’s wanted anyone as much as he wants you.

——

You work at a coffee shop about three blocks from your home called The Beanery.

A dumb name, in your opinion.

You’ve only been working there about six months, but you’ve already been promoted to manager. It isn’t exactly the lifestyle you had envisioned when you made the trek from Fort Worth to Boston, but it pays your bills.

You’d been forced to get a job there when Jonathan—whom you’d moved to Boston for not even a year ago—had left you for another woman in upstate New York, leaving you to fend for yourself in an unfamiliar city.

You were only working there until you could make enough money to move back home. That’s what you kept telling yourself, anyway. It was hard to save when rent in this city was astronomical.

Dave is on one of his early morning runs past the coffee shop the day he finds you telling a man in a cheap looking business suit, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off.

Until now, he had never worked up the courage to go inside; to talk to you. He often saw you behind the counter, toiling away, a look of rumination gracing your features, as if you’d rather be somewhere else.

He’d always wanted to go in and order something overpriced that he didn’t even want…just to have the chance to talk to you more than a few mumbled words at a time.

But he never had, because he didn’t want to be a burden to you. Another faceless customer to make your day feel longer, harder.

That was until he saw you confronting a man who was easily twice your size. You were on the other side of the counter now, staring the man down, a fire blazing on your countenance that Dave couldn’t deny made him want to make the man disappear for good.

He’d made many men disappear. Men who were far more dangerous and terrifying than whoever this pathetic excuse for one was.

He’d never seen you this worked up before. You were always so quiet; so polite and unassuming.

You’re pointing at the door and telling the man to get the fuck out and never come back.

The man—whoever he is—squares up to you. Leans over you, trying to intimidate you as you stare each other down. His face is close to yours—too close.

It makes Dave sick. He wants to break the fucking man in half.

“What do you plan on doing about it, sweetheart?” the man asks you. Challenging you, with a crooked, shit eating grin on his face.

That alone is enough for Dave to do something about it. His need, his desire to protect something, someone—which he hasn’t been able to do in so long—now focused into a tight arc, right at you.

He swings open the coffee shop door, little bells chiming from somewhere above him, and closes the ground between himself and the other man faster than you think should be possible.

You see Dave before Max does. You recognize him from your neighborhood, and from all the times you’ve watched him jog past the coffee shop. You’d swear he had a crush on you, if you didn’t know any better.

He grabs a fistful of Max’s suit and yanks him back. It’s absolutely effortless for him—you’ve never paid much attention before now, but he’s tall. And broad.

It makes your breath catch in your throat.

He spins Max—who is now furious—to face him directly. Max looks as though he wants to throw a punch…until he gets a good look at Dave.

“Hey! What is your fucking problem, pal?” he fumes.

“I think the lady asked you to leave,” Dave states plainly. There’s an edge to it.

Max scoffs, inclining his head toward you now, smirking. “Is this white knight your boyfriend, or something?” he asks, his tone thick with consternation.

“No. Just…a friend,” you say, looking at Dave, who still has Max in his clutches. Dave stares back. You swear there’s something there.

“And if I don’t leave?” he asks, and you’re not sure if he’s asking you or Dave. You answer him anyway.

“I’ll call the cops,” you reply. Dave nods in silent approval.

Max rolls the edge of his tongue over his perfect white teeth, holding up both hands in defeat. “Alright, alright. Don’t have to ask me twice,” he says with a sardonic grin, turning to leave. “Coffee tastes like shit anyway.”

Dave releases his grip and Max turns toward the door. The two men shoulder each other as Max passes, and for a moment, you think there may be a fight. They stare at one another, sizing each other up; Dave’s face is stone while Max smirks, tauntingly.

It makes your skin prickle and your core flush with heat all at once, watching the two men posture like animals right in front of you.

Thankfully, they manage to restrain themselves and Max leaves without another word; you release the breath you realize you’ve been holding in all this time.

Dave’s face softens as he steps towards you, raising his hand to brush against your upper arm in consolation. He thinks nothing of it—an instinct from having maintained a protective role for so long—but the small touch causes you to flinch away.

“Sorry,” he says softly. He wishes he could touch you more; pull you into his arms. “I just— Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer. Physically, you’re okay. Mentally, however, you still want to murder someone.

You look over your shoulder in time to see Audrey—your new hire, and the reason you forbade Max from ever returning—push open the door to the back room, wiping her face as she does so.

Max had made her cry, and you couldn’t afford to lose another barista.

“I’m sorry, I need to handle this,” you tell Dave. You look to Vincent, who’d watched the whole thing unfold from behind the counter without so much as an offer to help, but you suppose he isn’t paid enough to care. Hell, you barely are.

“Let, um…” you look at Dave, gesturing at him with a flat, open palm, and you hope he understands what you’re insinuating.

“Dave,” he replies.

“Let Dave here order whatever he wants. On the house,” you tell Vincent, who nods.

“I’m sorry again, but it was nice to meet you, Dave,” you say, introducing yourself, as if he can’t read your name tag. “Thank you so much…for helping.”

You smile meekly and wave goodbye to Dave as you head to the back to hopefully calm Audrey down before she quits.

Your back is turned by the time Dave proffers his own weak smile and wave. He watches you go, mapping every delicate curve of your backside with his eyes.

He doesn’t take you up on your offer of a free item.

He has a man to track down.

——

You find Audrey in the back room, hunched forward on the edge of a metal folding chair, palms pushed into her eyes.

You really can’t lose another barista. You’re overworked as it is and Maurizio cut everyone’s hours a couple of months ago, causing several of your best workers to quit, bringing you back around to square one. If she goes, you’ll have to work doubles for the unforeseeable future and, well, that wasn’t exactly ideal, considering Maurizio was constantly bitching at you about overtime…as if you could even help it.

You’d quit yourself if that was in the cards right now.

“Hey…” you offer, softly. “You okay?”

Audrey has only been working for you for three days; Maurizio hired her. She wouldn’t have been your first choice, since she was a little slow to pick things up, the job itself seeming to overburden her—but you couldn’t afford not to give her a chance. You need to tread lightly to keep her from bolting.

“Hey,” she replies back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to lose it like that. It’s just—well, I’m going through a bad break up right now…” she admits, raking thin fingers through bright pink hair. “And him yelling at me about his drink being wrong was just…y’know. Last straw,” she laughs nervously.

You nod, feeling a little bad about passing judgment so quickly, knowing you know exactly how she’s feeling, since that was you only a few months ago. Still is, probably.

“I understand completely. I just got over one of those myself,” you confess, crossing your arms. “It’s fine if you need a minute. Vincent and I got the front,” you say, trying to articulate things in a way that will make it less likely she’ll walk—at least, that’s the hope.

You had been here since 4AM and your head was steadily pounding. You hadn’t had a cigarette in hours. And then Audrey had gotten the drinks mixed up—it happens—causing Max to lose his temper and call her a string of things you didn’t want to repeat, even in your mind.

Max had been a regular as long as you’d been employed, but he was also an asshole. A regular asshole. You wouldn’t miss him, his tacky suits, or his penchant for cutting in line anytime soon.

You had to admit it gave you a little thrill to finally stand up to him, the pull you felt between your legs an undeniable tell. You think he felt it, too. Not that it matters.

Audrey nods, rubbing at her eyes again. “Yeah. I’ll be up in a bit,” she says, and you try to hide your sigh of relief. “It’s just—is it okay if I um—take half an edible? To take the edge off?” she asks.

You could give two shits what people do in their free time, but at work? You almost say no—almost—but change your mind quickly when you see the grief still playing on her features.

Truth be told, that sounds nice right about now.

“Sure,” you tell her. “But only if you give me the other half.”

——

Blessedly, Audrey doesn’t quit. The edible elevates her mood—like, a lot—and yours, as well. You feel great the rest of your shift, finally getting off work at two, when Sarah relieves you of your managerial duties for the day.

She notes your change in attitude, which you have to admit has been pretty dour these past few weeks. You lie and tell her it had been an easy going day, purposely neglecting to mention Max. No need to bring your elation back down.

You gather your things to leave, exhaling a long, exasperated sigh as you go. You’re going to enjoy the fuck out of this.

As an added bonus, you have tomorrow off, which you’ll undoubtedly spend sleeping in. And tonight—drinking your weight in alcohol, most likely.

Whatever passes the time.

You’re almost all the way to your apartment, puffing on the cigarette perched between your lips, slipping into the breezeway that shoulders your building, when you hear a voice from behind you that you could discern out of a line up.

Dark, crooning, dripping with condescension.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

It’s Max.

You almost think you heard wrong, your mind still hazy from the cannabis in your system. Surely it isn’t him—that would mean he followed you here, which is just goddamn creepy.

Yet you’re not at all surprised when you turn and see him standing there with his hands in his pockets. He’s shed his jacket since you last saw him, now clad only in a crisp white dress shirt, gray slacks and yellow tie, the look finished off with some plain brown dress shoes.

You aren’t sure what Max does for a living and you’ve never cared enough to find out, but he has all the characteristics of a corporate vampire: nice pressed suits, pristine grooming, preternatural cunning and arrogance out the ass.

You find yourself palming the pepper spray you keep in your purse. You’d bought it after Jonathan had left. You had yet to use it, but today might be the day.

“Max, I’m sorry, my decision is final—“ you start to say.

“Is it?” Max asks you, cutting you off. “Because last I checked, the shop belongs to Maurizio, not you, darling,” he says, sauntering steadily closer.

“And I don’t care. I’m the manager, I have the right to ban you,” you respond, trying your damndest to cling to your convictions.

“Uh huh. We’ll see what Maurizio has to say about that,” he replies, grinning crookedly as he stares down at you with shimmering dark brown eyes. You aren’t sure when it happened, but somehow Max has gotten a lot closer, the wall of the building almost at your back.

He holds up his cell phone so you can see the screen: Maurizio Bernardi, saved as a contact, plain as day. You feel your face go slack with realization.

“You… how do you know Maury?” you ask, flabbergasted. Your head swims, and everything suddenly feels bright and fuzzy at the periphery of your mind; you must be coming down from the THC.

“We went to school together! Isn’t that wild?” Max responds with a snorting laugh, slipping his phone back into his pocket. You’re fully pinned against the wall now by his breadth alone, and he hasn’t even touched you.

You could end this easily in two seconds flat with a blast of pepper spray straight to his face. There might be some blowback with the light breeze whipping through, and you’d most definitely lose your job since he’s friends with Maury, but it would be worth it knowing you put Max in his place once and for all.

Right?

He’s so close that you smell the faint scent of cologne mingled with the underlying odor of sweat. You feel your heart beating at your temples. You hadn’t been with anyone since Jonathan left, and you couldn’t deny you were touch starved. You swallow and stare back, your eyes searing into him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says, softly gripping your arm to remove your hand from your purse, as if he’s reading your mind. Your fingers go slack around the can of pepper spray.

“Wasn’t gonna do anything,” you snip, yanking your arm out of his grasp. “Can I go home now?”

Max crowds into your space, pushing you into the wall, gentle enough not to hurt but forceful enough to press your back to the rough of the brick. He plucks the now neglected cigarette from your other hand, which is burnt nearly to the filter.

“Filthy fucking habit,” he chides, placing it to his lips and taking a drag before discarding it between the two of you, where he snuffs it out with the sole of his shoe. “Didn’t figure you for the type.”

“You know nothing about me,” you retort.

“I know you tried to humiliate me today,” he says quietly. “I don’t appreciate being humiliated.”

“I don’t appreciate you yelling at my workers,” you bite back. You aren’t going to give him the satisfaction of intimidating you. “Do you know how understaffed we are right now as it is? I’m exhausted!” You attempt to duck under an arm; he blocks you.

“You manage—what? Six, seven people?” Max asks.

“Four,” you correct. “Because we’re grossly understaffed.”

He smirks. “That’s cute. Try three hundred. Then we’ll talk.”

“Okay, I get it. Point made. Can I go?” you ask, attempting to duck him again. He grabs your wrist this time.

“Not until I humiliate you like you humiliated me,” he threatens, locking eyes with you. His other hand drifts to the curve of your waist, almost swallowing you with the size of it. Your breath catches. He takes that as invitation.

“And just how do you plan on doing th—“

Your words dissipate mid sentence when aforementioned hand untucks your shirt from your pants, creating just enough of a pocket for it to slide in between.

You take in a deep breath as his fingers slowly glide up the plane of your stomach and rib cage; he reaches the swell of your breast, not hesitating at all to grab you there, reveling at the soft depth of it against his wide palm.

It’s fucked. Utterly fucked. A small part of you wants to kick him in the balls and run, but you can’t help but go boneless and pliant like fresh clay under his touch.

If you’re being honest with yourself, as much as you loathe him, it isn’t like you hadn’t thought about Max before today. He always looks so nice and sharp in his business suits; not to mention it’s been so long since anyone has put their hands on you. Your toys just aren’t doing the trick anymore.

You whimper and arch involuntarily into him. Judging by the flash of triumph in his eyes, he liked that.

“By making you scream my name so loud right here in the street, the entire state will know who I am by the time I’m done with you,” he taunts, accentuating his point with a tug of your nipple through the fabric of your bra.

“M-Max, I…” you half protest, half moan.

You what? You can’t? You don’t want to? You can hardly remember to breathe at this point.

“Yeah. Just like that,” he laughs softly. “You’ll be reduced to a quivering puddle by the time I’m through.” His other hand toys dangerously close to the waistband of your pants.

Your eyes flit to the street, which isn’t even twenty paces from where you’re wedged between him and the wall. No one is currently paying either of you any mind, but you have no doubt that would change if what he’s saying is true. You have zero reason not to believe him.

“Max, we can’t do this,” you say, finally able to find your voice. “Not here,” you add, so that he understands that you do want it, regardless of how fucked it may be.

He pops the top button of your pants. You do nothing to stop him.

“Then say the word, sweetheart. Tell me I’m not banned,” he whispers into your ear. “You’ll do that for me, right?” His hand skims lower, undoing a second button.

“You s-said… Maury…”

“I need to hear you say it,” he responds pointedly, grinding his pelvis into yours; the firm press of his cock dividing you at your center, pushing against your clit.

“Jesus… fuck…” you babble, your head falling against the wall with a painful thud.

You don’t need Audrey, right? Or time off, like…ever? The extra pay from overtime is nice…and Maury can bitch about it all he wants, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s his fault, anyway. Not yours.

Nothing matters right now aside from the man rutting deliciously into your lap.

You aren’t sure what’s come over you. It could be the THC still firmly rooted in your brain, or the stress of the job getting to you, or both. Whatever the reason, you’re impervious to resist him and his off kilter, douchey kind of appeal.

“Say it,” he whispers, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your flesh.

“My apartment is up-s-stairs,” you reply. He snaps his hips aggressively into you in retaliation, and you squeak.

“Say it,” he growls.

“Shit, Max! Fine! You win, you— You aren’t banned.”

“Good,” he responds with a wry smirk, dark eyes sparkling with gratification. You only just realize that your hand is twisted up in his tie, and his gaze follows your grip, fingers brushing along the inner line of your wrist. You shiver.

“Take me to your apartment,” he says. You let the words hang in the air between the two of you, eyeing each other; silently scrutinizing which one will break first.

Of course it’s you.

You don’t worry about fixing your clothes as you make a beeline for the side door of the building, Max trailing closely behind. They won’t be a problem in just a few minutes, anyway; hopefully you won’t run into anyone in the hall on the way up.

His hands are on you again by the time you reach the elevator, pushing under your shirt, pants riding down your hips when they have nothing to cling to. He presses you against the far wall of the elevator, teeth raking over your pulse point and bearing down. You moan.

“Knew you were a dirty fucking girl,” he groans into the curve of your neck.

You reach for his tie again, the other hand absently dragging his thigh for purchase. His hands squeeze your breasts, rolling them under the flat of his palm. You can barely breathe, let alone speak; you’ve never let someone manhandle you so brazenly before. And you kind of like it.

Finally, the elevator dings for your floor; Max pulls his hands free of your shirt and grabs you by the wrists, yanking you into the short and narrow hallway. You fall into his chest and he steadies you, hands bracketing around your hips.

“This one is mine,” you say, pointing to the faded green door over his left shoulder. For a moment, he steps back, allotting you the space needed to access your apartment.

You can barely get the key to slide into the lock you’re shaking so fucking bad, but you eventually get it to work.

Your apartment isn’t exactly tidy. You’ve never had company over before in all the time you’ve lived here, much less unexpected—you suppose it doesn’t matter, as he probably won’t even notice, or care.

You flick on the light and the small space is illuminated in dull fluorescence, revealing the whole 322 square feet of it, save for the bathroom. You toss your purse onto the couch, turning to face Max.

You start to open your mouth to offer him a drink—an engrained habit leftover from your upbringing—but he stifles the words before they can even be borne on your lips, a hand coming up to loosely circle your throat as he walks you backwards to the bed, his eyes hued inky black with lust.

It’s not at all surprising that he isn’t a man of formalities if his presence at the coffee shop is anything to go by. You would wonder if he’s this ruthless at his job if you didn’t already have a good inkling about that.

You jolt when your legs make contact with the mattress. He doesn’t waste time in removing your clothes once he has you there, beginning with your shirt, relieving you of the burden. Your bra is next, and as his eyes hone in on the hardened peaks of your nipples, you think to yourself you’ve never seen him look this pensive before.

“Fucking — perfect,” he whispers, rolling his thumbs over the stiff buds, eliciting a moan from somewhere deep in your chest.

The rest is a blur up until the moment he’s almost pushing inside of you, so desperate in his need to remove any offending article of clothing he somehow manages to do so in the space of a few seconds, your mingled clothes a discarded pile of rubbish on the floor next to the bed.

He’s more fit than you expect, the bulbous cut of his arms leading into sharp lines of pectoral muscles. His stomach is defined enough, in your opinion—a man doesn’t need rock hard abs to get you off, after all—the lower half of his torso curtained in a swathe of dark pubic hair.

His cock hangs low amid his thighs, already fully engorged, the head an angry shade of pink and weeping for you. You try to tear your gaze away as you take in the sight of him, and are only vaguely aware that he’s asking you something.

“—I said, do you have any condoms?” you realize.

Odd time to worry about condoms, when he had plenty of time to stop at the store on the way to you. It’s fine, though — you have some left over from Jonathan.

“In the drawer behind you,” you tell Max. He reaches around behind him, pulling one out a moment later, breaking the wrapper open with his teeth and rolling it over himself with expert finesse.

You scoot back on the bed, every nerve ending in your body on fire, your head falling back into one of your pillows as Max mounts and straddles you, caging you in with his long limbs.

He peers down at you, eyes shining dark with desire, his mouth so close to yours you can inhale his breath if you were so inclined; you want him to kiss you, to bite your tongue and lips with those perfect white teeth, but he seems to be intentionally avoiding doing so.

Keep it business. Keep it casual.

“Roll over,” he says softly, moving off of you, and for a fleeting moment, you’re nonplussed. You note a faint flash of yellow at your peripheral, and it takes you a moment to register what’s happening; you crane your neck over your shoulder to confirm your notion, spying the pale yellow shine of his tie unraveling between both fists.

“Cross your wrists at your back,” he quietly commands, his voice low and even, leaving no room for debate. A man skilled in so few words in the art of persuasion—of seduction.

You’ve never been tied up or restrained before—much less by a man you have absolutely no sexual experience with, one you probably shouldn’t put any faith of your safety in at all—but you obediently lattice your wrists at the bend of your spine, taking in a prolonged breath as your core thrums in anticipation between your legs.

Although you can’t see him, you can practically feel Max grinning at your back. You hear the smooth slide of silk between his fingers. A moment later, he’s slipping the tie under your linked arms, spiraling it deftly around your wrists until you’re completely bound together and the grip holds true.

You flex your hands against the makeshift cuffs, testing them. You’re surprised at how comfortable it is and how you can still rotate your wrists; only your arms are immobile—which is exactly what he wanted.

“On your side now,” he commands coolly. You don’t dare dawdle, scooting to one side as best you can, albeit with some added effort without the aid of your hands to push you over.

He slides into the bed next to you, pushing himself as flush as he can against your back since your arms are now in the way, pulling your leg up and over his hip, butterflying you open.

He reaches around to cup your sex, middle finger riding your seam until he reaches your expectant opening, pushing himself in to the first knuckle. He slides in easily and you can’t hide the fact that you’re already soaked.

“Fuck,” he whispers raggedly, his voice thick against your ear. “Somebody wants this.”

His erection drags over the hill of your ass. You’re breathing hard and your heart is racing a million miles an hour. You feel as though you could combust at any moment.

His finger slips further into your depths, languidly pumping until your arousal coats all the way to the final knuckle. He adds a second finger then, breathing heavily into the shell of your ear.

“You ready to take me, sweetheart? Fair warning—I don’t do soft.”

As if you had any other expectations after he just finished binding you with his fucking necktie.

“Y-yes,” you whisper, hoarse and oh so needy. His hand snaps against your exposed ass, your body recoiling at the sudden lance of pain.

“Beg me for it.”

“Please, Max, I need it,” you plead, your voice feeling small in your throat. You writhe against him to accentuate your point, your wrists flexing against the binds.

“Good,” he says softly, spitting into his palm and coating himself with it, sliding the head along your folds and notching himself at your entrance.

Your breath stalls when you feel him. He isn’t even in and it already seems like too much.

“Breathe,” he tells you, giving you a moment to pull fresh oxygen into your lungs. When your response is sufficient enough for him, he’s suddenly pushing into you, cleaving you in two; there’s a dull sting from how much he stretches you apart, and you’ve already lost your ability to think, to power your lungs.

“Breathe,” he says again, a venomous edge to his tone. “Don’t need you passing out on me.”

Cue your surprise when unresponsive isn’t really his thing. You’d always figured him as a much bigger creep than this, despite the fact that he literally has you pinned like prey.

You suck in more air as Max buries himself all the way to the hilt, softly spurring his pelvis deep, deep into yours from behind. “So fucking tight,” he rumbles against the rim of your ear, teeth scraping along the ridge of your jaw.

And then the onslaught begins. He’s right—he doesn’t do soft.

The first few gyrations, he’s pulling almost all the way out, only to crack his hips back into you as hard as he can, the head of his cock bumping the sensitive flesh of your back wall with each ministration. The sound that resonates is louder than expected and more than a little obscene, strangled whimpers escaping with each snap of his pelvis, skin slapping skin.

Each time the room goes silent in those void spaces between utterances, you almost think you hear something—or someone—in the hall just beyond the thin barrier of your door. Your neighbor, Mrs. Tobin? Hopefully she hasn’t heard anything. She’s already reported you in the past for watching your movies too loud—

But just as swiftly as the thought occurs to you, it’s just as easily dissipated, Max’s fingers digging into your hip to hold you in place as he begins to rail you as hard and fast as any man reasonably can, his breath hot and wet against the nape of your neck, every rough smack of his hips into yours a thinly veiled threat to unravel every last fiber of your being.

The sounds that you make in return are not human.

His other hand comes up to cradle your chin, bowing your neck to a barrage of pearly whites, bearing down on the delicate crossroads of your neck and shoulder. The sting of incisors making purchase with your flesh causes you to yelp, your head misty from the feeling, toeing a line between pain and pleasure.

“Good girl, sweetheart. Taking me like a champ,” he growls breathlessly.

The hand riding your hip slithers around to where he’s currently splitting you open, gathering your natural lubrication on the pads of his fingers as he begins to slowly admonish attention to your sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Oh fuck!” you yelp, bucking involuntarily as you chase the feeling. That solicits a laugh from Max, who seems quite pleased with himself.

“You like that?” he asks you, all the while still pumping into you from behind with everything he can muster; you have to admit his stamina is admirable.

You make some kind of inhuman mewl in reverence. His touch stokes fire deep within you, your pleasure mounting to dizzying heights, and you can’t remember the last time a man made you feel so coveted.

You can’t believe you could have been doing this all these long and lonely months. You should bar him from your shop more often.

“Kiss me, please,” you whine, folding your head behind you to lounge against his shoulder. The grip on your chin tightens, fingertips digging in, almost painfully so; there might be bruises there later.

“You take what I give you,” he tuts, gnashing his incisors along the soft of your throat.

If it’s possible, his grueling, punishing speed increases to near paralyzing, and you’re close to seeing stars. His fingers swirl lazily around your clit by comparison.

And then, without preamble or warning, he stops, pulling himself free from you. You chirp in protest at the loss, your walls clenching around nothing.

“What? Max…”

“Face down,” he instructs. “Quickly, now.”

You shoulder the mattress for stability as you roll yourself over without use of your arms, hands straining against the necktie still spooled around your wrists.

He enters you from behind the moment you assume the position, pumping into you at a far more leisurely pace than only seconds ago.

The wide breadth of his palms splay across your ass cheeks, spreading you apart as he watches you swallow him from behind. He’s much deeper at this angle, the head of his cock kissing your g-spot with every slow thrust.

You flinch when you feel his thumb graze against the muscular ring of flesh between your cheeks. He chuckles darkly.

“Bet you’d let me fuck your tight little asshole, wouldn’t you? Such a supplicant little cock sleeve for me.” You moan at the derision. “Yeah, you are. Glad we agree.”

His hands bracket your hips with stupefying strength, which will most assuredly brand you with the lines of his fingers, but you’re sure that’s what he wants. He pulls you back into him, spearing you onto his length. The new angle makes you scream.

“That’s it. Take it all,” he rumbles, resuming the previous breakneck speed, railing you with such ferocity there’s no way in hell half the city isn’t aware of Max’s presence in your pussy right now.

“F-fuck, Max—“ you bite, the mention of his name only furthering him along.

He rewards you by moving his hand back to your swollen clit, fingers flicking over the sensitive nub until you’re gasping for air, a string of curses and otherwordly noises escaping your lips. You’re staggeringly close.

“That’s it. You gonna come for me? Come on me, sweetheart. I need to feel you.”

He impales you with uninhibited exuberance from behind, your bed shuddering from each impact, and you know you’ll be feeling him between your legs for a week.

A few more hard, rough administrations and the tether abruptly snaps, your orgasm washing over you, ripping through your entire being with a scream-strangled-moan that your neighbors will definitely hear if they happen to be home.

It doesn’t take Max much longer than you to come apart in your wake, his breath stuttering in his chest and a loud, guttural snarl bursting forth, and for several prolonged seconds as he milks the remaining traces of himself into the condom, you can hear just how easily he fell apart inside of you.

You press your face into the cool of the sheets beneath the pillow, breathing hard, waiting for Max to untie you as he pulls himself out of you with a grunt.

You think you hear a faint noise in the corridor again; it almost sounds like the squeak of sneakers on linoleum. And then it’s gone.

You really, really hope it wasn’t your neighbor.

——

Dave doesn’t have to track Max down; the contemptuous man practically delivers himself to your front stoop.

How convenient.

He first hears you in the small slice of courtyard that divides your buildings, his window always propped open at this time of day so he can watch for when you inevitably return home from work.

The sight of him instantly makes Dave bristle; moreso when Max crowds into your space, and it takes everything in him not to rush to your aid again, saving you from Max for the second time in the span of a day.

But it’s your receptiveness to Max’s attention that gives him pause before he has a chance to act brash. You were ready to string Max’s entrails from the streetlights this morning—and now here you were, moaning and arching into his touch. What changed?

Dave feels a lance of jealousy and in spite of the sweet sounds you’re making, his trigger finger twitches more than a few times.

He keeps his eyes trained on your face as he watches you, studying you from afar; the way your eyelids flutter shut, the small bite of your own lip. The image forever burned into his brain, going straight to Dave’s cock.

He should be the one making you feel good, making you make those pretty sounds; not some guy poorly portraying the role of a cheap car salesman.

He pulls his cock free from his pants while he keeps his eyes locked on you, stroking himself in semi-circular motions as you are subjected to being handled by another man, glimpsing a small flash of skin as Max lifts your shirt to fondle your breast.

Again, it should be him. Dave would treat you right. He would make you come so many times you would forget your own name by the time he was through.

And then you’re disappearing into the confines of your building with Max in tow before he can blink.

——

It isn’t difficult to get into the building. It’s actually alarming how simple it was for Dave to decipher, simultaneously compressing the pound and asterisks keys on the keypad next to the door until the light flashes green and he hears the click of a lock disengaging.

Too easy.

He finds your apartment just as readily, having memorized its location from watching you as frequently as he does. He takes the stairs rather than the elevator so that the sounds of the rickety old bucket don’t alert you to his presence, pausing at the top stoop of the stairs which just so happens to face your door.

Number 8. Your apartment is number 8.

He listens for any sign that he’s given his location away. When he’s convinced he’s safe from being discovered, he creeps closer to your apartment.

It isn’t what it seems like, he tells himself. He just wants to make sure you’re safe. That this guy doesn’t hurt you.

He wants to be there to protect you. At least, that’s what Dave tells himself.

He sits on the dirty linoleum floor next to your door, his back facing the wall. For the first several minutes, he’s able to contain himself, listening for any signs of distress.

That is, until he hears your sweet moans and whimpers, the sounds of rough sex drifting with very little left to the imagination into the corridor. Dave’s jaw clenches and he breaks into a sweat just from listening to your high, keening revelations of sex.

It should be him. It should be him.

He understands how wrong, how perverse and reductive it is, to be listening to you like this. To impede on your privacy for his own personal gratification. To be so fucking turned on by it. He knows this.

And yet he doesn’t give it a second thought when he slips his hand into his pants to fist himself, pressed up against your door, fucking into his clenched palm like a teenager with their first porno mag, at the lascivious sounds of you being fucked by another man—a man that should be him.

He has enough sense to check for cameras, at least. Doubtful they would even review the footage without cause, but a cursory sweep of the area doesn’t hurt.

There are none. Now it’s just a matter of not getting caught by one of the other residents.

Dave thinks of you. He pictures the face you were making in the courtyard, imagining himself in Max’s stead. He’s getting off to your beautiful noises, and god, are you good at making them. He wonders how high your whimpers could get if he were the one fucking you. How you would look sheathing his cock.

If you were his, there wouldn’t be a single day you didn’t know his touch.

It’s all too much. His head swims, his vision goes white. You make a particularly raucous moan and that’s all it takes, a sound escaping his lips before he realizes he’s making it, thick ropes of spend spurting onto his stomach beneath his shirt. Thankfully, you don’t seem to hear him, his own utterance of ecstasy drowned out by the cacophony of your own and Max’s as you each come mere seconds after Dave does.

He doesn’t have any way of cleaning himself up like this, and a heavy blanket of shame settles over him within moments of coming down from the high of his climax. He does what he can, rubbing the thick globs of semen into his skin until it disperses.

He registers a sound then—someone getting off the bed, he surmises—and quickly climbs to his feet, the sole of his sneaker betraying him in a rush of movement. Shit.

He makes a beeline for the stairs, hoping you didn’t hear. When no one says anything, he supposes you didn’t.

——

Dave finds you on the street later that night.

He can tell by looking at you that you’re freshly showered, your hair shimmering in the faint glow of the setting sun. You’re dressed comfortably in a plain black tank top that swoops down to reveal the barest hint of cleavage—lest you decide to lean over, that is—and bike shorts that are meant to replicate leopard spots, only in purple.

You have one of your reusable grocery bags slung over your shoulder, the large one with all the pictures of fresh produce printed on it, and Dave can tell by the heft of it that you’ve just come from the grocery store a few blocks down.

He can’t ignore you anymore. Not after rushing to your defense this morning, and especially not after hearing you getting fucked on the other side of the door while he came hard for you. He has to talk to you. He needs to talk to you.

He steps into your line of sight a moment later, apprehensively lifting his hand in a wave. You spot him right away.

“Oh. Hey,” you say. “Dave, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, quietly. His eyes rake over you. You swallow.

“I just wanted to check on you. You know, since this morning,” he continues. “I know we see each other around a lot.”

You nod and take him in; he’s massive this close, with broad, muscular shoulders. He’s wearing a Boston Celtics shirt and loose Nike shorts. Judging by the semicircle of perspiration flowering out from the V of his armpits, you deduce that he’s been jogging again. He does that a lot, you think.

And you would be right. His climax earlier wasn’t enough to quell his desire for you, to hamper the gnawing restlessness he constantly feels. He needed to expend his anxious energy somehow.

Jogging wasn’t working either.

And now that he’s this close, he wishes he could touch you. Pull you into his arms and kiss you—since Max hadn’t.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thank you for asking…and again for this morning,” you say.

He places his hands on his hips, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Yeah, of course. It isn’t—it’s not a problem,” he says. I always want to protect you, he wants to add.

An uncomfortable silence settles in the space between both of you. You think you should probably leave.

“Would you like to get dinner somewhere?” Dave suddenly blurts out, a desperate tinniness to his voice. He looks at the sad boxes of mac and cheese in your grocery bag—not even name brand, since you’re doing all you can to save money.

You almost say no. Truthfully, it weirds you out that you had sex with another man not even hours ago, and now your neighbor is asking you out to dinner when he’d barely spoken to you before today.

It’s not like the sex meant anything. Max had made that abundantly clear and besides, you still hated his guts. But two men in one day, while still struggling with a messy breakup? You aren’t sure if you can handle that.

You almost say no. Almost.

Dave offers to carry your groceries for you.

You let him.

Part Two

[javier-pena]

So ... I recently hit 10,000 followers, which is completely insane to me!! I wish I could thank each and everyone of you who has been here since the beginning or who followed two days ago personally, but that's just not possible. Instead, I'm doing a small request-based fic celebration 🤭

What is it about?

You can choose from a list of characters and a list of prompts (or send in your own) and I will write a (hopefully) short fic (1-3k words) based on your request. You can choose a stand-alone fic or request something that fits into one of my longer stories (Hubris, Triumvirate, In Plain Sight, the Javi G universe). Please send in your requests until April 27!

How to send in your requests?

Please send me an ask (anonymous or not) specifying the following:

Step 1: Do you want your fic to be reader insert?

Please specify the gender (if there is no specification, I will most likely write f!reader, but I might choose something else if I think it fits the prompt). You don't have to choose just one character, you can also choose more, e.g. Javi Gutierrez x f!reader x Dieter Bravo x Agent Whiskey. Your request doesn't have to be reader insert, you can also request a specific dynamic, e.g. Javier Peña x Joel Miller.

Step 2: Do you want your fic to be nsfw?

If you want your fic to be nsfw or if you don't want it to be nsfw please specify this in your request. If you don't, I will write whatever fits the prompt.

Step 3: Is there anything you want me to avoid?

If there are any triggers, themes, character traits etc. you don't want me to include, please tell me. The fics will come with warnings but I wouldn't want to write something you can't/don't want to read for whatever reason.

Step 4: Choose one or more character(s)!

I will write for the following characters. You can send in a different character too, but there is no guarantee I will write your request unless it's another character from the movie/show that's on the list (e.g. Tommy Miller).

Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)

Clint (Freaky Tales)

Jack Daniels/Agent Whiskey (Kingsman: The Golden Circle)

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

Ezra (Prospect)

Lucien Flores (The Uninvited)

Javi Gutierrez (The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent)

Joel Miller (The Last of Us)

Frankie Morales (Triple Frontier)

Arthur Morgan (Red Dead Redemption 2)

Javier Peña (Narcos)

Tess Servopoulos (The Last of Us)

Silva (Strange Way of Life) - I will not write x f!reader for Silva

Dave York (The Equalizer 2)

Step 5: Choose a promt!

You can choose up to three of the following prompts or send in your own.

"Is it okay if I sleep here tonight?"

"And what are you going to do about that?"

"I would love to spoil you, can I do this for you?"

"I can't stop thinking about kissing you."

"I don't like you!" "Finally something we can agree on."

“My tongue still remembers the way you taste.”

“Jealousy seems to be a great motivator for you.”

"Can you just look at me? Please?"

"Don't play with me."

"It's not your choice."

"Please tell me I can touch you."

"Make me beg for it."

"Oh, you're hard to please."

"Let's ruin ourselves for anyone else."

"You're still holding back, just let go."

"I don't want you to say that you love me. Love will not fix anything. It just makes everything more complicated."

"Don't look at me like that." "How am I looking at you?"

"I cannot change my feelings for you, believe me, I fucking tried."

"You knew how I feel about you. You have to have known."

"Don't make me jealous."

"I'm going to be here when you wake up."

"I could make you beg for it." "I would love to see you try."

"I already have a boyfriend." "That's great. Invite him as well."

"It was just a kiss."

"I don't feel like we're close enough to have this type of conversation."

"Oh, jealousy looks good on you."

"Do you still have feelings for me?" "Well, do you still have feelings for me?" "I asked first."

"Three years was not enough to get over you."

"What if someone sees us?"

"You're not my dirty little secret. And I never want you to think that."

"No, I refuse to believe that you would do that to me."

"You're just saying that to be nice. No need to pity me." "What I feel for you is definitely not pity."

Step 6: Have fun!

And if you have any questions, please don't hesitate to message me!

[ladamedusoif]

Coming Home (Dave York x F!Wife Reader)

A Merry Fic-Mas - December 20

Part of A Merry Fic-Mas: A Pedro Boys Holiday Fic Calendar - click for masterlist!

Follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications to keep up with my writing.

Pairing: Dave York x F!Wife Reader

Word Count: 2000

Rating: Explicit (18+ MDNI)

Warnings: No use of Y/N; no physical description of the reader; reader is Dave’s wife; loose canon (implied changing to end of Equalizer 2, justice 4 Dave); soft!Dave; oral sex (M and F receiving); facesitting; unprotected PiV sex; mild breeding kink; reader is on birth control (not discussed); dirty talk

A/N: Despite having been in the Pit for some time, this is my first Dave story and, well… things escalated. I’m a sucker for soft!Dave (go read @wildemaven’s gorgeous Holi-Dave stories!!) and for the idea that this man just fucking loves his wife/partner. In this story you can choose to read the wife as Carol, or a second wife - whatever you prefer.

He makes his way through baggage claim quickly, expertly dodging the crowds of people clustered around the carousels looking for their luggage. The airport is decorated for the holidays, but Dave pays no attention to the illuminated Christmas trees atop each baggage belt, nor to the animatronic Santa Claus and elves greeting passengers in the arrivals hall.

Experience has taught him that a carry-on is preferable in most circumstances. Travel light, travel smart, and save valuable time at each end. He takes a strange pride in knowing that he’s back at his car before most of the people on his flight have even begun to identify their bags.

Dave is tired: physically, mentally, emotionally. He has started to wonder how much longer he can do this for: the time apart, the unspoken agreement not to discuss the other side of his work at home, the fact that - while you know the broad contours of what he does beyond the DIA, and probably more details than he’d like - he has to be incredibly careful with what he says, to avoid the possibility of you becoming an accomplice in the eyes of the law.

He starts the car, swings by the drive-thru just on the way out of the airport campus to pick up a coffee and some donuts, and then - finally - gets on the road.

Dave York needs to go home. He needs you.

***

It’s still very early when he pulls into the driveway, the sky as yet untouched by the brightness of the coming day. Dave lets himself in and drops his bag in the hallway, taking off his shoes and treading carefully as he makes his way upstairs, lest he wake the girls.

He gingerly opens the door of your bedroom and tiptoes inside. You are still asleep, your back to the door, nestled into the pillows and duvet. Soft, warm, and safe.

You have always been his safe place, his comfort. He longs for your softness, your warmth, the way he feels like nothing and no one on earth could ever touch him when he’s buried inside you.

Still fully clothed, he climbs into bed beside you and wraps an arm around you from behind, kissing your neck, your shoulders, and the skin of your upper back, exposed by your slip nightdress.

It doesn’t take long before you’re woken by Dave’s mouth seeking out every inch of your upper body. You turn to face him.

“Hi, my love. You’re home. Aren’t you early?”

Dave caresses your waist and hips, dark eyes looking at you with pure longing. “Only by a day. I just wanted to come home as soon as I could.” He leans down and sucks on your neck, making you writhe and whine with pleasure. “I wanted to come home to you.”

You hum with satisfaction and begin to unbutton his shirt, fingers working their way down towards the waistband of his pants. “That so?”

Your husband kisses you deeply, greedily, hard as you undress him, his tongue seeking entrance to your mouth and exploring it like it’s the first time.

He kicks off his dress pants and shucks off his shirt and under vest. You take in the sight of him, wearing only his black boxer briefs: his impossibly broad shoulders, his soft but solid tummy, the strength of his arms and his thighs, his beautiful face.

Your Dave.

The wetness is already starting to pool between your legs.

You straddle him, feeling his hard cock brush against your pussy as you hitch up your chemise. Dave reaches for you, hands gripping your thighs.

“Let me welcome you home properly, Mr York.”

His eyes widen as you peel off your nightdress and fling it into a corner of the room, leaving you completely bare and astride him. You lean forward, trailing your mouth down his chest and tummy. Dave pants and moans with pleasure, hips bucking a little and creating delicious friction against your clit as you work your way down his body.

You palm his cock, still inside his boxers, before carefully tugging them down. His dick springs free: hard, thick, heavy. Perfect.

Dave looks down at you and quirks an eyebrow. “You got plans, Mrs York?”

“Mmmm.” Your tongue flits across your lips, as if you’re admiring a delicious meal. “I got plans. But they’re gonna have to be quiet, Mr York, unless you want two little girls interrupting them.”

Dave chuckles and lowers his voice. And then he feels you. Tongue licking a stripe up the length of his cock, before playfully lapping at the base. The wet plumpness of your lips around the head, gently sucking on his erect cock and swirling your tongue and taking him inch by inch into your mouth as you hollow your cheeks.

“Fuck…fuck. You’re fucking incredible, baby.”

You smile to yourself at his praise. “I like giving my husband head, what can I say?”

Dave lets out a half-chuckle, half-groan as you work his dick with your hand, tipping him closer to the edge. It’s too soon. Too quick. He doesn’t want to come in your mouth, one way or another.

He motions with his head and you release his cock with a parting stroke.

“I need to taste you, baby,” he murmurs, already looking somewhat wrecked. “Get up here. Sit on my face, will you?”

You feel a little uncertain. It’s been a while since you’ve done this - sitting on his face, that is. Dave loves eating your pussy. But this… this is less frequent.

“Are you sure, baby?”

He looks at you in disbelief. “Never been more sure of anything. And do not say anything about your body or your weight. You’re fucking perfect. I need you, need to take you.”

Dave’s eyes are dark with lust, but not without that certain softness only you and the girls ever really see. Your heart swells at the sight and you shift forward to straddle your husband’s face, Dave carefully holding you in position and urging you down so that he can really taste and smell your sex.

“There’s only one condition,” Dave murmurs.

“Oh?”

“You’re going to have to be really quiet for me, too.”

Easier said than done when you have those lips and that tongue taking you apart with enthusiastic precision. Dave grunts and moans softly into your cunt as his mouth forms a tight seal around your folds, tongue flicking across your clit over and over as you grip the headboard with one hand and hold the other firmly across your mouth to stifle your cries.

He breaks away for a moment to slide a couple of fingers inside you before resuming his work, tongue pressing deliciously on your clit while his thick fingers fuck you, finding the sensitive spot he knows will trigger your release.

“C’mon, baby,” he groans, voice muffled between your soft thighs. “You’re so fuckin’ close.”

He can feel your pussy fluttering and tightening around his fingers, feel the wetness running onto his hand as he gets you off. You’re teetering on the edge - and come hard, all over his mouth and nose, screaming his name into the palm of your hand.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Dave purrs as you catch your breath, sitting up to caress and kiss your breasts as he moves you over and off him, onto your back. He grabs handfuls of you as his mouth roams all over your naked body, hips rutting against you and hard cock pressed against your mound. “I missed you. Missed your taste.”

“You going to fuck me, David?” Your voice is hushed, breathless, ragged: still boneless and taken apart, needing him to put you back together.

Dave’s dark eyes sparkle as he reaches down and spreads your legs wide. He gazes at your soaked pussy, puffy and ready for him, and smiles at the sheer mess he’s already made of you.

“I’m going to fuck you hard, babe. You tell me if it’s too much, okay? Just fucking want you. Fucking need you.”

You whine with arousal, affirm his instructions, and he shifts forward, one hand stroking his cock. He parts your folds with the other as he lines himself up to take you for the umpteenth time. Even so, the stretch of him as he enters you always makes you catch your breath a little.

Dave’s broad body hovers over yours as he bottoms out with a hiss, desperately trying not to make too much noise. “Jesus. You…fuck.”

You wrap your arms around his broad back and focus for a moment on the feeling of your husband stretching you, filling you, having you. “What is it, baby?” Your voice is a sultry whisper and it goes straight to Dave’s cock.

He’s barely holding it together. “Your…fuck, your p-pussy.”

“It’s all yours, baby. Feel how tight and wet I am for you - you fuckin’ love that, don’t you?”

“Gonna fuck you now,” Dave whines, unable to hold on any more. He starts slowly but the warm, delicious wetness of your cunt begs him to speed up, to build up to a more intense rhythm.

You forget yourself and whine, prompting him to bring his hand to your mouth. It only serves to stimulate you further as your back arches off the mattress.

“Want to hear you talk to me, babe,” Dave whispers, hips snapping as he fucks you harder and faster. “Quietly. But talk to me. Tell me.”

He loves dirty talk. You’re only too happy to oblige.

“Been missing this dick, baby. Missed you taking me like this - filling me up and fucking me so well.”

Dave’s expression and ragged breathing makes you sceptical he’ll last as long as he usually does. “Fuck. You touch yourself while I was away?”

You bite your lip to hold back a moan. “Yeah, I did,” you whisper, “Made myself come thinking about you, thinking about what you do to me. Thinking about your big cock, stretching me like this.”

He buries himself against your chest to disguise his cry as he fucks you like a man possessed. Your bedroom is taken over by the quiet soundscape of lovemaking: skin on skin, ragged breathing and muffled whines, creaking bed frame, and the lewd sound of your wetness.

“Been thinking the whole time about coming in you,” Dave mutters quietly as he pulls out briefly, turns you into your side, lifts up your leg, and thrusts back into you with ease. “Fucked my fist thinking about it, wishing I was filling you.”

He holds your belly with one hand and grabs your tit with another, bringing his mouth against your neck and shoulder and biting the delicate skin there as you whine into a pillow.

“Come in me, Dave. Fucking fill me up.”

He grunts in your ear as he drops a hand to your clit and traces tight circles over the swollen bud, holding you tight to him as you cry out. “Want to fill you until it takes,” Dave hisses, his rhythm starting to stutter and fall apart as he nears his release. “Fuck you over and over and over, give you another baby.”

You press your face into the mattress as you scream his name, coming undone on his cock.

“You want me to make you a mama again, babe?”

That does it. You come so hard it feels like you might pass out, and the throbbing of your pussy is enough to tip your husband over the edge, too. Dave comes with a moan that’s muffled by the soft skin of your upper back as he cries out your name and fills you with his spend.

***

The sun is up as you tiptoe back to bed from your en-suite bathroom, discarding your light silk robe as you nestle, naked, back into bed beside your beloved.

Dave pulls you close, humming contentedly as you rest your head on his warm chest and idly rub his soft tummy.

“Thank you for coming home early,” you murmur, eyes closing.

He holds you close and kisses your forehead. “I needed to come home,” he whispers. “Needed to get back to you. You’re my home, baby.”

[agentmarcuspike]

hi i'm ziggy (they/them) and i write on the internet! here's everything i've published

(* indicates smut, ≈ indicates angst)

THE LAST OF US joel & his kids

"i crawl home to her" (post-outbreak) ≈ synopsis: after being stabbed, joel floats in and out of consciousness, between then and now, before and after, and his two daughters, both saving him in their own ways. "lover, where do you live" (post-outbreak) ≈ based on the song with the same name, by highasakite "a promise softly sung" (pre-outbreak) synopsis: sarah crashes on her bike, joel freaks out

ellie williams

"mihá (pride)" (post-outbreak) ≈ based on the song with the same name, by mari boine

joel + f!reader

"naked in my bed"-series (dbf!joel, no outbreak) synopsis: after a date you end up in your neighbor, joel miller's, bed... with another man. joel doesn't seem to mind... – part 1, part 2, part 3*, part 4* "all my casualties of love" (post-outbreak) ≈* synopsis: Joel had decided to never love again. His brother left to find a different life, he lost his partner to the horrors, and now he finds himself wandering, gathering courage to end it all, secretly yearning for a reason not to. And then he finds her. And she ruins everything. "a minute from home" (biker!joel, no outbreak) synopsis: a mysterious man with a motorcycle saves you from a terrible date

THE PPCU marcus pike

“give and take” (pmamc 2024)* synopsis: marcus asks you for something he's wanted for some time... “cover me in you” (bf!marcus + gf!reader)* synopsis: your boyfriend marcus gives you everything you need. and you can’t get enough of him. “the longest night” (secret santa gift, nb!reader) synopsis: left alone in the big city during the longest night of the year, a stranger in a club makes you wish it were even longer.

javi peña

“let me fade away” (noncon, dead dove: do not eat) ≈* synopsis: javi catches you doing drugs in a public bathroom, and makes you pay

frankie morales

“two minutes” (triple frontier, frankie x f!dom) ≈* synopsis: after breaking up with you on a self sabotaging whim, frankie finds his way back into familiar arms to cope

dave york

“this godforsaken mess” (equalizer 2, dave x babysitter) * summary: the kids you babysit have a hot dad. you want him. he's married... but exactly how far can you go before the lines are crossed?

crossovers

“three's a crowd” (marcus pike x javi peña x f!reader) * synopsis: your boyfriend, marcus, asks you to hook up with his new good-looking colleague, javier peña. and he'd like to watch.

requests/prompts

javi peña + "leaving notes for them around the house"

joel miller + "painting their nails"

marcus pike + "getting the giggles together"

marcus pike + taylor swift ("you are in love")

twilight / tlou crackfic "sarah introduces joel to edward cullen"

i also write poetry sometimes, and make moodboards, if you're interested in that :-) (to follow along my process you can visit my writingroom tag)

header/divider by me, @saradika, @silkholland, @cafekitsune

[ghostofaboy]

Ghost of a Boy - Marcus Pike/Dave York Masterpost

Marcus Pike (The Mentalist) & Dave York (The Equalizer 2)

I like to pair these two up together and have a series of fics that sort of follow on from each other. This will be the one-stop shop for all things Marcus/Dave from me. As well as a place to find any other outings from either of them.

Kinktober '23 - Anonymous Sex

Explicit - 862 words | Pairing: Marcus Pike/Dave York Warnings: anal sex, rimming, anonymous sex

Kinktober '23 - Lingerie

Explicit - 470 words | Pairing: Marcus Pike/Dave York Warnings: lingerie, masturbation

Kinktober '23 - Group Sex

Explicit - 1253 words | Pairing: Marcus Pike/Dave York/Frankie Morales/Jack Daniels Warnings: anal sex, oral sex, group sex, foursome - m/m/m/m

Hold Please...

Summary: Dave decides to arrange a little get-together for him, Javier and Marcus. (Based on this post.)

Explicit - 2444 words | Pairing: Marcus Pike/Dave York/Javier Peña Warnings: Anal fingering, oral sex, anal sex, facial, orgasm denial, threesome - m/m/m

... Your Call Is Important

Summary: Direct sequel to Hold Please as Dave, Marcus and Javier continue their day together.

Explicit - 2457 words | Pairing: Marcus Pike/Dave York/Javier Peña Warnings: Oral sex, anal sex, double anal penetration, threesome - m/m/m

Purpose

Summary: Marcus has a very specific desire, and Dave is only too happy to assist.

Explicit - 789 words | Pairing: Marcus Pike/Dave York Warnings: Anal sex, breeding kink, Dom/sub elements

Marcus Pike NSFW Alphabet