#fresh meat: confinement | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dreamersworldduh · 3 months ago

Note

Seeing as the people yearn for Brenton Thwaites Dick Grayson what about a fic where reader gets sent to prison for something stupid or whatever. He gets put into a cell with Dick. Dick is indifferent to his presence, but when reader gets threatened buy some inmates Dick offers protection in exchange for- well you know what! completely consensual but is an favour exchange

Thankuuu

PROTECTION

• DICK GRAYSON x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — In the brutal confines of Gotham State Penitentiary, survival depends on silence, strength, and knowing exactly who to avoid. When you arrive—fresh meat, still raw with the anger that got you locked up—you expect isolation, maybe violence, definitely fear. What you don’t expect is Grayson: your quiet, unreadable cellmate who keeps to himself, barely speaks, and yet commands a kind of fear that even the worst predators respect.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing. Violence.

WORDS! 17.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Okay, I know I’ve been absence but I haven’t been doing nothing—this fic right here took a week to finish and I have more coming. So be prepared for the flood, thank you for requesting—enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

For the next twelve months, your home is Gotham State Penitentiary—cell block D, unit 43, third bunk from the left. A narrow slab of metal bolted to the wall, thin mattress, no privacy, and a toilet in full view. Why are you here? Because you did something reckless. No, scratch that—something flat-out insane. The kind of act that blows up your life in one quick, satisfying explosion. You knew the fallout was coming. You just didn't care—not in that moment.

Not when you saw your ex-boyfriend's face go white. Eyes wide. Mouth half-open, like the words he wanted to say got stuck in his throat. That raw mix of betrayal, disbelief, and something close to heartbreak—that was the payoff. That was what you wanted. That split-second where you had all the power, and he had nothing but shock. For five glorious minutes, it felt worth it.

Then the sirens wailed. Then the cops tackled you to the ground. Then the gates of Gotham State slammed shut behind you with a metal scream that echoed in your spine.

Intake was where it hit you. Cold tile floors. Buzzing fluorescents. The stench of bleach and sweat and fear. This wasn't juvie. This wasn't a night in a holding cell and a slap on the wrist. This was a maximum-security prison built like a fortress—gray concrete walls, watchtowers, razor wire, and no easy exits. Everyone here was doing real time. Fifteen-year sentences. Life without parole. Robbery, arson, aggravated assault. Murder. The kind of men who didn't just talk tough—they were tough. The kind who broke fingers like they were snapping twigs. No metahumans, no masks, but make no mistake: these guys were predators. And you? You were the new one. The untested one. The one who still smelled like the outside.

The guards? They barely looked at you. They'd seen a thousand versions of you before—new meat with a chip on his shoulder and regret kicking in fast. They barked orders, shoved you through processing, and handed you your jumpsuit like you were a product on an assembly line. And the other inmates? They noticed you the second you stepped onto the block. Some just stared. Others smiled. A few muttered under their breath. You felt it all—eyes crawling across your skin like ants. That smug defiance you brought with you? Gone. Somewhere between the strip search and the fingerprinting and the cold metal bracelet slapped on your wrist, it evaporated. Fast.

You started to wonder.

Was five minutes of satisfaction really worth a year behind these walls?

You're about to find out.

You stepped into the cell, the heavy metal door clanging shut behind you like a final verdict. The lock clicked with a dull thud that seemed to echo straight into your chest. No going back now. The room was barely big enough for two bunks, a toilet, and a metal sink. The air was stale, thick with the layered stench of old sweat, bleach, and institutional despair. Cold, too—like the concrete walls were leeching heat straight out of your skin.

You'd braced yourself for this—cramped quarters, zero privacy, the kind of silence that always felt like it was holding its breath. But what you hadn't expected was the guy already inside.

He was shirtless, crouched low to the ground, cranking out push-ups with a pace that wasn't fast, but relentless. Controlled. Like every movement had a purpose. His back was broad and cut with muscle, the kind you didn't get from casual gym visits. This was functional strength—prison strength. A body built to survive, not just look good. Sweat rolled down his spine in slow rivulets, catching the flickering fluorescent light above and making his skin shine like polished bronze.

His hair was damp and messy, brown and curling slightly where it brushed the tops of his ears. You could tell it had been cut a while ago, probably by clippers with no guard, the kind of rough cut you got from a guard or a fellow inmate with a dull blade. He looked young—mid twenties, maybe—but carried himself like someone much older. Someone who'd seen shit and came out the other side sharper for it.

When he finally finished a set, he rocked back on his heels and sat up, breathing steady, not even winded. That's when he turned his head just enough for you to see his face. Sharp jawline, a couple days of scruff, and a purpling bruise blooming under his left eye. His expression was unreadable—blank, almost bored. But his eyes were the curveball: deep brown, warm, soft in a way that didn't match the rest of him. Kind eyes. The kind that made you think of a loyal dog, the type that would follow you anywhere... or rip someone apart if you told it to.

You opened your mouth, figuring it was smart to at least introduce yourself. Tension like this? It didn't need help getting worse.

"Hey. I'm—"

Nothing.

He didn't look at you. Didn't ask your name. Didn't even flinch. He just reached down, grabbed a stained white towel—your towel, sitting on the lower bunk that was clearly supposed to be yours—and wiped the sweat from his face. Then, without so much as a glance your way, he dropped back to the floor and kept moving, muscles flexing again, the rhythm of his push-ups steady as a ticking clock.

You stood there for a beat, hand still halfway raised, words dying in your throat. Right. Message received.

So much for small talk.

You were seven days into your sentence, and already the rhythm of prison life had sunk into your bones. You woke up with the clang of metal, moved through the day like a ghost. No eye contact, no conversation, no sudden movements. Just survive. Keep your head down, your mouth shut, and your back to the wall. Blend in. Be invisible.

So far, it had worked. Mostly.

That afternoon, you sat alone at one of the scarred metal tables in the cafeteria, your tray of prison-issued "lunch" cooling in front of you. The food was barely food—grayish boiled potatoes swimming in lukewarm water and a scoop of something that might have once been beans, or maybe meat, or maybe nothing at all. You weren't trying to figure it out. You just chewed slowly, methodically, eyes locked on the tray like it held state secrets.

Around you, the room buzzed with controlled chaos: trays clattering, low murmurs of conversation, the occasional bark of laughter, the slap of boots against linoleum as guards walked their lazy loops. Nothing sounded urgent. Nothing felt out of place.

Until it did.

It started with a hush. Not loud, but unnatural. A drop in volume that spread like a ripple through water. A subtle shift in air pressure, like the room itself was holding its breath. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up before you even looked up. You'd felt it before, on the streets, in bad neighborhoods, in worse moments—when things were about to go sideways.

You lifted your eyes.

Three men. Moving with purpose. They didn't bother hiding it. They walked like they owned the floor, like the space around them belonged to them and they were just deciding what to take next. Big guys, all of them, their bodies built from endless reps in the yard and lives lived by force. Ink crawled down their necks, across their knuckles, dark lines telling stories of loyalty and violence. The one in front had a scar that split his face from lip to jaw, puckered and pale, like someone had tried to give him a permanent grin with a razor blade.

They stopped in front of your table.

Didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stood there, letting their presence do the talking. The leader's hands were buried casually in the pockets of his jumpsuit, but the two behind him were coiled tight, fists clenched, shoulders squared. Ready.

You didn't recognize them, but from the way they were looking at you—like a wolf pack eyeing a stray rabbit—they definitely recognized you. Or thought they did. Maybe you looked like someone they hated. Maybe you'd stepped into the wrong shower stall without knowing it. Or maybe they just needed someone to make an example of.

Either way, trouble had found you.

And it brought friends.

The leader stepped forward until his boots were nearly brushing your tray. His shadow stretched long across your food, and the smell hit you—sweat, cigarettes, and that thick, sour stench of too many men packed into too small a space for too long. He looked down at your plate, then at you, that twisted half-smile curling up the side of his scarred mouth.

"Kang wants your tray," he said, tapping two fingers against the edge of it. Slow. Lazy. Like he was already bored with how easy this was going to be.

You didn't answer right away.

Your jaw locked. You stared at him, then at the tray—your tray. The same godawful meal every inmate got, but to you, it was everything. You hadn't bought anything from commissary since you got in. No cookies. No cup noodles. No candy bars tucked into the corner of your locker. This was it. The only food you were going to see until the next morning.

Give it up, and you were going hungry for the next eleven hours.

You looked at the clock on the wall. 6:00 PM.

No chips. No extras. Just this tray and your pride.

And pride in prison could be dangerous.

Still, you didn't move. You didn't flinch. You just met his eyes—briefly—and gave your answer.

"Nah," you said, voice low but clear. "I'm eating today."

The tap of his fingers stopped.

The smile faded. Just a bit. Enough for the temperature in the room to drop.

Kang didn't like your answer.

You saw it in the subtle snap of tension across his jaw, the way his lips twitched as if suppressing a snarl. Something shifted behind his eyes—like a door slammed shut and locked from the inside. Whatever mild amusement he'd been faking a moment ago evaporated. What replaced it was colder. Sharper. A quiet kind of fury, the kind that didn't explode—it waited.

The air between you thickened, as if the room had narrowed and the space around your table had turned into a pressure chamber. You could feel it. Something was about to happen.

Then, like someone flipped a switch, his two boys moved.

The one on the left cracked his knuckles as he stepped forward, broad shoulders rolling like he was stretching before a workout. He had that look—tight jaw, steady eyes, like he was already picturing your head bouncing off the table. The other guy circled fast, his boots silent, his posture practiced. He didn't hesitate. This wasn't his first time cornering someone. He moved like muscle memory was guiding him, like he'd done this same dance a dozen times before with the same ending every time.

Your hands tensed. You pushed your legs back under the bench just enough to brace yourself. Fight or flight didn't really exist in a place like this. There was only fight or fold. And folding too early meant you'd be folding every damn day after that.

Then Kang raised a hand.

Just a flick of his wrist. No words. No theatrics.

And they stopped. Froze in place mid-step like they'd been put on pause. Neither one said anything, but they didn't need to. The obedience was instant, reflexive. Kang didn't even glance at them—his gaze stayed locked on you.

The smile returned, but it wasn't smug this time. It was calculated. Cold. The kind of smile that says, Not today. But soon.

He leaned forward slightly, just enough to cross into your space without touching you. Close enough that you could smell the faint trace of mint gum—unexpected, oddly clean—and the sweat dried into the seams of his collar. His voice was low, casual, like you were sharing a joke.

"Eat up, rookie. Gotta keep your strength."

Then he straightened, turned, and walked away like nothing had happened. His crew hesitated half a second longer before following, their bodies still thrumming with restrained violence. They didn't look back.

You didn't move.

Couldn't. Your body was locked in place. Heart hammering behind your ribs like it wanted out. You could feel the weight of the room now—every stare, every unspoken question. The cafeteria hadn't gone silent, but it had definitely shifted. Conversations had dipped. Forks hovered mid-air. Dozens of inmates had watched the scene unfold, and none of them had said a word.

They didn't need to. The looks said enough.

You'd just made a move. Or a mistake. Or maybe both.

You turned back to your tray. The potatoes looked grayer now. The mush looked wetter. Your appetite, what little there was, had vanished completely. You forced one bite. It tasted like nothing and sat in your mouth like concrete.

And then—movement. Out of the corner of your eye.

Across the room, half-hidden in shadow, leaning against the back wall where the light flickered overhead.

Grayson.

Your cellmate.

He stood there with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his back pressed against the wall like he'd been there the whole time. Maybe he had. His brown hair was damp, as usual, curling slightly at the ends. Sweat darkened the collar of his worn gray shirt. His face was unreadable.

He didn't nod. Didn't smirk. Didn't blink.

He was just watching you.

Studying you.

Like you were some puzzle he hadn't quite solved yet.

It wasn't judgment. Wasn't concern. It was something colder. More analytical. Like he was mentally filing this moment away, deciding what kind of person you were—what kind of problem you might become.

And that stare? That flat, steady stare?

It rattled you more than Kang ever could.

The next day, you were knee-deep in the laundry room, sweating through your uniform and elbow-deep in someone else's filth. The air was thick—humid, heavy, saturated with the sharp sting of bleach and the mildewy undertone of fabric that had soaked in too much sweat and too little detergent over the years. It stank. The kind of stink that settled into your nose and wouldn't leave, even when you scrubbed your face with cold water later.

It wasn't glamorous. Hell, it was barely tolerable. But you'd put your name on the assignment sheet the moment you got processed, before the ink had even dried on your intake forms. It was one of the last jobs left—nobody wanted it. Most inmates scrambled for the kitchen (extra food), or the library (peace and quiet, maybe a little dignity). Laundry, though? That was bottom of the barrel. Grunt work. Lifting, scrubbing, folding, hauling. All day on your feet, back screaming, hands stinging from bleach and constant friction.

And still, you considered it a win.

The room was big, at least by prison standards—concrete floors, exposed pipes overhead, and rows of industrial washing machines the size of small cars. They clanged and rattled violently as they spun, shaking the floor and making conversation nearly impossible, which suited you just fine. Giant wheeled bins overflowed with orange jumpsuits, socks stiff with dried sweat, towels that looked like they'd been dragged through a sewer. Sorting them was mindless work—sort by color, by smell, by how likely they were to fall apart in the wash. Rinse. Repeat. Literally.

Your shirt clung to your back, soaked through. Your shoulders burned with every load you dragged from machine to dryer. Your fingers were cracked and red from wringing out piles of soaked fabric. But there was space. There was movement. There was a task to keep your brain occupied.

And, most importantly, there was no Grayson.

Your cellmate hadn't said a single word to you in a week. Not a greeting. Not a threat. Not a grunt of acknowledgment. Just... nothing. He existed in that cell like a shadow pinned to the corner. Silent. Unblinking. When you spoke, he didn't answer. When you coughed, he didn't flinch. You weren't even sure if he noticed you most of the time. It was like living with a mannequin someone had carved from stone.

At night, it got worse. You'd lie on your bunk and glance over to find him sitting upright, staring at the far wall. Eyes half-shut, maybe resting, but never fully asleep. Always alert. Always still. The man never twitched, never turned over, never made a sound. Like he was wired to stay on watch, even when the world around him went still.

That kind of silence? It wasn't peaceful. It was oppressive.

So yeah—folding underwear in a stinking hellhole for eight hours a day felt like a goddamn vacation.

In the laundry room, you had noise—clanging, hissing, grinding, rumbling machines that made it impossible to think too long or too hard. You had motion—tasks to finish, bins to move, towels to fold. You had space. You weren't being watched. Judged. Weighed and measured by a man who hadn't spoken to you but somehow still made you feel small every time he looked your way.

Here, in this sweltering box of sweat and steam, you could just be a body doing a job. No past, no mistakes, no ex-boyfriends, no cellmates with haunted eyes.

Just heat. Just noise.

And for now, that was enough.

You were working alongside Cruz—a rail-thin guy with hollow cheeks and tattoos that looked like they'd been scratched into his skin with a pen and a needle. He never talked. Just grunted now and then, more to himself than anyone else. You didn't mind. You'd grown to like the quiet between you. He folded fast, moved with practiced efficiency, and never asked questions.

A guard stood by the door. Mid-forties, heavyset, with eyes that looked half-asleep under his buzzed haircut. He wasn't watching you so much as trying not to care. Arms crossed. Slouched. Counting the minutes until his shift ended. He hadn't spoken in over an hour. You hadn't either.

For once, the silence wasn't heavy. It felt... peaceful. Like the room was its own little bubble, sealed off from the rest of the prison.

Then you heard it.

A sharp whistle. Clean. Controlled. Echoing off the tiled walls like a knife clinking against glass.

Your head snapped up.

Cruz froze mid-fold. You exchanged a glance, brief but sharp. You could see the tension rise in his shoulders. That whistle hadn't been random. It was a signal.

The guard straightened. His posture shifted just slightly—shoulders up, eyes suddenly focused. He looked at the door, nodded to himself, and then... walked out. No warning. No radio call. No command. He didn't even look back.

Just turned, opened the door, and disappeared into the hallway like he'd never been there at all.

Your gut twisted.

Then they walked in.

Kang came first, his swagger slow and deliberate, the way someone walked when they were sure no one could touch them. His jumpsuit hung open halfway, sleeves tied around his waist like he was too relaxed to care about protocol. Behind him came his two usual shadows—huge, mean, built like failed linebackers. One of them had a split lip that never seemed to heal. The other had a shaved head and a tattoo on his neck that looked like a noose.

The door slammed shut behind them with a hollow clank that echoed all the way through your chest.

Your heart sank.

You already knew this wasn't a chat. They hadn't come here to scare you. That part had already passed.

Cruz didn't say a word. Didn't ask what was going on or if you were okay. He just wiped his hands on the thighs of his pants, walked around the folding table, and slipped past them like he wasn't even there. Like this was choreography. Like this had all been planned and he'd practiced his exit.

No eye contact. No hesitation.

And then it was just you.

Standing in the middle of the room. Hands wet from handling clothes. Shirt stuck to your back. The sweat between your shoulder blades now cold. Piles of dirty jumpsuits boxed you in like low, fabric-covered walls. The machines kept groaning, kept spinning, like they couldn't care less about the shift in air, the building tension, the inevitability of what was coming.

Kang stepped closer. That grin on his face again—casual, slow-spreading, cruel in its patience.

No words yet.

Just that smile.

And you knew, with a certainty that hit like ice in your veins: You were completely, absolutely alone.

The silence in the room wasn't natural. It didn't feel empty—it felt charged. Like a live wire had been strung through the air, humming just beneath your skin. Your heartbeat was too loud in your ears, thudding hard, fast, like it knew time was running out.

You started doing the math in your head—how many steps to the door, how far they'd have to move to cut you off, what you could use in here as a weapon. Nothing promising. Nothing that ended with you walking out of the room unscathed.

They hadn't rushed you. That was worse. They were still, deliberate, watching you with the patience of men who enjoyed dragging things out. Kang stood at the front, relaxed, loose-limbed, like this was all a game and he already knew the outcome. His two boys flanked him like shadows—silent, unmoving, faces unreadable. One cracked his neck. The other smiled, just barely.

You scanned the room again.

No help. No cameras. No corners to hide in.

The folding tables were bolted to the floor, the carts too heavy to push quickly. Wet clothes filled every bin—useless. The only things within reach were towels, shirts, and socks that smelled like mildew and stale body odor. There was no guard. No Cruz. No one sticking their head in to check on you.

No witnesses.

Maybe if you moved fast, you could sidestep them. Get to the door, pound on it, scream. But that would mean turning your back. You'd be giving them a clean shot at your spine before your foot even hit the floor.

And you weren't naïve. You weren't strong. You weren't built for this. You were wiry, sure, but that meant nothing against guys who looked like they bench-pressed concrete for fun. The kind of men whose knuckles were scarred from too many fights, whose eyes didn't blink when fists flew.

You were fast. You had a mouth. Neither of those things would save you here.

Your fingers curled into fists without you telling them to. Not because you thought you could win. But because there was no other choice. It was instinct. Cornered animal shit. If this was going down, you weren't going to make it easy for them.

Your pulse spiked again.

Kang moved without warning—no glare, no wind-up, just a blur of motion and then crack. The sound echoed off the concrete walls like a gunshot, sharp and brutal in the stale air. Fire bloomed across your cheekbone. Your head snapped sideways with the force of the slap, and your knees buckled, legs giving out like someone had cut your strings. You hit the floor hard, palms scraping raw against the rough concrete as you caught yourself.

There was no time to breathe. No time to think.

Two sets of hands grabbed you—thick, callused, fingers digging into your arms like meat hooks. They jerked you upright with zero effort, your boots scraping across the floor. You tried to twist, to pull free on instinct, but it was useless. They held you wide and exposed, your arms stretched out like you were on a goddamn cross. Their grips were iron. You were nothing but a rag doll in their fists.

Kang stepped in.

Not fast. Not angry. Just... calm. Collected. His face was blank, like he was checking a box on a to-do list. He moved into your space with the quiet confidence of someone who never had to raise his voice to get what he wanted. That slap? It hadn't been punishment. It had been punctuation. A statement.

He tilted his head, eyes scanning your face. His expression was almost lazy, like you were a stain he'd been meaning to wipe off the wall for a while.

"I run this place," he said. His voice was low, smooth, practiced—like he'd given this speech before. "Not the warden. Not the guards. Me."

He took a step closer. The heat of his body was sudden and suffocating. His breath smelled like cafeteria coffee and old garlic. You could see the fine sheen of sweat along his hairline.

"When I want something," he said, "I take it. Food. Respect. Space. Doesn't matter."

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. "You don't tell me no. Not ever."

You clenched your jaw. Tried to breathe through your nose, to stop your hands from shaking, but your pulse was a drumbeat in your ears. You knew what was coming next. Everyone did. Kang didn't threaten. He demonstrated. Pain was his language, and you'd just signed up for a private lesson.

He reached toward your face again.

And then—the door creaked open.

It wasn't loud. But it cut through everything.

All four of you froze.

The machine noise faded into the background. Time stopped, suspended on that creak of rusted hinges and the faint squeak of rubber soles.

In the doorway stood Grayson.

Framed by the flickering light of the hallway, dressed in his gray work shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His posture was casual—almost too casual. Hands loose at his sides, legs slightly apart, like he'd just happened to walk in at the exact wrong time. Or maybe the exact right one.

His eyes moved slowly across the room. Took in Kang. The goons. You, held like an offering. His expression didn't change. No surprise. No concern. Just that unreadable look he always wore, like he was scanning a puzzle and hadn't yet decided if he was interested in solving it.

He didn't speak.

Didn't have to.

The effect was immediate. Subtle, but real.

The grip on your arms slackened, just slightly. Enough for you to feel it. The weight shifted behind you. Kang's posture didn't break, but something in his shoulders went taut. You didn't need to see his face to know he hadn't planned for this. And that he didn't like variables.

Still, no one moved until Grayson stepped into the room with a slow, deliberate calm, each movement quiet but purposeful—like a wolf entering unfamiliar territory, already calculating every exit, every angle. His eyes didn't flicker. Didn't scan. They locked straight onto Kang and stayed there, unwavering. His voice, when it came, wasn't loud. But it sliced clean through the thick air like a razor.

"Let him go."

No shouting. No threats. Just four words, spoken with the kind of authority that didn't need volume to be heard. There was no plea in his tone. No uncertainty. It was a command, plain and final—like he was stating the obvious, and the rest of the room was just waiting to catch up.

Kang turned his head slowly, pivoting toward Grayson with a deliberate laziness, the kind that said I don't take orders from anyone. His smirk curled wider, sharp with amusement, but his eyes had gone colder, narrower.

"Well, well," he said, drawing the words out like taffy. "The silent bunkmate speaks."

He gave Grayson a once-over, casual on the surface, but you could see the tension behind his smile—the calculation. The pause as his mind worked, trying to figure out if this was posturing, bluff, or something else entirely.

His two goons didn't move. But their grips on you changed. It was subtle, but you felt it—uncertainty in their hands, the beginning of hesitation. Their fingers twitched like they were waiting for new orders. You were still trapped between them, arms pinned, but now the pressure had eased, just slightly. Enough to know they weren't so sure anymore.

Grayson didn't respond. Didn't blink. He stood there, loose but grounded, like a stone dropped in the middle of the room—immovable. His expression didn't change, and somehow, that made it worse. He wasn't trying to intimidate Kang. He wasn't trying anything. He was just watching. Waiting. Not out of fear, but out of restraint.

It was quiet. Tense.

The kind of silence where even the machines in the background seemed to hold their breath.

Then: footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Heavy.

The guard reappeared, sauntering back in with a wad of gum in his mouth and a face that said he hadn't seen—or cared about—a single thing. He didn't ask what was happening. Didn't scold or intervene. Just leaned against the doorframe, scanned the room once, and let his eyes settle on Kang.

A single nod.

Nothing more.

But it was enough.

Kang clicked his tongue in irritation, barely masking his frustration, and took a slow step back. "Another time, then," he muttered, voice low and clipped.

The moment his weight shifted, the hands on your arms released. Just like that. Like someone had pulled the plug on a machine. Your legs wobbled beneath you, the blood rushing back through your muscles like static. You stumbled but caught yourself, knees bending just enough to avoid collapsing again.

Kang didn't look at you as he passed. His smirk was back, but thinner now. Hollow. Performed.

As he brushed past Grayson, there was a flicker—just a beat—where something unspoken passed between them. No words. No challenge. Just acknowledgment. The kind of look that says, We're not done.

And then they were gone.

The door swung closed behind them with a dull, mechanical clunk.

The room was still spinning slightly. Your cheek throbbed with every beat of your heart, a deep, stinging heat settling under your skin. Your hands were shaking, though you didn't notice until you tried to wipe your face.

Grayson was still there.

Still silent.

He looked at you for a long second—expression unreadable, face set like it had been carved out of stone.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked back into the hallway. No nod. No check-in. No acknowledgment that he'd just stopped something from going very, very bad.

But you felt it.

Something had shifted.

Kang had walked in to remind everyone of the rules.

Grayson had just rewritten them.

That night, the cell was colder than usual. The kind of cold that crawled into your bones and stayed there, slow and deliberate. You lay flat on your bunk, arms at your sides, staring up at the cracked ceiling where the concrete spiderwebbed from years of stress and neglect. Outside the narrow window, the yard lights cast dim streaks across the walls, long shadows that moved with the occasional passing guard. The rest of the cell was dark, quiet. Too quiet.

Your cheek throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache. Swollen. Tender. Every time your head shifted against the thin prison pillow, the pain flared back up—Kang's signature, branded onto your skin without even breaking it. A reminder that he wasn't finished with you. Not by a long shot.

You didn't move when the cell door opened with its usual mechanical groan. You just kept staring up, eyes unfocused, waiting.

Grayson stepped inside without a word. No hesitation. No glance in your direction. He moved like he always did—silent, efficient, like the space belonged to him and you were just borrowing it. He went straight to the sink, pulled a towel off the rack, and turned his back to you.

Then, without looking, he tossed something onto your chest. A small plastic-wrapped rectangle. Cold.

You blinked, startled, then looked down. An ice pack. Already chilled. The kind they handed out in medical for sprains, bruises, maybe worse.

"I convinced the nurse," he said, voice flat as ever, like he was commenting on the weather. "Told her it was for me."

He didn't wait for thanks. Didn't ask how you were. He just sank down onto his bunk, elbows on his knees, fingers laced loosely, eyes on the floor like this was just another night.

You pressed the ice to your cheek. The sting hit first—sharp, biting—but it faded quickly into a dull numbness that took the edge off the pain. You winced, but you didn't say anything. Part of you wanted to thank him, but the words wouldn't come. Not just because of the pain. Because you didn't trust it. Grayson didn't do favors. He moved with purpose. He chose silence like a weapon. Whatever this was, it wasn't kindness.

After a moment, he spoke again—still staring at the floor.

"Kang's not going to let this go."

You turned your head slightly, the crinkle of the plastic pack breaking the quiet. "Figured."

Grayson nodded once. A slow, deliberate motion. "He doesn't like being challenged. Not in public. Not anywhere. That little stunt in the laundry room? That wasn't just about you. That was about his reputation. You embarrassed him. Made him look weak."

You didn't respond. You didn't need to.

"He'll come at you again," Grayson said. "Sooner. Harder. Maybe not with fists next time. Maybe with something worse."

Your fingers tightened around the ice pack. You could already feel the bruise setting in under your skin.

"But not you," you said, turning your gaze toward him. "He doesn't touch you. Doesn't even look at you twice."

Grayson's jaw flexed. A faint, imperceptible shift in his expression. His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours, sharp and focused, like you'd just asked a question with more weight than you realized.

"There's a reason for that," he said, quiet but heavy.

He didn't offer more. No backstory. No threats. Just a fact, dropped into the air between you like a stone in still water.

The silence stretched. Long enough to feel uncomfortable. Long enough to realize he was sizing you up—again. Reading your face, your posture, your pain. And then, without ceremony, he said:

"I'll keep Kang off you."

Like he was offering to loan you a book instead of rewriting your entire survival plan. "You'll be left alone. No more looking over your shoulder, no more counting footsteps outside your cell at night."

You stayed silent, the ice pack cold against your cheek, its edges beginning to soften with body heat. The dull ache in your face was still there, throbbing just beneath the surface, but the shock of what he was saying cut through it like glass.

Then he added—clear, calm, deliberate:

"In exchange for sex. Consensual. No games. No power plays. Just the real thing."

The sentence dropped like a steel door slamming shut. Final. Inescapable.

Your grip on the ice pack didn't tighten, but your breath did—held for just a second too long before you forced it out through your nose. Inside, your brain kicked into gear, scrambling to catch up. You'd heard things. Stories. Deals. Quiet arrangements. But this—coming from him—this wasn't what you expected.

Not from the guy who barely spoke, who moved through the prison like a ghost no one dared touch. Not from the man who hadn't so much as looked your way for a week, and then stepped in like some grim-faced deus ex machina just when Kang's fist was ready to follow his slap.

You didn't let your reaction show. Not here. Not now. Subtle was survival. Everything else was weakness.

Slowly, you lowered the ice pack and met his gaze.

He wasn't smirking. He wasn't taunting. There was no predatory glint in his eye, no sadistic edge. Just that same unshakable calm, that careful calculation. He wasn't trying to shock you. He was stating a fact. An equation, plain and simple.

He'd run the numbers.

This was the solution.

You swallowed once, quietly. "That's... direct," you said, your voice steady, even though your pulse had started to spike in your throat.

A faint flicker of something moved across his face—maybe a smile, maybe not. It was gone too fast to be sure. "Figured you'd respect that more than bullshit."

You didn't respond right away. You kept your breathing even, your expression neutral, but inside your thoughts were tearing in five different directions. Part of you felt insulted. Part of you was curious. Part of you just didn't know what the hell to feel. He hadn't threatened you. He hadn't cornered you. But he'd still pushed the air out of the room with a single sentence.

You looked at him, really looked—trying to find the angle. Because there was always an angle. You'd learned that fast in this place. Trust was just another word for "what's the catch?"

But Grayson... he just waited.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Like he knew you were going to weigh it.

And like he already knew which way you'd tip.

He said it the way someone might suggest a trade—cigarettes for soup. Calm. Logical. Like he'd already weighed the terms and filed them away in some internal ledger.

At first, all you could do was sit with it. Let it rattle around in your chest.

It wasn't shock, not exactly. You weren't naïve. You'd seen the system behind the system—the quiet transactions that ran this place. Protection had a price. Affection had a currency. Sex was often part of the bargain, sometimes bartered, sometimes taken. No one talked about it in the open, but everyone knew.

What did catch you off guard was the source.

Grayson.

The man who barely spoke. Who watched the room like a hawk and moved through the prison like he wasn't part of it. Who never smiled, never postured, never tried to make friends—or enemies. He was a ghost with weight, and somehow that made him more dangerous than the loudest guys in the yard.

You'd spent nights wondering what his angle was. If he even had one. And now here it was. Laid bare. Simple. Blunt.

And somehow... clean.

Your instinct was to recoil—but only for a second.

Then you started thinking.

You'd already made a mistake with Kang. Not the choice itself, but the visibility of it. Everyone saw you stand up to him. And now? That bruise on your cheek wasn't just swelling—it was a warning. A message. An open invitation.

Kang wouldn't forget. And he definitely wouldn't forgive.

You could try to bluff. Act crazy. Pick a fight. Keep a sharpened toothbrush under your mattress and pray you saw it coming next time. But deep down, you knew: you weren't built for that war. You were smart, fast, sharp with your words—but that only got you so far when the wolves started circling.

So you turned your head. Just enough to look at Grayson.

He was still sitting there—motionless. Silent. Watching you with those dark eyes that didn't blink. Didn't push. Didn't plead.

And damn it, he was beautiful.

Not soft, not romantic—but raw. Lean muscle and clean lines. Tension in every inch of his body, like he was always ready to spring. That kind of strength that didn't shout, but hummed beneath the surface. His skin glistened faintly from the heat. Hair a little messy. Jaw clenched in that permanent neutral.

And yet, his expression didn't carry lust or pressure. It carried... certainty. He'd said what he wanted. Now he was waiting.

The power wasn't in his muscles. It was in his patience.

You shifted the ice pack in your hand, feeling it begin to melt. The chill slipping down your wrist.

This wasn't about desperation. It wasn't coercion.

It was an offer.

No strings, no threats. Just a choice.

And maybe that's what threw you most of all—because in a place where choices were rare, this one was real. Yours.

You weren't sure how you felt about it. Not yet. Part of you bristled. Another part—the tired, scared part—considered it for what it really was: a lifeline wrapped in something that, under different circumstances, you might have even wanted.

And sitting in the dim cell light, your face bruised and body aching, you realized something simple and undeniable.

You were considering it.

You slowly pulled the ice pack from your cheek and placed it on the edge of the bunk, fingers lingering on it a moment longer than necessary. The skin still throbbed, but the cold had taken the edge off. You exhaled, long and steady, then lifted your eyes to meet his.

Grayson hadn't looked away. His expression was the same—still, focused, unreadable. But there was something in the quiet way he watched you, something that wasn't demand or hunger. It was patience. Restraint. Like he was giving you all the space you needed to decide.

And you had decided.

"Alright," you said quietly. "I'm in."

His reaction was subtle—barely more than a shift. A slight lift in his chin. A faint ease in the way his shoulders dropped half an inch. No smile, no gloating. Just that quiet, settled energy, like something had clicked into place for him and he didn't need to announce it. He just knew.

He didn't move. Didn't speak right away. Let the weight of your answer settle into the room.

You swallowed once, nerves fluttering low in your stomach. Not regret—just uncertainty. This was new territory, and you were stepping into it without a map.

"So..." you said, your voice a little rougher now, not quite sure how to phrase it. "How does this work? What do you want me to do?"

Grayson's head tilted slightly. Not in judgment—more like he was giving you his full attention.

You kept going, half-serious, half-deflecting. "Do I just lie there? Do whatever you say? Not touch you? Just... shut up and take it?"

The sarcasm was there, but it didn't quite mask the question underneath. You were still feeling the edges of what this was—what it could be. You didn't want to feel owned. You didn't want to feel used. You just didn't know what he wanted from you... or what you were even willing to give.

He stood then.

Not abruptly. Not to intimidate. Just stood, calm and steady, and stepped across the narrow space between your bunks. It only took two strides in a cell that small, but it felt bigger in the moment. You stayed seated, but your body tensed slightly, every nerve awake.

He didn't reach for you. He didn't tower. He simply stood close enough for you to feel him—his presence, his heat. And when he spoke, his voice was low and measured, the same steady cadence as always, but heavier now. Intentional.

"I don't want you passive."

That alone made you blink. It wasn't what you expected—not from a man who had the power to demand anything.

"This isn't about control," he said. "It's not about taking something you don't want to give."

He paused, eyes locked with yours, and his tone didn't waver.

"You're not just a body. And I'm not some caged animal looking to use you."

It hit harder than you expected—because it wasn't just reassurance. It was respect. In this place, that was rarer than anything.

You didn't look away.

"Touching's fine. Wanted, actually," he added, softer now, but not uncertain. "I want you in it. Real. Responsive. Not because you owe me, but because you want to."

You felt that—deep in your gut.

He was giving you something more than protection. He was giving you a line you didn't have to cross. He was giving you choice in a place that had stripped almost all of it away.

For the first time since Kang cornered you in the laundry room, the weight pressing down on your chest started to ease. Not vanish. But loosen. Just enough to let you breathe.

You looked up at him, heart thudding against your ribs, voice low and steady—though the tension threading through it betrayed the anticipation running under your skin.

"So... when does this deal start?" You asked him.

Grayson didn't answer. Not out loud.

He moved instead—slow, smooth, not a wasted motion. He leaned in, his presence surrounding you before he even touched you. His hand braced lightly on the wall just above your shoulder, not trapping, but claiming space. His breath reached your skin before his mouth did—warm, steady, close enough to make your own catch in your throat.

Then his lips touched your neck.

Not rushed. Not rough. Just a brush—barely there, but enough to make your skin spark under the contact. He moved deliberately, kissing the line just beneath your jaw with a quiet confidence, like he knew the map of your body without ever having to ask for directions. He wasn't fumbling. He wasn't testing. He knew.

You let out a breath—soft, shaky—more reaction than choice.

Goddamn.

It wasn't just that he was good. It was the control. The restraint. The way he didn't need to push because every movement felt earned. Like he'd been waiting for the exact right moment to act and now that it was here, he wasn't going to waste a second.

Your body betrayed you almost immediately. Your head tilted to the side, exposing your throat, giving him more without thinking. It didn't feel like surrender. It felt like instinct.

Your hands moved without command—up his chest first, fingertips brushing the thin cotton of his shirt. Solid. Tense. He wasn't flexing, but the definition was there, unmistakable. Strength built from routine, from discipline. You slid your hands lower, slow, feeling the faint ridges of his abdomen shift under your palm with each breath he took.

And then—lower.

You felt him. Already hardening. The heat of him pressed behind coarse fabric, thick and undeniable beneath your fingers. Your hand paused there, resting lightly, the reality of it grounding you in this moment in a way nothing else could.

Grayson exhaled—low, quiet, controlled. A sound you wouldn't have noticed unless you were this close. But it was enough. Enough to confirm this wasn't just physical for him. He felt it too. The charge. The gravity.

Still, he didn't push. Didn't grab. Just kept his mouth on your neck, his lips dragging slowly along your skin like he had all the time in the world.

And in this brutal, suffocating place where control was currency and vulnerability could get you killed... there was something disarming about the way he held both and still let you lead.

You let your hand curl slightly against him. Felt the response, the subtle twitch, the tension roll through his body like a wave he didn't show on his face.

This was real. Immediate. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with survival, desire, and the rare luxury of choice.

And as Grayson's mouth moved lower, dragging along your collarbone, your fingers still curled against him, one thought floated through your mind—sharp and clear:

Yeah... this deal might just work.

Grayson then he pulled back—not fast, not hesitant, but with a deliberate sort of calm. Like he'd decided the pace and wasn't going to let anything rush it. Not even you.

Without saying a word, he reached down, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and pulled it over his head in one smooth, fluid motion. The fabric slid up and off, and then it was just him—bare from the waist up under the stark overhead light. And for a moment, all you could do was look.

He was exactly what you'd imagined—only better.

His body was a blueprint of quiet strength. Not bulky, not showy, just carved from repetition and necessity. Lean muscle that wrapped around his torso in clean, defined lines, as if every inch of him had a job and no part of him was wasted. His chest was firm, his stomach tight and flat, each ridge of his abdomen catching the light like they'd been sculpted in concrete. No ink. No flash. No need to prove anything.

Just him.

Raw. Clean. Focused.

You barely had time to process it before his hands were on you. And when they were—God, they were careful. His fingers slid under the hem of your shirt and lifted it over your head with a gentleness that felt almost surreal in contrast to the hardness of the space around you. There was no grab, no jerk. Just patience. Precision. He moved like he was unwrapping something rare, and he didn't want to miss a single second.

When the fabric cleared your skin, the chill of the air rushed in fast and sharp, dancing across your ribs, your shoulders, your neck. It made your breath hitch. Made everything inside you light up.

Then he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you like it was nothing.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up—legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, hands bracing on his shoulders. His grip was strong, firm, but not harsh. Your back hit the wall with a thud softened by the hard plane of his chest pressing into you. The cold of the concrete kissed your spine, but the heat of him overwhelmed it—his body flush against yours, radiating warmth that seemed to sink into your skin.

His face was right there.

Close.

Too close.

His lips hovered a breath above yours, and you could feel everything—his exhale, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms. He didn't move. Didn't close the space. He just waited, suspended in the moment, so close it made your skin ache.

And then, finally, his voice came—low, rough-edged but soft.

"Is kissing okay?"

The question slid over your skin like silk, and it hit harder than anything else he'd done. Not because of the words—but because of what was behind them. The restraint. The awareness. The choice.

Even now, with your body wrapped around his, with heat rolling off both of you like fire pressed between steel, he was still asking. Still making sure. Still giving you the space to say no.

That shouldn't have made your pulse jump the way it did.

But it did.

Because here, in a place where everything was taken, he was offering.

And the answer was already rising in your throat, warm and breathless, your lips brushing his as you whispered it.

"Yes."

You weren't prepared for the softness.

Grayson, the man who moved like a blade in a sheath—controlled, silent, always coiled—had never once given the impression that gentleness lived anywhere inside him. He existed in sharp lines and quiet authority, the kind of presence that warned people without a single word. In Gotham State, that was survival. That was currency. And you'd assumed, understandably, that if he ever touched you, it would feel like possession. Like dominance.

But now, with your back pressed to cold concrete and your body caged between his and the wall, what you felt was something else entirely.

His breath was warm against your lips. His arms held you steady, his strength obvious—but unused. He didn't press forward. He didn't claim. He just waited, suspended in that breath of space between decision and action.

He could've done anything in that moment. You'd already said yes. The deal was made. There was no performance left to put on, no power struggle to win.

And still—he waited for you.

That undid you more than any aggressive advance ever could've. Because in a place where most people only took, he was offering. Quietly. Patiently.

Your hands slid up his shoulders, anchoring yourself to something solid. Your fingers curled into the firm shape of him, skin warm under your touch, the tension in his muscles humming just below the surface. You were steadying yourself, but also learning him—tracing the lines of someone who'd spent years being unapproachable.

You gave a small nod.

Barely anything.

But it was enough.

His lips met yours.

And everything else fell away.

The kiss wasn't hungry. It wasn't rushed or desperate. It was measured. Intentional. The same way he moved, the same way he spoke—every motion deliberate, like he'd thought it through before he did it. His mouth brushed yours, then deepened the kiss slowly, pulling you in without overwhelming. It wasn't the kiss of a man used to getting what he wanted—it was the kiss of someone who knew the value of patience. Who didn't take—he drew you in.

His hands stayed locked under your thighs, holding you firm, grounded. You were suspended there, between his strength and the wall, but you didn't feel trapped. You felt held. The tension in your body, the one you didn't even know you'd been carrying, began to unravel. It started in your chest and rippled outward—through your fingertips, into your breath, into the way your body softened into his.

Your mouth moved with his, slow at first, then with growing need. But the need wasn't for escape or dominance. It was for connection. For something human in a place that thrived on the absence of it.

You felt yourself give in—not because you were expected to, but because in that moment, you wanted to. The pressure, the fear, the fight you'd been clutching to in your gut like armor—it all cracked under the warmth of that kiss. You let it.

Time stopped meaning anything. The cell, the cold wall, the ever-present buzz of prison noise outside the door—they disappeared. It was just the two of you, suspended in heat and stillness, your heart beating fast against his chest and his breath breaking softly against your lips.

You didn't know what this meant.

You didn't know what it would turn into.

But for now, with Grayson's lips against yours and something honest threading between your bodies, you let go of the questions.

You let yourself feel it.

And for the first time since walking into Gotham State, you didn't feel afraid.

Suddenly, a soft moan slipped from your lips before you even realized it—quiet, breathy, but thick with heat. The sound seemed to ignite something in Grayson. His body pressed harder into yours, his hips rolling forward with slow, deliberate pressure that left no question about how badly he wanted you. The friction sent a sharp jolt through you—skin to skin in places, fabric between you in others, but nothing close to a barrier.

You could feel everything.

He was hard against you—thick, insistent, grinding in just the right way. The pressure wasn't rushed. It was controlled, like he was savoring every inch of contact, letting it build between you. Every slow rock of his hips made your pulse race faster, the tension curling low in your stomach, hot and tight.

Then his mouth left yours.

His lips trailed down along your jaw, kissing softly at first, then lower—nuzzling into the sensitive skin of your neck. His breath was hot against you, a low exhale brushing across your skin right before his mouth opened and he latched on, sucking lightly.

You gasped—eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back to give him more access. He didn't waste it.

His tongue flicked across your skin, slow and precise, teasing before he pulled you between his lips again. He sucked with a rhythm—measured, maddening—each pull of his mouth sending little shocks of pleasure radiating down your spine. You felt his stubble scrape faintly against your neck, rough and grounding, a contrast to the heat building inside you.

And all the while, his hips kept moving.

Slow. Grinding. Deliberate.

The tension building where your bodies met had you trembling slightly, your breath catching every time he shifted just right. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, gripping tight, anchoring yourself to something solid as your nerves sparked beneath your skin. You weren't thinking anymore. You were feeling. Reacting. Leaning into every brush of his lips, every thrust of his hips.

It was overwhelming.

The heat. The pressure. The way your bodies fit together like you'd done this before, like you belonged there—against that wall, in his arms, surrounded by cold concrete and the kind of intensity that made the whole world fall away.

You'd expected this to be physical. Transactional. Something raw and efficient—a trade of protection for sex, stripped of emotion, clean in its purpose.

But this?

This wasn't clean. This wasn't distant.

This was intimate.

Every kiss, every grind, every breath shared between you blurred the lines further. It was fast becoming something else—something dangerous, something real.

Then Grayson's hands slid beneath your thighs again, firm and steady, but this time there was a shift in intention. He wasn't lifting—you felt it immediately. He was lowering you, guiding you down with a careful kind of control, like he didn't want to break the rhythm that had built between you. Your back eased away from the wall, and gravity took over, pulling you into the next part of whatever this was.

He followed your descent the whole way, his hands never leaving you. His palms were warm, anchoring you even as your knees met the cold, unforgiving concrete. The chill bit at your skin—sharp, immediate—but you barely registered it. All your focus was fixed on him. On the rise and fall of his chest, damp with a thin sheen of sweat. On the way his eyes locked onto yours, steady and unreadable except for the heat flickering behind them.

He didn't speak. He didn't have to.

The silence between you was louder than anything words could've added. It pulsed with tension, thick and charged, the air so heavy it felt like it was pushing in on your lungs.

Grayson's hands slipped from your legs as he straightened, towering over you, and reached down to the waistband of his prison-issue pants. You watched, transfixed, as he hooked his thumbs into the elastic and pushed both the pants and boxers down in one fluid motion. The fabric dropped, pooling soundlessly at his feet.

And then he was bare in front of you.

There was no hesitation, no need for show. His cock stood thick and hard, flushed at the tip, the shaft veined and heavy, the weight of it making it twitch subtly as it was freed. The sight of him made your breath catch—sharp and sudden. You'd imagined, sure. Thought about what he might look like under all that control and silence. But seeing it?

It hit different.

He was big—unquestionably. But more than that, there was something commanding about the way he stood there, fully exposed, entirely still. Like he knew what he was offering. Like he trusted you to take it without needing to be told.

Your breath caught as you looked up at him—Grayson standing over you, skin flushed, every line of his body drawn tight with control. His dick hovered just inches from your mouth, thick and pulsing with heat. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, but his eyes... his eyes told a different story.

There was fire behind them now.

Not wild, not reckless—contained, but alive. A low-burning hunger that simmered just beneath the surface of his usually unreadable expression. He wanted you. Badly. But more than that, he was letting you have this moment. Letting you choose. Still silent. Still still. But utterly focused on you.

You leaned in slowly, deliberately, keeping your gaze locked to his. There was a kind of power in that—knowing he wasn't directing this, knowing he was waiting for you. You wanted him to see it, to feel it: this wasn't submission. This was your decision. Your yes. And you wanted him to understand exactly what that meant.

Your lips parted.

You took him in—just the tip at first. Warm, heavy, the taste of him blooming on your tongue, earthy and unmistakably male. His breath hitched above you, the sound sharp and quiet, but you caught it. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, like he was fighting the instinct to reach for you. That restraint made the heat between you flare.

You drew your tongue around the head in a slow, deliberate circle before easing lower, inch by inch. He was thick—more than you were used to—and your jaw ached as your mouth stretched to accommodate him. But the discomfort faded into sensation, into purpose. It was grounding. Real.

He let out a long, quiet breath. His abs flexed, the muscle twitching beneath the surface as he tried to stay still.

You found your rhythm—slow, deep pulls of your mouth as your hand wrapped around what you couldn't take, stroking in time with every movement. The pressure built with each pass, saliva slicking his skin, heat growing between your legs with every soft sound he didn't mean to make.

You watched him the whole time.

Every clench of his jaw. Every subtle shift of his hips. The way his nostrils flared when your tongue dragged along the underside of him on the way back up. He was still trying to hold it together—still composed, still Grayson—but you could see the edges beginning to fray.

That restraint, the way he gave you space and didn't take—it only made you want more.

You went deeper, slower. Hollowing your cheeks. Tightening your grip. You heard his breath catch again, heard the faintest curse slip past his lips, low and rough.

And that was when it clicked.

This wasn't just about the deal anymore.

This wasn't obligation.

This was something else.

With every bob of your head, every flick of your tongue, you could feel the tension rising in him. The pressure. The effort it took to stay still. And you liked it—knowing you were the one pulling him apart, inch by inch.

The man who didn't bend for anyone...

Was beginning to lose control.

And it was because of you.

Grayson's fingers clenched around the edge of the bunk behind him, knuckles whitening as they curled tight around the cold metal frame. The rigid press of steel against his skin grounded him—barely. His grip was the only thing keeping him tethered, keeping him from sinking completely into the rush of sensation spiraling up through his spine. But you were making it impossible.

Your mouth moved with slow, focused purpose. Every glide of your lips down his cock was smooth, wet, perfectly controlled. You didn't rush. You didn't falter. You knew what you were doing—and worse, you knew what it was doing to him. Your tongue traced sensitive veins, your lips sealed around his dick, the suction just right. Every pass was a tease and a promise all at once.

And your eyes—fuck, your eyes.

Locked on his. Dark with heat. Steady. Unapologetic. There was no submission in your gaze, no fear. Just intention. Confidence. You looked at him like you were daring him to fall apart.

And he was.

Grayson had spent his time in Gotham State like a shadow—quiet, untouchable, locked behind layers of discipline. He never got close. Never entertained the idea of letting anyone in. Survival here depended on that distance, on keeping your needs buried where no one could use them against you.

So when you first walked into his cell, he'd barely glanced your way. Just another body. Another sentence. Another soul trying to disappear.

But then you spoke—sharp, biting, eyes defiant even after being thrown into hell. You didn't shrink. You didn't plead. There was something alive in you. Unbroken.

And it had hooked him from the first second.

He hadn't touched anyone in months. Years, maybe. Inside this place, time was elastic. Weeks bled into each other until need became background noise—something you ignored or turned into rage. Release was rare. Trust, rarer.

But now? Now your mouth was wrapped around him, and all those things he'd buried were clawing their way to the surface.

Every movement of your tongue, every subtle shift of your lips, every sound you made as you took more of him—it built pressure in his core like a fuse inching toward its end. His hips stayed still only because he willed them to. His muscles were tight with restraint, the need to thrust forward—deep, hard—simmering just beneath the surface. But he didn't. Not yet.

Because you were owning this. Guiding it. Controlling it.

And that wrecked him in a way nothing else could.

You were better than he'd expected—better than his most desperate, late-night fantasies. He knew you'd be sharp, knew you'd come into this with something to prove. But this? The way you sucked him in like you were claiming him, the way your hand stroked in time, the little flicks of your tongue that made him curse under his breath?

It was more than just good.

It was devastating.

And he loved it.

Grayson's breath was coming harder now, each inhale deeper than the last, chest rising and falling like he was in a fight—but he wasn't trying to win. Not anymore. He was teetering on the edge, and for once, he didn't want to pull back.

Because for the first time in too long, he wasn't just enduring.

He was feeling—every inch of your mouth, every drag of pleasure, every crack in the wall he'd spent years building.

And the thought hit him hard, almost dizzying:

If this is what it feels like to lose control... maybe it's worth it.

You drew his dick deeper with another slow, deliberate pull of your mouth. His stomach tightened, muscles along his abdomen flexing like cords pulled taut. For a split second, he let his eyes close, not to block anything out, but to feel it more clearly. The warmth of your mouth, the slick glide of your tongue, the tight pull of your lips—it was dragging him toward the edge faster than he'd meant to go.

And he was losing his grip.

He opened his eyes and looked down at you—saw your mouth stretched around him, your jaw working, your eyes still locked to his like you were daring him to let go.

That was all it took.

Something inside him cracked open.

Grayson's hand moved, slow but deliberate, threading through your hair until his palm pressed firm against the back of your head. He didn't force. Not yet. He just held you there—grounded you. The weight of his hand, the way his fingers curled into your hair, sent a message without needing words: you're mine now.

Then he moved.

His hips rolled forward, gentle at first, testing the rhythm. Shallow thrusts, slow and controlled, as he began to guide the motion—his dick slipping deeper, the tip brushing the back of your throat before he eased out again. You adjusted, your lips tightening, your breath coming shallow through your nose as you accepted his pace.

And that—your willingness, your trust—only poured gasoline on the fire under his skin.

His grip in your hair tightened slightly, his rhythm beginning to shift. Less careful. Less composed. The control he'd clung to was unraveling, thread by thread, replaced by something more raw, more real. His thrusts deepened—not brutal, not careless, but charged with heat and hunger. With need.

A groan slipped from him, low and ragged. It rumbled from his chest, unguarded and full. He wasn't just reacting to your mouth anymore—he was surrendering to it.

The bunk behind him creaked as he braced a hand against it, the strain in his shoulders visible, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. The only sounds in the cell were the wet glide of your lips around him, the quiet suck of pressure, and the steady, increasingly broken rhythm of his breathing.

Then your eyes flicked up again.

You looked at him, mouth full, cheeks hollowed, and in that moment, something changed in him.

His gaze darkened. That controlled fire in his eyes flared into something possessive, feral. Not cruel—but intense. Hungry. Like he was seeing you not just as the person on your knees, but as his. Someone who could take him. Who wanted to. Who chose to.

And that made it deeper. Hotter. More than just sex.

This was trust. Power. Desire, tangled together until they couldn't be separated anymore.

His hips snapped forward again, harder now, your throat taking the full length of him. He felt you gag, just a little, and immediately eased up—but you didn't pull away. You held, breathing through it, letting him stay deep for a beat before he withdrew. His fingers stroked the back of your head once before his grip in your hair eased, his fingers slowly unwinding, trailing through the strands like he wasn't quite ready to let go. His chest was rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, the heat rolling off him in waves. He held your gaze as he pulled you up—one smooth, unhurried motion, like he was savoring every second of bringing you back to your feet.

The second you were upright, he was on you.

His mouth crashed into yours, and the kiss was nothing like before. This one was heat and teeth, deep and messy and full of all the tension that had been coiled between you since the day you stepped into that cell. It was greedy—desperate in a way that made your knees go weak. His tongue slid against yours, taking what he wanted, demanding everything back.

His hands moved like they had a map—roaming down your spine, finding the dip of your back, then gripping your waist tight, pulling your body flush against his. You could feel every inch of him—his chest heaving, the strain in his arms, the hard press of his cock still wet from your mouth.

Then he broke the kiss, panting, lips swollen, eyes dark.

No words. Just movement.

His hands dropped to your waistband and in a single, practiced motion, he tugged your pants and boxers down. The fabric clung briefly to your skin before sliding down your legs and pooling around your ankles, but Grayson didn't give it time to settle—he kicked it aside with his foot, sending it somewhere into the shadows behind you. Gone. Out of the way.

The cold air hit your skin and made you shiver, a rush of sensation climbing your spine. But his body was already there, already pulling you back into heat. His hands returned to your waist—firm, possessive—as he turned you, guiding you toward the wall like he'd done it a hundred times in his head.

You let him.

Your palms braced against the concrete, cool and unforgiving under your skin. You leaned into it, your breath fogging faintly in front of you, chest rising as anticipation clawed its way through your veins.

Behind you, Grayson stepped in close, the warmth of him immediately wrapping around you again. His chest brushed your back, his breath ghosting across the side of your neck. Then you felt it—him—thick and hard, pressing between your cheeks, hot skin against bare skin, no fabric left between you.

One of his hands held your hip, his grip steady, grounding. The other slipped lower, fingers curling around the base of his dick as he guided himself down, the head nudging between your legs—slick, swollen, precise.

He didn't shove. He didn't rush.

He just waited there—lined up, ready—the thick head of him brushing against your hole in slow, deliberate pulses, each movement a promise, each breath a countdown.

The tension was suffocating.

And in that breathless moment, with your body open and aching, the concrete cold beneath your hands and the heat of him poised behind you, it was clear:

He wasn't just going to fuck you.

He was going to claim you.

You felt the first press of Grayson's dick against you—broad, hot, deliberate. He didn't shove. Didn't rush. Just held you there, his hand firm on your hip, anchoring you while he pushed forward with steady, unrelenting pressure. The thick head of his dick eased past the resistance, stretching you slowly, and the sensation was instant—deep, all-consuming.

He was big. You'd known it from before, seen it, felt the weight of him in your mouth—but this was different. This was inside.

Your breath stuttered, body instinctively tensing as the stretch intensified. Your fingers curled against the concrete wall for balance, knuckles whitening. Inch by inch, he sank into you, each movement slow and controlled, like he was trying to give you time to feel every part of him.

Halfway in, he paused.

His chest hovered behind your back, his breath hot against your shoulder. His voice came low—hoarse, threaded with restraint.

"Breathe."

The word skimmed your skin like a touch, and you obeyed. You focused on your inhale, long and shaky, letting it move through your body as you tried to relax around him. The pressure began to shift—still intense, still burning, but now edged with something else. Something that made your stomach tighten and your thighs tremble.

You exhaled. He moved again.

The final push was slow, smooth, deep. He filled you completely, his hips pressing flush to yours, the stretch turning molten as your body yielded. You gasped, not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming fullness of it. Of him.

Grayson stilled.

One hand remained braced on your hip, the other sliding up to your lower back, fingers spreading wide across your skin to keep you steady. He held you like that—completely still—his cock buried to the hilt, his breathing ragged and uneven behind you.

You could feel it.

Every inch of him. Every beat of his heart pounding through the tension in his muscles.

He was holding himself back.

Then, slowly, he began to move.

The first thrust was shallow, careful—testing. A slow pull out, a gentle slide back in. Your breath caught again, but your body was adjusting now, learning the rhythm, the weight, the heat. He pulled out a little further the second time, then drove back in with more pressure, more hunger. The sound of it echoed—quiet, rhythmic, skin meeting skin in the heavy silence of the cell.

His grip on your hips tightened.

Each thrust grew more certain, more claiming. His control was still there, but it was fraying at the edges. His rhythm quickened—steady, deep, purposeful. Like he was imprinting something with every push of his hips. Like he wasn't just fucking you. He was taking you.

And your body responded.

You pressed back into him, breath hitching with every stroke, chasing the rhythm he was setting. Your knees quivered, your palms flat against the wall for balance, your skin burning with sensation. Each thrust sent a rush of heat curling up your spine, blooming outward through your limbs.

The reasons behind this—survival, protection, need—blurred.

What mattered now was the way he felt inside you. The way he moved—like he couldn't stop himself. Like having you this way was something he'd imagined for too long, and now that he had you, he couldn't get close enough.

Each thrust now came with intention, a growing urgency pulsing through every snap of his hips. What had started as deep, steady motion turned rougher, needier, the pressure mounting with every inch he drove into you. He pushed deeper with each roll of his body, filling you until you felt stretched to your absolute limit—and maybe even a little past it. The sound of him—his skin slapping against yours, the wet drag of each thrust, the ragged rhythm of his breath—filled the concrete cell like a pulse, a beat that matched your racing heart.

You squirmed beneath him, breath catching, your body trying to process the overwhelming sensations. Your fingers scraped along the cold wall, twitching for purchase, trying to find something—anything—to brace against. The pressure inside you was intense, unbearable in the best possible way. You weren't trying to pull away. You were just trying to keep up.

But the second you shifted, the second your hands moved even a little—

Grayson was there.

His free hand swept your wrists back in one fluid motion, fast and smooth, like he'd been waiting for it. Before you could even gasp, he had both of your arms pinned behind you, your wrists locked in one strong hand, the roughness of his palm pressed tight between your shoulder blades and his chest.

You cried out—a sharp, breathy sound, half-surprise, half-desire—as the change in angle sent heat rushing straight to your core. The new position made everything feel sharper. Tighter. More exposed. More his.

Grayson leaned in, his body flush against your back, his voice low and rough in your ear.

"You're not going anywhere."

His breath was hot on your neck. His grip on your wrists firm and unrelenting. And then he thrust.

Hard.

You choked on a moan, your mouth open but no sound escaping, your body jolting forward as he bottomed out inside you with brutal precision. You arched, spine bending, the air knocked from your lungs as pleasure crashed through you like a wave. Your hands flexed uselessly in his grip, pinned tight. He wasn't letting go. He was anchoring you, locking you in place while he took you apart.

Every thrust after that came with purpose.

Not careless, not wild—but focused. He moved like he was memorizing the shape of you, the sounds you made when he hit just the right spot, the way your walls fluttered around him when he pushed too deep, too slow, too good. He groaned—low and guttural—his lips brushing against your shoulder, his breath ragged now, heat radiating off him like fire under your skin.

The wall was cold beneath your chest. The floor hard under your knees. But all of that faded into the background.

There was only him.

Inside you. Around you. Taking and giving in equal measure.

And then his voice came again—right against your ear this time, deep and breathless, tinged with something feral he was barely holding back.

"Just like that."

His words sent another ripple down your spine, your body clenching in response, and you realized you'd stopped thinking about why this started—what it meant.

Now all you could do was feel.

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the tiny cell, rhythmic and relentless—wet, sharp, unmistakably intimate. It bounced off the cold concrete like the walls were holding onto it, amplifying every thrust, every breath, every moan that slipped past your lips no matter how hard you tried to bite them back.

Anyone walking by would hear it.

Hell, anyone on the block would.

And you didn't care. Not even a little.

Grayson had you pinned hard against the wall, one hand locked around your wrists behind your back, the other gripping your hip like he owned it. His chest was slick against your back, his body moving with brutal, focused precision—each thrust deep, controlled, calculated like he wasn't just trying to fuck you—he was studying you. Learning you.

He hit that spot again and your knees buckled slightly, a broken sound catching in your throat as your forehead pressed into the wall. The pleasure was too much—dense and burning, winding through your body like fire in your veins. Every time he pulled back and slammed into you, your breath hitched, your skin jolted with heat, and you sank deeper into the rhythm of him.

It wasn't just good. It was overwhelming.

It was obliterating.

You weren't afraid. You weren't nervous.

You were fucking gone.

And it wasn't because this was some prison-born desperation. No. It was because of him. Grayson fucked like he knew exactly what you needed before you did. Like he'd mapped out every nerve ending, every twitch of your hips, every soft gasp and sharp moan—and was playing your body like a goddamn instrument.

Your ex? Forget it. That was fumbling hands and pretty words. That was heat without depth, desire without gravity. This was different. This was raw, physical, soul-deep. This was someone driving into you like he was erasing something—every bad touch, every cold night, every ache that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being unseen.

Grayson saw you.

And now he was taking you—fully, completely—like he'd been waiting for the exact moment when you'd finally let him.

Your head thudded lightly against the wall as he buried himself in you again, hard and deep, a groan tearing out of him that sounded half-possessed. His hips slammed into yours, his grip bruising in the best way, and all you could do was hold on—your body vibrating, melting, tightening around him with every punishing thrust.

And god, it was insane.

Of course it took a prison cell. Of course it took Gotham.

Of course it took getting slapped around by Kang and nearly broken by the system before ending up here—pinned, breathless, fucked half out of your mind by the one man in this hellhole who could handle you.

It should've been a tragedy.

But it felt like deliverance.

Suddenly, Grayson stopped—every muscle in his body going rigid all at once, like someone had thrown a switch.

You were so deep in the rhythm of him, the weight of him, the pulse of pleasure pounding through your body, that it took a full second to register the shift. But then you heard it too.

A sharp crackle—pshhht—followed by low, garbled voices over a walkie-talkie. Codes. Numbers. Instructions. The language of authority, clipped and cold. Then came the unmistakable sound of heavy boots echoing down the concrete corridor. A slow, measured march of guards making their rounds.

Your heart shot into your throat.

Grayson didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

His grip on you tightened—protective, grounding—as he gently eased out, the motion achingly slow, and guided you away from the wall. His hands, which had been so rough seconds ago, now moved with surgical calm. No panic. No wasted motion. Just control.

He navigated the darkness with ease, guiding you across the cell to his bunk with a hand on your lower back. The sheets were rumpled, the scent of sweat and sex still clinging to the air—thick, unmistakable. Outside the cell bars, the overhead floodlights spilled silvery stripes across the floor. It wasn't total darkness, just enough to blur details. Just enough to hide.

He lay down first—on his side, facing the wall—and without hesitation, pulled you down in front of him. Your back pressed to his chest, your legs curled into the shape of his, your skin still flushed and tingling from everything that had come before. His arm slid over your waist, holding you like a shield, like a secret.

Then he slipped back inside you.

You nearly gasped—but bit it back hard, teeth sinking into your lip as his dick pushed in slow and deep, your body already open and greedy for him. The new angle was different—less force, more stretch—but it hit something inside you that made your toes curl against the sheets. It wasn't urgent now. It was deliberate.

A quiet, controlled burn.

He held you flush to him, chest to your back, your bodies locked together like one solid shape beneath the thin blanket. His hips moved in the smallest motions, just enough to keep you full, to keep the fire stoked.

Then—clank.

The cell door rattled as the latch was tested. A flashlight beam cut across the floor—bright, white, and merciless—sweeping over the bunks.

You shut your eyes, breath frozen in your throat, willing your body to stillness even as Grayson kept moving inside you. Barely-there thrusts, slow and subtle. But the pressure was growing again, the friction impossible to ignore. Every pulse of his dick made your insides clench, your core tighten, your heart pound harder.

The light passed over your face. You didn't flinch.

Grayson's breath hovered just behind your ear, hot and slow. He wasn't kissing you—just breathing there. His lips ghosted over your skin like a secret, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything that had come before.

Outside the bars, the guards moved on.

Boots faded down the corridor. The radio static became distant noise. The threat passed—but the tension didn't leave.

Grayson didn't loosen his grip. Didn't pull out.

He just held you tighter.

And kept going.

His body curved perfectly into yours, every inch of him aligned like he'd been shaped for this—for you. His chest was warm and firm at your back, his breath ghosting against the nape of your neck in slow, steady waves. Each thrust into you was deep, precise, measured—like every movement was part of some intimate choreography only he knew. Even with the faint noise of guards still echoing down the corridor, he moved like nothing else existed. No prison. No threat. Just the two of you in this sliver of darkness and heat.

Then his hand slid lower.

You felt the rough drag of his fingertips first, tracing down your stomach with purpose. Then he wrapped his fingers around your dick—warm, solid, confident—and you had to suck in a breath through clenched teeth. The touch jolted through you like a live wire. He didn't hesitate. His grip was just right—firm, not painful—just enough to let you know he was fully in control.

He began to stroke you in perfect rhythm with his hips. Each push inside you was mirrored by the glide of his hand, like his body was reading yours in real time. The synergy was unreal—too perfect. Every part of you was being worked in sync: his dick filling you in slow, relentless waves, his hand coaxing your dick forward with practiced ease, his breath warming your skin in ragged exhales.

You tried to stay quiet. You had to stay quiet.

But your body was unraveling fast.

Pleasure blurred your thoughts at the edges, your nerves on fire, every muscle locked tight in anticipation. His thumb dragged across the most sensitive part of you with maddening precision, over and over again, and your hips twitched forward instinctively, chasing the friction.

Still, his rhythm didn't falter.

He was methodical—focused—stroking you just enough to push you closer, then slowing just enough to hold you there, right on that precipice. It was maddening. Addictive. The pressure was coiling in your core, heat blooming in your gut and spreading outward, your whole body tensing, tightening, needing.

Your breathing turned erratic—shallow and fast, teeth pressed into your lip to keep the sound in. But Grayson felt it. He knew. He adjusted, just barely, and the stroke of his hand picked up—faster now, firmer. His thrusts grew more intense too, still quiet but sharper, each one angled with purpose. Precision. Like he wasn't just chasing your climax—he was crafting it.

You reached back blindly, your hand finding his forearm and gripping tight—needing something solid to hold on to as your body began to tremble under the pressure. The tension built in waves, fast and brutal, spiraling through your spine, into your stomach, burning through your chest like it was ripping you apart from the inside out.

You were there.

Perched on the edge of everything—control, silence, sensation—tipping closer with every stroke, every thrust, every quiet, burning breath from the man wrapped around you.

And there was no going back.

The pressure in your core finally shattered—white-hot and blinding.

A low, broken moan tore out of you, half-smothered against the pillow, the rest caught somewhere deep in your throat, raw and involuntary. Your entire body seized as your orgasm ripped through you in sharp, uncontrollable waves. Your hips jerked forward, muscles locking, then trembling as the cum pulsed out of you, thick and hot between Grayson's fingers.

But he didn't stop.

His hand kept stroking you through it—slow, firm, relentless—dragging every last spasm out of you like he was determined to wring you dry. Your body twitched under his touch, every nerve lit up and blazing, the overstimulation skimming the edge between pleasure and something more intense, more overwhelming. You gasped again, body straining, your back arching off the mattress as the aftershocks rolled through your limbs.

The world around you blurred—the prison, the cold air, the hard cement and steel. It all fell away. All you could hear was the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears and the wet, rhythmic sound of his hand gliding along your spent dick.

Then, as your muscles started to go slack and your breathing began to even out, Grayson shifted behind you.

Still hard. Still deep inside you.

He let out a quiet grunt, low and restrained, as he adjusted his hold, one hand sliding up your torso while the other anchored you by the hip. He moved with focus, but not urgency—like a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and exactly how he planned to take it.

In one smooth, powerful motion, he guided you flat onto your stomach. The sheets were still warm beneath you, damp with sweat and heat, but you barely had time to register it before his weight was on you again—his chest pressed to your back, skin slick, heartbeat fast. His hands skimmed down your sides, large and steady, before settling at your hips, where he gripped and lifted, raising you just enough to give him the angle he wanted.

You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt him again.

The head of his dick nudged back at your ass—slick, thick, still pulsing with need. And then—he pushed in.

You choked on a sharp gasp, your entire body lighting up as he filled you again. The sensation, so soon after your orgasm, was almost too much. But it wasn't pain—it was intensity. Blistering and deep. Your fingers curled into the mattress, jaw clenched as your body tried to keep up with the new onslaught of sensation.

His pace had changed. Gone was the slow, deliberate rhythm.

Now he moved with force. With hunger.

Grayson's hips snapped forward, hard and fast, the slap of his skin against yours loud in the quiet of the cell. He drove into you again and again, each thrust hitting deeper, sharper, the bed creaking beneath the rhythm of his body. It wasn't reckless. It wasn't out of control. It was focused. Primal. A man possessed by need, but still terrifyingly precise.

His grip on your waist tightened, fingers digging into your skin, holding you right where he wanted you—grounded to the bed, to him. Each thrust sent sparks up your spine, your thighs shaking from the overstimulation, your breath catching with every impact.

You couldn't speak.

Could barely breathe.

All you could do was hold on.

Then he leaned down again, the heat of him searing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Still with me?" he growled, voice low and rough, thick with lust and that razor-sharp focus that had never once let up.

You nodded—barely able to move—teeth sinking into the sheets as another helpless moan escaped your lips.

His thrusts came faster now, rougher, each one driving into you with the kind of force that made your breath punch out in soft gasps. You felt it in everything—the tension rippling through his muscles, the bruising grip of his fingers at your hips, the way his breath broke apart against the back of your neck in short, uneven bursts.

He was close.

You could feel it.

His body was fire against yours, sweat slicking the space where your backs touched, the heat of his skin branding yours. He pounded into you harder, deeper, and you could feel every bit of it—your thighs trembling, your spine bowing beneath the force of it.

Then it happened—that telltale shift.

You felt him twitch inside you.

His abs clenched.

His rhythm faltered, stuttered—just for a second.

Then Grayson pulled out fast, sharp, with a hiss of breath gritted between his teeth.

You barely had time to turn your head, to blink, before you felt the first hot pulse of his release hit your lower back—thick, warm, unmistakable. He groaned low, the sound rough and almost broken as his hand wrapped around his dick, jerking himself through it. Thick ropes spilled across your skin, warm and heavy, his chest rising and falling in shallow, trembling waves as he rode out the last of it.

He kept stroking—slower now, riding the final throbs of his orgasm with his forehead tilted down, his breath catching like he was still inside the freefall. His body hovered over yours, the tension slowly leaking from his frame, replaced with the kind of raw stillness that only came after something real.

The air in the cell was thick—heat, sweat, sex. The scent of it clung to your skin, to the sheets, to the very air you pulled into your lungs.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Not because there was nothing to say—just because there was no need to say it.

Grayson's hands slid from your hips, fingers soft now, brushing your skin like an afterthought—like he wasn't ready to let go just yet. He stayed close, his body still pressed lightly to yours, the last of his weight resting against your back as he caught his breath, head bowed, chest still heaving.

And you—body tingling, heart racing, mind blank and full all at once—just lay there.

Feeling every inch of him cooling against your skin.

Feeling everything you'd just done settle into your bones.

The cell was quiet again.

Only the distant sounds of the prison reminded you where you were—metal doors clanking far down the corridor, the occasional echo of voices too muffled to understand, the steady electric buzz of the overhead lights that never quite turned off. The rest of the world had returned, creeping in around the edges of the moment you and Grayson had just carved out of it.

Then you felt him behind you.

Grayson moved with the same calm he always had—efficient, steady, but now slower, like the adrenaline was leaving him too. The mattress dipped slightly as he leaned forward. Then something warm, slightly rough—an old shirt maybe, or a towel that had seen better days—passed gently over your lower back.

You inhaled sharply at the first touch, more from surprise than discomfort.

He was careful.

Wiping away the mess he'd left behind with a tenderness you hadn't expected. There was none of the force from earlier, none of the raw, consuming need. His touch now was quiet. Respectful. Almost reverent. He didn't rush. He made sure you were clean.

You let out a slow breath, tension bleeding from your limbs as your body slowly settled, the last sparks of heat fading into something calmer. Something almost fragile.

When he was done, the mattress shifted again as he stood. You heard the soft rustle of fabric behind you—pants pulled up, a belt being fastened, the subtle pull of cotton sliding over skin. You stayed where you were for a few more seconds, gathering yourself. Then you pushed up onto your elbows, your shoulders tight, your spine giving a dull, satisfying ache. The blanket slid down your back as you rolled onto your side.

Your feet touched the cold floor with a soft slap, grounding you.

You stayed like that for a beat, head bowed, eyes adjusting to the dim light, heart still trying to find a steady rhythm.

Then you looked up.

Grayson stood near his bunk, already halfway dressed. He was pulling his shirt over his head, the motion smooth, practiced. His back flexed with the effort, every line of him lean and strong, carved by habit and survival. When the fabric settled into place, he glanced over at you—just once.

His face was unreadable again.

Whatever fire had burned in him minutes ago was tucked away, folded back into the quiet calm he wore like armor. His breathing had evened out. His jaw was tight. But something in his eyes lingered—something he didn't say, didn't show fully, but couldn't quite hide either.

There was no awkwardness in him. No regret. He wasn't avoiding your gaze, and he wasn't searching it either.

Just existing in that space between what had happened and what it meant.

You ran a hand through your hair, your fingers tangling for a second before falling away. You thought about speaking—but the words didn't come. You didn't know what to say that wouldn't feel too big, or too small.

So you didn't say anything.

Neither did he.

You stood up slowly, muscles still loose, legs shaky with that strange, post-release ache—the kind that lingers in your bones long after your body's stopped moving. The chill in the cell kissed your bare skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and thighs. You bent to grab your underwear from where they'd landed near the edge of the bed, the cool floor biting at the soles of your feet. The fabric felt thin and scratchy as you pulled it back up, the elastic waistband snapping softly into place against your hips.

As you straightened up, still adjusting the band with one hand, Grayson's voice cut through the air.

"Thanks for that."

You turned your head, caught off guard not by the words themselves, but by the way he said them—low, even, casual. Like you'd handed him something small, like you'd shared a cigarette or a joke. Not like you'd just let him bend you over in the dark and fuck you into the mattress until your body forgot how to breathe.

He was fully dressed again, sitting on the edge of his bunk. Elbows on his knees. Spine straight. Watching you. His face had settled back into that unreadable calm you were starting to recognize—not cold, not guarded, just contained. But his eyes gave something away. Not much. Just enough.

There was no smugness in his tone. No self-satisfaction.

Just quiet sincerity.

And that—somehow—hit harder than the sex.

You didn't answer right away. You weren't sure how to answer. Your heart was still beating too fast for words, your mind still trying to sort out what this all meant, if it meant anything at all.

Then he added, "You really won't have to worry about Kang or his boys again. I mean that."

Your gaze locked with his. And this time, there was no question in it.

His voice was steady. Grounded. Like a door slamming shut with finality. Not a threat. Not a boast. Just a promise. Quiet and unshakable.

And somehow, you believed him.

Because something in his tone—the weight, the stillness—said he'd already decided what would happen if anyone so much as looked at you the wrong way.

He wasn't offering protection anymore.

He was giving it.

And whether you'd meant for it to happen or not, something had shifted. Something real. Heavy. Irrevocable.

And now it was yours.

What you didn't know—what no one ever said aloud, not even in whispers—was why Grayson could make a promise like that and mean it. Why just a few words from him could silence the threat of Kang and every man behind him.

It wasn't just about reputation. It wasn't about owing favors, or pulling strings with the right guards. That kind of power could be taken. Challenged. Broken.

What Grayson had... was fear.

Cold. Heavy. Earned fear.

Because Grayson wasn't just respected in Gotham State—he was the reason the worst of them watched where they stepped. The ones who ran gangs, who extorted commissary and blood and loyalty out of the weak—they gave him space. Not because he asked for it. Not because he made threats.

But because they'd seen what happened when someone didn't.

Kang had a crew, sure. He had numbers. He had swagger. But he didn't have the one thing Grayson had buried in the silence behind his eyes: history.

He never raised his voice. Never threw a punch unless it was absolutely necessary. He didn't posture, didn't bark commands, didn't play the dominance game like the rest of them.

Grayson didn't need to.

He was the kind of dangerous that walked quiet and ended things completely.

Because under that steady calm, beneath the silent routines and the unreadable expressions, was a man who had once taken apart a crime empire with his bare hands. Not figuratively. Not through lawyers or backroom deals.

Richard Grayson had dismantled Tony Zucco's empire piece by piece—burned down his warehouses, exposed his smuggling routes, slit the throat of his most trusted lieutenant in front of a room full of witnesses. And when Zucco's daughter tried to run, tried to avenge the family name, Grayson tracked her down, too.

No hesitation. No loose ends.

And then, he vanished behind prison walls—and every name connected to Zucco stopped breathing.

That's what they didn't say in here.

That's why the old-timers didn't look him in the eye.

Why the guards never searched his cell too hard.

Why Kang kept his distance, even when you gave him the perfect excuse to strike.

Because when Richard Grayson said you were safe...

You were.

And anyone stupid enough to test that?

They didn't leave the same.

If they left at all.

#x male reader #dc x male reader #dick grayson #dc #batboys #dick grayson x male!reader #dick grayson x male reader #brenton thwaites #brenton thwaites x male reader #nightwing #nightwing x male reader #titans

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tkomptgoedluv · 2 months ago

Text

revenge.

tear you apart pt.2

pt.1 here | pt.2

grumpycafeworkervampire! joost x f! reader

tags: dead dove do not eat, f! reader, internetcafe & vampire au, reader doesn’t know how to cope very well, joost’s heart is too big for his body, they’re both desperate to be the other one’s peace, so much hurt, possibly even more comfort, plenty of angst, all characters are dutch and speak in dutch but dialogue is written in english for obvious reasons.

word count: 8,490.

warnings: very detailed descriptions of blood and self harm, descriptions of an un-specific mental illness, semi-heavy stalking, breaking and entering, mentions of gore, brief mentions of violence + abuse, rpf.

notes: hello my lovelies <3 thank you so much for being so patient with this one! it’s not only the longest fic that i’ve ever written, but also genuinely my pride and absolute joy. i fear that i might not ever be able to top this one, actually, so please enjoy it! just keep in mind that this fic comes with a MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING.

also once again, a big big shoutout to my BABY @joosthead for putting up with me constantly asking her to check the doc every time that i added something. please go check out her work if you haven’t already — she’s got some mad shit coming 💋

── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──

you never really were too good at knowing when to stop, were you?

it’s always been easy for you to get lost in it, lost in the feeling of your old razor blades carving line after line into your skin. once you started, you just had to keep going until you physically couldn’t. not until you’d get too dizzy to focus, until you just couldn’t quite keep your grip tight enough on the razor anymore.

you never learned how to cope any other way; since you were fifteen, it had been your default. cutting yourself up whenever you started to feel too much, or whenever levi would push you too far. as a kid, it was more of a punishment but with him, it was your way of controlling all the pain that you felt.

that’s why you’d done it again, why it’s been the only thing that you’ve managed to do over the past five days or so. you were trying to control things, trying to come to terms with what you had seen and all the big feelings that came right along with it.

you’d spent so long wishing him away — daydreaming of all the terrible things that could happen so you’d finally be free of him. you never actually thought that it would happen, though. that you’d witness your own boyfriend get ripped apart limb from limb; devoured as if he was nothing more than a piece of meat.

you hated that some sick and twisted part of you deep down, missed him. that you just couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that he was gone now. and you hated that when it came to joost, you weren’t quite sure what you felt. for less than a fucking hour he’d been the closest thing to a friend that you’d had in years, but then he’d gone and done that and —

blood dripped down from your wrists, the tops of your arms, and your thighs, and onto the dirty white tiles of your bathroom floor. you’d never gotten this carried away before, and you had made such a mess of it. all the cleaning up would have to be done tomorrow because right now you doubted that you’d even be able to stand.

at least you weren’t feeling quite so much anymore; only the stinging of each and every single one of the fresh cuts. it all hurt, but it was a better thing to feel than the guilt that had kept you confined inside the walls of your own home for so long. you couldn’t help but wonder if you would die here, alone and bleeding on your bathroom floor, or if the police would find you before you’d get the chance to.

you’ve seen bits and pieces of what his friends had been saying online— knew that they wanted to report levi as a missing person now. you wondered how long it would be before the police would come for you, either looking for him or his killer. then again, you weren’t actually sure if there was even a body left behind for them to find.

finally, after god knows how many, you put the razor blade down. it clattered against the linoleum and laid still in one of the few small pools of your own blood. honestly, you were a little proud of what you had done to yourself, even though it still felt like it wasn’t enough.

in a daze, you just sat there quietly as the time passed, as the blood slowly began to dry. you weren’t entirely sure of the time but it had to have been late from how dark it was outside. your phone was somewhere in your flat, having died a while ago after you neglected to charge it for a few days, but it’s time probably would’ve read something like one or two o’clock in the morning.

no one had been by to check on you, not that you had expected them to, especially not at a time like this, so you jumped when you heard a knock at your front door. silence rang out as you waited, too afraid to move, until you finally heard another one. only then did you get up.

it was with wobbly legs that you limped your way out of the bathroom and through your hallway, your heart hammering away inside your chest. you tried to peer out through your front room windows as you hobbled over to the door, certain that you’d see flashing blue lights or the silhouette of a police officer waiting for you on your doorstep.

but as you opened your front door just an inch, barely wide enough to peak your head around outside, all you saw was nothing. no cars going past, no people wandering by, nothing.

for just a moment, you could have laughed. because this was it now, surely; your breaking point. all that guilt, all of that paranoia — it was finally driving you mad.

the old hinges of your door squeaked as you went to close it again, turning on your heels as you did so. you glanced up as one of the floorboard creaked from behind you, the gloss in your eyes only slightly blurring the sight of him standing right there, somehow.

you went to scream, a high pitched, blood-curdling shriek right on the rip of your tongue when his hand came up to cup your mouth shut. he knocked you back into the door, slamming it shut as his entire body weight came down to have you pinned against it. you could feel just how hard he was shaking as he held you there, see how those big, panicked eyes of his were flickering between blue and red.

“no no no, please, please don’t scream. i’m not gonna hurt you.”

joost was frantic as he spoke, almost choking on each of his words, begging for you to keep quiet. no matter how desperately you were trying to fight against him, your nails clawing at his chest through his shirt as you fought to get him off of you, you weren’t going anywhere. the more that you struggled, the harder his grip on you got.

you had no way of knowing it yet, but this was killing him. seeing you so small like this, crying out, sobbing, against his hand as you used what little strength you had left to try and push him away — it was undoubtedly going to haunt him.

he knew that he shouldn't be here, not really. he shouldn’t know where you live, shouldn’t have followed you home that one night a couple months ago. it was just that there had been an attack in your city that week; some poor girl found dead in an alleyway, all bloody and beaten, barely clothed. he’d already had your routine memorised by then, so he knew that you’d be making your way back from the cafe alone, in the middle of the night.

joost had just wanted to protect you, he’d just wanted to make sure that you weren’t about to become the next headline in the local newspaper. at least, that was what he had told himself as he’d stayed hidden away in the shadows, his head down low and hood pulled up as he’d ‘escorted’ you home without you ever knowing it.

sure, it had definitely crossed some lines, him sneaking out of the cafe’s back door after you’d left that night to follow you, but the alternative was worse, right?

that’s what all this came down to, really. his insatiable need to know that you were safe. because last week, you’d ran from him that night with marks on your arm that your boyfriend hadn’t been the one to put there. and you’d ran from him, no less, scared out of your mind at the mere sight of him as he’d stood there pleading with you to stay.

and joost couldn’t stand that.

everyone else could view him as a monster and treat him as such, but not you.

never you.

that was the only reason why he’d ended up on your doorstep tonight. he needed to know that you were okay, that you were still alive, and that you understood that what he had done to levi, he would never, ever, do to you.

it was never his plan to ‘invite’ himself in the way that he had. he was going to knock on your door and wait for you to answer it, and he was prepared to spend the rest of the night out there, reasoning with you to just hear him out if he had to. and if by the end of it all you were to still cast him out with the promise of never wanting to see him again, he’d find a way to live with it. just as long as you’d be okay; he’d live with it.

it was never his plan to get to the top of your street and already be able to smell it. the thick, sweet, iron-heavy smell of your blood already so strong that he was gagging by the time he made it to your doorstep. hunched over and heaving, he’d stumbled up to your front door, forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths through his mouth before finally knocking. it took everything in him, every little last bit of willpower, not to turn right then and there.

“lieverd, it’s okay. i promise it’s okay; i’m just here to talk. you…you don’t have to fight me.”

even as you were still thrashing, joost leant down to rest his forehead against yours. his eyes bore into yours as they continued to flash between the two different colours, a few tears of his own welling up behind his waterline. the last time that you were up this close, close enough to see the sweat shining on his temples, you were grasping onto his arm in such a feeble attempt to hide yourself from who you thought to be the only monster in the room.

the one whose blood you’d later seen dripping down from in between joost’s fingers, as he’d clutched onto his heart like a trophy.

he should be the real monster to you — a small part of you even wanted him to be. as terrible as levi truly was, he’d never bitten the head off of anyone, never ripped a heart straight out of someone’s chest. he was just…levi. he was your boyfriend and you hated him, but you never wanted him to die.

there was a bigger part inside of you, though, one that twisted up at the thought of joost being anything like one of the ‘bad guys’ from your old bedtime stories. because despite everything that you’d seen, despite how he’d found out where you lived, somehow, and now had you pinned up against your own front door with his hand holding your mouth shut, you knew that he wasn’t. he wasn’t evil, wasn’t dangerous like how your boyfriend had been, and you knew that. you just didn’t quite know it yet.

still, you began to relax. whether it was by choice or because you simply didn’t have any fight left in you anymore, you weren’t entirely sure. your whole body felt as though it was on fire from how several of your cuts had ripped open slightly from your struggle. small spots of blood started to seep through the thin, white cotton of your shorts as you almost went limp against joost; your eye-contact unbreaking.

there was just something about the way in which he was looking at you. it was the exact same one he gave you that night last week, when he was desperately trying to convince you not to go back home to levi. his hands had been cupping each one of your cheeks, his warm breath fanning across your face as he panted. seeing that same look on him now, it was enough for you.

joost had felt you start to ease, had heard the fast beating of your heart start to slow. his grip on your mouth loosened as he gently wiped away the wet from your face with his free hand, tucking the loose strands of your hair away from your eyes.

“i’m gonna let you go now, okay? then we can talk?”

you nodded, blinking away the tears from your eyes.

as he held back a breath, joost finally moved his hand away from your mouth and took a single step back — allowing you just enough space to stand up on your own. he still hadn’t looked away from your face, his eyes stuck on yours as he searched your features for any signs of fear, any signs that you were about to turn and run.

but instead you seemed…calm. still very much in shock; your hands still very much trembling as you wrapped your arms around your middle. but you were calm enough to stand your ground and not shrink underneath his gaze. you didn’t flinch when both of his hands came up to cup either side of your jaw, the pads of his thumbs caressing along the skin.

“are-are you okay? i’ve not seen you in…i thought that maybe you had…”

he couldn’t quite find it in him to finish his sentence. it wasn’t like he needed to, you already knew exactly what he was talking about, and now it all started to make sense.

that look in his eyes, the way his voice kept shaking every time that he spoke. he was here because he was scared, terrified even, that you’d done something to yourself. that night you’d told him, or rather shown him your secret so he knew what you were capable of now, and it had been driving him mad ever since you disappeared.

you hadn’t needed to say anything; the way you suddenly pulled yourself away from him had said enough. in all of the chaos he hadn’t thought to simply look down. if he had, he would have seen all the damage you’ve already done; every single one of the fresh cuts that you’ve given yourself tonight and all of the ones from the nights before. the old vest top and pyjama shorts that you were wearing weren’t hiding anything — from your shoulders down to your shins, he could see everything now that he had finally dropped his gaze.

with his head down, you couldn’t see his face but you could feel the way he tensed up. you could hear him sniff, cough, and swallow down the bile that was rising up in his throat as he stumbled back a few steps.

you were still bleeding.

it was making his teeth ache.

neither of you said anything for a while. you stood frozen by the door, your arms still wrapped around yourself as he just stared blankly at you with tears running down his cheeks.

he felt sick; sickened by the very thing he’d been so afraid of now staring at him right back in the face. he couldn’t stand the sight of it but couldn’t bring himself to look away, either — there was just so much red. long, neat lines of red that covered you almost completely from head to toe; no patch of skin left unmarked. it was vile, it was abhorrent, it was breaking his heart.

“why?”

that was all joost could muster. a pathetic, broken question as he tried so desperately to pull himself back together.

“i…i don’t know.” you paused only to wipe your teary eyes on the back of your hand. “i never know what else to do when i feel like this; it’s just been hard, joost -”

you trailed off, quickly losing your train of thought when you heard him sob all of a sudden. you hadn’t seen him start to crack because you’d been staring down at your feet, suddenly feeling too shy to meet his eyes. except now he was the one trying to hide, his arm coming up to cover his face as he cried hard enough to make his shoulders bounce.

he repeated ‘i’m sorry, i’m so sorry.’ like a mantra in between shallow gasps of breath and hiccups.

he was blaming himself for this because how could he not? all those cuts along your skin; you might have been the one behind the blade but he had been the one to do it. he’d been the one to scar you like this. that one irreversible act of his that he prayed would keep you safe had pushed you to an edge that he feared he wouldn’t be able to pull you back from.

it wasn’t even his responsibility to, not really. he didn’t know you and you didn’t know him, either. still, he found himself loving you in a way that didn’t make any sense.

and you loved him too, didn’t you? in a way that you couldn’t quite wrap your head around because of course you did. you proved that to both yourself and to him by how you finally moved from your spot by the door just so you could take his hands and pry his arms away from his face. you let him engulf you, cradling you close to his chest as he cried into your shoulder because you knew that he needed it.

you didn’t know who he was or even what he was, but you knew that he wasn’t something to truly fear. deep down you knew that you loved him in such an awfully twisted way, and you knew that he needed to feel you just to know that you weren’t going anywhere.

joost was still spilling out his apologies as you tried so hard to soothe him. you felt him shiver under your touch when you let your hands slip underneath the hem of his t-shirt to rub the hot skin of his sides, your soft little whispered assurances filling his ear.

it wasn’t his fault, nor was it levi’s or anyone else’s. you were like this long before he’d ever set his eyes on you and a part of you had already accepted that you always will be. the very last thing that you wanted was for it to be a burden someone else had to carry, let alone somebody like joost.

“you didn’t do this, okay? it’s alright. i’m gonna be alright.”

maybe it was cruel of you to try and calm him with words that even you didn’t fully believe in. what you had done to yourself only an hour ago, only you would ever be to blame for it, but you didn’t know if you were going to be alright in the end. you were still a witness to what he’d done and you were still doomed to live with the guilt of that.

“you don’t need to apologise for what i’ve done; you know that this is what i do. it’s not your fault.”

“but i fucked up, lieverd.” joost shuddered as he sucked in a sharp breath, sniffing. “i fucked up and i did this to you; you did it because of me.”

you hushed him, carefully stepping back just enough so that you had the room to cradle either side of his neck in your hands, urging him to look back at you. as soon as he did, you could see that his eyes were back to being just their usual sweet blue, nothing else.

“i did it because i was scared, joost. i didn’t know what else to do.”

“what, scared of me?”

his question was more like a punch to the gut than anything else. for just a moment it knocked the air out of you; left you winded and with no idea on how to go about answering it. truthfully, the answer was yes, but also no, because it was never actually him that you were so afraid of.

you were just afraid of what he did; what you know joost is truly capable of now. you were afraid of the part of you that was almost relieved to see levi suffer what he did, knowing that it meant that he wouldn’t be able to hurt you anymore. but again, you never wanted him to die. you never wanted to see him get torn apart, piece by piece.

joost whimpered out your name when you didn’t answer and instead just stood there with your mouth slightly agape. your lack of an actual, verbal answer was an answer in itself, really, and he knew that; knew that you were probably just too scared and too kind to tell him the truth. still he needed to hear you say it though, purely for his own sake, he needed to hear you say that he wasn’t just another monster to you.

but the longer that he waited, the weaker his knees started to feel. he kind of fell into you, in a way, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck as your arms came up to hold him against you. his hot tears ran down your skin and pooled together in the dip of your collarbone and it was right then that your own eyes started to burn.

slipping out from his grasp, you wordlessly led him by the hand over to your sofa. you watched him collapse onto it as you took a seat next to him, his elbows rested on his knees as his head hung low in between them. his shoulders were still shaking and you could still hear each of the muffled cries that were spilling from his lips.

“please, please, believe me, lieverd. what i did…i never wanted it to hurt you. i’m so sorry.”

you curled yourself into a tight little ball and let out a long, deep breath, one that you hadn’t even known you’d been holding. you had questions; so, so many questions that had been festering, growing like mould in the back of your head. and joost could almost feel you holding them back as he looked up at you with such watery eyes, the only red in them being the sore, puffy rings around them.

“ask me anything, whatever you wanna know.”

“why did you do it?”

there was no emotion in your voice and you kept your face blank as you spoke — it was only the slight quiver of your bottom lip that gave you away.

“he was going to hurt you, schatje.”

“but how…how were you even…?”

it had happened decades ago, back when internet cafes were still just your average libraries and when only the rich could afford to have their own mobile phones.

joost had been young, living off the high of infamy and adoration that came with being in one of the best punk bands in the scene at the time. him and his friends, they’d been something of local legends; for good and for bad, it just depended on who you asked. those that loved them deemed them god-like in their old denim and rusted chains, and those that hated them, simply feared them.

he’s not proud of it, how they spent day after day rotting away in a garage, doing whatever drugs they could get their hands on and writing songs just to spend night after night playing shows at only the worst bars they could find. how they’d get even more off their faces afterwards and start fights, smashing up the venues and spray-painting anarchy symbols anywhere and everywhere that they could. how if the night didn’t end with them running away from the cops then it would end with them in the bed of anything with a pretty face, two legs, and a heartbeat.

and then what was supposed to be the best night of the band’s life, the biggest show they’d ever played to a crowd that already knew all the words to their songs, became nothing more than the beginning of the end. it’d happened after they’d all really outdone themselves, whilst those so-called ‘friends’ of his that only ever brought out the worst of him were all passed out somewhere, and joost had decided to go out for a little wander.

still to this day, he can’t remember the face of who had jumped him. the alleyway had been too dark and he’d been too drunk to even know where he was, so all that truly stuck with him was the agony of it all. the searing pain of a pair of fangs plunging deep into the side of his neck, the gradual, stinging cold he’d felt as the life was almost all but drained from him. whoever it was, they’d left him there to die afterwards — still to this day, a part of him wishes that he had.

waking up that next morning something so much worse than human, consumed by an appetite so uncontrollable that he just couldn’t help himself when he came across that lone jogger whilst on his way back to his friends. surely it had to have been worse than death. he’d torn that poor guy to shreds as if it was nothing, as if he was just pulling chicken off the bone.

but he hadn’t stopped there, had he? he couldn’t, he didn’t know how to. even after he’d shown up on his drummer’s doorstep covered in blood and crying his eyes out, he had to keep going, keep feeding. because joost wasn’t too good at knowing when to stop, either, was he?

it had taken him years to figure it out, actually. years of mindless, reckless slaughter to realise that he actually hated what he was now, and that his ‘friends’ weren’t ever really his friends. from the moment he’d shown up that day, all stained red and babbling about the man he’d just killed, the band played him like a puppet simply because they knew that they could.

regardless of the change, he was still joost. they knew that it really wouldn’t take much to get inside of his head, to spin whatever that had happened to him into something almost profitable for them all. and it hadn’t, because everything they had him do was always ‘for the band’, so really, how could he have said no?

besides, he would have been lying if he’d said he hadn’t come to enjoy it, after a while. seeing the life drain from their eyes as they’d beg for mercy, pleading with him, promising him that they’d do whatever he wanted if he’d just let them go. he’d always laugh then, before sinking his teeth into their throats.

and it helped that these people also happened to be nobodies, too. from shitty bar owners that wouldn’t let them play to members of a rival band that had just gotten a little too cocky for their own good. no one ever missed them, most hardly noticed that they were gone.

joost was never a monster to them, to the band, just an over-glamorised attack dog that could do a lot more than just bite.

it had taken him far too many years to realise it.

“that’s how i ended up with the cafe…i wanted to get away; i didn’t want to be like that anymore.” he paused only to gauge your reaction, or more so your lack of one. you hadn’t said a word the entire time, hadn’t flinched or pulled a face; you had barely even blinked.

“what did you do with the body?…his body?”

the sudden sound of your voice, it made him glance back up at you with a small quiver in his lip. you were still staring blankly at the wall ahead, your expression borderline unreadable, but your words hadn’t cracked and your hands weren’t shaking anymore, either.

“i know some people that are…like me; they handled it.” when you fell quiet again, joost continued, wiping the snot from his nose as he did so. “i’ve done a lot of bad things, lieverd. what i did to levi, fuck, that’s not even the worst of it. you should be scared of me; i’m scared of me.”

“i’m not.”

“why?”

“because if you were still the monster that you think you are, i wouldn’t have even made it halfway out the door that night.”

after only another moment or two of silence had passed did you finally look down to meet his eyes again. whilst there was a shine in yours that definitely matched his own, there was something so soft about the way you were gazing at him. it made the muscles beneath his shoulders relax and drop down as he breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.

you didn’t need to elaborate any further, didn’t need to say anything else to prove to him that you knew he wasn’t that person anymore. he could tell simply from the hint of a smile that was tugging at the corners of your mouth. from how it was with careful, delicate movements that you moved to crawl onto his lap and hugged him, nuzzling your face into the curve of his neck.

the large, warm palms of joost’s hands slid underneath the cotton of your tank top and soothed the cool skin of your spine as he rested his head against yours. instead of asking how you were even real, how someone so undeniably good was able to look past each and every single one of his sins, he kept quiet to let the last few tears of his fall.

but if he had in fact asked, then you would’ve told him that truly, you couldn’t hold any of it against him.

of course it was all awful, from the countless faces he’d torn apart to the people that he terrorised even before the change. your skin had been crawling as joost had spoken and you just couldn’t ignore the fact that anyone else in your position probably would’ve taken off running by now. that, and that they’d have every right to.

except you weren’t just anyone, were you? as far as you were concerned, those old so-called ‘friends’ of his were the real monsters, because you of all people knew what it was like to be hurt by those you trusted most. to have someone so deep inside your mind that you quickly became blind to everything else. you couldn’t hold it against him because in your heart, you got it. you could feel that, that wasn’t who joost was anymore.

“can you stay tonight? for a little while?”

you felt his hands trail down to the side of your hips and squeeze as you pulled away just enough to see his face, your own two hands falling down to rest against his stomach.

“i’ll stay for as long as you want me to, schatje. i’m here.”

being on the brink of almost giddiness as you nodded, that small smile of yours twisting up into an almost grin, you hadn’t realised how his fingers were starting to roam. that his hands were gently moving around, rubbing up and down the flesh of your waist until they reached the very front of your hips.

you hadn’t been fast enough, hadn’t been able to take hold of his wrists to stop him before the soft pads of his thumbs could find the aching, bumpy lines of the cuts you’d put there a few days ago. as you froze, you watched his own sweet smile drop and his eyebrows furrow, and felt him slowly lift up the hem of your top just enough to see the true extent of it.

even in the low light of your living room, even if his eyesight wasn’t as unnaturally good as it was, he still wouldn’t have been able to miss it. just like the rest of you was, the tight skin of your stomach and all the way across to your hips were marked with the same harsh, red gashes. most were scabbed over but a couple were sprouting fresh drops of blood from where you’d been moving around so much, pulling them apart at the seams.

you went to stand and then tried to simply twist yourself away when you couldn’t, but even then joost’s hold on you was too strong. his touches were feather-soft as he traced the tips of his fingers along every single one, following them down to the ones on your things and then back up along the ones on your arms. by the time that he reached your eyes again they were already scrunched up closed, hiding from him.

“because of me.”

it was more of a statement than a question, partly because he already knew the answer, and partly because he knew that you’d still deny it if he asked.

“joost -”

“- you have a first aid kid somewhere, right? lemme help.”

you shook your head as you went to tug your vest top back down, only to freeze when you finally caught a glimpse of all the little spots of blood that had seeped through your clothes. you stopped and stared at them for longer than you meant to, your hands trembling as you toyed with the material between your fingers.

the blood was always your favourite part. how it would slowly peek through the small breaks in your skin before oozing out, running down your body until the drops would fall and hit the floor. it had a way of hypnotising you every single time, making you want to keep going and going just so you could see it happen over again and again. even now, when the tiny red polka dots were nothing more than just a few sticky stains on your top, turning the tips of your fingers a deep pink.

it took joost gently prying your hands away for you to snap out of it.

“n-no, no, i can’t let you do that. it wouldn’t be fair, not when there’s so much blood and you’re…”

“i’ll be fine, lieverd, i promise.” you felt him give your hands a soft squeeze as he paused, “let me help you.”

there was no point in trying to change his mind. once you lifted your head back up and saw how those big blue eyes of his were staring back at you, the smudged, dark makeup around them making them seem so might brighter, you no longer had the heart to tell him no again. he could have asked anything of you, and you would’ve said yes.

“it’s in the bathroom.”

without warning, joost moved to grip the backs of each of your thighs and stood up, smiling when you squealed as you wrapped your arms and legs around him. it baffled you for a moment how it seemed as though he already knew where to go, that he already knew that your bathroom was all the way down the hall, last door on the left. you chalked his strong sense of direction up to it just being another one of the many perks that came along with being…well, him.

and whilst that was true, maybe it wasn’t the only reason why he specifically knew the layout of your home already. maybe he’s escorted you home more than just the once, twice, three times. maybe this wasn’t actually his first time walking down your hallway at all.

the cold of your bathroom counter underneath you made you jump slightly as joost carefully set you down on it. you’d left the light on from when you were in here earlier; your razor still laying discarded on the floor, coated in a drying layer of your own blood. you hadn’t even thought he’d seen it until he was picking it up and tossing it in the bin as if it was just a piece of rubbish that he’d dropped.

neither of you were saying anything. joost had fallen uncharacteristically quiet, breathing somewhat heavily through his mouth as he dug through your cabinets until he finally found that little green box with the red cross on on the front. his hands were shaking as he opened it, pulling out the countless packets of alcohol wipes and plasters, dropping a few things as he did so.

had you been paying more attention, then you would’ve noticed that actually, this was taking quite the toll on him. but you couldn’t shift your eyes away from the bin, the one that now contained the very last one of your razor blades amongst a small collection of used tissues and tampon wrappers. joost had thrown away your last one, and now you had none.

“okay, i’m sorry if this stings, schat. let me know if you need me to stop, okay?”

it was as you were nodding that you suddenly hissed, your leg jolting from the pain of the alcohol wipe joost had used to clean the first of the cuts on your upper thigh. on instinct you tried to pull away, fighting against the grip that he held on you to keep your leg still against the counter.

you weren’t expecting it to hurt as much as it did. considering how many times that you’ve been here before, cleaning yourself up because you didn’t always have someone around that cared enough to want to do it for you, you thought you would have been used to it by now. you never would have guessed that it would have you in near tears all over again, gripping the edge of the bathroom counter until your knuckles slowly started to turn white.

maybe this was just the price you had to pay for going a little deeper than you meant to.

“hey, do you think you could just…i don’t know, talk, for a while? tell me something about yourself?” at the look of confusion on your face joost just smiled, raising his hands a little to show you just how hard they were shaking. “it’ll help me concentrate.”

he was struggling more than he thought he’d be.

except how could he not be? this was a lot for him. all that blood of yours smeared and stained across his fingers aside, simply just being this close to you was enough to somehow make him feel lightheaded. feeling your knees on either side of his thighs as he stood in between your legs, so close to you in fact that he could hear your heartbeat louder than anything else.

he just needed to hear your voice, needed something else to focus on besides your blood that now laid underneath his fingernails.

“oh shit, uh, okay….um…”

you weren’t sure why you started to chuckle, almost, stumbling over these noises that barely even resembled words. you wanted to come up with something to talk about fast, to help get joost’s mind off of what he was actually doing, but the harder you thought the quicker your mind went blank. nobody’s ever really asked you to talk about yourself before; you had no idea what to say.

there wasn’t a whole lot to say, really. you used to have interests; hobbies that you used to put your heart and soul into, dreams that you were so determined to make a reality for yourself. levi had, had other plans for you, though. either, he would simply take up too much of your time, or he’d be so insistent that those hobbies of yours were ‘pointless’, that eventually you grew to lose interest in them. since day one of the relationship, everything about you had to be about him.

you used to think that it was probably for the best, that maybe he was right and you really were just wasting your time. but now that he’s gone for good, and you’re stuck with someone in front of you that genuinely wants to get to know you, you realise now that there’s nothing for you to tell them. there’s nothing of who you used to be left.

joost gave your knee a quick squeeze before turning his attention onto your arms, having slowly picked up on the fact that once again, your lack of an answer told him far more than you wanted it to.

“okay, let’s start with the easy stuff — what did you want to be when you were growing up?”

“i wanted to be a painter.”

you hissed again at the burn of one of the alcohol wipes against your skin; smiling softly when he reassured you of just how brave you were being.

“a painter? that’s sick! did that happen?”

“almost. i went to school for it, got a degree and everything, but uh, levi always said that it’s not a ‘real job’ so…”

joost’s frown was immediate. he was shaking his head, the lines in his forehead already so prominent. “did you really give it all up because of that? that’s bullshit.”

“i didn’t really have much of a choice, joostie.”

you both fell quiet again after that.

he felt horrible for reacting like that, fearing that you mistook all of his anger towards levi and each of the silly little ideas that the guy had planted in your head to be aimed at you. you’d sounded so defeated as your shoulders slumped, your voice falling to a near-whisper as you moved your gaze onto the floor. of course you didn’t have a choice; that much should’ve already been obvious.

and it was the look on your face now that was hurting him the most. a look of mourning as you pondered the life that you almost had, had it not been for that asshole and the hold that he’d once had over you. as joost wiped another cut clean, he regretted for just a moment not going back for seconds that night — it would’ve been the least that levi deserved.

“what kind of art did you do?”

that brought something of a smile back to your face as your mind drifted back to all of the scrapbooks you had hidden underneath your bed. old, dust-covered notebooks filled to the brim with page after page of everything from doodles to full-fledged paintings. your bottom lip wobbled when you thought of all the canvases though, the same ones you once watched levi destroy one night just because he’d wanted to see you cry after a fight.

“everything — oil paint, acrylics, watercolour. i really loved chalk, though. seeing all the stains it would leave behind made it feel like it meant something more, you know? like i was really creating something.”

a gentle grin curled the corners of your mouth up as you spoke, beginning to ramble so passionately about what you loved that joost really did almost forget what he was doing. he had to stop for a second just so that he could witness that smile of yours, see that gleam in your eyes that he’d once had himself back when he was just kid writing songs in his bedroom. in a blink of an eye, you had suddenly become so alive and it had him floored.

it had him captivated, actually; irrevocably wrapped around your finger.

his hands weren’t shaking so much anymore.

“i have a friend that’s a painter; he mainly does the oil stuff, i think, but maybe i could introduce the two of you one day? he’ll probably have some chalk laying around somewhere.”

“is he…?”

“no, he’s not like me. can i lift your shirt up a little bit? we’re almost done, i’ve just got to get the last ones.”

you nodded, wondering how it was that his skin felt so warm against yours, all things considered.

“it wouldn’t have mattered to me if he was.”

joost knew that you were telling the truth, could hear it in the way that your heartbeat kept its rhythm.

and the conversation continued to flow as joost patched up the last few cuts of yours, sticking little hello kitty plasters delicately across your hip bones. he told you all about this oil-painter friend of his, ‘daan’ — how he’d been the first genuine friend that joost had made after the change, how he never would’ve been able to get away from the band if it wasn’t for him.

joost even opened up to you about his family, his parents. even after so many years, you still had to help him breathe through it as he told you their story with tears all in his eyes. it was only fair that you did the same after that; he almost couldn’t believe it when you’d said you'd lost your parents when you were younger too, spent some time in the system just as he had. after all, that was how you met levi.

and he told you all about another friend of his, ‘lenny’, how it’s because of her that he likes foreign graphic novels so much. whenever he’s not reading those porn mags that he swears he only picks up for the articles, he’s reading and then re-reading her old japanese comic books. you were never much of a comic book kid yourself, having always preferred to lose yourself inside the pages of a stephen king or a neil gaiman instead, so you promised to read ‘death note’ if joost read ‘the shining’.

by the time that he was pulling your shirt back down and chucking away all of the used, bloodied wipes that had accumulated, you were fighting to keep your eyes open. joost could tell that he was losing you just from the way that you kept swaying from side to side and nodding your head slightly even when he hadn’t asked you a question. it made his heart ache, knowing that you were so, so exhausted but still so unwilling to sleep because you wanted to keep the conversation going.

he hadn’t told you his favourite colour yet.

“cmon you, i think it's bedtime.”

you were yawning before you could argue, letting your head fall back against the cabinet behind you. the thought of your bed was undeniably heavenly; the feeling of your mattress dipping below your weight as you curl yourself into a ball beneath your blankets. the only problem was that you were just as comfy here as you would be over there, though, perched on the edge of your bathroom countertop with joost still standing in between your legs, his hands resting on each of your thighs.

this bubble you had created with him — it wasn’t one you were ready to leave quite just yet. there was still that fear of waking up alone again lurking in the back of your mind.

and it was before you could argue that joost was also scooping you up again, holding you up by the backs of your thighs as he began to carry you back down the hall. you let your head fall to rest against his shoulder, your arms draped loosely around his neck. if it wasn’t for that fear of yours twisting your insides and rotting your brain from the inside out, you could have fallen asleep right there.

you probably would have.

“you’re gonna stay with me, right?”

joost glanced down at the top of your head with a crease in his eyebrows, carefully nudging your bedroom door open with his foot. “i already told you, lieverd, i’m not going anywhere. i promise.”

“no, i know that. i just mean -” you paused when he gently set you down just beside your bed, only stepping away to turn on the light until you made a sudden, desperate reach for his wrist.

when the warm glow of the lamp flooded the room, you could see that he wasn’t smiling anymore. instead there was worry in his eyes as he took that step back closer to you again, his hands coming up to tuck loose strands of hair behind your ears.

“what’s wrong?”

“- i meant that you’re not gonna exile yourself to the sofa or anything, right? you’ll stay with me?”

it finally clicked in his head what you were asking.

and it definitely felt like a lot to be asking of him, again all things considered. you just couldn’t do it though, you couldn’t handle the idea of being by yourself anymore. it was why you always stayed in the end, with levi, why a part of you couldn’t help but miss him. his presence would be chilling but his side of the bed would always be warm when you would wake up in the mornings.

you didn’t want to start crying when you felt as though it was taking joost too long to answer. you didn’t want to guilt trip him like that, make him feel as though he had to even if he didn’t want to. but it was just another thing that you couldn’t help, because you were so tired and so afraid that you just didn’t know what else to do besides sit down and cry.

he copied you by sinking down into a squat, placing both of his hands onto each one of your knees. since you kept your eyes focused on the ceiling, trying and failing at trying to blink away your tears as you hiccuped, it was from the corners of your sight that you saw joost reach up to wipe them away himself. the pads of his thumbs stroked along the skin of your cheekbone and lingered there for a moment or two before he spoke.

“can you look at me, schatje?”

you did so almost reluctantly.

“i’m not going anywhere, alright? i’m not gonna leave you.”

nodding as you sniffled, you kept your eyes locked with his as you crawled back onto your bed and pulled back the covers. neither of you said anything nor dared to look away from the other as joost kicked off his shoes and undid the clasp of his watch, slipping it off of his wrist to leave it on your bedside table.

that was all he did before he climbed into bed with you, still dressed in the same hoodie and sweatpants that he’s had on all night. you let his arms wrap around you and tug you up into his chest as you grabbed onto fistfalls of his sweatshirt, trusting that he meant it when he said he’d stay with you but still feeling too afraid to let go.

more tears began to fall from your eyes, your shoulders wracking against him as you cried. soft, gentle circles were drawn anywhere on your skin that he could reach; your shoulders, your hips, your sides, and he murmured sweet little assurances into your ear.

“i mean it, okay? i’ve got you. i’m right here.”

it was with your whole heart that you believed him. with your tears slowly soaking through the cotton of his jumper, you believed that he’ll still be here when you wake up, all curled up with you with his hand still rubbing up and down your back.

“i’m here.”

#joost klein x reader #joost klein x f!reader #luvvergirlwrites

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writing-mlm · 7 months ago

Note

hi this is weird but like I’ve been on a avatar kick and just finish legend of Korra and wanted to know if you could do a bolin x Male waterbender who’s best friends with Korea and she encourages it but reader is oblivious to the pinning

Plans without planning

Summary: Bolin has been trying for months to put his big boy pants on, thankfully he has the sand to help him. Pairing: Bolin x Male reader Wc: 1.8k A/n: maktaaq- whale skin and blubber and suaasat— a soup made out of either seal, whale, caribou, or seabird meat

Dressed in soft blues that blow in the soft breeze that seems to live in the Air temple, you peel an orange with an ulu in the same manner Bolin had watched you cut maktaaq countless times before. Eating a slice, you huff while picking at the skin. It’s just not the same.

A vacation, Korra had promised this would be a vacation. But you couldn’t see water for miles and you refused to eat meat within the temple; something you’re sure Tenzin would approve of but you were sure you were going fruit and vegetables mad. There were only so many times you could eat a salad before you were done with greens for the rest of your life.

“I know right,” Bolin forced a laugh as he sat next to you, running his hands nervously up and down his legs. “Men like us need meat!” He raises a fist, faking being angry. You chuckle, sparing him a glance before looking off towards the clouds. He beams, red dusting his face when you laugh at his joke.

You think Bolin’s funny. He’s a lot of things, but you like that he’s funny. Coming from a family of sticks in the mud he’s like a breath of fresh air. Not to mention he’s the nice type of funny, he’s never mean with his jokes. He’s also so kind, and gosh, again, coming from a family of sticks in the mud who were hell-bent on making a family of damn near bodybuilders, you’ve never really had someone speak so kindly around— and at— you before.

Plus, he’s jacked.

A silence falls over the two of you while you offer him half of your orange. He takes it with a thank you and looks towards the clouds. He gulps and nibbles on it, unsure if he should start a conversation. He probably should, right? He looks at you again, chewing on his bottom lip while trying to think of something to talk about.

Bolin thinks you’re scary, so his ideal type. He won’t go too into detail about his type because honestly, as long as he thinks the person could absolutely wreck him, he’s going to fall head over heels for him. He likes that you’re a little softie, though. In the confines of rooms, isolated from the rest of the world you’re a bubbly guy. You like his jokes, a whole lot. He remembers one time you didn’t stop laughing until you nearly passed out.

He’s a naturally chatty guy, he never stops talking really.

But his mind is running blanks, what could he possibly think to say? You’re so… ugh! And he’s so…eh! Shaking his head, he clears his throat and you start to look at him when the door behind you gets thrown open.

“There you guys are!” Korra shouts and you look behind you while Bolin jumps, shouting that he wasn’t doing anything. You glance at him, a little confused before turning your attention back to Korra. “Oh, was I interrupting anything?” She grins, a hand now on her hip. Her other hand flickers between the two of you and you shake your head, smiling over at Bolin who nearly melts under your gaze.

“Having a manly talk about eating meat,” You grin, tossing up the orange peel. She catches it and lights it on fire while you roll your eyes. Show off. “Why?” Her eyes widen when she remembers why she’d ventured all the way up there and she smiles, playing with her arm cuff.

“Oh, Asami wants to go to the beach—“ Your eyes twinkle at the mention of a beach. Water. Glorious, amazing water.

“Say less, Korra. Let's go!” Jumping over the chair, you rush out to go and change into your swimming trunks while Korra’s gaze slowly shifts to Bolin. She raises her eyebrows and sighs, head resting on the frame of the archway.

“I know!” He cringes, covering his face. “I’m trying— I am!” He swears, still covering his face.

“Really? It’s been three days and still you haven’t made a move,” This whole trip was some elaborate plan he’d come up with and begged Korra and the others to go along with. Mako didn’t really care, he tried not to involve himself in his younger brother's love life and Asami was always down to leave the city.

Korra on the other hand. If the word involved could become a person; it would become her. She’s been telling him all your favorite things, your least favorite things, and ways that would totally get him to win you over. Not to toot her own horn but she’s quite the matchmaker— she got her and Asami to date, after all.

“I will,” He promises. “Why don’t you guys give us a moment on the beach?” She nods, looking over her shoulder. Just making sure that you aren’t there.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

—

“You ever built a sandcastle?” Bolin asks while he’s already knee-deep in sand and you’re letting the waves roll over your legs. You’re enjoying the water like a fish that’s been above the surface for too long.

“I built plenty of snow castles. Never a sandcastle,” You shake your head, turning your body so you’re fully facing him. He gasps and shakes his hands, unable to contain his excitement. You smile at his excitement, eyes darting down to your sand-covered legs as a crab runs across. You flinch and shoo it away without him noticing.

“I love sandcastles! You just need a bit of water and a bit of sand and… boom! A masterpiece is born!” He explains. “And it doesn’t just need to be a castle, you can make anything!”

“Can we make…” You trail, thinking about something. “A snowman?” He nods and you agree, collecting water while he runs to get a bucket. When you look around you find that the others had since walked to the other end of the beach. You can only imagine they’re having another heated conversation. Mako is probably saying something annoying or stupid. Or both.

When Bolin returns, you drop the water and the two of you start working. They’re very… not great attempts at a sand snowman but Bolin says they’re cute and you’re inclined to agree with him. Eventually, the two of you make an entire army of them, covering a good part of the beach before you both settle in the sand.

“You got really good,” He notes, looking at the progression of the sculptures. His didn’t. At least by comparison. He was rushing the whole thing and if he was being honest, definitely wasn’t paying attention to anything but you the entire time.

“Thanks! Yours are nice too,” You raise a hand, pointing lazily at his tilting sand snowmen. “They really capture the feeling of a melting snowman.” At the compliment he beams, red covering his face in a way that isn’t a sunburn.

“Yeah, because they’re all bleh when they melt!” He laughs, mimicking a snowman dying in the sun when he says bleh. You nod, laughing alongside him.

When the shared laughter dies down, you look for Korra and the others. It’s been hours since you’ve last seen any of them. Hopefully, they didn’t get into a fight or something.

“Korra?” Bolin asks, following your line of sight. You nod, pushing hair out of your face as you turn back to him. “They’re probably trying to out-swim each other or something. Korra mentioned she’d be back around sunset!” He lies through several stutters, unable to look you in the eyes.

But you take his words at face value and nod.

There’s a silence that falls over the two of you and Bolin runs his hands up and down his sandy legs. Again, he has no idea what to talk about. There are a million topics he possibly could but… he can’t remember any of them right now.

He looks at you, eyes quite literally sparkling before he sees Korra a distance away. She’s making wild gestures before she huffs and grabs Asami, kissing her before pointing at Bolin and then you. He flushes and looks away with a clearing of his throat.

“You’re cute in this light,” You smile and he jumps, turning to you with eyes blown as wide as saucer plates.

“Wha-what?” He asks and you chuckle, looking him up and down with a slow flicker of your eyes.

“It’s just… you look nice with the sun on you like that.” You shrug, your fingers digging into the sand.

“You always look nice,” He blurts, sitting on his legs and your eyebrows raise at the sudden burst.

“Thank you?” He nods, hands moving wildly again as he talks.

“Like this one time, when you tried out pro-bending, and you made the waterfall over the opposite team and we got disqualified—“ You cringe at the memory but he shakes his head. “It’s okay. But you looked so good doing it. And then when you were sick and I offered to make you soup, you looked nice standing in that blanket.”

“I had snot running down my nose and puffy eyes, Bolin,” You laugh.

“Well, yeah, but still.” He shrugs. “You’re always cute— handsome— whatever!” He rushes out.

“I didn’t know you thought that about me,” You admit, sitting up and wiping your hands free of sand. “Is that why Korra kept insisting we shared a bed back at Zaofu? With Suyin?”

“Maybe,” He meekly nodded, settling back into the sand. He huffs, looking up towards the sky. He guessed this was a good time; probably the only chance he’d get again to actually follow through with his plans. “I’ve been trying to ask you out for five months! But I keep getting all tongue-tied and nervous. And then there was that time with Mako— he ruined the whole thing.”

“Really?” You ask, scratching your cheek. “I would’ve said yes.” You admit, standing up. It’s getting late and you really don’t like the feeling of the wet stand on your legs.

“Wait really?” He smiles and you nod, looking towards the water and then back at him.

“I thought you knew, I gave you half of my last suaasat. Not even Korra gets that privilege.” He scrambles up and holds your face for a long moment. His eyes dart between yours and you smile at him.

“Are you going to stare at me or kiss me, Bolin?” You tease and he shakes his head, clearing his thoughts.

“Kiss, definitely kiss.” He leans in, eyes closing and you lean in. Your nose brushes his for just a second before your head tilts a little, pulling him in. Once your lips touch you hear cheering from behind you and laugh while Bolin pulls away, joining in on the cheering.

Shouting, he picks you up and you cling onto him, not used to people lifting you so high up.

#x reader #x male reader #bolin x reader #bolin x male reader #lok x reader #lok x male reader #waterbender reader #bolin x you #bolin x y/n

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solitary-traveler · 1 year ago

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One More Night

Hookups were supposedly a one- time thing. A way to have fun without getting attached.

So why the fuck does he keep coming back to you?

Scaramouche x Gn!Reader

A/n: A quick edit of a draft I've had in my notes for a while now.

Art credits: ike_0910

Warning: Slight nsfw, cursing

Scaramouche despises hookups.

To be tangled within the sheets with a complete stranger, the idea repulsed him to no end. Honestly, it was rather pathetic. It was nothing more than a desperate act of attention. A despondent call to those terrified of estrangement. But archons forbid, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't the least bit curious.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try at least once?

Besides, stress has been eating him up lately. He needed a way to clear his thoughts and forget. To let go and revel in the pleasure of losing himself in his inhibitions.

But there must be something wrong with his hookup. Weren't they supposedly a one- time thing? A way to have fun without getting attached?

So why the fuck does he keep coming back to you?

Why does he insist on keeping you on his bed, with a part of him wishing you'd stay there forever?

He hated this so much.

Words can’t express how much he loathes this thing referred to as attachment. He refuses to let his emotions run rampant again and undergo the heartbreak of treachery. He’s been betrayed three times. He’s not letting you be his fourth one.

Yet here he was, in bed with you for the 5th time this week, lips locked in a fiery fit of passion. Your wrists were pinned above your head, it was scary how he didn’t want to let you go. How despite his repugnance towards devotion, his hypocrisy ruled with the thoughts of keeping you in place.

"You taste so fucking good…", he mumbles as his breath brushes against your lips. Your skin was redolent of fresh lemon with the base of woody amber, the bed sheets stained with the scent of your perfume. The air was heavy, choking the last of his self-control. He eyes you, taking shallow breaths underneath him as you tried to catch your breath. He couldn’t help the twitch of his lips as you never fail to provide him with the dopamine of having control. He dives in for another kiss, this time devoid of passion and merely fueled by his hunger. Hunger for you. For the delightful moans that slip out your pretty, little mouth when he pounds relentlessly into you. For the way your body arches when he rakes his fingernails across your smooth skin, all the while his hips snap forward to hit that spot deep within you. A certain area only he knows that would drive you crazy.

He was obsessed with this feeling.

He knows that he should've let you go already, that this is something that shouldn't be happening. But dear archons forgive him because being wrong never felt so right. You were like a poison who seeped into his veins, rewiring his brain to be filled with thoughts regarding you and you alone. You collapsed the building of his very morals, turned everything he stood up for into non-existent debris.

"One more night…" He mutters, burying his face into the crook of your neck. It would be a comforting gesture, if not for the fact that he sinks his teeth into your skin and gnaws on it like a piece of meat. He’s sure that's going to leave a mark tomorrow yet it doesn’t stop the sinful moan that escapes your throat, an invitation for him to keep going. And he will most definitely keep going. His sense of judgement disintegrated when you hooked your arms around his neck, reciprocating his intense desire that tarnished both your bodies and short circuited your willpower. Nothing else mattered. Just you and his desire to have his way with you until he's satisfied.

A low chuckle escapes from the confines of his throat as he saw how much of a mess you became. A mess that belonged in his museum of you, framed, sculpted or whatever way its preserved. With a smirk that seemed to widen every passing minute, his fingers lightly trace the curve of your spine.

He just couldn't get enough of you.

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devoutekuna · 1 year ago

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When he's sick/injured

Includes- Toji, Sukuna, Nanami, Gojo, Geto

A/N- Geto has twin daughters in this

Sukuna-

Sukuna wasn't going to let a measly cold stop him, he was a king after all. Yet he still stays confined to his room not to get his daughter or wife sick. His daughter was rebellious refusing to take orders from anyone, even her father, that's why she went into his bedroom despite being told not to, carrying a big bowl full of her father's favourite soup with some meat inside it. "Hi dad!" Placing the bowl next to him as he sat outside on the porch getting some fresh air. "Hi baby" ruffling her hair as she sat down, maybe he was feeling nice since he was sick?

"I brought you some food" pushing it towards him. "Uraume said that it helps" kicking her little legs as she saw how he ate it, she had made it herself so it would be a blessing if he actually enjoyed it. "I made it myself, with the help from Uraume. She cooked the meat and I made the soup" pointing to it.

"You got more?" Handing her the empty bowl. "Oh, Oh yes!" She was even surprised he liked it, getting up as she ran towards the kitchen. Smiling to himself as he saw how his daughter acted.

Nanami-

During a mission he broke his wrist, fortunately it was already healing due to shoko, yet he had to come home with the white cast visible due to his shirt. "What happened to your arm daddy?" Pointing to the cast. "I fell" lying as he didn't want her to know the truth of how he got it. "Oh."

Pulling out the chair for whenever he came down to eat. "I will get you food!" Smiling up at him as he sat down "Thank you sweetheart" patting her head. Bringing back a bowl full of cereal, it was overflowing a bit due to the milk but it was fine. This was now a regular occurrence during the time he broke his wrist, having his daughter take over his responsibilities despite not asking to.

About to get up to go change the clothes from the washing machine into the dryer but his daughter beat him to it, running towards the dryer as she opened the door, "I will put it in the dryer!". "You don't have to." He knew she'd get upset if he didn't allow her to, but he really wanted her to go spend her time with her friends or atleast something else.

Geto-

Suguru was sick, well it was actually the common cold since it was winter, not a big deal, but his daughter's made it the biggest deal ever. Forcing you to take them to the costume store to buy nurses outfits, making sure that they had all the right equipment before checking on their father. "Daddy, we've come to do a checkup on you!" Her little smiles as she waddled in, pushing a toy trolley full of toy medical supplies. A glass of water, a stethoscope, plasters, temperature monitor, you get the jist. "Yes yes" nodding in response as they tried to close the door behind him. Picking up his daughter as he out them on the bed along with the trolley. "First, we need the temperature thingy" grabbing it from the bag as she stuck it in his mouth, making him almost gag because it was full force. "Mummy is making you soup so you need to rest." Her twin sister was waiting for the soup to be ready so that she could bring it to him.

"Here you go baby" handing her a bowl of soup, watching over as she worked slowly not to spill it.

Putting the bowl on the nightstand. "Now the stethoscope!" Putting it in her ears as she placed it all around his upper body. "It goes here sweetheart" moving her hand so that the plastic touched his bare chest instead of his head. "36! You have a fever daddy" trying to diagnose him, yet she was wrong. Atleast she tried her best.

Gojo-

He was a bit overdramatic when it came to you spending more time with him, one example of this is the fact that he sometimes refuses to use his reverse cursed technique so that you can patch him up.

"Ow!" See normally you'd be the one to wrap him up with bandages but since you were already asleep, his son decided to help out. Using his arm as a handle so that he didn't fall off the sofa as he tightened the bandage. "Your pulling too hard" trying to loosen the material. "It's like a tourniquet!" He was taught to make sure the wrapping was tight or else it wouldn't work. "It's a small scrape" defending himself. "It could get infected! So you need to be safe" he clearly learnt that off you since Satoru was so careless.

Toji-

His daughter has a dream of becoming a nurse, it was always short lived though since she kept changing professions, last week she wanted to be a princess and the month before she wanted to be a president. "Okay dad, I will be your doctor for today!" Sat on the sofa as he watched her try and climb up, he'd never allow someone else to do this to him other than his daughter. The scar on his shoulder was practically healed by now, yet she still wanted to check it out. "Okay, does this hurt?" Pressing down on mark. "No" fingers digging further into his skin. "Now?" Looking back up at him as she sat on his arm.

"Nope" he was already tired of this as she was just messing around but he'd entertain his daughter if it meant seeing her happy. "How about now?" Shaking his head as she pouted. "I can give you paracetamol for now" climbing off the man as she buttoned up her doctor's jacket. "But I said it didn't hurt" writing down some words on a piece of paper. "Well I am the doctor here" smirking at the man.

#geto fluff #gojo fluff #sukuna fluff #nanami fluff #toji fluff #geto x reader #gojo x reader #sukuna x reader #nanami x reader #toji x reader #geto suguru #gojo satoru #toji fushiguro #nanami kento #sukuna ryomen #jjk drabbles #jjk x reader #jjk

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qichun · 6 months ago

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❅ 17:15

❅ minors do not interact | 830 words | taglist

❅ contents: Wriothelsey had missed your birthday due to his duties in the fortress of Meropede. he pulls out all the works to make it up to you.

❅ warnings: fem!reader (no pronouns used.), author has never used a slow cooker before so i was free balling it, pet names used (my love), reader is smaller than wriothesley

❅ event: the sapling café's secret santa for @mlkbwunnies sorry i'm late. <3

❅ authors note: two fics in two days, who is he?

❅ no ai scraping allowed | reblogs and feedback are appreciated!! Graphics by @/saradika-graphics

The Duke of Fontaine doesn’t often have the opportunity to take time away from his duties at the Fortress of Meropede. When he leaves the confines of the prison, he is usually on emergency business or has been called to the surface by the Sovereign Neuvillette. Though the Duke considers this matter the biggest emergency he has encountered to date, he is late. Not only is he late, but he is days late, and he hasn’t been able to find the time to write a letter to explain his absence on his beloved’s birthday. Instead of wasting time with a letter, he decided he would make haste and prepare to make up for his tardiness.

His first order of business was heading to the docks. Since Fontaine’s catastrophe was diverted, the docks had been open to more nations, namely Liyue Harbor. Since the reconnection with Liyue Harbor, new ingredients that couldn’t be grown in Fontaine had become increasingly in demand. He made his way to the large ship named The Crux, with its large red sails folded. He was glad they had yet to close up for the evening. He made quick work of purchasing the necessary amount of bamboo shoots and wine for the dinner he wanted to make.

Once he had bid farewell to the crew, he made his way to Fontaine’s own market streets, where he could find the rest of the ingredients fresher and cheaper than at the imports dock. He had to haggle with a few of the vendors, but he managed to stay within his budget. He had two more stops before he headed to see his beloved. His first stop was Café Lutece to purchase your favourite dessert, Fontinalia mousse, before visiting Boucicaut at his store to buy you a bouquet of your favourite flowers, pluie lotus.

He looked at his pocket watch to check the time; he wanted to make sure you were still at work before he entered your residence. He hung his coat on the coat rack before swapping his large boots for house slippers. He padded toward your kitchen to place the ingredients in the fridge, especially the mousse, before searching for an empty vase. He filled the vase with water before cutting the ends off the stems of the flowers, methodically placing them in the vase. Once upon a time, he didn’t know how to prepare flowers; too rough around the edges to handle such delicate things, it was only after meeting you that he learned how to be gentle.

He placed the full vase on the kitchen table, with two fresh candles on either side, before he washed his hands so he could prepare dinner while waiting for you to return. He slowly worked through scoring and preparing the meat, along with the spices, bamboo shoots, and soup broth. An hour later, the house was filled with mouthwatering scents. This was the scene that welcomed you when you entered your home, you were tired and not expecting company, but a small smile pulled onto your lips.

“Welcome home, my love.” Wriothesley’s smooth voice called from the kitchen, where he was preparing the table for you to eat. You had been planning to order in since you were too tired to cook for yourself, before you released a sigh of relief knowing you didn’t have to.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” You wanted to be mad; you wanted to be upset, but you could see the flowers on the table, the bamboo shoot soup in the slow cooker, and the sheepish, apologetic look on his usually calm and collected exterior.

“I suppose this is a start to making it up to me,” you spoke sternly, wanting to make him squirm while waiting for your forgiveness, even though you forgave him the moment you stepped through the door.

Wriothesley led you to the table, where he placed the casserole dish of bamboo shoot soup before lighting the candles on either side, bathing the dimly lit kitchen in a warm glow. Dinner was a quiet affair, your small hand held gently in his much larger hand as if it were fragile. There were soft whispered declarations of love, apologies, and hugs; all of the stress that lined both of your shoulders melted away in the warmth of each other. After you had both finished your dinner, he led you to the living room to sit in the pile of blankets he had prepared for your return.

You waited in front of the fire; he returned from the kitchen with a plate of Fontinalia mousse in one hand and two mugs of hot chocolate in the other. He placed the treats on the low coffee table before pulling you into his lap in the pile of blankets. “Happy birthday, my love.” You spent the rest of the evening enjoying his warmth and comfort, the crackling of the fire filling the air as you watched the light snow fall onto the Fontanian streets.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #☾ tales

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catnipaddictt · 1 year ago

Text

jailbreak

scott barringer x gn!reader

synopsis: You and Scott decide to escape New Horizons, a camp for at risk teens.

wc: 1.3k

tw: none

comment: there is a lack of Scott content on tumblr so I decided I wanted to write something. Also I fell in love with higher ground, i didn't think it was going to be that good, but i binged it in under a week.

You kick at the ground with your beat-up old sneakers, watching as moisture falls from the blades of grass. Grumbling could be heard from in front of you as the ground of teens treked behind their leader. Ever since you had arrived at New Horizons, it was basically walk after walker. You swear once you are out of this place you would never hike again. But alas you had now been here for almost 2 months, and Peter sure wasn't letting you out anytime soon.

Picking up your feet, you begin to follow your group as they walk uphill through the forest that surrounds the school. You make up the back of the pack, mostly just because you prefer to walk at a more leisurely pace.

“Hey” you glance to your side to be met with blue eyes. Scott. He had been here for around the same time you had meaning that you were both ‘fresh meat’. If you could even call yourself that anymore. You reply back with a “hi” focusing on not tripping on any tree roots. Scott was at New Horizons for a drug related problem, something a lot of the students had issues with. He was normally standoffish and refused to participate but you two got along just fine. Which led to the little problem of your not so little crush on the tall boy.

“I hate walking” he states plainly and you agree, nodding your head. “I mean, how is this supposed to help, walking up hills isn't going to fix a bunch of messed up kids” Scott continues. “It sucks, I just want to get out of here” you reply. “Hey, what if we-” Scott seems to want to say something but changes his mind, shaking his head. “Nevermind.” You glance at him confused. “C'mon, you have got to say it now” you laugh. “It was stupid anyways” he grumbles at the ground.

“Oh boo-hoo, just tell me” you practically beg. Scott sees this and ultimately starts to speak, “we could get out of here you know? It's only the forest holding us back I mean. And we have pretty much walked all of it twice over.” You turn your head to look at him, “you mean run away?” you ask. He has caught your full attention now. “See, told you it was dumb” Scott answers.

“Let's do it.”

“Sorry?” He states, “you can't be serious.” He raises an eyebrow. “Oh I'm serious. I have had enough of this place. Worst case scenario we get caught, that's like a few days of confinement to the cabins.” You reply smoothly. It was definitely a horrible idea but it's not like life was too exciting for you at the moment.”I mean, I'm down if you are” Scott shrugs. You think for a moment before replying. “Okay two days from now there is the school bonfire thing. We pack bags beforehand, I'll sneak into the kitchens and get us some food and stuff, and we can meet up by the docks. They won't notice we have gone for a few hours at least.”

Scott looks at you “a few hours head start is probably as good as we are going to get.” He makes up his mind, “okay I'm in.”

The next two days passed rather slowly, with not much really happening apart from lectures about personal wellness. What a waste of your time. You were counting down the minutes until your and Scott's escape out of here.

The final hours of your time at New Horizons were spent packing a bag, light enough to not slow you down, but enough to keep you going until you could get more supplies. Your next job was the kitchen.

The sun had almost disappeared by the time you reached the space, quietly opening and shutting the door behind you. You grabbed two large plastic bottles of water, placing them in your bag, as well as a few cans of food and lots of snacks. This was definitely enough to last you a few days. Getting through the forest should only take a few hours, the tricky part was not being seen around town.

Zipping up your bag you sneak out of the kitchen, making your way to the docks. You could see Scott's shadow cast on the wooden planks, giving his location away. You walk almost silently up to him and he jumps a little at you appearing. “Don't sneak up on me like that” he says playfully.

You nod your head in the direction of the path leading to the forest “time to go?” The light from the bonfire flickers over the landscape, making it feel like something out of a 80’s horror film. “Yeah, let's do it”

You both make your way out of the school and into the dense forest. There is nearly no light apart from the occasional bit of moon peeking through the canopy. Scott pulls two flashlights out of his bag, passing one to you “borrowed Auggie’s, hope he doesn't mind” he shrugs and you laugh. Poor Auggie had been robbed of his only torch.

After about an hour of walking Scott starts telling you clearly made up stories about people getting lost in the woods never to be seen again. Typical teenager boy behavior. You roll your eyes in response - not that he could see. “That's so not real” you speak, only to be met with a yelp as he trips over a tree root. You cannot contain your laughter at the action. “Not funny” he grumbles.

The next few hours pass in a blur. The clear night makes your walk nicer than you thought it was going to be. Scott being there helped a lot. You both exchange tales of your lives before New Horizons, Scott tells you about his football games and school. Up ahead of you, you can see where the ground drops about 6 feet or so, meaning you will have to climb down. Scott goes first, passing you his bag so you can throw it down to him once he is on solid ground. Once he reaches the earth again you throw down his bag followed by yours. He catches them and puts them down on the ground. Now it's your turn to make the descent.

You make it most of the way down without fail, but the place where you put your left foot collapses and you are forced to jump back and onto the dirt covered ground. Luckily you don’t hurt yourself but in the process you manage to basically slam into your companion. He lets out a sound at the impact, “woah there.” “Sorry Scott.”

After another hour you finally reach the edge of civilization and you exchange grins with the blonde boy. You had made it with close to little hiccups. Making it onto town, you and Scott begin to brainstorm what to do now. “We need to get further away before first light, then people might see the two of us. And when Peter comes asking they will know we were here” You think out loud. “We could hitchhike?” Scott suggests “It's risky but if we walk further out of town we have a better chance of someone who is passing through and not a local?”

You agree to the plan and after a quick break from walking you both set out again. Now that you are out of the dense forest you can see the night sky. It's clear tonight and you can see all the stars, you will miss it in a way. But you made your decision. As you walk, your hand brushes against Scott’s prompting you to snap your arm close to your side, embarrassed. You can sense his head turning to look at you briefly before he looks straight ahead again. Then, if on second thought, he grabs your hand in his, interlocking your pinkies. You look down at your and Scott's hand and smile. Maybe, just maybe it would all work out fine.

I'm not sure about the ending of this one as I kinda didn't know how to finish it but oh well. Im also finishing writing a whole heap of requests, so expect those soon!

#hayden christensen #hayden christensen imagine #hayden christensen x reader #higher ground #higherground #higher ground tv show #scott barringer #scott higher ground #scott barringer x reader #scott barringer x you #hayden christensen x you

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partially-controlled-chaos · 1 year ago

Text

Indulgence

Pairing: Halsin x GN!Reader

Rating: T

Warnings: No spicy moments, but implied horny Halsin.

Summary: Halsin has always struggled with indulging in the more pleasurable aspects of life. However, with the shadow curse lifted and your group now on the road to Baldur's Gate, you and Halsin find time to indulge in a bit of fun and a sweet treat before retiring for the evening.

Word Count: 9.3K

an: It took me too many weeks, but I finally have the fully fleshed out story related to this poll and this little WIP! As it stands, I only have plans for this to be a oneshot, but considering I went back and forth far too many times on if I wanted to add a spicy scene to this, I might write a quick spicy follow up to this if I can find the courage to actually post something smutty.

Read on AO3 here if you prefer!

Edit: I decided to write a spicy update for this and you can read it here.

Masterlist

The night air was pleasantly warm against your skin as you stepped from the confines of your tent. You stretched your arms above your head, thoroughly exhausted from the traveling the day brought, and you wanted nothing more than to slip into your bedroll and sleep away the stiffness in your body. But a light rumble to your stomach and a tingle on the tip of your tongue for something sweet kept you awake. Your camp was mostly quiet as you strolled across the grounds from your tent to pillage through the crates of supplies, save for the sound of githyanki longsword grinding against a sharpening stone and the playful barks and hoots of your furred companions. Most of your companions had retired for the evening, either by going to their own bedrolls or simply sitting in the mouth of their respective tents and unwinding from the day. The walk from the now former shadow lands had been quite the journey, taking a handful of days to get to where you were now, and still had another day or two of walking ahead of you before you reached the town of Rivington just outside of Baldur’s Gate.

You strolled along the supply crates along the edge of camp, peeking through your rations to find something to satiate your sweet cravings. The crates were filled with plenty of cured meats and cheeses with handfuls of fresh vegetables scattered about, but not the first pastry or bit of chocolate in sight. You grumbled to yourself as you continued rummaging, but you eventually found the small jar of honey you had collated a few days prior. Your skin tingled at the memory of the few dozen bee stings you’d received as punishment for cutting away a chunk of the honeycomb, but for now it was more than worth the trouble. You slowly poured part of the jar into an empty bowl, watching as the sweet, thick substance flowed from the mouth of the jar. By the time you’d coated the bottom of your bowl, you rotated the jar just a bit to stop the stream and wiped the rim with your finger.

You popped your forefinger into your mouth and cleaned off the bit of honey that lingered, humming in satisfaction at the first taste of the fresh honey. After the lid had been secured, you slotted the jar back in its spot and continued your search for your late night craving. You would need something of substance to eat with the honey to satisfying the gnawing in your stomach and you finally settled on two tart apples. You plucked a clean paring knife from the camp cook station and added it to your small stash of goods.

As you turned from the supply boxes to return yourself to your tent for the evening, you spotted Halsin sitting alone by the dying fire, quietly thumbing through a rather large book. He always made it a habit of sitting off to the side or just in the mouth of his tent, forever reluctant to join the rest of the group when it came time to relax. So, by sitting at the campfire, you couldn’t help but wonder if he would mind a bit of conversation before bed. But, then again, you weren’t sure. Halsin had always claimed that duty and responsibility kept him from truly enjoying down time; feeling that he should be out doing something about the issues at hand instead of sitting idly by. Ever since you plucked the bear from the clutches of the goblins, you can’t recall hardly ever seeing him actually relax or indulge in anything remotely pleasurable. With this in mind, you didn’t want to disturb the few moments of peace and self indulgence he allowed himself by disturbing him.

The stress of the grove weighed heavily on his shoulders, but not long after he left the grove to join your group you had started to see his stoic demeanor begin to bend ever so slightly. Of course the little bit of reprieve he had was short lived once you finally made it to the shadow cursed lands. His duty and sense of responsibility while there was heightened beyond belief and you couldn’t pry him from lifting the curse if you wanted to. So, the look of absolute joy and relief on his face once the curse had finally lifted was certainly a sight for your eyes. He actually seemed happy.

Halsin was reclined by the fire with his legs stretched out in front of him and an elbow supported on an old log behind him. A heavy book resting in his lap, the thumb of his free hand lightly ran along the corners of the pages repeatedly as he read. You caught yourself staring as he flipped to the next page and used his fingers to smooth out the pages before returning them to their ministrations of the corners. You still wrestled with yourself on if you should approach him or not, truly not wanting to bother him, but also not wanting him to feel left our from the group. Eventually, you found yourself walking towards the druid and stopped a few steps from where he was seated.

“Care for some company?” You asked as you approached with your bowl of treats in hand. Halsin looked up from his book, greeting you with his usual, gentle smile.

“Always.” He extended his hand to offer you the seat beside him, softly patting the ground. You carefully stepped over his legs as you made your way to the spot offered to you. You sat on the ground beside him, your lower back resting against the log. You crossed your legs in front of you, placing your bowl in the space between your thighs, giving yourself a suitable spot to rest for the evening until you retired back to your tent. Your leg lightly brushed against Halsin’s thigh as they crossed and you felt him shift slightly, clearing his throat as he adjusted.

“Good evening, my friend.” He said as he adjusted the opened book in his lap, his hand rested atop the pages, securely keeping the book against his thighs.

“Good evening.” You said as you gave a final wiggle to your hips so you could fully settle, “Care to indulge?” You offered him one of the two apples you had brought with you. He graciously accepted the piece of fruit, sinking his teeth into the flesh with a satisfied crunch as you showed him the bowl of honey.

“Do you want some? I know they’re not the sweetest of apples.” He shook his head as he chewed his bit of apple, holding his hand up to stop you from pressing the bowl closer to him.

“No, thank you, though,” he said after he had swallowed, “I certainly pulled enough bee stingers from you the other night that you’ve earned it all for yourself.” He gave a slight chuckle and a gentle nudge to your elbow.

“It was worth it.” You said sheepishly as you recalled having to ask Halsin for help with healing the welts and pulling the stingers from you that you had difficulty in dislodging.

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence, simply enjoying the serenity of the evening in each others company. Halsin turned his attention back to his book as he continued to bite away at his apple and you focused on cutting yours into slices. You took the paring knife you’d brought with you and used it to cut the apple in half, making it easier to cut away at the flesh. With each piece you took off, you dropped them back into the bowl and tossed any bits of seeds or core into the fire ahead of you.

“You don’t have to sit by yourself, you know.” You said as you sliced off another chunk of apple, “I mean if you want to that’s fine, of course, but you don’t have to. You’re as much a part of this group as anyone else.” You glanced to him as you spoke, having finished your slicing and placed the knife on the ground beside you.

“I thank you for the sentiment, but truthfully I don’t feel like that’s the case.” Halsin looked up from his book once again, meeting your gaze in a way that made your skin tingle.

“Why not?” You asked as your brows knitted together, “Has someone said something?”

“Not at all,” he said calmly, “but you know as well I that I haven’t exactly been present for the more…bonding moments that others have enjoyed. I seem to have made myself an outsider. Aside from your company, of course. You’ve always gone out of your way and for that I thank you.” His voice was genuine as he spoke, which relieved any worry that there was trouble among camp members.

“Ah, well, I guess that means you’re stuck with me around the campfire from now on.” You leaned over slightly and nudged him with your shoulder as he chuckled at your response.

“You will always be most welcome.” With a final bite he finished off his apple, tossing the core into the fire ahead of him before returning back to his previous position. He reclined against the log once again, putting his weight against one arm on the log and the other returning to rest along the book spread across his lap, his fingers absentmindedly running along the lip of the cover.

You were blissfully unaware of the hungry eyes watching your every move as you indulged in your sweet treat. Halsin’s gaze was transfixed on the movements of your wonderfully nimble fingers as you selected a slice of tart apple from your bowl and coated it with a generous amount of the honey you’d procured earlier in the day. You twirled the slice in your fingers, trying to break the sticky strings that came as you tried to scoop the thickened treat onto the fruit. Halsin was unsure if time had slowed or if it was simply his own desires fogging his mind, but watching this relatively mundane task had become almost intoxicating.

Your attention was quickly pulled from your snack before you had a chance to bite into it, the call of your name from across camp making you pause. You still held the slice in your fingers, hovering over the bowl as you spoke to your companion about an event from earlier in the day. The honey that rested at the tip of the apple slice began to drip, slowly making its way along the fruit and onto your thumb. Halsin was sitting close enough that he could smell the sweetness and the light floral notes that came from the honey, the scent alone being enough to have his mouth watering for a taste. Although he couldn’t help but wonder at how the taste would change when mixed with the taste of your skin as he watched the honey continue to drop down the length of your arm.

He had longed for your touch for some time now, but ever since the group had parted the shadow lands, the longing had become incessant. Unbeknownst to you, Halsin wanted more from you; more than just friendship. He wanted companionship. He wanted you. And in this moment he wanted nothing more than to clean the honey from your skin with his own tongue and kiss your dexterous fingers that had been teasing him all day. The impulsive urge to act on the idea was tempting, but given that he had yet to approach you about wanting more, he tried to push the thought from his mind.

Realizing the sticky mess that was now running down your arm, you quickly popped the apple slice covered in what remaining honey that wasn’t dripping down your arm into your mouth. You searched the small area by the campfire for any sort of cloth to wipe your hands on, but ultimately decided to simply lick it off when you couldn’t find a suitable rag and the sticky honey was now nearing your elbow. With a turn of your head and twist of your arm, you found the large drip of honey on your arm and pressed your tongue along the sweet trail. Starting near your elbow, you slowly pulled your tongue along your inner forearm, collecting the fallen honey in the small well created by your tongue. Given just how sticky the honey was, you found yourself going over the same spots multiple times in an attempt to get every drop that had made its way down your arm.

Halsin could feel his heart pick up speed and almost threaten to beat out of his chest the more he watched you clean yourself of the honey and the grip on the book in his lap tightened with each swipe of your tongue. The tips of his pointed ears had grown warm in a flush and his throat had suddenly gone dry. Despite the growing tension and the tightening of desire growing in his muscles, he found himself simply unable to look away from you. It had been so long that he’d been able to indulge in desires of his own that he had become complacent with pushing away his wants until he had completed his duties. But now those duties had been fulfilled, with your help of course, he was now free to purse any desires he’d denied himself for so long. And the druid was dangerously close to losing any and all control over keeping these wants at bay until the proper moment.

By the time you’d made your way to your honey coated thumb, you finally picked up on the eyes that had been focused on your movements for so long. Your own gaze flicked to Halsin, whose face was a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn’t quite place, and couldn’t help but smile in embarrassment as he’d caught your blunder. What you couldn’t notice, however, was the heat rising along Halsin’s neck and the thread of tension in his chest that was threatening to break at any second. However, when you stuck the entirety of your thumb into your mouth and slowly pulled off the honey while still holding his gaze, that delicately held together thread finally snapped.

Without a word, Halsin sharply shut his book, practically flinging it from his lap, letting it drop into the dirt as he abruptly stood. Your head tilted upwards, curiously watching as his frame loomed over yours as you remained seated against your log. His legs stepped over yours as he started to leave the campsite, stomping into the ground beside you. You watched as he made off for the inner depths of the trees, walking as fast as his legs would carry him. You had half a mind to follow him, now afraid that you had done or said something to offend him, or even anger him. However, your intentions to follow him into the woods were short lived when you were quickly bombarded with a snout and beak clambering over each other to have a bite of your apples and honey.

Halsin walked quickly into the expanse of the forest, easily slipping between trees and shrubs as he tried to make it as far away from camp, and your teasingly delightful movements, as he could. He could feel a deep rumble in his throat threaten to let loose and a flutter in his heart before it turned into a steady, yet quickened pace. The memory of you oh so deliciously cleaning up the honey from your fingers was burning hot in his mind, causing heat to course through his body and settle in other areas. But laced within this arousal was also an equal amount of anger for himself.

He wanted you more than anything he had wanted in so long that he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He was elated and almost giddy whenever you graced him with your company, although he was usually good at keeping his demeanor calm and collected. A solemn, unwavering wall he had built to control his emotions and desires while still trying to work a way out to rid Thaniel’s realm of the curse while also not drowning in the stress and strain that the grove demanded for over a century was beginning to crumble, letting a playful youth and optimism begin to break through. The cracks in the wall were caused simply by you and your kindness, your generosity, and your unwavering determination to simply do the right thing for those in need; for those like himself. Halsin wanted to take things further with you, to see if there could be more than just a friendship and a battle alliance, but he was finding that he had issues in taking the next step.

He himself was always susceptible to holding off on acting on desires until more pressing, mature tasks like the shadow curse had been dealt with, finding that he couldn’t enjoy indulging in more carnal or whimsical pleasures until the work was over. He knew you were not like that, but he still felt the same guilt whenever he even considered approaching you for something more. The Absolute was now marching towards Baldur’s Gate with an army of enthralled and tadpole infected and the threat of the Elder Brain becoming in control was ever pressing. He simply couldn’t justify indulging in his own selfish wants and pleasures when something that important was a looming threat. Halsin could wait. He would wait. But that didn’t mean that his own feelings and desires weren’t too much to handle at times.

Halsin gritted his teeth as he walked, nose flaring in a snarl as the overwhelming heat that engulfed his body was becoming too much to control. He had gotten a decent ways away before he felt the urge become all consuming, stooping over in a hunch before erupting backwards in a flash of golden light and a burst of magic. A large cave bear landed on all fours, crushing the hard earth underneath heavy paws. The bear shook his shoulders, releasing a bit of tension before galloping deeper into the forest. Primal urges and instincts always seemed to win out in the end, no matter how hard Halsin tried to control them, and they wouldn’t be tamed easily.

It wasn’t long before the galloping bear eventually came to a stop, breathing heavily at the exertion and arousal still burning through his veins. A pristine, quiet pond stopped the bear in his tracks, a wonderfully calming spot deep in nature that could soothe and subdue the beast running rampant through the woods. Halsin took a deep breath, taking in the scent of the algae clinging to the edge of the pond and listening to the sounds nearby. Crickets chirped loudly all around, sounding off out of sync so there was almost always one singing into the night.

Beautifully luminescent fireflies lazily bobbed around the surface of the water and high into the trees, their glow mixing with the moon that was still high in the sky; well past midnight, but still a few hours before the sun would rise. The serenity of the pond was still not enough for Halsin to be able to regain control of the beast. He stepped into the water, feeling the icy cold water beginning to finally tame the fire almost boiling in his veins. Another step in and the beast was becoming easier to control, but still needed just a bit more.

You stepped quietly through the trees, effortlessly weaving your way through foliage and over gnarled tree roots poking up from the ground as you searched for the druid. A few hours had passed since his abrupt departure and with all of your companions now sleeping peacefully in their bedrolls, four footed ones included, with the exception of one particularly cryptic druid. Something about Halsin’s sudden urgency to leave didn’t sit well with you and after he had not yet returned, you were concerned. You knew good and well he was in no real danger and could easily handle himself, but you knew there was something gnawing at his mind and if it was something you could help alleviate, you were more than willing to miss out on a few hours sleep.

Realistically, you were walking blindly into the forest. You had no sense of where Halsin could have wandered off to and your tracking skills were less than ideal. But nonetheless you pushed forward, taking time to enjoy the silence of the night as you meandered your way through your surroundings. You didn’t bother to bring a torch given just how bright the moon was and only had to fumble a bit under the thickest spots of the canopy. After some time, you picked up on the steadily increasing sounds of crickets and stopped to marvel at the blanket of fireflies that thrived in the darkness.

Between the chirps of the cricket hiding in the grass, you heard the sound of something lightly splashing against water. You redirected your course to head towards the sound and soon stumbled upon a small pond. A symphony of croaking frogs began as you neared the water, surprised to see such a quaint little pond in such a thick forest. The splashing came again, this time the sound seemly skipping across the surface of the water, and as you reached the end of the trees, you could see the remaining ripples riding against the water.

Halsin was standing up to his shins in pond, his trousers rolled to just above his knees and his shoes had been long forgotten in the grass leading to the water, yet still mysteriously wet. His back was to you and he had yet to hear you approach, too engrossed in skipping stones across the water than to hear you coming up behind him. You could see the muscles of his arms flexing and releasing in the soft glow of the moonlight, an obvious tension in the thickness of the muscles. Something had set the druid on edge and you feared that you were the catalyst of his frustrations; although you had no inkling of a clue that you were also the solution.

You watched as he wound his arm slightly before flinging a stone from his hand. The rock skipped beautifully across the water, jumping ten times or more before finally sinking to the bottom of the pond. He waited for the water to quiet once again before throwing another stone, but his one much more forceful. Instead of skipping across the water, the rock simply splashed on impact and sunk. There was a frustration in his throw, a side you didn’t see from Halsin very often out of battle, but you still hadn’t determined the cause. You hesitated in your spot, thinking it would probably be best to simply turn away and let him work through his feelings in this state, but part of you wanted to stay. You’d helped him with many issues thus far, so why stop now?

You took another step towards the pond, purposefully stepping on a branch so it would snap and give away your position. Halsin’s head turned the trees, alarm quickly giving way to relief when you saw you stepping from the foliage. You noted how the scrunched expression on his face melted at the sight of you, making you believe that perhaps he wasn’t angry with you. He gave you a single nod as you approached the edge of the lake, his blood still running too warm for his liking and he wasn’t sure he could speak without a sense of desperation to his voice. You nodded in response, taking the opportunity of finding a body of water to rinse your hands.

“Is everything all right?” You asked as you knelt by the shoreline, dunking your hands in the cool water to wash away any sticky remnants of the honey you’d eaten earlier.

“Oh, yes I’m fine. Just needed some space to think.” Halsin said as he tossed another stone across the quiet surface of the water, “With the city drawing nearer, I fear a peaceful spot like this will be difficult to find. I wanted to savor it while it lasts; try to process recent events and what comes next.”

“Ah. Well… I won’t keep you then.” You said as you stood, flicking water droplets from your fingers in an attempt to dry them, “We both know peace rarely stays for long when I’m around.” You gave a half hearted smile, still unsure if you had done something to upset the druid. Your mind had been settled at the very least, knowing he was safe and had seemingly calmed himself enough to sate your troubled mind.

“Nonsense,” Halsin’s voice was almost surprised, “there is plenty of space in nature for the both of us. You are no bother to me, my friend.” You hesitated for a moment, but eventually spoke.

“You’re certain?” Halsin’s head cocked slightly, picking up on the uncertainty in your voice and realizing that his sudden departure might have offended you in some way.

“Will you join me?” He asked softly as he extended out his hand, offering you a rock to skip yourself.

You felt your heart begin to pick up pace at his offer, having very few times in memory where he’s specifically asked for your company. Normally you asked if he would mind if you joined or he would offer you a space next to him, but very rarely had he specifically asked you to join him. Because of this, you happily obliged and began unlacing your boots to join him in the water. Halsin could feel that familiar warmth beginning to creep into his chest again as he watched your ever teasing fingers quickly unlace your boots. He shifted in the water again, finding a colder spot to stand in as you rolled your trouser legs up to your knee before stepping into the water yourself.

“Good gods.” You muttered as you stepped further into the water, the sudden chill on your legs making your skin seize up and a chill go down your spine.

“Quite brisk tonight, despite how warm the air is.” Halsin said as you stood by him in the water, which had already soaked well past your knees given the depth of your section of pond. You nodded in agreement, still trying to adjust to the temperature change.

He offered you the stone again and you happily accepted it, your fingers brushing against his as you grabbed the stone. You did a double take and took his hand in both of yours, marveling at how unbelievably warm they were when considering he’d been standing in cold water for quite some time now.

“Do you always run so warm to the touch?” You asked as you finally pried your hands away from his, realizing just how long you had lingered.

“I have lately,” Halsin admitted as you turned the stone in your hand, “the beast tends to run hot and emerge more often when I have something pressing on my mind.” Halsin flicked his wrist and sent another stone skidding across the water, ending with a satisfying plunk as it dipped below the surface.

You were never sure why he always referred to his bear form as a beast. Sure, the bear was a formidable opponent in battle and could show quite the fury when angered, but ultimately the so-called beast was still Halsin. To you, the bear was as much Halsin as Halsin was the bear; one in the same. And admittedly, as much as you admired Halsin, you were also rather fond of the bear.

“Anything I can do to help ease your mind?” You asked softly, “I won’t pry, but if I can be of some use, please, let me know.”

“Some use?” Halsin asked through a hearty chuckle, “You’ve helped me more than I could have imagined. You’ve greatly exceeded any expectations I could have possibly had when I met you. I do hope you know just how grateful I am for you, my friend.” You found yourself blushing at his praises, a warmth stinging the apples of your cheeks.

“Well, how about more use, then?” You offered after your blush began to die down, still wanting to offer help for the druid if you could.

“I won’t burden you with an old druid’s ramblings.” He said softly, turning his gaze to yours, “You have your own matters to worry about that are much more important.”

“Well,” you sighed when you realized he would go no further, “if you need whatever worth my opinion has on a matter or even just an ear to vent to, I’m here.” Halsin nodded to you as a way of thanks, taking a brief moment to simply admire you before sending another stone across the water.

You both stood in your respective spots for a long while, taking turns to throw stones across the pond. The stones Halsin skipped were always fluid and elegant, easily surpassing a dozen or so skips before finishing off. Yours, on the other hand, were much more choppy. You didn’t think you’d managed to pass more than two skips and most of your stone ended up simply splashing in the water the second they left your fingers. You weren’t the most skilled stone skipper in Faerûn, but you were admittedly enjoying yourself.

“Are you competitive, Halsin?” You asked after a while, wanting to fill the silence between you and still try to find a way to lift his spirits. If you couldn’t help him with his burdens, then you’d at least like to let him enjoy the night.

“I can be,” he said with a playful glint to his eye, “when I have time to indulge in more light hearted activities. And with the right company, of course.” He motioned to you with his finger.

“Well, in that case, care to indulge me? How about a fresh jar of honey for the winner? Don’t think I didn’t see you eyeing it earlier.” You tossed the rock in your hand and caught it with a touch of flare. Halsin was thankful that the cool water he was standing in kept his heart from racing and his blood from once again running too hot. His eyes focused on the stone you twirled in your fingers as you awaited an answer, your digits once again testing the limits of his self control.

“I can’t say it’s not tempting,” he spoke slowly, trying to regain a steadiness to his voice, “but, given the circumstances, I’m not sure if indulging is the right thing to do. Not right now, at least. The threat of the Absolute takes priority, does it not?”

“It does, but there’s no harm in indulging in something you want, especially now.” You stopped twirling your stone, opting to simply look out across the water as you spoke, “ The Absolute will be there tomorrow just as it was there today. What happens in our downtime will happen if we’re abstaining from joyous things or giving in completely. So, my thinking at least, is let yourself indulge. The world could end in the morning, so I’m going to enjoy tonight while I still can.”

How Halsin wished he could simply take your view on the world. He couldn’t help but think of all the stress and strain that could have been avoided if he had simply taken one night off here and there to just live. The responsibilities the grove suddenly presented to him all those years ago when the shadow curse first took hold had locked his mind in a constant battle for balance. He always strove to find balance in the natural world, but never took the time to find balance within himself. Instead, he allowed himself to be burdened and live almost as a ghost of his former self for the better part of a century. Until he met you. You were the balance he so desperately craved and wanted.

“Are you always so convincing?” He asked after a moment with a soft grin, finally relenting and decided that tonight would simply be one of indulgence and a bit of fun.

“I have my moments.” You said with a shrug and a cheeky smile.

You each took a handful of smooth stones from under the water, taking time to find ones that were just the right size and weight for your little game. You had decided that the winner would be whoever could skip a stone the furthest across the surface of the water before you decided to head back to camp. The moon had started to lower, the darkness beginning to lighten ever so slightly, signaling that sunrise was merely an hour or two away.

You once again took turns tossing rocks across with water with very similar results. You clearly knew Halsin would win your little competition and while the more competitive side of you wanted to win, you were simply happy with watching Halsin actually enjoy himself. The feeling was only boosted by the idea that he was enjoying spending his very little free time with you of all people. The thought brought you back to the moment you had shared earlier in camp when he abruptly left, the feeling of guilt once again returning with the thought that you had annoyed him.

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you earlier,” you said as another one of your stones plunked into the water on the first toss, “I should have let you enjoy your evening in peace.”

“You didn’t disturb me,” he said almost immediately, “I always enjoy every moment of your company. It’s just that… long suppressed emotions are bubbling towards the surface. Left unchecked they’re liable to break the tension and I’ll lose any sense of self control.” He sent another rock across the water, this one a bit more forceful, and it skidded across the water to reach his highest number of skips yet.

“Well, sometimes it’s good to let those feelings out. Cry, scream at the sky, go on a rampage. Seems to help Karlach well enough.” You threw a rock and had to catch yourself before losing your footing and falling in the water, “Hells, if you want to go stomping around as a bear for a while if you think it’ll be of assistance, have at it. I’ll be here when you get back and maybe I’ll have figured out how to properly skip a damn stone by the time you return.” He chuckled at your response, truly appreciative of the admiration of the bear, but also at your very sorry attempts at throwing rocks.

“Widen your stance,” he said as he pointed to your legs, “it’ll give you more stability so you can focus on tossing the stone and not toppling into the water.” You adjusted your leg slightly, pulling one leg just a bit from the other before looking back to Halsin for approval. He simply shook his head and pointed to the side, hinting that you should adjust more. The same cycle repeated for a few rounds with the same result.

“May I?” Halsin said after a few tries and finally gestured to your leg, wanting permission to help you adjust your stance before touching you.

“Of course.” You said softly, finding your heart had begun to give the slightest flutter in your chest as Halsin trudged through the water to stand behind you.

You felt Halsin’s foot nudge yours from under the water, encouraging you to shift your legs further apart. You obliged, shifting your leg until you felt the druid stop his movements. Admittedly, you felt more secure in your posture as you dug your toes into the sandy bottom of the pond. Your breath involuntarily hitched as you felt a pair of large hands on your hips, pulling back slightly and encouraging you to angle one hip further back. As before, you complied. Taking one small step back with one foot until you were at a slight angle.

“Good,” Halsin said softly against your ear, “just like that.” He could feel his own chest begin to tighten as you melted under his touch.

With his own lips close to your ear, he could hear the skip to your breath and could see the prickling of your skin as his warm breath tickled your neck. When you angled your hips with Halsin’s movements, your upper back softly rested against Halsin’s broad chest, fitting together almost seamlessly. The warmth of his body so close to yours was a welcome reprieve from the cold water you’d been standing in and you had to resist the urge to lean back more than you already had. You could each feel the others heart beat begin to increase, the pounding steadily increasing the longer your touch lingered on the other.

You had the quick touch here and there in the past, whether it be through healing or exploring or even a quick pat on the back for moral support, but it had never been anything more. Nothing had ever lingered for more than a few fleeting seconds and none had ever set your heart ablaze like it was now. Although not inherently sexual, there was a sexual tension in the air around you. Your seemingly simple offer to skip stones had quickly turned into something much more intimate. And admittedly, you were beginning to think that maybe there was more to Halsin than to just be a traveling companion. Perhaps you wanted more.

Shamelessly, you had flirted with him many weeks ago with the tiefling celebration with the aid of half a bottle of a wine, and had very gently been turned down. As much as it had disappointed you at the time, you respected his decision. After all, you were little more than strangers at the time and Halsin had his own share of problems to deal with first. But, now that the shadow curse had been lifted and his duties at the grove were nonexistent now, then just maybe something could happen between the two of you.

“Now for the stone.” Halsin said after clearing the lump of excitement from his throat. He took the stone from your hand, turning it over in his hands to ensure it was the correct size and weight for skipping.

You watched as the stone moved through his fingers, noting just how small the stone looked in his hands when the same stone looked large when compared to yours. You had expected his calloused hands to be rough against your skin, but as his fingers brushed against yours, you noticed how exceedingly gentle they were. You had seen his very hands decimate enemies and battle and rip foes apart when in wild shape, but in this moment his hand cradled yours as if you’d break if he were any rougher.

“Curl these fingers into your palm,” Halsin’s voice brought you back from your thoughts, “and use them to hold the stone steady until you’re ready to throw.” Halsin’s opposite hand was cupping yours, gently pushing your last three fingers with his own so they would curl into themselves. With his hand on yours and the other still holding the stone, you found yourself engulfed between his arms, each of his resting on either side of you.

“Good. Now, use your thumb to hold the bottom of the stone and let it run along the length of your finger. Hook it at the tip.” Halsin effortlessly spread your thumb and pointer finger with his own, giving him the change to slot the skipping stone into your grasp.

Halsin hesitated for a moment, but his other hand eventually settled on your side, keeping your hips aligned with how they had been previously positioned. He felt your skin prickle at his touch, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as his heart thumped even harder against his chest. He had to step back just slightly to keep you from feeling the same warmth he felt begin to grow in other areas of his body.

“Arm back.” He said as he pulled your arm back at a bend. You allowed him to move your arm as needed until your arm was completely nestled against his. You could feel the tightness of his muscles as he moved his arm in tandem with yours and you could actually feel just how strong his hulking arms were.

“Now I throw?” You whispered, finding your voice difficult to get out.

“Yes, but there’s a trick,” Halsin’s voice was once again at your ear, his breath tickling the outer shell as he spoke, “you’ll throw outward, but angle it down just slightly. It allows for a slight spin on the stone when you flick it from your fingers and it’ll skip along nicely.”

With your hand in his, he adjusted the slant of your grip until it was perfect. He kept his grip on you as he helped you toss the stone, his body moving time with yours as he used his arm to guide your own. With a flick of his wrist, and subsequently yours, the rock was thrown perfectly from your grasp and quickly skipped across the water. You both watched in a bit of amazement as the stone surpassed two dozen skips before finally coming to a stop. It was the furthest a rock had been thrown that evening and you were suddenly faced with a dilemma.

“So,” you drawled out as Halsin’s grip remained on you, “who gets the credit for that throw?” The druid couldn’t help but chuckle at the question, not quite sure how to answer it himself. He then realized that he was still holding onto you as you stood in the water and he hesitantly broke away. His fingers lingered ever so slightly on your skin, relishing the contact he’d so greatly been craving.

“I supposed we could call it a tie,” he said eventually, “and we’ll just have to see who can break it.” You nodded in agreement, satisfied with his answer, and readied yourself to begin throwing more stones now that you’d had just an exhilarating lesson.

You and Halsin spent the next few moments searching the pond for more suitable stones, the bulk of the ones at your feet having already been tossed. With sloshing at your legs and dirt between your toes, you walked as best you could to a new spot, hunched over as you inspected the ground for smooth, rounded rocks. Very soon you were joined by Halsin, who had yet to find a good rock, and you both simply searched the pond in silence.

“You know, it’s nice to see you like this.” You said eventually, still having come up empty handed for a decent rock.

“Like what? Hunched over and looking for rocks in the middle of the night?” Halsin asked with a chuckle as he continued looking himself. You found yourself standing across from each other, bent over and faces close to the edge of the water, but also rather close to each other. Half a step forward and your nose would be bumping into his.

“No,” you said with a giggle, “relaxing and, dare I say, even happy. It’s a good look for you.” He glanced up to you, offering you a gentle smile.

“I have you to thank for that. You’ve helped me far more than you probably should have already. It’s not fair of me to always burden you with my troubles; they’re not your burdens to bear. Pardon the pun, if you will.” His familiar seriousness had returned to his voice as he spoke, but he was nothing but sincere.

“Well maybe not, but my tadpole problem isn’t yours either. It’s okay to rely on others when you need help, Halsin. I know that what you had as Archdruid forced you to bear your burdens alone, but you don’t need to anymore. You’ve got an entire camps worth of people that would do anything to help. And if all else fails then you’ll have me. Please know that my hand is extended if you need the help.” You instinctively reached forward, not realizing just what you were doing until your slightly cold fingers ran across his burning cheek. You were committed by that point and simply cupped his cheek for a moment to show your sincerity before dropping it back to the tops of your thighs.

“Another night, perhaps.” He finally said after a brief moment of silence, “For tonight I’m too occupied with besting you at a bit of stone skipping.”

“You seem rather confident.” You said with a huff, being met with a similarly wide grin from the druid.

“After as many stones that you simply threw into the water? I am rather confident.” You responded by playfully dipping your fingers in the water in front of you, bringing them up sharply to splash a small amount of the chilly water on Halsin’s face.

You had expected some sort of witty remark, but instead, you were met with a very large and very cold splash of water to your own face and chest. Halsin had used both his hands to deliver a rather large amount of pond water to you, easily soaking your already thin camp tunic. You stood up straight, the chill going straight to your spine and making your skin prickle once again at the sensation. Your rock skipping competition had now been forgotten and you were both now splashing each other back and forth in the pond. You circled each other, trying to evade the onslaught of water heading towards each of you. You would let out a shriek turned giggle each time you were doused with another handful of water, folding in on yourself momentarily until the initial shock wore off. Halsin was much more dignified when he was splashed by your much smaller handfuls of water, but was no doubt feeling just a chilled after some time.

You continued to circle each other, steadily splashing each other more and more quickly as the game progressed. That was, however, until you finally lost your footing on a smooth rock that you hadn’t seen earlier, and started falling backwards. Thanks to his reflexes, Halsin was able to realize that you were falling much faster than you were, and reached out to grab a hold of your arm in an attempt to keep you from fully submerging yourself in the water. His hold certainly helped you from fully dunking into the water, but you were too far gone for it to save you from getting wet, and you inadvertently pulled the druid down on top of you as you fell into the pond.

You let out a hiss through your teeth as your bottom collided with the rocks and dirt underneath you, cold water immediately soaking your shirt and wetting your entire back. Halsin had come close to falling on top of you, but thankfully caught himself on his hands and knees before colliding with you. What he couldn’t prevent, however, was where he landed. You soon realized that the druid was looming over you, one of his massive legs was sandwiched between yours and the other rested along your outer hip. His hands were near your sides, not quite close enough to touch, but enough to fully cage you underneath him as your nose sat mere inches from his. You both simply froze in your spots, realizing the precariousness of your situation, yet somehow enraptured by it.

You could feel Halsin’s warm breath come out in strong bursts against your face, faintly smelling of the apple he had eaten earlier. Your eyes locked to his, unsure of what to do or say in the moment, and you were hoping he would be the more reasonable of the two. However, you were simply met with a tension filled silence, the druid also not sure of what to do or say next. His eyes slowly trailed down from yours, eventually settling along your lips. You let out the slightest of gasps as you felt his hand cup your cheek, much like yours had done to his just moments before, and you felt your heart pound harder than you could image as his thumb made its way down your cheek bone. You were fully expecting his lips to press to your own moments later, but instead you were surprised with a different move.

Halsin slowly ran his thumb across your bottom lip, starting at the corner of your mouth and gently pulling until he came to the center, your lip bending to his movements as he went. When his thumb left your skin after what felt like an eternity, he lifted the digit to your line of sight and revealed a small amount of honey. Your tongue instinctively licked your lip where his thumb had just been, searching for any remaining bit that had apparently been stuck to your mouth all evening. Before you could thank him for removing the sticky mess from your lip, he popped his honey covered thumb into his mouth, licking off the treat as his eyes remained locked onto yours.

You felt your heart pound against your chest and in your ears as you watched him lick off the teasingly small taste of honey from his thumb. There was something fiery in his eyes as he meticulously cleaned his thumb, something you had never seen so potent and strong before; desire. It only just dawned on you that your own honey licking earlier was what sent him into such a frenzy and caused his urgency to leave. Halsin wanted you and wanted you enough to drive himself mad with desire. Your breath suddenly came in pants as you felt a desirable warmth spread across your abdomen. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want him just as desperately in this moment.

“There’s more,” you said breathlessly, “if you want.” Your voice was just a whisper against Halsin’s skin. You weren’t sure if the sudden lack of oxygen in your lungs was from the cool water now engulfing your chest or if it was from the sudden proximity of the druid hovering over you. You also weren’t sure yourself if you still only referring to honey.

“I do, more than anything, I do.” There was desperation in his words, but also a hint of hesitation in his voice as he spoke.

“But…?” You said after a moment, knowing there was more to his statement than just desire. Like that night at the tiefling party, you felt as if you were about to be gently turned down once again.

“But not tonight,” his gaze was soft as he spoke, understanding the delicate nature of the topic at hand, “the sun is rising and very soon our companions will stir for the day.”

Halsin wanted more than just a quick night to simply satiate primal needs. He wanted companionship from you, but wasn’t sure himself if you shared in his desires. He could tell you wanted at least one night with him, and until he was certain you also wanted more, he wanted to make the one guaranteed night to be memorable for himself at the least. Halsin needed an early evening and a long night so he could take his time to properly savor you; the taste of your lips, the feel of your skin against his, the scent of your arousal. He wanted to etch it all into memory.

If you didn’t want more time with him, he wanted to be able to remember your night together over and over again to satiate his own desires when alone in his tent. To recall the way your body moved and arched with his touch, to replay the wonderful little noises that would come from your lips when he found the right spot, and, most importantly, to reminisce about the way you felt around him. Your touch had teased him for so long now and he needed to feel you against every part of him more than he needed anything else. But, he needed a proper night. One where he could take his time with you without worry of being interrupted either by your camp mates or the rising sun.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong. You also knew that if your companions noticed that you both were missing, they would surely coming looking for you and interrupt any bit of fun you and Halsin had decided to enjoy together.

“And,” he said as he brought his lips to your ear as he whispered, but not enough to touch, “if I’m going to indulge in something I’ve wanted for this long, I want to take the time to savor the taste.” You felt a shiver run down your spine at his words, the promise of something more to come in the following days was enough to subdue the raging warmth you felt in your abdomen and legs. You nodded in response and were greeted with a thankful smile.

You both remained there for a moment longer before the chill of the water was too much to bear. Halsin stood first, climbing off of your frame before helping you to your feet. You each wrung out as much water from your clothes and hair as possible before picking up your long forgotten shoes and making the long walk back to camp. You walked in silence as you returned to camp, your soaked clothes sloshing about filling the void of silence.

The sun was beginning to crest just as the crickets and fireflies had quieted down for the morning. Orange light filtered through the leaves of the canopy above as morning birds began their songs for the day, the rays of sun slightly warming your overly chilled bodies. By the time you made it just to the edge of camp, you were relieved to see that no one had yet stirred for the day. The last thing you wanted to do was explain why you and Halsin were returning to camp soaking wet after being gone for most of the night. Halsin stopped you before you could step into the camp, a soft touch lingering on your skin. You turned to face him, getting lost in the softness of his eyes as he spoke.

“Get what rest you can,” he whispered to you, “we’ll let ourselves indulge in the other after the sun sets for the day.” You smiled at the promise, already wishing for the day to go by as quickly as possible.

“Until tonight, then.” You said softly as you began to make your way towards your tent.

“Until tonight.” Halsin replied as he followed suit to his own living quarters.

You stepped quietly through the camp, hoping the sound of wet cloth rubbing against itself wouldn’t be enough to wake your companions, especially the camp animals. Halsin had made it to the mouth of his tent long before you’d made it to yours, considering yours was the furthest from the pond. You took a quick glance back towards his tent and found that he had not yet gone inside, but was waiting just in the threshold. He wanted to ensure you had gotten inside before he retired for a few moments rest himself. You met his gaze as you gripped the flap to your tent and were met with a quick wink before the druid ducked inside his own tent and out of sight. Your heart fluttered at the gesture and you quickly stepped inside your dwelling space and closed the flap just as you heard the tent next to you begin to stir for the morning.

Tag List: @thoughts-of-bear ,@beardedladyqueen, @pixie-in-a-moonlantern, @ur-friendly-nbhd-cardassian

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #halsin #daddy halsin #halsin x reader #reader x halsin #halsin x gender neutral reader #halsin romance #still very seriously considering smut #halsin fanfic #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #halsin fanfiction

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arcalranem · 2 months ago

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ngl, I didn't really like how Hiveswap canonized that every Alternian caste was basically a carbon-copy of the Beta Trolls' personality.

Like, teals mostly being civil servants and jades being confined to the caverns made sense. That's what a caste system is for: to divide up the population and determine what their purpose in society is.

But I can't imagine that every teal is a justice-obsessed freak the way that Terezi is; a defining feature of her character is that she's considered strange and offputting to all her friends, which doesn't really make sense if that's how teals are expected to act.

Similar thing with the golds. Golds are noted to occasionaly have powerful psionics, like Sollux, but that doesn't necessarily mean that they are all technicians and computer nerds like him. I always thought of Sollux's profiency with computers to be something unique to *him*.

Golds are one of the lowest castes, being third from the bottom; is that high enough to justify, in the eyes of the Alternian Empire, their purpose as technicians and engineers, rather than lowblood grunts and batteries?

And the olives! Nepeta is an off-the-grid oliveblood that loves in the wilderness, hunts and eats raw meat, and is generally poorly socialized due to her disconnection from Alternian society. Similar situation to Terezi, in that she is explicitly noted as being unusual among her friends; Karkat even addresses this, referring to her as "feral" and a "crazy cat girl".

Why, then, would the rest of the olives be similar in any way? I can sort of buy that olives are stronger and more physically inclined than other castes; strength goes up the higher on the hemospectrum you are, and olive is the lowest of the midbloods. Olives are high enough to be physically powerful, but low enough to still be primarily ground combat troops, which could contribute to the image of these powerful, wild-trolls. That doesn't necessarily explain the animalistic and consistently "savage" vibe with which they are portrayed in Hiveswap.

I guess I'm just a little annoyed that the writers took the beta trolls as a blueprint, rather than elaborating on the mechanisms and worldbuilding of Alternia that we never got to see in a creative or fresh way.

#homestuck #hiveswap #beta trolls

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aliolly · 3 months ago

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Dear Rafe Cameron (1)

PART ONE

Rafe Cameron x chubby black reader

Low on money and at the brink of being evicted, theres no choice else to make but to take your mother up on that offer and help around at her newly re-opened cafe. It’s just downtown, the pay is good, and your home at a reasonable time. The only downside? You caught Rafe Cameron’s attention, and hes not keen on passing up the opportunity to pick at fresh meat in salted water.

TW : fat shaming, bullying, dead beat mom, kooks being low-key racist, alcohol intake, drugs, reader is deaf, mental abuse, broke reader,

In my head reader is light skinned (because I am) but imagine whatever shade you want.

First chapters for any book i write are always very bad, and I apologize if my writing isn’t perfect, but it’ll get better, and longer.

Lapping out of the palm of my hand…-tongue covered in drool that drips off the tip of my fingers..Water droplets staining the concrete ground a shade or two darker. Fur grazes against my skin and the leash wrapped securely around my wrist tightens as the material stretches from the over eager group of pups,enthusiastically running around and inevitably getting themselves stuck.

Though temporarily confined to one spot didn’t deter their happiness. They chewed and pulled on the leash with all four paws mounted on the ground, and tail wagging as if it helps build the momentum. Evidence of their chaotic strength- much to my frustration- shows embarrassingly clear when one thread seems to be holding the leash together on its own.

I just got this leash, on sale, just lying around in a handmade basket filled to the brim of other trinkets and unfinished toys from the 80s-i should’ve known better than to buy something like this from the thrift store but that was the only store around where I could go in and actually afford the things they put out on the shelves. Plus, me buying this came last minute when my neighbor asked me to watch her pups, while she’s away in Michigan to prepare for her sister’s birth, so I didn’t have much time to look for one in better quality.

It was last minute, very much so. But the pay was significantly better than any summer job I’ve ever had and with rent piling up the way it was- I practically had no choice but to take the offer even though dogs weren’t my strongest suit. They shed like crazy and are always all over the place, like now, I could barely get a tight enough grip on the leash without feeling the material rip further apart.

Coco, that sly dog. She tugged and tugged. For a dog as small as she was, being a Yorkie, she had a lot of strength that a bigger dog would typically have. Ears layed back and her teeth chomped down on the polyester, I couldn’t pull anymore or else it’d break but honestly, i saw no reason to try and attempt to salvage something I knew damn well I couldn’t fix. So I let her continue this game of tug and war, and turned to look down at Bronwyn who slobbered all over my hand instead of drinking the water I poured, completely missing the entire objective, i coo down at him and rub on his head.

Nicole had told me weeks ago on a random weekday that her oldest dog Bronwyn suffered from a severely dry throat all the time- and at first she hadn’t really been fully educated but after a few vet visits, she started walking around with a water bottle just for him- so naturally, when she left outer-banks thus leaving me in charge of her pets- i carried around a water bottle for the sweet boy. However, due to his current age, he worked slower, and half the time doesn’t remember what it means when I hold my palm -with water- out to him.

More often then not, he thinks the action to be a way for him to rest his head in my hand, or to slobber all over it with his drool- maybe I’ll just carry a small bowl around with me whenever I take him for walks, so then I can just fill it up and hope that he hadn’t lost recognition of what his bowl was for.

Standing up and stretching my burning legs,i untangle the pups accordingly and let them run ahead of me while Bronwyn strolls beside me on his own. His long ears drooping by his side and nearly touching the ground from how short he was.

Despite being behind I still managed to guide the energetic pups to turn on the corner that leads to a more smaller and secluded neighborhood. Their feet taps on the concrete with my arm outstretched from their fast paste. We pass a warning sign with two kids running and bold yellow letters written below for those to beware- and shortly after, coming to a stop when the sidewalk curves to turn right, but we weren’t going that way, so we waited.

Cars came and went on the overall busy street that leads straight to the highway- I could see the pups moving their mouths as to what I assume to be aggressive barking at the cars that drove past but without either of my hearing aids on me, I couldn’t hear anything but the vibration of the barks in which was transferred from the leash to my hand. Meanwhile Bronwyn just sat.

I used my free hand to bring it up and rest on my forehead to act as a visor to block the sun from hitting me directly in the eyes. Shifting from one foot to the other and patiently waiting for the road to clear, I pondered shortly on why I thought today of all days would be a good day for a walk. The sun was scorching, the roads were packed, and I could feel the sweat forming underneath my boobs and in other places i loathed. And with coco and the other pups rubbing their hot body’s against my sticky legs- i was purely trying to understand why I did this.

But then I remembered this morning and how bodies and bodies of fur trampled over me while I was asleep, ecstatic, full of energy, and ready for their daily dose of fresh air that only I could provide for them as if I was the only person in the house. Granted my dad was home and had been ever since he was let go from his job-the pups hadn’t really interacted with him much unless he had the door open. But even then when he would make an appearance they seemed to cling to him almost right away- which really helps the point I’m trying to make because I distinctly remember him taking them for a walk.

I guess they just saw me and thought to themselves that I’d do for the day. But that didn’t sound like them. Coco on the other hand? I wouldn’t put it past her, she probably coaxed them into sitting on me earlier, it’d explain the smug look she had on her face when I was putting the leash on her.

Almost like she could hear me, coco turned her head to me and barked, not once, nor twice, but three times back to back. If I hadn’t known any better(If I wasn’t deaf) I would’ve chalked this moment up to her sassing me and probably barked back. But I noticed almost right away that she had only barked because she saw that there weren’t any cars on the street anymore. So I let it go of course.

I let the little ones walk ahead of me across the street while I periodically glance down at Bronwyn who watched the younger dogs frolic in the green grass with nothing but disinterest in his eyes. He looked up at me with his big chocolate brown eyes and the sight nearly made me bend down and pick him up- but I knew from previous encounters that he wouldn’t want that. Numerous bike marks on my arm was proof enough.

I step into the grass halfway down the sidewalk and walked with the dogs up the wooden steps leading to the back door. Placing my hand on the banister for stability as they run in between my legs, I reached forward and opened the door with a groan from how far I had to stretched forward. Seeing the door open, they ran inside collectively, leaving me to walk in behind and bend down near the balls of eagerness to undo each and every clip that connected to the leash.

Once they were free, they were out. Running around in the living room, burning out the remaining energy they may have left after the walk. I stand up from the crouched position and trail off into the kitchen. Normally at this time, I’d sit and handle rent or maybe even take the time to shower off the dog smell and the uncomfortable sticky feeling of my thighs touching each other whenever I moved. And I had planned on it.

But when I stepped into the kitchen, I noticed how much of a mess I had made without even realizing. Dishes were in the sink uncleaned, dog food was scattered on the ground from when the smaller pups had knocked their bowls over in excitement- and so, so much more that physically made me drained, and I hadn’t even started yet.

For now, I move past the dog bowls on the floor and attempt to clear off the table by getting rid of what I knew we no longer needed. Overdue rent that was paid months back in may, this months rent and last months rent were put together in a pile for me to sort through later today. The rest were newspapers that I would periodically see my dad reading early in the morning, but I knew he wasn’t coming back for them so I dumped them in the trash as well. I then moved around the table and reached for more envelopes that were sealed closed. Flipping them around and reading who they were sent by, then one by one, throwing them in the trash right along with the newspaper.

I did that majority for all of the stuff on the table until I saw the flicker of the kitchen light going on and off- something I would’ve been concerned about if not for me knowing that it was something my dad did to get my attention or simply tell me that he was behind me.

When I turn to look at him he was standing by the archway leaning against the wall.”what are you doing up so early?” He signed.

“I took the dogs for a walk, now im cleaning” i sign back. It was still between us when I turn my back. Even when I can’t hear, I can feel his eyes following me wherever I moved and I just knew that he wanted to say something about this sudden job that I took to watch the neighbors dogs- especially when he wasn’t to fond of them, he could tolerate them from a safe distance but owning one or even watching one was crossing a line.

But it was my only option left for quick money.

He flickers on the lights, and I look back at him. “Your mother called today while you were out” he stepped closer,somewhat blocking my only exit and I fight the eye roll I could feel forming from the mention of her. Because of course she had, of course she called him, it wasn’t a first and it wasn’t the last, divorced or not, her name was still on the lease, so unfortunately whenever we fail to pay rent on time shes notified of our “tartiness” and gives dad a call on her expensive phone, in her expensive house.

Probably sipping on expensive tea.

Sometimes I think she does it on purpose, to flaunt the things she have because she knows were still here barely making by with what we have.

“Tell her i said no, I’m not doing it” I sign out,adding more aggression with my fingers than necessary.

“We need the money, Y/N..with me being let go and you struggling to find a job” he lightly throws his arms out in mere frustration. “We can’t miss rent again or else they’ll kick us out, and then what?” He grabbed my shoulders and looked at me.And maybe it was the deep rooted hatred inside of me that refused the idea- or maybe it was the part in me that didn’t want to work under a woman who abandoned us, but I couldn’t, either way, I just couldn’t. And he knew that, probably even saw it.

“Listen to me, you can hate your mother all you want for however long you see fit. But do not let your anger get in the way of something that could help us. Shes willing to pay you 17 an hour”

I look up at him when he reached beside me, grabbing his phone from the counter and aiming it towards me with narrowed eyes. “Call her” he spoke without signing, and I sigh, because rather I liked the idea or not, which I did not, I knew I had to. 17 an hour was more than what my recent jobs offered, so it’d be enough to get by without worrying about the fundamental things.

Still, I didn’t like the idea, but after a minute of just standing here, I took the phone, and dialed her number, not liking any bit of it.

TAGLIST

@davinashifts333

#rafe cameron x deaf reader #rafe cameron x black reader #chubby reader #romance #miniseries #i hope you like it #outer banks #poor #deaf

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palesweetscherryblossom · 8 months ago

Note

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE MORE OF THE NAGA SHIGADABI AND THE SACRIFICED USER IT'S SO GOOD

I raise you: Shigadabi feeding their bby

Flames flickered thoughtlessly as Shigaraki checked on the meat. Whilst he rarely ate his meat cooked, Tomura had made the assumption that humans liked it cooked. He’d always seen humans roasting their fresh kills in campsites around his territory.

“Make sure that it’s cooked all the way.” Dabi stated, adjusting his hold on you. “Humans can get sick from rawness.” He continued almost sagely. Unlike his mate, Dabi could remember his time as a human.

“Still can’t believe that those bastards didn’t bother to feed em.” Shigaraki practically hissed, placing the tender roast on the porcelain dish Dabi had gotten. His mate was an excellent forager.

“Dirty, two legged vermin.” He growled, his rattle coming to life. Dabi cracked an almost lazy grin before shushing his mate.

You stirred ever so slightly, trapped in a confusing yet blissful haze. It felt like you were confined to a fluffy bed, surrounded by foggy clouds. You let out a low groan, feeling rather hungry.

“Now’s not the time to get angry.” Dabi hummed, gesturing to you. “Don’t wanna upset the kid.” He practically purred. Shigaraki ceased his anger before moving to you.

“Ah but they’re not our problem now.” Tomura murmured, holding a hunk of meat. “Now, open up for nom noms.” Dabi blinked dumbly at his mate.

“Um Duster, I don’t think they can handle that much.” He stated. “It’s much too big and we don’t want them to get sick.” Dabi continued, handing Tomura your dazed body as he took it upon himself to shred the meat.

“Next time, we’re balancing this with some rice or vegetables.” Dabi uttered before holding a piece of meat to your lips. “You like meat, right?” He awkwardly whispered as Shigaraki watched on.

“Maybe they’re allergic? Or boar meat isn’t exactly what humans consider fine dining.” The blue haired naga mused as you caught whiff of the delicious meat.

Your eyes were half lidded as you let Dabi push it past your lips. You proceeded to chew like a grazing cow. Shigaraki’s tail swished happily as Dabi cringed.

“By the way, no more hypnosis unless it’s necessary. I don’t want them getting potential brain damage or anything.” Dabi practically ordered. Shigaraki nodded, agreeing.

“It won’t be a full time thing, ember. I plan to teach them many things and them being in a trance all the time just isn’t fun.” Shigaraki replied, rubbing your head and wiping away any meat juice.

“Our little hatchling.”

#naga dabi #naga shigaraki #child reader #yandere dabi #yandere shigaraki

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lexsluvswriting · 1 year ago

Text

☆ Too Sweet.

"I think I'll take my whiskey neat, my coffee black and my bed at three, you're too sweet for me..."

- Too Sweet; Hozier.

-> Pairing: Loki x fem! chubby!reader.

-> CW: 18+ CONTENT! NSFW! SMUT AHEAD! MINORS, DNI. fem! reader! she/her prns used, fem genitalia used. chubby reader!

-> TW: Shibari! Consent discussed beforehand, (light) dubcon bc like reader is tied up, no use of y/n, porn with slight plot, p in v, gagging, bondage, praising and light body worship? Loki likes thick girls. argue w the wall. Mentions of sex in front of a mirror at the end !! <3

W/C: 1.8k

╰┈➤ Lex's note: okay... is this totally self indulgent? yes. have i gone down a massive Loki spree? yes. Hozier, the man you are. YES, fans, I HAVE been listening to 'Too Sweet' by Hozier on repeat for the last 10 minutes. How did you know aha ha. Erm, I hope i ate w this. i think i did? but if nobody reassures me as soon as they read this then ill probably die (joke). lmk how we feel about this!!

Your eyes were captivating.

The colour seemed to look correct only in your irises, Loki believed. He loved you. He loved every breath you stole, and every breath you gave. He loved looking at your lips and zoning out on them when you'd babble inanely on a topic you thoroughly enjoyed. Loved the way you'd bite at your lip when you tried to hide a cheeky smile. Loki loved the way you fidgeted with the jewellery you wore- the many necklaces layered, the many bracelets with charms that jingled and clinked together softly every time you waved your arms around. He especially loved the way you styled yourself- he was always thoroughly amused and interested in the way you expressed yourself through your choices of fashion. The colours you used seemed to look good on you only. As well as on the bedroom floor after he'd tear them off you.

There was once a time where Loki Laufeyson, God of Mischief, thought you were too sweet for him. You were sweet cocktails, and milky brown coffees with a pump of sugary syrup. You were fresh fruits and cream, an innocent treat on a lovely summer's day.

While he was the absolute epitome of bitterness. Whiskey, neat. Coffee, black. Black as the hole in his heart every time he'd be distant from you. So he made you his muse- he became your shadow.

And he didn't regret it one bit- not with the way you currently looked beneath him.

Your glossy lips were smudged and puffy from being kissed before a ball gag split them apart, nestled comfortably in between to make your sentences a mumbled whine. The rope that wound around your body made your plush skin bulge slightly against the tightness of the confines, holding every bit of fabric from your clothing in place tight as possible, as if it was there for one purpose only. He was a firm believer in having a bit of meat in his meals, always. So when he saw the way the soft fat of your thighs, and the way the smooth curves of your breasts bulged against the snug of the shibari rope, his cock twitched, and he couldn't help but laugh softly. Look at him, cock jumping in his pants like a virgin. How laughable.

It was your fault, of course. Your hazy, lust-filled eyes as you happily squirmed while he pulled the rope around you carefully, the process slow and calculated, pressing his lips over every curve, every surface of skin like worship at a temple. The temple he was about to destroy.

"My pretty girl... my goddess." He couldn't help but gush sweetness when it came to you, cupping your face as he stood in front of you, his legs hitting the side of the bed. You were on your knees, calves tucked under you as you sat on your haunches, bound prettily with dark green rope that contrasted your skin with a soft glow- his choice, of course. When you suggested the concept of 'shibari' to him, he was sceptical at first. But when he saw why it was revered as an 'art', he practically frothed at the mouth, cock rising in his pants at the ideas that formed.

You, currently bound, gagged and absolutely loving life, hummed in response to his cooing praise, leaning into his touch as you wiggled happily on the shared bed, looking up at him with hazy, lustful eyes that were glazed over with adoration- and an insatiable need for him. Your cunt clenched eagerly around nothing, but his fingers running over the line of your jaw, down your throat, and over the rope that cut into your skin gently was promise enough that he'd give you the attention you craved so desperately.

"You drive me mad, darling. Do you like that? Do you like knowing this," He ran a hand down his chest, over his bulge, which was not discreet in the slightest with the way it tented in his pants, "Absolutely aches for you? This is what you do to me." He hissed as he pulled himself free from the confines of his trousers, and he inwardly grinned at the way your eyes widened in delight as you whined, watching him stroke himself.

He wore a dark green button down shirt, sleeves rolled up at the elbow with the two top buttons undone. His hair was mussed in that attractive messy way that you always talked about. He didn't know what you meant, but he figured it was something good if you were always 'jumping his bones' about it. He had set the scene perfectly for you both tonight, but the look in your eyes was enough for him to give in already. He felt warmth tingle through him as he stroked himself, glancing down at the way he leaked for you. Always for you. Such a spoilt girl. His girl.

Loki grit his teeth, before pulling you close by the rope harness around your torso, his cock nudging against your stomach, pre cum smearing against your skin, making you whine through the ball gag. Drool began to run down the sides of your lips, and the God let out a mirthful chuckle, stroking the side of your face before pulling your chin up, making you look at him. "Such a needy little thing. So spoiled. Shall I spoil you more, hm?"

He forced you around gently, your naked back against his clothed chest, your body squirming against his eagerly, your pretty eyes blinking up at him as you whined garbled pleas, rocking your hips back impatiently. Your restricted movement made Loki smile, and he chuckled as he pressed his lips to the back of your neck, before kissing straight down, over your spine.

"My sweet girl. My pretty goddess. A delicacy, all for me." He cooed, and you shuddered, eyelids fluttering shut as you keened softly for him, for the way his hands groped you, running over the soft pudge that shaped your body. Loki lost himself, almost completely forgetting his weeping erection as he kissed down your back, over your shoulders, around your neck. Then, with a wave of his left hand while his right hand pushed you down, the ropes shifted, freeing your thighs to be spread before you were tied again, ass arced up in the air on display for him.

His hands roamed over the globes, and he pressed his kisses- as well as a few loving nips that made you squeak, before he leaned down to what he was looking for. His eyes honed in on your glistening cunt, your folds wet and twitching prettily as he blew cold air before chuckling to himself, like you were an amusing little toy. He had to stop himself from being too cruel, and licked at the nectar that seeped from your slit, enjoying the way you whined for him. "Very vocal tonight, my love." He sighed mockingly, as if you were troubling him. Of course you were, when you tasted as sweet as you did. Almost too sweet.

He knelt in front of the bed and lapped at you hungrily, hands gripping at your bound flesh enough to leave red lines from where his large fingers marked you. He let out a soft growl that dissolved into a groan- how could something as sweet and gentle as you get him so riled up? The depravity that tore through him would scare away any normal partner.

He supposed he should've sent a little 'thank you' to whatever higher power decided you'd be absolutely perfect in creation then. His tongue was hot against your sex, and his soft pants made your toes curl and sent your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he pulled you apart with his mouth. He absolutely loved eating you out- loved the way he could feel you fall apart on his tongue. That was his power. Putting you on the throne of the world with his love. Your body flinched and twitched as he ate you out so desperately, and you whined in response to the image that procured in your head- chin glistening, lips smudged from how intensely he focused on his craft; the craft of making you cum. He licked and sucked, and from the way you got wetter, he could tell you were thinking about him. He toyed with you a bit more before finally letting you cum, directing his tongue to work and stroke

"Getting restless, my love?" He hummed, licking his lips and wearing a fox-like grin as he lifted his left hand, slipping two careful fingers into you to scissor and stretch your weeping cunt in preparation for what you had been craving for the past hour and a bit. His other hand was spent working himself, though he was stiff as a pole from the moment you had shyly offered him the rope and the salacious proposition. You both had been craving this for the longest time- of course, you had spent all day together anyway, but the magic in the intimacy that happened once night shrouded your part of the world as indescribable.

Usually, he could lovingly torment you for hours, watching you helplessly drip your arousal onto the sheets below, but tonight was all about you. You wanted him to be rough, and mean, the facade he usually liked to put on- but he couldn’t help but worship the curves that made up your body, his gentleness a refreshing buffer from the depravity you two usually indulged in. So when your garbled moans sounded, Loki immediately removed his fingers and aligned himself at your sopping wet entrance, substituting his digits for his godly cock, pushing himself in and releasing a guttural groan- one that came from the depths as he felt your cunt greedily suck him in, enveloping him in your warmth, as if you were seducing him to never leave as he sank deeper within you. He’s completely drunk on you, losing his cool as his eyes hone in on where you two meet, enjoying the feeling of your clenching as he repeatedly sinks into you with slow, deliberate thrusts.

He glances up to see your face, only to notice your head facing forward, your darling eyes transfixed on- Ah. He understands and leans forward to wrap a careful hand around your throat, holding it gently as he pulled you up, both of you watching the mirror that was ‘coincidentally’ placed in front of your bed- you had no regrets, and he certainly put it to use for you the first night you two shared the room. Your eyes met in the reflection, and his head tilted coyly, nudging the side of your face gently as he humped into you, while you were still tied up all pretty for him. Your gagged moans and whines were music, and he swore that with every thrust, he could hear the sound of wedding bells somewhere off in the distance.

Sometimes Loki wonders if you’re too sweet for him. But when he sees your perfect eyes rolling into the back of your head as his calculated thrusts send his cock stretching you out for him, he’s content. When he sees your sweet little cheeks flushed pink as you eagerly watch with glossy, lust-glazed eyes, the image of yourself being impaled on his cock over and over, Loki realises that you’re perfect.

╰┈➤ Lex's note 2: AH i didn't go too crazy w this pls forgive me, i was in the mood for somethin soft 🙂‍↕️ BUT ! i will HAPPILY take requests for more 😗

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musicforastylesrestaurant · 1 year ago

Text

By Order Of The Crimson Brotherhood.

(peaky blinder!harry)

masterlist || ask me anything

in which, the year is 1921, and the city of manchester is under the control of the ruthless gang the crimson brotherhood, so when there leaders wife gets mobbed in the streets on her way home from the farmers market, the styles brothers make sure they know she is one of there own.

word count - 2.6k

authors note - ik this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but i have 100% been in my peaky blinders era as of the beginning of the month, im already on season four 🙈🙈 and thought it would be kind of cute to join the two worlds together, don’t know if this will turn out any good but who knows?? anywho enjoy angels 💗💞

January, 1921.

Harry Edward Styles, a man born and raised in the city of Manchester, a man known for his ruthlessness, his strong will and his dangerous antics.

Him aswell as his brothers roamed the streets of Holmes Chapel, with razor blades down into the flat caps which ultimately led to fear seeping into the bones of there enemies.

Which they had a lot of.

The Styles Brothers were well renown around those ends, the family always had been, there father wasn’t present and there mother died when the youngest brother was barely a year old.

Harry met you, his gorgeous girl at the age of nineteen, the two of you were childhood sweethearts, destined to be together no matter the circumstances.

You were wandering around the streets, when you bumped into him and his elder brothers Charlie and George. You were about to fall to the floor but your wrist was captured in the hands of the leader, who caught you and raised you back to your feet carefully.

You asked how you could return the favour and he muttered something along the lines of ‘you could let me take you out for a night on the town’

And the rest was history.

When the war broke out, Harry knew for a fact that he would be getting called up to represent his country, and at the point the two of you were already engaged, but he demanded that the two of you be husband and wife before he was shipped off, explaining that if he was to die, he wanted to die as your husband.

So, the two of you had a small ceremony and you officially became Mr and Mrs. Styles.

When he returned home from war, he demeanour was slightly colder due to everything that he had seen and been through, he was colder to everyone around him, except for you.

He could never be angry, harsh, callous or aggravated around you.

People feared him before he went to war, but when he returned it was like he was a ticking time bomb, one wrong move and heads would be blown.

He ruled Manchester.

And that would never, ever change.

In the heart of Manchester, you move with the grace of a queen, your every step echoing the legacy of the Crimson Brotherhood, the notorious gang led by your husband, Harry Styles.

Despite the weight of your marital ties, you refuse to be confined by the expectations placed upon you.

Alone at the market, you weave through the stalls with purpose, selecting the finest ingredients for the dinner you plan to prepare for your husband, and his brothers.

Determination fuels your steps as you pick out fresh produce, savory meats, and delicate spices, each item chosen with care to create a meal worthy of the Crimson Brotherhood.

You approach the butcher's stall with a slightly sense of innocence, the scent of freshly cut meat mingling with the bustling atmosphere of the market. As you exchange pleasantries with the butcher, you can't help but admire the array of cuts on display, each one a testament to the skill and expertise of the person behind the counter.

"Good afternoon, love. What can I get for you today?"

Returning the smile, you reply, "I'm looking for four round beef steaks, please."

One for you, one for Harry, one for Charlie and one for George.

The butcher nods, already reaching for the desired cuts. "Ah, excellent choice. Coming right up."

As they expertly select the steaks, you engage in friendly banter. "Busy day at the market?"

The butcher chuckles, their hands deftly working the meat. "Always is, especially with the sun shining like this. But I can't complain, keeps me on my toes."

You nod in agreement, admiring their skill. "I can imagine. Thank you for always providing such quality cuts."

With a satisfied grin, the butcher presents the four round beef steaks, neatly packaged and ready for you. "There you go, love. These should do the trick."

"Thank you so much," you reply gratefully, accepting the package. "I really appreciate it."

"It's my pleasure," the butcher says warmly. "Enjoy your meal."

With the package of steaks safely tucked into your basket, you bid farewell to the lively atmosphere of the farmers market. The sun's warm rays still linger, casting a golden glow over the bustling streets of Manchester.

As you walk, you can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at having secured the ingredients for tonight's dinner.

Reaching into your basket, you retrieve a pair of gloves, slipping them onto your hands with practiced ease.

Just as you're about to slip the second glove onto your hand, a sudden grip tightens around your arm, pulling you forcefully backward.

Startled, you gasp as you're dragged into the dimly lit entrance of a secluded alleyway, the bustling sounds of the market fading into the distance behind you.

Heart pounding, you struggle against your assailant, your fingers instinctively tightening around the basket's handle, the package of steaks forgotten in your grip.

Panic surges through you as you're dragged deeper into the darkness, your mind racing with fear and uncertainty.

As the man's grip tightens around your arm, you're suddenly face to face with a stranger whose features are etched with menace. His blonde hair falls haphazardly across his scarred face, the jagged line drawing your attention to the intensity in his eyes.

The overpowering stench of rotten egg fills your nostrils, sending a shiver down your spine as he speaks.

"Just the girl I've been looking for," he growls, his words sending a chill through your trembling body. Tears blur your vision as you stare back at him, unable to comprehend the terror unfolding before you.

He was Irish.

In a voice thick with malice, he continues, his words slicing through the air like a blade. "Your husband and his brothers owe me, and I aim to collect. And what better way to send a message than through his darling wife?"

You try to speak, to plead for mercy, but fear has stolen your voice. Before you can utter a word, his fist connects with your jaw, sending you sprawling to the ground.

Gasping for breath, you curl into yourself, the pain radiating through your body like fire.

The man's laughter echoes off the walls, cold and cruel. "They crossed me, and now it's time to pay the price. And you, my dear, are the perfect pawn in this little game of ours."

As he delivers blow after brutal blow, each impact driving the air from your lungs, you cling to the faint hope that someone will come to your rescue.

But as the darkness closes in around you, you realize that you are utterly alone, at the mercy of a man whose cruelty knows no bounds.

With aching limbs, you muster the strength to push yourself upright, the world spinning around you as you struggle to focus through the haze of pain and fear.

Casting a wary glance over your shoulder, you retrieve the basket of food that had fallen to the ground during the attack.

With trembling hands, you wipe the dried blood from the corner of your mouth, the metallic taste lingering on your tongue as a grim reminder of the violence you've endured.

Summoning every ounce of willpower, you force yourself to take a step forward, the basket clutched tightly to your chest. Your movements are slow and unsteady, each step sending waves of agony rippling through your battered body.

As you reach the end of the alleyway, you pause, casting a furtive glance around to ensure that no one is watching. The last thing you need is for someone to see you in this state, vulnerable and exposed.

With a silent prayer for strength, you begin the agonizing journey home, every step a testament to your resilience in the face of unspeakable cruelty. Tears threaten to spill from your waterline, but you refuse to let them fall, determined to maintain a facade of strength until you reach the safety of your own four walls.

With each agonizing step, you inch closer to the familiar sight of 24 Spring Lane, your sanctuary from the horrors of the outside world.

The journey that once felt like a mere stroll now stretches out before you like an eternity, every movement a testament to the relentless ache that pulses through your battered body.

Finally, you reach the doorstep, the key trembling in your hand as you struggle to insert it into the lock. Your fingers fumble with the familiar motion, the simple act of unlocking the door now a monumental task in your weakened state.

As you push open the door and step inside, relief washes over you, tempered only by the searing pain that courses through your body with each labored breath.

The injuries inflicted upon you by your assailant are beginning to take their toll, the dull throb in your ribs now accompanied by a sharp sting at the top of your eyebrow.

Unaware of your husband's presence, you stagger into the living room, your focus consumed by the overwhelming need to seek refuge from the torment of the outside world. But as you drop the basket to the floor and collapse onto the ground, a cry of pain escapes your lips, the weight of your injuries too much to bear alone.

In the dim light of the room, you catch a glimpse of Harry sitting in the corner, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

His expression is unreadable, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond your line of sight.

As you collapse onto the floor, your body wracked with pain, Harry's instinct kicks in, propelling him across the room in a blur of motion. With a sense of urgency, he drops his cigarette and rushes to your side, his hands reaching out to catch you before your skull can meet the unforgiving wooden floor.

His eyes widen in shock and concern as he takes in the extent of your injuries, his heart clenching at the sight of blood staining your face and clothes. Gently, he cradles the back of your head, his touch both tender and urgent as he ensures your safety in the midst of the chaos.

"M’Love, what happened?" Harry's voice is thick with worry, his usually steady demeanor shaken by the sight of you in such distress.

He carefully brushes the hair from your face, his touch feather-light against your bruised skin.

You struggle to find the words to answer him, the pain making it difficult to form coherent thoughts, let alone speak. But as you meet his gaze, the unspoken understanding that passes between you is enough to convey the depths of your suffering.

Without hesitation, Harry gathers you into his arms, cradling you against his chest with a fierce protectiveness that belies the tenderness in his touch. As he holds you close, you feel a sense of safety wash over you, a comforting reminder that no matter the trials you may face, you will always find refuge in his embrace.

As Harry holds you close, his voice filled with concern, he gently urges you to tell him who is responsible for your injuries. But fear grips you tightly, paralyzing your voice as you shake your head vehemently, unable to form the words to convey the terror that still grips your heart.

"Please, love," Harry implores, his eyes searching yours for any sign of reassurance. "Y’need to tell me who did this. I won't let ‘em hurt you again, I promise."

But the memory of the man's cruel laughter and the violence he inflicted upon you looms large in your mind, filling you with a sense of dread at the thought of facing him again. How can you trust that Harry's promise will hold against such ruthless brutality?

Tears stream down your face as you cling to Harry, your body trembling with the weight of your fear and pain. You long to confide in him, to share the burden of your suffering, but the words remain trapped within you, a silent scream of anguish and despair.

In response to your silent plea, Harry's grip tightens around you, his arms a shield against the darkness that threatens to consume you.

"I swear to you, (Y/N)," he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm against the turmoil raging within you. "Whoever did this won't ever be able to hurt you again. I'll make sure of it."

"I... I don't know his name," you manage to say, your voice trembling with fear and pain. "But he... he had blonde hair and... and a scar."

Harry's expression darkens as he processes your words. "Patrick McDonald," he mutters, his voice laced with anger and recognition. "Bloody hell."

Another wave of pain radiates from your ribs, causing you to instinctively turn your head into your husband's chest, seeking comfort in his embrace.

As you lean against him, Harry's arms tighten around you, a silent vow of protection against the threat that looms on the horizon.

"I'll deal with him," he promises, his voice a low growl. "No one hurts my wife and gets away with it."

“George, Charlie!”

You hadn't even realized they were in the house, lost in the chaos of your own pain and fear, but now they appear, their presence a welcome relief amidst the turmoil.

With wide eyes, George and Charlie rush into the room, their expressions shifting from confusion to concern as they take in the sight of you battered and bruised on the floor.

"What happened to ‘er?" George demands, his voice edged with worry as he kneels beside you, his hands hovering over your injuries.

Harry's jaw clenches with barely contained fury as he speaks the name that has haunted your nightmares since the attack.

"Patrick McDonald," he growls, his voice thick with anger and determination.

Charley lets out a harsh breath, his expression darkening with recognition.

"Bloody hell," he mutters, his fists clenching at his sides.

As the gravity of the situation sinks in, George's gaze flickers between you and his brothers, his features set in a steely resolve.

"We need to find him," he declares, his voice firm with determination.

Harry nods in agreement, his eyes burning with a fierce determination.

"And when we do, he'll wish he'd never laid a hand on her," he vows, his voice a low growl.

With trembling hands, you grip tight onto your husband's waistcoat, your eyes pleading with him not to leave your side.

"Please, H," you beg, your voice wavering with fear and desperation. "Don't leave me."

Harry's gaze softens as he looks down at you, his heart aching at the sight of your pain.

"I have to, m’love," he murmurs, his voice laced with regret. "That bastard deserves hell f’what he did to you, and he's going to get what's coming to him."

You shake your head frantically, tears streaming down your bruised cheeks.

"But I need you here," you plead, your voice barely a whisper amidst the chaos of the room. "I'm scared, H. Please don't leave me alone."

For a moment, Harry's resolve wavers, his love for you outweighing the thirst for vengeance burning within him. But then, with a heavy heart, he gently extricates himself from your grasp, his eyes filled with determination as he rises to his feet.

"I promise, (Y/N)," he says, his voice firm with resolve. "When we find him, he's going to hurt just like he hurt you, s’a promise, and I never, ever break promises. He’ll get what’s coming to him one way or another.”

“By order of the Crimson Brotherhood."

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lagncx · 3 months ago

Text

Meat puppet.

Protecting a fire with bare hands ch:14

<<<<Hello to you all feels good to be back, and feels good to say I am back with another chapter. I wanna say that this romance is slow I apologize but it never felt right to just have them kiss and make out but trust me I DID try. but I feel you can tell they have feelings but they will kiss I am a sucker for kissing.>>>>>>>>>>

--------youre all ive ever wanted.-----------tw: torture

“Did you think about me while I was away?”

Heimdall cracked his knuckles as he gazed out over the water, its surface shimmering like molten gold in the sunset. He turned to face the colossal wall that had confined him for what felt like an eternity. “Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, that familiar pull of your words lingering in his mind.

Crouching down, he caught sight of his reflection in the still water—he was a mess, and he despised it. His hair was damp with the sweat of exertion and the remnants of the very water you had brought after he—

His hands trembled as he looked down, the crimson stains on his palms gaudy and haunting. Your blood. Panic clawed at his chest as he released a shaky breath. He plunged his hands into the cool water, scrubbing furiously, desperate to cleanse himself of the stain that wouldn’t wash away.

He still felt disgust, and he went further into the water with a panicked breath, submerging into it.

Heimdall held you close to him as he made his way through Asgard. Thrúd had been behind him. Unfortunately, people had their eyes glued on you both and the children…Heimdall knew they loved you so much. Some were hiding or trying to ask Thrúd what happened. Heimdall grew tired, slowing down as he walked, looking down at you.

“Heimdall…it hurts.” Heimdall let out a shaky sigh. “Of course, it hurts. I cut off your arm.” You whimpered as he shifted you a bit in his arms. Suddenly blocking his path were two Valkyries. Heimdall looked up, too anxious to be angry. With a simple expression, he spoke, “Move.”

The Valkyries looked at you, “Golden prince, we can take her off your hands.” They went to grab you, but Heimdall pulled back, “Take her off my hands?! She’s not some burden. I have her.” The Valkyrie on the left approached “Sir, we c-“

Thrúd stepped up. “He said, he’s got her.” Heimdall looked down at her, smiling softly. The woman moved, and Heimdall continued, his legs shaking just a little, you were still mumbling gibberish. It was good because that meant you were alive.

It reassured him you were alive.

Heimdall slipped into fresh clothes, carelessly letting his bloodstained garments fall to the floor, knowing one of the keepers would deal with the mess. They weren't armor, just simple fabric, a stark contrast to the turmoil within him. It was late, but sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford tonight. As he stepped out of his room, a gnawing emptiness churned in his stomach, filled only by the heavy weight of guilt.

As he made his way down the dimly lit corridor, he crossed paths with Sif. She reached out, pulling him closer, her expression a mixture of concern and compassion. “Heimdall… I heard the news. I’m so sorry. Was it that boy's father who did it?” Her piercing gaze lingered on him, catching the shadow of anguish in his usually vibrant eyes.

He’s in his own head and not everyone else’s.

Heimdall removed her hands. “It was me.” Sif dropped her arms, but before Heimdall could go, she said, “Heimdall, don’t blame yourself.” He shook his head, “I already do…”

Heimdall made his way to the small building that had a large white sign on it, that’s where he left you. Heimdall stopped, something catching his eye. turning to the right of him were two Midgardian kids. With gold…Heimdall approached them, and they looked at him with fear. “L-lord Heimdall! We’re sorry we didn’t steal it, we found it! Honest! We’re not lying, we promise.” The girl shook.

Heimdall crouched down, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. “I can see you're telling the truth, so there's no need to be scared. May I take a look?” With a hesitant nod, the smaller girl placed the object in his palm. He examined it closely, his brow furrowing. “It’s tarnished and honestly quite ugly—it's lost its shine and value. Such a shame.” He slipped it into his pocket, noticing the little girl's frown deepening as tears brimmed in her eyes.

Her sister quickly shushed her, but Heimdall couldn’t help but smile. “Oh dear, little one seems unhappy. We can’t have that, can we?”

Then, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he reached behind both girls' ears and dramatically pulled out two gleaming gold coins. Their eyes widened in awe, sparkling with wonder and excitement. Heimdall chuckled as he gave them both the coins. “Magic, I tell you.” He said, standing up again and walking away.

Pushing open the door, he walked to a nurse. “Oh, lord Heimdall, it’s been barely an hour since you’ve been gone, you can go home and rest!” Heimdall shook his head. “I’m fine, I don’t need rest, how is she?” The nurse's smile turned down slightly. “She’s lost a lot of blood; she’s stable, but she hasn’t woken up.” Heimdall nodded. “Can I see her?” The nurse bowed her head and led him to the room you were in, walking inside, it was the keepers of the Black Thunder, the couple that had taken you in as their own.

“Heimdall! Thank the gods you're here, we’ve been waiting for you to tell us what happened.” Heimdall put a hand up, “and I will, but not right now.” The nurse saw Heimdall wave her over, and she approached, leading your parents out. “Heimdall will come to you both, I’m sure.” Heimdall shut the door.

Plopping down on the seat, he watched you as you took soft breaths, a cloth damp with water over your head. Leaning on his knees, he pressed his lips together. He knew water couldn't heal this damage.

It had been a few hours of him just watching you. Heimdall pulled out the golden chain from his pocket. “One of your little Midgardian kids found it. It’s the same one, the one I put around your neck.” Heimdall scooted his chair closer, laying a soft hand on your cheek. “For the love of Odin, please wake up so I don’t have to feel awful anymore.” Heimdall looked down at the chain. “I can’t hear anything from your mind, it’s silent. It’s so quiet now that the quiet is loud.”

Heimdall laid his hand on your stomach. “I never realized how—silent everything was when you left.” Heimdall lifted his head, looking at your arm that was wrapped tightly. “Days passed slowly without you in Asgard. That night at the banquet, I was selfish, I was afraid you would take my spot on my father's side…but you wouldn’t do that, I was filled with jealousy.” Heimdall shifted slightly. “You would’ve stayed by my side through it all, and I hurt you. More than once.”

He was exhausted. He sighed and laid his head down on your side again, succumbing to sleep. Heimdall remembered the way you used to nap together when you both first became friends—well, when he eventually accepted you.

Heimdall had gotten back from the dwarf realm, but he was in bad shape. He went straight to be treated, and you didn’t see each other on the way; you were distraught. The helmets had just waved you off,

Heimdall had his arm in a sling and a wrap around his right eye. He had noticed there seemed to be heavy rain; he knew it was you, he’d be lying to say he wasn’t looking forward to boasting about his victories.

Pushing the door open to Black Thunder with one hand, he met eyes with your father as he cleaned the tables, “Ah- you came.” Heimdall nodded, “Yes, the weather is quite…wet. I’m guessing she’s crying over missing fluff in her pillows?” Your father snorted somewhat. He nodded his head to the stairs. “She was trying to find you for hours.” Heimdall frowned. “I was injured.” Your father shrugged and continued to the kitchen.

With a pent-up sigh, Heimdall approached your room, knocking, then opening the door after a moment of silence. You were sleeping soundly.

Heimdall looked at your bedside table. There was a stuffie, it was an animal, a wolf. Heimdall picked it up. “Where’d you get this from? There’s no place for wolves in this pride.” Heimdall chuckled, “Should’ve gone with a stuffed lion, they’re loyal.”

Heimdall looked at you and exhaustedly crawled into the bed beside you. “It’s good to be back.” He whispered before falling asleep, his back facing yours.

——

Heimdall was jolted awake when troops and the all-father walked in. “Heimdall.” He spoke, wiping the drool from his mouth embarrassingly. Heimdall stood up, back towards you, holding up his head, “All-father.”

….silence

Heimdall arched a brow, looking at the Valkyrie who walked in .“Why are you?” Odin hushed him. “The girl, have you noticed anything weird?” Heimdall shrugged after a moment lost in his thoughts, “No—I mean-…I cut off her arm.” He admitted shamefully, Odin walked past him and removed the cover you revealing your upper body, covering your breast with a single bandage, and the lower was just your pants. Heimdall turned in the same way as Odin. “What is the meaning of this?” Heimdall wondered, Odin's hands hovered on your skin as though he was scanning. Searching.

“Are you questioning me now?” Heimdall shrank back like an elephant from a mouse, “No father…” Odin stopped and leaned in, grabbing your arm, a bright glowing orange like a flame shone from the cracks in his fingers. Heimdall's eyes widened.

“Your suspicion was right, All Father truly, your knowledge is infinite.” The Valkyrie praised as she bowed her head. Odin clicked his tongue, “No…knowledge is something you have to take. I must know what lies in her mind.” Odin turned around after laying the cover on you, walking out with the group behind him. Heimdall leaned close to you whispering “I’ll be back.”, and ran after his father.

Odin held the shoulders of the nurse. “I want you to keep a close eye on her.” The nurse nodded and bowed. Heimdall followed his father, others disbanded, and it was just the two. Heimdall and he stepped into the ring of ravens as they ended up in the archives. “Father, I don’t understand. What was on her arm?”

Odin hummed “runes. Vanir runes. Old vanir runes are naked to the untrained eye. Except mine.” Heimdall looked down. “That can’t be Father, she has only been to Midgard.” Odin grabbed a book. “That is what she told you, yes? Heimdall, what happened to thinking? Has being outside the walls made you smooth-brained?” Heimdall looked down, “No father-I“

Odin shoved a book in his hands. “Gods, quit your mumbling. I’ve long cured that damn stutter, you are not a toddler.”

Cured.

Heimdall cleared his throat and looked at the pages. “These…are vanir traditions, berry crushing, rituals, sacrifices…why is this important?” Heimdall said, overlooking the page where a woman was using crushed berries to write a rune on her chin. “Heimdall, her mother…was Vanir.” Odin spoke before grabbing another book and giving it to him, throwing the other one.

Heimdall lowered his head, trying to reason. “Well, that’s expected, I mean, she did come from outside.”

Odin nodded, “Yes, but her father, her father is a traitor. He used to lead my armies; he was skilled with a sword and other things. He was my right-hand man.” Heimdall squinted at this

Stepping forward, “Father, I thought you knew nothing of—“ Odin let his head fall. “I knew all about him and his little witch he decided to run off with.” Heimdall arched a brow, and Odin continued walking with him through the halls. “We had broken the alliance with Vanaheim, and her father and mother were long gone. He betrayed me, us…Asgard and I could not allow it.”

Heimdall nodded slowly, his expression solemn. “I understand,” he said, with a hint of apprehension in his voice.

Odin, however, shook his head, his brow etched with a mixture of concern and anger.. “You don’t grasp the full gravity of the situation,” he replied, his voice resonating with authority. “Her father was scheming against me, plotting in the shadows. Meanwhile, her mother, through a web of manipulation, convinced your mothers to… bless the girl.”

Heimdall furrowed his brows, the realization dawning on him like a storm cloud. “So they cursed her with that magic,” he murmured, his tone heavy with understanding. “It may appear powerful, but in reality, it devours her from within, transforming what should be a gift into a shackle.”

Odin put a hand on Heimdall's shoulder. “It is not her fault, they planned to use her as a weapon. Her father believed in Freyrs 'truth.”

Walking back outside, Ravens started to circle the all-father. “But I saved her. From being a weapon.” Odin looked down, the birds circling him. “I killed them.”

Suddenly, he was gone, just like that. “Lord Heimdall! My lord, she has awoken!” Heimdall looked down, seeing something in his hand, a pendant. He’s seen it before, in your memories…in your mind during the hallucinations from the Norns.

——

Heimdall ran into the room only to yell and close his eyes, “Gods! I apologize.”

You laughed, the nurses quickly covering your breasts up. “Thank you, girls.” They bowed and walked out, giggling at Heimdall's posture. You sat up, “Heimdall.” You acknowledged, and he looked at you. Your eyes were dark, and you wore a smile, though you looked dazed. Heimdall approached you. “How are you feeling?” he demanded. You shrugged, “I’m alright…for losing an arm.” Heimdall frowned. “You should lie down.”

You shook your head, “No, too much to be done. The Midgardians—I promised to…dammit I forgot.” Heimdall crossed his arms “Even if you remembered you weren’t going to get your ass off that bed.” You looked at him and huffed in compliance. Looking down, you saw your sword. “Been holding that for me, watchman?” Heimdall looked down at it. “Yes, I kept it safe.”

You smiled, your eyes flickering down. Heimdall went to lay you back down. “You should rest,” he said, tucking you in and shaking your head. You said, “Stay. Don’t go.” Heimdall saw something flicker in your mind, making his eyes soften.

The same as the night of the celebration.

He nodded and sat down on the chair, his hand holding yours. “Heimdall..” you spoke after a minute or so, he looked up at you with raised brows, “What is it?” You sighed “What am I gonna do, look at me, I’m completely fucked.” Heimdall frowned. “Just one arm isn’t going to stop you. I’ve seen you overcome things.” You pulled your hand away, placing it over your eyes. “Heimdall, what about when I want to get married! Who’s gonna marry a one-armed Betty?” Heimdall sneered, “That's what you're worried about?”

You sniffled, “Yes.” Heimdall growled, “Not the fact that you could be infected? Or that you will have trouble fighting? You’re worried about who will lie with you?!”

You looked at him with tears clouding your view, “I just want someone to love me,” you whispered as you wept softly. Heimdall leaned back, his eyes turning sympathetic.

“Love is foolish. You’re not missing out on anything.”

——

It had been a few days, you were up on your feet again. You were excited to get back to normal.

Normal.

“Morning kiddos!” You said, happily standing on top of one of the grassy hills outside the wall, they all looked up at you in their training clothes. “It’s so nice out today!” You said they yawned tiredly. “Why’re we out here so early?” one of the Midgardians said, tiredly leaning on their friend, who was Asgardian by the way. You smiled, “Well, I wanted us to explore the wilderness, and I have been given the okay to take you all out of Asgard!”

The kids perked up. “Really?” One of them spoke, “…Wait, did Heimdall approve?” you groaned. Why does everyone think Heimdall runs things?

The kids shrugged, “Well, you’re still recovering.”

You laughed “One arm has nothing to do with anything. I’m still just as strong as you guys” the kids looked up at you playfully “Prove it.”

You sighed pulling off your cloak.

—————

“What’re you doing?” You said climbing on the fence sitting down and watching Heimdall wave his arms in a Fluid motion. His eyebrow twitched before sighing “balancing.” You snorted “Who’d you learn that from? Thor?” Heimdall took a deep breath “No, Tyr.” Your eyes widened “Oh…”

Heimdalls motions became faster as you flinched as your hair whipped your face from the wind. The wind was blowing hard and the grass danced as the clouds disappeared, the sun shining through…

‘He will bring light and smite the wicked.’

Heimdall stopped and opened his eyes overlooking the field. He turned to you with an indifferent face. “Want to learn?”

——-

Using your only hand you held it over your chest pushing your shoe into the ground, the kids waited.

“Is it supposed to be happening?” One of them said but was shushed by the others. You could feel it, the earth like in Vanaheim. Taking a deep breath there were loud noises. You opened your eyes hearing the kids mumbling. You looked up seeing how water towered over you all, but the water fell back into its original form as soon as you stopped concentrating.

You smiled back at the kids “Let us go!” You said happily skipping into a portal that formed hopping into the other realm.

With a happy sigh you took a deep breath in “Breathe it in my students, welcome to Midgard.” The kids huddled close, holding themselves. The cold air was already forming ice on their lashes.

Skoldr huddled to you closest the others teased him for his crush on you but you found it adorable. “W-why have w-we come here-“ you looked down at him with a warm smile “Because you all have grown accustomed to…well peace, none of you have ever faced true foes or been in true danger.” You yawned and sat on a rock.

You manifested your staff in your hand slamming it on the ground causing a loud ring.

“Today's topic, ancient fighting.” You said your staff disappearing

Suddenly there was a rumbling sound. The kids all turned to what seemed to be a rock but it started to move and stand forming a giant ice form.

The kids panicked looking at you “Are you going to help us?!” You looked at them while cleaning your sword “Help with what, you have your weapons, and you’ve been trained by me and Heimdall even Thrúd. Now it is up to you.” Suddenly one of the boys, aradin shot an arrow at the creature, making it turn to them slowly.

You chuckled “I’d like to say it wasn’t attacking you and it was being docile. Lesson one is, not everything has to be your enemy. Now you for sure have to fight it.” The kids were running around like headless chickens dodging the beams. You laughed at them “Find its weakness!” The kids yelled at each other bickering as they dodged the projectiles from the frost ancient.

You held up your sword checking for any damage “If shooting or hitting the outside isn’t working shouldn’t you focus your attack elsewhere?” You said calmly, but today was not the day for victory. Your eyes caught the kids shaking as they laid on the ground hit by the reoccurring frost waves from the ancients stomps.

You sighed “alright, that’s enough.” You spoke, raising your right hand and clenching a fist the frost ancient melting in an instant. You grunted getting up from your seat walking to the kids as they wiped the snow off of them.

“You have to work together.” You said pointing towards the blue icy core of the ancient floating in the air. “If you all weren’t so busy fighting or competing you’d see the core was the obvious hit spot.”

The kids sighed disappointingly. “Well it’s easy for you, you’ve been here before.” You nodded “Yes I have but I was alone. You guys are not, and hopefully it stays that way.” The kids all muttered to each other as you walked ahead of them leading them through the trails. You smiled seeing it, Tyrs Temple. You turned to the kids “This is Tyrs temple, now mine. It’s where I stayed when I was away.” You smiled “It’s frozen now but this is the lake of nine, see the giant monoliths with the runes of the realms?” The kids looked around in awe.

One of the kids ran up to your side. “Is it true you rode a dragon?” You laughed “I’ve said it before you guys, I saved the dragon, that doesn’t mean it let me ride on its back.” The kids groaned. You smiled “How are you all growing accustomed to the weather?”

Penelope let out a dramatic sigh, pulling her cloak tighter around her. “It’s absolutely freezing! I’d much rather be in Asgard right now.”

You gave her a knowing hum in response, trying to lighten the mood. “I understand, but if Ragnarok is really on the horizon, where will you all take shelter?”

The kids gathered around you, their wide eyes fixed on your face, curiosity dancing in their expressions.

You quickly covered your mouth, a laugh escaping as warmth flooded your cheeks. “Mm—excuse me, I have no idea why that just slipped out.” But even as you chuckled, a thread of panic tightened in your chest.

“What's wrong? Are you okay?” the kids pressed, concern etching their young faces.

Your gaze fell to your sword, which suddenly vibrated fiercely in your grip. It was as if it had a voice of its own, whispering secrets just beyond your comprehension. You squinted at it. “My sword—it’s… talking?”

Skoldjr nodded, his eyes wide with excitement. “Yeah! You said it could, you remember, right?”

Staring at him, confusion set in. “What? No—no, I don’t remember that.”

In an instant, the world around you dimmed, and a violent tremor rippled through the ground, as if reality itself was unraveling around you.

‘Now you are out of Asgard, we will break the wicked hold of the false prophet! I shall strike it!’ Your sword boomed suddenly, the sword handle glowed orange, it started to heat up, burning your hand, making you scream, you couldn’t let go.

The fire felt like it was going through your veins, bursting your vessels, and traveling into your heart. The kids backed up, panicking as you fell on your knees. ‘Wake up, banish the lies, remember!’ You looked at your sword, your nose bleeding, drops falling onto the snow, you gasped as your body shook.

Helheim. Your parents. Odin…false father, false prophet. Lies and pain and control, suffering and evil. It all came back to you. You took a minute before you pushed yourself up, you wiped your nose, looking down at your missing arm.

‘There you are, welcome back. Odin placed you under a forgetful trance when you were sleeping. But you remember now…’ your sword spoke softly and you nodded.

“I do.”

———

Gripping your sword tightly, your knuckles turned ghostly white as you trudged through the muddy roads of Asgard, each step leaving a mark in the soft earth. The smaller children scurried after you, their laughter fading into nervous silence as the swirling mud began to rise ominously around your feet. An oppressive blanket of gray clouds cloaked the sun, casting a shadow over the vibrant realm of the gods.

With a forceful kick, you slammed the door to the great lodge open, eyes immediately drawn to you in a mixture of surprise and curiosity. You stepped inside, your gaze scanning the crowd, seeking a familiar face amid the flickering firelight.

Sif approached, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity. "Hey, how was it with the kids in Midgard?" she asked, but you barely acknowledged her, your focus locked onto Thor, who swayed slightly as he turned to face you, the scent of ale thick on his breath.

“Where’s Odin?!” you demanded, your voice low and fierce, narrowing your eyes at him in challenge. He squinted, seemingly unfazed by the intensity of your glare. “Why? Got business with the old man?”

With a quick step closer, you bore into his gaze, the temperature in the room shifting. “Where is he? Do not test me.”

“Down the hall, in his study with Heimdall,” Thor replied, finally relenting. You spun on your heel, your heart pounding with urgency, and stormed down the dimly lit hallway. Behind you, Thor tipped his pint back, mumbling, “Good luck.” Thrúd and Sif exchanged puzzled glances, the tension still heavy in the air as you disappeared around the corner, determination fueling your every stride.

You made it to the door, but stopped. Going in alone was that foolish?

‘You are not alone, I am here.’

You pushed open the door with your shoulder walking up to the desk Heimdall had his eyes on your sword “Oh hello my dear-“ you kicked the chair out of your way “Don’t you fucking call me your dear!” You yelled. Heimdall stepped up, “Watch your words in front of the All-Father!”

“He is not all father, he takes the name of the true father in blood, he has stolen the skin of the real creator of the world!” Odin put up a hand, making Heimdall stand down. “Why are you upset, sweetheart?” You growled

“Why did you do it?”

“Do wh-“

“Kill them! Why did you kill my parents?!”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do! You do! I know now, I remember!”

“You do.”

“The ravens…they brought you to my home for a second time, you were hiding, watching as I ran into my home to my mother, whom you brutalized. You mangled my father, and you reached for me…you reached for me, and I felt fear wash over me, water rushing through like a wave breaking down the house washing away my parents and me.”

Odin nodded, “I did it to protect you, your mother and father were wicked. You—“ you yelled, throwing the table to the other side of the room with your arm. “No more lies!” You said holding the sword to his throat, but you weren’t the only quick one.

You felt a blade against your throat as well. You turned your head slowly, looking at those purple bifrost eyes, and your lip wobbled slightly. “Back up.” He said. You looked back at Odin, then at him, I won’t ask again,” Heimdall warned. You pulled back, cutting Odin purposely in the process. Heimdall pushed you back at a safe distance.

Odin stood up, wiping his neck. “I knew if you remembered, it would be too much for you to handle.” You looked at Heimdall pushing the blade from your throat, making him step back. “You’re just like your father.” Odin continued,

“I hoped you would lead my army just like him, You are already a great teacher.”

You stepped forward only to be grabbed by Heimdall. “Mm-mm.” He shook his head.

You stepped back.. “I’ll never let you use those kids as another one of your trained killers. In your damn blood war!”

Heimdall sighed, “All father had his reasons! It is hard to accept it as the truth, but after some time im sure—“

You shook your head, “No! You can’t be serious, Heimdall! Odin is false, he lies! I’ll never trust him again.”

Odin grabbed your face, hands on each side of your cheek.

“I know…that’s why I need your mind.”

‘No!’ Your sword yelled

Suddenly, you felt yourself being pulled to your knees. You looked down, vines traveled up your leg, and tied themselves around you. You dropped your sword, struggling against the vines. “Father, is this necessary?” Heimdall spoke, looking down at you.

Odin ignored him, picking up your sword. “The vanir runes on your arm, where’d you get them?” You looked up at him. “I don’t have to tell you anything!” Odin frowned. “Wrong answer”. Suddenly, the vines pulled off your cloak, squeezing your injured nub, making you let out a low groan.

‘You will not break’ your sword whispered

Odin and Heimdall stood in front of you. You looked away from Heimdall, looking down at their boots in front of you. Odin sighed, “Who were you with in Vanaheim?” You closed your eyes, remaining silent. Heimdall flickered his eyes to you, “Just tell the truth.” You looked up at Odin, “Nobody!” You said.

Odin looked at Heimdall, who clenched his jaw as he looked into your mind, “Speak, boy!” Odin demanded.

“She’s lying.” You screamed as a vine pushed into your wound, making you sweat. Odin grunted as he took your sword and put it to your chin. “Who was she with, Heimdall?” He said, forcing your head up with your blade to look into Heimdall's eyes.

Heimdall's nose flared.. “Freyr.” You shook your head, “Heimdall no! It’s not like that!” Odin sighed, “I told you, use your brain, Heimdall.” Heimdall looked down at you in slight disappointment.

“You lied to me.”

You grunted in pain, “I did not lie! You never asked!”

Heimdall's brow furrowed. “You implied that you had only been to Midgard! But you were lying on the same ground as the enemy!”

You gritted your teeth. “Tell me what else you see,” Odin said. Heimdall looked around, his eyes purple as he looked into the air, his mind and yours were now linked.

“Freyr, his group. They helped her, healed her. He spoke of you, of my mothers, told her tales and stories.” You finally pulled your head away, letting out a pained cry from the psychic disruption.

“Heimdall, he is using you! He was the one who prohibited your mothers from seeing you.” Suddenly, the vine in your wound moved, making you scream as tears fell down your cheek. Heimdall turned to you, “Enough! There is only one liar here, and it’s you.”

Odin grabbed Heimdall's shoulder. “That’s enough.” Heimdall pulled from your mind, looking at you in front of him.

You sighed, “Heimdall…we’re a team. I lied because I was doing my job.” Heimdall scoffed, “Your job is to protect Asgard!”

You looked up at him furiously.. “No! I am the Protector of Realms! All the realms are taken under my wings. I protect all creatures, all people, from the world serpent to the worms in the soil. Hel I protect the soil!” You said with pride in your voice.

Odin walked behind you, grabbing your head and forcing you to look up. “I wished you could have stayed curious. It’s a shame you chose the path of your father.” You struggled to free yourself from his grasp, but it was futile. Suddenly, you felt something you had lost start to return to you; it tickled…It burned.

“Ta tilbake de delene av oss som er ødelagte.” Odin spoke in a soft tone. You let out a shaky breath as you felt the fabric of your clothes with your lost arm. Heimdall's eyes softened as he looked down. Your arm was back, but why didn’t he do that as soon as you got back?

He wasn’t done with you, though. Suddenly, the hold on your head tightened, and it was like a ring squeezed around your brain, making you let out a yell. Odin started to speak what was gibberish to you.

“Munn fïnn nafn Gorm” you gasped, realizing too late that it was a hex.

———

Heimdall stood in the dimly lit room, his gaze fixed on you as you crumpled to the floor, the thick vines slithering back into the ground like serpents retreating to their lairs. “When she awakens, take the helmets and your cat. Seek out Freyr’s little hideout and bring him to me, alive,” he commanded, his voice crisp and authoritative as he strode away, slamming the door with a resonant thud that echoed in the silence.

Heimdall surveyed the room, his eyes scanning the shadows, “It’s called a Graðungr, not a cat.” Suddenly, you twitched, a flicker of life igniting within you as your fist struck the wooden floor with a dull thump. With a slow and unsettling movement, you began to push yourself up, your body moving as if manipulated by unseen strings, like a marionette coming to life.

Your back popped as you stood up. Heimdall's eyes widened seeing yours glow bright purple with black around your eyes, like the Einherjar.

Like his.

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tagging my supporters @slaying69696969 @moongasux @jinxedsiren @r4spb3rries @meowmaii @leandraisnotfruity

@library-viking @lunaryasha

FUNNY THING:

medias that inspired this story was wicked, hunchback of nortre dame, Hamilton, uhh halsey, lana del rey video games, WICKED, call of the wild, the great gatsby, and other things....I'm not crazy.---lagncx

#writing #fanfiction #x reader #god of war ragnorak #heimdall x reader #heimdall god of war #heimdall gow #heimdall/reader #heimdall #fanfic #gow ragnarok #god of war x reader #god of war ragnarok #x female reader

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