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tetzoro · 6 months ago

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☽◯☾ - SWORD AND SHEATH

꒰ synopsis ꒱ : After another slew at sea, you and Zoro have the ship all to yourselves as the crew restocks up on the island. They say that curiosity kills the cat, but what happens when you've tamed the beast?

꒰ content ꒱ : MDNI. zoro roronoa x f!reader ; swordplay, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, mentions of spit, pet names (baby, pretty girl), mentions of squirting, lots of teasing and praise — WC : 5.2k

⭑ 𓂃 ꒰ First Quarter ! ꒱ ― Kinktober Masterlist

Each glide of the polish-infused cloth along the Wado Ichimonji is slow, refined. Zoro was using his practiced hand to do the process he’s done thousands of times with the blade he cherishes most.

It was a form of art — the way the blade would be reborn with the shine it was always meant to have, no longer weighed down by the blood, dirt, and sweat that would so often coat it.

The sun beats down on him as he continues his ritual. Sword maintenance was just as important as training; it was cathartic, another form of meditation that Zoro relied on to center himself, grow stronger, and keep his tools as efficient as he could.

Wiping away the horrors each weapon has seen makes him feel a little more cleansed himself. Zoro has never been one to shy away from a fight or doing what he needs to do in order to survive, but the process just reminds him that he won the battle; he’s the one who gets to clean his blades and move onto his next enemy — the next step in his dream.

His wandering mind can’t help but drift back to you — his bright star in the night sky, the one that silently guides him along and encourages his every step on his journey, even going as far as lighting the way when the path seems too dark.

After a few moments of being with you, he too feels the weight of the blood on his hands fade away as soon as you lovingly take them in yours. The tender skin of your palms kissing, the buzz of being grounded by each squeeze you grant him and he finds himself able to begin again.

Seagulls chirp overhead as he works, polishing his blades with intent, his focus unshakeable even though the world around him demands attention. The gentle lull of the waves, the whispering breeze in the air, he was able to tune it all out.

But the moment you came waltzing onto the deck, his ears perked up and his nose scrunched, signaling that he knew you were there and mentally preparing himself for whatever you had planned next. If only he knew.

“What do you want now?” The last word dies in his throat as he takes you in, freezing in place. You only see it because you know him so well, and have studied his face and all of his expressions far and wide.

The subtle widening of his eye, barely a fraction of a difference but it’s a difference all the same. The stoic mask he so often wears, acting indifferent to things such as clothes, slips away as no one could ever ward off the power of beauty - especially yours.

The facade begins to chip away as a blush spreads across his face, gears turning in his brain to find something to say as you make your way over to him.

Because today, the Sunny was docked at an island for a routine supply run and you were all too quick to volunteer you and Zoro to stay back and watch the ship together. He should've known right then and there that you were up to no good but your syrupy sweet eagerness disarmed him.

But now you were stalking closer to him, dressed up entirely in his clothes – or at least some of them. Adorned in his notable green robe, his haramaki, and completed with his bandana securely tied around your head. His gaze rakes over your figure, taking in the way you look wearing one of his favorite outfits. Swallowing hard, his adam's apple bobs in anticipation. He can’t help but feel his throat close up and trap all the words he wishes to say behind a wall of surprise.

“What do you think?” You ask, your lips bending in a coy manner.

A blush blooms across his tanned skin in a slow crawl, blossoming into a darker shade the more you twirl in his robe that very clearly shows you’re not wearing his pants underneath it.

His jaw clenched, unable to form any words as he continues to drink you in. This was the last thing he expected from you today, but he really should’ve known better.

“You’re blushing.” You grin, going to poke his cheek. But his reflexes were too sharp, instantly swatting your hand away before turning his head away from you.

“Am not! Shut up!” He hisses out, the blush only deepening as you call him out. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, woman.”

“Don’t I?” You move to get back in his line of sight, that disarmingly sweet yet taunting smile still resting on your lips. “Just tell me what you think of the outfit, Zo.”

“You’re wearing my clothes.” He points out, stating the obvious. You don’t bother to hide the way you roll your eyes.

“Very astute of you. Did you have to use your Haki to come to that conclusion?”

Without another word, Zoro throws you over his shoulder, marching back into the ship and straight for the bunks. You squeal, accusing him of being a brute as you lazily pound your fists against his back.

Zoro slaps your ass with a sadistic grin that you don’t have the pleasure of seeing before he begins to squeeze and knead the plush flesh, unable to move his firm hand away from it.

He makes his way into the cramped room. It wasn’t his favorite place to take you but it was the closest and climbing up the crow's nest would only cause a delay between him and what he desired most.

After closing the heavy wooden door with the back of his boot, he tosses you onto the bed, letting you sprawl out for him while he places his swords to the side – perfectly lined up as always.

“Wearing my clothes around like this…” Zoro trails off as his eye zeroes in on the way the robe slides off of your shoulder, teasingly exposing the sliver of your chest. He can feel his face heat up all over again. “Are you really not wearing anything under this?”

“Well, the pants didn’t fit me and you don’t normally wear a shirt under this.” The impassive manner in which you said that did not hold a candle to the way your eyes were fired up with a diabolical mirth wrapped up with mischief. Always playing the little minx that would find a way to burrow under his skin and make a home there just to torture him. Or so he says.

“You little...” Zoro quickly crawls over you, caging you in under him, elbows digging into the mattress by your head. “You make it so hard for me sometimes.”

“Do I? Let me feel—” You reach toward his pants but his hand encircles your wrist.

“Oi! That’s not what I meant.” he almost hisses out. He took your wrists in his hands and pinned them over your head on the flattened pillow on his bunk.

The thread of control he was clinging onto was no match for the ember of desire you spark in him. One single strike and it would be burnt out, turning into ash and falling right into the palm of your hand.

“I know.” You giggle. The damn giggle that never fails to cause something within him to flutter, stirring it around until he had no choice but to act on it.

Surging forward, his lips aggressively capture yours. There’s no room for easing into it, just a clash of teeth knocking together, swirling with a mix of heady groans and needy moans.

But that’s one of his favorite things about kissing you — how you were just unabashed about how messy it would get. Swapping spit through the sheer force of each other's tongues shoving their way into hot, receptive mouths.

The amount of passion and unspoken feelings he’s able to express through this simple act is something he flourishes at, excelling at unraveling you. Gripping your cheeks, he tilts your head back slightly so he can deepen the kiss — as if he was trying to spill the words that stubbornly sat on the tip of his tongue and have it reach the bottom of your heart.

The call for air was growing too difficult to ignore and reluctantly he pulled back, letting the string of saliva snap and drip down your chins. He leans down, kissing the droplet off of your skin, ingesting as much as he possibly can before looking at you.

You look back at him through half-lidded eyes, melting into the bed already from the ferocity of the kiss. His steely eye trails away from your swollen, lust-bitten lips in favor of taking in the way you’re panting under him. Need takes over him as he reaches for your — his — clothes.

Zoro has disrobed himself many times, but he’s never had to take it off of someone else like this. He knows the way it unravels open and leaves his chest all exposed before he fights someone, but this isn’t one of those times.

With a gentleness that only love could bring, he languidly undoes the robe, pulling back a bit so he can see how the green fabric bunches around your sides, your heaving chest now out on display for him.

Peppering a few kisses down your jaw, his tongue trails your neck as he works his way down to your collarbone and your supple chest. Each delicious drag has you squirming under him, whining about him being a tease.

“You’re one to talk.” Zoro gruffs out with a bite of sarcasm, giving your nipple a quick pinch. He relishes in the yelp of his name that you beautifully let out before carefully trailing his slick tongue along your skin.

The way you mewl as his lips enclose your pert bud only reinforces the primal desire that’s been raging inside of him since you first came out dressed in that damn robe.

After giving your other breast the same treatment, he presses his lips in the middle of your chest and lets it linger so he can inhale one of the sweetest parts of your body — the one that lays closest to your heart.

Zoro presses wet, open-mouthed kisses all along your stomach, moving further down until easily slipping your panties off and tossing them behind him.

Running his fingers along your glistening folds, he holds back a groan at the strings of arousal already clinging to him.

“Already so wet f’me.” His eye was trained at the apex between your thighs, his tongue poking out to lick his bottom lip. “Gonna prep you now.”

Bringing his face closer, he shuts his eye in a hazy bliss as he takes in your scent. The action always made you squirm but he was addicted to every single aspect of your cunt. He could never get enough of your musk, knowing that heaven was only a taste away.

Before you could complain about him taking his time, he dives in.

It wasn't often that Zoro was in a position to praise you relentlessly while his head was normally buried in your heat where you took everything so well for him.

So, he’s learned to show you his adoration by the precise swirl of his tongue, making out with your clit and giving into every one of your demands. Groaning against your cunt as soon as he got his first taste, never quite getting his fill of it no matter how much he lapped at it.

“Zo – fuck.” The words rush out from your lungs and assimilate into the hazy tension that’s hanging in the sex-filled air. “Feels so good.”

His hands grip your thighs, throwing your legs over his shoulder before moving to grab your ass, digging into the plushness and bringing you impossibly closer as he continues his assault.

“Tastes s’fucking good.” He slurs, the sound presses directly against your clit. Zoro's attention flickered back up to you, dark and stormy eye swirling around with a primal hunger as if he couldn’t ever get enough. “My sweet girl.”

You let out a soft whine as you clutch his hair, guiding him even closer as his tongue slips into your entrance.

He keeps at it, pinching your thigh — a demanding little code he uses when he wants to hear you more. Your saccharine moans, addictingly lewd mewls, and honeyed murmurs of praise.

“Please don’t stop, ah, ‘m getting close!” There was no way Zoro would stop. Not even if he wanted to tease you, not when he was so lost in your taste that all he wanted to do was let you pull him under your current and drown in it.

He vigorously continues to lap at your entrance, attempting to collect every drop of your sweet essence. His nose nudges your clit and he can feel your thighs begin to tremble, locking his head in place. He moves to focus his attention there, the flat of Zoro’s tongue adds more pressure onto the throbbing bud.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your back raises from the mattress when Zoro collects your puffy clit in his mouth, sucking as hard as he can. You choke back a whimper, letting out a noise you’ve hardly ever released before as you claw at his head, humping his face for more.

“Zoro — fuck! Wait, it’s too much!" The words melt into an elongated moan, losing yourself to the drowsy delirium that zoro is spelling out against the bundle of nerves. He gives out a resounding grunt, gripping you tighter in encouragement.

It’s all you need to let go.

Thank god no one else was on the ship because they might’ve heard the way you cried out his name in ultimate bliss as the taut band within you fully snapped. Zoro didn’t stop, lapping up the slick that gushed from your sweet pussy.

The bottom half of his face glistens in your arousal and he was absolutely drunk off of it as if it was a bottle of the finest sake in the world.

“Keep 'em spread open for me baby, ‘m not done yet,” Zoro said, sitting back on his haunches and taking in your already fucked out expression. “Need you to do that again.”

After sliding off his pants, he grips the base of his cock, giving it a few tentative pumps as his eyes trail back over your body, covered in a sheen of desire.

If he didn’t crave to be inside of you so badly he would’ve come all over you, making you as messy as possible. His dick twitches at the thought, heat curling in his gut as he imagines you covered in the white of his essence.

“Zoro.” You gasp out, hands digging into the slightly sweaty sheets. The desperation and utter need that coats your husky voice almost does him in. But you’ve had too much control over him today, and he had to gain some of that back.

“Look at you.” Zoro's voice is low, dark and merciless. The deep desire that overtakes him and makes his words more gravely and coarse, sanding over your skin so gratifying it leaves your hips bucking up for more. The sight below him is surely one of his favorites and he plans on drawing it out for as long as he can. “All spread out for me in my bed, still in my clothes.”

Zoro leans forward, lightly tapping his cock against your sticky folds and nudging it through to your entrance, just resting it at your opening, not yet pushing in. His fingers dig deeper into your waist, keeping you in place before you can think about rolling your hips against him, trying to suck him in with all your might.

“You’re so mean.” A pitiful pout rests on your pretty lips and he almost gives in. Almost. But he knows you so well by now, knows that you’re used to getting exactly what you want and it only makes him want to ruin you more. To put you in a place where all you want is him, all you crave is his touch. And you’re teetering right on the edge, only a simple nudge and you’ll be falling right into his trap.

“Yeah?” One of his hands returns to his cock, reddened tip angrily staring at you as he starts to pump himself over your mound, spreading his precum all over his length as he preps himself for you. “That’s not going to get you what you want though.”

“Please, Zoro.” You barely breathe out, your need for him so great that it starts to turn painful, the dull ache spreading through your body like a wildfire, screaming out for relief as the flames of desire consume you. You’ve had a taste but you needed more. The only thing that would satiate you was his cock sliding deep within you. “Please, I'm sorry. Please don’t tease me, come on.”

The whine in your voice has his dick twitching in his hand, ego fueling the blood coursing through his veins. Zoro wasn’t a power-hungry man, he never cared for it in the same way most people did. He liked being strong, he demanded respect, but never wanted to lead — to rule.

But that all changed whenever he’d have you sprawled out beneath him. feeling like the king of the world as one of the most desired women only has eyes for him, begging for his cock, yearning for his love.

He’d give into you every time, his heart too weak to win against the love he had for you, but he tried to stave it off as much as he could.

“Only if you think you can handle it.” He smirks, tip catching against your clit, your body jolting forward. “See? You’re already so sensitive just from my mouth.”

“Dammit Zoro.” Another mewl that his cock leaps at. Frustration etches across your features, water pooling in your eyes as you continue to paw at him. It’s what he was waiting for — his pretty girl reduced to putty in his hand, ready to be played with. “Please.”

Something possesses him with the plea that pierces his heart — takes over the last cognitive brain cell he has as he lets out an exaggerated spit, the glob landing on his length.

Your breath hitches as he finally pushes himself all the way in, the stretch splitting you open to the point that no noise can come out, finally feeling full of what you’ve been waiting for all day.

“You turned me into this — fuck — made me like this,.” Zoro swears, his arm wrapping around your back and pulling you flush against him as he feels the way your greedy cunt keeps him snugly in place.

“Are you really complaining about that?” Your voice almost slips into a whine as he pulls back out a little before bullying his way through you as your cunt accommodates his girth — eagerly welcoming him back in.

“So tight, look at that.” He ignores your snark, opting to fixate on the way you’re swallowing him whole, slack-jawed and practically drooling over the sight. “Made for me.”

You clench at his words which rewards you with one of his sinful grunts, his head bowing slightly as you pulse around his throbbing length.

“Mhm,” You hum, digging your nails into his shoulders, little crescent moons blooming in its place. He lets out a hiss, snapping his hips all the way back in, nudging against your cervix. “Just fuck me already.”

“Always running your mouth off like a damn brat.” He glares down at you but there’s no bite to it — not with the amused crinkles that cradle his eyes with care.

“What’re you gonna do about it?” Famous last words.

But Zoro didn’t do what he usually did; flipping you over and fucking you deep in the mattress until the only thing your mouth can do is sing out his name like a mantra.

His eye held the secrets of unspoken words, a question that he refused to waste his breath on — not when he already knew how to decipher the language of his gaze.

You trust me?

As easy as breathing.

Breathy pants escape his lungs as he keeps a steady pace, looking at you. No matter how many times he’s had you under him, you never fail to weaken him.

“I think it’s time we complete your little ensemble here.”

“Huh?” Zoro doesn’t answer you as he reaches for the Wado Ichimonji. You shift under him in anticipation.

“Relax, baby. I just want you to hold this for me.”

The heavy hilt lays in your mouth, muffling any of the moans that tried to escape it. Zoro's calloused hand runs along your cheek, down your jaw and chin as he appraises the view before him.

The look in his steely gaze was one you were familiar with but with an edge of possession — pride.

Countless times this treasured weapon has been wielded in his own mouth, fighting to protect himself, but more importantly, his crew. Seeing you laid out under him with a lust-blown look in your eye as tears brim your lashes is something else entirely.

“That's it. Keep holding onto it,” His gaze doesn’t leave yours as he slowly begins to thrust back into you. “Just like that.”

You let out a soft whine that sounded like a muffled version of his name. Compulsion drives him to quicken his pace, moving slow and steady until your body jiggles under the ferocity of each stroke.

“There you are. Keep it there for me and I'll take care of you, alright?”

True to his word, Zoro keeps pounding into you, his other hand trailing down your body and grabbing every bit of you he can get his hand on before his fingers catch your neglected nub between them.

The way you effortlessly clean his dirty hands, having his sword fit in your mouth like this makes it feel like it’s being cleansed in the most pure form possible. Each rapid rock of his hips has your jaw clenching down against it further, all of your enticing noises are muffled by the intricately woven hilt.

“Fuck, perfect.” The praise spills out of his mouth and pools into your gut. “So fucking perfect.”

The hilt started to slip, threatening to clatter against the floor and finishing all the work he had done on it earlier.

“Hold it.” He hisses, “Don’t let it fall.”

His hips urgently move faster, thrusting harder into you as you try your best to grip the sword in your mouth. But he knows how strenuous it can be on his teeth and jaw, so his hand slips up to cup yours.

Once you steady the sword, his hand trails down the sheath but his eye never leaves yours. With a bated breath, he begins to slide the sheath off, watching as your eyes widen in curiosity but make no protest to stop him.

The blade was now out, facing him and gleaming under the rays of light that poured into the room from the tiny window. The sight had his hips stuttering — the element of risk now flirting with his innermost desires.

You were perfectly safe in his arms, he was the one who should be worried. He knows how sharp those blades are, how a tiny graze could pierce his skin.

Yet the siren call of the silver glint beckons him as it sits so prettily in your mouth — a tantalizing sight. You may be the one under him but he was the one surrendering to your power.

Many more possibilities flashed in his mind, darker desires that had him pressing his chest flush against yours, the Wado Ichimonji only a few inches away from him.

But perhaps another time he could fully indulge in the temptations that swam around in his mind, wondering how far you two could go for each other.

For now, he missed kissing you, missed your lips on his, consuming the very air from his lungs and replacing it with your sweet noises that breathe him back to life. So he bends down further, expertly taking the hilt in his mouth and pulling it from yours.

He gives you a few deep thrusts before he rises up, ready to put the sword aside but your arm stops him.

The look in your eyes mirrors the same desire that licks at his gut, and he knows you two are on the same page — just like always.

“You want me to keep it out?” Zoro can’t hide the tone of surprise in his voice as he lazily humps against your hips. You give him a shy nod. “Why?”

“It could be fun.” The way you’re looking at him right now is killing him, slowly shredding away all of his worries and pushing him into the pits of temptation.

“It could be dangerous.”

“But isn’t that exciting?” Zoro swallows hard. It could very well be exciting, showcasing your trust for one another but…

“I don't want to hurt you.” He couldn't live with that, knowing that one of his blades had hurt you in a way you didn’t want. He'd rather slit his stomach open than do that.

“You wouldn’t but I'll tell you if it does, I promise.” You reach up and caress his cheeks with a tenderness that has him choking for air. “Our safe word can be… sake.”

“Okay.” The unease that previously rested on his shoulders flows down his back and far away from him as he lets out a soft chuckle. “Sake it is, you ready baby?”

After a quick nod, Zoro brings the Wado back between your two joined bodies.

The cool metal kisses your skin as it trails along a precise path with absolutely zero intention to harm. But to have the infamous pirate hunter Zoro hover over you, a dark gaze latched onto the point of his katana to your skin that’s budding with gooseflesh sends a chill down your spine.

It takes everything in you not to arch at the thrill, the simple act could nick your skin and end this before it even begins.

“How's that?” Zoro's voice sounds a million miles away as your blood thrums loudly in your ear. The swordsman lets out a groan as you salaciously clench around him, his fist tightening around the hilt as he continues to glide the metal along your skin.

“So good,” Your breath hitches as he continues to graze it over your collarbone. “Knew you wouldn’t hurt me, Zo.”

“Never.” He gruffs out, trying to keep his eye open although the fluttering of your walls tempts him to shut them in bliss. He doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out like this.

Trust could be hard to find in this new world, he was lucky to find a crew that he knew would always have his back throughout everything. but this? This was so much more than that.

To be able to have you in the most vulnerable position imaginable with a blade dancing along your skin, and enjoying it not because of the act itself, but because of the trust and respect the two of you have built for each other, growing into something he’d never dream of attaining.

If he wasn’t careful, he could finish right now as pleasure shoots down his spine, desperately begging to fill you up. But the last thing he’d ever do was leave you ever wanting more.

Gently putting the blade aside, he ravenously crashes back into you with a new spark of ardor — chest to chest, ferociously driving into your cunt before his lips meet yours once again.

He kissed you and tasted the familiar steel, but mixed with your sweetness that he’d never stop chasing as long any time he’d have to put this blade in his mouth.

“So fuckin’ good.” The words sink into your lips, unable to move away from you for too long. His hips erratically move now, no set rhythm as they chase the high you both desperately seek. Your nails claw into his back and force a guttural groan out of him, wanting nothing more than for you to mark up his whole body. “So fucking good for me.”

Zoro never minded pain, it came with the territory of who he is. But having you inflict it on him was the sweetest sin he’s ever known, his body bursting with pleasure as it threatens to come undone and feed into all of your desires.

“Zo-!” you gasp out, tears brimming with droplets of devotion that he can’t wait to lick up. “‘m close!”

The sweet sound of your cries only fuels him more.

“Go ahead baby, let go.” His gaze is trained on your expressions, soaking them up as it morphs into an unyielding force of pleasure.

As your back arches up into him, he’s quick to flatten his palm there, keeping you flush against him. He can feel every tremor and tremble, each of your nerves and neurons firing off and coursing through your veins.

A wave of ecstasy crashes over your body, freezing each of your limbs in place and threatens to drag you to oblivion.

“Almost there, just a little longer.” Zoro pumps into you, your cunt clamping down on him to the point he almost has to pull out as you squirt all over his lower half and the already messed up sheets. “That’s it, fuck yes-“

Zoro begins to release in your cunt with a grunt of your name, letting you milk his cock as his body shudders in the eternal bliss you so readily provide him. He pulls out at the last rope of cum, letting it land on your mound before he nudged your clit with his softening cock, ensuring to make a mess all over your pussy.

“Zoro!” your body jolts, fingers gripping his bicep. “‘m sensitive.”

“Then come here baby.” Zoro pulls you into his strong arms, carefully eyeing the blade that was still unsheathed and still set aside.

Zoro's calloused fingers catch your earlobe, gently massaging it as he inspects it.

“You know, you still need one more piece.” Zoro's gaze is intense as it sets on you. His hands trail down your body, lightly massaging it as he works his way down in a soothing manner.

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“When the others get back, we’re going into town so we can get you your own pair of earrings.” He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Just like me.”

“Really?” The mind fogginess of the shared desire breaks away from the way beams of light emit when you smile at him.

He nods, brushing his lips alongside the temple of your head. Zoro presses his nose into your hair and inhales it.

“Quit sniffing me.” You let out an amused scoff.

“Nah, you just smell so damn good like this.” His lips move to kiss along your face, pressing into your neck before inhaling once again.

“You mean sweaty?”

“Drenched in sweat, arousal and me.” His voice is low in your ear and you crinkle your nose at the strange, but endearing compliment.

“Freak.” You tease, snuggling into him, feeling the way his muscles ripple around you in his strong, unrelenting hold.

“Takes one to know one.” He chuckles, feeling his body start to settle from the intensity of his high, melting into you and the mattress as a nap threatens to take hold. But he just had one more question. “So, if you’re dressed as me, does that mean you can drink sake as well as me?”

“Maybe we should find out.”

tags: @thesunxwentblack @autumnstuffs

#☆ 𓂃 Kinktober !#◟˚. ☁️ ⋆ daydreams.#dividers by cafekitsune #zoro x reader #zoro smut #zoro roronoa x reader #one piece x reader #one piece smut #op x reader #op smut

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stevieschrodinger · 20 days ago

Text

Part One

“We are going to get in so much shit for this,” Chris rambles, “if we get fucking caught with this-”

“Chris, stop okay,” Eddie tries again. She’s been working herself up with the same shit for twenty minutes.

“We decided to do this babe,” Robin reminds her.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time!” Chrissy practically wails, “he saved our asses, it just seemed fair!”

“Our asses were in trouble in the first place because of him,” Eddie mumbles under his breath.

Robin Elbows him, “shut up, he said he didn’t know and I believe him. I told you, he’s a good soul.”

Eddie just rolls his eyes at her, “we’re not going to get caught,” Eddie says again, full of confidence. And he is, like, reasonably sure this is going to work. Steve’s buried in the middle of a crate full of spare parts, some of them engine parts so are pretty resistive to the scanner. Steve’s running on bare minimum power output. He’s basically nothing. Eddie’s scanned the crate from every angle at about two feet range; the port security are not going to pick up on him.

They’re just sneaking an unregistered, Mars built synth through customs, that’s all. Nothing exciting. Just a synth that One built with his bare hands. One who single handed caused a Synth uprising and murdered every single man, woman, and child on Mars and proceeded to build his own empire in the rubble.

Absolutely nothing to see here.

Eddie holds his fucking breath.

The coms button lights up, Chrissy instantly flicks it, and the most bored sounding voice in the universe asks Eddie if he has anything to declare.

“No, nothing.”

“Please check the list of prohibited materials. You must declare anything radioactive.”

“No,” Eddie says again, “nothing.”

“Docking gate four, please align with the scanner and hold position when indicated to do so.”

The line goes dead, Chrissy maneuvers the ship carefully, and Eddie is certain all of them are holding their breath. They’ve done this what feels like hundreds of times. Eddie is absolutely sure it has never, ever taken this long. The longer it goes on, the twitchier the girls get.

The coms light flashes, and the girls both turn to Eddie wide eyed. Eddie can’t blame them; he’s pretty sure he’s still holding his breath when he flicks the toggle, “please proceed to the gate,” Eddie flicks the switch back, exhaling and flopping down in his seat, the girls both let out breathy cheers and fall into each other.

“Oh fuck me that was terrible,” Eddie gets up to go and retrieve Steve out of the parts bin.

Eddie watches Steve carefully. He’s not doing anything, just standing in the sunlight. Head tilted back, like he can actually feel it on his skin. Sometimes he blinks his eyes open, looking down at his own hand, turning it in the light.

Chrissy appears next to Eddie, holding a bag out to him; sugary baked goodness, “oh that’s the good stuff,” Eddie thanks her, sugar powder smeared on her face.

“I fucking missed this,” She agrees.

Robin appears next, coffee for the three of them. Real, actual coffee. This is the closest Eddie ever gets to a religious experience.

“Okay, me and Chris really need to do the rounds,” Eddie nods, waves them off since his mouth is full, there’s several minutes of awkward hugs as everyone negotiates coffee cups and precious pastries.

“Where are you going?” Steve asks them, frowning. He looks so human, Eddie thinks to himself. They’re definitely going to be able to pass him off as human but...he doesn’t have any ID. Nothing. Steve doesn’t exist, which, considering they’re only planning to be home a week or so, shouldn’t cause too much of an issue.

Until they have to smuggle him right back out again.

Eddie hopes.

“We’ve been off world for like, months, we both need to go visit with our parents.” Chrissy says it off hand, “see you later, Steve. Bye Eddie.”

The girls are oblivious as they leave, picking their way along the busy street, bulging backpacks hoisted up high.

Eddie sees it though. It was fast, the change in Steve’s eyes. They’re normal again now, blink and you miss it kind of thing, but Eddie has no doubt something just happened.

“Steve? What was that?”

“Another file...presented itself.”

“A memory?” Eddie presses gently, standing closer together so they can speak quietly. There are plenty of people around them, everyone chattering and going on about their day; no ones paying attention to them. “What was it?”

“Children...there were children, they were...very important to me. Like I was their parent, somehow. I was...very protective of them,” Steve looks around, frowning. “I need to find them.”

Steve actually turns, like he’s going somewhere, “woah woah there,” Eddie grabs Steve’s hand, and Steve does stop. Eddie is under no illusion that Steve stopped because he wanted to. There’s no way Eddie could stop Steve; Steve could rip Eddie in half, like a wet sheet of paper. His hand is human warm in Eddie's. “Lets go to my place okay...we can talk about it and try to figure something out, we can’t just...go off. Do you even know where you would be going?”

“Hawkins, Indiana.”

“I...holy fuck. I wasn’t actually expecting an answer.”

Steve frowns, his lips pursed in a sweet, confused little curve, “neither was I, until I said it.”

“Shit...Steve. Come on.”

This is not normal for a Synth. Not any kind of Synth. This is just...Eddie doesn’t give a fuck about Steve’s weirdness, it doesn’t matter really, just how weird it is...Eddie’s got to get to the bottom of Steve’s memory errors, he figures the answers have to be there somewhere.

Eddie’s working in a bit of a make shift situation here. The ships in dry dock to be unloaded, refueled and have some minor repairs. Including the airlock which Eddie is praying no one asks any probing questions about.

“Okay, come and sit here,” it’s Eddie’s bed in his pokey apartment, and he has all the tools he could scrape together set out on a towel, but he thinks he has enough here to at least have a look. Now that Steve is willingly accessing the files, Eddie might be able to do a scan, at least.

Steve sits. Eddie goes to find one of the latches on Steve’s scalp, but stops himself, pulling back. It feels...invasive. Suddenly. Now that Steve is alive and awake in a way Eddie’s never come across with a Synth before. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Steve tells him, “I don’t mind.”

“Okay…” Eddie goes back to it, noticing for the first time that Steve’s hair is ridiculously soft. Eddie cards his fingers through it, finding the little edge, and using his magnet to unhitch the plate, “pretty sure it’s this one.”

Steve hums in agreement, sitting still as Eddie leans over him, Eddie works for a few minutes, keeping an eye on the readouts on his visor; everything stays green and holding.

“Okay, lets look,” the handheld reader loads slowly; unsurprising really, when Eddie clocks how much data there is, “Christ,” he breathes, “these files are fucking massive. No wonder you’re having a problem processing them.”

“They do seem to affect other systems.”

Eddie hums, “this is mad...I don’t even recognize the format.” This is...Eddie lets it load, finally, looking at the file data, frowning, “this...this cannot be right. I need to send this to the girls.”

It takes a long few minutes, Eddie letting another file scan through while he’s waiting; this ones even bigger, which is just, insane.

Eddie’s communicator starts beeping in his pocket; he doesn’t bother plugging it in, just brings it up close enough to his ear that he can hear, “Eddie, where did you get this?”

“It’s from Steve,” Eddie tells her. He watches as the next one completes; it’s much the same, just even more complex.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Chris. I am absolutely fucking certain,” considering Eddie literally has it in the palm of his hand, “I just watched the file transfer myself. One hundred percent.”

Eddie doesn’t even blame Chrissy for questioning it, Eddie would have done the same.

“Eddie, those are brainwaves. This is a memory. Like a human memory.”

Eddie looks down, but Steve is already blinking back up at him. Steve does not look even one bit surprised.

“Chris, you and Robs want to go on a road trip?”

The facility is abandoned. Long abandoned. The doors are smashed in, the walls are bare, and every single thing has been stripped out of here. There’s just dust and trash in the corners of every dark room. Broken office chairs. Designs spray painted by vandals. Stripped wiring hanging forlornly from ceilings where the tiles have either been smashed or just fallen in on their own.

“Steve?” Eddie asks, creeping along behind him. There’s no one here, there hasn’t been for a long time, but the place feels haunted.

“We need to go down.”

“Down?”

“This isn’t it; there’s...something more.”

“Right,” Chrissy says confidently, even though she looks fucking terrified, “down it is.”

“I brought torches,” Robin offers.

Steve leads them past a bank of elevators; no power anyway. There’s a panel that Steve unceremoniously rips off the wall; Eddie couldn’t even see it until Steve did it, the camouflage was so good. Next goes the security pad; with no power, Steve just calmly rips the unit right out of the wall. The door next to it, he has to force.

It screeches and creeks, groaning loud enough that Eddie wants to cover his ears. It doesn’t want to go, but the metal itself eventually buckles under the force of Steve.

The stairwell is as dark and empty as everywhere else.

They creep down, torch beams flickering, only the soft sound of their feet on the steps.

It feels like they go down forever.

When Steve opens the door at the bottom, a soft light fills the space. It’s not bright; much closer to emergency lighting. There’s strips of it, either side of the hall.

Every room looks like a torture chamber to Eddie, despite the stripe of cheerfully flaking rainbow paint that decorates the hallway.

Things that look like dentist chairs with horrible, probing machinery hanging over it. Rooms with huge devices in that Eddie can’t even guess the purpose of, “Steve, what the fuck is this?” Chrissy whispers.

Steve pushes open a double door, and everyone freezes at the sight that greets them.

Eddie, for a brief second, thinks they’re human kids. They aren’t, even in the poor light he can see that their insides are machine; not human. The smears of colored Synth liquids are no less gruesome looking for it though.

In the doorway, Steve falls to his knees.

Steve was almost impossible to move; he weighs a fucking tonne. Between the three of them they manage to slide him out of the way of the door, far enough that they swing shut at least and they don’t have to stand there, looking at the ruins of whatever the hell this is.

“They made Synth kids,” Chrissy looks green, like she’s gonna’ throw chunks at any moment. Robin is sheet white, even in the shitty lighting, “what’s wrong with Steve?”

He kneels, frozen, his eyes white again.

“I think he’s processing memories,” Eddie hazards a guess. “We...need to wait it out, I think.”

“Jesus,” Chrissy’s teeth are chattering, her voice shaky, “couldn’t he have done this somewhere else?”

“Not sure he’s exactly controlling it babe,” Robin tells her, eyes wide enough Eddie can see the whites; Eddie’s pretty sure he probably looks the same.

“Kids,” Chrissy breathes again, “sick fucks.”

When Steve drags in a deep breath, they all jump, “Jesus Fucking fuck,” Robin hisses, Chrissy taking two big steps back away from him in surprise.

Steve’s...breathing. Loud and panicked which is just. He doesn’t even have fucking lungs, “Steve,” Eddie kneels in front of him, grabbing his shoulders, “Steve, you’re fine. Steve.”

Steve grips Eddie’s shoulders; not hard though, like he still knows Eddie’s just a breakable human. Eventually, he calms, seeming to slowly realize he doesn’t need to breathe, so it stops again.

“Steve?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “yeah, sorry,” Steve gets up, fluid and sure on his feet again, he easily pulls Eddie up with him.

“What did you see?”

Steve looks around, “not here,” he says.

“I fully fucking second that,” Chrissy adds, vehemently.

“Yeah, lets get the fuck out of here.”

But Steve hesitates. And then he goes back into the room of horrors.

“Steve,” Chrissy hisses.

“Where the fuck is he going? I don’t want to go back in there-” but the doors swing open again, Steve back already, he’s carrying another synth in his arms; this one doesn’t seem injured that Eddie can see.

She’s wearing white, her hair clipped short. She’s stiff in Eddie’s arms, the unnatural stillness of a deactivated Synth.

“Steve? Who is that?”

“This is Eleven. She’s coming with us.”

“Eleven as in the number that’s ten along from One?” Robin asks, panicked.

“Oh fuck me, this is such a bad idea,” Chrissy whispers, as she follows along.

“Steve,” Robins hisses, “Eleven is like, ten numbers up from One. Is it that kind of Eleven?”

“Eleven is nothing like Henry.”

“Well that’s reassuring,” Robin mutters.

“Ah fuck me, we’ve got to go back up all those stairs.”

Eddie just follows along quietly at the back, listening to the girls bitching, feeling like the ghosts of this place are trying to follow them out.

Eddie wouldn’t have thought twice about it before, but now...now it feels kind of odd. A little disrespectful maybe. Synths are artificial, they’re not people, they’re not even alive, so before meeting Steve, Eddie wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

Now, having a synth in the back of their transport, just laid out with a blanket thrown on top, feels kind of weird. Feels a little disrespectful.

They’re nearly an hour outside of Hawkins before the girls chatter starts up again, like they’re just now far enough away from that place that it’s okay again.

Naturally they’re full of questions, and Eddie listens carefully as he drives, “I think I remember a lot more now,” Steve is telling the girls.

“Yeah, like what?”

Steve frowns, Eddie watching him in the rear-view mirror. Next to him, Chrissy is twisted fully in her seat so she can see Steve, “I think I’m from Hawkins. I think I was made there. Henry...lied to me. He just overwrote my memories to try and...make me be on his side. I think Henry stole me from there.”

“You think he caused the errors?” Eddie asks, and Steve frowns, shaking his head.

“Henry was there? One?” Robin pipes up, “oh my God,” she breathes, and it feels like they all realize it at the same time, “One was built there too, right?”

“He wasn’t an anomaly, was he?” Chrissy follows the thought to it’s obvious conclusion, “that’s what they were trying to do there, isn’t it? True sentience.”

Steve nods.

“So...Mars? That was...actually someone's fault. Like One wasn’t just an accident, they built him that way and then…”

“They thought they had him under control. They thought he was...compliant, like me. Like the others. That’s why Henry killed them, he knew the kids might be able to stop him, one day. He waited until I was in maintenance. He must have waited and waited for me to be shut down before he did anything, physically I was the only one there who could have saved the kids.”

Robin reaches across the seat, squeezing Steve's hand. “it’s not your fault babe, okay? If you were being, fixed up or whatever, you couldn’t have known what he was going to do, right?”

“Why the fuck did they build them as kids? That’s just…” Chrissy doesn’t have the words.

“Messed up?” Robin supplies.

Steve frowns, “they were being transferred to new bodies as they grew up, they...had minds like mine. Memories. They were trying to make...people.” Steve shakes his head, “I’m not sure.”

“So why aren’t you a little kid?”

“I was built as an adult, like Henry. The kids memories are their own, just like with a human. They thought that would work better than what they did with me and Henry, but it would take longer; the kids had to grow. My memories are…” Steve frowns, again, twitching, eyes flashing briefly white before he blinks back to alertness, “from a person?”

“Holy shit,” and that revelation kills the conversation for quite a while as they all process everything. Mars was...well. Whoever was building these Synths, the government? The military? Both? Whoever the fuck it was, it’s their fault that One happened. Not the random programming glitch that they’ve successfully blamed all this time.

Mars is just...one giant cover up.

And Steve...holy shit, Steve was actually a person, a human being. That makes so much sense. None of it was programming, it’s just...Steve. All the mannerisms, the personality...it was real.

It still is real.

“We should...tell someone.” Eddie suggests, “people should know that One wasn’t an accident. Mars is their fault, whoever built him. It was deliberate, and they fucked up.”

“We wouldn’t be able to prove it though,” Chrissy reminds him, “Steve is our only evidence. And a creepy building in the middle of nowhere filled with dead Synths.”

Eddie sighs, she has a point. And if it really is one massive cover-up, the first thing they would do is eliminate Steve.

“Steve?” Eddie asks, unable to keep the question in any more, they make eye contact in the rear view, “what was your roll?”

Steve smiles faintly, “I’m the babysitter.”

Eddie dropped the girls off at Chrissy’s parents place and instructed them, very firmly, not to breathe a fucking word of this to anyone. They didn’t need telling, not really, but it still made Eddie feel better to say it.

Now they just need to sneak a Synth into Eddie’s apartment without drawing too much attention. Luckily Eddie’s in a cheap and shitty part of town, and most people keep their heads down and their business to themselves. It’s pretty late by the time they get back, and that’ll help.

Eddie had, briefly, considered going to Wayne but, fuck dragging him into all of this mess.

They have Eleven wrapped in a blanket, and Steve holds her vertically, one arm wrapped around her like she’s a piece of furniture. Eddie’s got his head on swivel, he tries to play it cool, but he’s failing miserably as he trails after Steve up the stairs. Anyone who sees him will know he’s guilty of something. The lights flicker, the bulb on the second landing gone completely.

Eddie nudges trash out of their way as they head along the hall.

Steve takes Eleven inside, laying her out on Eddie’s beat up two seater couch, her stiff body resting awkwardly, propped against a headrest.

Her hair is peach-fuzz, but whoever built her did just a good of a job as they did with Steve.

“Can you wake her up?”

“I can try,” Eddie’s exhausted, it’s been a long fucking day, but he retrieves his tools from where they are still laid out on the towel on the bed. It’s been long hours since Eddie found Steve’s memories, but Eddie’s tired enough that it feels like it’s been at least a week.

The panels are easier to find and open at least, thanks to the short hair.

Eddie wonders vaguely if that’s why they made it short.

“Wait,” Steve says suddenly, “we should check her for a transmitter. Henry must be aware of them, if that’s how he found me.”

“Sure,” Eddie gestures at her vaguely, there isn’t anyway Eddie’s going to be able to move her, but Steve turns her over. He moves her easily, but gently. With great care.

Steve lifts the back of her white shirt, indicating the place where Eddie should cut; the transmitter is there, exactly the same as with Steve. Eddie crushes it and drops the remains into the garbage disposal.

“Okay,” Eddie mutters to himself, getting a coffee, “okay we can do this,” he does his best to hype himself up, but he’s running on fumes. It really has been a hell of a long day, all the traveling, plus finding that place. It’s been a lot.

This morning, calling Chris, feels like it was simultaneously ten minutes ago, and about a thousand years.

Eddie tries to suppress another yawn, and fails, before pulling his visor down, Steve’s hand on his shoulder stops him, “this can wait.”

Eddie half shrugs, “she’s...your friend though, right?”

“Yes. And she still will be tomorrow.” Steve takes Eddie’s coffee away, “I can watch out for both of you tonight. You should sleep.”

Eddie could fight it, but he knows Steve’s right. Plus the idea of just going to bed sounds too incredible to resist.

“Okay, but first thing in the morning.”

Eddie blinks awake with gummy eyes. He’s still in bed, his room looks fine.

Obviously the government hasn’t ransacked his apartment and carried him off into the night. It’s all good. Eddie sighs, rolls over, and lets himself fall back into the nice place half between sleep and wake, cocooned in his warm bed covers.

He figures it’s maybe an hour later, Eddie still resting without sleeping, when there’s a gentle tapping on his bedroom door.

Eddie makes a quiet, ‘hmm?’ noise, figuring it’s Steve and that Steve will hear him.

Steve comes in with a steaming mug of coffee, which is just...outstanding really, and Eddie sits himself up more in bed to take it carefully, “thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Steve’s such an odd duck, for a Synth. It’s got to be all those human memories.

“You said One was like you, but the kids are growing their memories organically?” Eddie cradles the steaming mug close to his face, breathing the scent of coffee.

Steve doesn’t move, standing over Eddie, “yes.”

“Do you think that’s why he chose Henry? Do you think that was his name, before?”

“It’s possible, if I had a name before, I don’t remember it,” Steve turns, sitting on the edge of the bed where Eddie’s invited him. Eddie shifts a little further when the bed really dips, it’s easy to forget that Steve is fucking heavy, “I have been wondering,” Steve continues quietly, “if Henry’s memories...are from a bad person. And that’s why he and I are so different.”

“I think...that makes sense. I mean, you’re a good guy Steve. Even Robin says you have a good soul.”

Steve frowns, looking pensive, “but what if...I don’t. What if I turn out like him?”

Eddie downs the last of the coffee, ditching the empty mug on the bedside table, “pretty sure the fact that you’re worried about it means that you won’t.”

Steve nods, “thank you, Eddie.”

#ST353 #eddie munson #steve harrington #chrissy cunningham #robin buckly #buckingham #au #sci fi au #futuristic #outer space #space ship #robot steve #mystery #steddie

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rafeandonlyrafe · 11 months ago

Text

reckless

words: 2.3k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, male receiving oral, aged up!rafe (28), age gap (reader is 20), reader kinda dumb and stupid tbh, breaking and entering but actually technically she didnt break anything so just entering, urban exploring

“stay away from that house.” your friend warns, following your eyesight to get light shining from only one window, the rest of the house covered in shadow.

“why?” you question, curiosity growing.

“some asshole lives there. i guess he got real rich when he was young and now he spends all his time inside hiding. the whole island hates him but nothing he did was bad enough to land him in prison…” your friend gives you a serious look. “or at least nothing they can prove.”

you're new to the outer banks, but she already knows your personality. you're defiant and confident, afraid of nothing.

it's why despite her warnings the next night you're scaling up the fence and hopping over to the other side. you note the well taken care of yard, whoever this guy is must still employ a lawn crew.

you keep your footsteps light but unhurried as you walk around the exterior of the enormous house, still just the one window with a light on, like no one else has been in any other part of the home for a long time.

you figure a house like this might have security, but you live only a block away and would certainly get to your house before any cops would show up.

you peer in a few windows, but it's too dark inside to really make out anything. you make your way into the backyard, looking down the long dock to see a yacht. you consider exploring that first before shaking your head and focusing back in on the house.

in your old city, you had a habit of breaking into places. not to steal or damage anything, just for the thrill of getting in and looking around, knowing you're not supposed to be there.

you peer in through the glass doors. it's not that late, only 11pm, but you figure the old man who lives here must already be upstairs and hopefully asleep as you grip the handle.

you wait to hear an alarm from just your touch, but when the house remains silent, you attempt to turn the handle, surprised and happy that it's completely unlocked as you slide it open.

you step into the living room, looking around at the intricate and clearly expensive decorations. your friend was definitely right about this guy being rich, but of course he is if he lives in a neighborhood like this.

“damn.” you mutter to yourself, stepping closer to a fancy vase sat on a table. you purposely leave the glass door open in case you need to make a quick escape out.

your eyes take in every piece of art hung on the wall and gold detailed lamps as you head further into the house, peeking into rooms as you quickly map out the layout. you note the stairs in the center hallway leading up, able to tell there's one light on and deciding quickly to avoid it.

you make like the rush of breaking into places, but you certainly don't like getting caught as you tiptoe into the kitchen next. out of pure curiosity, you open a couple cabinets to find them well stocked.

you focus in on the fridge next. you don't intend to steal but maybe this guy has a couple bottles of beer that won't be missed.

you frown when you realize it's mostly healthy food and energy drinks as you close the fridge, practically jumping out of your skin when you realize there's a tall man with his arms crossed, leaning against the cabinet.

“what are you doing here?” you yell, backing up and putting the island between you and him.

“bold of you to ask me that considering you're the one breaking into my house.” the man's voice is easy going and gentle despite the circumstances.

“your house?” you look the guy up and down. “i thought the guy who lived here was old.”

he moves to the island, placing himself directly in the middle so you can't bolt away, a movement you're very aware of.

“and what made you think that?” he questions. it's hard to tell in the low light, only the faint glow of buttons on the fridge and a bit of moonlight creeping in, but he looks young. your guess is late 20s or early 30s, not like the senior citizen you were picturing.

“my friend told me some asshole-” you cringe at the bad choice of words but continue on. “lives here who got rich when he was young.”

“hm, yeah that does sound like me.” the guy hums. “so what, you were gonna steal from me?”

“no.” you quickly shake your head. “i don't steal, i have no need. i just… like urban exploring.” you decide on saying.

“mmm, isn't that usually exploring abandoned places?” he questions, somehow still carrying on the conversation so naturally, like you're an invited guest rather than a trespasser.

“i thought this place was basically abandoned. like i said, thought you were old.” you shrug.

“well, im only 28, so if you consider that old.” he crosses his arms, muscles bulging.

“im 20.” you say, swallowing thickly.

you can see the gleam in the man's teeth as he smiles. “interesting… come with me.”

his command is so effortless, you find your feet moving before your mind catches up, following him deeper into the house and up the stairs.

“what are you going to do with me?” you ask, worrying he's going to call the cops. your parents would be pissed if only a week after they move you out of the big city you get arrested again.

“did your friend happen to tell you why i stay in this house?” he hums, opening a door and beckoning you in. you quickly realize this is the bedroom with the lights always on.

“um, just that you did something and no one likes you.”

“that's exactly right, even though i did nothing wrong. i only ever wanted to protect my family.” you see anger briefly take over his features as he relieves whatever memory that made him so hated. “but still, it's hard being lonely.”

he takes a couple steps forward, swinging the door shut behind him to keep the two of you in there, alone. “it's why id like your company…”

“y/n.” you mumble your name. you don't bother to give a fake name.

“y/n.” the name rolls seamlessly off his tongue, like a purr. “im rafe.”

“what do you mean by company, rafe?” now that you're in the light and can get a good look at him, you're hoping it's what you're thinking.

“isn't it obvious?” he quirks his head to the side. “i want you to sleep with me.”

“okay.” you whisper. you're certainly not inexperienced or against sleeping with random guys, even if your friend did warn you about him. you've already gone two whole weeks without getting anything, and you're starting to feel a little high strung.

“perfect.” rafe crosses past you, placing himself on the edge of the. neatly made bed. “undress.”

his command is once again so simple and effective that your hands begin moving instantly, pulling off your tank top to reveal your bright pink bra before sliding your shorts down next to show off the matching underwear.

you turn your back towards rafe and look over your shoulder as you slide your panties down, revealing your bare ass and pussy before kicking off your sandals.

you walk over to rafe slowly, a smile on your face as you undo the last piece of clothing covering you and let your bra drop to the floor.

“fuck, you're sexy.” rafe leans forward and grabs you, hands gripping your ass, squeezing the plump flesh there. he doesn't bother to wait for you to recover as he sits you onto his lap, cunt being pressed into his thigh as his mouth devours yours.

you can feel his need in the kiss, how starved he is from touch as you begin to kiss back, hands rubbing all over his front.

you only briefly stop the kiss to yank his shirt off. you're not surprised by his muscles, you could tell how perfectly built he was even in the dark kitchen.

rafe begins to slide your pussy against his pants, wetting his thigh as your clit drags against the material.

“fuck, you're already so wet.” rafe moans into your mouth. you don't pause to tell him that you always get a little bit wet in excitement when breaking into a new place.

“let me blow you.” you slide off, already missing the feeling on your pussy as you pull at rafes pants. he lifts his hips to help you and you waste no time, pulling his underwear down as well.

rafes cock pops up, hard and ready for attention. you push his thighs open with your hands so you can nestle between his legs, smiling as you watch a bead of precum from before licking it clean.

“god.” rafe groans, a hand fisting in your hair, tangling his fingers into the strands. “it's been so long since someone else has touched me.”

you feel bad for rafe in that moment, but it's quickly forgotten in favor of wrapping your lips around the head of his cock and giving it an intense suck, wanting to show him a truly good time.

you begin to bob your head, slowly taking more and more of his length into your mouth. he's not the biggest you've ever gotten with, but his girth certainly makes up for it as you get used to him pushing at the walls of your throat.

you'll certainly need more attention to your pussy to be able to take him as you reach down and rub your fingers against your clit, wanting to jump on his cock the second you're done blowing him.

“how are you only 20?” rafe asks, talking mostly to himself considering your mouth is occupied. “you suck dick so well.”

you don't want to comment that you've had lots of experience, but you have a feeling he won't judge you for it. so many guys sleep around yet want every girl to be a virgin, and that's certainly something you don't subscribe to.

with a final push, you're able to take rafe all the way down as you nuzzle your nose into his skin, gagging slightly but able to hold for a decently long time before you need to pull off to take a deep breath.

“come up here, baby.” rafe says, tugging your hand that isn't still playing with your pussy. “want to fuck you.”

you wipe your mouth before standing up, glad you weren't on your knees for long as you move onto the bed.

“fuck me good, daddy.” you purr out, staying on your hands and knees and swaying your ass to entice rafe as he moves behind you.

“oh, i will baby.” rafe rubs his cock through your folds, not bothering to offer to put on a condom when you so clearly don't care.

rafe teases you, pressing slightly against your entrance before going back to rubbing against you until you're frustrated and aching. you're about to open your mouth to complain, to tell him to hurry it up, when his cock plunges inside of you in one quick motion that has you screaming out.

“oh, fuck!” you squeal as rafe instantly begins pounding into you.

rafe smiles as he looks towards the window, slightly cracked. he hopes the neighbors hear your screams and moans of pleasure and learn that he's not just willing to stay inside for the rest of his life. no, rafe is crafting his revenge against the town and when the time comes, they will all regret the way they treated him.

rafe looks down at you as he thrusts into you, your head hung forward and curls bouncing with every movement as he punishes your cunt.

“shit.” rafe groans, pulling out to quickly flip you onto your back.

his mouth meets yours just as his cock reenters you, kissing you wildly while he thrusts without abandon, letting himself loose on you.

rafe can feel himself swelling inside of you and tries his best to hold back from cumming, fingers reaching to your clit to focus on your pleasure before his own, wanting to extend this as long as possible.

“god, you feel so good.” you moan out, jaw slackened even as rafe continue to kiss around your mouth, eyes glossed over in pure pleasure.

“yeah?” rafe smiles. “you gonna cum for me?”

“mhm. keep- keep rubbing.” you tilt your head back as he swipes over your clit, back and forth, building you up while his cock fills out your insides.

“come on, baby.” rafe moans out, kissing you again, unable to stop even though he wants to hear your moans. his hips move faster and faster until he can't hold back anymore, pulling out and releasing all over your stomach in long ropes.

you squeal out as he pinches your clit, triggering your own orgasm as your entire body shakes, back arching off the bed.

“fuck!” you shout. “rafe!”

you both flop against the mattress, breathing heavily as you recover, pussy dripping wet onto his blankets.

“thanks for the company.” rafe smiles, causing you to laugh.

“yeah, always happy to stick around.” you giggle, leaning into his side. there's certainly no shame cuddling up to him after what you just did.

“would you… would you come back tomorrow?” rafe asks, pushing a strand of hair off where it was sticking to your face.

“first week in a new town and i already found myself a fuck buddy? hell yeah ill come back tomorrow.” you kiss rafe quickly before standing up off his bed, putting your tanktop and shorts back on but leaving your wet panties and bright bra on the floor.

“but have pizza, im a classy girl after all, i only let you fuck me once before buying me dinner.” you walk out of the bedroom to rafes deep chuckle.

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milotraflgkl · 11 months ago

Text

Safe Word

SANJI X FEM!READER !SMUT!

note: THIS IS A REUPLOAD!!! content: SMUT!, safe word mention, sanji being a loser but also amazing in bed, finger, eating out, praises. WC: 2346

Sanji slowly looked up at you, “A.. A safe word?” He muttered, his cheeks turning slightly pink and his tone softened as if anyone could hear you two when you weren’t even near the crew. His eyebrows pressed together and he licked his lips as he looked back down at the meal he was prepping, he took a moment to continue his work his eyebrows staying where they were before he turned to look back up at you. “Why would we need a safe word?” He asks, his facial expression stuck on confusion but as you watched you could see how it slowly shifted to worry. “I haven’t been, hurting you during it.. right?” He asks, as he stops what he’s doing and quickly rounds the counter to stand next to you.

His hands quickly came up to your face and his thumb brushed your cheek gently, “No! Not at all Sanji.” You reassured him, you paused for a moment your facial expression struggling to find a set emotion to land on as your lips pursed out and then were brought back in. You opened your mouth, “But I wouldn’t… mind if you were a bit rougher.” You finally spat out the words, you felt your body become hot and you knew that the blush was obvious especially since you could see Sanji turn into a bright red tomato. “Oh… Oh…” He choked out, you felt his hands become sweatier and he slowly took his hands away.

He turned away and made his way to work on his dinner, “We aren’t that far from the next island.” He spoke out, you snapped your head to look towards him. “Wha..What?” You muttered, “We will get a room on the next island.” He said, his voice was deeper and as you watched him you saw how red the tip of his ears were.

The next few days were pure torture and it didn’t help that Sanji was practically teasing you, the way his eyes would stare at you until you connected eyesight and then he’d move his eyes down taking in every single inch of your body. The way his hands would linger a bit longer then would softly move away from your skin leaving chills down your spine, almost feeling yourself lean towards his touch not wanting it to leave. You couldn’t do anything about it either, especially with the lack of privacy getting Sanji alone or even being alone yourself was a rare delicacy. But what you would do to just jump onto Sanji and let him use you for his, clear desires? It felt like it was taking years to get to the next island, your body aching in need the more you thought about how far the island was and yet how close Sanji was.

Finally, the day had come, the ship was put securely into a spot on the dock and the crew had finally decided on a good place to stay. Sanji and you were put in a room together because of your relationship but also because Sanji double-made sure with a quick request told to Nami. You felt yourself become more tense and excited for night to come, as the crew went about their normal routine of gathering supplies then heading to the closet bar to finally relax after so many days of sailing.

You sat at the bar and drank a small martini that had a paper umbrella in it, that was so graciously gifted to you by the bartender who had the hots for you. You didn’t pay him any mind more so lost in the thoughts of why Sanji had been so distant yet so close, as well as the sound of chatter and music taking up the rest of any other space that could’ve been left to think about the bartender who constantly had his eyes on you. You slowly stirred the paper umbrella around in the drink, your elbow against the counter and chin being held by your hand. As the bartender came over for the fifth time to interrupt your thought he asked if you were enjoying the drink and if you needed anything else, as well as sliding in a smooth flirt. You giggled at the notion, more flattered that he found you attractive. You denied a new drink and silently ignored his flirt unaware of the glaring eyes only feet away from you, it didn’t take long for you to notice when you felt a hand snake against your back and hold the side of your body tightly. You quickly turn and look up at Sanji who was already staring at you, a soft smile on his face and his beautiful blue eyes admiring your facial features. But most importantly your lips, it seemed that after a moment of looking at the top of your face, his eyes froze at your lips and didn’t move an inch. “Hi, Sanji.” You spoke out finally and his eyes immediately snapped to look back into yours, “Hi [Name].” He responds.

It didn’t take much longer until two of his fingers gently moved to find the bottom of your chin, pushing your head up a bit more before he leaned himself closer to you and pressed his soft lips against yours. You could taste nicotine fresh on his lips, he must’ve just come in from a smoke. You thought to yourself before they were interrupted by the feeling of his hand softly grazing your knee and moving upwards on your thigh, threatening to reach up the bottom of your dress. You looked down at his hand and grabbed it gently, “What do you think you are doing?” You ask him, Sanji looks at you with desire glossed over his eyes and his pupils blown out absorbing ocean-blue eyes. “I got us a room.” He responds as he squeezes your thigh gently his lips gently grazing against yours, you shudder at the feeling of his soft lips against yours. You nod unable to think properly about the situation you are in, Sanji gently moves his hand to grab ahold of yours and pulls you along with him as you leave the bar. Sanji leads you through this building and up the stairs until you find a room with the numbers that match the numbers engraved on the key that Sanji held in his off-hand. He slowly lets go of your hand and unlocks the door, stepping inside the room and then holding the door open for you as you step in afterward.

With one swift movement, Sanji grabs ahold of your waist and guides you to the bed, he’s gentle with his actions still keeping up his gentlemanly personality. His lips quickly find yours as well as his hand finding the nape of your neck to hold you closer, while his hand left on your waist gently pulls you closer to his hips allowing you to feel the bulge that pressed harshly against his nice dress pants. You moan as you feel him pressed against you and this only allows him to slip his tongue into your mouth, it’s slow at first the way his tongue dances along with yours before he becomes desperate for more as if he is starving and wants to taste more of your lips. You begin to run out of air and pull away from him, a trail of saliva connects between your tongues as you both look at each other with lust and need. Sanji didn’t waste any time as he moved back to you and kissed gently along your jawline, you tilted your head allowing him more access to your neck, and as if he read your mind his lips slowly trailed down your neck beginning to give gentle bites to it. He began to slowly suck on your skin leaving marks that would be visible to everyone the next day and as an apology for being so harsh he’d kiss it gently, his hand slipping up your neck and up to your head to hold it.

He wanted you to feel secure and safe before he allowed himself to go crazy, His hand on your waist gripped tightly before it found its way down to the bottom of your dress and slowly snaked its way underneath. It sent a shiver down your spine at the way his thin and cold fingers ran across your thigh ever so softly, it did make you feel extremely safe and well cared for. The way his fingers gently lifted your dress upwards and the hand that had held your hand slipped down to grab the zipper of your dress pulling it down. The straps of your dress fell off to the side and revealed your chest that wasn’t hidden by anything as you decided to not wear anything underneath. Sanji pulled away from your pretty and purple-decorated neck, his eyes slowly moved from your neck and down to your chest as he let out a shaky breath at the sight of you. “God… [Name]…” He moaned out as his hands slowly made contact with your breasts and held them gently before his fingers moved to gently twist at your nipples. The small whine you released from your throat was as if the angels from heaven were singing upon Sanji to come toward the gates of heaven.

Sanji didn’t spend any time before he reached his head down and his mouth found the soft skin of your breasts, he gently kissed it and then left a few open-mouthed kisses. “God [Name]…” His hot breath against your chest made you shiver, “You are absolutely beautiful.” He whispered against your skin, as his hands slowly moved from your breast and slowly moved to the rest of your dress tugging it down slowly until it rested against your hips. His hands shook against your skin almost with nerves that he could easily break you like you were the finest china in the world. His hands gently squeezed your hips before he continued to move your dress down your thighs, he took in a shaky breath as he looked at your lower body covered by lace underwear. You had to lift yourself slightly to get the dress to slip from under your butt and Sanji continued to take the dress off and then dropped it onto the floor.

He wasted no time latching his lips back onto your skin, his lips dragging down slowly before they reached the hem of your underwear and the feeling of his warm breath sent a shiver down your spine and a shock to your core. “Relax [Name].” He whispers against your skin, his hands slowly moving to push your shoulders back as a way for him to tell you to lay back which you did gladly. “I’m going to treat you tonight~” He hums, he looks down your torso to catch sight of your eyes and the two of you stare for a moment before you watch his curled brow disappear below down to your clit. His tongue dragged against the fabric and the feeling of his spit mixing with your already-soaked underwear caused you to whimper, “S..Sanji..”. You begged him as your hand found his golden locks to hold them. “Use your words, princess.” He speaks between your thighs, and you become flustered at the explicit words that you would have to say. “Please take my underwear off…” You beg him, your hand tightening against his hair which causes him to groan and send vibrations to your core.

“Of course princess.” He responds, his fingers sliding up from your thighs to grab the top of your underwear and slide them off throwing them off to the side. “So wet for me~” He sings out before he dives in. The feeling of his tongue caused you to yelp in shock and your back arched as his tongue began to swallow you whole, the feeling was so overwhelming as his tongue curled inside of you. His fingers followed after, and two of his lanky fingers slipped into you and found the spot that made you sing out that sweet sweet melody Sanji loved to hear. His fingers moved inside of you with such skill, that your back began to arch more. “Ngh, Sanji please…” You hummed out your knuckles becoming white from holding onto his hair so tightly, He didn’t he was relentless with his tongue as it moved inside of you. As he worked inside of you, his tongue hitting every spot and his fingers pumping in and out of you quickly.

You were squirming underneath him but his hands held onto you so tightly that all of your movement was limited, “fu..fuck” you muttered, “I’m… I’m gonna cum…” you whimpered out, but Sanji didn’t stop. He kept plunging his tongue into you relentlessly and his fingers continued to reach the spot, it didn’t take long before you began to release yourself into his mouth and Sanji took in every single last drop that you let out. Even with the sounds coming from your mouth, he held your hips tightly and didn’t seem like he was going to let go of you anytime soon. He swallowed your release and continued to eat you out, it took you a moment to realize that he was still eating you out. The feeling was becoming overwhelming and overstimulating, your legs began to tighten around Sanjis head which he slowly held your legs apart. He didn’t stop, he was eating you like it was the last thing he’d ever get to eat in his life. It took you a moment before you quickly slipped the safe word out, which Sanji stopped and looked up towards you. You watched his face emerge covered in your juices, “Princess… I’m not even done.” He whispered to you his pupils blown out.

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itsnesss · 2 months ago

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𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 | rafe cameron × fem!reader

summary | you stand on the dock, caught between safety and the wild pull of rafe. his gaze locks with yours, and everything else fades. despite the danger, you feel drawn to him, knowing the risks but not caring

warnings | intense sexual tension, reckless behavior, emotional turmoil, and themes of danger and unpredictability

word count | 2.4 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

As the sound of the ocean continued to crash against the dock, you felt like you were caught between two worlds. One, where everything made sense—the logical world of caution, reason, and security. And the other, the one where everything was unpredictable, raw, and full of risk. This world, with Rafe, was the one that pulled at you in ways you couldn’t understand, nor did you want to.

You had always considered yourself a practical person, the type who weighed the consequences before making decisions. But with Rafe, it felt like nothing you knew mattered. The rules you lived by were irrelevant. There was something in his eyes—something dangerous and alive—that made you want to dive into the unknown with him, even if you were terrified of what would come next.

Rafe shifted slightly, still standing close, his body almost pressed against yours. His gaze, intense and full of fire, never left you. For a moment, there was nothing else. No words, no distractions—just the two of you, standing on the edge of something that could either ruin or transform you.

He ran his hand through his messy hair, looking conflicted. “You really have no idea what you’re getting into, do you?” he asked, his voice still low, though it held a strange sense of admiration.

You knew exactly what he meant. You knew the stakes. But you also knew that if you turned away now, it would haunt you forever. “No, I don’t,” you replied with a soft chuckle. “But isn’t that the point?”

Rafe’s lips quirked upward, and for a brief second, the harsh edge that usually defined him seemed to soften. It was as if he was seeing you for the first time, truly seeing you, and something shifted. Something dangerous. Something unspoken passed between you two.

“You’re reckless,” he said, his voice filled with both awe and frustration. “But I guess I like that about you.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” you teased, arching an eyebrow.

“It’s not,” he said with a grin, but the look in his eyes contradicted his words. “It’s a warning.”

You tilted your head slightly, challenging him with your gaze. “A warning?” you repeated, stepping even closer, your breath quickening. “Maybe I’m not the one who needs to be warned.”

Rafe’s smirk faltered for a moment, and his eyes flickered to your lips. You could feel the tension building between you two, thick and heavy, pulling you together. He wanted to pull away. He wanted to tell you to leave, to not be a part of this world. But the undeniable attraction between you two was stronger than any words, any warnings, any hesitation.

“You really have no idea what you’re asking for,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear.

You shook your head, your heart racing as you let your instincts take over. “Maybe I do,” you said, your voice a little breathless now. “But I’m not afraid of you. Or whatever this is.”

The air crackled with anticipation, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You could feel the heat rising between you, the pull of desire and danger. It was as if every part of you was drawn to him, and yet a small part of your mind screamed for you to stop, to turn back, to escape before it was too late.

But you couldn’t. You didn’t want to.

“You think you’re strong enough for this?” Rafe asked, his hand brushing lightly against your arm, sending a shiver through you.

“I don’t think,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. “I know.”

And with that, all the unspoken tension between you two snapped. Rafe’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist with surprising force, and he pulled you towards him. His lips crashed against yours, this time with an intensity that left no room for hesitation. The kiss was frantic, desperate, as if both of you had been waiting for this moment for far too long.

You didn’t care about the world around you. You didn’t care about the future, the consequences, or the dangers. All that mattered was the fire that burned between you two, the need that had been building since you met him.

When Rafe finally pulled away, you gasped for breath, your heart pounding in your chest. He stared at you, his eyes dark and intense, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His hands were still gripping your wrists, but this time it felt different—less like he was trying to control you, and more like he was holding on to something he couldn’t let go of.

“This is insane,” Rafe muttered under his breath, his voice filled with disbelief.

“I know,” you replied, your pulse racing as you looked up at him. “But I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

Rafe’s lips twisted into a half-smile, a mixture of amusement and frustration in his eyes. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably,” you said, stepping closer, the distance between you two almost nonexistent. “But I’m okay with that.”

The night seemed to stretch on forever, the silence enveloping you both as you stood there, caught in this whirlwind of emotions. The peacefulness of the ocean, the stillness of the dock, all faded into the background. It was just you and Rafe, two souls tangled in a dangerous dance that neither of you could escape.

“What happens now?” you asked, your voice soft, unsure of what the next step was.

Rafe hesitated, his brow furrowed as he looked at you, his mind working through the same questions you were asking yourself. But there was no answer. Not yet. Not when everything felt so raw, so uncharted.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his tone serious now, almost as if he was afraid of what might happen if he said the wrong thing. “But I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not after this.”

A smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

The smile that broke across his face then was unlike any other. It wasn’t cocky or mocking. It was real. It was vulnerable. And it made your heart skip a beat.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with something you couldn’t quite place.

“Maybe,” you said, your voice steady, even though your heart was still racing. “But so are you.”

In that moment, you both understood that there was no going back. No turning away. You were already in too deep, and as much as you both tried to deny it, the truth was clear. You didn’t want to leave. You didn’t want to walk away from the chaos, from the fire that burned between you two.

You both knew this was just the beginning, and whatever came next—whether it was destruction or redemption—you would face it together. Because once you let someone like Rafe Cameron into your life, there was no turning back. There was only the future, and whatever it held. But for now, it was just you and him, standing together on the dock, the ocean stretching out before you like a vast, uncertain horizon. And somehow, that felt like home.

The wind began to blow harder, swirling around both of you, as if nature itself were reacting to what had just happened. But neither you nor Rafe moved. The air was heavy, not just with the salty breeze of the sea, but with the energy of that moment. The kiss had been a turning point. There was no going back now. You couldn’t deny what you had just done, nor what you felt. Rafe had sparked something inside you, a spark that had ignited with a simple touch, but now burned with intensity.

Rafe seemed to be in the same state. Though his expression still carried that same mix of arrogance and defiance, his eyes showed something else. Something vulnerable. Something he didn’t want to show, but that he couldn’t help but let slip. For a moment, both of you stood in silence, unsure of what to do next. The night seemed to have completely stopped, as if time had forgotten to keep moving. Everything around you was blurry, as if you were trapped in a bubble, isolated from everything else. It was just the two of you, facing what you had started without really thinking about it.

Finally, it was Rafe who broke the silence, but his voice no longer sounded as confident as before. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, and you could see it, you knew something inside him was fighting to come to the surface. "Are you sure about what you just did?" he asked, though the doubt in his tone was almost inaudible. It was as if he needed to hear the answer, as if he wanted you to tell him that he wasn’t alone in this madness.

"Are you?" you replied, with an ironic smile, but this time, it wasn’t the same. There was nothing defiant or playful in your tone. There was something deeper, something that reflected what both of you knew, even if it wasn’t said out loud. The fear of the future, the uncertainty of what would come, but also the excitement of the unknown.

Rafe took a step back, eyeing you as if evaluating every word you had just said. "I don’t know if this is going to end well," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "I don’t know what I’m doing with you.

"You don’t have to know," you responded. "Sometimes there are no clear answers. There’s just moments. There’s just what we feel right now."

The wind blew strong, and the sound of the sea blended with the words that had just passed between you. Rafe looked towards the horizon, his eyes shining with an intensity you couldn’t decipher. You weren’t sure what he was thinking, but you could see the internal struggle within him. You knew he felt it too. You knew he was trapped in this attraction, this connection so strong that he couldn’t deny it, even if he wanted to.

But even though the words didn’t come easily, there was something else Rafe needed to say, something that only silence could answer. Finally, he sighed deeply, as if giving in to the inevitable. "I don’t know if this is what I want, but I don’t know how to stop it," he said with a sincerity you never expected from him.

"Maybe it’s not about stopping it," you said, stepping closer to him more calmly. "Maybe it’s about letting it happen. Because in the end, we don’t always have control. Sometimes, all we can do is move forward."

Rafe looked at you with a confused expression, but something in his gaze shifted. There was a spark, a glimmer of something more. Something beyond the arrogance, beyond the rebellious guy everyone saw. It was as if he had found some kind of refuge in your words, even if he didn’t say it. The world around him seemed to crumble, but you were his anchor. And you knew that too.

"You don’t ask me questions," he said, his tone low and grave. "You don’t ask me why I do the things I do. No one does."

"Because you don’t have to explain yourself," you said softly, taking another step toward him. "Because I know there’s more to you than people see. I know not everything is what it seems. And I don’t need to know it all. I just need to know that you’re real."

Rafe stared at you, and for a second, he didn’t seem to know what to do with what you had just said. It was as if you were disarming him, breaking down his defenses without him being able to stop it. But instead of rejecting it, he stood there, facing you, as if considering your words.

"That’s the closest thing to an answer I’ve heard in a long time," he murmured, a slight smile appearing on his lips, though it wasn’t the same as before. It was softer, more genuine.

"You don’t have to explain yourself, Rafe," you repeated, and for a moment, the tension in the air eased. "Just... be yourself."

And then, in an impulse neither of you could control, he took your hand, firmly but gently, as if he were searching for something that had slipped away from him. The electricity between you two still burned, but now it was different. Now, there was something deeper, something more complicated than simple desire.

"I want you to know that this isn’t easy for me," he said, his voice a whisper. "It never has been. But you make me question everything."

"That’s not a bad thing," you said, looking at the sea but feeling his presence beside you. "Sometimes, questioning everything is the only way to move forward."

Rafe didn’t respond immediately. He just stood in silence, watching the water in the distance. The moon reflected its light on the waves, creating silver glimmers that lit up the sea. Night had fully fallen, and the air was fresh and heavy with the scent of the sea. It was a moment suspended in time, one neither of you wanted to end, but both knew it had to.

Finally, Rafe took a step back, but this time, instead of pulling away, his expression was different. There was no more arrogance, no more internal struggle. There was a calmness, an acceptance. "I told you this was going to change everything," he said, his voice low but firm.

"And I told you I’m willing to take that risk," you responded.

Rafe looked at you intently, a smile on his lips. "You’re braver than you think," he said, before stepping closer to you, getting close enough for you to feel his breath.

"It’s not about bravery," you whispered. "It’s about not regretting what we didn’t do."

And without saying another word, Rafe took you in his arms, and this time, the kiss wasn’t filled with urgency or need. It was gentle, calm, but with the same intensity that had marked everything that had happened up until that moment. As if both of you knew that, although you didn’t know what would come next, you were willing to live it. There was no turning back, but maybe, that’s what you both needed.

The night had fallen completely, and as you both stood there, in silence, the sea continued to crash gently against the shore, like an unspoken promise. Something had begun that night, something neither of you could explain, but that you felt deep inside. And even though neither of you knew what the future held, in that moment, you both realized that sometimes, the most important thing was to move forward, without fear of what might come.

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron #outer banks x fem reader #outer banks x you #outer banks x reader

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amoristt · 2 months ago

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yummy (adrenaline)

「 ✦nam-gyu/reader ✦ 」 tags: sfw // fluff kinda?, drxg use, mentions of d/eath,

a/n: this is hardly proof read dont come for me pleeeease. i love this dude so bad UGH i hope u guys enjoy >:) word count: 2.3k

・❥・your blood is a boiling cocktail, searing hot underneath your skin and coursing through your nervous system in pulsating waves. you had expected the visual effects of thanos's pills- all the paint on the walls swirling and the lights fading out before exploding in all directions, your focus fuzzing out and blacking with broken receptors. what you hadn’t expected was the unending feed of pure, unrivaled joy funneled directly into the bowl of your brain. jitters and eager twitches, fingers itching to clutch whatever's closest by, body ready to go at the drop of a dime.

the music is swelling into blooms of melody in your ears, only sliced by the sound of thanos and nam-gyu's laughter next to you. all else drowned out, all faces a blur of unremarkably dull features. there's an eternal grin on your face, nam-gyus hand is gripping your own and keeping tethered to him, a boat hitched to the dock rocking with the washing wakes. thanos is dancing in the corner of your eye, shining like a beacon. laughter from all angles, smiling faces swirling, beautiful bright lights building the outlines of your friends.

the platform lurches to an abrupt stop.

four.

shit, how many was four again?

neon purple is flashing before your eyes in clips, a chaotic hysteria breaking out everywhere you turned. thanos’s voice rings through all the sudden commotion.

“let’s go!”

you’re bounding off the platform, dodging the storm of people running every which way, barely managing to hurdle over a few who had fallen onto the floor during their flights to secure a room. your friends dive into a room glowing in baby blue and you follow them blindly inside, running into the wall and bouncing off with your palms breaking your collision.

surely, there would be a member of your little group missing- but which one? the timid player 125, or the too-cool player 380? through the lens of drugs, blurry and rapid, you spin around to see who’d made it.

“oh! min-su!” you plant your hands on his shoulders and he manages this lopsided uptick of his lips, some sort of anxious smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. such a skittish creature. thanos slings an arm around his neck and drags him from your grasp, roughly pulling him into a loose hug that min-su isn't eager to return.

“i’d never leave my boy!” after patting the smaller males chest hard enough to push him backwards, he ruffles his hair.

“totally threw se-mi out, that was cold!” nam-gyu jeers. “i was impressed!”

gunshots ring out, the sound bouncing off the walls through the tiny opening in the locked door. it should remind you that death waits around every corner, but it doesn’t- partly because of the drugs, but mostly because your heart is beating too fast in your ear and nam-gyu’s snaked his hand around your waist with his palms flat to your hip.

the door unlocks and thanos throws it open, tossing both arms over his head with a loud cheer as he passed through the frame. min-su leaves much more pathetically, with his ears down flat and his tail tucked between his legs. you, on the other hand, practically skip out into that large room splattered with blood and misery, and you’re towing nam-gyu along by his ringed fingers as you do.

you don’t realize how much the bubble of people standing along the platform has dwindled. it’s hard to even care to realize it, lost in this dream-like frenzy.

children's voices flood your ears until you’re lost in the music again. you feel it in your skin, in your teeth, in these waves of electric euphoria skittering under your fingertips and within the confines of your skull. there’s something tugging you, hooking around your arm and suddenly you’re linked by the elbows and thanos is prancing in circles until you’re dancing with him. all tensions, all fear, all else but joy leaves your body and your mind. you’re unlinked and floating until you’re caught by nam-gyu and now he’s got you and you’re laughing more than you think you have in your entire life.

he’s still got you when the platform rumbles to a stop and the lights flicker off into explosive flashes of purples and pink all over again.

three.

you’re on the move before you get the chance to realize min-su is the odd man out. you barely even know that it’s trios, if you’re being honest, and you’re thrown into a room bathed in green lights. by the time you turn around to look, the door is already slammed shut.

you, thanos, nam-gyu…

“oh no! min-su!” you frown, this deeply settled pang of loss only hardly registered with the drugs pumping full throttle through your system. you’re so out of your mind that you think taking anything seriously right now would be damn near impossible.

“i’ll miss him.” thanos puts his hand to his heart and fakes a pout, but you can see the way his lips twitch into an uptick.

“man, he was a fucking loser.”

nam-gyu’s voice lulls you to him, draws your attention like a sailor to a siren. he’s this overtaking, bouncy and effervescent presence before you, all colors and grins that you can’t tear your gaze from. you’re entranced by him just merely standing there and you only realize you’re outright staring with these big, blown out pupils when he lowers himself to your height and stares right back with this equally as giddy smile.

“what’s with that face?” he snickers, and he nudges you back by your shoulder affectionately, the amusement in his tone more than evident. you giggle.

“i’m just looking!”

the buzzer rings out, along with about a dozen or so gunshots, but you’re so gone that you aren’t even registering anything other than the way nam-gyu is beaming down at you. the very aura around him is calling to you, urges you to come closer, to find him beside you always, no matter what.

“you two!” thanos’s english demands your line of sight to him. he’s pulling the door open peeking outside. “next round!”

there’s a skip to both of their steps, this gravity defying sense of intoxicated glee bringing you all the way back to the platform, ignoring the rich sea of disdain and woeful expressions surrounding you.

“oh! my boy! im sorry!” thanos cheers, and you peer over your shoulder just in time to see him gripping min-su by the fabric of his shirt and dragging him into an overbearing hug. the smaller male grimaces, and sure his hands are balled into fists at his side, but he still let’s thanos shake him like a damn toy so he can't be all that pissed, right?

the platform begins to rotate, that lovely music is playing loud enough to deafen. it seeps into your skin and the colorful doors are all spinning into a solid line of a vibrant rainbow before you.

popping colors of bright neon yellow and splashing tints of shifting greens flicker past your vision in fleeting glimpses before they suddenly drop out in a thick blanket of darkness, all sounds crashing as waves into the shorelines of your swimming eardrums. circles and circles, a spinning room until suddenly the floor stops and you go toppling over to your side in a drug-induced wind of vertigo. fingers clutch at your shoulders to keep you upright. the speakers along the wall boom in your ears when the music mutes out but you almost miss the words entirely.

two.

you follow the grip on your shoulder to the almond eyes already fixated onto yours.

you and me.

there’s no question when his grip plunges down to your wrist. you’re spun and weightless, a rag doll in his grip as he drags you through the masses of other players stunned with their nerves, frozen in place, meanwhile you’re being ripped off the platform at a speed you can’t keep up with. legs become jelly under a floor that seems to move beneath your heels.

you hit the floor before you even get the chance to realize you’re falling.

all the air stored inside your lungs is wrenched out all at once at the force and splats onto the floor out in front of you. the grip on your hand has vanished, lost in the sea of chaos. wheezes and wretched coughs leave you as you struggle to fill your cramping lungs. there’s feet everywhere, whirling and twirling with the walls still ever twisting in your haze. emerging from the havoc is the obscured outline of something green, then ringed hands reaching out for you. there’s an iron grip on your shoulder heaving you up before wrapping around your upper torso, hooked just below your shoulders.

all you can make out is the floor your feet are stumbling over, it’s streaks and puddles of red. then, it all disappears into a box of pure orange. a door creaks as it slams shut behind you, you have to press your palms flat against the wall to stay upright when the hold around you disappears. you’re spun around by the shoulder, and then there he is all over again, cradling your face between his palms. the reason you’re still breathing and grinning and touching your hands over his own in exhilaration.

nam-gyu’s pupils are blown so wide all you can see and lean into is tar black, inky pools until you’re seeing yourself through them, matching all the same, all mania and frenzy.

“holy shit, you almost died!” his voice is reaching you in ways your brain isn’t computing, neurons misfiring systematically in flashes of hot and cold through your body.

“i think i fell!”

you’re giggling like an idiot whose life wasn’t on the line, and he’s losing it all the same in body wracking laughter, weight tossing from side to side. you’re still spinning, you think, everything's this endless blur of twirling colors and flashing pops of lights from all angels- all except for him. and this close, now, you see faint freckles you’d never noticed before that make your heart leap. such a handsome face- such a perfect grin. you’re spotlighted by his gaze. the lights are haloing him, glowing through the outline of him, and he’s so beautiful.

“woah,” you touch his cheeks and he slides one of his hands from the side of your face into your hair. “you look like an angel.”

you’re out of your mind, but you see it- the flash moment where his eyes widen just a little, taken aback by your comment, but his smile never fades for a second. it reaches further, even, meets the crinkle of his eyes and the dusting red permeating over his freckled cheeks.

"an angel?"

you pet your thumbs over the rises of his cheekbones.

"definately."

in one motion, his hand buries itself further into your hair and he crushes his lips against yours with a fervency so true it presses your back flat into the hard wall. fireworks and tingling nerves rivet and bounce through your nervous system, you throw your arms over his shoulders and clutch the back of his head and drag him into you even deeper. its perfect- it’s right, your heart is thrashing in your chest and you’re weightless and the pure joy in your blood is exploding into cataclysmic rushes of ecstasy.

its nearly out of body. you’re numb everywhere except for where he meets you, where his tongue laps against your lower lip and you invite him in with a satisfied hum. you can feel his grin. his body moves against your own like he knows the ins and the outs of you. hands through your hair, finger nails clawing at your scalp, chest to chest and your breaths are mingling all into one. sloppy and messy and exactly what you needed. this is better than drugs, better than breathing, better than anything else you’d ever experienced in your life. his skin it hot against you, the taste of him is like the finest fruit.

you’re pried apart by the shrill beep of a buzzer ricocheting off the walls. it’s like being dunked into cold water when he splits from you, red faced and his chest heaving. you look all the same- gasping for air with this dazed lopsided smile playing over your features. the door unlocks with an audible click. when he drags his hands away, you chase him like a dream and yank him down for another soul shifting kiss and he melts into it all over again. you want his hands all over you, you want him all over you.

he has to tear himself away from you, and when he completely pulls back, he makes sure to kiss the corner of your mouth and your cheek one last time before he does.

“holy shit.” he sucks in a breath, taking a bouncy step backwards and gripping your hand. there's this newfound lightness to him, renewed vigor and excitement. “hell yeah.”

“hell yeah?”

“hell yeah.”

you’re throwing yourself into nam-gyu with every other step, marveling in the way he wraps his arm around your shoulders and keeps you conjoined at the waist. the doorway passes your blurry view and you can almost instantly hear thanos’s amusement echoing nearby. nam-gyu squeezes your skin through your tracksuit, the corners of his kiss-swollen lips still bent upwards with exhilarating thrill.

“that was the last round, i think.” you slur, following him from the leash of his hand gripping yours.

he snickers. "sad its over."

thanos's voice is behind you both now, cheering with nam-gyu, shoving his shoulders with shouts of triumph and jubilation.

guards are standing at the edges, rounding up the remaining competitors to guide them to the hallway you’d all came in through. there’s this dismalness to the trudging steps of the remaining players, a sense of grief that you can’t seem to touch yourself.

the drugs are starting to ebb away, but you’re still grinning like a fool as nam-gyu slings his arm around your neck. it's an easy choice, you find, to let yourself fall into him.

#squid game #namgyu x reader #nam-gyu x reader #player 124 #player 230 #thanos squid game

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

Text

When the app tries to make you robo-scab

When we talk about the abusive nature of gig work, there’s some obvious targets, like algorithmic wage discrimination, where two workers are paid different rates for the same job, in order to trick occasional gig-workers to give up their other sources of income and become entirely dependent on the app:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

Then there’s the opacity — imagine if your boss refused to tell you how much you’ll get paid for a job until after you’ve completed it, claimed that this was done in order to “protect privacy” — and then threatened anyone who helped you figure out the true wage on offer:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/07/hr-4193/#boss-app

Opacity is wage theft’s handmaiden: every gig worker producing content for a social media algorithm is subject to having their reach — and hence their pay — cut based on the unaccountable, inscrutable decisions of a content moderation system:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/10/e2e/#the-censors-pen

Making content for an algorithm is like having a boss that docks every paycheck because you broke rules that you are not allowed to know, because if you knew the rules, you’d figure out how to cheat without your boss catching you. Content moderation is the last place where security through obscurity is considered good practice:

https://doctorow.medium.com/como-is-infosec-307f87004563

When workers seize the means of computation, amazing things happen. In Indonesia, gig workers create and trade tuyul apps that let them unilaterally modify the way that their bosses’ systems see them — everything from GPS spoofing to accessibility mods:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/08/tuyul-apps/#gojek

So the tech and labor story isn’t wholly grim: there are lots of ways that tech can enhance labor struggles, letting workers collaborate and coordinate. Without digital systems, we wouldn’t have the Hot Strike Summer:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/02/not-what-it-does/#who-it-does-it-to

As the historic writer/actor strike shows us, the resurgent labor movement and the senescent forces of crapulent capitalism are locked in a death-struggle over not just what digital tools do, but who they do it for and who they do it to:

https://locusmag.com/2022/01/cory-doctorow-science-fiction-is-a-luddite-literature/

When it comes to the epic fight over who technology acts for and against, we need a diversity of tactics, backstopped by tech operated by and for its users — and by laws that protect workers and the public. That dynamic is in sharp focus in UNITE Here Local 11’s strike against Orange County’s Laguna Cliffs Marriott Resort & Spa.

The UNITE Here strike turns on the usual issues like a living wage (hotel staff are paid so little they have to rent rooming-house beds by the shift, paying for the right to sleep in a room for a few hours at a time, without any permanent accommodation). They’re also seeking health-care and pensions, so they can be healthy at work and retire after long service. Finally, they’re seeking their employer’s support for LA’s Responsible Hotels Ordinance, which would levy a tax on hotel rooms to help pay for hotel workers’ housing costs (a hotel worker who can’t afford a bed is the equivalent of a fast food worker who has to apply for food stamps):

https://www.unitehere11.org/responsible-hotels-ordinance/

But the Marriott — which is owned by the University of California and managed by Aimbridge Hospitality — has refused to bargain, walking out negotiations.

But the employer didn’t walk out over wages, benefits or support for a housing subsidy. They walked out when workers demanded that the scabs that the company was trying to hire to break the strike be given full time, union jobs.

These aren’t just any scabs, either. They’re predominantly Black workers who rely on the $700m Instawork app for gigs. These workers are being dispatched to cross the picket line without any warning that they’re being contracted as strikebreakers. When workers refuse the cross the picket and join the strike, Instawork cancels all their shifts and permanently blocks them from new jobs.

This is a new, technologically supercharged form of illegal strikebreaking. It’s one thing for a single boss to punish a worker who refuses to scab, but Instawork acts as a plausible-deniability filter for all the major employers in the region. Like the landlord apps that allow landlords to illegally fix rents by coordinating hikes, Instawork lets bosses illegally collude to rig wages by coordinating a blocklist of workers who refuse to scab:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2022/10/company-that-makes-rent-setting-software-for-landlords-sued-for-collusion/?comments=1

The racial dimension is really important here: the Marriott has a longstanding de facto policy of refusing to hire Black workers, and whenever they are confronted with this, they insist that there are no qualified Black workers in the labor pool. But as soon as the predominantly Latino workforce struck, Marriott discovered a vast Black workforce that it could coerce into scabbing, in collusion with Instawork.

Now, all of this isn’t just sleazy, it’s illegal, a violation of Section 7 of the NLRB Act. Historically, that wouldn’t have mattered, because a string of presidents, R and D, have appointed useless do-nothing ghouls to run the NLRB. But the Biden admin, pushed by the party’s left wing, made a string of historic, excellent appointments, including NLRB General Counsel Jennifer Abruzzo, who has set her sights on punishing gig work companies for flouting labor law:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/10/see-you-in-the-funny-papers/#bidens-legacy

UNITE HERE 11 has brought a case to the NLRB, charging the Instawork, the UC system, Marriott, and Aimbridge with violating labor law by blackmailing gig workers into crossing the picket line. The union is also asking the NLRB to punish the companies for failing to protect workers from violent retaliation from the wealthy hotel guests who have punched them and screamed epithets at them. The hotel has refused to identify these thug guests so that the workers they assaulted can swear out complaints against them.

Writing about the strike for Jacobin, Alex N Press tells the story of Thomas Bradley, a Black worker who was struck off all Instawork shifts for refusing to cross the picket line and joining it instead:

https://jacobin.com/2023/07/southern-california-hotel-workers-strike-automated-management-unite-here

Bradley’s case is exhibit A in the UNITE HERE 11 case before the NLRB. He has a degree in culinary arts, but racial discrimination in the industry has kept him stuck in gig and temp jobs ever since he graduated, nearly a quarter century ago. Bradley lived out of his car, but that was repossessed while he slept in a hotel room that UNITE HERE 11 fundraised for him, leaving him homeless and bereft of all his worldly possessions.

With UNITE HERE 11’s help, Bradley’s secured a job at the downtown LA Westin Bonaventure Hotel & Suites, a hotel that has bargained with the workers. Bradley is using his newfound secure position to campaign among other Instawork workers to convince them not to cross picket lines. In these group chats, Jacobin saw workers worrying “that joining the strike would jeopardize their standing on the app.”

Today (July 30) at 1530h, I’m appearing on a panel at Midsummer Scream in Long Beach, CA, to discuss the wonderful, award-winning “Ghost Post” Haunted Mansion project I worked on for Disney Imagineering.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this thread to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/30/computer-says-scab/#instawork

[Image ID: An old photo of strikers before a struck factory, with tear-gas plumes rising above them. The image has been modified to add a Marriott sign to the factory, and the menacing red eye of HAL9000 from Stanley Kubrick's '2001: A Space Odyssey' to the sky over the factory. The workers have been colorized to a yellow-green shade and the factory has been colorized to a sepia tone.]

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

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the-writerwoman · 10 days ago

Text

I was persuaded by @that-final-garnish to write this. I was bribed with pics of Wade and Logan in 80’s crop tops and shorts 😂

Short, sweet, and super soft Logan, enjoy!

—————

The sun was high, shimmering off the lake's glassy surface. It was the kind of day that practically begged for cut-off shorts and popsicles. Kids in bright swimsuits shrieked with laughter as they splashed around in the water, already being herded by fellow camp counselors Remy and Yukio.

Wade stood on the dock in a red one-piece swimsuit, a red visor perched on his head, and a waterproof fanny pack slung around his waist. It was filled with band-aids and lollipops because, “You never know, Logan.” He used to have a whistle but lost it on the first day.

He was in the middle of telling the kids a joke about a duck walking into a pharmacy when Logan blew his whistle.

“Alright, that’s enough with the quacking,” Logan barked, lips twitching as the kids groaned and moaned and slowly lined up at the edge of the dock. “Come on, campers. Form a line. You know the drill.”

“Geez, someone woke up on the responsible side of the bunk bed,” Wade muttered, but he grinned anyway. Logan stood at the end of the pier in a white tank top that clung to his chest and a pair of snug red shorts, looking every bit the hot, responsible counselor. The whistle around his neck bobbed every time he moved, and Wade tried very hard not to get distracted by his thighs.

“Alright, if you can swim, head in. Remy and Yukio’ll keep you afloat. No cannonballs unless you want me to make you mop the mess hall.”

Kids whooped and jumped in. Splashing ensued, chaos all around, just how Wade liked it. But as the line dwindled, Wade noticed a kid hanging back. A little guy, probably seven or eight, arms wrapped around his torso like he was trying to disappear.

Wade knelt beside him, visor tilted back. “Hey, buddy. What’s goin’ on? Not a fan of organized aquatic activities?”

The kid sniffled and shook his head. “I’m scared,” he admitted quietly. “I can’t swim.”

Wade blinked. He wasn’t great with serious stuff, but something in the way the kid’s bottom lip wobbled made him want to at least try. “Hey, that’s okay,” Wade said gently. “No one’s gonna throw you in or anything. We got a whole team of lifeguards out there. This lake’s more secure than a…a lion in a herd of zebras.”

The kid gave him a confused look.

“…What I mean is, it’s safe. But it’s okay to be scared. I get scared of stuff too sometimes. Like spiders. Or commitment.”

That got a weak giggle.

Wade smiled, but before he could bumble through any more weird analogies, Logan appeared at his side and knelt, one knee cracking slightly as he came down. “Hey, pal,” he said, voice low and kind. “You don’t gotta do anything you don’t want to, alright?”

The kid looked at him with big, wet eyes. “But everyone else is swimming.”

“I know,” Logan said. “But they all started somewhere too. Nobody is born knowing how to swim, except fish.” That got another wet giggle.

“Tell you what, I’ll walk you down to the edge and you can walk in. You wanna try wading in together? Just a little bit?”

The boy hesitated, then gave a shy nod.

“That’s my guy,” Logan said with a soft smile. “Let’s go real slow, yeah?”

Logan held out a hand, and the kid took it with trembling fingers. Together, they stepped off the pier, Logan guiding him down into the water carefully. Wade sat down on the pier's edge and watched as Logan said something to make the kid laugh, and they splashed in the water with their feet a little. Logan knelt again and said something to the kid, who nodded, then called Remy over.

They exchanged words that Wade couldn’t hear, and the kid took Remy’s, who walked them deeper into the lake together.

Logan walked back up the pier, wiping his hands on his shorts. “All good,” he said before sitting next to Wade.

Wade was still staring.

“…What?” Logan grunted, glancing sideways.

Wade sighed dramatically. “You do realize I’m never gonna emotionally recover from how soft you just were, right? I mean, that was, like, Hallmark movie levels of adorable. My heart? Gone.”

Logan rolled his eyes, but there was no heat to it. “Shut up,” he muttered, but it sounded almost fond.

Wade bumped their shoulders together and grinned. “You know, if you keep being this sweet, I’m gonna propose before the end of camp.”

“You try it and I’ll dunk you in the lake.”

“Promises, promises.”

Logan didn’t say anything. Just shook his head and looked out at the water, the corner of his mouth twitched up into what might’ve been a smile.

Wade leaned back on his hands and let the sun warm his chest, sneaking one more look at Logan and thinking, “Yeah. I’m in trouble.”

#poolverine #deadclaws #peanutbub #deadpool 3 #logan howlett #wade wilson

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immortalbumblebee · 3 months ago

Text

The Sunken City

Chapter 2: Hidden Shadows

When I tell y'all that this chapter was already almost at 10k and THEN I WROTE A SMUT SCENE! Like this chapter is probably the longest I've written, it's a little insane.

But don't make me regret it! MINORS DNI PLEASE I'M SERIOUS

Again, this is a sequel series to City of Iron and Glass!

Masterlist

The moon hung low over Piltover’s shimmering harbor, its pale light fractured by ripples in the dark, inky water. The salty air mingled with the faint creak of moored ships, the rhythmic splash of distant waves, and the occasional muffled clink of metal from the nearby docks. Looming in the shadows, the warehouse stood like a sleeping titan—silent, yet alive with the hum of machinery within. Its walls of corrugated steel, weathered and streaked with rust, were dappled with golden light leaking through gaps in its panels. The glow pulsed faintly, flickering like the heartbeat of the city’s tireless industry.

At the edge of this industrial monolith, four young figures crouched in the shadows near the entrance. The air was thick with tension, every creak of wood or echo of a footstep setting their nerves alight. Silco, the leanest of the ragtag group, worked with practiced precision, his long, nimble fingers twisting a thin lockpick inside the heavy padlock that secured the warehouse doors. The faint clicks of tumblers turning echoed in the still night, each one a small victory, though far too slow for anyone’s comfort.

“Hurry!” Benzo hissed, his hand tightening and loosening around the crowbar strapped to his back. His restless energy was palpable, his foot tapping lightly against the ground as if he could speed up the process through sheer impatience.

Silco rolled his eyes, though his focus never wavered. “How about you shut up and let me work?” he muttered under his breath, his voice sharp but low enough to avoid drawing attention.

Vander, crouched just behind them, shot Benzo a warning look. His broad frame was tense, his arms resting on his knees as he kept his eyes locked on the shadows around them. “Keep it down, both of you,” he rumbled, his voice a quiet growl that brooked no argument. “We’re too exposed out here.”

You, easily the smallest of the group, sat closest to the ground, your back pressed against a crate as your eyes flitted nervously between Silco’s meticulous work and the distant glow of a patrolling Enforcer’s lantern. Your bandana was pulled low over your face, but the faint sheen of sweat on your brow betrayed her unease. “We’re not exactly blending in,” you whispered, glancing at the dim light spilling from the nearest lamppost.

“Almost there,” Silco muttered, the tension in his voice betraying his usual calm. Another faint click echoed as he worked, and the lock inched closer to surrendering.

From somewhere further down the docks came the muffled bark of a guard dog, followed by the distant murmur of voices. The group froze for a heartbeat, their breath collectively catching as the sound carried across the water. Silco’s hands paused mid-turn, his jaw tightening.

“Hurry faster,” Benzo urged again, his tone sharper now, his hand gripping the crowbar so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Silco didn’t respond this time, his focus narrowing to the final tumbler. His fingers moved with deft precision, his eyes narrowing as he coaxed the mechanism into compliance. With a soft, triumphant click, the lock popped open, and he pulled it free with a small smirk. “Told you I’d get it,” he said, a trace of pride in his voice.

Vander was already on his feet, gesturing for the others to move. “Save the victory lap for later,” he muttered. “Let’s get inside before someone spots us.”

As the heavy metal door creaked open, the faint hum of machinery swelled, its vibrations mingling with the soft whisper of the harbor wind slipping through cracks in the warehouse walls. The four of you slipped inside like shadows, leaving the moonlit harbor and its watchful eyes behind. A heavy heave of Vander’s broad hands pushed the doors shut, sealing the group within. The clang of metal meeting metal echoed briefly before falling into a tense silence.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of oil and steel, mingling with the faint tang of salt carried from the docks. Your eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light. Moonlight filtered through dirty, streaked windows high above, casting pale beams across the vast interior. The light fell in fragmented patterns, painting jagged lines on the walls and floor. The midnight darkness cloaked much of the space, obscuring the finer details, but what you could see was enough to make your pulse quicken.

Rows upon rows of wooden crates filled the space, stacked high and bound tightly with metal straps. Each bore the faint stenciled logo of a Piltovan arms manufacturer. One crate lay open nearby, its contents spilling out—a chaotic jumble of pistol parts, rifle barrels, and gleaming magazines. The metallic glint caught your eye, and you realized the sheer volume of weaponry around you could turn the tide of a hundred skirmishes.

Benzo was the first to move, his grin splitting wide as he bent over to inspect one of the open crates. “We could arm a whole militia with these!” he cackled, his voice echoing too loudly in the cavernous space. He reached into the crate and pulled out a box of armor-piercing bullets, the heavy rounds glinting in the faint light. He turned one over in his hand, holding it up as if admiring a rare gem. “These babies’ll punch right through an Enforcer helmet.”

Vander shot him a warning look but didn’t speak, his focus on scanning the warehouse for any signs of danger. His jaw was set, his frame tense as he stayed near the entrance, ready to spring into action if the need arose.

Silco is crouched a few feet away, his sharp eyes scanning the room like a predator searching for weak spots. His voice is quiet, but the edge is unmistakable. “Take what you can,” he says, “but pack light. We’ve still got to make it back across the bridge without getting caught.”

You nod silently, your fingers already working on the nearest crate. The cold bite of the crowbar in your hands feels grounding, a small comfort as you pry open the wooden lid with practiced ease. Inside, rows of pistol parts glint faintly in the moonlight, neatly stacked and pristine. You swallow hard. There’s enough firepower here to change everything for the Undercity—or destroy it.

Your hands move quickly, grabbing what you can fit into your satchel. Beside you, Benzo is stuffing bullets into his bag with reckless enthusiasm, muttering something under his breath that you don’t quite catch. You glance at him, wanting to tell him to slow down, but Silco beats you to it.

“This isn’t a game,” Silco snaps, his voice sharp and commanding. “One screw-up, and we’re all dead. Focus.”

Benzo huffs, but he lowers his voice. The tension in the room tightens like a noose, and you find yourself hyper-aware of every sound—the soft scrape of metal, the distant hum of machinery, and the muffled crunch of gravel outside the warehouse.

That sound makes your blood run cold. Gravel shifting. Footsteps? You freeze, your fingers hovering over the next crate as your heart thunders in your chest. You look up at Vander, who’s already gripping the wrench strapped to his back. His expression is unreadable, but his body language screams alert.

Your stomach churns as you glance at Silco. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, you see a flicker of something that looks like worry. Then his face hardens. “Move faster,” he whispers, the urgency in his tone making your hands tremble as you shove more ammunition into your bag.

Every sound seems louder now—the rustle of fabric, the creak of wood, the faint clang of metal. You force yourself to keep going, your breath coming in shallow bursts. The weight of the bullets in your bag feels heavier with every passing second, but you can’t stop.

You steal another glance toward the door, your mind racing. The crunch of gravel still echoes faintly in your ears, growing closer—or maybe that’s just your imagination. Either way, the oppressive weight of the dark warehouse feels like it’s closing in, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’re running out of time.

***

The soft chime of the doorbell announces your arrival as you and Vander step into Benzo’s shop, the warm, cluttered air enveloping you instantly. Vander turns over his shoulder, giving Claggor a quick but firm look. “No one comes in,” he instructs, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Claggor hesitates, his boyish face creased with unease, but he nods curtly and takes a stance outside, glancing up and down the lane like a sentry.

Inside, the shop feels smaller than you remember, stuffed to the brim with shelves packed with all manner of shinies, baubles, and trinkets. Trinkets you know intimately—some of which had passed through your own hands, carefully engineered, polished, and sold to help keep the Undercity scraping by. The faint smell of old wood and machine oil lingers in the air, the hum of a small motor somewhere in the background adding to the charm.

At the counter, a much fuller Benzo is hunched over, studying some sort of gemstone. The years have thickened his frame, but his presence is still the same—equal parts gruff and reliable.

Tucked away in the far corner, working with quiet concentration, is a boy no older than twelve. His dark skin is dusted with oil smudges, and his silver-white hair glints in the dim light as he fiddles with the intricate inner workings of a battered grandfather clock.

Benzo doesn’t even look up as the two of you step inside. “We’re closed!” he barks, his gravelly voice filling the small space.

Vander doesn’t miss a beat. “Then open up!” he retorts, his tone as casual as if he were asking for a pint at the Last Drop.

“For good!” Benzo snaps back, finally lifting his head to glare at the two of you. “You can take your worthless junk elsewhere!”

Vander sighs loudly, one hand running over his thick beard in mock exasperation. “Just as well,” he mutters. “The owner’s the shittiest businessman I know.”

You can’t help the roll of your eyes as a heavy pause settles between them. The weight of the silence stretches for a moment before both men erupt into booming laughter, their voices filling the shop and breaking the tension like a hammer through glass.

The boy in the corner glances up briefly, his bright eyes flicking toward the commotion before returning to the clock’s delicate gears with a faint smirk of his own.

Stepping over to the counter, you offer Benzo a familiar smile, one he can’t help but return despite his gruff demeanor. “Hello, old man,” you greet, your tone light but warm, the playful jab carrying years of friendship behind it.

Benzo snorts, leaning back from his hunched position and crossing his thick arms over his chest. “You’re no spring chicken yourself these days, fishie,” he shoots back, a twinkle of amusement in his sharp eyes. The nickname pulls an exasperated chuckle from you, one you’ve grown used to over the years.

Before you can retort, Benzo’s attention snaps to the corner of the room, where the boy with silver-white hair is still elbow-deep in the inner workings of the grandfather clock. “Ekko!” Benzo barks, his voice carrying that unmistakable tone of authority. “What’s going on with that thing? You plan on fixing it or marrying it?”

The boy glances back over his shoulder, a small wrench clutched in his oil-smudged hand. His expression is focused but calm, the kind of cool confidence that only comes from doing this sort of work a hundred times over. “Give me a few seconds,” Ekko replies evenly, turning back to the intricate gears in front of him. “The cannon pinion’s still busted.”

You resist the urge to walk over and help, your fingers twitching at your sides as you watch Ekko work with precise, careful movements. It’s a familiar instinct, but you remind yourself that the boy doesn’t need your intervention. He’s got it under control—he always does.

You think back to when Ekko had first come into your lives, a scrappy war orphan whose parents’ names were lost to the chaos. You hadn’t known them, but you didn’t need to; their absence was written in the boy’s cautious eyes and the way he clung to survival like it was the only thing he had left. You and Vander had talked long into the night about what to do. You’d already been stretched thin, barely keeping your own heads above water, but the idea of turning him away was unthinkable.

Even then, Ekko had stood out. A genius young lad, his sharp mind and boundless curiosity shone brighter than the glittering spires of Piltover’s skyline. His talent was undeniable—academy-worthy, some might have said. Not that you put much faith in that pompous institution of classist elites. Still, his eye for engineering and science had been like nothing you’d ever seen before. Except maybe in Viktor, that sickly boy from Zaun who had somehow clawed his way up to become Councilman Heimerdinger’s assistant.

But before you could make a decision, Benzo had beaten you to the punch. “Let me have the youngin’,” he’d said, practically begging as he crouched down to Ekko’s level. The boy had been barely three at the time, small and wide-eyed, clinging to a makeshift toy he’d cobbled together from scraps. “I’ll make something great outta him, just you wait.”

You’d been skeptical, of course. Benzo wasn’t exactly known for his parenting skills, and the thought of leaving a child in his care had made your stomach twist. But Vander had seen something you hadn’t, nodding quietly and placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “He’ll do right by him,” Vander had said, and for all your doubts, you’d trusted his judgment.

And somehow, Benzo had kept his word. Over the years, he’d molded Ekko into something extraordinary—not just a boy who could survive but one who could thrive, even in the harsh realities of the Undercity. He’d taught him not just the mechanics of machines but the mechanics of life itself: how to navigate its moving parts, how to fix what was broken, and how to know when something was beyond repair.

Still, as you watch Ekko now, focused and calm as he works on the clock, you can’t help but feel a flicker of pride—and maybe a little ache of what-ifs. He could’ve been under your roof, learning from you, growing with you and Vander. But he’s happy here, in his own way. And maybe that’s all that matters.

“Finish it later!” Benzo barked, “The grown-ups need a word.”

Ekko voiced his complaints, grumbling under his breath about wanting to keep working, but Benzo waved him off with a flick of his hand. “Time to pack it in, kid. Go on, out you go,” he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. Reluctantly, Ekko gathered his milk crate of tools, muttering something about the clock being “practically done anyway.”

As he shuffled out the door, Claggor greeted him cheerfully, his wide grin immediately brightening the boy’s scowl. You watched through the window as the two exchanged a few words before disappearing around the corner, leaving the shop quiet except for the faint hum of machinery and the creak of settling shelves.

Benzo turned his attention back to Vander the moment the door clicked shut, his brow furrowing in mild annoyance. “You’re early,” he grumbled, leaning on the counter and giving Vander a pointed look. “My guys are still out rounding up this month’s collections. Won’t have the numbers until next—” His words were abruptly cut off as Vander hoisted the burlap sack from his shoulder and dumped its contents onto the counter with a dull thud. The bag fell away, spilling a jumble of items across the wooden surface. A pair of garden clippers. Mylo’s battered earhorn. A few well-worn switchblades. A tangled mess of mundane gadgets that looked more like the detritus of a street vendor’s stall than anything of value. Benzo let out a breath. “Why are you two muckin' about with this?”

You leaned a hip against the counter, crossing your arms as you watched Vander with an amused smirk. He didn’t respond right away, instead taking his time to spread the items out, turning one of the switchblades over in his hand as if examining it for the first time.

Benzo lets out a snort of laughter, the sound rough and hollow. “Yeah, me and half the Undercity,” he mutters, shaking his head as if the weight of the news is too much to shake off.

Vander sighs for real this time, the kind of sigh that seems to pull the air from his lungs and leave him momentarily deflated. He slumps, his shoulders heavy as the burden of the situation presses down. You watch him for a moment, your fingers instinctively reaching for a cigarette from the pack in your pocket. You flick it between your lips, lighting it with a practiced motion, the ember catching the flame before you draw in a steady breath.

“How could they be so stupid?” you mutter through a cloud of smoke, the frustration bleeding through your words.

“They were just trying to do what they thought was right,” you remind him, your voice softer now, thoughtful. “Lady knows we did the same when we were their age.”

Vander’s eyes narrow, the dark circles under them deepening. “It’s Vi…” he mutters, his voice tinged with exasperation. “She throws herself at trouble wherever she can find some. I can’t watch her do it anymore.”

You glance over at Benzo, who’s leaning back against the counter with his arms folded, watching the two of you with a kind of detached curiosity. His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place—an odd mix of understanding and cynicism.

“Eh, they’re growing up, Vander,” Benzo hums, as if this whole mess were just another part of the dance. “Looking to write their own stories, carve their own place. You can’t protect them forever.”

Vander doesn’t respond immediately, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach out, grab something solid to anchor him against the weight of those words. You can feel the heaviness of the room, the sense that the conversation has turned into something bigger, something unavoidable.

"Someone was following them."

Your head immediately perks up at the words, your senses sharpening. "What?" you ask, your voice tight with sudden alertness.

Benzo lets out a low chortle, clearly enjoying the way you’ve reacted. "Whole lot of someones, from what I heard," he adds with a wicked grin, clearly reveling in the tension of the moment.

Vander shakes his head, his expression hardening. "Not Enforcers," he mutters, as if the very thought of Piltover’s law enforcement being involved would somehow be a lesser blow.

"Someone on our side?" you ask, the curiosity edging out your annoyance. "Who?"

Benzo’s gaze shifts, the playfulness draining from his face as he leans forward, the gravity of his next words settling over the room. "There’s worse things than Enforcers out there."

Vander’s gaze darkens at that, his fingers subconsciously running along the leather cast that envelops his arm. The faint scrape of his thumb against the material is almost inaudible, but it speaks volumes—memories, the kind you never quite forget. His eyes flicker briefly to his cast, the weight of past encounters pressing down on him.

"We all know that," Vander says quietly, his voice carrying a weight of understanding, of history too painful to erase. The room grows heavier, as if the very air itself has thickened with the unspoken truths. You glance at Vander, knowing exactly what he’s thinking.

Benzo seems to sense the shift in the mood, his playful tone turning into something more serious. "Whoever's been tailing them, they aren’t just looking to knock some heads around for fun. There’s intent behind it. And that kind of target’s dangerous."

Your gaze hardens as your mind races, trying to piece together the puzzle. "So, what are we supposed to do about it?" you ask, your voice sharper than you intended, frustration creeping in. "Just tell them to lay low? You know they won’t like that."

Benzo huffs, shaking his head. "Don’t have much of a choice, I reckon," he mutters, his tone gruff but resigned. He extends his hand toward you, and without a word, you offer him a drag from your cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light of the shop.

He takes it without hesitation, inhaling deeply before passing the cigarette back to you, his gaze flicking down to the counter. The moment hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken understanding.

Without breaking the silence, Benzo’s hand ducks under the counter, rummaging around for a moment before emerging with a large glass container. The amber liquid inside catches the light in a way that almost makes it look warm, like liquid gold.

"For now, though…" Benzo's voice softens slightly, a sly grin tugging at his lips as he places the bottle on the counter, "some liquid comfort to ease the struggle?"

Vander sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly as he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his pipe. The familiar ritual of filling it seems almost automatic. "You read my mind, old friend," he mutters, the weight of the situation settling in his bones.

You watch them both for a moment, the world outside the shop suddenly feeling distant, almost irrelevant. Benzo pops the cork with a satisfying thunk, and the rich smell of the liquor fills the air—warm, inviting, like an old friend. It’s a brief moment of comfort amidst the chaos, one that feels a little too fleeting.

As Benzo pours the liquid into two small glasses, you take another drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling around you like a shield against the unease gnawing at the edges of your mind. You don’t have a clear plan yet, no concrete steps to follow, but something tells you this won’t be the last time you’ll need a drink to get through the night.

Vander chuckles lowly, his fingers gently tapping the bowl of his pipe. "To the mess we’re about to clean up," he says, the humor in his voice barely masking the tension that lingers in the room.

You clink your glass against theirs, the sharp sound echoing through the small shop before silence settles back in, thick with anticipation.

The moment was shattered by the sharp chime of the door opening, the cool night air sweeping into the shop like an unwelcome guest. The heavy thunk of boots against the worn floorboards followed, each step deliberate and echoing. You barely had time to react before the sharp chill running down your spine forced your shoulders to hunch. Your gaze hardened instinctively, your fingers tightening around the glass in your hand.

Two uniformed Enforcers strode in, their presence slicing through the casual warmth of the room like a blade. Their faces were unreadable, save for the subtle tension in their postures and the way their eyes scanned the shop. Almost immediately, the younger of the two removed his air purifier, the smooth hiss of the device disconnecting was a reminder of everything you despised about Topsiders.

It wasn’t just the purifier—it was what it symbolized. It was their disdain for the Undercity, their belief that nothing here could ever be clean enough, pure enough, good enough. Vander had worked tirelessly to improve the air quality since he’d taken charge, striking uneasy deals with the Council to make life just a bit more bearable for those who called this place home. The upper levels had seen progress, but the mines remained a stubborn stain, a task unfinished. A promise unfulfilled.

But of course, nothing would ever be enough for the weak lungs of Piltover’s elite.

“Evening, friends!” Benzo greeted with a practiced smoothness, his voice carrying an air of nonchalance that bordered on defiance. “Something I can help you with?”

The older of the two Enforcers stepped forward, her movements deliberate and measured. Grayson. Time had not been kind to her, though she wore it with a quiet dignity. The streaks of silver in her hair and the fine lines around her eyes spoke to a decade of hardened resolve—of battles fought, lost, and somehow survived. Her gaze swept the shop lazily, but there was nothing casual about the way she took in every detail.

The younger one, though—he was different. You didn’t recognize him, and you didn’t like the sharpness in his eyes. He didn’t look at the shop; he looked at all of you, as if he were cataloging a list of things to hold against you. “Some trencher trash attacked one of the buildings in the Academy district, but you already knew that.”

Your teeth clenched at the term, your distaste barely hidden.

“We’re looking for the culprits,” Grayson said, her tone even but tired. She glanced around again, her eyes lingering on the counter, the shelves, and finally on Vander. She, like the rest of you, had aged in the past decade. Grey and white hairs sticking out at her temples, and the shadow of crows' feet framing her cold, but softened, eyes.

“Well, wasn’t us,” you muttered, your words carrying a deliberate edge as you lifted your glass and took a slow sip. The liquor burned slightly as it went down, but the warmth it left behind did little to chase away the growing tension in the room.

Grayson’s eyes shifted to you, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Didn’t think it was,” she said softly, her voice quieter than her companion’s but far more effective

“Got a description?” Vander asked smoothly, his voice steady and calm, giving nothing away. His neutral expression remained unreadable, but there was an unmistakable weight to his words—a quiet warning. The smoke from his pipe curled lazily into the air as he leaned forward ever so slightly, just enough to make his presence impossible to ignore.

The younger Enforcer, Marcus, bristled immediately, stepping in close to Vander, his posture stiff and aggressive. “Yeah,” he growled, his tone laced with venom. He leaned in threateningly, the move deliberate, an attempt to intimidate. “It’s exactly who you’re picturing in that thick head of yours.”

Your muscles tensed instinctively, your hand itching to grab the dagger concealed at your hip. The urge to intervene surged through you, but Vander’s calm demeanor held you back—for now.

Instead of reacting, Vander smirked, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that only seemed to irritate Marcus further. He turned his head slightly to look at you and Benzo, his eyes gleaming with an unspoken humor. “You think my head is thick?” he asked lightly, the subtle challenge in his tone almost mocking.

Benzo shrugged with a casual ease that felt at odds with the tension in the room. “Eh, just past the average,” he replied, his tone deliberately blasé.

Vander’s gaze shifted to you, and in that single look, he gave you a silent command: Stand down. His expression was calm, but the unyielding steel in his eyes left no room for argument.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to relax your shoulders as you offered him a small, wry smile. “But just as handsome,” you quipped, your voice light, though your body remained coiled like a spring, ready to act if needed.

Marcus, however, was far from amused. His frustration bubbled over as he snapped, “Listen, you shady son of a—”

“Marcus.” Grayson’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and commanding. The authority in her tone left no room for debate, and Marcus immediately stiffened, his jaw tightening as he turned to look at her.

Grayson didn’t even flinch, her calm, piercing gaze fixed on him. “How about you take a walk?” she suggested, the words polite but unmistakably firm.

Marcus hesitated, clearly reluctant to back down, but after a beat, he scoffed and turned toward the door. His boots stomped against the floorboards as he exited, muttering under his breath.

As the door slammed shut behind him, Grayson let out a quiet sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s new,” she said, almost apologetically. “Doesn’t know when to pipe down.”

Vander lets out a long, weary sigh, the cool and collected facade he’d held so carefully starting to crumble. His shoulders slump, and he hunches over his drink, his large hands wrapped around the glass as if it’s the only thing grounding him. “Some things are the same topside and bottom,” he mutters, his voice low and heavy with exhaustion.

Grayson steps closer, her boots scuffing softly against the floorboards. She stops beside you, offering a curt nod that you return in kind. There’s a quiet understanding between the two of you, a shared weariness from years of dealing with the same unending cycle. Without a word, you extend your glass to her in an unspoken offer.

She hesitates for only a moment before accepting, her fingers brushing against yours briefly as she takes the glass. She raises it to her lips, taking a measured sip. The amber liquid burns its way down her throat, and she winces slightly, but her expression remains grim.

“You know this crossed a line upstairs,” Grayson says, her tone cutting through the quiet like a knife. She sets the glass back on the counter with a soft clink, her sharp eyes fixed on Vander. “Right?”

Vander doesn’t look up, his gaze fixed on the drink in his hands. “Was anyone hurt?” he asks, his voice a low rumble, almost as if he doesn’t want to know the answer.

Grayson’s lips press into a thin line. She exhales through her nose, glancing away briefly as if to compose herself. “A building was blown to bits,” she says finally, her words deliberate, heavy with implication. She swallows hard, her throat still stinging from the drink. “What do you think?”

The weight of her words hangs in the air like a storm cloud. Vander’s jaw tightens, and his fingers flex around the glass, but he says nothing for a long moment. His silence speaks volumes, though—an acknowledgment of the consequences that are already spiraling beyond anyone’s control.

You watch them both, feeling the tension pull tighter with every second. The lines between right and wrong, between survival and destruction, have never been more blurred.

“Those who did this will be dealt with,” Vander says, his voice low and resolute, but there’s a faint tremor beneath the surface, like a man trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. You don’t like how much it sounds like a plea.

Grayson straightens, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That workshop belonged to the Kirammans,” she says, her words measured and deliberate. The name strikes a chord, and you immediately recognize it—the influential family tied to one of the council members. The same councilor who had supported the air quality initiative that Vander had fought so hard for.

Grayson continues, her voice hardening. “Do you know what kind of equipment they had in there? Cutting-edge prototypes, tools worth more than half the Undercity combined. This place”—she gestures vaguely around the shop—“looks like a candy store compared to what they lost. The Council isn’t just angry; they need to make an example of someone. People need to feel safe.”

You scoff, crossing your arms as a bitter laugh escapes your lips. “You mean Piltover needs to feel safe,” you say sharply, your words dripping with contempt.

Grayson’s head snaps toward you, her eyes narrowing in warning, but she doesn’t bite. Instead, she shifts her focus back to Vander, the weight of her attention bearing down on him like a hammer. “We had a deal, Vander,” she reminds him, her voice quieter now but no less dangerous. “You keep your people off my streets, and I stay out of your business.” She leans in, her tone softening just slightly, almost as if she’s pleading. “Give me a name. We’ll handle it quietly. No one will know you were involved.”

Vander exhales heavily, his broad shoulders slumping under the crushing weight of the situation. The stress rolls off him in waves, palpable even to you. He shakes his head slowly, his jaw tightening as he finally meets Grayson’s gaze. “I can’t do that.”

Grayson’s hand slams down onto the counter with a sharp crack, making you flinch. “You don’t seem to grasp how serious this is,” she snaps, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Her composure cracks, revealing the urgency and frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “If I don’t put someone behind bars tonight, the next time I come down here, I’ll have an army of Enforcers with me.” She leans forward, her face mere inches from Vander’s. “And we both know how that’ll go.”

The shop falls into a heavy silence, the weight of her threat settling over the room like a shroud.

“I’m sorry, Grayson,” Vander says finally, his voice quiet but unyielding. “We don’t give up our own people.”

For a moment, Grayson stares at him, her jaw clenched so tight you can almost hear her teeth grinding. Then she straightens, her expression hardening into the steely mask of an Enforcer doing her job. “You’re making a mistake, Vander,” she says, her tone cold and formal now.

You straighten, pulling your glass closer back to you. “I think it’s time you go, Captain.” Her cold eyes move from you, linger on Vander, then back to you. Then, without another word, she turns on her heel and strides out of the shop, the door slamming shut behind her with a sharp chime.

The silence that follows is deafening, and for a long moment, no one speaks. You glance at Vander, but his face is unreadable, his eyes fixed on the door as if he can still see her retreating form.

“Hope you know what you’re doing,” Benzo mutters, breaking the silence. His voice is low, almost a growl, but there’s no hiding the worry in his tone.

Vander doesn’t respond. He just stands there, staring at the door, the weight of his choices pressing down on him like never before.

***

As you stepped back over the threshold, the sounds and smell of home filled your senses. Inside, the bar was dimly lit, the faint smell of spilled ale and old wood mingling with the ever-present metallic tang of the Underground’s air. It was quieter than it had been earlier in the evening, save for the faint creaks of the rafters and the occasional drip of condensation from the exposed pipes above.

Claggor trailed behind, his young face a mask of determination that couldn’t quite hide the fatigue in his eyes. His boots scuffed against the worn floorboards as he stifled a yawn, glancing toward you for a moment before looking away.

You gave him a small, tired smile and placed a hand on his shoulder to pull him into a side-hug. “Go on, sweetheart,” you said softly. “You’ve done enough for one night. Get some rest.”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking to Vander, who nodded in agreement. “You heard her,” Vander said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “We’ll take it from here.”

Claggor gave a slight nod, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. “Goodnight,” he mumbled before heading toward the back door. The sound of his footsteps faded as he disappeared into the shadows of the alley, leaving you and Vander alone in the quiet bar.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders as you glanced around the space. The chairs were scattered haphazardly, the tables sticky with the remnants of spilled drinks. Behind the counter, a few empty glasses glinted in the low light, waiting to be washed. You immediately walked over to the bar, grabbing your rags and spray bottles as you prepared to clean the expanse of tables. Silently, for a moment, Vander watched you.

“I know you hate working with her,” he says. His voice is quiet, hushed, wary of any overhearing little voices.

You pause mid-spray, the rag in your hand frozen against the tabletop. For a moment, you don’t turn to face him, letting the silence hang between you like the damp air of the Lanes. Slowly, you straighten, glancing over your shoulder at Vander. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, but the slight furrow of his brow gives him away.

“It’s not about liking or hating her,” you say, turning back to the table and scrubbing at a stubborn stain. Your voice is matching his, hushed, calm, measured. “It’s about what she represents. What they all represent.”

He lets out a low grunt, a sound that could mean agreement, frustration, or both. “We’ve been over this, Love. We don’t have a choice.”

You can’t help but scoff. “You think I don’t know that?” More scrubbing. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it, when she comes in here, making orders. Like we’re her lackies. Like she doesn’t respect us,” you look back at him over your shoulder, “wasn’t too long ago she was throwing you in Stillwater.”

“She’s trying to help,” he says, stepping closer. His voice is softer now. “Just like us.”

You glance up at him, rag poised over the table. “Is she? Or is she just trying to keep the peace so Piltover doesn’t have to dirty its hands with another war?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Instead, he moves behind the bar, his large hands steady as he begins stacking glasses. “It’s not that simple,” he says finally, his voice quieter.

“It never is,” you reply, resuming your work. The rhythmic motion of cleaning gives you something to focus on, something to anchor you in the midst of your swirling thoughts. “But it doesn’t mean I have to trust her.”

Vander stops what he’s doing, leaning heavily against the counter. “You don’t have to trust her,” he says, meeting your gaze. “But you do have to work with her. For the kids. For all of us.”

You sigh, your movements slowing as his words sink in. “I know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No,” he agrees, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It doesn’t.”

The room falls into silence again, save for the faint creak of the rafters and the soft scrape of your rag against the wood. Vander watches you for a moment longer before returning to his task, the weight of unspoken thoughts settling between you like a familiar, unwelcome guest.

The two of you continue to work in silence, but your mind is anything but. Every thought feels like a sharp edge, cutting deeper the longer you let it fester. You hate it—hate how the idea lingers in your mind like an unwelcome guest you can’t quite kick out. You know you have to say it, to release the weight pressing against your chest, even if it makes everything worse.

As you finish wiping down the individual tables, your feet instinctively carry you over to the old jukebox in the corner. You press a few buttons, the familiar crackle and hum signaling it’s come to life. A low, mellow tune begins to play, not loud enough to disrupt the peace but just enough to mask any prying ears that might be listening.

With a steadying breath, you turn and step toward the bar, your gaze finding Vander. He’s behind the counter, absentmindedly drying glasses, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that tells you he’s thinking about more than just the task at hand.

“Vander,” you say softly, your voice cutting through the music. He glances up, his eyes meeting yours, and you can feel the weight of everything unsaid between you.

“I’m just gonna say it once,” you begin, your voice firmer now, your eyes locking onto his with an intensity that demands his full attention. “And then never again.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing the leather cast on his arm. The worn material feels rough under your touch, a stark reminder of what’s at stake. “There is someone we could hand over to Grayson.”

The moment the words leave your lips, you see it—the flash of betrayal, hurt, and anger in his eyes. It’s as though you’ve physically struck him, and for a moment, he just stares at you, as if willing you to take it back.

“Minnie,” he says, his voice low and warning, laced with disappointment.

You pull your hand back, holding both up in surrender. “I know,” you say quickly, trying to cut through the tension before it boils over. “I know. We don’t give up our own people.” You shrug, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “But you and I both know the kids being stalked today wasn’t some one-off incident.”

His jaw tightens, his broad shoulders squaring as if to brace himself against your words. You can see the fury in his expression, the way his hands grip the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles whiten. But beneath the anger, you see it—the flicker of conflict in his eyes, the hesitation he’s trying so hard to bury.

“I hate even thinking about it,” you admit, your voice quieter now, tinged with guilt. “But if it’s him or them…”

“Stop.” His voice cuts through the air like a knife, sharp and final. “We don’t give up our own people,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument. “That’s the only way this works. If we start turning on people, even him…” He shakes his head, his gaze burning into yours. “We lose everything. Trust. Loyalty. Unity. It all falls apart.”

You nod, swallowing hard as the weight of his words settles over you. “I know,” you whisper, the guilt in your chest twisting like a knife. “I know, Vander.”

For a moment, the silence returns, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the jukebox. Then, without a word, you make your way around the bar, stepping into his space. You take his hands in yours, the roughness of his skin grounding you.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I’m scared, Vander. For them.”

His hands tighten around yours, the calloused grip grounding you in a way only he can. For the first time tonight, some of the tension in his shoulders softens, and his gaze, though still heavy with the weight of his responsibilities, holds something warmer. “I’m scared too,” he admits, his voice low but steady. “But I need you to back me up here. If I don’t have you…” His voice trails off, as if saying it aloud would make it too real, too raw.

You nod, feeling the knot in your chest tighten. “I understand,” you whisper, lifting a hand to his cheek. His skin is rough, the stubble coarse beneath your palm, but the way he leans into your touch feels so vulnerable, so human. “I wouldn’t be able to do this without you, either. I’m sorry for even thinking it, for even saying it.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head, his voice soft but resolute. “I understand. I don’t blame you for thinking it. Things are… complicated right now.” He pauses, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And thank you for not saying it with anyone else in the room.”

“Of course!” you reply instantly, your tone carrying a faint edge of indignation, though your lips quirk into a small, reassuring smile. “It’s you and me, Vander. Always.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, holding on to each other in the quiet safety of the empty bar. The jukebox hums softly in the background, its low melody a distant reminder of the chaos outside. But here, in this bubble of stillness, it feels like it’s just the two of you against the world, like it’s always been.

Vander’s hands shift slightly, his rough fingers brushing against the backs of yours in a way that feels almost reverent. His eyes meet yours, the familiar storm of conflict and determination softening into something deeper. The flicker of light from the bar catches in his gaze, and for a heartbeat, it feels like time has slowed, the weight of everything giving way to this single, fleeting moment.

Without thinking, you step closer, your breath mingling with his as the distance between you narrows. His calloused hand rises to cradle your face, his thumb tracing a line across your cheek. It’s such a gentle gesture for someone who carries the weight of the Undercity on his shoulders, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Minnie…” he murmurs, your name barely more than a whisper on his lips, filled with so much emotion it almost undoes you.

You don’t give him a chance to say more. Standing on your toes, you close the remaining space, capturing his lips with yours. The kiss is fierce, filled with everything unspoken—fear, frustration, love, and the unshakable bond that has carried you both through every storm.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, as if letting go might shatter the fragile peace of this moment. You lose yourself in the warmth of him, in the way his lips move against yours, rough yet tender, commanding yet vulnerable. The rest of the world falls away—no Enforcers, no chembarons, no threats hanging over your heads. Just the two of you, anchored to each other.

When you finally break apart, breathless, his forehead rests against yours. His hands linger on your waist, keeping you close. For a long moment, neither of you speaks, the silence filled with the quiet hum of the jukebox and the sound of your uneven breaths.

“I love you,” he says finally, his voice rough but steady, the words a promise, a declaration, a plea all at once.

“I love you too,” you whisper, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. It wasn’t just a repeat of the words you’d both said a million times, but rather, a promise. To him, to the life you’d created together, to the idea of your shared future together.

It started soft, tentative, like he was handling glass—terrified that one wrong move might shatter you. His lips brushed against yours with the kind of care you wouldn’t expect from a man who carried the weight of an entire city on his shoulders. The coarse itch of his beard against your skin grounded you, a quiet reminder of the ruggedness that hid the tenderness beneath. His hands settled on the small of your back, steady and secure, while his forehead pressed against yours, anchoring the moment.

The kiss was gentle but spoke volumes—every unspoken word, every hidden fear, and every promise he couldn’t quite put into words. It was restraint and love wrapped into one fragile moment.

But you wanted more. Needed more.

Your hand slid up into his hair, fingers threading through the coarse strands as you tugged gently. Just as you expected, Vander groaned softly, the sound vibrating through you like a spark igniting something deeper. His grip on your back tightened ever so slightly, betraying the restraint he was desperately trying to maintain.

Then, with a small, mischievous smile against his lips, you nipped at his bottom lip. The action was playful but bold, a silent plea for him to let go, to give in.

That was all it took.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his forehead still pressed to yours, his breath warm against your lips. His eyes burned with a mixture of surprise, amusement, and something far more primal. For a second, the room seemed to hold its breath, and then his lips found yours again—this time with more urgency, more need.

The gentleness gave way to a deeper passion, his kisses more fervent, his hands gripping your waist as if anchoring himself to you. Your own hands tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, pouring every ounce of your own feelings into the moment. The jukebox hummed in the background, but it was drowned out by the sound of your quickened breaths and the steady thrum of your heartbeat in your ears.

When he finally broke away, his breathing ragged, he rested his forehead against yours once more, eyes closed as though savoring the moment. His hands stayed firm on your waist, reluctant to let go.

“M’love,” he whispered, his voice husky, laced with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. “You drive me mad, you know that?”

You smirked, your thumb brushing over the lines of his jaw. “Good. Someone’s got to keep you in check.”

He chuckled softly, pressing another kiss—this one slower, softer, like a thank-you—against your lips before pulling you into a tight embrace. In the quiet safety of the bar, the world outside could wait a little longer.

Between kisses, his lips brush against yours as he breathes out a barely audible, “Bedroom?” His voice is low and ragged, the word almost lost in the heat of the moment.

You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you, the sound cutting through the intensity like a bright spark. “Kids are going to bed,” you remind him, your hands sliding from his hair to his broad shoulders, steadying yourself as the passion simmers between you. Your fingers dig gently into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the strength beneath. “Office,” you suggest, your tone playful yet laced with urgency.

The corner of his lips quirks upward in a smirk, and he doesn’t hesitate. In one swift, practiced motion, his hands lower to your waist, gripping you with a confidence born of years together. Effortlessly, he lifts you as though you weigh nothing at all, his strength so familiar yet no less thrilling.

Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips, holding onto him as he shifts his grip to better support you. The intimacy of the motion, the way your bodies fit so perfectly together, sends a new rush of heat through you. You can feel the tension in his arms, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest, as if the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.

Blindly, his steps take him around the bar, his focus entirely on you even as he navigates the dim room with ease. Your laughter echoes softly, a sweet contrast to the muffled hum of the jukebox in the background.

When he reaches the base of the stairs, he pauses for a split second, adjusting his grip as if savoring the closeness before beginning the ascent. Each step is deliberate but unhurried, the anticipation between you growing thicker with every passing second. You brush a kiss against the edge of his jaw, and he groans softly in response, the sound rumbling through his chest and sending a delicious shiver down your spine.

“Someone’s enjoying this,” you murmur teasingly against his ear, unable to resist.

His response is a low chuckle, the vibrations resonating between you. “With you? Always,” he counters, his voice a mix of affection and heat. The words hang in the air, adding yet another layer to the smoldering intensity of the moment as the two of you disappear into the shadows of the upstairs office.

This moment, here, on the staircase. Those moments where you have someone safe, someone to come back to when the world outside was so harsh and unforgiving. It made your heart flip and your breath hitch in a way that felt as though it could shatter you, yet you leaned into it willingly. So few good things had been left here, in this city that tried to take everything from you, and you were impossibly grateful—achingly, desperately grateful—that Vander was still one of them.

“Something you want?” Vander’s voice pulled you from the spiral, his words gentle but teasing as his beard grazed your skin. One of his hands left the sanctuary of your hair, sliding down to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your jawline.

You met his gaze, your chest tightening at the warmth in his eyes, at the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded. “I always want you,” you admitted, the words leaving you unfiltered, vulnerable, as raw as the feeling surging within you. It seemed to be all the incentive he needed. Without another word, Vander carried you up the stairs, each step slow and deliberate, as though savoring the anticipation. His office wasn’t anything grand—just a small, wooden room with a simple, scratched-up desk, its surface covered in scribbles and doodles from your youngest, a reminder of the life you’d built here amidst the chaos.

But the moment the door clicked shut behind you, none of that mattered. The world outside faded entirely as you felt your back press into the wooden paneling. Vander’s broad chest pressed against yours, his warmth enveloping you, grounding you. Your legs stayed locked firmly around his waist, keeping him close, while your arms tightened around his shoulders, pulling him in as though letting go might make him disappear.

His lips found yours again, this time hungrier, more desperate. There was no hesitation in the way his hands slid up your sides, memorizing every curve, as though reassuring himself you were still here. And you needed him just as much—primal, all-consuming. Every inch of him.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, earning you a low, guttural sound that sent a shiver down your spine. He leaned into you, his strength overwhelming but never overbearing, as if even now, he was holding back just enough to keep you from breaking. But you didn’t want him to hold back—not now.

“Vander,” you breathed against his lips, your voice laced with urgency.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes darkened with an intensity that made your heart race. “I’m here,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours for a brief, grounding moment.

That moment was all too brief, though, as his lips returned to your neck, trailing kisses along the sensitive skin that made your breath hitch and your knees feel weak—even though you weren’t standing. His hands gripped your hips firmly, anchoring you to him as his movements became more insistent, more certain.

You tilted your head back, letting the tension of the day melt away under his touch, letting yourself get lost in him. Because in this moment, nothing else mattered. Not the threats, not the fears, not the looming uncertainty of tomorrow. He took hungry advantage to the access to your neck, nipping at the tender skin there, which in turn sent electric shock through and down your spine.

“Beautiful…” he whispered into your skin, “absolutely breath-taking.”

“Could say the same about you.” Your grin was large, breath quickening with every movement of his lips against the flesh of your neck. He pulled away only slightly, a mix of emotions on his face.

“Even after all this time, Love?” He asked, his voice gravelly and heavy with feeling. His voice tinged with playful self-deprecation, though his smirk gave away the spark of mischief in his tone. “With the ‘dad-bod’, as you say, and the gray hair?”

“Always.” You affirm with a smile, leaning in so your lips were just a whisper away from his. “Especially with the dad-bod and the gray hair.”

Your words made him chuckle, the sound deep and warm, but it quickly turned into a low growl as your fingers trailed down from his face, over his broad chest, and settled at his belt. You tugged at it deliberately, your lips curving into a smirk of your own. “Now, get those damn pants off and come here,” you commanded, your voice husky with need.

His grin widened, eyes darkening as he stepped back just enough to comply, his hands placing you down onto your own feet to undo his belt with practiced ease. “Bossy tonight, aren’t we?” he rumbled, his tone equal parts amusement and desire.

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” you shot back, pulling our shirt over your head and leaning back against the door, watching him with a mixture of affection and anticipation.

He let the belt drop to the floor with a heavy clink, his hands now working the button and zipper as he shrugged out of his suspenders. “Oh, I love it,” he admitted, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes raked over you. “Almost as much as I love the thought of filling you.” His words sent a rush of warm blood through to your cheeks, even after all these years together. The air between you crackled with heat, the playful banter giving way to something far more intense as the space between you disappeared again. His pants hit the floor, and before you could quip back, his hands were on you—gripping your hips, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours with a fervor that left you breathless. “And Gods, do I need to fill you.”

With a somewhat shaky hand on his chest, you gently pushed him towards his desk, his body easily and smoothly following your guiding as he found himself leaning against the wooden piece of furniture.

“First,” you began, slowly falling to your knees in front of him, “let someone else take care of you for a change.”

You run your tongue slowly along his length, ensuring he’s well-lubricated and ready before diving into the real effort. Once satisfied, you let your lips glide from the base to the tip in one smooth motion, preparing him—not just physically, but teasingly, setting the tone. His sharp exhale of approval sends a wave of heat through you, a rush of endorphins mingling with your anticipation. That sound, that subtle reaction, only fuels your desire to push further, to see what other noises you can coax from him.

“Fuck,” he sighs as you start to really work, moving the hand at the base in tandem with your mouth as you begin to slowly bob your head up and down, your tongue pressing along the underside of his shaft. His breathing is already deeper, more measured, and he shifts lower, trying to tilt his hips further into your mouth. You could, honestly, listen to the sounds of his moan all day.

Spitting into your hand, you used the combination of saliva and precum to begin pumping his cock while you eagerly took in the full view of the man above you. Chest rising and falling in staggered breaths, Vander’s head was fallen back as he grips the edge of his desk with one hand and the other moves to your hair, carefully gathering it and holding the strands out of your face.

“Bleedin’—fucking hell—” he choked out, his voice rough and raw as you lowered your head, taking him as deep as you could manage. His length felt heavy on your tongue, the warmth of him filling your mouth completely as you worked yourself closer to the base.

When the tip of him brushed against the back of your throat, the sound he let out shifted from a groan to something primal, a deep, guttural noise that sent a shiver down your spine. His reaction only fueled your determination, and you relished the way he seemed to lose himself in the pleasure.

You managed a couple of steady bobs, finding a rhythm, but that softness didn’t last long. His grip tightened, firm and commanding, as if his control had snapped entirely. He thrust into your mouth with a force that sent your head back slightly, his hips moving instinctively, hungrily, as though he couldn’t hold back any longer.

The sheer intensity of it left you breathless, but you braced yourself, meeting his pace with as much control as you could muster. This wasn’t just passion—it was raw, consuming need.

It wasn’t long until you felt a distinct pressure at the base of your skull, his hands-carefully with an edge of urgency-removing you from his shaft and lifting you to your feet. Dutifully, you obey, letting him guide you with a firm grasp on the strands of hair in his hand as he moves you back around, gently moving you atop the desk. Hurried hands rid you of your pants and underwear as you take your perch, and for a moment, the coolness of the wood felt unpleasant. But he’s quick to warm you with the heat emanating from his body as he stepped between your legs.

“Gods, I love that mouth of yours.” He all but croons. His voice like butter to your ears and you have to physically try and focus your mind to not just fall to your knees for him all over again. His presence between your legs, however, keeps you present as he lines himself up to the warm, dripping slit between your legs. “But you know damn well which of your holes I prefer.”

You didn’t mean to let out the desperate whine that ripped from your throat. But as he slid into you, filling you so entirely, that whine turned into a breathless gasp. He took his time filling you, letting both of you fall whole-heartedly into the pleasure. His hands were moving, sliding up from your hips and along your sides to grasp your tits, busying himself to not get lost in the warmth of your cunt and how it seemed to take him perfectly. But you were too busy to focus on his hands, suddenly flooded with the sense of feeling intensely full. “Fuck…”

He shushed you gently, like a tender kiss to your hair as his hands continued to play with the mounds on your chest. “Hush my love, wouldn’t want the little ones to overhear.” His strong hands roam your body, caressing your curves possessively. He captures your lips in a passionate kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth as he presses his warm body against yours.

As he begins to move, you move your face into his chest, letting the soft muscle muffle your downright sinful sounds. Vander, however, continues to whisper into your ear, hands moving down to your hips. "Gods you feel so good…” he murmurs, “need that cunt so bad, all of you. Every damned inch.”

You’re clinging to him now, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as he thrusts in and out of you. Vander’s eyes watched you intently, concentrating on studying the way your body reacted to his thrusts, how you bounced and quivered with his movements, all while he became drunk on the very feeling of you.

Knowing you were both nearing your limits, his movements became even harder and faster, almost animalistic, as he fucked every thought out of your mind, your brain completely blank, pleasure becoming the only thing that occupied your thoughts. His body leaned into yours, forcing you to lay down across the surface of the now creaking desk, your face pressed into his shoulder as his hands traced over to your knees. Well-versed in this, you let your flexibility take over as he maneuvered you into a breeding press, his hips now thrusting into with reckless pleasure.

“Need to fill you, breed you.” He groaned into your skin, voice deep enough that the tone was enough to make your walls clench around him, in turn making him let out a wolf-like growl. “Yeah? You like that? Want me to breed you, love?”

The two of you had discussed this so many times, both within the warmth of the bedroom and outside it. The thought of having your own child—your own little one to nurture, to love, and to watch grow—had always been a dream, but a complicated one. You had both agreed that another mouth to feed wasn’t something you could afford, not when the weight of raising the children you already had was such a burden. They were your joy, your reason for everything, yet the reality of your lives felt too fragile to invite another little one into it. There was also the truth of your years, the undeniable fact that time had a way of changing things.

Didn’t stop the breeding kink from being hot as fuck, though.

“Gods, yes, please!” You cry out, trying desperately to not carry your volume too high. “Vander, please, I need it.” Your horny brain has fully taken over at this point. “I wanna feel it.”

“Cum for me, Love.” He grunts, droplets of sweat rolling down his body. “I’m right there with you, just…fuck, please, I need to feel you cum around my cock.”

Your climax crashes into you at his words, and this obliterates him. Crumpling into a mess of guttural groans, Vander plunges into you one final time and Gods, it’s like you’re seeing the stars again.

As you both lay there, tangled in a chaotic blend of sweat and breathless sighs, your mind, hazy and clouded by desire, can only vaguely register the sensation of him trailing soft, tender kisses along the curve of your collarbones. Each gentle touch, each lingering kiss, sends a shiver through your body, grounding you in the intimacy of the moment as you struggle to catch your breath. Your arms instinctively move up, draping around his shoulders as you nestle deeper into the comfort of his warmth. The stillness of the moment is almost enough to make you forget the mess you’ll have to deal with soon, but it’s there, lingering at the back of your mind.

‘I… needed that,’ he admits softly, his voice low and filled with a quiet satisfaction. You can’t help the burst of laughter that escapes you, the sound light and playful.

‘No shit,’ you tease, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He lifts his head then, his eyes meeting yours with a kind of tenderness that makes your chest tighten. Without warning, he presses his lips to yours in a kiss that’s deep and heated, pulling a soft moan from your throat. The kiss leaves you breathless, the sensation of his mouth on yours stirring something within you that lingers even as the moment fades.

As he pulls away, Vander’s gaze has softened, his eyes tender and filled with a depth that never fails to make your heart skip a beat. He brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch as gentle as ever.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice hushed, as if he’s afraid the moment might slip away if he speaks too loudly. You can feel the sincerity in his words, a truth that has been woven into the very fabric of your lives together.

You smile, the warmth in your chest spreading, and you press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too, Vander. More than you’ll ever know.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you closer, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Nothing else matters, not the worries of tomorrow, not the world outside. There is only this—the soft exchange of love, shared in the stillness of your hearts.

He rests his forehead against yours, his breath slow and steady, matching the rhythm of your own. “I don’t think I could ever get enough of hearing you say that,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

You chuckle softly, a sound that feels like it’s part of the warmth between you both. “Then I’ll say it every day, if I have to.”

And in that moment, with his arms wrapped around you and his heart laid bare, you know you’ve found your home.

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deathbyclown · 5 months ago

Text

Casual Thing Pairing: OPLA!Buggy x Reader (afab) Rating: Explicit Words: 3200

Summary: Reader and Buggy have been hooking up, and today is no different. Reader works on Buggy’s crew and after rehearsals Buggy wants to enjoy his little plaything.

Note: established ‘relationship’, blowjob, fingering, vaginal sex, objectification, Buggy calls reader a lot of names (nearly all of which are degrading) in case that’s not ur thing. It’s just smut, no plot!

(Can I offer you some porn in these trying times?)

AO3 Link

You pulled at the ropes to the sails, yanking in tandem with your crewmates, furling the sails so the ship wouldn’t go too far off course while the majority of the crew was at rehearsal.

“Hurry up! You’re already ten minutes late!!” Buggy barked, pacing behind them as they worked. No one dared to mention that Buggy never had to be on time. Everyone worked on Buggy time; they would perform when he was ready, and wait patiently when he wasn’t. And apparently they were ten minutes late to Buggy’s impatient schedule.

The muscles in your arms flexed, straining against the heavy weight of the sailcloth, gripping the rough rope tightly until the pirates on the mast could tie it closed. Buggy stood right behind you as you huffed and struggled, the extra attention making you sweat even harder. He didn’t say a word to you, but you could feel his eyes on you. The feeling of them, of his proximity, made all the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

Recently the two of you had been messing around, nothing too serious, but it was happening more frequently. At first it was every once in a while, usually when the ship was docked and re-supplying. Then it was after successful raids. Then it was after a night of drinking. And then on any day when it wasn’t sunny. And then it seemed random, Buggy’s disembodied hand pulling your arm down the hall of the ship to a supply closet, to his dressing room, to the bottom of the ship, to his Captain’s quarters.

You had slept so infrequently in your own bunk that your roommates were becoming suspicious. But thankfully no one had mentioned anything to you yet. They knew you were sneaking off to sleep with someone, but if they knew who, they were smart enough not to mention it. But you were sure everyone knew at this point; Buggy lacked any kind of subtlety, despite his attempts to be so.

Once the sail was secured, everyone scrambled to the tent, yourself included. You rushed past Buggy, whose hand followed you and squeezed your ass, making you yelp, but you kept going, trying to pretend nothing happened, your face heating as you heard him cackle behind you.

Real subtle, Captain.

You got ready with the others, changing your shoes to your more sturdy and flexible flats, which was better for tightrope work. Buggy burst into the tent, already shouting at people as he walked by them, making his way to his throne so he could keep an eye on everyone while they practiced.

Usually rehearsals started with warmups, then people would do their specific routines, and then it would be a full show run-through. All in all it probably took about three or four hours, depending on whether or not Buggy wanted to interrupt to lecture or re-arrange certain acts. So you did your stretches with your fellow tightrope and acrobatic performers, glancing every so often at Buggy, who, once again, was unsubtly watching you. You tried not to let your pleasure show at having his attention, but you couldn’t help the small smile growing on your face as you continued stretching. Even if you guys were just fucking, it felt special to have him watching you like this.

And if you bent your body in a more appealing way, if you pushed out your ass more, pushed your breasts together and leaned forward so Buggy could look down your shirt while you went through practice and rehearsal...well...it was all just a coincidence. Buggy couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, unusually quiet for a normal rehearsal, but no one was complaining. In fact, everything went so smoothly that it finished earlier than normal, everyone mulling around, wondering if they could leave early until Buggy shouted at them for standing around, ordering them to clean up and get back to work.

The tent cleared out at record speeds; no one wanted to stick around in case he changed his mind. You started packing up too, changing out of your shoes, ready to follow the crowd but Buggy’s hand tugged on the back of your shirt, pulling you away from the rest of the crew filing out of the tent. You followed the hand, letting it guide you to the darkened edges of the tent until his arm shot out from between some crates and pulled you to him.

He backed you into the corner of a stack of crates and boxes, keeping you hidden from view. Buggy kissed you hungrily, his hands going straight to your hips, pulling you against him. You melted at his touch, kissing him back with as much fervor. He licked your mouth and you opened, your tongue pushing against his and he groaned, grabbing handfuls of your ass to grind you against his hard cock. He kissed along your jaw to your ear, lightly nipping at the lobe, making you shiver.

“Y’feel that, you fucking tease?” His hot breath tickled your ear, and he thrust against you, rubbing his erection against your hip. You whimpered, nodding once, your eyes sliding closed, getting swept away by the feeling of him as his hands travelled up to your breasts, lightly squeezing them.

He sucked marks into your neck as he circled your nipples through your shirt. You shivered at the pleasure shooting through you, your underwear becoming sticky from his teasing. He sucked harder, fingers still playing with your chest, making you whine.

“You want more? Beg me.” His voice low, commanding, his slick lips tickling your neck.

“Yes, please, touch me more. Please, Captain.” You begged, giving him what he wanted. He groaned, rubbing his straining erection against you. He ripped off his gloves and reached under your shirt to touch your breasts, pleased to find you weren’t wearing a bra.

“Little slut, always ready for me to take what I want.” His lips found yours again as he pulled at your nipples, swallowing your moans. His fingers circled and played with your breasts and the teasing starting to be too much; your pussy was aching, you need to be fucked, desperately.

“Buggy.” You moaned against his lips.

“Yes. Say it. Say my name.” He said hurriedly between kisses, swiping his tongue into your mouth.

“Pleeease.” You whined, gasping as he pushed your shirt above your chest, bending down to run the flat of his tongue on your pebbled nipple. “Buggy.” You gasped, your hands shooting to his grip his shoulders as he sucked, his teeth grazing the soft flesh of your breast.

“I need you inside me.” You panted, biting back whines and moans, hands clenching hard into his stiff coat.

He huffed against your breast, kissing the soft flesh before standing to pull you back against him, kissing your lips. He slid his hands into your pants and underwear and slowly pushed them down as he ravaged your mouth. You held onto his arms, breaking away from the kiss to catch your breath, soft sounds escaping from you as his hands cupped your bare ass.

“You me to fuck you, whore?” He asked with a smug grin, watching your eyes, and leaned forward to be right in your face, “earn it.”

You shivered, mouth gaping as he pushed against your shoulders, forcing you down onto your knees. You looked up at him, feeling exposed, half naked, slick and aching, clenching around nothing as he pulled his cock from his pants. He stroked himself a few times, giving you a half grin, slapping his cock against your cheek. Your eyes slid closed, your lips parting, ready for him to push his cock into your waiting mouth.

“Ah, ah, ah.” He reprimanded, grabbing your face with one hand, squeezing your cheeks, forcing you to look up at him. “My little plaything has to work for her reward.”

“Yes, Captain.” You mumbled out, his hands pressing your cheeks hard enough that it was difficult to talk.

“Go ahead, show me how eager my whore is to please me.” He let go of your face, letting his cock bob freely in front of you. Your cunt clenched at the sight of it. He was thick, uncut, proportional to his body, curving very slightly upward, the pink head of him glistening with pre-cum. You swallowed hard as your eyes met his. He was leering at you, and your attention was caught once again by his cock that he wiggled at you.

You reached forward, placing a soft kiss on his leaking tip, licking your lips to taste bitter salt. You licked his head, swirling your tongue and wrapping your lips around him to suck lightly, lovingly. He groaned above you, a hand resting on the back of your head, not yet pushing you onto him. You eased your way down, licking him as best you could as you pulled him deeper into your mouth until you went as far as you could go and used your tongue to press and stroke the thick vein of his cock. Buggy’s breath came more heavily, softly muttering things you couldn’t catch, but whatever he was saying it seemed like you were doing a good job. With one hand on the shaft of his cock, you bobbed on the top half of him, using your tongue to massage his head whenever you could while your hand lightly twisted and pulled him with the movements of your mouth.

Buggy’s voice turned more whiny, higher, huffing and praising you. “So fucking good. You love my cock, don’t you? You’re so pretty like this. So so good, sweetheart.” He was babbling at this point. You melted at his appreciation, his praise. Part of you wanted to make him cum like this, down your throat, or maybe with your mouth open and tongue out so he could see himself making a mess of you. But the other part of you needed him inside your cunt. You shivered at the thought of it and moaned around him. He moaned in return, pushing against the back of your head and moving his hips forward.

“Take me deeper.”

You obliged, relaxing your throat to swallow him all the way down to his base, your nose pressed firmly to the front of his unzipped pants. You couldn’t do much when you had him this deep, it was already taking you a lot of focus just to not gag and choke around him. You pulled back slightly to take a deep breath through your nose and pushed forward again, swallowing around him. He groaned above you, putting both hands on your head and he gave short quick thrusts into your mouth, making you gag and choke. You had to pull off of him, coughing with tears in your eyes. He knelt down, both of his hands still on the sides of your face, and pulled your saliva covered lips into a messy kiss. He trailed kisses up your cheek and over your eyelids and you sighed in pleasure. His warm lips felt so nice on you skin and you hummed as he kiss your lips once more.

“You’ve shown me what a good whore you are. You still want my cock, sweetheart? You still need me to fuck you?” He teased, biting at your jaw and nibbling your neck. You let out a pathetic little noise, nodding as he licked your neck. “Say it” he growled against your skin.

“Please fuck me, Buggy! I need it, I need you.” You pleaded, trembling with your desire. He let out a shuddering breath against your neck and bit down, sucking harshly at the skin, making you keen.

“Of course, anything for my pretty toy.” One of his hands reached between your legs, two fingers gliding against you, playing with your clit. You gripped his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug, gasping and whimpering into his ear as he rubbed quickly, the sensation too much, too fast. He chuckled into your hair, his hand gliding through your folds to press a finger into you. You moaned, dropping your forehead to his shoulder, gushing as he pushed his finger in deeper. It felt so good, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

“You’re so wet for me.” He murmured, his voice low and deep. He pushed a second finger into you, your pussy squelching loudly as he thrust them into you. “How do you want it, sweetheart? How do you want me to fuck you?”

You swallowed hard, your skin tightening, making your hairs stand on end. “Please, anything, just need your cock, Buggy.” You begged, kissing his neck, rubbing your head against his shoulder. Suddenly you felt his arms reach under yours and pull you upward. You yelped, grabbing onto whatever you could reach as you felt weightless for a second. He kissed your cheek and turned you around to lean forward on a stack of boxes. He stood behind you, leaning over top of you, and lifted your shirt to kiss your back as his hands reached under you to fondle your breasts. His cock rubbed against your ass, and he tried to slide it downward against your folds using his hips. His cock kept poking against your asscheeks and you could feel the pre-cum smearing against your skin. You reached behind you, helping to line him up as he continued to play with your tits. He wasted no time pushing forward once he felt his head breach your entrance. You both groaned loudly and your eyes fluttered closed at the satisfying feeling of him filling you.

He gripped your hips and started a quick pace. You gripped the box you were leaning over, your knuckles white, a continuous whine leaving your lips, like he was fucking it out of you. Buggy slapped your ass and you clenched around him.

“This cunt was made for me. My perfect little fuck-hole.” he panted, picking up his pace.

“Yes! Just for you, only for you.” You hurried out breathlessly, trying to stifle your cries of pleasure.

Buggy’s hand slipped under you, playing with your clit as he fucked you. He pinched and rubbed you, making you jolt and squirm. You dropped your head against the box with a thump as he started rubbing in faster circles, his fingers slick with your arousal. You lifted your hips to press further against him chasing after the pleasure building in your core. He leaned over you, pressing deep into your pussy and circled his hips, his thick cock stretching you, his fingers on your clit never stopping. You shuddered, your jaw hanging open, brows furrowed in concentration, clenching hard against him, so close to your climax. He groaned against your back, nipping your skin and then left open mouthed kisses between your shoulder blades. His forehead rested against you as he shallowly thrust into you, his place slowing down immensely. You pushed back, trying to get him to pick up the pace again and he chuckled, standing up from you, letting you fuck yourself back against him.

“Mmm, you should see this view.” He husked, grabbing your ass, squeezing and spreading your cheeks. You moved faster, your ass meeting his hips sharply, trying to chase after your denied orgasm. He started to meet your movement, thrusting into you until he was gripping your hips and fucking you in earnest. He pulled your hips up, making you arch your back and stand on your tip-toes, the new angle made you see stars, and you cried out as he hit you just right.

You reached a hand down to bring yourself over the edge, but he batted it away and circled your clit with his own fingers instead. You let yourself get carried away, the build overwhelming you, this was in his hands now and you felt like you were coming up to something big. You trembled, clutching at the box beneath you, his fingers and cock working in tandem, his hot breath fast and washing over you, everything pushing you closer and closer until it came crashing over you. You clawed at the box, unable to stop your moans and sobs of pleasure, Buggy’s name tumbling from your lips, thanking him, praising him, as you came hard.

“Fuck! Gonna fill this greedy little pussy.” He grunted, his jaw clenched. He pounded into you wildly, his grip on your hips bruising. He moaned loudly as he came after you, his hot cum filling you, your fluttering cunt milking him. You cursed breathlessly, your cunt clenching and twitching on its own, as if trying to swallow up every last drop that Buggy gave you.

You were barely able to hold yourself up, black spots dotting your vision, and it didn’t help that Buggy was now fully resting on top of you, your sweaty bodies making your skin stick to each other. His arms wrapped around you and held you tight, his hips pushing hard into you, lifting you slightly while his cock was still so deep inside, making you groan, your walls still sensitive. He kissed your shoulders, his lips and nose dragging over your sticky skin.

“That was amazing, sweetheart.” He panted, rubbing his cheek on your back, his stubble scratchy, but not unwelcome.

“Mmm.” You agreed, too fucked out to say much of anything.

His hands gently stroked your sides as he slid out of you and stepped away, leaving you to hang over the box. You could feel his cum beginning to ooze out of you and you felt him spread your lips to watch. Your cheeks heated with embarrassment and you hid your face in your arms, but there was something about him wanting to see how he filled you, how he marked you, claimed you, that made that little spark of arousal curl through you again.

“I don’t think I can walk.” You slurred, slowly standing up, your legs trembling. With one arm to support yourself on the boxes, you tried to reach down to grab your pants and underwear, huffing in amusement as your clothes kept slipping through your fingers.

“Looks like I played with my toy too hard.” Buggy rumbled behind you, pulling you flush to his chest, kissing the top of your head. His hands detached and he pulled up your underwear and pants for you, patting your pussy before returning his hands to his wrists. He turned you in his arms, holding the majority of your weight, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, looking down at you, his fingers on your chin. You noticed his own clothes were already back in place, albeit a little disheveled, and his makeup was smeared around his mouth. There were red hickies along his neck and jaw which were beginning to darken.

He scooped you up into his arms, grinning at your momentary surprise, your eyes widening and hands shooting out to grab onto him. You smiled up at him once you realized what was happening and reached forward to give him a kiss. You felt him smile against your lips and he kissed you back, making the kiss filthy by licking into your mouth, tasting you, feeling you. You moaned into his mouth, your hands wrapping behind his neck, holding him tightly.

“Let's go back to my room before I bend you over these boxes again.” He huffed against your cheek.

“Aye aye, Captain.” You agreed with a tired, but satisfied smile.

#opla buggy #buggy x reader #buggy the clown #buggy x you #buggy #fanfic #smut #one piece #I want buggy to use meeeeee #ahhhhhh!!!!

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thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels · 6 months ago

Text

And you were trapped in this curse (before you ever even knew)

Day 5 of The Long Halloween - event masterlist here

pairing: dick grayson x reader (gender neutral)

length: 8.3k

genre: horror, fluff, hurt/comfort

warnings: mermaid dick grayson, witch reader, talk of burning at the stake like one time vaguely, reader almost drowns once

a/n: the trapdoor works bc it's magic and that's the only thing we need to know ok ?? anywaaay here's the one we've been waiting for here's the one we're excited for

"Just one more thing," the mariner says as he tosses the keys to you, watching as you catch them and glance towards the boat that you've just bought. "Don't go in the water."

"Yes," you respond bluntly, watching as your new houseboat bobs and rocks in the waves and tugs at the ropes securing it to the wooden dock. It's a mass of tangled cords weaving through the darkness, and you thumb the keys in your hand as you look back to the mariner. "I know… I've heard."

"Good," he nods firmly, spinning on his heel and beginning to walk away, toward the endless labyrinth of shipping containers and dockworkers and boats pulling in and out of the harbour. "Make sure you keep it in mind. Don't go in the water… for anything."

You watch as he walks away, slipping into the mess of the docks and vanishing from sight, leaving you alone to climb up onto the plank and into your boat - into your new home. It's dark inside, of course, old and musty and crumbling. But it's tucked away in an inconspicuous corner of the docks, away from the city and the police and the witch hunters who walk the winding streets of Gotham. It's safe, or as safe as you can be, practicing the illegal arts.

A larger wave crashes against the side of the boat and you sway on your feet as the wooden vessel rocks and groans with the movement, the water beating against the sides constantly - as if it's alive, as if it's trying to pull you further under. You know the stories told about the Gotham Harbour - you were warned when you fled to this place.

"Don't go in the water." people say. "There's something out there."

You'd asked around, of course, poked and prodded and peeled back layers of the tall tales that were spun in the darkness of the docks. You're not afraid of it - not the way that the others are. You're a creature of the night, yourself, of course, and things that move in the shadows don't scare you too much these days. It's humans who do the scaring, with their threats and their leering and their witchhunts.

They were small stories, at first - silly little anecdotes that the workers used to tell when their ships pulled into the docks. They would claim to have seen something moving in the water - glimpses of a shimmering, shining, fish-like tail seen out of the corner of their eyes and the faint sounds of a song sung through the fog, tempting and alluring, buzzed through their ears.

But they were harmless - just little stories the sailors would tell for fun to keep one another awake at night while they worked. They were all so sure that it was just tricks of the night and the mist… at first.

But then the casualties started. Sailors began to go missing from ships as they pulled into the harbour and some of them began to swear that they would watch their friends just walk right off the edge of the ship, stumbling and lurching like they were being pulled by something invisible.

"There's something out there," they'd swear. "And it's after us."

But nothing could be proved, of course, and none of the workers hauling illegal magical goods in and out of Gotham by the shadows of night wanted to be caught, so no one went to the authorities. And people just kept… disappearing.

And over time, naturally, the stories began to grow. The size of the tale began to double, then triple, until the tales told of a huge, serpent-like, scaled appendage that had the strength to crack the hull of a ship with one swipe. For some of the smaller vessels, the huge tail would wrap around the body of the ship, snapping it in half and dragging it to the bottom.

It glowed, they said, bioluminescent blues and greens and violets lighting up the water, a shimmering, shining beacon of death moving silently through the blackened depths.

But, you think pointedly as your boat rocks and sways and you swing the door open to let the sea breeze fill the stale interior. It's all speculation - some twisted story to justify the ships that suddenly began to go missing, some kind of hallucination that the survivors spun in the wake of trauma.

As you walk back outside to lean against the railing of the boat and peer into the murky depths of the harbour, you remember what the mariner had said to you when you bought the boat, watching as you'd counted out bills in front of him, both of you insisting on a cash-only transaction.

"The ships still come in and out," he'd said lowly, his arms crossed as he stared out towards the rolling waves. "But folks are getting antsy - scared. Some of the buyers want their shit moved other ways. You know, coming through the city on trucks instead."

"And does that work?" you'd asked absently, stacking money neatly as you half listened.

"Not really," he'd admitted. "It's all still taken to the docks, and… well, you know."

As the boat rocks and you shake your head in an attempt to rid yourself of the conversation, you can't help but let the mariner's words spin around your mind just a bit more. You can't help but picture it in your head - dockworkers, moving through the thick fog that filters through the night, wandering off the wooden edge and into the water like those sailors, pulled and pulled and tugged under by something monstrous.

Droplets of rain begin to fall from the darkened, thunderous sky and you shiver as you stare down into the water for a moment before crouching. Slowly, carefully, you stick your arm through the railing of your boat and let your fingers dip just below the surface, feeling the icy waters for a moment before pulling back and inspecting your hand.

"Don't go in the water," people had said. "There's something wrong with it. There's something cursed about it." You hum in thought as you try to rub warmth back into your fingers, the freezing sensation from the water sticking to you and travelling up your arm as the rain begins to fall steadily.

You've heard the stories, you know what Gotham is - a festering breeding ground for illegal magic, with its waters serving as a dumping ground for the pollution that comes with it. Years of it have turned the harbour into a magical chemical wasteland, and you shudder as the coldness seeps further into your skin and begins to turn your fingertips blue.

"Don't go in the water," people had said, lest you find yourself developing a glowing blue-green tinge and struggling to breathe in air above water - lest you freeze over and stumble back in and fall down into the depths.

Don't go in the water - it will never let you out.

Below the surface of the water, two milky blue eyes stare forward - stare at you. Afternoon rolls into night and days roll into weeks and he watches, lets his tail swish through the water, sending waves crashing against the side of your boat. The vial that you'd been dipping into the water slips from your grasp and into the depths below. But you just sigh, mostly unbothered, before filling a second vial with the murky, darkened substance.

You're not like the others, he finds - you're not scared of him the way that the others are. You're curious, instead, and it's a curiosity that he finds himself mirroring throughout the days, watching you as you study the water, filling vials upon vials with it and bringing it into your little floating home.

But there is, he realizes over time, still a fear in you. As he haunts the waters underneath your boat, he sees the way you shrink away from the dockworkers - the way you back away from the lights and noises of the city and keep to the relative safety of your boat. He sees your fear and recognizes it - sees it the way that he sees his own.

He knows, somewhere deep and intrinsic, that you're hiding from the same world that he is. And that curiosity in him becomes bravery as he watches you dip that second vial into the water and he sees your fingers, once tinged blue-green and frozen from the polluted waters. They look healthy now, warm and nimble as they pop the cap onto the vial. He stares, as much as he can with his milky, clouded eyes, down towards his own hands and wonders, ever so hopefully, if you can help him, too.

So he watches. And you, in turn, watch back. You begin seeing it, every now and then and out of the corner of your eye - glimpses of a large, powerful, scaled tail. Flashes of that glowing blue-green hue. Whispers of a song over the breeze. And that curiosity that he's become so fond of as he circles your boat in the darkness of night, trying his best to watch you - he finds that curiosity mirrored as you lean over the railing, eyeing him through the rippling waves.

It's late one night, the moon hanging low in the darkened sky as the waves roll through the harbour, when he swims idly through the waters underneath your boat. He wonders, ever so curiously, if all people like you are so clumsy as you drop a vial you'd been working with, the dropper in your hand falling into the waters below and sinking towards the bottom. You sigh, a long-suffering sort of thing as you grip onto the railing and try to balance with the boat's swaying and rocking.

You're standing slowly, your hand still wrapped tightly around the wooden rail when something crashes out of the water towards you. You lurch back a bit, your feet unsteady on the damp wood, but a strong arm wraps around your waist and keeps you upright while you stare at the being in front of you.

The creature haunting the Gotham Harbour, the monster of the deep, the serpent stalking the waters and pulling sailors to their deaths. Here he towers before you, his arm retracting away from you so that he can prop himself up on the railing of your boat and let his lengthy, scaled tail swish through the water beneath him.

You slip towards him as the force of him - as the weight of his enormous finned tail tips the boat ever so slightly and brings you closer to him. He looks down at you, leaning forward with his human torso as his eyes, milky and blurred, stare down and you grip onto the railing between the two of you in an effort to keep yourself upright.

When your knuckles brush against the jagged scales, though, an intricate pattern of blues and greens and violets scraping against your skin, he hisses and bares sharped, razor-like canines at you.

But you just blink, tipping your head back to look up at him - at his eyes and the white swirls clouding them over. Because you know what it looks like when magic rots you from the inside, when it eats away at you and turns you into something nightmarish. And you've been studying this water - you know of the pollution and the poisoning and the horrors that it causes.

So you reach, out of instinct perhaps, towards him. You reach as your eyes sweep over his hair, bluish-black and dripping, over the water droplets that run down his abs and towards the gills covering his ribs, twitching and fluttering and struggling. You reach, and you're not all too surprised when he hisses again and lurches away from you.

But he reaches a cold, wet hand towards you instead of fleeing further and all but throws something at your chest, making you stumble back with a huffed breath and grab it before it falls. And it's the vial, you realize numbly as you stare down at it in your hands - the one that you'd dropped. His claws, you notice slowly, have hit you, too - ripping through your shirt just a bit and prompting little trails of blood to ooze out, darkened by the blanket of night that covers the two of you.

"You -," you begin, but the creature is already pushing himself away from the railing, diving gracefully back into the water with a deadly silence and leaving you with your head spinning and your lungs burning as you stare at the water where he once appeared.

Admittedly, the next time you drop something over the edge of your boat, it's more intentional than it usually is, and you crouch rather close to the water with your arms wrapped around your knees while you wait to see if he'll show up again. Sure enough, it's mere moments before he propels himself out of the water and drops the lost object onto the wooden deck, staring toward you with those milky, vacant eyes.

You stand slowly while he stares, his arms propping him up on the railing while you move towards him. He stays still, this time, tense and unwavering as you step closer and look at his faded, unfocused eyes.

"I can help you," you say, pointing first at your own eyes and then at his. "Let me?" He just stares, though, white, glazed eyes looking on as the gills that line over his ribs twitch and shiver, morphed and altered by the harbour waters, forgetting the feel of the clean, cool oceans. He can't leave, you realize. Gotham Harbour has ensnared him, turned him into a monster that could only ever exist and survive here.

He disappears as you study him, slipping back into the murky, blackened water and leaving you sighing, your shoulders slumping in momentary defeat.

But then you hear it, a faint banging sound coming from inside your home - and you lurch, moving to rip open the door.

You see it then, the trapdoor that you have partially covered by a rug and the latch trembling with the force of something shoving at it from underneath. You move forward in a rush, after staring and blinking and letting your mind reel for a moment, to unlock the latch and let the trapdoor swing up and open, wrinkling the rug and covering it in that cursed harbour water as the creature pulls himself up through the opening and leans on his arms to look at you.

You stare, mouth slightly open as you take in the creature in front of you, letting his tail swish and move in the waves beneath him and dripping water onto your floor.

"…Help me," he says slowly, and his voice is smooth, soft and sing-songy in a way that makes you walk towards him and fold yourself down onto your knees to look at him face-to-face.

"You can speak?" you ask in lieu of a response. He frowns, his dark, water-slicked brows bunching together as he stares in your direction.

"There is a part of me that's human, after all," he says quietly. You huff out a breath and reach for him ever so slowly, letting your fingers hover for just a moment before making contact with his cheek. He makes a surprised little noise, jerking his head away from you for a second before shifting on his palms and leaning back into your touch.

"Thank you," you murmur quietly as you trace a finger over his brow bone before letting your forefinger hook under his chin so that you can tilt his head slowly and look at his eyes.

"Can you… fix it?" he asks slowly, a hesitance in his smooth, silky voice.

"I can," you respond simply, smiling ever so lightly even though you know he probably can't really see it. "I said I'd help you… and I will."

It's a slow process, of course, to begin to heal and change him after that, bringing the colour and life back to his eyes. It's weeks of him pulling himself up through the trapdoor in the bottom of your boat to let you poke and prod at him, giving him various vials to drink from and coaxing him to tip his head back so that you can drop strange liquids into his eyes.

It's difficult for him, you know, odd and uncomfortable and frightening. So you don't mind, really, when he hisses and snaps his teeth and grabs your arm to dig his blue-black claws in until blood runs down your skin. He doesn't mean to, you know. So you let him.

And it works, much to his delight - the magic you use on him begins to soothe the symptoms of the polluted water. He's still this thing, of course, he'll never go back to being a regular mermaid, but he's not in pain - not the way he was before. His eyes don't burn and his head doesn't feel light and dizzy anymore, riddled with haziness and pain.

Eventually, the white milkiness fades and his irises shine blue once more - it's not the blue they used to be, you're sure. They're vibrant and glowing and unnatural, but they're blue and they're his and he can see the world through them, finally. He can see you - really see you for the first time.

"Hi," you breathe quietly, a smile flitting gently across your lips as you watch him blink rapidly, his eyes glancing quickly around the space to take in his surroundings properly for the first time in so, so long.

And then, of course, his eyes find their way back to you, kneeling on the cold, wooden floor so that you're at eye level with him and looking at him with those big, hopeful eyes of yours. He reaches for you, then - he can't help it, not when you're kind and gentle and staring at him like he's something precious. You let him, though your brows shoot up in surprise when he leans forward.

"You're beautiful," he says lowly, close enough to you that his breath touches your face. You make a small, surprised sort of sound and glance away from him, but he reaches for you with a firm hand, cupping your cheek and smashing his lips against yours in a firm kiss. You make a high-pitched, surprised noise somewhere in the back of your throat and when he pulls away you shift on your knees, clearing your throat and looking at him in bemusement.

"Thank you," he says simply, and you nod and hum in mock understanding.

"I'd like to, uh, I'd like to try fixing your gills a bit, too - if you'd let me." The grin that he gives you in response to your request makes you bite your lip in immediate regret.

"I think I'd let you do just about anything to me now," he says flippantly. You sniff indignantly and rub a hand over your face harshly, but cold, smooth fingers wrapping around your wrist stop you.

"Oh, that's just…" but you trail off as he pulls up your sleeve slowly, revealing dark, crimson welts where he'd dug his claws into you so many times. You stay still as he stares, holding your breath as he runs a delicate finger over the cuts and looks unblinkingly down towards them.

"It's… it's ok," you say slowly. "It's alright."

"Seems like such a monstrous thing to do, doesn't it?" Dick says, ignoring your words. "To hurt the thing that's trying to help you." When he looks up at you then, you take notice of his clear, unblemished eyes for the first time. They're sharp and flashing, the deep blues and violets swirling in them as they draw you further, further, further in.

He looks… dangerous, you realize sluggishly. He looks a bit like a wild animal, and as the waves beneath your boat crash against the wooden hull and water sloshes up from the opening onto his torso and your floor, you think, rather distantly, about the stories of the creature who haunts the harbour - who drags people to the depths.

"Are you?" you ask quietly as your heart hammers against your ribs. "Are you a monster?" His grip on you tightens and you find yourself entranced by the shimmering colour of his eyes - a part of your mind begins to panic, begins to try to break away, but you find that you just… can't.

"Oh, I wasn't always," he murmurs lowly. "But I think I am now. I think I was turned into one, don't you?"

"No…" you respond slowly, placing your hand over his where it grips your wrist and watching as the touch seems to shock him out of whatever trance he'd been in. "I think that's up to you." He blinks at you for a moment then, reeling, it would seem, from the entire interaction before he looks back down and sees the way he's gripping your arm, the cuts blemishing your skin there, oozing thin trails of red over his hand.

You sigh in relief, much to your own guilt, when he wrenches his hand away from you and steadies himself as water sloshes up against him. As he breathes deeply and runs a cold, blue-tinged hand through his hair roughly, you stand and turn to rummage in a chest for bandages and ointment and whatever else you need.

"I didn't -" he starts.

"I know," you cut him off, tucking yourself into a chair some distance away from him and rolling up your sleeve so that you can dab at the wounds gently. "It's alright."

"Then why won't you look at me?" he asks, and there's a harsh edge to his voice that makes you pause. It's a divergence from his normal smooth, silky voice that wafts over the breeze and has sailors stumbling towards him in a haze. It's wavering, now, jagged and honest and it makes you huff out a breath.

"Careful," you quip, but you still don't look up. "You sounded almost human there." You hear him sigh quietly and the waves rock the boat as he shifts his stance and pulls himself up and further out of the water.

"What are you doing?" This time you do look at him, throwing down the bandages that you'd been unravelling as he pulls himself further into your boat, letting his tail propel himself out of the water until he's laying almost on his back on your floor, propping himself up on his elbows and tipping his head back to stare at your ceiling as he drips water onto your rug.

"You're overextending your welcome, Dick," you say eventually, but there's a distinct lack of bite in your voice and his lazy grin proves that he knows that it's not a real jab, not when you say his name so sweetly - the name that he's whispered against you like a secret all those nights ago.

"I'm looking at your home," Dick responds easily, and you follow his gaze up toward the dried herbs hanging from your rafters.

You sigh, then, rolling your neck to try to ease some of the tension as you gather your first aid kit and bring them back toward him. He watches out of the corner of his eye as you kneel beside him once more, your knees hitting the soft rug with a dull thud as you begin unravelling the bandages once more.

Dick rolls onto his side to face you, though, propping himself up on just one elbow and reaching to take the bandages from your hands and coax you into giving him your arm.

"You're a bit hot and cold, aren't you?" you observe quietly, your voice a low murmur as he takes your injured arm so delicately in his hands and begins wrapping the bandages over the damaged skin.

"I don't mean to be," he answers honestly. You just shrug.

"I don't mind… I think we all are sometimes," you say honestly. He glances up at you, the blue of his eyes shimmering as he draws his brows together.

"You've only been kind to me."

"You haven't known me that long," you point out, but he just shoots you a scathing look.

"You might… just not give yourself enough credit," he offers as he finishes bandaging your arm, securing it and smoothing his hands over it to ensure that everything is as it should be. "I think you're a good person," he says earnestly.

"I think you're a good person, too," you reply easily, but he freezes at your words for a moment before he pulls his hands away from you and rolls onto his back, letting his shoulders thump against your rug as he lays his hands over his stomach.

"There's not much of me left that could be seen as a person," he says quietly, and as his tail swishes, it bumps against the side of the trapdoor opening. Glancing at it for just a moment, you wonder how big it really is - how far down into the icy, blackened depths it really goes.

"I don't know," you start, and your teasing tone has him narrowing his eyes at you as you raise yourself up to shuffle closer on your knees and lean over him, bracing your hands on either side of his head as you look down at him scrutinizingly. "Your eyes look pretty good to me. Almost human."

He makes a face at that, wrinkling his nose as he lifts his hands off of his stomach to let one wrap gently around your wrist and the other smooth over the back of your thigh where you're still leaning over him.

"I don't care for being human," he huffs. "Just not… this." You let your eyes flicker over his torso at his words before they settle on the gills lining the sides of his ribs. He watches, one hand still trailing up and down the back of your thigh as you shift your weight slightly. When you place one hand overtop of the gills ever so gently, your palm just barely brushing against them, you watch as they twitch and move.

"I said I'd help you with that, didn't I?" you murmur, looking down at the way they move underneath your touch.

"That was -" he starts, and he looks away with a bashfulness - with a guilt that doesn't look like it belongs. "That was before I hurt you."

"Oh, I don't mind," you respond easily, shifting your weight back onto your palms where they now rest on either side of his head again. "Just as long as you never look at me like that again." You lean down as you speak, comforting the guilty look in his eyes with a kiss on his cheek that has him sighing underneath you.

"I think you should keep it unlocked," he says quietly, and you hum in confusion before glancing at the lock of the trapdoor and grinning just a bit.

"What, you planning on dropping by?" you quip, but one of his arms slides around your waist and he pulls you closer to him, your thighs widening as he tugs you down.

"Probably," he answers easily, and you huff a bit.

"What if something else decides to come pay me a visit, hm?" You say it mostly as a joke, but Dick's look sours and you catch a glimpse of his sharp, deadly canines as his lip curls in unhappiness.

"I won't let that happen," he offers firmly, his grip on you tightening. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"Well," you say, a bit breathless. "I guess I have nothing to worry about, then."

"You're distracting me," you murmur, sighing long-sufferingly when you're met with nothing more than a watery giggle in response to your chastising. You're sitting on the edge of your boat, cross-legged to keep your feet from touching the water as your hands flit over his gills to check the progress of their healing.

But his hands roam over you, too, smoothing over your ribs and twirling your hair through his cold fingers as he watches you work. Below you, somewhere in the impossible, twisted depths of the harbour, his massive tail thumps against the underside of the boat and tips you forward until your forehead knocks against his chest and he giggles again in that tantalizing, siren-like way of his.

"Really, Dick," you continue as you plant a hand on the smooth, cold skin of his chest to steady yourself and huff in mock annoyance. "You should be much better now. Is it… do they feel different?"

"Of course," he answers quickly, but when you purse your lips in annoyance, he grins flippantly and you feel his twisted gills twitch under your fingers. "They do," he assures gently, a bit more serious this time. "I… I feel like I can breathe again. I feel like…"

He stops then, looking out towards the docks and the endless, tangled maze of shipping containers and docked boats as you watch him. You smooth your hand more firmly over his side as another wave rocks the boat and you wonder, with a bit less concern than perhaps you should have, if it's him that's churning the waters down below - or if there's something else down there in the blackened depths.

"You're free now," you supply for him when he doesn't finish speaking, and he starts in surprise and snaps his gaze to you, looking at you imploringly with those widened, twisted blue eyes.

"Free?" he asks haltingly.

"Mhmm," you nod slowly. "It's… I don't know. It's this place, isn't it? It's that water." You reach up as you speak, smoothing his bluish-black hair out of his eyes and pressing your lips together as you consider how to explain it - how to define the twisted curse of this place that you've both found yourselves trapped in.

"It's like, once you're here," he begins, pausing and looking out towards the vast harbour, the endless darkness of the water seemingly swallowing the sunlight that touches it. "Once you're here… you can never really leave."

"It's… yea. Something like that," you agree, chewing your lip as you roll his words over in your mind. And it's like he knows - it's like those impossibly blue eyes can look right through you when he stares, because he taps his finger against your hip and you blink up at him.

"What about you?" he asks softly. "What curse is keeping you here?"

You open your mouth to respond, to say something in comfort as the twisting trap of the harbour looms behind you, but a noise on the dock startles the two of you. By the time you realize that it's a couple of dockworkers wandering too close to your secluded little safe haven, he's already slipped from your grasp, disappearing into the icy, cursed waters below and sinking to somewhere where you can't follow.

Huffing a bit, you stand and stretch and stare out towards the water for just a moment before heading inside. And as you look out, as you stare and hope and wait, you see the ripple of something breaking through the surface - you see the shimmering, finned tail pop out of the water just enough so that you know… he's still down there. He's right underneath you, haunting the waters that he now calls home.

"I'm going to start keeping that locked again if you don't stop doing that," you say breathlessly as you put a hand over your heart. The trapdoor at the bottom of your boat had just been swung open rather abruptly, slamming against the wooden floor so that he can pull himself out of the water.

"Why are there so many people searching the docks for you?" is all he says in response, his eyes flashing as he stares intently towards you. You just sigh and move to sit next to him, crossing your legs on the plush carpet and leaning on your palm as you look at him.

"They're witch hunters," you say simply. "This is illegal, you know."

"But you help people," he presses, something swirling in his eyes as he leans closer to you in anger. "What will they do to you when they find you?"

"Haven't you seen the smoke?" you shrug, leaning back and blinking as the intensity rolling off of him in waves makes you dizzy. "They're witch pyres."

"What?"

"It's a death sentence," you explain patiently. "If they can prove that someone's using witchcraft, it's… there's a death penalty. They're just hanging around to see if they can catch me. They can't arrest me without proof."

He stares at you, then, for a moment long enough that you shift where you sit and sigh deeply. But then he turns to stare out of one of the glazed windows, eyeing the flickering shadows of the world outside as if every one of them is a threat.

"Why not stop, then?" he asks quietly, keeping his gaze on the window.

"Stop?" you splutter. "Why would I?"

"Because you'll die," he says firmly. You smile gently, a bit too at ease with the whole thing than he is.

"We all die for something," you say softly. "I may as well die for living." He looks back at you, then, something large and sad and haunting in his gaze as he stares down at you. A bit of water sloshes up onto your floor as his tail trashes through the water below and you cock your head to the side in question as you wait for him to speak.

"I thought that once, too," he says slowly - haltingly, like the words scrape at his throat on their way out. "I thought that, when the poachers caught me - when they shipped me to this place like cargo. And when I escaped… I thought these waters would kill me."

"But isn't it better," you respond softly, smoothing a hand over his heart as he looks down at you with furrowed brows, his hair dripping water down his face. "To die free, in the seas, instead of in a cage?"

"That's what I thought," he nods.

"And now?" you ask slowly. A frown tugs at his lips and he sighs as he looks down at you, his lips pressed together into a thin line.

"Now I wonder… if this is what this place has turned me into… what will it do to you?" You straighten at his words, huffing out a breath in surprise as he stares imploringly at you. But then you clear your throat and let your gaze rake over his figure. Glancing at the gills that now sit healthy and fluttering, at the crystal clear gaze of his eyes and the steady beating of his heart.

"Don't say it like there's no going back," you say instead of really answering. "I can't turn you back into what you were before, but you're whole again now, aren't you? You're free, remember?" He just sighs at that, though, and lets his eyes close as he leans forward to press his forehead against yours. Droplets of water drip from his face onto yours, leaving tangled trails of shining, cold wetness over your cheeks.

"But what will you do, then?" he asks quietly. "If I'm not here to keep you safe?"

"I'll be alright," you whisper back, smoothing a hand over the back of his neck to rub soothing circles into his skin with your thumb as you let your eyes flutter closed.

Dick's hand finds your waist and he tightens his grip, his fingers pressing in as if you'll disappear if he doesn't hold on. He thinks of it - of the wide blue seas, of the breeze and the rolling waves and sun beating down. He thinks of the freedom beyond this tangled web of darkness and something painful tugs at his heart.

As he opens his eyes and tilts his head back to look down at you, small and alive and looking up at him with a trust that he's never known before, he wonders if perhaps this is the real curse of Gotham. It's not that you can't leave - it's that, suddenly, you find that you never really want to.

But, of course, the stories have continued to rage on outside of your little safe haven, and whispers spread through the tangled streets about the creature in the deep… and now those stories include you. People have begun speculating that there's a witch practicing in the harbour, and stories tell of someone helping the monster of the water, making him stronger and more powerful and more capable of harm than ever before.

And you hear them, of course, the tales and the rumours and the fear that begins to spread. It seeps into your home, oozing through the wooden planks and wrapping around you at night as you sit alone, no longer finding company in the blackened waters below.

You sent him away, you remind yourself. You gave him freedom and now he's gone. It's a fact that you remember with a startling zip of panic one night, when the moon hangs low and your breath fogs in front of your face as you wind through the maze of the docks quickly and quietly.

It's not often that you leave your boat these days, but it has to happen sometimes - and judging from the glinting stares of the dockworkers, you're not the only one who knew that. You know that you're being followed - you know how this night will end. The law may have to wait for proof to see you dead, but the poachers slinking around the docks and hauling illegal cargo aren't bound by such rules, and the menacing cloud hanging over you proves that.

You freeze suddenly, jerking yourself out of your thoughts as you stare out at the dock in front of you - at the raging water beyond and the poachers that you can see just beyond the shipping crates. You have nowhere left to run, you realize haltingly. There is no safety to be found for you on this cursed night.

You think idly, as you stare out towards the abandoned waters, about what he'd said to you before you'd sent him away. You'll die for this, he's promised. If you set me free and you stay behind, you'll die in this cursed place.

Of course I will, you'd thought. But you hadn't expected it to be so soon. A thunderous wave crashes up onto the wooden dock and you consider, for just a moment, how lucky you may be to die free, standing on the edge of this curse and leaning out towards the open seas.

And then you hear it, the dull footsteps and the jeering of approaching poachers, violence dripping off of them and staining the space between you all. You see it, the glint of a knife being pulled from somewhere hidden, the rolling shoulders of a man succumbing to fear.

And then… and then…

The huge, finned tail of a creature born of cursed nightmares and vengeance, breaking the water's surface to arch high overhead and make everyone stumble to a halt. You think, rather alarmed, that you really, really hadn't realized just how much of him he'd kept unseen - you notice it for the first time as the sheer size of the scaled tail fills the sky above you, the shimmering, thick fins blocking out the moonlight and casting a great, swallowing shadow over the dock in front of you.

And then it moves, swift and powerful enough to send a gust of wind in your direction, tearing through your hair as you watch the tail smash through the wooden dock between you and the poachers. They scream, panicked and stumbling as the dock splinters and cracks and crumbles underneath you all, and the tail simply raises again to slam down a second time, now aiming directly for the men.

You hear it, as you stumble and misstep, the wooden planks collapsing beneath you - you hear the sickening cracks of the poachers being slammed by the tail, crushing them as they scream.

But then the wood under your feet finally gives way, and you find yourself plummeting into the icy, darkened waters below.

And these waters, you recall in a hazy, far away sort of way, aren't fit for humans - even ones like you. Dark and cold and murky, it burns and freezes and blurs out your mind and thinking. Stay out of the water, you think as you sink further down, down, deep towards the bottom, the faint lights of the dock disappearing above.

Stay out of the water - or it will never let you out.

You notice it in a sort of trance, as if it's happening to someone else and you're watching through a window - you can almost feel it, the arms that wrap around you, cold and firm. You can almost feel the water move around you as he begins to pull you up, out of the impossible depths and back towards the surface, towards the light and the warmth of the open night sky.

The water is impossible to see through, dark and muddy and hazing your vision, but you can see, through the cloudy ripples, the bioluminescent glow of his tail - like pinpricks of light, blue and violet and green, swirling all around you.

You let your eyes try to follow the lights, but they twist and move and spread so far away that they fade into the depths, and the sight has you choking out a gasp and spluttering as the toxic water begins to fill your lungs - it has you reeling as you wonder, yet again, just how monstrous his figure really is.

But then the trapdoor of your boat is being slammed open from underneath and he's pulling you out of the water to lay you onto the plush rug in your home, letting you cough and splutter and gasp for breath. You tremble and shake, the cold from the water seeping into you and freezing you from the inside out as your lungs struggle and burn from the air you're trying to gasp in.

Dick's learned, though, you think distractedly as you watch him pull himself up and out of the water after you. He understands the witchcraft that you do and the potions that you make. It doesn't take long for him to have you pressed against him, curled into his chest as he brings vials to your lips gently, urging you to drink until your lungs begin to expand properly and your eyes focus on him.

By the time your mind begins to clear again, your chest rising and falling in a steadier pattern as your breathing evens out once more, Dick's laying on the rug next to you, curling around you in a protective sort of embrace, and you sit up just enough to see the beginnings of his tail winding around you as well until you're in a makeshift sort of nest. As your eyes follow his tail through its twists and curls and settle on where it continues down into the murky water, you can't help but think back to the impossible power of it that you'd witnessed before.

"Don't move," he murmurs sternly, tugging you back down to press you against his chest again. You're still shaking, trembling from the cold that still lingers under your skin, and the sight makes him frown as he swipes a thumb over your lips as they stay stained blue from the freezing temperatures of the water. His skin, as he shifts against you, you're sure doesn't help - always cold to the touch, always inhumanly freezing.

"Just let me get something," you respond quietly, your voice raspy from the strain you'd put on your throat and lungs. A frown tugs on his lips, but he lets you stand on shaky legs and take just a few steps away from him to snatch the blanket off of the back of your armchair before you're stumbling back to him. That frown of his doesn't begin to ease until he's got you pressed against him again, the blanket tucked securely around you and his hands flitting around, smoothing down the fabric and tucking in the corners.

"I thought you were gone," you admit softly, your face pressed against his chest. His hands still a bit before he's smoothing a palm over the back of your hair and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"I wouldn't leave you like this," he responds gently, his voice soothing in that soft, slow way of his. "I couldn't leave you to do this alone."

"But what about you?" you push. "Don't you want to go home?" Dick sighs at that, wrapping the blanket tighter around you where it's begun to slip off of your shoulder.

"There's something about this place," he muses, like there's a point that he's sidestepping - like there's something that he doesn't want to admit. "I guess I couldn't really find it in me to - there's something about… I don't know, this place. This city and this harbour and… and you. It's like I'm rooted here."

"I'm… sorry," you offer gently. He just places a soothing kiss to your cheek and squeezes you gently in his arms as if to say it's not your fault. This isn't your curse. This isn't your trap.

"I think…" he begins slowly, smoothing a hand up and down your spine. "That there may not be anything for me out there anymore. Not… not with this curse of mine" He glances down at himself as he speaks, at his twisted tail and the way the scales ripple and catch the light. You may have healed his pain, sure, but not even you could turn him into what he was before. He's this monster now, warped and twisted and deadly… and that's just the way it is, he thinks.

"I suppose," you respond slowly. "There's no breaking curses like ours. Maybe there really is no escaping this place."

"But is it so bad?" he offers gently, crooking his forefinger under your chin to make you look up at him, to sweep his thumb over your bottom lip once more and feel the warmth returning to you, flushing your skin. "Is it so horrible to share a curse like this?"

"No," you murmur as his lips find yours, soft and gentle and cold to the touch. "Maybe it's not."

"And besides," Dick adds, a humour seeping into his voice that has you narrowing your eyes in suspicion. "It seems you clearly need something lurking in the water to look out for you."

"Um… do you need to deal with that?" The woman you're speaking to is staring at the trapdoor in the bottom of your boat with a concerned sort of shock as the hinges rattle and the lock creaks.

"What? No, no, it's -" you say as you slam your foot onto it, stomping the wood aggressively. "It's just the waves." She's looking at you like she doesn't believe you, and the banging sound that's coming from the trapdoor isn't helping much, you're sure.

"Alright, I - um, that's right. I - I have your payment here," the woman continues politely, handing you an envelope. You flip it open to count the bills in it quickly, keeping one foot planted firmly on the rattling trapdoor. It may be illegal, this practice of yours, but condemning witchcraft has yet to make it unhelpful. Even now, months after your move to Gotham, you have a steady stream of customers slipping into your boat and asking for your help.

"Ok, come back soon!" You call as the woman makes a hasty exit after you've approved her money, glancing back to the trapdoor with a scared sort of look before she disappears.

It's once she's gone, then, that you lift your foot and unlock the latch before stepping back just in time for Dick to throw the door up and open with a loud bang.

"Why did you lock it?" he huffs as he pulls himself up, catching the towel that you toss to him.

"I always lock it when I have customers," you sigh good-naturedly, sitting next to him and watching as he hastily dries off himself, keeping the polluted harbour water away from your rug. "We really… we really can't be seen like this."

"I don't know what you mean," Dick sniffs indignantly, but the sly look that he shoots you as he tosses the towel aside says otherwise. You let him get away with it, of course, doing nothing but settling further and letting him sprawl himself across your lap.

"I'm serious," you say, but you begin to card your fingers through his hair gently as you chastise him and you watch as he lets his eyes flutter closed, his tail swishing through the water below you and rocking the boat in soothing movements. "All of us have to be careful. There are rumours of a purge going on - people are even talking about bringing the vampire hunts back."

"Vampires?" Dick opens one eye to squint up at you. "In Gotham? That can't be true."

"You'd be surprised," you murmur, but you shush him nonetheless, letting him close his eyes again as you smooth over his furrowed brows with your thumb.

"You're not… you're not really upset, are you?" he says slowly - quietly, like he's afraid of the answer.

"With you?" you respond easily. "No, never." You lean down to kiss him, then, delicate little things placed first on his lips and then across his face as he relaxes against you. You both know, by now, that you're not really upset. How can you be? When you have a home and a practice and a rather vicious guard dog who loves you so much.

How can you be upset? With this life that you've built for yourself and this curse that you've tamed.

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novaursa · 1 month ago

Text

The Golden Court (free cities)

- Summary: You were taken from the royal court by your father when you were a child. Now you return as a woman grown from exile. A woman that ignites fires in her wake.

- Pairing: Jason Lannister/targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Note: Adult themes will progress more and more as chapters go on. This fic is pure filth and I make no apologies for it. You have been warned.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: voyage of life

- Next chapter: winds of change

- Tag(s): @scarletdfox @princesstiti14 @idenyimimdenial

The distant silhouette of the Free City rose against the horizon, its gleaming domes and towering spires bathed in the glow of the afternoon sun. The air grew warmer as the ship neared the bustling port, the scent of spices, salt, and sun-baked stone curling through the wind.

It had been weeks at sea, the rhythm of the waves now as familiar as breath, but as the great city loomed before you, you felt the shift—the change in air, in energy, in expectation.

The Free Cities had always been a world apart from Westeros. Here, gold ruled more than blood. Here, alliances were bought, not inherited.

Here, you were always welcome.

Jason stood at the prow of the ship, his eyes gleaming with curiosity as he took in the city before him. His hair was tousled by the warm Essosi breeze, his tunic half-laced, his smirk ever-present.

Tyland, ever composed, stood beside him, his expression more measured, more calculated.

"You have been here before," Tyland murmured, his gaze flickering toward you.

You nodded, stepping forward, your fingers trailing along the polished railing as you watched the harbor draw near.

"Many times," you said. "My father and I were always welcomed in this city. Its ruler—Lord Adriano Volentin—has always made sure of that."

Jason arched a brow. "A nobleman of Essos willing to extend his hospitality to Daemon Targaryen? Either he is a fool, or he is far too clever."

You smirked. "A bit of both, I imagine. But above all, he is a merchant, and merchants always know where to find profit."

Jason laughed, shaking his head. "And now, he welcomes not just the daughter of the Rogue Prince, but two Lannisters as well. My, my, the man must be practically giddy."

Tyland sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Then we best ensure we do not make fools of ourselves before the city even swallows us whole."

The ship cut through the last stretch of water, the dockworkers already scrambling to secure the ropes, calling out in the Free Cities' tongue as they hurried to make way for their esteemed guests.

The moment the gangplank was lowered, you stepped onto solid ground, the heat of the stone beneath your boots, the scent of the city thick in the air, the hum of life pressing in from every direction.

And waiting for you, at the edge of the dock, was Lord Adriano Volentin.

He was a man of fine silks and even finer words, his dark hair pulled back, his neatly trimmed beard only adding to his effortless charm. His eyes, keen and knowing, gleamed with the satisfaction of a man who had prepared for this moment.

"Ah, my dear princess!" Adriano exclaimed, stepping forward with open arms, his voice rich with amusement. "It has been far too long. And yet, time has only been kind to you."

You smirked, tilting your head slightly as you regarded him. "And you, Lord Adriano, remain as welcoming as ever."

His gaze flickered past you, settling on Jason and Tyland with open curiosity. "And these must be the legendary Lannister twins. Tell me, which one is the troublemaker?"

Jason grinned, stepping forward, offering a mock bow. "Oh, that would be me, my lord."

Adriano laughed, clearly entertained. "I suspected as much. But trouble and opportunity often walk hand in hand, do they not?"

Tyland, ever composed, merely offered a polite nod. "It is a pleasure, my lord. I understand you have been a gracious host to my wife in the past."

Adriano placed a hand over his heart, feigning deep offense. "Gracious? My dear Lord Tyland, you wound me. I have been more than gracious—I have been utterly devoted."

Jason chuckled. "And now, I suspect, you see an even greater opportunity before you."

Adriano smirked. "I do. After all, it is not every day one hosts a Targaryen dragon-rider and two Lannisters in the same halls."

His gaze flickered toward the sky, where Haelle circled overhead, her shadow sweeping across the city below. "And it seems you have brought your own particular brand of spectacle with you."

You sighed. "She does not like to be ignored."

Adriano grinned. "Neither do I. But come—let us not waste time standing on the docks like common traders. My estate awaits, and I have ensured that the finest wine, the softest silks, and the most comfortable accommodations are prepared."

Jason exhaled, pleased. "Finally, a man who knows how to make an entrance worthwhile."

Adriano chuckled, motioning toward the waiting carriages. "Then come, my honored guests. Let us discuss the future—over wine, of course."

And with that, you stepped into the city, into the world of golden coin and whispered promises, where trade and power danced together beneath the Essosi sun.

The estate of Lord Adriano Volentin was a marvel of Essosi grandeur, its sprawling courtyards adorned with statues of winged beasts, many fountains flowing with water so clear it seemed like glass, and silk-draped archways leading to shaded pavilions where noblemen and women lounged in effortless luxury.

The air was heavy with the scent of spiced wine and citrus, the warm breeze carrying the soft hum of laughter, music, and murmured conversations. Servants, dressed in robes of deep crimson and indigo, moved with practiced grace, offering goblets of exotic wines and trays of delicacies that gleamed like jewels under the golden sunlight.

Jason, ever the lion basking in the admiration of the crowd, walked beside you with the kind of arrogance that only a Lannister could wear so naturally. His hair caught the light in perfect disarray, his green eyes gleaming with amusement as he took in the eager stares of Adriano’s noble guests.

Tyland, walking on your other side, was more composed, but no less pleased. His expression remained measured, his stride deliberate, but the way his fingers brushed against your waist as you walked spoke volumes.

They were proud to have you between them.

And the guests of Adriano’s estate? They were utterly enchanted.

Soft whispers followed you through the grand halls, their voices hushed but no less thrilled.

"A Targaryen, with golden lions at her side… how magnificent."

"She moves like her father, but gods, she is more beautiful than him."

"The Nightmare Queen, they call her dragon. But look at her—does she look like a nightmare to you?"

Jason chuckled, clearly enjoying the attention as much as you were.

Adriano led you through the archways of his estate, his own amusement evident as he turned slightly to glance at you. "I must say, my dear princess, I do not believe I have seen my guests this enchanted since the Festival of the Moon. And that night ended in three duels, two affairs, and a rather impressive diplomatic scandal."

You smirked. "Then let us hope our presence brings just as much entertainment."

Jason grinned, his arm curling around your waist. "Oh, my love, I do not believe we could avoid that if we tried."

Tyland sighed but did not argue.

Adriano led you into the central courtyard, where a grand banquet had already been prepared in honor of your arrival. Low tables covered in silk and gold stood beneath an open-air pavilion, cushions arranged for comfort, while musicians played soft, enchanting melodies in the background.

Noblewomen draped in diaphanous silks and jeweled adornments turned their gazes toward you, their eyes filled with curiosity, intrigue, and admiration.

A nobleman, older but well-dressed in the fashion of Lys, stepped forward, his dark eyes assessing. "It is rare for a woman to command the attention of both Essos and Westeros in equal measure," he remarked, his accent rich and lilting. "And yet, you do so effortlessly, my lady."

Jason smirked, raising his goblet. "You should see what else she commands."

Tyland, ever the diplomat, tilted his head slightly, his voice smooth but firm. "A woman who rides a dragon commands more than just admiration. She commands fear, respect, and power."

Adriano laughed, clapping his hands together. "Ah, and here we have the perfect balance! A king in his own mind, a diplomat by nature, and a woman who holds both in the palm of her hand."

He turned toward his guests, spreading his arms in grand fashion. "Come, my friends! Let us drink to our honored guests. To their union, to their strength, and to the fire they have brought to our humble city."

The crowd raised their goblets, voices ringing out in agreement as the first toast of the evening was made.

Jason leaned into you, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction. "I do believe I love this place already."

You smirked, lifting your own goblet as the music swelled, as the feast began, as the night promised nothing but decadence, power, and the sweet taste of indulgence.

The feast unfurled like a carefully choreographed performance, each movement deliberate, each glance a silent negotiation, each cup of wine a promise or a trap. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, sweetened citrus, and the lingering perfume of fine myrrh that clung to the silken robes of the noble guests.

Jason, as expected, thrived in the attention.

Lord Adriano Volentin, ever the gracious host, had positioned himself close, too close, his attention divided between pleasantries and his unspoken goal.

His dark eyes—clever and assessing—lingered on Jason, but never strayed too far from you.

Jason, of course, had noticed.

The golden-haired lion lounged at the banquet table as if he were already lord of this city, reclining against the cushions with one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his goblet swirling with deep red Essosi wine. His smirk was a permanent fixture, his gaze flicking toward Adriano with lazy amusement as the nobleman made yet another attempt to draw him into negotiations.

“My dear Lord Jason, surely you must understand the immense opportunity before us,” Adriano began, his voice smooth, his hands gesturing in grand, practiced movements.

Jason took a slow sip of his wine before replying, entirely unfazed. “I understand that you are quite persistent.”

Adriano laughed, unbothered. “A necessary trait in my position, I assure you. I have spent many years ensuring that this city thrives, that its trade networks flourish. Now, imagine what could be accomplished if such networks were to extend beyond the Narrow Sea. Imagine Lannister gold flowing through the Free Cities, enriching both your house and my ports.”

Jason arched a brow, setting his goblet down with a soft clink. “Oh, I can imagine many things, my Lord Volentin. But tell me—what exactly would you have me trade? The Rock has no shortage of wealth. What could Essos possibly offer me that I do not already have?”

Adriano smiled, tilting his head slightly, his gaze flickering—just briefly—toward you. “Exotic luxuries, rare spices, silks that even your finest Westerosi weavers could not hope to replicate. Knowledge, Lord Jason. Secrets that are worth more than gold.”

Jason’s smirk widened, his green eyes gleaming with amusement. “Ah. Now we come to it. Secrets. You wish to sell me information.”

Adriano spread his hands. “Is information not the most valuable currency in all the world?”

Jason leaned forward slightly, his gaze now sharper, more measured. “And tell me, my dear host, what secrets do you possess that would be worth parting with my coin?”

Before Adriano could answer, you turned away, the conversation fading into the background as you focused on the true purpose of the evening.

Jason would play his game with Adriano, but you had your own agenda.

You turned toward Tyland, who had been watching the exchange with his usual reserved demeanor, his expression unreadable as he assessed both Jason and their host with quiet calculation.

His hands rested neatly in his lap, his posture poised, elegant, but his gaze was keen—always watching, always learning.

“Come, my love,” you murmured, leaning down just slightly, your fingers grazing against his wrist. “There are people I would like you to meet.”

Tyland’s gaze flicked toward you, a question in his eyes, but he said nothing. He simply nodded, standing gracefully, adjusting the cuffs of his tunic as he followed your lead.

The noblemen and noblewomen you had come to know in your past visits to Essos had gathered in small clusters throughout the pavilion, indulging in wine and whispered discussions, their silken robes pooling over the cushioned seats, their jeweled fingers tapping against goblets as they spoke in low, hushed voices.

They had always been a world apart from Westerosi lords and ladies. Here, power was not simply inherited—it was taken, bargained for, and held onto with ruthless precision.

You approached a familiar face first.

Lady Renata Morvello, a merchant princess from Lys, adorned in sheer silks that shimmered in the lantern light, her dark curls pinned with golden combs, her lips curved into a knowing smile as she spotted you. “Ah, the Targaryen returns, and with such fine company.”

You smirked, inclining your head. “My lady, it has been too long.”

Renata’s eyes flickered toward Tyland, appraising him as one would a finely cut jewel. “And this must be your other lion. I have heard whispers, but seeing is believing.”

Tyland, ever composed, dipped his head in polite greeting. “Lady Morvello.”

Renata chuckled, motioning for the two of you to sit beside her on the cushioned lounge. “Tell me, my dear, how is it that you have managed to entangle yourself with not one, but two Lannisters? The women of Westeros must weep for their loss.”

You tilted your head slightly, a slow smile curling at your lips. “Perhaps they should have tried harder to keep them.”

Renata laughed, delighted.

Tyland, beside you, simply exhaled slowly, though you could feel the subtle amusement in the way his fingers brushed against yours as he reached for his goblet.

As the night continued, you led Tyland through the gathering, introducing him to those who mattered most—those whose voices carried weight in the Free Cities, whose wealth and influence shaped the tides of trade and power.

He listened carefully, spoke with precision, assessed each person with quiet intelligence.

And in return, they assessed him.

By the time you returned to Jason’s side, he was leaning lazily against the back of the lounge, one leg draped over the other, still engaged in his verbal sparring match with Adriano.

The conversation had shifted now, the topic hovering dangerously close to the chaos left in Westeros, the murmurs of unrest, the whispers of what their union had set into motion.

Adriano’s smile had not faltered, but there was something sharper behind his eyes now.

Jason, of course, thrived in it.

Tyland, settling beside you, sighed quietly, shaking his head. “Should I be concerned?”

You smirked, watching as Jason leaned closer, his voice dropping into something lower, more dangerous.

“Always.”

The air in the pavilion thickened, the tension settling like the heavy fragrance of spiced wine and burning incense. Just before you and Tyland returned, Jason had allowed Adriano his amusement, had indulged his wit, his negotiations, and his carefully curated charm.

But now—it was time to remind the merchant lord who exactly he was dealing with.

The agreement had been struck, ink had been set to parchment, and now a servant—draped in deep indigo silks, silent and swift in his duty—presented the final copies for both parties to sign.

Jason took the quill with lazy ease, his fingers twirling it briefly as if the entire ordeal were a mere game to him. His smirk was ever-present, his eyes gleaming under the lantern light.

Adriano, seated across from him, mirrored the amusement—but his own gaze flickered, just briefly, toward you once again.

It was not an obvious look, nor was it particularly brazen. But it was a look nonetheless. A glance of too much interest, too much lingering curiosity.

Jason signed the parchment with a flourish, the ink bold and sharp against the thick parchment.

Then—he set the quill down.

The shift in his demeanor was subtle, yet immediate.

Where before he had lounged like a lion too full to bother with the mice scurrying at his feet, now there was something coiled beneath his skin. Something watchful. Unforgiving.

Jason’s smirk remained, but his eyes—those sharp, cunning Lannister eyes—were locked on Adriano with something colder beneath them.

“You’ve made a fine bargain tonight, Lord Volentin,” Jason mused, tilting his head slightly. “A profitable one, even. You must be quite pleased with yourself.”

Adriano, ever the seasoned diplomat, did not falter.

He inclined his head, a hand resting lightly against his own goblet, his demeanor one of practiced ease. “I am always pleased when good business is done, Lord Jason. And even more so when done in such excellent company.”

Jason laughed, a sharp, rich sound, one that echoed through the pavilion like the chime of gold striking gold.

Then—without breaking his smile, without lifting his gaze from Adriano, Jason spoke again. “And tell me, my dear Lord Volentin—do you often look upon the wives of your trading partners as if they were a part of the bargain?”

The silence was instant.

The music still played in the background, the chatter of nobles carried on in soft murmurs, but within this small pocket of space—a stillness settled, heavy and deliberate.

Adriano’s expression did not shift immediately, but there was a brief flicker in his eyes. He recovered swiftly, his lips parting into another easy smile. “Ah. A misunderstanding, surely.”

Jason’s smirk did not waver. “Is it?”

Adriano let out a soft chuckle, feigning amusement as he spread his hands. “I had merely assumed—given the... unique arrangement you share with your brother—that admiration would not be so offensive.”

Jason grinned wider, but it did not reach his eyes. “Ah. There it is. You assumed.”

He leaned forward slightly, his green eyes gleaming with something unmistakably dangerous. “Now, allow me to correct that assumption, Lord Adriano.”

The light flickered across his features, casting sharp shadows across the angles of his face. “I do not share what is mine outside of those I choose to. And I certainly do not tolerate lingering stares from men who forget their place.”

Adriano’s smile held, but there was a slight stiffness to it now, the smooth confidence just a hairline thinner than before.

Jason leaned back again, as if wholly unbothered, his fingers toying with the rim of his goblet. “Of course, if you were hoping to include yourself in our arrangement, I would be forced to decline on my wife’s behalf. She prefers men who do not require coin to hold power.”

Adriano’s jaw tensed, ever so slightly, but he did not rise to the bait. Instead, he lifted his goblet in a gesture of mocking camaraderie. “A jest, Lord Jason? Or a warning?”

Jason’s smile turned sharper, his teeth gleaming in the lantern light. “Both, my dear lord. And trust me when I say—one of those carries more weight than the other.”

The moment lingered, stretched thin between them.

Then—Adriano laughed. It was a rich sound, practiced, but beneath it, there was a glint of calculation, a note of quiet retreat. “Well then, let us drink to good business and better understanding.”

Jason, ever the consummate player of games, lifted his goblet in response.

They drank.

But the message had been delivered.

And Jason—the lion who had played his part well—had ensured that Adriano Volentin would never look too long again.

The estate was quiet now, the soft hum of music and conversation having long since faded into the warm Essosi night. The corridors, once filled with the gentle rustling of silk-clad noblemen and the laughter of courtiers, now lay still, bathed in the glow of lanterns that flickered against intricately carved columns and embroidered tapestries.

You, Jason, and Tyland had retired to the chambers prepared for you—a lavish set of rooms draped in deep crimson silks, decorated with Essosi opulence. The walls were lined with ornate golden latticework, the furniture carved from dark, polished wood, the air heavy with the scent of myrrh and citrus. The bed, far grander than any in Westeros, stood at the heart of the chamber, its plush furs and embroidered cushions promising indulgence, promising decadence.

Jason, of course, was already making himself comfortable.

He reclined against the bed’s headrest, his tunic loosened at the collar, his golden hair slightly disheveled, his green eyes still gleaming with the satisfaction of the evening’s dealings. He had poured himself another goblet of wine, swirling the dark liquid lazily, as if savoring the taste of victory just as much as the taste of the drink itself.

Tyland, ever more meticulous in his habits, was in the process of removing his doublet, folding it neatly before setting it aside, his movements precise, measured. Where Jason reveled in chaos, Tyland maintained order—but even he looked weary from the evening’s social games.

You stood by the window, the warm night breeze caressing your skin, the view of the city beyond stretching endlessly under the starlit sky.

Jason exhaled, setting his goblet down with a soft clink against the wooden bedside table before turning his gaze to you and Tyland. "Well, my loves, I have done what I do best—ensured that my name, and by extension, ours, will hold weight in this city for years to come."

Tyland arched a brow, finally turning his full attention toward his twin. "And what exactly have you promised in return?"

Jason smirked, stretching his arms behind his head, his expression one of sheer satisfaction. "A trade agreement, of course. Gold flows from the Rock, and in return, we receive exclusive shipping routes through Essos. The Free Cities are eager to strengthen ties with the West, and who better to serve as their bridge than me?"

You turned, crossing your arms, leaning against one of the ornate bedposts as you regarded him with mild amusement. "You truly believe Westeros will embrace Essosi influence so willingly?"

Jason scoffed, grinning. "They won’t. Which is why I’ve ensured that by the time they realize what has happened, it will be far too profitable to resist."

Tyland sighed, but there was no true disapproval in his expression—only resigned acceptance. "Gods save us," he muttered, rubbing his temple.

Jason chuckled, but his expression shifted slightly, something more calculating flickering beneath his easy amusement. "There is one matter, however, that I found... less agreeable."

You raised a brow, tilting your head. "Oh? And what was that?"

Jason leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze focused. "Adriano. He seems rather... taken with you."

You laughed, shaking your head, turning away briefly as you let the night breeze cool your flushed skin. "You will have to grow accustomed to that, dear husband. Essos is not Westeros. Here, desire is open, admiration is freely given, and men do not shy away from showing their interest."

Jason huffed, his fingers tapping idly against his knee. "I have no issue with that. What I do have an issue with is how they look at you, as if they believe they stand a chance. As if they forget who you belong to."

Tyland, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, his voice even, measured. "For once, I agree with him."

You blinked, surprised, before a slow smirk curled your lips. "Oh? Am I to be guarded like some priceless relic now?"

Jason’s eyes gleamed, his smirk returning, but there was something darker behind it, something more possessive. "You are priceless, my love. But you are no relic. You are ours. And I will not have men looking at you as if you are something to be taken."

Tyland merely rolled his eyes, but he did not disagree.

You, however, were amused.

"So terribly possessive, my lions." You stepped closer, slowly, deliberately, your fingers trailing lightly along Jason’s knee as you moved between them, your voice lilting with playful mockery. "I wonder, will you start mauling every man who so much as glances my way?"

Jason’s smirk widened. "Oh, you find this amusing, do you?"

"Very."

Jason moved then, swift and deliberate. In one fluid motion, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you down onto the bed, pinning you beneath him, his hands caging you on either side, his weight pressing against you, unrelenting.

Your breath hitched, but you did not resist.

His green eyes locked onto yours, the fire in them unmistakable, his smirk cutting as a blade. "Perhaps I should remind you exactly whom you belong to."

Tyland groaned annoyed beside the bed, but you caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his gaze. "Must you always be so theatrical?"

Jason grinned. "Must you always be so dull?"

You laughed, breathless, caught between the two of them, utterly at their mercy.

The moment Jason’s lips crashed against yours, there was no hesitation—no gentleness, no measured approach. He kissed you with the raw intensity of a man claiming what was his, his fingers threading through your hair as he deepened the kiss, his body pressing against yours with unmistakable purpose. The wine lingered on his tongue, rich and dark, but it was the heat of him, the unrelenting force of his desire, that truly intoxicated you.

Your breath hitched as his hands moved with practiced ease, undoing the intricate clasps of your attire, pulling away the silken layers with little patience, with little care for anything but the feel of your bare skin against his. The warm air of the chamber kissed your exposed flesh, but Jason’s touch burned hotter, his fingers trailing possessively down the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, as if seeking to map every inch of you, to mark you in a way that no man—no trade lord of Essos, no schemer with clever words and lingering stares—could ever undo.

He did not waste time.

Jason had always been a man of indulgence, but tonight there was something different. Something edged with something sharper, something more demanding. He pressed you down into the plush furs of the bed, his weight sinking into you, his hands firm as they pinned you beneath him. His mouth found your throat, tracing heated kisses along the column of your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse before his teeth grazed against sensitive skin, enough to make you shudder beneath him.

"You enjoy being looked at," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick, laced with something dark. His fingers trailed down your thigh before gripping it, forcing it to part for him. "You enjoy the way men whisper about you. The way they hunger."

A smirk ghosted across your lips, even as your breath shuddered. "And you do not?"

Jason chuckled, but there was little amusement in the sound. "Oh, my love, I do. I revel in it. Because they can look, they can whisper, they can dream—" His fingers dug into your flesh as he aligned himself, teasing you, taunting. "—but they will never have you."

With no more warning, he thrust into you.

The sudden stretch, the bite of pleasure edged with pain, had your back arching against the bed, your lips parting in a breathless gasp. Jason did not ease you into it. He never did. He claimed you with the same relentless fervor he had always wielded in every aspect of his life—with greed, with hunger, with the knowledge that he had no equal.

His grip on your wrists tightened as he set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours, each thrust deliberate, unyielding. The sound of your bodies meeting filled the chamber, mingling with your gasping breaths, with Jason’s low groan as he buried himself deep within you.

"Mine," he growled, his lips brushing against your ear before his teeth nipped at your earlobe. "Every fucking inch of you—mine."

Your fingers curled against his forearm, nails digging into his skin as your body adjusted to the overwhelming pleasure, the heat coiling low in your belly as he continued his relentless assault. Jason had always taken you with passion, but tonight—tonight was something else. His movements were rougher, his grip bruising, his need spilling over into something more primal.

Tyland, who had been watching in silence, his jaw clenched, finally spoke. "Jason."

His voice was even, but there was a warning beneath it.

Jason ignored him.

"You like this, don’t you?" Jason continued, his smirk pressing against your skin as he drove into you, deeper, harder. "You like when I take you like this. When I remind you who you belong to."

Tyland exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Gods, must you always be like this?"

Jason only chuckled, but he did not slow.

His hands pinned you in place as he continued to thrust into you with an intensity that bordered on ruthless, as if determined to stamp out every lingering trace of Adriano’s gaze, of the whispers and admiration of Essosi lords who thought they could ever come close to what he had.

But then—

"Jason!" Tyland’s voice was sharp now, edged with something different.

Jason ignored him still.

Until Tyland’s next words stopped him cold. "You’re going to hurt them."

The chamber stilled.

The only sound was Jason’s harsh breathing, the quiet hum of the night air outside the open balcony, the faint flicker of lantern light casting shadows across the crimson-draped walls.

Them.

Not her.

Jason blinked, his mind catching onto the word with sluggish realization, his grip on your wrists loosening, his pace faltering.

His green eyes flickered down to where your bodies met, to where he had been taking you with such fervor, to where his hands had been gripping you too tightly, where his possessive hunger had drowned out everything else.

His breath caught.

He had been too lost in his own jealousy, in his own selfishness, to see. Slowly—so slowly—he lifted his gaze back to Tyland.

Tyland met his stare, his face unreadable.

And then Jason looked at you.

And suddenly, the weeks of secrecy, the stolen glances between you and Tyland, the careful way Tyland had been watching you, the way you had been careful with yourself—

It all clicked.

Jason’s body remained pressed against yours, still buried deep inside you, but his movements had ceased entirely.

His fingers flexed against your skin, but no longer in lust.

Now—it was something else.

Something new.

"You're with child," Jason murmured, his voice quiet, but the words carried through the chamber like the crack of thunder.

You exhaled slowly, watching him.

You had not intended for him to find out like this.

You had wanted to see how long it would take him to notice, had enjoyed keeping it between you and Tyland, waiting for Jason to come to the realization on his own.

But now—the truth had struck him all at once.

His gaze flickered back to Tyland, filled with accusation.

Tyland sighed. "I figured it out first."

Jason let out a short, breathless laugh—one that was neither amused nor bitter, but something entirely in between. "Of course, you did."

His hands—those same hands that had gripped you with possession, with greed—now moved with an entirely different touch. They trailed over your stomach, over the place where his heir—where your child—was growing.

His child.

His breath shuddered. And then—very slowly—he pulled out of you, withdrawing his weight just enough so that he could see you fully.

His hands—calloused, battle-worn, hands that had taken so much—now rested against your stomach with something approaching reverence. "You should have told me," he murmured.

You arched a brow. "Would you have noticed on your own?"

Jason exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Eventually."

Tyland scoffed. "And how long would eventually have taken, I wonder?"

Jason ignored him.

His green eyes were locked onto you, onto the slight curve of your stomach that he had somehow failed to notice before, onto the life that had already begun growing inside you.

A life that belonged to all three of you.

Something changed in his expression then.

The possessiveness, the jealousy, the hunger—it was still there. But now—there was something softer.

Something almost vulnerable.

His thumb brushed over your stomach, and he let out a shaky exhale. "Mine," he whispered again, but this time—it was different.

This time—it was not just about you.

It was about the child you carried.

His child.

His heir.

And for the first time since the night had begun—Jason Lannister had nothing clever to say.

The moment stretched between the three of you, heavy with unspoken thoughts, charged with something that had shifted—changed irreversibly in the span of mere moments. Jason’s fingers traced along the curve of your stomach as if he were committing the sensation to memory, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. The realization had settled within him now, his mind working through the implications, the weight of it pressing against his usual arrogance.

And then—Tyland’s voice, smooth and deceptively casual, cut through the silence. "Of course, the child could be mine."

Jason scoffed, his head snapping up, his golden hair tousled, his expression one of immediate dismissal. He turned his gaze toward his twin, green eyes narrowing, his lips twisting into a smirk that barely concealed his incredulity.

"Oh, please," Jason drawled, his tone dripping with amusement as he leaned back slightly, propping himself up on one elbow beside you. "You truly think that between the two of us, you're the most likely father?"

Tyland did not flinch, nor did he rise to Jason’s bait. He merely arched a brow, utterly unimpressed, as he folded his arms across his chest. "Stranger things have happened."

Jason let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, I highly doubt that."

You could not help the amused smirk that curved your lips as you glanced toward Tyland, your fingers absentmindedly brushing against Jason’s forearm. Tyland, for all his composure, had always had a way of needling his twin in ways that no one else could manage. It was a quiet sort of satisfaction, one that came with knowing Jason better than he knew himself.

Tyland shook his head slightly as he turned his gaze to you. "I told you, didn’t I?" His voice was level, utterly calm. "I told you that Jason would take all the credit."

You chuckled, tilting your head slightly. "You did."

Jason groaned, rolling his eyes as he collapsed onto his back dramatically, one arm thrown over his forehead. "Oh, for fuck’s sake," he muttered. "What does it matter? The child is a Lannister. Whether it came from me or you, Tyland, it makes no difference."

He lifted his arm just enough to glance between the two of you, his smirk returning, albeit softer this time. "It will still have golden hair and a taste for indulgence. And it will still be ours."

That—seemed to settle the matter.

Jason shifted, his weight returning to you, his body moving with the ease of a man who had long since decided there was nothing else worth debating. His hands found your waist again, fingers pressing into your skin with newfound purpose, with the kind of possessiveness that had only intensified now that the knowledge of your condition had settled in.

"Besides," he murmured, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your throat, his breath warm against you, "there’s only one way to make certain that the child is mine."

You arched a brow, smirking. "Oh? And what way is that?"

Jason grinned against your skin before capturing your lips with his once more. The kiss was slower this time, more measured, but no less consuming. His hands roamed your body with deliberate intent, his touch firm, insistent, as if he needed to reaffirm what had always been his.

Then—he moved into you again.

The stretch was familiar, but no less intoxicating, the sensation of being filled so completely drawing a gasp from your lips as he set a steady pace, his movements more controlled now, but no less dominant. His fingers curled against your hips, his grip firm but not as bruising as before, though the possessiveness in his touch had not waned.

Tyland, watching the two of you with the patience of a man who had long since grown used to Jason’s theatrics, clicked his tongue.

"Well," he mused, his hands moving to undo the fastenings of his attire with an air of practiced ease, "it seems if I wish to remind our dear brother that I had a part in this as well, I’ll have to join in."

Jason let out a short laugh, his hips never pausing in their movements as he turned his head just enough to glance at his twin. "Oh, by all means, dear brother," he smirked. "Let’s give our wife the attention she deserves."

Tyland shed the last of his clothing, his bare form illuminated by the soft lantern light that bathed the chamber in amber hues. Where Jason was all golden arrogance and untamed indulgence, Tyland was deliberate, poised, controlled in a way that was no less alluring.

He moved toward the bed with unhurried grace, his eyes flickering toward you as Jason’s movements against you continued, drawing you further into the haze of pleasure.

"You’ll find, my dear," Tyland murmured, his voice smooth as silk as he brushed his fingers along the curve of your jaw, tilting your head toward him, "that I do not leave matters unfinished."

Jason smirked against your skin. "Well then," he mused, his pace never faltering, his voice thick with satisfaction, "let’s ensure that our wife remembers precisely why she chose us both."

And as Tyland’s lips captured yours, as Jason’s relentless movements drew you further into pleasure, you knew—without a doubt—that you would.

The moment Jason found his release, he did not pull away immediately. Instead, he lingered, his breath heavy, uneven, his body still pressed firmly against yours. His golden hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead, his eyes half-lidded as he exhaled against your skin. His grip on your thighs remained possessive, firm, as if even now, in the aftermath of his pleasure, he refused to let you go.

His fingers, calloused and warm, traced absentmindedly over the curve of your stomach, over the place where his child—your child—grew. The realization of it still hummed in the air between the three of you, though Jason was less concerned with the implications at this moment and more satisfied with the knowledge that he had claimed you so thoroughly.

But Tyland was patient.

He had waited.

And now, as Jason’s weight still lingered against you, Tyland leaned forward with deliberate ease, brushing his fingers along Jason’s shoulder in a manner that was more command than suggestion.

"Move," Tyland murmured, his voice smooth, unaffected, but with that ever-present air of quiet control that Jason found so infuriating.

Jason groaned, half in protest, half in satisfaction, before finally—reluctantly—pulling out of you. He exhaled deeply as he shifted onto his side, his smirk lazy, satiated, as he stretched like a lion after a satisfying meal.

But Tyland was already moving.

His hands, cooler than Jason’s, traced along your trembling thighs, parting them further as he positioned himself between them, his gaze flickering over the marks left behind by Jason’s bruising grip. He hummed thoughtfully, running his palm down your leg in a slow, measured motion before gripping the back of your knee, lifting it just enough to angle you as he pleased.

"You are always too eager," Tyland murmured, not to you—but to Jason. "So impatient. So quick to finish."

Jason scoffed, dragging a hand through his golden hair before propping himself up on one elbow, his smirk deepening. "Yes, well, some of us don’t have the luxury of drawing things out like some pleasure-starved Lyseni nobleman," he retorted. "Besides, you always take too long."

Tyland chuckled, entirely unbothered, his hands steady as they caressed over your trembling form. His fingers brushed along your stomach, then higher, teasing over the sensitive peaks of your breasts before returning to your hips, settling with firm intent.

"She does not seem to mind," Tyland mused, and his green eyes flickered down to you, watching the way you shuddered beneath his touch, how your breath hitched when his lips traced along the delicate skin of your inner thigh.

Jason exhaled through his nose, clearly attempting patience, though his expression made it clear he had little to spare. "Tyland," he warned, his voice laced with something deeper, edged with the kind of tension that always lingered between them.

Tyland ignored him.

Instead, his lips curved into a knowing smirk as he lifted his gaze from you to Jason, amusement flickering in his sharp features.

"Tell me, brother," Tyland murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your stomach before shifting his focus lower, his breath teasing against the sensitive heat between your thighs. "Do you ever think about how I was the first man to have her?"

Jason’s smirk vanished.

A slow, simmering irritation replaced it, something taut and unspoken that had been settled long ago but never truly forgotten. His fingers curled slightly against the silk sheets, his jaw tightening.

Tyland, of course, was thoroughly enjoying himself.

He traced slow, deliberate circles against your trembling skin, his mouth trailing teasing, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh before moving to the sensitive bundle of nerves that had been left aching from Jason’s earlier ministrations. He was unhurried, methodical in the way he indulged in you, drawing a whimper from your lips as his tongue flickered against you, as his hands held you open, firm and unrelenting.

Jason inhaled through his nose, his patience thinning by the second. "We had an agreement," he reminded, his voice tight. "About not bringing that up."

Tyland smirked against your skin before glancing up at him, entirely unaffected. "Yes," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, his fingers pressing deeper, his movements never faltering. "But what are you going to do about it? Stab me in my sleep?"

Jason let out a sharp breath, raking a hand through his hair as he sat up fully now, his frustration simmering beneath his amusement. "I still might."

Tyland chuckled, entirely unbothered, his attention returning to you. His hands, always so precise, so calculated, guided your hips just enough to align himself, his movements smooth, seamless, as he filled you with slow, unyielding purpose.

You gasped at the stretch, your fingers gripping the sheets, your body still trembling from Jason’s earlier assault, and yet—Tyland was different.

Where Jason took, Tyland savored.

Where Jason claimed, Tyland indulged.

And he did so now, his movements deliberate, steady, taking his time as he watched every reaction, every tremor, every soft, breathless moan that spilled from your lips.

Jason, still watching, still stewing, exhaled deeply before shaking his head. "Gods, you always take your fucking time."

Tyland smirked, undeterred. "And you never take enough."

His pace remained slow, controlled, his grip on your waist firm but reverent, as if he were rediscovering you all over again, as if he had all the time in the world to unravel you beneath him.

Jason sighed, falling back against the pillows, running a hand over his face before muttering, "I don’t know why I put up with you."

Tyland, ever composed, simply leaned down, his lips grazing your ear as he murmured, "Because she does."

And as your breath hitched, as Tyland continued to move within you with the kind of precision that only he could manage, Jason groaned, dragging a pillow over his face.

"Seven hells," he muttered. "I’m going to regret this child, aren’t I?"

Tyland only chuckled.

And then—he made sure you couldn’t answer.

The warmth of the chamber wrapped around you like a cocoon, the scent of sweat and spice-laced incense still lingering in the air, thick and cloying. The silk sheets, cool against your overheated skin, tangled loosely around your legs as the weight of exhaustion settled over your body, making each breath feel slower, heavier.

Somewhere in the haze of sleep and wakefulness, you heard the quiet murmurs of your husbands, their voices low but ever-present, weaving in and out of your drifting consciousness like a melody half-remembered.

Jason was the first to speak, his tone lazy, still tinged with satisfaction. "Well, that was certainly something."

A scoff from Tyland. "You sound surprised."

Jason let out a deep, satisfied sigh, stretching his arms over his head as he reclined against the plush pillows, the golden strands of his hair fanned out against the crimson silks. "Not surprised," he mused, smirking. "Just very, very pleased with myself."

Tyland exhaled as he ran a hand through his own tousled hair. "Gods, your arrogance truly knows no bounds."

Jason chuckled, shifting slightly, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns against your exposed skin. His touch was absent of heat now, more languid, idly possessive. He leaned back against the headboard, his green eyes flickering toward Tyland with his usual insufferable smirk. "And yet, you still endure it. Curious."

Tyland, ever composed, did not rise to the bait. Instead, he simply reached for a goblet of wine that had been left half-forgotten on the bedside table, swirling the dark liquid thoughtfully before taking a slow sip. "Endure is a strong word," he murmured, glancing toward you, his gaze softer as he watched your slow, even breaths. "Tolerate might be more appropriate."

Jason snorted. "Oh, you tolerate me now, do you?"

Tyland raised a brow, taking another deliberate sip. "Would you rather I say suffer?"

Jason barked out a laugh, shaking his head before reaching for his own goblet, mirroring Tyland’s movements with a lazy ease. "I would rather you admit that you would be lost without me."

Tyland scoffed. "Doubtful."

Jason merely grinned, entirely unbothered. "Mm. Keep telling yourself that, dear brother."

Your body shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you stirred between them, the weight of their warmth pressing into either side of you. Jason’s arm curled around your waist on instinct, anchoring you to him, his fingers tracing gentle circles against your hip, his earlier fervor now mellowed into something quieter, something more affectionate.

Tyland, ever observant, watched the way Jason’s touch lingered, the way his normally restless movements had slowed to something more deliberate. He set his goblet down, exhaling softly. "You are thinking."

Jason blinked, turning his gaze toward his twin with a bemused expression. "Am I?"

Tyland gave him a pointed look. "It is rare, but yes."

Jason scoffed, rolling his eyes. "And what, pray tell, do you think I am thinking about?"

Tyland studied him for a moment before answering. "The child."

Jason’s smirk faltered—just slightly.

It was there, beneath the surface, a thought he had yet to put into words, yet to truly settle in his mind. The weight of it sat heavy on his chest, an unfamiliar thing, something that was both exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.

Jason Lannister, father.

The words felt foreign.

His lips pressed together briefly before he exhaled, running a hand over his face. "It’s just… strange."

Tyland arched a brow. "Strange?"

Jason sighed, shifting onto his side so that he could better look at you. His fingers brushed lightly over the curve of your stomach, over the place where his child—your child—grew, barely noticeable now but undeniable all the same. "That there’s someone in there," he murmured, almost to himself. "A piece of us."

Tyland remained silent, letting Jason sit with the thought for a moment before speaking again. "Does it unsettle you?"

Jason scoffed, but there was no real bite to it. "No. Of course not. I've wanted it." A pause. Then, quieter, "It’s just… a lot to think about."

Tyland hummed, considering. "You’ll be a good father," he said eventually, his voice smooth, unwavering.

Jason’s brows lifted slightly, caught off guard. He chuckled, but it was softer this time, almost self-conscious. "Oh? And what makes you so sure?"

Tyland smirked, leaning back against the pillows. "Because despite all your arrogance, your dramatics, and your insufferable need to be the center of attention—you care. Deeply."

Jason blinked, taken aback by the sincerity in his twin’s words.

Tyland glanced at you then, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, the way your body instinctively sought their warmth even in sleep. His fingers brushed along your arm in an absentminded gesture of comfort.

"And because you love her," he added.

Jason was quiet for a long moment.

Then, finally, he exhaled, a slow smile tugging at his lips. "Well," he mused, his smirk returning, "I suppose I do have a habit of excelling at everything I put my mind to."

Tyland sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And there it is."

Jason laughed, bright and unrestrained, before settling back into the pillows, his arm draped lazily over your waist once more. He glanced at Tyland, smirking. "You’ll be a good father too, you know."

Tyland huffed. "Yes, well. Someone will have to balance out your influence."

Jason chuckled, watching his brother for a moment before turning his gaze back to you, his expression softer now, quieter.

The weight of what had happened, of what was to come, settled over the three of you.

But in this moment, in the quiet aftermath, with the scent of myrrh still clinging to the air, with the warmth of silk and skin and tangled limbs between them—there was no rush. No urgency.

Just the steady rhythm of breathing.

The quiet hum of something unspoken but understood.

And Jason Lannister, for the first time in a long time, allowing himself to simply be still.

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honorarysimp · 9 months ago

Text

Chapter 4: Strangers in the Night

series masterlist

The Northern Edge: 1 Mile into Canadian Waters

The salty breeze of the sea blew over the deck of the sea-worn vessel, carrying with it the smell of salt water, fish, and hard labor.

The crew of the sea-vessel scurry about the deck, hauling ropes and supplies, calling to eachother as the ship rocks on the choppy waters of the open sea.

The waves splashed against the sides of the boat, spraying the salty water on the crew, causing a few of them to swear and grumble as they were spattered.

The crew haul up another load of scallops, the net on the end of the rope heaving as it was pulled up. Once the scallop-filled net was on the deck, Nunes rushes over to pull the release lever, dropping its load of scallops across the deck.

Shells covered the wooden deck in a sea of white foam, Skeemo cursing as he accidentally stumbles and kicks shells across the deck with his boots.

“I don’t know guys, I think she really likes me” Charlie continues to argue his case, tugging his gloves more securely on to his hands as the other two men begin shoveling the scallops into buckets.

“You’re delusional, my friend, black label doesn’t like anyone in the way you’re dreaming up” Skeemo says as he shoots Charlie a smirk, which he only rolls his eyes to in response as he joins them on scooping up the scallops off the deck floor.

“You’re better off focusing on choosing between law school and being a deckhand, Charlie” Costa can be heard chiming in as he crosses the deck to head into the Captain’s quarters, most likely to rejoin Tom in discussing their next spot to hit.

“What? You don’t think I have a chance?”

“You have to be lucky to have a chance with Mabel, that’s all I’m gonna say” Nunes adds in which only makes Skeemo bellow with laughter, sharing a fist bump like they have an inside joke Charlie is clearly missing.

He straightens up, a confused boyish smile on his face, “I don’t know I think I’m lucky, I mean she drove like a goddamn NASCAR driver to get me to the dock in time”.

“Finest kind” Nunes shouts in agreement, thumping his fist to his chest and pointing it over at Charlie, making his smile widen.

Skeemo shrugs, “look all we’re saying is you’re gonna get in a lot of trouble with that, Mabel is as good as they come but…”

Nunes gives him a look, subtly shaking his head. Charlie catches this and almost asks what it is they know and he doesn’t.

But then Tom is yelling from the Captain’s quarters, telling them to get a move on, how they don’t have all day.

The crew rushes to finish clearing the deck of scallop shells as quickly as possible, kicking the shells to the side of the ship and tossing the rotten ones overboard. They work with practiced efficiency, moving quickly to clear the deck and readying the net for another drop.

As they go about working, Charlie finds himself thinking over the conversation with the guys, and how their choice of words as well as their aloofness to the situation made him feel some type of way.

Charlie didn’t know it then, but lucky won’t be a stroke of fate in his favor, it would be a person.

____________________________________________

Despite knowing you should just leave it be, you find yourself on your way to Mabel’s place, a need to apologize burning deep in your chest.

You’d tossed and turned all night, your mind replaying your last conversation with Mabel over and over again. The words left unsaid, the tension between you, all of it swims through your head and keeping you restlessly wired.

That, and you couldn’t get comfortable, it’s like trying to lay with pins and needles. Everything fucking hurts.

The words and the tension between you two keep replaying in your head like a broken record, keeping you from finding any sort of peace.

It's early morning now and you find yourself on your way to her place, driven by a need to apologize, to bridge the gap that has grown between you. Lack of sleep isn't the only thing you blame for this unexpected visit - there's a heavy guilt gnawing at you.

You have no problem admitting on your own when you’re in the wrong, however, you do tend to do the exact opposite whenever you’re being called out.

You pull up outside her place, your heart pounding in your chest. A whirlwind of emotions threatens to drown you - guilt, regret, worry. You know deep down that you shouldn't be here this early, that she will definitely be angry with you for showing up unannounced at the crack of dawn. But the pull to see her, to apologize, to fix things, is stronger than your logical thinking.

Just as you cut the engine, your heart sinks as you hear the front door slams against the wall, the sound jolting you from your thoughts and pulling your gaze.

And then your stomach drops as you realize it’s Charlie, his expression twisted and his eyes rimmed, as if he hasn’t slept at all. His gaze then finds your car, and in that moment all thoughts of apologizing to Mabel vanish, replaced by a deep sense of dread.

“Shit” you mutter, tugging at the doorhandle and being quick about slipping out of the vehicle. You’d rather him take it out on you than your car.

You walk around the hood of your car, raising your hands in an attempt to calm him. "Charlie," you call out, your heart pounding in your chest “come on man take it easy we can talk about whatever this is-“

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER! This is YOUR fault!” he roars, now barreling towards you with vendetta.

A second later, you spot Mabel bursting out of her apartment, her face filled with confusion and worry at the sound of shouting. She stops at the sight of the two of you, her eyes darting between you and Charlie.

Just as Charlie swings at you, Mabel yells "Charlie, stop!", her voice echoes through the early morning air, laced with concern and a hint of anger.

Even busted up, you manage to sidestep his punch effortlessly, years of experience kicking in. You grab his arm and twist it behind his back, pinning him face down against the hood of your car with a firm grip.

You lean in close to him, your voice firm but calm as you say, "Charlie, I need you to chill the fuck out. I'm not trying to hurt you, but don’t think I won’t." You keep him in place, your grip unyielding despite his attempts to break free.

“LET ME GO, YOU PSYCHO!” You can feel the tension coursing through his body, the coiled energy of a fight or flight response, but you remain calm, your attention focused on keeping him still.

Mabel steps in, her voice raised in anger as she roughly pulls you away from Charlie. "What the hell is wrong with you two?" she scolds, pushing you back, eyes narrowing with a mix of anger and disappointment. "You're attracting attention and acting like idiots!"

As you're pulled away from Charlie, he instantly stands upright, rubbing at his twisted arm with a sullen expression. He pins you with a glare over Mabel’s shoulder, and it makes something that taunts the line between possessive and protective stir within you.

You start to open your mouth to protest that he started it but Mabel cuts you off before you can say anything. “I don’t care what bullshit you have to say!” she says, her voice raised and authoritative. “I don’t care who threw the first punch. You’re both acting like fucking idiots right now! Why are you even here, in the first place?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch in your throat. You weren't expecting this confrontation, and the intensity of her questions has you uncharacteristically taken aback. "I..." you start, searching for the right words as you wet your lips.

"I came here to talk to you."

Charlie can't help but scoff in disbelief, throwing his arms up in the air and shaking his head at you. "This is exactly what I was talking about, Mabel!" he exclaims, his voice sharp and angry. "Lucky just shows up at your place, like it's not a big deal! This asshole is playing you, and you just eat it up!"

You feel a pang of confusion and a small sting of hurt at Charlie's words. You had come here with the best intentions, but his anger and suspicion make you feel like maybe you've made a mistake.

Mabel on the other hand, whirls on Charlie and snaps at him, her voice filled with anger. "I meant it when I said this conversation is over! So fucking drop it" she says firmly.

Charlie starts to protest again, his voice loud and agitated. "You're my girlfriend! How you’re going about this is deflective and complete bullshit-" he insists, his face reddening with anger.

But Mabel cuts him off with a mirthless laugh, her eyes narrowing as she retorts, "Since when? You haven't exactly been acting like it lately, have you?"

Mabel steps closer to him, her voice rising as her pent-up emotions finally boil over. "You haven't been supportive of me wanting to go to community college, or did you forget about that in the midst of your self righteous quest to be the hero?!" she lists out, her voice growing more heated as she continues.

"This actually your fault, you know that right? I did YOU a favor, put myself in a compromising position. Now I’m fucked, I was gonna go to community college. Jesus, Charlie, you’re barely present in the conversations when I’m trying to talk to you about it!”

Charlie throws his hands up in frustration, his own emotions finally bubbling over. "I don't know what you want!" he explodes, his voice rising.

“What do you expect me to say, huh? Look where you come from and look where I come from, I don’t know what you want me to say to you! I have no place to do that!”

Mabel looks at him in disbelief, a humorless laugh escaping her lips. "The point isn't about giving me exactly what I want," she says firmly, stepping back and pinning Charlie with a steely gaze.

"The point is about you showing that you care, that you care about my dreams and ambitions. And clearly" she continues, her words stinging, "you don't."

You glance anxiously back and forth between Mabel and Charlie, feeling increasingly out of place as their argument continues. It's clear that their conversation is spiraling, with Charlie saying all the wrong things and Mabel's frustration and anger growing by the minute.

In your defense, you hadn't intended to witness this blowup. Charlie had brought their argument outside and kept on pushing all the wrong buttons.

You know Mabel can handle her own, but if he doesn’t check it, you’ll easily knock his teeth down his throat.

“I do care-“Charlie begins to protest, but Mabel cuts him off before he can say more, her voice laced with bitter sarcasm.

"Oh, you care? Really?" she retorts. "How exactly have you shown me that you care? Because from where I'm standing, you’ve been no where when I’ve needed you the last few days".

You step up, interjecting into their argument with a tentative murmur of her name, trying to defend Charlie. "Mabel," you murmur, feeling a pang of empathy for Charlie, despite your… reservations about him "don’t-"

Mabel pivots her attention to you, her anger now directed your way. She punctuates her words with a warning jab of her finger in your direction, her voice sharp and biting. "Stay the fuck out of this," she snaps, her eyes flashing with a mix of anger and frustration. "This has nothing to do with you-"

Charlie cuts in abruptly, his attention shifting to you as he points at you, his tone accusatory. "It has everything to do with Lucky! What's with you always being there whenever something bad happens to her, huh?!” he accuses, his voice laced with suspicion. "You always happen to show up and play the hero, don't you? You’re fake as shit, I mean Lucky isn’t even your real name, does anyone know it?!-“

Wow, okay, so much for trying to defend him. This is why you’re never the bigger person.

Mabel pushes against Charlie's chest, her frustration and anger causing her to lose control. Her voice is a mixture of anger and desperation as she snaps at him, her words laced with a mix of hurt and anger.

"Lucky is the only person I've ever been able to count on! My whole life!" she exclaims, her voice rising on each word. "You're always late, or you blow me off, or you make me feel like my dreams don't even matter. But-" she gestures towards you, something a bit softer involuntarily slipping into her gaze.

"-Y/N has always been here for me, before you, and now clearly after you”.

It’s been so long since anyone has referred to you by your legal name, rather than the nickname you chose to start going by back in your adolescence. And the fact that it’s coming from her mouth makes it all the more meaningful.

The revelation lingers in the air for a charged few seconds, and as Charlie glances between the two of you with an unreadable expression. It’s almost like he knows he’ll never be able to compare to the history you two share.

Still, Charlie retorts, his voice strained with stress and responsibility as he defends his actions. "I have my brother to think about," he says, his expression earnest. "I'm doing everything I can to keep us both safe. You have no idea what I'm dealing with”.

The silence that follows his words is heavy and deafening, hanging in the air like a thick veil.

You and Mabel exchange a knowing look, both of you thinking the same thing. His excuse, no matter how genuine his feelings for his brother are, comes off as selfish and self-centered. It's as if he's using his brother as a shield to deflect criticism and avoid taking responsibility.

And considering the situation, where you stand, the danger you’ve put yourself in for her safety, this seems to be chipping the headstone of whatever is going on between Charlie and Mabel. Because as her face shifts to something venomous, a look you’ve had directed at you once before, you know he’s fucked.

Mabel's tone is cold and unforgiving as she utters her biting words, her voice laced with a biting sarcasm. "Unbelievable," she says, her eyes hardening as she looks at Charlie. "I should've known an entitled, rich jackass like you would be this selfish. Honestly, I called it. What a waste of my time."

The moment hangs heavy in the air, thick with tension and raw emotions. The slowly rising sun, its soft light bathing the scene in an early-morning glow, seems to do little to soften the heated confrontation. Mabel and Charlie stand facing each other, engaged in a tense standoff, each unwilling to back down or concede.

So, you take it upon yourself to try and help.

In an attempt to diffuse the tension, your arms raised in a mockingly serious gesture as you glance up at the sky.

"Excuse me, oh wise clouds above," you declaim, "is the elephant in the room with us tonight?" Your words hang in the air, the sarcastic question adding a touch of levity to the otherwise heavy atmosphere.

Mabel shoots you a sharp glare, clearly not amused by your attempt at injecting some humor into the situation. "I want you both to leave, I can’t think with all the bitching" she instructs firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. Without another word, she turns and heads towards the stairs leading up to her place, her footsteps heavy with the weight of her anger and frustration.

The tension between you and Charlie is palpable, neither of you willing to meet each other's gaze. The silence is thick with unspoken words and lingering resentment. After a few moments, Charlie breaks the stillness, his movements stiff and tense as he turns and walks away without a glance back.

The sound of a truck starting up fills the clearing, tires pushing along pavement fades into the distance, leaving you standing alone in the heavy atmosphere.

You turn towards your car, preparing to follow Mabel's demands and leave. But then you pause, your hand on the door handle, torn. There's something nagging at you, an itch you can't quite scratch.

Your mind begins to race, thoughts flickering through your mind like a slideshow of memories. You think back on all the other times Mabel has told you to leave, the heated arguments, the strained moments, the harsh words exchanged. The weight of each memory hits you like a punch to the gut.

The thought of Mabel being alone, feeling isolated and abandoned, cuts through your thoughts. You know her better than that. You can picture her up in her apartment now, still angry and upset, struggling to cope with the fallout of her fight with Charlie.

This realization hits you like a wave, and with it comes a second realization that you shouldn’t have listened to her when she told you to leave.

Not now, not a year ago, never again.

Against your better judgement, you let go of the door handle, steeling yourself for what lies ahead. You take a deep breath and turn away from your car, facing the stairs leading up to Mabel's apartment.

It's a risky move, going against her wishes and potentially angering her even further. But the thought of leaving her alone, hurting and vulnerable, doesn't sit right with you.

This time, you'll stay, despite the potential consequences.

Personal growth? Perhaps. Or maybe you’re just done using her chasing you off as an excuse for not fighting hard enough for her.

You don't even knock. It's an unspoken agreement between you, your oldest routine. She never knocks either, because a door means nothing when a person is your home.

So, you open the door without making a sound, gently pushing it open and stepping into Mabel's apartment.

You step around the changing divider, your footsteps almost inaudible on the rug. Mabel glances in your direction, noticing movement from the corner of her eye. She pivots quickly, turning her head to look at you with a mix of surprise, anger, and resignation.

The atmosphere is heavy with unspoken emotions, a thick tension hanging in the air. Frustration, hurt, anger - they all churn within you, blending together in a bittersweet cocktail of feelings. Both of you are aware of the lack of communication that has led to this point. So many moments left unexplained, all the opportunities wasted.

It's a familiar dance. One you've both participated in before, each one taking turns in the lead. The silence between you is deafening.

Mabel surges forward, her anger and frustration bubbling over. She tries to push at you, her movements weakened by the maelstrom of emotions raging inside of her.

The words she means to muster up, words meant to tell you to leave, lodge in her throat, unable to escape. Instead, they come out as a strangled sob.

You catch her wrists as she lashes out at you, holding them firmly but gently. Wordlessly and without a second thought, you pull her into a tight embrace, feeling her body relax and sink into your arms.

For the first time in over a year, Mabel crumbles, her emotional walls finally crumbling as the weight of the past week crashes down on her. Her body trembles as she muffles her sobs into your chest, letting go and surrendering to the overwhelming emotions.

The feeling of holding her is both familiar and new at the same time. Your heart aches for her, each muffled shudder feeling like a stab to your chest.

But you swallow your own emotions, smothering them in order to be there for her in this moment. Your grip is firm, reassuring, even though your own eyes sting with unshed tears.

Mabel suddenly pulls away, sniffling and wiping at her eyes, trying to compose herself. Her voice is soft, a mix of irritation and vulnerability as she utters the question, "God, why do you always do this?"

The question hangs heavily in the air, loaded with the complexities of your relationship.

You stand there, stunned, your confusion evident on your face. You utter a soft and puzzled, "I don't understand."

The words betray your own emotions - confusion, hurt, guilt - all swirling together in a chaotic storm within you.

Mabel stands with her back to you, her arms crossed tightly over her chest in a defensive, closed-off stance. She gnaws nervously on her thumbnail, a nervous habit that surfaces in moments of stress.

After taking a shaky breath, she answers, her tone defensive. "You always show up, even now a year later, even after what happened" Mabel says tremulously.

"Whenever I'm upset, whenever I'm hurt, you're always there. You always show up when it matters, and you're always so fucking good to me in those moments," she adds, her voice catching. "And it just... it pisses me off, you know? You piss me off."

You listen as Mabel speaks, her back still turned to you. The mix of emotions in her voice is palpable, each word she says is laced with pain and confusion, a complex maelstrom of feelings that reflect the history between you two. You listen in silence, absorbing everything she says, feeling the weight of it in your chest.

She continues, her voice a mix of anger and hurt, "You’ve always had to be the one to save the day. What's your deal, huh? Why can't you just leave me alone? Why do you always have to do this?"

As you step forward, shaking your head, you utter a pleading, "don't do this."

But Mabel's emotions are already boiling over, and your words seem to only stoke the fire, rather than quell it.

She turns to face you, her eyes blazing with an intensity that matches the whirlwind inside of her.

"You know what, let’s fucking do this, it’s long overdue!" she practically snarls back, her voice sharp and defiant.

The flashback hits you forcefully, transporting you back to a time when similar words were exchanged, when the same argument erupted between you.

Your anger flares in your chest, mirroring the intensity of that moment in the past. You straighten up, challenging her with your own declaration, "fine! You wanna do this now? Wanna let it out on me again? Go ahead! It's about time!"

Mabel surges forward, her frustration flaring as she pushes at you with surprising force. You feel this one, body still aching from the other day, but you bite your tongue and swallow it down.

The last thing you need is to let her see you weak, or make her feel worse than she already does.

Her voice is sharp and filled with accusiation as she demands, "why didn't you tell me the truth about Weeks?"

You push her hands away, your own voice taut with frustration. "You already know the answer to that," you retort, your own emotions bubbling to the surface "I already told you why."

Mabel steps forward to push you again, only this time you step back, the motion forgotten as her voice rises, "in the four years we’ve known each other you never once told me, so don’t give me that same bullshit excuse about how you were ashamed." The hurt and betrayal in her tone is palpable, reflecting the weight of the secret you carried.

“I am ashamed, why the fuck do you think I stopped running with him after everything that happened?!” You retort back, running your fingers through your hair.

“You still had every opportunity to tell me, and you didn’t! I had to find out FROM HIM!”

Tears stream down Mabel's cheeks, raw and exposed. The disappointment in her eyes cuts deep as she shakes her head at you.

"I hate you," she whispers, her voice thick with hurt, "because you made me fall for you, knowing what you knew, along with the fact Weeks is the reason my mom got into drug dealing. Which you also conveniently forgot to mention”.

The anger roars to life inside of you as you throw your hands up and ask pointedly, "so is that why you ratted me out to him? To get even? Even after I torched his stash? I only did that because of your vendetta against him!"

Mabel points a threatening finger at you, "I never asked you to do that for me," she snaps, her words heavy with anger and guilt. "Even now after all this time, do you really still think I set you up? That I wanted to watch him beat the shit out of you?!"

“I don’t know what to think, you cut me out and disappeared before I could make you talk to me! I only know what he told me, he’s family Mabel-“

Your protest is cut off abruptly as Mabel's voice cuts through the air, her words filled with pain. "Yeah, well, I'm your family too!" she says, her voice rising in volume. "And the truth is, I didn't have a choice! My hands were tied!"

Your voice rises to a near shout as you insist, "everyone has a choice!”

But before you can continue your protests, Mabel drops a revelation that cuts through your need to be heard.

"He threatened me," she utters in a shaky voice, "if I ever told you the truth."

The anger that flared within you simmers down into a state of confusion. Your chest rises and falls with each heavy breath as a moment of silence descends upon you both, the weight of her confession hanging in the air.

There's a visible shift in Mabel's demeanor as the initial acrimony of the argument begins to subside. The fire in her eyes dulls slightly, replaced by a flicker of regret.

It's as if the impact of her words in the heat of the moment is starting to sink in, and she begins to feel the weight of the things she said.

You take a step forward, your face contorted from the tangle of emotions inside you. Your voice is quieter now, the anger softening into a mixture of hurt and a need to understand. "Mabel," you murmur, voice strained, "what truth?”

Mabel hesitates, her head shaking in a reflexive defensive motion. She tries to turn away, her body angling away from you. But you reach out, catching her arm gently, your touch light but firm, silently insisting for her to face you and tell you the truth.

Your eyes meet, and that's the moment when Mabel's defenses crumble. The weight of the secret she's been carrying for the past year comes crashing down as she finally utters the confession. "I told my mom," she whispers, her voice thick with guilt and pain. "I told her what you did and… she sold you out to Weeks”.

Mabel continues, her voice shaky and her eyes filled with a mix of emotions. She wets her lips, her mouth working nervously as she struggles to get the words out.

"I... wanted to get back at her, have her know the drugs she cares about more than her kids was gone" she confesses, her voice laced with a strange blend of guilt and bitterness.

"For everything she put me through, for the years of pain and neglect. It was a moment of weakness, the words just came out on impulse. I didn’t think it would spiral out of control like it did."

Mabel's eyes harden as they meet yours, a cold expression settling on her face. Her voice takes on a matter-of-fact tone as she continues. "Weeks found me the day before he confronted you," she says, her words cool and detached. "He threatened me, told me if I wanted my ‘bitch of a mother’ to still have his business then I needed to keep my mouth shut, and if I didn’t…”

Your stomach twists as the gravity of her confession sinks in, the hurt and betrayal from that day welling up inside of you once again. But this time, a hint of understanding begins to surface, a piece of the shattered puzzle slotting into place.

Even with the truth now laid bare in front of you, your mind races with question after question.

But the only coherent words that escape your lips are simple: "Why? Why didn't you tell me?" your voice cracks, a mixture of hurt, confusion, and desperation.

Mabel's frustration flares as she pulls away from your grasp, her voice sharpening. "Because you think you're invincible," she retorts, words laced with anger yet again.

"He knows I'm the one thing that makes you weak. That's why I couldn't tell you, because you would have barreled in, with no care for your safety, and gotten yourself killed”.

The words cut deep, like a sharp jab to your chest. Your own emotions rise to the surface, and you snap back, raw with hurt and betrayal.

“So you just clocked out and chose money over us? Over me?!" The disbelief in your voice is mirrored by the hurt in your eyes, the reality of her choice ripping through you once again.

Mabel throws her hands up, “it was never about the money!" she asserts, her voice sharp with emotion.

"I don't want to be the one who’s in love with you when you inevitably get yourself killed!" the words escape her lips in a pain-filled outburst, and the way she freezes right after only tells you it was an admission she didn’t mean to confess.

The tension in the room evaporates suddenly, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. You and Mabel stand there, facing each other, the weight of the truth now laid bare between you.

The air is dense with the enormity of everything that had gone unsaid for so long, all of it sitting wide like a gaping reopen wound.

Mabel's voice is soft and raw as she speaks, her words heavy with pain and weariness. "I can't keep doing this, with you," she says, her voice trembling just slightly. "I can't keep worrying about you, knowing that one wrong move could get you killed. I can't keep reliving the fear every time I think you're in danger."

Your jaw tightens, your gaze fixed on the floor as you mutter softly, the words a quiet confession filled with determination. "I can defy him and screw him over, Mabel, but… I can't abandon him after everything he’s done for me."

You’ve felt this weight for years now, heavy on your shoulders is obligation, loyalty, and a deeply ingrained sense of responsibility.

Your eyes meet Mabel's, and in that moment, you see the pain and hurt etched on her face.

Her voice is a broken whisper as she asks, "But you can abandon me, and that's okay?"

The question hang heavily in the air, a raw and vulnerable plea that cuts deep.

Your head shakes in vehement denial. The words are strained, a mixture of hurt and frustration twists your features as you retort, "I never abandoned you. You were the one who shut me out and told me to go".

Both of you stand there, the realization of your own shortcomings and those of the other dragging heavily on you.

However, with emotions running so high, it's clear that this conversation has reached a temporary stalemate.

Mabel turns away from you, her voice hoarse from all the shouting, uttering "just leave."

Her body language betraying hesitation, there's a hint of something in her voice that suggests she might not entirely mean it. There's a strained, reluctant look in her eyes, a flicker of conflict warring within her.

Which is exactly why she turned away from you, because she knows you’ll see it, you always see right through her eventually.

For the first time, you stand your ground, refusing to be pushed away. The hard part is over, the truth and lies laid out in full view. You're done letting her keep you at arm's length, done with the secrets that have torn you apart.

You’ve both made mistakes, even if they were with the right intentions.

With determination in your eyes, you decide that you won't let it continue, that you won't let the lies keep you apart any longer.

“No, not this time. We've spent too long dancing around each other, hiding behind lies and half-truths”.

Mabel glances back at you, her expression torn between surprise and a hint of stubborn resistance. But it's her eyes that speak volumes – there's a flicker of something there, a mixture of exasperation and something deeper, something more like hope.

She doesn't respond right away, the internal struggle playing out on her face.

Eventually, Mabel mutters something under her breath, finality in her voice.

"I guess you'll just have to stay then”.

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