#post-war domestic husbands

[avonne-writes]

oh my god now that the show and the war is over I NEED domestic buck and bucky fics bonus points if buck is sick and they cuddle all day😅😅

I can’t wait to write this AU, but I have to finish Reverie first, so I hope you’d still like to read to it after 🩷 But until then, here's a snippet I've just written:

It's cold. So cold, that Gale thinks he’s back in Germany for a few seconds, locked in the filthy hopelessness of the stalag, with no end in sight. He’s swimming in sweat but his body trembles nevertheless. Icy pain rolls down his neck in waves. He can’t get any air through his nose so he tries to sleep with his mouth open, but that just makes his throat ache that much more. He wishes he could stop breathing long enough to fall asleep, but no such luck. The duvet doesn’t wrap around him tight enough. Curled up miserably on his side of the bed, he can’t do anything but convalesce. Even his bones hurt.

The front door opens downstairs, but it's too early for John to be home. Robbers? But there’s no sound of clinking china or cabinets being opened, only the jiggle of keys and then familiar, heavy footsteps up the creaking stairs. The bedroom door opens softly, then the world's most annoying voice whispers into the stale air of the room.

"Is our pretty little patient still with us?" When Gale ignores him, Bucky's socked feet thread across the carpet to the bed. His fingers drum on the wooden footboard. If Gale had the strength, he'd kick him. "Or did he become a butterfly?"

"What the goddamn hell are you talking about?" Gale gripes, his voice hoarse as though he was dying. He doesn’t open his eyes. He has no interest in seeing Bucky's mug when he’s getting on Gale's nerves like that.

"Well, you look like a giant caterpillar all cocooned up."

Gale doesn’t deign that worthy of a reply. He pulls the duvet the rest of the way over his head. There’s nothing he wants to see in the room anyway. He just wants to be left alone. Glass thuds on the bedside table.

"Got you some cold syrup."

The cover is pulled back from Gale's face and a pleasantly cool, dry palm presses to his forehead. Bucky sighs. When he speaks again, the joking tone drops from his voice. "That’s gotta be a fever."

He wipes the sweat from Gale's temple with his hand, then the bed dips by Gale's side. He hears clinking and banging, then a large palm slides under his head and pulls to prop it up. He cracks his eyes open to slits only to see Bucky bent over him with a spoonful of vile medicine in his free hand. Gale tries to push it away.

"Don't be a child, Buck, open up."

"Says the one yapping about caterpillars." Gale mumbles, so slow that he thinks Bucky won't let him finish the sentence, but he does. He looks amused, despite the tinges of worry around his eyes.

"Someone ought'a have a sense of humor."

"Wouldn’t bet on us." Gale squints at Bucky again, satisfied to see the flash of his grin.

But still, Bucky doesn’t let up - he holds the spoon in front of Gale's mouth until Gale sighs and swallows the syrup in it. "There."

Gale sinks back into the cushions and turns away from him, rolling closer to Bucky's side of the bed. It’s tempting to steal his pillow but with the clogged nose, Gale wouldn’t be able to smell him anyway. A hand rests on his shoulder, Bucky's thumb stroking.

"Care for some company?" Bucky asks. When Gale remains silent again, he continues filling the quiet. "I phoned my boss, told him I was sick."

"What, we share a body now?" Gale grumbles. "What if you do get sick?"

"Then I didn't lie, did I? If I get sick, I'd have caught it anyway, what with this narrow thing you picked." He pats the bed.

"You gave me the wrong measurements."

"Just admit that you wanna sleep in my arms."

"Did you get something for your head?"

Bucky laughs to himself in low chuckles, then Gale hears the rustle of clothes, the clink of a belt. The duvet pulls away from his back, leaving him freezing where the sweat-soaked pyjama shirt sticks to his skin. But he doesn’t have to suffer for long. The bed dips further, then a warm, naked chest presses to his back. Bucky tucks in the covers around them, them slips his arms around Gale to hold him close. It feels like heaven.

Gale sniffles. "I'm disgusting."

Bucky sighs as though he’s happy. He kisses Gale's overheated neck. "Course you are, you little caterpillar."

Gale grits his teeth. "Go away."

"No can do." He holds Gale tighter to his chest, and the shivers subside. "I'm sick, after all."

Gale decides not to say anything else. He remains irritated for two more minutes, then Bucky's warmth starts seeping into him through his clothes. He breathes out and falls asleep.

[wildsaltair]

small list of soft things I want to do with Maximus:

cradle his sweet face in my hands and kiss his forehead

run my hands through his hair and watch him close his eyes in relaxation

trace the veins on the insides of his forearms with my fingertips

give him a hug from behind and kiss his shoulder blades

get hugged from behind by him and hang onto his forearms

snuggle up against his side in bed and rest my head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat

tilt his head up with my fingers under his chin to see the light in his eyes

walk through the fields holding his hand and softly nudging him with my shoulder

be carried to bed with my head on his shoulder

give him a shoulder rub and not stop at his shoulders

go for a deep kiss but pause every few seconds to smile and breathe each other in

[saatorus]

— freak like me ୨ৎ

based off of this post

wc — 2.8k

warnings — oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, genuinely just 2.8k words of filth bc i need satoru :3

Sometimes, you truly want to grab your husband by the shoulders and genuinely ask him what the hell is wrong with him.

In a purely cute, loving, wifey way, of course.

You had been lounging at home, listless but not tired, charged up but not in a productive way. The kind of restless where you start wiping already-clean counters just to burn energy. Or reorganizing your skincare drawer for the fourth time that week.

Your body felt hot under the skin, like something in you was coiled up and ready to snap. There was only one explanation for this kind of jittery, razor-sharp awareness running under your skin like a live wire. So, like any other normal person, you opened your period tracking app.

Yup. Ovulating.

Fantastic. That explained the horniness bordering on religious fervor. Everything in your body was screaming breed like it was written in your DNA. So, just like any other wife with the patience of a saint and the self-control of a demigod, you texted your husband Satoru at work.

You 12:47PM

hey u

quick q

Husband (derogatory) 12:48PM

answer is yes unless it’s illegal

You 12:48PM

r u busy or r u like pretend busy like usual

Husband (derogatory) 12:48PM

ur sounding like ur abt to ask me to pick up toilet paper and i hate that tone

what’s up

You 12:49PM

im ovulating

Husband (derogatory) 12:49PM

oh👀

ok. and?

You 12:49PM

so when u get home

ur not gonna get to say hi

or breathe

or take off ur shoes

i’m going to destroy you

like i actually might kill you with my pussy

Husband (derogatory) 12:50PM

😳

bold of u to assume i’d try to survive

You 12:50PM

bold of u to send me nothing spicy of u but be mean to me when u know i’m genuinely suffering and shit like omg

Husband (derogatory) 12:51PM

what do u want me to do??? send u a live feed of my cock at work???

do u want me to be on a list???

You 12:51PM

no but like

a lil thirst trap wouldn’t kill u

show me smth for the spank bank

Husband (derogatory) 12:52PM

u want a pic of my abs rn??

i got time

lemme hit my office for a sec

You 12:52PM

if u send me a pic right now i swear i’ll spontaneously combust

Husband (derogatory) 12:55PM

[1 image attached]

🥰

tell me i’m pretty

You 12:55PM

i hope u know this photo just signed ur death warrant

ur gonna be BURIED in me. like to the point where ur dick is like never getting out of me 

Husband (derogatory) 12:56PM

ok but like

worth it??

do i look hot

scale of 1 to rawdog me in the kitchen while the rice is still cooking

You 12:56PM

absolutely rawdog in the kitchen with zero regard for the rice

ur not even making it to the bedroom. my clit hard at dis 

Husband (derogatory) 12:57PM

god

i’m bricked up in front of principal yaga rn

i hope ur happy

You 12:57PM

good

suffer

consider it foreplay

You stared at the photo again. The audacity of this man to stand there with perfect abs, just barely flexed, pants sitting sinfully low on his hips like he knew the way your brain would short-circuit. The lighting in his office was stupidly flattering—somehow made his skin look so nice and delectable. Not to mention the veins going down to his cock?

You chewed on your lip, pacing the living room like a predator. There was simply no way you were surviving the next few hours. You even considered sending him a photo back—bait for bait, a little tit-for-tat—but decided against it. Let him suffer.

Let the anticipation kill him softly.

When he gets home? You’re not talking. You’re not greeting. You’re not doing anything except dragging him inside and absolutely sucking the soul out of the man you had ended up marrying.

–

It was exactly 6:02PM when you heard the door unlock.

Two minutes late. Not that you were keeping track or anything… except you definitely were, curled up on the couch in a barely-there pair of shorts and one of his old shirts with no bra underneath. Strategic slutty domesticity. A war tactic.

You didn’t even look up right away. Let the tension simmer. Let him walk in and realize what he’s just stepped into.

The door creaked open, followed by the soft jingle of his keys and the unmistakable shuffle of his slides hitting the entryway.

Then:

“I’m home—”

You were already standing in front of him before he could finish the sentence.

The look on his face was criminally satisfied. Like he knew he was walking into the lion’s den and brought himself as the offering. His blindfold was pooled around his neck– it was a habit for him to take it off at home. His white hair was a little tousled from the wind, and he had the audacity to be smiling.

“Hi, babe—”

You didn’t even let him finish his sentence. You fisted your hands in the front of his shirt and yanked him down into a kiss so hot it made your knees buckle. He groaned into your mouth, hands flying to your hips out of instinct.

“Jesus—” he panted against your lips, breath already shaky. “You weren’t joking.”

“I told you I was gonna ruin you,” you muttered, kissing down his jaw, “You think I just say things for fun?”

His laugh was breathless, cocky, but already crumbling. “You do, though.”

You reached between your bodies and palmed him through his pants. “Not today.”

Satoru hissed, bracing one hand against the wall. “Okay, wow. Hi. Hello. I see the demons are home.”

“You started it,” you said sweetly, unzipping his pants like you were opening a present. “Sending me that photo like I’m not clinically insane for you.”

“I was tryna be nice— shit—”

His sentence broke off into a groan as you sank to your knees right there in the hallway. He wasn’t even fully undressed, shirt still on, pants down just enough for you to get what you wanted. And what you wanted?

To suck his soul out like a Capri Sun.

You eagerly took him in your mouth, lips wrapping around him– absolutely no time for teasing– taking him as far as you could the moment he slipped into your mouth. You moaned at the taste of him, at the feeling of his prominent veins on your tongue, and the way that he just sat so hot and heavy in your mouth.

“Baby,” he rasped, one hand threading through your hair, the other gripping the wall so hard you swore it cracked a little. “Not— not even the bedroom?”

You hummed around him in response.

“Fuck—okay, okay—take everything. Take the whole paycheck.”

You didn’t let up—not even when his knees buckled, not when your nose repeatedly kept hitting the smattering of white hair above his base, not when his pink, throbbing tip kept hitting the back of your throat so good that your pussy felt like it was a puddle at this point, not when he was gasping out half-finished apologies to whatever god he believed in, not when he muttered something about filing for short-term disability because of "whatever the fuck this is."

He came so hard you were genuinely concerned for a second that his soul had actually left his body. Filled your throat with him, even. Like a capri sun. Man folded like an origami crane. Sagged against the wall with his shirt all rumpled, hair sticking to his forehead, and the most dazed, fucked-out look you’d ever seen on his stupidly pretty face.

You licked your lips and stood up slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand like a villain in a K-drama. 

Satoru looked up at you like you were the Messiah and the apocalypse all in one.

“You’re insane,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“You love it.”

“I do,” he breathed. “God, I really do. I’m in love with the devil.”

You cupped his cheeks and kissed him sweetly, gently, like you hadn’t just given him a religious experience with your mouth.

Then you whispered in his ear:

“Round two’s in the kitchen.”

He made a sound that was not human.

By the time he made it to the kitchen—pants back up but barely, shirt half-untucked like he just walked off a battlefield—he looked like he had one brain cell left, and it was begging for mercy.

You, however?

Unbothered. Glowing. A menace in tiny shorts and smug satisfaction.

You leaned against the counter, one leg crossed over the other, nursing a glass of water like you hadn’t just rearranged his internal organs. “I said round two in the kitchen,” you reminded him, sipping slowly. “You moving a little slow there, old man.”

He squinted at you, chest still rising and falling. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Technically, I warned you.”

“You warned me via text,” he muttered, walking over with the exaggerated drag of a man heading into war. “There’s a difference between texting me you’re gonna ruin me and actually attempting a physical exorcism on my soul through my dick.”

You grinned. “Still had enough energy to come find me, though.”

“That’s because my penis is a traitor and doesn’t believe in self-preservation.”

“Your penis is smart. Your penis is loyal. Your penis knows who feeds it.”

You didn’t wait for a reply. You set the glass down with a click, reached for his collar, and pulled him in. “Bend me over the counter,” you whispered against his lips.

He choked.

Eyes wide. Pupils blown. Brain visibly buffering.

And then: obedience.

“I—yes. Okay. I mean—of course. Obviously.” He practically tossed your glass to the side and spun you around, hands already slipping under your shirt, finding your bare skin like he was made for it. His thumbs hooked underneath the waistband of your shorts, halting when he felt the smooth skin of your hip bones and not the waistband of your panties.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “No panties?”

“I was planning ahead,” you said, bending slightly and bracing your hands against the counter.

“God, I love you so much it actually hurts.” He kissed down the back of your neck, worshipful. “You’re unreal.” He slipped down your shorts, and then his already halfway down pants, aligning his tip with your soaking entrance.

Then he slid into you with a groan so filthy it echoed off the cabinets. You gasped, arching, clenching around him instinctively, and heard him let out a shaky laugh.

“This is a setup,” he whispered, biting your shoulder. “I feel like you’re doing this to steal my powers. Like I’m not gonna be able to use infinity after this.”

You couldn’t even form a reply—your mouth was open, moaning, hands scrabbling for purchase. He wasn’t going slow. Not anymore. Whatever restraint he had left burned off the moment he was inside you. It was fast, deep, messy. The kind of fucking that blurred your vision and made your toes curl.

Satoru’s fingers dug into your hips as he pounded into you, saying all kinds of nonsense against your skin:

“Been thinking about you all goddamn day—” “—knew I was in trouble when you said ovulating—” “—you were serious about the soul thing, huh? gonna baptize me in pussy—”

You half-laughed, half-cried out as he hit a spot that made your legs shake.

He reached around to rub tight, dirty circles on your clit, whispering, “C’mon, baby, let go for me, lemme feel it, wanna feel you lose your mind—fuck, please—”

And you did—with a broken moan and a full-body tremble that had your knees buckling, your body locking up so tight around him that he swore out loud, dropped his forehead to your shoulder, and followed you over the edge with a deep, shaky groan that sounded like it came from the depths.

The kitchen went quiet except for your breathing. The rice cooker beeped once, like it had seen things.

You both just stood there, still connected, sweaty, wrecked, in the soft afterglow of holy sin.

“…do we have any electrolytes?” he asked weakly.

You giggled. “Top shelf. Pedialyte in the purple bottle.”

“You’re a menace,” he said, pulling out slowly with a wince. “I’m not even mad. I’m just scared.”

You turned to face him, cupping his face and giving him the sweetest kiss imaginable. “You’ll live.”

He blinked. “Will I? Are you sure? Like… can I put you on my life insurance as both the cause and beneficiary of death?” Satoru was still recovering—barely holding himself up against the counter, forehead pressed to the cool surface, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon while holding his breath.

You, on the other hand, were just sitting on the counter next to him sipping water like a perfectly reasonable, not at all deranged wife. Ignore the fact that his cum was steadily drying on your thighs after dripping out once he pulled out.

“So,” you said casually, like you weren’t actively naked in your own kitchen. “You think the rice is done?”

“Baby,” he said, voice hoarse, muffled, like he didn’t trust himself to lift his head. “Please. I don’t even remember my own name.”

You leaned over and patted his ass. “That’s okay. You don’t need a name. You just need to sit up on that counter for me.”

He groaned. “I need food. I need air. I need—what did I even do to deserve this?”

“You sent me a thirst trap.”

“You literally asked me for it,” he whined, straightening up slowly, eyes glassy.

You pushed off the counter—with a slight wobble—and before he could get another sarcastic word out, you moved away from from the counter in the middle of the kitchen, boosting yourself up onto the counter right next to the stove, legs spread, voice sugar-sweet.

“C’mere.”

He blinked. “Oh my god. Are you gonna ride me next to the soy sauce?”

“Would you prefer the spice cabinet?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Spice cabinet.”

—

Somehow, somehow, you ended up on the higher shelf. Not the safe little cozy edge of the island—no. You were straddling him on the counter in the corner by the window, legs draped around his thighs, knee bumping the pepper grinder, and he looked like he was going to have a nervous breakdown about how hot it was.

Satoru kissed you like a man possessed—hands on your thighs, holding you open for him, still too breathless from the last round to be cocky but desperate enough not to care.

“I don’t have anything left,” he whispered into your mouth. “You’ve drained me. I’m just a shell of a man now.”

“Then let me fill you back up,” you said, not even remotely sorry.

“Do you even hear yourself—holy shit—”

You’d sunk down onto him again, slow and deep, pulling a moan out of him so loud it had no business being that pretty. His head dropped to your shoulder as you started riding him, deliberately slow this time, grinding in small, agonizing circles.

“I’m gonna pass out,” he whispered. “You’re gonna have to call Shoko and be like, ‘Hi, I murdered my husband with pussy and now he’s trapped in the rice cooker, can you help me scrape him out?’”

You leaned in close, teeth grazing his ear.  “She’d say ‘finally.’”

His hands flew to your hips, grip bruising, and he started moving with you, fucking up into you like he’d found his second wind in the middle of his own funeral.

The countertop creaked under you. The spice jars rattled. A cinnamon container fell off the shelf at one point and he caught it one-handed without breaking rhythm, then threw it over his shoulder like an anime protagonist mid-battle.

“Why is this the best sex of my life—” he gasped, eyes wild.

“Because I’m ovulating and mad,” you panted, nails digging into his back. “Because you purposely sent me your cum-worthy abs.”

“So my ballsack is being drained because of some muscles on my abdomen?—”

“You don’t get it—”

And then you came together in the middle of the kitchen like two idiots in heat, clinging to each other, half-screaming into each other’s skin like the world was ending. Which, in a way, it was. Your knees were shaking. His hands wouldn’t stop twitching. 

The counter was definitely never going to recover.

And when it was over, when the both of you were breathless and sweaty and completely unhinged, he looked at you—kiss-bitten, flushed, utterly destroyed—and whispered:

“I don’t think I can eat rice ever again.”

being a virgin and ovulating is not for the weak 🙁🙁🙁

[fiastomatocheek]

NO CREEPY GUYS ALLOWED NEAR MY WIFE

pair: dad!will smith x f!reader

genre: domestic fluff, protective dad, subtle angst, romance.

warnings: unwanted flirting (non-graphic), strong emotional themes, overprotective twins, soft husband!will, hockey dad pride, will being hot when he’s mad.

summary: as a dad, will’s always blended into the background at the twins’ games, cap low and presence quiet, it’s a shadow of love instead of a spotlight. but when a stranger crosses a line while will is away for the first time, the twins step up to protect their mom. and when will returns, he realizes it’s time to stop hiding the family he’s so damn proud of.

fia’s notes: the idea originally came from a post on fiakive (me), and after seeing a few anons and moots show interest in the concept of dad!will, i figured that why not write one? so here it is! i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed bringing it to life. also in this story, eli’s mom can be a hockey mom in this, but she’s never really been into hockey herself. maybe her husband is the fan, but she’s never been all that interested in the sport.

tagging team fia ! — @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @dancerbailey3 @mashmashi @kell9rs @nokiaholland

“Morning, gorgeous,” Will murmured,

“You ready to cheer our boys on without me?”

You turned in his arms, smiling up at him. “I’ll manage. But you owe me for doing this solo, Smith.”

He grinned, that boyish charm still as potent as the day you met.

“Name your price. Dinner out? Back rub? I’m at your mercy.”

You laughed, swatting his chest.

“Let’s start with you not being late for practice again. Coach was not happy last time.”

Will’s face fell, his blue eyes clouding with guilt.

“I hate missing their games. Charles and Theo are gonna be out there, probably pulling moves I taught them, and I’m stuck doing line drills.”

You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing his stubble.

“You’ll be there tomorrow, and they’ll light up when they see you. I’ve got this. I’m their loudest fan today.”

He leaned down, kissing you, the kind of kiss that reminded you why you’d said yes to him all those years ago.

“You’re the best, you know that?” he said, pulling back.

“Tell the boys I’m proud of them, win or lose. And…”

His tone shifted, taking on that serious dad edge he used before every game. “Make sure they remember the rules.”

You nodded, mimicking his stern voice.

“Enjoy the game, have fun, and be brothers on and off the ice. No rough stuff, just clean hockey.”

“Exactly,” he said, but his expression softened.

“And one more thing, tell them to look out for you. Protect Mom when I’m not there.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart warmed. “Will, it’s a middle school rink, not a war zone.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, stealing one last kiss.

“You’re my world, and they’re my boys. Gotta keep you safe.”

“Love you,” you called as he grabbed his keys and headed for the door.

“Love you more, babe.” he shot back, winking before the door clicked shut.

At 11, the twins were carbon copies of Will, tall for their age, with his sandy blond hair and blue eyes, though Charles had your smile and Theo had your quiet intensity but still they had a big love for hockey. They stumbled downstairs, already in their hockey mindset, their jerseys draped over chairs, Charles in #2, Theo in #43. Those numbers were Will’s from his USA Hockey days and his time with the Sharks, but the boys thought they were just his ‘weekend game’ numbers from pickup games with friends. You and Will had kept his NHL career under wraps, wanting them to grow up as regular kids, not as ‘Will Smith’s sons.’ or whatever nickname others people would gave them. Privacy was sacred, a shield against the media’s prying eyes.

In the car, the boys were a whirlwind of energy, their gear bags rattling in the trunk. Charles, the chattier one, leaned forward.

“I’m scoring at least two goals today, Mom. Watch.”

Theo, in the back, smirked.

“Only if I don’t block you first. My team’s defense is solid.”

You glanced at them in the rearview mirror, grinning.

“Okay, hotshots, what’s Dad’s rule?”

Charles groaned, flopping back. “Have fun, play clean, and be brothers on and off ice.”

“And don’t go too hard on each other. Oh and protect Mom when Dad’s not here.” Theo added, his voice softer but firm.

“Good,” you said.

“You’re on different teams, but you’re a team at home. Dad said he’s proud of you, no matter what.”

Charles puffed out his chest, his jersey crinkling.

“We’ve got you, Mom. Nobody’s gonna mess with us.”

“Yeah,” Theo said, his eyes narrowing. “We’re Smiths.”

You laughed, pulling into the school parking lot. The rink was a hive of activity, coaches barking last-minute instructions. The boys hopped out, hoisting their bags like pros.

“Go get ready,” you called. “Put your gear on, lace up, and I’ll meet you inside.”

They waved, disappearing into the crowd of jersey-clad kids. You parked, grabbed your jacket, and headed to the rink, you spotted Charles and Theo already in their warming up position, their names bold on their jerseys with number #2 SMITH and #43 SMITH. They skated with Will’s effortless grace, weaving through cones, firing pucks with precision. Charles flicked a playful shot at Theo, who blocked it with a grin. Just like their Dad, their focus unbreakable.

You found a seat in the front row, close enough to feel the thud of the puck. Lisa, the mom of Eli, Theo’s teammate, slid in beside you, her red scarf bright against the gray bleachers.

“Hey, girl!” she said, nudging you.

“Your boys look like they’re ready to run today game.”

“They’re hyped,” you said, grinning.

“Their dad gave them the full pep talk before he left for practice.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow. “Will’s not here? That’s new. He’s usually glued to the glass, yelling like he’s coaching the Sharks.”

“Yeah, he’s got practice. He’ll be here tomorrow, though. The boys are counting on it.”

The game kicked off with a roar, the puck zipping across the ice. Charles, left wing for the Blue team, was a blur, dodging defenders and rifling a shot that hit the net five minutes in. The crowd erupted, and you leapt up, screaming,

“That’s my Charlie!”

Theo, right wing for the Red team, wasn’t about to let his brother steal the show. He snagged the puck, deked a defender with a move straight out of Will’s playbook, and snapped a wrist shot into the goal. You clapped wildly, your heart swelling.

“Go, Theo Smith! Go!”

Behind you, parents whisper, their voices a mix of awe and curiosity.

“Those Smith boys are unreal,” one dad said.

“That’s not just practice. They’ve got serious talent.”

“Look at that footwork,” a mom added. “Their dad must’ve been a hell of a player.”

Lisa leaned over, her eyes twinkling.

“That’s all Will’s doing, right? He’s got those boys skating like pros.”

You smiled, keeping your answer vague.

“He’s taught them a lot. They’ve been on skates since they were three.”

You never mentioned Will’s NHL career, not even to Lisa, who was as close as you got to a rink-side confidante. It was a promise you and Will made early on to keep the boys out of the spotlight, to let them be kids. The less people knew, the better.

The first half was a showcase of the twins’ skills. Charles threaded a no-look pass to a teammate, who scored. Theo blocked a shot, then set up a goal with a pinpoint assist. They were competitive but never crossing into dirty play, just as Will had drilled into them. You could see their personalities on the ice for Charles’s flair, Theo’s quiet intensity but they respected eachother, even as opponents.

At the break, you grabbed a hot chocolate drink, chatting with Lisa about the team’s playoff chances. That’s when a man approached, his smile a touch too warm. He was tall, with dark hair and a kid’s Blue team jersey slung over his shoulder, his son probably one of Charles’s teammates. His name tag read ‘Joseph.’

“Hey, you’re Charles and Theo’s mom, right?” he said, offering a handshake.

“I’m Joseph. My son, Max, plays with Charles.”

“Nice to meet you,” you said, shaking his hand out of courtesy.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Those boys are incredible out there,” he said, stepping closer.

“You must be so proud. Raising twins on your own must be a lot, though.”

You frowned, caught off guard.

“Oh, I’m not, my husband’s just at work today.”

He either didn’t hear or chose to ignore it.

“Still, you’re doing an amazing job. Maybe we could grab a coffee sometime, swap stories about the chaos of hockey parenting.”

His tone was unmistakably flirty, his eyes lingering a bit too long.

You’re already felt the discomfort. You hadn’t worn your wedding rings today, they were at the cleaner, and you’d left your engagement ring at home, worried about losing it in the chaos of the game. Maybe that’s why he’d misread the situation.

“Thanks, but I’m okay,” you said, stepping back.

“I need to get back for the second half.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, but his smile didn’t falter.

“Think about that coffee, though.”

The second half was just as intense, with Charles and Theo trading goals and assists. The game ended in a 3-3 tie, the kids spilling onto the ice in a flurry of high-fives and laughter. You stood, clapping, but your smile faded when you saw Charles and Theo skating toward you, their faces etched with concern.

“Mom, you okay?”

Charles asked, his helmet tucked under his arm, sweat matting his hair.

“That guy was weird,”

Theo said, his voice low and protective. He glared toward the stands, where Joseph was chatting with another parent.

“He was talking to you all funny.”

You forced a smile, not wanting to worry them.

“It’s fine, boys. He was just being friendly. Let’s get your gear off and head home. Dad’s waiting”

They exchanged a look, more of Will’s look, all fierce protectiveness and skated to the locker room. You exhaled, relieved they didn’t push it further. On the drive home, the boys were back to their usual selves, dissecting every play and plotting strategies for tomorrow’s game. They didn’t mention about that guy, so you assumed they’d let it go.

When you pulled into the driveway, Will’s car was in its spot. The boys bolted inside, their gear bags thumping against the doorframe.

“Dad!”

They shouted, tackling Will as he stepped out of the kitchen, a dish towel slung over his shoulder.

“Whoa, slow down, champs!”

Will laughed, ruffling their hair. He was still in his practice sweats, his face flushed from a hard skate.

“How’d my superstars do?”

Before you could answer, Charles blurted,

“Some guy was talking to Mom, and she looked super uncomfortable.”

Theo nodded, his arms crossed.

“Yeah, he was all smiley and weird. We told him we had to go, and he backed off.”

Will’s eyebrows shot up, his gaze snapping to you. You saw the jealousy, but it was tempered by humor, his lips twitching into a smirk. He crouched to their level, his voice conspiratorial.

“Is that right? What’d you do, huh? Give me the play-by-play.”

Charles grinned, puffing up.

“We skated over after the game and said we had to leave. He looked like he was gonna run.”

“Good job, boys,” Will said, high-fiving them.

“You gotta protect Mom when I’m not there. No creepy guys allowed near my wife.”

“Will,” you said, rolling your eyes as you kicked off your shoes.

“It was nothing. Can we eat? I’m starving.”

Will stood, slinging an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close.

“Nothing, huh? We’ll talk later,”

He whispered, his tone teasing but with an edge of curiosity.

To the boys, he said, “Go wash up. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Dinner was a lively affair, the kitchen table covered in takeout pizza and garlic bread. Charles and Theo recounted every goal, their voices overlapping in excitement.

“Dad, I used that spin move you showed us!” Theo said, waving his slice of pizza.

“The goalie didn’t even see it coming.”

“And I passed like you do in your games,” Charles added, mimicking Will’s wrist flick.

“It was so smooth.”

Will leaned back, his smile wide and proud.

“You guys had fun out there? That’s what matters. I’m so damn proud of you, you know that?”

“Dad, you said ‘damn,’” Theo pointed out, smirking.

Will laughed, holding up his hands.

“Oops. Don’t tell Mom I’m corrupting you.”

You shook your head, grinning. “Too late for that.”

After the boys went to bed, their gear bags neatly stowed for tomorrow, you and Will settled on the couch, a glass of wine in your hand and his arm around you. Will tilted his head, his voice low.

“So, this guy… what’s his deal? Hitting on my wife when I’m not around?”

You sighed, leaning into him.

“His name’s Joseph. He’s a dad on Charles’s team. I didn’t wear my rings today, they’re at the cleaner, and I left my engagement ring at home so I wouldn’t lose it at the rink… he probably thought I was a single mom. I shut it down, but the boys noticed. I feel bad for not wearing something to make it clear.”

Will’s jaw tightened, but his eyes sparkled with mischief.

“No rings? Babe, that’s like leaving the goal unguarded.” He kissed your temple, his voice softening.

“But seriously, you okay? He didn’t push too hard, did he?”

“No, it was just awkward,” you said.

“I was polite, but he mentioned coffee or something. The boys swooped in before it got weirder.”

Will chuckled, pulling you closer.

“That’s my boys. Got my back. But tomorrow? I’m coming with you, and we’re making sure that whole rink knows you’re mine. Charles and Theo’s mom, my beautiful wife, no question about it.”

You laughed, swatting his chest. “You’re ridiculous, Will Smith.”

“Ridiculous and crazy about you,” he said, kissing you deeply, his hand cradling your face.

“Nobody’s forgetting who you belong to.”

Sunday morning dawned bright and early, the alarm blaring at 6:00 a.m. You groaned, but Will was already up when you shuffled downstairs, wrapping your robe tighter.

Will glanced over, grinning. “Morning, Mrs. Smith. Ready to show that rink who’s boss?”

“You’re way too chipper for this hour,” you muttered, but you smiled, grabbing a coffee.

Will was in full dad mode, checking the boys’ gear with the precision of an NHL veteran. He sharpened Theo’s skates, tested Charles’s stick tape, and packed their water bottles with the same care he put into his own pre-game routine.

“Can’t have dull blades or sticky tape,” he said, more to himself than you.

You woke the boys, who stumbled down, rubbing their eyes but lighting up when they saw Will in his Sharks cap and hoodie.

“Dad’s coming!” Charles cheered, fist-bumping Theo.

“Gonna yell louder than Mom?” Theo teased, dodging Charles’s playful shove.

After a quick breakfast, Will drove, his hand resting on your thigh as the boys chattered in the back. At the school, you spotted Joseph near the entrance, talking to another parent. Theo nudged Charles.

“That’s the guy from yesterday.”

Charles nodded, his eyes narrowing. “The one who made Mom look all weird.”

Will’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, but he kept his cool, his jaw set.

“Don’t worry, boys. I’ve got this.”

Inside the rink, Will claimed a front-row seat by the glass, pulling you close and kissing your cheek for good measure.

“Gonna make sure everyone sees us,”

He whispered, his tone half-teasing, half-serious. You noticed Joseph a few rows back, his expression unreadable.

Will turned, his smile polite but razor-sharp.

“Hey, man, didn’t get to meet you yesterday. I’m Will, her husband. Play for the Sharks. Had practice yesterday, so she was flying solo. You a big hockey fan?”

Joseph’s face went white, and he stammered,

“Uh, yeah, I, uh, my son plays. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,”

Will said, his tone friendly but with an edge that said, Back off. He turned back to the ice, his arm around you, and you bit your lip to keep from laughing.

The game was a thriller. Will was on his feet the whole time, banging on the glass and shouting.

“Nice hustle, Charles! Keep your stick down, Theo!”

When Charles scored with a slick backhand, Will roared, “That’s my boy!” Theo answered with a goal, his shot a carbon copy of Will’s, and Will high-fived you, grinning like a kid.

Theo’s Red team won 2-1, but Charles skated over to hug his brother, their helmets clinking. After the game, kids swarmed Will, recognizing him from Sharks games on TV.

“Mr. Smith, can you sign my stick?”

One boy asked. Another shoved a phone at him for a selfie. Will obliged, his arm around you the whole time, while Charles and Theo stood nearby, confused.

“Dad, why do they know you?” Theo asked, his brow furrowed.

Lisa, Eli’s mom, laughed as she approached.

“No wonder your boys are so good. They’ve got an NHL dad coaching them at home.”

You and Will exchanged a look. It was time. That night, over pizza and root beer, Will sat the boys down.

“Guys, I play hockey for a job. That’s why I’m at practice a lot, why I travel for games. I’m with the San Jose Sharks.”

Charles’s eyes widened. “Like, the real Sharks? On TV?”

“Yup,” Will said, grinning.

“But you two? You’re already better than me. Got your mom’s heart and my moves.”

Theo smirked. “Cool. But we’re still gonna beat you in the backyard rink.”

Will laughed, pulling you into his side.

“That’s my boys. Now, who’s up for ice cream?”

As you watched them bicker over chocolate versus vanilla, you leaned into Will, his warmth your anchor. He was the best dad, the best husband, and your boys were growing up just like him, protective, passionate, with ice in their veins and love in their hearts. On the rink and off, they were yours, and you wouldn’t trade this life for anything.

[recoveringsoulsposts]

I want women to collectively start gaslighting men, in the way they gaslight us. If you see Reddit posts / IG posts say things like this.

I want women to undermine any men’s issues with saying:

“Ahhh it’s not that deep”

“Chill, you’re being emotional”

“You should focus on being a dad, none of your passions will matter”

“Are you sure your fit to do this job?”

“I mean will your education even matter, your degree doesn’t have much value lol”

“Ahh Men☕️”

“I can’t take you seriously”

“You sure”

“I think you’re being dramatic”

“You’re being irrational”

“Men live life on easy mode” (which they do)

“Are you sure, you didn’t imagine it?”

“Nahh we don’t care about your passions and hobbies, how much money do you make?”

“I want a traditional husband that pays for everything but who also does all the domestic labour”

“Have you gained weight?”

“I’m a visual creature so i need a really handsome man”

“Why am I not allowed to have preferences”

“Are you sure it’s not your fault”

“I need to hear her side of the story”

“#notallwomen”

“I mean if men don’t go to war what’s the point of them? Lol”

“You should give her a chance”

“You’re standards are too high”

“Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”

“I think you’re being hysterical”

“Ahh he’s a 4” (Rating a man on his posts)

“He’s mid”

“Not that funny” - to a male comedian

“Who told him he was funny?”

“Learn to take a joke”

“why should someone have you if they could have someone younger?”

“Why would she go for you, if she could have someone with more money lol”

“You should focus on raising children”

"hun dont be insecure about that, theres way more things you should be insecure about, that receeding hairline for example"

“You’re gonna die alone”

Even if a Man is right about ANYTHING still proceed to gaslight him. IDGAF. Lmao. They have been doing this to women for most of history. Gaslight him, make him feel unworthy and shitty. I genuinely don’t give a shit.

Let me know what more I should add to the list, in the comments.

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [17]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 15.6k words cw: violence. allusions to sexual assault. heavy smut. 18+ mdni

you finally break open.

Ghost keeps his crosshairs on you like you’re his target.

His infrared vision tracks you like prey, he follows your heat signal amongst the sea of cold-blooded vermin that infest your home. 

He keeps his post as you instructed him to. Settled into character by following your orders, as obediently a member of your guard would have. In truth, it wasn’t as much an order as a meek request - that he remain hovering at the perimeter, hidden by shadow. Such a thing comes to him innately, ghost that he is. 

His mastery of stealth is tested, though, as he watches you drift between your dead husband’s many comrades. You fawn at them with a well-trained domesticity, jittery hands politely interlocked in front of you as you accept their sneering condolences with saccharine gratitude. Pointedly ignoring how their pig eyes fondle you, how they exchange glances with each other as though sharing the same thought when you pass them by. 

He knows what thoughts they share. 

He can see it in their greasy smiles and their ruddy necks. Frothy-mouthed at the sight of you, so vulnerable and sweet. No husband in sight. 

None of them are accompanied by their own wives. And they do have wives, near all of them do; Ghost knows each of them by full name and date of birth by virtue of his mission dossier. Instead their women have been left tucked away and out of sight, not here to survey how lecherously their husbands covet the fresh widow. 

The thought alone makes his temples hot and his jaw tight. He remembers the words of your supposed ally; once the boys get their hands on her . Was this the very thing he was referring to? An army of war profiteers swarming the mansion of their late leader so they can take turns with his dowager? 

You shouldn’t have worn that fucking dress. 

He’s sure you chose it thinking it was unappealing; severe and structured, coating you in black fabric from clavicle to ankle. You couldn’t see it from behind, could you? 

He could have demanded that you wear something else, when he found you stooped in front of your mirror. Ordered that you should shove on black slacks and a bulky coat, maybe a thick scarf for good measure. But the longer he looks at you, the more apparent it becomes that his instruction that you wear nothing pretty was inherently unachievable. No amount of hideous clothing could conceal an artless beauty as preternatural as yours. You are an ineluctable magnet for gluttonous eyes, and magnetise you do. 

The men you aren’t talking to look at you still, even as they are engaged in droning conversation with one another, glasses of liquor and cigars between their turgid fingers. The entire affair strikes him more as a dinner party than a funeral, and he supposes he should have expected that. They’ll all be celebrating the usurpation of a leader who clung to his power far longer than he deserved. 

The usurper himself is yet to arrive, and you seem as potently aware of that fact as Ghost is. 

You’re petrified of him. Makarov. Whatever the cretin has done to you, or threatened to, Ghost needn’t know. He can guess well enough. Every utterance of the name turns your skin grey and your lips dry. 

Your nervous eyes flit to the entrance of your mansion every odd moment, and occasionally you’ll meet Ghost’s glare between the gaps of your guests. You give him glittering stares, swollen with pleas he cannot grant you. Little thing. He can’t jeopardise the mission at hand to offer you comfort. 

When a stern knock on the front door echoes out from the foyer, your chary head perks up and you freeze on your feet. He can see you trembling from here. You know who knocked. 

The fucking bastard could just as easily open the unlocked door, march into the heart of your home unimpeded and announce his arrival to all of his sycophantic subordinates. Instead, he chooses to knock. To lure the grieving hostess away from the crowd that might witness him. Away from your only protector.

You hesitate before you retreat from whatever foul conversation you were trapped in, eyes wide and twitching. It takes you a moment to summon the bravery, and you offer an apologetic smile to the pig in front of you before retreating towards the exit. 

You pat down your dress as you leave the room to let in the dog, and you disappear through the archway. 

Out of his sightline. 

In the humming quiet of the foyer, you can hear every machination under your skin. 

The thunder of your arteries, the buzzing of the fire in your nerves, the squeaking of your grinding teeth. You can feel the panic in every muscle, the needles, the venom leaking between sinews. 

The front door is solid black, though it may as well be transparent. You can see the silhouette of the man as clearly as you can feel him there. His coldness trickles under the gap in the door and makes you bristle. You don’t want to open the door. 

You don’t want to open the door, but he knocks again. 

Three gentle knocks, intentionally soft - because he knows you are standing there. He’s simply waiting. Maybe he wants to see how long it takes you to overcome the terror that keeps you there. Maybe, the longer you take, the wider his grin. The sharper his teeth. 

He finds amusement in your terror. He always has. 

When your numb fingers curl around the handle of the door, reluctantly peeling it open to reveal him, he is already smiling. 

He stands with his feet apart in suede oxfords, his hands courteously held together in front of the buttons of his suit jacket. His head already bowed to address you, with the thick tendons in his icy neck pulled tight. The vein that bulges in the centre of his forehead passes through his curled brows, a marker of the feral rabidity that thumps under his skin and collects in the corners of his pointed mouth. He’s riddled with it. Sadism exudes from him like radiation. You can smell it, taste it; metallic and hard, as he tilts his head and awaits your greeting. 

A henchman stands behind him, black bulletproof vest tight over his dark blazer. You can see the pistol tucked in a front strap, and he hovers behind his master with the stiff obedience of a muzzled doberman. You wouldn’t expect Vladimir to venture anywhere without his myrmidons, so it surprises you to see only one of them. He mustn’t believe he needs any more protection than that. You are no threat to him.  

Your mouth is dry, full of chalk that grits between your teeth, and you can’t even part your lips to utter a word. You aren’t sure how to greet him, now. If you had Victor at your side, you’d have called him Vladimir, as he did. What is he to you, now? Should you address him as sir? 

“Госпожа Захаева. Рада снова тебя видеть.” Mrs. Zakhaev. Lovely to see you again.

Your jaw tightens. His voice, still, turns you to ice - brittle enough to shatter, translucent enough to expose the trembling obeisance he exhumes from the deepest parts of you. 

Mrs. Zakhaev. Not once has he called you that. No, you had always been Девчонка . Girl. Or simply you, with a snap of fingers or a gesture in his direction. 

His politeness is as clear and sharp as glass - he is mocking you with it. Only now are you Victor’s wife, a missus, with your husband dead. Only as a widow are you granted that reverence. 

You swallow. It takes a shaky breath before you can bring yourself to speak. “Добрый вечер.” Good evening. 

He lowers his head in feigned respect. “My condolences, ” he says, rich with derision and a thick Soviet accent. “We lost him so suddenly. You must be devastated.” 

Facetiousness drips from every word. 

You nod tensely. “Thank you.”  

A pallid hand crosses the space between you, then, and his palm lands unabashedly on your cheek. 

You immediately flinch - his palm stings against your skin as though barbed, and the alarm it rings claws down the back of your neck, makes every one of your little hairs stand on end. His calloused thumb brushes towards the corner of your mouth, as if accidental - but the black gleam in his eyes makes plain his glee. 

“Бедняжка.” Poor thing, he murmurs. “It must be so frightening to be alone.” 

The tips of his heavy fingers press into the hollows of your cheekbone and temple, close to your ear, and you can hear his pulse through your skull. It is deathly slow. 

You struggle between agreeing with him to appease him, or feigning confidence to spite him. He is right - it is terrifying. It is so, because of him; and he knows that as well as you do. 

You only nod, again. Pleasant and quiet. 

He gives you a pout, a mask of pity, before his rough hand slithers behind your neck and under your hair, and he reels you towards him. Your heart thunders to resist him but your body does not obey, and you acquiesce as immediately as he had grabbed you. He wraps his other arm around your shoulders, and with his chin atop your head, he holds you firm against his body. A hug, if you could ever call it that. 

Even an act as innocent and well-meaning as an embrace is tainted by ridicule. He knows you abhor his touch with every cell that you consist of, as much as he knows how desperately you avoid displeasing him. 

You feel his breathing in your hair, acidic, it makes your scalp sting. 

“Ax, моя дорогая.” Ah, my dear, he says deeply. “You won’t be alone anymore.” 

He says it like a threat, and it is one. 

Eyes wide and dry, you stare into the individual fibers of his powder-blue shirt. He smells of cheap tobacco and gunpowder, with an edge of chemical sweetness, aspartame. 

As you breathe him in, your dreaded fate begins to settle in the pits of you. Edges towards certainty. 

Maybe he’ll claim you as your husband did. Maybe you are to be passed on to your husband’s successor as though you had been left in his will. An heirloom, too feckless to be left without reins, too precious to be left for someone undeserving. 

You envision such an outcome if your efforts to thwart him are to fail, if Simon breaks his promise and abandons both you and his mission, and you are left to fend for yourself among the carnivores.

Vladimir would not play the same role as your husband; demanding but patient, hungry but restrained. He wouldn’t offer you kindnesses or feign any form of compassion, beyond the rotten affection that cloaks his depravity. He’ll play with you as though his toy until he grows bored, and it would not take him long to do so. 

Perhaps you were foolish to ever imagine a reality where you escape. The world beyond the one you have come to know has slipped into obscurity, after all - so out of reach that you have begun to forget what it looks like. 

He pulls back from you with a pleased sigh, and his hands settle at each side of your head, fingers weaved into the hair behind your ears. His stare is hard and intruding, heterochromic eyes bite at you wherever on you they land. Body, lips, eyes. Even the act of perceiving you is as violating as his touch. 

“Grief doesn’t suit you,” he remarks, glower intruding. “Not with those eyes.” 

An insult and compliment in the same breath, though you cannot fathom that he might be attempting to ingratiate himself. Worse, that he’s bemoaning your dour expression. Next he’ll ask you to smile. 

“Do you miss him yet?” He asks coldly, after a beat.

The smugness in his expression tells you that there isn’t a correct answer to his question. It seems to you a trap, so you do not answer. But a blink, or a shift in your gaze, or a quirk in your lip, evidently answers it for you; because he grins. 

“Mh, милая Мия.” Mh, dear Mia, he drones. “It’s no secret that you never loved him. You have nothing to prove to me.” 

“Of course I loved him.” You dispute, briefly compelled not to let his ego be sated by such a presumption.

A huff of laughter escapes his nostrils. 

“You did?” He questions candidly, though the vein that splits his forehead protrudes with the words. “Are you sure?” 

You can read the shift underneath his smile. How it mutates from artificial pleasantry to true malice. The joy he takes in tormenting you oozes from his pores and between his teeth. You can see in his eyes exactly what he is thinking about, what he is ecstatic to remind you of; he needn’t even say it. 

“Yes,” you utter, because you know that is the answer he wants. 

“Even after all that you did for me?” 

Your blood pools at your feet, and his thumbs stroke the prickling skin of your cheeks with tangible satisfaction. You want to look away from him, at your feet, at the sky - anything to conceal the grimace that knits in your face. Instead, you deferentially hold his gaze; eager to ensure he doesn’t feel compelled to elaborate, to remind you in any greater detail, of the whims you were given no choice but to indulge. 

He opens his maw to speak, but something catches his eye, and his stare shifts upwards to something behind you. 

You are as yet uncertain what or who has drawn his attention, but his rough hands slip from your cheeks and fall to your shoulders. 

“Mh,” he grunts through pursed lips, as he straightens his back. “Она ведь все еще держит своих собак при себе, да?” Still keeps her hounds with her, eh?  

It is apparent he is not addressing you, so you turn as much as his grip allows you to; to your surprise, a constraining hand drops from your shoulder, and you are free to see who had approached from behind you. 

Your protector. 

Masked and severe, he stands tall, arms locked militaristically behind his back. He utters not a word, but you see his chest rise and fall, controlled but bordering on detonation. His eyes catch the shine of the porchlight through the gap in his mask, but his glare does not fall on you. He keeps it pinned on the man whose other hand still lingers on you. 

Vladimir only grins. A smile that twitches, tips between intrigue and genuine humour. His imposing touch abandons you, then, as he steps cavalierly towards your mercenary. 

“Ты тот самый тихий. Сергей говорил о вас.” You’re the quiet one. Sergei mentioned you. 

Riley doesn’t nod, doesn’t waver, doesn’t move his boots from where they are planted on the floor. Offers no acknowledgement of the man approaching him beyond the pointed stare that follows his every movement. 

“Спокойно.” Take it easy, Vladimir teases as he stands beside your guard, patting him with a firm hand on his opposite shoulder. “Я буду вести себя хорошо.” I’ll behave myself. 

He holds Riley’s cloaked gaze for a noticeable beat. A second longer than would otherwise be natural. Your breath catches in your throat. Is he trying to get a better look? Might he recognise the soldier if he looks too closely? 

With a dismissive nod and an affable pat on the shoulder, Vladimir struts past him and ventures towards the hallway, armed dog in pursuit. As familiar with your home as you are - if not more so - he disappears into the reception room to announce his arrival to his new subordinates. 

Like a boot had been lifted from your ribs, a rush of air erupts from your chest the moment he is out of sight and earshot. Your blood turns runny with the transient relief, and you suddenly feel as though you had stood up too fast; knees and hands shaky, you see stars when you blink. Wiping your hair back from your face with clammy palms, you attempt to settle your ravaged heart by breathing deeply and staring knives into the tiled floor. 

The skin he had marred with his touch burns and itches, and you wish you could peel it off from the flesh beneath it. You imagine burrowing your fingernails into your scalp and picking the leather loose from your skull, flaying your skin off by the seams. Maybe they’d leave you alone, once your exterior is shed. What would be left? 

“You’re alright,” comes a grumbling whisper, from the shadow you had forgotten was standing there. 

Your eyes flit to meet his, and you abruptly feel the ground beneath your feet again. His shoulders have softened, his hands hang relaxedly from his tactical vest, and you are alone in the foyer with him. 

Not a query into your state of mind, but a stern reminder. You’re alright . You can almost believe it while you have him within sight. 

Foolish of him to come to the door to check on you, because none of your husband’s mercenaries would have shown that level of devotion. But you were grateful that he had frightened off the wolf, if only for the briefest moment. You might have thanked him if he weren’t the one to force you into this predicament, into the arms of the very man who you’d rather cut your hands off than spend more than an hour with. 

How much had he seen? How much had he heard? 

You wonder how long he had been standing there, watching as your husband’s rival caressed you with his pretend affection, listening as he mocked you with his own transgressions. You shrivel up like a raisin at the thought of him witnessing any of it, sucked dry by shame and an overwhelming desire to hide from every pair of eyes that has ever looked at you. 

“Yeah?” Your protector presses, and you blink at him. 

You nod, and sigh sharply, attempting to regain some lost composure. You have an objective, you remind yourself. You just have to make it through the evening. You only have to fawn enough to get something, anything useful.

“I’m fine.” You insist, as you begin your march deeper into the hallway.

Ghost looks past you as you brush around him in a hurry, and he leaves a few bloated seconds before he brings himself to follow you. 

There’s a line to toe in his donned role as a paid bodyguard, between loyal dedication and professional apathy. He finds it difficult to strike the balance, having only ever swung to either extreme of the pendulum. He knows that he has leaned too far towards the former, by stalking you, and only you. By unintentionally keeping his vigilant attention on you, and not on the many targets that surround you. By all but threatening the only target that matters to him for daring to lay a finger on you. Despite his decades of experience, of trained resilience, of pure stoicism - it is only growing more challenging to suppress the compulsion. 

Worsened by your present company, threats around every corner and through every door, is the urge to fulfil the role of guard dog in every sense of the term - only he cannot bark, and he cannot bite. Muzzled by duty. 

Your potent fear of Makarov is not without cause. 

He is more verminous in person than through a screen or a scope. Somehow more feral, more crooked, more rat-like in his features than any blurry CCTV image could ever have accurately depicted. He reeks of malignant pride, and it filled the room like putrid smoke the moment you opened the door to let him in.  

What sadistic conceit made him confident enough to touch you? Audacious enough to hold you?

His hands seemed to find purchase on your skin with a borderline familiarity, an intimacy that appeared habitual rather than a cautious venture into uncharted territory. 

Ghost’s stomach wrings at the thought of it. 

Organs twist and shudder with a fury only worsened by the need to force it down. It pushes against the inside of his ribs, rises in his throat - and all he can do is swallow it, and tighten his knuckles to keep himself stable. 

How often had the cretin broken past that boundary? How many times have those filthy fucking hands touched you? Your face, your neck, your shoulders? Where else have they dared to venture? 

The very end of your conversation bounces around the inside of his skull, on repeat, as he attempts to decipher what had been cryptically referred to. 

Even after all that you did for me. 

He creeps through the dark of the hallway, in pursuit of you, as the words ring in his ears. Perhaps it was a brazen and salacious reference to some sexual favours from your past, some lascivious orders he had made of you, some effort to make a cuckold of your husband. 

Did you fulfill those demands? Were you given a choice? He won’t ask, and he doesn’t want to know - but the imagined sight stains his vision all the same. Sees you on your knees in a shadowy corridor, sees you locked in a bathroom, sees the very same visceral reluctance printed on your face that he himself has grown so familiar with. Sees too the rabid grin stretched in the warlord’s thin lips, as he makes an unwilling adulteress out of you. 

Even after all that you did for me. 

As he approaches the open door into the kitchen, and sees the back of you, he grinds his teeth. What if Makarov referred to something else? Some unspoken agreement between the two of you? He imagines any number of conversations you might have had with him in the past; the closest comrade of your husband, after all. It stands to reason that he might also be a comrade of yours. Had you gotten a message to him through your friend, Vasiliev? Did you make a plan with him before Ghost had ever found you in your glistening castle? 

Had you lied to him? Are you in on all of it? 

Perhaps your proficiency in artificial personalities was even more effective than he had come to believe. That you had effectively wrapped him around your finger, had him feeling pity for you, manipulated him into caring more about your wellbeing than the outcome of his mission. 

Despite his ingrained scepticism, rooted in countless betrayals; he doesn’t believe that. 

You tip your head back as he comes to a stop in the entrance to the brightly lit kitchen, and it takes him a moment to see that you have knocked back a glass. Of gin, he discovers, made evident by the bottle of Bombay Sapphire that sits with its cap off on the counter in front of you.

“Don’t get drunk, for fuck’s sake,” he snaps, under his breath, once he notices there is nobody else in the kitchen with you. 

He sees you jolt in fright, before your head swivels hastily on your neck. Your body loosens when you see it is him and not one of your comrades, and you wipe your mouth with the heel of your palm.

“I’m not,” you whisper shakily. “Just - I just need a little.” 

“A little?” He scolds you, having watched you take easily three gulps of liquid before you put the glass down. 

Your eyes glisten with fearful shame as he approaches you. He can barely glance at you without being overcome with it, that guilt - you look at him with dewy eyes and his once rigid scruples crumble to his feet. 

Pathetic . 

“I can’t even-” You take a sharp breath and shake out your hands, as though treading water. “-I can’t even talk, I c-can’t even get words out around him. I need something. Just something to make me more, more-”

“Fine,” he hushes you, “It’s fine. Just that one glass, alright? Or you’ll fuck us both over.” 

You nod obsequiously, and as if to prove you mean it, you grab the metal cap and screw it back onto the bottle. 

He notices, then, the eerie silence that fills the bowels of the mansion where there had previously been the migraine-inducing chatter of more than a dozen men. 

“Where are they?” He murmurs discerningly, and you point towards the direction of the dining room. 

“They’re all in there,” you whisper. “He called them all in straight away.” 

He immediately moves towards their meeting room, situated around the corner, and keeps his body out of sight of the towering glass door. He can hear them, quiet Russian murmuring, just loud enough to make out a few words. 

With a gesture of his fingers he beckons you over, and you refuse, remaining frozen in place with wide eyes and a shaking head. Only with a second, more fervorous demand of his hand do you reluctantly tiptoe in his direction. 

He hovers a gloved finger over his lips, shushing you, and holds out a barring arm to keep you behind the corner. You look up at him with your lips sealed, unblinking and awaiting instruction. He cranes his head and holds his covered mouth beside your ear. 

“Listen,” he orders; a whisper so low it is barely a breath, directly into the cavern of your ear, and your warmth oozes through the knit of his mask. “Listen to everything they say, yeah? I’m going to check whatever they’ve left out here.” 

You remain dead still, and without a physical response, he insists; “Alright?” 

“Yes,” you breathe, with a feeble nod. 

“Good. Stay quiet.” 

He reels back from you, then, and turns away before the compulsion to remain and watch over you overtakes his drive to fulfil his mission. He almost succeeds, passing through the kitchen’s exit, before your soft whisper hooks him by the ankle and rivets him in place; 

“Be careful.”

He releases a ragged sigh. You are a winsome liability, aren’t you? 

He wishes, more than anything, that he could tuck you away - lock you in a cupboard, or a bunker, or ship you off in a helicopter - so that the risk of harm coming to you would cease from plaguing his every thought. He has one - one objective. His prescribed mission is not to keep you safe, not to hover behind you like a shadow, not to fight off the hounds that might want a taste of you. His task is to get his intel on the Ultranationalist’s imminent genocide, to prevent the deaths of tens, hundreds of thousands - and all he can think about, is you.

He turns his head, barely lets himself get a glimpse of you over his shoulder. He feels your eyes on his back, the claws of a cat scratching at the door to be let in. 

“I will,” he grumbles, faltering before he breaks free. 

You’ll be fine, he tells himself. He repeats it over as his distance from you stretches thin. You’ll be fine. 

Your stomach drops heavy once your protector leaves your line of sight.

His return to the cold and clinical demeanour you knew best was jarring, but unsurprising. Perhaps it’s for the best, to imagine him a mercenary and not the man who has bared his face to you. His loyalties might be more plain, then. His motivations more in line with what you’d expect. You’ve paid him to protect you, and he’ll fulfill his contract as best as he is able. That’s the only level of devotion you have come to know. 

You don’t shift your feet from where they are planted, from where he had ordered you to stay. There is some reassurance to be found in explicit instruction. Ever since the first man arrived at your door, you have been nauseatingly adrift; as though you had suddenly forgotten what to say, how to act, beneath the looming fear that every word might make obvious your espionage. The stakes are now higher than your own self-preservation, for the first time in your life. You want to do right. You want to be good.

You know these men. You know how rarely they mean what they say, how often they hide secrets between their words. You know who you are to them. What you are. You know how they look at you, what they think of when they do. What they see. What they remember.

You wait by the corner, as still and silent as a gravestone, with your ear close to the wall. 

They speak in hushed baritones with one another, entirely in Russian, unaware of their eavesdropper. You focus your attention on each of the voices - most of which you recognise, and can distinguish - others, you cannot. 

“We had Konni do a thorough sweep of the entire estate once we sent her off. They found nothing.” Sergei, you determine. 

“Nothing? Fucking nothing, you say? Victor’s entire militia was wiped off the face of the earth - I don’t believe the men who did that left nothing behind.” 

The venom in that voice is potent even through the wall that blocks him from sight - Vladimir. 

“Nothing. No bullet casings that didn’t belong to the same guns the guards used. Even the boot marks were the same as their uniform.” 

A different man chimes in. “What, so one of the guards did it?” 

“No, fool. Someone with enough intel did this. It was well planned.” 

“It makes no sense to me. If all they wanted was to assassinate the bastard, why would they go to the effort of slaughtering an army of security?” 

You hear an irate groan from Makarov. “There was something else they wanted. Killing Victor does nothing. They’ll be as aware of that as we are.” 

“We found nothing to suggest Victor’s digital assets were compromised. It didn’t look like they even touched the vault.”  

“They didn’t kill every person on the property to get to one man. Your Konni friends found nothing because they are fucking inept. We’ll have the premises swept again by somebody competent.” 

“Fine. I’ll talk to Arkady.” 

“What, then? Who do you think it was?” 

“I have guesses,” Makarov seethes, and you can hear the signature drumming of his knuckles on the table. 

Another man, a voice you don’t recognise, addresses Sergei; “You got nothing else out of the girl?” 

Your ribs tighten at your mention. 

“She said they sounded Ukrainian. I don’t know. I don’t believe she has a clue.” 

“You’re soft on her, Sergei. You let her lie to you and you’re too stupid to tell.” 

“I made sure-”

“She knows you’re stupid, too. You saw the state of her. They were with her for a while. She will have heard more than their fucking accents.” 

“What do you want me to do? Torture the poor girl after she watched her husband die?” 

Then, a sudden yell. “Mia!” 

Your blood turns to lead, and you immediately back away from the door. Did Vladimir see you? Hear you? Was he calling you to enter, or expressing that you were to blame? 

On the tips of your toes, you silently retreat into the kitchen, lean against the counter so that it might appear to a spectator that you were busy with the dishes and not listening in on a confidential conversation. Your heartbeat shudders in your ears. Your knuckles turn white. 

The bellow thunders out once again, in English - for you. “Mia, come in here, now!” 

You feel fragile. You might faint. You stare at the knives in the knife block and imagine it might be easier for you to slice one of them through your own throat, than to be trapped in a room with those men again. You might have even gone through with such an ideation, if you hadn’t reminded yourself of the stakes that supersede your survival.  

It takes every weary synapse in your brain to force the movement of a single muscle, before you can begin to inch yourself in the direction of the dining room in earnest. Your body resents it with every fibre of its being. Your knees shiver with every step. 

You see them through the glass door before you open it. All leaned back in their chairs, surrounding the vast dining table in the centre of the room; Vladimir at the head, where he always wanted to sit. He glowers at you through the glass. Spots you even when you try to hide in the shadow. 

Meekly opening the door, the shrill squeak of the hinges echoes across the silent room, and all the heads turn on their necks to face you. Every set of beady eyes lands on you at once, and you can feel each of them; hot brands, sizzling and mean, on every part of you.

The air of the room is heavy and warm, reeks of cigar smoke and corked wine. You suck in a quivering breath, arms pinned to your side, as you wait for someone to speak. You can’t bring yourself to say the first word. 

“Shut the door,” Vladimir orders dryly, cigarette in his lips. 

You do as you’re told, and close the door with a heavy clunk. 

“Come here.” 

He beckons for you with two fingers. He watches you as intently as the others do, and their heads follow you as you carefully float closer to the table. You remain on the opposite side to the man who called for you, and hope he doesn’t demand you any closer. 

“The men who killed your beloved husband,” he begins, a tug in the corner of his mouth as he says the word. “Sergei tells me you think they were Ukrainian?” 

You chew your lip, near the point of drawing blood, before you can croak out a response. 

“Or Kastovian,” you utter. “I couldn’t - it sounded like Russian but I couldn’t understand what they were saying very well.” 

“Very well?” He interrogates, unrelenting. “Or not at all?” 

It takes you a moment to think of a lie on your feet. Who could the imaginary assassins have been? What do you imagine they might have said? What can you tell the men in front of you to goad them into spilling some information that they shouldn’t? 

“They - there were a few words I understood, but, I d-didn’t know what they meant by them.” 

“Like what.” 

“They kept referring to, um, флешка - I think, is what they said. Like, a USB drive?” 

With every lie you utter, your adrenaline picks up threefold. You feel it buzzing in the tips of your fingers and prickling in your scalp. 

Vladimir shoots a pointed glare at Sergei, who adjusts his blazer instead of acknowledging the wordless accusation. 

“What else.” 

“I don’t - I’m not sure. I thought they might have said something about a - a warehouse. But I don’t know if I have the word right-”

“What was the word?” His vicious impatience cuts through the air like a knife, you feel the blade at your skin.  

“Завод.” Factory . 

You know the word. You’re pretending to be clueless. 

Vladimir slams the surface of the table with both hands - the startling bang makes you jump and sends a shockwave of fright from your chest to your extremities. 

He addresses Sergei in Russian with a renewed fury, and his eyes bulge with it; “Fucking idiot. You could have asked her this and we would have known forty-eight hours sooner.” 

Sergei rolls his eyes. “Give me a break. She was concussed when we found her.” 

“So they know about Mialstor?” A man whose face you recognise asks, and your ears perk. 

“How the fuck would they know about that?” Someone else. 

“Maybe we’ve got a leak to plug.” Another opines. 

Vladimir’s eyes return to you, then. Fixed and curious. “Remember anything else, девочка?” Girl?  

You exert every muscle to maintain some level of confidence in your character. A mournful widow, forced to remember the night her husband was slaughtered in her bed. At the notion you remember the true moment you lost him - the bullet shot through the back of his head, the seizing of his limbs once his skull was split open, the expression that remained in his vacant eyes once he was gone. You let the tears well. You let your feeble body tremble with its horror and grief. 

“Not - not much else,” you croak. “One h-hit me in the head - I didn’t wake up until they were all gone.” 

“Mh,” he ponders, dissatisfied. “Did he hit you hard?”

The blatant delight behind his question almost makes you wince, and you stumble on any words you try to give him. “I- I don’t - I suppose so-”

“More than once?” 

“I don’t know,” you answer eagerly, flustered, you feel the burning in your cheeks as the intensity of his barrage only tumefies, a blister ready to burst. 

“What do you think they did while you were out?” He drills. 

“I wasn’t-”

“Were your clothes on when you woke up, Mia?”

A snort blurts out from another man at the table, another whom you recognise. “Fuck’s sake, Vlad,” he chides, with a deeply ill-placed humour. “Victor’s only been gone a day.” 

Vladimir chortles, taking a drag of the stub of his cigarette, and it becomes evident he was hounding you more for his amusement than any hunt for information. 

“Didn’t stop him last time,” another says. 

The floor quakes beneath you. It might open up and swallow you whole. You hope it does. You hope they can’t see how you shake, how your eyes twitch, how your knees threaten to buckle as you listen to them joke about it - you must conceal it, because as far as they are aware, you cannot understand them. 

There’s a chorus of acrid laughter between the dogs as they reminisce on it. The few that weren’t there must have heard about it from the ones that were, because they laugh too. You wonder how detailed their descriptions were. How vivid their storytelling. 

Your eyes sting. 

“Give him another vodka and he’ll have her up on the table again.” 

More chuckling. 

“We don’t have the props for it this time.” 

“I’m sure we can find some. In the kitchen, I bet. You going to grab the cucumbers again, Vlad?”

“No, look at him. He’s still bitter he couldn’t get her to use the knife.” 

“No Victor to worry about this time, eh?” 

Your body is numb, your tongue is dry. Vladimir hasn’t taken his ferine eyes off of you for the duration of their perverted raillery. He simply wears a fading smirk, takes the odd puff of his wet cigarette, watching the minutiae of your expressions as if you’re as entertaining as a television. Glares at your terror and shame like it is pornography. 

You can see it in the pits of his predatory stare, that he knows you can glean the topic of their conversation. He wants you to know. He wants you to remember what you had devoted yourself to forgetting in the years since it had happened. What you had done before you knew you could refuse their demands, before you had the well-established status of a wife, before you understood you’d be stuck in their country for the remainder of your life. 

There was no refusing them, but they hadn’t needed to force you - nor to order you, nor to touch you at all. Not a hand was laid on you. No, you were so uncertain of your fate, that you did it willingly. 

Therein lies the root of Vladimir’s mirth. He calls you a whore with his mouth shut. He makes you remember all of it, at the funeral of the very man to whom you had feigned fidelity. The man who remained blissfully unaware that you had debased yourself in front of the comrades he worked with daily until his dying breath. 

The bile rises in your throat, and you spin urgently on your heel - rushing out of the room in hasty stride, retreating in the midst of their degenerate laughter. 

“She figured it out!” One hollers, and you leave the door ajar as you hurry into the kitchen. 

Panic and resentment swells hot and fiery under your skin, you feel close to bursting with it - every limb, every sinew of you writhes with the vicious humiliation that they have pumped you so full of. It is all such fun for them, endlessly entertaining to see how terrified they can make you, hilariously satisfying when you succumb to it. 

In your urgency you sweep the bottle of Bombay Sapphire from the counter, gripping it by the neck, and carting it with you as you march out of the kitchen. Flick off the cap as you storm down the corridor. Shove the open top between your lips, and suck down a hard mouthful. It makes you cough, but the harsh burn of its crawl down your throat is the only source of comfort you can find in your frenzy. You swallow another, and another. Maybe if you drink enough of it you might go to sleep and never wake up. 

You have to tell your guard dog what you’ve learned, first. You have to do something right, anything to make up for your complacency in your husband’s dreams of genocide, before you even think to check out early. 

You have to find him. 

Once you reach the foyer, though, you hear the beating of footsteps fast approaching, and your heart drops to your feet. 

A growl. “Where are you running?” 

Vladimir followed you. Sniffed after you like the bloodhound he is. 

Your body screams at you to run from him, but you only manage a few steps backward as though trudging through knee-deep tar - and before you can turn, he is two paces from you. 

There is no option but to surrender, then, and your bones turn soft. 

His hooks are in you before you utter a noise, thumb and forefingers digging into your cheeks as he drives you by the head - wrangles you against a wall, in the dark and silent hallway, out of earshot from anybody else in the building. 

You pant into his palm, eyes watering at the severity of his grip, brows knitted as you hold back the sob that nudges its way up your throat. 

“Why are you alive, Mia?” He snarls, his eyes as black as the shadow he hides in, as manic as a rabid dog. 

“W-what?” You groan, near a cry, dizzied by his question. 

He jolts you, a violent shove into the wall he has you pinned to, if only to make you squeak. “They killed everyone on that estate. Every single man. Even the dogs. But not you?” 

The sob you had been struggling to suppress leaps out from your teeth, you feel yourself begin to shrink. “I don’t unders-”

He moves his grasp from your face to your collarbone, hooking rough fingers into the slash neckline of your dress. With a violent yank he stretches down the hem, close to tearing the fabric - and reveals the plum and yellow bruising on your sternum, the ambiguous scrapes that speckle your skin. Utterly unnecessary, for whatever point he is attempting to make - there are plenty of visible bruises sprinkled over the parts of you not covered by fabric, and yet, he sought to reveal that one. 

“You want me to believe they kept you alive for what, for fun?” He seethes, and you feel the splatter of his saliva on your face with every consonant. “That they wouldn’t have finished you off once they were done with you?”

Every lie you might utter in your defense turns to mist in your mouth. You feel every tear he pulls in your story, excruciating as if it were your own skin. 

He stoops closer to you, mere inches between your face and his. “What did you do for them, hm? What did you bargain with?” 

Nothing you can say will do anything to help you, now. He isn’t interested in whatever excuse you spit out. He doesn’t care whether or not you are innocent. 

He is just playing with his food. 

He makes plain his appetite when he holds his face against yours, his carnivorous teeth grind against the shell of your ear. 

“What happened, Mia?” 

You shut your eyes, a reflex, some subconscious effort to hide from his bombardment of questions and his nauseating proximity - until a sudden release of pressure forces a torrent of air from between your teeth, and the claws that had nestled into your flesh you no longer restrain you. 

A shriek escapes you as your assailant is forcibly torn away by his collar, and he is tossed backward like a kicked dog. 

In the blurry dark you struggle to see who had broken you free, but you know who it is. You can hear his ragged breathing, you can hear the cracking of his knuckles as he reels back his elbow and wrenches his gloved hand into a stone fist. 

And while he still holds the Russian by the lapel of his jacket, he jettisons his clubbed hand into the centre of his face with such a force that the thwack of the collision cuts through the air like a gunshot, echoed by the splintering of bone under skin. A strike so brutal that your guard dog must have broken his own knuckles upon impact, and he almost follows his victim on his way down. 

But he catches himself with a boot, and towers unruffled over Vladimir, who tumbles hard into the opposite wall and only just prevents himself from collapsing onto the tiled floor. The black of his blood splatters the white wall behind him, and oozes from his nostrils, coating his lips. 

A turgid silence then settles like smoke. 

It fills up your lungs as you wait, deathly silent and pressing your back against the wall, for the impending eruption. A gunshot, a roar for backup, a retaliatory strike with a fist or a knife. You know well what the man is capable of. The lengths he will go to to punish any perceived profanation. A knife would be the most gentle, most charitable penalty, regardless of where he put it. 

Instead, Vladimir sniffs as he stands himself straight, propped up by the wall, swallowing the blood that pools in his mouth with a foul gulp. 

He glowers at you. Burrowing. Torture in itself, for many moments too long - to you, an eternity of silence within which he can wordlessly threaten you. You know the many fates that have befallen others, each more harrowing, more gut-wrenching than the last. Acid, fire, gas, steel. He makes you shrink, your eyes dry, and you look down from him on instinct. 

His glare then shifts to the man that had so violently come to your aid. There’s a glimmer of recognition in the hollows of his eyes. A quirk in the corner of his mouth. An unspoken understanding. 

He says nothing. You feel the weight of it in the pit of your stomach.

A brief grin stretches in his lips; blood filling every gap between his teeth, smile painted red. “Милая Миа.” Dear Mia, he coos. “Что ты наделала?” What have you done? 

“Get out,” you croak, voice breaking; the command tumbles from your mouth and surprises even yourself. Emboldened by the masked shadow that stands between him and yourself. 

His twitching smile returns for a single snicker, as though pleased with your brief retaliation. He waits, for a pregnant pause, before he decides to give you a single nod. 

“Victor left a lot of important things behind, mh?,” he says pointedly, with an uncanny smirk, as though he had said it to purposefully confound you. 

You do not blink as he steps around your protector, and brushes past you on his way to the front door. His gait utterly unaffected by the blow to the head,he stands tall and proud as always, as though he had not been struck at all, as though his nose weren’t shattered by a deserved fist. He adjusts his jacket as he opens the door, and cold air floods into the room. 

The clamour of the others crowding out of their meeting room echoes from down the hallway, too late to intervene, and you stay furtively silent, unmoving so as not to draw their attention. 

“What the fuck happened?” An approaching voice calls out, in Russian, and Vladimir looks up as he coolly sticks a cigarette in his teeth. 

He offers nothing but a shrug, and a dim smile. “We’ve outstayed our welcome.” 

You remain tucked against the wall behind you as the rest of your dismissed guests file out of the front door, murmuring spitefully after being ordered to leave by their superior. 

Ghost keeps his post steadfast, standing in front of you, a barricade; eyes following every one of the pigs as they are herded out before he follows behind the very last one. 

He slams shut the door the moment the last hoof is clear of the frame, and he locks the deadbolt with a clunk. Through the sliver of a window beside the door he watches them fill their black cars, listens to their engines churn, before they finally pull off in a convoy down the driveway, and their headlights disappear among the trees. 

He hears your mousy breathing in the subsequent silence. 

His back remains to you while he finds the right words to say, and it doesn’t take him long to determine there are none. An apology would fall on deaf ears. A check on your welfare would be salt in the wound. He left you alone with them, after all. Alone with the very creature you had warned him about so vociferously. What might he have done if Ghost had taken a minute longer to find you with him? 

Do you blame him as much as he blames himself? 

Once he turns to look at you, though, you have already wandered off down the hall; your faltering silhouette disappears into your empty kitchen. 

He could leave you be. He could, if he chose to, let you recover in solitude. He considers it as he unbuckles the straps of his cumbersome vest, pulls it over his head and dumps it on the tiles. As he unstraps the velcro bands of his gloves, plucking them off by his fingers and leaving them on the console table. Maybe you want nothing more than to be alone, than to curl up and hide from everyone who has assailed you. Himself included. 

What happened the last several times he left you by yourself, unguarded?

He isn’t ignorant of his selfishness when he chooses to follow you. 

He hears you pacing before he passes through the open door, hears your frenetic panting echoing from where you bite your nails by the island counter in the centre of the kitchen. 

You catch his eye and freeze in place. 

Before he can utter a word, you cock back your bottle of gin behind your head, clutching it by its neck. You catapult it at him without warning - it whistles as it barrels through the air, before it explodes against the top jamb of the doorway in an ear-splitting crash . He holds up a defensive arm and turns his head away, to protect himself from the shards of blue that spray out from the collision and the spiced liquor that rains down on him with it.  

He stills, utterly aghast - you only glare at him, the dim downward light above you illuminates the bulging mania in your eyes. You radiate a fury that he never imagined you capable of, and he can feel the shuddering heat of it from where he stands. 

“You fucked us!” You roar, so ferociously that your once soft voice breaks in the strain. He can see it thundering in your temples, twitching in the tendons of your neck, red on your chest - a rage so harrowing it makes your eyes wet. 

“Did you hear me?” You shout. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” 

There’s nothing he can say, and nothing he wants to. He feels no compulsion to calm you down.

You storm towards him with heavy feet - plant both palms into his chest, and shove him backward with all of your might. He stumbles back a step, he offers you that, but he stands his ground. 

“You - you promised!” You wail, your broken expression shifting from wrath to heartache and back again. “You told me I could go home if I could get what you needed. You told me I could go home, and now you’ve fucking taken it away again. For fuck’s sake, you hit him! He knows, he knows , I have no chance, no chances left. You told him everything he needed to know and you didn’t even say anything!”

It is clear to him that his lack of reaction is only engorging your anger, but he doesn’t want to dampen it. 

He can’t bring himself to take it from you. 

“Are you fucking stupid? Are you? You - you - you’ve fucking killed us both! You gave away everything. You gave it away. You gave me up! What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

In the midst of your tirade he watches your arm wind up, and you swing it with a force, open palm smacking into the side of his face - hard enough to knock his head to the side, vicious enough to sting even through the knit of his mask. 

Your violence is almost a relief, to him - he cannot justify it. Have you ever, ever been given the chance? The space? The opportunity to erupt as viciously as you do now, without the dire retaliation that would inevitably follow? 

How many years worth of torment, hatred, agony, wrath have been packed so deep into you that they’ve been embedded into the very fibers of your being? How many years have you been forced to withstand the ever-building pressure, bursting at the seams with it? 

“You’re as pig-headed as the fucking rest of them. It was all your idea and now you’ve ruined it! I - I told you. I told you what fucking animals they were and you dragged me here anyway - now what? Are you going to punch every single one of them?”

In your fury you reach upwards and take the forehead of his mask in a tight fist - tearing it off his head in a single pull before savagely throwing it across the room. He remains stone-faced, he keeps his lips sealed, his hands by his side. He watches your every movement with heavy eyes. 

Your fiery glare scratches about his face now that you have forcibly exposed it, and after a blink, you truly succumb to your apoplexy. You slam your fists into his chest, another attempt to shove him, and he gives way to you with a step back. 

“You never think , are you even capable of forming a fucking thought? No, you just attack whoever or whatever gets in your way - anything you don’t like - just maul everything like you’re a fucking dog. You’re dogs. You’re all dogs!” 

Another shove, more flailing hands, he cedes to you under every attack. You force him backwards until his back hits the wall behind him, and you berate him still. 

“You - they - everything you fucking touch, why does it always hurt? You just can’t fucking stop yourselves from biting, can you? Always scratching and grabbing and fucking hitting and breaking - never once, not once - do you ever think it might hurt? Always so hungry for more, and more, do you ever think I might be fucking hungry, too? God - that I don’t want to scratch you and grab you and hit you and break you? No - you - you all just fucking laugh when I tell you to stop or to shut the fuck up, for once . It’s always so funny to you, to think that I might want to fucking maim as badly as you do.” 

Is he still the one you are referring to? 

Does the pith of your rage lie beyond him? Is he merely the receptacle of it? The catalyst? 

In the blast radius of your onslaught, he finds himself rapt. 

The rest of the room, of the mission, of the country, of the world beyond it - it all dissolves into fog. You, an ember, the only thing lambent enough to see. Speechless, because you have finally burned away any image of you he had cloaked, smothered you with since he found you. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You thunder, though your rage has begun to barely cool into indignant exasperation. “Fucking say something!” 

Is it your real self, now? Unfettered, unaltered, raw? Has it always been? 

“What do you want me to say,” he murmurs hoarsely, head tilted down to meet your eye. 

Out of breath, you let out an incensed groan, wiping down your face with red hands. “I want - I-”

Your brows knit in frustration as you seem to hunt for the words, reluctant to let them out - you chew on the inside of your lip, glaring at him, eyes forlorn despite the anger you radiate. 

“I want you to tell me everything will be okay.” 

You grow humiliated in the silence he leaves after your answer. 

Your eruption has left you ragged, shaking with the tsunami of adrenaline that flooded you from your neck to your feet, that poured your soul out through your teeth. 

Once it began, there was no swallowing it. The wrath in your bones controlled every movement, the spite in your tongue, every word. It drips from you, still, in the quiet - you can almost hear it landing on the floor, soaking into the slate. 

You weren’t sure who you aimed to hurl it at. Who you envisioned as the target of your bombardment. You fired at the skullhead who kidnapped you, at the American soldier who stripped and tortured you, at your genocidal husband, at the ophidian cunts at your dinner table, at the apotheosis of your fear, the wolf who goaded them into defiling you. At your father, at your secondary school teacher, at your johns and your bookers. 

Even at the man under the mask, who has only existed to you in moments of his humanity - Simon, whose face is only unveiled when he deigns to be compassionate. 

You didn’t expect his apathy. You climbed to the peak of your rage and girded yourself for his retaliation, anticipating that he would reflect your abuse back to you tenfold, your outburst quashed. Instead, he absorbed it like a scream into a pillow. Siphoned all the anger out of you and let it pool at his feet. 

His face is bare, now, and expressionless - yet, laden with infinitely more to say than you have so far seen in it. His lids hang low over his amber eyes, and they do not leave you. Do you see apologies in them? Pity? Familiarity? They flay you with their candour, and you cannot break away from them. 

“God - even if it’s a lie,” you grimace, resenting every second of silence he forces you to fill. “Just say it.”

His lips remain shut, but barely held closed. You follow the pink scar that splits them up his cheek, where it stops at the bone. You look at the shallow crow’s feet that spider out from the corners of his burdened eyes, more likely from a life of squinting through scopes than a life of laughter. At the concentration of freckles on the bridge of his nose, and under his eyes - the parts of his face most often exposed to the sun, the rest hidden under his skull-faced identity. At the bend in his nose, fragile bones within it once broken, maybe twice, and never truly healed.

The armour of fury sloughs off from you, in pieces, as you wait for him to speak. To say what you want him to say. To do what you asked. Is he staying silent as retribution for your tirade? Or is it too much of a lie to even utter?

“Just say it,” you exhale, resigned, as you keel forward. 

You don’t spare a moment to second guess yourself, to think better - as you lean into him, and drop your forehead to his sternum. You rest your weight in him. You need the solace of human warmth, too weary to stand on your own. You hope he’ll hold you upright, at least, for a moment. 

His heart beats directly into your skull. The fleece of his jersey is soft on your skin, the thick padding of his chest so gentle, so cushiony to sink into. 

You anticipated more rigidity, that he’d turn to stone upon your touch - but, instead, a warm and wide hand settles at the back of your head, and your eyes flutter shut. 

You rise and fall with his ribs as he draws deep a breath, you feel him sigh, as he rocks his head back against the wall he leans on. You can feel it in his touch, hear it in his breathing; he doesn’t know what to do with you. The whiplash of your outburst has confounded yourself more than it possibly could him.

“It’ll be okay,” he grumbles, the words barely make it past the gravel in his throat. 

The vibration of his voice reverberates directly into your head, makes your mind buzz, and you turn your head to press your ear to his chest. 

Whatever line you have crossed - torn through - is long behind you, now. Whatever rationality you had left has long since crumbled through your fingers. You untuck your hands from beneath you, slide them up his chest - you slither your arms over his shoulders, around his neck, and you stand on your toes to reach. 

His reaction is delayed, almost hesitant - you can hear, feel the arguments he wages with himself. But you feel his breathing in your hair, warm and hazy, and his thick arm hooks reverently around your waist, forearm nestling in the small of your back. 

“Are you lying?” You breathe, your nose brushing the skin at the crook of his shoulder, where the collar of his fleece meets the zipper. 

Your fingers drag up the back of his neck, the skin there burning hot; you brush through the buzzed-short hair at the base of his skull, and your other hand grabs at the back of his jersey. There are no justifications for your actions; merely the machinations of a disillusioned machine, aching for some unfindable comfort. Maybe you’ll find it in him. 

He bends downward to meet you, and you needn’t stand on your toes anymore - both of his mammoth arms wrap around you in earnest. His broad hand glides up the nape of your neck, fingers weaving with the hair that remains in a collapsing bun at the back of your head. He doesn’t yet pull you in very tightly, though - as if fighting to allow you room to escape, convinced you’ll change your mind and break free at a hair trigger. 

His lips graze the shell of your ear, feather down the side of your neck, and your stomach drops. 

“Don’t know,” he murmurs into the skin of your shoulder, gooseflesh prickling out from where his mouth ghosts over your skin. 

His arms tighten, only just; the button of his trousers scrapes against your belly as you weld yourself to him. You snake a hand down his torso, fingertips traversing the hills and troughs of his pectorals, catching in the small folds of fleece, scratching the length of his zipper. 

Once you reach his stomach, though, he is quick to cuff you by the wrist with a firm hand. 

“Don’t do that,” he huffs, his lips retreating from where they almost found purchase in your skin, but didn’t commit to taste. 

Disappointment deflates your fervour, and you cannot take it. You feel compelled to explain yourself, but any desperate excuse you can muster is too pathetic to utter aloud.

You want it. You need it - just once, the embrace of somebody who doesn’t get off on hurting you. Who doesn’t hate you, who doesn’t leave the bruises of his hatred behind when he is done with you. You can’t even rightly claim that the man you now cling to won’t do the same, but your longing belief that he won’t is enough to spur you into craving him. 

Perhaps he thinks it’s immoral, to touch, to feel, to taste his prisoner of war. Is that really where he’d draw the line? 

“I want to,” you insist; it emerges as a trembling whisper, scarcely a breath, and you bunch the thick fleece of his jersey in your fists. 

He lets out a hounded breath, pent up within his ribs, and his grip on your wrist only grows tighter. He reels his head upward, his stubbled chin grazes your cheek before he widens the gap between his face and yours and leans his back against the wall. 

“What,” he grunts, tone tender yet goading. “What do you want.” 

Is he really going to make you say it? 

Do you even have an answer? 

You don’t know what you want from him, not in any way that you can adequately explain. Asking him to fuck you would be too crude to articulate what you truly, deeply crave. You don’t want him to bend you over, you don’t want him to simply fill you up and leave you empty. No, you want him surrounding you, against you, inside you - you want the sensation of soft skin, of praising hands, of indulging mouths. You want to be corporeal again, a tender human and not an animal, a woman and not a spayed bitch. You want to be adored, not consumed. Needed more than wanted. 

The thought of speaking any of it aloud forces you to reckon with the unadulterated lunacy of what you are doing, of what you want to do. Clawing for the man, the soldier, the war criminal, that abducted you and slaughtered your husband. 

But, in your thirst, you mould your reservations like soft clay. 

Maybe the man he executed wasn’t your beloved husband, but a manipulative, perfidious sociopath, who kept you around as a pedigree showpiece and a hole to fuck. Maybe you were more pleased at the sight of the corpse than you had let yourself believe. 

Maybe your abduction was in fact a rescue, offering you the only breath of freedom or hope of escape you had ever been granted. Maybe the mission of espionage he forcehanded you into was not purely a death sentence, but an opportunity to do something that actually matters, for once, to make right the horrors you had been blindly complicit in.

You aren’t certain how much you believe any of your excuses, but, the longer you hold your tongue, the louder they ring true. 

Your eyes fix to the thrumming of his arteries under his tense jaw, the movement of his adam’s apple as he swallows. The satin sheen of sweat on his skin, despite the cold air of the empty kitchen. 

Your misgivings spill like milk, and you take a sip of air. 

“I just-” You hesitate, quiet words knotting your tongue. “I just want to feel good.”

He stills for a beat, before the hand he had shackled around your wrist loosens - he grazes it up the length of your arm, settling into the crook of your neck, his thumb brushing the underside of your jaw. His dusky eyes inspect you down the bridge of his nose. 

“Y’want me to make you feel good?” He murmurs richly, voice low. 

The surge in your chest turns your blood thick, and hot; you feel it flood into the apples your cheeks, into the tips of your fingers, into the crux of the pulsing bead between your legs. 

Your lips barely part, your heavy eyes flicker about his face, your fists open flat on his stomach. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eye when you nod, barely moving your head, too diffident to bravely admit it. 

He wedges the tip of his thumb under your jaw, and hinges your head backward, insisting you look at him. A warm shiver trickles down your spine as he cranes his head, his breathing tickles your lips. 

“Say it.” 

He’s tormenting you. Your tongue is too fevered to form the words for you, it takes a tremulous breath to gather them. 

“I want you t-”

Your confession is cut short, when he closes the narrow distance and presses his open lips into yours, too impatient to await the full sentence. It sucks the air from your lungs, but it doesn’t startle you - no, you sink into him the instant you taste him, opening your mouth to him with an ardour you have never been so consumed by. He clutches your head with both hands and almost lifts you by it as he kisses you, thick fingers weaving into your hair, rooting keenly in your scalp. 

His tongue tastes of cinnamon chewing gum and the smoke of your Benson and Hedges, decidedly softer than you would have expected, when you lave yours against his in your mouth. Your eager claws climb over the sides of his torso, digging into his back - pulling yourself as deeply into him as your bodies allow it, you want his warmth so firm against you that you might absorb it from him.

His lips drag from yours to plant wetly on your cheek, trailing to gnaw at the underside of your jaw, to taste your jugular with an open mouth - his teeth graze the tendons of your neck, but he doesn’t bite. Only lavishes your skin with a fervour that leaves you flustered and short of breath. 

You offer him no such tenderness - you mouth at the skin behind his ear, taste the salt of his sweat on your tongue, teeth burrowing into the fleshy muscles of his neck like you might take a bite out of him. Your avaricious fingers scratch up the back of his scalp, combing through his cropped hair, burrowing your nails into his skull as you clutch him so covetously. 

His right hand runs downward from your shoulder, sweeping the hollow of your waist, over your hip and down the side of your thigh. With his fingers he rakes the heavy silk of your dress up, up, up, and deftly gathers the fabric in a fist at your hip. 

You gasp as he grapples you by the thighs with both hands and hoists you smoothly upward, parting your legs so that they wrap around his hips. He carries you three fluid steps forward, before planting you on the edge of the marble island counter in the centre of the kitchen. The countertop is biting cold against the bare skin under your skirt, and he wedges your legs open with his torso. In your impatience you clutch his head by the jaw with two eager hands, dragging him downward to kiss you again, teeth clacking together ungracefully in your ferocity. 

You feel his thick fingers slither up your thighs, to your hips - they hook into the waistband of your underwear, and your heart jumps to your throat. He plucks them downward, lifting you just slightly to pull them over the swell of your ass, shimmying them down your thighs with an urgency that dizzies you. 

He pulls away from your mouth with a ragged breath, and your hungry hands lose grip of him - he shifts back to drag your panties to your knees, and he sinks downward as he pulls them to your ankles, off your feet. You don’t see where he drops them, and he doesn’t come back up. 

No, he remains on his knees beneath you. Doesn’t even take a breath before he plunges between your legs, doesn’t spare a second to admire your cunt for his own satisfaction, doesn’t waste a moment teasing you, nor preparing you - he parts your shamefully sodden lips with an overindulgent tongue, laving from your fluttering opening to your puffy clitoris in a single taste. You choke on air in the shock, flurried and light-headed, catching yourself from buckling over with hands atop his head. 

He eats you like a hound, messy and greedy, sucking your clit between his teeth and then releasing it with a smear of a flat tongue. The noises you make are embarrassing, unfamiliar - you have only ever performed them, sweet and delicate moans, music tailored to the man pretending to please you. Instead you choke, squeak, whimper like you are drowning in rapture as thick as honey, and the sounds spring from your throat despite your efforts to contain them. 

He rivets you to the counter with two expansive hands, fingertips bore into the pillow of your hips, holding the skirt of your dress up and out of his way. His coarse stubble chafes against the inside of your thighs, you feel every movement of his jaw as it opens wide and clamps shut. Your talons rake through his hair, scratch into his scalp with nearly enough force to break the skin. Your clit burns hot under his ravening, tender and hypersensitive - you gasp for air with every graze of his tongue, bite out a whine with every suckle. 

Neck growing weak, your head falls back from your shoulders; with it, you collapse backward and land against the countertop, knocking over a stemmed wine glass that shatters loudly and sprinkles glass over the marble and the floor. You do not notice it, back arching as though in a fit, spine contorting as you unwittingly buck your hips away from his mouth, but he follows you. 

He keeps the impetus of your pleasure under his tongue despite your writhing, reminding you of his strength when you involuntarily try to evade him. He does not restrain you with brutality, though - his hands are simply demanding, guiding, and as your squirming eases they soften their grip. One loosens and glides along the outside of your thigh, languid and tender across your skin, settling at your knee and steadying its position hanging over his shoulder. 

The knowing gentleness of his touch, the caution in the caress of his fingers, the overindulgence of his tongue - emulsify into a surge of liquid heat, unctuous and boiling. It floods scalding from the core of you, through the vessels and nerves of every extremity, pumping into the centre of your spoiled clit and setting it alight. You come in his mouth with a fervency that suffocates you, and you choke on a keening cry as he sucks more out of you - it charges through you in waves as you tumble over the edge of it, forcing you to jolt as though electrified, over, and over, until you finally plant a heel on his collarbone and push him off of you. 

You whine as you exhale, no air left in your lungs, as his mouth finally peels from your cunt. You take a moment to recover, back flat against the cold stone, eyes fluttering shut as the aftershock of your orgasm keeps you twitching. 

His rabid breathing echoes yours in the silence of the room, and you tilt up your head to look at him down the length of your nose. His murky stare catches yours over your mound; his eyes stygian in the shadows as he glowers at you from under his brow, reflecting a faint glint of light in their centre. His mouth hangs open, your liquid and his soaking his lips and dripping from his chin. 

He pants like a dog. 

You’re still hungry. 

The taste of you lingers in his mouth, and he refuses to swallow. 

He savours it for as long as he can, letting your heady syrup soak into his tongue, he wants it imbibed by every taste bud. Your sweet breathing is music, spent whines almost as euphonious as the sounds of your orgasm, velvet in his ears - he relives the feeling of your needy clit spasming against his tongue, how eagerly it twitched when he persisted in spoiling it, and resists the urge to take it in his mouth again. 

Your lethargic eyes cling to him, blinking slowly, lips wet. 

Did that feel good, little thing? 

Did he surfeit you? 

Was he soft enough? 

He tried to be. Christ, he tried - he exerted every ounce of his strength to subdue the savagery that roiled within him, that threatened to forcibly breach the cage he muzzled it with. It doesn’t come naturally to him, touching without forcing, lavishing without teeth. It goes against every fibre of his being, in fact - he is a carnivore by nature, he hunts and he snares and he chews, he overpowers with strength and fear, he controls with the threat of his aggression. 

He had never practiced restraint until he met you. 

It was far easier, when you kept your distance, when you avoided his eyes, when you resisted his touch.

Now, you run your fingernails through his hair. You wrap your thighs around his neck. You blink at him winsomely, supplicating, awaiting his next move. Unaware or uncaring of the predator you tempt so pointedly, how much effort he employs to tame it in your presence. 

The animal in him has its own hunger - starved, in fact - its stare flicks to your cunt, inches from him, shuddering under the heat of his breathing. Pink and pillowy after his avaricious praise, glistening with its stickiness; your nectar seeps in a rivulet from your slit, clear and glossy. His cock is heavy, only growing heavier, thrumming rich with the blood you fill it with. 

He does not deserve it. 

He catches your eye again, as you push yourself upward to sit straight, and he forces himself to stand. His nose brushes up your silk-cladded stomach as he rises from his knees, and once he stands tall, his face is a hair’s breadth from yours. 

Your cheeks are rosy, shiny with the glow of the paroxysm he ate out of you. Lips bitten red, shimmery with your saliva, part gently to breathe. Hair mussed, askew, falling out of the updo you had pulled it into, pieces of it cascade in waves and frame your face. 

Fuck, you’re beautiful.

He could say it aloud, but he doesn’t. Is that what you want to hear? Does it even matter to you? 

Your gaze lingers on his lips, he watches your eyelashes as they flutter. You shift forward to press your mouth to his, lips barely open; you are reserved, shy about it, as if kissing him now is a crossing of a boundary, as if he could ever mount any boundaries against you. You need only blink at him and they crumble. 

Can you taste yourself in his mouth? 

Does it make you as ravenous as it does him? 

He feels your fingers on his stomach, scratching at the fleece - and like you tried to before, you trail them downward, past his navel, catching in the stiff waistband of his trousers. He lets out a grunt, a sigh, as he looks down to see your diffident fingers hook the button of his fly, pushing it through the eye with a dull pop. You move slowly, cautious about it, as if he can’t see, can’t feel where you venture. As though he might catch you in the act of your transgression, and you’d be in trouble.

Do you feel that you owe it to him? That he did it for a reward?

Tasting you was a reward in itself. One he could never have deserved, one he cannot yet fathom you deigned to grant him. 

Maybe it’s habit, all you have come to know - sex as a transaction, a contract you need to fulfil. That if you don’t open your cunt or your mouth to repay the favour, they’ll be opened for you, whether you like it or not. 

He can’t have that. He won’t let you offer yourself out of obligation, nor out of dread. Not with the knowledge of what he has done to you hanging heavy from his neck. Not with your wrathful words ringing poignantly in his skull. Because, you were right - he does scratch, and grab, and hit, and break, he spends every waking second hungry, and the compulsion to maim is written on, embedded in the flesh he consists of. His very being is anathema to you, and he should be. 

He refuses you, again, taking both of your little wrists in one hand, shackling them together and tugging them away from him. 

“Stop,” he grumbles, and you look up at him through your lashes. 

He can’t decode you. Your expression reads to him as both nervous and discontented, embarrassed and yet frustrated. 

Do you even know what you want? 

With a pent breath you lower your head, pressing your forehead under his collarbone, and he feels your leg shift up his side. He hopes you have given up. That he has left you depleted of the lust that drove you to make the mistake of indulging him.  

“Please.” 

A whisper, so muted he thought for a moment that he had hallucinated it. 

“What?” He presses, under breath, and you sink deeper into him, mouth against his jersey. 

“Please,” you repeat, a whine, muffled by fleece. 

Your supplication turns him to putty, and his cuffs slacken. He doesn’t believe you - or, just as likely, he doesn’t trust his own ears to be hearing what he thinks you have said. Your slippery hands escape him, and unbridled they return to their objective; fingers catch the zipper of his fly, you watch your work as you pull it down. 

“Please,” you insist, unprompted, each utterance more desperate. 

His cock grows as solid as iron; straining against the boxer briefs you release from behind his fly, twitching with every slight movement you make in its proximity. His war not to touch you is lost, and he ghosts a hand across your shoulder, up the back of your neck, combing into your hair as he presses his nose and mouth into the top of your head. 

Do you know what you are pleading for? 

Do you want him inside you?

Do you need the fullness he can give you?

He could oblige you, if that is what you truly want. He could sink his cock into you deep enough to make you dizzy. He could stuff you full enough to slake the turmoil-induced concupiscence that has possessed you. 

But he won’t do that for you, little thing. Not unless you beg him to. 

You pluck at the elastic waistband of his boxers, another unspoken appeal. 

“Say it again,” he growls, into your hair, doing his level best not to dig his teeth into you.

With a quivering breath you tilt your head upward to face him, your lips brush lightly against his. The tips of your wary fingers brush the underside of his length through the fabric of his boxers, and he bites down on a grunt. 

“Please.” 

You whisper it into his mouth, and his scruples turn to smoke. 

He dives downard, lips colliding with yours, kissing you with a resurgent zeal, his manacles broken and his conscience smothered - your little hands hold him by the cheeks, softer than he is worthy of, and your tongue strokes against his as though drinking your own juices from him. 

He grants your pleas, tugging down the front of his boxers and releasing his burdensome cock with a grip around its curly base. Your needy legs hook him by the hip, and you tug him forward - the underside of his shaft grinds against your slit, soaking in the nectar that pools there, and you spill a yearning whimper into his mouth. 

“Again,” he snarls, against your lips; he kneads the crux of your labia with the base of his head, frenulum rubbing against your swollen clitoris, and your brows curl with the whine he pushes out of you. 

“Please,” you mewl, fingernails nearly puncturing his cheeks. 

Fuck, you’re insatiable. 

It liquefies him when you hurt him. When you bite. When you maim. His scalp still stings from where your claws had all but broken the skin, the side of his neck throbs where your bite marks sink deep. He wants you to wound him, he wants you to take it all out on the body that he offers you. He wants to bleed for you. 

He drags the soft head of his steel cock down your slit, burrowing between the lips so slick he needn’t pause, needn’t prepare you by spitting on his hand and smearing it on you. He wedges his tip against your opening and it almost sucks him in with its voraciousness, but he halts there. His free hand finds your waist and clutches at its hollow, tugging you minutely closer, your ass perched precariously on the very edge of the counter. You look up again, with a little gasp, neediness etched in your stare. 

“Again,” he urges, just to hear you beg for him. 

“Please-”

You gag on your entreaty as he obliges you; he pushes his weight forward and sinks his cock into you, reaming open your taut yet eager pussy as he gradually burrows it deeper. He sees white as you stretch to fit him, and he lets out a broken grunt; the ridged and gooey walls of your cunt engulf him snugly, blindingly warm, you fit his cock like a glove. 

With a breath caught in your throat, you squeak on it - he stills, only half-way deep, for your own good. He refuses to hurt you, even if you want him to. Your cunt clamps down on him as he pauses, muscles rolling up the length of him, and he wrenches shut his eyes; your hands rake from his cheeks to the collar of his fleece, and you reel him desperately closer. 

“You’re not hurting me,” you breathe, lips under his ear, warm on his skin. 

Can you read his mind? 

Is he that transparent? 

He wonders if you have been able to see through his veneer, peer under his mask since the moment you laid eyes on him. As if you can guess his thoughts, decrypt his every motive, predict every decision. As if you can decipher his feelings, better than he can, almost as well as you can manipulate them. He has always boasted his ability to conceal himself, has always considered his truest centre too deep to be retrieved, long gone - but you peel off every layer that coats him, every cover that obscures him, and you expose him without effort. 

It might have made him defensive, cold, being unmasked so brazenly. But, it doesn’t. Not when you’re the one peering under the hood. 

He smooths his hands up your thighs, lifting your skirt, finding purchase in the meat of your hips - he uses his grip to anchor you to the edge of the counter as he thrusts forward, plunging his cock so deep into you that you take him to the hilt. 

He bites back a groan, as his blunt head nudges against the spongy pillow of your cervix, and your fingernails carve into his burning neck. He stays there for a beat, buried as deep as you can take him, swimming in the abundant honey that soaks him from base to tip. 

He reels out of you, indulging his cock with the friction of your walls, gripping his shaft on its way out - before he drives back into you, ramming into the gummy plug of your womb and forcing a succulent cry from your throat. Your cunt swallows him like it was moulded to fit him, and he grits his teeth as he succumbs to rutting in earnest; drags his cock out of you and plummets in deep, relishing in the melody of every little squeak he fucks out of you. 

With the arms over his back you yank at the fabric of his jersey, pulling it up from where it was tucked into his trousers, exposing his back to the cold of the air. He yields to your unspoken request without dispute, fleetingly separating from you to reach behind his back and shuck off the fleece and the t-shirt he wears under it in one go. He knows you like the sight, little thing. 

You hook an arm around his neck with a frayed breath, and slither the other over his ribs, rooting your fingers in the muscles that wrap his scapula. He fucks into you after the transient reprieve, and you burrow your face into his bare chest. You kiss him there, tongue gliding over the scars of burns and gunshots like you can taste the blood that once spilled from them. 

With another impetuous thrust your sanguinary fingernails carve through the meat of his back, as though you want to break the skin; you claw deeper, crueller with every rut, and your mewls grow wetter and sweeter. 

He shifts his right hand to the top of your thigh, and he glides his thumb down the crease of your groin; he nestles the tip of it at the nexus of your pussy, still slick from his appetite, and he burnishes your clit in circles with the pace of his thrusts. 

Can he get another one out of you, little thing?

It sounds like he can - your whines hitch in your throat with every upward swipe of his thumb, with every ram of his cock, and your legs coil tighter and tighter around his torso. He feels your cunt constrict around the length of him, resistance where there had been none, tightening and letting go in rhythm. He’d like to see your pretty face as he takes you over the edge, again, a sight that could never pall - but you are engaged in your own vices. 

Your unquenchable mouth is busy - gnashes at his neck, his trapezius, his collarbone, leaving wet nibbles in your wake. You settle for a pectoral, and he feels your teeth grazing his febrile skin, over where the tattoos of his sleeve spread over his chest. Your heightened whimpers are muffled by his pelt, as he brings you closer, as he fucks you deeper - you hold your breath, clamp your thighs around his waist as you climb to the apex. 

And when you come, when your pent breath escapes your chest in a ravished whine, your jaw finds purchase; you take the flesh of his muscle between your teeth and bite down as he stuffs you full, chewing on his meat like a carnivore, and he groans harshly through a clenched jaw. 

Do you enjoy hurting him, little thing? 

Or do you simply like the taste? 

Perhaps it is both, because you only bite down harder as you roll down the other side of your climax; your nails lacerate deeper, your legs trap him tighter, and your pussy constringes around his cock with the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

The pain you inflict in him is just as blinding, just as shattering as the euphoria engulfing the length of him - his cock rakes against your suckling walls, rooting into the pillow of your cervix, bathing in the flood of your liquor - he feels his stomach sink, his vision goes hazy, his cock engorges in waves from base to head. 

“Fuck-” he bites out, wolfish in his grunting - you are either oblivious to or unperturbed by his looming climax, because you keep your ensnaring legs tight around his torso, your arms hooked rigidly around his neck, your canines in his shoulder. 

He stifles a hoarse groan through gritting teeth, decisive hands seize you by the hips in an effort to unsheathe his cock from the depths of you. But your thighs only contract, grapple him closer; you drive his length back into you, and you squeak insatiably into his skin. 

“Mia-” He grunts, voice ragged. 

Your greedy hands slide to either side of his inflamed neck, and you finally unlatch your mouth from his skin - you hold your forehead to his, languid eyes fluttering across his face, he feels your breathing cool against his skin. 

He’s too close - it wracks him, surges through him with a voltage that turns his vision sparkly and his cock as heavy as lead. 

Do you want him to come inside you? 

Do you need him beholden to you? 

“Please,” you croak. 

Fuck. 

His orgasm rips through him and leaves him blind, floods out of him in a torrent that sucks the air from his lungs - his cock lurches in the snare of your cunt, spilling a spate of thick come against your cervix and pumping you so full that he feels the overflow drool down the base of his shaft. He groans into your mouth and you swallow it, your own spent whimpers echoing his, as his cock continues to spasm inside you. 

The cold water rinses him once he takes a breath, and he lowers his head; he rests his open mouth against your shoulder, panting into your feverish skin. You listlessly run the soft tips of your fingers up his spine, as winded as he is, his head rises with your torso as you draw in a breath. 

His mind is paradoxically empty and teeming - warring between shame and pride, between guilt and reverence. 

He didn’t deserve it. He shouldn’t have obliged you. 

He doesn’t regret it. 

“Thank you,” you breathe, a torpid whine in the sigh that follows. 

He presses a praising kiss into the crook of your shoulder. 

“Don’t thank me.” 

[angelsfics]

Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter fic recs

i've recently started reading drarry, so here are some of the very favorites i've found. it's not a comprehensive list but just some i enjoyed! feel free to send me more recs.

Aevitumer written by MarshmalowMilkshake ♡ 95k words, rated M. Tags: Time Travel Fix-It, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort

Another Heart Whispers Back written by slytherco ♡ 53k words, rated E. Tags: Friends to Lovers, Pining Draco Malfoy, Oblivious Harry Potter, Casual Intimacy, Sexual Tension & Romantic Tension, Humor, Blind First Dates, Idiots in Love, First Time, Cuddling

Dwelling written by aideomai ♡ 83k words, rated T. Tags: Friends to Lovers, Curses, Boy-Who-Lived Neville Longbottom, Twists & Turns

Hothouse Flowers and Hot Hot Showers written by azalea_larae & boshspice ♡ 101k words, rated E. Tags: Porn with Plot, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Muggle Studies, Studying Muggle Abroad, Roommates, Cuddling, Sexual Tension, Fluff

My Fucking Flatmate written by toxik_angel ♡ 82k words, rated E. Tags: Canon Divergence, Good Draco Malfoy, Draco Defects, Hogwarts 7th Year, Roommates, Harry and Draco in the Muggle World, Youtube, Tension, Fluff, Humor

Now I Know In Part written by dodgerkedavra ♡ 39k words, rated E. Tags: Curses/Curse Damage, Cursed Harry Potter, Curse-Breaker Draco Malfoy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Cottagecore Draco Malfoy

Soulmates (series) written by dodgerkedavra ♡ 27k words, rated E. Tags: Soulmates, Friends to Lovers, Pining, Art/Artist Harry Potter, Bookseller Draco Malfoy, Protective Draco Malfoy, Running Away, PTSD, Grief/Mourning, Post-War, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

The Bolthole written by aideomai & Tepre ♡ 54k words, rated E. Tags: Grief, Cottage, Roommates, Bed Sharing, Hurt/Comfort, Falling in Love, Harry Potter is a Hoarder

The Lesson of You written by thecouchsofa ♡ 65k words, rated E. Tags: Accidental Child Acquisition, Time Travel, Kid Fic, Fluff, Family Fluff, Forced Proximity

The Softer Side of Draco Malfoy written by QueenofThyme ♡ 29k words, rated M. Tags: Hogwarts Eighth Year, Potions Accident, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Harry stalking Draco

Then Comes a Mist and a Weeping Rain written by Faith Wood (faithwood) ♡ 21k words, rated E. Tags: Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, Romance, Hurt/Comfort

Third Drawer Down written by eleventy7 ♡ 1.6k words, rated T. Tags: Hurt, Angst

Way Down We Go written by xiaq ♡ 109k words, rated T. Tags: Werewolf Harry Potter, Post-Canon, EWE, Domestic, Healing & Recovery, Redemption, Roommates, Chronic Illness, Hurt/Comfort.

what husbands are for written by softlystarstruck ♡ 52k words, rated E. Tags: Werewolves & Vampires, Political/Arranged Marriage, Werewolf Harry, Vampire Draco, Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, Trans Male & Autistic Main Characters

Who we are in the shadows written by Quicksilvermaid ♡ 99k words, rated E. Tags: Werewolves, Werewolf Harry Potter, Case Fic, Slow Burn, Secrets/Lies, Angst, Possessive Behavior, Falling In Love, Enemies to Lovers

Within You Without You written by arminaa ♡ 39k words, rated E. Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mind Healer Draco Malfoy, Recovery, Anxious/Lonely/Depressed Harry Potter, Harry Potter Gets Therapy, EWE, Pining, Falling in Love, First Love/First Time

[st3f13ily]

☛ Infinity Between Us (Masterlist)

The story of Gojo Satoru meeting you from past to future, beginning till end. The story of both of your life together.

Reader CT

Just so you know, I haven't done much yet, this list is for me to know what I should do next.

I might post some of them not according to the order I put. (idk if you understand that) For example, I might post one of the stories at the adult arc first than the teenage arc.

(Teenage arc || 2006 || Before the mission)

Click, Snap, Capture, Confessed

> In Where You Found a Camera on the Desk.

Sealed Knowledge

> In where a new student transfers to Tokyo Jujutsu High.

Jealousy?? Yeah, Right

> Operation: The art of (not) making you jealous!

Jealousy Tastes like Blue

> What's the perfect Revenge that affects him??

First Date... Kind of?

> Gojo drags you out for a 'mission'

(More coming)

( Teenage Arc || After the Toji incident || Relationship )

Confession under the star

> Gojo finally admits his feelings during a late-night rooftop talk, but he makes it a joke first—because he’s nervous.

A promise we couldn't keep

> After Geto leaves, he comes to you.

Will you be mine?

> You finally accept him to be yours.

Domestic life with the strongest

> You and Satoru shared an apartment, and it's a mix of chaos, laughter, and stolen kisses.

Matching sunglasses and dumb Dates

> Gojo drags you out on ridiculous dates, making you wear matching sunglasses just to embarrass you.

I'm always coming home with you

> Despite the dangers of his job, Gojo promises to always return to you.

Your the only who sees me

> Everyone treats Gojo as the strongest, but with you, he can just be Satoru.

Drunk Proposal

> Everything was good until you showed up late, and found a drunk Gojo Satoru.

Between Duty and Love

> Gojo is forced to choose between his responsibilities and your relationship, and it’s tearing him apart.

( Adult Arc || Years Later || Marriage )

Wedding Planning… with Gojo

> Planning a wedding with the world’s most chaotic sorcerer is a nightmare. He insists on a sky-blue theme to match his eyes.

Cold Feet? Nah, I Just Miss You

>The night before the wedding, Gojo sneaks into your room because "sleeping without you feels weird."

The Wedding of the Century

> Your wedding is grand, chaotic, and full of love. Gojo can’t stop grinning, and when you walk down the aisle, he actually goes speechless.

Honeymoon Love

> He planned the best honeymoon!! Except something goes not according to plan.

Waking Up as Mrs. Gojo

> Your first morning as newlyweds, where Gojo refuses to let you get out of bed. "We’re married now, you’re stuck with me forever."

Gojo vs. House Chores

> Married life means Gojo attempting chores, only to make things worse. He declares war on laundry but loses.

Cooking with Gojo

> After that laundry accident, he decided to surprise you by cooking you dinner.

Cuddle Monster

> Gojo’s clinginess increases by 1000% after marriage. He constantly invades your personal space, even while you work.

Surprise Date Night

> Gojo randomly kidnaps you for a spontaneous, over-the-top date. "Marriage shouldn’t be boring, Mochi!"

Jealous? Me? No Way

> Even as a husband, Gojo gets jealous when someone flirts with you, but he plays it off—until he drags you away with a smirk.

Arguments and Apologies

> Your first real fight as a married couple, where Gojo sulks like a child but makes it up to you in the sweetest way.

Sick Days with Gojo

> When you catch a cold, Gojo dramatically declares himself your personal nurse. Spoiler: he’s bad at it, but he tries.

Are you better?

> Gojo needs you.

The Moment He Finds Out

> You tell Gojo the news, even though he already knows, he still tries to hide it and act surprise.

( Adult Arc || Pregnancy )

Gojo’s Overprotective Mode: Activated

> Once he knows you’re pregnant, Gojo refuses to let you lift a single thing, constantly fussing over you.

Talking to the Baby Bump

> Gojo whispers nonsense to your belly, telling the baby how cool their dad is (and how much he loves you both).

Baby Shower and a piece of Shocking news!!

> Where you both decided to do a baby shower.

I Can’t Believe We Made This

> One night, Gojo watches you sleep with his hand on your belly, overwhelmed with love and disbelief.

Shopping for the Baby

> Gojo insists on buying baby sunglasses and a tiny blindfold "for training purposes."

Our Little Family

> As he feels the baby kick for the first time, Gojo realizes that despite everything, this is his happiest moment ever.

I’m Gonna Be a Dad

> Gojo goes around telling everyone, from Nanami to strangers on the street, that he's going to be a dad.

Late-Night Talks About the Future

> One night, Gojo holds you close, whispering all his dreams for your child, his excitement, and his fears.

Cravings & Midnight Runs

> Gojo wakes up at 3 AM to you craving something ridiculous. He teleports across the country just to get it.

Mood Swings & Emotional Gojo

> Pregnancy hormones hit hard, and Gojo struggles when you cry over the smallest things. He panics every time, trying to fix it.

Hearing the Heartbeat

> At the first ultrasound, Gojo actually tears up hearing your baby’s heartbeat. He doesn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

The First Kick

> When he finally feels the baby kick, Gojo freezes, eyes wide, before breaking into the biggest grin. He brags about it for weeks.

Dancing in the Living Room

> One quiet evening, Gojo sways with you, hands on your belly, humming a song and whispering how much he loves you.

Doubt & Reassurance

> One night, Gojo confesses his fear of not being a good father. You remind him that he’s already the best husband, and he’ll be the best dad too.

A week before birth

False Alarm!

> You have a Braxton Hicks contraction, and Gojo freaks out, teleporting you to Shoko in full panic mode.

Can We Name Them After Me?

> Gojo jokingly suggests names like "Satoru Jr." and "Satoru II." You refuse. The debate continues for the whole day.

The birth

10:47 pm - Your water breaks, and Gojo loses it, teleporting you to the hospital in a full-blown panic.

12:34 am - During labour, Gojo stays by your side, holding your hand and whispering encouragement even though you threaten to break his fingers.

2:14 am - The moment Gojo holds your child for the first time, his usual goofy self disappears, replaced by pure, unfiltered love.

2:59 am - Gojo watches you cradle your baby, whispering, "We did it. We made something so perfect."

( Adult Arc || Family || Kids )

Double the trouble, Double the love

> Finding out you’re having twins was a shock, but Gojo? He celebrated like he won the lottery. "Two babies? That means two times the awesomeness!"

Dad Mode Active

> Gojo swears he’ll be the best dad ever—until he realizes how tiny and fragile newborns are. "WHAT IF I ACCIDENTALLY BREAK THEM?!"

Sleep? What's that?

> Gojo insists he’ll handle nighttime duty… then immediately regrets it when both twins start crying at 3 AM.

First word?

> You and your beloved husband Satoru Gojo have been fighting for weeks for your twins first words.

Mini Sorcerer Training

> Gojo starts training them early, letting them wear tiny blindfolds for fun.

Gojo VS Baby Food

> He insists on feeding the twins himself. It ends with more food on him than in their mouths.

Prank Team

> Your daughter has inherit your husband chaotic energy and starts playing prank on everyone, including you.

Papa’s Biggest Fans

> They follow Gojo everywhere, giggling whenever he lifts them onto his shoulders like tiny royalty.

Overprotective Gojo, But Worse

> The first time the twins get sick, Gojo goes into full panic mode and calls Shoko every five minutes.

First Day of School Meltdown

> Gojo doesn’t want to let them go, hugging them dramatically at the school gate.

Teacher Gojo?!?

> Gojo insists on helping with their homework but just ends up making them laugh with nonsense explanations.

Sports Day, But Make It Over-the-Top

> Gojo teleports across the field to cheer them on, embarrassing your son and you.

Gojo vs. Parenting Styles

> You set rules. Gojo? He lets the twins eat sweets before dinner and calls it "an experiment."

Bedtime Stories by Papa Gojo

> He makes up the most ridiculous bedtime stories, often starring himself as "the strongest and coolest dad."

Father-Daughter Dance & Protective Dad Mode

> Gojo panics when his little girl gets asked to dance by a boy. "You’re too young for this!"

Satoru Little Clones

> Your daughter is super hyper like your husband Satoru, on the other hand, your son is the polar opposite.

Special Late Nights Talks

> The twins sneak out of bed to sit with Gojo, asking questions about the stars, life, and why his eyes are so special.

The Moment He Realizes They’re Growing Up

> Watching his twins walk ahead, Gojo gets hit with the reality that one day, they won’t be little anymore.

Papa’s Always Here

> A quiet, heartfelt moment where Gojo promises his children that no matter what, he will always protect them.

(More to come)

[jscrawls]

Widows rest

My take on a Black widow! Reader x Batman and Batfam but with a slight twist, reader doesn't know the Bats but they seem to know them...

Warning: contains avengers infinity war spoilers, black widow spoilers, graphic violence, injuries, blood, accidental domestic violence? Guns, possible ooc,

Part 20: fireflies

🔹🔹🔹

after that night in town you can’t focus on anything but.

there was no resting and recovering for you, your brain was locked in overdrive analyzing every detail of the night, from the way the woman first approached you to the exact symptoms of whatever the drug was. you wasted no time and went right to your phone as soon as your door shut behind you. dropping back on the bed limply while you get to work making a case file, there’s no record of a pam in your life online, but you quickly realize there isn’t any record of you at all before the wayne’s.

on the old wayne socials the other you mostly posted about the kids, the husband, various events and trips, but there's barely anything personal, there was reference of a college education, a social circle, family, but there's no actual evidence of any of it. it’s like that was all scrubbed from the web. this just makes everything pam said all the more suspicious, just what’s hidden in the other you’s past and how are the wayne’s involved?

going into the GCPD records shows nothing either, no criminal record, nowrite ups, not even so much as a speeding ticket, nothing before the gala incident. for days you sift and run through channels looking for something that tells you who’s body you’re in right now, but it just makes you more and more frustrated, one things for certain, someone’s scrubbed the other you’s life clean and did a damn fine job of it.

it’s like you’ve found yourself in the middle of a mission with no goal, no direction, and no idea what role you’re supposed to play in it all. where does this leave you? this time you’re withdrawn, not because you’re angry but because you’re researching.

two days after the encounter with pam, you find something. it had been a whim to check through the gotham university photos after the records were bone-dry, but there in one singular photoframe in the background of someone elses photo, there was a younger you standing beside the pam woman. you were putting some kind of ribbon around her neck while she proudly held up a potted plant like it was a trophy to the photographer, you couldn’t make out the writing on the ribbon so you don’t have context but you now have confirmation that you engaged with her in some capacity years ago. It's bare-bones, but it's something, you'll take any wins you can get here.

the next thing you do is sort through the GCPD systems for a red head named pam, which is obviously very tedious but you won’t risk running an AI program on their servers just yet. You thought you were lucky when you found her quickly, that is until you read her file.

Isley, Pamela, gendered, AFAB, pronouns, she/her, Caucasian, red hair, green eyes,

Isley, Pamela, charged with, eco terrorism, domestic terrorism, murder, suspected murder, theft, breaking and entering, assault, battery, manslaughter,

Pamela Lillian Isley, also known as alias, poison ivy, was last spotted escaping Arkham asylum at appr 3:48 AM on February 11th, during an insurrection wherein multiple squad cars responded to the scene, Pamela Isley is registered on the Meta database of America and is considered a threat to human life, do not approach on sight, report if suspected in area,

oh, fuck.

you’re not stupid, obviously this woman is trying to get you alone, regardless of motive you’re not walking into something like that unarmed and unprepared. even if the tantalizing call of offered info is like a sirens song through the fog. no you know better than to fall for free candy signs on vans.

🔹🔹🔹

the back gardens actually quite nice this afternoon, you’d hauled yourself out of your little hidey hole and wandered the empty manor until you’d found yourself out here soaking up a little bit of the rare gotham sunshine on a deck chair. you need a breather before you make any moves.

breathe in, hold, exhale, and repeat. you try to meditate for a while, though you’ve never been great at it even after all these years. you can never quite empty your mind and let go of your surroundings. it’s too ingrained in you that safety isn’t earned through lack of vigilance.

still you try, you focus on the sound of a gentle breeze through the trees and shrubbery around you, the gentle warmth of the sun hitting your closed eyelids, the rustle of the dog dashing around and the various wildlife sounds in the distance, and the sound of your slowly steadying breathing.

it’s nearly twenty minutes later when you also hear the sound of the backdoor slowly sliding open, you relax your entire body and keep your breathing slow and even.

something shifts, the quietest clack of shoes on the concrete patio grow closer to you, it’s too quiet, you’re sick of being snuck up on.

something quickly pokes you in the shoulder, probably a hand if you had to guess. it isn’t until something cold and clearly metal presses against your neck do you react.

you quickly grab at the object and yank it forward while twisting it, you’d rather risk your hands than your throat. just as you start to roll out of the chair do you see who’s behind you….. tim quickly backs away with a surprised look on his face, hands raised placatingly. looking down you see a metal pen in your hand….

“….are…are you okay?” tim mumbles as he backs away, eyes wide and wild while his hands quickly go up in a placating gesture.

the pen quickly slips through your fingers onto the chair and you quickly stand, rubbing the back of your neck tiredly while you stretch your neck, you just can’t catch a fucking break huh. “mhmm, yeah. Don't scare me like that kiddo, I haven't been sleeping well since the incident.”

Tim looks away in that you can only assume is guilt as his eyes drop to the ground, his jaw clenched a he rubs at the back of his neck for a moment before his hand quickly drops back down to bury in his cropped hoodie pocket.

“…sorry….”

he avoids your form, he’s clearly feeling awkward around you which makes you all the more curious what he came out here to bother you for then. also isn’t it a weekday?…. “Don't mention it, you're off early aren't you? I thought you weren't off until five or six.”

sure you’re a bit blunt, but you’re not in the mood to play meek with him these days. especially not after he’d jabbed you with a pen, it’s like he’s just begging to get stabbed on accident.

his weight shifts foot to foot but he finally looks at you and meets your eye, his words make you tense.“something's going down in the city so I made everybody go home early.”

“something's going down?” you quickly step around the chair to grab his shoulder, grip firm.

he looks down at the hand for a moment, brows furrowed and his jaw tensed, he’s mad? “yeah…. Something about those pyromaniac's.”

your grip quickly tightens on him as if you’re trying to squeeze the information out of him, he’s far too hesitant in your opinion, that’s not something to mumble around! “What? Right now?”

tim frowns at you and gently shrugs your hand off his shoulder and straightens his hoodie out as if you’d wrinkled it in your pushy questioning.

“right now, why don't you come inside and calm down a bit.”

you swear your eye twitches a bit at his near-condescending reply.

“hang on a second, where's everyone else then? Are they inside too?” you tuck your own hands into your sweatshirt pockets and mirror his posture, you’re really trying not to look as tense as you feel at the moment, you’ve got a bad feeling about this….

again he avoids your eye, the kid really needs to work on that. “No, well Alfred's here. Bruce and everyone else is…. Out.”

now you’re just annoyed with him, what’s with the fucking attitude? your argument was with bruce it’s not like you called the whole family idiots, he’s acting like he’s personally offended by you. “Define ‘out’?”

his eyes narrow at you and you swear he stands up a little taller, his body language is clearly challenging now as his tone becomes almost accusatory. “what're you asking for.”

“So I can smother them obviously, why do you think I'm asking where everyone is?” you don’t even hide the eye roll as you step around him to head towards the backdoor.

his expression doesn’t waver as he twists to face you when you brush past him. “…. They're out.”

unfortunately for him, you know how to snap him out of his little stand off and take the wind out of his sails.

“Tim I don't have time for this, if Bruce is having an affair or something that's his business, you don't have to make excuses for him.”

“Woah what-!?” his shoes scuff the patio as he nearly trips over his own two feet, he rights himself and quickly trots after you with clear disbelief in his body language. But you don't let up with the saccharine sweet tone as you sigh deeply and continue your speil. “I'm just worried about your younger siblings getting caught up in something bad out there, aren't you?”

“…..I always am.”

Just as you expected, he drops his gaze and buries his hands deeper in his pockets in a slouch. His voice a barely audible mumble while he purses his lips together tightly.

“Are they still in school or….” you kinda regret not talking to anyone for so long as an awkward silence falls over the two of you, you wouldn't have had to grill Tim for details if you'd been around and talked to the people you live with.

“Yeah, I was gonna go and pick them up with Alfred Actually-” you cut him off quickly before he can finish that sentence. “I'm going with you two.”

“what, really?” he sounds downright disbelieving, like he can't comprehend you willingly locking yourself in a car with him and Alfred after the fight you and Bruce had, it's kinda annoying how flighty the kid is with you.

“Mhmm, fill me in on what's happening on the way. yeah?”

You don't give Tim time to rebuff you before you're stepping around him to slide the back doors open, but just before you step through you remember the last time you did something impulsive, you pull out you phone to send a quick, curt text to a certain someone.

I'm going to town with A and T, don't freak out.-

🔹🔹🔹

You'd mercifully given Tim the front seat after all but forcing yourself into their trip, your fingers drum quickly and without pattern against the center console while you watch traffic moving in front of you. It's the off-work rush so not only is everyone in their cars in a bad mood, but there's an active attack taking place somewhere in the city. Clearly everyone's feeling the heavy tension, heads bowed and hands harshly grip steering wheels every which way you look.

“…. You didn't need to bother yourself with tagging along, master Wayne.” Alfred catches your eye in the rearview mirror after he speaks, his eyebrows raised in question or judgement as if you've committed some faux pas simply be being here.

You bite back any snappy remarks before they can pass your tongue, you know when you've earned a little harshness so you swallow your words. “I'm aware, but I'd like to see if the kiddos are okay myself.”

You glance out the side window just as two sets of eyes lock on your form, you ignore their heavy stares as you study the streets you're slowly passing through, memorizing Street names and signs just Incase.

The sidewalks are just about empty despite the early hour, and the few people you do see are clearly in a hurry as they quickly shuffle down the cracked concrete and avoid each other as much as they dodge the traffic, you watch as two men give each other wide berths and throw dirty looks at one another. whatever's happening must be bad.

It's Tim who breaks the silence this time, he's still studying you closely when you look forward. “…. So were you joking about the affair thing earlier?”

Tim's question gets Alfred to whip around to look at you for just a moment before he quickly turns back at the road, clearly he didn't like this conversation already. You just huff silently at the two of them and resist the urge to roll your eyes. “obviously, though I know it's not normal to be out all night every night, but whatever Bruce's up to isn't my business.”

You hope they can leave it at that and go back to the awkward silence, but they're clearly not satisfied with that as they both share a glance and focus back on you. Maybe they're finding entertainment in the potential drama of it all. The streets finally clear up a bit and the cars able to pick up a bit of speed since entering the city.

“…. He's definitely not running around with someone else…..” Tim's mumbled words nearly pull a laugh out of you, the kids clearly in the know about something judging by the surly tone and suddenly darting eyes, he can't even make eye contact while saying it. He needs to practice his lying a little more if he plans to stay in the world of business.

“Young Tim's correct, Bruce isn't that type of man at all master.” Alfred's better at it than Tim, clearly. he almost sounds scolding, he knows how to get you to doubt yourself a bit.

“I'll take your word for it-!” your words get cut off when something smacks into rear side of the car and jostles everyone, it wasn't hard enough for whiplash but that's not your concern right now as you watch the car that apparently t-boned you stop, and then it backs up so quickly their tires squeal. You already know what's coming when they back into a street sign to stop, and immediately start to pull forward again.

Apparently Tim does too as he shouts at Alfred. “that was intentional, They're trying to hit us!”

“I'm aware, Master Timothy.” Alfred mutters with surprising calmness as he throws the car into drive, you're slightly impressed at the man's composed tone and decent timing as he just barely avoids the car.

You lean forward into the center console to converse with the two of them, your nails still tapping on the damn wood. “just my fucking luck, you think they want us dead or alive.”

“most likely alive judging by how slowly they hit the car, maybe they want hostages or to kill us in person.” Alfred muses calmly, eyes locked on the rearview while you nod in acceptance of his reasoning. “Makes sense to me.”

Tim looks between the both of you with a panicked frown on his face, he keeps swiveling around to look at the car as it clumsily manoeuvers to follow. “Can you both not talk about dying so casually?”

“I'm quite old Timothy, part of my everyday is wandering when I'll die.” Alfred and you nearly speak over each other. “I already technically died at that gala, what's a little murder talk now, yeah?”

You watch the other car as well, how they seem determined to follow you through Gothams complicated streets. nearly clipping a firetruck pulling out of a grotto. You watch as a few pedestrians quickly run down alleys or into buildings to avoid the swerving cars. their panicked expressions blurring together in the light of the setting sun in your view.

alfred yanks on the wheel and takes a sharp turn when the car nearly runs into backed up traffic, narrowly avoiding getting stuck while you and tim are jostled and thrown about like rocks in the wash, you wince in sympathy when tim’s head smacks into the window and he quickly grabs at his temple. he nearly drops the phone he’d just pulled out of his pocket.

“don’t break something now.” you sigh out at him, turning around to watch the dark toyota sideline a stop sign but still manage to pull away and follow your vehicle, more distance between the cars now but it seems they’re determined.

“well there goes my evening plans!” tim’s sarcastic response would get a chuckle out of you if you weren’t watching the attackers speed up recklessly behind you.

“please, hang onto something!” alfred says quickly before slamming the breaks and turning the car around, you’re genuinely surprised he can drift.

both cars screech to a stop on opposite ends of the street, facing each other almost like some kind of game of chicken, your car, an SUV obviously has a little more weight in the frame so you know who’d win that. hopefully the other car isn’t stupid enough to try anyways.

“you think they’re part of the pyros?” you lean forward between the two front seats again to converse, you and alfred staring down the car while tim is quickly texting on his phone, hopefully he’s texting the younger boys to stay somewhere safe if they’re still at school. and maybe bruce and the police while he’s at it.

“i think it would be safe to assume so, (name).”

you go to reply but you quickly shut your mouth when the dark car suddenly throws itself into reverse and careens backwards down the street, you don’t really have time to question it when you catch something out of the corner of your eye. “shit-brace yourselves-!!”

You barely get the words out before something large and red slams into the side of the car.

Metal creaks like trees in a tornado as a firetruck hits the side of the car and rams it up against the face of a building, Alfred roughly smacks into the steering wheel gasping and Tim again hits against the door and window, he's lucky it was closed as all the doors are effectively pinned shut between the brick wall and the large vehicle. Your own bodies roughly smacked into Tim's seat at an awkward angle that immediately makes your neck ache at the force exerted on it.

“Christ on a cracker…. Are you both alive?….” Tim groggily mumbles as he sits up and glances at both you and Alfred, you give him a thumbs up while Alfred slowly straightens up and runs his hand through his thinning dark hair, his eyes hazy for the moment but he manages a nod. you're definitely bruised and hurting, but breathing.

“Mhmm, just peachy. We need out of here about ten seconds ago…” you mumble as you shake yourself out of your stupor, throwing a glance at the firetruck that's apparently been put into park for the moment, the engine idling down. You're quickly unbuckling yourself and grabbing at the headrest of the passenger seat, Muttering to yourself under your breath in a focused panic. “Come on, come on don't be one of those stuck ones…”

Tim twists and glances at you in confusion as you wriggle the cushion off and start to climb over the console into the front with him and Alfred. “What're you doing?”

“getting us out, this glass isn't bulletproof right?” there's no way to comfortably position yourself sitting on the center console but you don't care at the moment, you're in survival mode now. “I don't think so!?”

You turn the cushion around and use the metal prongs to ram at the corner of the windshield repeatedly, the loud scratchy thumping nearly drowning out the sound of a car engine getting closer, probably the Toyota from before. it takes a moment but the glass starts cracking eventually so you turn your face away and close your eyes as you blindly continue. Trying your hardest not to breathe in pulverized glass, been there done that. Wouldn't recommend doing that again. “Cover your faces if you don't wanna eat glass!”

You can only assume they do as you say as you blindly smash part of the window open, the sound of a car door opening somewhere prompts you to quickly drop the headrest and turn your body to donkey kick at the fractured spot until you break out about half the windshield.

You see two coming around the parked firetruck, one holding a bottle and a lighter while another carries something else, something you desperately want at the moment, a gun.

“Wait don't do anything rash-!” You drown out Tim's words, only casting a quick glance at the two unbuckling their seatbelts on either side of you before you move forward to crawl out of the windshield on your belly, fragments of glass dig into your body through your clothes and gouge scratches down your hands and front, but it’s not deep enough to worry about at the moment as you roll off the hood of the car right as the two approaching men reach you and try to grab at your clothes to hold you still. the one with the gun points it at you and tries to bark orders at all the three of you.

“freeze! none of you move if you want to keep this one's head intact-”

you don’t have time to let him go off as you see the other one start to flick his lighter under the bottle, so you shove the gun away from your temple and headbutt him in the kidney, as soon as you get up on your feet again you throat-punch the armed one as hard as you can. Roughly snatching the gun out of his hands as soon as he stumbles and tries to clutch at his neck, you’re lucky they’re slow on the uptake.

Of course you waste no time in clicking the safety off on the gun and threatening the other man. “drop that bottle and i’ll kill you slowly.”

you’re straight to the point as you threaten the still standing man, he seems to take you seriously after glancing down at the struggling and wheezing man on the ground because he slowly lifts his hands up in surrender. now with the upper-hand at the moment you shift your hold on the gun to gesture over your shoulder at the people in the car to climb out, not taking your eyes off the two wanna-be attackers for a second. “Get out of the car.”

you’re slightly surprised at how quickly they both get out, you thought the older man would’ve struggled at the least but it seems he manages well enough with Tim's help to crawl out and climb over the hood of the near-crushed car.

“What's the plan here, Skippy.” you casually place yourself in front of the two men behind you as you attempt to question the man, you don't want him getting any ideas with that bottle and lighter after all.

He scowls at you but you can clearly see he's all nerves, he's spilling small drops of the fuel on himself with how bad he's trembling, the adrenaline must be wearing off. “i ain't saying duck, rich pig.”

You fight back a sigh, it's as if him and the man from days ago read the same book with the same points in it, you wonder if the arsonists have a recruiting pamphlet or something.

“You just did though, where'd the truck come from?” You sneak a glance at the firetruck, peeling scratched paint and cracked glass everywhere, definitely an older model too, you shudder to think what that thing could've done to the car if they got it going full speed.

“Didn't you hear me? I said I ain't telling you-”

You're yanked backwards and away from the man as the dark Toyota from earlier narrowly misses ramming into you all, instead it hits the wall where you were just standing while a car alarm instantly starts going off. The two men start shrieking at the driver, well the standing one does, the other one is still wheezing.

You're surprised to see Tim behind you, hauling you with him by the back of your shirt while he also drags Alfred by the arm further away from the yelling men. “I think we need to leave!”

You can't argue with that, you check the mag and pull the slide back to see if the Glock is actually a threat, this one's indeed fully loaded with one in the chamber. meaning someone was prepared to use it, possibly on an old man or a barely adult aged teen? You hear glass shattering behind you and when you glance back, the empty car you'd just been in is going up in flames.

“Oh God damn it I just had that thing deep cleaned too…dad's gonna kick my ass” Tim bemoans pitifully at the sight but keeps yanking you around like a puppy on a leash. He tries to pull both you and Alfred away from the panicked pedestrians further down the street but you don't let him, you quickly unzip and throw your sweatshirt off and yank Tim's cropped hoodie up over his head and toss both things down an alley.

“you’re too standout, blend in like your life depends on it.” technically it does, but you figure you should probably try not to freak them out anymore than they actually are at the moment. You're caught off guard when Alfred drops his black suit over your shoulders. as he willingly follows you towards the smallish crowd.

“Your shirt is bloody, you should probably cover it up if you intend to hide in plain sight.”

you look down at yourself as if surprised, with the adrenaline rushing through your veins you’d forgotten all about the glass scratching you already, you wince when you see the thin red lines seeping through your white undershirt in slowly spreading rivulets. you slip the overcoat on and tuck your stolen gun in one of the inner pockets so you’ve got two hands free. that’s gonna be annoying later…

tim runs a stressed hand through his messy hair (courtesy of you pulling the hoodie) and reluctantly sticks close to the two of you, it’s clear he’d rather not follow your lead right now, you wonder if he’d even still be here if it was just you and him with no alfred in the mix, guess you’ll never know.

“i can’t believe this….what the hell are we supposed to do on the street? just wait for the cops and batman to sweep in while we’re literally being targeted like fish in a barrel?” tim grabs at your wrist and studies one of the scratches.

“would you have liked to have stayed in the currently burning car? cooked alive but we could’ve done it in luxury huh.” you scowl at the young man after snapping back, pulling your arm free from his and quickly turning a street corner.

alfred is already gasping quietly so you stop to let him catch his breath in the shadow of a tall building, he nods at you in acknowledgement yet still gives you a scolding look after he leans himself up against the scratchy bricks behind him. “master (name), tim is young. leave it alone.”

you shoot a glance at tim and watch him worriedly peering around the building looking up and down the street while biting his lip, he’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet right now…you sigh quietly as you look away, awkward guilt curling in your gut like a parasite. goddamn it all.

“….yeah i know, that’s my bad. sorry kiddo.” you quietly call out to tim at the end of your sentence, you need to get a damn grip on yourself.

he glances over his shoulder at you with furrowed brows and quickly looks away, he’s quiet for long enough that you assume he’s not gonna reply but you just barely catch him quietly saying something after a few moments. “….don’t worry about it.”

some screaming down the street interrupts your little break so you sidle up beside tim to peek around the building corner, the orange glow getting brighter and reflecting off windows and metal signs let’s you know exactly what’s happening less than a block away. the gun feels all the heavier in your pocket when you realize the men are molotov-ing a storefront.

the infinity stone must have given you absolutely shit luck or something because how the hell do you keep winding up in situations like these here? if it’s not natalia pushing you to be a hero it’s your own stupid sentimental attachments to children and mean old butlers. you nudge tim’s shoulder with your own and gesture down the opposite street with your head.

“let’s go while we can, let alfred take point i’ll follow you both.”

alfred huffs loudly behind you and pushes off the wall to place a surprisingly firm hand on your shoulder. “this isn’t the titanic, mx (name). the elderly don’t need to be given priority. master tim doesn’t need to just follow us around as we want.”

in response you just pull the overcoat open and gesture at the gun handle poking out of the pocket. “i’m armed, i can give you two cover.”

you didn’t expect alfred to pull the edge of his shirt up and gesture at his belt. “i’m also armed.”

well shit, you had no clue he was a concealed carrier. you frown at him and cross your arms over your chest, is this really worth arguing about right now?

“well that’s all the more reason for you to take lead, you set a pace you can manage and we’ll both watch out for tim.”

tim loudly clears his throat and tries to step between the two of you before you get distracted. “i’m not a little kid that needs to hold someone’s hand, i’m literally a grown man! let’s just all try to find somewhere safe, i’m sure there’s police barricades everywhere?…”

you and alfred both shush him though, this ain’t about that.

“master tim, we’re simply just trying to deduce the most efficient way of traveling right now-” alfreds words are cut off by something shattering overhead as all hell breaks loose in the alley.

you don’t even have to look up to know what it is so you just immediately grab both of their arms and yank them out into the street, glancing them over for evidence of any glass or burning fuel on them. once you’re sure they’re probably okay you pull the gun out and point it in the direction the molotov was thrown from. catching sight of the familiar dark coat from earlier, guess you took too long figuring shit out.

the man’s lighting another bottle and there’s definitely more of his allies down the street if the various screams echoing between the buildings is anything to go by, you shoot one last glance at tim and alfred before you make the split second decision to shove them both the opposite direction before you throw yourself over a car hood and start running the other way.

you hear shouting behind you but you just hope the two of them aren’t stupid enough to play hero and chase you. After all you've got enough stupid for the trio, what the hell is your plan? You're not a costumed freak running around with a bone to pick with crime itself, you're just a killer with the wrong hands.

All thoughts of how stupid you are slip your mind as more glass shatters, this time just feet away from your shoes. Oh goddamn it! You go up and over another car hood and scowl to yourself, do they just have backpacks full of fuel bottles? Where the hell did they even get this much!? You force yourself to quiet down and breathe slowly and just focus.

This is what you're made for, you've gotta complete this just like any other mission you've ever been on. You're not allowed to fuck up. You listen closely, drowning out the other sounds of the city and wait.

As soon as the steps get louder you glance under the car and watch for them, glass crunches underneath a boot and that's when you move.

Throwing yourself over the boot of the car is easy, so is kicking out at the man and slamming your heel into his sternum and knocking him to the ground with a loud and pained grunt. You might've cracked something under your steel toe boot if the way he gasps and gags on air is anything to go by.

Someone rushes you and you just barely avoid the wildly swinging crowbar with a sidestep, you're not so lucky to avoid the first guys wild haymaker to the Gut though.

You have to fight the instinctive doubling over and only just manage to keep yourself upright enough to avoid the other man's attempt to smash a bottle over your head. You grab his wrist and twist it behind his back hard enough to sprain it and as soon as he drops the bottle you snatch it up and pull the rag out, the morons gonna light himself and his friend up waving an opened Molotov cocktail around all night.

“ow-fuck! Let go of me you cun-” you slam his head into the nearest wall to shut him up, you don't even feel bad about the teeth when you look around at all the lit up windows and screaming civilians around the block.

You're really in the middle of it huh, hopefully Tim and Alfred got the hell out of Dodge…

Fuck, fuck where the hell did the other one go!? Another bottles tossed nearby and the resounding burst of bright flame nearly has you doubling over squeezing your eyes shut, it's too bright, too hot. And now you're murderously pissed as well as panicking.

The other dark clothed attackers seem to be targeting windows and store fronts at the moment so you drop the knocked out man and let him pitifully slide down the wall so you have room to shred a part of Alfred's overcoat and make a makeshift mask, it won't protect you from smoke but it'll slow down inhaling some gas fumes at the least.

Another bottle thrown and you hear them whooping excitedly, you think you're starting to itch for your gun as you watch them target an apartment building next, you'd think a group seemingly targeting the rich wouldn't go after civilian life.

As soon as the closest one to you looks down to prep another bottle you dart around the corner of the building and throw another throat punch, if it works it works after all. He gags audibly as you pull him in front of you to avoid the second one swinging a knife at you, he awkwardly avoids his partner which gives you time to kick him between the legs, hard. Once he curls forward you throw another kick at his head.

A set of arms wraps around you from behind as the first man tries to bodily lift you off the ground, you're more surprised he shook off a punch to the Adams apple so quickly but whatever, you curl your legs up towards your chest like you're doing a crunch and then quickly kick out to throw him off balance with your weight, it works and as soon as he stumbles you plant your feet on the ground and drop all your weight, slipping out of his arms and stepping under his shoulder to get behind him so you can slap your hand over his ear as hard as you can. You know the stinging pain in your hand is nothing compared to what the now screaming man nursing his eardrum on the ground is going through.

The hell's that? Out of the corner of your eye you catch sight of a barely-visible spotlight in the near dark sky. It confuses you enough to pause in your step for just a second for a doubletake, these people are so weird about bats.

You need to get out of here, more importantly you need to find out where the others are. You pull your phone out and unlock it so you can pull up Bruce's contact, just as your thumb hovers over the press call button you hear rustling above you, you barely catch sight of the cape before you duck you drop kick aimed at your face.

The surprise heavy fist that followed slams into your jaw so hard you swear you feel all your teeth compress into your gums, the pain is near-instant, a combination of down-to-the-bone aching and the sharp, almost cold sting of your lip splitting. You'll be feeling that for a long time.

Another ones aiming for you so you grab the arm and throw your leg over it, twisting your body around to throw all your weight into the man's shoulders, your thighs squeezing around his neck. The dark figure grabs at your calves and slams himself backwards into the wall behind him which knocks some of out of your lungs, thoroughly pissed off you throw your weight forward and slip off him into a roll, stopping in a crouch a few feet from him, he tries to move after you just as quickly, angling himself for a kick that might just cripple you if it lands on your back so you use the near-empty Molotov bottle you still have in your possession and splash the remainder of it in the open part of his cowl, aiming for the mouth and nose.

As soon as he chokes and wipes at his face you smash the bottle on his head and use the jagged neck if the glass to swipe at him, aiming for the gaps in his armor around his armpit.

He tries to disarm you, gloved hands prying your struggling fingers open so you let him, as soon as your hands empty you pull the gun and use the barrel to strike him in the jaw. A kick to the kneecaps gets him to buckle so you knock him down and pin him with the gun pressed to his head, you've just pinned down Batman.

“Fucking…. What the hell’re you doing…?” Your words are coming out weird thanks to the punch, bit he seems to get it well enough as he suddenly stiffens under you just as you cock the hammer.

“….(Name)?”

“Yes?!” his shocked tone would've been downright comical if you hadn't just kicked each others asses, you yank your makeshift bandana down so you can properly scowl at the masked hero, licking the blood off your teeth.

“I…what are you doing out here?” he pushes you off him, though his hand stays on your shoulder as he seems to be examining you closely.

“Trying not to get set on fire that's what, my car got firebombed…. Well technically it's my husband's car.” you stand up, ignoring his offered hand of assistance even as your body protests the movement, damn your head hurts…you lean up against the brick wall and pocket the Glock before wiping at the blood dribbling down your chin.

He clearly takes the hint and gives you your distance for the moment. “I thought you were…the mask and the bottle didn't…how bad is it?”

He wipes at his mouth again almost awkwardly, his body language clearly conveying guilt as he leans towards you subconsciously.

“Dunno, my face is going numb. If I lose teeth you're paying for it.” your words are more reflex than anything, the type of thing you'd say to Natalia or Captain Rogers after a harsh training session gone a bit bruised and bloody. It happens.

Surprisingly he nods quickly at that, good. You selfishly almost hope he feels bad. You'll probably feel that way until your jaw stops aching.

“I'll take care of it, anything actually. I'm just…. I'm sorry.”

“I'll live, shut up. Barnes punches me a hell of a lot harder than you anyways.”

you don't even realize what you've done until he suddenly grabs your shoulder, masked head tilting as of he's studying ever inch of your whole face. His voice drops deeper and gruffer than you've heard him before.

“who the hell is Barnes?”

🔹🔹🔹

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A/n: I'm so tired y'all IDK if there's any mistakes in this, I'll spell check tomorrow✌️ hopefully it's not too long, hope y'all have a good day/night and enjoy a little treat for yourself today ❤️

Taglist: @cxcilla @mercuryathens @dind1n @redsakura101 @ninihrtss @let-me-dance @ladykamos @one-piecelover @cuntiesweet @omnivirgo @shirp-collector-of-fixations @spidermanluvr444 @br33zy-blizzardz @lunarapple @findingjaxx @4rachn3 @buckturd @tsxukikami @paastaboi @duskeras @ibelyss @1abi

[avonne-writes]

Post-war AU headcanon: Bucky has sleep problems and wakes up at ungodly hours. He sneaks out of bed and just broods as the sun rises, then makes breakfast. When Gale comes down from the bedroom all soft in a bathrobe and with his hair tousled, he pretends he got up just to make Gale breakfast. The first time it happens, Gale actually buys the lie and gets very affectionate in return, which adds a layer of guilt to Bucky's issues.

[festivating]

have u read any good fics lately !!

Yes!!! These are the ones I'm keeping up with right now:

it takes the end of time by Numaix. This writer is bonkers and I have no proof they are not Maguire because they write EXACTLY like him and anyway. I am obsessed with their fics I've never read a bookverse gelphie more accurate.

The Goodness of Glinda Upland by localgaysian. Inspired by The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo which is one of my faaaavorite books ever and anyway, it's written so so well and I'm putting this Glinda under a microscope because she's not well and her thought process is SO well presented. And it has Nor!! I'm always saying more gelphie fics should have Nor.

A Thousand Universes Without Your Embrace by tinyace. Glinda travels through the multiverse and things get Weird and Meta and it's very angsty so far, which I love. Also the concepts presented are very interesting and I can tell this fic is gonna get me thinking lmfao

just a clock tick by bumblebea. Recommended to me here on tumblr :) Glinda travels back in time to the day she met Elphie. The plot is soo intriguing and very creative, and also I LOVE how the author characterizes an experienced Glinda dealing with all the act 1 events.

Side A, Side B by LaMombey. 1980s Cold War AU, set in Berlin, with Glinda as a spy. There's an action scene in chapter 2 that has not left my brain for DAYS because it was so vivid and well written. Very very interesting plot with lots of mystery and every chapter so far is such a banger.

And completed fics I read recently that I liked!

no thing that ever flew by queenofmarigolds. Recommended to me here on tumblr! Gelphie as college professors at a small college in a small town. It's so cozy and reads like a literary novel and it's soooo beautiful. I'm also putting this Glinda under a microscope, she has an avoidant attachment thing going on that makes my brain go brrrr. (Also has a Nor cameo!)

how essential to me (you have become) by ifthebookdoesntsell. Post act 2 gelphie domestic life... I want to live in this fic and study this author's writing style and then eat it, if possible. I love it so much, there's so much tenderness and LOVE and the characterization is spot on.

at night the wicked sleep alone by Small_Blue. This one was also recommended to me. Post act 2 Glinda character study! She is really going through it and she goes through it for a looooong time but reading about her journey is so satisfying and painful at the same time. Has my FAVORITE depiction of gelphie seeing each other for the first time after the melting, it felt so realistic and gutting.

[torchwood-99]

Eowyn and Romance

Something I truly appreciate about Eowyn is that she, from the start, a romantic being, and (although not explicitly so) a sexual one, as in she obviously feels both romantic and sexual desires.

Often the rebellious female lead will chafe at the prospect of marriage, only to change her mind when the "right man" comes along. I tire of this narrative, not because I begrudge female characters who dislike the idea of romance and marriage and sees hem as the antithesis to freedom, but because I loathe the narrative of them "learning a lesson" and "mending their ways".

Marriage and romance, when both are unwanted, are a denial of freedom and autonomy, and in patriarchal societies where wife is subservient to husband, particularly so.

Eowyn however associates romantic love and marriage not to a lack of freedom, but an escape to it. And this makes sense when we consider the cage that Eowyn is kept in.

Eowyn already takes on the "domestic" burden of the wife, running her uncle's household and acting as his nurse. As his niece, his adopted daughter and his subject, Eowyn is in a position of utter subservience to him. Yet as his nurse, he is dependant upon her.

This does not balance out their relationship and result in some sort of equality, it means that Eowyn has to endure all the submission of being a dependant, without the relief from obligations or duties, and all the labours and responsibilities of being a provider, without any of the authority or power.

Although Eowyn is mistress of the hall, she is not mistress of her own hall. She is not a queen, and if Theodred, later Eomer, were to wed, her rank as leading lady would be supplanted.

As Theoden's nurse, she is also carrying the burden of being the family caretaker in the family, tending to Theoden's needs, and also stifling her own unhappiness before her family in order to fulfil her duty. Emotionally she is trapped, stuck by tending to the feelings of others, as much as she is physically.

All of this has resulted in Meduseld becoming a cage for Eowyn.

To be married would be to take her away from Meduseld. To be married would be to lift her from an estate she finds demeaning. To be married would be to be mistress of her own home.

And when we look at the men she is attracted to, and the qualities that attract her, we see how different the sort of love and relationship she hopes to have are to the one she has with Theoden.

Aragorn and Faramir are strong, and powerful in a way that Theoden has not been. Eowyn's sense of identity has been tied up in Theoden, so Theoden's infirmity and, by her understanding, his "shame" has become her own, helped along by Grima's manipulation. On a more practical level, Theoden's dependency on her is extremely limiting to her own freedom and opportunities.

Eowyn is immediately attracted to Aragorn because of his power, and Faramir's strength of a warrior is one of the first things she notices about him. To be joined in a union with them would be to be associated with their power. To be married to them would be to have a function and existence beyond that off dry nurse.

While Aragorn and Faramir are noted to be fierce warriors, they're gentle too, Faramir in particular is defined more by gentleness than he is warrior prowess. He is a warrior by necessity, a nurturer by nature. As the assigned caretaker of her family, to be married to someone who would take equal (if not outright greater) responsibility for both of their physical and emotional welfare is pivotal for Eowyn to gain her freedom.

Whereas marriage is often seen as the alternative to ambition, romance an alternative to fighting, when Eowyn offers her love to Aragorn, acceptance would not have taken the form of marriage, but of joining him on his ride to the Paths of the Dead. For Eowyn, to be a warrior is to be free, and her vision of life with Aragorn is that of two warriors, side by side. That is how she envisions marriage.

Although post war Eowyn turns towards healing as opposed to slaying, Faramir acknowledges Eowyn as a warrior, and celebrates her for her deeds and her valour. And while Eowyn no longer wishes to be a shieldmaiden, taking joy "only" in the songs of slaying (that "only" suggesting that she will still take joy in them, and will maintain a part of her shieldmaiden identity), the desire to heal, to grow things, is a wish shared with Faramir, and when they embark on that journey, it's one they do as equals.

Eowyn has been pigeonholed into the role of family caretaker, and her family sees her entirely through that lens. As a result, they not only fail to see her true desires and ambitions, they not only fail to acknowledge her as a warrior, but they also fail to fully appreciate that she needs care, emotional care, in turn.

It is Eowyn's duty to give care, not receive it. It is Eowyn's duty to facilitate their deeds, not achieve her own. It is Eowyn's duty to celebrate their feats, not be celebrated in turn.

And Eowyn performs this role, she allows them to maintain this view of herself by internalising her unhappiness, her frustration and despair, because she sees it as a her duty to do so.

She finally drops the performance in front of Aragorn, and reveals to him just how as despairing she is. Aragorn does not fail to see beyond Eowyn's mask, and in his speech in the Houses of Healing shows he acknowledges both her suffering and her courage, but he does not free her.

He instructs her to resume the performance, and to try to content herself with one more doing all the labours that no one remembers, the valour that goes without renown.

Faramir meets Eowyn, and he sees she is wounded, she is sorrowful, he sees she is proud, he sees she is beautiful, he sees she is a maiden, "young and sad".

When Faramir is falling in love with Eowyn, he notices she looks "queenly", suitable for one whose deeds have put her, in Aragorn's words, on an even standing with the queens of old.

When Faramir asks Eowyn to marry him, he tells her he does not pity her, because she is a "lady high and valiant" and has performed deeds that will not be forgotten.

When Eowyn says she wishes to become a healer, and love all things that grow, Faramir eagerly agrees, and says, if she wills it, they will go to Ithilien and grow a garden there, and all things will grow with joy in Eowyn's presence.

Faramir sees all aspects of Eowyn. Eowyn the sorrowful. Eowyn the beautiful. Eowyn the queen. Eowyn the valiant. Eowyn the legend. Eowyn the healer. Eowyn the gardener.

Faramir sees all these parts of Eowyn, and one is not diminished by the other. Her valour isn't compromised by her vulnerability. Her need for care isn't compromised by her ability to lead.

This is reciprocated on Eowyn's part. Beregond bemoans that people fail to appreciate Faramir's capabilities as a warrior, because he is b nature more of a scholar and a nurturer. Eowyn immediately notices Faramir's strength and his gentleness, she is able to see the multitudes in him that she wishes to have seen in her.

It is notable she meets Faramir at a time when both of them are injured. Faramir is in a place of vulnerability as Theoden was, but Faramir is under the care of the healers. Eowyn's company helps to heal him, he wishes her to walk with him because he thinks it will be a comfort to be with her, but the bulk of his care is shared out by trained healers, for whom treating the sick is a profession, a calling perhaps, but not a familial duty that defines every facet of their existence.

Eowyn does not choose to be with Faramir in the place of choosing freedom. She chooses Faramir because the love he offers, the understanding he offers, the capabilities he possesses, will free her, in a way that Eowyn has been desiring and longing for.

[peachetteprice]

Call of Duty - Masterlist:

The Complete Masterlist of: peachetteprice.

Asks and submissions are open!

Feedback Policy

External Links | Ao3 | Wattpad: Peachette_Price

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Key

× NSFW content - ranging from sexually suggestive themes to explicit smut. This content is not to be interacted with by minors. I give you my partial trust to adhere to this, but I will regularly check the age of the blogs following me and block when necessary.

// This is an ongoing work.

< / > This work is unlikely to be completed now and/or in the future.

(REQ) This work is published as a request by a user.

TF141 Headcanons:

Driving Habits - How would the boys usually drive? What are their habits when in the hot seat?

Cheating Partners - POV: I let an anon down by not fulfilling their request and still posting it anyway. Ft. Phillip Graves. ×

Captain John Price:

42-Year-Old John Price - He isn't as sprightly as he used to be. ×

Eighth Date - John reveals to you about his profession, but you're much too taken by something else!

Speak Up, Love - Uh-oh. John's lost his voice. Wouldn't it be such a shame if someone teased him about it? ×

Stern Captain John Price - He really... really... becomes accustomed to the life of a cat owner despite his penchant for dogs. ×

How it Should Be - John's a hardened war veteran... but he still gets flustered every time you call him handsome. ×

A Deal of Cards - (REQ): How might Price deal with his gorgeous, talented partner: a spiritulist, working in the creative field with a rather earthly aesthetic? With love, of course.

What a Bargain - John is a man who loves bargains. That's it.

Jeweller!Price - Uh... John's a jeweller. That's it. Pretty straight-forward, innit. Pt. 2 ×

Accountant!Price - He's an accountant. You get it by now, right? ×

The Gloves are On - The gloves stay on, even when he's finger-fucking the ever-living daylights out of you. ×

Neuroscientist!Price - Price is a neuroscientist with a dark present. ×

Coworker!Price - don't get it twisted. This isn't 'accountant' Price. ×

Domestic!Price - He's just a little guy with fuzzy socks on.

Agent!Price - He's only ever been an Agent: what are you on about 'Captain'?

EmotionallyUnbalancedWriter!Price - He reminisces on a love lost.

The Uniform - John lets you have all the fun 'playing Lieutenant'. Don't worry, he knows his place, too. ×

CultLeader!Price - Oh, how we rejoiced!

(REQ) Neighbour!Price - John is your bird-watch loving neighbour!

Husband's Best Friend - John Price is your HBF.

Simon "Ghost" Riley:

Strangers in the Night - Simon has a waking nightmare; you're always there to provide comfort.

A Hand for Radio - You're not just on the team to dilly-dally, something that everyone, including Soap, finally needs to understand. ×

Some Days - (REQ): Simon and Reader have a spat. Reader feels invalidated and rightfully tells him so, because what a bitch, honestly.

Fisherman!Simon - it's Simon... but as a fisherman. I don't know what more you want from me.

Full-length works:

27 Hawthorn Court - Simon "Ghost" Riley finds himself in hot water after the Greater Manchester Police suspect him of murderering his family: his brother, his brother's wife, and their son. < / >

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick:

Could Have Been - Didn't you know, Gaz could have been a professional footballer?

One of Those Nights - It's your favourite thing about him, truly. ×

Born For It - Oh, but he's just so rich and handsome, whatever shall you do? ×

Morning Brew - Kyle likes his coffee like he likes his coffee, and his mornings, entirely unlike his coffee: full of lazy sex! ×

Backshots with Kyle? - The one thing he loves to do more than anything ×

Bar Meet - You meet Gaz in a bar. Even after the night is over, he isn't done. ×

Crawley - Kyle is your flatmate in a two-bed flat share. Things are predictable, right up until they aren't.

John "Soap" MacTavish:

The Ever-forgetful John "Soap" MacTavish - Poor bastard never remembers not to use the water when you're mid-shower!

A Dream to Build a Life On - It's tough to have almost everything you've ever wanted right at the tips of your fingers, but have one thing... just one thing... that seems entirely out of reach. ×

Days of Old - It's never easy to watch something drag the life out of a loved one's eyes. ×

The Highlands - A short drabble about Johnny coming back to Scotland every once in a while to re-live the simplicity of rural life. Ft. Part 2

Charity Dinner Ball - Soap relieves his OWN Charity Dinner Balls... pause... after being drawn to you the entire evening. ×

Needy Soap - I need him biblically, I fear. ×

Phillip Graves:

Full-length works:

Mister Commander - (DBF) Winnie Collins knows better than anyone that a homestead requires up-keep. When she returns home to Texas, following the dissolvement of her engagement to the man she thought she loved, there's a stranger on her parent's ranch, during the height of May heat, in a town where nothing but dirt and sweat remain. Phillip Graves. He's her father's best friend - and he's here to stay. × //

Ghost x Soap

Two Men in a Boat - A boat bobs along the ocean. Within, there are two men.

[accio-victuuri]

April 2025 CPNs round-up ❤️💛💚

the start of the month was actually quite eventful, celebrating april fools with the best clowns in chinese domestic entertainment. lol. it started with a double fake rumor which was bits of old rumors pieced together. then as usual for this day, fansite team building happens. meaning, fs for specific celebrities will post about other people. so we supported ones that posted about our boys. a good summary of those are here and there is a good number. whether that’s bjyx or them as individual.

that led to bojunyixiao being on top of the hot search list. this is so fitting for april fools! knowing how much we clown! lol. but seriously, it’s so nice to see how active the fandom still is. the whole fandom has been summoned by the photos shared. there is really nothing new — but we all got excited. that’s how great cpfs are! so sorry ( not really ) to our haters cause we are not going away anytime soon. 💅🏻💅🏻💅🏻

okay, now let’s go to the actual cpns we enjoyed this month! ⬇️⬇️⬇️

• there is a repo from a kid yibo worked with for the bananain shoot. he mentioned that wyb does not smile much, but he does when he looks at his wechat. lol. so we gotta clown all the times you can him smiling down while looking at his phone, probably talking to xz.

• the very lucky ones who already got their WM vinyl noticed how the design is written looks like an 8 and 3. that’s them. Bo and Zhan. 🥹🥹🥹🥹 we know how XZ likes to hide things in plain sight when it comes to his art. so this is a classic example.

• this comparison! they are twins! i wish they could have had this kind of hair at the same time.

• croissant in lacoste ad 🥐🥐🥐

• At the time of writing, GG has not been officially announced to be a part of this rumored drama. @rainbowsky made a really good primer for it over here so you can go ahead and look. but it’s basically screaming the same timeline as yibo’s war of faith. lol. so of course, whoever this character is will be wei ruolai’s husband in the yizhan multiverse! i’m looking forward to it! 🙌🏼

• video “proof” in zhuhai race last year where someone mentions zhan ge + the plot thickens that xz was actually there that time

• this went on HS 4/13 for some reason. there may be some context that i missed lol. but tbh, who cares. they are both successful in their own way in the age they are in. there is no “catching up” to do because they are in different tracks. 💛💛💛

i personally get defensive when it comes to their careers and achievements, i hate tying them up in that aspect. or wanting both to have the same exact things. it does not work that way. i believe in supporting what they do and i accept the fact that sometimes one has more than the other in certain aspects and how that’s okay. i could write up a whole thing on this topic and my thoughts on it but i don’t think the fandom is ready that for that conversation. lol.

• WMWM clothing brand x WM album - another example of the universe conspiring to give them some obscure connection.

• THIS. We are so blessed to have them in Magazine Issues that show their long hair 😍😍😍

how can you not love them both? talented and beautiful creatures!

• WYB’s May Vogue 2025 issue candies

• there is some buzz around xz being spotted passing by Wuhan and him going home immediately. of course we think it’s because Bobo is in Beijing. So he has to be with him 🤡🤡🤡

• our boys greeting sina for their 25th anniversary 🫶🏼

• On 4/20 xz was spotted attending a concert in Beijing with his parents. the “empty” space there is being filled with WYB by us clowns. lol. we don’t have facts but more of wishful thinking since they are both in Beijing. personally, i think people WYB is there because of how happy XZ is. not saying he cannot be happy without WYB, it’s just that there is something more of it’s related to WYB. 🤡🤡🤡

• revisiting an old rumor of them having a skiing show together

• XZ arrives in Shanghai while WYB is there for a race and the next day WYB goes MIA and can only be seen during practice - finally, a timeline of sorts and cpn interpretation of what happened during the weekend✌🏼 on 0428, both Lele and Dabo were seen by chance and people are saying their staff seem to be on holiday. so maybe that’s because the two lovebirds are chillin at home in Beijing. yes please! or maybe they gave their staff some time off after a busy weekend 😋

• WYB is interested in Vinyl record

• WYB saying an expression that is common in Sichuan/Chongqing

see you next month! 🫶🏼💕

<< previous post

[littlerequiem]

we mourned the sea ˚⁎⁺ chapter 3

> Crossposted on AO3

Levi hasn't seen you in a year, and he wonders how you will find him. Changed, perhaps. Lost, definitely. Or: After the war, you and Levi learn to live in this new world.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 - Levi Ackerman / Female Reader (Attack on Titan)

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 - Rated Explicit (18+). Post-Canon, Post-War, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic, Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Grumpy/Sunshine, Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Chronic Pain, Panic Attack, Depression, Ambulatory Wheelchair Use, Irregular eating habits mentioned specifically in this chapter (WC: 5.5k)

( Previous chapter / Next chapter / WMTS' Masterlist )

You spot him alone in the library. Months have passed and winter has made its presence known.

Levi is staring at the fire. When his eyes lock with yours, you think they lack their usual cutting edge. Instead, he just looks tired.

“You gonna gawk much longer?” he asks. 

“Well…” Your grip on your book tightens; you stay rooted to your spot. “You don’t mind if I intrude?”

“This is a public space, isn’t it?”

It is, but it doesn’t mean you won’t ask.

Levi doesn’t leave when you sit on the sofa opposite him. The two of you stay like this, letting the crackling fire be your guiding light into the night.

.

.

.

It isn’t that Levi always preferred being alone, it’s just that it’s had a way of finding him.

Growing up, Levi remembers seeking affection—craving it, in fact—like a moth seeks a flame. Levi worshiped the ground his mother walked on, loved to listen to her speak, imitated her, anything to hear a “Well done, my Levi”. He imagines it made him a needy brat, that he was probably a burden to his mother.

When she died, he thinks that's when it happened. When he began to close in on himself, when he started to keep his emotions close to his heart.

Because emotions weren't safe. Emotions got you killed. 

"My boy, what wonderful craftsmanship!" Mr Jakowski's joyful voice assault's Levi's ears, plugging him out of his wandering thoughts.

Levi looks up at the sight of his boss. 

Mr Jakowski is leaning over Levi’s shoulder, spectacles shining under the dim amber light. A large grin creeps on his rosy face, a contrast to the blue paint smeared on his white shirt. "What are ya making, hm? Is that something—"

"—personal," Levi cuts him off instantly, shifting in his seat to conceal his work.

His boss lets out a loud bark, pulling back from Levi. “Hah, mysterious as always, our Levi!”

Levi has been working at Mare Lumber Co. for more than a year now. His boss, Adam Jakowski, is the sole carpenter in town. 

Levi likes working here. Most days, he tends to the till, manages the inventory, and assists the Jakowski family with customer orders. All routine work, really, but it feels good to be working with his hands, with his mind. It strangely reminds him of Furlan, of the odd jobs him and Levi used to do in the Underground, before they established a reputation for themselves. 

“And how are ya?” Mr Jakowski asks with a jovial tone. 

Levi doesn’t look up. "Fine." 

"Are ya sure? You seem distracted today, dear boy."

Mr Jakowski got in the habit of calling Levi ‘dear boy’ shortly after he took the job. At first, Levi told him off—sure, the old man had decades on him, but Levi was nearing his forties. He was not a boy. Never had been, really.

And yet, he soon noticed something strange: every time he corrected the man, Mr Jakowski would correct himself, a distant glaze in his stare… only to make the same mistake the next day.

One day, his wife took Levi aside.

“You musn’t be cross with him, Levi,” Mrs Jakowski had said with a gentle voice. “My Adam and I… we lost our son ten years ago. Marleyans butchered him. And ‘dear boy’… that was Adam’s nickname for our son. Sometimes, I think… I think in his heart, my husband never quite got over it.”

After that, Levi never corrected Mr Jakowski again.

“Levi, are you listening to me?" Mr Jakowski laughs, pulling Levi straight back into the shop. To the smell of wood, saw dust, and paint. "You’ve got that glaze in your eyes of a dreamer, the way my daughter be sometimes.  Ain't never seen it on ya 'fore.”

Levi clicks his tongue. “I think you need to clean your glasses, old man.”

“Is it that missy staying at your place that’s got you lookin' so—”

“No.”

“Sure 'bout that?”

At that, Levi stays silent. Of course, he’s sure.

And yet, Mr Jakowski's eyes glint knowingly all the same, as if catching wind of something Levi isn't aware of. It almost makes Levi want to speak up (though, to say what?), but before he has the opportunity to say a thing, the man leaves him be. Levi listens to his receding footsteps, to the tinkering noises soon coming from the workshop area of the store.

Levi reverts his attention onto the wooden figurine in his hands, casting it an altogether unimpressed look.

What he’s making… it’s fucking stupid, isn’t it?

For the last week and a half, Levi has been using his lunch breaks to work on it. Right now, this wooden creation is simply a great blob of nothing. And yet, Levi can’t stop from continuing it. It started with your arrival, this idea, when something spurred deep in him to create and he doesn't know if it will lead to anything.

Perhaps he's wasting his time, perhaps—

The bells on the door chimes. Levi's eyes swerve up.

And he promptly places the figure on his lap, concealed right under the counter.

Because you've just entered the shop, greeting him with a pleasant smile. “Afternoon, Levi!” The door closes, light pooling around you, dewy and delicate. "Are you on your lunch break?"

Levi lifts a brow but gives you a slow nod. 

"Oh, good, I was scared I got your lunch time mixed up..." You lift a basket that was hidden behind your back, showing it off like it was some prized thing. “Ta-da!”

Levi just stares.

“I brought lunch,” you add.  

Oh...

That's new. You’ve never come all the way into town before. Or visited his work. Is this because he accidentally let it slip that he sometimes skips lunch on his work days? You did seem irritated last night, scrubbing the dishes like they’d personally offended you.

“Miss Adler, is that you?” As if on cue, Mr Jakowski appears to Levi's left side, safety glasses still lodged on his head. He lets out a full-belly laugh, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. "I reckoned I heard that sweet voice of yours! It's good to see ya! I’ve been tellin' Levi to bring you around for some time now, but he surely been keepin' ya all to himself."

"Has he, now?" you muse, casting Levi a sideways glance. "That's not very polite of you, is it, Levi?"

Levi keeps his expression blank.  

Mr Jakowski steps around the counter, interest laced in his voice. "Well, lookie here, is that lunch I spy? You know, Levi rarely eats much in here."

“I know, that’s why I’ve come. I'm on a mission to change that, sir. I've brought lunch and even my secret trump card… cake!”

Jakowski clutches his chest dramatically.  “My, you sure know the way to a man's heart, Miss Adler.”

You pinch your lips, seemingly flustered, but Mr Jakowski is already shifting his attention to Levi, something almost devious splitting in his boss' expression.

Levi narrows his eyes, instantly suspicious.

“Now, you heard the lady, dear boy," Mr Jakowski says. "You wouldn't want to reject the hospitality of such a good-hearted gal, would ya?"

Levi considers Mr Jakowski's words. His offer sounds tempting enough, but Levi's already shirked his duties by working on his project. His lunch time is practically over.

His boss seems to read his mind. "Take an extra hour." Mr Jakowski walks over, squeezing Levi's shoulder—not painfully, but not lacking zest. The man leans closer, the smell of paint mingling into Levi's space once more. "Shop's quiet today, anyway—I'll handle it. And don't forget to hide that little secret of yours. Wouldn't want her to see your gift before it's finished, hm?"

Levi's eyes flicker from Mr Jakowski, then onto you. His shoulders rise... then fall again. He gives in with a sigh. Fine. You came all this way, after all, and Levi was never one to waste food.

“You're not running a charity, old man,” Levi tells Mr Jakowski. "I'll make up the time.”

.

.

.

“What are you reading?” you ask him one night. The two of you are at it again—sitting on different armchairs, reading in front of the fireplace. It's been a routine these last evenings. 

“History books.”

You raise a questioning brow—that wasn't what you expected Levi to be interested in. 

Levi seems to pick up on your question before you even voice it.  “I want to understand why you upsiders do it.” 

Upsiders, the term coined by those living in the Underground for those living above.

You tilt your head. “Why we do what?”

“What you live for.”

.

.

.

Levi feels like he’s about to outright melt.

The park at this time of the day seems to gather heat like a damn magnet. Sitting on a picnic blanket under a large willow tree isn’t enough to stop sweat from coating his neck—summer is in full swing, and even the yellowing grass blades look like they've given up. 

Over the last minutes, you’ve been telling him about your morning: how you went into town to continue your search for a new job. 

“… I asked around for any shops looking for employees, but there's no vacancies." You sigh, one hand outstretched as you caress the grass with the tip of your fingers. "Still, one of the bakeries I went asking was nice about it; they even gave me a discount on this cake here. It’s a specialty from the Southern part of Marley, apparently.”

Laid out between the two of you is nothing short of a small feast, what on Paradis would be fit for nobility: sandwiches, pie, fresh lemonade, and a takeaway box that contains what Levi can only guess is this infamous cake you're so excited to make him try. 

Vegetables, cheese, sugar. Levi still isn’t used to having these ingredients in such abundance. Maybe he never will be. 

"Hey, didn't I tell you to take it easy? You've barely arrived and you're already running around like a madwoman." Levi mutters, picking up a cheese sandwich. "Don't waste your free time and savings on crap like this.”

"You mean getting you lunch?"

Levi squints, a headache beginning to form. These days, the glare of the sun often does that. 

"Come on," you huff, "after my big freakout from last week, it's the least I could do."

"I told you, it was nothing—“

“But it wasn’t to me. I wanted to do this,” you cut in, weighing each word like it held its value in gold. Levi notices you reeling your hands into fists... only to be ushered out of existence as you shrug off the uncertainty. “Besides,” a bright smile brackets over your face, "all of this is keeping me busy. If I don’t keep busy, well... I've found that I just want to sleep all the time. At least, like this, I’m too occupied with thinking too much. Know what I mean?”

Levi thinks he does. It's why he always enjoyed cleaning so much; it kept the edge off of things.

He isn’t sure what that says about either of you.

"I'm glad I could see where you work," you continue absentmindedly. "The shop has a certain aura to it, doesn't it?"

"It's the smell of saw dust and paint. You get used to that shit."

"I meant there's warmth to the interior." You snort, rolling a particular grass strand between your index, tugging at it without ripping it out. "But I like the smell, too, now that you mention it. I've only dabbled in oil paintings here and there, but it reminds me of that. I imagine adding color to something—anything, really—for a living must be rewarding. You get to style furniture according to someone's wishes, make sure it's dear and personal to them. That's pretty amazing, right?"

If he were someone else, this might be the moment he might smile. Count on you to make his job sound damn near poetic.

"And that boss of yours sure seems eccentric," you muse as you lean back, the curve of your neck bending back, "bet he makes every day feel extra special.”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Your eyes drift up to the sparse clouds. “Special’s… good. Special’s fun.”

Levi's lips twitch. Yes, he supposes that's true. Many things can be said about Mr Jakowski, but boring is not one of them.

A gentle breeze soon picks up the front section of your hair; it makes the happiness on your face stand out. For a moment, a delicate silence settles in, one filled with the sound of tree branches swaying above, its shadows moving across your face. Levi catches himself staring at you—again. It's not the first time today he's ogling you, he knows, but it's hard not to when there's nothing else to stare at. Before he knows it, he's watching as you draw your attention on the food options laid on the picnic blanket. Your eyes stop onto a particular plate. 

Almost on instinct, Levi raises the plate towards you.

You grin, grabbing a slice of spinach pie. "Thanks."

As Levi retreats his hand back, placing the plate back on the picnic blanket, he notices you pausing. His eyes meet yours; your eyebrows knit together.

"Hey, what's that on your hand?" you ask.   

Levi feels the heat of your attention as he glances down at his palm. Ah, the plaster. Levi forgot all about it. Earlier, while working on his carving, he’d slipped. The cut wasn’t deep, but it had bled like hell—like his body was throwing a fit over nothing.

Now, you’re staring at it like he’s lost a limb. "Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?" 

You lean in.

"S'fine." Levi grips his sandwich, shielding his injury. He's not sure how to handle your care right now, so he turns away from you, pretending to be interested in a patch of yellowing grass blades nearby. "I patched it up."

“Still, you should disinfect it when we’re home…”

(Home.)

(We.)

Levi still isn’t used to that—like it’s his home as much as it is yours. Like it’s something shared.

"I can make an ointment that'll speed up the healing process, perhaps, so you're not encumbered for very long,” you continue. Levi glances back at you. You're holding your chin thoughtfully. “I’ll need to go buy some tea tree oil for that. Maybe I should also stock up on ethanol and other essentials while I’m at it...”

The sight of you all pouty causes Levi to scoff. “Thought you weren’t a doctor no more?”

He takes the last bite of his cheese sandwich. 

“For you, Levi, always.”

Levi chokes. He begins to cough, the half-eaten bread hammering at his chest. 

Your hand is on his back just as soon as his coughing fit starts. "You okay?"

Levi nods with a blank expression, swatting your touch away. He stares at you from the corner of his eyes, disbelief lodged behind his gaze. Shit. Why do you have to say stuff like that? It's like you're trying to make his heart explode or some shit. 

“Cutting yourself at work and almost choking to death.” You whistle lowly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re losing your touch, Ackerman.”

“I choked because of you, smart-ass.”

“Because of me?” You blow air with your lips. “Why, what did I do?”

“You—“ Levi feels himself growing hot—too hot. Blast this damn heat. “Forget it.”

You lean back, looking at him curiously. “Is this the fate that awaits me in a few years when I reach your age? Choking and half-finished sentences?”

Levi’s eyes narrow. “You're full of jokes today.”

“Thanks. I’m trying real hard, in case you couldn’t tell.” You bite back a full-teeth grin; Levi hates how adorable you look, even when you're teasing him—especially when you're teasing him. “Maybe that’s what I should pursue next, huh? Comedian… that'd be quite the career change.”

Levi shakes his head. “I’ll have to support you financially for the rest of your days.” 

A burst of laughter rolls out of you.

It makes Levi feel queasier still. 

“Hey," you say once your laughter has dimmed down. Your gaze holds his, bright and true. "What were you working on anyway, that you ended up cutting yourself?”

Levi hesitates, the memory of the unfinished figure flashing in his mind. It's trivial, the sort of work he's been doing, especially compared to what Mr Jakowski builds. 

“Nothing,” he finally says, “just keeping busy.”

Because Levi’s life is just that now. He has to keep himself busy, to fill it with things so he doesn’t stop moving.

“Hey, Levi?” Levi looks back at you, and you shoot him a lopsided smile. “Do you ever think your past self would believe you’re out here now, carving wood for a living?”

Levi considers your question. He’s not the sort of person to wonder about these questions, but he’s not surprised that you still are. 

The answer is simple. No, his past self wouldn’t believe it. His past self wouldn’t believe most of it.  

He tells you as much, aching to change the subject. “Picked up a pencil yet?”

“Hm… not yet. Haven’t been feeling it, to be honest." There's something a little sad hanging on your face for the shortest moment, only to be replaced by wide eyes and parted lips. “But, oh, I promise, that doesn't mean I don't like your gift or anything. The supplies you bought—I'll make sure they don't go to waste! I just—”

"Hey, breathe," Levi interrupts, his eyes charged on you. "It's fine if you don't. There's no pressure.”

Your shoulders deflate. You give him a tired smile. “Thanks.”

In the distance, a school bell rings. The sound of children chattering soon follows. 

“Anyway,” you say, reaching for the sealed container. “Enough of that. It's time for my favorite part of any meal: sweets. I’m eager to know your thoughts on this lemon tart.”

(The answer? Levi will discover he has a taste for lemon desserts.)

After that day, it becomes a routine.

Some days, you show up to have lunch with him. On the grass under the willow in Mare, you and Levi watch the sea drift from afar, cake laid out between the two of you.

.

.

.

“Oi, what’s this?”

You look up from your notes on your desk. Levi has barged into your office, holding the silver tin you asked to be delivered to him. 

"That's Valerian root,” you answer.

”Valerian root,” he repeats, eying you suspiciously. “Why?”

"Um... think of it as a gift, I guess?"

"Why? We’re not friends."

A grimace flashes on your face—ouch. So, Levi doesn't see you as a friend, even if you're starting to consider him as such, anyway.

"Well., I noticed you seem to have insomniac tendencies, so I...” You clear your throat, swatting a dismissive hand in the air. “If it makes it easier to accept it, think of it as a medical order. A decree by yours truly."

"A medical order," Levi repeats, unimpressed. "What does Valerian root do, anyway? "

"Valerian root is tea. Or well, not tea. It's an infusion. But you can brew it the same way and it helps... it helps to fall asleep."

.

.

.

When Levi comes home that night after work, the sun is setting low over the sea, a red dot over the horizon. There's a gentle breeze in the air, one that carries with it the smell of salt and sand from the beach just below the valley. 

As soon as Levi steps inside, he slips into his usual patterns.

He switches the corridor light on, the unnatural glare of electricity making him squint temporarily. He takes his shoes off, swapping them for the soft slippers Gabi and Falco once gifted him. He grabs his indoor cane by the entrance, just where he left it. Then, like a rite of passage, he makes his way to the common room, expecting to see you. 

You're not there.

Instead, the quaint room that serves as a kitchen, living room, and dining room is empty, while a distinct smell of herbs clings in the air.

Peppermint, chamomile, tea tree oil. 

Levi recognizes the scent immediately. It's the same fragrance that hung around the Survey Corps infirmary on any given day, in your practice. Frankly speaking, Levi equates the smell with, well, you. 

It’s been years since he last smelled it—years since he had any reason to. And yet, here it is, wrapping around him, catching in his breath, unspooling memories he hadn’t realized were buried deep.

And Levi suddenly gets a sense of...

Home. 

It's corny, really, that all of a sudden, he feels more at home than the home he's inhabited in the year of living alone. But maybe that's the thing about getting older; there's just smells and sights and details that remind of the past, that open up memories long since forgotten. 

In a way, Levi is grateful that those scents are what he associates with your infirmary, with your hands. Later, when his leg was wounded, and he became accustomed to the stomach-flipping stench of strong antiseptic solutions so prevalent in Marleyan hospital tents, the memory of you—of his fucked-up sense of home—remained untainted.

"Oh, fuck!"

A crash assaults his ears. Levi turns, only to find you half-bent down, picking up a pile of books from the ground. You straighten back up, flustered. 

"Levi,” you huff, “y-you scared the living out of me!"

Your blaming tone isn't lost on him; he lets you collect your breath before he speaks up, "Then you should pay better attention, Adler." Levi shoots you an unimpressed look, brows drawn low. "If these were the streets back home, you'd be dead."

His words cause you to roll your eyes at him, though a playful tug of a smile graces your lips not a second later. "This isn't the streets, 'Vi. There's no one out there to hurt me, least of all within the confines of this house."

Levi knows you make a point, but his nature has always been to be suspicious of everything, and that much hasn't changed here. He wishes you'd be a little more careful, at least for his sake.

"I suppose this was just my way to greet you home, hmm?" You move past him, gently placing your pile of books on the kitchen table. "Anyway... how was the rest of your day?" 

"Same as always." The rest of his day was, in fact, just as Mr Jakowski had predicted. Quiet. "What's all of this, then? You starting a bookclub or something?"

"Not quite. I spent my afternoon at the public library. Have you been?" Levi shakes his head. "Walls, Levi, it's even bigger than the one we had back hom–I mean, back on Paradis." You pick up a random book, flip through it and show him a page that's all about flower propagation. "I'm gonna make sure your garden's perfect."

Ah. Your garden project.

Ever since you arrived, you’ve been obsessed with this idea of filling the yard with flowers.

Levi doesn't get this sudden obsession. Sure, he's got the space for it, but Levi thinks that if he had to commit to a crop, it would be some kind of vegetable. Or tea. Flowers, on the other hand, just seem to take up place.

"Hey Levi, are you listening to me?"

(He hasn't been.) 

"Yeah, I'm listenin'."  

"That so?" you say, tone all defiant, brows drawn high like he was some puzzle to be solved. "What was I talking about then?"

Levi crosses his arms over his chest, face impassive as he stares back at you. "Some crap about flowers."

"Not precise enough, mister." You snort and shake your head, placing the book back on the table. "If you must know, I was asking you if I could get your opinion on where to plant what in your garden. You've got the next two days off, right? Spare a moment of your time, pretty please?"

Levi doesn't work Saturdays and Sundays. The weekend, as Marleyans call it, is for rest.

"Fine," he concedes, "I'll help."  

With that decision out of the way, Levi leaves you to it. He stops in his bedroom to grab a clean change of clothes and then heads to the bathroom you and him share.

The bathroom is tiny, boasting only the bare necessities—a shower bath, a toilet, a sink—but it is more lavish than what most people could afford on Paradis. It certainly is more than enough for Levi and his needs.  

As he turns on the faucet of the shower and water cascades down his back, Levi moves the bar of soap across every body part. He rubs at every part of his skin until is flushed and pink. He massages his scalp and hair until it is lathered and thick, going as far as using the soapy solution beneath his nails. By then, the scent of lemon soap is everywhere, and Levi rinses it all off with blissful satisfaction. As he does, he feels every muscle, every sore spot in his body, come undone, one limb after another.

The feeling of showering with endless warm water is one of those feelings Levi considers to be unmatched; if there is one Marleyan luxury Levi has grown greedy for, this might be it.

Still, even here, even now, Levi is conscious not to waste too much water. 

And so, as soon as he's done cleansing himself, Levi steps out and towels himself dry, ignoring the goosebumps darting across his skin. He changes into his clean clothes. He moves towards the sink, laying out his shaving kit carefully. Then, using the back of his hand, Levi wipes the fog off the mirror. 

The sight of his reflection—of his half-working gaze—makes him pause. Amidst the steam, he almost doesn't recognize himself. 

For the first time in a long while, Levi steps closer to look at himself—to really look at himself. Not just to shave, but to inspect details that somehow had slipped past him over the last months.

Since his retirement from the Scouts, time has caught up to Levi, in more ways than one. His hair has gotten longer, yes, but it's the strands of silver now framing his face that Levi lingers on. There are wrinkles on the sides of his eyes, on his forehead, on his smile lines. When did they get so deep? Levi doesn't remember the day he first noticed them, just that they've been there for a while. He's even accrued a collection of tiny freckles speckled on the ridge of his nose; somehow, Levi thinks the warmer weather in Marley is responsible for that. 

In some strange ways, Levi thinks that with every day that passes, he's starting to resemble Kenny, minus the facial hair. That son-of-a-bitch got his way with him after all, it seems, and despite this, Levi suspects Kenny would still call him a runt if he were here standing next to him right now.

"Still can't grow facial hair, huh, kid?" Kenny would say, "and you're still just as short."  

Yeah, that sounds like Kenny alright. 

A sudden rasping sound comes from his right, pulling him back to the lemon-scented room.

“Hey, Vi'?" comes your gentle voice. "I forgot to give you the balm I made for your cut. Do you want me to bring it now?"

Levi swallows, too quick, too sharp. "No. Too humid in here." A pause, one where Levi lets out a long exhale. "Just... gimme a moment. I'll be right there." 

By the time Levi's done with his routine and steps into the common room, he finds you sitting on the sofa, flipping through one of your books while stroking Scout. It seems you've already started the preparations for dinner; there's simmering onion soup that's replaced the smell of herbs over the stove.

This time, upon hearing him approach, both you and Scout look up, almost synchronically. It makes Levi's heart a little warm—why does it feel so strange to have an audience waiting for him? 

Before Levi can contemplate on this very question, you've swung to your feet. "Here, sit down; I’ll get the balm."

Levi does as he's told, taking a seat on the free spot—on the other side of the sofa, next to Scout. His peripheral catches you first washing your hands over the kitchen sink, then retrieving something from the ice-box. 

As you do, a meowing sound comes from his other side. Levi glances down at Scout, who's made her presence known. Levi doesn't need to guess what she wants; by now, they've got a routine going. And so, like clockwork, Levi lifts his unwounded hand towards her, scratching the spot just under her chin.  

Soon enough, the kitten's purr vibrates against his fingertips. 

"She missed you today," he hears you comment in passing. You're moved on his other side, bending down and looking at his palm laid flat on the arm of the sofa. "May I?" 

Without saying a word, Levi nods.

Carefully, you take his hand into your own, flipping it to remove the old, soaked bandage and analyze the cut. Levi scrunches his nose as soon as he spots the result of his clumsy mistake.

The wound runs across the tender flesh of his palm, ending with his index. It's not a deep cut by any stretch of the imagination, but it is on his five-fingered hand. Just his luck. 

“Did you know that Scout sometimes goes into your bedroom, meowing into the void?" you comment, eyes still trained on the wound. "It's like she's looking for your ghost or something.”

"That cat does strange things." 

"She's just attached to you." You shrug absentmindedly, eyes flickering onto him briefly, only to move away not a moment later. "Anyway, I hope she grows used to me being here, too. For now, she still refuses to enter my room when it's just the two of us, but I think we may bridge that gap soon." Your voice turns into a coarse whisper, leaning closer to Levi like Scout might somehow overhear—and understand you. "I may or may not have bribed her with some leftover tuna."

Levi clicks his tongue. "You mean you’re spoiling her."

"Hey, all's fair in love and war." A knowing smile tugs at your lip, delicate like the first bloom of spring. "Besides, there are worse things for a cat to be."

After that, you focus on tending to Levi's wound—disinfecting it, adding a layer of balm over it, wrapping a clean bandage by the careful press of your hands. It brings Levi back to the old days, when he'd watch you either tend to him or his comrades. There was always this intensity, this non-bullshit attitude, that would always wash over you at any given time. It made Levi aware just how seriously you took your job, how dedicated you were to your craft. 

Now, as Levi watches you at it again, there is something else, too. Something changed about him. Something that speaks volumes of just how touch-starved he's become, surely, how lonely this past year has been on him. He tries to ignore the warmth that blooms under your touch, tries not to think about how long it’s been since anyone that wasn’t his doctor touched him like this.

He fails; before long, he feels his heartbeat quickening, his belly constricting in a series of painful knots. 

It might be why, when at last you seem satisfied with your work and rise to your feet, Levi finds himself doing the same. He stands, moving with no objective in sight, the scent of herbs beckoning him closer. 

As he does, he ends in your personal space, shoulder almost grazing yours. 

He freezes.

Fuck... what the hell is he doing?

You seem just as surprised to find him in your space. Levi watches as your lips subtly part, the smallest shift in your expression that narrows into your eyes widening. He listens to your breath catch; it makes the tip of his fingers tingle.

"Um... Levi?" 

Levi blinks, panic swelling in his chest. But before he can say a thing, a sudden "mrrrp" vibrates below. What happens next is a blur: Scout has somehow jumped off the sofa, intertwining herself between you and him, and the sudden feeling of fur on your bare legs must have taken you by surprise.

Because the next moment, the back of your calves bump against the edge of the sofa, causing you to almost tripping back. 

Luckily, if there's one thing that hasn't changed, it's Levi's instincts. He instantly latches onto your elbow, steadying you and drawing you closer, your warmth blooming beneath his grasp. 

“Walls,” your voice vibrates against the shell of his ear, breathless. "... Thanks." 

You straighten and take a subtle shift back. Levi lets go and moves further away. At his sides, he flexes his hand, trying to rid himself of the tickling sensation lingering where he held onto you. He looks at anywhere but you. 

Instead, Levi focuses on Scout. The kitten has skittered away, hiding in between the dining chairs, just behind the sofa. Levi exhales harshly as he stares at her. "Tch, have a care, you damn cat. We're practically titan-sized to you; don’t creep around like that."

Thankfully for Levi and his sudden series of unfortunate slip-ups, the rest of the evening is spent in the calmness of routine. Like every other evening since you moved in, you and Levi share a meal (onion soup and leftovers from lunch). Seated at the dining table, facing the window with a viewpoint on the sea, you share tidbits of information you've learned about the village and its inhabitants, while Levi comments here and there. You discuss Gabi and Falco’s upcoming visit for Mare's seasonal festival, and everything you plan to do with them.

Everything is just as Levi remembers it being. The setting is different, there are people missing… but there is something soothing that he is here now, with you, with scents that don't feel foreign, with foods that feel familiar. 

One thing does loom over Levi's mind, though.

Levi swears you drew closer when he stood.

.

.

.

One night, you fall asleep in front of the fireplace.

Come morning, Levi's gone, but there's a blanket draped over your body.

.

.

.

That night, Levi can't sleep. That in itself isn't shocking; Levi's always been a chronic insomniac. So, when the telltale signs of a sleepless night make themselves known and Levi realizes he's in for one of those nights, he doesn't waste time. He gets up and goes to make himself a fresh cup of valerian root tea.

Half-way there, however, something stops him in his tracks.

It's your the door to your bedroom, half-ajar, warm light pooling out.

And Levi sees you.

You're on the floor, crouched over something. Next to you, it seems that your bribing paid off; Scout is by your side, staring at you with keen interest, tilting her head as she looks at your every movement. 

That's when Levi notices what you're doing, what you're twirling around one by one, as if to show the cat.

Your drawing materials, his gift to you. You've taken them out of the desk he built, laying them all on the floor to inspect them.

Pencils, an eraser, a notebook.

Huh.

( Next chapter / Join my taglist )

[dixons-sunshine]

Spot Of Tea | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

*GIF isn't mine*

Summary: Marrying Daryl was one of the best decisions you ever made. He was no longer the hot-headed, rude hunter from the quarry who you couldn't stand. Instead, he was someone who you'd come to love above all else, someone who you bled with and shared a beautiful baby girl with. And just when you thought you couldn't love your husband more, he just had to go and have a cute little teaparty with your daughter.

Genre: Fluff

Era: Alexandria, post Saviour war, pre the building of the bridge.

Warnings: None.

Word count: 1.5k

A/n: Back at it again with another Dad!Daryl fic, and this one was inspired by @louifaith's amazing idea! This was so cute and I just had to write this. Domesticity with Daryl is my favourite genre. I hope you like this!

As always, my requests are open for any TWD requests, as well as Scud Frohmeyer requests.

—

The sun was just starting to set. Everyone was starting to retreat into their homes for the night and the people on guard were switching shifts with the people on night shift. You were done for the day, a successful day's work in the infirmary adding a bounce to your step as you walked up the porch stairs and into your shared home with Daryl, locking the door behind you and shedding your coat.

The house was eerily silent. Daryl had sustained an injury while on a run and had been given the week off by Rick to heal. Although your husband had initially been against the idea, one look from you had shut any protests down—being the community's nurse and his wife gave you that advantage. It was already day three and he'd been spending all of his time with Hazel, your daughter. Each night you'd come home to find him watching some old cartoons he'd found tapes of with her in the living room, all cuddled up under a big, fuzzy, comfortable blanket.

So where were they that night, and why was it so quiet?

“Daryl?” you called out after searching the first floor of your small home with no sign of the archer or your daughter. You started descending up the stairs, but stopped when you got to the top. You could hear your three year old's voice coming from her room, soon followed by Daryl's own.

You walked down the hallway and into her room, stopping in the doorway at the sight that you met; your daughter sitting down on the ground in front of her bed, surrounded by her stuffed toys with the plastic tea set Daryl had found for her in the middle, with the archer himself sitting on the opposite side of her. The big, gruff man was "drinking" from the plastic teacup, sporting a plastic tiara. Hazel was happily babbling on, and Daryl was looking at her fondly, a small smile on his face as he hummed in agreement to whatever she said.

You leaned against the doorway with an amused smile on your face, silently observing your husband dutifully playing out Hazel's storyline. They hadn't noticed your presence yet, and you jumped at the opportunity to admire the two most important people in your life.

“Do you want some more tea, Daddy?” Hazel asked, pouring the imaginary tea into the cups of the stuffed animals surrounding her.

Daryl nodded and extended the plastic cup in her direction. “Yeah, 'course I do. Ya make the best tea in the land.”

Hazel giggled and poured the imaginary tea into Daryl's cup. “There you go, Daddy.”

“Thanks, Princess Hazelnut,” Daryl thanked her, taking a sip from the plastic cup and humming in approval. “Tastes good. Wha'd ya put in this?”

“My secret recipe,” Hazel responded with a giggle, placing the plastic teapot down on the ground, picking up her own cup. “You look pretty, Daddy. Like a real princess.”

Daryl chuckled and patted at the tiara on his head. “S'the crown. S'makin' me look like royalty.”

“Yeah, the look suits you,” you voiced, finally making Hazel and Daryl aware of your presence.

Hazel dropped the plastic teacup in her hands and hastily got up, rushing over to you. “Mama!”

You crouched down to catch her in your arms, picking her up and placing sweet, soft little kisses on her face. “Hey, baby,” you greeted her, an affectionate smile on your face. “Were you and Daddy having fun?”

“'Course we were,” Daryl chipped in, slowly getting up from the floor due to the injury on his leg. He walked with a noticable limp over to you, ruffling Hazel's hair. “We always have fun. Ain't tha' righ', Hazelnut?”

Hazel giggled and buried her face into your shoulder. “Yeah. Daddy played princesses and tea parties with me.”

“Yeah. 'M Princess Dana of the Forest Kingdom. This lil' one is Princess Hazelnut of the Fairy Kingdom. We were jus' meetin' up to form an alliance to fight against the dangerous Fire Tribe, who wants to destroy the forest and all the animals in my kingdom. We need the help of Princess Hazelnut and the Fairy Warriors to defeat them once and fer all,” Daryl explained, using a deeper voice for dramatic effect.

“Well I'm sorry I interrupted your meeting. Do you want me to leave?” you asked teasingly, sending the archer a playful smile over your daughter's head.

Hazel shook her head. “No. Daddy and I will finish tomorrow.”

“Well, I've got the day off tomorrow. Would you mind if I joined you two?”

“Yay! Mama's gonna join us, Daddy!” Hazel exclaimed happily, hugging you tighter.

Daryl smiled fondly at Hazel, leaning forward to place a soft kiss on the top of her head. “Yeah, I heard tha', Hazelnut. Mama's gon' help us defeat the Fire Tribe. They will no longer hurt the animals in my kingdom.”

“Yeah! Mama's gonna help us win!”

You laughed lightly at their theatrics, shaking your head. You placed another kiss on Hazel's forehead before placing her back down on the ground. “Why don't you go wash your hands and wait for me and Daddy downstairs? If you promise to be good, there will be a surprise for you after dinner.”

“A surprise? Yay! Thank you, Mama!” Hazel exclaimed, hugging your legs tightly before bounding out of the room excitedly.

You chuckled affectionately at the little girl that brought so much light into your life. It amazed you how one small human being could fill a hole in your heart that you hadn't even realised existed before. Hazel was your pride and joy, your baby girl who you'd go to great lengths to protect, as would Daryl.

You turned back towards the archer and gave him an amused smile. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Daryl mused, stepping forward to place his hands on your hips, pulling you closer to him. “How was yer day?”

“Not as eventful as yours, I'm guessing,” you teased, laughing lightly. You gently took the tiara from his head, inspecting it. “Gotta say, though, the whole "Princess Dana" thing suits you. Never would've guessed it was you with this tiara on. You looked really pretty.”

“Stop,” Daryl said with a chuckle. “Hazel asked me to wear the tiara. It made the story more believable.”

“It sounds like a good storyline. I'm actually invested now, and I wonder how the two of you are gonna work me into the story.”

“Hazel will figure it out. She's a real creative kid. She has a big imagination,” Daryl replied, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over your hip in a gentle caress. “She's amazin'.”

“Just like her daddy,” you responded, gazing up at your husband lovingly.

Daryl scoffed and ducked his head, but you didn't miss the way his lips twitched up into a small smile. “Nah, she got it from her mama. She's a mini ya.”

“I don't think so, but okay,” you relented, dropping the tiara on the bed before wrapping your arms around his neck. “She's perfect.”

Daryl hummed. “Jus' like her mama,” he whispered before capturing your lips with his, kissing you sweetly and lovingly.

The kiss ended all too soon for your liking, but you remembered that you had a toddler waiting for you downstairs. “We should probably get her fed and ready for bed.”

“Yeah,” Daryl agreed, taking a step back. “Wha' surprise do ya have fer Hazel?”

“Cookies.”

“Who made them?”

“Carol. She dropped them off earlier before she went back to the Kingdom,” you explained, before leaning up to whisper something in his ear. “If we get Hazel to bed early enough, I'll show you what surprise I have for you.”

Daryl Dixon loves his daughter. She is his little girl and he would do anything for her, including dressing up as a princess for tea parties. He enjoys her company and wished to be in it 24/7. He'd kill anything that tried to hurt her and he'd die protecting her.

But at that moment, Daryl wanted to get her to bed and asleep as quickly as humanly possible. As much as he loved her, he had another idea of fun that involved only you, the love of his life, a bed, and no tea sets.