#i wound up breaking this chapter in half

[fiddleabout]

on the run from a losing game, 8/10

warrior nun, ava silva/sister beatrice, M, chapter 8/10

Beatrice wakes up to the sliver of light from the cracked door faded and cool, a telltale promise of the impending sunset.  Her mouth is dry, her eyes gummy, but there’s a warmth in her stomach she can’t place immediately as she unwraps herself from the pillow she’d curled around and rolls onto her back, blinking up at her ceiling sleepily. It comes back slowly, the way she’d burst out with a confession that should’ve driven Ava away but had instead dragged her closer, the way Ava had kissed her and told her she wants her, the way Ava had set aside her own self-proclaimed want so that she could tuck Beatrice into bed to catch up on sleep. The warmth in her stomach bubbles up into her chest, her throat, spreads along her cheeks.  Ava likes her.  Ava wants her, wants everything Beatrice does, wants the sex and the romance and the next steps forward with her.

AO3

[science-hoes]

Daylight: Month One

Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Chapters: Month One, Month Two, Month Three, Month Four

——

You were well known in the Pitt for being able to handle the most gruesome cases better than any other resident. Degloved leg? No problem. Multiple gunshot wounds with intestines spilling out? Not even a flinch. Necrotizing fasciitis with maggots? Child’s play.

That’s why everyone was shocked to see you sprint over to the trashcan in Central Two and puke your guts out at the smell of a patient’s festering bed sore. Luckily, the patient was unconscious, so he wasn’t offended by your aversion to his wound. You coughed and sputtered the excess saliva in your mouth into the trash, hunched over in case your stomach betrayed you again.

You felt someone’s hands pull your hair out of your face as you vomited again. “Bed sores are your kryptonite?” She asked.

You could see over the edge of the trash can from the shoes (and ankle monitor) that it was McKay. You laughed weakly, trembling as your hands gripped the edges of the container. “I’ve never thrown up like this before. I guess I’m losing my superpowers.” You joked, and you could feel the nausea begin to subside. “Thank you.” You added when you stood up straight.

“No problem.” McKay said, but she had a look on her face that you couldn’t decipher.

You moved away from the trash can and back over to the patient. Santos watched you with an amused look. “I’ve never seen you get sick. Are you knocked up or some shit?” She asked brashly.

You shook your head, internally rolling your eyes. “No way. I’m on the pill. It’s just a stomach bug.” You replied, getting the supplies ready to clean up the patient’s wound.

McKay followed you back to your side and shrugged. “I don’t know, sweetie. My stomach bug is 10 years old now.” She said.

You looked to both women in the room with you. “Don’t worry. I haven’t been having sex anyway.”

Which was a lie because Michael Robinavitch was giving you backshots last night in his bed after work. But you needed to get them off your case.

Santos laughed. “Damn. That’s gotta suck. A sexless life is a pointless life.” She mused.

You took in a deep breath, trying to calm your irritation but also curb the nausea. “I don’t think this is an appropriate conversation to have in front of a patient.” You said, beginning to clean the patient’s wound.

McKay and Santos both gave each other a knowing look. Even if they didn’t know who you were fucking, they knew it had to be someone on the day shift. Too many times you came back from your 15 minute break with your scrubs wrinkled and hair less than perfect.

Their words began to eat at you even after you finished tending to your patient. The pill made your cycles pretty irregular and unpredictable. Your nausea seemed to come out of nowhere. And, of course, the damning fact that Robby hadn’t used a condom since six months of dating.

You had been secretly dating for a year and a half now. Only a very select few of your coworkers knew: Dana, Jack, and Mel. Early on, you and Robby agreed that it was best to keep it private to make sure the hospital administrators stayed out of it. Not to mention, you didn’t want any of the other coworkers to think you got special treatment because you were dating a senior attending.

Robby was sitting at his desk station, typing into a patient’s chart. Those damned black-rimmed glasses sat on his nose, and you made a mental note to make him wear them the next time he fucked you. He peered over the top of the glasses when he noticed you walking towards him. “How’s our bed sore patient?” He asked.

You leaned against the high counter of the desk. “He’s okay.” You said, and then looked around to make sure nobody was listening. “I threw up.”

Robby stared at you because clearly he misunderstood. “Huh?”

You folded your hands and pulled your lips into a thin line. “I puked. My guts out. In front of McKay and Santos. Because of the smell.” You explained.

He removed his glasses, so he could focus his full attention. “You threw up?” He asked.

You rolled your eyes in exasperation. “For the third time. I vomited while seeing a patient.”

Robby leaned back in his chair. “You eat something bad?” He asked.

You shrugged, leaning down a little closer to him. “I mean, not unless you gave me food poisoning last night.” You whispered.

He crossed his arms, a small smile playing at his lips. “I take offense to that. I do not undercook my food.” He replied.

You rolled your eyes, smiling with him. “You’re right. How dare I question your cooking skills?”

Robby’s smile broke into a grin. “That’s right. Don’t let it happen again.” He teased before nodding his head toward the doctor’s lounge. “Why don’t you go take your break? Get some water.”

You stood up straight, putting your hands in your pockets. “Yeah I will.” You said, and as you turned to walk away, you glanced back at him. “Have you taken your break yet?” You asked.

To anyone else, it was a normal question. But to you and your boyfriend, it was an invitation to the on-call room. Robby slid his glasses back on and watched you over the top of them. “No, I haven’t. But if you threw up, you shouldn’t get on any more rides.” He said quietly and winked at you.

What an asshole. You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide your grin as you turned to head to the break room. On the way, you passed the supply closet.

“My stomach bug is 10 years old now.” McKay’s voice echoed in your brain.

You looked around to make sure nobody was watching before entering, snatching two pregnancy tests, and hurrying to the bathroom. You switched the lock shut, taking a moment to breathe and find peace. You ripped both tests out of their packages, tossing the trash, and taking them as instructed. Once the test area was saturated, you wrapped both tests in a paper towel and shoved them in your pocket. There was no extra time in your day to wait 15 minutes in the bathroom when you still needed water.

You exited the bathroom and made a beeline to the doctors’ lounge. It was empty and quiet, a stark contrast from the busy, noisy environment of the Pitt. You grabbed your water bottle from the cubby, sat down in a chair, and washed away the stomach acid that lingered in your mouth. You tried to calm your nerves by closing your eyes and breathing deeply, but the pregnancy tests in your pocket were calling to you like the fucking Green Goblin mask. As if your hand belonged to another person, you reached down and pulled them out, unraveling them from the paper towel. And already, three minutes later, you had your answer.

Double lines. On both tests. Matching the “pregnant” option of the guide on the stick.

You felt like your soul had been punched out of your body. You were pregnant. The questions started running through your mind like an F1 race. How far along? Is Robby going to be upset? How are you going to finish residency? Is Robby going to leave you? How are you going to do this?

You didn’t realize the tears that began to well up in your eyes and threaten to fall if you blinked. With haste, you shoved the tests back in your pocket, left your water bottle on the table, and hurried to find the only person who could help you right now.

And, thankfully, she seemed relatively unbusy at the nurses’ hub. You marched right up to Dana, arms crossed over your chest in a protective position.

“Dana, I need your help.” You said before she had a chance to look up.

She immediately clocked your teary eyes, and she went into mama bear mode. “Oh, sweetie, what’s wrong?” She asked, hands resting on either side of your crossed arms.

“I just- I need your help.” You repeated, brows furrowing as you spent all your concentration on holding back sobs.

Dana nodded and looked around the Pitt. “Okay, okay. Do you need me to get Robby?”

“No!” You snapped in a whisper. “No, not right now. I need you to do an ultrasound for me.”

Her face changed from one of worry to one that was…still worried but softer and understanding. Without another word, she placed a hand on your back and led you to an empty room in the back of the Pitt where there was always an ultrasound machine ready to go. She swung the curtain open and closed as you both discretely entered the room.

You laid down on the bed, resting your head on the incline. Dana began to turn on the machine and placed the ultrasound gel in the warmer. The lights were dimmed, and you were grateful for it.

“How long have you known?” She asked, back turned to you as she set up the settings on the screen.

“Just a few minutes. I took a couple of tests from the supply closet.” You admitted, unrolling the tests from the crinkled paper towel.

Dana turned once she had the probe and gel in her hands. Even in the low light of the room, the tests showed two distinct lines. She chuckled as she shook the gel bottle. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a clearer pregnancy test.”

You pulled your tucked scrub top out from your pants, hoisting it to your ribcage. Dana squirted the warm gel onto the probe before staring back at you.

“Uh, this is your first ultrasound, hun. It’s transvaginal. I need your pants to come off.” She said.

You felt your cheeks grow red in embarrassment. You’re a resident for Christ’s sakes. You knew that. “You’re right, sorry.”

You kicked your shoes off and shimmied out of your scrub bottoms and panties. Dana handed you a blanket to cover your knees, and you gratefully accepted.

“Okay, you ready to see this baby?” She asked. “Just gonna feel some pressure down there.”

You took in a deep breath and nodded. The probe inserted, and Dana moved it around until she found the image she wanted on the screen. You didn’t look at the screen, almost afraid to.

“Looks like little peanut is in the uterus. Not ectopic.” She said, and then looked to you. “Do you want to see it?” She asked.

You felt relief wash over you at the confirmation. You looked over to the screen, and there was your baby. Just a little bean in your uterus. No arms or legs or anything. Just a shape. A smile found its way to your face anyway.

“It’s so tiny.” You said in awe.

Dana chuckled and pressed some keys on the monitor to save the picture. She removed the probe and cleaned it off, allowing you to pull the blanket over your waist. “Don’t worry, it’ll get bigger and more annoying before you know it.” She replied.

You stared at the screen, feeling an odd sense of peace that you’d never felt before. “Please don’t tell anyone.” You whispered.

Dana huffed in annoyance that you even reminded her. “You think I’m gonna go blabbing to everyone about you and Robby’s secret love child?” She asked.

You giggled and shook your head. “No…no, I trust you.” You responded before shifting uncomfortably. “Can you…” You trailed off, scared to even ask.

“Get Robby?” She finished for you.

You inhaled deeply and nodded. Dana placed the ultrasound probe back in its holder. “Just be discrete.” You pleaded.

She lifted her arms out. “It’s like you don’t even know me.” She teased before heading out into the Pitt, leaving you in privacy.

Dana made her way to the desk hub, scanning the department for Robby. When she saw him exiting a patient room, she waved him down. Robby, in fake exasperation, rolled his eyes and shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn navy hoodie.

“What now?” He asked.

Dana raised an eyebrow at the sass, but decided to let it slide. “I’ve got a patient in Ultrasound 1 that I need you to check on.” She said.

Robby furrowed his brow. “What’s the patient here for?” He asked.

“Patient is pregnant, wanted you to double check the ultrasound. Transvaginal.” She responded.

Robby looked to the back of the department where the ultrasound rooms were and turned to head that way. “Ah, yes. My girlfriend loves it when I’m knuckles deep in another woman.” He joked in a flat voice.

Dana smirked as he walked to your room, wishing there was some way to preserve the irony in the air. Robby pressed his hand to the hand sanitizer dispenser and swung the curtain open and shut before rubbing his hands together.

“Hi, I’m Doctor Robinavitch, but you can call me-“ His standard patient greeting came to a halt when he saw you laying in the patient bed, clutching the blanket to your chest. “What are you doing in here? Are you okay?” He asked, rushing to your side, sitting on the edge of the bed.

You nodded as one of his hands caressed the side of your face. “I’m okay.” You whispered. “Um, Dana had to check something out for me.”

For as smart as Robby was, he was having a hard time connecting the dots. “Check out what?” He asked.

You squinted in stress, wishing he would figure it out himself. So instead you just pointed to the ultrasound monitor screen. Robby turned to follow, and his eyes met the picture of a tiny embryo. His body language didn’t change, but he was frozen for sure.

You reached to the side of the bed to show him the positive pregnancy tests. “I think it’s why I threw up.” You whispered.

Robby looked down to the tests and their unmistakable results. He took them into his hands, and he just stared at them. You breathing became uneven as anxiety started to flow through you.

“I know it’s not what you wanted.” You said.

Your boyfriend looked to you with a look on his face you had never seen. Tears shimmered in the corners of his eyes, and his breath hitched. “It’s mine?” He asked, with a twinge of hope in his voice.

You wanted to smack him upside the head for even asking the question. “Yes, of course it’s yours, Michael.” You replied, pulling his first name to show you were serious.

The tears that began to fall down his cheeks inspired yours to do the same. Robby placed the tests down and fell into your arms, shaking with quiet crying. You ran a hand through his hair, surprised at his reaction. His arms pulled you into the tightest hug he had ever given you.

“We’re having a baby?” He asked into your chest, needing to hear your voice confirm it.

You smiled and lifted his head to meet your eyes. Those shining brown eyes were full of hope like you had never seen in your entire relationship. “We’re having a baby.” You replied and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Robby laughed with a new joy, one that you’d remember forever. He began pressing kisses across your face, and you felt like you could breathe for the first time in an hour. For a few minutes, he laid fully on the bed with you, pulling you close against his chest. You both stared at the picture of your tiny bean baby on the ultrasound monitor.

Your fingers were intertwined with his when you finally said, “We need to get back out there.”

Robby pressed a kiss to your hair and placed your coupled hands onto your belly. “Just a little bit longer.” He pleaded.

And you couldn’t say no to that.

—

A/N: Thank you all for being so patient while waiting for this fic! Robby deserves happiness more than anyone, so I decided to give him a break from all of the torture he’s been through on that never ending shift. I will be updating this fic weekly, possibly sooner, for each month of the pregnancy + a little before!

[hyunebunx]

˖˙ ᰋ ── i didn't hear what you said, i just want to kiss you

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. genre: fluff

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. a/n: this is for all of my perfectionist students lmao. kind of self indulgent and super inspired by hyunjin's latest live. enjoy!! <3<3<3

For years now, your boyfriend has been your favorite study partner. Always patient, kind, and considerate of your needs, helping you tackle every difficult subject with a smile on his face. Bringing you snacks, urging you to take breaks whenever he sensed you needed it but most importantly, never pressuring you in any way. Despite your stellar marks, he always says:

“Don’t stress too much about it. Grades aren’t everything.”

And you believe him, you really do, yet the overachiever part of your soul is always louder, and never lets you rest, yelling in your ear until you comply and spend your whole day cooped up inside, studying.

You need to get the highest grade possible, otherwise you’ll shrivel up and die.

Hyunjin keeps you grounded, that’s why there’s no better person alive than your boyfriend. An angel in disguise who has somehow fallen from grace, lost his wings, and is now trapped on earth, forced to mingle with mere mortals like you.

And mingle he does. But unfortunately for him that’s not enough – he also has to teach you statistics.

“See? The difference between descriptive statistics and inferential statistics is quite simple. It’s easier to tell them apart now, right?”

“I guess…” You yawn, setting your glittery pen aside before stretching your arms above your head. “I need a break.”

Hyunjin cocks a brow, amused. “We just started.”

“Half an hour ago!” You point towards the clock on the far wall, hidden behind endless amounts of bookshelves.

“Exactly, we barely managed to scratch the surface.” He pouts, running a hand over his buzzed head in slight exasperation.

You have to resist the urge of squishing his cheeks together, not wanting to make a scene in public. Cuteness aggression was a real thing you fought with every day. “I’m not going to lie, my love. I stopped listening to whatever you were explaining 15 minutes ago.”

“What?”

You nod. “I didn’t hear anything you said.” Then, you scoot closer, gluing yourself to his side as your voice drops several octaves. “I just want to kiss you.”

Hyunjin’s eyes widen slightly at your confession, swiftly looking around to ensure the nearby tables are still vacant. Then, he tongues his cheek in the most attractive way you’ve witnessed, a smirk hanging off the corners of his mouth as he shakes his head.

“After you finish this chapter.” He eventually breathes out, allowing one of his hands to rest on your upper thigh and squeeze in encouragement.

Your head falls back with a groan, frustrated. “Come on, Hyun!” the way you drag out his name has him chuckling lowly, eyes sparkling. “Haven’t I suffered enough?”

“Suffer?” He laughs, poking your forehead. “You’ll only suffer if you fail this test.”

“I won’t fail.” You huff, jerking back. His hand then slips off your thigh and the lack of warmth has you scrawling right back, wounding your arms around his neck to bring him even closer, hoping he’ll cave.

Hyunjin’s eyes fall to your lips, and you know it’s a matter of time before the spell you got him under works its magic. “Of course, you won’t. I won’t allow it.”

Your bright smile snaps his attention back to your eyes, which he seems to get lost exploring, absorbed by the beautiful color. Without missing a beat, you lean forward to connect your lips, eager to taste the cherry chapstick you applied on him when he complained about his lips being dry.

You guess even angels can get dehydrated.

Making out at the library on a Thursday night was never on your bingo card, but with Hyunjin as your partner in crime, you wouldn’t mind doing anything. He makes you feel safe in any situation, but especially when you have to get out of your comfort zone, tackle life head-on when putting things on hold is no longer an option.

You manage to peck his lips, once, twice, and then three times before he brings you closer, big hands sliding down from your waist to your hips and squeezing, needing to feel your flesh between his fingers.

His tongue brushes against your lower lip, and as your mouth opens to allow him access to every part of you, a low moan escapes you both simultaneously. Alcohol was overrated – you’ve only ever gotten drunk on each other.

“We don’t even share a major.” He gasps as he pulls away, and your lips find his jaw.

“I know.” Another kiss graces the beautiful mole under his eye.

With the way you’re kissing him, your lips trailing down his throat, Hyunjin has trouble speaking. “I-I’ve never taken this class before.”

“I know.” You nod, pecking the base of his neck.

A shiver runs down his spine, and his hold on you tightens, almost like he’s ready to lift and place you on his lap, deeming you too far away. “So why do I keep helping you like I’m some dean’s list student?”

“Because you love me.” You finally stop to look into his eyes, heart fluttering at the way his chest is already weaving up and down after a few minutes of innocent kisses. Your touch has always had that effect on him, so you were never confused about his feelings towards you. Hyunjin wore his heart on his sleeve, body reacting faster than his brain could process, never failing to show you how near and dear you are to him. How much he adored every one of your endearing quirks, loving you unconditionally like it was a duty he never wanted to be free of. “As much as I love you.”

With a cocky smirk he barely manages to muster, he replies while tucking some hair behind your ear. “I think I love you a little more than you love me, actually.”

“That’s impossible, Hyun.”

And you were certain of it. Nothing could be bigger than the love you held for this angel.

[kxsagi]

Heyyyy!!!! I have another request

So isagi or nagi (you can choose) want their girlfriend attention cause there studying for too many hours (they payed attention to them a hours ago) and they need 'break' really is just them wanting attention

Thanm you before hand!!!!!<3

“𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝟏𝟎𝟏”

a/n: anything for you princess 💓 includes both nagi seishiro & isagi yoichi! 

“𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞”

you sit at your desk, surrounded by open textbooks, half-finished notes, and a blinking cursor on your laptop screen. the air smells like coffee and highlighters, and the only sound is the clacking of your laptop keyboard. you’re in the zone, your mind a well-running academic machine. 

then a voice breaks through your focus. 

“hey," nagi drawls, leaning against your chair, controller still in hand. "you've been at it for hours. maybe take a little break?" 

you barely glance at him. "i’m fine." 

he sighs dramatically, plopping onto your bed with a loud thump. "c’mon, you always say that. but what if this time, your brain actually needs a break?" his voice dips into something persuasive, something teasing. "what if your boyfriend needs your attention?" 

your fingers pause over the keyboard. "you’re just trying to get me away from my work." 

he grins, unbothered. "nooo, i’m trying to make sure my incredibly smart, incredibly hardworking girlfriend doesn’t burn out." he stretches, tilting his head at you. "and, okay, maybe i do miss you a little. can’t a guy be needy?" 

you sigh, rubbing your temples. he’s relentless. always hovering, always looking for ways to pull you away, under the guise of self-care, of course. but you also know him well enough to see through the act. 

“you don’t actually care about me resting," you say, turning in your chair to look at him fully. "you just want me to pay attention to you." 

his eyes gleam. "you say that like it’s a crime." 

you shake your head, exasperated but… amused. he looks so smug, sprawled across your bed, watching you like you’re the final boss he’s determined to beat. and, really, what’s a short break going to hurt? 

with a sigh, you close your laptop. nagi’s face immediately lights up. 

“there we go!" he grabs your hand, pulling you onto the bed beside him. "welcome back to real life, babe. we missed you." 

you roll your eyes, but when he loops an arm around your waist and presses a quick, satisfied kiss to your temple, you think, maybe, just maybe, a little attention isn’t the worst thing. 

“𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞”

you're sitting at your desk, posture perfect, pen gliding across the page as you annotate yet another chapter. your planner is color-coded, your notes immaculate, everything in its rightful place. the world beyond your studies is irrelevant. 

well, almost. 

because there’s isagi. 

your boyfriend, a soccer star and a golden retriever in human form, currently flopped across your floor like he’s been defeated in battle. 

"i’m dying," he groans, dramatically draping an arm over his face. "i ran, like, a thousand miles at practice today. my legs are jello. my coach is a monster." 

you hum, unimpressed, as you flip to the next page of your textbook. "sounds like you should be resting, then." 

"i am resting," he says, rolling onto his stomach, chin propped up by his hands as he stares at you. "but it’d be better if my girlfriend cared about my suffering." 

"i do care," you reply without looking up. "i just have an exam in two days, and you being clingy isn’t going to change that." 

"clingy?" he gasps, placing a hand over his heart like you've wounded him. "that’s crazy. i’m just a guy who wants five minutes of attention from the love of his life. is that a crime?" 

you finally glance at him. he’s pouting, eyes big and pleading, the way he gets when he wants something. the worst part? you know exactly what he’s doing, and it still works. 

"i just sat down," you say, though your resolve is weakening. 

"you sat down nearly three hours ago, and you’ll be sitting all night if i don’t intervene." he pushes himself up and stretches, wincing dramatically. "look, babe, i’m a broken man. i need help." 

you raise a brow. "help with what?" 

he grins. "massage my leg." 

you snort. "absolutely not." 

“pleaseee," he whines, inching toward you. "i’ll never walk again if you don’t." 

you shake your head, but before you can protest further, he suddenly collapses into your lap, stretching across you with an exaggerated groan. 

“ah," he sighs, dramatically. "i see the light. this is the end for me." 

“you’re the most annoying person i’ve ever met," you deadpan, but your fingers are already brushing through his hair, his favorite kind of attention. 

his smirk is instant. "oh? then why are you petting me like i’m your favorite?" 

you freeze, but he just tilts his head, pressing closer. 

“don’t worry," he murmurs. "i won’t tell anyone that the academic weapon has a soft spot for her dumb soccer boyfriend." 

you roll your eyes, but you don’t push him away. your textbook is still open, your highlighters untouched, but somehow, you think, maybe, this is the kind of break you don’t mind taking.

© 𝐤𝐱��𝐚𝐠𝐢

[yourcutelittlegayfriend]

✦✧✦ CHAPTER 5 ✦✧✦

Poor Goldilocks, Nothing Is Just Right

Warning this part contains: Mania, Self- Harm (wanting to remove your skin), Body Pain, Blood & Bleeding, Pain, Cursing, being held down, minor drugging (just to make you eepy) Dark Theme, becoming pwd , mentions of being crippled or disabled, manipulations/manipulative actions, platonic kisses(?), tons of typo, barely proofread and Evil Reader

Note: I forgot to mention but In the previous chapter MC is 8-9 and in this one MC is 10-11 years old, The scary part is only in the first part, second is me just giving you a Victor treatment and a very nice sort of closing for Bruce's part, also again forgive me if Bruce is OOC it's hard to see Bruce/Batman as a cold person when the batman I knew in my childhood is selfless and compassionate and yes batman cries he cried plenty of times before what do you mean?.

MASTERLIST pages ↻4 , 5.....➢

NOW PLAYING ↻◁ ||▷↺ 4ÆM - Grimes ılıılıılılılıılıılı

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✦✧✦✧✦

My body aches, bones feels like they're breaking and healing again, my skin is so heavy and itched, it itches, it's itchy, I want it off, I want to rip it off, I GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF ME!!!!.

My eyes opened with a sharp jerk of my body I screeched out in disgust, jumping from where I was laying as I used my hand to scratch and scratch and scratch till my nails dug through my skin and let blood seep out from the wounds.

'EVERYTHING IS WRONG! RIP IT! RIP IT! RIP IT! WE DON'T WANT THIS! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF!' We scream and yell as the room reverberates from my voice and the pounding in my head. The shadows rush, bouncing off the walls, and it seems like there's a shift in reality as I feel my soul and body splitting up into many, many pieces.

I can feel my veins pumping too much blood, traveling around and not being received properly, my eyes almost pop off from how hot, searing, and boiling my new blood is inside of me.

'I DON'T WANT THIS! IT'S WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!' They yell out more as they use my hands to hit my head and try to pull the hair out of my scalp.

The room kept spinning and everything seemed to glitch out in my brain as I fell off from something high and landed smack on the floor their hand gripped the back of my head and pulled it back preparing to smash my head on the ground.

As my forehead nears the hard surface, a sudden force tackled me. I become aware of a pair of hands pinning my wrist on the floor making my legs kick out in the absence of my hands in retaliation and raging out trying to twist their hold as my spit mixed with blood foams on my mouth as I yell for them to not touch me.

Another pair then reached out to trap my legs down, hearing someone else voice whisper to me as I slowly became weary and groaned in the ache of the harm caused to my body, focusing up as my vision came back clearer, as air fills up in my lungs and settling my breathing again, my eyes make out the head of Bruce as he stares down at me while my vision gets better.

He was peering down at me wearing a look of fear and guilt on his face as I caught the movements of his mouth realizing that he was talking directly to me, I calmed down, and slowly my body slacks on fatigue as he let go before moving to scoop my body up.

He lays my head on his chest making sure it won't move before standing along with me in his arms and laying me back to something soft and cushiony under my form, I stare back at him with my eyes half-lidded and tired while he sits on the side from what I can discern as a bed.

'It's too fluffy and silky for my taste, this isn't my bed, it's not right' I thought as I watched Bruce study me with a look of sadness as someone was moving behind him, Alfred holding a tray of glass with a pitcher of water walk towards Bruce's side -noting the patchiness of my throat- and setting it down as I observe the two talk, the pounding of my head muffled their voices to the point it's the only the vibrations of my eardrums I can hear.

I kept eyeing them until Alfred moved, pouring the water, and reached out to tilt my head before slowly tipping the glass assisting me to drink and feeling my body weight like lead.

Bruce then leans down and lays a kiss on the top of my brows surprising me even when I'm deep on falling asleep as he holds my limp hand and holds it under his warmer one, gripping it and squeezing in broken rhythm with a thumb over the pulse on my wrist, either to count my heartbeats or maybe to make sure if I'm still alive? I couldn't care less.

'You aren't supposed to notice me, you're not a part of this, you shouldn't be anywhere near me, you don't belong in my new family'

✦✧✦✧✦

Staring at the beautiful wooden handcraft cane, I reach out and caress the squeaky clean polish to the head where soft leather wraps around its handle along with a cute carving of a tiny baby bat on top.

Picking it up from the opened box with the fancy brand name printed over the cover where it was situated on top of a black cushion, I held it on my lap and tested its weight on my palm.

A brand new cane made just for me he said, to help me walk around since after the dip in that pit only my right leg was the casualty in the accident, it was all new, and with no study from what it truly is, it's hard to know what really causes the damage on my leg.

Which was confusing since from my basic understanding and knowledge from before, The pit was filled by Lazarus and weirdly enough it's the Joker who found it, even more suspicious is the location of the pits are only a few and the one I was tied to was never near the original one here in Gotham before.

Not only that Lazarus was supposed to heal, to resurrect the dead even give someone powers or just the simple physical enhancements, so why did I become crippled instead? why did it become the opposite instead?!.

Gripping the cane tightly, I huffed and screamed as I threw it away from me proceeding to thrash everything on the table.

"This isn't supposed to happen!! I didn't want this! all I wanted was a normal life and I ended up becoming a handicap!" I punched the wooden surface before kicking myself off the chair.

As I try to get even just one step, My right leg completely fails to carry my weight causing me to fall and painfully drop on the carpeted floor ending me just curling down and wailing in anger.

In the corner of my eye, I pick out their form standing in the corner of the room just staring at me blankly before blending back in the shadows when Bruce entered the field of my vision and kneeled in front of me.

"Hey hey hey you're ok, everything we'll be fine". He lifts up my upper body and hold me close.

"I'll find away to fix this, ok?" He said as he tried to comfort me but I just snap at him and tried to push me away.

'Liar' they slither out behind him and sneer lowering their head on the side of his face and going back like the way they came out as my vision glitched before me.

"Fix? Fix me?!" I shout slapping his hand away. "How?! huh? Tell me how?! This wouldn't even happened if you just listened to me in the first place!".

"I never wanted to have a stupid debut! I never wanted to be kidnapped by that goddamn clown and this is what I get?! becoming a fucking limping idiot for the rest of my life?!"

"Because of you! It's because of you I ended up having my leg practically useless! THIS IS YOUR FAULT!". I spitted out as I balled up my fist and started hitting him anywhere my hands could land.

As I holler and shriek at his face, he just closes his eyes and takes my hits head on not even trying to defend himself.

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I wish I never stayed here! I wish I never met you! I wish you just left me in that orphanage and let me rot ther-".

"That's enough! I know it's my fault that I was too late to save you and I shouldn't have forced you to do anything". He cut me off by grabbing my hands and stopping me as he looked me in the eye.

"But I promise to do anything I can to make sure you live a better life, you're my child and I am your father, you are my responsibility and my only priority from now on". He declares as he lowers his head and lays his forehead on my small knuckles.

They sneak in there and put their hands on top of his as they shake their head 'no' to me before moving out of my sight.

"Don't hate me for only doing what's right for you, I only want to do what's best for you because I am your father, so give me one more chance to make things right". He pleads as I feel small droplets drip on my skin and I see him quietly crying.

I watch him in disbelief, listening to his words and seeing him cry in front of me, for me. He never did that before, not ever Ha! Not even once in any of my resets! this is different, everything about this is different.

'Somethings not right'

✦✧✦✧✦

Bruce was acting more and more strange these couple of days, He kept checking up on me, staying or lingering around me and where I went, and even smiled more often when he went out as Batman.

Not the typical Brucie shit smile but a genuine one, a simple soft looking one, and the scariest part it's always on his face when I'm anywhere near him.

'You can't stay here anymore' I hear their voice again in the back of my head but I barely see them anymore.

What's more weird is that the voice keeps getting quieter each time I hear them, the little drawings and the hallucinations start appearing less and less.

I don't know what's happening and I don't have any idea what to do, I lived through many lives before and nothing like this ever happened, What the fuck?

✦✧✦✧✦

Staring dumbfoundedly at him and then back at the wrapped present in his hand, I blinked in bewilderment at his words.

"W-what? A portrait? For what?". I asked him as he gently placed the box on my lap as I sat on the leathered couch located in the more private living room in the mansion, A family room I think?.

"An official portrait of just the two of us since the old one with your grandparents looks a little bit lonely by being on that wall alone," He says as he sits on the other cushy armchair next to me.

I follow where he is looking and see the large portrait of a younger him wearing the equivalent of a boy's suit and a big boyish smile on his face in the tapestry with him was his mother, Martha Wayne wearing a simple yet fashionable creamy white dress as she wears her iconic pearl necklace around her neck and lastly was a man behind them, Thomas Wayne who just like Bruce was wearing an expensive black suit and an award-winning smile even for a doctor.

The three look so much like how a happy family should be, all smiles and comfortable just being together and complete.

"As for your present, you can take a look now if you want," He said as he leaned over to look at my reaction I carefully opened the box but not before sending him a weird look.

"It's something for you to wear for the portrait next week" He stated before standing up and standing next to the end of the couch near me.

"I know I might be asking a lot but a portrait is one of the things that comes in tradition for this family" Kneeling down as he lays a hand on top of my head.

"Something that lasts longer, to remember the memories again and I want you to be a part of it, a memory we can always look back on, something nice and has a great sentimental value for us". He disclosed to me before leaning down and pecking the top of my head before ruffling it, walking away, and leaving the room afterward.

Looking down at the clothing on my lap I rub the fabric together and deduce that it's an expensive one based on the silky feel then back at the painting again and study the old portrait on top of the fireplace, the fire's light illuminating the brush strokes and their still faces.

"How funny, I never was in any of your portraits before, was I?" I whisper a smirk curling on my lips as make the decision in my head.

"Well then, maybe this won't be so bad". Grabbing my cane, I get off the couch and slowly walk till I'm standing directly under the painting in front of the fireplace.

"After all a family needs a father right?"

"I'll just have to make sure you become the perfect one first, my new family, my rules". I smile looking at the younger version of Bruce before walking out as well.

"You're not the only one good at manipulating, Bruce".

✦✧✦✧✦

Patting out any dust or wrinkle on my clothes I stare at my reflection on the new dresser in my new room that Bruce renovated near his -do I have to call him Father or maybe Dad now?.

Observing my appearance as Alfred was fixing or checking anything on my clothes, I noticed a sudden change in my look, I was the same as always between from before but healthier and less drained, upon inspecting closer I caught a brief glow of something green under the real color of my irises.

'Lazarus Green'. I hear their voice making me smile as I spy them in the mirror, they stand just behind the large bed curtain over my new bed peeking their head over then vanishing in the blink of my eye.

After that, Alfred handed over my cane and led me to a studio-like room a little bit further inside the mansion we entered and saw Bruce talking with someone who I guess might be the painter seeing a large canvas along with some paints and brushes beside them.

Smiling I headed towards Bruce as he introduced me to the painter who greeted me with a hello and a nice compliment in their French accent, I looked at Bruce with a raise of my brow as he just chuckled and smiled down at me.

"What? I wanted the best painter to make our family portrait". He remarked before sitting on a fancy armchair with a red cushion back and cushioned seating fixed on it.

He then pats a stool with a similar design and red cushion seat that perfectly partnered with his chair and helps me sit on it, an exception for me since I can't stand for too long, The painter then walks forward and fixes our poses as we talk.

"And there are many incredible painters here in Gotham as well-" I countered before hesitating and gripping my cane when the painter positioned in over my lap to hold.

"F-......Father, if you wanted to start making Gotham a better place, maybe you should look into the lives of the people as well, it's only fair after all" I convey what I meant then look into his reaction.

There he sat with his eyes widened in fascination and surprise before changing it with a large smile and reaching out to caress my cheek.

"Smart thinking kiddo". He then held my small hand in his as the painter asked for us to look at him to start with the painting.

A perfect Father looks out for his Family, Batman looks out for Gotham and this city is my first family, won't be too selfish of me to use you right, Father?

I'm just making sure everything is just right

✦✧✦✧✦

✦✧✦✧✦

yeesh the plot is leaving my head but yes this is the end of Bruce and MC finally now we can head to the rest of the fam.

I don't like some yandere fics out there that straights up just let's MC be captured or under control of yandere's I want to have something different for a change, No hate to the other yandere writers out there y'all are amazing because I know yandere genre is all about that I just want a little twist in mine.

In the end, Y/N will be using what the fam did to them and use it against them to get what they want, Like I said I wanted Y/N to be mature, and calculative and use people to their advantage, their old and hopeful version is no longer with us.

Taglist are still open my peps.

[internetdaddy98]

The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 24

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist] Content Warning: steamy; jealousy: angst; swearing ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t mean to check her location. He really didn’t.

But the app was still on his phone from that one time she got locked out of her apartment after a shift, and now—now it glared back at him like proof of weakness. Y/N: Home.

Of course she was. Because it was their week off. Because normal people used their days off to relax. Not to spiral.

He tossed his phone on the counter and paced. Again.

Three times that morning, he’d almost texted her.

Once to ask if she wanted coffee. Once to see if she’d seen the weather. And once—because he missed her. Stupid. Childish.

The jealousy from the night before still simmered beneath his skin. He could see it like snapshots behind his eyelids: the way that guy had leaned into her space. The sound of her laugh—one he hadn’t heard directed at him in weeks. The stupid way she’d blushed when the guy asked her out while she was holding gauze to his eyebrow.

Robby didn’t blame her. Not really.

He blamed himself.

For the rooftop. For letting his pride get louder than his heart.

But that didn’t change the way it felt—watching her smile at someone else. Not when she used to smile at him like that.

He grabbed his keys.

This wasn’t going to fix itself.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’d spent the better part of the day in pajamas, alternating between staring at your ceiling and doom-scrolling through videos you weren’t really watching.

You weren’t expecting the knock.

You were still in the giant hoodie you’d stolen from Robby months ago, curled up on the couch with a half-drunk cup of tea and a heartache you’d been nursing like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

When you opened the door and saw him, you froze.

Robby stood there—hood down, chest rising fast, jaw clenched like he’d run here on pure adrenaline. His eyes were brewing up a storm. Wild. Angry. Wanting.

“Michael? What are you—?”

“You laughed with him,” he said, stepping inside before you could even finish.

You blinked. “What?”

“That patient,” he growled. “He was flirting with you and you laughed.”

You shut the door, spine straightening. “And that’s why you’re here?”

His eyes flashed. “You think that was easy for me to watch? You think I liked seeing him look at you like you were his to have?”

“I’m not yours either,” you snapped, chest tight.

That did it.

In two steps he was in front of you, chest to chest, eyes burning.

“You think I haven’t wanted to make you mine every damn day since you walked into that pedes room?” he said, voice low, dangerous. “You think I don’t wake up thinking about your mouth, your laugh, the way you say my name like it matters?”

You swallowed hard, heart slamming against your ribs.

“Then why—” you started, voice shaking. “Why did you push me away? Why did you let me think you didn’t care?”

“Because I was fucking terrified!” he snapped. “Terrified of how much I cared. Of how deep I was already in before I even realized it.”

You took a shaky breath, but he wasn’t done.

“I see you with other people and it kills me. That guy last night? I wanted to throw him through a fucking wall.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’m not proud of it,” he murmured. “But I’m not gonna pretend anymore.”

He stepped closer. “I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. But if you think I’m just gonna walk away and let someone else touch what I’ve been dying to hold—”

He cupped your jaw then.

“—you’re wrong.”

Your lips parted, a protest half-formed, but he kissed you before you could say it.

And God, your body was on fire.

The kiss was not gentle. Not sweet.

It was weeks of unresolved tension, frustration, jealousy, and lust, all crashing into each other like a dam breaking. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. Your fingers clutched at his shirt like you needed something to anchor you.

You gasped when his mouth broke from yours and trailed down your jaw, your neck.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered against your skin. “Every damn shift. Every time you smile at someone else. Every time you walk away.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed.

You blinked. “That’s not fair—”

“What’s not fair is you pretending you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he growled. “Walking around the ER, laughing with every idiot who gets five minutes of your attention. Acting like you’re not mine.”

Your breath caught.

“You don’t get to say that,” you whispered.

“You’re mine, Y/N,” he said, voice low and possessive. “I don’t care if it’s messy or complicated or if the whole damn hospital knows. I’m done watching someone else look at what’s mine.”

“I thought you didn’t want me,” you whispered.

“I lied.”

Silence thundered between you.

“I lied because I was afraid,” he said. “Because I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”

He took your face in his hands, gaze dark and raw.

“But then you walked in, and every rule I’ve ever followed stopped mattering. Every night I went home and couldn’t sleep because I could still smell you on my scrubs. Every shift I memorized the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, the way you bite your lip when you’re charting, the sound of your laugh when you actually let someone in.”

You stared at him, eyes wide, throat tight.

“And when I saw him touching you,” Robby said, stepping forward until your back hit the door, “it felt like someone was trying to take you from me.”

You gasped. “Michael…”

“Say you’re not mine,” he whispered, mouth inches from yours. “Say it, and I’ll leave.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

And that’s all it took.

He crashed into you with a growl, mouth claiming yours like he’d been starving for it. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you up against the door, and you wrapped your legs around him without a second thought.

His kiss was fire and fury—angry, aching, desperate. Your hands clutched at his hoodie, tugging him closer, anchoring yourself to the only thing that felt real in the mess.

“You think anyone else gets to see you like this?” he whispered against your mouth. “Touch you like this? Never. You’re mine, Y/N. Only mine.”

You moaned into the kiss, and that sound—God, it undid him.

He carried you to the couch, laying you down like something precious, like something that had always been his, and tonight—finally—he could have you.

His mouth found your neck, your jaw, the spot beneath your ear that made you shiver.

“I should’ve said this months ago,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Should’ve claimed you the second I realized what this was.”

You arched into him, body aching for more.

“You still can,” you whispered.

His mouth met yours again—hot, possessive, and full of every word he hadn’t said until now.

Mine.

Yours.

[fluff-lover]

Healing touch | Chapter 1: In the mood

Summary: You’re a new member of the X-Men. Your mutation allows you to heal other people: you can close any wound, and cure any sickness. You’re not a fighter at all, but you’re useful at the battle field when it comes to saving injured mutants.

The one thing you can’t heal? It’s a broken heart.

Warnings for this chapter: mentions of diseases, hospitals, sick kids, cancer patients. Adult language.

Masterlist

Logan found himself walking aimlessly around the mansion in the dark. Like many nights before, sleep evaded him and he grew too restless to stay in his bedroom. 

At least this time it wasn’t because of a nightmare. It took a while, but he finally felt like home at the mansion, and with time his trauma started to heal. Healing could possibly take years, decades even, and there wasn’t a certainty that he would ever be nightmare free, but it was an improvement.

Tonight however, his bedroom felt too empty, his bed too cold. Recently his feelings for Jean had turned sour. After she told him girls flirted with the bad guy but went home with the good guy, Logan lost all hope of something more happening between them. Jean assured him she loved Scott and she wouldn’t leave him, breaking Logan's heart in the process.

Feeling restless, he threw on some sweatpants and decided to leave the room to clear his head, hoping he would eventually get tired enough to sleep.

He roamed around the ground floor, not wanting to wake up any of the kids or other teachers sleeping in their rooms. He made his way to the kitchen to get a beer from his personal, secret stash, when his hearing picked up a faint music.

Logan tilted his head and focused on it. “In the mood”, by Glenn Miller played from somewhere inside the mansion. Following the music Logan walked down the hall until reaching Charle's office. The door was slightly open and when he peeked inside, his heart almost stopped.

Charles Xavier was dancing.

Yes, dancing. Slowly, and albeit a bit clumsily, Charles danced to the old swing song. He wasn't alone: Logan then saw a young, beautiful woman dancing with him. Charles smiled widely as she encouraged to keep moving. Logan didn’t know it at the time, but that woman was you, and you would turn his life upside down.

“Look at you go! You still got some moves!” You said and laughed.

Logan pushed the door open in shock.

“Chuck?”

Charles turned to his friend and waved his hands, gesturing to him to approach them.

“Logan! Come! Come! There's someone I want you to meet.”

Logan stepped into the office, his mouth half open.

“You're… dancing.” He said in disbelief.

“It's a miracle, isn't it?” Charles smiled before turning to you. “Darling, this is Logan, one of the professors here. Logan, meet our newest member, Angel.” 

You offered Logan your hand to shake and your first name. "Angel is my mutant name.” You explained. Logan shook your hand, still in shock.

“Angel has healing powers.” Charles explained. Suddenly something clicked in Logan's head. 

Logan found the name fitting, since Charles called her power a miracle.

“Wait… you healed Charle's legs?” He asked in disbelief, as if he hadn't just seen the two of you dancing just moments ago. You nodded your head and hummed.

“More like his spinal cord, but yeah, basically.” You replied. Logan stared at you still trying to wrap his head around this.

Despite the excitement, it was obvious Charles was out of breath and a little fragile, so he leaned against his desk. Both you and Logan quickly offered him support, one on each side of him. Carefully you walked him back to his chair and sat him gently.

“I don't think you'll be running any marathons any time soon.” You joked, and Charles smiled.

“I've used this chair for so long, it will take time to get used to standing on my own feet again.” he commented. 

“Just take it easy.” You said with a comforting smile.

He nodded and turned to his friend.

“Logan, would you please show her the way to her chambers? It's room number 29.” He instructed before turning to you. “Tomorrow you'll meet the rest of the team.”

You nodded your head and picked up your suitcase.

“Thank you for this opportunity, Professor. You won't regret it.” You said and Charles smiled.

“Welcome to the team, Angel.” He said, using your now X-Men name. Your smile was wide and beautiful.

Logan walked you out of the office and took your suitcase from you.

“Oh, you don't have to…”

Logan shook his head. He wouldn't call himself a gentleman, but he wasn’t about to let you carry a heavy suitcase up the stairs, especially after you gave Charles the capacity to walk again. 

Eventually you reached a door with a golden “29” painted on it and Logan set down your luggage. 

“I'm in room 14. It's, um…” He pointed over his shoulder. “End of the hall, to the left. In case you need anything.” 

You smiled softly.

“Thank you Logan. Good night.” You said before stepping into the room and closing the door.

Logan stood in the empty hallway. There was no way he would get any sleep now.

.

The next morning there was a knock on your door. When you opened it you found a hairy, blue creature looking back at you. If it wasn't for the fact that you had seen pictures of him in the newspapers, you would've thought he was some kind of puppet. Dr. Hank McCoy introduced himself in a very polite manner and requested you follow him to the Professor's office.

As you approached the office you felt yourself growing anxious. This would be your first time meeting the team. You knew who they were, but you never met them in person before.

When you got there, everyone turned to look at you, and suddenly you felt very exposed.

"Hey.” A voice behind you said. You turned to find Logan walking towards you. "How was your first night at the mansion?”

You smiled, feeling a little bit less anxious.

"Good. I hardly slept, though. I was too nervous to sleep.” You said shyly.

Logan smiled softly.

"You'll do just fine, bub.”

A few more X-men arrived, and once everyone was there, Charles started the meeting.

"Some of you might have heard there would be a new member on our team.” Everyone turned to look at you, seeing you were the only new face. "I would like to introduce you to Angel. She's a healer and will be a great asset during battles.”

You awkwardly waved your hand.

"What kind of healer?” Scott asked.

"I'll answer that. " Charles said before standing up behind his desk. A chorus of gasps and whispers filled the room.

"Professor…” Jean said, slowly stepping towards the desk. “You can walk?”

Charles nodded his head.

"If she can heal an old wound that no doctor could, who knows how many other things she can heal or cure.” He said while walking around his desk. Most people in the room turned their faces to you. You wanted to hide, but Logan’s presence by your side brought some comfort, seeing he hadn’t backed away and people knew they could trust you. 

“She'll work at the lab with Hank, and as the school's nurse, since she can take care of any wound or sickness our students could get.” Charles explained and sat back down. “So let's get her settled in. Ororo, please show her around the school, give her a tour. Next week we'll start working on including Angel in our missions.” 

-

The next couple of weeks you settled in just fine. You were the “shiny new toy” so most of the staff took an interest in you. Some of them, like Jean and Hank, were fascinated by your mutation. Unlike most mutants, your powers didn’t bring harm or danger. They were quite the opposite, you couldn’t hurt anyone and that was a novelty.

That being said, you were at a disadvantage on the battlefield. You couldn't fight or even defend yourself, so you had to be very strategic when it came to taking part in the missions. While you healed fast yourself thanks to your mutation, you still needed to be careful.

Shortly after you arrived you started training at the Danger Room, where you would follow Jean or Scott’s instructions to move from one spot to the other, always quietly and in the shadows. You also learned to work with the team: having Kurt move you from one room to the other unharmed, or have Kitty turn you intangible and dodge dangerous objects coming your way.

You knew that when the time came, you would be ready to move through the field and heal any wounded friend. However, that wasn’t enough. In case it was necessary, you must be able to defend yourself, to fight if it meant saving your life.

Enter Logan.

He took it upon himself to train you in the Danger Room, just the two of you. Ever since you healed Charles, Logan knew you were special and had the utmost respect for you. He wanted to make sure you would be able to protect yourself and remain safe during battle. 

Going easy on people wasn’t his style, but seeing you didn’t have a mutation you could use to defend yourself, he was very patient. He taught you all the basics, like how to block an attack and throw a good punch. Eventually you gained muscle memory, and were able to keep up.

Well, most of the time.

“Left, right, left, right, left, right, down, down.” Logan counted as your gloved hands punched his and ducking low when he attacked back. “Kick!” You went to kick him but lost your footing and ended up falling backwards.

“Crap!” you said as you bounced on the mat. 

“We gotta work on that.” Logan chuckled and offered you his hand. You hooked your wrist with his, since you were both wearing gloves, and he lifted you up. “I think that’s enough for today.”

“Thanks.” You started removing your gloves. 

“Same time tomorrow?” Logan asked. 

Usually Logan detested training beginners, he preferred training with someone who could keep up with him. Sure, you could heal fast, but he still didn’t want to hurt you, so he pulled back most of his punches. There was no actual challenge for him.

Yet he didn’t complain. Not only did he enjoy your company, but he was impressed by how well you took his lessons and how much effort you put in your training. Most people would complain and give up quickly.

Seeing you all breathless and sweaty was a bonus. Mutant or not, he was still a man, and he couldn’t help his eyes wander down your body every once in a while.

To his disappointment, you quickly shook your head.

“I can’t. I have something to do tomorrow, it will probably take all day.” You replied. 

You liked training with Logan. He was a good teacher, and very patient with you, which was a very good thing considering how often you got distracted by his good looks. He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man you had ever seen. There was also something endearing in the way he treated you. You knew he was known for his rough exterior, and most people at the school either respected him, or feared him. You had seen him get angry at Scott Summers over the smallest things, or lose his patience with rebellious students. 

But not you. Never you. He was soft spoken and kind around you. 

That being said, you could use a little break from all the training even if it was just for one day.

Logan clicked his tongue in disappointment.

“Alright, but you’ll do twice the work next time. I won’t go easy on you until you know how to kick property without hurting yourself in the process.” He said teasingly. You rolled your eyes and smiled.

“Can’t wait!” you said sarcastically.

Truthfully, you did want to train with him again soon.

-

Ever since he started training you, Logan began sleeping a bit better. Teaching you was a good workout, and with the following shower, Logan found himself more relaxed at the end of the day. 

He was still an early riser, so the next morning he was the very first in the kitchen to make coffee. He enjoyed the quiet mornings, before everyone woke up and the school came alive. But that morning the quietness was interrupted by the sound of someone stomping on the stairs.

“Jesus, fuck!” He heard you curse. “Goddammit!” Intrigued, he walked out of the kitchen and saw you walking down the stairs, struggling to carry down a huge plastic bag. It was almost half your size.

“What are you doing?”

You weren’t expecting him, so you snapped your head towards him looking embarrassed. “Um…” You blinked. “I didn’t think it would be this big, or this heavy.”

Logan sighed and walked up the stairs.

“What is it in here, anyway?” He said taking the bag from your hands and easily carrying it down the stairs.

You rolled your eyes.

“Show off.” You mumbled and Logan gave you a cocky smile. “If you must know, I’m bringing toys to the hospital. I make a donation every now and then, and I get to cure some kids.” You said as if it wasn’t a big deal.

Logan looked at you surprised.

“You go to a hospital and heal kids in your free time?” He repeated, as if he hadn’t heard you correctly the first time.

“It’s better than doing nothing.” You shrugged. “What’s the point of having this gift, if I don’t do something good with it?”

“Aren’t you worried people will figure out you’re a mutant?”

“Nah, usually they don’t notice they’re healthy until much later.” Your phone made a little “ping” and you took it out of your pocket. After quickly looking at the notification, you groaned. “My Uber cancelled, great!” You complained.

“I can give you a ride.” Logan offered. Usually he wouldn’t bother, but he wanted to see you in action.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a burden.” You said quietly.

“If you were a burden, I wouldn’t have offered.” He replied before walking towards the garage door. “Come on!”

-

The ride to the hospital was a quiet one, only the radio filling in the car -one that Logan “borrowed” from Scott-.

“So, what are we doing here exactly?” Logan asked as he parked the car. You looked at him confused, you assumed he was only dropping you off.

“Oh, you don’t have to come inside with me…”

“Someone’s gotta carry that big bag, and we both know it won’t be you.”

“Ha-ha.” You fake laughed. “Just… just play along, okay? We’re here to visit the kids and hand out donations.” You explained before getting out of the car, Logan following close by.

You walked to the reception and greeted a nurse.

“Hey Rhonda!”

“Hello my little miracle worker!” She smiled. “I’m so glad to see you, I swear everytime you come by, the kids feel so much better the day after! We had several discharges after the last time you were here.” 

“Oh, that’s nice!” You giggled before shooting a look at Logan. He raised an eyebrow and smirked. He knew he had to keep his mouth shut.

“And who is this tall glass of water?” Rhonda asked as she looked at Logan up and down.

“Oh, this is my friend Logan. He’s here to help me with the donations today.” You explained. 

“Well, we sure can use more helping hands around here.” Rhonda said in a suggestive tone.

Logan cleared his throat uncomfortably, and you quickly started pushing him towards the pediatric wing.

“It was nice seeing you Rhonda! We’ll be out in a jiffy!”

“Friend of yours?” Logan teased when you were out of earshot. You rolled your eyes.

“She’s harmless, I swear.” You replied, making him laugh. 

You stopped by a door that had some pink and purple flowers. In the middle there was a name tag that said “Manx, Ashley.” You turned to Logan and opened the bag to fish for a toy. After coming up with a sweet looking purple dog, you knocked on the door.

A woman, Ashley’s mom you assumed, opened the door. You put on your best, kindest smile, knowing it’s never easy to have a child in the hospital.

“Good morning, ma’am! We come on behalf of a non profit that donates toys to sick children. Would it be okay if we come in and meet your daughter?” You asked politely. The woman stepped aside and let you in.

Logan decided to stay behind, watching you from the door.

You approached the bed and made an effort not to get too emotional as you locked eyes with the little girl.

She looked so fragile, her bald head covered with a pink wool hat, cables stuck to her chest and sticking out of her arm. Your heart ached for her.

“You must be Ashley.” You said as you sat on the edge of the bed. She nodded her head shyly. “I saw the flowers on the door, they’re beautiful. Did you make them?”

Ashley shook her head.

“My friends at school made them for me.” she said, her hands fidgeting with her blanket.

“Oh, that’s so nice! I bet they miss you a lot at school… Do you miss school?” 

Ashley nodded her head.

“The doctor says I won’t go back in a long time.” She explained sadly.

You heard the mom’s breath hitch. Clearly Ashley’s prognosis wasn’t good. Taking a deep breath, you braced yourself and put on a wide smile.

“I’m sure it won’t be that long. But until then, I have a little friend here that could keep you company.” You said sweetly before showing her the stuffed dog. Ashley smiled. “Do you like it?” The little girl nodded and reached out. As you handed it to her, you made sure to place a hand on her arm. Instantly your mutation transfers your powers through contact.

Ashley took the dog and hugged it tight to her chest. 

“Thank you.” 

The entire time Logan watched you closely from the door. You were so kind and gentle, so selfless with your power.

“Thank you for this.” The mom said to him. “We don’t have many good times at the hospital, for obvious reasons. What you and your colleague do is very meaningful. We really appreciate it.” 

Logan stood in silence, not knowing what to say. He just nodded his head.

You stood up from the bed and gave Ashley’s hand a gentle squeeze. 

“You take care, sweetie. And take care of that little friend.” You said pointing at the dog. She giggled and nodded her head.

“I will!”

Once you and Logan left the room, Logan stopped you.

“What happens next? Will she be okay?” He asked and you nodded your head.

“Tomorrow, or one of these days, the doctor will run some tests and find out there’s no traces of cancer in her. It will be odd, and no one will be able to explain it. Her mom will probably say it’s a miracle or something like that… and that will be it.” You shrugged. It really was that simple.

“I’ve never seen anything like that.” Logan said, amazed. You smiled.

“You just wait and see, we’re just getting started.” you said before picking another toy and heading towards the next room.

-

The toy bag was empty and you were exhausted. It had been a long day at the hospital and you were ready to go home and sleep for the next week and a half.

Logan noticed you could barely stand on your feet, so he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you closer, letting you use him for support as you both walked back to the car. He opened the passenger door and helped you sit down before fastening your seatbelt.

“You doing ok there, bub?” He asked with a frown.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I think I’m running on empty now.” You said softly, your head wobbling against the headrest.

“We’ll get something to eat on our way to the mansion, alright?” He said before closing the door and getting to the driver’s side.

As promised, Logan stopped by a diner on the way to the mansion and got some food. Sitting on the hood of the car, you munched happily at the burger he got you, humming at the delicious fatty taste. Logan sat next to you, eating a burrito.

“It’s a good thing you have healing powers.” Logan commented, one hand holding up a tray of fries for you to take some. “That looks like a heart attack on a plate.” 

You chuckled.

“You don’t get to judge, I’ve seen the cigars you smoke.” You teased back and grabbed some of the fries. Logan smiled.

“How often do you do this?”

“Every other week.” You replied. “I would do it more often but people would start getting suspicious.” Then you frowned, and Logan watched you zooming out, deep in your thoughts. “It sucks, really. I wish I could help them all, I wish I could cure everyone, everything… There are so many people in pain, so many lives I could save or change for the better, but there’s only so much I can do in one day.”

Logan felt a tug in his chest, his heart aching for you. He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave you a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re already doing a lot. Think of all the parents that won’t have to bury a child thanks to you.” He said softly, and his words comforted you. “You may not save the whole world, but you save theirs.”

You smiled softly.

“Thank you Logan. Would you like to come with me to the hospital some other time?”

“Of course, bub.”

Logan had given up on humanity a long time ago. He had seen so much pain and cruelty, he was sure it was only a matter of time before human kind exterminated itself. 

You gave him a little bit of hope. Maybe not everyone was so bad.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 7 - Something I Can See

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Big chapter for fans of yapping and Dean overthinking things.

Chapter title from Something to Believe by Weyes Blood

Word Count: 16.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Sam and Dean drive you home. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, big angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 6 - Chapter 8

Read on A03!

She was going to be okay. They’d managed to get the knife out of her gut, and Sammy had stitched Her up, so She’d be fine. 

She was still knocked out, but Her breathing was even. The blade had been so hot Dean had needed to use a towel to hold it, but it was out of Her body. Her wound kept bubbling and blistering, but it wasn’t an infection. 

She’d be fine. Dean was going to kill Her, but she’d be fine.

He looked down at Her, spread out across Baby’s backseat and curled into her body. She’d barely made a sound since She’d passed out. Only soft moans and whimpers as they worked on the injury, and a few grunts as they’d moved Her into the car, adjusted Her body in the seat, and set off on the road. 

They’d done everything. All Her shit was in the trunk, Sam was sitting with her to make sure she didn’t fall over or get worse, and Dean was breaking every traffic law he could think of to get there faster. 

To South Dakota.

To Bobby’s.

It had taken Dean too long, in the parking lot, to actually call Bobby. He’d waited until She was settled, until they’d loaded almost everything into the car, and until Sammy was dealing with the front desk so Dean was alone.

He hadn’t been alone. He’d been sitting in the back of the Impala, Her head on his knee and his hand unable to stop tracing over her face.

It was wrong. Looking at Her like this. Features sunken and hollow, lips drained of blood, breathing shallow in a way Dean could feel. It made his own breath labored, his whole body tensed as She relaxed against him, and he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve the trust of Her vulnerability, the way Her beautiful face was half buried in his thigh, the way She’d let out a weak, sad sound whenever he tried to pull away.

He’d hurt Her. He’d spent the entire night after their fight ripping apart the club grounds and roaring Her name, giving Sam daring looks to say a single thing. He’d beaten himself into the mud in fear that he’d lose Her twice. Once with spat words and a cold look of hatred, then again with a shredded body and dulled eyes. 

He’d wanted to strangle Her. He’d wanted to apologize, and shout that he had nothing to apologize for. She’d lied. 

Not about what Dean thought She’d been lying about, but She’d still lied.

Although, admittedly, the truth was far more confusing. 

Because Dean had stared at the small, robot-print letters on Her phone screen—pixilated and fuzzy and flipping his world upside—and not known how to process them.

Bobby Singer.

There could be other Bobby Singers that weren’t Dean’s Bobby Singer. That weren’t the guy who was practically his uncle, who he’d played catch with, who’d made him food and given Sammy run-down toys to play with.

It didn’t make sense for this to be Dean’s Bobby. Dean had half grown up in that house. He’d stayed there for weeks on end when Dad had been on a really bad hunt—hunts where he’d come back with hooded eyes and fisted hands, snapping short orders because they didn’t have time to waste on sentimentality—and Bobby had never once had a daughter. Especially not a hot, annoying, impossible one. 

Dean would’ve remembered meeting Her before. There’s no shot he would’ve ever forgotten Her. He couldn’t. He’d tried. Dean was pretty sure that, even if he’d only laid eyes on Her once in passing, he would’ve been drawn down into Her and never climbed back out.

That was simply what She did. Who She was. A walking, breathing song that Dean couldn’t figure out how to touch but still wanted to try to learn. She got stuck in his head and played there on loop, and if he’d ever seen Her before that moroi hunt, he was damn sure he would’ve remembered.

And Bobby would’ve told him. If Bobby had a kid that was around Sam and Dean’s age, they would’ve known. Dad would’ve known.

Dad should’ve known. And he obviously hadn’t. Whenever Dean had brought Her up, Dad had called Her that little girl.

Hell, Dad had told Bobby about Her. Dad had said Her name and Bobby hadn’t gone Fuckin’ Jesus, John, that’s my daughter. The hell is She doin’ huntin’ a poltergeist.

Bobby had reacted strangely, though. Dean remember him hanging up right after Dad mentioned Her.

And She had mentioned her dad was a gruff, smart hunter. Which described Bobby, and explained why She knew so much random shit about hunting, and that was Bobby’s number in Her phone, and-

She’d lied. She’d said She didn’t know a Bobby. She’d asked Dean what he thought of Bobby.

Like She was curious what he’d think.

Son of a bitch.

Because when Dean squinted, he could see Bobby on Her face. Not physically, but in small divets and shadows on Her face and body and voice.

They rolled their eyes the same way. Like they were done with everyone’s shit, and knew that they were the most competent and reliable person in the room. 

She had the same laugh Bobby had. Dean had only heard Bobby laugh—really, fully laugh with his whole chest—three or four times, but it was the exact same laugh. Loud and powerful and almost cartoonish.

They didn’t walk the same way, but they fought in similar movements. Brutal and effective, with no more or less than necessary. 

And if Dean really thought about it, there were smaller things he could draw together. How She turned a page, how She held a pencil, how She drank her coffee.

Small mannerisms She would’ve picked up from being raised by someone, the same way Dean would spin his keys and Sammy always flipped his wallet in his hands before opening it. 

Like Dad did.

Part of Dean hadn’t wanted to call the number. His thumb hovered far too long as he’d debated if he even wanted to know. If this was really what it seemed to be, and he’d have to piece together a puzzle he hadn’t known existed a fucking hour ago.

She could never know that he’d looked down at Her, and that had been what finally got him. That Her scrunched face had made his heart feel like it was being wrenched and pounded, that he’d run his thumb over Her nose, she’d relaxed, and let out a song-like sigh that had been it.

He’d pressed call, held the phone to his ear, and still not fully believed it until the line picked up after two rings.

“Hey, kiddo, I wasn’t expectin’ you to call until you had that Kelpie down. You alright?”

Dean had frozen, his voice caught in his throat, staring at Her face as static sounded in his ear. 

That was Bobby. Bobby clearing his throat, Bobby grunting Her name-

“Is everythin’-“

“Bobby?” Dean’s voice had been hushed, and he’d watched Her carefully to make sure she wasn’t disturbed. 

There had been a long moment of silence, this time from Bobby’s end, and then-

“Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s-“

“Where the hell did you find this phone, boy?”

Dean had said Her name, his hand tracing over Her brow, still checking she was real. “She gave it to me.”

“She fuckin’- where is she?”

“She’s right here-“

“Put her on, I need to talk to her.”

“Yeah, uh,” Dean had swallowed, and She’d shifted slightly, pressing further into his lap. “I can’t.”

“Dean Winchester, I ain’t lookin’ to kill you, but if you don’t-“

“No, I- I literally fucking can’t, Bobby.”

“Why in hells balls can’t ya’ pass a phone-“

Dean said Her name again, something like lead coating his throat. “Uh, she’s- She’s knocked out.”

There was a brief second of silence, and Dean had winced when Bobby spoke again. 

“What the hell typa’ shit have you two gotten into that she’s knocked out?!”

“A demon attacked her, and we- Bobby, we tried to fight it off but it got a knife into her gut, and Sammy patched her up but-“

“Sam’s there?”

Dean had frowned. “Yeah, uh, who else-“

“Never mind, I thought-“ Bobby had sighed through the phone, something tense growing in his voice. “She stable?”

“Yeah, but she told us to call you.”

“Alright, bring her up here and I’ll be ready. And Dean?”

Dean had nodded, staring at Her gorgeous, almost peaceful face, and there had been a long stretch of silence before he remembered Bobby couldn��t see him.

“Dean-“

“Shit, sorry, what’s-“

“I don’t want you lettin’ a single fuckin’ thing near her but you and Sam, got it?”

“Yes, sir-“

“Don’t yes, sir me, boy. Promise me you’ll keep her in your sight.”

“I will. Promise.”

It had been an easy thing to say. The thought of leaving Her alone had—even as his head spun, and his chest started to mold with the question of why the hell she’d lied—made Dean feel taut and sick.

And Bobby had hung up the phone, and Dean had kept his promise. He’d never left Her alone, not for a second. Sam had sat with Her because Dean didn’t trust himself to care for her properly—didn’t deserve to have Her half slump over his body and sigh against his skin—and Dean’d had to force his eyes to stay on the road, and not drift to check on Her

It was bad enough that his mind had been wandering. Coming up with more and more reasons this didn’t make any fucking sense, and far too many reasons why it did. 

She’d called going to Bobby’s home, and Dean felt something like bile in his throat at the thought that whenever She’d said home before, she’d been talking about Bobby. And lying. And letting Dean think She was living in a fancy gated palace, when she’d just been at Bobby’s. But now, when Dean pictured Bobby’s table, he could see Her at it. She slotted into the scene perfectly, just as She fit so well in every other part of Dean’s life.

And he still couldn’t hate Her. He had far too many questions—where the hell She’d been whenever they’d stayed with Bobby, why had She never corrected Dean, why had Bobby lied about knowing Her—and he didn’t know what the hell was happening, but he just couldn’t fucking hate Her.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam had asked a few hours ago, watching Dean carefully from the backseat. “What happened, last night? You just, you called me and said she’d stormed off, but-“

“Don’t.” Dean had muttered, his grip tightening on the wheel, and Sam had sighed.

“Look, you don’t have to tell me everything, I just want to know why she’d just fucked off, it doesn’t seem like her-“

“You don’t know her, Sam-“

“But you do-“

“Do I?” Dean had snapped, his eyes flicking back to Her in the rearview mirrors. Always close, and untouchable, and a mystery Dean could never seem to get close to solving. “I’m not sure anyone knows her, and I certainly fucking don’t.”

“Yeah, you do, Dean.” Sam had leaned forward, his tone far too careful and gentle. “Whatever fight you guys had, however pissed she got, I can’t be that bad-“

“Yeah, it can be.” Dean had scowled at the road, his voice lowering to a grunt. “Drop it, Sam. I fucking serious.”

Sam had sighed, and nodded. “Alright, what about the demon? Do you think we need to be keeping an eye out?”

“Eye out-“

“For another one.” Sam had glanced down to Her, she’d made a small noise of distress, and the sound had ached in Dean’s chest. “Dude, it- It knew who you were. And it seemed to know her-“

“There’s- How the hell would a demon know her-“

“I don’t know, that’s what I’m asking.” Sam had swallowed, and Dean could see the nerves written over his face in the mirror. “You think Bobby will have an idea?”

Dean didn’t know. He’d snapped at Sam that when they got to Bobby’s they’d have plenty of time to figure out what the fuck was happening, but the question was still echoing around his head.

Why would a demon have gone after Her. She was just a year older than Sammy, so she couldn’t have made that many enemies. She wasn’t some kind of target. There was nothing about her that could-

There was everything about Her. If Dean thought about it for too long—which is all he had time to do—She wasn’t just an enigma to Dean. Her family was still her family, no matter how she knew Bobby. Dad had said She’d stolen something, all those years ago. Maybe the demons would want it.

Maybe others felt that pull. Maybe there was something deeper Dean didn’t know how to see. 

Maybe there was nothing at all, and the demon had been hunting Her because of her proximity to Dean.

That thought made him feel sore and ill. Dad said that it was a demon who had gotten Mom. A demon who had gotten Jess. 

And She wasn’t Dean’s. She’d made that perfectly fucking clear.

But he couldn’t stop looking at Her. Couldn’t stop how the air didn’t feel clean in his lungs because Her breathing was shallow, how his hands kept itching on the wheel to brush over Her cheek and soothe the small wrinkle in Her brow. He could tell himself he just wanted to check for a fever, but he also wanted to move the hair from Her face. Sam was just letting is lie there, and Dean knew she hated people touching it, but she always let Dean touch her. She never slapped his hand away when he touched Her. She leaned into him, and sometimes She smile, and sometimes Dean could pretend she was his-

She wasn’t. She wouldn’t be. Dad had known Mom. Sam had known Jess.

Dean didn’t know anything. He didn’t know why the demon had been after Her, or what She been thinking just stomping off, or why Bobby was her home. 

All he really knew was that this still looked wrong. That the sight of Her in pain was making his heart shred itself in his chest, and that he wanted to reach around the seats and touch Her. Pull Her into him until nothing else could hurt Her, until he could get her somewhere safer than him.

She’d be safer anywhere but with Dean. Bobby had said to keep an eye on Her, but Dean didn’t trust his eyes. All week they’d kept seeing things that didn’t really make sense. Every moment they just made Her more beautiful, even as Dean silently cursed himself for still looking. 

He couldn’t stop looking. He fucking hated Her for lying, but every single sharp and blunted piece of wrath in Dean’s chest felt more searing when it carved on his own ribs. She was a liar, but Dean was a piece of shit. He’d bitten Her too hard. He didn’t have a damn clue about Her life, but he’d still aimed to kill and then been a whiny son of a bitch when his shot had landed.

She may bring out the most of him, but it was still Dean who was made of all those foul, uncontrolled pieces. 

Dad knew how to control himself. Dad wasn’t perfect, but at least he kept himself in line, and he’d tried to teach Dean how to do the same but Dean was just weaker. Pathetic and useless. 

He didn’t deserve to be around Her. No matter how much it pissed Dean off that She was better than he was, it didn’t change the fact. Dean wasn’t worthy of being around Her. 

And he still couldn’t stop looking. She was dangerous, and awesome, and looked so perfect in Dean’s car—fit so well with everything that was Dean, everything that belonged to him—but she also was impossible. And insufferable. And seemed to be trying to break Dean into pieces, because Her eyes fluttered, her breath hitched, and She arched her back.

All while mumbling Dean. 

Her eyes drifted open, a small frown on Her face, and the first thing she said was Dean.

She was trying to kill him.

“Dean.“ Her voice was soft, and weak, and rooted right into the cavity of Dean’s chest. Washing it in silver light with only Her voice, saying his name as Her fingers flexed and she reached mindlessly out into the air.

There’s a brief second where Dean wondered if She was looking for him. Reaching out to see if he’d take Her hand, if he’d reassure her with just his touch.

He needed to get it together.

He didn’t know how.

“I- Dean, what’s- I don’t-“ Her voice was growing distressed, Her slightly gazed as they dragged open. Her fingers seemed to be digging into Her skin as she shrank into the bench, Her breathing speeding up and becoming short and shit- 

It looked wrong. It felt wrong. Dean had no right to touch Her, no reason to tense and balk at the sight of Her in pain—small and panicked and almost feral in his backseat, ducking Her head and hugging her body as if she could shield herself—but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting hold Her until she was calm, to wrap himself around her like a barrier from everything else that could hurt Her in the world.

It was selfish as hell. Dean could hurt Her. Dean had hurt Her. He was the asshole who got them here in the first place, all by not knowing how to just control himself.

He didn’t want to control himself right now. Not as Her face twisted in pain. 

Not as She kept saying his name.

“Where are we- I- Dean-“

“I’m here,” He muttered Her name, gripping the back of his seat to stop himself from reaching for her. “We’re in the car.”

She went silent, Her body stilling completely, and cold seized over Dean’s body. Why was She just lying there. Why wasn’t She speaking, or shouting, or sneering. Asking questions or spitting venom about their fight, trying to get up or curl further into Herself, why was she so fucking still-

Dean was about to damn it, reach further back, and touch Her—just to feel the warmth of Her body, just to get something of a reaction—when She finally spoke.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, and Dean would’ve never bet on that being what She’d say. On Her seeming to mean it, her face twisted slightly, Her head bowed, and her voice soft. “I- I didn’t mean to.”

He frowned. “Mean to what.”

“Anything.” 

Her eyes drifted open. Bright and seeming to glow on Dean’s, looking at him like She always had. If Dean didn’t know better, he would’ve thought their fight had never happened. There was no possible way it could’ve when She was still looking at him. Right into him, into the deep pit in his body that felt smaller under Her attention. Felt lined or coated in warmth and light, because that was what She did to him. 

And She still looked vulnerable. Just watching him, something more nervous on her face than Dean usually saw, something almost afraid. 

He hated it. She shouldn’t fear Dean, She should trust him. She didn’t, but he needed Her to. At least enough to know that, even if Dean—for some sick, fucked reason—tried to, he couldn’t lay a hand on Her. He could hiss and mock and poison Her with his mouth or presence, but he was pretty damn certain that his body would turn itself to ash before it hurt Her.

Which didn’t make sense. It wasn’t rational, or reasonable, or understandable. But Dean’s hand flexed on the seat, and She practically fucking flinched, and Dean had never felt lower in his life. Any ideas he’d been holding about demanding answers and shouting about everything—their fight, Her lies, his brimming and spilling desire and how She needed to stop doing this to him so he could control himself—began to vanish into thin air. It was impossible to be really, truly angry at Her when she looked like that. Beautiful and fragile and critical to the blood in Dean’s body. 

He’d find that anger later, and they’d fight later. For now he just let out a long breath, and shrugged. 

“’S fine.” It wasn’t. But it was the only good thing to say here, because Dean might rather stab himself than tell Her about how fucking furious he was, and make Her fold further down. He’d wounded Her enough for a while. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m-“ She paused, hands padding over Her stomach. “Did you-“

“Sammy gave you some stitches.” Dean said, watching her carefully. “He’s not great that them, though, so don’t move.”

Her mouth twitched slightly. Dean wished he could touch it. “Where is Sam?”

“Getting gas. We got a few hours left until we hit Sioux Falls.”

“Oh.”

Dean didn’t miss the flash of something over Her face. He didn’t know what. He just knew it was wired, and taut, and brittle. That he wanted to ease it, but didn’t know how. Wasn’t really worthy of trying to learn.

But Sam was taking a while. 

And Dean couldn’t fucking stand how fearful She looked.

“If you press on the stitches, does it hurt?”

She raised her brows. “I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to press on them, Winchester.”

“Nah, I know, I’m just trying to figure out how shit a job Sammy did.”

She didn’t look like She believed him, and Dean really wished he’d come up with a better excuse to talk to Her, because now she was lifting up her shirt. 

Her skin looked a little raw and torn around the wound, but everywhere else was soft. Smooth. He’d noticed it while patching Her up, that she barely had any pale, raised patches of skin where other hunters did.

No scars was so fucking rare. 

But so was She.

And Dean needed to pull it together.

“It’ll hold,” She looked back to Dean, and he had to blink at her. Pretend he hadn’t just been gaping at Her bare skin. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He muttered, scanning over Her features. She was awake, but there still wasn’t enough color in Her face. Too little fury behind Her eyes, nothing dancing and shining like it usually did. She looked exhausted. Weakened. The little furrow of Her brow tighter than usual. 

They had hours to go, and Dean knew how to fix that. He knew how to poke at Her until she snapped and everything bent with Her—all Her force making the world clearer, Dean’s body stronger—and how to walk right up to the invisible line, touch Her just as much as he was allowed, and make Her relax. Sam didn’t. But Dean did. 

“I’m coming back there.” He grunted, starting to shift in his seat, and She frowned.

“What?”

“Sammy’s gonna drive the rest of the way, I’ll sit with you-“

“No, you don’t-“

He shook his head. He didn’t want to hear Her say he didn’t have to, because it just reminded him that she didn’t feel this. That there was nothing that called Her to Dean’s side, because if there was she’d be fucking begging him to sit with Her. 

He knew that, because he was seconds away from dropping to a new low and begging Her. 

“We had Sammy back there all day,” he held Her gaze, trying to make his voice stern. “Only fair you get saddled with me too.”

“I’m not-“ She cut herself off with a shake of Her head. “I don’t need Sam to sit with me either, De. I’m fine.”

De. She said De, and it was maybe the only thing more powerful than Her calling him Dean. Even if She didn’t mean it, the word felt like a command over his body, and that was only another thing Dean didn’t understand. 

“You’re- you look like shit, Princess.“ He couldn’t stop the nickname from slipping out of his mouth. No matter how screwed things were, the way Her body loosened slightly at the sound of it was always a small high, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop chasing it.

She scowled. “Hey-“

“You just got stabbed, and you haven’t woken up in six hours-“

“I’m awake now-“

“And I’d like to keep it like that.” Dean snapped. “I- you just gotta-“ He ran a hand over his face, because She didn’t want him there, but every time Her eyes drooped or Her body twitched with pain it made Dean’s gut contract. “At least keep Sammy. So you’re not alone.”

She rolled Her eyes. It really did fucking look like Bobby. “I’m not alone, dummy, you’re like two feet away.”

“What if you pass out again? Am I just supposed to pull over?”

“Yeah? I mean, I’m not gonna pass out-“

“You can’t know that, sweetheart-“

“I can guess.” She glowered at him, raising Her chin slightly, and even lying down She looked like royalty.  “It’s my body, Winchester, and I feel fine.”

“For now.” Dean muttered, and She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Shut up-“ She cut herself off with a yawn, and Dean’s jaw clenched. 

She couldn’t see Her. Every single second that passed no light returned to Her eyes, and everything just grew duller. She’d just yawned. But Dean was pretty certain that—if She hissed at Sam to get in the front seat and not bother worrying about her—the giant baby would listen.

Dean needed to work around this. She needed to be okay.

“You’ll need to keep talking.” He grunted, holding her gaze. “I hear one second of silence, and we’re pulling over so I can move back there. Understood?”

She gave him a flat look. “Are you serious-“

“Deadly, Princess. Understood?”

Dean might be imagining it, but a little color returned to Her face. The flush. And the breath. And the-

“Understood.” She muttered. “You’re such a fucking dick.”

“You’ve told me.” Dean turned back to face ahead, and she let out a long breath behind him. 

This silence was short, but maybe the heaviest Dean had ever experienced. It weighed on the top of his chest, and he didn’t know how to push it off, and he wanted to look at Her again, but he couldn’t bear it if She didn’t look at him-

“Dean,” She whispered, and his whole body went alert at the sound of her voice. Softer than usual, but still calling him down. “I’m-“

Whatever She was, Dean didn’t get to know. Sam knocked on his window, waving to Her in the backseat, and Dean had to turn and roll down the window so they could hear each other.

“Dude, why are you hunching down like that, just get in the freaking car-“

Sam rolled his eyes, not moving to from the window. “I still need to get coffee, Dean. And,” He said Her name with a grin, completely ignoring Dean’s glower. “You’re up!”

“Yep.” She returned Sam’s smile, and Dean scowled. She hadn’t smiled at him. “Thanks for the stitches.”

Sam shrugged, leaning a little further through the window. “No problem. They feel okay? Because I was rushing a little to get you on the road, and-“

“They feel fine, Sam. I feel fine.”

Those last words were shot at Dean, and he rolled his eyes. “You won the argument, Princess, don’t get all bitchy with me.”

“I am not being bitchy-“

“You’re being dramatic-“

“I just got fucking stabbed, Winchester, I can be as dramatic as I want.”

Dean scoffed, twisting in his seat. “I’m the one who had to watch you get stabbed-“

“How fucking harrowing for you-“

“What the hell does harrowing mean-“

“Hey!” Sam slapped Dean’s arm, shooting both of them a stern look. “You guys can fight all you want when we’re on the road, but we actually need to get on the road. Tell me what you want from the gas station, and kill each other after.”

She let out a long breath. “Sorry, Sam.”

“Thank you,” Sam said Her name, gave Dean a pointed glare, and Dean scowled. 

“I didn’t fucking do anything-“

She scoffed, the sound a rough cough that almost made Dean leap over the bench to pick Her up and hold her to his chest. “Oh, fuck off, Winchester-“

“Wouldn’t you love that, Princess-“

“Dean!” Sam snapped. “Don’t- Just tell me what you want, please.”

Dean opened his mouth, and She cut him off with sharp, short words.

“Don’t say pie. You’re driving.”

Dean was either going to smother Her with his hands around her neck, or with his mouth slammed to Her’s. She was so fucking hot, and annoying, and Dean wouldn’t strangle her because he knew his dumb body wouldn’t allow him, but Jesus, She needed to shut the hell up before Dean made her and then lost her forever-

“Dean?” Sam was raising his brows. Waiting for a response.

“Gimme some coffee.” He muttered, gripping the wheel like it could save him from Her glare, and how it made his skin feel sore. “And jerky.”

Sam nodded, glancing over to Her, and when she spoke her voice was too quiet. He watched to jump over the bench again. 

“Coffee and candy?”

“Sure, you want anything specific-“

“Whatever’s cheap.” She said, and Dean was going to break the wheel. 

His head was churning and spiraling again. She said that like Bobby said it. The same dismissive cheaper is easier, boy, and I ain’t an idiot to fall for fancy fuckin’ packagin’ tone.

“Snickers?” Sam offered, and She must have nodded because a second later, he was gone.

It was silent. So silent that Dean had a brief, stabbing moment of worry that She was passed out again. His eyes flicked up to the mirror again, and Her eyes were open—pretty and glaring at Dean like She wanted to stab him—but they looked lidded. And the little furrow was becoming more prominent, and Her breathing was a little too shallow, and-

“You’re supposed to be talking.” Dean snapped, and She rolled Her eyes. And it was still exactly like Bobby did, but, son of a bitch it was so much hotter-

He needed to get a grip. He needed to figure out how—when they eventually did get to Sioux Falls—he was ever going to be able to look at Her and not wonder how he hadn’t seen it before. He was a little fucking worried he’d look at Bobby and start to feel that gravitational pull. That Dean would start to orbit around Bobby, and smell him all the time, and hear his voice in dreams-

If that happened, Dean would need to give himself a concussion and pray it erased his memory. He already didn’t love how he wanted nothing more than to crawl over Her and make her smile, and if he started to crave Bobby’s attention too, he’d lose his mind. Crashing into Her was usually good, when she wasn’t trying to give him a heart attack or being the most impossible person Dean had ever met. Crashing into Bobby would be gross. If Dean had to start fantasizing about Bobby under him when he fucked someone, he might just have to kill himself-

“Dean!” She was shouting, Her voice slightly strained, and he turned to frown at Her.

“What’s-“

“What am I supposed to be talking about?”

He frowned. “I don’t fucking care-“

“Alright, then I won’t-“

“No.” Dean pointed a stern finger at Her, narrowing his eyes. “You gotta talk. That was the deal.”

“I didn’t make a deal, you just ordered me to talk-“

“I did not order you, Princess, I’m trying to goddamn keep you alive after you went and got stabbed-“

“Oh, suck my fucking dick-“

The car door opened, and they both turned to see Sam leaning into the car, coffees in hand and snacks under his arms.

“Oh, good, you didn’t murder each other.” Sam passed out their coffees and snacks, his voice a dry mutter that was gonna get him punched. “Actually,” he frowned between them. “If you’re going to fight for the rest of the ride, can Dean  sit in the back so I can tune it out-“

“Neither of you are sitting in the back.” She pushed Herself upright with a small, weak sound, and Her hands were shaking. Dean was going to tackle Her.

“Maybe, uh,” Sam glanced at Dean as he said Her name, like he could see the rough tension over his heart at Her insistence to be as difficult as possible. “I mean, I really don’t mind if I do have to sit with you-“

���I’ll be alright without a babysitter-“

“Because you’re going to keep talking.” Dean muttered, drumming his hands on the wheel. “Sammy, apparently her majesty can’t come up with a topic, so that’s on you, but I don’t want a single second of silence, sweetheart, or-“

“You’ll pull over and be a massive fucking baby.” She snapped, and Dean wished She wasn’t so hot when she was pissed. “He threatened me, Sam.”

Dean scowled. “I did not threaten you-“

“Fine. It was blackmail.”

“It was- I-“ Dean whipped around to glower at her. “You’re such a fucking-“

“Bitch?” She sneered, holding his gaze. “Am I a bitch? Am I a spoiled little bitch?”

“That’s- You know I wasn’t-“

“Trying to hurt my little bratty girl feelings-“

“I never fucking said-“

She scoffed, and Dean could swear something hot and wired was fueling all his anger. Maybe it was how the air in the car seemed to be waving, or how every word was venomous and cold and making something inside of him wither, or how breathing was so fucking painful when She was furious and sneering-

“That I’m a bitch? That I’m a controlling fucking bitch-“

“Shut up! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Dean slammed his hand on the bench, and She flinched. Visibly flinched. Recoiled. 

“I- I didn’t-“ She swallowed, staring at Her cup in her hands. “Sorry.”

Dean was a piece of fucking shit. He’d done it again. He’d pushed it too far because he was an asshole.

He muttered Her name, his voice low. “I didn’t- I’m-“

“Don’t.” She mumbled, and She wouldn’t look at him. “I’ll keep talking.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, and all he could do was nod. She looked sick. He fucking felt sick. He kept slamming his fist between them, making everything worse, hurting Her in a way he’d never seemed to be able to hurt anyone before-

Sam cleared his throat. Dean had forgotten he was there.

“So, uh, we’re talking.”

Dean opened his mouth to say no, they needed to fucking patch whatever the hell was wrong with him with glue, so he could shove himself into her hands as a pathetic, useless apology, but She was faster. Better. Still a liar, still in pain, but also still beautiful. Still so far away from Dean.

“Yeah. Get in the car.”

Sam nodded, shooting Dean one last look, and leaned out of the car. Dean started the engine—biting his tongue not to vomit a million apologies he knew wouldn’t come out right—and they were back on the road.

Four hours until they hit Bobby’s.

Four hours of beating himself bloody in silence, and listening to Her speak.

Normally Dean would’ve thought there was no better way to spend his time than being drowned in Her voice, and hearing her say anything at all. But normally She wasn’t in this pain, where She’d gesture too broadly and hiss, or Baby would hit a bump and She’d whine. Normally he didn’t have to force himself not to look at Her—and whenever he lost control and his eyes slipped to Her in the mirror, she didn’t look so colorless and drained—and normally Dean allowed himself to speak to Her in more than grunts. 

She was acting like everything was fine. Sometimes he’d look back and She’d be smiling, and it didn’t reach Her eyes, and Dean had done that. That wasn’t the injury. 

That was just Dean. Ruining everything because She’d fallen from the sky into his hands and he’d bashed Her into the mud.

“There’s…” Sam was said Her name, his voice filled with disbelief. “You don’t actually think that, right?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think it-“

“But it’s Star Wars! I mean, it’s not perfect, but you can’t seriously believe it’s bad.”

“It is bad, Sam. It’s objectively poorly written, but it has iconic imagery, music, and actors-“

“Because it’s not bad!”

It had been thirty minutes of this. Sam hadn’t needed to look that hard to find a topic, and the moment he’d said the words Uh, you like movies? Dean had known it was over. He’d had this exact conversation with Her before, and it had involved a lot more yelling and shoving than Sam was getting.

It had also involved Her giggling and smiling and leaning so close that Dean could see even the smallest features on her face—tiny bumps and scars, little divets that somehow made Her more beautiful—and smell that strange fruit until it intoxicated him, and he’d thrown his hands up in surrender. 

Her eyes had sparkled then. She still wouldn’t look at him now. Even when Sam would echo a point Dean had made before, She shot it down with ease—and a careful, detailed argument that made Dean think She’s been freaking practicing—and Sam would let out a sigh that sounded a little like a whine.

“I don’t think it’s useless, you know. I’m saying it’s not-“

“You just called it the most overhyped movie ever made!”

“And it is, but that’s why it’s not useless. It was the primary cause of science fiction being popularized-“

“Because people liked it!” Sam looked to Dean with wide eyes—as if Dean could fucking do something about this—and then back to Her with a shaking head. “I- They’re maybe the most popular movies of all time-“

“Popularity doesn’t equate quality, Sam.” She said, and Dean hoped She couldn’t see him mouthing along with her every word, knowing exactly what she’d say. “It can, but it doesn’t have to. Star Wars being popular is its greatest strength, because that mean it was able to serve as inspiration for many, better things.”

Sam scoffed. “Like what?”

That was a mistake. If Dean was allowing himself to participate in the conversation, he would’ve been able to tell Sammy that saying that—especially in a doubtful tone—was never a good idea. She’d have examples, and if She didn’t, she’d come up with some right here in the car.

Dean had fallen for that trap before. And he was too fucking tired and bitter to save Sam from it.

“I’m so glad you asked, Samuel.” Dean glanced in the mirror, and that was a wide, blinding, almost manic grin that appeared when She was about to hand Dean’s ass to him on a platter.

He almost felt bad for Sam.

“I- Samuel?”

She hummed, completely ignoring Sam’s indigence. “Almost all science-fiction movies are somewhat inspired by Star Wars, or owe Star Wars the popularity of the genre. And, Star Wars significantly popularized the use of Monomyth in film-“

Dean didn’t remember what Monomyth was. Sam didn’t seem to either, because She cut herself off with a sigh.

“The Hero’s Journey. In movies.”

“Oh.” Sam frowned. “Dean said you didn’t go to college.”

Dean cringed slightly, feeling Her glare through the mirror. 

“Did he.”

“Yeah, it’s just surprising, you’re smart-“

“I don’t have to go to college to be smart.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying, you just- You don’t sound like you didn’t-“

“I’ve read a lot.” She said, and a vision of Bobby’s library flashed through Dean’s head.

There were a shit ton of books in there. Even Sam hadn’t read them all, and Dean was pretty sure Bobby hadn’t either, but he also remembered Bobby saying that they’d all been read.

By Her.

“And,” She was still talking. Of course She was. “I’ve watched a lot of TV, which is how I know I’m right. Star Wars is terrible-“

In the corner of his eye, Dean watched Sam open his mouth, and then make his first good choice of the day and close it.

“But it’s also the only reason we have Indiana Jones-“

“You like Indiana Jones?”

Dean rolled his eyes. Another mistake from Kid Genius in shotgun-

“Shut up, Winchester.”

Dean blinked, scowling at the road. “I didn’t say anything-“

“You were going to.” She snapped, and when Dean glanced back, she was glaring at him. “So shut up.”

Sam frowned between them. “Why would Dean-“

“Her majesty loves Indiana Jones.” Dean grunted. “Good luck, Sammy.”

“Don’t wish him luck, I’m not going to try to kill him-“

“Sure, Princess.”

She kicked the back of Dean’s seat, and he didn’t even grunt. The hit was weaker than usual, and it wasn’t because She wasn’t trying.

She was just weaker. She was still coughing and taking breaths that were far too long. Her eyes were still a little hollowed, and lips in too tight a line, and brow drawn in pain. Dean couldn’t fucking stand it. He wanted to pull over, grab Her and demand that they forgive each other now—or at least try to pretend nothing had happened in the first place—because she was hurt and needed Dean’s help-

“I’m not going to kill you, Sam.” She said, and Sam didn’t look all that reassured. “And I do love Indiana Jones. I think it’s fun.”

Sam frowned. “Star Wars is fun.”

“Star Wars parodies are fun. There’s an episode of the Muppet Show with the Star Wars cast, and it’s better than all the actual Star Wars movies combined.”

She and Sam kept talking—Sam refused to believe one single episode of television could be greater than a film trilogy, and Dean didn’t think She was capable of just surrendering any sort of argument—and Dean’s head started to wander again. Back to Bobby’s house, and every single sign of Her he’d never noticed. Never had reason to notice, or dwell on, or observe, but now he couldn’t stop remembering all the grenadine in Bobby’s fridge that the man himself never seemed to touch, but always seemed to be in use. All the normal books that weren’t for hunting, and didn’t seem like things Bobby would read.

If Dean squinted in his head, he could see the VHS tapes stacked near the TV. There had been a lot of movies he’d stayed up late to watch—action movies and westerns and some fancy art films he hadn’t action movies and TV shows-really understood—but also some he’d never touched. Comedy films and chick flicks and-

“Bobby had that show.” Dean muttered, and She and Sam fell silent. “The Muppet Show. He had a freakin’ VHS tape.”

They hadn’t mentioned it since She woke up. The looming axe over all their heads, that they were heading to Bobby’s, and She’d fucking lied about knowing him. 

But Dean hadn’t been able to stop himself. He was never able to stop himself with Her. It was fucking amazing, how he kept managing to make this whole thing worse.

“Yeah.” She muttered. She’d tucked Her knees to her chest. “He does.”

Sam cleared his throat, his voice gentle. “I, uh, you don’t have to answer, but can I ask how you know Bobby? Dean said he raised you-“

“He did.”

“Oh.” Sam looked between Her and Dean with a frown. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Her voice becoming taut, and it squeezed around Dean’s throat. “I’ve told you my dad is a hunter-“

“So Bobby’s your dad?”

“No, it’s-“ She sighed. “I- It’s easier to say father than man who raised me. We’re not related.”

Sam nodded slowly, and Dean stayed perfectly fucking still in his seat. If he moved or breathed wrong, She might remember he was here and stop sharing things. 

“If you- How have we never met before?” Sam’s voice was cautious. Dean understood that. “It’s just, Dean and I have known Bobby our whole lives, we’ve spent weeks at his house-“

“I was…” She swallowed, Dean didn’t have to look back to know Her head would be bowed, and she’d be picking Her skin bloody. “Really sick. I had to be kept separated from other people.”

It wasn’t a lie. Dean could fucking hear it, could feel the sinking ache into his bones at Her tired, heavy voice. And it didn’t matter how vague and useless an answer that was—how it just left him with more questions about how sick She’d been, what type of sickness, if She was alright now when she didn’t really seem to be—because it was the truth. 

And She looked sad. She wouldn’t look up, and She was tucked into Herself, and there was hair blocking all Her features from view, and Dean wanted to move it and touch Her, trace his hands over Her face until she smiled and her body went loose-

She wouldn’t let him touch Her. If he tried, he’d probably get punched in the gut, and it would leave a gash in his intestine he didn’t know how to prevent or heal.

He was still pathetic though. Still feeling an itch on his skin the longer She looked like she was trying to hide from something invisible, the longer Her brow pressed to Her knees and the acidic silence stretched on.

He couldn’t just stop.

“Keep talking, Princess.” He grunted, and he could feel Her glare sear through his head. It was better than nothing. 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice was too gentle. He didn’t get it. How She was too quiet and too bendable and it was making Dean feel sunken and empty. “Maybe we can just listen to music or something-“

“No. Talk.” 

Sam’s eyes widened, and if he kept gaping like that, Dean was going to kick and punch him. 

“Well, Deano,” She was still glaring at him from the backseat. “What the fuck should I be talking about?“

“Anything, just-“

“Anything isn’t helpful-“

“Tell Sammy what food he is.” Dean snapped, and Sam blinked. 

“Tell me what?”

“I’m pie,” Dean muttered, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Because the smartass back there is a little genius.”

“I am a genius.” Her voice was harsher than before. Stronger. “And I didn’t just say you were a pie, I said you were pecan pie, you asshole-“

“Same thing-“

“It’s not. The specification is important-“

“It’s damn pie, sweetheart. Pie is pie-“

“Why pecan?” Sam asked. “I mean, why not apple, or cherry-“

“Because I don’t pander.” She said, and Dean had to bite down a snort. “And he’s not nearly sweet enough to be cherry-“

Dean frowned. “Hey-“

“And,” She pushed on, ignoring Dean entirely. “The chewiness of pecan is very Dean.”

He didn’t know how to protest that. He didn’t know what to say to that. Not when he glanced back in the mirror and Her face was so unreadable.

She didn’t sound as pissed anymore. Dean didn’t know what to do with that.

“Okay.” Sam was nodding, looking between Her and Dean with another unreadable expression. Everyone needed to start saying what they were thinking soon, or Dean was gonna lose it. “I- Yeah. I can see that. What food am I, then?”

“Bubblegum.” 

Her answer was quick, and if Dean didn't have to drive and brood, he would've laughed at the look on Sammy's face.

"I- Why?"

“You’re sweet. And flexible but still kinda stiff.” 

Dean frowned, lowering his voice to speak under his breath. “I’m sweet.”

She hummed. “Yeah, but you’re an acquired taste, Deano. Like pecan.”

She kept talking, but the word bounced and echoed around Dean’s head. Deano. She only called him Deano when he’d said or done something stupid, but She wasn’t really that pissed about it. Deano had an underlying tone of affection to it. A higher sound on the De and a long moment on the O.

She might not hate him.

“Okay.” Sam was nodding slowly, still twisted in his seat. “I can be bubblegum. Is- Do you do that a lot?”

“Do what?”

“Uh, sort people, I guess? Like, what type of drink would you say I am?”

“She doesn’t drink, Sammy.” Dean muttered, and his seat got kicked again.

“I still know what drinks are-““Could you tell us what each one is like?” =

There was a brief pause—Dean could imagine the small, pouting frown on Her face—and then- “No.”

Dean shot Her a wink in the mirror before he could think better, and it was a mistake. She was glowering at him. She was really hot when She glowered at him—Dean could easily imagine smoke rising off Her body and small, silver spark flying over his skin when he touched Her—but her easy, high beauty wasn’t nearly enough to distract Dean from how shitty she looked. There was more gray in Her face than before, She was curled more into her own body, and, son of a bitch, Her eyes were fluttering slightly-

“What about music genres?” Dean said, just to keep Her talking, and She blinked at him. “What?”

“Music genres, Princess. You know hip-hop, pop, the blues-“

“I know what music genres are, asshole, why are you-“

“Which are we.” Dean gave a vague, one-handed wave between himself and Sammy. “Do your thing.”

“I don’t have a thing-“

“Yeah, you do. Give it a shot, sweetheart. Music genres.”

Sam gave Dean an unwelcome, amused look. “You know, it kind of feels like one of us-“

“Shut up, Sammy.” Dean looked back in the mirror, raising his brows at Her. “And you’re supposed to be talking.”

She wrinkled Her nose him, but she also started talking, so Dean didn’t really care all that much. He was rock—but She was annoying, said Latin pop first, and giggled for five straight minutes after—and Sammy was jazz. Fancy bar Jazz. 

Dean didn’t know what that meant.

But he really liked the sound of Her voice, and the way She said most everything. She could’ve probably called Sam country music and he’d agree, just because of how She’d say. With a smooth, passive authority that told something in Dean’s brain She’s right. All the freaking time, even when She’s obviously wrong, she’s still right.

Sam was starbursts, and Dean was a KitKat. Dean was dusk, and Sam was noon. Sam was a Lily of the Valley, and Dean was a rose.

Dean had no interest in being a flower. He did like Her telling him what he was. He liked the idea that She’d been looking at him. That She’d thought about him enough to think he’d be a car if he was on object—which was a cheap shot, but still made Dean feel fuzzy—or a tree if he was a plant, or a seal if he lived in the ocean.

He frowned, waiting for Her to elaborate—he still wasn’t allowing himself to speak all that much, because this felt delicate and still slightly fractured—and decided he wouldn’t kick Sam’s ass for being a butthead the whole car ride when the kid took the bullet for him. 

“Why am I an octopus?”

She yawned. It made Dean’s stomach clench. “You’re productive and floppy.”

Dean snorted, and Sam shot him a glare.

“Well then, why’s Dean a seal-“

“Cause he’s all big and toothy.”

Dean scowled. He wasn’t nearly as big and toothy as Sammy was, but fighting with Her on reasoning almost always ended up being a dead end. Just as how asking Her what she was only ever resulted in a hum and shrug. Dean’s goal was to keep Her talking, so he had to move on. 

“Whatever, Princess. What about out of the ocean animals?”

She shifted a little in Her seat—letting out a small noise that hurt Dean’s whole body—but kept talking. Sam was this, and Dean was that. Dean was that, and Sam was this.

And every time she spoke, Dean could imagine the tilt of Her head, the way she was probably rubbing Her skin at she examined them and thought of an answer with far too much sincerity. He wanted to rub Her skin. To trace his hands up Her legs, watch Her look at him with nothing but softness in her eyes, feel nothing but molten light fill him up from the inside-

He needed to figure out how the hell She always did that. How all of Dean’s fury was now smothered and coated Her, how all the way in his soft tissue he just really wanted to touch Her. To stop giving Her reasons to sneer at him, to stop pushing Her until she fell away forever, for everything to just be alright. 

For this conversation to be not edged with the knowledge that She probably didn’t want him around now. Even if She didn’t hate him, he must have snapped everything too much to fix it. 

But Dean was pathetic, so he still wanted to care for and protect and follow Her.

He wanted to fix this. To salvage it. 

He didn’t know how. He didn’t know why he couldn’t just drop this, just sit with the fact that everything was ruined and over. Why something to the right of his heart seemed to pound and roar at the idea of never touching Her again. Not ever a hand on Her back or brief high-five. 

Worse was imagining never hearing Her voice again. Only hearing it call him on the wind.

He couldn’t really hear Her voice now. 

She’d slumped forward, Her brow resting near Dean’s shoulder and her eyes turned towards the floor. 

“Dean.” She mumbled, and his whole body tensed. “Can we be done with the talking game?”

“No,” Dean grunted Her name. “It’s not a game, you gotta keep talking-“

“I’m good.” She let out a long breath. It was too ragged. “I- I think I’m just a little tired.”

“Well, I need you to keep fucking talking-“

She shook Her head, her temple pressing right into Dean’s arm. “I don’t- it hurts, Dean.” She made a high, weak noise, and Dean was going to break the wheel with only his hands. “Can I have five minutes, please?”

Fuck. She was saying please. 

“Princess, just- shit- for an hour, keep talking for an hour- Sammy-“

“Got it. Hey,” Sam said Her name, and his voice was too gentle. She needed it to be shouted, She needed to hear that she had to stay awake, that it wasn’t a damn option for Her to sleep. “Can you tell me more about, uh, movies? What’s your favorite movie?”

She didn’t have a favorite movie. She had about fifty, and they were all dumb, and She was always adorable when She told Dean about them, and why wasn’t She talking-

“Sammy.” She mumbled, grabbing Sam’s arm and turning Her head to him. Away from Dean. “Why does Dean call you that?”

“It was, uh, it was my nickname growing up.” Sam swallowed, giving Dean a desperate look as he continued. “Did you have a nickname, when you were a kid?”

“No.” She mumbled. “People don’t give smart little whores nicknames. But,” Her voice got softer, dropping like She was telling a secret. “Dean calls me Princess sometimes.”

“Yeah, uh, I’ve heard it. He said it like five seconds ago-“

“I like it.” She said, and Dean was going to grind his teeth to dust. “I like him. He’s an asshole, Sammy, but I like him.”

Sam had no right to look like he’d been punched. Dean was the one who had to keep driving and acting like he couldn’t hear.

Sam said Her name, his tone slow and careful. “I think-“

“There’s something wrong with me.” She said, and there was nothing angry in Her voice. She really just sounded sad. Sad and tired. “It really hurts.”

“I know, but Dean’s right, you need to stay awake until we get to Bobby’s-“

She groaned, and leaned further into Dean’s arm. “He’s gonna kill me-“

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think he’ll kill you-“

“He will. He’s gonna tell me I’ve been dumb and reckless, that I was supposed to-“ She paused, then sighed. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

Sam frowned, looking back to Dean. He needed to stop doing that. Dean didn’t have a clue what was going on. “Why?”

“You’ll tell Dean. Then Dean will kill me. I like him, I don’t want him to kill me.”

“I’m pretty sure Dean’s not gonna kill you-“

“He is.” She let out another sad, little sigh. “He already hates me, Sam-“

“He doesn’t-“

“I don’t…” She yawned, shifting Her head just enough for Dean to see her eyes were closed. “I don’t hate him. I think he’s…”

She yawned again. And She didn’t finish her sentence, and Dean could swear their bodies were going to be glued together. She didn’t seem to remember he was there, but She was still moving closer into him, and he was going to go fucking insane.

Because She was asleep, and they still had an hour to go.

Dean swerved over from the far-hand lane, stopped Baby on the side of the highway, and got out of the car. Sam was smart and understood what was happening—scooting into the driver’s seat without a word—and She just kept fucking sleeping. 

She barely stirred when Dean pulled Her backwards, letting Her head rest on his chest and her body slump in his arms. He wasn’t supposed to allow himself to touch Her like this. She might stab Dean if she found out he was hugging Her, holding Her like she was fragile and vital to everything around him. She would stab him again when he’d tell Her that’s because she was. 

Everything was easier when he stroked his thumb down Her nose, and She let out a soft, breathy sound before curling fully into his body. The same way She’d tuck into herself, or sink into the mattress or couch after an episode. Like She was trying to shield herself from something. 

But now, Dean was Her shield.

And he was so goddamn confused.

They had an hour until Bobby’s—more like fifty minutes now—and Dean still couldn’t wrap his head around what was becoming more and more obviously the truth. 

If it was, She wouldn’t be spoiled. And that would make sense—She’d never really seemed spoiled, mostly just smart and confident—if that didn’t really mean that She’d been raised by Bobby. That the girl who’d painted Her nails on Dean’s motel table, who always smelled like sugar and fruit and kind of looked like She was forged deep in a star, had been raised by freaking Bobby. Beer and books and cars and no need to give me extra attention Bobby. The Bobby who was practical, and sharp, and didn’t take any shit-

Son of a bitch. 

It still didn’t make sense. There was no reason for Her to lie about knowing Bobby. Dean had even told Her he liked Bobby. That Bobby was the best hunter he knew, after Dad. 

He’d probably yell at Her about it, if he could. Shout and sneer and bite—he didn’t know how to just be moderate with Her, how to hold himself the hell together—until She gave him answers. And that never seemed to work. 

But Dean also never seemed to learn. Not when it came to Her.

Because even as the confusion and anger bubbled in his chest, it wasn’t nearly as powerful as how goddamn sick he felt. Yelling at Her had gotten them here, and Dean never learned. If he hadn’t pushed and snapped Her, she never would’ve gone off alone, and the demon never would’ve seen her. It had probably realized that She was a hunter and stuck to her trail.

She wouldn’t be in all this mumbled, whined pain if it wasn’t for Dean. She wouldn’t be in danger. She’d probably just be sitting with him and Sam at a diner, laughing and talking until they parted, then found their way back to each other’s paths a few weeks later. 

This time, Dean didn’t think She’d come back. One way or another, She’d be gone. There was the way that made the pit in his chest turn into a chasm—the way he outright refused to entertain—but there was also the second, slower way. Where She didn’t hate him, and She wasn’t gone, but Dean still lost Her. She left, and he was alone.

Dean wouldn’t allow the first way to happen. Every time Her breathing was too shallow, he’d snap at Sam to hurry up and try to soothe Her until it was even again. He could give CPR, if he had to. He didn’t know how to do CPR—he should probably learn—but he’d seen Sammy do it, and it didn’t look that hard. Dean could sing Stayin’ Alive. He could press his lips to Her’s and give her his fucking lungs out of his chest to fix this. He could peel off his skin and patch it over Her wound if he needed to. 

Stab wounds aren’t supposed to be this bad. And Dean had never been stabbed by a demon, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be any different. The knife that the son of a bitch had lodged in Her gut hadn’t even been all that special. Just a smooth, iron blade that was knocking Her—Her—down for the count. 

She had to hang on. Dean would want it to be for him, but he knew better, so he’d settle for it being for Bobby. 

Because Sam finally parked the car in Bobby’s yard, and Bobby was already outside. Hunched on the step, shooting to his feet before the engine was even off. 

Dean suddenly felt like he really shouldn’t be touching Her, or holding her tight against his chest, or trying to smell Her like a creep every few minutes. She smelled good. Like wet dirt—but in a sharp, earthy way that mostly made Dean feel comfortable—chlorine, something vanilla that was cheap and strong, and there was the fucking fruit-

Bobby probably wouldn’t care that She smelled like an odd, unplaceable fruit. He also didn’t have to know why She smelled like chlorine. Dean wasn’t looking to get shot and—based on the way Bobby was glowering at him through the window—explaining what they’d been doing last night didn’t feel like it would be welcome information. 

Because Bobby had never looked at him like that. Really fucking angry, with a drawn brow and deep scowl. Dean couldn’t tell if the glare was at him, or for Her, but he knew Bobby was pissed. If his expression wasn’t a give away, the gruff, low tone of his voice was.

Dean was barely out of the car—Her body cradled carefully in his arms, an apologetic grimace already on his face—when Bobby started snapping.

“Fuckin’- balls- Bring ‘er inside Dean, and Sam, grab the stitch kit. My stitch kit, I don’t wanna be usin’ that fuckin’ weak one in the trunk of your car.”

Sam nodded, walking into the house with a tight, nervous expression at Dean over his shoulder. Dean would’ve shrugged in return, but he didn’t want to shake Her in his arms, or make Bobby think he wasn’t taking this seriously. He was. He couldn’t not, because it was Her. And Her breathing was weak, and Her features were so washed over and Her lips were pale and she kept clinging to Dean’s arm-

“Dean.” Bobby grunted, jerking his head to the door. “Inside, now.”

“Yes, si-“ Dean cut himself off, changing himself to only a nod as he moved her into the house.

It was exactly as he remembered it. Nothing ever really changed at Bobby’s house, and every piece of furniture and color was exactly in place with how it had been in Dean’s head, but there more now.

Things Dean had seen but never really given deeper thought, like a mug that was a soft pastel color in the side-table—slightly stained with coffee, and looking long-empty but never moved—and chapstick near the TV, and-

“That’s her jacket.” Dean said, a little stupidly, and Bobby shot him an odd look.

“What’re you talkin’ about-“

Dean said Her name, nodding to the leather jacket that was hooked over a chair. It was a woman’s jacket, not really Bobby’s style, and Her’s. Dean knew it was Her’s. She about ten different jackets—all in different styles and cuts and materials—but Dean also knew all of them. That was the one She’d been wearing on the onryu hunt, that had ended stained in her own blood and the spirit’s ash. She’d shoved it into her trunk before She left the next day, and told Dean she’d clean it later when he’d offered, because he was pathetic and hadn’t known how to not offer. 

He’d asked if She even knew how to clean it. She’d flipped him off, told him She did, and said that she’d do it when She got home.

A small part of Dean had gotten toxic at the idea of Her being home. That maybe She’d just pass the jacket off to a servant she didn’t know the name of—She’d probably have known the name, but it served Dean’s anger better to imagine she was worse than she was—and let them touch a piece of Her instead of Dean.

But She’d been here. Cleaned the jacket here, at Her home. 

And there really wasn’t any evidence to prove that She didn’t belong here. So Dean was fucked.

“That’s… It’s her jacket.”

Bobby sighed, rolling his eyes. “Believe it or not, Dean, I’m aware. Put ‘er down on the table.”

Dean nodded, tearing his gaze away from Her jacket and setting her flat on the dining room table. She tried to hold onto him. Dean pulled back, and She tried to hold onto him, and he was going to go insane.

Bobby didn’t wait for Dean to fully step away before he was moving. Adjusting Her on the table so She wasn’t trying to sink into the wood, scanning over her with a tight, unreadable expression.

“Knife got in her gut?”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, his hands fisting at his side. “Sammy did stitches, but they were quick, and-“

“I’ll fix ‘em.” Bobby grunted, hiking Her shirt up her stomach and-

Fuck. 

The wound was worse. The stitches looked frayed in Her body, and her skin was definitely blistering, and there was something yellow and sticky that smelled horrible-

“Dean,” Bobby’s voice was tight, his eyes never leaving the wound. “This ain’t lookin’ like a stab wound-“

“It was, Bobby, I saw it-“

“You still got the weapon?”

Dean nodded, and Bobby let out a long breath.

“Alright, go get it while I deal with ‘er.”

Dean didn’t want to go get the weapon. He didn’t want to leave Her side. She was in pain, and She’d tried to hang onto Dean and he didn’t want to leave Her-

“What’re you just standin’ here for-“

“You can-“ Dean swallowed, his attention trapped on Her dulled, beautiful face. “Bobby, you can fix this, right? She’ll- She’s gonna be okay?”

“She’ll be alright. Gonna have some explain’ to do when she gets up, but she’ll live.”

“Explaining-“

“How the hell she ended up with you boys and a knife in her damn gut. Matter of fact, you and your brother better start gettin’ your story straight, cause I ain’t just gonna let you drop my kid off bleedin’ on my doorstep then drive away.”

Dean tensed, and finally managed to really look at Bobby. His expression was still flat, still neutral, but there was something in his eyes Dean hadn’t seen before. Not glazed, but not sharp, just… heavy. Bobby looked heavy. He was staring at Her body with a painfully neutral face that had slightly lines of tension on the edges. He was standing taller than usual, his whole body rigid and wound up, and Dean could really, truly see it. 

It had been the truth. If the way Bobby stood and spoke—in tight, clipped words like he didn’t have room to be anything but short—wasn’t a giveaway, it was those last words.

My kid. 

Bobby’s kid.

She was Bobby’s fucking kid. 

Dean forced himself to move away, his head ducked down and his steps quick as he passed Sam with only a grunt of acknowledgment and returned to the Impala trunk. Sam hadn’t been careful about how he’d grabbed Her things. They were smushed and scattered, pressed against each other and all looking like Her things. Those were things she owned, that they’d grabbed from Her car and motel room. Clothing that wasn’t covered in blood and dirt, a lot of notebooks Dean really had to fight himself not to read, and fewer personal possessions than he would’ve thought. 

There was that small, colorful bag that had all Her girl stuff in it, and Her knife, and a backpack that—when Dean zipped it open—was filled with more notebooks, and… plants and rocks. A lot of plants and rocks.

He didn’t have time to try and work out why the hell She was keeping plants and rocks in her bag. He didn’t have time to overstep and push it like he always did, and let himself comb through those notebooks. One did fall open, but nothing Dean saw in it made sense—he didn’t speak that language, he didn’t even recognize it, and there was a weird drawing that he didn’t even know how to start interpreting—so he had to move on. To grab the demon’s knife from when he’d tucked it in the back and close the trunk, because all of this could wait until She was better.

She’d have to get better. 

Sam and Bobby were working in silence when Dean returned. Sam holding Her arms to the side as Bobby cleaned the wound and re-did the stitches, a bottle of water at his side that he kept pouring over her skin.

Dean set the knife on the kitchen counter, walking over to stand by Her head. That little wrinkle was back, and Her lips were pressed together, and She was in pain-

He had to restrain his hands to stop them from moving to touch Her. To sooth the wrinkle and brush sweat and hair from Her face. Sammy wasn’t holding Her right. His grip was too tight, and Her arm didn’t look like it was at a good angle, and Dean could hold Her better-

She took a slow, ragged breath, eyes fluttering, and Bobby glanced up to where Dean was standing over Her.

“You get the knife?”

“On the counter,” Dean muttered. “She’s…”

He trailed off, and Bobby let out a long breath. “She’s alright. Almost done with these, and I’m gonna have to fight with her about restin’ when she gets up, but you get ‘er here quick enough. Nothin’ that can’t be patched up.”

Dean glanced down to the wound, and that seemed true. Bobby’s stitches were cleaner than Sam’s, and the pus was half-gone. He didn’t really know how that was possible. Infections didn’t usually just… vanish. But Bobby splashed more of the water over Her stomach, made another stitch, and Her breathing grew steadier. 

There were too many questions. What was with the water. Why had one stab wound managed to infect and maul Her skin like that. How the actual fuck was She Bobby’s kid, and why had Bobby never mentioned Her, and why had She lied about something so dumb, and did Bobby know about Her family? About the shit Dad had found, about Her past, about all those weird episodes and how She always hunted alone, except when She was hinting with Dean-

Dean didn’t think Bobby had known they were hunting together. Which offered another question about why. Why hadn’t She told him. Why did She think Bobby would kill her for this, when it wasn’t Her fault, it was Dean’s.

Bobby might kill him. Dean had never seen Bobby so pissed with him. Every time he grunted for Dean to pass him something, his eyes were harsh and focused. It wasn’t hateful, but it was angry.

But Dean had gotten Her hurt. He deserved it. 

If She stopped talking to him after, he’d deserve that too. If Dad snapped at him for being an idiot when Bobby told him they’d been hunting together, Dean would deserve it-

“You say a demon attacked her?” Bobby’s question was quiet, and Dean almost didn’t hear it. 

He nodded, and Bobby’s jaw clenched.

“You see the assholes eyes?”

“His eyes?” Sam frowned. “You mean the demon-blink thing? Where their eyes go all black?”

Bobby looked up, frown deepening. “They were black?”

“I- I think so?” Sam looked for Dean for help, and Dean just shrugged. He hadn’t really been looking into the demon’s eyes, more focused on beating the shit out of it, and helping Her. 

“I dunno, Sammy-“

“Did you see them?” Bobby interrupted, glaring between Sam and Dean as he cut another stitch. “See the bastard go all black?”

Sam shook his head. “I didn’t, but demons have black eyes-“

“Not all demons.” Bobby muttered, glancing up to Her still pained face. “I’ve seen black eyes, orange eyes, and red eyes. If you boys saw anythin’-“

“We didn’t.” Dean looked over Her, then back to the wound. “It attacked, stabbed her, and Sammy exorcized it. Son of a bitch got away-“

“It give you a name?”

Dean frowned. “We didn’t exactly have time to introduce ourselves and shake hands, Bobby-“

“No, ya’ idjit, if we have a name we can know what we’re lookin’ for.”

“Looking for?” Sam leaned forward, looking between Her and Bobby with a frown. “Has- Have you needed to look for a demon before? Like dad?”

“No, Sam, I ain’t-“ Bobby cut himself off, his head shooting up to glare between Sam and Dean. “Did John know you boys have been huntin’ with her?” 

“That’s uh…” Sam cleared his throat. “That’s a question for Dean, I think.”

Bobby raised his brows, and Dean scowled. Sam was back on the getting punched list.

“Never got a chance to mention it.” He muttered. “Haven’t seen Dad in months.”

Sam rolled his eyes—punched and kicked—and Bobby’s shoulders visibly relaxed. Dean wanted to ask what the hell that was about—Dad was a good man, even if Dean never really wanted Her around him—but Bobby was already moving on.

“How long you been huntin’ together?”

“A few years.” Sam said, and Dean shot him a glare.

“How’d- You weren’t even fucking there, Sammy-“

“She told me on the onryu hunt.” Sam shrugged, looking back to Bobby. “They’ve been hunting together for years.”

Bobby’s jaw tightened. “That true, Dean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dean, you call me sir again and I’m makin’ you wait outside-“

“Sorry, I-“ Dean let out a long breath, his gaze trapping back on Her. In so much fucking pain. “It’s true. And she, uh, she never mentioned she knew you, Bobby.”

Bobby huffed something that might have been a laugh. “Wish I could say I was surprised by that.”

“You aren’t?” Sam blinked. “I mean, I- I’m still not understanding-

“Questions later, Sam.” Bobby grunted, cutting the last stitch. “Right now I need your hands brinin’ her shit inside.”

Sam frowned. “Can’t Dean-“

“Dean’s stayin’ here.” Bobby shot him a glare, and Dean swallowed. “No fuckin’ funny business while I’m gone, boy-“

“She’s passed out, Bobby-“

“And if she wakes up, you’re askin’ her how she feels, callin’ me, and droppin’ it there.” Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “No fuckin’ interrogations. You can ask me questions when we get ‘er settled. Understood?”

Dean scowled, but nodded, and Bobby let out a long breath.

“Good. Sam-“

“Coming.” Sam threw Dean a what the fuck is happening look over his shoulder, followed Bobby out of the kitchen, and Dean was left alone with Her.

She didn’t wake up. In the long moments where it was only Her and Dean in the whole world once more, She didn’t stir for even a second. Her breathing grew more and more even with every passing moment, but She didn’t open those brilliant eyes and look at Dean.

Dean didn’t know if She would ever really look at him again. 

She didn’t hate him.

She’d been keeping secrets—so many fucking secrets—but She didn’t hate Dean, and when he allowed his hand to trace over Her cheekbone, she leaned into the touch.

Maybe She would leaned into anyone’s touch, but she wasn’t. Right now, She was leaning into Dean’s. 

He let his hand linger there as long as he could. She was warm, too warm, almost burning, but it was better than Her being cold. Color was returning to Her face, and there was a heavy flush over her pretty cheeks, but it was better than nothing. No color. No slightly uneven breaths or dried sweat on her brow.

Dean finally got to brush the hair away, and he wasn’t sure how She only got prettier. She was pretty in a way Dean never really cared for before her. She looked like a bird. Untouchable and free and delicate. Breakable, but not because She was weak. Because She wasn’t supposed to be on the earth like this, just how Dean wouldn’t be free or light enough to go where she went. 

Because even if this was Her life—even if she wasn’t spoiled and born from comfort Dean would never know—he still couldn’t have Her. If anything this just made that more certain. That She was so good and unnaturally better, that She’d been living down in the mud with Dean this whole time and he’d still been blinded. If She ever managed to crawl out of here, She might become ethereal. Glorious. Brighter than the sun and more heavenly than a paradise Dean didn’t believe in.

And if Bobby really raised Her, everything Dean tried to loathe about Her would probably vanish into the air. Bobby was smart. And good. And didn’t like pointless shit, so there was no way he’d let Her become spoiled or entitled. She wasn’t spoiled or entitled. 

She was just awesome. 

And Dean didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to live with that now. That he’d bitten Her, and the mark was festering in him.

She let out a soft breath when Dean thumb stroked down Her nose, the movement subconscious, almost automatic. 

He had to yank his hand away the floor creaked, and Bobby turned the corner only a second later.

They didn’t speak at Bobby hauled Her up and carried Her away. Dean wanted to go with Her. He needed to go with Her. He needed to have Her look at him one last time, and he needed to work out how to apologize in a way that didn’t make him sound like a little bitch, and-

“Dean.” Sam leaned into the kitchen, tilting his head back to the living room. “C’mon, dude, Bobby said we could get three questions.”

“Three?” Dean frowned, glancing past Sam to where they’d vanished up the stairs. “We only get three-“

“Between us.” Sam sighed. “And he, uh, I think he might be pissed at us.”

A door slammed upstairs, and Dean raised his brows. “You think?”

“You two.” Bobby appeared behind Sam—for a fairly big dude, he could move faster than thought he had any real right to—and pointed between them with a glower. “Sit. Now.”

Sam shot Dean a worried look and shuffled to the table, tugging Dean into a seat as Bobby stood before them, arms cross and eyes narrowed. 

“What the hell did you idjit’s say to her?”

Sam blinked. “We didn’t- I mean, I didn’t say anything-“

“Hey!” Dean shot him a glare. “Dude, what the hell-“

“I can’t speak for you, Dean! I mean, you guys are a lot closer-“

Bobby’s glare turned to Dean—the feeling of it searing through his skin—and Sam was now getting punched, kicked, and body slammed.

“Sammy.” He hissed, bracing a fist on the table. “Shut your fuckin’ face-“

“How close would you say you two are, Dean?” 

Bobby’s question didn’t need to have that silent, underlying threat for Dean to flinch. It was already a question he didn’t know the answer to. She lied and he sucked ass, but She also liked him—enough that he’d been allowed to hunt with Her at all, enough for her to slur it to Sammy in the car—and he couldn’t stop thinking about Her if he tired. 

And he had tried.

And he’d never really seen Her interact with people except for Sam and Dad. And She and Dad clashed, but She and Sam got along, and Bobby obviously cared for her so maybe her liking Dean wasn’t all that special-

“Dean.” Bobby snapped. “Answer my question.”

“I, uh, I don’t-“

“Sam?”

“They’re just friends.” Sam shrugged, saying Her name in a voice that wasn’t nearly reverent enough. “From the hunting.”

Sam was back down to being kicked and punched, because the little shit could’ve easily laughed and said that Dean had a crush on Her—he didn’t, She was just his best friend and the only person he liked to hang out with—but that would’ve probably made everything worse. Especially given Bobby didn’t seem all that happy with the just friends answer either.

“How many years you two been huntin’, exactly

“Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s been like two- But that,” Dean pointed up the stairs. “Hasn’t happened before, Bobby, I swear-“

“I don’t give a shit about that.” Bobby snapped, jerking his head back. “You boys did the smart thing, for once in your damn lives, and listened to her. Brought her here.”

“If you don’t-“ Sam frowned, his face returned to pure confusion. “If you don’t care that she got stabbed-“

“No, Sam, I care that she got stabbed.” Bobby let out a long, breath, shaking his head. “I don’t give a shit that it happened with you two. If she’s gotta get stabbed, I’m happy she ain’t alone to try and stitch herself up, cause that girl ain’t good at takin’ care of herself in way that matters.”

It was Dean turn to frown, sitting a little straighter in his chair. “What do you mean, she can take care of herself-“

Bobby scoffed. “She can do her hair, Dean. She ain’t gonna do stitches.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Has she never done stitches on herself?”

“Not good ones-“ Bobby cut himself off with a glare between them. “This ain’t the point. What’d you do, Dean.”

Bobby and Sam were both looking at Dean, and he groaned. 

“I didn’t do anything, Bobby, and if you’re not pissed about her getting hurt-“

“Some injuries ain’t on the surface, boy. I could give a flyin’ fuck about what danger she puts herself in, I know she can handle it better than you two dumbasses, but if you hurt that girl, I ain’t gonna stop her hurtin’ you.” Bobby sighed, running a hand over his face, and Sam cleared his throat.

“Bobby, how, um-“ He glanced to Dean, expression nervous. “You said she’s- I still don’t understand-“

“Sam, if you got somethin’ to say-“

“How do you know her?” Sam’s words were quick and frantic. “That’s- you said we get three questions, and that’s our first.”

They hadn’t actually discussed the questions, but Dean could live with that one. Shit, he’d spent the whole day trying to work that one out himself, and Bobby seemed to know it had been coming, because he dropped in a seat across the table with a long sigh. 

“It ain’t my place to tell you everythin’,” he muttered. “All I can tell you two is that I met her when she was a kid-“

Sam opened his mouth, and promptly shut it as Bobby shot him a glare.

“You ask that question, Sam, I’m countin’ it. She was eight, I found her wanderin’, I took her in. Kept her from killing herself, raised her like the daughter I didn’t get before. Which,” Bobby turned to Dean, and it wasn’t fair that he was being singled out. Sammy was here too, hell, he’d asked the question- “She may not be my blood, but she’s the closest thing I got. Understood?”

Sam mumbled an agreement, but those words weren’t for Sam.

So Dean nodded, and hoped Bobby could see all over his face that he really just wanted to go upstairs and check on her. He’d do that after, if he could get away with it. And She was probably fine—Bobby wouldn’t have left her if she wasn’t—but Dean needed to see it. With his own freakin’ eyes, making sure she was comfortable, and relaxed, and peacefully asleep-

“What’s up with those, uh- the-“ Sam swallowed. “Those weird episodes?”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “Episodes?”

“When she likes, freaks out and shit. I mean, is it like a really bad panic attack?”

Sam was back to getting punched, kicked, and body slammed. That wasn’t their thing to tell Bobby about. Bobby might know more about Her past, but he obviously hadn’t known that they’d been hunting together, which meant there might be other shit She didn’t want to tell him. Other shit She’d trusted them—trusted Dean—to see, that Sam had just fucking told Bobby-

“Those aren’t panic attacks.”

Sam frowned. “Then what-“

“Not my place.” Bobby said, his tone making it clear that was final. “I know what they are, so does she, and if- It’s up to her what you know. She’ll tell you if she wants, but she’s had a rough time, Sam. So don’t go pushin’ her about it.”

Sam nodded, even as the nervous expression remained on his face, and Dean cleared his throat. He had to ask. Even if all he got from Bobby was a not my place, Dean just needed to spit it out and ask.

“Why’d you… I mean, how did we never know, Bobby?” Dean held Bobby’s gaze, every word slow and careful. “You said she was eight, Sammy would’ve been seven, so we knew you by then. Shit, we were here all the time but never even heard her name. I don’t- Why?”

Bobby let out a long breath, shaking his head slowly. “It’s complicated.”

Dean scowled. He was really starting to fucking hate that word.

“But,” Bobby pushed on, giving Dean a firm, solemn look. “I wasn’t ‘cause of you boys. I said it already, I ain’t gonna tell you what’s not mine to tell, but I never liked keepin’ you apart.”

“But you did.” Dean grunted, and Bobby sighed.

“Yeah, I did. And I’m not gonna tell you I had reasons, cause that’s fuckin’ bullshit help and we know it, but I will say it was all I could do. Not for the best, but the only damn option.” 

Dean was pretty sure he was telling the truth. It wasn’t the same alarm he’d learned to set off with her, but it was close. That seemed to be the truth. 

Dean wished it wasn’t. 

“She said she was sick.” Sam muttered. “When she was a kid. And that’s why we couldn’t know each other.”

Bobby let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Course she did. Sick is one way of puttin’ it. I-“ Bobby looked between Sam and Dean, something weighted behind his eyes. “There were times when she could’ve used you two. Glad she seems to have you now. And I don’t know where your Daddy is, but-“

“He’s hunting a demon.” Sam said, and Dean was out of ways to kick his ass for saying stuff. “The one that killed our mom.”

Bobby’s eyes widened, and the conversation moved on. Bobby asked if She and Dad had crossed paths, Dean told him not for years, and Bobby and Sam started to talk demon. Bobby had books Sam could read. Sam had questions about what Bobby had run into, with his own wife. 

She’d told Dean Her dad’s wife died.

Fucking hell.

Eventually, Bobby went out. They’d stayed at the table as Sam and Bobby descended into nerd talk—mostly just Sammy being a little dweeb, Bobby was just smart—and Dean had spent the hours stealing glances up the stairs and wondering how he could get up there. How he could see Her, check on her, without Bobby getting on his ass and shouting about Dean being careful with Her, because he always was-

Except when he wasn’t. Expect when he poison and ruined and wrecked Her in a way he’d never wanted to. When he made Her sad or hollow, put Her in danger, showed her exactly why Dad had been right, that they shouldn’t be close to each other. 

Dad had just gotten the wrong reason. Dean shouldn’t be near Her. She was annoying, and stubborn, and reckless, and a know-it-all, and kinda mean, but in a hot way. She was bossy, but it was adorable. She’d snap and taunt Dean, but she never did it in a way that left a mark. Dean always left a mark. And invisible bruise or scar that Bobby must have seen somehow. It must have been why he was so automatically pissed, why he’d accused Dean of hurting Her.

And he had.

So he didn’t deserve to go up those stairs and see Her.

But he was still selfish. And he still didn’t know when to stop.

Bobby muttered that he was going off to get food. The he hadn’t been expecting Her back for a while, let alone Sam and Dean with her, so all he had was canned food that tasted like pig-shit and a half-eaten chocolate cake in the fridge. 

Sam grabbed the tiniest, most bitch-baby piece of chocolate cake with a mutter of long week, and moved to settle in library. 

Dean started to snoop.

It was so plainly obvious She belonged here. Just like with Her mannerisms—seeing Bobby all over them once Dean squinted—all it took was one quick scan of the kitchen to see more places She’d probably been before. Not just grenadine, but a box of cheesy kids snacks in the back of the pantry. Dean had always assumed Bobby had gotten them for him and Sammy, then never thrown them out. But he’d seen Her buy those exact snacks countless times, and a few of the boxes looked practically unopened. 

In the living room there were all those books and movies, and a blanket that was far too fuzzy for Bobby to like. A pair of women’s sneakers and boots near the door. A glittery toothbrush on the bathroom sink, some of that sugar-smelling shit Dean knew she used under the skin, and fancy shampoo in the cabinets.

Dean had seen some of this stuff before, but he’d always assumed Bobby just had a lady-friend. A weird, sparkly lady friend who wrote notes on the margins of some of the lore books in that same language from before. From Her notebook. In Her handwriting. 

Lady friends didn’t use a towel—carefully tucked and folded in a closet—that had a little princess stitched onto the corner. Lady friends didn’t watching animated children’s movies so much that, when Dean open the case, the tape looked well-worn and used.

And lady friends didn’t draw with crayon. 

But in Dean’s defense, he’d never seen the drawings before. That was part of the snooping. Shifting casually through Bobby’s desk for more evidence, and coming out clutching old, well-worn drawings of colors. A lot of colors. Most of the drawings seemed to be odd shapes and patterns, all in bright colors.

There were a few more, where the drawings were red and black and yellow, with sharp lines and jagged symbols that resembled Her strange writing. Those symbols were repetitive. 

Briefly, Dean had an image in his head of a smaller Her, holding a crayon and sitting on the floor of Bobby’s living room, scrawling those symbols over and over until Bobby took the paper from Her. She had braids in that vision. Oddly complex braids that Her small, swollen fingers couldn’t have done. 

But Bobby could’ve. And now Dean could see that same small version of Her on the couch, humming to herself as she read a book that looked far too big in tiny hands, while Bobby braided her hair with a scowl. 

Dean blinked, and returned the papers back to the drawer. He was about to close it when something shifted in the very back, and a last drawing caught his eye. 

It had been separated from the others, and drawn on black construction paper. Tucked into a book and folded carefully. And it was the only one where Dean could tell what the hell it was.

A stick drawing—round body and tiny arms and legs—of a man with a thick blue line on his head and scratches of brown on his face, holding the hand of a girl. Same eyes and hair as Her.

She’d drawn this one too. Of Her and Bobby. 

She’d used a light green for Bobby’s skin, though. And a metallic silver for Her own. And the grass was golden and the clouds were red and the sun was white. It was really fucking weird. 

Dean chalked it up to the creative liberties of an eight-year-old, and carefully returned the drawing to its place before sneaking up the stairs. 

He needed to see Her. 

It took him a minute to find Her room, because up until yesterday, he’d thought he knew all the rooms in Bobby’s house. Kitchen, library, living room, bathrooms, and guest rooms. The only room he’d never been in was on the third floor, because Bobby said that room was off limits, and-

Son of a bitch. 

He’d always assumed that was Bobby’s room. That Bobby just didn’t want to little boys snooping around and finding his private shit. Dean had imagined that the room would have a wooden-poster bed, dresser, chairs, and simple decorations. Not all that lived in, because Bobby was practical, and knew that in this life getting attached to a lot of personal possessions was pointless. 

This room was lived in.

By Her.

Those were books Dean had seen Her grab from public libraries, or exact copies that She’d pulled from her bag. CDs of albums he’d known She liked, plus a few he hadn’t. A few Dean liked, scattered on the dresser next to a book he’d seen Her read, sunglasses he’d seen Her use, and a shirt that he’d never seen Her wear.

It was monotone black, and not Her style or size, and looked like a men’s shirt. 

The was a bitter, hot pang in Dean’s intestine and along his heart chamber, because why would She have a men’s shirt. If the overflowing dresser was any indication, She certainly didn’t need more shirts, and it certainly wasn’t Bobby’s, so it all together meant that was the shirt of someone who had given it to her. And she’d kept it, because it looked clean, and Bobby had said he hadn’t expected her back, so it had been there for a while, and who the fuck was giving Her a shirt-

She shifted on the bed, and Dean’s head turned without his permission to look at Her. He’d been trying not to. Gun pressed to his temple, he’d swear he’d tried so fucking hard not to watch Her sleep like a pervert creep. But Her siren-like voice made a small sound, and this room was drowning in that fruit smell, and Dean couldn’t fucking help himself. 

It took him a second to find Her. She’d burrowed herself under the covers, the only parts of Her that were visible being a single hand falling over the mattress and Her gorgeous face smushed against the pillows.

Her bed was shockingly normal. This whole bedroom was shockingly normal. She had curtains and a nice carpet, a desk and chair, a large amount of blankets and a hamper and a cork board on the wall. Pinned with notes that were in English—Dean could read those, and they mostly seemed to list new monsters and reminders for hunts—and a few more in that odd language. The walls were painted a dark color, and it made the room feel smaller. Safer. Like this was the only place in the world.

It might as well be.

Dean dragged a chair to sit at the side of the bed, because that felt less creepy than standing over Her as she slept. For a long while he only watched Her sleep peacefully. Softly.

Then Her brow wrinkled, and Dean’s hand moved without thought. Petting over Her nose until she relaxed, and made a soft noise that kicked him right in the heart and reverberated over his ribs.

He let out a long breath, and started speaking in his lowest, quietest voice. Before he could think better.

“You… you got a lot of explaining to do, Princess.” He muttered. “Bobby handled some of it, but he also won’t tell Sammy and I jackshit that matters until you give the go ahead. So you gotta wake up and do that. Plus, I want to call you a fucking idiot for hiding something so freakin’ dumb from me, and I can’t do that while you’re knocked out. So… Wake up. Soon. Get better and wake up soon and I’ll be waiting, because I- I’m just gonna stay a while. ‘Least until you give me some god damn answers. And,” he let out a long breath. She couldn’t hear him. He was allowed to say it, when no one at all could hear him. “I don’t want to leave. I like you, Princess, and if you really don’t hate me, I’ll stick around.”

He had more to say.

But She hummed like she could hear him, rolled a little closer to the edge of the bed, and none of it really seemed that important anymore.

Her fingers flexed. She didn’t hate him. 

Dean took Her hand, and he fell asleep at Her side because he never learned, and really didn’t want to.

And when Sammy woke him up, saying Dad needed them for something back in Colorado. That he’d called Dean but he hadn’t picked up—his phone was in his jacket downstairs—so he’d called Sam instead. 

Sam had said they were on their way, and told Bobby they were heading out. That they’d let Bobby know how it went, and hopefully be back with good news about the son of a bitch who killed Mom rotting in whatever was lower than hell. Sam hadn’t mentioned Her.

And Dean had to go, but She was still asleep. He needed to go, because Dad wanted him there, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay here, in Her small room that was he could sink down into if he tried.

But he had to go. 

He wanted to leave Her something. To promise in silent words that could be right to not hate him. That he’d really like Her to keep not hating him. But he didn’t have much. He had his car, and his jacket, and ring-

He set his ring on Her dresser. He’d come back. He didn’t know how not to come back, and hopefully when he did, She’d still like him. At the very least, She wouldn’t have started to hate him. 

Because Dean knew at this point that there was no way in hell She felt the pull. He also knew that he’d still follow Her all the way down, and up, and just here. 

Dean might just like being with Her anywhere.

And She didn’t hate him.

So he’d press a soft, dangerous kiss to Her brow because he couldn’t help himself, and look back because he had to, and come back because he wanted to. 

He’d come back. 

End Note: One of the glorious things about nearing the end of the season 1 arc is all of us knowing what happens at the end of the season 1 arc.

Also, as we hit 100k words, I'm unspeakably grateful for the support of the story!!! I can't say it enough, thank you so so much for reading!! I hope y'all continue to enjoy the story!

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[delilahsturniolo]

⟡ ݁₊ welcome to the end of the world! (please leave your sanity at the door.)

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 . . . four friends: nick, matt, chris, and you—find themselves stuck together at the end of the world, trying to survive a zombie apocalypse with nothing but their wits, a questionable supply of snacks, and zero emotional maturity. you’re just trying to stay alive without losing your mind—or falling for someone on the team.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . mentions of blood, descriptions of a wound, romantic tension, slow burn.

CHAPTER TEN: NEW BLOOD, OLD WOUNDS

read more parts here!

you limp down the cracked sidewalk, leg aching, heart worse. the sky’s bleeding pink into a gray, tired dusk, and the group is quieter than ever. it’s like everyone’s waiting for someone else to break first. lana’s trailing behind chris and nick, arms crossed tight over her chest, eyes flicking to every shadow. she hasn’t said much since the diner, just quiet thanks and awkward silences. she doesn’t trust any of you yet, and, honestly? you don’t really trust her either.

you glance at matt. he’s walking ahead, again. not too far, but enough that it feels like a statement, a message. his jaw’s clenched. his knuckles white around his weapon. like if he just focuses hard enough, he can pretend he didn’t say something that shattered the air between you two like broken glass. and you wish you could stop replaying it…

“we kissed once. it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

it meant everything. even if he’s too afraid to admit it.

nick finally breaks the silence, walking backward like a tour guide in a war zone. “okay. i vote we find shelter and maybe have a full group therapy session, but like, in a chill, emotionally repressed way.”

“we’re not stopping yet,” matt says without looking back.“dude,” nick deadpans, “you’re limping. she’s bleeding. chris has been muttering to the cat for twenty minutes.”

“he has a name,” chris snaps, holding whiskers tighter. “and he’s helping me emotionally process our near-death experience.” lana finally speaks. “there’s a place up ahead. small house. boarded up, but i saw it on the way in. it looked empty.” matt hesitates. eyes narrow. “you’re just now mentioning that?” she shrugs. “you didn’t ask.”

nick raises a brow. “oh, cool. i love when strangers maybe lead us into traps. very fun for me personally.” but no one has a better option, so you go. the house is small. half-swallowed by vines, windows thick with grime. the door creaks open with a sound like a dying animal. but it’s quiet. still. no fresh blood, no smell of rot. for once… it feels safe.

nick checks the back, chris sets up a sleeping spot for whiskers, and lana sits in the farthest corner, hugging her knees like she wants to disappear into them. you collapse against a wall, pressing a cloth to your leg. it stings, bad. you’re trying to hide how much it hurts, but matt notices. of course he does. he crosses the room, dropping his pack next to you without saying a word. pulls out gauze. alcohol. tape. you blink at him. “i can do it myself.”

“you shouldn’t have to,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes. and before you can argue, he’s kneeling in front of you, carefully peeling back the cloth, your breath catches. because even now, even when you’re angry and hurting and full of everything you never said.

his hands are gentle.

he doesn’t look up, just focuses on the wound. “i didn’t mean to say what i said like that.” you don’t respond. he dabs the alcohol and you flinch. he curses under his breath. “sorry.”

“why’d you say it then?” you ask, voice quiet. he pauses. tape in hand. “because,” he finally says, “you make me forget that we’re not safe. that this could all be gone in a second. and i—i can’t lose you.” you swallow. “so your solution is to push me away?” he looks up at you now. eyes dark and tired and pleading. “i’m not good at this,” he says. “but i’m trying. i want you. even if it’s stupid. even if it’s risky. i just… don’t know how to be in love and be in survival mode at the same time.”

your heart stops. “in love?”

his eyes widen just slightly. like he didn’t mean to say it. like the words slipped out before he could stop them. but he doesn’t take them back. you don’t say anything, just stare at him like the floor’s disappeared under you. he finishes taping your leg, slower now. hands lingering. breath shallow.

then, suddenly—

a crash from outside.

everyone jumps. nick swears. chris grabs a pan. lana stands, wide-eyed. you freeze. matt stands, already moving toward the window. “stay here.”

“like hell i am,” you say, following him. and when you peer through the cracked slats, your blood runs cold. figures. three of them. not undead. alive. armed. heading straight for the house.

not zombies. people.

matt turns to you, low and panicked. “we’ve got company. and not the good kind.”

“you think they saw us?” as if on cue, a voice beamed from outside.

“we know you’re in there. come out with your weapons down. you’ve got ten seconds.” everyone’s frozen. you look at matt, matt looks at you back. and all of that tension, all the fear, the love, the mess of feelings…is right there between you again. he steps closer, matt grabs your hand and holds it. “if we make it out of this,” he says, “we’re not ignoring this anymore. okay?” you squeeze his hand. “okay.” the door rattles. you all lift your weapons. outside, the countdown begins.

“ten… nine… eight…”

© delilahsturniolo

[3fingersofscotch]

Like a Party Favor

Like a Party Favor

Pairing: M/M/M/M/F Sylus x Zayne x Rafayel x Xavier x Afab Reader

‧₊˚✩彡Summary: In what scenario does MC get passed around like a party favor? This one!

‧₊˚✩彡WARNINGS: 18+ mdni!! GANGBANG, word porn with just enough plot to make your brain happy, double penetration, vaginal and anal sex, rough face fucking, rough cunniligus, creampies, tons of cum, like... tons, reverse harem, butt plugs, multiple partners, multiple positions, actual funny parts, gratuitous self pleasing smut.

‧₊˚✩彡Author's note: I started writing this back in August, so obviously some new cards have come out to spoil a couple of things. There is one chapter where Zayne is enjoying a martini. We know know he doesn't drink. Give me a break. This is a WIP. I'm trying to figure out how to fit Caleb in there somewhere.

‧₊˚✩彡Ao3- 3fingers_of_scotch Chapter 2

You must ask for permission to repost on other platforms.

I do not give permission for my work to be copied or translated anywhere.

You can’t hide your innermost desires from a man with an aether core in his eye. And this man in particular makes direct, sinister, enrapturing, infuriating eye contact with you as he plunders your body.

Sylus is a far departure from the men you are used to. You shudder at the thought. You’ve struggled with this for a while now. Grandma would be so ashamed if she were still around to find out.

You’ve sampled 4 men in as many weeks. 4 beautiful men with giant hearts and eyes that look at you like you hung the very stars in the sky. And while you let them ravage your body and lose yourself in their arms, in that brief searing moment, love seems so pure and so wholesome.

Then you come down from your high and that feeling is gone—replaced with the guilt of knowing you are nothing but a common, back stabbing whore who can’t pick one good man to give your heart to. You tell yourself that your love is true, that you aren’t a bad person. You don’t believe that lie for a second.

You know Sylus can hear the voice calling from the depths of your mind on occasion. He has heard your heart cry at some point-

Xavier

Rafayel

Zayne

And though he pretends he didn’t hear and that he doesn’t know, you can’t help but notice that those are the sessions that he fucks you the hardest. Those are the days that your orgasm rips through your chest because he fucks you like he paid top dollar to use your body like some common street walker.

‘This has to be grief,’ you tell yourself as you try to distract yourself from the mental and physical pain of losing your family in that explosion.

But if that were the case, grief is still not an excuse for being a bad woman.

Fuck me

He stares at you intently after you dismount the back of his bike and remove the helmet. You were painfully wet. Sylus had teased you all night when bidding became boring and he was certain no one was looking. You could tell he was wound up and ready to pop, especially since he’d taken the hand you had wrapped around his waist and placed it over his half hard erection when you were nearing his compound.

The wet spot you left on his bike was embarrassing. All of this was embarrassing. It is shameful how much you need him. It was disgraceful what your innermost desires confessed to him in the throes of passion.

You wonder why he hasn’t walked away. He continues to comply like your desires aren’t insane. He looks thrilled as he fulfills all of your darkest needs. He hasn’t said no yet. It appears he is also willing to comply tonight.

Fuck me

“In due time, kitten.” His voice is like warm honey in your ear and you tremble as his fingers tease under your skirt and slip into your panties. Sylus pulls your hips back into his clothed erection and you grind against his length, whimpering your want as the pads of his fingertips dig deeper to firmly tease your clit.

 You know you aren’t alone in the compound. Luke and Kieran are lurking somewhere, but you let Sylus rip open your blouse, buttons flying across the living room. His right hand is still playing with your pussy and you know your skirt has ridden all the way up, and the left hand pushed your bra up and over to expose your breasts so he could play with your nipple.

“Luke and Kieran--“ you begin.

“Will stay out of sight if they know what is good for them,” Sylus murmurs in your ear, making you shiver. His fingers sink in past the lips cloaking your entrance, making awkward squelching noises with each pump.

“Look down,” he orders. You comply and see him withdraw his fingers that are glistening with clear, sticky juices. He lifts his fingers to your lips. “Clean the mess you made, kitten.”

He normally likes some sort of resistance. Resisting has turned him on thoroughly in the past, but tonight, you just want to be fucked so bad and this back and forth is making you frustratingly hot.

You lap at his finger just like the stray kitten he imagines that you are and you hear him hiss with approval in your ear.

“Sweetie, when did you become so obedient?” the timber of his voice purrs.

“I won’t stay this way for long if you don’t bend me over soon!” Your frustration amuses him.

His evol envelops your body and lifts you off the ground to bring you upstairs and you feel your own juices tickle as they drip down your thighs uncomfortably.

His compound is too large. By the time you reach his bedroom, you are crying from need and Sylus hates seeing you cry.

“Shh, shhh,” he cooes as he unbuttons his shirt. His evol places you gently on the edge of the bed and you become increasingly frustrated as you try and tug his belt off. It won’t comply.

Sylus grabs your hand and lifts it to place a gentle kiss on the inside of your wrist as his other hand slides a notch on his belt buckle. It releases quickly and you unbutton and unzip his pants, feeling triumphant as the head of his big beautiful cock springs forward from his underwear. The front of his boxer briefs are nearly as wet as you are, and you lean forward to taste the tip of his cock.

It’s salty and bitter and oh so rewarding, especially as he hums his approval, fingers threading into your hair. You desire to be used. To be punished for being such a loose, despicable woman.

Fuck my face

And he does with hands firmly wound in your hair, he holds you in place as he thrusts. You can feel the head of his cock impact the back of your throat and that just won’t do. He clucks with disapproval, before repositioning you so that your throat lines up straight with is thrusts. You’ve practiced this before. Several times in fact, he has read your desires and given you exactly what you are too afraid to say aloud.

Today, the head of his cock enters the column of your throat, stretching out your esophagus. You clutch at his muscular thighs as you feel tears sting your eyes. He thrusts a few times, before abruptly withdrawing and throwing you back on the bed.

“I’m not ready to cum yet,” He growls and his right eye glows red. Your bra and panties are ripped off, but he leaves your skirt bunched up around your waist. 

Punish me

“How?” He asks as he kicks off his pants. You aren’t quite sure you even know yourself. But he always come up with an answer and you find yourself on your hands and knees in front of him. He sinks two fingers deep past the heat of your thighs and without warning, roughly finger fucks you, causing you to cry out blissfully.

This felt more like a reward than punishment and you want to be mad, but he is already making you cum and it catches both of you by surprise as you cry out and your inner walls clamp down around his fingers.

“Sylus! Ooh, Sylus!” He doesn’t need you to announce your orgasm because it won’t stop him. His fingers continue their plunder as his other hand caresses the smoothness of your ass cheek. You are screaming at this point, but the firm grasp he has of your ass is not lost on you. He squeezes roughly and as your second orgasm ripples through your body, his hand withdraws from your ass cheek and you are given a firm, stinging smack.

He’s never spanked you before, so he waits for you to protest before he dares to try again.

You love it. It only makes your orgasm more powerful and your cries only reflect pleasure.

“Hmm, this is interesting. Does the bad kitten need another spanking?” he asks. You can hear the amusement in his voice and although it annoys you, you also feel a wave of relief at the lack of disgust you were worried he’d feel.

You nod wordlessly in response and feel the crack as his palm smacks your ass with more force.

“Ooh!” You cry. Words are useless at this point and you quiver as you feel the bed dip behind you as Sylus climbs up, lining his cock with the entrance of your core and sinks in, filling you deeper than his fingers did. You moan as he gives you all of him and sighs your name under his breath.

He enjoys the feeling of your moist heat swallowing him for a moment before he moves, plunging violently deep within you.

Deeper and deeper and deeper. He’d crawl into you if he could, you were sure of it. The others could be too gentle when all you wanted was to be used. An endless stream of moans, curses and his name tumbles from your lips.

Punish me

Oh God, why is he reading you again right now? You were going to start thinking of the foulest, dirtiest things soon.

Sylus’ hand smacks your ass once more and you practically buck crying out sharply. That one was sure to leave a red welt. You want that and more and his cock feels so good and you feel so naughty.

“Slut.” Yes, you are his little slut. Your body was made to be wrapped around his, you are certain of it. His hand slaps your other ass cheek and the sting lingers.

“Oh, God,” you utter as you feel him reach forward and wind his fingers in your hair, using it as a handle as he continues to fuck you from behind. You are so close to cumming and the hair pulling nearly tips you over the edge.

“Does my little slut want me to cum in her tight pussy again?” Oh god, he was close too?

You love cum. You love being filled by cum. You love feeling a cock throb inside you as it releases rope after rope of cum.

Sylus never bothered to put on a condom. As a matter of fact, he never bothered to ask you if you were on birth control. You don’t think he really even cares. But every time he cums in you, he asks you for permission and its hot knowing that your pussy is good enough for his release.

Cum in my ass.

“Fuck!” Sylus bucks like he can’t believe what he just heard and you feel him coming completely undone, trembling and shaking as his cock throbs in you. He grips your hips, holding you flush against him, burying himself as far as possible and you are certain this is the longest he’s ever cum as you feel his body twitch and jerk against you.

“That was so fucking hot,” He murmurs as he rolls you onto your back. He kisses you the same as he always does when you are done. Deep, like he wants to say something that words can never convey. He leaves you, digging around a drawer in his room somewhere, but you can’t see because you are still trying to catch your breath. Despite not finishing, you are happy, ready to clean up and let sleep take you.

He returns, a lecherous grin you’ve never seen plastered on his face with a tube and a towel in his hand.

“Is that really where you want me to put it, kitten?”

Fuck, suddenly you remember that your inner most desire told him something you weren’t ready to reveal.

Sylus puts that nonsense to bed, silencing the protest you are about to utter with his lips. You feel the growing need as hope blooms in your chest. His lips taste the column of your neck and you realize that he is rock hard as his still wet erection rubs against your navel.

You want to touch him everywhere and he lets you as he continues to taste your chest. Your fingers grasp at his hair when you feel a lubed finger circle your asshole. Your cheeks burn bright red as he meets your gaze.

“Princess, you have to tell me. Is this what you want?” His voice is dripping with desire you didn’t know he’d hidden from you.

You can’t trust your voice, so you shyly nod and you feel his finger push in. You wince at the discomfort and he studies your face, pressing soft kisses to your temple to distract you and he pumps slowly, in and out until you nod that he can go faster. Whatever pain from initial entry subsided after a moment and you were ready for another.

You still can’t talk, so you nod once more and Sylus understands, grabbing the tube of lube and diligently applying more to his fingers before entering.

You can feel how hungry he is as his lips swallow yours. You try to match his enthusiasm, but his fingers scissoring and stretching you out distract you. He is diligent and gentle until he is not, needily nibbling at your ear and hungrily squeezing your body against his.

“Fuck, kitten, I need to be inside you so bad,” Sylus rocks his hips, grinding his erection against you. You can feel his leaking need.

“I’m ready,” you tell him. Honestly you aren’t sure, but you’ve never heard his voice drip with this much desperation. He withdraws his fingers and applies a generous amount of lube to his cock before rolling you onto your stomach.

“I’m sorry sweetie. This will probably hurt,” He whispers as he enters.

Despite Sylus’ diligent prep, it is searing. You feel the head of his cock ‘pop’ past the ring of your entrance and the pain is astounding. You buck and cry out as Sylus pins you down.

“Fuck!” Tears roll down your cheek and onto the mattress beneath you. “Fuck, Sylus!” You don’t think you can take it. His cock is so very huge and you are so very small.

“Shh,” he soothes and you hate him for it. “It will only hurt for a little while. Trust me.”

Sylus doesn’t press further and you focus on your breathing. It still hurts, but you think you can handle more.

“More,” you tell him and he obliges, sinking further into you as you continue to take deep breaths. It still hurts, but not as much as it did initially and you realize he is fully seated. He doesn’t move and you continue to focus on your breathing.

“Okay, Sylus. I’m okay.” Your voice is shaky and you are sure it betrayed you, but Sylus takes you at your word and gentle thrusts in slow shallow motions that are searing. You bite your lip, enduring the pain when you notice that suddenly, it doesn't hurt. As a matter of fact, it is starting to feel good.

It’s not long before your tepid breath becomes pleasurable moans and you feel Sylus huff in amusement against your shoulder.

“You like it, kitten?”

“Mmhmm, oh Sylus! Yes!” And that was all he needed to rear back and pound into your tiny body. Every bone and muscle in your body reverberates with each clap of his hips against your ass as you feel yourself sinking further and further into the mattress beneath you. You are swimming in a pool of sweat and your own desires and Sylus is unrelenting, encouraged by your screams of bliss.

“Fuck, your little asshole is so tight,” Sylus mutters and you can tell he is fighting a losing battle from the pitch of his voice. You can’t see him, but you imagine he is beautiful as he pounds you with abandon, glistening with the sweat you can smell all around you. His hand snakes its way under your torso and between your legs, teasing your clit deliciously.

“Sylus, mmm! Oh! Sylus, I’m gonna-“

“Me too," the way his moaning becomes more fevered as his breath becomes shallow confirms it.

"Cum for me, kitten!” You vision goes white hot. You are throbbing from multiple places. Sylus grunts are drowned out by your cries of pleasure and you feel him filling you up so nicely.

Sylus chuckles when he hears you whimper as he pulls out and pulls you into his arms. He places gentle kisses on your temple, like he wasn’t just balls deep in your asshole seconds ago.

“Thank you,” he whispers, gently running his fingers through your hair.

“For what?” You know the answer, but you want to hear him say it.

“Your first time. It’s a big deal. Thank you for choosing me.” Sylus picks you up with his Evol and takes you to his shower. His aftercare is like a routine at this point and doesn’t surprise you.

What does surprise you though is the hour under steaming hot jets where he persistently showers your body in doting kisses until you feel the temperature drop and know that the hot water is about to run out.

You feel guilty and undeserving once more as he pulls you into his chest and rapidly falls asleep. He always does when you are around, despite your opposite sleep schedules. But your body is exhausted and sleep claims you as you ponder what to do to get out of your predicament without hurting four men you care about deeply.

The only thing there to wake you in the morning was the glimmer of sun peeking through the dark curtains in Sylus’ room. You plug in the cellphone that you realize you never charged the previous night and head down to the kitchen to see if Sylus’ chef can whip something up for you. It isn’t until you are completely down the stairs that you realize that Sylus is talking to the three people you’ve been avoiding since you went into hiding at the N109 zone.

You hear Zayne, Rafayel and Xavier call out after you as you turn and run as fast as you can out the front door.

Chapters 2, 3, 4, and 5 are already uploaded on my Ao3.

You must ask for permission to repost on other platforms.

I do not give permission for my work to be copied or translated anywhere.

[eclipse-msoul]

Belong to me in oblivion

Reader X Romantic Yandere Batfamily

chapter 1 :

It was a dark night when the infamous Millionaire Wanye family left the movie theater. Gotham in its ever so glory was as dark and majestic as ever , they opted for the less crowded road and took a shortcut. A shortcut that would claim their lives.

Jr. Thomas Wanye along with his brother Bruce Wanye watched in horror as their parents were mercilessly murdered in front of their eyes. The robber ran away before the police arrived leaving the injured elder and younger brother in their misery. 

“ Br-Brother..They-” Bruce sobbed as he was held in his elder brother’s arms. “ B..Bruce.” the elder chocks, trying to hide the gruesome scene in front.

They are taken to the hospital , their parents having perished before even the ambulance arrived. The nurses and doctor surrounded the now orphaned brothers , tending to their wounds.

Thomas Wanye stares dull at his bloody wounds , the blood falling drop by drop from his injured arm. The arm he injured while shielding his brother.

' it's over...' he thinks 'They're all alone in this world.'

He looked up to see his now quiet younger brother staring at him. They sit right next to each other outside the room , where their now dead parents reside.Bruce stopped crying the moment the help arrived. Help that arrived far too late to be of any use.

The two make eye contact , their eyes dull and void before they hear your familiar voice. “ Bruce !" You scream , " Thomas !” they see you rushing to their side along with Alfred and your parents.

Your tears swell beneath your beautiful black eyes , threatening to fall and they do , as you embrace both for them in a hug. “ I'm here-” you sobb , hugging them tighter , “ Don't cry." you say. But they're not the one crying, it's you , isn't it ? 

“ You…" Thomas finally grunts , "Why are you here ?” His voice breaks as he tries to push you away.You pull out the hug , your huge black eyes stare right into his. 

“ I was worried…" you stutter , " I'm sorry- what happened to them-to you!” the Wanye brothers pause. Their heart hurts seeing  you cry. It feels as if something is stabbing them.

" D-don't cry (Name)..." Bruce swallows, " I'm strong.." Thomas notes how his baby brother hugs you back , something he rarely did.But the current situation makes all the sense he needs. " Don't lie to me !" You place a hand on Bruce's back. " It's okay to cry...no need to strong Bruce !" You say , then look at the elder brother , " Thomas... Cry it out !!" And they do , crying but not too much , because they know. You've cried for them all , those pink cheeks tell them more than they need.

" I'm going to be here for you both !" You say.

" Hmm." His lips quill up , your warmth giving them all the shelter they need.

Alfred gives a comforting glance to the two boys , along with a pat to both their shoulders. Your parents watch as you three slowly fall into a deep slumber.

As their consciousness fades in this gruesome night, they can't help but think. Thinking that maybe this city hasn't completely failed them. They've got you , so they'll be just fine. as long as they hold onto you

…

Time passes and relationships change. You grow and develop as do they. By the time your sixteen, your body has matured and you don't look half to bad if you say so yourself-

“ BRUCE WANYE WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING ?!” You hiss ,looking at your friend Bruce as he pulls back.

He grins , “ Doing what ?” He asks innocently. You glare at him , “ you– know exactly what I'm talking about!” No-way , he licked your ear and didn't notice anything. He's too smart for that.

He blinks before giving a mischievous grin , “ I've got no idea~”

“ Bruce , you--" your words remain still in your throat when you hear a cough.

“ Master Bruce , your brother awaits.” Alfred's sudden appearance really makes you almost jump. Of course Mr.Bruce Wanye here doesn't even flinch. He gets up from the bed and walks up to you.

You sweat , that little Gremlin smile isn't going to fool anyone. Alfred gives an unamused stare as Bruce easily picks you like a stack of potatoes to drag you out with him." Let's get going." The boy snickers.

“ Bruce-Hey I can walk on my own-” your complaint are background noises. , as he laughs outright ignoring you , carrying you out. 

Thomas Wanye observes as you both walk out. Note you being carried out with you screaming and telling him to let you down. Bruce gently places you down in front of his brother. ( Gentle as in hard)

You give Thomas a nervous smile ,”...Hey.” which he responds to kindly. “ Having fun, little bird ?” He asks with a chuckle. You glare and point at Bruce , “Tell him to stop carrying me.” He glanced at his brother looking at you lovingly.

He ruffles your hair , giving his brother a stern warning. “ Don't bully her too much now.” He says , " She's fun to tease Thomas." Bruce argues back , " besides you should've seen how hard she can punch-"

" Bruce !" You interrupt , trying to save your reputation. Thomas gives him brother a little flinch with his finger. " Ow-ch !" Bruce whines , " you deserve it ,"  you give a smug smile, knowing you can count on Thomas to get revenge for you.

“ We're not going to be seeing her for a while. You wouldn't want to taint her memory with this now?” 

“ Exactly-” you add , “ I've been telling him that !”

He raises his hands up , “ Fine fine , I won't do that- No need to gang up on me.” You give an unamused look. The two for you stare into each other's eyes before Alfred claps and voices ,“ Master Bruce , Master Thomas it's getting late , you guys should get going.” 

Thomas looks at his watch as he checks , “ You're right Alfred," he says , "It is getting quite late.” He Bends down to your height to give you a little kiss on the cheeks. " I'll see you soon ,(name.)" his dashy smile makes your heart beat.

"WhAt-" Bruce pulls you back , his hand gripping tightly on your waist as he kisses your neck.

You stare in red as they both take a seat in the car bidding you well , “ Take care ( Name )” . Your skin in the deep shade of red looks quite enticing as they look at you one final time. 

When the car is out of sight , the loneliness catches up to you. They're been the only thing that's constant in your shallow life. You lightly sniffle as the warmth of their touch fades.

Alfred thinks its time to console you.

He gently pats on your back , passing you a handkerchief to wipe your tears.“ What do you say to some lunch before you head back to your house , Miss ( Name) ?” He asks.

You think before slowly nodding.“...I’d like that.”

“ Follow along then." He guides you in for some refreshments and you gladly follow. 

“ You think shes crying ?” Bruce says as he stares bored at the passing scenes. “ She definitely is.” Thomas says without missing a beat.

“Makes me sad about leaving her..” He groans.

“ True , but it's for her safety…” Thomas grip on the glass tightens , We'll get stronger so nothing happens again." I miss her already." Thomas agrees on that sentiment , she's someone worth missing,“ Hmm.”

" Say Thomas."

“ Is the camera in her room installed?” Bruce asks. Thomas smirks, taking a sip of the red wine ,  his younger brother sure loves to underestimates him, “ Who do you think I am ?” Bruce takes a sigh of relief.

At least Bruce can see you , even if it's from behind the scenes. Even if your unaware at the camera that stalks your bedroom and....your Bathroom. 

It's for your safety Afterall...

It’s my first time posting here. So please be kind ! Also constructive feedback is most welcome but no hate ! Also I’ve no idea how tumblr works so currently learning it. Comments would really give me motivation. So drop some if you can. (〃＾▽＾〃)o( thanks for reading 💟 )

[foli-vora]

run to you: ch 9

marcus pike x f!reader

A/N: we're getting somewhere now and I for one am fucking thrilled. Enjoy the new chapter with some feels! And, as always, a huge thank you for all the love! I appreciate each and every one of you! I have a day off tomorrow so I'm gonna sit and reply to the reblogs I've kept in my drafts from the prev chapter and reply to your asks x

Summary: Following on from ‘Traitor’ and ‘You’re Somebody Else’. An unexpected visitor throws you right back into the life you thought you left behind. Working beside the man that put you behind bars is one thing, pretending like you never loved him is another.

Word count: 5.7k-ish

Warnings: there's angst because obviously, but I believe we've finally earnt some semi-sweet and comforting fluff now - finally (don't get too comfortable tho lmao). Swearing, mentions of murder, vague descriptions bullet wounds, talk of the break in, lots of anxiety and sweating, scribs is going through it, not exactly a suicidal mindset but more of a 'whats the point fighting this' mindset regarding the danger and threat of the whole situation, protective!Marcus coming in HOT, bit of yearning and touching and FEELINGS and they're finally getting somewhere thank god, but again, don't get too comfortable lol. I finished this at 4am so we're gonna ignore any mistakes thank u

main masterlist | series masterlist

This story is 18+ only.

The slam of a door has your breath halting to a choking stop in your throat, and the person responsible for slamming it open in such a hurry steps through not even a second later. You knew it was him coming, heard his hurried rush up the stairs from the speaker of your phone clenched tightly in your hand, but the pure and utter relief that still washes through your system is so overwhelming your knees threaten to give out from beneath you.

“Marcus.”

He spares you a long glance as he closes the distance between you while sliding his own phone into his pocket, eyes rolling over your body where it half leans against the wall until he’s satisfied you’re unharmed. His hand raises, a gesture for you to keep where you are, and your heart slams against your ribs as he pulls a gun from out behind him.

“Stay here.”

It’s not a request, it’s an order.

You follow it, swallowing around the lump in your throat as he steps into your apartment and the silence that follows does nothing to quell the anxiety twisting its way around your nerves. What if you were wrong, and someone was still in there? What if he finds something? What if whoever did this is coming back and you’re left out here alone?

He appears only a few moments later, the frown between his brows deep.

“Are you okay?”

Are you? Physically, yes.

You give a little nod, shifting under your jacket and doing an internal check over your frazzled nerves and endlessly whirling mind. “Just… shaken, I guess.”

“That’s understandable. You haven’t touched anything? Moved anything?”

“No,” you murmur, fingers pinching and tugging at your sleeve. “You told me not to.”

“Good, that’s good. You did good.”

The praise does little to settle your nerves, but you appreciate the thought.

The door to the stairwell opens, your heart all but stopping dead in your chest at the thought of the unknown and the fear that freezes the blood in your veins. It’s nothing to worry about, the new faces that come through the door bare you no harm, but you still can’t seem to wind down from the pure and utter panic that seizes you.

Marcus immediately strides forward to greet the couple of police officers that introduce themselves, leaving you behind with your arms wrapped so tightly around your chest in an effort to ground yourself.

A high pitched ringing pierces your ears and your eyes flutter closed, focusing every thought on counting the breaths that leave your lungs. In, out. In, out. It works for the most part, the ringing in your ears slowly subsiding until you’re able to hear a familiar voice carefully reach out to you.

“Hey Picasso.”

Jacob’s coming to a stop in front of you when you open your eyes, concern swimming in his eyes as he rakes them over you. He’s dressed much like Marcus, clad in wrinkled track pants and a loose fitting tee that you can plainly see is inside out. Another friendly face is calming, and the little smile that pulls at your lips isn’t easy and probably comes off more like a grimace, but he doesn’t mention it.

“Hey Jacob,” you murmur quietly, hands rubbing along your arms.

“You doin’ okay?”

You give a shrug, eyes darting past him to watch Marcus and the couple of officers talk. “I’m alright. What are you doing here?”

“Pike called in for backup on his way here,” he explains, head turning to eye where your front door had been pried open. “I live the closest so…”

You nod, eyes dropping to the floor. “Sorry to get you out of bed for this.”

“Don’t be. You should be more sorry for leaving without saying goodbye. Thought we were friends, Pollock.”

He’s frowning playfully at you when you look up at him, and you shift a little from guilt. He means no harm, you know that, but you didn’t even think of him when you decided to back out of the case. Was he a friend? You suppose so. You’d opened up to him, warmed to his easy going presence and the way he stood up for you. He was nice.

“I’m sorry about that. I just couldn’t—”

He holds up a hand with a gentle smile. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, it’s alright. Gotta do what’s best for you.”

Marcus appears beside him not even a moment later, slapping a thankful hand to Jacob’s shoulder before resting his eyes on you.

“They’ve just got a few questions for you. Nothing major, just a little statement and then they’ll call in the crime scene team and we’ll leave.”

“What’s the plan, boss?”

“She’s coming with me. She can stay at my place tonight,” Marcus says, and Jacob merely nods in return, as if he was expecting it. “I need you to stay and consult with the local detectives—”

You stop listening, brows coming together as you process his words. His place? Since when is that an option? And why couldn’t you stay somewhere else? A hotel? The little warehouse space they had reserved for you to paint? Hell, you’d settle for the couch at Jake’s at this point.

“What?”

Marcus sighs sharply, brown eyes fixing on you.

“Don’t fight me on this. We can find you somewhere else in the morning, I just—please.”

You find yourself nodding in response to his plea.

The officers behind them make themselves known, reaching out to you by name and beginning a small line of questioning. You answer their questions to the best of your ability, doing your best to focus on them as Marcus and Jacob discuss your apartment quietly behind you. 

What time did you get home? What did you do when you found your apartment broken into? Do you know anyone who would do this? Is there anyone who would wish to harm you? 

All of the questions begin to make you sick after a while, and Marcus must see it.

He steps in easily, directing their attention to him and cutting any further questioning off with the kind of finality only an agent of his standing could. They back off under his reassurance that he’ll answer any further questions regarding your situation and the investigation you were involved in himself at a later time, once you were settled somewhere safe.

With a nod of goodbye from Jacob, you follow Marcus down the corridor and down the stairs of your building. You try to relax, try to reassure yourself that you’re okay now, but with the gun in plain sight in front of you tucked into the waistband of Marcus’s pants and the tense way he seems to hold himself, eyes checking and rechecking every corner and space on your way out of the building, it does little to settle your nerves.

He opens and holds the passenger door of his car for you, and it’s impossible to miss the way he studies the street with eagle eyes over your head as you slip into the seat and settle yourself against the leather. You watch him walk around the front of your car, wondering what he sees, what he's thinking.

He’s on high alert, even when he slides in beside you and starts the car. It’s silent as he drives. He doesn’t move to flick the radio on to fill the silence, too lost in his own theories to even spare it a thought. Minutes tick by, the flash of streetlights passing by your window and washing over your features as your face twists with your thoughts, running over theories again and again until you feel almost dizzy.

You need to know what he thinks before you drive yourself mad.

Your voice catches in your throat. “Is this related to the investigation?”

“I don’t know yet, but given the timing it’s probable.”

“Am I in danger?”

His fingers rub over his mouth, his gaze focused solely on the red light in front of him as he internally debates on how to answer. You study his side profile, wondering if he’s intentionally avoiding your eyes to dodge answering truthfully or simply just trying to find a way to process his own thoughts.

A soft sigh eventually leaves his lips.

“Maybe.”

The stirrings of a chill begins to creep along your shoulders, a sick feeling bubbling in the pit of your stomach from having your chaotic string of anxiety ridden theories confirmed. 

“Hey, I meant what I said. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You don’t have the strength to say anything, couldn’t even find words if you tried. A thank you attempts to build itself on your tongue, yet it dissolves away the more your mind races and tears start to bite at your eyes. Your hand reaches across the small distance over the centre console to rest on the back of his own, hoping the silent gesture would get your words across well enough. 

Ever so slightly his hand shifts beneath yours, and a part of you wilts at the thought of him pulling away and taking away the comforting reassurance the physical touch provides, your fragile state finding an anchor in the familiar touch of skin.

But he doesn’t take it away.

His hand carefully turns, palm now warm against yours, and his fingers gently tangle with your own.

He says nothing, merely letting the rough pad of his thumb stroke along your skin. The steady back and forth of the touch begins to coax the race of your heart into something calmer, soothes the sting of tears. Neither of you move your hands for the rest of the drive.

—

It’s exactly what you expect.

The apartment is neat and tidy, decorated with simple pieces of furniture and little splashes of character throughout. You’re not surprised to see art, and lots of it. Framed prints hang from walls, ranging in size and emotion. A floor to ceiling mahogany bookshelf stretches along a wall behind a small dining table and you itch to tread closer to the collection of books lining it, to see who sits in the few frames that sit peacefully on the shelves.

“It’s very… you,” you comment quietly after studying your new surroundings, readjusting the strap of your weekend bag on your shoulder.

Marcus shifts where he stands, fingers toying with his keys and a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Is that a compliment?”

“You’ll never know.”

The smile widens and he walks deeper into the apartment, keys rattling softly as he places them on the breakfast counter. “The spare bedroom is just in the hall to the left, the bathroom is opposite.”

“Spare room?”

“You didn’t think I was going to make you sleep on the couch, did you?”

“I don’t know,” you reply.

You honestly didn’t know what to think when he bought up the topic of staying at his place. You weren’t opposed to sleeping on a couch when the occasion called for it, and God knows you’d rather take the floor than his bed. That felt entirely too personal given your history.

A spare room was a welcome development. You’d be out of his way and in your own space until he’s able to organise something else.

“Okay, well…” you falter, somewhat awkward just standing there in the middle of his apartment. “If it’s alright, I’m—I’m going to get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

He nods, eyes falling briefly away from you.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Uh, help yourself to the kitchen if you need anything during the night. If you need something else and can’t find it, my room’s at the end.”

You linger for just a moment more, a small piece of you clinging to the reassuring safety his presence seems to provide after the previous events of the night. His gaze moves back to you, so open and steady and soft, it finally pushes you to speak the words you’ve been struggling to get out since he all but flung himself out of bed to get to you.

“Thank you, Marcus, for… everything. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” he murmurs, gentle but with the firm seal of a promise.

His eyes follow you as you begin to make your way to the spare room, the weight of them familiar and surprisingly not unwelcome. No, you feel comforted, secure under his watchful gaze, able to breathe and release the tension embedded into your shoulders.

He doesn’t shy away when you spare him a final glance over your shoulder, and when he returns your small smile with one of his own, something in your chest seems to warm at the tender curl of it. The feeling follows you even when you close the door and slip into something more comfortable, stirs along your nerves when you slide into the crisp clean sheets of the bed and settle against the fluffy pillow.

And it’s still there, even when you succumb to the weight pulling at your eyes and slip into a heavy sleep. It’s not enough to keep the nightmares away though, shadows creeping along the familiar walls of your apartment in your mind and ghostly hands reaching out to tighten around your throat. You awake with a start sometime later, hands tight as they twist in the sheets and heart drumming against your ribs.

You attempt to settle back against the mattress with a few deep breaths, but the shadows dance along the ceiling of the room, taunting you with your recent fear.

Maybe they’d have faces if you knew who was behind this. Maybe they’d be the faces of old acquaintances, pinched with hatred and disgust that you’d given them so easily to the FBI and out for revenge. Maybe they’d be strangers, twisted by fury and fuelled by the significant loss of money from your replicas replacing their targets.

Maybe you deserved it.

Maybe this was just karma, the fall out of your choices and the consequences of each finally catching up to you. Maybe Marcus was wasting his time trying to step in, to save you from a fate you had probably sealed yourself in for when you first agreed to step into that forbidden world all that time ago.

These people, the widespread global business that runs behind closed doors, it was all so much bigger than you ever could’ve imagined when you started out.

What hope do you have of outrunning it? Of surviving the escape of it? There’s no leaving it behind.

Your body feels heavy as you pry yourself from the sheets and sit along the edge of the bed, neck stretching to either side in an effort to rid the ache slowly building behind your temples. Your mind continues to race, barraging you with questions of the unknown, the logical part of your mind struggling to comprehend, to put together how this came to be and how it could possibly play out.

None of it seems to lean in your favour.

The mere notion of it is dark, the apparent threat of death stretching and twisting through your mind until it’s seemingly all you can think about.

Marcus can try, but in reality, how much difference could he possibly make in the end? Whether it was now, or months, maybe even years, down the line… he won’t always be a phone call away. He won’t always be there with a promise that nothing will ever happen to you because of all of this, because of the life you chose to live.

You’re quiet as you slip out of the room and into the living area of his apartment, ensuring to keep your feet light over the floorboards to not disturb him. He had left a light on for you, a lamp perched on the side table beside the couch. That little trace of warmth returns with the thoughtful notion, attempts to coax the darkness plaguing your mind away, but it does very little in the end. The thoughts still run rampant.

The blanket you reach for on the couch is soft and smells comfortingly familiar as you tuck it around your shoulders. In the subdued light of the apartment, you nuzzle into it as you pad to the kitchen, taking in one final steadying breath before setting about finding a glass and filling it from the tap.

Sinking into the couch, you tuck your feet beneath you and huddle deeper into the blanket, thankful the warm light keeps your mind from finding shapes within the shadows stretching along the walls.

You don’t know how long you sit there, mind racing and anxiety spiralling out of control, but the telltale sound of a door opening down the hall has your eyes immediately fixing on the hallway, waiting for him to appear. He does only a moment later, hair askew and shadows under his eyes.

“I can’t sleep,” you offer quietly as an explanation, tucking the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” he replies, footsteps almost inaudible as he tracks his way to the couch and sinks into the cushions with a soft sigh. “I can’t sleep either.”

Every time he closed his eyes he saw your body spread out on an autopsy table, the soft skin of your forehead swollen and pierced by a single bullet wound. He hears vivid descriptions of your death, the degree of decomposition. His mind plagued him, tortured him, with it all over and over. 

He swallows the bile building in his throat, rubbing tiredly at his eyes and taking comfort in the fact that you’re beside him. Breathing, alive.

Is that how this could’ve turned out? What if you had gotten home and they were still there? What if you didn’t have the chance to call him? Who would’ve eventually found you? What if they had come back and he was too late? He shakes the thoughts away, refusing to entertain them for another single second.

It won’t happen. He simply wouldn’t let it.

“How are you doing?”

“Not good.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Do you? You wouldn’t even know how to form your thoughts into words. Where would you even begin? What would talking about it achieve? Nothing. There was no point. Besides, it wasn’t his burden to bear. This struggle was all yours and yours alone.

“No,” you mutter finally, sighing quietly. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“It is something, and it does matter,” he pushes softly, head resting gently against the back of the couch and head rolling to the side to watch you pick at his blanket. “I know it won’t mean much coming from me, but you’re not alone. You can talk to me.”

“To be honest, I don’t even know where to start. My mind’s all over the place. I had a nightmare and it—I don’t know. I just… I’m scared. That’s all.”

Your tone is dismissive, and he seems to take the hint that that’s all he’ll be getting out of you while you’re in this state. He doesn’t push any further, and simply lets the silence fall over you both as his eyes trace the outline of his coffee table. 

“Are you hungry?” He asks after a little while. “I can cook you something.”

Your face twists, eyes bouncing to the window where the night still stretches out beyond it. “Marcus, it’s like 3am.”

He hums lowly, and in the corner of your eyes you see a small boyish smile forming on his lips.

“Perfect time for pancakes.”

Pancakes? At this hour? But your stomach rumbles at the thought, reminding you that you didn’t get to enjoy the leftovers sitting in your fridge that you were saving for after your shift. You can’t remember when you ate last, wondering if it was something small before leaving for work or even something earlier than that.

He must see the indecision play across your face.

“Come on,” he coaxes gently, standing from the couch and holding a hand out to you. “We’ll make some pancakes and then we’ll watch a movie or something. It’ll take your mind off of everything. I’ll even let you pick what we watch.”

The offer of a distraction is welcome and highly appreciated, but guilt still bubbles in your system from keeping him from rest yet again. He has a rough job, with sleep surely being scarce already. You couldn’t ruin his attempt of getting what little sleep he could after you practically pulled him out of bed earlier.

“Shouldn’t you go and try to get some sleep, agent?”

He gives a small shrug, that smile curling along the edges of his lips. “It’s not my first all-nighter. Come on, you know you want to.”

You fight a smile of your own and relent, reaching for his hand and letting him pull you to your feet.

It works.

Through the making of the batter, the playful tossing of the pancakes, and the soft drone of American Pickers playing out across the screen when you both finally sink back into the couch with your plates, you find that your mind had been peacefully quiet, your anxiety calmed to a minimum.

Another thing to thank him for.

That warmth, soft and sweet, stirs back to life, and when you glance over at him you have a fleeting thought that you might be in more danger than you’re ready to admit. You immediately stamp it out and refuse to let it grow into something more, swallowing down your appreciative thank you and instead moving to cuddle into the plush arm of the couch, ensuring to keep a distance stretched out between you.

—

Your tea’s cold, the steady rolls of steam wafting up from its pale brown surface long gone. You don’t have the appetite for it right now, the craving all but snatched away with the one simple phone call Marcus had stepped into his bedroom to take. He said he’d be back, that he’d tell you everything.

Time rolls on, and your impatience merely grows along with it.

Do they have any answers? Do they know who was in your apartment and why?

You hope for something random, a break in from someone’s need for quick cash and that can be in, but deep in your gut you know it’s not the case. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t that easy, that simple. 

He immediately has your full attention when he eventually reappears, frowning down at his phone before sliding it into the pocket of his slacks. He’s dressed and ready for work, the soft comfortable side of him hidden behind his neatly pressed suit. He senses your questions before you have time to even form them on your tongue, and he gets straight into it, confirming your theories and curdling that bitter anxiety back to life.

“There were fingerprints at your apartment,” he starts, and you shift on the couch as something flashes across his face. “They were a match to the prints we previously pulled—”

—from a gun.

He feels physically sick.

They matched the prints from the ones found on a gun, linked to the murder of one of your old crew. These people, this person, had been in your home, touching your things, been so damn close to you…

Marcus stiffens his shoulders, heart beating at the back of his throat. He doesn’t know their motives, but judging by the state they left your apartment in, he gathered they weren’t there to recruit you. Someone somewhere knew you, knew what you had done, and they weren’t fucking happy. 

“I’m putting you into protective custody.”

It’s final, leaving no room for argument.

You’re left to nod, accepting his decision readily despite the dark thoughts that return with it all. What’s the point? His face twists, eyes suddenly narrowed and on you and it’s only then that you realise you’d unintentionally said it out loud. You sigh tiredly, eyes falling away from the questions flashing across his face.

“Marcus, they—” you falter, hands clenching to hide their tremble, “—they’ll find me eventually, whether it’s now or in the future. What more can you do?”

“Anything. Everything. I’ll bounce you around this country until I find all of them if I have to.”

It’s spoken with such a determined vigor you’re left with nothing to say in return. You can’t argue with his resolve. You can’t tell him that it’s ridiculous, that you’re not worth that trouble and that you doubt the FBI would waste such resources on keeping someone like you safe. You’re hardly on the top of their priority list.

“But what kind of life is that? I’m practically on the run until you think it’s safe?”

“If it wasn’t for us—if it wasn’t for me—requesting your assistance with the case, you wouldn’t be in this situation. It’s my responsibility to see to it that you’re safe while we continue the investigation and apprehend those responsible, no matter how long it takes.”

So he thinks it’s his fault you’re in this position. This is him just covering his back, crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s so he wouldn’t be held responsible for anything that happens to you. It’s understandable, his job must mean a lot to him considering his position. It’s your fault you’re even here in the first place.

“Marcus, you don’t have to feel guilty for any of this. I chose to do it. It wouldn’t be your fault if anything happens to me, that’s just the consequences of getting myself mixed into everything when I did.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you.”

“You don’t know that, you can’t promise that—”

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” he repeats, firmer.

There’s that resolve again. You see it etched into his expression, buried within the tightness between his brows. There’s no moving him from it, no talking sense or pushing your case. He won’t hear it, won’t entertain any other possibility than the one he’s seemingly settled on. How could he be so sure?

It wouldn’t kill him to admit there’s a risk here.

You sigh, hands itching to busy themselves as worry curdles along your veins. It pushes your heart faster, turns your stomach until you feel a sickening ache building in your throat. You could take comfort from how hell bent he is on keeping you safe from harm, but your mind pushes to see reason, to know why he’s being so damn stubborn about this.

Even if Jane was right about his supposed ‘feelings’, going to all this trouble for a silly little crush built from your past is just ridiculous. Unless that’s what he’s trying to make up for. It’s not about feelings that are or aren’t there, it’s about fixing what happened. That’s what he’s doing. He couldn’t stop everything spiralling last time, so maybe that’s what he’s trying to do this time. 

“You don’t have to do all of this, you know.”

Confusion bleeds into his expression, his hands finding his hips as he waits for further elaboration.

“You don’t need to make up for the past or anything. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

And you were, in a way. Oddly enough, this whole experience had given you closure on a chapter you never thought you’d be able to close. Never did you think you’d be able to achieve this kind of… peace with it all, and yet here you are—in his apartment, comfortable in his presence and the bitter hatred that had curdled so viciously in your heart nowhere to be found.

Of course it still hurts, and probably always will, but he wasn’t all bad. His continuous insistence in keeping you safe, his genuine sincerity in comforting you, and respecting the boundaries you had made along the way through coming into the investigation had shown you that. You can believe he had no intentions of letting it spiral as much as it did back then, didn’t mean for it to develop into what you had shared. It must have been confusing for him, the lines blurring between real and fake.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” He questions softly, hardened frame weakening under your gaze. “Making up for the past?”

“Why else would you be doing all of this?”

The quiet that falls between you is built with something you can’t seem to place in the moment, his warm brown eyes flicking over your face almost as if he were debating saying something. His mouth opens, and you wait, watching some kind of conflict pass across his face before he exhales gently, his gaze falling to the floor.

He leaves your question unanswered.

“I’m going into the office to organise your accommodations and to follow up on those prints. I’ll have an agent come to collect you sometime later this morning—you can grab some things from your apartment before we move you.”

You should leave it, but you can’t. You want to know why. If it’s not because he’s trying to compensate for the past, then why is he going to all these extremes? Protective custody is a logical step in this kind of circumstance, but you highly doubt there are agents just opening their homes to victims needing somewhere safe to stay.

He had wanted you here, in his apartment where he could watch over you himself. He had made you pancakes, made such an idiot of himself making a mess with batter and tossing the pancakes until a chuckle finally broke its way past your lips, and carefully tucked the blanket around your shoulders when you had fallen into a light sleep on the couch.

Though you weren’t fully conscious enough to recall all of it, a part of you had felt the shift of the couch, sensed his hands near and the sudden reassuring warmth of the blanket before slipping into a dreamless slumber. He was asleep and spread out beside you when you awoke a few hours later, hand stretched across the couch and resting on the cushion just shy of your covered feet, almost as if he were looking for you while lost in his own dreams.

“Marcus, why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s my responsibility—”

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish his sentence. He lets it hang in the air, body slackening as soon as your eyes meet his. The vulnerability that seems to work its way through his system displays openly on his face.

“Be honest with me. Tell me the truth.”

He huffs in wry amusement, face twisting. His head drops, he shuffles on his feet and then he sighs, resigned. “After your conversation with Jane, I think you know why.”

You can’t help but recoil from his words, a frown quick to pinch your brows in surprise. “You know about that?”

His small smile is sad, uncomfortable.

“Jane may be a dick, but Rigsby’s a good guy. He pulled me aside and told me about it when he heard you had dropped your involvement. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you were put in that position—it must’ve been difficult for you. And it’s not something you should’ve heard from him, of all people.”

He’s not denying it. He’s not rejecting Jane’s words. He’s not standing there insisting it’s just another one of his silly little mind games, or that he was making a big deal out of nothing. He has feelings for you. Actual feelings, and not some strange little crush carried from the past, and from seeing you again after so long. You don’t even know how they could be there. He doesn’t know you, not anymore at least.

“You can’t have feelings for me,” you state plainly, heart suddenly beating at the base of your throat.

“Why not?” He fires back immediately, defensively.

“Because you—” you flounder for words, eyes darting around the apartment in an effort to string your thoughts together. “Marcus, before this investigation, we hadn’t seen each other since—”

“Yeah, well… I guess they never went away.”

“They weren’t real!” You cry out, a touch of anger seeping into your tone as you stand from the couch and face him fully. “You were working, I-I was just a lead! You couldn’t possibly have—”

“You were never just a lead!”

You’re taken aback by the sudden force behind his voice, and he must see the way you flinch at it. He calms almost instantly, chest heaving with a sharp exhale as he breaks away from your gaze and curls in on himself. You don’t know what to say. You merely wait for something more, hanging on the way he seems to be thinking so damn hard on his words.

“You—you weren’t just a lead. Not to me.”

“What are you saying? The whole time, you… the whole time?”

“The whole time,” he confirms quietly, and for a split second you just wish he would look at you.

He doesn’t, and your mind spins. The revelation hits you deeply, the stirrings of confusion, heartache, simmering in the pit of your stomach. It doesn’t change anything. It couldn’t. The damage had already long been done, but strangely enough there comes a wash of comfort that soothes the bitter sting, and the question slips free of your lips before you even comprehend it.

“It was real,” you choke out, eyes prickling from the build of tears, “wasn’t it?”

Maybe not the whole thing given the circumstances, but what you shared, what he felt for you—

“It was always real to me.”

And with those few little words, he shatters the perception you had built of him and the time you shared together. You feel it hit you—hard, your body taking a step back as your throat tightens until you worry you won’t be able to get a breath in or out. The tears slip free, spilling down your cheeks as your mind hurries to replay every memory of him in a different light, one not tainted with betrayal or hatred.

He follows your step back on instinct, one foot coming to move his body forward towards you before he stops himself short. He swallows, a hand finally leaving his hip to run over his face and collect the stray tear that had slid along his cheek. 

“Someone will come to collect you soon,” he rasps quietly, leaving you to your chaotic mess of thoughts and slipping out of the apartment, the door clicking shut softly behind him.

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || ch. 19]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

chapter masterlist

Words: 3.6k

ao3 link

banner thanks to the wonderful @theradioactivespidergwen

Frank, admittedly, isn’t as fit as he used to be. 

Running through the desert, carrying all his gear, used to be an everyday thing he could do no problem, but now, running through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he finds his breathing to be a bit labored. 

Then again, that might be because he’s pissed off. He, Jones, and Red were in the middle of setting up for a night of surveillance, something Red insisted they do, when the costumed idiot took off into the night without a word.

Normally, Red will give them the damn courtesy of letting them know before he disappears to protect his flock, so him just starting to bolt had Frank and Jones scooping up their shit and following. 

One thing Frank’s learned while working with Matt Murdock is to trust the bastard when it comes to his senses - when he says they need to clear out, there is usually a damn good reason to start running. But he has always given a reason or a head’s up - taking off like this must mean something is going down.

Jones gave up trying to keep pace a few blocks back, but Frank is determined to find out what the hell is going on. Red has the advantage of not hauling an additional fifty pounds of gear, and he has taken to parkouring over the roofs, so has gotten about a block and a half ahead. 

Frank can keep him in his sights, at least. He’s making a bee-line right towards Chelsea and that’s causing a pit to start to grow in the Marine’s stomach. Not many things override Red’s deep seeded commitment to his city and only one of those things resides outside Hell’s Kitchen. 

He adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move faster.  

The buildings around him shift from businesses to residential and about two blocks into the change, Frank knows what set the Devil off. 

His little girl is in the middle of the sidewalk, crying hysterically as her mother struggles on the ground against some fat fuck in a business suit. Frank only sees the attacker for a brief second before fury incarnate grabs him by his thick neck and slams him into the ground by Mom’s feet. The sound of a skull being cracked rings clear before it's covered by angry roars and the crunch and squelch of someone’s face being pounded in. 

By the Grace of all that is Holy, Red’s baby seems to not care her dad is about to kill a guy and scurries to her Mommy now that she is free. Frank kicks his ass into gear to get there before she can be traumatized anymore. 

He doesn’t know if the little girl recognizes him or not, but she doesn’t fight it when Frank picks her up. She clings to him desperately, burying her face against his neck and just sobbing. Instincts he forgot he had kick in and Frank bundles Minnie up in his duster, rocking her and trying to soothe her the best he can.

“Hey, hey, sweet girl, it's okay, it's okay. I gotcha. Everything’s gonna be okay, I gotcha.”

Frank cups the back of her head, careful to not tangle his fingers up in her curls and turns her away from her bloody mother. He needs to check on you, to make sure your wounds are something he can handle, and they don’t need to take you to the hospital, but he can’t do that with a crying toddler in his arms. 

“He hurt my Mommy!” The baby wails and his heart just about breaks. He wants so badly to join Red in stomping the piece of shit’s head into the pavement for endangering such a precious child, but he knows he can’t. She can’t witness any more than she already has. 

As often as Frank takes digs at Murdock for being an altar boy, he can’t let Red’s daughter see him lose control and step over the line he swore to never cross. He’d never forgive himself for causing that trauma for her. So, he hugs the little girl closer, kisses the top of her head, then grunts, “Red!”

Murdock stills mid-punch, his bloody fist raised and ready to continue his punishment. He looks feral - he is snarling, and gore has splashed up onto his face. He is shaking with rage and for a brief moment, Frank can see why he claims to have the Devil in him. Then, just as his little girl cries for her Mom again, control returns to him. Red tilts his head in a way Frank knows he heard something, then he pushes himself up into standing. 

Red rips his gloves off, throwing them to the ground, before taking the few steps to clear the gap between him and Frank. He barely starts to rasp out his daughter’s name before she’s turning in Frank’s arms and trying to throw herself to him, sobbing.

“DADDY!”

The noise Red makes is not at all human as he crushes his baby girl to his chest. A new round of loud tears start and Frank knows he has to work quickly before they start attracting attention. 

He pulls his duster off and throws it around Red’s shoulders, trying to hide his garish costume. Murdock seems to realize what he’s doing - he curls into it while ducking his horn-head and moving towards the shadows as he comforts his daughter. Frank can’t hear what he’s saying - his voice is low and the crying covers it - but honestly he doesn’t care.

He turns his attention back to your limp body on the ground, dropping down and letting his knowledge of field medicine take over.

Your forehead is bleeding pretty bad, but a quick assessment of the wound tells him it looks worse than it really is. You’ve got a pretty good gash, but it is shallow, and he doesn’t feel any bone breakage under it or swelling. You’ll need a few stitches, and a hell of a lot of ibuprofen, but you won’t need a hospital. You probably passed out from a combination of pain and exhaustion from an adrenaline rush. 

Still, Frank checks your neck before deciding to move you, just to make sure it's safe. 

As he starts to press his fingers along your spine, Jones finally makes her appearance, jogging up to the scene. 

“What the fuck?”

Frank barely looks up as he growls out his reply, focusing on his work while formulating a plan in his head, “It’s his kid.”

“Oh shit,” she replies, then after a beat, “Is he dead?”

Frank barely looks over to the beaten man in question - his chest is still rising and falling so that’s good enough for him. “Nah, not yet. Call it in - then meet us up in her apartment.” 

He rattles off the address and apartment number as he scoops you up into a fireman’s carry. He’s glad he doesn’t have far to go, because your weight, plus his gear, isn’t doing any favors to his back. As he gets you situated, Jones steps over to the attacker and nudges him in the side with her boot. His face isn’t recognizable as human, but that isn’t what she comments on. 

“What is that smell? Did he shit himself?”

“Fuck if I know, just call it in,” Frank grunts as he begins to trudge towards the right building. “Red, let's go!”

He knows he doesn’t have to explain the plan to Murdock - fucker heard him the first time. Red falls in line and by some miracle, his little girl’s crying has tampered down. She’s still crying - Frank would be more concerned if she wasn’t - but she’s tucked herself close to her Dad and seems to be just more upset than actively terrified. Frank’s got no idea what Murdock could have possibly done to soothe her, but he gives him props for doing it so damn fast. 

He can hear Jones calling for an ambulance as they enter into your building, and once in the lobby, Frank wastes no time barking another order, “Take off your helmet.” 

That earns him a glare, or what counts as a glare from the Devil, and Murdock uses one hand to pull his cowl off and stuffs it between his chest and his daughter before starting for the stairs. Frank is right at his heel and being so close means he can finally hear what Red is repeating to his girl. 

“Just listen to her heart, baby, everything’s okay. You know that sound. Just listen to her heart.”

Frank has a good guess what that means - his theory about passing out from exhaustion and pain is probably correct. If your heart isn’t in crazy panic ‘I’m dying’ mode, you should be fine after a good night’s rest. 

The only problem they encounter in the climb up to your apartment is your door. They have to do a weird song-and-dance of Frank turning so Red can get into your purse to get keys while also making sure Minnie can’t see your face. He hasn’t gotten the chance to clean you up in any way and he’s not going to let any little girl see her mom like that if he can help it. 

Once they are inside the apartment, Frank goes right to the couch to lay you out. As he does, he says over his shoulder, “I’m gonna call Curt.” 

Just because you don’t need a hospital doesn’t mean you shouldn’t see a medical professional. Frank knows what he is doing, but he does not trust himself to stitch up your face. Someone with delicate hands needs to do that, and the best person he knows for that is Curt. 

Murdock, however, disagrees. 

“Call Claire,” he counters firmly. 

Frank knows better than to argue - this is Murdock’s family and Frank ain’t got a dog in this fight. So, once you are down, and his gear is dropped, he fishes out his phone to call the feisty nurse. As he does, Red starts back towards what Frank assumes is the bedroom, talking in a sweet tone to his little girl, “It's okay, Frank’s gonna clean Mommy up, then we can go see her. She’s just got a scrape, everything’s okay.”

Frank focuses on his task at hand - as the line rings, he raids the kitchen for washcloths, bowls, and paper towels. He’s on his way back to the couch when Claire finally answers.

“What did he do this time?”

A little smile forms on his lips at her bluntness - he’s always liked Claire and her no-nonsense attitude. 

“Ain’t him. His girl got mugged, hit her head pretty good,” he explains, as he dips a washcloth into the water to start on cleaning you up. The cut on your forehead is still bleeding, but only a little by this point. He’ll have to retrace their steps to wipe away any blood droplets, so they don't leave a trail right to your door.

“So, take her to the ER.”

He hums at the response, then adds the crucial element, “His little girl saw it all.”

The line is silent for a good five seconds before Claire is swearing, “I’m on my way. How bad are we talking?”

He feels a little for the nurse at the moment - she’s always having to deal with Red broken and battered and is probably thinking she’s going to have to do some sort of impromptu surgery. He gives a rundown on your injuries, then adds, “Your stitches are nicer than mine.” 

“Exactly what a lady wants to hear. How’s the kid?” 

“Physically ok, but probably going to have nightmares for a while,” is his honest reply. There wouldn’t be an attacker left to pick up in an ambulance if Minnie had gotten hurt - he would have made sure of that no matter what Red would have said.

Claire groans in response, “I don’t know anything about child psychology, Frank.” 

“No one’s expecting you to.”

The nurse may be a miracle worker in the eyes of Red’s little vigilante group, but no one in this world is qualified to deal with all their mental problems.

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll be there. You’re lucky I’m on this side of town already.” 

Claire hangs up on him and Franks stuffs his phone back into his pocket. He’ll need to call Mirco later to set up a camera on your building, something similar to what he’s got for Karen, and arrange for some background checks on the neighbors. The area seems to be working class just trying to get by, but isn’t that just all of the city now? Even if one drunk-off-his-ass guy just made some stupid decision, it put you and the kid in danger and that is a no-go in Frank’s book. As much Red will huff and puff and growl, his family falls under Frank’s sphere of protection and that isn’t something Frank skimps on. 

So, a full security upgrade is in your near future. 

But that is something he’ll figure out the details for later on. Right now, he puts his full attention in cleaning you up. 

The worst of it is the cut on your forehead. He folds a washcloth and sets it on the wound to help the remaining bleeding stop, then moves onto your cheeks. You’ve got some gravel stuck there, but he doesn’t see any glass or metal. There’s some bruising, but he doesn’t think it will be anything to fuss about - it will fade away within a day or so. He’s seen worse coloring on a hickey. The bastard who attacked you didn’t seem like he knew what he was doing, or he was too sloshed out of his mind to be coordinated.

 Overall, you are just pretty banged up. 

But nonetheless, Frank takes care to make sure it just looks like you are resting, even putting the throw blanket left on the couch over you to hide the grime stains on your clothes. 

Red and his creepy bat ears must be listening, because as soon as he goes to dump the bloody cleaning water, he’s coming out of the bedroom with Minnie. She’s still in his arms, clinging to his neck like a koala, but her tears have stopped. She’s still sniffling, though.

Frank hangs back as the little girl is brought to her Mommy and his heart damn near breaks again when she starts talking. 

“She’s just sleeping?” 

“She’s just sleeping,” Red confirms. He carefully kneels down beside you and makes slow, exaggerated movements as he puts his hand over your heart. “You can feel, too. Just sleeping.”

He watches as the tiny little girl untangles herself from her father and stretches to put her hand next to his. She scrunches up her nose and gets a look Frank has seen a million times on Red. 

“Boom. Boom. Boom.”

“Exactly, boom. Boom. boom. The same heart-noises Mommy makes when she sleeps.” 

They stay like that for a few seconds before little hands go up to your face and Minnie is examining your cuts.

“He hurt Mommy,” she says so softly that Frank wants to stomp back downstairs and unload his Glock into the asshole. “She has ouchies.” She turns so quickly in Red’s arm that Frank sees him jump just a little - probably still on high alert - and she slaps both her hands on his cheeks, “You have to kissy it better.”

Her voice is so serious and demanding, he’s surprised Red doesn’t instantly comply. Instead, he kisses his little one’s forehead. 

“A doctor is going to come and make sure all her ouchies are taken care of. Then we can kiss it better.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Her curls bounce as the little girl whips around to address Frank, ordering in the same voice, “You have to kissy it better, too.”

He damn well knows better than to argue with a three year old girl - Lisa could put him in his place like no one's business - so Frank simply nods with a, “Yes, ma’am.” Red doesn't look thrilled at the agreement, but he's not the one who's opinion Frank cares about.

Her brown eyes sus him out, narrowing a fraction before he passes whatever criteria she has and Minnie turns back to her mother and father. “When is she gonna wake up?”

“She'll wake up when she's done resting,” Murdock gently advises. “She needs lots of rest right now.” 

Frank knows what question is coming before it is even asked. It is the universal toddler question. 

“Why?”

Red, it seems, needs to spend more time with his kid because he looks completely baffled by the question. He repeats the word, which just gets parroted back at him, and Frank can practically hear Lisa and Frankie chanting along with her. 

Why? 

Why? 

Why?

Why would you need lots of rest in a way a terrified toddler would get it? There's a slight hint of panic in Red’s sightless eyes as he fights to find an answer and Frank takes pity on him. 

He steps forward and asks the little girl, “Have you ever played really hard then needed a nap after?”

Attention swings back to him but this time he is prepared for it. Minnie considers his question, then nods, and Frank gives her a soft, friendly smile. “Same thing, sweetheart. Your Mommy’s body worked really hard and now she needs a nap.” 

“She needs a nap,” the baby replies and then, to his amusement, proceeds to stuff her fingers into her mouth and suck on them. He's got no idea what that means, but Red’s shoulders relax a fraction, so he assumes it's a good thing. 

He wonders if she's starting to get tired now that the action is over. He can't imagine why they were out in the first place, but he has to guess it was to get something from the store. That is his experience with bringing a baby in their pajamas out at night - there was something needed that couldn't wait until morning. That would also explain the black bag in your purse.

He looks to Red and his girl - Murdock has sat himself on the floor beside the couch, facing you, and Minnie is tucked in his lap, sucking her fingers still. Both of their focus seems to be on you. So, Frank lets curiosity get the better of him and he goes to snoop. 

There’s a bottle of Pedialyte nestled inside the bag, and by the tiny bit missing, he has a feeling he knows who it is for. He looks from it, over to the sweet child sitting in Red’s lap, and decides she probably still needs it if her mom went out in the middle of the night for it. So, he turns his snooping to the kitchen and opens and closes cabinets until he finds the one holding sippy cups. All of them have Braille labels on them and he briefly wonders what each says before grabbing one with Big Bird on it. He gives it a good rinse before filling it up halfway with the blue liquid.

He removes his tactical vest before he heads back to the living room. He thinks of it more of a sign for Red than Minnie. The little girl might be scared of the skull art, but he hopes it will help Murdock relax. He’s putting on a good face for his daughter, but Frank can see the tension in his jaw and how on edge and angry he must be, and he can’t be blamed. He knows how emotional Red can get and he’s surprised he’s managing to keep it together - so subtly letting him know ‘there’s no danger here’ and Frank isn’t a threat to his family might just get him to stop grinding his teeth. 

He approaches slowly and somewhat loudly, while holding out the sippy cup, “Here you go, sweetie.”

Minnie blinks up at him with those wide brown eyes and he can see the exhaustion starting to creep in - getting a bottle might just knock her out. He has to lean down so she can take it, but as soon as she does, her hand drops from her mouth and she politely mumbles, “Thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome, sweetheart.”

“What is it?” Murdock questions, nose twitching to try to figure out the smell. Frank doubts he’s familiar with the drink, but soon he’ll have it memorized.

“Blue Pedi-lyte,” the baby grumbles before the spout goes right into her mouth and she starts to nurse it. Almost instantly she starts leaning back against Red’s chest and Frank knows right away she’ll be asleep within minutes. 

He checks his phone as he goes to take a seat at the kitchen table. Claire should be here any minute and it's a toss up if Jones comes up or not. He’ll wait until everything is all settled to head out - he does want to make sure you are okay and he’s not going to leave Claire alone with an upset kid and her Dad-devil. 

Frank brings up his texts to Karen to start typing out that the op is a bust, when Murdock’s quiet voice interrupts his train of thought.

“Thank you, Frank.”

“Nothing to thank me for, Red. It’s your family. You don’t gotta explain that to me.”

“Still, thank you, Frank. I mean it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Murdock.”

---

a/n: frank has entered the chat and assumed Alpha Dad role. his family now.

tags:

@midnightreids @cloudroomblog @yeonalie @thychuvaluswife 

@petrovafire39 @ghostindeath 

 @allllium

@anehkael

 @nennia-2000 @seasonofthenerd @abucketofweird  @mattmurdockstateofmind @imagineswritersblog @hazelhavoc @smile-child-13 @allst4rsfall @hashcakes @kezibear @mapleaye @sammanna @gamingfeline @moon-glades @nightwitherspring @phoenix666stuff @dare-devil

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[stylesispunk]

Waiting room

Joel Miller x f! reader

summary: A few years ago, Joel saved your life and you have loved him ever since but he didn't reciprocate your feelings or that's what you thought. word count: 2,5k a/n: I didn't write a chapter for "The Not so Invisible String" series but wrote this. I would appreciate receiving reblogs and comments. Happy reading!

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

"What happened to me?" you questioned, your curiosity seeking answers.

"I found you," the stranger replied. "You had slept for two days."

In two days, you changed the rules of the game.

In two days, Joel came across with his humanity when he found you laying on the ground after being beaten up by some smugglers.

And what a plot twist you were.

You were so young and naïve when the world broke into a mess, and the reminisces of your old life before were just fogging memories threatened to be erased completely by the clouds of your head. You had forgotten your mother’s voice, the taste of the cookies she baked on Sunday’s afternoons, and the essence of her perfume enveloping you in embraces you were never going to get back.

You still craved a lingering, real sort of comfort that hadn’t come. In this world, emotions make you weak, and being weak means you die.

The closest thing to caring you received from someone was from Joel. The day he found you, he treated your wounds, he prevented you from dying by starving himself, and he fed you with his food.

“I broke my rules for you.” He peeped once you recovered, but still, he let you stay.

Through the months and years, you had become accustomed to the idea of him and Tess being the only people you could trust; they were older and wiser than you, a perk but also a source of constant disappointment over the idea of you being seen as the foolish, weak kid.

You felt a burden. You were a constant troublemaker, getting into trouble with everyone who seemed to mess with you, but under some eyes, you were still Joel’s girl, just that you really weren’t. You just idealize the idea of it.

Because every time somebody hit you, he was there, and if that wasn’t love, what the fuck was it?

You knew that there was something between them beyond a simple partner-in-crime relationship. They weren’t what you would call lovers, but there was unspoken language between them you couldn’t decipher, not because you were a fool but because you weren’t a part of them.

Because you weren’t important,

You didn’t know if Joel cared about you coming back.

You were just someone Joel found almost dying.

Whereas for you, he was the closest thing you felt to home.

"Where were you?" his voice called out in the middle of the dark room, breaking the silence of the eerie night.

“God, you scared me,” you answered. "I thought you were asleep."

"You know I don't go to sleep unless I know you're here." His voice was so sharp it could cut in half.

Liar.

“You are asleep other times,” you acknowledged, trying to remove your boots without whimpering as the pain settled in your bones. “And I'm here. You can go to sleep now," you hissed, out of frustration but also from the pain emanating from cuts.

"No."

"Well, I'll go then," you replied.

“Come here, show me,” he demanded.

“No.”

“Come here,” he repeated, frustrated this time.

“I said, “

“Now!” the raised tone sent shivers down your spine, forming a lump in your throat.

You were there, not moving, and he was closer. The dim light in the room cast eerie shadows as he examined your face, his fingertips tracing the evidence of the scars painted on your skin.

The cut on your bottom lip throbbed with each breath. A bruise, vividly purple, marred the skin around your eye, testimony to the violence that had been part of it and the cut on your nose, which seemed to be broken.

Not only do you face hurt, but all your body is carrying the consequences of a beating you didn’t think you deserved. Your bones felt crushed under the pressure of the emotional turbulence going on in your head.

And Joel’s touch, his gentle touch, so delicate yet full of fury, not towards you but at the merciless people that forced such a wound on you. You winced as his fingers grazed the tender skin; his silence was so loud.

“Who did this to you?” he muttered, frustration lacing his voice. The sharpness of his earlier tone softened under your teary stare.

“It doesn’t matter,” you replied.

“It does to me,” he retorted.

“No. Joel, let me be alone. It hurts; my body was hit, and I would be dead if it weren’t for you,“you sobbed.

“For what?”

"For you," you admitted through a shaky breath, the weight of the truth bearing down on you. The room seemed to shrink as you uttered those words, exposing a vulnerability that had remained buried beneath the facade of strength.

Joel's eyes softened, and the fury in his touch transformed into a gentleness that contrasted with the brutality of reality outside. In that fleeting moment, it was just the two of you, suspended in a fragile moment.

His voice, now a whisper, carried a mix of concern and disbelief. "For me?"

“The only reason I’m not dead is because of you. Can you believe it?” You chuckled. “One of the men there recognized me as Joel’s girl, who I am not, and then they stopped. Not even because I’m a person, but because I am associated with a man.”

Joel's expression tightened at the revelation, a flicker of anger passing through his eyes.

“Let me clean your wounds, “Joel began, his voice a gentle plea to attend to your wounds.

"No. I don't need your fucking help," you interrupted, frustration lacing your words, tired of being the dog at Joel’s door waiting for him to notice your loyalty and devotion.

"Yes, you need it because you're a fucking naive baby acting restless and so careless." Joel retorted, frustrated.

“"I have no one. My life is just a waste of air for this damn world, so why should I care about my well-being?" you shot back bitterly, the pain in your voice mirroring the bruises on your body.

"Because I care about you," Joel admitted, his words a brief glimmer of hope. However, before you could fully grasp the weight of his confession, he extinguished any expectations. "You have Tess and me; we share our roof with you."

"Exactly. Your place, not mine," you argued, a stark reminder of the boundaries that confined your sense of belonging.

"Your point?" Joel challenged.

"You found me once and brought me here, okay? Thanks for it. But that doesn't mean I have your respect," you asserted, the frustration bubbling to the surface.

"My protection is not enough." Joel questioned, his patience wearing thin.

"It's not," you replied with conviction.

"Then you can go and find your own fucking place."

"That's what I'm doing. I'm leaving the QZ. There may be a place that fits for me," you declared, the decision firm in your voice.

Joel's silence echoed through the room, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. But you offered none, maintaining a stoic resolve as you walked away from the confrontation.

"What? Where?" he finally managed to utter, a mixture of confusion and concern etched on his face.

"Goodnight," you replied tersely, your voice carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. The darkness of the hallway enveloped you as you retreated towards the bedroom. The door creaked shut behind you, leaving Joel standing in the dimly lit room, grappling with the echoes of your departure.

The room was shrouded in darkness, and you lay on the bed, the events of the night replaying in your mind like a relentless loop making fun of you for being so foolish, but despite the physical exhaustion, sleep eluded you, and your thoughts continued to wander through the tangled maze of emotions.

And Joel, of course, whom you were leaving behind tomorrow morning before he could even notice you were going to disappear.

As you lay there, the door creaked open, and Joel entered, carrying a small bottle and a cloth. The soft glow of a flashlight in his hand illuminated his face, revealing concern and remorse for his previous attitude.

"I brought something for the pain," he muttered, his gruff voice softened by a vulnerability you rarely could see. You remained silent, acknowledging his presence with a nod.

Joel approached, his movements deliberate as he poured a few pills onto his weathered palm. "Take these. They'll help with the pain and help you sleep."

You reluctantly accepted the medicine, swallowing it down with a sip of water from a nearby bottle. The bitterness lingered on your tongue.

Joel then reached for the cloth, dampening it with water. Gently, he began to clean the wounds on your face, his touch surprisingly tender. The initial sting of contact faded, replaced by a strange mix of relief and discomfort.

"Joel,” you said, but he didn’t answer and focused on tending to your injuries.

"Joel," you repeated, a little more assertive this time. His name hung in the air, yet he remained silent, his attention fixed on the task at hand. The rhythmic motions of cleaning your wounds seemed to be his sole purpose.

You took a deep breath, the weight of unspoken words settling heavily in the room. "Joel," you said once more, this time with an edge of urgency, attempting to draw him out of his concentrated silence.

He finally looked up, meeting your gaze. "What is it?"

The room felt hot with tension as you hesitated before finding the words. "I appreciate this—the medicine, cleaning my wounds. But it doesn't change my mind about leaving.”

His gaze held yours, an unspoken plea for understanding. "You're hurt; you can't go so far in your state," he replied, a touch of concern in his voice.

"So what?" you retorted, frustration bubbling to the surface. "If I have to die outside, I will. I don't care. I'm just tired of this life."

Joel's eyes narrowed, his expression shifting from anger to concern. "What would make that thought go away?" he asked, his question cutting through the defiance in your tone.

"What?" you responded, caught off guard by the unexpected question.

"What would make life worth living?" he repeated, his gaze unwavering. The weight of his inquiry settled in the room, demanding introspection.

The silence that followed was heavy, the question lingering in the air as you grappled with the complexities of your own desires and the harsh realities of the world outside that broke any chance of achieving the dreams you had when you were a child.

The silence stretched, becoming a tangible force in the room, until Joel's desperation cut through it like a blade. "I'm waiting," he said, his tone laden with urgency.

"To have someone," you confessed, your voice carrying the weight of unspoken longings.

"How?" he pressed, searching for clarity in your cryptic words.

"To have someone that cares for me," you explained, the vulnerability in your voice laying bare a deep-seated yearning, a yearning you had been carrying for years.

"You have me," Joel insisted, his desperation now tinged with frustration.

"You're not mine; you're hers," you said, invoking Tess. "Do you think I don't hear you both having sex?”

His eyes widened, realization dawning on him as the unspoken truth reverberated in the room.

"Maybe my body was hers, but inside, it's here." Joel took your hand and placed it over his chest, just above his heart. "I'm craving for you."

A tense silence enveloped the room as your words hung in the air, and Joel's eyes reflected all the sincerity of his feelings slipping from his lips. Your skepticism pierced through the charged atmosphere, casting a shadow over the vulnerability that had been exposed.

"I don't believe you," you declared, a note of disbelief in your voice.

Joel's expression tightened, a blend of irritation and determination etched on his face. "You don't?"

"You're just saying those things out of pity," you accused, the walls of defense rising once more.

He shook his head, a flicker of frustration evident in his eyes. "You are whiny, a pain in the ass, arrogant, naive..."

"Stop!" you exclaimed, the litany of criticism hitting you harder than expected.

"Yet, despite it all," Joel continued, his voice a mixture of exasperation and something deeper, "you make me go crazy, and still, I want to break every single finger that has been laid against you."

The weight of Joel's words hung in the air, a revelation that cut through the tension and laid bare the depth of his emotions. His eyes, always filled with exasperation, now held a raw vulnerability.

"You don't realize that you brought sense back to my life!" he exclaimed, the urgency in his voice echoing through the room. "If you go and you die, there's nothing left for me to fight for."

"I want to be the last one you love," he spoke, his hands cupping your face, fingers tracing delicate patterns over the scars that adorned your skin. His gaze, dark and intense, held a promise that lingered in the air. "I want to be your ending."

"And I want you to be my ending," he added, referring to the weight of the words hanging between you.

A profound silence settled, punctuated only by the erratic beats of your heart against your ribs, In that moment, you felt that the confession of love coming from Joel was the last source of breath you needed to become a person again.

And then, he kissed you. With a warning written on his dark eyes, yet you didn't see it coming. He kissed you because there wasn't anything else to do. He wanted to claim your lips as them because they were his.

Joel's lips lingered against yours, the warmth of his kiss irradiated foreign feelings for you. You had never felt so loved for someone before, and as the kiss deepened, a subtle smile played on his lips, a rare expression coming from him.

He pulled away slightly, his dark eyes searching yours for any sign of resistance. His hands, calloused and weathered, gently caressed your face, tracing the contours of the scars on your face.

"You're not leaving," he spoke against your lips, with another gentle peck on them.

A shy smile played on your lips in response. "Whatever,” you replied.

Joel's confession had acted as a healing salve, mending not just the physical scars but also the emotional ones that had marked your journey through this world.

Joel's eyes softened as he caught the playful glint in your smile, and a warmth seemed to spread through the room. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a comforting embrace. The strength in his arms felt like a shield against the harshness of the world outside.

"You can be stubborn as hell, you know that?" he teased, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

As he held you in his arms, the world outside faded away, and all that remained was the warmth of the embrace and the quiet assurance of shared moments.

"Get some rest," he murmured, his voice a soothing whisper. "I'll be right here."

With Joel's arms wrapped around you, the weariness of the day and the weight of the past seemed to dissolve.

In the arms of Joel, the night embraced you, and as you closed your eyes, you found life worth living because of him.

[flowerandblood]

The Price of Pride (23/?)

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, unprotected sex, targcest stuff, smut, the angst, nightmares, speaking about trauma ]

[ description: Prince Aemond finds a solution to the disproportion in the number of dragons between Dragonstone and King's Landing: he decides to find dragon blood and, like his half-sister, train dragon riders. He takes as his target the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, whom he abducts and imprisons in the Red Keep. Slow burn, darkish, insolent, arrogant Aemond. I have combined several requests here: (dragon blood female & prisoner female). ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

That night he slept vigilantly – he was awakened by her every movement, her uneven breath, the creak of the bed beneath her body. He held her close and did not let her out of his embrace fearing that again, led by some dark, cruel dream, she would try to do what he had witnessed.

It was only when he saw her standing over the edge of the precipice that he understood what her disappearance would mean: that with her he would lose the part of himself that she had managed to reawaken.

He tried, he made an effort, he changed for her, because he knew that she would see it, that she would appreciate it, that she would tell him, as she always did, that she understood him.

She was the first person to praise him out loud – there was something humbling about how much he craved it, whether from his mother's, his father's, Aegon's, Sylvi's or Criston's lips.

Everyone he had somehow allowed to cross the line and know some part of himself.

However, it was only she who was able to do it in the way he needed – not pitying him, not treating him like a child, but simply trying to comprehend what he was facing, why some things were difficult for him while others were groundbreaking.

He realised that she never demanded anything of him: she never asked him to marry her, she never asked him to send her home, she never asked him to become more open.

She always waited patiently, with a strange, partly incomprehensible understanding, showing him that it was simply his nature.

With her, he stopped being ashamed of himself: of who he was and who he wasn't, what he lacked, what he had lost, what mistakes he had made.

Because of her, he forgave himself.

He had found peace.

And now, that peace was about to disappear with her.

He swallowed hard at the mere memory and snuggled her tighter into him, embracing her more firmly in his arms. He heard her quiet mutter, her fingers tightening on the material of his shirt, her cheek pressed against his chest.

His thoughts fled to what she had said, to what she had seen in her dream – him with another woman, his betrayal, the greatest humiliation she could have experienced on his part as his wife.

He could not comprehend why she thought he could fail her trust in this way, break the oath he had taken before the gods themselves, hurt her while she was helping him heal his wounds.

Even if she were only his lover, he wouldn't want another – he would not be able to open himself up again, to allow someone into his heart and mind, much less at the cost of losing her.

You are my only friend.

And you are mine, he thought, stroking her hair slowly, exactly as she had asked him to do.

She combined everything he wanted, allowing him to take care of herself so that he could feel like a man, while at the same time caring for him, giving him space, so that sometimes, but only sometimes, when he felt weak, he could become a little boy in her arms.

There was something liberating in that thought – in the conviction that his grandfather was right, and that his affection for her could slowly blossom, giving him more strength every day.

He wanted her to be sure of his fidelity and devotion, just as he was sure of hers.

He knew that this alone would give her peace of mind.

To his satisfaction, she stopped pretending not to see him – when she asked him early in the morning if he would help her with her bath and be by her side, he immediately agreed.

He would never have thought he would so willingly step into the role of a servant of sorts – while she sat in the bath in her nightgown, sunk up to her chin in warm water full of fragrant oils, he gently rubbed her arms and hands with a damp cloth.

There was something intimate about this moment, some attempt of reconciliation, of staying together despite all that had happened.

He didn't tell her about what went on behind closed doors – he didn't tell her that his grandfather was delighted with what she had accomplished, that he, Criston and Gwayne were planning to conquer the Eyrie before Rhaenyra could recover from another loss and move on them.

Deprived of Daemon and Rhaenys, she was like a lion without fangs and claws – even new dragon riders could not replace the experience and bond they had with Caraxes and Meleys.

Otto felt, and he agreed, that the kingdom should hear that it was he, not his wife, who had killed Daemon – this was not to give him credit for it, although it certainly helped him as Prince Regent, but above all – in his eyes – it was to protect her from accusations that would be damaging to her.

Namely, that she was a kinslayer.

Word that she had killed her father, committing, like him, a sin unkind to the gods would spread like the wind, preventing her from getting rid of the remorse that was already overwhelming her.

He preferred everyone to think it was he who had killed his uncle.

He was already cursed in the eyes of others anyway, so what he had done would no longer matter.

Daemon's death raised the morale of the army: his soldiers celebrated all the next day after he announced the news. He guessed that his wife heard them, grieving, but he could not forbid them from doing so; he stood between the hammer and the anvil.

To his satisfaction, it turned out that both Cole and Gwayne were men showing enough sensitivity to understand his wife's condition: her help was still needed by them, but it was clear that forcing her to do anything would turn against them.

They had to wait patiently for her to return to balance, in the meantime planning every next step.

The fact that she was carrying his child pleased him, but it also made things even more complicated.

No one but him, Maester and her knew about it.

"I remember more and more. From the time I was a child." Her voice snapped him out of his reverie.

He looked at her, her face flushed from the warm steam that floated around them, her long, dark hair tied back to keep it from getting wet.

He sighed quietly, his thumb running over the moist skin of her wrist.

"And what do you see?" He asked, though he guessed what her answer would be.

"My father. The way my mother spoke to him and about him. She told me once…" she muttered and fell silent, lowering her gaze as if ashamed and heartbroken, her eyebrows arched in pain.

"… she said something that I think was the source of my age-old resentment towards your lineage. She said that the Targaryens have strange customs. That fathers take their daughters to their bed. I think that's why I repressed all my memories of my father embracing me, touching me, kissing me on the forehead. The thought that he wasn't doing it out of fatherly love, but out of sick, disgusting lust, terrified me. She destroyed his image in my eyes because she hated him herself. But now that I think about it, he never touched me in a wrong way. He never even tried."

She whispered, finally looking up at him, as if begging him to confirm her words, to tell her that she was right even though he had not witnessed the events.

He swallowed hard, realising that he often forgot that what his family had been doing for generations was ordinary only for them, but not for people from the outside.

"Marriages in our family happen between relatives, but never between parents and children or grandparents and grandchildren. That would be unacceptable." He replied calmly.

Her fingers clenched on his hand, as if she was wordlessly trying to convey to him that she needed him now more than ever.

"But after all, there were rumours of my father taking Rhaenyra, his niece, to a brothel long before she became his wife. She was still a little girl then." She muttered in a breaking voice.

He lowered his gaze, not knowing what he should reply to these words.

"I've heard about it too, but as you say, it's gossip. I didn't hold any love for him, but I can't say with certainty if or what he did to her at the time. I'm no saint myself." He confessed, finally looking up at her.

She blinked, staring at him with surprise bordering on horror, as if his confession frightened her.

"What do you mean?"

He felt his jaw clench in an unpleasant shudder of discomfort at the thought of what he had done to her.

"I have used you. I did it deliberately for months."

He fell silent, unable to look into her eyes – it was only when he said the words aloud that it occurred to him what he had actually done to her.

"You didn't force me. I agreed to it." She whispered.

"Did you?" He asked, looking at her finally. "Do you think my pride would have endured your refusal, your rejection? That I wouldn't do anything to you?"

She swallowed loudly, looking at him with some kind of worry – her lips pursed into a thin line as she took his hand in hers.

"And you? Do you think I really had any desire to lose my maidenhood with some servant? That I didn't want you to take his place? I didn't know you, nor did you know me. For a long time it was a game, yours and mine. But at some point I no longer knew what was a lie and what was the truth. I began to miss you by day and looked forward to falling asleep in your arms at night. The more I got to know you, the more I longed to stay by your side."

He didn't know why his lower lip was quivering, why he felt a burning wetness under his eyelid, why his throat was squeezed with emotion.

What he couldn't comprehend was the ease with which she was able to understand him and his decisions, as if it didn't require any effort on her part – the knowledge that she never resented him, that she was partially aware of what he was doing and consented to it made him think that perhaps it had to be that way.

That it was somehow their joint decision.

A shared effort to understand who they were, what they craved and why they kept returning to each other.

"I ask you to forgive me." He whispered, clasping his fingers over hers, feeling his heart pounding like mad in his chest.

Forgive me for who I was when you met me.

Who I still am when you are not by my side.

"I too ask for your forgiveness." She replied softly, making him feel a pleasant warmth spread across his chest.

The reciprocation.

"I forgive you." He said.

"I forgive you too." She replied and smiled lightly, sincerely, for the first time since those events.

She shifted towards him with a quiet splash of water, and he did the same – he sighed with some kind of relief when her face pressed against his cheek, when her scent filled his lungs, when her full lips placed a warm, wet, tender kiss on his hot skin.

He closed his eye, focusing on that pleasurable touch, his fingers involuntarily stroking her hair, her neck, her jaw, his words against her ear like a whisper.

"I regret that I didn't meet you sooner. That it wasn't the warmth of your body, the moisture of your lips that I experienced for the first time as a young boy. That our fathers did not betroth us the day you came into this world." He spoke quietly, tracing the tip of his nose over the soft, smooth structure of her plump, pink cheek.

He felt her hands tighten on his tunic, her breath caught in her throat as her thighs involuntarily clenched under the water.

His erection pulsed hard in his breeches.

It seemed to him that ages passed before her face slowly turned towards him, before her lips found his, teasing him merely, not giving him full kisses, but only a foreshadowing, an encouragement, a promise of what he wanted so badly.

He pressed her against his body, unable to contain himself, sinking greedily into her soft, wet flesh – his hand clenched in her hair, preventing her from escaping his slick tongue as it burst deep into her throat.

She moaned into his mouth and it was one of the sweetest sounds she'd ever made – he involuntarily smiled, feeling lighter as her arms embraced his neck, as her lips parted, allowing him to continue.

They had never kissed like this before – so slowly, lazily, as if they had all the time in the world. They concentrated on making their lips unite completely, the quiet clicks of their saliva accompanying their every flick. His fingers stroked the skin of her face, her neck and her hair more gently than ever before, as if any sudden movement on his part might suddenly startle her.

"– I miss you – in every way –" He breathed out between one kiss and the next, embarrassed by his desperate confession, which he would not have dared to make in the presence of any other woman.

He knew, however, that she would not mock him.

That she would understand him.

She sighed, pressing her forehead against his, her knuckles running over the line of his jaw.

"– I miss you too –"

Her body beneath him was wet and warm. It seemed to him that they were two parts of one whole – before he did what he so desperately craved, he simply admired the way she looked.

He marvelled at how her breasts had begun to change – through the baby in her womb they had become fuller, plumper, like a ripe fruit.

He leaned over her bare skin, placing wet, lazy kisses around her nipple, finally closing his lips around it. She moaned as he began to tease it with the tip of his tongue, swirling it around the sensitive spot – he knew she loved it when he did that – her hands always pressed him closer to her chest, exactly like now, asking for more.

His hand slid slowly down her waist, to her hip, finally finding its way between her thighs. The tips of his fingers ran over her silky womanhood, collecting the moisture that had managed to leak out of her, merely brushing her hot skin. He felt her body shudder as her legs involuntarily spread wider, consenting to whatever he wanted to give her.

For some reason, he felt as if this was their first time – perhaps because they were completely different people than when he had taken her to his bed.

She remained his prisoner, and he had complete power over her, treating her body as something that belonged to him for the sake of a strict, eternal law, the essence of a woman as one who could not oppose a man.

This time, however, feeling the skin of her soft breasts melt under his lips, sinking his fingers into her sticky, fleshy folds, running them around her little bud, he felt like a young boy exploring a woman's body for the first time.

There was something reassuring about the way she just let him do it, combing through his long, white hair with her fingers, breathing softly, clearly taking pleasure in how slow and precise his caresses were.

Now, lying beneath him, she was truly his little sister, his future wife, betrothed to him from the day she was born, created to be only his.

There was something beautiful about this vision, he thought as his middle finger pushed against her tight, throbbing entrance – she gasped, clenching her fingers against his naked back, but neither she nor her body offered him any resistance.

"– lēkia – I want you inside me –" She mumbled with difficulty, as if ashamed and bitter that she wanted this so badly, that, although she wanted to prolong this state of sweet tension, she was unable to hold out any longer.

His long-fully hard manhood twitched and pressed against her thigh, expressing his irresistible desire to do exactly what she asked.

He released her nipple from between his lips with a quiet click, lifting his face higher, placing a warm, loud kiss on her cheek – he felt her fingers run over his jaw, neck and chest as he grasped his erection in his palm and directed it to her slit. They both sighed when they felt the closeness of their bodies as, with a slow, patient movement of his hips, he opened her for himself and froze in this position.

Her insides were moist and warm, exactly as he remembered – his forehead pressed against hers as they embraced each other tightly, her breasts clinging to his torso in sudden need of closeness.

For a moment he simply looked at her, breathing loudly along with her.

They both sighed with a low, surprised moan as he involuntarily stretched her fleshy walls wider on his erection, sinking deeper into her – her hands slid down from his bare back to his buttocks, stroking them in some comforting, tender gesture.

I love you, he thought, placing a hot, moist kisses on her plump lips, letting his entire manhood deep inside her body – the experience was a kind of epiphany, something from which there was no turning back.

She sighed softly into his throat, reciprocating the lazy, sweet caresses of his lips as he began to sink into her with tentative, light thrusts, again and again disappearing into the familiar, the good, the safe.

They embraced tighter, looking directly into each other's eyes and it was the most intimate thing he had ever experienced – he usually avoided a woman's gaze, even hers, afraid of what he would see in it.

Sadness as in his mother's eyes, compassion as in Sylvi's, sorrow as in Helaena's.

However, his hāedar's eyes told him something different – in her gaze he saw pain, loss, longing, pleading, all that he felt deep inside himself.

They both moaned, panting louder and louder as her hips began to sway to the rhythm of his thrusts, reaching out to join him again.

"– you're so warm –" He exhaled wearily, ashamed to hear his voice break.

He wasn't sure why he'd said it – he wanted to say so many other things right now, but he couldn't.

These words seemed natural to him, sincere, coming from the depths of his heart – the outside world was cruel, vicious, cold, and her body was full of warmth, softness, smooth as silk.

They embraced closer and snuggled into each other, stroking each other's hair and faces, kissing slowly and unhurriedly, deeply, tenderly, in a way that deep down he had dreamed of.

He wasn't sure if he was usually a rough, sometimes even harsh lover because he wanted to, or because it gave him confidence, allowing him to keep his face and dignity.

There's more dignity in this, he thought, speeding up his movements, letting their bodies slam against each other loud and fast with sticky splats of their naked skin, listening to their grunts and sighs filled with pleasure.

For some reason he felt more like a human, more like a man, more like himself than he ever had, with his long hair loose falling over her face, without an eye patch covering his eye, completely bare not only with his body, but also with his mind.

He showed her what he hadn't even shown Sylvi.

He showed her that he was capable of affection, capable of longing, capable of suffering because of another person.

He was weak.

But by her side it didn't matter.

Her nails dug into the skin of his back as she inevitably neared her peak, tears of relief ran down her face, a quiet, girlish cry of delight broke from her lips as the sweet convulsion of fulfilment shook her body.

She was beautiful in her vulnerability.

"– hāedar –" He gasped out – his fingers clamped down on the sheet as he groaned low, clenching his eyelids, finally coming inside her, feeling the sudden, wonderful shivers surging through his body, the sweet pulsing in his erection, which at last experienced release.

He sighed loudly as he simply lay on top of her, careful, however, not to crush her with the weight of his body – they embraced with their arms and continued like this, breathing heavily in the silence of the chamber.

He closed his eyes when he felt her lips place a warm, tender kiss on the top of his head and involuntarily smiled, feeling like a little boy again.

At last, after so many years of anguish, he was truly loved by someone.

[bloodyknucklesforme]

Pomegranate | Nikolai x F!Reader

Chapter 5

Nikolai returns

cw: cw: dark fic, dubcon/noncon, reader is being trafficked, human trafficking, humiliation, rough sex, victim blaming

Masterpost

You counted the days. There was a horrible thought scratching the back of your skull. Somewhere Nikolai was laying dead, head blown to bits, and he would never come back for you. “Come back for you”, what a stupid way to phrase it. You’d hold your head in your hands, slapping your own cheeks so you’d remember he only saw you as a whore, an object. He liked you the same way he liked his car. He would not save you. He’d protect you as long it helped himself. You had to save yourself. 

Almost two thousand pounds were stuffed in the lining of your coat. Thankfully he paid in hundred notes so it didn’t swish around when you walked. His absence might be the best time to escape. 

Arno had started becoming brave again, forcing you out onto the club floor more often. Pushing you, often literally, into the arms of his sleaziest clients. Private dances, house visits, stag nights - it made you sick. Your knees were constantly scratched up, throat sore and wrists aching. Luckily paracetamol was aplenty. 

What if Nik came back and you weren’t ready? Would you be met with another spanking or something worse? You felt rung out and left to dry in a dark room, only to be dragged out and dunked in filth again and again and again. Any brief moment of respite you had was when you managed to get away to the bathroom, crying in a stall, forcing any sick back down so you could continue working. 

One day a bouncer left a back door open for his smoke break. It was so tempting. A swirl of fog formed outside from hot club air meeting the brisk November cold. Your own door to Narnia, something better even. Ten steps and you could run, run as fast as you could. You didn’t have your coat, it was just a room away,  would the door still be open when you got back. Could you make it far enough? 

Someone hit your shoulder hard, slamming you against the wall. Cassie was making a run for it. She was barefoot, sprinting out of the door and into the fog. You kept pressed to the wall as two men chased after her. You hurried back to the floor, hearing her scream somewhere in the distance before closing the back of house door. 

Cassie’s cot next to you was filled by a new face the next day. You missed her. She hardly cried which was a plus compared to the other girls. You decided not to learn this new girl’s name. Make it easier for yourself when she inevitably disappeared. Any time you had by yourself was spent sleeping and nursing your wounds. 

It had been over two weeks since the last time you saw Nik when you were wrenched from your  cot at three in the morning. Arno had fetched you personally, grumbling to himself as he shoved you into a car.

“Is your cunt made of gold? I don’t know why he likes you so much but understand if you fuck this up I will kill you.” He slammed the door shut.

His words made you sick to your stomach. He knew he hadn’t given you anytime to prepare. You were half dressed, coat clutched around your shivering form, no makeup, hair unkempt. 

You tried to fix yourself up, using the reflection in the window. When you stepped out of the car you realized you hadn’t even been given the time to put on shoes. The cold bit at your feet, forcing you to hop to the door. 

You held the door handle, pressing your forehead to the cold metal and breathed deeply. It would be okay. It would be okay. You would survive this. Nik could be mean but he’d never been cruel to you. 

You opened the door and met his gaze. He was waiting for you in that little room. Deep bags under his eyes, stitches along his collarbone, bruises across his arms and chest. 

“We are both in a sorry state it seems.” His bottom lip jutted out lazily, his eyes dark and half closed. “Come here, Kotenok. I want to undress you myself.”

“I’m so-”

“Hush. Don’t talk. I’m too tired to listen.”

You walked up to him, keeping your gaze downward. He pulled your coat off your shoulders and you could smell the liquor on his breath. 

“No shoes…” He frowned, nudging your foot with his. He sighed and mumbled something in Russian while rubbing his temple. 

He was delicate as he took off your sweater, pulling it up and over your head. His hands ghosted down your front. He licked his top row of teeth and roughly pulled your jeans off your hips, not bothering with the button or zipper. He cupped your crotch, his fingers digging into the lower cleft of your ass cheeks. 

“I missed this pussy,” He growled. He grabbed your hand and shoved it into his sweatpants till you could cup his balls. They were hot and heavy in your hand. “You’ll take it all. Have lost time to make up.”

You yelped in shock as he wrapped his arms around your upper thighs and lifted you up into the air. He pulled your jeans the rest of the way off and laid you over his shoulder. 

He was drunker than you originally thought. You swayed with him as he carried you upstairs. He was talking in Russian, nothing you could even begin to decipher. 

In his bathroom, he dropped you, a bit harshly, onto the counter. He leaned against the counter, arms trapping you. “How many?”

“what?”

“How many men did they have you fuck while I was gone?” His angry growl betrayed the softness of his mouth against your collarbone.

“Too many,” you admitted, hands cascading down his back. He reared his head back, a scowl on his face. An ugly look that reminded you of a dog about to bite. You shrunk back, trying to convey a look of apology. “I didn’t have a choice. I would have pre-”

He pulled you off the counter, planting your feet on the floor and pushing you towards the shower. 

He shoved you face first against the tile wall before ripping your panties apart. You yelped harshly, jumping between your feet. You moved along the wall till you were in the corner. Behind you the water turned on. 

A thick, hairy arm wrapped around your middle and pulled you backwards into the water. You waited for teeth, an open palm, a fist. Pain, some way or another. Instead you found chapped lips and stubble brushing against your shoulder.

“I’ll clean you up.” He went down on one knee and guided your legs apart. He wet his fingers and pushed one inside you. His other hand rubbed the side of your thigh as he hooked his finger and felt around. Tears welled up in your eyes. 

You’d never been so naive to think Nikolai did his small kindnesses out of some affection. It was always for his own self interest. The food, the clothes, the prep, the baths. He liked his girls clean, fed and well dressed. It didn’t matter if it was you or not. 

This felt uniquely humiliating. He’d fuck a whore but only if she didn’t look or feel like a whore. He dug around inside you, trying to remove any trace of other men. You clenched your jaw so tight it felt like your teeth could shatter. You covered your mouth with your hand, muffling your own sobs. 

He scrubbed you down with a cloth next, his movements harsh against your skin. If he noticed your tears, he ignored them. When he deemed you clean enough he fucked you against the wall of the shower. 

It continued like that for the rest of the night. Him moving you around as he pleased before using you as he pleased. He eventually dumped you onto the bed and tossed a sheet over your body before collapsing beside you. 

You tucked your knees to your chest and fell asleep.

You didn’t wake again till the early afternoon. Nik had left a sweatshirt and ratty pair of jeans along with new underwear for you on the edge of the bed. There was water on the bedside table. 

It felt like you were in the minotaur’s maze as you headed downstairs. You tried to stay quiet, hoping he’d forgotten you were there. He still found you. Cameras probably. Called for you from the dining room. You peaked in, sheepishly. He curled two fingers, beckoning you closer.

“Too drab for my taste.” He tugged on the bottom of your sweatshirt. “We’ll go shopping today. I’m keeping you for the next couple days. I’m tired of calling my pet back and forth.”

You took the G-wagon. He’d given you an old pair of trainers at the door, chuckling about almost letting you out barefoot. You were too afraid to bring it up before then. 

“You can pick out what you want, as long as it's not ugly. No jewelry.” He said like this was all some casual thing. He pulled up in front of a large tan colored building with green awnings above every window. He tossed the keys to a valet and with a hand on your hip, walked the two of you in. 

You felt out of place among the tourists and wealthy patrons of the store. December was on the horizon so many seemed to be getting a head start on Christmas shopping. Nik clicked his tongue and you stopped your curious gazing to continue following him.

The two of you took an elevator to the fifth floor. A woman met you and took you to a private room. There was a velvet red couch, marble coffee table and a rack of clothes with a dressing room off to the side. 

“Alana has pulled quiet the collection for the two of you today.” She grinned with her best customer service voice. She picked up an Ipad from the table. “But we also have the digital catalogue available so we can pull anything else off the floor for you to try. We can also have almost anything from any of our restaurants delivered up here for you.”

Nik thanked her and took the ipad. It was just the two of you then.

“What do you want to eat?” He asked, already scrolling through the menu. 

“Huh?” You’d become distracted by the clothes. Brands you’d only heard of in movies and tv, materials that felt too expensive to touch. It was beautiful and overwhelming. Gifts like this didn’t come without a price. He already bought your body, owned you until his lease ended, what else could you possibly give him in exchange? “Oh…I’m sorry.”

You looked through the menu with him, surprised that a sandwich could cost twenty pounds or a piece of fish more than a hundred. You went with the sandwich, not keen on raising your debt any higher than necessary. 

“Why are you doing this?” You asked, holding a cropped grey sweater in front of yourself in the mirror. It was pretty and soft and there was no price on the tag. The embossed “L” logo of the brand told you that you didn’t want to know and that Nik wouldn’t care.  

“I’m not spending all this time with you inside and I can’t have you naked the whole time. As much as I’d like to.” He looked up from the ipad. “Try that one on.”

You made a move for the dressing room but he clicked his tongue.

“You already got me that dress. I don’t need more clothes.” You kept your back turned as you shrugged off the sweatshirt and replaced it with the sweater. It was a little small, if you lifted your arms too high your breasts would pop out. It was soft though and you liked the way it hung on your shoulders. 

“Do you ask why a child wants a new dress for their doll?”

“You’re not a child… I just don’t see the point.” You went back to looking through the rack.

“The point of me buying you clothes? Does there need to be one?”

“Men don’t keep women like me around for very long.” He raised an eyebrow at you. “I know this won’t last.”

“Why wouldn’t it?” He shrugged. He motioned towards the dress in your hand,“Try that on.”

“You pay for me.” You stopped yourself from reminding him that eventually he’d get bored in a month or so. All of this felt so wrong. It felt like he was toying with you. You weren’t stupid and you didn’t want to play some game with him like this. Picking out clothes that would either get thrown or passed on to the next girl he paid for.  

He set the ipad down. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Yes.” You were honest just like the first time he asked. 

“Last time you said no.”

“Last time I didn’t know you.”

“You still don’t know me. Now put on the fucking dress.” He snapped. You turned your back again. “Ah! Face me. I want to see what I pay for.”

You turned back around and pulled the sweater off before moving to pull the dress over your head. He had his hand resting on his crotch. He couldn’t resist a show of power. 

“Do you always put a dress on over your pants?”

You frowned and shucked your pants off. He looked bored as he watched. It was a tight fitting dress, black with long sleeves and crew collar and it was thin. You could see the outline of your breasts and nipples in the mirror. 

“I like that one.”

“I don’t.” You pulled it off and put it back on the rack. He sucked his teeth, clearly annoyed with you now. “You said I can pick what I want.”

“And I’ll still buy whatever I want you to wear.” He stood up and you backed up against the rack. He stalked over and leaned over, pressing his forehead against yours. “You don’t tell me no. If I wanted you to ride me right now you would do it. If I told you to get on your knees and suck me off, you’d do it. If I told you to go downstairs naked, you’d fucking do it. I like your little claws, Kotenok.” He grabbed your jaw, fingers digging into the fat of your cheeks. “But do not bite.”

He let go and grabbed a plaid skirt off the rack. “Try this on next.”

You spent the rest of the afternoon trying on clothes. He liked jewel tones and things that were secretly revealing. Thin material and skirts that showed your ass if you stretched or bent over. Heels, but not too tall. He liked to keep you at shoulder height and nothing higher. A woman came in and helped pick out makeup for you. 

“Find a good red for her. I like red.” Nik said, between bites of the steak he ordered. She found a red lipstick that matched your skin tone perfectly. She ended up putting together a set of products for you. He did let you pick out more comfortable clothes too which was nice.  

He paid using the ipad and all your selections, including the dress, were packed into dark green bags and carried out to the car. You left wearing the cropped sweater, a new pair of jeans and trainers and socks.

“Thank you.” You said softly on the elevator ride down. He didn’t respond, just pulled you to his side by the hip. 

When you got back to his place there was an older woman cleaning. He spoke to her in Russian and she began to take the bags of clothes upstairs. 

He shut the door to the living room and locked it behind you. 

“Take off your bottoms and bend over the couch.”

You did as you were told. It felt colder than usual. You looked over your shoulder to watch him make a drink for himself. He came up behind you and set the cold glass on the small of your back. 

“Why aren’t you grateful for all that I’ve done for you?”

“I thanked you for the clothes. I like them.”

“No,” he tutted. His crotch pressed against your ass. “You never thanked me for getting rid of that sack of shit.”

You swallowed uncomfortably. He was going to spank you again. Your muscles clenched up in anticipation. 

“Thank you.”

“I don’t believe you. Do you still miss him? Miss how he’d beat and rape you?” He picked up his glass and stroked your back like you were some skittish animal. His seemingly willful obtuseness about the nature of his own actions pissed you off. Like he hadn’t just said you weren’t allowed to say no to him or that every time you spread your legs for him it was under duress of an unspoken violence. He wasn’t a better man than Marcus just because he’d never tried to dislocate your shoulder. 

“I hate him.” You hissed. “I just didn’t want to see him die.”

“Watching someone you hate die is almost as good as sinking into a soft pussy.” He finished his drink and dropped the glass onto the couch. “It’s why I always fuck after I kill.”

His belt jingled and you closed your eyes. He took you like that, bent over the couch, the back of it digging into your hips as his hips smacked roughly against your ass. Once he was done he pulled your panties back up and heaved you up and over the back of the couch. You grunted as you untangled yourself.

He sat next to you and pulled your head into his lap. He batted your hands away from his cock. 

“Later. I’m too tired.” He played with your hair as he watched tv. 

You realized very quickly that he was a man of impulse when he was relaxed. He gave no warning when he’d decide he wanted to cum again, taking hold of your hand, head or body and moving it how he saw fit. 

You lost count of the days. It was easy to forget the kind of man Nik was and lull yourself into a sense of security. He kept you fed (literally fed you caviar on potato chips the other day and laughed when you gagged), kept you dressed (a mink fur coat arrived only a day after your shopping trip), and even made you cum (he liked to eat you out after drinking a bit too much). 

Other times it felt like he’d do things just to rile you up. Make you change in front of him, not let you wear clothes at all, hand feed you. He had John over a couple times, let the other man leer at you. Nik had you make drinks for them both and as you gave John his he pulled you into his lap and made jokes about renting you for the night. His hand up your skirt to prod at your ass just to complain about the lack of plug. You think Nik let him because it always ended with you curled up at his side. 

One night he fell asleep while you cockwarmed him. His arms around your middle and your head on his good shoulder (a doctor came to pull out the stitches but it was still sore). He started snoring  and you pulled a blanket over both of you. It was more intimate than you’d ever been with anyone, client or regular partner before that. When you closed your eyes you forced yourself to dream about a life where you were just his girlfriend. 

A stupid, dangerous dream. One that threatened to make you too complacent. You were still going to get out. You had the cash and now you had clothes and good trainers. You could do it. If he tipped you again for all this time you were spending together you could make it across the Atlantic or further. You wouldn’t see him or Arno ever again except hopefully on the news being walked into a courthouse.

You reminded yourself of this time and time again. 

Even when he had you on your back, legs slung over his shoulder and his sweaty forehead against yours. The head of his cock nuzzling against your cervix. 

“Kolya…please…fuck.” He had a vibrator tucked between the two of you and used his stomach to press it down harder against your clit. 

“I want to feel your little claws, Kotenok.” You held onto his forearms, nails digging into the muscle at his request. “Harder. Mark me up.”

There was something in his eyes. It was warm and happy. He peppered kisses across your cheek, rubbing his stubble against you when you turned away. There was already beard burn across your breasts and inner thighs. He captured your mouth with his, tongue dipping in. It wouldn’t hurt to enjoy it just one time. To let yourself separate from reality to enjoy affection. You kissed him back, sucking on his tongue. He tasted like mint and tobacco. 

“Want you to come on my cock.” You were close already. The vibrator making it almost unbearable. Your nails cut into his arm, leaving half moon cuts. You arched backwards with a cry, “Kolya!”

He bit down on your shoulder, growling as he came. He always fucked without any protection but it felt different this time. More possessive. 

“Ty moy navsegda.” He breathed, kissing along the fresh bite mark. 

“What does that mean?” You asked. 

“Means I could die inside you.” He sighed. 

It was a cold, late afternoon when you came out of the shower and found the thin black dress laid out on the bed for you. Beside it was a lacy black thong, no bra. 

“John got promoted. We’re going out to celebrate.” He was putting on a navy blue suit jacket and fixing his shirt cuffs. “Be quick about it.”