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bonesxbows · 5 months ago

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Hope Comes In Many Forms (Drifter x Reader)

My Masterlist

The past is being repeated, and the drifter isn't particularly happy about it. But nevertheless he's right there to help you through it, no matter what it takes.

(WARNINGS) - graphic descriptions of self harm - descriptions of in game violence - relapsing

when you run out of comforting drifter fics to read, you begin to write your own

You sit on the floor of the derelict, a hallway secluded from the main platform. The entire ship was eerily silent, no gambit matches were scheduled for anytime soon and the silence was comforting to you in a strange way. You hadn’t been there for long, maybe ten minutes max, before the owner had found you. The drifter appeared on his platform, taken shadows surrounding him as he transmitted in from the tower. You watched as he blinked a couple of times and then looked around, without moving from the spot he arrived in.

“Alright hotshot, where are you hiding?” he calls out, like its a game of hide and seek. Although there is a slight note of annoyance in his tone, which makes your stomach churn. Your thoughts start spinning in your head like a merry-go-round, meaning that you don’t notice drifter walk over and kneel down in front of you. He takes in your appearance for a moment and then snaps his fingers in front of your face when he realizes that you're lost in your own head. You blink rapidly, trying to focus in on the reality around you. Your eyes bounce around for a while before focusing in on the drifter. He smiles softly, but the smile fades when your expression remains blank.

“...you okay there, sunshine?” he asks, scanning your body again to make sure he didn't miss anything the first time around. He looks back up to meet your eyes again, but the beautiful orbs aren't there to meet his. Your head is lowered, staring at your own fingers, a mixture of embarrassment and fear swirling inside of you. In truth, you weren’t okay, but explaining why was the last thing you felt like doing right now. You instead just shrugged your shoulders, hoping he would take that as a valid response.

To your dismay, the drifter wasn’t convinced in the first place, and your shrugging only confirmed what he believed to be true.

-A year and some odd days ago; the end of a gambit match directly to the derelict-

You transmitted into the derelict’s main stage, landing on your knees and hands. Blood sputtered from the back of your throat and onto the metal floor, causing you to cough and choke. The drifter rushed forward from the derelict’s back room, carrying a slightly rusted ammo box. He slid on his knees to get closer to you, opening the ammo box almost simultaneously. Your arms soon began to shake, having difficulty holding up your weakened self plus all the weight of your weapons and armor. Thankfully the drifter saw this, and helped you lay down, gently guiding you to the cold metal beneath you. The sudden coldness helped soothe the aches in and on your back, and helped the oncoming concussion pain from having your head slammed into a tree from the primeval. Soon you were losing consciousness, and the last thing you heard was drifter furiously calling out to your ghost, arguing with him to help more.

You woke up to a pounding that felt and sounded like a pissed off ogre was right outside the door, but opening your eyes revealed that you were still on the derelict, meaning that there was no ogre. You were, however, not where you remember arriving. Instead of the middle of the derelict’s stage, you found yourself in what you could only presume was drifter’s bed. You sat up, causing a splitting pain to cut through your spine and ribcage. You whimpered softly out of pain, not having any strength to fully scream, no matter how terrible the pain felt. You swallowed in a deep breath as best as you could, although you now figured out that breathing was going to be difficult with how bad your chest hurt. Looking down you found yourself in not the same attire you arrived in either, instead you now wore a jade green sweatshirt and black sweatpants, both which looked two sizes too big for you. You reached down to touch where the pain was still throbbing from, only to pull your hand back when you felt something that was not skin. The shirt hid a thick cotton wrapping of bandages around your chest and midsection, and although you couldn’t see it, the bandages hid three deep slash marks across your front and a bruise the color of a vandal’s cape adorning the length of your spine.

You inhaled as much air as you could without causing any pain and pushed yourself off of the bed, almost falling back on to it in the process. You found your footing though, and stabilized yourself by holding onto the nearby nightstand. When you tried to walk forward, however, you were only able to manage a few steps before your legs turned to liquified Light and your face met the floor. You would’ve said a few not child friendly terms from the amount of pain the misstep had caused had the fall not knocked your breath right out of you. You pushed yourself up with your hands, sitting up off the floor. Drifter frantically appeared in the doorway seconds later, hearing your fall. His eyes searched for you on the bed, but soon found you where you were currently on the floor. The worried look faded from his face when he saw that you weren’t in any immediate danger. He walked over to you and knelt down, smirked a little.

“Now i know this isn't where i left you.” he said, the smirk practically running off of his face and flowing down each word he spoke. Before you could say anything he scoops you into his arms, making it look as easy as picking up an engram, as if you weren’t a war hero, and places you back onto the bed; being gentle to not touch your torso too much in the process. You stayed silent as he scanned you over, making sure you hadn’t made anymore damage from your trip to the floor. Once he was satisfied and was sure you were safe, he sighed and sat down next to you.

“You mind telling me what happened, hotshot?” he asks you, his face going completely serious. Your eyebrows clash together, slightly confused by his question.

“You were there, watching the match, you saw what happened.” you told him, completely confused by his question. He had been there, well, maybe not physically, but he still saw what had happened; the way the primeval threw you around like you were its play thing, somehow not wounding you enough to kill you and also damaging your ghost bad enough that he was incapable of healing you. Drifter looks into your eyes, the blue in his own flickering against the dim light.

“Thats not what im talkin about.” he says, staring at you. When he sees the confusion spread along your face even further he looks down at your arms, folded into your lap. You follow his gaze. The back of your mind knows exactly what he’s about to mention next, but you're too caught up in the moment, and pain, to really comprehend whats going on. His fingers feel like feathers against your skin as he lifts your arm, using his other hand to push the sleeve of the sweatshirt up to your elbow, exposing a mess of red, purple, and brown slash marks splattered against the skin of your forearm like a child’s art project. The air around you two fell completely still, as if neither one of you were breathing. Drifter still stared at you, refusing to look at what he had exposed. You, on the other hand, weren’t sure where to look. Your eyes flickered from the drifter, to your arm, to your other hand still in your lap, to the floor; the mixture of emotions flowing through your mind collided with each other, making it hard to decide what to do. Drifter decided to break the silence however, his patience wearing thin.

“You going to answer me?” he asks. He’s still staring at you and he hasn’t moved at all, his fingers still holding onto your arm, still as light as a feather’s touch. You decide to look at him, albeit maybe just for a few seconds, but those few seconds are enough to make you want to burst into tears. He’s hurt, you can see it in his eyes, but he’s also upset. You look away as fast as you can, your vision becoming blurry and water logged. You sigh, trying to hold whatever pieces of yourself remain together. You look at the floor and try to give him an answer, although you already both know he knows the truth.

“The…..that’s not from today’s fight.” you managed to choke out, your words breaking like porcelain over rocks. He’s still staring at you, but you refuse to look at him.

“Then who did this? Where did these scars come from?” he asks, even though deep down he already knows the answer. He glances at the mess of marks on your skin, wanting to make them just disappear, but soon he’s back to staring at you. A small sob escapes you and you finally break, shattering into a million pieces.

“I did, okay? I did! Things get rough out there and i have to release stress somehow. I tell ghost not to heal them because i like them. I like the fact that a part of me is actually normal and that i bleed just like everyone else. No one was supposed to find out, especially not you.” you spurt out your words like a rambling child, yanking your arm from his grip and pulling them into your chest as you spoke, pulling the sleeve back down in the process. Tears now freely flow from your eyes and you try to muffle your cries with the overly long sleeves of the sweatshirt, keeping your inflicted arm as close to you as possible. Drifter listens to you speak, and then sighs, letting you calm down a bit before he does anything. You’re too lost in your own head to notice but he has pulled you into his arms, your face buried in his chest as he wraps you into an affirming hug, using his actions instead of his words to tell you everything he knows you want to hear. Once your sobs quiet down into small sniffles he starts to run his gloved fingers through your hair slowly.

-Back to the present-

There was a small patch of silence as he stared at your sorrowful figure. You however still kept your gaze on your clutched fingers. He sighed at one point, although you truthfully weren’t paying attention, and he sat down in front of you.

“Lemme see.” he asked firmly. He had already deduced what the situation was, although there was a sliver of hope left inside of you that hoped he was still clueless.

“See what?” you replied, your voice coming out more roughly than you desired. You winced at the sound, still refusing to look anywhere but downwards.

“You can deny it all you want, but we both know whats happenin here.” he said. He sounded concerned, and even maybe a bit upset, but he remained calm and spoke in a soft voice. “You did it again, didnt you?” he leaned forward.

You sniffled as hot tears began to pour down your cheeks uncontrollably. His suspicion was confirmed when you began to nod slowly, your whole form now shaking.

“You don't want to show me, do you?”

You shook your head as best as you could, considering your whole body was already shaking violently.

“Will you let Ghost heal them this time?”

Again, you shook your head. Your ghost materialized in quietly, hovering next to your head. Drifter glanced at him.

“Please pumpkin?” drifter pleaded. He rarely ever did so, but you were forever the exception to any personality rule he had set forth for himself, including this one. You finally looked up at him, and he nearly broke down crying himself. If anything could break the drifter, it was the sight of you being hurt, wether that be mentally, physically, or self inflicted. You stared at each other for a while, waiting for one to break and give in, and fortunately it was you.

You nodded slowly, turning to look at your ghost, who was also quite worried, as you pulled up the sleeve of your shirt, exposing the same forearm from the year before. Except this time there were less. There were still spots of brown, old scars that hadn't had the chance to fully heal just yet, but most of the marks from before were completely faded, not even noticeable unless you knew about them. There was, however, a small section that was once again a bright shade of red. Fresh marks that were bruised, the deeper cuts being a darker red than the rest, pink incompassing the surface around all of them. Drifter had to take a deep breath in steel himself when he saw. You glanced over at him at the same time he decided to look away form the scene. You looked up at your ghost, giving him a nod to start the process. Soon the bright reds, purples, and pinks were completely gone, not a single trace of them having ever been cut remained. Drifter looked back when the sounds from the light being used had stopped, sighing from relief.

Your ghost decided to leave when he was done, letting you two have the moment for yourselves. You were scared to look at drifter and you remained still, not sure what move to make next. Thankfully though you didn't have to decide on what to do as drifter closed the space between you two, pulling you into a tight and comforting hug, pulling the sleeve down in the process.

“Im not gonna ask why, or when, or anything like that. But just remember that i’m always here. Anytime, anywhere. You just call and im there. You can get through this. No matter how much time it takes. N’ i’ll be right there with ya every step of the way.” drifter told you, kissing the top of your head softly when he finished. You nuzzled your head into his chest as a thank you, and he again began to run his fingers through your hair slowly.

#my writings #drifter destiny #drifter x reader #destiny 2 drifter #destiny 2 #destiny 2 fanfic

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multi-fan-dom-madness · 1 year ago

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Sooooo I may be a little in love with Drifter 🥺 because of that could we possibly get "your body was made for mine" or "i'll take good care of you, i promise." Whichever you think fits him more (or honestly any other of the prompts I'll take any of em!)

DEEJA!!! I'm just as excited by this ask as the day you submitted it, and I'm still just alandjsjamal over the fact that you asked for my boy Drifter!! I hope this feeds the brainrot <3

Favors and Promises

Summary: After returning from a long campaign, Drifter has only one thing on his mind.

Warnings: 18+ minors get away; f!reader x OC Captain Drifter, oral (f receiving), some slight angst, quiet yet intense feelings, I'm feral for this man & he's from my own brain

Word Count: 717

A/N: Three smut drabbles in one night! no idea where this all is coming from but I won't complain. if you'd like to learn more about Drifter, you can read here, here, and here!

Drifter stands at the edge of your bed, still in his full kit of armor. Only his helmet is removed, tucked under his forearm, propped on his hip. The scuffed forest green paint makes your heart squeeze for a moment, your perceptive eyes picking out all the new scratches and missing flakes of paint that catalog all the near misses he had on this latest deployment. At the very least, his face seems free of any new scars; his eyebrow piercing glints dully just the same. But the ache in your chest only soothes when he tilts his head, his dark gaze catching yours. His eyebrows lift in a silent question.

“Missed you,” is all you say. It’s all you can say—there are not enough words to express how grateful you are that he’s returned to you.

The ghost of a smile graces his features. He’s tired, that much you can tell; but there’s something else lingering in his glimmering amber eyes, something deeper, hungrier, that makes your blood thrill.

“Drifter?” you say, voice hushed, barely audible over the rushing of the incessant Coruscanti skylane traffic.

“Sarad,” he hums. “Can I ask a favor of you?”

Pushing yourself away from the snuggly cocoon of pillows and blankets, you sit up a little straighter. The low rumble of his voice washes over your skin with a shiver. You’re certain the goosebumps that erupt over your bare arms has nothing to do with the arousal pooling in your belly, and everything to do with the chill of the conditioned air.

“Of course, love.” You offer a smile.

He appraises you for a moment in silence. The longer he remains still, the shallower your breathing becomes. His gaze trails down your form, lingering on your bare shoulder where your shirt has slipped down and on your parted thighs where you sit cross-legged. You watch the subtle way he shifts his stance that can only mean one thing—and sure enough, his codpiece doesn’t quite lay flush as it should.

“Let me make you cum on my tongue,” he finally says. “Please.”

Your lips part in a gasp of “oh,” and then you nod frantically, shoving the sheets out of the way. Drifter doesn’t even bother to remove any of his armor, just sets his helmet on the ground with a soft thud before crawling over the bed to you. His lips find yours in a heated kiss, his beard scratching your face in a familiar, soothing burn. You moan into his mouth.

“Missed you,” you repeat, words muffled against his lips, “so much.”

“Me too,” he says. He nudges your face to the side with his nose, then presses hot, open-mouthed kisses down your cheek to your neck. When he laves over the one spot he knows drives you crazy, you arch into him, your hands finally flying to find purchase. One hand buries into his soft curls; the other hastily shoves your sleep shorts down over the swell of your ass.

Drifter nibbles at the juncture of your neck and shoulder as one of his gloved hands trails between your thighs and draws a feather-light trail up your folds. Whimpering, you drag his face back to yours to devour him, teeth clacking together and tongues sliding over one another.

He pushes you firmly onto your back, then pulls away. His eyes are wild with lust; without breaking eye contact, he shuffles down the bed and slings your legs over his pauldrons. The cold plastoid armor makes you hiss, but the discomfort is very quickly forgotten as soon as his hot mouth seals over your pussy and moans.

Fingers tangling in his hair, you catch your bottom lip between your teeth as his tongue darts out to draw light circles around your clit. You dig your heels into his armor, pushing him down into the bed and closer to you.

“D-Drift,” you mumble.

He licks a stripe up your cunt with the flat of his tongue. Already his face bears signs of your arousal, the dark hairs along his upper lip and chin shiny with slick. You whine when he pulls away.

“Shh, shh, mesh’la,” he croons. “I’ll take good care of you, I promise.”

He’s never broken a promise to you before, and he certainly doesn’t intend to start tonight.

Ragu: @dystopicjumpsuit @clonemedickix @freesia-writes @littlemissmanga @wolffegirlsunite @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @sinfulsalutations @523rdrebel @sunshinesdaydream @moonlightwarriorqueen @sev-on-kamino @starrylothcat @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @mandos-mind-trick @idontgetanysleep @eyeluvmusic21 @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @sleepycreativewriter @bobaprint @lem-hhn @thorsterstrudle @droids-you-are-looking-for @goblininawig @cw80831 @dreamie411 @jedi-hawkins @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @9902sgirl @originalcollectionartistry

#clone oc x reader #oc x reader #captain drifter x reader #drifter x reader #rhiwrites #rhiplies #oc: Clone Captain Drifter #my ocs #my blorbos #star wars oc

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bettyfrommars · 10 months ago

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One More Night

older!Eddie x afab!Reader

Eddie survived the upside down and has been on the road ever since. one day he meets you and decides to stay in town a bit longer. He has a lot of scars both inside and out. This can be read as a smutty standalone but it was inspired by drifter!eddie and oregon!eddie. He is in the age range of 30-50 in these au's.

just more proof that Eddie Lives.

other short stories

18+ONLY, MDNI please, smut, unprotected piv, oral for all, fingering, creampie, use of she/her, mutual pining, monsterfucking only if you squint.

wc: 1.4k

“I haven’t done this in a while,” Eddie said, exhaling a shaky breath.

You were standing just inside the door of his motel room, hands fisting the t-shirt material at his ribs under the heavy leather of his jacket, wordlessly begging to feel his skin on yours. His hands were at your hips, kneading the meat there in time with his heartbeat, and he'd wanted you so bad for so long, he thought he might bust a seam on his jeans.

“It’s been a while for me, too,” you hummed against his throat, dragging your lips back and forth under his earlobe with the two hoop piercings before you sucked it into your mouth for a nibble. “But I hear it’s like riding a bike.”

God, he smelled so good. Not like the last guy you’d been on a date with who wore so much cologne it blinded your senses, but a mix of Irish Spring soap, motor oil, and campfire. The way skin smells after you’ve hiked in nature and soaked up the sun.

He’d been living at the motel for the past few months, pumping gas and slinging wrenches up the road, thinking he’d take off again in the spring, but then he met you, and something inside of him began to blossom out of the cold, dead rot in his veins.

He took your face in his hands and his kisses were starved; depraved, even. Clothing came off almost in a panic, each of you raw with the urgency to cure a bad case of mutual loneliness.

You made your way down his chest, hands caressing every inch of his bare flesh in the dim of the gold lamp light, reading the braille of a man on the run from himself.

You got to your knees when you pushed his jeans and boxers down, they fell to the ground with a thump from his wallet and chain. He groaned when your soft lips went around the head of his cock, aching at the warmth of your acceptance. A few searching kisses along his shaft and he was trembling; it had been so long since he’d let someone touch him.

You were being so tender, as if he were fragile, as if he could break at any moment—as if you knew.

“Tell me what you like?” You slowly stood to full height, stuttering a self-conscious laugh. “Maybe I’m not as good at this as I thought.”

“No, you're so perfect,” he blurted, easing you back onto the bed, nudging your legs apart gently with his knee. He searched your eyes, “I want to see you.”

You shivered when his knuckles found the slick mess between your legs. He was staring at your face, shifting his weight, watching your pleading reaction as you whimpered, “pleasepleasepleaseFuckplease.”

He licked in swirls down your stomach, you had scars there too. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered into the hair just above your prize, his hot breath on a secret place you hadn’t shared in a while.

His tongue found its home, and then rolled there like a crocodile with its prey.

The way he devoured you made you arch back on the mattress and wail.

“Th-that..that feels so good,” you clutched onto his head between your legs, digging your fingers into his hair, and he reached up to put his hand on top of yours, encouraging your guidance.

It had been days since he remembered smiling, but he did then, against your heat, reveling in the way you shook and clung to him.

He sank two fingers in and let out a long moan, unable to stop himself from thrusting against the bed, precum leaking from his tip.

“More,” you writhed, clinging to the comforter, and he slipped a third in.

He felt the fluttering contraction and went deeper, hungrily lapping up whatever you could give him. He heard you trying to speak but it only came out in gasps and whimpers, chanting his name like a prayer.

The hunger of the moment overtook him and, before he could stop himself, he growled.

It was the type of sound an animal would make, low and guttural, and it made your head snap up in surprise at the vibration of it.

Staring back at you from the end of the bed, his pupils glowed garnet red.

In a post-orgasm haze, you must’ve imagined it. In a blink then they were normal again; dark orbs rimmed in white, watching you curiously.

He lowered his head to brush his lips over your swollen, soaked cunt. “Do you think she could handle another one?”

“Come up here with me?” Your voice was a rasp, and you did not have to ask him twice.

“I’m all yours,” he said with a wiggle of his brows, scooping you up to roll you over on the bed, and you squealed at how strong he was.

On top, you wasted no time guiding his throbbing length inside, straightening to work your way down and ease into it, throwing your head back.

He cursed at how well you took him, darting his hips up to meet you. He loved seeing you like this, loved watching your face when you began to move. He licked his thumb and forefinger and plucked at one of your nipples.

What if he stayed another week?

Your eyes squeezed shut and he wondered if you had noticed what happened a few moments ago.

He’d lost himself back there, had felt himself going through the change at the peak of your arousal.

That...thing he’d been carrying with him all those years since he’d almost died in the Upside Down was awake, and it was at his door, knocking.

Bang bang bang.

Let me in, it hissed in a voice that sounded very much like his own. Let me have her.

It couldn’t have you, not ever.

You were a sweet piece of heaven to him, a safe haven where he could forget who he was for however long he had with you.

You screamed that you were close again, and his thumb was at your clit as you bounced. “Eddie, oh fuck, oh god!”

“I can't believe how good you feel," he grunted. "You gonna cum for me again baby, yeah?” He planted his feet on the mattress for leverage.

He’d been able to cum before without changing, but with you it was different.

You’d awakened something…feral.

Before he could think too much about it, your walls were rippling around him, and he poured hot and heavy inside of you. His whole body spasmed, and you were both making incomprehensible sounds, speaking in tongues.

There was so much cum, he could feel it spilling out, and he just kept pounding it in, lost in a release so intense, it felt as if he were melting into the bed.

Breathless, you collapsed to his chest, each of you sweaty and glistening and gasping for gulps of air.

“Holy shit, I don’t think...I’ve ever…cum so hard…in my life…” you were trying to remember how to speak with your cheek pressed into his shoulder, unable to move.

He curled his arms around you, turning to plant his lips on the back of your head as he spoke. “Does that mean we could do this again?”

What was he talking about? He couldn’t see you again, he had to get out of town. Hit the road. Get back to his longtime lover, the lonely highway. Eat dust and burn rubber. Everything he touched turned to shit, and the people close to him always got hurt

Or worse.

He cared about you enough to leave you.

But not that night

He would allow himself this, just a few more hours

To feel you fall asleep in his arms

To twitch and snore and breathe you in

He asked if you were comfortable when he pulled the covers up, painting kisses along your shoulder.

He spooned you like you were his missing puzzle piece, the one he thought was long gone, tucked down somewhere in the couch cushion, and you reached a hand up to intertwine your fingers with his.

You hadn’t been sleeping well at all the past few weeks, but as your breathing found his rhythm, your eyes fluttered, and you drifted. The last thing you remembered thinking was how long it had been since somebody held you.

You were too relaxed to notice that the hand you held was no longer human.

The hand you held had claws.

#Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson smut #drifter!eddie #oregon!eddie #Eddie Lives #Eddie Munson fic #eddie munson x afab reader #smut

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syndicate-of-swing · 11 months ago

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How the Drifters would hug you and/or cuddle with you

VENTURA CITY DRIFTERS (Alina, Emily, Sahara, Violet, Rose) X READER

VCD, and this art, was created by sonokido. Go read it at once.

A/N: I wrote this while playing a Cold War submarine simulator.

Alina Scratch

LOVES to be the little spoon.

Feeling your arms wrapped around her soothes all her worries about not meeting her team's expectations.

It's like the world just melts away for her when you hold her like that.

Plus, she ain't that tall, so she fits perfectly into you.

If she's feeling particularly down (i.e. if the Drifters lost a game), she'll lay her head on your chest and listen to your heartbeat.

She falls asleep almost immediately.

Emily Lang

Your head.

Her lap.

NOW.

Picks you up and sets you down on her couch, setting your head on her thighs.

Will run her fingers through your hair while the two of you watch whatever action movie's just been thrown onto Netflix.

In bed, she is always the big spoon.

She wraps her strong arms around you and she does not let go.

Oh, you need to get up and go to work?

Nope. Call in sick.

Sahara Taylor

Back hugs.

LOTS of back hugs.

She adores scooting up behind you, wrapping her arms around you, and resting her head on your shoulder.

Snuggling with her isn't really a matter of who's what spoon.

You two will be facing each other, limbs tangled around each other, bodies pressed against each other.

Due to her injury and the exhaustion it causes her, she doesn't stay up long when you cuddle, usually just conking out a few minutes into your snuggle session.

Violet Naire

Always wants to make you feel safe.

Big spoon, your head on her chest, doesn't matter.

As long as you're secure in her arms, she's content.

Knowing that you feel safe with her makes her really happy.

If she's having a rough day, she'll just walk up to you and hug you.

Neither of you talk, you just stay like that for a while.

Eventually, she'll let go with a muttered "thank you" before going about whatever she was previously doing.

If she's feeling more vulnerable, she might let out a little "I love you" before she lets go.

Please hug her, she needs it. :(

Rose Naire

She is always clinging onto you in some way.

Sitting down and doing homework? She is now sitting in your lap and being extraordinarily distracting.

Trying to lay down? Congratulations, you now have a very hyperactive weighted blanket.

Speaking of which, you will need to buy an actual weighted blanket just to keep her still when you two cuddle.

And when you do, she is a great cuddler.

The positive affirmations will not stop at any point, of course. She loves you too much not to constantly tell you so.

#ventura city drifters #ventura city drifters x reader #reader insert #self insert #writing #fanfic

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batmanlovesnirvana · 2 months ago

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Chapter five | The American dream.

masterlist

universe : Reeves, the batman 2022

pairing : battinson!bruce wayne x fem!OC

words : +9k

author's note : Hello to my loyal readers !! If you’re new here, welcome !!! This chapter is packed with angst—seriously, a lot of it… So brace yourselves. We’ll delve into Maryam’s struggles, and I’d love to hear your thoughts. English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes… As always, don’t hesitate to comment; I genuinely enjoy reading your feedback, and it motivates me to keep writing :) Also, this chapter is dedicated to @gaypoetsblog bc your reblog meant so much to me and helped me finish the chapter 🫶🏽

I’m thinking of starting a taglist, so if anyone’s interested, please let me know in the comments :)

cw : Maryam going through an existential crisis, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, depression, ptsd, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

THE NIGHT AIR slipped through the cracked window like a whispered secret, cool and heavy with the weight of unshed tears, brushing against Maryam's skin as if it knew the burden she carried.

She pushed open the glass of her kitchen window to enter her apartment, the familiar creak of the hinges barely registering in her tired mind.

Finally, she was alone.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, her hands went to the scarves draped around her neck and head, tugging them free. The fabric fell to the floor in soft waves, revealing sweat-slicked skin and disheveled hair.

She didn’t bother turning on the lights; she knew the space by heart.

The shadows were her refuge, offering quiet sanctuary after the whirlwind of the night. She moved through the room like a ghost, her bare feet making no sound against the cold tile.

In the silence, her thoughts caught up with her—the weight of everything she had pushed down, shoved aside, now rushing back.

Her body felt heavier with each step toward the bathroom, the scent of Gotham's streets clinging to her suit like a second skin. She trailed her fingers along the edge of the countertop as she made her way in. Inside, the soft click of the door closing felt like a final seal against the outside world.

She flicked on the light. Its harsh glare bounced off the mirror, exposing a truth she could no longer avoid.

The violet bruise on her brow stared back at her, dried blood in a thin line across the cut, a crusted reminder of the night’s violence. She muttered a curse under her breath—it's going to be hard to hide that. Her skin was still smudged with dirt from the alley.

Bracing her hands against the sink, she leaned in to inspect the damage, touching the wound gingerly, wincing at the sting. It wasn’t deep, but still noticeable.

Sighing, she straightened and began peeling away the rest of her clothing. First, her cloak, then her suit—her fingers moving methodically, though her muscles ached with stubborn fatigue.

The Wraith was shedding her armor, piece by piece. With each discarded layer, she felt a small part of herself return.

Next came the contact lenses.

Carefully, she removed them, blinking as her natural hazel eyes, tinged with a yellow-green sheen under the light, came into focus.

But it wasn’t her eyes that held her attention.

Dressed only in her bra and panties, her eyes fixated on the constellation of bruises that marked her body—a silent testament to the fight, to the brutality of her return to the streets. Dark violet shadows bloomed along her ribs, and bruises traced her tibia. She lifted her leg onto the counter, examining them more closely under the yellow light. At least there were no cuts, save for the one on her brow.

For a moment, she simply stared at herself. The woman in the mirror looked like a stranger—scarred, beaten, but still standing.

But beneath the bruises, the cuts, the exhaustion—anger simmered.

And she knew tonight had only been the beginning.

Then, without warning, tears pooled in her eyes.

She hadn’t expected them, hadn’t realized how close they were to the surface until her chest tightened, and the raw ache began to spread through her throat. She placed a trembling hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the sob that was clawing its way out, but it was too late.

Her red-rimmed eyes betrayed her, and the sob broke free, echoing through the cold, sterile bathroom.

It wasn’t just the physical pain or the exhaustion. It was everything. The years on the streets, the things she had seen, the violence that had become a constant in her world—it all came crashing down at once. It was too much.

She hated this life.

Hated every inch of the skin she had just shed—the suit, the cloak, the Wraith. It was a mask she’d worn since she was barely ten years old. It wasn’t some romantic notion of justice or a heroic vigilante life.

No.

It was a prison.

From the moment she was taken in, she had been molded into this.

She thought she'd escaped it two years ago, but somehow, she always found her way back—like an addict drawn to a drug.

Her training was not empowering; it was soul-crushing torture, a brutal crucible that shattered her spirit and forged her into a weapon for the greedy hands that sought to control her. Each blow felt like a countdown, a clock ticking down to the moment she would either break or become something darker.

Beaten and broken, she transformed into a tool, a phantom of vengeance, for those who saw her not as a person but as a means to an end. In the shadows, she learned to embrace the pain, channeling it into a deadly precision that left no room for doubt. Each lesson carved away at her innocence, leaving only a relentless hunger for survival and a chilling resolve to escape the chains that bound her.

Fish Mooney, the merciless gangster who had held the reins of her life from the very beginning, had stripped her of her innocence, her will, and her freedom. In the beginning, she wore the name Madam like a shroud, even as she felt the chill of its implications. Mooney's sweet words, laced with sickening honey, wrapped around her like a noose, promising a kind of safety that was always a mirage.

She was the definition of a witch, weaving a web of knowledge and manipulation, knowing the darkest secrets of everyone, especially Maryam's. This power was her weapon, used to threaten and terrify, ensuring Maryam’s compliance with every command.

To Mooney, she was a prized possession—a little spy, a puppet sculpted to perfection, a wraith in service of her sinister ambitions.

When Maryam first set foot on American soil with her family, she unknowingly crossed into a world where debts were owed and innocence was a luxury long expired. As the eldest, the burden fell on her—she was chosen to pay the price for dreams wrapped in deception.

Her family could do nothing but watch, their voices stifled by fear as threats loomed like shadows over their fragile existence. They warned her of the dangers, but what could they say to the merciless people who held their lives in the balance?

Nothing.

Nada.

So they stood by, hearts heavy, as she was engulfed by the seductive lies of the American dream, ensnared in the web of blackmail and veiled threats that hung like a storm cloud over their family.

They watched, helpless, as their little girl transformed into a hollow shell, caught in the very corruption that had promised freedom yet shackled her to a life of fear and deceit.

With each passing day, as she morphed into a mere instrument for the greedy, the weight of her family's helplessness settled over her like a leaden shroud. Yet, within this suffocating nightmare, a flicker of defiance began to blaze—an ember ignited by heartbreak and desperation, a fierce will to reclaim her stolen innocence and escape the clutches of a world intent on devouring her whole.

But amidst all this turmoil, becoming the Wraith was never a choice.

No— it was a matter of survival, stripped bare of all illusions and pretense, leaving only the raw, unyielding instinct to endure.

She had seen things no child should ever see. Blood, cruelty, the endless cycle of violence.

Gotham devoured its own, and she had been thrown into the thick of it before she even understood what it meant to live.

The things she had done—things she had been forced to do—were never for any noble cause. It wasn’t about protecting the innocent or stopping crime.

It was about serving those who had power over her, doing their bidding, becoming their weapon.

The memories flooded back, each one more painful than the last. The nights spent alone on rooftops, watching the city eats itself of corruption. The cold steel of a knife in her hand, the way it felt when she was ordered to hurt someone. The screams, the fear in their eyes—those were the things that haunted her. Not the criminals, but the fact that she had become just as ruthless.

She hated herself for it.

Hated the Wraith, hated the mask, hated the world that had forced her into this life. Vigilantism wasn’t heroism—it was a cage.

A brutal reality where she had no choice but to become what others wanted her to be. And the worst part? She had never known another way.

Maryam Ben Halimi was the embodiment of the immigrant struggle, a quiet girl sitting in the back of the classroom with wide, restless eyes.

She poured herself into her studies, each late night and early morning spent hunched over textbooks a defiant act against a world determined to render her invisible.

Yes, she made it to medical school, driven by the crushing weight of her family's dreams pressing heavily on her narrow shoulders.

Yet, the emptiness remained, a chasm within her that no amount of achievement could fill.

Often, she found herself questioning how she managed to survive medical school while Fish Mooney lurked in the shadows, her suffocating demands as oppressive as Gotham's thick summer humidity. Mooney had her hands deep in Maryam’s life, ever ready to drag her back into darkness if she dared to stray too far.

But somehow, against all odds, Maryam triumphed, donning the title of Doctor like a hard-earned badge of honor— a promise she had made to her parents before their lives were cruelly extinguished.

The day she received her diploma was supposed to be a celebration, a moment of triumph.

Yet it felt more like a double-edged sword.

That piece of paper not only represented her hard work; it signified the end of her obligation to Mooney.

That day, she was free of the Madam.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she drew in a breath untainted by fear, the shackles of her past finally falling away. It was a bittersweet victory, her heart swelling with pride even as the ghosts of her past hovered at the edges of her consciousness.

But beneath that fragile surface, weariness coursed through her veins.

She was tired—tired of battling invisible demons that raged within her, tired of pretending she could shoulder the weight of her life alone, tired of wearing the mask that had been pressed upon her for so long.

Though she no longer worked for Mooney or her clients, the memories lingered like an unwanted specter, always lurking just out of sight.

The nightmares, too, were relentless reminders of the wars that had marred her childhood, the chaos and destruction that had driven her from her homeland.

Each night, she carried those haunting images and sounds into her dreams, a heavy burden coloring her waking hours. She woke up screaming, grasping at shadows, and even the therapists she consulted couldn’t unlock the depth of her torment.

There were some truths too dark to share, especially with her remaining family, who could never truly understand. For them, the subject of Mooney was taboo, a whisper that could shatter the silence they clung to, while the past loomed as a silent monster, lurking in the shadows of their lives.

In her family, like many immigrant families, when something was wrong, silence reigned supreme.

They had mastered the art of avoidance, burying their grief beneath layers of unspoken words, pretending nothing had ever happened.

But Maryam could not shake the feeling that something was profoundly amiss, that her life was a web of contradictions—of duty, survival, and the relentless pursuit of an identity she could never quite grasp.

As she navigated the churning waters of her existence, the Wraith lingered in the background, a haunting reminder of the girl she had been and the woman she had been forced to become.

And so, for once, she allowed herself to cry.

Cry for the life she could never have.

Cry for the bruises on her body that told the story of a woman who had never been free.

She wept for the dreams that lay shattered at her feet, buried under the weight of expectations and the relentless demands of survival.

It was like a release, a desperate attempt to reclaim pieces of herself that had long been buried beneath the façade of the Wraith.

Her chest tightened, and her breathing became shallow.

Instinctively, she reached up to rub her neck, her fingers pressing into the tense muscles, trying to force herself to calm down. But it wasn’t working. The memories clawed at her, tearing through the thin layer of control she’d tried to hold onto.

Her hand slipped from her mouth, fingers trembling as she pressed them against her eyes, rubbing as if she could erase the blurry vision. But the world kept spinning, becoming more surreal with every passing second.

And then she heard it.

The screams—hollow, haunting, echoing in the silence.

Her heart lurched, and her breath caught as the sound of her mother’s voice echoed in her mind—a desperate scream that cut through her like a knife.

She could almost feel herself being pulled back into that moment—when everything changed.

Gunshots.

They rang out like explosions in her mind, and she gasped for air, her pulse racing wildly.

Serbian voices barked harsh commands—words she couldn’t understand, but their cruelty was unmistakable. They had been everywhere that night, flooding her home like locusts, devouring everything in their path. Her father’s face flashed in her mind, twisted with fear as he tried to protect them.

But the gunshots—the terrible, piercing gunshots—had silenced him.

Her vision swam. The bathroom lights were too bright, her breathing too loud. She could still hear the screams, the gunfire, the chaos of that night. She wasn’t here anymore, but trapped in that nightmare.

Her fingers dug into the sink, gripping it as if it were the only thing anchoring her to reality.

But it wasn’t enough.

The Serbs’ voices, their boots pounding on the floor, her mother’s terrified cries—they overwhelmed her.

Her heart raced, breaths coming in short gasps. She wasn’t the Wraith now.

She wasn’t Maryam.

She was just a little girl again, watching as her world was ripped apart.

Her hands shook violently, her knuckles white as she gripped the sink harder.

“Breathe,” she told herself, but it didn’t help. The walls were closing in, memories consuming her. She saw her father fall, heard her mother scream—it all played out like a nightmare she couldn’t wake from.

Desperate, she opened the medicine cabinet and fumbled for her pills, her fingers trembling as she grabbed two bottles— Sertraline for PTSD, Prazosin for nightmares, and Lexapro for depression.

She swallowed them quickly, chasing them down with an ibuprofen for good measure, ignoring the bitter taste that lingered in her mouth.

It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough.

Next, she opened the glass door of the shower.

Stripping off the rest of her clothes, she stepped in, wincing as the warm water hit her sore muscles and cuts. It soothed her aching body, but she didn't linger. She was too tired. She just wanted to sleep.

Before that, though, she had to take her diabetes meds—something she hadn't done in two days. With everything that had been going on, she'd forgotten to take care of herself, and the familiar wave of guilt rose in her chest. She quickly washed her hair and body, feeling the exhaustion seep into her bones.

When she finished, she stepped out of the shower and slipped into a bathrobe, pulling the soft sleeves over her arms and tying it snugly around her waist. The mirror was fogged up from the steam, so she wiped a hand across it.

Her reflection stared back at her, and her stomach plummeted. The jagged cut beside her right eyebrow stood out sharply against her once sun-kissed skin, now a sickly shade of pale, swollen and inflamed.

She grabbed the first aid kit, her movements mechanical as she cleaned and dressed the wound, pressing gauze against the cut to stem any remaining blood. Her hands moved with a tired efficiency, applying a sterile bandage over the area.

When she was done, she slipped into her pyjamas, the soft fabric a small comfort against the cold air.

Then came the part she dreaded.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the case for her blood glucose meter. Pricking her finger, she watched the small droplet of blood form before pressing it to the test strip. The familiar beep from the meter told her what she already knew—her blood sugar was too high.

Sighing, she reached for her insulin pen. After attaching a fresh needle, she dialed the correct dose, pinching the skin on her stomach before inserting the needle and pressing the plunger.

The medication stung as it went in, but she was used to it.

When she was done, she placed the pen back in its case, rubbing her eyes as the fatigue finally hit her full force.

She snuggled under the covers, pulling them close as the warmth enveloped her aching body. Reaching for her phone, she quickly scrolled through the missed messages from the night.

As expected, the family group chat was filled with the usual chatter. Aunt Meysa had sent more links to prayers, while Uncle Fawzi shared pictures from the local market—cucumbers were apparently at a low price.

She rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips despite her exhaustion.

And, of course, there were Aunt Jamila's long-winded voice messages, probably about something trivial.

Warda had shared pictures of little shoes she'd bought for her unborn child, prompting everyone in the group to coo in excitement.

Baya, Aunt Jamila's daughter, sent a few shots of Big Ben from her time in London—just the usual family stuff.

After a quick glance at those, she moved on to other messages. There were over a hundred from Sherine, and she sent a quick reply, telling her she was fine. Well, a lie, but Sherine didn't need to know the truth right now.

Tammi had sent an article about the drops, she skimmed through it. Nothing she didn't already know.

Setting her phone to charge on the nightstand, she turned her gaze toward the balcony. Outside, Gotham was its usual icy, chaotic self—couples arguing, police sirens wailing, people swearing at each other.

Just another night in dear old Gotham.

Her apartment didn't offer a spectacular view of the city, but from her bed, she could still make out a few stars flickering in the night sky. Her eyelids grew heavier by the second.

Exhausted to her core, she let sleep pull her under.

The dim light from the kitchen barely illuminated the cramped apartment, cluttered with unpaid bills scattered across the counter.

Batman's eyes lingered on one of the envelopes, its name reading Selina Kyle, before the TV caught his attention. The broadcast blared a grim headline :

‘Serial Killer Claims Credit for Second Victim in Two Days — GCPD Commissioner Murdered.’

His jaw tightened beneath the cowl.

Selina came in, visibly rattled, guilt shadowing her sharp features. "Jesus, what are they going to do to her? She's just a kid," she muttered, her voice wavering with worry. "And now they know who I am too. They took my phone, everything—"

She caught sight of Batman staring at the TV, which displayed a disturbing video.

The Riddler's eerie, altered voice filled the room as a newscaster warned viewers of the graphic content.

The screen showed the killer, his face obscured by a green hood and a question mark scrawled over his chest, taunting Gotham with another murder.

The camera panned to Commissioner Savage, bound and trapped with rats circling him, his muffled screams cut short as the video ended abruptly. A photo of the Commissioner, smiling in happier times, replaced the grim scene.

"Holy shit," Selina whispered, her eyes narrowing. "I've seen that guy too. At the club."

Batman tilted his head slightly. "The Iceberg Lounge?"

Selina shook her head, her voice low. "The 44 Below. It's the club within the club—where the real stuff happens. It's a mob hangout."

He stayed silent for a moment, then asked, "That's where you work?"

She shot him a glance, caught off guard. "I work at the bar upstairs, but yeah, I see them."

"Who?" he pressed, his tone unyielding.

"People who shouldn't be there. The ones who act all respectable in public... but they're not fooling anyone. I'm not stupid. I know what's going on."

Their eyes locked, his unrelenting gaze not letting her off the hook. "You're going to help me. For your friend."

She stiffened, then took a slow breath.

"Do you know the Wraith?" he asked, almost like it was an afterthought.

Selina blinked, clearly thrown by the question. "The Wraith?" She turned toward the fridge, grabbing a carton of milk. "Yeah, I've heard of her." She took a sip, the cold liquid contrasting the tension in the room. "Kind of a myth, though, right? Some people don't even believe she's real."

Batman's only response was a grunt, deep and unreadable.

Selina let out a faint smirk, shaking her head as she set the milk down on the counter. "It's funny, really. The rich, the mob—they call her 'The Wraith,' like she's some shadow they can't pin down. But the people on the streets? They call her 'Lady Justice.'" She crossed her arms, the leather of her suit creaking, her brow furrowing as she thought back. "I saw her a few times in the Narrows, years ago. Then she just... vanished. No one's seen her since."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Selina admitted, her voice softening. "But I used to look up to her. She didn't seem real, like something out of a legend."

Batman didn't respond, slipping back into the shadows as the faint sound of police sirens echoed through the streets outside. His cape whispered against the floor. "You're not safe here," he muttered before disappearing.

"I can take care of myself," Selina shot back abruptly, her voice sharp.

But he was already gone.

She turned her attention to the TV, the grim news continuing its endless cycle.

The newscaster's voice echoed through the apartment. "...with two public figures dead in just the last two nights, and only days before the election, police and city officials are left scrambling for answers, hoping to catch the killer before he strikes again."

Maryam had barely gotten three hours of sleep when the shrill sound of her phone jolted her awake.

Groaning, she blinked her heavy eyelids open, her muscles screaming in protest as she blindly reached for the phone on her bedside table. Her hand flopped around, knocking over her lamp, her alarm clock, and a book before finally landing on the ringing device.

She squinted at the screen.

Jamie G.

Great.

She glanced at the time: 5:20 a.m.

What the hell do they want now?

With a sigh, she swiped to answer. Before she could speak, Gordon's voice came through, rushed and stressed.

"Mar, I need you to come right now. I'm in front of your building—"

"What?" Her voice, hoarse from sleep, cracked as she sat up, still rubbing her face. Her caramel curls fell messily over her eyes, adding to her confusion.

"Listen, just hurry. The killer struck again."

"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered, irritation creeping into her voice.

"Wish I was, kid. I need you for the autopsy. It's urgent."

She ran a hand through her wild curls, pushing them out of her face, annoyance clear in her tone. "Who the hell dies at this hour, making me leave my warm, comfy bed?"

Gordon's voice was grim. "It's Commissioner Savage."

The doctor froze, her eyes wide. "What the fuck."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Now get your ass down here. We don't have all day."

With another exasperated sigh, she muttered, "Give me 15 minutes. I'm coming," before hanging up and tossing her phone aside.

Maryam sat on the edge of her bed, still processing what Gordon had just said.

Commissioner Savage.

Murdered.

"What the hell is going on in this city..." she muttered to herself, rubbing her temples as the weight of the news sank in.

She dragged herself out of bed, her limbs heavy with exhaustion from te night before.

In the faint light of her apartment, Maryam shuffled to her closet, grabbing the first clean scrubs she could find—black ones.

She threw on a gray undershirt since her scrubs had no sleeves and pulled on her trench coat. She quickly slipped into a pair of sneakers before heading to the bathroom.

The harsh bathroom lights stung her eyes, making her squint until her vision adjusted. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—dark circles under her eyes made her look just as lifeless as the people she examined. Her hazel eyes reflected green under the yellow light, and the bruise near her brow still hadn't faded. Great, she thought, another thing to explain to Gordon.

Fixing her face seemed pointless. She wasn't about to impress anyone while cutting open a dead commissioner.

Her hair, a wild mess of curls, was exactly how she'd left it. I should've listened to myself and straightened it, she thought, regretting not doing it earlier—more like three hours ago—but exhaustion had won that battle. Instead, she threw it into a quick French twist, ignoring the stubborn curls that escaped the updo.

After splashing cold water on her face and brushing her teeth, she grabbed her bag, keys, and phone, and rushed out the door.

The early morning chill hit her as soon as she stepped outside.

Gotham's streets were eerily still, save for the distant hum of police sirens—a constant reminder of the city's chaos.

As Maryam approached the curb, Gordon stood leaning against his car, the streetlight casting harsh shadows over his exhausted face. He straightened when he saw her coming.

"Fifteen minutes? More like twenty-five," he said, tapping his watch, his voice laced with weary sarcasm.

Maryam shot him a sharp look, pulling the belt of her trench coat tighter around her waist. "You woke me up at 5 a.m. You're lucky I'm even vertical."

Gordon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I know. Sorry, Mar. This one's bad. Real bad."

She could see it in his face—the strain, the weight of whatever mess was waiting for them. If the commissioner was dead, Gotham was about to spiral into chaos.

Without another word, she slid into the passenger seat, the cold leather biting through her scrubs. Gordon got behind the wheel as she buckled her seatbelt. "Worse than the mayor?" she asked, disbelief creeping into her voice.

He didn't answer right away, just shifted the car into gear and pulled onto the dark, empty streets of Gotham. "You'll see."

Gordon glanced sideways at her, eyes lined with fatigue. "You good?"

She sighed, pushing a stray curl from her face. "I'm here, aren't I?" She bit her thumb lightly, her gaze fixed ahead on the road. "But yeah, everything's just peachy." She turned to him with a raised perfect structured brow. "You?"

Gordon gave a hollow laugh, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "How do you think?" He didn't look at her, just focused on the road, eyes narrowed against the dim streetlights and the occasional flash of a police cruiser speeding by.

"Yeah, thought so." Maryam leaned back into the seat, letting her head rest against the cold window.

The rhythmic hum of the car as it cut through Gotham's early morning streets was almost soothing, but her mind raced, unable to shake the weight of what Gordon had said. Worse than the mayor? That didn't leave much room for optimism.

They drove in silence for a while longer, the city slipping past in shadows and flickering lights. The distant sirens and low rumble of Gotham waking up to another day of chaos filled the quiet, and Maryam closed her eyes, trying to gather herself. But no matter how much she loved her job, sometimes it was all too much. The pit in her stomach deepened.

Gordon finally broke the silence, his voice rough and low. "This isn't just about the commissioner. It's the way it was done." His jaw clenched as he shook his head. "It's like this city's being torn apart piece by piece. I don't know how much more we can take before it completely falls apart."

Maryam didn't respond, but a cold chill crept up her spine. Gordon wasn't exaggerating. She'd seen enough of Gotham's darkness to know that when someone like the commissioner was taken out, it was never just a simple murder.

There was always something more beneath the surface, something twisted.

"Did you see the livestream?" Gordon asked, adjusting his glasses with one hand as they waited at a red light.

"Livestream?" she echoed, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"That freak recorded it live. Streamed the whole thing on social media." His voice was tight with disgust as he shook his head.

"Are you serious?" Maryam pulled out her phone, opened Twitter, and immediately saw the trending post.

Her heart sank.

Commissioner Savage, bound and trapped in a small iron cage with rats circling his head, gnawing at his flesh. His muffled screams filled the car through her phone's speakers. It already had millions of views. She scrolled through the comments—some people panicking, others making dark jokes. 'Only in Gotham,' one read.

She locked her phone, shaking her head. "What the actual fuck is wrong with this guy?"

"I don't know," Gordon muttered, "but he needs to be stopped."

As they turned the corner toward GCPD headquarters, Maryam noticed fewer police cars than she had expected. Gordon pulled up to the curb and parked, then turned to face her. His face was pale in the streetlights, worry etched deep in his features as he rubbed his mustache.

"Just so you know, the Bat's coming," he said quietly.

Maryam groaned, throwing her head back in exasperation. "Oh my god, Jamie, you invited that autistic bat?"

Gordon shot her a look as he got out of the car. "Behave, Mar," he said, slamming the door shut behind him.

With a dramatic sigh, Maryam followed suit, shivering as Gotham's morning chill wrapped around her.

She shrugged her bag over her shoulder, muttering under her breath, "I'm always behaved..." Then, jogging to catch up with his hurried steps, she called after him, "You could've warned me at least!"

They didn't enter through the front, but slipped around to the back of the station. That's when Maryam saw him—standing in the shadows by his car.

Vengeance.

Even from the distance, their eyes snapped to each other instantly. Just hours ago, they'd been chasing and fighting one another, and now here they were again, face to face. Her, in civilian clothes; him, still in his suit.

Her fingers instinctively brushed the bruise behind her brow. Anxiety twisted in her gut.

What if he recognizes me? she thought, panic creeping in.

But she quickly shook it off. Don't be ridiculous. It was night, you were both fighting.

He. didn't. see. anything.

As they approached, Gordon led the way, walking straight toward the Bat, while Maryam held back, keeping her distance—just in case.

She stayed quiet, head down, but could still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on her.

Gordon nodded at the towering figure. "Right, let's get this over with. I don't want them to see you," he said before heading inside the station.

Maryam kept her head low as they moved past, still staying behind. But she could feel Vengeance's eyes on her, even though she avoided looking directly at him.

Inside, they were greeted by Officer Martinez, who shot a dirty look at the Bat before turning to Maryam. His expression softened as he leaned in, kissing her on the cheek and handing her a small cup of coffee. "For my favorite colleague," he grinned, his mustache lifting with the smile.

She returned the gesture, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you, Lucas. You're a lifesaver."

Gordon interrupted the brief moment. "Hey, Martinez, keep an eye out while we go check the body, will you?"

Martinez looked between the trio, eyebrows raised, but nodded. "Uh— Yeah, sure thing, Lieutenant. You got it."

Without further exchange, they descended into the cold, sterile halls of the medical examiner's rooms. The familiar smell of disinfectant greeted them.

Maryam squirted some alcohol on her hands and snapped on a pair of gloves. "Which drawer?" she asked Gordon, gesturing to the rows of body fridges.

Gordon pointed to the far end of the room. "Third from the right."

She walked over, her footsteps echoing in the quiet, and tugged open the heavy metal door. The cold air hit her immediately as she pulled out the slab with Commissioner Savage's body lying still and lifeless, the weight of Gotham's madness now reduced to just another corpse.

Maryam took a deep breath, steadying herself as she pulled the drawer fully open. The sight of the commissioner's body sent a shiver down her spine. He lay there, pale and motionless, a stark reminder of the brutality that had engulfed Gotham. She couldn't help but notice the way his hands were positioned—fingers curled as if grasping at something that was no longer there.

The medical examiner grimaced at the sight in front of her, and Gordon muttered a low, "Jesus," looking away and clenching his jaw. The Bat approached from behind, cold and calculating, assessing the body over her shoulder.

"Let's see what we've got here," Maryam said, reaching for the flashlight on the autopsy tray.

She waved it over the commissioner's eyes, checking for any reaction. "No pupil dilation," she noted. "Which means he was likely already unconscious when it happened."

"He waited for him. At the gym. Pete liked to work out late at night," Gordon said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Not the best choice in a city this volatile," Maryam added, raising her brows to drive home the point, continuing her examination. "This isn't just a simple murder... no, there's definitely a pattern."

"There's a needle mark on his neck," Batman observed, his tone flat.

"Son of a bitch injected him with—" Gordon began, only to be cut off by the vigilante.

"Rat poison."

"That seems to be his theme," Gordon replied, frustration creeping into his voice. He stepped back angrily, running a hand through his hair.

"It wouldn't have taken long," Maryam said calmly, her gloved hands moving over the body. "Depending on the dose, the poison would've shut down his organs in minutes. A cruel way to go."

Batman followed Gordon to the evidence table, while Maryam kept her focus on Savage. As she worked, something caught her eye—the creepy, hinged cage-like head box nearby. She moved closer, peering inside at the intricate network of channels.

"It's a maze," the Bat said, examining it over her shoulder.

"What kind of sicko does this to a person?" Gordon asked, disgust lacing his voice as he looked into the bloody maze.

Batman pulled out a violet light, flashing it over the channels. "More symbols." A crudely painted cipher ended in a question mark within crosshairs. "Another cipher."

"What kind of light is that?" Maryam asked curiously, her brow furrowing as she eyed the tool in his hand.

The Bat turned his gaze to her, his expression unreadable, his eyes locking onto hers. For a moment, neither of them spoke. ***

Her focus shifted back to the maze. She narrowed her eyes, her voice firm. "This isn't just torture. It's a message. A twisted game." She clicked on her own flashlight, carefully illuminating the channels in the gruesome head box. "Each path could represent something—maybe even the victim's fate."

Batman's gaze shifted to the surveillance photos Gordon was sifting through. "He blasted those out after his message went viral. This guy murders you and your reputation."

"That guy's pushing drops," Batman added, spotting a figure next to Savage in the photos, his gloved hand still holding the violet light. "On the East End."

Maryam frowned as she glanced at the photos, her heart sinking. The commissioner was emerging from the Iceberg Lounge, shaking hands with a shady figure. "This doesn't look good," she said softly. "Even in death, he's destroying reputations. This could ruin lives..."

Gordon sighed heavily. "Why would Pete get involved in this?"

"Looks like he got greedy," Batman replied.

Maryam scoffed, shooting Gordon a knowing look. "Come on, Jamie, we all know half the cops in Gotham work for you-know-who. It's not a stretch to think Pete crossed that line."

"Are you kidding me? After everything we did to bust up the Maronis? We shut down their whole operation, and now he's caving to some dealer?" Gordon's voice was incredulous.

"Maybe he wasn't who you thought he was," Batman said coldly.

"You make it sound like he had it coming," Gordon muttered, frustration evident.

"He was a cop. He crossed the line," Batman said flatly.

Maryam nodded. "Zorro's right, Gordon. Even if you arrested Maroni, the drops and drugs are still out there. New ones hit the streets every day. I've lost count of the bodies with this stuff in their systems." She glanced back at the corpse. "The system is failing us. And now, someone's turning it into a game. More lives are being sacrificed."

Gordon exhaled, weighed down by the situation. Batman noticed something taped to the back of the head box—an envelope labeled To the Batman.

He opened it, revealing another greeting card. A cartoon scientist mixing beakers smiled out at them with the words, I'm MAD About You! Want to Know My Name? Just Look Inside and See... Inside, a cartoon explosion with the words, But wait, I cannot tell you—it might spoil the chemistry!

Maryam rolled her eyes. "This is childish. Whoever did this thinks it's a game?" She leaned closer, studying the envelope with a critical eye. "But it's also an invitation. A challenge."

Batman scanned the scribbled message and read aloud, "Follow the maze till you find the rat—bring him into the light, and you'll find where I'm at."

"What the hell does that mean? Bring him into the light? Find the rat?" Gordon asked, unnerved.

Batman's eyes narrowed as he stared at his name on the envelope. "I don't know..."

Maryam crossed her arms, contemplating. "It's a metaphor, right? Exposing someone, forcing them to face the consequences of their actions." She looked at the Bat, her voice firm. "We need to figure out who this rat is before more bodies pile up." A dark look crossed her face as dread gnawed at her. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

Suddenly, Martinez hurried down the stairs, snapping the trio out of their thoughts. "Lieutenant, they're coming back."

"We need to get out of here," Gordon said sharply, turning to his two companions.

The trio made their way out of the police station through the back, where the dim streetlights flickered over the darkened alleyway.

The heavy steel door shut behind them with a metallic clank, leaving them in the cool night air. Batman's shadowed figure was already scanning the surroundings, always alert, while Gordon fumbled with his phone, the screen glowing in his hand.

Just then, Gordon's phone rang urgently, the shrill tone cutting through the quiet. He glanced down, his brow furrowing. "I've gotta take this," he muttered before answering the call. His voice grew tense after a few exchanged words. "Yeah... Yeah, I'll be there. Right away."

He hung up, slipping the phone into his coat pocket, and turned to Maryam. "I need to go. Something's come up."

Maryam gave him a reassuring smile. "It's fine, Jamie. I can walk from here."

Gordon hesitated for a moment, his expression softening as he stepped closer. He pressed a quick, fatherly kiss to her cheek—a simple gesture filled with warmth and concern. "Just be careful, alright?"

"I always am," Maryam replied with a faint smile, the weight of the night still heavy between them.

Gordon gave Batman a nod, a silent acknowledgment between the two men.

Without another word, he strode toward his car, the tension of Gotham's unrelenting chaos pulling him back into the fray.

The moment he slipped inside, he flipped on the sirens. The red and blue lights burst to life, flashing across the walls of the alley, followed by the sharp wail of the siren as the car sped off into the distance.

Maryam watched for a moment, her expression inscrutable as the siren's wail faded into the distance.

She exhaled softly, her breath misting in the cold air, then shifted her gaze to the looming figure of the Bat beside her. As she expected, he was already watching her, his shadowed eyes piercing through the darkness.

Fumbling with the belt of her trench coat, she pulled it tighter around her waist, as if it could shield her from the weight of his presence.

That gaze—it was relentless, cutting through her defenses. She swallowed hard, her heart quickening as she forced herself to look anywhere but at him. "Well... bye, I guess," she muttered abruptly, her voice sounding smaller than she intended. She turned on her heel, ready to disappear into the night.

But before she could take another step, his voice—low, grave, and unyielding—cut through the stillness of the alley. It stopped her cold.

"What happened to your face?"

She sighed, knowing he had seen it.

Gordon knew better than to ask, but him? "What are you talking about?" she replied, trying to feign confusion as she turned to face him, his form now just a few centimeters away.

"This," he said, pointing with a gloved finger at her brow, where a cut was surrounded by a bluish bruise.

"Oh," she attempted a reassuring smile, letting out a small chuckle and raising a hand dismissively. "It's nothing, really. I just banged my head against a table yesterday."

He remained silent for a moment, still looking at her, while she found herself unable to meet his gaze.

Having had enough of the silence, she crossed her arms defensively. "Can you stop looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" he asked, his tone calm yet curious.

"Like you're dissecting me," she shot back, her voice carrying a hint of irritation. "I'm fine. Really."

His eyes narrowed slightly, a mixture of skepticism and concern flickering in the shadows. "You're not fine. You're hurt. And it's not just a cut."

Maryam rolled her eyes, her defensive posture making her shoulders tense. "It's just a bruise, Zorro. I've dealt with worse." She turned her back to him, taking a step toward the alley's exit, but his presence felt like a weight she couldn't shake off.

"Doesn't look like it," he said quietly, closing the distance between them.

Their eyes locked, and she crossed her arms defiantly. "You're doing it again—looking at me like you can see right through me," she shot back, her voice tinged with frustration as she held her ground against his piercing gaze.

Vengeance tilted his head, the shadows accentuating the angles of his mask. "You think you're hiding something from me?" he asked, his tone steady but edged with curiosity.

Maryam took a step back, her heart racing as she fought to regain her composure. "It's just a bruise. It's not a big deal," she insisted, trying to force a casual demeanor despite the tension crackling between them.

He reached out and took her arm, the contact eliciting a short gasp from her lips. Then, he pulled her closer, his breath warming her neck as he examined the cut. "It's too deep to just be from bumping your head on a table."

She clenched her jaw, gripping his muscular arm, feeling the fabric of his suit tighten beneath her fingers. "Stop it," she said, her voice firm, and she pushed him away. But he caught her hand this time, refusing to let go.

"Get on the bike. You're not walking home alone."

"No."

"This isn't up for debate," he said, his voice low and commanding, though there was a hint of concern beneath the surface. "The streets aren't safe, especially not for you right now."

She met his gaze, unyielding. "I appreciate the concern, but I can take care of myself. I'm not some damsel in distress."

He let out a soft sigh, the tension between them thick. "This isn't about being a damsel. It's about the dangers out there—the ones you can't see coming."

Maryam shook her head, frustration bubbling up. "I'm not afraid of whatever's lurking in the shadows. I'm not afraid of you, either."

"Is that what this is about?" he asked, stepping closer, his intensity unwavering. "You think you can handle everything on your own? You've seen what I can do. I'm not just some myth; I'm real, and I'm trying to help."

"I don't need your help," she shot back, her heart pounding from the confrontation. "You don't get to decide what I need. I can protect myself." Her voice was firmer than she felt, muttering under her breath, "I've been doing it for years."

Silence hung heavy between them.

"Just get on the bike," he finally said.

Frustration surged within her. "Oh my god, are you deaf or something?! I can handle myself, thank you very much!" Her hands punctuated her words, a familiar gesture when she felt cornered. "And why do you even care? We barely know each other!"

His gaze narrowed as he absorbed her words. "I won't stand by and watch someone get hurt when I can do something about it."

Maryam clenched her jaw, the defiance in her eyes flickering like a dying flame. "I'm a medical examiner. I've faced danger before. I don’t need someone babysitting me."

He shook his head slowly, frustration seeping through his tight-lipped expression. "This isn't just about you anymore. Gotham's a dangerous place, and you're already in over your head. You need someone watching your back."

"Maybe I don't want anyone watching my back," she retorted, taking a step away. "Maybe I'd rather take my chances on my own than rely on someone who thinks they know better."

He exhaled sharply, the tension between them thickening. "It's not about knowing better. It's about keeping you safe."

"Safe?" Her voice rose, anger sharpening her words. "You don’t even know me. You don’t know what I’ve been through. You think you can just swoop in and—"

"I know enough," he interrupted, his voice low and steady. "I know enough to see that you're hurting. And I’m not going to let you push me away because you’re scared."

Her heart raced, caught between anger and something softer. "You think this is fear? This is me standing my ground."

"Then stand your ground on the bike," he said, his voice calm but laced with concern. "I'm not asking you to give up control. Just let me help."

She paused, torn between her stubborn pride and the truth hanging in his words. "I don't want to be a burden," she muttered, her earlier defiance weakening.

"You're not a burden," he replied, though his words came slower, more deliberate. "You're... an ally."

Maryam bit her lip, weighing her options. After a long pause, she exhaled, her resistance faltering. "Fine. But this doesn't change anything."

He almost smiled—just a flicker of amusement in his usually stoic expression. "I wouldn't dream of it." Then, his expression hardened slightly. "Wait here."

She nodded suspiciously, watching him disappear into the shadows of the alley. Minutes passed, her gaze darting around anxiously. He was gone for at least ten minutes before he reappeared, but this time, the suit was gone.

In its place stood a drifter, or at least, that's what he looked like—his lower face hidden behind a bandana, black sunglasses covering his eyes, and a cap pulled low over his brow. The baggy clothes he wore made him unrecognizable, a stark contrast to the imposing figure from earlier.

She narrowed her eyes, studying him, but she still couldn't piece together who he was. His disguise was too good.

Without a word, he gestured toward the motorcycle parked nearby, a sleek, black machine that fit the man of mystery he was. He handed her a helmet, and she hesitated for only a moment before taking it, slipping it over her head.

Once she was seated behind him, she felt the rumble of the engine beneath them as he settled in front.

Through the hum of the engine, she spoke up, giving her address. "I live on—"

"I know," he interrupted, his voice steady but muffled through the helmet.

She blinked, surprised. "What? How?"

"Just hold on," he replied without explanation, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Maryam frowned but didn't have much of a choice. She reluctantly wrapped her arms around his abdomen, feeling the solidness of his frame beneath the loose clothing.

The motorcycle roared to life, and they sped into the early morning, the city blurring around them as she tightened her grip, wondering just how much he really knew about her.

The wind whipped past them, the early morning chill biting at her skin even through her clothes.

Maryam's heart raced, not just from the speed of the bike, but from the thoughts swirling in her head.

The city lights streaked by in a blur, the darkened streets and shadowy alleys blending together as they tore through Gotham's chaotic maze.

She felt her grip tighten around him instinctively, her cheek nearly pressed to his back, sensing the calm rhythm of his breath against the wild beat of her own heart.

The streets were far from calm, even in the early hours.

She caught glimpses of figures huddled in makeshift shelters, a couple of homeless men crouched by a fire in a barrel, their faces hollowed by hunger and hardship.

Shadows flitted between the crumbling facades of abandoned buildings, home to those whom Gotham's elite had long forgotten. Maryam swallowed hard, her chest tightening with a blend of embarrassment and discomfort.

It wasn't the people that embarrassed her; she had once walked in their shoes. No, it was the man on the motorcycle—a figure that felt foreign, as if he had never known the grit of these streets.

The bike began to slow down as they neared a slightly quieter corner, still rough around the edges but not quite in the heart of the Narrows.

Maryam's heart was still pounding, her fingers curled tightly around his jacket, but she forced herself to loosen her grip as the motorcycle came to a stop.

"You can let go now," his voice broke through the rumble of the engine, a hint of amusement mixed with something more unreadable.

Exhaling shakily, Maryam removed her arms from around him and slid off the bike, her legs unsteady on the gritty concrete.

She stood there for a moment, watching him as he kicked the stand down, turning off the engine. With slightly trembling fingers, she fumbled with the helmet, removing it and shaking her head to loosen her hair.

A few stubborn curls had escaped her carefully pinned-up hair during the ride. She tried to brush them back in place, but they were wild, framing her face in soft, unruly waves.

Her cheeks were flushed from the wind, the faintest sheen of sweat glistening on her skin, but it only made her look more striking.

Despite the smudges of fatigue and tension etched around her eyes, there was a sharp beauty in her features—a hint of vulnerability hidden behind the determination in her gaze.

"How—" she began, her voice still hoarse from the ride. "How do you know where I live?"

He turned to face her, his lower face still hidden behind the bandana, his eyes obscured by those dark sunglasses. "I make it my business to know things," he replied, his tone casual, though there was an underlying weight to his words that set her on edge.

Maryam's frown deepened, her lips pressed into a thin line. "That's not an answer."

"No," he admitted with a slight tilt of his head. "But it's the one you're getting."

Her frustration flickered, and she crossed her arms tightly, struggling to calm her racing heart. "You can't just—"

"You're safe," he cut her off, his voice sharp and final. "That's what matters."

Maryam clenched her jaw, her pride stinging. "I can take care of myself."

He didn't argue, just stood there for a moment, as if sizing her up. Then, without another word, he turned back to the bike, preparing to leave.

"Wait." The word slipped out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

He paused, turning his head just slightly, though he didn't look at her fully. "What?"

She hesitated, feeling the weight of the tension between them. "Why are you doing this?"

There was a long silence before he spoke again. "Because someone has to."

And with that, the engine roared back to life. Before she could react, he sped off into the gloom, vanishing into the shadows as if he'd never been there.

Maryam stood in the dim light of the street, watching the empty space where he had been moments ago.

The cold air stung her face, her mind buzzing with unanswered questions. She shook her head, muttering to herself, "What the hell have I gotten myself into?"

As the engine hummed beneath him, Bruce felt the familiar tension ease slightly from his body.

She reminded him of someone.

Actually, she reminded him of himself.

He could still feel the ghost of her arms around his waist, the way her grip had tightened instinctively when the bike picked up speed.

She hadn't trusted him—he could feel that—but she hadn't had much of a choice, either.

The same way he hadn't had a choice but to intervene.

But why? Why had he stepped in tonight? It wasn't like him to involve himself so deeply, especially not with someone like her. Someone with a past she kept hidden, someone fiercely independent who clearly resented any intrusion.

Bruce's gloved hands tightened on the handlebars as the streets blurred past him.

There was something about Maryam that nagged at him, something he couldn't shake.

She had secrets—just like everyone else in Gotham—but hers felt especially tangled. That bruise on her face? He knew it hadn’t come from a table, no matter how convincingly she tried to spin her story.

And he actually had an idea of how... he just had to watch and analyze the night that he has captured through his contact lents.

He had a sense of how it had happened; all he needed to do was watch and analyze the night captured through his contact lenses.

But it wasn’t just the physical injuries that caught his attention.

He had seen it in her eyes—the quiet pain, the weariness that she tried so hard to mask with that bravado. She was running from something, even if she wouldn't admit it. But what? And why did he care?

Bruce shook his head, focusing on the road ahead. He wasn't supposed to care.

The mission always came first—Gotham came first.

That was the only thing that mattered. Yet, there was something about her—something about Maryam Ben Halimi—that he couldn't quite let go of.

He turned down a narrow street, heading toward the Batcave, the night wrapping around him like an old, familiar cloak.

His thoughts lingered on her words, the fire in her voice when she insisted she didn't need help. He knew that feeling, the instinct to push others away, to rely only on yourself.

He had been doing it for years.

But it was different now. She was different. He wasn't sure why, but he felt drawn to her in a way that made him uneasy. It wasn't just about protecting Gotham this time.

He pulled into the cave, the cool, dark expanse opening up around him. The bike's engine echoed off the stone walls as he came to a stop. He took off his sunglasses and slid the bandana down, revealing the familiar, stoic mask of Bruce Wayne.

But even as he shut down the bike and removed his helmet, he couldn't shake the feeling.

He couldn't shake her.

She had gotten under his skin in ways that made him question his own instincts.

Pacing toward the center of the cave, Bruce's mind kept circling back to her—her sharp words, her defensive stance, and the way her eyes had softened for just a split second when she gave in. Fine. But this doesn't change anything.

Of course, it didn't change anything. It wasn't supposed to. But something had shifted. Maybe not for her, but for him.

He rubbed a hand across his jaw, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior.

This was why he worked alone.

This was why he kept his distance.

Attachment—any kind—was dangerous.

It clouded judgment, made things messy.

Yet, here he was, thinking about Maryam again, about her bruised face, about the vulnerability she tried to hide beneath her sharp tongue.

Maybe it was because she wasn't afraid of him.

Or maybe it was because, despite everything, she was still standing her ground.

She wasn't running from him.

And she didn't see him as a myth, a legend, or a hero. She seemed to saw him for what he was—a man, flawed and just as tangled in this city's web as everyone else.

Bruce exhaled slowly, his breath heavy in the stillness of the cave. He couldn't afford distractions.

Not now.

Not ever.

But as he stood there, in the familiar shadows, one thought kept gnawing at him:

He wasn't just trying to protect Maryam from Gotham's dangers.

He was trying to protect her from becoming something like him.

Or perhaps it was too late; perhaps, unbeknownst to him, she had already shed the city's sins, leaving her pure and untouchable.

And maybe, just maybe, he was ready to plunge into the depths with her, surrendering to the darkness that beckoned.

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pmpmyread · 9 days ago

Note

spreading positivity for yourself and for others: what are some fanfics you've written that you're proud of? who are your favorite writers in the fic community?

Hey Anon, thanks for your lovely ask! Sending some positive vibes right back at you 🩵

Your first question tasks me to choose a favorite among my children lol but I will give it a shot.

Distraction is a Drifter x Eris Destiny 2 fic I wrote last year. I'm proud of it because it was my first try at tiptoeing back towards the romance genre after over a decade since writing my previous fic (a FFVIII Squall x Rinoa thing I'd written on ffnet back when I was 19 lmao). It's pretty tame, I even stopped just short of tagging it as Romance, opting for Romantic Friendship instead, that's just how chicken I truly was LOL. My writing has definitely improved since, but ultimately, composing and sharing this fic helped alleviate some of my self-doubt at the time.

Nanami Kento & Casual Touches is one of my earlier JJK x Reader fics. I'm proud of this one not only for what I've created but the way by which it was produced. To this day, it was the easiest time I've had writing anything during what happened to be a difficult period for me. I'd somehow managed to turn my turmoil into one of the most hopeful and positive pieces I've ever written. Corny as it sounds, that story and that moment truly did so much for me. The only negative here is that I've been chasing that elusive high ever since LMAO.

I've answered a variation of your second question within a recent ask linked here, so do check that out as well, but I will certainly add some more inspiring writers below, along with my current favorite work of theirs.

@mysteria157 (JJK): Incredibly deep stories with some of the strongest and most admirable MCs you'll ever read. Rec: Love's Ransom

@rahuratna (JJK + BNHA): Intricate and immersive universes depicted in the most beautiful prose. Rec: Arangetram

@cmdrfupa (JJK): Expert-level character studies skillfully wrapped into elaborate narration. Rec: Furtive

@espace--positif (LaDS + JJK): A fluff merchant. Target-precise canon characterization depicted in wonderful, feel-good fics. Rec: Mornings with Him

@imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese (Destiny 2): Insightful and healing stories that truly dig deep into the vast Destiny 2 universe and the complexity of its characters. Rec: Perfection

This list is FAR from exhaustive as I've recently connected with so many talented writers within these different fandoms and I still have a ridiculously long TBR list. I will definitely create a recs list sometime soon. If there is one thing I am confident about, it's my fan work curation skills. lol 💅🏽

Thanks again for your ask, Anon, it was a great way to start my day 🩵

#pmpmyasks #nanami x reader #jjk x reader #lads x reader #destiny 2 fanfiction #eris x drifter

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unlucky-phantom · 10 months ago

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So I'm eager to write things other than sfw alphabets. I've got some mini fics in mind but I'm low on ideas, so any suggestions/requests for scenarios, headcanons and fillets are welcome.

#destiny 2 #headcanon #cayde 6 #x reader #uldren sov #destiny 2 crow #sfw headcanons #the crow #the crow destiny #zavala #ikora rey #the drifter

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simping-overload · 1 year ago

Note

I just read your O14 fic and thought it was adorable!

Could I please request some good old drifter X reader fluff? Especially if the reader is a hunter and taller then drifter? which isn't hard man's is tiny

Headcanons or fanfic I don't mind!

love this stinky sewer rat man🫶

characters: drifter

tags: fluff, tall! reader, hunter! reader, gn! reader

ヾthis is a multi fandom blog that is designed for mlm/nbmlm identifying readers! so if you're female or fem alligened, please do not follow or interact with my mlm related post!! you will be blocked if you do not heed this warning ゛

You're legally required to stock the shelves and grab anything too high for him to reach.

He doesn't like the fact that he has to crane his neck to look up at you, though he's used to it with all the titans he's been around, but used to it from a hunter.

If you try to use his head as an arm rest, he will bite you.

Though he's not opposed to being carried. Whether it is a bridal carry, piggy back ride, or being held like a sack of potatoes, he's chillin

You're totally the designated big spoon. He likes the feeling of your larger body curled around his.

He steals borrows your clothes, esspically any shirts or hoodies

It's a common occurrence to see him lounging around the Derelict in your clothes.

He's a light bringer, meaning he's pretty strong. If he really needed to, he just yank you down by whatever he can grab to get his kisses in.

He also really likes forehead kisses.

#x male reader #x gender neutral reader #x gn reader #male reader #the drifter x reader #the drifter #destiny 2 x reader #destiny x reader #destiny 2 #destiny fic #mlm #gay #gender neutral reader

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discodreaming · 1 year ago

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HELLO! i've now opened my inbox for my followers/mutuals to talk to their favorite character!

you can send in random sentences, inbox prompts that you see on my blog or even confess your love!

please be sure to be respectful and kind to not only me but the muses.

this will be very much like roleplaying. to continue communication you can send in more inboxes or you can even link the inbox to a conversation to communicate with your beau/family/friend!

please do not request any minors/anthropomorphic in romantic or sexual ways, I'm begging you. i will only reply to the platonic/familial ones.

you may talk to at least 2 muses at once in one message, all to prevent being overwhelmed. this may change once i get comfortable enough to handle more.

all romantic and nsft inboxes or starters towards muses will require slow burn

all ships are multishipped but can be single shipped if you guys can build up their romance meter!

this will only be reader x character, oc x character i will put on either another blog or a different post.

* note: i will accept 5 oc x character in this post for the time being: 1/5

however for certain events i can bend these rules for you to get a romantic scene with your crushes!

or even just hanging out with your friends!

characters i will write for right now:

note: this list will change every now and then as i advance further into the shows or a character is requested more!

if you don't see a character you like here and would like to see me try my hand at playing them, don't be shy to tell me!

bold = characters I've played before

one piece! ( pre timeskip )

romantic options: nico robin, nami, sanji, zoro, usopp, buggy, sir crocodile, dracule mihawk, shanks, portgas d. ace

platonic options: chopper, franky ( may change ), luffy ( im currently on the pretimeskip )

up to debate: please ask !

rwby ! ( all season 9 ages )

romantic options: weiss schnee, blake belladonna, yang xiao long, jaune arc, taiyang xiao long, raven branwen, qrow branwen, emerald sustari, sun wukong, neptune vasillias, james ironwood, winter schnee, mercury black

platonic options: ruby rose, nora valkyrie, lie ren, pyrrha nikos, penny polendina, professor ozpin, oscar pine, neopolitan

up to debate: salem, cinder fall

fruits basket !

romantic options: shigure sohma, hatori soma, ayame soma

platonic options: tohru honda, yuki sohma, kyo sohma

castlevania animated !

romantic options: trevor belmont, adrian 'alucard' tepes, sypha belnades

edens zero !

romantic options: rebecca bluegarden, weisz steiner, homura kogetsu, kris rutherford, shiki granbell, labilla christy

platonic: happy, witch regret, sister ivry, hermit mio, valkyrie yuna, elise crimson, justice

d.gray man !

romantic options: yu kanda, lavi, tyki mikk, howard link, cross marian

platonic: allen walker, lenalee lee, nea d. campbell, wisely kamelot

psycho pass !

romantic options: akane tsuneori, shinya kogami, nobuchika ginoza, shuusei kagari, yayoi kunizuka, shion karanomori, shogo makishima

platonic: tomomoi masaoka

owari no seraph

romantic options: guren ichinose, ferid bathory, kureto hiiragi, shinya hiragi, seishiro hiiragi, crowley eusford

platonic: yuichiro hyakuya, mikaela hyakuya, shinoa hiiragi, yoichi saotome, shiho kimizuki, mitsuba sangu, krul tepes

yuukou no moriarty

romantic options: william james moriarty, albert james moriarty, louis james moiarty, sherlock holmes, fred porlock, sebastian moran, mycroft holmes, james bond

fate/ ( /zero & /stay night)

romantic options: saber, kirei kotomine, gilgamesh, cu chulainn

platonic: shirou emiya, rin tohsaka, waver velvet

up to debate: kiritsugu emiya, irisviel von einzbern, archer emiya, tokiomi tohsaka, diamuid ua duibhne

please don't: shinji matou, ryuunosuke uryu

fairy tail

romantic options: lucy heartfilia, gray fullbuster, erza scarlet, mirajane strauss, laxus dreyar, gildarts clive, loke, elfman strauss, juvia lockser, fried justine, evergreen, bickslow, rogue cheney, sting eucliffe, kagura mikazuchi, aguria yukino, natsu dragneel, mystogan, cana alberona, gajeel redfox, erik, jellal fernandes

platonic: wendy marvell

record of ragnarok

romantic options: adam, jack the ripper, kojiro sasaki, qin shi huang, hades, beelzebub, hermes

platonic: souji okita

up to debate: the valkyries, nikolas tepes, thor, poseidon, apollo,

obey me

romantic options: lucifer, mammon, levianthan, satan, asmodeus, beelzebub, belphegor,diavolo, barbatos, simeon, raphael, solomon,

platonic: luke

up to debate: thirteen, mephistopheles

kingdom hearts ( kingdom hearts iii )

romantic options: terra, aqua, xemnas, zexion, saix, axel, demyx,

platonic: sora, kairi, riku, roxas, namine, xion, ventus, vanitas, ephemer, skuld, brain

genshin impact

romantic options: wriothesley, albedo, alhaitham, ayaka, ayato, baizhu, ajax, cyno, dehya, diluc, eula, ganyu, itto, jean, kazuha, kokomi, xiao, heizou, shenhe, kaeya, rosaria, yae miko, beidou, lisa, kaveh, zhongli, nigguang, neuvillette, yela, candace, thoma, yanfei

platonic: hu tao, venti, faruzan, sucrose, chongyun, freminet, layla, mika, fischl, collei, noelle, yun jin, barbara, xingqiu, amber, bennette, xinyan

up to debate: keqing, lyney, aether, lumine, wanderer, lynette, kuki shinobu, sara, kiara, gorou, mona, nilou, yoimiya, charlotte

please don't: klee, sayu, qiqi, diona, dori, nahida, yaoyao

final fantasy

romantic options: cloud strife, tifa lockhart, aerith gainsborough, zack fair, reno, rude, genesis rhapsodos, reeve tuesti, angel hewley, sephiroth, vincent valentine.

platonic: barret wallace, yuffie kisaragi

detroit become human

romantic options: connor, markus, gavin

platonic: kara, hank

devil may cry

romantic options: dante, nero, vergil

platonic: trish, nico, lady, v

jojo's bizarre adventure

romantic options: dio brando, joseph joestar ( part 2 & 3 ), caesar anthonio zeppeli, jotaro kujo ( 4-6 only ), rohan kishibe, bruno bucciarati, leone abbachio, narciso anasui, johnny joestar, gyro zeppeli, diego brando

debating: jonathan joestar, jolyne cujoh, weather report

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l1nghuarchive · 2 years ago

Text

— THE DRIFTER. (POSTPONED)

𝐬𝐲𝐩𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬. In which a girl with void like powers awakes from her domain and finds herself helping an old grumpy friend in stopping doomsday from an apocalypse... In her 16 year old body!?!

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. Five Hargreeves x fem!reader

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬. ongoing, in the process

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞. Slow burn, action, action, comedy

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

i. We only see each other at weddings and funerals. (part 1) (part 2)

ii. Run Boy Run

iii. Extra Ordinary

iv. Man on the Moon

v. Number Five

vi. The Day That Wasn't

vii. The Day That Was

viii. I Heard A Rumor

ix. Changes

x. The White Violin

𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝. 23rd March 2023

𝐀/𝐧. Hiyooo~☆!!! Welcome to my 2nd series fanfic which I hope i won't abandon :') updates will be slow but i rlly hope people will enjoy this fic ദ്ദി˶ｰ̀֊ｰ́ )

THIS SERIES HAS BEEN TRANSFERED TO @winterrn1ght

#ᓚᘏᗢ The Drifter #number five #five hargreeves x you #five hargreaves x reader #tua five #five hargreeves #the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy x reader #Tua #tua x reader #tua x you #tua x y/n #honkai impact x reader #honkai x reader #hi3 x reader #tua s1 #tua s2 #tua s3

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bettyfrommars · 1 year ago

Note

Might be too much in line with I'm on fire.. but what about classic a classic motorcycle riding drifter.. that is more than meets the eye... maybe more monster than man and that's why he drifts... idk if that's enough maybe he's drifted into small town USA and he meets reader at like a Truckstop/ Diner that's across from the one hotel in town and over days of her waiting on him (EDS) they strike something up... spicy.. if you will.. maybe he finds her delectable and she finds him mysterious & charming idk just spit ballin

The Drifter

missed connections

out on the highway

blurb 1 blurb 2

monster!drifter!Eddie x dinerWaitress!Reader

18+ONLY, smut, blood, oral (f receiving), mention of drug and alcohol addiction, mention of physical abuse by an ex, mention of PTSD, emotional trauma, 2 lost souls finding each other, a killing, monsterfuqqing, but it’s also a really sweet, fluffy story if that makes sense. wc: 4.2

A/N: I was so excited to get this ask! I had to really pull back on the length of this story because I could've kept writing it forever and will most likely bring back Eddie The Drifter again in some oneshots. I did a quick re-read, but sometimes I just need to post these before I obsess over them for too long.

(Also, when Eddie is thinking about how "damaged" they both are, that is his perception, not mine. I think they are both perfect.)

Eddie had been drifting for a while. He didn’t want to know anyone, and he didn’t want anyone to know him. He hadn't been the same since the physical and emotional trauma he’d suffered in The Upside Down. Steve took him by the arm once and told him he understood what he was going through—that they all understood—and that he wasn’t alone. Eddie knew Steve and the rest meant well, but they couldn’t understand, and he was convinced no one ever would. Trauma affects everyone differently and for Eddie, it started to turn him into his father, and that was what scared him more than anything. Dark and brooding with a short fuse, there was a beast living inside of him that had not been there before the ordeal with Vecna; or perhaps, it had just been sleeping.

He lost his temper with Dustin once, and at the time, he thought he was having a very normal reaction to the situation. It wasn’t until he recognized the fear in his younger friend’s eyes–the way he backed away from Eddie and put his hands up as if he needed to protect himself—that Eddie knew he had to go. After years of silent struggle and becoming a hermit more and more, he decided to hit the road.

He started out in his van, sleeping in it, getting odd jobs wherever he went, staying in town just long enough to make some money, and then he was in the wind again. He called Wayne from payphones and sent postcards back home to Hawkins once in a while, but not often. In his mind, they were better off without him.

The second year he was on the road, he ended up getting involved with a biker gang and doing some jobs for them that paid well but were on the wrong side of the law. Before the Upside Down, he’d been more of a lover than a fighter. Sure, he had to defend himself a few times, especially from his old man, and he never took shit from people without giving it back, but ever since he almost died, he’d acquired some type of superhuman strength. There was a transformation that happened in him now, fueled by the adrenaline of his rage, and in the past decade, he’d been paid to hurt more people than he could count. The problem was—he’d started to like it.

Eventually, he was able to trade in his van for a Harley FXS 80, and he carried most of his early possessions with him. He put the rest of what he owned in a storage unit in Oregon, and he’d planned to circle back there again one of these days to get it all when he decided to settle down—but years later, he was still on the road. He’d been using his bedroll to sleep out under the stars the past couple nights, but the clouds told him it was about to rain, and he decided he could use a shower and a real bed for the night.

Red River Junction was less than a dot on a map, a truck stop town with a place to eat, a place to sleep, and a place to pump your gas, set right plop in the middle of nowhere. You’d grown up in a town not too far down the highway, and you were still there, in the same trailer your mother left to you when she passed. You worked at both the Sundown Motel part-time, and at Margie’s Diner, and in your free time, you dreamed about leaving town and never coming back.

You heard the rumble of his motorcycle before you saw it; chrome pipes growling to a stop as the rider found a place for his bike in the lot. A motorcycle, or even an entire MC, pulling into the junction was nothing new. You were the only stop for gas and food for a good fifty miles.

You were staring for so long out the window as he dismounted and took his helmet off, that you overflowed the coffee cup you were refilling and the elderly customer scoffed at you. He had long, curly hair tied back in a ponytail and bangs that had grown out just long enough to tuck behind his ears. Black leather jacket, and leather chaps over his jeans. Your attention was immediately drawn to his jewelry: the small hoop piercing in his ear and the chunky rings across his knuckles. My Boyfriend’s Back by The Angels played softly from the jukebox while you made your way to the front to greet him. The kitchen was slammed with only Big Joe behind the grill, and Leslie was the only other waitress, but she was on a smoke break.

You fumbled the big plastic menu in your hand when he took his sunglasses off to nail you with those star-flecked eyes. “Just one for lunch?”

He tucked his sunglasses into the front of his shirt and looked around. “You still serving breakfast?”

“All day long,” you assured him. Seats at the counter were all full, so you offered him a booth, and he slid in without another word or glance in your direction, taking the menu from you with a grunt. You tried not to stare at his scars: the angry, purple one on his neck, and the deep white slash across his chin. His hands were also flecked with scar tissue from various fights, and punching through mirrors every time he hated his own reflection.

50 year old Leslie was tying her apron and chewing gum when you moved behind her to grab a cup and saucer for his coffee. “Another grumpy one,” you whispered over the sound of clinking silverware and scattered conversations.

Leslie raised her eyebrow a few times, resting her elbow on the counter. “Hell, he can get grumpy with me any day.”

Eddie didn’t say much while you waited on him, and you didn’t think he was paying any attention to you, but he saw the way you splashed a bit of vodka into your soda can behind the counter. He also caught the way you used that same liquid to toss back a couple pills you scooped out of your apron pocket just before you turned to grab some hot plates from the kitchen hatch. He didn’t judge you for it or think it was odd being that he’d spent the past ten years trying to find ways to dull his pain.

He thought you were too beautiful for this deadbeat town; too sweet, too kind. He noticed the bruise on your forearm and the vacancy in your eyes and he felt an instant kinship with you: the damaged recognizing the damaged.

When you came to clear his empty plate, he asked you if the Sundown Motel was a decent place to stay. It was the only motel for miles and he didn’t care how decent it was, he just wanted a reason to keep talking to you.

“Sure, it’s great,” you shrugged. “If you like bedbugs and carpets that look like a violent crime took place recently.”

He met your eyes, and there was a moment of levity there that lightened both of your spirits if only for that moment.

“I’m cool with bedbugs,” he brushed his tongue between his lips. “It gets lonely on the road, it’s nice to have some company.”

He told you his name was Eddie after he read yours off of your name tag, and when you came back from seating a table full of seniors who were on a bus tour to the casino, he was gone.

He left you a generous tip, though, and after hours of getting tipped in quarters and loose change, it felt good to have some solid cash in your pocket. His motorcycle was gone too, and you wondered if he’d decided to hit the road or stay the night.

You told yourself to forget about him, that he was just another drifter you’d never see again, but the evening had other plans for you.

You were supposed to have the night off from both jobs, but Susan at the front desk of the motel begged you to come down and work the check-in desk for an hour while she went to pick her kid up. You wished you could say you had some big plans, but that was absolutely not the case, and so you rolled your car up to the back lot behind the dumpsters and changed out of your orthopedic shoes and into something less drab.

You thought it would be an easy hour to space off and read a book, but ten minutes after you clocked in, two guests locked themselves out of their room. It was a two-tier motel, and as you made your way up the concrete steps with the husband and wife in question behind you, fumbling with the keys, you caught sight of Eddie a few rooms down, and your heart jumped into your throat.

He was sitting in the plastic chair in front of the door to his room, smoking a cigarette, stripped down to jeans and a wife-beater. His hair was still wet from his shower, hanging down his shoulders, showcasing the patchwork of scars that covered his flesh.

He didn’t make eye contact, but he saw you. In fact, he knew you were on your way a few minutes before that, because he heard your voice, and it made him stay and light another smoke. He flicked his ash and waited for you to let the couple into their room.

On your way back to the stairs, the soda and snack machine blocked your view, but once you rounded the corner, there he was again.

“Is your room satisfactory, sir?” You put the keys in your pocket and stood tall, pretending to act professional.

Eddie met your eyes then, staring up through his lashes, and one side of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “Disappointed I haven’t found any bedbugs.”

You coughed a laugh, swaying on your feet. “Give it time. They come out at dark.”

Eddie didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but he’d also learned never to miss an opportunity with how transient his life was. His attraction to you was not purely physical, which was a rare occurrence for him.

He shifted in his seat, a silky curl of gray smoke passing from his lips. “Are you free later tonight? Can I buy you dinner?”

Suddenly shy and baffled as to why he’d have any interest, you lowered your chin and shuffled your foot.

“I-I’ve got a boyfriend,” you cringed as you said it. Tony had cheated on you and left you more times than you could count. He took off a couple days ago after he knocked you around, and you had no idea where he was, but you continued to hold onto this strange sense of loyalty for him. Perhaps it was because you were convinced he was the best you could do.

“Did the tough guy do that to your arm?” Eddie asked in a low mumble, his eyes lingering on your bruises.

You covered the marks with your other hand, reflexively. “He’s been under a lot of stress lately,” you always felt like such an idiot when you defended that loser, but you didn’t know how to stop.

“Well,” Eddie smashed the butt in the ashtray by his chair and stood up to full height. One nipple under his white tank was hard, but the other one seemed to be missing. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

You were too stupefied to move, you just stood there holding your arm, waiting for him to go back into his room.

But Eddie paused in the doorway and turned to give you one last look. “You deserve a lot better, sweetheart. If he puts his hands on you while I’m around, I’ll fucking kill him.”

—------

You thought about Eddie’s words for the rest of your shift. When it was over, you drove the ten miles back to your trailer, took a shower, and found yourself driving back to the motel, as if your will was no longer your own.

“What are you even doing?” You hissed aloud to yourself as you parked behind the Sundown in your usual spot. It was dusk now and you accepted the possibility that he’d probably invited a different woman out to dinner by then, but any amount of reasoning couldn’t stop you. You checked the scene first, looking up from the main parking lot to catch the flicker of the tv in his room to let you know he was, indeed, still up there. His motorcycle was safe in its place, too, and you realized you hadn’t even prepared what to say. You were an anxious mess, but you were also hungry for him in a way that was foreign to you.

You hadn’t known much comfort or safety in your life, but you felt those things when you were around Eddie.

After standing at his door for a good 5 minutes, you finally found the courage to knock.

Eddie opened the door while your knuckles were still on the wood. His eyes looked you over, offering a buck of his chin in appreciation. “Well, well. You are a gorgeous bedbug.”

Your cheeks burned hot at the complement. “I had some free time, so I thought I’d just check and see how you were doing, if you have everything you need.”

Eddie braced his shoulder against the door jam, giving you a squint. “So, you came to check on me while you’re off the clock? Damn, that is good service.”

You flexed your hands, forcing a laugh, trying your best not to just turn around and run away.

“Are you hungry?” Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to come in? Cause we can —”

“I’m not hungry.” You answered, bolting inside of his room when he extended his arm as an invitation, before you lost your nerve.

“Neither am I,” Eddie agreed. But, he was craving something else.

He locked the deadbolt and made sure the curtains were closed.

—-----

There were very few words left to be spoken as your lips collided with his, meeting with equal levels of urgency. You kept trying to kiss him deep and desperate while your hand palmed him through his jeans, but he held you off a bit with soft pressure. He cupped your face and caressed your cheek with his thumb while he kissed you, giving individual attention to your top lip and then the bottom one. He kissed down your neck, flicking his tongue out every so often to taste you, making you gasp—you’d never been worshiped with someone's mouth before.

Breathing heavy, he started to unbutton your shirt. “Is this okay?” He asked, wondering how far you wanted to take it.

“Yes,” you gulped. “Please.”

Once you had his shirt off, you bent down to kiss and lick his scars—it was an unspoken act of acceptance that made Eddie’s cock twitch. You weren’t used to being cared for in bed, and Eddie could tell by the way you hurried to push your jeans down and bend over so he could take you from behind.

“Not like that,” he whispered, using strong arms to lower you to the bed while he shimmied your jeans off. He got on his knees and scooped up your hips, nudging your pussy through your underwear with his nose, and then he planted kisses across the wet spot and along your inner thigh. The animal inside of him loved your scent; he wanted to bury himself in it, and he couldn’t help the growl that escaped him.

You fell back on the bed and covered your face with one hand. “Wait, I’m—not many people have done that—I’m not sure how to—”

Eddie finger pulled your underwear to one side, exposing your slippery lips for his tongue to flick. “Do you want me to stop?”

You arched back at the sensation of his mouth on you. “No, no, please don’t stop,” you urged, putting your hand on his head to gently cup his ear, the one with the silver hoop.

He moved away just long enough to pull your underwear all the way down your legs and off, maintaining eye contact with you. He didn’t rush, he took his time, and kissed his way back up your legs to the prize.

The gentle and precise way he swirled his tongue on your clit had you stammering his name with a few curses in between. As his attention to your bundle of nerves built your arousal and it spilled down your slit, he dove his mouth down a few times to taste it and drink you, shivering at the pleasure it gave him. He couldn’t help it, he had to reach down to grab his cock so he could fist it while his mouth brought you closer. The taste of your hormones in your slick had pre-cum wetting his tip already.

Tony had only gone down on you a few times, and he never really seemed to enjoy it. But Eddie was one of those who could eat a peach for hours, as they say.

“Right…there…” you hushed, startled as you felt the wave of an orgasm rise. Eddie zeroed in on that spot with just the right pressure, fluttering his tongue as he sucked. His other hand milked his cock in long strokes, taming the beast from cumming too soon, moaning warm breath against your cunt.

“Eddie!” You cried out just as the release took you and wracked your body, like a spring popping out of a tight coil, unraveling. Eddie pressed his mouth closer to lap you up, feeling your body vibrate as he held your hip in place.

He only broke the seal made by his mouth once you were too sensitive, and your limbs dangled off the bed for a minute, unable to move.

It didn’t take long for you to start coaxing him up on top of you, spreading your legs out, begging for him to be closer. He met your kiss with deep, soul-searching need, and you whined at the sensation of his tip sliding up and down your slick. But, then he hesitated, and pulled up to meet your eyes.

“Inside of me,” you begged, nodding. “I need you inside of me.”

And yes, that was what Eddie wanted too, but now there was another problem.

Eddie’s ears pricked at the sound of footsteps outside the door. He sniffed the air, trying to identify the presence. He slid off of you and stood, watching the door while he pulled his jeans up and zipped his stiff, aching cock into place behind the denim.

Shuffling up onto your elbows, you were about to speak, to ask what was wrong, but Eddie silenced you with a finger to his lips. He tossed your jeans over and motioned over his shoulder for you to put them on in the bathroom.

There was something about the whole situation, and Eddie’s sudden silence, that unnerved you, and so you scampered off the bed as quietly as you could and did as he asked.

There were no lights on in the room, except for the infomercial on the mute TV, but the bright moon illuminated the walkway outside enough for him to catch sight of someone pacing out there.

Finally, there came a heavy knock and a voice.

It was Tony, and he shouted your name. “ARE YOU IN THERE? HUH? You fucking whore!”

You buttoned your jeans and all of the blood ran from your face. Eddie turned his head to look at you. The adrenaline of pure fear pumped through your body as you froze in place.

Eddie put his hand out, motioning for you to stay right where you were, behind him.

Tony pounded on the door again. “YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM ME! One of my guys said he saw you go in here with some fucking dude. IF YOU’RE FUCKING SOMEONE ELSE I’LL KILL YOU, you goddamn bitch!”

By “one of his guys” Tony meant one of the other drug dealers in town, who were generally crawling all over the motel, leeching off of the clientele. Eddie looked deceptively calm as he stood at the end of the bed, breathing slow, and you walked over to grab his arm, to warn him that Tony was a crazy motherfucker, and you’d just go with him so Eddie wouldn’t get hurt.

But Eddie motioned for you to hide, so you did.

“Hold up, man,” Eddie was moving now, heading to undo the deadbolt and you cringed, pushing back as tight as you could between the wall and the bathroom door.

Once the door was unlocked, Tony stood there heaving, looking Eddie up and down. Tony was big in a stocky way, but not big like Eddie, and he enjoyed that flash of fear that lit over his adversary’s eyes at first glance. Sure, the guy had some obvious prison ink, but that didn’t mean shit to Eddie.

“Where is she?” Tony demanded, pushing in.

“Where’s who, man?” Eddie was being so casual about it, and you were trying not to scream.

Eddie shut the door and quietly locked it behind him

Tony’s eyes darted around the room, and then he spun on his heel; his eyes were pinned and doped-out. “Don’t act dumb, man. My fucking girl. Someone said they saw her come up here.”

Tony walked up to Eddie and started poking him in the chest. “Tell me where that fucking whore is before I make you my bitch.”

Nothing could have prepared you for what happened next—for the transformation and the carnage. You witnessed it all through the crack in the bathroom door as if you were watching a horror movie.

Eddie changed, in an instant; the muscles in his shoulders and arms bulged, the teeth in his mouth turned jagged and sharp, and his eyes went completely black. His massive, clawed hand wrapped around Tony’s throat, lifting him up so that his feet no longer touched the ground.

You muffle a scream with your hand, watching Tony gargle and spit, his limbs flailing.

Eddie’s lips stretched to speak around his fangs. “She’s not your girl anymore,” he growled.

Eddie strangled Tony with one hand until he lost consciousness, and then he threw him to the bed like a rag doll, pouncing on top of him. He proceeded to rip his throat open with his teeth; blood squirted on the wall and across the door where you were hiding, misting you in the face.

When he was finished, you made your way out of the bathroom.

Eddie was still a monster as he got off the bed at the sight of your approach. His clawed hands twitched at his sides, his hair dripped with blood, and his skin from nose to chest was bathed in crimson. His black eyes assessed you, waiting for you to scream or try to run—-but you didn’t.

You got close enough to touch him, to run your hand up his chest to feel the blood between your fingers, and then brush some bloody hair behind his ear.

Eddie frowned, wondering why you weren’t afraid of him, wondering why your desire for him didn’t seem to falter.

You parted your lips, watching the red drool drip from his teeth. “Are you okay?"

Your mouths found each other again, tasting the tang of your own blood as one of his fangs pricked your lip. You each did frantic work of unzipping each other’s jeans as Eddie scooped you up to lay you on the floor.

While the last few pumps of blood shot from Tony’s artery, monster Eddie spilled his seed inside of you, throwing his head back with a howl.

Now, there really had been a crime committed in that room, and Eddie would need to be on the road again, gone by daylight.

Maybe this time, you’d be going with him.

#Eddie Munson #Eddie munson fic #Eddie munson monster #monster!Eddie #drifter!Eddie #requests #biker!Eddie #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson x reader #diner au #truckstop au

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