#thanks for going on this ride with me folks

[hey-heigo]

Chapter 17

continuation of byakuya's no good very bad worst shit ass day of his life (so far)(!!!)

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

this chapter went a little different from how i originally planned bc I was going to make byakuya much more stupid. but. he needs to fly off the handle several times later so. we can't let loose all at once

to be very fair to makoto he did not want to do that. and yet. here we are

the king of kings!! @digitaldollsworld

Content warning tags: ableist language from various characters, Byakuya's panic spiral, mild self-harm reference

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Time seems to grind to a halt. His breath is still caught in his throat, halfway through a relieved sigh as he had been waiting - expecting - for Makoto to help him. To pull up some vague, hidden piece of evidence to clear him of any suspicion, to cleverly point out some irrefutable proof that had previously lay unseen.

But instead - his heartbeats feel too heavy. His breathing feels too light, deprived of any real oxygen. His head pounds in the same way it did when he was struck earlier, with a dull, pulsing ring that washes out everything around him.

He prided himself, once, on being able to read a person’s intent. To judge just when and why they might choose to abandon him, to cross him, to try and use him for their own intents. For that reason, he supposes, is why this sickly, sticky feeling of dread is so new to him. He’s never known real betrayal before.

His eyes dart around the room, but the others don’t seem to believe Makoto just yet. Even Owada seems taken aback, stock still and quiet. Only Kirigiri seems unsurprised - or maybe, he was only imagining it, the tranquil quality of her silence. As if she were merely observing it all, far out of their reach.

“Seriously??” Syo’s voice is a grating jeer. “You’re telling me this whole time he had no idea what I looked like? No wonder he didn’t fall for me at first sight!”

“I…don’t think that’s the reason why,” Hagakure says, though he seems utterly bewildered. “But, that can’t be right, right? I’ve seen him reading loads of times. And he practically lives in the library, y’know?”

“Yeah, and he can do things just fine for himself.” Asahina says in agreement. “I mean, he does his own laundry and stuff, and he knows this place way better than me at least. I didn’t even know where the A/V room was during the first motive, I just sorta followed him.”

“Yes, this is sort of…” For the first time, Celeste sounds genuinely surprised, her usually unphased demeanor wavering, her accent slipping for a moment. “Ahem. While I did note that he sometimes seemed a bit…eccentric, so to speak, nothing of his actions suggested that he was impaired.”

Their skepticism is a small relief. He nods jerkily, unable to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth to verbalize his agreement. But it’s a small, pathetic movement that goes unnoticed, hardly amounting to anything in this large courtroom.

And their disbelief only goes so far. Ogami speaks up now, for the first time since the trial began, her low voice immediately silencing the whispers.

“I performed a concussion test on him earlier,” She says, gruffly. “As Kyoko had asked me to. He was lucid when answering my questions, and he didn’t seem to exhibit any symptoms that couldn’t be attributed to other reasons.” There’s a slight creak of wood, as she shifts her weight on the stand. “However, I did notice that his pupils were…strange.”

“My- what?” He sputters now, too suddenly, too loudly. He reaches up to touch slightly-trembling fingers to a closed eye, feeling the smooth bump of the cornea twitching beneath the thin skin of his eyelid as if he might be able to identify the damage that way. Why hadn’t she mentioned this earlier? Why bring it up now? “What do you mean, ‘strange’?!”

There’s a slight, panicked edge to his voice that he hopes no one catches, but this was the first time he heard that there could be physical evidence to his affliction. “It was a bit hard to test without the proper tools, but I noticed that they do not react much to changes in light.” Ogami explains. “The shape is also slightly…off. If I had to describe it, I would say that there is…a warping around the edges.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it?!”

“I assumed it was either due to the head injury, or, it was genetic.” There’s an apologetic note to her words. “Given your usual behavior, I…didn’t think it was important.”

Not important. As if she could know what was important here.

“I. Am not. Blind.” He snarls stiffly. “Obviously, I have never taken a close enough look at my own pupils to notice that deformation, but it has never affected my daily life. I am not disabled, nor have I ever been.”

“I find it hard to believe that you have never been aware of it.” Kyoko remarks, tone clipped. “I can’t imagine someone of your status being ignorant of anything concerning your physical health.”

“Then you can rest easy knowing that I am perfectly healthy.” He snaps back, venom flying off his words.

Distantly, he knows that he is digging a pit for himself. That admitting to this would help clear him of any suspicion at all. But he doesn’t care; he would rather die than suffer such indignity. That was what he’s always known, taught by his butler, and then reinforced by all his surroundings afterwards, his siblings, his father - better to perish and let your enemies cry with relief and count themselves lucky, than let them mock you as you dig your own grave.

“You should just admit it already. You are drawing this out to be unnecessarily long, or would you rather doom us all?”

“I don’t see why I should cooperate with someone who has been making mindless accusations at me all this while.”

There’s a tense, snappish tension between him and Kirigiri. A livewire current. A piece of elastic stretched taut. He glares, and to him, her blurred form looks like that of a reared snake.

“Um…” Asahina speaks up, her hand tentatively raised. “If Byakuya’s really blind, can’t we just test it?”

“Excuse me?”

“I-I mean! Not saying that you are blind, or anything,” She says this quickly, carefully, like soothing a spooked horse. “But, we’re not going to get anywhere if you two just keep arguing back and forth, and it’ll be really quick! Like, Sakura, can you hold up a few fingers?” She complies silently, one arm remaining crossed across her chest, the other raised to her side. “How many is she holding up?”

He tries not to squint, but he has no idea. Two? Three? It's nothing more that a blurred, brown shape. “You can’t be serious.” He almost laughs, but the sound he makes is derisive and bitter.

“Y-yes, this is-! Unfair!” Now it’s Yamada, speaking up again. “In case no one else has noticed, Mister Togami is lacking his spectacles! Asking such a thing of him…it’s akin to bullying!”

He’s oddly assertive about this, and Byakuya watches as he pushes his own glasses a little higher. For some reason, being considered something of an equal by Yamada irritates him further. “Shut up.” Who asked for his help.

“Yes, be still please,” Celeste sighs dismissively. “We are playing a game with our lives. This is hardly the time to be discussing moralistic issues.” There’s a slight metallic tap as she raps her silver finger guards against her rings. “But you do make a point. Byakuya does not have his glasses at the moment. It would be difficult to try and confirm anything without them.”

Thank goodness for those with common sense. He doesn’t look to his side, where she was standing, but he swears that he can see her eyes glancing at him, the unnatural red of her pupils bright on her pale face. “Yes,” he agrees, seizing upon it. “And they were broken earlier, thanks to Owada. Nearsightedness runs on my mother’s side, and the former Togami head was farsighted. I will admit that much, is that what you wanted? Kyoko?”

He’s rambling. He’s aware of it. But there are a few nods exchanged, and Asahina scratches at the back of her head awkwardly, as if embarrassed. Kirigiri, however, is still unmoved.

“No. When I say you are blind, I do not mean without your glasses. Or there wouldn’t have been a point in bringing it up in the first place.” Kirigiri shifts her weight slightly, the sway of her stance accompanied by the creak of wood. “Even without your glasses, you cannot do tasks such as reading. I imagine you’ve managed everything else by means of careful practice, but this is the one thing you can’t manage on your own.”

“Hey, Kyoko-” Makoto looks nervous, unsure whether to face him or her. “That-”

“And how do you plan to prove this?” Byakuya snarls. He feels a small flare of triumph, even despite everything, the looming threat of death. “As we found before, I don’t have my glasses. Did you happen to pick those up as well? Did you repair them for me while you were at it?”

Instead of offering a retort, or any sort of reply, she sighs. A soft, tired sound.

“Makoto.” She isn’t facing the other boy, but her tone is firm as she addresses him, and a little exasperated. She doesn’t say anything more, but Makoto seems to understand, and his hands drop to his sides.

“There is a way to prove it.” His voice is quiet. Quiet, and…sad, somehow. Defeated. “Byakuya…please show us your handbook.”

The realization sets in slowly. He’s already been betrayed by Makoto twice now, but still, he finds himself stunned, slack-jawed. This one was the worst by far - not only was he actively helping Kirigiri, he was betraying Chihiro as well, risking revealing everything to that accursed bear. And after all the lengths Byakuya had gone through to protect this secret.

“What are you saying,” He says, and his voice has a humiliating tremor that matches how his hands shake, clutching at the rail. Surely, he’s heard wrong. Surely, Makoto would correct himself, take it back-

“Your handbook. Chihiro, he…he put a program on it that lets you be able to do stuff like tell the time. It also reads stuff aloud. And he did it after the motives got revealed, that night when Celeste saw you guys leaving the bathhouse.” He sounds so somber, so sad and grieving. He won’t meet Byakuya’s eyes. “He did it in exchange for you teaching him how to be strong, and self-confident - which you did, by telling him to go around talking to everyone else today.”

Without really thinking about it, his hand goes to his inner jacket pocket, where his handbook sits. His fingers close around the little device, the hard edges of plastic and metal pressing into the creases of his palm. He feels a little like he’s been shot.

But he doesn’t bring it out. He glares instead, furiously, hatefully, at the boy standing just meters away. He - and Kirigiri too, most likely, Byakuya suspected that Makoto had already revealed everything that that woman - knew perfectly well the importance of Alter Ego, and why it could not, under any circumstances, be revealed. And they knew Byakuya was aware of this too, and they were holding this fact hostage, over his head.

(I could, some sore, beaten part of him thinks with poisonous intent, try and claim responsibility for Chihiro’s murder. I could say that they’re wrong. That I lured Chihiro to the bathhouse with the intent of making him less wary, easier to isolate. That he was so weak and trusting and stupid that killing him was a simple manner. That I mimicked Syo’s modus operandi to throw suspicion off of me.)

The mere thought was shameful, but it was his pride, wounded and bitter, that was seriously considering it, if only for some semblance of control. The barest reassurance that he had any real weight at all in this trial. And all he would need to do is open his mouth and say the words.

But instead, he bites down on his inner cheek, hard enough for blood to trickle out the corner of his mouth, hard enough for the pain to rival the buzzing in his temples. And tightens his grip momentarily, just enough to feel the faint, humming warmth of the handbook against his sweating palm, and exhales slowly.

“...Fine. Fine.” He spits, angry, defeated, exhausted. He’s sick of this. He just wants it to be over. “Yes. I’m blind. I have been so since we first woke up in this school. Are you happy now?”

Makoto looks down, his face shadowed by his hair. Kirigiri tilts her head slightly, a motion that’s not quite a nod but more of a bow.

“Wait, so then-” Asahina’s voice, confused and a little hesitant, pipes up. “If you’ve been…y’know, this whole time, but only after we got to this school…does that mean the Mastermind did this to you, somehow?”

“That’s what I would like to know, myself.” He turns to look at Monokuma, and finds the bear lounging across its throne, a bucket of popcorn resting precariously on the armrest. The repugnant toy giggles, and swings itself upright, spilling a handful of white puffs all over.

“Gosh, I wonder?” The thing taps at its chin, voice taking on a wondering tone. “Of course, I want this game to be fair and give you all a level playing field. I believe in equality after all! …Though this has made for so many entertaining developments, so…I figured I’d leave it as is. Besides, you’ve adapted quite well, haven’t you Mister Togami?” It cackles, paws clutching at its belly. “GIven how well you did hiding it from everyone, I think it’s fine if we leave it like this, don’t you think?”

He wants to cross the courtroom and throttle the stupid thing this instant. All he can do is glare murderously, lips twisted into a snarl.

There’s a sharp clap that has most people jumping. The source of the sound is Kirigiri, whose hands are raised, and pressed together. “Let’s move on.” Her voice is firm, with no room for arguing. “All we’ve done so far is clear one person’s innocence. We still need to identify the real killer.”

And that was it. The most disgusting moment of his life, over just like that, ended by her words. He knows that there’s bound to be some kind of punishment in store for those who interrupt trials, but he briefly wonders if he can get his hands around her neck before Monokuma can react.

Owada jerks at Kirigiri’s words, startled out of his own stunned silence. “W-wait,” He sounds panicked now, and of course he would be. His scapegoat is gone. “Then, if it’s not Byakuya, then who…?”

“Let’s consider what we know. Given how it’s not clear where the murder took place, it would have to be someone who had access to cleaning supplies or water, and has no alibi that can be verified when the murder occurred. For the most part, everyone here has an alibi that can be supported by at least one other person, but there are some that do not.” Kirigiri lists these calmly, and Byakuya imagines her cold gaze, flitting between each person in the room. “Mondo. Do you care to explain what you were doing prior to the body’s discovery?”

The effect is immediate. The other boy rears up, instantly furious. “The fuck are you trying to say? That I’m a murderer?!” He thunders. “Like I said earlier, I was taking care of my bro. You know that. Everyone knows that!”

“As you said earlier, Taka is currently compromised. He can’t give a testimony.” She shoots back without hesitation. “Your alibi is flawed.”

“Yeah? Well - well so’s yours!” He sputters. “Like- Syo might’ve been the one to find you in the bathroom, but that was just before Chihiro was found. Toko can’t say that you weren’t there the whole time, a-and even if you were, maybe the bathroom was where Chihiro died anyways!”

Owada may be stupid, but credit where credit was due, he was surprisingly quick to retort and pick at Kirigiri’s excuse. “I could not have cleaned up a murder scene in the bathroom so spotlessly in the time between Chihiro’s last sighting and the body discovery. As Makoto described earlier, the sinks of the bathroom were all dry-”

“There was that sheet, you could’ve used that before smashing Chihiro’s head over it. And there’s water in the toilets, right? And the girl’s bathroom was right next door!”

“...I’ll commend you for recognizing my perseverance. But I did not kill Chihiro.” She shakes her head. “If the only thing that will clear me is secondhand support to my alibi, then the only thing that needs to be done is to ask a witness. Toko?”

And she addresses Syo now, who just cocks her head for a moment, and shrugs. “I keep sayin’ to you guys, it’s lights out up there. There’s no telling when she’ll be back!”

Byakuya has had enough.

“Toko,” He says first, his voice low and hissing. Then, louder, building into a shout: “TOKO. Come out, NOW!”

“I don’t think it works like tha-” Syo’s words are cut off suddenly, and she collapses where she stands, like a puppet with her strings cut.

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[cybrasigilism]

I WANT SOME SMUT DRABBLE WITH DAE-HO OR JUN-HO. LIKE, YOUR WRITING IS SO GOOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDDDD 😭😭 .

omg THANK YOU! it warms my heart with how sweet you guys are about my writing :)

and i’ll do you one better, i’ll write a bit for BOAF of em, because i fear i can’t get over either of them. they’ll be seperate drabbles of course but trust they will both have their time in the sun on my blog ;)

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Smut Drabbles (Kang Dae-ho/Hwang Jun-ho)

warning: smut and all things of the like, crazy business i know | not proofread | lowercase intended | implied f! reader | protection not implied (wrap it before you tap it folks) | oral sex (f! receiving/m! receiving) | losing your v-card | fingering | praise kink | these are my opinions for these characters, please be respectful even if my opinions for the characters differ from yours

characters: kang dae-ho (player 388), hwang jun-ho

A/N: wanted to do both in the same post because why should i make anyone wait for a part 2? i hate two parters myself esp if it’s something like a drabble, that can all be in one part. thanks for the request and i hope you enjoy!

MDNI! 18+ content under the cut, readers discretion is advised

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kang dae-ho/player 388

now it’s old news at this point to say that dae-ho is the absolute king of gentle sex, but that statement really does hold true. he’s not satisfied if you didn’t cum at least twice, he will not quit until he’s sure you’re completely finished.

his absolute favourite thing to do besides being inside you is having you sit on his face. in fact, he says he could cum from the facesitting alone, having you ride his tongue while he gives you pleasure in the likes of which you haven’t experienced before. if he gets a bit carried away, he’ll dig his nails into your thighs while he tongue fucks your pussy. you may get worried about suffocating him, but he insists that the adrenaline rush that comes with it all really gets him going.

trust when you give him head, the gentle side really comes through. he’ll make sure to praise you up and down about how good you’re doing, how good you’re making him feel, and how much he really doesn’t want you to stop. now, if you really want to have him melt in your hands, you can’t go wrong with edging him. just bringing him right up to the brink of release, having him grab your head for some sense of stability, only for you to stop. he’ll moan and whimper and beg like you’ve never heard somebody beg before. don’t let this fool you though, he’s totally into edging, it makes the release feel that much better. “please god honey, just let me cum… i promise i’ll be a good boy, i just wanna cum already, fuck”

he tries his best not to swear in bed, he personally just doesn’t think it’s necessary. however when he’s completely immersed in the pleasure, when you take over all his senses and thoughts like that, he doesn’t really give a shit anymore.

when you guys fuck, he’s for sure gonna maintain a slow and gentle pace. he knows he’s bigger, so while yes, he does like to bottom out inside you, he’ll give you ample time to adjust to his size at first. all the while, praising you on how good you’re being for him “yeah, taking my whole cock like that.. you’re doing such a good job” “it’s okay baby, i got you.. i got you”

one thing you can do to absolutely drive him crazy? claw up his back while he fucks you, god does he ever get vocal when you do that. he’s a bit embarrassed of his moans, he’s worried it comes off as obnoxious, but he’s more than happy to let loose especially when he realizes how it makes you clench around his dick when he does so.

he does lose control of his pace a bit when he gets closer to cumming, and trust he will kiss you lots throughout the whole experience. you guys might also break the headboard but that’s a different can of worms

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hwang jun-ho/the police officer

anyone who tries to tell you that jun-ho wouldn’t make your first time all about you is lying to you, i’m so sorry you had to find out this way.

he would much rather focus on making you feel good, especially if you’ve established that you’re a virgin beforehand. and honestly, after he’s through with you, you’re not sure if you could even think about fucking anyone else.

there may not be penetration the first time, but he will do everything in his power to make you cum. that may be a tall order for the average guy, but seeing as he couldn’t give two shits about his own pleasure this time around, jun-ho wouldn’t have much trouble with achieving this goal. if you wanted to please him in any way, he would insist you let him do all the work. it’s not that he doubts you could please him, but he’s already had his first time, he’s more than happy to finger you or eat you out without receiving anything in return. “right now, it’s all about you sweetheart. i just want you to feel good, can you do that for me?”

oh don’t even get me started on how skilled he is with his fingers. he’ll be knuckles-deep inside you in no time at all, circling your clit with his thumb at the same time. trust he will also be kissing your neck while he’s fingering you, again just doing everything in his power to make you feel as good as humanly possible.

he’ll be praising you the whole time, complimenting you for being “such a good girl” when you take his fingers. and his tongue? god. this man could tie a knot in a cherry stem with his tongue, and that definitely goes to show when he eats you out. he will be fingering you while he sucks your clit and that’s a promise, and he will not cease until you’re shaking, barely able to form a single thought anymore.

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i really want to do a NSFW alphabet for jun-ho now that i’ve written this! as usual any advice and constructive criticism on how i can improve my writing is appreciated and requested! i really hope i did jun-ho justice in particular because this is my first time writing for him :)

thanks so much for reading! and thank you anon for the request!

[eternallyhauntingthehouseoflove]

Hey, i read the “Bat-boys finding out your pregnant” and may i ask for more? It was sooo cute that i need more of it 😭💕

The Batboys fathers HCs

A/N: this request is long overdue that I’m sure the requester doesn’t even remember it, but I’ve arrived at last. I hope this is what they wanted. The Absolute Power run has restored my love for Nightwing and comics. ❣️

Dick Grayson is a fun dad. At first, Dick suffocated beneath the weight of fatherly duties. He wanted to be better than Bruce. Dick loved him, but he could admit that his boyhood wasn’t a salubrious environment for the young mind. No child should have to carry the weight of Bruce’s mission. Thus, Dick’s mission became ensuring yours and the baby’s lives were secure, safe, and joyous.

Pale beams of sunlight kissed your cheeks good morning. The aroma of maple syrup wafted throughout the house, tickling your nostrils as you carried yourself down the stair steps, footfall by footfall. There Dick stood at the stove, scooting the black spatula beneath a golden pancake and flipping it into the air, causing your baby to burst out into a fit of giggles before the pancake hit the skillet with a sizzle. He was proud of himself for making his baby laugh.

“Well, well, look at mama.” A grin crept across his lips as he spotted you creeping closer, supernovas bursting in his electric blue irises.” You were snoring in a pool of drool when I awoke, so I grabbed the baby and started breakfast.” Vibrant seas of pacifiers, rattles, and toy pianos adorned the house.

Dick attempted to rush the developmental process. Not out of callousness, but sheer excitement to have a child. He had already stocked the baby in dolls, trucks, pacifiers, fruit snacks, apple juice (watered down, of course). He even installed a nightlight that short circuited the house at first, but Bruce helped him fix it. Reading is good for the baby right? Dick is on it. He’s already ordered the best and most classic tales; Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, Alice in Wonderland, Dr. Seuss, Little Red Riding Hood.

Dick Grayson has read multiple novels on fatherhood, motherhood, child development, postpartum depression. He hates surprises, and babies are the breeding ground of surprises. He will pack the go-bag full of onesies, pacifiers, diapers, wipes, toys because he doesn’t want you to be in public and not have the materials.

“Give me a few days to install the new changing table. You’ll love it.” Crimson blush adorned his tanned cheeks, a proud grin dawning on his lips, showcasing his pearlescent teeth.” It broke when I weight checked it, thank god. Damian, albeit reluctantly, is coming out here tomorrow to translate the instructions.”

Jason Todd is the protective, paranoid father because he’d placed a bullet in the worst humanity had to offer, witnessed otherworldly horrors done to the little guys, the folks who lack billions of dollars to hole up on secluded islands and cabins. He can’t eradicate all the scum, can’t caulk the fractures villains seem to keep slipping through—and that terrifies him.

Jason never imagined a life worth living to be possible. He’d thought himself a sentient zombie, an unlucky boy yanked from the eternal peace of a cold, soundless grave and forced to enact vengeance on behalf of the common folk who lack the means to undertake the mission themselves. He never considered Red Hood to be a hero; merely a restless phantom with nothing else to bide his time until the sweet release of the afterlife deigned to shatter his manacles to the mortal world. That was until he’d fallen over the sun, offering endless devotion to his goddess, and you’d rewarded his offering with a daughter, a lovely girl. He’d abduct the moon and wrap it in a silken bow if only you’d give him permission.

“Catch, papa,” your daughter had called out, retrieving the little football and sprinting toward him, tiny feet carrying her over the damp and verdant grass of y’all’s backyard. Jason never brought the both of you to parks—an excess of people to watch, different personalities and behaviors; a myriad of possibilities for tragedy. Too much room for error in a vast, leafy expanse.

“You’ve gotta bring it to me first,” Jason called back, outstretching his muscular arms, awaiting her arrival. He was paranoid and distrustful of the world, not a killjoy. Y’all’s daughter’s bedroom was littered with vivid nail polishes, fluffy scarves, glittering tiaras, and Monster High dolls. Your daughter had always adored Frankie Stein and Frankenstein because they reminded her of Jason and herself, the dolls and humans both sharing pale white streaks of hair. He hadn’t known whether to laugh or weep upon hearing those words from her lips, innocent and completely unaware of the accuracies spanning far past hair color.

“Jason, I love you, but we are not cooping ourselves up in the house this summer.” The words were firm and unyielding—but lacking any true bite.

“ I’ve given you grace. I let a lot slide because I understand your background. But we’re just not doing it this summer. Its too hot to not go to waterparks and enjoy ourselves because of possibilities.” A damn good point rested upon your tongue, and he knew it.

“Fine.” He relented with a jocosely petulant huff.” But we take a gun with us.”

Tim Drake is an ambitious father. It’s been said before, but I don’t believe he’s as active as the fandom would believe. Though, his absence isn’t born of malice or indifference, but ambition, a thirst for a legacy. He wants to be a man his significant other and child can be proud of, a father worth bragging about. There’s also a large chamber seated within his mind that knows not how to be a father, for his parents were cold, choosing to throw dollars at his gripes and needs rather than be present.

One of his greatest fears is disappointing the both of you, like he was disappointed by his own parents, so disappointed he couldn’t even despise them. Tragically, the mission to avoid history’s repetition had placed him before a mirror, his parents gazing back at him, a smug smirk curled on their lips because they know that he’ll be on their end of the glass within a few decades.

Can he be blamed? Tim wants the absolute best for his family. The best grades, the best schools, the best scores, the best scholarships. He’s not naïve enough like Dick to believe hard work and persevere can lift a nobody anywhere. There are no bootstraps to be pulled taut. It’s an illusion, a sauce wealthy people spoon over their meals to disguise the taste of nepotism and privilege. Manipulations the rich regurgitate to excuse themselves from having to acknowledge the unfair, biased system they’ve upheld.

The door to his limousine slammed closed, his child seated beside but, but farther than ever. What could be said? Jerking forward, the limousine rolled into drive, coasting beneath autumn streaked clouds, as though her father had gifted her the sky from a florist. Bruce hadn’t prepared Tim for the teenaged terror years. He couldn’t help but wonder if he himself had been this capricious and fickle as a teen, or if he were merely that bad of a father.

“Do. . . do you want a Milkshake? From that one place by the house, like we used to when you were young.” Tim couldn’t help but raise a hopeful raven shaded brow. He could smell the stench of sweat, an anxious perspiration, cleaving to your school uniform. It must’ve been a test day.” I’ll clear the rest of my schedule for us. . . if you want, of course.” He extended an olive branch, granting her the choice to engage and accept, or set the course for the rest her teenage years.

Damian Wayne does not want children. He doesn’t know how far his taint would bleed, and all he can envision are the ways he could disgrace the mind of a child. His village was rotten and evil. Bad fruits bear worse seeds.

Damian’s devotion was love, the purest kind he knew, a primal desire to protect and cherish that of which he adored. You forged suns in his heart, set the butterflies in his belly aflutter. Beneath a weeping of sheet of violet sky, the both of you had sworn to love the other until Earth imploded—and when it did, he would find you in another universe.

He doesn’t hate children. In fact, he would be a decent babysitter for Dick and Jason, and whenever Tim deigned to grace the BatCave with his presence. But, Damian is staunch in his childfree attitude, and you respect it. Truthfully, you weren’t even sure you wanted kids. No, you and Damian battled crime, traveled the world and experienced culture, learned histories outside of the filth pumped into his mind by the Al Ghuls. Bruce was saddened by Damian’s decision against children, but he ultimately respected it—and him.

Damian knew he was poisoned and rotten and always would be, no matter what emblem was sewn over his breast. He was content with the life the both of you had, and knowing Dick, many more children are to come, so he’d never get lonely.” Beloved, what do you make of Italy? Not the tourist parts where the history is washed, but the ripe lands.”

Bruce Wayne is a weary father. He knew the birth of his youngest child was redemption, his last chance at preserving the Wayne name since Damian had sworn off children. But Bruce was aged, hardened, jaded, weary. He had scars to last a lifetime, some worn on his heart, though majority were worn on his skin.

The Wayne brownstone was eerily silent since Alfred’s death. Bruce’s son sat around the oaken table, coloring a picture of Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman, and Alfred. Bruce’s heavy lids fell over exhausted, dim blue irises, his brain flitting back to the memories of Alfred, gathered at the stove and learning a recipe. I am. . . old, Master Bruce. My time on this earth is not infinite. You must learn more than the ways of fists, the words echoed in his mind. Reminding him that old age wasn’t even the murderer of Alfred Pennyworth.

He fetched an inhale before pulling himself off of the couch, and padding over toward his son at the dinner table.” What’s that? Oh, a pretty picture. A real artistic talent, like Damian.” Bruce was unsure of his fathering more often than not. He knew how it appeared to his son’s school counselors and the principal—old, washed up playboy Bruce Wayne saddled with another young son. That was far from the case, but the masses will believe anything when they’re given nothing.

Bruce fetched a pot and skillet from the creaking cabinets of the brownstone, far from the elegance and cleanliness of the manor. Alfred would’ve been mortified to see the mess, he almost chuckled, but withheld it. Lest his son raise a question, for the explanation would be too complicated and long-winded for his young mind.” So, what do you see for dinner tonight? What makes that belly growl like a lion? Mac and Cheese? Lasagna? Hamburger Helper?”

Bruce knew exactly what his son would choose. Asking was merely a courtesy. Bruce knew him, raised the boy from the minute he was weaned. He knew what his son would do before his son knew what he himself would do. The Batman wasn’t a slacker, wasn’t lazy.

[intoxicated-chan]

𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐞𝐥𝐭

Summary ➳ Gambit lends an ear and his comfort to you. 

(A/n) ➳ I feel like I spent too much time writing this because I wanted to get his accent right. But I thank all those who gave me advice, especially @a-roguish-gambit. I also started playing RDR2 so you guys can expect content for the game soon too!

Word Count ➳ 1.1k 

Content Warnings ➳ Female Reader, swearing, violence, blood, pet names (cher), mentions/fear of abandonment, light sexual content, cock blocking??  

It wasn’t your choice to be pushed into the Void after Wade and Logan. When you watched their bodies disappear, you too were taken to the Void without putting much of a fight. And from the moment you arrived, you knew you were over your head. 

From the moment you arrived, Wade and Logan’s bickering and banter was constant, and their fights weren’t often but deadly. You stood on the sidelines whenever they fought because you knew they could easily take you out. 

Especially now.  

What was supposed to be a ride to find the Resistance members became a bloodbath, the first sign of a fight starting was your cue to leave the car and wait for them to calm down. 

You sat against the tree, watching the two grown ass men throw kicks and punches that could kill a person with ease. Logan's claws pierce Wade’s body and how Wade’s katanas and knife slice through Logan’s outfit and skin.  

“Guys, seriously?” You muttered, this fight would’ve been much entertaining if she had food with her. You were tired of it, physically and emotionally, and you weren’t surprised when you fell asleep to the sound of them battling.  

But when you awoke, you were in a different place. Some kind of hideout.  

But with three others who you learned to be Blade, Elektra and Gambit. All of them talked about getting back into Cassandra’s lair, but Wade did most of the talking as Logan did all the drinking.  

“You?!” Wade suddenly shouting in some kind of encouragement, pointing directly at you.  

They all stared at you, waiting for a response but you had no idea what they were agreeing on, going back in her lair or getting a way out.  

“It’s the same thing, kid.” Logan interrupted your thinking, as if he read your thoughts. But it seems he was tired of the fighting and wanted to a seat to drink in peace.  

“Sure, I guess.” You said, mainly to get the stares off you. 

Everyone agreed that they would set off early in the morning, giving you the chance to look around the hideout. You peeked your heads in the room as you already felt like you were trespassing, so you promised yourself that this would be the last room before you ate something. 

“Bonjour, cher.” Gambit’s voice made you jump, quickly pulling your head out to turn and look at him. “Ain’t polite to be peekin’ in on folks, now is it?” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” 

Gambit reached out to push the door open further. “Ain’t no harm done.” With a wave of his hand, he welcomed you in. “Don’t be shy, cher.” 

You walked in once you got his approval, he followed right behind you, closing the door with a click. The room was not what you expected, with mismatched furniture and some playing cards lying around, it spoke of him.  

It was Gambit’s space, and it felt like an extension of him. 

“So, how long you been stuck in dis here Void?” Gambit asked, sitting on his couch and patting the cushion beside him.  

But you shook your head, choosing to lean against the wall. “Not long. I got caught up in Wade’s mess.” 

Gambit raised an eyebrow, his expression changing to surprised. “You’ new to all dis chaos, eh? Coulda fooled me.” He grinned.  

You shrugged, trying to laugh. “More like I got dragged into it. Wade... He stopped getting in trouble for some time but this time, I wasn’t quick enough to dodge it.” 

“If dere’s somethin’ on your mind, cher, you can talk. Sometimes it’s easier t’spill your guts to a stranger.” Gambit noted. 

You looked at him, seeing sincerity in his eyes. For a moment, you hesitated, but you broke. “I’m worried. Scared.” You admitted, whispering. “That this plan won’t work. If it doesn’t, everyone in my universe... They’ll forget me. It’ll be like I never existed.” 

You didn’t mean to say much, but once you started, you couldn’t stop. “I’ve been abandoned once before, left to fend for myself. I worked so hard to make a name but now it’ll be for nothing. Everything I’ve done, everyone I’ve known... Gone. Just like that.” 

You felt embarrassed after you finished ranting. Your eyes widened as you raised your hands, stumbling over your words, a poor attempt at explaining yourself. “Shit! I-I know you said-” 

But before you could finish, Gambit was there in front of you, pulling you into a tight embrace. His arms wrapped around you like a shield, protecting you from your worries.  

“It’s alrig’t cher. You’re alrig’t.” He whispered, his voice soothing as he held you close. “You ain’t gotta apologize for feelin’ like dis. Everyone gets scared, even Remy.”  

You felt yourself slowly relax in his embrace, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calmed you a little. In that moment, you didn’t care about the fear that’s been eating you away.  

You hesitated at first, but then you wrapped your arms around him. You both stayed like that for a while, neither of you saying a word, just taking comfort in each other’s company. 

Eventually, Gambit pulled back slightly, just enough so he could look down at you. You met his faze, your breath hitching as you realized how close you were. 

And then, he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a gentle kiss. It was slow soft at first, a mere brush of lips, but it deepened as the seconds passed, both of you losing yourselves in the moment.  

You felt his fingers running through your hair as you reached to cup his face. You shut your eyes, your hands moving to his coat and attempt to take it off him.  

The door flew open with a loud slam. You jumped, darting away from Gambit. 

“Hey, what’s going on in here?!” Wade shouted as he strutted into Gambit’s room. His tone was annoyingly cheerful. “We don’t have the budget for intimacy coordinators! Johnny must’ve taken it all.” 

You cleared your throat, crossing your arms as you felt your face become warm. “Wade! I... Uh... Nothing, nothing’s going on.” 

You could tell by how the whites of his suit widened that he was smirking under that dammed mask. “Oh really? ‘Cause it looks like I interrupted something juicy!” 

“Jus’ havin’ a lil’ chat, mon ami. Nothin’ to get excited ‘bout.” Gambit fixed his coat, seemingly normal. 

Wade then shrugged, turning around. “Alright, but if I hear any smoochin’ sounds, I’m comin’ right back!” 

As soon as the door closed behind Wade, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your heat still racing from the near discovery. You glanced at Gambit, who was watching you with a smile, and couldn’t help but laugh. 

Gambit stepped closer to you, hooking his finger under your chin to have you look at him. “As we were, cher?”  

© Intoxicated-Chan 2024, I do not allow my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or put on any other platform without my permission. 

[wintrwinchestr]

strangers | part 4

summary: you never would've snuck out of bed last night if you had known it would lead to this—becoming a pawn in joel's sick, depraved game, playing the role of both victim and accomplice. how can the sparing of your life feel so much like a death sentence? how can you ever forgive yourself when your hands are as soaked in innocent blood as his are? how can the kind, gentle man you thought you loved, turn out to be such a monster?

!!PLEASE READ WARNINGS, THIS IS A VERY DARK FIC!!

I've tried to label this fic as detailed and as boldly as possible. I will not be held responsible or bullied off the internet if you choose to read this potentially upsetting/triggering work of fiction anyway.

warnings: joel miller x f!reader, 18+, smut, age gap (reader is college-aged, joel is mid-50s), no outbreak au, serial killer!joel, dark!joel, !!GRAPHIC!! DESCRIPTION OF MURDER AND BLOOD, NON-CON PIV (gonna say rape just in case, reader does not verbally consent), JOEL IS A SICK FREAK WHO GETS OFF ON KILLING, lying/gaslighting, manipulation, stalking, heavy dose of Joel POV, fingering, pussy slapping, edging, breathplay, degrading language used in an unsexy way, consumption of blood, Joel comes on your face, brief mention of somnophilia, reader has hair long enough to grab, reader can be carried by joel, development of stockholm syndrome, pet names (baby, darlin', babydoll, sweetheart), story inspired by "preacher's daughter" by ethel cain, vaguely set in the 70s, please respectfully let me know if i missed anything and i will rectify the tags

word count: 11.5k

a/n: this is a dark one, folks. if i haven't lost you already, i might lose you after this one. if this is the stop you get off on, i'm okay with that :) thanks for coming along for the ride. we've still got places to go from here, i'll be glad if you do decide to stick around. i feel very fortunate that the conversation around this story has been positive and respectful and i look forward to keeping it that way <3

divider by @saradika

series masterlist/moodboard

read this chapter on ao3

The office looks so different in the daylight.

The key to the room you’ve been staying in is still the only one missing from the corkboard, but the previously empty coffee pot is now half-full of this morning’s brew, and the ominous ticking of the clock is now mostly drowned out by the sounds of an afternoon football game, playing loudly on the television in the little lounge. 

Joel has only let go of your hand twice since you left town—once to help you up into the truck, and once to help you climb back down. Your fingers have remained interlocked otherwise, even while he was driving, even right now, as you stand in front of the desk and wait for somebody to respond to the sharp sound of the little golden bell reverberating throughout the room. Joel hits his fingers against the top of it again, with a little more agitated force this time, but still, no answer.

“I know this ain’t a five star joint or nothin’, but goddamn…” Joel grumbles, leaning around to peer into the room where, by the sounds of it, a touchdown has just been made. “Hey, buddy! Lil’ help in here?” He shouts, and the sudden intensity of his voice makes you jump. The volume of the game diminishes almost immediately, and a scrawny-looking teenage boy emerges from the lounge, wiping Cheeto dust onto his jeans.

“Sorry about that, sir. Eagles game, you know?” the boy tries to jest, but Joel only hums in response. “Anyway, what can I help you guys with?”

“Was wonderin’ if you might know anythin’ about a girl named Chrissy who was workin’ the night shift in here last night?”

“Chrissy? Sure, she’s pretty new around here, but I’ve worked the mornings after her a few times… Why do you ask? Is she in some kinda trouble?”

Not yet, she isn’t. 

“Nah, nah, nothin’ like that,” Joel reassures, then maneuvers you to stand in front of him. “Quite the opposite, actually. She helped my lil’ girl out last night when she wasn’t feelin’ too well. We’re awfully grateful to her, ain’t we, sweetheart?” He prompts, nudging you in the back. 

You nod, but keep your head down, fiddling with the hem of your dress. 

“Oh! That’s right. She, uh, left a note on the coffee table in there, saying something about keeping an eye on the girl staying here, and the, um…” You flick your eyes upwards as the boy’s sentence trails off, and watch him look Joel up and down once, swallowing hard. “Yeah, just the girl. Guess that was you, huh?” You avert your gaze again quickly when he addresses you, feeling your pulse quicken in panic.

“Mhm, sure was,” Joel answers for you. “That was awfully… kind of her, bein’ so concerned like that. Anyway, we just thought we’d stop by, see if she was around so we could give her a proper ‘thank you’, but I take it she ain’t here anymore? Any idea where she might be this time o’ day?”

The boy expels a sigh, tapping his fingers on top of the counter while he thinks. “I mean, I don’t know her too well… But I know she’s got another job at this bar down the road, The Rattler Room. I think she trades her nights between that place and here, wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got a shift there later tonight.”

“Well, how ‘bout that,” Joel says, clapping his hands on either one of your upper arms. “Guess we know what we’re doin’ about dinner tonight, don’t we, sweetheart?” Goosebumps raise on your skin even in the warmth of the office, and a nauseous feeling swirls in the pit of your belly. You feel somewhat fortunate that Joel wasn’t actually looking for a response from you, because if you were to open your mouth right now, you can’t guarantee that the minimal contents of your stomach wouldn’t come spilling out all over the muddy-colored carpeting. You would’ve never gotten out of bed last night, never tiptoed into this suffocating little room and asked the friendly-looking freckle-faced girl for help with your stupid idea—or hers, as Joel seems to think—if you had known that you would be putting more than just your own life at risk. You know what’s coming next, why Joel wants to hunt her down and stalk her like the predator that he is, and it’s all your fault.

“Let’s get goin’ now, baby. Thanks for your help, son, ‘s much appreciated.” Joel grabs hold of your hand again as he leads you out the door, and you nearly trip over the threshold as he tugs you across it.

He has a sick kind of spring in his step as he drags you back to the room, licking his chops and wearing an amused expression as he shucks off his boots and collapses onto the bed with a groan. You stand at the foot of the bed, frozen, as he grabs the remote off the bedside table and flicks the little square television to life. 

“Whaddyou wanna watch, babydoll, huh? Signal’s kinda spotty out here, but one’a these channels has gotta be playin’ an old Western or somethin’...” You just blink at him, dumbfounded, watching him surf through the staticky channels as if the previous five minutes had never happened. Joel had just started the countdown on the remainder of Chrissy’s life right before your eyes, and all he wants to do now is… kick his feet up and watch some fucking TV? 

“What do you mean, ‘what do I wanna watch’?” You ask, unable to hide the disconcerted edge in your voice.

“Baby, it ain’t a difficult question. Gotta kill time somehow, don’t we?” Joel turns his head in your direction as he addresses you, but otherwise keeps his eyes glued to the television screen, which now seems to be stuck on a snowy channel filling the room with loud, unsettling white noise. “God—dammit,” he curses, smacking the remote against the palm of his hand a few times. Your stomach churns both at the way he beats the inanimate object for its disobedience, and at his ironic choice of idiom.

“Kill time until… what?” 

Joel looks up at you from under his lashes, halfway rolling his eyes at you before giving up on his endeavor altogether and clicking the TV screen into darkness again. “Did you think I was just makin’ shit up last night? You’re gonna bring her to me. Not right now, ‘course. Later, when the sun goes down, we’ll head on over to that bar. I’ll buy you some dinner or whatever kinda shitty food they have, but dessert’s on you, you get me?”

Your vision starts to go a little dark around the edges, and you feel unsteady on your feet as the grim reality sets in that he wasn’t just prattling off some depraved fantasy to you last night, he wants to make it real. He wants to spear a hook through your abdomen and cast you out to sea, dangle you in front of something empathetic and pretty and fragile and lure her straight into his gaping jaw. You can hardly live with yourself as it is, the way you’ve already been so consumed with survivor’s guilt for the past twenty four hours that you can feel the physical weight of it on your soul. But actually being responsible for adding another girl to his collection, your hands just as soaked in her blood as his would be? It will fucking break you. It won’t just be the images of the polaroids that will haunt you, it’ll be the shattering sounds of their screams, the metallic scent of their blood, the nauseating visions of their contorted bodies that will be your own tangible memories now, seared onto the backs of your eyelids because you were there. You’ll never get a decent night’s sleep for the rest of your life, and you won’t deserve one.

“But… you—we can’t take her. It can’t be her.”

Joel sits back against the headboard, crossing his arms, like he wants to see where you’re going with this. “No? Why not, babydoll?”

You cross your arms back at him, widening your stance in order to look more sure of yourself. “Well… That kid. He saw our faces, right? When Chrissy doesn’t show up here again tomorrow night, the police will question him, and he’ll tell them that we were asking about her. They’ll know we had something to do with it.” 

Joel scoffs. “Yeah? Well, maybe they will. Then what’re they gonna do about it, hm? Two of us’ll be long gone by the time tomorrow night rolls around.” He knocks down your logic as easily as he would a house of cards, and you can’t think of anything else to say that might be able to convince him not to do this. The thought of it alone is like a drop of blood in the water, and once he’s gotten a whiff of it, there’s nothing you can do to stop the frenzy. 

“B-but—”

“But what, sweetheart? How long d’you think I’ve been doin’ this, hm? Think I don’t know the rules of the game by now?”

He has a point. Joel has managed to evade capture for this long, surely he isn’t going to start slipping up now. He probably has his ritual down to a science, knowing exactly which type of girl to take, the right place to get the job done, and how long he can stick around for afterwards before his face shows up as a crude drawing on the evening news. The only thing on his mind now is the exciting prospect of being able to get his rocks off in just a few hours, while yours is running a mile a minute thinking about the lifetime of trauma and guilt you’ll be setting yourself up for if you do this, how many different ways it can go wrong, and what could happen to you if it does. 

“Here, c’mere, baby,” Joel beckons, spreading his legs and patting his hand on the mattress between them. “You’re thinkin’ too much about this. Lemme show you how easy it’s gonna be, hm?”

He raises his brows at you when you don’t obey immediately, and you reluctantly crawl onto the creaky bed toward where Joel’s toned arms are reaching out to you. He grabs onto your waist when you get close enough and pulls you against him, situating you so that your back is pressed against his front. He wraps his arms around your middle, and rests his scruffy chin on your shoulder.

“You remember passin’ that bar on our way into town today, don’t you, babydoll? Had a big ol’ neon sign out front, a bright green rattlesnake waggin’ its tail back ‘n forth?”

“Um…” You close your eyes, trying your best to sift through the memories of everything you had seen during the drive. But it’s proving difficult, especially with the way one of Joel’s rough hands is sliding down your belly, finding its way underneath your dress and settling overtop of your panties. He begins to circle his middle finger around your clothed bud, and you hate the way it makes your breath hitch.

“C’mon, think for me, sweetheart. You remember, don’t you?” Joel prompts, a condescendingly teasing lilt in his voice.

A blur of neon green streaks across the backs of your eyelids, and you do remember, kind of. A divey looking place with a few motorcycles and pickup trucks parked out front, relatively isolated and unassuming aside from its kitschy signage.

“Mhm,” you hum, and it comes out more like a whimper. “I… I remember.”

Joel’s swirling finger picks up its pace, increasing the pressure against your clit as he continues to quiz you. “Yeah… And a few miles down past it, there was that abandoned lookin’ lil’ neighborhood, right? Houses were ‘bout fallin’ apart, all the yards were real overgrown… You remember?”

This, you can picture more clearly. It had reminded you of your own starved out hometown, every street lined with boxy two-story houses covered in peeling paint and climbing vines. Some of the homes so decrepit-looking, with their crumbling foundations and boarded up windows, and yet still with an assortment of sun-bleached children’s toys littering the front porch, a wind-chime still singing even if nobody was around to hear it anymore.

All you can do is nod in conformation, too afraid to make any more noises that might sound like you’re actually enjoying this, like it feels good, like you want him to keep going. Fuck.

“That’s where we’re gonna do it, baby. So you gotta listen real carefully, okay? Gonna tell you the plan, ‘n I want you to repeat it back to me, alright? Can you do that, babydoll?” Joel tugs your panties to the side as he questions you, exposing your damp core to the air conditioned room. “Fuck, look at that…” He muses, now using two of his fingers to spread your puffy lips apart and admire the way they glisten.

“Uh huh, I… I can,” you confirm breathily. 

Joe’s fingers travel downwards, focusing their ministrations around the rim of your leaky hole instead. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, sweetheart… Gonna head down there, park the truck ‘round the side. I’ll give ya some cash to go sit up at the bar, ‘n I’ll hang around in the back, keep an eye on you… You’re gonna chat up lil’ miss Chrissy, tell her all about how I snatched you up, made you mine, won’t let you leave my side… You’re gonna use your manners all pretty ‘n nice, and ask her to please, please take you back home, help you get away from that big, scary, mean old man who hurts you so bad—“ He presses a thick finger inside your opening, and you can’t help but moan at the burning intrusion. “Just don’t tell her how much you like it, huh, babydoll?” 

“Y-you… You want me to tell h-her… All of that?” You ask, confused that Joel would instruct you to tell her the truth, when so far, he’s been hellbent on hiding from the world who he truly is, only bearing his teeth when provoked, like a caged animal.

“Mhm, want you to tell her the truth, sweetheart, everything. Not like she’ll be able to do anythin’ about it later, hm?” Joel grabs onto your chin with his unoccupied hand, and shakes your head for you. “No, she won’t. Tha’s right, baby…” He laughs darkly, and you understand his intent now—to taunt you with an opportunity to finally be able to ask for help, to force you to pantomime what could be a real chance at escape, knowing that nothing will come of it. Joel begins to piston his finger in and out of you, and he holds you tightly against him as you squirm and sob.

“You’re gonna work your magic on her, and she’ll take such pity on you, sweet lil’ lamb that you are, of course she’ll take you back home… You’re gonna give her directions to that row of houses, have her take you all the way down to the one at the very end of the street, ‘n I’ll be followin’ close behind in the truck the whole time. Two of you’ll get outta the car, and then—” He sinks a second finger into your warmth alongside the other one, and you make a pained little noise at the stretch, arching your back against him. “Then I get to have my fun,” he snarls into your ear.

You didn’t realize how much tension you’d been holding in your body until now, until Joel had begun using his skillful fingers to render it all down, along with any rational thought you’d had left. You want to fight, want to spit and bite and scratch and push yourself away from him and never let him touch you there again, but you can’t. Your limbs feel weaker and weaker as the muscles in your abdomen draw tighter and tighter, and all you can do is melt against him, let him siphon out all that worry and pain and trauma and replace it with pleasure, at least just for a little while. You’ll grapple with yourself about it later.

You can feel the rumble of Joel’s voice against the skin of your neck, but you don’t register what he says, too consumed by your own pleasure to hear him. You just continue to mindlessly buck into the movements of his fingers, until he yanks them free from your walls and issues a sharp slap to your aching cunt.

“I said, repeat it,” Joel hisses, and you yelp at the sting, your hips stuttering as they continue to chase after nothing.

“S-sorry, ‘m sorry, Joel, please—” You pant.

“You want me to keep goin’? You wanna come? Then repeat it back to me, babydoll, all of it, or I ain’t givin’ you shit. Need to know that you understand, that I can send you out there to bring me some fresh meat and you ain’t gonna fuck it up.”

“Okay, okay, okay, um… Fuck—” you curse as Joel slowly reinserts his fingers, resuming their beckoning motion against that spongey spot deep inside that makes you dizzy. “I-I’m gonna… Tell her… About you…”

“Uh huh, tha’s right… What about me, baby?” He encourages, his fingers working their way back up to the pace they had been moving at before he had deprived you of them.

You try to wade through the dense cloud of fog in your mind, your ability to think slowing down as the heel of his palm stimulates your clit with each rhythmic thrust. “T-that you, um… That you took me, you h-hurt me. And I’m gonna ask her to… To take me home—” “Good, good girl…” Joel praises. “Doin’ such a good job, almost there, babydoll. What comes next, hm?”

You take in a shuddering breath, closing your eyes tightly as you force your brain to recall the steps he had just walked you through. “I make her d-drive me to, um… To that house—”

“Which one, baby? Lots’a houses on that street, which one did I say?” Joel stills his movements, holding your pleasure hostage while he waits for your answer. You try desperately to twist around in his hold and continue to chase after your high, but his grip around your jaw remains ironclad. 

“The one on the… The corner?”

Slap.

“Ain’t what I fuckin’ said. You think I want everybody drivin’ by to be able to hear her fuckin’ screams? Try again.”

You cry out, your abused little hole constricting around nothing. You dredge the depths of your short term memory, desperate to come up with the right answer.

“At the end! T-the one at the end,” you shout, and you’re rewarded with the replacement of his fingers, petting against your walls with just the right amount of speed and force that he knows will have you seeing stars with just a few more strokes.

“There we go… And what’s the last thing I said, sweetheart, hm? Last thing I need you to do…”

You draw a blank, your head filled with nothing other than almost there, keep going, please, please, please. You whine, bracing yourself for another swat to your sensitive cunt as you force yourself to admit, “I-I don’t… Don’t remember.”

Slap.

A debauched, animalistic cry leaves your lips, one that you can’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed of at the moment. “Yes you do, baby. Not gonna let you gush all over my fuckin’ fingers ‘less you tell me. Think. Can’t do shit if the two’a you get to the house and just twiddle your thumbs in the car, can I?”

“N-no, I gotta… Get her out of the car… Right? Is that it?” You’re heaving, completely breathless and covered in the dampness of your own sweat and arousal. At this point, you think you’ll say whatever the fuck he wants to hear if it means he’ll reinsert his fingers and finally let you fall over the edge.

“That’s right, sweetheart…” The hand that was gripped onto your jaw migrates downwards, wrapping itself around your neck. He presses his thumb and forefinger into either one of your pulse points, and you feel like you’re floating as he resumes the movements of his soaked fingers, drawing your orgasm closer and closer to the surface again. “One last thing… Tell me what I’m gonna do to her, hm? Then you can come, baby,” Joel growls, and you can feel him pressing his hard length into your back as he does. 

His voice sounds muffled, like it’s coming from underwater, but it resonates clearly enough for you to understand what he’s commanding of you. A whine forces its way through your constricted throat as you plead, “D-don’t make me, please just—” “Say it, or you’re gonna be watchin’ me do it with an achy, unsatisfied cunt leakin’ all over the fuckin’ floor. ‘S that what you want?”

You don’t want to watch him do it at all. A more sensible part of your brain knows that this is all so wrong, that it’s sick and horrifying and completely deplorable, but the pleasure-seeking part of it doesn’t really care right now. Joel is playing with you like a doll, pulling your strings and posing your limbs as he molds you into his perfect victim. He’s breaking you down, slowly but surely, and although you can feel it happening in real time, he’s proven to you time and time again how defenseless you are to his manipulation, how just a few gentle words and swirls of his fingertips can have you falling apart against him, so that he can put you back together just a little bit differently than you were before. 

“N-no,” you whimper ashamedly.

“Then say it.”

You swallow, and you can feel the cartilage at the front of your throat moving against his hand as you do. “You’re gonna… Kill her,” you rasp through half-full lungs, the words hardly meaning anything to you at all with how close your release is, being dangled in front of you just barely out of reach.

“Sure fuckin’ am,” Joel growls through gritted teeth. “Gonna enjoy every second of it, too, ‘s been so goddamn long. ‘M fuckin’ starvin’ for it, babydoll, you got no idea… Can’t wait to watch that lil’ bitch bleed.”

You ignore his perverted rambling to the best of your ability, the rocking of your hips becoming more spastic as the movements of Joel’s fingers increase in intensity, alongside his own excitement.

“C-can I… Please, Joel—” you beg hoarsely, your own voice sounding distorted and far away as you fuck yourself on his hand. 

“Yeah, babydoll, come for me, such a perfect fuckin’ girl…”

Both of Joel’s hands maintain their pressure as the knot in your belly tightens, then unravels all at once. You come undone on his fingers, the motel room filling with the obscene sounds of your wetness and your pathetic mewling as you drench Joel’s hand. He shushes and praises you through your climax, his fingers only ceasing their onslaught once your twitching body finally relaxes and slumps against his broad form. 

Your skin feels cool, tingly all over as the blood rushes back into your head. Joel pulls you into his lap, bending your knees close to your body so that he can cradle you like a child. You must be crying again, because he’s using his knuckle to wipe moisture from underneath your eyes as you shudder against him, reality coming crashing down around you again all at once.

“You’re so good for me, baby, such a good girl… It’s gonna be just fine, you’ll see. It’ll get easier every time we do this, won’t seem so scary anymore…” Joel rubs your back and kisses the top of your head, and you let him believe that you are crying for fear of the brutality you’ll have to bear witness to tonight, and not because you’ve dared to feel pleasure at the hands of the person who will be doing the brutalizing. You feel so fucking ashamed in your post-orgasmic state, but you’re so dehydrated and exhausted that you don’t really have enough energy to scold yourself right now. 

Joel holds you close as he rocks your curled-up form, and you feel too weak to resist the way your eyes begin to flutter closed, the release of tension making way for your poor night’s sleep to finally catch up with you. 

“Get some rest, babydoll, gonna need it. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go,” is the last thing you hear before you allow yourself to succumb to the temptation of sleep. 

—

You were never supposed to find those polaroids. 

Could Joel have taken the precaution of dumping his box of jerkoff material into a ditch somewhere before you could ever get the chance to find it on your own? Of course. But he didn’t know if he might need it again, if he might someday find himself with another itch that only his little collection of keepsakes could scratch. He had kept them hidden from you for a reason, tried to toss them in the trash and convince you that they weren’t worth getting curious about for a reason—because things were going perfectly well, better than it had gone with any of them. Joel had never planned on adding your photo to the pile.

He had known you were different, that you were the one, from that very first night you’d spent together. You’d been nothing but polite, grateful, and appreciative, even when he’d slid beside you in bed and stolen a taste of all that sweetness you were made of. 

His whole life, Joel has searched for someone like you—someone to submit to him, to rely on him, to need him. That latter trait is the most important one, and the one that all the others seemed to be lacking. They liked feeling cared for and protected, liked bleeding his wallet dry while they spent a few weeks using him as some kind of rebellious experiment to piss off their parents one last time before they moved out of the house. But none of them ever made it very long before they decided that they didn’t really need him after all, that the fling was over, that the spark was gone, that they missed the shitty town he had picked them up from and wanted to be taken back. Ungrateful brats, they all fucking deserved it. And now they never get to go home, they get to rot in the fucking ground where their families will never find them, and he gets to keep their pretty pictures all to himself, asserting his control over them even in death. See how much they fucking need him now, when he is the one thing standing in between a cold case and a funeral.

Joel had known you wouldn’t end up like them, because you do need him. You have nobody, whether you’ll ever be able to admit it to yourself or not. You have no friends, no future, and no family, or at least not any left alive that actually care about you. You have no choice but to rely on him. Who knows what would’ve happened to you if he hadn’t stumbled upon you that night, looking so weak and lost and vulnerable and alone? There are much worse men than Joel out there, men who rape and kill just for the sick pleasure of it alone. At least Joel has some method behind his madness. It’s not like he’d invite a girl into his truck and immediately begin to fantasize about what her windpipe might feel like collapsing underneath his fingers.

Or, he didn’t used to. Not when he first started taking them. 

He’d thought the desire had just disappeared on its own, once he’d found you, his perfect little doll. Joel had meant what he said when he told you that he was going to be done after the last one. But then… Then he’d had you pinned underneath him last night, starving your lungs of air, your eyes red and watery as you’d begged for your life, and he’d realized that he missed it. He craved it. Needed it. The itch was still there after all, demanding to be scratched. But no matter how aggravating and persistent it may get, Joel had decided a long time ago that he’ll never use you to make it go away. It’ll never be you. Even when he’d had his hands wrapped around your throat, he’d never planned on finishing the job. After all, how could he ever live without you when he’d spent so long trying to find you?

And this is the one thing he needs you to understand—that he’s never letting you go. Joel had thought he’d gotten it through to you well enough last night, when he’d given you a taste of the consequences the others had suffered when they’d tried escaping. But you must be stronger than he’s been giving your credit for, judging by the way you still decided to fucking act up today with that dumbass little letter of yours. That’s okay, though. He can handle it. It just means you’ll take a little more effort to break down than he’d previously thought. If he can’t convince you that the only version of your life you were ever destined to live is the one with him in it, then he’ll just have to make you think that it’s your own idea to stay, to submit. He seems to have made some pretty good progress chipping away at your resolve today already. At this rate, he’ll have it whittled down to nothing in no time at all, and you’ll be right back to the pliant little babydoll he fell in love with all that time ago. The one who needs him.

You’ll come back around soon enough, when you finally realize that you don’t have any other choice.

So, maybe Joel is a little glad you found the polaroids. He wouldn’t have ended up here if you hadn’t, skulking around the pool table in the back of the Rattler Room, practically vibrating with anticipation and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. He flicks his gaze between the end of his pool cue and where you’re perched at the bar on a cracked leather stool, occasionally catching your eyes when you look back at him nervously. Joel just gives you a nod and a wink every time, and it’s enough to make you turn back around and take another sip of your drink to quell your anxiety. 

You’re probably getting antsy because the two of you have been hanging around here for the better part of an hour, and Chrissy still hasn’t shown yet. But this is just one rule of the game—waiting. Patience. A predator doesn’t go in for the kill the second they lay eyes on their prey, do they? They have to study their movements, make sure they’ve got the little creature right where they want them, with their belly up or their neck exposed or their back turned, and then they pounce. You’ll learn the rules soon enough. With each of these little hunts that you accompany him on, you’ll learn. There may even come a time when you pick out the girls yourself, because you see it as an act of service, of love, satiating his hunger like this. 

The next time you look back at Joel, you move like you’re about to get up from your seat and walk over to him, but he gives you a stern look that says “Stay put.” He jerks his chin upwards, toward where his pretty piece of meat is now emerging from behind the bar. Joel wonders if you believe the web of lies he’d spun about her today, if they were enough to convince you that Chrissy had taken advantage of you, that she’d manipulated you, that she deserves this. He hopes that you do, so that her death might weigh a little less on your conscience, so that you’ll put up a little less fight the next time his itch needs scratching. 

God, that slender neck of hers is just begging for Joel’s blade. His upper lip twitches as he imagines the sight of her deep crimson blood dripping down her ivory-colored skin, her face becoming impossibly paler as her heart flutters out its last few beats before stopping altogether. Joel usually saves his knife for special occasions, when he needs the execution done quick and dirty before her screams wake up the entire fucking neighborhood, or in instances like his last girl, when she just needed to be put out of her fucking misery. But he might use it tonight, just because. Because he’s hungry. Because he’s so fucking hard he doesn’t think he can make himself suffer through the amount of time it takes to strangle a girl. 

Joel watches from the shadows as Chrissy seems to recognize you right away, reaching for your hands across the bar as she says something to you that he can’t make out. Judging by the pitied expression she wears, the way she leans into you, he guesses it’s something like, “I’m so glad to see you. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need help? Do you need me to save you from that big horrible monster who’s making your life so miserable?” Joel rolls his eyes at the imagined conversation. He sets his pool cue back on the rack and takes a seat at a small corner table, keeping his head low as he sips his beer, adjusting himself while he watches the way the tendons in Chrissy’s neck tighten and flex as she speaks. He can practically see her carotid artery pulsing underneath her skin, can already taste the iron on his tongue from the flecks of blood that will inevitably splatter onto his lips when he slices it open.

Calm the fuck down, Miller. It’ll be playtime soon enough.

The two of you talk for another minute or so, and Joel gathers that you must be reciting the lines he’d taken such care to teach you today. Chrissy’s brows furrow, her lips part, and she places one of her small hands over her chest as she listens, as if your rehearsed little sob story is just too much to bear, so tragic and devastating that it’s actually causing her physical pain to hear. She retrieves a paper napkin from underneath the bar, and hands it to you so that you can use it to dab underneath your eyes. Jesus, are you crying? You’re even better at this than he thought you’d be. 

Your shoulders shudder as you finish drying your tears, and Chrissy glances behind her at the clock on the wall, pausing to think for a moment before she turns back to you. Whatever she’s saying, she looks sure of herself, determined, and you nod your head on just about every other word. “Okay?” is the only one he can read on Chrissy’s lips, the last one she says to you before she begins serving the other patrons sitting at the bar. You continue to sip at your drink with your head hung low until she disappears into the back again, and when you swivel around in your stool, Joel is already staring at you. He makes a beckoning motion with two of his fingers, and you hop down from your seat, scurrying over to him as if he were whistling at a dog to come.

“She, um…” You start, checking behind you once to make sure Chrissy is still out of sight. “She said she’ll take her first break early, in an hour or so, and then… Then she’ll drive me home.”

A satisfied grin tugs at the corner of Joel’s mouth. “Alright, ‘nother hour it is, then. That wasn’t so hard, baby, was it?”

You shake your head, avoiding eye contact while you swirl your finger around the condensation from Joel’s beer bottle that’s collected on the lacquered table. You open your mouth like you want to say something else, but close it again quickly, seeming to think better of it.

“What is it, sweetheart, hm?” Joel prompts, curling a rough hand around the back of your bare thigh.

“I just… Wish it didn’t have to be her. She’s really nice.”

So were the rest of them, Joel thinks, until they tossed him aside like a chewed piece of gum. “Nice” doesn’t mean shit to him. Lots of girls are nice. And pretty. But they all fucking sound the same when they’re begging him to stop.

Joel bites his tongue, despite his supply of faux sympathy running dangerously low, and musters up what little there is left of it in order to give you the last little push that you need. “Oh, babydoll… You shouldn’t feel bad about somebody who did you wrong sufferin’ the consequences of their actions. I know she seems nice, but she ain’t a good person, baby, I told you that already—”

“I know, but—”

“But nothin’. It’s already been done, sweetheart, you gotta stop thinkin’ about it so hard. Just get back up there, hm? Be over before you know it.” 

Joel uses his grip on your thigh to spin you around, and sends you back up to the bar with a lewd swat to your ass. He stares at the way it bounces underneath the too-short skirt of your dress, and leans back in his chair as he takes another sip out of his sweating bottle. 

The next “hour or so” passes at such an excruciatingly slow pace, he’s stopped himself nearly a dozen times from flagging down a waitress and requesting another beer. He’ll have to make do with just the one, if he wants to be sharp, present, so that he’ll be able to savor every moment of both the hunt and the slaughter. Joel had forgotten how exhilarating the entire process is, how arousing it is to lurk quietly in the shadows, without the little thing having any idea that he’s there, until it’s too late. 

He bides most of the time by just sitting, staring, thinking. About if Chrissy will be more of a begger or a screamer, if she’ll waste any of her breath trying to plead with him and change his mind, or if she’ll just cry herself hoarse in hopes that somebody will hear her pathetic wailing and come to her rescue. Joel chuckles to himself when he remembers the one who kept insisting that “I have a boyfriend, you know. I bet he’s been looking for me, he’ll be here any minute now and he’ll fucking kill you.” Joel had doubled over laughing as he gestured around to the isolated patch of woods he’d dragged her out to, nearly pitch black and dead silent, save for the pale light of the waning moon and the sounds of her heaving sobs. “Oh, you got a boyfriend, do you? Tight lil’ virgin cunt was tellin’ me otherwise, but nice try, sweetheart,” Joel had taunted. Her photo was one of his favorites—a neck-down view of her kneeling form, featuring her chained together wrists and her filthy hands and knees, dirt-stained from how he’d taken her on the ground one last time.

Well, her first time. Whoops.

He’s got a white-knuckled grip around the neck of his empty bottle by the time he’s pulled out of his trance, the movement of two bodies up at the bar distracting him. Joel’s eyes refocus in time to see Chrissy draping her coat over your shoulders, ushering you out the back door after giving the room a once over. Not a very thorough one, considering she had basically looked right at him and didn’t seem to recognize him, but that’s more situational awareness than he can give most of the others credit for.

Too bad it won’t do her any good.

Joel feels like he’s got an electrical current pulsing through his bloodstream as he gets up from his seat, allowing the two of you a few paces’ head start before following in pursuit. He spots the flame of Chrissy’s red hair as she hurriedly helps you into the passenger side of her shitty Pinto, the door’s rusty hinges squealing loudly into the night. The back parking lot of the bar is poorly lit in contrast to the neon illumination from the rattlesnake out front, allowing Joel to slink behind Chrissy’s car and over to his own truck undetected. He situates himself behind the wheel, making sure to keep an eye on his rearview mirror as he rummages through his backpack and sets the tools he’ll need on the side of the bench seat that you usually occupy—his knife, a length of rope, and his camera.

Just like Joel had promised you earlier, he pulls out of the parking lot just behind the two of you, and keeps a close—but not suspiciously so—distance as he chugs down the poorly paved road, maintaining a speed-limit obeying pace and keeping his headlights off for good measure. He even refrains from having any music playing as he chases after you, the choice partly because he’s too dialed in to bother futzing with the tape player, and partly because he doesn’t want to risk making any noise that would raise even a modicum of suspicion, aiming to disappear into the shadows altogether for the next couple of miles.

Joel is nothing but a ghost, Death himself riding his pale horse into the silent dark, in pursuit of yet another sacrificial lamb to add to his flock. He’s lost count of just how many he has in his possession now, but he never gets tired of the way they bleat and cry and thrash as they struggle to escape his scythe. None of them ever seem to understand that they were each promised to him a long, long time ago, when Joel was already grown but they had only just been conceived. They’d been born onto a path that would eventually lead them directly into his waiting arms, where he would show them love and affection and pleasure and ecstasy and whether they were to reject his offerings or not, Joel would always take what was rightfully his, in the end. 

Joel holds his breath as Chrissy’s car approaches the intersection of the rundown neighborhood, but releases it when she makes the sharp left turn that you must have directed her to take. Good girl. He turns his own wheel more slowly, creeping carefully down the road until he finds a large, overgrown shrub to tuck his truck behind, out of sight from the two little creatures now exiting the Pinto and crushing mounds of dried grass under their tentatively stepping hooves. Joel kills the truck’s engine, his teeth chattering in anticipation as he swipes his tools from the seat beside him and slides himself out from behind the wheel. He reaches behind him to slot his knife underneath his belt, then begins his prowl towards the house with the rope and camera clutched in either hand. 

“No offense, but… You live here? Are you sure?” Joel hears Chrissy ask you, bending over to peer into a hole near the house’s foundation where some of the siding has rotted away. 

That’s right, stay down, just like that.

Joel is only a few paces away now. 

“W-well, it’s um… I h-haven’t really been here in a while, to be honest,” you respond, stuttering your way through the first lie you could think of in order to keep the charade going. You sound like you’re making it up as you say it, but that’s okay. Joel is closing in on his target now, it doesn’t matter if your trembling voice had set off the trap or not. Chrissy is already caught in it.

He’s so close he can smell the redhead’s rosy perfume that she had applied before her shift, can practically see the fine hairs raise on the back of her neck when she hears the snap of a dead tree limb coming from behind her. She lets out a little gasp, and whips her head around just in time to see Joel’s icy expression as he shoves a filthy boot into the back of her knee, making her yelp as she collapses onto all fours. Her hands scramble desperately for purchase in the thicket of dead foliage, but Joel is on her before she can regain her balance.

“Yeah, tha’s right… Down, bitch,” Joel spits, straddling her back and using his weight to push her body flat against the ground. “Hold onto this, babydoll, will ya?” He passes his camera off to you, not taking his eyes off Chrissy’s squirming form as you accept it quietly.

Joel grabs hold of Chrissy’s flailing wrists and wrenches them behind her back, squeezing her abdomen hard between his thighs as he does. “Hold fuckin’ still, ‘less you want me to break some bones while I’m at it,” he barks, but it does nothing to deter her futile efforts. She kicks and bucks and thrashes underneath him, making pathetic struggling noises as he winds the length of rope around her wrists, binding them together. 

“Get the fuck off me! Help me, get him off!” She pleads with you as she yanks against the rope and writhes around in the dirt. All you do is look at her with wide, watery eyes, your chest heaving as you clutch his camera in both of your small, shaking hands. “Are you with him or something? What the fuck is this? Help me, please!” Chrissy shouts, her voice terrified and guttural. 

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” Joel growls into her ear, before pushing himself up off the ground and using his grip around the rope to pull her up with him. He wraps one arm tightly around Chrissy’s middle, and clamps the hand of the other one over her mouth. “She ain’t gonna help you, she knows better ‘n that... Did such a good job for me, sweetheart, such a good fuckin’ girl… Open the door for me so I can get her inside, now.” Joel watches the muscles in your throat constrict as you swallow hard, your eyes shifting from Chrissy’s terror-stricken ones up to Joel’s as you process his command. He smirks to himself when you do obey, the ribbons in your hair fluttering behind you as you scuttle up the stairs and wrench the door open. 

Chrissy is still shrieking incessantly into the meat of Joel’s hand as he shoves her up the creaking steps, and he supposes that he has the answer now to the pondering he was doing back at the bar—screamer it is. They piss him the fuck off the most, are probably most of the reason why his hearing isn’t as good as it used to be, and why he ends up using his knife more often than he’d like. Strangling is his preferred method—it’s more intimate, more hands on in nature, and makes less of a mess—but sometimes the cleanup is worth it if it means he can get them to shut the fuck up and quit shattering his eardrums with all their annoying fucking screeching that they know won’t do them any good. He’d made a good choice, sharpening his knife earlier while you were still asleep back at the motel this afternoon. Joel wonders when you’ll notice that you’re wearing a different pair of panties than the ones he’d made you come in, having tested the sharpness of his blade by slicing them off of you before cleaning up the mess you’d made with his tongue. 

Joel wrestles Chrissy inside the house, kicking broken glass and sloughed off sheets of yellowed wallpaper out of his path as he walks her into the living room. He turns his head as he instructs you to shut the door, and Chrissy uses the opportunity to bite into Joel’s palm and slam the back of her skull into his temple, hard enough to break the skin.

“Ah!—Fuckin’ bitch,” Joel hisses, forcibly shoving her onto the decaying hardwood floor. Chrissy tries to get up, but he presses the tread of his boot into her chest, keeping her down. He touches a finger to the side of his head, bringing it in front of his eyes to examine the droplet of blood that came with it, along with the indents in the flesh of his hand that are beginning to sprout little crimson beads. “Just fuckin’ askin’ for it, ain’t you?”

Joel looks over at you again, to where you’re standing with your back against the door and wearing the same deer-in-the-headlights expression as when he’d handed the camera to you. You have it clutched against your heaving chest, your eyes impossibly wide as you stare at the scene unfolding before you. He can practically see the gears turning in your brain as it cycles through the options of fight, flight, fight, flight, seeming to have landed on freeze instead. Joel observes you for a couple of seconds, waiting to see if one of your shaking hands will eventually snake its way back to the doorknob, but it doesn’t. Since you know what’s good for you, and all.

“C’mere, babydoll, where I can see you,” Joel orders, jerking his head into the room. Your eyes flutter out a few rapid blinks as you seem to shake yourself free of your petrified state, but your feet remain planted firmly underneath you. You’re standing so rigidly, with your knees locked in place, Joel is surprised you haven’t passed out yet.

“Can’t I just… wait in the truck or something? I’ll stay right there, I promise—”

“You know damn well I can’t take you up on any of your lil’ promises anymore, sweetheart. Besides, seemed awfully interested in how I do things last night, why the sudden change of heart, hm?”

You shift your weight, trying to come up with some excuse while you watch Chrissy try and fail to wriggle herself out from underneath the weight of Joel’s boot compressing her ribcage. “Just don’t do very well around b-blood, is all,” you squeak out pitifully.

Joel rolls his eyes, frustrated at the precious seconds you’re wasting by suddenly complaining about being a little squeamish. 

“Well frankly, baby, I don’t really fuckin’ care. You’re gonna have to learn to get the fuck used to it, I ain’t doin’ this with you every time. Get in here. You can face the goddamn wall, but you’re stayin’ put until this is over, are we clear?”

“Y-yes, Joel, thank you,” you concede shakily. Joel’s eyes follow you as you flit across the room, nearly tripping over chunks of fallen drywall before tucking yourself into a little alcove behind the fireplace and hugging your knees to your chest. 

“Alright… Where was I?” Joel ponders aloud, removing his foot from Chrissy’s chest and crouching down to her level. He grabs a fistful of her shirt collar and yanks her back up to a sitting position, looking down at his bleeding hand and sighing before harshly slapping Chrissy across the face with it. Her head whips to the side from the impact, and he grips onto her bloodied face with his injured hand to turn it back towards him again. “Y’know, I don’t take too fuckin’ kindly to feisty things like you who don’t know their goddamn place. Ain't so gentle with bratty lil’ cunts who think it’s a good idea to fight back, leave their marks on me. Am I, babydoll?” He says the latter part a little louder than the rest, brushing the forefinger of his unoccupied hand across the scar on the bridge of his nose as he speaks. You don’t respond, but he can tell that you hear him, that you know what—who—he’s referring to. “Yeah, she knows… One of her lil’ friends gave me this pretty thing, can you believe that? Suppose she gave me that pretty thing, too.” Joel chuckles to himself at his own double entendre, gesturing to where you’re cowering in the corner. “Poor thing had a friend go missin’ a while back, never knew what’d happened to her. Trail was cold, but she decided to follow it anyway. And Lord, am I glad she did, ‘cause it led her straight to me…”

Joel turns Chrissy’s head this way and that in his grip, enjoying the way she squeezes her eyes tight and flinches as she braces for another impact. She whines and whimpers as his fingernails dig into her freckled cheeks, now smeared with his orange-red fingerprints. “W-why me, then? Why not h-her, how come she gets to live? J-just take her, let me go, I won’t tell anyone,” Chrissy sobs through her teeth, hardly able to move her jaw in Joel’s firm hold. He reaches behind himself and slides his blade out from under his belt, raising it up in front of her face. Her eyes go wide as she lets out a horrified noise, thrashing against him and crying while he examines the way the sharp edge glints in the moonlight coming in from the broken windows.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Joel muses, turning over the blade in his hand a few times before looking up at Chrissy’s terrified face, his expression shifting from something wistful to something sinister, cold. “It ain’t ever gonna be her.”

Joel cranks her jaw upwards and slides his knife across her throat before she can even expel an entire scream from her lungs, the piercing tone of her voice becoming wet and garbled in just a few seconds as she chokes on her own blood. It sprays through the slit in her skin, some of it splattering across Joel’s face and landing on his lips, before coming out as a steadier stream that spills down her pale neck and dribbles from the corners of her mouth. Joel watches on as she convulses and gags, her eyes rolling back into her skull before becoming dead weight in Joel’s grip, and she collapses onto her side when he finally lets go of her jaw, still agape with a silent wail. Her muscles spasm as she bleeds out, the ruby-colored liquid pooling underneath her head and saturating the ends of her auburn hair. Joel licks his lips clean as her wound pulses in time with the beating of her heart, the rhythm becoming slower and slower before fizzling out altogether. It only takes a minute or so for her body to still completely, her gurgling breaths eventually morphing into the death rattle that he’s come to recognize so well. Joel swipes his bloodied blade across his tongue before sheathing it under his belt again, glancing over to where you’re now rocking back and forth, your spine hitting against the fireplace’s stone structure with dull little thumps.

He stalks over to you, ignoring the startled yelp you make as he grips onto your upper arm and drags you to where Chrissy’s cooling corpse is lying in the center of the room. Just like he had done to her earlier, he pushes you onto your stomach and straddles your hips. Only this time, he rucks up the skirt of your dress and yanks your panties to the side, swiftly freeing his painfully hard cock from the confines of his jeans and slotting into you with nothing more than a mouthful of his own saliva to help him ease inside. “Oh, f-fuck, Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he moans, gripping one hand onto your hip and using the other—the one with a still-bleeding bite mark—to press the side of your head into the filthy hardwood, so that you’re facing Chrissy’s glazed-over expression while he takes and takes and takes. He doesn’t have it in him to be gentle with you, blinded by adrenaline and arousal as he uses you to get himself off. 

“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight when you’re scared,” Joel snarls, snapping his hips into your backside with such force that the clap of skin-on-skin echoes loudly throughout the empty house, nearly drowning out the sounds of your cries. You’ve got your hands splayed out on either side of your head, having dropped Joel’s camera when he’d forced you into a prone position. You make a disgusted gagging noise when the expanding pool of Chrissy’s blood reaches your fingertips, but you can’t pull away with Joel’s body weight holding you in place. You shut your eyes tightly as you sputter and sob, but Joel won’t allow that. He pulls you up onto your knees, pressing you against him and prying your eyes open as he holds your head up by a fistful of your hair. “No, no hidin’ from this, babydoll. You fuckin’ look at her… I do this for you, baby, you see? So that it won’t be you. I just get so fuckin’ hungry, I can’t help myself. I can’t fuckin’ stop. But as long as I live, I swear it’ll never be you. That’s why it’s them instead. You understand, sweetheart? I love you, babydoll, I love you so fuckin’ much.” Joel mumbles the last bit into the supple skin of your neck, sloppily kissing and biting into your flesh, until he isn’t sure to whom the iron taste that fills his mouth belongs anymore.

He gropes and grabs all over your pliant body, grunting curses into your wet skin while he uses your tight, warm hole like a toy. He’s practically been edging himself for the past several hours, starting from when he’d rubbed circles around your swollen clit and used the reward of your own pleasure to manipulate you into doing his dirty work. Joel is surprised he didn’t cream his jeans before now, the release of finally pouncing on his prey and the taste of her blood on his tongue almost enough to make him come untouched. His hips begin to stutter only a handful of thrusts later, but instead of allowing himself to spill inside you like he had last night, he slides himself free of your walls and maneuvers you onto your back, reaching for his camera.

“Smile pretty for me, babydoll,” Joel says, holding the viewfinder up to his eye while he jerks himself off over your used body, his knees planted on either side of your ribcage. The dazed expression you wear looks enough like a smile to satisfy him, and he snaps a photo as he paints your face with his come. Thick white ropes splatter against your skin, already smeared with the blood from his hand and the filth from the neglected floorboards, and you look like the most gorgeous fucking thing he’s ever seen—his perfect doll, his fallen angel, his most precious and favorite lamb, the love of his fucking life. “Startin’ a new collection today, darlin’, since I got rid of the other one… This’ll be the perfect one to start it out.” Joel removes the blank polaroid from the slot, and sets it back down along with the camera to give the image time to develop. He sits back on his haunches as he catches his breath, running his bloodied hands through his damp hair and zipping his spent cock back inside his jeans. Joel stares down at you while you blink slowly, looking ruined with your tangled hair spread out on the floor and your hands resting up by your ears in surrender. Your breathing is slow, shallow, and he trusts that he can leave you there to come back into yourself while he takes care of Chrissy’s body. 

Joel pushes himself back up to his feet with a groan, his knees cracking and aching in protest, and he walks around the first level of the house, peeking into different rooms until he finds one that used to function as a bedroom. There isn’t much left inside, but the wrought iron bed frame still has a moldy sheet draped haphazardly over the mattress. He yanks it free and bunches it up in his arms, carrying it back into the living room and spreading it out on the ground beside the corpse. Joel rips the top hem of the bedsheet from its seams, and wraps it around his injured hand before tying it off with his teeth. He rolls Chrissy’s stiffening figure onto the now-frayed edge of the fabric, tucking it under one of her arms to hold it in place before tumbling her down the remaining length of the linen. He performs the task monotonously and with little strain, as if he’s done so a dozen times, because he has. It doesn’t take very much effort to lift her onto his shoulder; she was already a wisp of a thing to begin with, weighing even less now that nearly her entire blood volume is soaking into the wood beneath where she had been laying.

Joel navigates to the back door of the house, kicking it open with his boot and letting it slam behind him. He walks several yards into the overgrowth behind the house, dodging low-hanging branches and stepping over fallen logs until he reaches a small clearing. He deposits Chrissy’s body onto an area of dried, yellowing grass, before returning to the backyard where he had noticed a dilapidated shed, nearly completely fallen over from several years’ worth of dry rot. Joel grunts as he pries the doors open, and yanks on a rusted metal chain hanging from the ceiling. A single light bulb illuminates the contents of the shed—a decades-old lawn mower, a few bags of grass seed, and some basic gardening tools, including exactly the one he was looking for. He brushes several thick spiderwebs out of the way before grabbing hold of the shovel, and lets it drag behind him as he treks back to Chrissy’s soon-to-be makeshift burial site. Joel digs a shallow grave, not wanting to take the time to complete the entire six feet with you still on your own inside the house, and uses his boot to send her cloth-wrapped body tumbling into the hole, where it lands with a dull thud. He stares down at her bloodied chrysalis, exhaling a shuddering breath as he revels in the final stage of his ritual.

Over the course of his life, Joel has done a lot of thinking about what exactly it is about the slaughter that he finds so titillating. On a particularly sleepless night several years ago, he’d finally landed on the transformation being what arouses him so. Taking a life is not unlike the procedure of sex, he’d realized—there is a start and an end, a before and an after, and an intangible, in between state, where the soul of the other person is slightly separated from their body, placed into the palms of his hands to do with as he pleases. There’s a reason the French came up with that clever little phrase—la petite mort—because sex and death are inexplicably intertwined, at least for Joel. He experiences such a rush, such a release, from taking part in the gruesome metamorphosis in which a girl is transformed into a body, that he can’t help but chase that high again and again and again, even though he always seems to forget that as much as there is the before and the during, there is also the after. 

That troublesome, uncomfortable after.

Joel shakes himself out of his stupor, tossing the shovel in after the body and doing a half-assed job of kicking the dirt he’d excavated back inside the pit. He scatters some fistfuls of grass and a few dead branches on top of the pile for extra camouflage, and then trudges his way back through the woods.

When Joel returns to the house, you’re in the exact same position he’d left you in, just as he’d thought you’d be. He approaches you slowly, crouching beside you and brushing some of your knotted hair away from your soiled face. Your eyes are frozen, as if still looking into Chrissy’s own glassy ones, and you don’t even so much as twitch when Joel pulls a rag from his back pocket and uses it to wipe his arousal and as much of the blood as he can manage off of your skin. 

“You okay, sweetheart? You with me?” Joel asks you, his voice barely above a whisper, as if trying not to spook a small animal. You look almost… shell shocked. Traumatized. Out of your own body. “Talk to me, babydoll, please.” He rakes his fingers through your hair for another silent minute or so, during which time you continue to lie perfectly still. Unblinking. Unflinching. A husk of a girl.

Joel sighs, reaching across your body to grab his camera and the now-developed polaroid. He shoves the latter into his jacket pocket, deciding that he’ll examine the image later, once he reconciles with the unfamiliar feeling in the pit of his stomach—something like remorse, he thinks. 

He slides his hands underneath your body, cradling you in his arms and carrying you bridal style across the living room, over the threshold, down the steps, and along the stretch of fractured asphalt until he reaches the truck. Joel sets you down on your feet so that he can open the passenger-side door, but your knees buckle underneath you almost immediately, requiring him to support your weight while he fumbles with the handle. He lifts you up onto your seat once he gets it open and buckles you in, and you don’t look anywhere except directly in front of you the entire time. Joel smooths out the skirt of your dress, now stained with dirt and blood, and shoves his camera into the backpack sitting at your feet before shutting you in. He crosses in front of the hood and retakes his place behind the wheel, taking a long look at where you sit nearly comatose beside him. You’re here, but you’re not. He doesn’t know where you are, or how to pull you back from it, back to him.

Joel fidgets with his keys, jingling them in his hand in an effort to fill the cabin with something other than a silence so loud it’s making his ears ring. “It’ll feel better in the mornin’. You’ll get used to it, after a few more of ‘em, I promise.” He places his linen-wrapped hand on the side of your head, pulling you closer to him so that he can plant a whiskery kiss in your hair. Joel lets his eyes flutter closed as he breathes in your scent, inhaling a stuttering breath. If remorse is truly what he feels, then that would warrant an apology, he supposes. But it would also require taking action to rectify the wrongdoing that warranted the apology in the first place, to make sure that it never happens again. And that, he cannot promise.

He pulls away from you, licking his thumb once to wipe a dried smear of blood from your temple. “You wanna get that old map outta the glovebox, babydoll? Decide where we’re headed to next?” Joel prompts.

Silence.

“I’ll take you anywhere you want, darlin’. Long as they got hot coffee and color TV,” he chuckles.

Stillness.

“Well… Alright, then. Next state over it is.” Joel sniffles, feeling around in the dark for the truck’s ignition cylinder, the engine finally sputtering to life after a few misses of the key. Your head falls against the window as the tires begin to rumble over the uneven pavement, and you don’t bother to reposition yourself, even though the sensation of your skull rattling against the glass must be uncomfortable.

Joel doesn’t steer the truck in any particular direction, just away. Away from here, toward the life together in California that he’d promised you, hoping that he can collect all your broken pieces and put you back together along the way.

As it turns out, there are two things that Joel needs you to understand—that he’s never letting you go, and that he will never be able to stop himself. As instinctually as Joel needs to blink, breathe, sleep, he needs to kill. He needs to spill blood and feel it underneath his fingernails and taste it on his tongue, needs to bite into the soft pink skin beneath white wool and feel the precise moment when a creature becomes nothing more than flesh and fur.

And he needs you. Joel cannot live without either one, he’s decided, and so he must be in possession of both.

He regrets the way in which he’s broken you tonight, but not the way that you will be reassembled in his image. 

Transformed.

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[rainrot4me]

The Quiet Violence Of Wanting

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

────────────────────────────── run to you - bryan adams

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

NSFW WARNING, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: Helplessness, guilt, remorse, and isolation—all unacceptable emotions when you’re a proxy. You’ve got blood on your hands, and purposeful or not, the cops don’t care. Their job is so take you in. It’s okay to need saving—especially if it’s from a pretty killer lady who’ll do anything to make you squeal.

✦ . Characters: {Separate} Kate the Chaser x Female Reader, Jane Everlasting x Female Reader, Clockwork x Female Reader, Nina the Killer x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Blood, violence, guns, bullet wound, panic, mentions of dead body, sex as a means of reassurance, vaginal fingering, oral sex, teasing, rough sex, cunnilingus, scissoring, sixty-nine, face riding, semi-public sex, blood consumption (sexual)

✦ . Words: 20.7k {~ 5k per section}

✦ . Note: HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!! I know I’m hitting it on the tail-end here, but that makes me no less proud and grateful to be in such a great community of lgbtq+ folks. Super long one, mind the warnings, but have fun with these scary girls!! They’re all wlw in my heart 🤍 Thank you so much again to @z0l0fft for creating such BEAUTIFUL banner art for this post, go give her all the love and kudos you can muster!!

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You weren’t supposed to kill him.

Not like that.

Not like an animal.

But the memory is burned into the backs of your eyelids—your hands around his throat, the crunch of cartilage, the wet snap of something vital giving out. The screams stopped too fast. You didn’t even realize how hard you were squeezing until the body slumped in your grip like a sack of meat, eyes wide, mouth frozen open. You stood there for a second too long, panting, trembling, staring down at what was left of the mission.

It was supposed to be a grab-and-interrogate. A standard proxy hit. Kill a weakened ally who decided to run his mouth and put the proxies in a messy spot.

But he laughed. He said your name like it was something filthy.

And suddenly, there was no handler, no script—just red.

Now the cops are coming.

You don’t know how many are chasing you anymore. Four? Five? Maybe six. Doesn’t matter. You’re faster.

You’re running on pure instinct, lungs shrieking for air, body soaked in blood—some of it yours, most of it not. You tore through the suburban house like a hurricane, crashing out the back door and bolting into the night. By the time you hit the woods, there were already sirens, dogs, radio chatter echoing through the air like the voice of God calling down judgment.

The soles of your boots hit the earth like war drums.

Each breath cuts your throat.

Your side burns with a sharp, knifing pain—either from a cracked rib or where a bastard cop clipped you with a bullet.

But you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Not now. They’re on your heels. You can feel it in the way your heart jumps in your chest.

Flashlights sweep through the darkness behind you. One illuminates your shoulder just as you dive behind a cluster of trees, your back scraping bark. You spin, raise your gun, and fire—three wild, desperate shots.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Someone cries out. Maybe you hit them. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. You’re not trying to win—you’re trying to disappear.

You lunge forward, ducking under branches, tearing through a tangle of shrubs and briars. Your clothes are shredded, your hands are shaking, your teeth won’t unclench. You can still feel that bastard’s pulse stop under your fingers.

What if they catch you? What if they take you alive?

You’ve heard the rumors—what the government does when they catch one of you, a proxy.

The experiments, the vivisections, the silence.

You’d rather take a bullet to the head than be taken.

Your body’s failing. Every breath is ragged, vision’s tunneling. You leap over a ditch and almost collapse on the landing. You’re too slow, too loud, too fucking messy. The Operator will have your head for this.

Your blood leaves a trail behind you.

You reach the edge of the woods—houses again. Neighborhood streets, too quiet for the hour. A dog barks in the distance. Police sirens wail louder, closing in. Helicopter blades chop the sky above, scanning with white-hot beams like they’re looking for heat signatures, monsters in the brush.

You press yourself against the side of a shed, gun shaking in your grip, and try to steady your breath. Your eyes sting. You don’t remember if it’s from tears or sweat or blood. You don’t care.

You weren’t supposed to kill him like that.

But deep down, a rotten, hidden part of you whispers:

You wanted to.

You close your eyes for one second.

Snap. A twig breaks nearby.

You don’t even think. You spin on instinct, raise the gun, heart jackhammering against your ribs—

—but you’re not fast enough.

A hand grabs your wrist.

Another seizes your hoodie, yanks you hard.

You’re pulled violently backward, into pitch black. Your body slams against something solid—stone? wood? another body?—and a hand clamps over your mouth.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝  KATE THE CHASER

You barely have time to register the shape in front of you—just a shock of dark hair, hard shoulders, the gleam of a blade tucked close to a lean frame, and a chalky mask that covers every inch of face except for the cold stare of angry eyes—before Kate shoves you back against the broken-down brick wall behind the shed. Her grip on your hoodie is iron, knuckles gone white.

“Kate—”

You saw her first through the smoke and flashing red-blue police lights—that hard silhouette, lean and coiled like a predator, the eyes behind that blank white mask burning with a cold purpose. Her hair swung like a blade down her shoulder, streaked with dark grime and sweat, making her look carved straight out of some soldier’s nightmare.

Her other hand is already gripped onto your jaw tight, tilting your face up toward hers. 

Her eyes cut straight through you, that same unblinking, predatory stare she always wears. You’ve seen her glare down terrified prey, watched her paint entire rooms red with her knives, but right now that fury’s turned on you—and somehow, that’s worse. Out of all the missions you’ve done together, of course the one that she let you handle while she kept watch was the one that you majorly fucked.

“What the fuck happened?” She spits the words through gritted teeth.

You try to answer, chest still hitching with adrenaline, hands reaching around her arms and trying to pry her iron-clad hold away, but your voice breaks in your throat. All you manage is, “The mission—” before she tightens her hold, silencing you.

“Nevermind. Not here. We need to get out.”

Her gaze darts past your shoulder, scanning the woods, the glow of flashlights and the crackle of radios growing closer. You hear boots on gravel, the slam of car doors, someone yelling coordinates into a walkie.

Kate shifts her weight, pressing in closer until you’re practically pinned between her and the wall. It’s the only way to keep you still—and to keep you hidden. Her breath brushes your cheek, warm despite the cold night air, but you’re still shaking like a leaf from adrenaline.

“Listen. They’re sweeping the block. They’ve got dogs. They’ll flush you out if you move.”

She presses her forehead to yours, just for a second, and you catch that faint scent of copper and cheap perfume—the only things Kate ever smells like. Familiar. Comforting, in a twisted way.

“I’m going to get you out of this,” she says, low, deadly calm. “But if you fuck around right now, they’ll rip you apart before I can.”

The weight of those words sinks straight into your bones. There’s no softness in her tone, no sympathy—but you know she means it. Kate doesn’t say anything she won’t back up with violence.

Your hands are still shaking, so she takes your gun, slides it into her own belt, then checks your side where you’re bleeding through your clothes. Her fingers are quick, clinical, more soldier than friend.

“You’re sloppy tonight,” she growls. “Next time, finish the job quiet.”

You choke out a harsh, mirthless laugh. “Next time?”

Her eyes twitch, not quite a smile—but close. “After this fuck up? No way you’re going alone again.”

You feel like you should smile, should say something moderately funny to offset the tension, but there’s no time.

A sudden burst of light washes over the far side of the shed, voices getting too close. Kate’s hand clamps around your wrist and she pulls you hard, almost dislocating your shoulder as she drags you around the corner. You stumble, nearly crashing into a pile of rotting firewood, but she steadies you with a sharp tug.

“Stay behind me,” she hisses.

Her knife is in her other hand now, glinting with a hungry sort of certainty. Kate is violence incarnate—you’ve always known that. And in this moment, you realize you trust her more than you trust yourself—put more faith in her abilities than you ever could your own.

She moves through the yard like a shadow, pulling you with her. You barely even breathe. Police radio static crackles through the night, so close you can taste it, but Kate doesn’t flinch.

“They’ll move on,” she murmurs. “They’re just pigs.”

A dog barks from the next block, loud and savage, but Kate doesn’t even blink. She keeps you pressed tight against her side, fingers wrapped tight around your wrist, steady and sure.

“When this is over,” she whispers, eyes locked on yours, “you're going to tell me exactly what happened. We’re gonna work it out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry. You want to ask what she means, but part of you already knows: the blood, the kill, the thrill of being hunted and surviving—she’ll share it with you next time. Not because she forgives you. But because she understands you.

Because you’re the same.

Kate never lets go of your wrist. It’s like being handcuffed to a wild dog—every motion is sharp, deliberate, an unspoken follow or die.

You track through the neighborhood one yard at a time, moving between crumbling fences and backyard sheds, through darkness so thick it feels like syrup. The police are still sweeping the area, but Kate knows how to work the angles—she times every dash, every crossing of a street, with a kind of terrifying precision.

At one point, you both freeze behind a trash bin while a patrol car coasts past. The floodlight bounces across the garbage, catching your sleeve. Kate pushes you down so hard your knees scrape concrete, her hand planted across your mouth.

“Stay still.”

The car idles. Your heartbeat slams so hard you think it might explode—but Kate holds you there, steady, like a soldier on a leash. The engine finally roars off, leaving you with only the far-off drone of sirens and your ragged breathing.

“Move.”

She doesn’t wait for you to stand; she hauls you back up and pulls you along, boots whispering across patchy grass and cracked driveways.

The neighborhood finally falls behind. Houses get fewer, spaced farther apart, until you cross a drainage ditch and land back in raw woods. The sounds of police radios fade behind the first stand of deep pines.

The world feels colder out here—older. Like the trees themselves are judging you, rooting for your pursuers.

Kate glances back, scanning the treeline, her jaw set. “They’ll call in a perimeter. I know the pattern,” she mutters. “We’ll cut south and stay under the trees.”

You nod, even though your legs are about to give out. Blood from the bullet wound seeps down into your waistband, hot and sticky. Kate notices—of course she does—but just shakes her head, refusing to slow down.

“You’ll make it,” she says. “I’ll drag you if I have to.”

That sounds like her. The scariest part is that you believe she would.

You march together for what feels like hours, winding deeper into the forest. Eventually, the sound of running water cuts through the night—a muddy stream clogged with weeds. Kate pulls you to the bank, practically throws you into the water.

“Wash it off,” she orders. “Blood trail’s too easy to follow.”

“Are you serious?”

She only gives you a sideways look, the kind of thing a tiger does when observing its meat, daring the prey to move further before it jumps.

You bite back a groan as you kneel down next to the stream, lifting your shirt up above the wound. It’s not big, just a bullet graze deep enough to draw blood, but it’s enough to soak into your clothing. You cup your hands, the cold water hits your wounds, but you scrub the worst of the blood away, water swirling dark when you go to cup for more. Kate wipes your face roughly with her sleeve, smearing a streak of mud off your cheek.

“Better.” It’s a word that shouldn’t sound kind coming from her lips, but somehow does.

The night only grows blacker. Pines cluster overhead so tightly you can barely see stars. You walk in silence, every branch that cracks under your boots making you flinch. Kate, meanwhile, is as calm as ever—stepping over logs, ducking low branches, checking over her shoulder every few minutes.

It’s only when you break out of the treeline onto a wide, overgrown field that she finally slows down. A pale, half-collapsed shed stands in the middle of it, half-swallowed by weeds and tangled vines. A rusted tractor skeleton leans against its side.

Kate points. “There.”

You follow her across the field, every step feeling heavier than the last. By the time you reach the shed’s door, you’re half-dead on your feet. Kate pulls it open with a loud creak, then motions you inside.

It smells like rotting hay and oil. Mice scatter from the corners. Moonlight trickles through holes in the roof, falling in sickly pale pools.

You both tumble inside, Kate dragging the rickety door shut behind her like the latch-lock on the upper side was going to help keep anyone out. 

Kate posted herself by the doorway, silhouette framed by jagged moonlight through a broken panel. You let your eyes drift from her to the shadows inside the shed—rusting tools, splintered shelves, the heavy scent of dust and rotting grain clinging to the stale air. The quiet, after all that screaming and gunfire, felt alien.

You shifted over to the adjacent wall, leaning your weight back as the wood groaned, wincing at the pull of the bullet graze along your side. The adrenaline was crashing hard now, leaving a sickly hollow ache behind. You caught yourself shivering, even in the muggy air, as the memory of the kill replayed behind your eyes—the way the bastard’s face caved, the sticky spray across your knuckles, the voice that still begged even after you’d decided there was no mercy left in you.

Kate’s eyes flicked over, reading you as easily as always. She didn’t soften; she never did. But something in the way she stepped closer, boots crunching straw, told you she wasn’t going to let you spiral.

“Let me have a look now,” she said simply, nodding to your wound.

You hesitated, but she was already lifting your arm, fingers under the hem of your shirt, peeling away the half-clotted mess. Her hands were rough, efficient, like every second of delay was an insult to her skills. You hissed when she pressed her sleeve against the torn flesh, and she didn’t apologize—just steadied your shoulder with a firm grip.

“Lucky,” she muttered, eyeing the angry, bruised skin. “Half an inch deeper and you’d be eating dirt right now.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out hoarse.

“Could’ve been worse,” you croaked, and Kate’s smirk was as dry and humorless as ever.

“It usually is.”

Her sleeve came away dark with blood, you felt bad. She stepped off of you, shuffling around rotting crates and rusted tool boxes until she found a dish rag stuffed into an old lockbox and some used duct tape in the plastic containers on the shelves. She sauntered back over, folding the rag and pressing it to your wound, then tearing a strip of the duct tape and splaying it out across your ribs. It was gaudy, and definitely going to give you some sort of infection, but it would work to stop the bleeding for now.

“Thank you.”

“Mhm.”

In the dim, you could see her studying you again, that deep, animal calculation that made even your closest allies hesitate. But instead of judgment, you saw recognition—like she understood that ugly fury still boiling under your skin, because it was the same one carved into her bones.

“We’ll stay here tonight,” she ordered, voice quiet but absolute. “No way we can track back to the mansion like this. I need daylight.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but she was already moving, repositioning a length of rusted pipe across the door as a makeshift lock. The night beyond was deathly still now, police sirens faded so far they were only a ghost on the breeze.

Something about that silence crawled under your skin—too empty, too forgiving after what you’d done. But exhaustion hit you like a mallet anyway, and you sank against a crate thrown on the dusty ground, the world swimming.

Kate’s silhouette paced the tiny floor space, restless and sharp, a predator refusing to settle even with prey long since dead. 

The shed had gone quiet except for the occasional rustle of field mice in the hay, the only right the hard moonlight soaking in through the cracks, stretching and widening the shadows. Kate’s boots clicked against the old wood floor as she paced, her knife flicking in restless little arcs with every turn. The silence weighed on you, too heavy to ignore, pressing until your breathing felt trapped in your chest.

Finally, you broke.

“I wasn’t supposed to kill him.” The words scraped out raw, throat still scorched from running and screaming. “We needed him to talk. I—I lost it.”

Kate paused mid-step, eyes narrowing. “Yeah,” she bit out, “you did. You were sloppy.”

It punched through your ribs sharper than a bullet, but you didn’t look away. “He laughed at me, Kate,” you forced out, voice cracking. “He laughed. Said I didn’t have it in me. That he’d gut me and send my teeth back as a message.”

Kate’s jaw tightened, the blade in her hand dancing again as she flipped it over and over, muscle memory perfect and deadly. “And you proved him wrong.”

You flinched. “We needed him to talk.”

She exhaled through her nose, rough, almost a growl. “Yeah,” she admitted, pacing another line across the floor, “we did. But…” She paused, glaring at the half-rotted wall, then turned back to you. “I’ve had targets like that. You think you can keep it together, keep it clean. Then they push that one button and it’s like something snaps inside. Happens to all of us.”

You let your head tip back against the crate, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling. “It shouldn’t have happened to me.”

Kate snorted softly, a humorless, broken sound. “You think you’re above it?” she asked, tone still razor-edged. “I’ve seen Masky absolutely tear his hair out over not being able to stay calm. Seen Hoodie stare at a dead body for an hour because he felt so bad. You’re working for the Operator. There is no ‘above it.’ There’s alive or dead, and that’s the whole list.”

You swallowed the burn in your throat. “I wanted to do it right. I wanted—”

“To do it clean,” Kate interrupted, stepping closer, her pacing slowing. “You wanted to look like you had control. But control is a lie.”

Your gaze met hers then, and for the first time since she’d dragged you off the street, there was no judgment in her face—only a hard, weary understanding.

“I killed my first target with a hammer,” she admitted, voice low, almost lost under the hiss of the wind through the boards. “Slammed him so hard the handle snapped. I was supposed to bring him back for interrogation, but…” She shrugged, eyes far away for a heartbeat. “I saw him smile at me. Like I was just some kid. And I just… stopped caring.”

You blinked, surprise breaking through the shame churning in your gut. “Kate—”

“Don’t,” she cut in, but this time there was no bite to it. She finally lowered the knife, letting her arm fall slack at her side, shoulders sagging. “You think you’re a monster now?”

Your breath trembled. “Yeah.”

A tiny, almost gentle snort. “Good,” she said, voice soft, quiet in a way only you ever heard from her. “That means you’re still human.”

She walked over and sat beside you, the floor creaking under her weight, knees bumping yours. The knife stayed on the floor between you, a silent truce.

You looked down at your hands, still stained under your nails, still carrying phantom blood. Kate followed your gaze, then reached over and took one of them, holding it steady in her rough grip.

“Next time,” she said, steady, anchoring, “I’ll be there faster. You won’t have to hold back alone.”

Your eyes burned, but you bit down the sob before it could get loose.

“You’re not done,” she continued, leaning back so she could scan the doorway, ever the watchful eye even in this tiny moment of peace. “You’re shaken, you’re hurt, but you’re not finished. Remember that.”

You nodded, swallowing hard, letting her words root themselves somewhere deeper than the panic.

Kate leaned her head against the wall, close enough you could feel the warmth of her shoulder against yours. “We’ll wait here until they move the search. Then we go home.”

“Home,” you echoed, almost a laugh, but it died in your throat.

Kate smirked faintly. “Yeah,” she said, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it, “home.”

The night breathed around you, and finally, after everything, the two of you let yourselves sit in silence, side by side, the world outside still hunting—but for a few precious hours, unable to touch you.

Kate’s hand stayed wrapped around yours, her grip warm, grounding—so unlike the harsh commands she’d barked all night. Without warning, she shifted closer, pulling you until your shoulder pressed hard against her chest. The knife stayed forgotten on the floor as her other arm came around you, tight, protective, something almost desperate behind the way she held on.

She rested her chin against your hair for a moment, breathing you in, and then with a short, frustrated huff, she reached up to tug at the mask. The battered, blood-smeared plastic clattered to the floor, landing by her boots. Her face, so rarely seen, was softer than you remembered—sharp cheekbones, a scar cutting across her jaw, those cold eyes warmer now in the half-light.

“Look at me,” she murmured, voice husky, and you did, blinking through the burn of exhaustion and shame.

Kate’s thumb traced over your cheek, smearing grime and tears away. “You did good,” she said, firm, unyielding, as if daring you to argue. “You hear me? You did good. You made the call you had to make.”

Your throat threatened to close again. “I—”

But Kate didn’t let you finish. “No,” she cut in, voice dropping to something dangerous and low. “No more apologies. You survived, you kept your head, you got out. That’s good enough.”

Your eyes blurred, and you tried to look away, but her hand came up, fingers curling under your jaw, forcing you to hold her gaze.

“That’s good enough for me,” she breathed, the edge of a ragged sweetness cracking through her solidified discipline, “and it should be good enough for you.”

Before you could even find your next breath, her lips were at your temple, brushing warm against the skin there, then lower, grazing your cheekbone in a whisper of a kiss. You shuddered, leaning into her almost on instinct, your body screaming for comfort you hadn’t dared to want. Heat raised from your chest, an almost blistering flush on your cheeks.

Kate’s grip around your waist tightened, hauling you flush against her. Her mouth moved lower, skimming down your jaw, breath hot, the scrape of her nose against your neck making you jump.

“You’re perfect,” she whispered into your skin, every syllable a rough promise. “You’re not going to break on me, not tonight, not ever. I won’t let you.”

The warmth of her mouth met the side of your throat, a slow, burning kiss that made your pulse trip. You could barely process one sensation before the next followed—her lips open, tongue darting, teeth just skimming your pulse point in a bruising mark that sent a jolt all the way through your spine.

“Kate—” you tried, a gasp, but she just shushed you softly, dragging another kiss lower, then back up, repeating that dangerous pattern until you couldn’t breathe straight.

“You did so good,” she whispered between kisses, voice breaking over you like a benediction. “So damn good, don’t ever doubt it.”

One of her hands roamed up your ribs, careful not to brush your bandaged wound, strong and sure, tracing circles into your side while her other arm cradled your head. It felt like being pulled apart and held together at the same time, the rough security of her presence mingling with the heat of each lingering kiss.

“Breathe,” she commanded, mouth ghosting over your collarbone. “Come on, just relax for me.”

And you did—ragged, shaking, tears slipping free as every bit of panic and horror you’d bottled up poured out under her relentless, gentle destruction. Her mouth found your throat again, open and wet and claiming, and her fingers dug into your hip like she’d never let go.

“Kate,” you choked, overwhelmed, but she just pressed her forehead to yours, breathing hard, eyes locked to yours in an unspoken promise.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured, steady as iron. “I’ve always got you.”

Her lips claimed yours before you could reply, desperate and deep, breaking you open until nothing was left but the taste of blood and salt and her. You melted against her, letting her steal every doubt and fear with each bruising, perfect kiss, the night outside fading until there were only pitiful whimpers and breathy reassurances—all sharp edges and impossible safety, carrying you through the dread.

Kate pulled back just far enough to study you, eyes glittering darkly, catching every ragged tremor in your breath. Her hand came back to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing over your lips like she was memorizing the shape of your weakness.

“You’re still trying to hold on, aren’t you?” she rasped, voice low, dangerous, something feral under it.

You shivered, pulse stumbling at the accusation.

Kate’s smirk curved slow, wolfish. “Trying to keep from breaking,” she continued, leaning in until her mouth hovered against yours, so close you could taste her words, “even after everything. After you tore that man apart with your own hands.”

Her breath ghosted over your lips, making your body jolt with a need you’d barely let yourself feel.

“You want to own it now, don’t you?” she goaded, tone almost mocking, but twisted with a strange, brutal affection. “You want to feel like you’re in charge again.”

Your fingers dug into the front of her dark hoodie, knuckles white, but she only laughed—a dark, hungry sound that made your cheeks burn.

“Then take it,” she growled, crashing her mouth to yours again, teeth clacking, rough and claiming.

It broke something in you, the last thread of caution snapping clean. Your hands fumbled at her gear, yanking open straps, fighting with buckles, wanting her closer, wanting skin, anything that wasn’t hard fabric and bloodstains. Kate didn’t resist—she shoved back just enough to drag the hem of your shirt up, shoving the fabric off your arms and over your head, her hands already roaming the new bare skin like she owned it.

“You think you can control me?” she breathed against your lips, biting your lower one until you moaned. “Control this?” Her hands were everywhere, pushing you back until your spine hit the floorboards, pinning you there with a knee between your thighs, knocking her knife away until it hit against the opposite wall.

You swallowed a curse, gasping when she ground her leg against your center, electric heat flooding your nerves and making your hips jerk.

Kate leaned down, breath coming hard, hair falling around her face in a black curtain, pupils blown wide with need. “You can try,” she rasped, fingers curling in your waistband, “but you’ll never win.”

You arched into her, every nerve singing, desperate, mind fracturing with the way her hands kept stealing any scrap of composure. She tore open the button on your pants, and you clawed at her belt in return, fighting to peel it off. You needed her skin on yours, needed it now.

Clothing was discarded in jagged motions, ripped seams and impatient curses, pants dragged down your thighs and her hoodie hauled over her head. The chill of the night air hit your bare skin, goosebumps rising, but Kate’s mouth was there to burn them away, tongue and teeth mapping you with a feverish devotion. She hauled off your shoes, tearing your pants off the rest of the way and tossing them behind her. She smiled at your mismatched bra and panties, curling in on yourself, trying not to react to the way she bit her lip.

She stood up then, all heavy breathing and lean muscles running up her arms. You watched with heavy eyes, staring up at her as she pulled her belt from the loops, dropping the leather to the floor. You leaned up on your elbows. The sound made you twitch, whining when she slowly opened the button of her jeans, kicking off her boots.

“Don’t look so desperate,” she grinned like a cat, then pushed off her jeans, stepping out of them. You could’ve drooled at the way her boxer briefs hugged her hips, strong thighs and tight muscles making your stomach flutter with need. Her sports bra accentuated the curve of her chest, making her look like a horny fever-dream in the moonlight, every angle and curve of her body highlighted with the white light.

She pushed you down, hard enough to make the old wood creak, then followed, straddling your hips with a bruising grip. Her hand slid around your throat, not squeezing, just there—a terrifying promise you couldn’t help but lean into.

“Look at you,” she hissed, biting down on the edge of your jaw, “trying so hard to be in control, but you’re shaking for me.”

You tried to answer, but her hand tightened just slightly, forcing a ragged, hungry gasp from you instead.

“Say it,” Kate demanded, rolling her hips down so you could feel the wet patch growing in her boxers, sending sparks crashing through your bones. “Say you need me to make everything better.”

“I—” you tried, but your voice broke, caught between a sob and a moan.

Kate’s mouth was at your ear, voice molten and dangerous. “Say it.”

“I need you,” you choked, the words spilling out like a confession, raw and unfiltered.

Kate growled in triumph, claiming your mouth again, all teeth and heat, dragging her nails down your sides until you writhed. You clutched at her, pulling her closer, refusing to give an inch even as she devoured you. “Yeah? Need me to save you? Need me to make everything better?”

“I do—” you panted into her mouth, biting at her lips and running your hands up into her hair. 

She chuckled, “Good.”

It was all a blur of movements, Kate shoving you off, sitting up before she turned herself around, straddling your chest with her back facing you. You almost freaked, ready to question what she was doing before she was bending over, the swell of her ass in your face.

She pushed open your legs, her chest pressing against your abdomen as she pressed her arms between your thighs, opening you up for her to press her face down to your core, humming in approval at the wet state she found your panties in.

It was only when she ran her fingers against the fabric of your panties did you understand what was happening. Her legs planted on either side of your head, your hands coming around them to pull her closer, face-first with her clothed center. You could’ve died right there.

“You want control right? Want to feel powerful? Then take it. Don’t make me beg you.”

You groaned, reaching over the swell of her ass to pull her boxers down, eyes blowing wide when her glistening cunt pressed closer to your face. You obeyed, pulling her closer, burying your face against the heat of her thighs. Kate’s responding moan was ragged, full of dark satisfaction, her hands fisting in your thighs as she shifted, lining her dripping cunt above your mouth.

At the same time, she leaned forward, bracing herself on the floor, tugging your panties to the side with a desperate fist, until her mouth was at your core, a mirror to the hunger you felt, hot breath against your twitching clit.

You both froze for a breath, overwhelmed by the raw, perfect tension. Then Kate laughed, low and delighted.

“Don’t hold back,” she rasped, and before you could answer, her mouth was on you, tongue greedy and hot and merciless.

You cried out, muffled by the slick heat of her above you, but you didn’t falter. You pulled her hips down, dragging your tongue through her folds and licking her open, tasting her, worshipping her with every hungry pull of your mouth.

Kate swore, the sound breaking, hips grinding down against your tongue as her own mouth worked you with savage precision.

“Fuck—” she gasped, the vibration of her voice sinking into your core, “just like that—don’t stop.”

It was a brutal, desperate rhythm, the two of you devouring each other, hips grinding, hands clawing at whatever you could reach. Kate’s thighs trembled against your face, slick and perfect, while you felt her mouth dragging you higher, higher, tearing you apart with each filthy, perfect stroke.

You couldn’t tell whose voice was whose anymore, the moans tangled, ragged, echoing in the tiny shed. The smell of sweat, sex, and old dust made it all dizzying, animal, real.

Kate bit down on your thigh hard enough to leave a bruise, drawing a strangled scream from you, but you didn’t stop—you sucked harder, lashed your tongue against her clit until she was shaking so badly she had to brace herself on the hardwood.

You fucked your tongue into her cunt, her hips riding your jaw like she couldn’t stop herself, like your tongue was tearing her open. She followed, her fist tugging your panties further to the side as her free hand circled your clit.

You felt her spit onto your cunt, your clit twitching under the pressure as she rubbed the spit into your wetness. You nearly came when she pushed her fingers into your entrance, giving you barely any time to adjust before her lips were wrapping around your clit and sucking you for all you were worth. Your hips bucked up into her, her fingers curling and scissoring you open while she lapped up every drop that oozed out of you. 

You kept up, groaning every sound of approval into her cunt, fucking your tongue into her until her ass was jerking, bouncing her hips as you followed her every move.

“Fuck,” she snarled, voice gone almost raw, “you’re gonna make me—shit—don’t you dare stop—”

You didn’t. You let go completely, losing yourself in the taste and heat and rawness, and the moment she came, it tore through her like a wildfire. Kate screamed, bucking so hard you had to hold her steady, grinding down on your mouth while she shuddered apart.

The second you felt her break, you gripped her ass, forcing her onto your mouth as you drank ever squeal and whine that spilled from her lips, soaking your tongue as she clamped around you. She let her hips jerk, until they fizzled into spasms, panting against your cunt. Kate was still trembling, breath hot and uneven against your skin, when you felt something in you snap. A hungry, aching need to own this moment, to take it back, to burn away everything that had gone wrong tonight.

You shifted, rolling Kate onto her back before she could even catch her breath. Her eyes widened, pupils blown, lips still slick and parted.

“Wha—” she started, but you didn’t give her a chance to question you.

You swung your leg over her, straddling her, your body still shaking but your hands sure. Kate’s surprised grin was immediate, the kind of feral grin that dared you to take what you wanted.

“Oh?” she rasped, voice hoarse, “my girl wants more?”

You didn’t answer with words. You shifted back until you were over her mouth, grabbing the old wood of the shed’s wall to steady yourself. Kate’s hands immediately came up to hold your hips, fingers biting into your skin with possessive force.

Her breath was hot against you, and you shivered as she looked up, eyes glinting with pride and want.

“Then fucking take it,” she growled, and her tongue was on you again, greedy and brutal, dragging a cry straight from your throat.

Your hips rolled down, desperate, grinding against her mouth until you saw stars. Kate groaned against you, guiding you harder against her tongue, her hands pinning you in place with the strength of a killer—ironic.

You couldn’t hold back—your body moved on instinct, chasing that edge with a violence that felt almost holy, grinding down against her again and again. The shed rattled with each movement, old metal tools clanging somewhere in the background, but all you heard was your own ragged breathing and Kate’s dark, hungry moans.

She didn’t let up for a second, devouring you, tongue working with ruthless precision until your thighs were trembling, your voice breaking on every breath.

“Fuck, Kate—” you gasped, your hands scrabbling against the wall, “don’t—don’t stop—Make me cum.”

She laughed against you, a low, possessive sound, and pulled you down harder, refusing to let you escape her mouth. Your grabbed at the chest, her ribs, clawing your fingers from her abdomen to her throat as you fucked yourself down onto her, dragging your hips with one roll of her tongue after the other. You could feel it, the desperate, animalistic pull of your core, the heat teetering at the edge, until it was just too good—

You came apart for her, body locking up, your entire mind blanking out under the intensity. Kate held you steady through it, not letting you move away until you were sobbing, breathless and boneless above her, her tongue still dipping inside and lapping up drop after dropped that soaked onto her lips.

When your arms gave out and your stomach couldn’t hold yourself up any longer, she finally let go of your hips.

She let you collapse to the side, crawling over you and dragging you into her arms, her lips swollen and slick with you. She kissed you, messy and unhurried, her fingers still tracing patterns on your oversensitive thighs as you both tasted each other on your tongues.

“There you go,” she whispered, pride dripping from every word, “taking back control. That’s my girl.”

You buried your face in her neck, heart pounding, the last traces of fear and failure finally burned away.

With Kate, you could be as wild and reckless as you wanted—and she’d always be there, hungry enough to catch you. Ready enough to face whatever fucked up problems you had, and would be more than ready to make you face them.

And it didn’t matter how hopeless you felt, because she would always be right there—with sharp eyes and steady hands, her heartbeat locked in time with yours, ready to pull you out of the dark every time you slipped, ready to chase away the monsters even if you were one of them.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝  CLOCKWORK

“Get down.”

A hand shot out of the shadows, fingers iron-strong around your wrist, dragging you back so hard you nearly lost your footing. You hit the wall of an old shed with a breathless thud, instincts screaming, gun half-raised—but before you could pull the trigger, your eyes met a familiar, glinting clock-face grin.

“Natalie—”

She stepped from the shadows like a specter, copper hair glinting under the streetlights, eye like split green glass fixed on yours with terrifying precision. That clock set into her socket ticked steady, a hypnotic, terrifying constant, and the weight of her fists promised she could rebuild you—or tear you apart—at a moment’s notice.

“Easy,” she hissed, one palm clamping over your mouth as her mismatched eyes darted past you, scanning the darkness where sirens wailed and red-blue lights cut through the trees like a curse. “Don’t you fucking move.”

Your heart slammed in your ribs, adrenaline biting at every nerve. You could still taste the metallic tang of blood in your mouth, still see the shattered remains of that bastard. You’d lost control, and now the cops were here, too close, too loud.

Natalie’s breath burned against your ear, her mechanical eye clicking as she focused. “How many?” she growled, her voice low and lethal, like the grind of a blade against bone.

“Six—seven,” you gasped against her palm. “Two on foot, rest in cars.”

She scowled, fingers flexing around your wrist. “Fuck,” she snapped. “Come on.”

Then she was hauling you forward, leaving no room to argue, boots pounding hard through wet leaves and broken fencing. You tore after her, lungs screaming, legs shaking with exhaustion and leftover rage. Every time you stumbled, she yanked you upright, refusing to let you collapse. You hopped cracking sidewalks and the bones of fences that barely held the barking dogs behind them.

Past the tree line, the flashing cop lights bled into the night behind you, and then the world opened up—a rust-bitten old gas station, long boarded shut, weeds growing tall around shattered pumps. Clockwork barely slowed, steering you around the side, where a battered old pickup crouched low in the dark like a patient animal. Her truck, the one that she had fixed up herself and played music in so loud the mirrors shook. She was supposed to drive you back to the mansion after you finished, you were supposed to meet back up here, not get dragged and have your heart aching from adrenaline.

“Get in,” she ordered, yanking the passenger door open.

You didn’t hesitate. The second your boots hit the cab floor, Natalie was in after you, slamming the door and twisting the key in a rattling ignition. You winced, grabbing your side and gritting your teeth when blood stained your palm. The engine coughed, then roared to life, headlights cutting a pale wound into the night.

“Hold on,” she barked, throwing the truck into reverse.

Tires skidded, mud and gravel spraying as she spun you around, then tore out across the overgrown lot, aiming for the crumbling highway beyond.

Your pulse still refused to settle, vision sparking from shock and fury, hands twitching where they braced against the dash. She was laser-focused on the road, jaw clenched, mechanical eye sweeping left to right like a predator scanning for threats.

“Talk to me,” she snapped over the engine’s growl. “What the hell happened?”

You swallowed, trying to shove the blood-soaked images out of your head. “He—he wouldn’t talk, Nat. Wouldn’t give up the data. I tried to scare him, but—” Your voice cracked, shame cutting through the high. “I lost it. I couldn’t stop. There was so much blood—”

She didn’t even flinch, hands steady on the wheel, eyes catching yours for a fraction of a second. “You lost control,” she said flatly, as if reading a grocery list, not judging, just knowing.

You nodded, throat tight.

Her lips twitched, a dark little smirk breaking across her features. “Good.”

Your head snapped toward her. “What?”

Clockwork’s good eye stayed forward, but the edge of her grin was vicious. “He deserved worse. You went too far, yeah—but you came back. You ran. That means you’re still thinking, not just killing on a spree.”

You swallowed hard, a shaky breath catching in your lungs.

Natalie’s voice dropped, soft, dangerous. “Means I can still work with you. Means you’ve still got your head on your shoulders.”

The truck hit a pothole, bouncing you in your seat, but she never lost control. Never. It did, however, make you wince when your wound pulled open just a bit.

Past the broken highway, the woods turned to open fields and crumbling barns, no lights, no sirens. Safe—for now.

Natalie finally let the speed bleed away, pulling off the main road into a half-dead cornfield, where she killed the headlights and let the engine idle. Night swallowed you both, thick and heavy, only your harsh breathing breaking the silence.

She looked at you then, really looked, eyes scanning every fleck of blood and dirt on your face, the tremor in your hands. Slowly, deliberately, she reached over, clicking her cold, mechanical fingers against your jaw, tilting your head toward her.

“You’re bleeding,” she hummed, the edge of panic hidden but not gone.

You followed her gaze, down to where a warm, sticky heat had been blooming across your ribs, too drowned out by adrenaline to fully take a moment to handle it. When you pulled up your shirt, the wound was gushing spurts of blood.

“Shit,” you muttered, wincing.

Clockwork’s jaw tensed, her scar twitching. “Did the guy do it?”

“No,” you gasped, trying to peel your shirt away from the wound. It burned like hell, but didn’t feel deep—a graze. “Bullet clipped me.”

“Alright.” She slammed the brakes, hard enough to make you lurch forward in your seat. The truck skidded onto a shoulder lined with dead grass, pulling through a gap in the trees and settling behind a row of branches and bushes, just out of sight to any drivers passing.

Without a word, she twisted around, popping open the glove compartment and tossing you a battered green metal box. “First aid kit. Clean it before it gets all over my seats,” she ordered, as if there wasn’t stain after mysterious stain on the fabric already.

You hesitated, chest still rising and falling in ragged bursts. Natalie reached over, hooking a finger under your chin and forcing you to meet her eyes, her grip cold and unyielding.

“Do it,” she growled, “before you pass out on me.”

You swallowed hard and nodded, fumbling the latch of the kit open. Gauze, tape, a half-used roll of bandages—it felt clumsy and distant in your shaking hands, but you did what you could, pressing antiseptic pads to the torn skin.

Clockwork stayed close, one hand still on your chin, the other gripping the back of your seat, refusing to let you fold in on yourself. Her breathing was shallow, mechanical eye flicking over every move you made.

“You’re lucky it was a graze,” she rasped, voice steadier now but lined with something like fury. “If that bullet had gone an inch deeper—”

Her words cut off, teeth clacking shut, like she couldn’t let herself finish the thought.

You looked up at her, trying to laugh, though it came out strangled. “Since when do you worry about me?”

Natalie’s mouth twitched, something raw sparking in her mismatched gaze. “Since you decided to massacre someone in the middle of a suburban neighborhood,” she shot back, but the bite was duller, softened by the way her thumb brushed your jaw.

You slumped back against the seat, breath rattling in your lungs, the makeshift bandage clinging to your side. The sting of antiseptic was nothing compared to the jagged guilt clawing at your throat. The memories wouldn’t leave you alone—the target’s face, twisted in terror, the way your hands had felt when you tore them apart. You were supposed to get information, not slaughter him like an animal.

Your fingers twitched, still stained red. You couldn’t stop seeing it.

Natalie was watching you, good eye sharp, reading every flicker of pain across your face. You couldn’t hide from her, even if you tried.

“I shouldn’t have lost it,” you blurted out, voice cracking. “He was just supposed to talk—I was supposed to make him talk. And then I couldn’t stop, Nat. I couldn’t fucking stop—”

Your words spiraled out of you, messy and shaking. “I should be better than this, but I’m not. I’m a monster. I am what they say I am.”

Your head dropped into your hands, hot tears burning down your cheeks, smearing the dirt and blood in streaks.

For a long moment, Natalie didn’t speak. The truck engine ticked softly, cooling in the silence. Then she shifted forward, reaching out, gentle in a way that was so alien it broke you all over again. She brushed your hair back from your face, fingertips cold where skin met skin.

“You listen to me,” she murmured, voice steady, strong, like steel. “You are better than this. You had a moment—a moment. That’s all. Don’t let that define you.”

You tried to turn away, but she wouldn’t let you, catching your chin in her palm and forcing your eyes back to hers.

“You hear me?” she repeated, softer, close enough you could feel her breath. “You are more than your worst night.”

You choked on another sob, fresh tears spilling over, but Clockwork was already there, wiping them away with the edge of her thumb, brushing every drop aside with meticulous care. Her expression was fierce, protective, unbearably tender.

“You did what you had to,” she breathed, leaning closer until her lips grazed your temple. “And you came back. You came back to me. That’s what matters.”

Your body trembled, still half-shattered under the weight of everything, but her warmth pulled you back from the brink.

Then, gently, she started to kiss your tears away, mouth brushing soft over your cheekbones, the tip of your nose, each little trail of salt. You shivered, swallowing a sob, helpless under the delicate press of her lips.

Her hand moved from your jaw to the back of your neck, tugging you closer until your foreheads touched, her other hand still cradling your side like she could take the pain for you.

And then she kissed you.

It was slow, deep, claiming, like she was rewriting the taste of blood with her own mouth, trying to replace the screams with something sweeter. You leaned into it, desperate, letting her steal the weight of the night right off your shoulders.

Her fingers tangled in your hair, guiding you deeper, tongue teasing against yours until your breathing turned ragged. You felt everything in that kiss: her forgiveness, her want, her absolute refusal to let you drown.

When she finally pulled away, she kept you close, her nose brushing yours.

“Don’t you ever run from me again,” she whispered, voice raw, eyes locked to yours. “We carry this shit together, you hear me?”

You nodded, tears still shimmering, heart pounding wildly in your chest.

Natalie didn’t let you go, her lips tracing yours with a dark sort of sweetness, letting you breathe for half a second before pulling you right back under. The taste of her, the bite of metal against your skin, was a lifeline—and you clung to it like you might drown without her.

But underneath the relief, there was still a wildfire of rage and fear, a shaking need to do something, to feel something stronger than regret. You kissed her harder, teeth clacking, a low whimper tearing out of your chest as you pressed closer.

Natalie didn’t flinch. Her grin was dangerous, pupil blown wide, her mechanical iris ticking in wild little jolts as you practically devoured her.

“Yeah,” she breathed, breaking away for a second, voice hoarse. “Let it out. Don’t hold back on me.”

She bit your bottom lip as she spoke, dragging you across the console, not caring when your thigh slammed into the gearshift. You let out a surprised yelp, but she only laughed, a rough sound that made your blood burn.

Her hands were on you. She pushed out of her seat, sliding across the console and into the backseat, dragging you over her lap and back with her, the truck rocking with the motion. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, too consumed by the taste of her mouth and the harsh, desperate way her hands were tearing at your clothes as you straddled her lap.

“C’mere,” she growled, gripping the hem of your ruined shirt and yanking it up, exposing the angry bandage and the blood-streaked skin around it. She paused, eyes darting over the wound, something protective flashing there—but then her lips were on your ribs, kissing carefully around the bandage, biting at unbroken skin, leaving marks you’d feel for days.

You moaned, the sound ripped out of you, back arching as her cold, calloused hand slid up your spine. You ground down on her lap, tightening your hands on the seat behind her, dragging your rapidly twitching center across her jeans.

“That’s it,” she praised, lips brushing hot against your sternum. “Give it to me—all of it. I can take it.”

It shattered something in you.

Your fingers tangled in her messy hair, yanking hard, pulling her mouth back to yours in a bruising kiss that left you both gasping. Her hands roamed lower, squeezing your ass, dragging you flush to her until you could feel the button of her jeans under you.

You ground down against her thigh, clumsy and desperate, half-crazed with the need to burn the horror out of your veins.

Natalie held you there, voice low and taunting against your ear. “That’s my girl. Can’t control it, huh? You want to take it back, don’t you?”

You whimpered, nails digging into her shoulders. “Yes—”

She chuckled, dark and sweet. “Then take it. You’re angry? Upset? Take it out on me, let me have it.”

She shoved you back, letting you sprawl across the cracked leather of the back seat, then followed, caging you in with her hands on either side of your head. Her weight pinned you down, stealing your breath, making your pulse thunder.

Her mouth went lower, kissing down your stomach, tongue flicking at the edge of your waistband, hands already tugging at it with a violence that made you gasp. You pushed against her shoulders, trying to breathe, but she only pinned you harder, eyes flashing.

“Don’t run from this,” she growled against your skin. “Don’t run from me.”

Then she was tearing the rest of your clothes away, popping open the button of your pants and dragging them down to your ankles, shoving your shoes off with them. You hauled your shirt over your head, Natalie growling when you went to reach for your bra next.

It was a flash of movement and she was dragging your panties off, giving you barely a moment to breathe before she was hauling her own shirt off. You looked wide-eyed up at her, leaving you bare and exposed, but somehow safer than you’d felt in hours. Her hands mapped every inch of you, cold and demanding, grounding you in their steadiness. Her bra hugged her body tight, heavy breathing stretching the fabric, but the only thing you could think was—you needed to tear it off.

You felt your mind blur, the grief, the rage, the guilt—all of it funneling into the wild, reckless heat between you. You needed to feel her, to mark her the way she was marking you, to lose yourself in the violence of wanting.

She kissed you again, deep and possessive, swallowing the last of your broken cries, her hands leaving bruises on your hips as she dragged you closer.

You reached behind her back when she latched onto your neck, unclipping her bra and dragging it off her shoulders. She did yours in return.

Natalie didn’t waste another second. She pushed you down harder into the seat, her hands seizing your wrists and pinning them above your head, eyes locked on yours with a hungry, unblinking focus that made your heart stutter.

“You want this?” she rasped, voice rough and shaking. “Then fight for it.”

You bucked up against her, wild, teeth bared in a snarl that was half sob, half want. The truck’s suspension creaked with the force of it, but she didn’t let you go, didn’t even waver, holding you steady with those vice-grip hands.

“Come on,” she coaxed, breathless, a crooked grin twisting her lips. “Show me you’re still in there.”

You lunged up, crashing your mouth to hers, savage and messy, the kiss breaking over and over between gasps for air. Natalie only deepened it, biting at your lower lip until you tasted blood, then licking it away like she owned every drop.

Her other hand was everywhere, tracing hard lines over your ribs, the curve of your waist, down to your hips. She squeezed there, possessive, a bruising grip that made you whimper into her mouth.

“God, you’re hungry,” she breathed, pulling away to scan your face, eyes blown wide and wild. “So desperate.”

You nearly cried from the sheer relief of it, hips grinding up against the rough material of her jean-covered thigh, trying to get any friction. But she made you work for it, shifting just out of reach, smirking as you squirmed beneath her.

“Natalie—”

“What?” she teased, dragging a fingertip from your collarbone to the edge of your bandage, circling the wound with a dark tenderness. “You want something?”

You nodded, breath coming ragged, hands clenched into fists against her hold.

“Say it.”

You swallowed, shame burning through your chest, but the need was too raw to hide. “I want you. Please—”

She laughed, low and filthy, and let go of your wrists, only to grip your jaw in one cold, strong hand. “Good girl.”

Then she was kissing you again, rougher, tongue hot and demanding, a rhythm that left you dizzy. Her free hand trailed down, sliding between your legs without hesitation, and you nearly came apart from the single finger that she dragged through your slick.

“That’s it,” she purred against your cheek, nipping the delicate skin there. “Take it. You’ve been holding back all night, take what you need.”

You moved with her, frantic, fighting against the hold she had on your wrists but not being able to break it. The contrast of her warm body and cold fingers running through your folds sent a chill straight to your core, and you moaned, arching into her.

Natalie pressed two slick-soaked fingers to your clit, dragging obnoxious circles along the bud, making you grind against her, desperate and furious.

“Fuck,” you choked out, tears spilling again—from relief, from adrenaline, from the raw, impossible ache of surviving. You arched your hips, begging her fingers to push inside, her digits circling your clenching cunt. She chuckled, dragging her lips up the side of your throat, nipping your jaw—then shoving two fingers all the way to knuckle deep into your gummy walls.

You cried out, back arching off the seat, eyes shooting wide. Tears flowed harder. She kissed them away, like before, but this time with her fingers dipping into your cunt, pulling you open for her, rough and perfect. She curled her knuckles, pumping the digits so fast you felt like she was rattling you. Her palm pressed against your clit, bumping the nub every time her fingers pumped, making you moan so loud and breathless.

“No more hiding,” she growled, voice shaking, her breath coming as ragged as yours. “No more doubting yourself. You’re mine. You understand?”

“Yes—”

“That’s right,” she snarled, letting your hands go. You arched, nails raking down her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left at all, no past, no future, just this endless, hungry now.

She moved hard, fingers relentless, every thrust a demand that you feel, that you live, that you fight back. And you did, meeting her, matching her, letting every shred of guilt and terror burn away in the heat of her hands and the rough sweetness of her kisses.

Natalie’s voice stayed in your ear, a constant, grounding rasp. “Good. Good. Show me. Don’t hold back.”

You couldn’t—and you didn’t. Despite the feeling, the overwhelmingly amazing feeling, you wanted her—all of her. You reached between you, tearing open the button of her jeans and pushing the waistband down. She chuckled, pushing her fingers in your cunt to the hilt and holding them there, grinding her palm against your cunt. You mewled as she sat up off of you, grinding your hips up as she pushed her jeans down with one hand. 

“Nat—”

“Hold on—”

“No.” You pushed up, pushing her hands off of you and grabbing at her hips. You hauled her down onto the seat, flipping the two of you so her back hit the fabric with a grunt. She stared up at you with a wide eye as you dragged her jeans down the rest of the way, pulling her boots off with them. Her panties were soaked already, messy fabric right around her hips as you peeled them down too. Natalie grinned, teeth barred when you climbed onto her lap, dripping cunt barely giving Natalie a moment to adjust in her position before you were throwing one leg over her hips and slotting the other underneath.

You planted your foot on the carpet of the truck, the other hooking over her leg and beside her hip, then pressing down as hard as you could.

Your bare cunts met in a shock of white heat and ecstasy. You both groaned deep and loud, bucking up into the heat of the other as you began to grind your desperation against her. Soaked lips and glistened folds rubbed together, clits bumping and thighs shaking.

Natalie moaned deep in her chest, her auburn hair splaying under her as her flushed cheeks and freckles shined in the moonlight filtering through the windows. Your stomach curled, muscles working to ride your arousal and need as you fucked your cunt against hers. “Mhnn-Hah— Nat—Natalie, oh, god—”

“Use me, baby—Fuck—take it all out on me.”

You sped up, legs burning so bad from way you knocked your hips so violently against hers, clit burning with the sensation.

Your whole body was singing, burning, shivering, and Natalie seemed to feel it in every breath you took. She leaned up onto her elbows, just far enough to look up at you—sweat-slicked, shaking, absolutely ruined—and grinned with a predator’s satisfaction.

Then, without warning, she pushed you down, hooking one hand under your knee and flipping you to the side, your back hitting the cracked vinyl seat with a dull thud.

“Fuck—” you gasped, but she was already moving, already pressing herself against you, pinning you down.

“Spread,” she growled, voice a ragged command.

You obeyed, hips rolling forward, your legs parting around her thighs. Natalie slipped her fingers under your knee again, adjusting you until your cores aligned, heat meeting heat in a molten jolt that stole your breath.

Her pupils blew wide, lips parted in a soft, disbelieving curse. “God, you’re so fucking wet.”

You moaned, helpless, grinding forward as the brush of her skin against yours sent a white-hot shock of pleasure through your whole body.

“Yeah,” she breathed, catching your hips in her hands, guiding you, “that’s it, baby—right there.”

And then she was moving with you, hips rocking together, a perfect friction of arousal and sweat that left you both shaking. The rough fabric of the truck seat bit into your back, grounding you, but it was nothing compared to the dizzy, consuming sensation of Natalie’s cunt dragging over yours again and again, a filthy, perfect rhythm.

Your voices tangled—gasps, broken moans, curses—the truck rocking slightly under your combined, desperate motion.

“Harder,” you choked out, fingers digging into her shoulder, nails biting hard enough to draw blood.

She gave you exactly what you wanted, grinding down, hips rolling with a force that made stars burst behind your eyes. You couldn’t remember why you were upset, it didn’t matter, the tears in your eyes weren’t from sadness or anger anymore, but from feeling so fucking good you thought you might pass out.

“Don’t you fucking stop,” she hissed, every word a ragged praise, hands slipping behind your back to pull you closer, grinding so hard you felt the shock of each impact in your teeth. You both moved together, hips pulling back for just a second before you were knocking back together again, fucking your cunts together thrust after thrust.

You couldn’t hold back—couldn’t even think—just moved with her, matching her hungry rhythm, every nerve on fire, hips snapping in time with hers.

Natalie’s leaned up off the seat, pushed one of your legs back and propping your heel on her shoulder. She leaned down, spreading your legs so wide you felt the burn and pull in your hip flexors. She was tearing you apart, head dropped to your shoulder, panting against your skin, her voice raw.

“Fuck—look at you, taking what you want—just like that—”

The sound of skin against skin was obscene, slick and hot and perfect, sending you higher, faster, until all you could do was whimper her name, over and over.

Her lips found your throat, biting down hard enough to leave a mark you could already feel, the pain blooming in perfect harmony with the heat building low and unstoppable in your belly.

She must have sensed it, felt the way your hips stop pulling back and instead chased hers, refusing to do anything but grind so hard you thought your pelvis would crack.

“Come on,” she growled against your neck, voice breaking. “Give it to me—let it go—”

You slammed forward against her one last time, clit slamming against hers just right, and it detonated inside you, a blinding rush of release tearing a scream from your lungs.

Natalie followed right after, her rhythm stuttering, a strangled moan ripping through her as she ground down hard, chasing every last spark of pleasure. You both felt the gush, the way your cunts soaked into each other, sloppiness all over your thighs and puffy lips.

For a long, endless moment, you clung to each other, shaking, breathless, the truck echoing with your ragged gasps. Then she collapsed against you, still tangled together, her lips pressing soft, shaky kisses into your neck. Your leg slipped off her shoulder and down to her waist, wrapping around her as she soaked in the taste of you.

“Goddamn,” she breathed, a laugh breaking through her hoarse voice, “you are something else.”

Your body still trembled, aftershocks making you twitch against her, the world around you a haze of sweat and shallow breathing. Natalie stayed right there, her skin warm and sticky against yours, her arm curled protectively around your waist.

For a minute, there was only the pounding of your hearts, a soft lull that almost made you think you could sleep right there. But Natalie was never one to leave silence alone for long.

She lifted her head, brushing her nose against your cheek, voice still thick and rough. “Hey,” she rasped, “you with me?”

You nodded, blinking through the tears that still clung to your lashes. Your throat burned, voice barely a whisper. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“Good,” she said, a crooked smile tugging at her lips. She nudged your jaw until you met her eyes, thumb sweeping gently across your cheek. “Because you did damn good tonight. You hear me?”

Your chest twisted, shame trying to worm its way back in, but Natalie shut it down with a sharp, possessive kiss.

“No guilt,” she murmured against your mouth. “No second-guessing. You made the call. You survived.”

You swallowed, tears rising again—you couldn’t even help it. “I lost control,” you croaked, voice shaking.

She kissed you again, harder, shutting down the tremor with sheer force. “Then take it back,” she growled, and that hungry grin returned, eyes shining with something dark and unstoppable. “We're not done until you can admit that.”

Before you could answer, she was shifting, moving down your body, peppering kisses over the curve of your chest, her hands greedy and rough on your thighs.

“Natalie—”

“Shh,” she soothed, one hand running up your abdomen, nails dragging lightly over your ribs until you shivered. “I’m gonna help you take it back.”

You gasped as she eased your legs apart again, settling between them, eyes locked on yours with a focused, feral calm that made your pulse spike. You spread your thighs, her hands on the underside of your knees and pressing them back.

Her voice dropped to a sinful murmur. “Let me hear you, sweetheart. Don’t hold anything back.”

She kissed lower, pressing hot, claiming bites along your belly, then dipping between your legs again, dragging her tongue through your ruined folds quick and filthy. You almost sobbed, thighs clamping around her shoulders, but she pinned you open with that inhuman strength, refusing to let you hide.

“That’s it,” she purred, her voice vibrating right through you, “give me everything. Every bit of it.”

Your hands flew to her hair, fingers tangling as you arched into her mouth, the heat of her tongue driving you right back into that place where nothing existed but sensation. Natalie ate you like she’d been starving, relentless, pushing you higher and higher until you felt like you might break apart. Her tongue rolled over your clit, then soaked down into your entrance, pressing the muscle into the hot, sticky hole as it clamped down around her.

You tried to muffle your cries, but she caught your hips in an iron grip, pulling you closer, grinding her face against you with a filthy groan. She slurped your cunt, tongue darting in and out in filthy, sloppy kisses.

“Louder,” she commanded, breaking free just long enough to catch your eyes, pupil wide and dark as she panted. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

Then she dove back in, tongue working you with such unrestrained hunger it made your vision blur. She curled her tongue up, her nose grinding against your clit with all the reverence of an animal as she growled into your arousal. 

“Fuck Natalie!” you cried, tugging her hair so hard she whined. “M’gonna cum—please, god—Aghhh—” You couldn’t fight it—wouldn’t fight it—and the second orgasm crashed through you hard enough to make your spine curl off the seat, a strangled scream tearing free.

Natalie held you through every wave, licking you clean, drawing out the pleasure until it left you gasping and spent.

Finally, she came back up, breath ragged, lips slick and pink, good eye bright with pride. She leaned down, pressing her forehead to yours.

“There you are,” she whispered, voice shaking with raw relief, “my girl.”

You pulled her down into a kiss, clinging to her, needing that final anchoring warmth. She let you have it, wrapping you up tight, cradling your face as the adrenaline bled away and your heart began to steady again.

No more sirens, no more screaming, no more guilt. Just Natalie, breathing with you, holding you together piece by piece.

And it didn’t matter how guilty you felt, because she would always be right there—her smirk twisting into something soft just for you, her hands knowing exactly how to fix you, how to stitch you back together, whispering that the blood on your hands didn’t make you less worthy of being held.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝  NINA THE KILLER

A scream nearly tore its way out of your throat when a hand yanked you off your feet, dragging you with brutal force behind a sagging dumpster. Your boots scraped across wet concrete, heart hammering, gun still clenched in your white-knuckled grip.

“Hush,” a sharp voice hissed in your ear, and you froze.

“Nina—”

You glimpsed her in the glare of a police car headlight, dark jacket and mini-skirt sticking to her body, color-dyed hair wild around her fierce grin. Her mouth was smudged in fresh red, a sloppy grin echoing in the paint on her cheeks, eyes gleaming like a rabid dog’s as she sized you up. Gorgeous, manic, fearless—dripping danger like perfume.

She held you pinned in the shadows, her arm locked around your waist like iron, her knife glinting at her hip, crimson-stained from god only knew what. The pink-streaked hair framing her face shimmered under the ugly yellow light of a flickering street lamp, her split smile and too-white face stern with concentration and worry as she scanned the street.

She was supposed to be your lookout, supposed to help if anything went wrong and get the two of you out—but when you went into that house alone and left with blood on your hands, all you cared about was getting away.

“Shit, sweetheart, you trying to get killed tonight?” she rasped, eyes flashing with a furious glint.

You swallowed, lungs burning. Sirens wailed nearby, closer, their red-and-blue glow sweeping across the brick walls of the back alley. A police cruiser turned the corner in a screech of tires, spotlight slicing across trash bins and shattered glass.

“They’re everywhere,” you panted, your side still screaming from the bullet that grazed you, “I— I couldn’t—”

“Focus,” Nina hissed, giving you a small, almost violent shake. “Breathe.”

You tried. The night felt suffocating, the smell of wet concrete and asphalt mixing with gunpowder and coppery blood, but you forced yourself to drag air into your lungs.

Nina peered around the edge of the shed, her breathing shallow, the glint in her eyes practically feral. “Cops are sweeping the whole block,” she whispered. “We gotta move.”

“Where?” you rasped.

She grinned, wolfish and electric. “Behind the grocery store. I know the way. Come on.”

Nina didn’t wait—she hauled you forward by the wrist, practically dragging you along the damp alley. Your boots splashed through puddles, the gritty asphalt tearing at your knees when you nearly stumbled, but Nina was relentless. She kept you pinned against her side, a shield of rage and confidence.

The grocery store’s loading bay was barely lit, the rusted metal doors chained shut. Nina guided you into the deep shadows behind a leaning stack of pallets, shoving you to crouch low. You winced, pressing a palm against the graze on your side. Blood was soaking through your shirt, warm and sickly.

Nina crouched beside you, eyes darting everywhere, chest heaving. Her blade was still out, steady in her hand even as the adrenaline shook her bones.

“You got shot?” she hissed, pressing her hands around the bloodied area.

“Just a graze,” you ground out, teeth clenched.

She swore under her breath, reaching to tug your hand away so she could see the wound. The harsh neon glow from a backdoor sign flickered over her face, revealing the raw edge of concern in her dark eyes, her eyeshadow and mascara slightly ruined from all the messiness of the night.

“God, baby, you’re a mess,” she smiled, voice threading between worry and that hungry, almost aroused adrenaline you never understood when she saw blood. “Fucking beautiful.”

You laughed, bitter, shaky. “Thanks.”

Nina’s grin widened, dangerous and manic. “Listen, we sit tight here until they sweep past. Then we’re getting the fuck out, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She leaned closer, her breath hot on your cheek, eyes locked on yours with deadly focus. “You follow my lead. If anyone comes back here, I will gut them, and you will run. Got it?”

“Got it,” you whispered.

The sirens blared again, closer still. You ducked lower, heartbeat rattling your ribs like a caged animal. Nina pressed in against your side, the heat of her body grounding you, steadying you.

And in that heartbeat, hidden behind rotten cardboard and rusted metal, you realized she was your lifeline—vicious, unstoppable, and willing to burn the world down for you.

The pounding of police boots grew louder, sweeping through the street outside. Nina tensed, blade ready, her arm protectively caging you against her chest.

Until you heard voices, loud and deep, hollering that there was movement on the east side of the street, far away from where you actually were. You both took a collective sigh of relief as you heard them all move away, boots and tire screeches trailing down the road and away from the electric buzzing of the sign overhead.

The cops’ shouts finally faded, the screaming sirens drifting off down the next block. The pulsing of flashlight beams shrank away, swallowed by the night, until it was just you and Nina in the cold hush of the alley.

For a second, neither of you moved. Your heartbeat still slammed in your ears, the metallic tang of blood mixing with rotting produce and old rain. You shivered, shoulders pressed against the damp bricks.

Nina lowered her knife, though she didn’t sheathe it, eyes fixed on you with that same electric focus.

“Talk to me,” she demanded, voice sweet and concerned. “What the fuck happened out there?”

Your throat burned. You opened your mouth, but everything spilled out in a rush, hot and cracked, like tearing open a wound all over again.

“I—it was supposed to be simple,” you choked, breath stuttering, “just information, Nina, that’s all—I tried—I tried to get him to talk but he laughed at me, he laughed, and I—”

Your hands trembled, fingers still sticky with drying blood.

“I lost it,” you admitted, tears biting your eyes, “I lost everything. I couldn’t stop, I—”

Nina leaned in, closer, until her forehead nearly touched yours. Her eyes burned, dark and unreadable, taking in every trembling word.

“Baby,” she murmured, “look at me.”

You did.

She tore at her own skirt, yanking a strip of pink speckled fabric free with a vicious rip. Without flinching, she pressed it against your side, staunching the oozing graze. Her touch was surprisingly gentle, even as her words stayed sharp.

“You think I’m gonna hate you for that?” she scoffed, voice almost amused. “You think I wouldn’t have loved watching you tear him apart?”

Your breath hitched.

“You think I wouldn’t have wanted to see you,” she went on, binding the cloth tight around your waist, “so beautiful covered in a bastard’s blood?”

She grinned, a razor’s edge of wickedness.

“You are gorgeous, sweetheart,” she purred, eyes dancing in the weak alley light, “beautiful and terrifying, just the way I like you.”

Nina finished tying the makeshift bandage, fingers lingering on your skin, pressing into you like a brand. Then she lifted your hands, stained crimson and shaking, and kissed the knuckles one by one.

“You are beautiful,” she whispered, lips brushing blood and dirt, “and you were perfect tonight.”

Your chest cracked open, a sob catching in your throat, but Nina was already moving—kissing higher, dragging her lips up your forearm, tasting the tang of copper on your skin.

She cupped your face in both hands, smearing your own blood across your cheeks, and kissed you hard. It was brutal, claiming, the taste of metal and sweat and fear on both your tongues.

Nina devoured you like she’d starve without it, her voice breaking between kisses, “Perfect, perfect, beautiful, perfect girl—”

The night outside was silent again, but you felt the world roar back to life in her arms, lit up by Nina’s praise, Nina’s fire, Nina’s mouth on yours—tearing away every scrap of guilt and sewing it back up with something dark, and alive, and endless.

Nina’s mouth was hungry, biting at your lips, stealing every shaky breath from your lungs. Her hands slid over your shoulders, slick with blood, fingers gripping hard enough to bruise. She couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get enough of you, like you were oxygen after she’d just drowned.

She drew back just a hair, panting, staring down at your stained hands with pupils blown wide. “God, baby,” she moaned, voice trembling with twisted adoration, “look at these hands…”

She lifted them to her mouth with wide eyes. Her teeth scraped lightly as she took your middle finger between her lips and sucked, eyes fluttering half-shut as if tasting some fine, forbidden wine.

You gasped, heat roaring through your chest.

Nina popped your finger from her mouth with a wet sound, tongue flicking across the remaining blood. “So fucking delicious,” she purred, a dangerous smile breaking across her face.

Your heart lurched, breaking free of its cage, and you couldn’t stop yourself. You surged forward, grabbing fistfuls of her shirt and spinning her, pinning her to the rough brick wall behind the pallets.

Nina let out a soft, breathless laugh, head falling back against the crumbling bricks, eyes gone wild. “That’s it, sweetheart,” she urged, “take what you want—”

Your lips crashed into hers again, hard, messy, tasting iron and adrenaline. She clung to your shoulders, nails biting through the fabric of your sleeves as you kissed down the line of her jaw, across her cheekbone, over the sharp curve of her throat.

“Mine,” you rasped, voice breaking against her skin, “you’re mine too. You want this fucker’s blood all over you?”

“Say it again,” she gasped, her breath stuttering when your tongue traced the edge of her ear.

“Mine.”

Nina’s hips rolled as you slotted your thigh between her legs, desperate, her hands winding into your hair to keep you close as you devoured every inch of her neck, your teeth dragging little red marks in your wake. Her bangs ruffled against her face, hair a mess, that raw, ecstatic grin splitting her face that you always loved.

No matter how awful you felt, no matter how disgusting your body seemed after the actions tonight, Nina combatted that. Her words, her actions, her need for you—even full of dread and anger—made your bones shake with want, with need for her in turn.

Your voice trembled, half-crazed with the taste of her, “You—you make me crazy, you know that? Fuck—”

You kissed her again, cutting her giggles off, fierce and consuming. Her body arched into you, gasping and biting at your lower lip, trying to drown in you, to burn in you. You could feel her heartbeat hammering wild through her ribs, matching your own.

Blood, sweat, night air, all of it tangled together—the filthy, perfect confession of monsters who would rather die than let go. Of two people who are fucked—who know they are—and love each other for it.

Nina’s arms wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you closer, refusing to let you slip away, even for a second. You held her against the wall, breathless, starving, and kissed her like you could taste forgiveness on her tongue, the two of you locked together in the alley’s darkness with nothing but each other to hold on to.

“You’re insane.” Your hands roamed down the curve of her sides, squeezing tight, hungry for every inch of her.

“You love it,” she shivered, head falling back against the bricks, a ragged moan breaking loose when your palms slipped under the hem of her torn skirt. The thin fabric barely clung to her hips anymore, stained and ripped, easy to shove up to her waist.

Your eyes widened when you saw the lacy thong that hugged her hips. “Seriously…?”

“I knew I’d be hanging with you tonight, so…”

You shoved her hips down onto your thigh, grinding her clothed cunt against your pant-leg.

“Fuck,” Nina gasped, nails dragging down your arms as you pressed in closer, pinning her tight to the wall. “God—don’t stop—”

You didn’t. You ground her hips into your thigh, breath catching, the friction sending shocks of want straight through your veins. Nina’s hands clawed at your back, urging you on, lips parting in a raw gasp when you rocked her against you harder, chasing that blinding edge of release and rage.

Your fingers pushed up under her skirt, and down into her panties, brushing hot, searing wetness, teasing your fingers against her clit just to feel her tremble.

She arched into you, nearly wild, voice cracking, “Please—baby, please—”

“Look at you,” you rasped against her neck, biting lightly at the soft skin, “fucking desperate…”

Nina let out a choked laugh, breathless and wrecked. “For you—always for you,” she confessed, hips canting forward into your hand, her eyes locked on yours like she’d die if you looked away. Her lips were bitten and bruised, cheeks so pink you smiled at her, leaning forward to kiss them.

You pushed her skirt higher, bunching it around her hips, free hand gliding up her thigh and around to grab her ass, hard enough to make her squirm. You could feel her cunt clench around nothing, pulsing, begging for you, slick against your fingers.

She pushed her thigh up between your legs at the same time, rocking against you in a perfect, filthy rhythm that made your head spin.

Your hips snapped harder against her, a strangled cry breaking from your throat. Nina drank it in, lips ghosting across your jaw, hungry for every sound.

“Fuck me up,” she whispered, voice shaking, “do it, please—”

You slammed your mouth against hers, swallowing her whimpers, your fingers teasing her folds, stroking up against her clit until her knees buckled. The alley seemed to close around you both, gritty and cold, but so alive, her thigh grinding right into your core, dragging you higher and higher.

You pushed her harder against the brick, every thrust making her gasp, until you thought you’d fall apart from how bad you wanted to feel her break.

Nina’s hands tangled in your hair, colorful nails tugging you down to kiss her again, deep and dirty, her tongue greedy against yours, your bodies shaking together in a feverish, unstoppable rhythm.

She couldn’t stay still—rocking her hips, pushing back against your hand, chasing that wild edge like she’d die without it.

You curled your fingers against her slick heat, drawing a sharp cry from her throat. Nina bucked, nails digging into your shoulders, her thighs twitching under your grip. When her hips stuttered, you curled your finger, pushing your middle digit in. There wasn’t any resistance, Nina clamping against you all the way to the hilt.

“That’s it,” you growled, voice ragged, “take it, Nina—fuck, you feel so good—”

Her lips split in a ragged grin, teeth flashing between moans, “More—please, more—”

You obliged, sliding another finger inside her, working her open, feeling her clench around you, hot and dripping. She nearly folded, legs trembling, forehead pressing hard against yours.

Her thigh still pinned between your legs, grinding against your soaked center, driving you closer and closer to the brink. You rocked on her, hips rolling in desperate, hungry circles, gasping when every perfect movement made her cry out again.

“So pretty,” Nina rasped, voice broken and shrill, “fucking—perfect—”

Your teeth caught the side of her throat, biting down just enough to leave a mark, and she let out a high, shaking moan, her hands gripping your arms like she’d fall apart if you let go.

“Keep going,” she pleaded, hips jerking, thighs quaking, “don’t you fucking stop—”

You fucked your fingers up into her harder, faster, knuckles curling in deep, watching her unravel. Her mascara ran in dark streaks down her flushed face, smudging in the tear tracks and the specks of blood still drying on her cheeks.

It was beautiful. Vicious. Perfect.

She kissed you, sloppy and uncoordinated, her tongue sliding over yours in a frantic claim as her walls fluttered around your fingers, tight and wet.

“Cum for me,” you breathed against her lips, voice rough with your own rising release, “come on, baby—on my fingers—”

And Nina did, hard, her whole body locking up, a strangled cry tearing through the alley as she pulsed around your fingers. You fucked her through it, refusing to let her down easy, grinding against her thigh as you watched her face twist and her eyes roll up into her pretty lashes.

You both shook, forehead to forehead, panting, clinging to each other like the world might tear you apart if you let go.

Before you could even catch your breath, Nina was moving, her body still trembling from her own orgasm but eyes locked on you with that ravenous, feral spark. She didn’t give you a chance to recover.

Rough hands grabbed your hips, spinning your back to the wall, pinning you there with a bruising grip. You barely had time to gasp before you felt her sink to her knees in front of you, her hands already tugging at your waistband, yanking the button of your pants open and tugging them down your thighs with single-minded hunger.

“Fuck, Nina—” you tried, but your voice cut off in a ragged moan when she pushed your legs open, dragging your panties down with nails scratching your skin. She spread you open, breath hot against your dripping cunt.

“Shh,” she cooed, low and wicked, “I’m not done with you yet.”

She didn’t waste another second—her tongue was on you, hot and wet, dragging through your folds with a filthy groan. Your head smacked back against the brick, fingers scrabbling for something to hold on to as she licked into you, messy and greedy, like she wanted to drown in the taste of you. You latched onto her hair, one fist around her ponytail and the other cupping behind her head, pushing her closer.

“God, you taste perfect,” she growled against your slick, lips sealing around your clit and sucking hard enough to make your knees threaten to give.

You cried out, loud, echoing in the empty alley, hands dragging to tangle in her hair. Nina moaned at the pull, the vibration sending sparks straight through your gut. She doubled down, tongue flicking your swollen bud, lapping at your taste, then plunging inside you with little warning, fucking you with her mouth.

Your thighs shook, breath coming in shattered, frantic bursts, hips jerking against her face. Nina just held you tighter, nails biting into your skin, keeping you right where she wanted you, tearing you apart under her mouth.

“Fuck—Nina—don’t stop—”

She hummed against you, eyes glittering, hands spreading your ass wider so she could bury herself even deeper. Each swirl of her tongue felt like fire, like absolution, like punishment—every desperate, broken sound she drank from your lips only spurred her on.

Your hips started to stutter, a hot wave building so fast you could hardly think. Nina’s tongue fucked you hard and fast, then moved up to circle your clit, relentless and perfect. Her nails dragged along the top of your thighs, leaving wilting marks.

Your climax was building so fast it was blinding, every flick of Nina’s tongue sending you closer to the edge until your nerves were set on fire. You couldn’t take it—it was too much, too raw, too sharp.

Your hands gripped hard, tugging Nina by the hair and pulling her face away from you, slick and messy, her lips glossy with your arousal.

She looked up at you, eyes wide and wild, pupils blown, mouth parted in a desperate gasp.

“No—no, baby, don’t—” she choked out, voice cracking as her hands clawed at your hips, trying to shove her face back against your cunt, “please, let me—let me finish you—”

You panted, chest heaving, legs shaking, your grip iron tight in her hair. Nina’s nails bit into your thighs, practically pleading with her whole body, breath ragged, tears starting to prick in the corners of her eyes from the pure frustration.

“Fuck, Nina—give me a second—” you gasped, trying to keep yourself from falling apart right then and there.

But she shook her head frantically, voice gone rough and broken, “No—please, I need you, let me taste you, let me finish—”

You tried to steady your breathing, but she was so goddamn beautiful, wrecked and hungry, smeared with blood and tears and spit, trying to pull against your hold like an animal starved.

“Let me,” she whined again, almost sobbing, “I need you to cum on my tongue—fuck, please—”

The desperation in her voice split you open. You couldn’t hold her off any longer, couldn’t fight that wild, shaking heat in your core.

Your hand loosened, just enough for her to surge forward, devouring you again with a sob of relief. Her mouth sealed around you, tongue working you ruthlessly, like she’d die if she didn’t make you finish.

You felt it snap, pleasure crashing through you so violently you nearly collapsed, a raw cry tearing from your throat. Nina held you up, refusing to let you slip away, licking you through every quaking spasm, moaning against you like she’d never get enough.

When you finally sagged against the brick, shaking, she pulled back, lips glossy and swollen, face flushed and eyes wild.

“Fuck,” she panted, licking her lips, “I could eat you forever.”

“Clearly,” you huffed through shaky breaths.

You felt like every bone in your body had turned to liquid. The alley seemed impossibly quiet now, the night air cooling the sweat on your skin. In the distance, you could still hear faint police sirens fading back in, swallowed by the restless hum of the city, but making their way back around the block.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just looked at each other, hearts still hammering, breaths ragged, stained by blood and sweat and the taste of violence.

Finally, you let out a broken, exhausted laugh, “Jesus, Nina…” you breathed, voice frayed, “I thought I was gonna fucking pass out.”

She grinned, impossibly proud of herself, though there was a strange softness hiding underneath. She came down to crouch in front of you, smoothing your hair from your face with shaky fingers, tracing your jaw like she couldn’t believe you were real.

“Look at you,” she murmured, thumb brushing over your cheek, “a fucking masterpiece.”

You swallowed, the night’s chaos washing over you all at once—the blood, the bullets, the screaming. The mission going to hell, the smell of gunpowder, the look in that target’s eyes before you tore him apart. It clung to your ribs, heavy and suffocating.

“I lost control,” you rasped, the guilt starting to gnaw through your adrenaline, “I—fuck, I lost it—I was supposed to get information, and I just—”

Nina’s expression shifted, something gentler behind her bloodlust, something frighteningly warm. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to yours.

“Hey,” she breathed, voice calm but unyielding, “you did what you had to do. You survived. That’s all that matters.”

You closed your eyes, trying to believe it. Her hands steadied you, warm against your shoulders, pulling you in until you could feel her heartbeat against yours.

“You’re a monster, just like me,” she whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, “and I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.”

The words sank in, a twisted kind of comfort—the only comfort someone like you could ever really understand. You leaned into her, letting the horror of the night slip away for a heartbeat, replaced by the familiar, brutal warmth of someone who saw you for exactly what you were.

Together, you stayed tucked in the dark of that alley, catching your breath, clinging to each other, until the world outside finally felt just a little bit quieter.

And it didn’t matter how remorseful you felt, because she would always be right there—kissing every sin off your skin, praising the violence you carried, promising you were beautiful even in your ruin, worshiping you like you were made to break things and be broken.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝  JANE EVERLASTING

You barely had a chance to breathe before a hand shot out of the shadows and seized you, iron-strong fingers clamping around your wrist. A flash of pale skin, a knife glinting by her hip—and a familiar cold rage in those dark eyes. 

“Jane—”

She was a dark queen moving through the crush of shadows, black hair sleek and gleaming like onyx, every move radiating lethal grace, black dress hugging her curves just right. Her pale skin caught the twisting moonlight, highlighting cheekbones sharp enough to cut, and when her eyes—black as midnight—locked on you, the world seemed to hush, bowing to her power.

“Come on,” she snapped, yanking you off balance, hauling you down an overgrown side yard and vaulting a sagging fence in one smooth motion.

You stumbled, nearly lost your gun, heart thundering, adrenaline screaming through every vein. The sirens behind you were getting closer, blue and red cutting through the dark as the police spread through the neighborhood, barking orders, boots smashing through backyards in a fury of hunting dogs.

Jane didn’t slow, dragging you along with a death grip, her hair streaming behind her like a black banner of war. “They’ll sweep the woods,” she growled, “too obvious. We go deeper into town. Blend in.”

You nodded, panting, barely keeping your feet under you as she ducked behind another house, crossed through a ruined backyard, and sprinted toward the chain-link fence on the opposite side.

Jane was there to be your getaway. She was staying in a motel nearby, and you had talked before this mission. You weren’t supposed to mess everything up and drag her into this, she was just meant to be a place to stay for the night.

The neighborhood bled away fast, block after block blurring together in a haze of sweat and panic, until you hit the edge of the town proper—a busier street, still lit, people pouring out of late-night shops and bars, oblivious to the monsters at their doorstep.

Jane didn’t hesitate, dragging you into the chaos, weaving through drunks and night owls, dodging a pair of college kids laughing on the curb. All in heels and a mask, no less.

“Keep your head down,” she hissed, pulling your hood up and tucking your hair beneath it, hiding the drying blood splattered on your collar. “They’ll never think to look in the middle of a crowd.” Funny for her to say, as if she didn’t stand out like a gothic sore thumb.

The street was alive with pulsing neon and pounding bass from the bars, a swirl of cheap perfume and sweat. Jane threaded through it like a phantom, never breaking her stride, scanning every doorway. You could barely keep up, your wound pulsing painfully along your ribs, the bullet graze burning under your shirt with every harsh movement.

Finally, she spotted a place—a dive bar with a busted neon sign, so crowded you could barely see through the window. Perfect.

Jane wrenched open the door, a wave of sour beer and old cigarette smoke hitting you in the face, and shoved you through the crush of bodies. A couple of people shouted as you bumped them, but Jane didn’t care, cutting a path straight for the back hallway with predatory grace.

Someone grabbed her arm—a drunk guy trying to flirt—and she shoved him off so hard he crashed into a table, sending glasses flying. Before anyone could react, she’d kicked open the door to the bathroom at the far end, yanking you inside and locking it behind you.

The tiny space reeked of bleach and stale air. You slammed back against the sink, trying to catch your breath, pulse still pounding in your throat like a war drum.

Jane rounded on you, her eyes flashing. “What the fuck happened out there?” she demanded, voice sharp enough to flay you alive.

You swallowed hard, wiping a streak of blood from your mouth, your hands still shaking. “I—I lost control,” you rasped, voice cracking. “He—he wouldn’t talk, and I—”

She stepped forward, crowding you against the sink, her hands coming up to grip your shoulders, holding you steady.

“Look at me,” she snapped, her tone leaving no room for argument. You forced your gaze to meet hers, that deep, endless black, and felt the tremor in your knees.

“You’re still alive,” Jane hissed, voice dropping low, “that is what matters.”

Outside, you could hear the bass from the jukebox thumping through the walls, people laughing, completely oblivious to the murderers hiding in the bathroom.

Jane’s hands loosened, sliding to your jaw, her thumb smearing away the blood from your cheek, then cupping you there with a surprising gentleness.

“Breathe,” she whispered, so close you could taste her, “we’re not done yet.”

Jane pulled back, scanning you from head to toe, her eyes narrowing at the blood soaking through your side. The bullet graze burned like hell, reminding you with every heartbeat that you’d gotten sloppy, too sloppy.

“Fuck,” Jane growled, tearing her gaze away. She unlocked the bathroom door just enough to slip out, leaving you alone for a moment with the cracked mirror and buzzing fluorescent light.

You leaned against the sink, hands trembling, chest tight. The roaring in your ears was deafening—the weight of what you’d done, the blood, the smell of it on your skin. The target’s face kept flashing behind your eyelids, the way he screamed before you tore him apart.

Before you could sink too deep, Jane returned, one hand balled around a filthy-looking rag swiped off the bar counter—meant for drying pint glasses, but good enough for triage. She locked the door again behind her, stalking forward.

“Lift your shirt,” she ordered, voice leaving no room to argue.

You obeyed, teeth gritted as you peeled up the blood-crusted fabric, revealing the graze running a line of raw pain across your side.

“Jesus,” Jane muttered, dipping the rag into the sink and ringing it out before pressing it to your wound. The rag was rough, stinking of cheap beer and lemon-scented soap, but it was cold, biting into the torn skin in a way that made you hiss.

Jane didn’t apologize. She just worked, methodical, wiping the blood away with careful but firm swipes, trying to get the worst of it cleaned up.

“Fucking amateurs,” she spat under her breath, though you couldn’t tell if she meant the target, the cops, or you. Maybe all of it.

You clenched the edge of the sink, forcing yourself to hold still as she worked. “I…I just lost it,” you finally admitted, voice raw. “He wouldn’t talk, he kept laughing, and I just—”

Jane paused, rag still against your side, her eyes locking on yours. Dark. Hungry. Understanding.

“You snapped,” she finished for you, voice dropping to a low rasp. “We’ve all been there.”

You swallowed hard, shame and relief clashing inside your chest.

“I should have never done this mission alone.”

Jane’s hands slowed, her touch softening. She let the rag drop, bracing her palms on either side of your hips, leaning in so close you could feel the warmth of her breath through her mask.

“You did what you had to,” she murmured, brushing a strand of sweaty hair off your forehead, letting her thumb linger against your temple. “I’m proud of you.”

The words cracked something inside you. Your shoulders slumped, a ragged breath tearing out of you, eyes burning with unshed tears.

Jane brushed the tears away before they could fall, one after the other, slow, deliberate, like she wanted to make sure every bit of you was safe with her—even your pain.

“You’re not alone,” she whispered, words ghosting across your face, “you’ll never be alone with me.”

You exhaled, trembling, letting her words bury themselves in your ribs, letting her warmth sink through the cold shell of your fear.

Jane reached behind the hem of her mask, pulling the white veil off her face and setting it on the sink behind you. Your eyes welled with tears, her dark ones meeting yours with that fierce determination she always held. You hiccuped, choking on another sob as she tugged you closer, pressing her hips to yours.

Jane kissed you then, deep and consuming, swallowing up every broken, desperate piece of you like it was the sweetest thing she’d ever had.

Jane’s kiss didn’t stop—it devoured. You felt her tongue slip against yours, demanding, taking, like she could drink down every fear and regret tangled inside you. Her hands slid from your hips to your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, grounding you in the present.

The pain of your wound seemed to fade under the heat of her mouth, your mind spinning with the rush of relief, desire, confusion—everything tangled so tight you couldn’t separate one from the next.

Jane broke the kiss with a wet sound, her lips brushing your ear, voice low and dark.

“You feel that?” she rasped, her thigh pressing between yours, pushing up until you couldn’t help but grind down on the pressure. “That’s real. Right here. This is all that matters now.”

You gasped, hands shooting out to grab her shoulders, nails biting into the leather of her jacket as she rolled her hips against you, forcing another ragged moan from your throat.

The stench of bleach and cheap beer, the faint scent of old cigarettes and the copper of your own blood—all of it burned into your senses, dizzying, filthy, perfect.

Jane kissed you again, rougher this time, her teeth catching your lower lip until it stung. Her hands trailed up your shirt, warm palms dragging across your ribs, tracing every harsh breath you took like she was memorizing the shape of your fear.

“I want you to feel alive,” she hissed, voice so deep it vibrated against your mouth. “You hear me? Alive.”

You nodded, unable to speak, your body already moving with hers, grinding harder against her thigh, chasing friction like you’d die without it. Her short black dress was riding up like it always did, making you so hungry you could’ve snapped if she touched you one more time.

“Good girl,” she purred, catching your chin in one hand, nails pressing into your cheeks, forcing you to look straight into her black eyes, molten with hunger. “Show me how alive you can be.”

She kissed you again, drowning you, while her other hand slipped down to unfasten your pants, tugging them harshly over your hips. The fabric stuck to your sweaty skin, but she tore it down anyway, not caring about anything but getting closer, skin on skin.

You kicked them off desperately, hooking a leg over her thigh to keep grinding against her, lost in the frantic, needy pulse of your own heartbeat.

Jane’s mouth traveled down your neck, biting, sucking bruises into your flesh, marking you with a predator’s claim. Her hand was between your legs then, cupping you through your underwear, the fabric instantly damp under her touch.

“Look at you,” she breathed, voice almost reverent, “fucking perfect.”

Your hips jolted when her thumb found your clit, a ragged cry bursting from your throat, echoing off the cracked tiles.

“Stay with me,” Jane ordered, biting at your collarbone as her fingers teased you, relentless, driving you to the edge so fast your head spun. “Stay here with me.”

You moaned, body shaking, so close to shattering already. Jane’s breath was hot against your throat, her voice like a blade, slicing through every ounce of doubt.

“I’m not letting you go,” she growled, fingers slipping beneath your underwear to finally touch you bare, sliding through the soaked heat. “Not now. Not ever.”

Jane didn’t give you a chance to catch your breath. She grabbed your hips, spinning you around so you were facing the grimy mirror, the harsh bathroom lights throwing your reflection into cruel clarity.

“Look,” she commanded, voice rough, as she pressed your chest down against the cracked porcelain sink, arching your back so your ass was pushed out toward her. “Look at yourself.”

You tried to obey, dizzy and half-gone, your wide, teary eyes meeting your own reflection. Blood streaked your cheek, your shirt rumpled, your lips bruised and swollen from her kisses—you looked like a monster, a gorgeous monster.

Jane growled low in her throat, one hand trailing over the curve of your ass before slipping down between your thighs, dragging your soaked panties aside. She bullied two fingers inside you without warning, filling you to the knuckle, forcing a sob out of you as you clenched around her.

“God, listen to you,” she hissed, pumping into you hard enough to make your knees buckle, “listen to how wet you are for me.”

Your moans bounced off the walls, filthy, shameless, mixing with the faint rumble of music outside the bathroom door. Jane twisted her fingers, finding that perfect spot inside you, her thumb grinding mercilessly against your clit until your hips were jerking back on her hand.

“You’re gonna watch yourself come,” she ordered, eyes gleaming in the mirror as she met your gaze, “you’re gonna see what I see.”

Your legs shook, another cry tearing out of you, pleasure ripping up your spine like wildfire. Jane’s pace grew harder, faster, the wet sounds of your body obscene in the tiny bathroom.

And then she dropped to her knees behind you, never breaking rhythm. She tugged your panties over the swell of your ass and down your thighs, dropping to the floor with your pants. You felt her breath first—hot and hungry against your skin—before her tongue replaced her thumb, licking slow, filthy circles over your clit while her fingers kept pounding into you.

Your scream bounced off the tiles, hands clawing at the sink, knuckles white.

“Fuck—Jane!”

She laughed, dark and feral, mouth already slick with you as she flicked her tongue and rolled against your clit, devouring you like she was starved. Her grip on your thighs was bruising, holding you in place as you tried to buck away from the overwhelming pleasure.

In the mirror, you saw the way your hips ground back against her mouth, how Jane’s eyes fluttered half-shut in bliss as she licked you like the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.

Your head fell forward, dizzy and undone, but Jane pulled you back up by the hips, forcing you to watch every second of it, refusing to let you look away from your own destruction.

Jane’s tongue drove you insane, tracing circles and dragging rough, desperate patterns over your clit until you felt like you’d break apart. She was ravenous, lapping you up like she’d been starving for your taste all her life, moaning low in her throat as if your pleasure fed her more than any kill ever could.

Your fingers clawed into the ceramic sink, the mirror fogging up with your ragged, panting breaths. The reflection of Jane on her knees behind you—hair wild, eyes hungry, shoulders flexing as she kept your thighs pinned—burned into your mind, obscene and perfect.

She worked her fingers deeper, spreading you wide, crooking them just right to hit that spot that made you choke on a sob. Every slick, filthy sound from your wilting cunt echoed off the bathroom tiles, mixing with your broken cries until you could hardly think.

“Jane—!” you gasped, voice cracking, your legs threatening to give out.

She pulled back for a heartbeat, letting your arousal shine on her lips, and looked up at you through dark lashes, eyes blown wide with mirth.

“Keep those pretty eyes open,” she ordered, voice low and dangerous, “I want you to watch how perfect you look falling apart.”

Then she dove back in, tongue flattening against your clit with merciless force, sucking, swirling, flicking until you saw stars bursting behind your eyes. The muscles in your belly coiled tight, molten and impossible to contain.

Jane felt it—felt your thighs trembling around her face, felt you clenching down around her fingers—and doubled down, fucking you harder, rougher, faster, egging you on with every eager, hungry stroke of her tongue.

“God, you taste like sin,” she mumbled into your cunt, her voice vibrating straight through you. “Come on, baby—let it out for me. I want all of it.”

Your head snapped up, catching the ruined reflection of yourself in the mirror—eyes glassy, mouth open in a silent scream, body shaking—and that was it. You shattered around her fingers, a white-hot climax tearing through you so violently you thought your heart might explode.

Jane didn’t stop, didn’t even pause—she rode you through the quake of it, swallowing down every wave of your pleasure, relentless, possessive, like she couldn’t bear to let a drop escape.

Your knees buckled for real, and she caught you before you hit the ground, pulling her fingers free and replacing them with her tongue again, devouring you with messy, sloppy moans that made your thighs twitch.

“Too much—” you whimpered, voice raw.

Jane just growled, holding you steady as she sucked at your clit until your vision went dark around the edges, tears running down your cheeks. She was relentless, drinking in every second of your oversensitive, desperate whimpers.

Finally—finally—she pulled back, licking her lips slowly, eyes locked on yours in the mirror. She looked utterly unhinged, pupils blown wide, breathing ragged, face shining with your slick.

“Look at you,” she purred, voice wrecked, “so fucking gorgeous.”

The tremor in your limbs hadn’t fully stopped, but you were fueled by something deeper now—the hungry, frantic need to give Jane back everything she’d just poured into you. You looked at her, still crouched in behind you with flushed cheeks and slick lips, and something inside you snapped, feral and devoted.

Before she could even catch her breath, you surged back, grabbing her by the shoulders, hauling her up, and crashing your mouth to hers. She grunted in surprise, kissing you back hard, teeth clicking against yours in a bruising kiss. Then you twisted your fingers in her dress, hauling her up to her feet and backing her toward the cheap laminate counter near the bathroom’s broken soap dispenser.

“Your turn,” you growled against her lips, voice rough, still panting.

Jane smirked, heat flashing in her eyes. “Oh? You think you can handle me?”

You answered by pushing her up onto the counter so her legs hung open in front of you, then fisting your hands in her clothes, dragging her closer until your hips were pressed flush between her thighs. She let out a low laugh, head tilting back, daring you to go further.

You accepted the challenge. Your fingers were already working at the buttons of her dress, popping them open one by one, exposing her pale skin inch by inch. The bra underneath was black lace, straining to hold her in, and you wasted no time—you tugged it down, freeing her breasts and cupping them in both hands, your thumbs brushing roughly over her nipples until she gasped.

“Fuck—” Jane hissed, eyes slamming shut, her body arching toward you.

You pinched and rolled her nipples, watching her bite down on her lip to stifle a moan, and then ducked your head down to taste her, dragging your tongue hot and wet over one aching peak. She jolted under your touch, her fingers tangling in your hair, pushing you closer, demanding more.

“You’re so—so eager,” she panted, a grin flashing through the haze of her arousal, “you gonna ruin me, baby?”

You pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, your grin dark. “Yes.”

You ran your hands over her thighs, spreading them wider, letting her feel the intent in every touch. Jane bit her lip harder, watching you from under her lashes, breathing ragged, waiting.

You pushed up the fabric of her dress, bunching the clothing around her hips and hooking a finger under the thin fabric of her matching lace panties and dragged them aside, revealing the slick heat already pooling there. Her pussy glistened, the sight making your head spin with hunger.

“Do you feel that?” you growled low, voice thick, “You’re dripping for me.”

She laughed, breathless, but her hips jerked toward you in a silent plea. “Shut up,” she shot back, cheeks flushed, “just do it.”

You didn’t hesitate—you dove forward, mouth crashing into her cunt, licking a long, slow stripe through her folds that made her cry out, knees knocking against the counter. You lapped at her with reckless abandon, the taste of her drowning you, tangling with the coppery tang of blood still on your tongue from earlier.

“Holy shit—” Jane gasped, one hand slamming to the mirror behind her to steady herself, the other clutching desperately at your hair.

You sucked her clit into your mouth, flicking your tongue over it in fast, hard circles until her thighs clenched around your head. Her taste was heaven and poison all at once, and you couldn’t get enough, groaning into her as you devoured her with everything you had left.

Jane’s head fell back against the mirror with a dull thud, her eyes rolling half-shut. “God, yes—just like that,” she choked out, her hips bucking against your mouth.

You answered by clicking two fingers between her folds, collecting all the arousal and spit and smearing it at her entrance. She must have felt the push of your fingertips, because she was mewling so loud you thought you’d have to gag her if not for the thumping music outside. You slid two fingers inside her, curling them up to find that perfect spot, your tongue never breaking its punishing rhythm. Her whole body jerked, a ragged cry ripping out of her chest as you fucked her with your fingers and licked her clit like you’d die without it.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re gonna make me—”

She tried to close her legs around you, but you shoved them apart again, growling, refusing to let her escape. Jane whimpered, her nails scraping against the mirror, her other hand fisting so tightly in your hair you thought she might rip it out.

You only pushed harder, faster, dragging another scream out of her, the filthy squelch of your fingers mixing with the wet, desperate sounds of your tongue. She was close—you felt it—the way her walls clenched, the way her thighs trembled, her entire body teetering on the knife’s edge.

“Come on,” you urged, voice muffled by her heat, “come for me, Jane. Let me see you.”

With a strangled moan that tore straight through the pounding music outside the bathroom, she shattered, her release crashing over you so hard she nearly collapsed off the counter. You held her steady, drinking down everything she gave you, refusing to let a drop go to waste.

When she finally sagged back against the mirror, gasping and twitching, you pulled away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and looking up at her.

She was wrecked—absolutely wrecked—hair wild, lips parted, eyes blown wide with pleasure.

“Holy fuck,” she breathed, laughing brokenly, dragging you up to kiss her, tasting herself on your tongue, “you really are a monster.”

You smirked against her lips, heart still hammering.

“Only yours,” you promised.

Jane was still trembling on the counter, flushed and breathing hard, but the second her eyes locked onto yours—raw, hungry—something dark crossed her face. Before you could even process it, she lunged forward, knocking you back until your spine smacked against the filthy tiled floor. You barely had time to brace yourself before she was on you, straddling your hips, her thighs gripping your hips tight.

Her dress was still hanging open, exposing those perfect, heavy tits, nipples peaked and flushed from your earlier touch. Your gaze locked there instantly, practically drooling over the sight of her, the memory of how they’d felt in your mouth burning behind your teeth.

Jane smirked down at you, hair falling in a wild dark curtain around her face, and reached between you both to rip away the last scraps of your ruined clothes, tossing them aside like they meant nothing.

“You wanna stare?” she rasped, voice feral, “then take what you want.”

She leaned forward, pressing her chest against your mouth, and you couldn’t help it—you latched onto one perfect nipple, sucking hard, rolling your tongue over it while your hands roamed up to knead both of them greedily. Jane gasped, shuddering above you, grinding her slick heat down against your belly, smearing you with her arousal.

“God—” she panted, voice breaking, “you’re so fucking filthy…”

You groaned around her nipple, one hand sliding down to grip her ass, pulling her closer, urging her to move lower. Jane understood instantly—she shifted her hips, lining herself up with you until your soaked cunt was pressed right against hers, hot and dripping, your clits just barely grazing together.

For a second, the two of you locked eyes—wild, starved, feral—and then you both moved at once.

She started grinding down on you, slow at first, letting your folds slide together, the slick heat so intense it nearly made you black out. You bucked up to meet her, desperate to keep that friction, the heady, burning pleasure of her clit dragging against yours. Your legs shook with every pass.

“Fuck,” you gasped, “oh my god—”

Jane laughed, breathless, throwing her head back and riding you harder, rolling her hips in frantic circles. You watched her tits bounce with every movement, mesmerized, obsessed, reaching up to grope them again, pinching her nipples until she cried out.

“That’s it—” she growled, voice rough with need, “feel me, baby, feel how fucking wet you make me.”

You answered with a moan that echoed off the bathroom walls, your thighs shaking as you matched her rhythm, clit catching perfectly against hers with every desperate grind. It was messy, filthy, loud—the slap of wet skin against wet skin, your bodies practically steaming with sweat, the smell of sex and adrenaline and blood thick in the air.

Jane’s nails dug into your shoulders for leverage, her thighs flexing around your hips, her whole body trembling as she pushed harder, faster, chasing something brutal and unstoppable.

For a heartbeat, she just rocked against you lazily, letting your folds slide and catch, smearing more wetness everywhere—but then something seemed to snap in her, a spark behind her eyes, raw and hungry.

She shifted her weight, planting her hands against your chest for leverage, and lifted herself up slightly—enough that when she came down again, your clits slammed together with a sudden shock of pleasure that made both of you cry out.

“Fuck—!” you gasped, the jolt like she had just shot you with electricity.

Jane grinned, feral and sharp, hair wild around her flushed face. “Oh, you like that?” she rasped, and before you could answer, she was doing it again—lifting and dropping, bouncing her hips so your swollen clits smacked against each other, sending shockwaves of pleasure straight through your bellies as she rode you.

It was filthy, obscene—the wet slap of your cunts crashing together, the sticky sound of your juices mixing, your bodies jerking against each other as the rhythm picked up. Jane’s tits bounced beautifully with every hard drop of her hips, and you couldn’t resist reaching up to grab them, thumbs flicking over her dark, sensitive nipples until she moaned for you.

“Fucking watch me,” she growled, voice shaking, hips moving faster, harder, grinding in circles between every bounce to keep your clits tortured, your nerves on fire. “Watch me fuck you like this.”

Your eyes were locked on her, helplessly, hungrily—memorizing every filthy detail, the raw heat in her gaze, the way her thighs flexed, the way her perfect tits shook every time she came crashing down onto you.

Each slap of flesh felt like it could break you apart, clit to clit, harder, harder, the friction so perfect you thought you might burst from it. The pleasure built in savage waves, making your toes curl and your stomach seize. Jane was moaning now, desperate, grinding down between the bounces, dragging your swollen bud against hers until you were both soaked, dripping down your thighs.

“Jane—” you gasped, voice cracking, “I’m— I’m gonna—”

“Look at me,” she demanded, voice breaking, “I'm the only thing that matters right now—”

You forced your eyes open, meeting hers, drowning in the way she looked—powerful, unhinged, yours. You felt your orgasm tearing through you before you could even warn her, your body locking up under her, a ragged scream ripping out of your chest.

Jane was right behind you, a strangled sob of pleasure falling from her lips as her hips stuttered, grinding out her own climax against your throbbing cunt. You felt her gush against you, mixing with your own release, everything so hot and wet you thought you might pass out.

She collapsed forward then, still trembling, pressing her forehead against yours, trying to catch her breath.

“Holy shit,” she whispered, voice raw, “I fucking love you.”

You smiled, dazed, reaching up to wipe a strand of sweaty hair from her face.

“Love you too,” you rasped, completely spent, hands still roaming to cup her breasts one more time, because you couldn’t help yourself.

Jane let out a breathless laugh, leaning down to kiss you again—slow, sweet, achingly tender, a sharp contrast to the vicious, hungry way you’d just devoured each other.

You held each other there on the dirty bathroom floor, hearts hammering in sync, while the music from the bar pounded on outside, uncaring, drowning out the chaos of the world beyond those thin, battered walls.

It didn’t matter. The mission, the cops, the way you felt. Because you knew you were alone. 

And it didn’t matter how alone you felt, because she would always be right there—an unmovable shield, fierce and unyielding, pressing her lips to your tears and telling you the night could never swallow you whole while she was breathing, that you would never have to stand alone again.

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[purelyfiction]

15 Minutes

Frank Castle 'The Punisher' x F!Reader

Word Count: 2,750 words

Summary: Prompt: During a very stressful situation, one screams "I care about you, can't you see that I love you?"

Content Warning:  Mentions of injury, hospital, blood - basically anything The Punisher had you're in for.

Author Note: oh hey y'all wanted this - so don't come at me when you realize it's trash and unedited k thanks

Things are always the same with Frank Castle. Well, ‘Pete’ as he reminds you time and time again. But he and you both know that it’s his penance. The toll for every time he crosses your threshold, broken and bloody. If he appeared before you, he was to be an honest man. Honest as medical files and middle of the night whisperings. 

You’d met him solely from being at the right time, right place. You’d been doing your shift at the ER when he’d snuck himself in. Hooded and cloaked, quiet and aloof. He never said a word to anyone. Didn’t answer anyone’s questions. Just sat and watched the chaos. When you’d finally gotten to take your turn interrogating him, he’d shoved a burner in your hand before disappearing into the parking lot of the hospital, a sticky note with a ‘call number in speed dial, post-shift’ clinging to it. You’d debated dumping the device in the trash can outside the hospital on your way home. The part of you that wouldn’t ever shut up about helping people had been persistent. What if he’d been homeless? Then why bother with a burner phone? Curiosity gnawed at you the remainder of the shift and the entire ride home. You finally followed the instructions. Frank Castle showed up on your doorstep fifteen minutes later. 

“Why don’t you go to the hospital?” You ask.

“If I walked in and they admitted me, I wouldn’t be walking out freely.”

You’d fought him the second time he’d shown up. Insisted this couldn’t become a habit. “I don’t have any habits. Routines get people like me killed.” He’d said. The phone buzzed again not even a week later. 

From there on out, you’d single handedly healed Frank Castle, when the rest of New York thought he was dead and buried. He would work in the shadows, keeping quiet and out of trouble. At least with the brawn. Otherwise, why else would he appear on your doorstep like a lost dog? 

Frank had come with a lot of red tape. He would appear at your apartment, and you’d accept him into your treatment center (to common folk, it appeared as a kitchen table and a simple dining chair). You would treat him, avoiding the major questions of who, what and where. The two of you normally only focused on the ‘how’ part of things. How he’d managed to slice his torso just below his rib. How close was the gun when it was fired  - the kind of questions you answer willingly to medical staff. You’d learned early on that any other questions would lead to him trying to evade your care, something you didn’t take kindly. 

Text messages morphed into calls. The first time had caught you off guard, because he’d called your phone. Not the burner. 

“Hello?”

“You home?” The gruff voice questioned.

“No. But I can be. How close are you?”

“Fifteen.”

He was almost always only fifteen minutes from your place when he appeared back into your life. Like his phone signal was only functional when he was within your proximity. One day you’d learn he never wanted to tip anyone off to your location. To your existence. To you.

“Why did you call?” 

“Hands are busy.”

“How’d you get this number?”

“Stop askin’ questions Patches.”

Frank had stopped texting you after that. Instead, he’d call, then he’d show up. The routine similarly paced each time. 

“What are we working with?” You question, shutting the door behind him once he’s entered. Your hands slide on the same gloves as he limps to the worn chair. It creaks under his weight, as though it was tired of this performance between the two of you. 

“KA-BAR caught me a few times on my back. One to the thigh.” He grunts as he manages to peel the dark and torn shirt off his torso. He drops it into your awaiting biohazard bag. One day you swore you were going to get caught dumping at the hospital with how many trips you’ve made.

“Sounds like you got off easy this time.” You remark, pushing his shoulder carefully to assess the damage behind him. “Still breathing. That’s all that matters.” He says it with a lack of real emotion. That’s run of the mill for him. Means that the pain isn’t unbearable.  

“I’d argue otherwise but I’d have better luck arguing with a brick wall.” You lament, carefully beginning the process of cleaning the wounds he mentioned to you. 

“Now you’re catchin’ on..” 

Somewhere in the grey, he’d rehomed his only family member to you. Suddenly daily walks and morning and night routines for a bright eyed pitbull mix snuck into your days. Not that you were exactly complaining. Max was a great roommate. And rarely, if ever, did he track blood onto your carpets. Unlike someone you both mutually had become acquainted with. 

This had been going on for months now. You don’t know why you keep letting him in. Why you keep stocking your medical artillery just for him. This certainly couldn’t be legal. You definitely should’ve told someone. But if you went to the police you ran the risk of people thinking you’re losing it for thinking a dead man is alive. 

Yes, officer, I sutured his forehead last Thursday. Also I have his dog. 

It was criminalizing. And more or less - you were growing to like his company. 

Sure, he’s sullen and in pain when you see him, but he gets more and more vulnerable with each patch job. It’s where the endearing name had come from. After the fourth night, he’d simply started calling you Patches. You’d offered to give your real name, but, he said the less he knew about you, the better. 

If that was for his sake, or for yours, you still haven’t figured out.

After an emotionally brutal night shift, you clamor into your apartment. Your eyes are sore from bathroom stall sobbing, your body aching from being on your feet for over twelve hours. The emotional toil is starting to eat away at you. Conversations with parents and loved ones, watching young children have to face painful procedures due to broken bones, calling time of death, not once, but twice. 

You were a shell of who you usually are. 

So you shower. Take your time and let the water run cold. You manage to find your way to the kitchen after getting dressed, grabbing milk and moving to find a box of cereal. You’d eat, feed Max and take him out to wet - then go to bed. Your eyes feel glazed over as you go through the motions. Trying to get through the next thirty minutes before you can sleep. 

Sleep would have to wait. 

The frantic and heavy pounding on the door startles you. Max begins barking, a very deep and protective bark you’ve not heard before. Still, you carefully approach the door. 

Then you realize it’s three in the morning. So, you backtrack to the kitchen, grabbing a pairing knife and hold it in a self defense position. Slowly, you return to the door. 

The peephole doesn’t allow you to fully capture the entire person - but you know who it is. You can hear the heavy and pained breathing from this side of the door. 

After two deadbolts and a chain are undone, you pull the door open, and grab his arm in what you assume is an uninjured spot. Once the door is shut, you lock it behind you. 

“You didn’t call.” You remark. Frank moves past his patient’s chair in favor of your couch. It lets out a huff under the weight of him. There’s no words for a while, just really heavy breathing. 

“Frank.” You try again as you carefully approach your living room. Max is sniffing and carefully inspecting the man, more than happy to see the familiar face. But as the pup continues to examine, you watch the man’s chest movement. The heavy breaths are starting to slow. 

You carefully approach, watching as Max starts to paw at the man’s arm. The realization that he’s unresponsive comes soon after. Adrenaline kicks your body into an awake state. 

Finding your med supplies from their usual spot, you’re rapidly taking vitals. His pulse is dropping. Yours is rising. 

“Fuck, Frank, this is-“ your voice is shaky as you get him to his back, trying to get the vest off him as quickly as you can. He’s going to hate you for this. But you quickly cut the elastic straps of the Kevlar unit, freeing the panel from his body. His shirt follows. 

An expansive plane of muscle and scars greets you. If you weren’t actively trying to save his life, you’d be far more appreciative of the sight. Despite the gore of blood and wounds there. 

You can’t dress any wounds right now, you need to stabilize him first. His pulse has stopped dropping but it’s low and irregular. Which you know means you’ll need to restart it. You fucking hate doing this. 

Sprinting out the apartment you clamor up the steps to the AED panel on the wall, swiftly pulling it from the mount and running back down the steps. 

Getting back to the apartment, it seems too calm. Max has laid down in his bed nearby, and you approach Frank cautiously. 

Eyes have opened since you left the room. You let out a heavy sigh of relief. 

“You son of a bitch.” You grumble, setting the device on the table nearby, catching your breath from the exertion of sudden exercise. 

“What. It happens.” He offers a slow and easy breath through his lungs. You approach again, carefully coming to his side and taking his pulse. It’s still lower than you’d like, but it seems to be equalizing.  

“No. It doesn’t just ‘happen’. You were in afib.” You reply, quickly starting to access the injuries now that the risk has subsided - for now. 

“It does just happen. Not a big deal, Patches.” He seems unmoving in his response. You’re still counting his breaths as you start to clean.

“You’re an asshole.” You whisper, still moving with caution and care.

“Yet you’ve not kicked me out.” He points out to you.

“I’ve gotta help. Otherwise, my guilt will debilitate me. It’s a curse.” You drop gauze to a nearby pan, continuing in your care. “How’d this happen.” 

You’re usually more gentle with your questioning. But now, your heart is thundering and you were already exhausted to begin with. Now you have to deal with this fucker potentially eating it on your couch. 

“Took on more than I could chew.” The answer makes you hesitate. Frank never admitted defeat. Not once in your time knowing him. 

“You know better.” You remark. 

“Normally, I do.” There’s a sound of pain when you move his arm. 

“What changed.” The tone of your voice is so dejected. Disconnected from how you usually are. He’s noticing. 

“A few things- Jesus, would you ease up?” He curses as you are particularly rough with a bleeding gash. 

“Have to stop the bleeding.” You comment. 

“You got a second to take the stick out of your ass before you keep goin’?” Frank asks. 

You could throttle him. 

“You fucking nearly busted my door down at three in the morning, scaring the shit out of me, collapse onto my couch without a word and nearly start dying on me, and you think I’m supposed to be chipper to see you? Fuck that, Frank.”

The gloves on your hands snap as you tug them off. You start to collect the proper supplies for the next task on the treatment plan, but he somehow sits up, not without a heavy sound of pain and discomfort accompanying it. 

“You don’t even know what happened.”

“I don’t want to know what happened.” You correct. He flounders at your response.

“They knew, Patch.” He offers it, his words grim and slow. Your brows furrow in confusion. 

“They knew what? Who knew what?” The need for some clarification shines through your annoyance, sliding on a new pair of gloves. 

“About you. The guys I was after. They knew.” 

You freeze from the unraveling bandage in your hand. 

He’s been so vigilant about this. Keeping your midnight medical meetings a secret. Keeping you out of his shit. You were just the woman who saved his life and let him continue fucking up others. It was transactional, and you weren’t supposed to become a risk. Clearly he’d never planned on it if he kept Max here. 

“What…did-“ Your brain is going hazy. With a major lack of sleep, and falling adrenaline levels, it’s hard to wrap your head around this. “You went after them because of me?”

“Guess you could call it that.” He lays back again, not without sound effects. You linger in the information. Then a spark lights you. 

“Are you dense?”

“Huh?”

“No, are you actually stupid? Going after them like that? You said it yourself, you took on more than you could handle. What the hell were you going to do if they got through you? Max and I would’ve been DOA let’s be so for real, Frank.” You start to ramble as you return to your treatment. He seems taken by surprise. But his face steels. 

“I was doin’ what needed done. You don’t like it? Tough, kid. That’s the way this goes.” He tries to defend.

“No, there’s no ‘tough’ here. That’s some bullshit. You should’ve told me. If I was at risk you should’ve told me and warned me. Let me get out and away-“

“You don’t need to be bothered by it if they’re dead, Patch.”

“Yeah well, you get yourself killed then I’m dead. So, maybe next time, next time, you consult me on this shit show you’re running in this massive fucking circus tent of Manhattan.” You sneer, finishing up a bandage and starting to set up a suture for a bullet graze. 

“I don’t need to tell you Jack shit. I’ve got it handled.” He buffers. 

“This?? This is what you call handled Frank?? This is so far from handled. You were approaching death not even ten minutes ago.” 

“Yeah? So what?”

You gape at him. Your hands stop moving. 

“So what? So what, you almost died?” 

“Not a big fuckin’ deal. The vast majority of this dumpster fire wants me dead anyway. Let it happen, Patches. Then you can go on livin’ your shitty life with underpaid shifts and knock off brand Cheerios. Nobody cares about this fuck up anyways.” His head falls back onto a pillow he’s adjusted while monologuing. 

You stand to your feet, no longer kneeling beside him. 

“No one cares? Are stupid and blind?” You gasp the air in before expelling it in quick order, “I care! I care about you! Can’t you see that? Can’t you see that I love you?” The confession leaves you as violently as your hands move. You’ve stained your pajamas with tinged red fingerprints, a result from the pale blue gloves on your hands. 

He blinks. He blinks and stares at you.

“No you don’t.”

“Yes. I do.” You say it much more confidently than you expect. 

That’s why the door keeps opening. That’s why you’re always on the other end of the line. That’s why after time and time again of rehearsed lines and instances that he can’t come back - you keep letting him in. And in every three day recovery stretch, every emergency interaction, in banter and routine, you’ve found yourself infatuated by him. Your thoughts flooded with him as you treated patients with similar injuries. Playing out conversations from late hours. Fake scenarios where he would text you out of the blue, ready to confess that he’s got a soft spot for you. 

Despite that, the two of you stare. You breathe, you hover and you stare. 

“You shouldn’t, Patches.” He finally tries, slowly sitting up. 

“But I do.” 

“You can’t, you get that?”

You shrug. 

“Yet, I do.” 

You slowly come to the couch, finding a spot between his legs as he stares at your wordlessly. The apartment is eerily quiet. Save for a sudden sneeze from the sweet pitty boy in the corner. Both of you look at the animal and then back at one another. 

  “Well… what now?”

He looks at you, a slow smirk growing on his features. 

“Maybe you finish patchin’ me up and we can mull this over some Cheeri-nopes.”

[lonesomedovescry]

Why did the grief taste like salt and iron?

You washed gritty bits of sand out of your mouth with a slug of whiskey. The burn warmed you from you deep in your stomach, spreading to your half-frozen toes. Your tent did little to nothing to spare you from the Grizzly chill, and your blankets cared just as much to keep you warm.

It had been months since the fallout of the San Denis Bank robbery. The camp fell into chaos and in your hurry to find Arthur yourself, you had lost everyone in camp as well as your lover. Your friends. Your family. They were as good as gone. Your search of Shady Belle proved fruitless, and your hunt for folks had turned you North.

Not a whisper. Not a word.

You stood up, back popping with satisfying cracks, and began to dress for another day’s ride. Off to strawberry, to sell the wolf pelts that lay rolled on the inside of your tent. The last buckle is fastened and you step out into the chill moisture of dawn, where a watercolor wash of blue tints the landscape.

You approach your mare with whispered words of greeting and feed her the remainder of your apples. You’d have to go to the grocery store while you were there as well. A twinge of pain as you remember the last time you were there with Arthur — he had bought you a new pair of boots. Deep brown leather, ornate stitching, and slightly pointed at the toe.

A small ‘A’ was branded onto both heels.

The ride to Strawberry was peaceful despite the distant roar of bears. Unlike the chaotic streets of San Denis you rarely had to concern yourself with the danger of passing people. It was the wolves and the mountain lions you had to be wary of, and it was easy enough to put a bullet between their eyes before they got too much meat off of you.

Men had a hunger for much more. In the wild, you can trust that the animals only want one thing.

You told Arthur as much on one of the evening rides to a nearby wildflower meadow the both of you were fond with. His grim agreement sent chills down your spine, the dark flickering of rage in his eyes, a look you so rarely had seen before.

You thought of his face as you stowed away your wares from the grocery store. The boyish sweetness he had somehow clung onto despite years of robbing and killing. The softness of his turquoise eyes whenever he looked at you, the shape of his sinful mouth. The scars that flecked his aging skin. Every fine line was perfectly where it should be.

He would laugh riotously when provoked. The sound of it had always brought water to your eyes.

“Hey, you!”

A voice snapped you at your of your daze. A haggard looking man strode down the narrow street, pock marked face flush with the kiss of liquor.

“You lookin’ for somebody?”

“Who’s asking?” You replied.

“Some gentlemen paid me to keep an eye out for you.” The man replied. “Told me to tell you all roads lead back to Valentine.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “What’d this man look like?”

“Tall. Brown hair and beard. Blue eyes.” The man got a faraway look in his gaze, as if he was going back to that very moment. “Scar on his chin. Paid me quite a lot, told me to lay off the booze in the meantime so I wouldn’t miss ya, but I found ya didn’t I? Ole’ Itchy still sharp as a needle even a pint deep. I always had a —“

But you stopped listening, the roar of blood in your ears. He was talking about Arthur.

He was looking for you.

You have Itchy a quick thanks and freed your mare from the post before launching yourself into the saddle. A quick press of your heels and the mare was barreling forward and out of the streets of Strawberry, dust and curses of townsfolk on her tail.

You could’ve wept from the joy. You could’ve wept from the relief.

But you didn’t. You kept your face as hard as stone as you worked your mare as hard as you could, sweat lathering on her flank, hooves drumming a rhythm into the ground. The ground between Strawberry and Valentine was devoured and soon the smell of lanolin and manure came onto the wind.

The blur of the train station. The shape of the hillside church.

You ground the mare to a stop and tied her near a trough to let her cool down. Your heart was beating a mile a minute. Where could he be? You looked around you, eyes darting left and right, taking in everything yet nothing. You barely saw the faces of the people around you yet you knew none of them was Arthur. You’d know him if you had died.

“Y/N?”

That voice. You snapped around, heart in your throat.

“Arthur?” You called, still unseeing. Your voice was shaking as if afraid. Adrenaline was turning your blood to sugar water.

“Y/N!”

There, at the end of the street, racing past the saloon. His face was red and puckered by the sun, and his hair was much longer, but it was him. It was Arthur. You felt like flying suddenly — weightless. The closer he came to you, the more you couldn’t move.

When he was only a few paces away your knees buckled and you fell to the ground, knees hitting the dirt with a bark of pain, and then he was there with you. Warm hands grabbed the sides of your face and beheld you for his searching gaze. The desperation and relief in his features broke the damn inside you and you began to cry.

“Arthur.” You whimpered, and reached for him. Arthur laughed breathlessly and kissed you hard, teeth clashing. Again. And again. And again. He kissed your face, drew his arms to your waist and crashed your body against his. One large hand cradled the back of your head, the other on your waist, and for a moment you both sat together in the street and trembled in relief.

—-

YEARNING

[desigal-26]

Hii, I've been following you since your aemond work and have been absolutely in love with the Daemon series you have going on right now that I MUST request something because I just love you and your writing ugh I just wanna consume it (in a good way)! Anywayssss, id love an aemond x sister!reader (if youre okay writing targcest! if not, you may delete it and it's totally fine ♡) where she's helped aemond finally conquer the throne? she's very headstrong and has always been more of a warrior, riding a pretty aggressive dragon and aemond asks her to be his queen consort? It's totally fine if not, thank you so much in advance!

I hope this is as per your liking. Feel free to request another anytime.

Your Queen

Aemond Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Born out of storm and fire, she will bring end to her blood and she will rise from the ashes…

She was born with a prophecy—a certain abomination that will come at her hands, a faith the gods had chosen before she wailed her first cry. A name the history would remember with fear. A name that would echo forever.

Warnings: Targcest, Unhinged Aemond and Reader, mentions of deaths and killings, Canon divergence, Reader is Morally Gray at best, Sexual Tension (because honestly? Aemond has it with everyone). I think that’s it, but let me know if I forgot something.

Word Count: 2.5k

“How was the pleasure house, brother?” Her honeyed voice made the new King look up from the parchment he was reading—a report on the damages across the Riverlands, an impact of the devastating civil war that had ripped the entire realm apart and set it on fire. And now, the duty of piecing it back together fell on Aemond’s broad shoulders as he pridefully took over the mantle of the King of the Seven Kingdoms after the ‘mysterious’ death of the Green King.

Their plans had worked—better than either of them had hoped for. The Dance of the Dragons weakened both the fractions, yes, but the maddening of Rhaenyra and the mistrust of people in her had only strengthened the One-Eyed Prince’s cause, even if he himself was called Kinslayer by the common folk.

But she—the second daughter of Viserys Targaryen and Alicent Hightower—was the true piece of art. The perfect composition of deadly beauty mixed with the cunning of a fox, waiting and counting down the seconds before pouncing on her prey like a skilled predator with a feline grace that earned her the title of ‘Realm’s Oleander’—named after the flower that might seem pretty and innocent but is toxic when sunken its teeth into.

A scoff echoed in the study, and the newly crowned King leaned back in his chair, his blue eye watching her with barely concealed interest. He hummed, before waving a hand in dismissal. “You must be mistaking me for our deceased brother,” the words were smoothly spoken, with a tint of amusement as indicated by the slight upturn of his lips.

But the princess only shook her head, hands locked behind while she walked with a cat’s elegance, her lavender eyes watching him with a spark that possessed too much knowledge and thirst for power—maybe, even chaos.

“You must be desperate enough to return to her.”

She didn’t need to specify whom she meant because Aemond’s face hardened almost immediately, finger gripping the edge of the table as he stood up menacingly with a tilted head and a threatening glint in his remaining eye. A small scar beneath that eye was all the visible evidence that remained of the Battle above the God’s Eye, where he had come close to death before slaying their uncle, Prince Daemon.

Her meant the same lady of Flea Bottom who had made him a man—or so, Aegon used to say. Their sister had a simpler term for that woman—Aemond’s abuser. And one thing she knew of her brother was that he would never go back to someone who wronged him, unless that person was of political value—which that woman isn’t—or if he was too miserable.

She watched him with a critical eye, noticing the obvious tension in his shoulders and the hard set of his jaw—though that was her doing, not the crown’s—and the dark circles blooming over his now almost hollowed out features.

He didn’t look any less handsome than he was before, only more menacing and intimidating, with confidence of having lead a war and coming out at the top with the ancestral crown of Aegon the Conqueror sat proudly upon the molten silver hair. A second son who earned his seat with his blade and wits—and the help of his princess who was called an abomination before she could walk, all because of a prophecy.

A prophecy by a priestess from a religion almost unheard of—Lord of the Light. A future predicted before the first air of this corrupted realm was taken in. Future of a girl born during the worst of storms and by fire’s side; of a girl who will bring end to her kin; of a girl who will rise from the ashes while the world burns in the fires of her ambitions.

All of which stood personified in front of Aemond, standing proudly with an amused sparkle in eyes that resemble their father’s with hair like snow woven in an intricate hairdo that the One-Eyed King swore he saw Visenya spotting in one of those tapestries of the the Conqueror and his sister-wives. The dark leathers of her riding tunics carefully hid the small dagger she carried at her hip, a caution she had picked up on after that fateful night in Driftmark.

“You should know what the Small Council had to say today,” the king said, trying to divert the topic from his visits to Sylvi to the more pressing matters of the crumbling realm that held little to no trust in their liege lords now. He watched as she hummed with a smirk, settling down on an armchair by the cracking fire in the hearth, the lines of her face contoured by the shadows it casted.

“Another roguish demand by a lord whose name is forgotten because of lack of worth?” Had the times had been different, or rather, had they been their previous selves; they would have snickered at the comment, adding little tweaks to it behind hidden smirks while the court continued to either be intimidated by Aemond or be at awe of the princess.

Heavy steps echoed through the quiet room until the Green King himself sat down beside her, his eye tracing her features with reverence, studying her as if she was his destiny. And perhaps, she wasn’t. But she surely played a part in fulfilling his destiny—in reclaiming the throne that should have been his from the beginning but taken away only because he was a second son.

“Lord Stark had enough to say about our war crimes.”

Crimes that began with Vhagar disobeying the One-Eyed Prince and bringing a cruel end to Lucerys Velaryon and his dragon Arrax. The skies had wept that day, and the common folk had retorted by granting him the title of “Kinslayer”. But that, was only the beginning of the slow end that took away the innocence of too many, and countless lives.

Blood and Cheese took away the innocence of their older sister who breathes no longer in the world. Neither of them could ever forget the sight of Helaena clutching to Jaehaera, whimpering and silently crying, or even the sight of their nephew Jaehaerys’ frail body, lacking his head until they found it in possession of one of the two assassins who had tried to flee King’s Landing.

The Battle of Rook’s Rest was the real beginning of the war that costed too much. Meleys and Princess Rhaenys lost, costing Rhaenyra’s side heavy losses but so did the Greens. Aegon was critically injured—and that is when Aemond and the Realm’s Oleander had started spinning their webs, slowly but firmly shifting power from the broken King to the One-Eyed Prince Regent until Aegon was King only in name.

Their mother had relented, but then quietly resigned to the fate, opting to remain by Helaena’s side until she jumped from the window of her room during her captivity under the Blacks. Only at twenty and one years, the eldest daughter of Alicent Hightower had died immediately on spikes with her throat impaled.

The princess had slain her nephew, Jacaerys Velaryon, who would—had things been different—have been her husband. But they weren’t different, and she was thankful for it. The Battle of Gullet was a crafted play of letting the Blacks believe that they had a chance until they didn’t. Until the fierce Princess had arrived on the back of Aegarax—her aggressive and fierce dragon with scales dipped in shadows of darkness, tipped with a burning red of blood. An arrow to his chest was how the heir of Rhaenyra Targaryen died, all because his dragon had flown too low and a crossbow bolt had blinded Vermax from one eye—like they did with Aemond when they were children.

Aemond’s own Battle above the God’s Eye was no short of legend mixed in fires and blades and family blood slew in the skies. That was the day that had changed the course of history and outcome. The greatest warrior on Blacks side—the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen—was killed by the Prince Regent and hence, half a victory was certain.

None of them were innocent. No one in the House of the Dragon was anymore. For those who were pure, were already gone in the soil or too broken to care for the still burning realm.

“We did what was to be done,” she whispered, her amethyst gaze distant, as if she was catapulted back to the time when she still rode on her dragon, setting lines after lines of there enemy’s armies on fire with a single command. Dracarys.

The cracking of the fire was the only sound to be heard apart from the soft breaths of the siblings—the only ones alive while three of their bloods rested with their ancestors. Helaena was the first one to depart the world, aggrieved by her losses. Then followed Daeron, their youngest and the gentlest of all the brothers—trapped by his burning tent with no escape but death.

And then, only a few weeks ago, the eldest child of Alicent followed, though not willingly or by chance of circumstances, but at the hands of his own siblings.

It was the only way, the two had agreed on, with the Small Council backing them. A poison mixed into the milk of poppy, given to Aegon to “soothe” the pain from his ruined body—but the soothing never came until the toxins hadn’t worked their magic and silenced his heart, once and for all.

“Ormund suggest I must marry,” Aemond informed after a prolonged silence of bitter nostalgia and a silent but mutual introspection of what all they have done. But none of them would change the past, because they deserved it—the power, the strength and the throne. It had been theirs since they were born, and nothing, not even being born the second son and second daughter would stop that.

“You must. For heirs.” He only hummed in reply before his hand deftly moved to remove his eyepatch, letting the scar from his childhood and the sapphire see the light of the fading sun and crackling fire. The leather dropped on the ground with a thud, and he tilted his head back, basking in the relieving stretch of his stiff neck.

She watched him, calculating and ready to remind him of their bargain if he forgot. But Aemond never forgets, not when it comes to her; his beloved, headstrong and clever sister who plotted with him day and night for this day to come when he wears the crown and title of the King of the Seven Kingdoms and sport all the titles that come with it.

She made him Aemond the First of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

“Queen Consort,” he cooed with a tilt of his lips in a smirk that threaded between teasing and taunting. His long fingers found the back of her neck, drawing circles as he watched her with a corner of his eye.

She didn’t react, not for anyone else’s eyes, but he felt her shoulders relaxing a bit, the sharp blade of her gaze lowering in a manner that he hadn’t seen since the war had started and transformed them into more of criminal warlords than warriors. But all is fair in war and love—and theirs was always a complex affair of both.

“I will have a seat at the council—no matter what,” she pressed, turning her piercing gaze towards him, daring him to challenge her demand with anything. But her brother would not deny her what was deserving—for he was many things but not ungrateful, at least not to her.

“You would have a throne by the Iron Throne if that is what issa dāria wants,” (my queen) he smirked, his other hand moving to grip her calloused hand, bringing it up to his lips to press a firm kiss on the knuckles that were too familiar with holding him and a blade.

“That would be fascinating, issa dārys,” (my king) she cooed back, a similar smirk dancing in her face as she watched her brother in a way she had always done—reverent but in a different, darker way than most.

He stood up then, letting go of her hand and moving swiftly to the desk still ladden with parchments and letters from every inch of the realm who thought they could gain any sort of leverage on the new King and the fragile peace that has been restored so far. But all of it still dangled on a tip of a double-edged knife, prone to collapse with a single misstep or misjudgment.

Aemond shifted a few papers, revealing a dragon glass dagger the princess recognised almost immediately. The one their uncle possessed—the one used by Rhaenyra and Daemon to slit each other’s lips and hands to combine the blood and seal their marriage forever. Perform the rituals of the Old Valyria and declare to the world that they were above the laws of the common people—but look at them now, both gone—burnt into history because of their stubborn arrogance.

“I suspect your intentions, brother,” she commented with a coy smile, leaning in with her hands perched on her knees when he knelt before her sitting form, the unsheathed blade glinting hauntingly under the fire blazing behind the king who watched his sister with an intensity that only a few possessed.

Wordlessly, he extended the hilt of the dagger with a crooked eyebrow and a smirk that dared her to accept. The challenge of the moment lingering between them as the air thickened with something unsaid.

She took the dagger, her finger trailing the engraved dragon on the pommel before she opened her left palm, letting the sharp tip create a straight cut along the rough ridges, crimson blooming and dripping down the pale skin in an intoxicating action that had Aemond moistening his lips in feral desperation.

He took the dagger and performed the same action reverently on his right hand, his gaze never wavering from hers. Not long after, the dagger clattered to the floor and his left hand snaked around her waist, pulling her down to kneel in front of him on the floor with only a few inches left between them—noses almost brushing.

His bloodied hand seek hers, mixing the bloods that were already shared in their bodies, hearts beating in a synchronisation like a harmony of two dragons mating in the crack of a thunder—dangerous, relentless and deadly.

His lips crashed on hers, hungry and territorial, hand slipping away from her waist to tangle in her hair that resembled his. Tongues clashed in a battle for dominance, exploring and fighting with an hunger neither had experienced before. An intoxicating drug that felt more crucial than air itself.

“You will be the death of mine,” he whispered against her plump lips, hands tugging at her tresses, some of which had escaped from the prison that her hairdo was. He felt her grin against his lips, pulling away to whisper:

“No. I will be your Queen.”

[eowynstwin]

blackbird, fly - ii.

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. . It becomes clear to you that something is bothering him—perhaps it has something to do with you. . ao3

previous

Kyle Garrick—who instructs you to call him Gaz, explaining it as a nickname—drives you out of town in a two-horse wagon. The countryside is dyed in pastels by the softening light of a just-setting sun, every bit as beautiful as Hans had written when he told you about it.

Like a painting, he said. Everywhere you look could be framed in gold. I wake up every day in this land and thank God I have the fortune to live in it.

Here now, as the wagon rattles down the wheel-carved trail, you understand his words. You feel that if you brushed your fingers against the sky overhead, towering with lavender-bottomed clouds as thick and soft as cotton on the stem, that they might come away smeared in blue and pink and violet. The surrounding landscape is a cornucopia of vibrant greens, rich browns of trees and soil, and clusters of orange, yellow, and white wildflowers.

You keep looking all around you to take it in, jostling your driver beside you, but Gaz seems not to mind. At least, he doesn’t say anything.

You’ve been trying not to feel so aware of his presence, but the endeavor is impossible. He is a solid weight beside you on the driver’s seat, exuding warmth where your shoulders brush against each other, and the earthy, masculine scent of him is inescapable. Every time his elbow or knee or thigh nudges yours during the natural sway and jostle of the wagon ride, you have to keep yourself from leaping out of your skin. Ever since you stepped foot off the train, you’ve felt like a lightning rod set out in anticipation of a storm.

You ascribe it to displaced longing for your husband-to-be. You’d spent the whole journey west imagining how you’d meet, longing for the moment he took you into his arms for the first time. Gaz is a handsome man—it’s only natural that your unfulfilled anticipation would transfer onto him. Especially considering he said you were perfect.

But then said very little after that. He’d seemed—well, not friendly, but at least amicable on the train platform, so you wonder if your manners have offended somehow. He’s spent most of the drive now with his eyes ahead, partly obscured by the brim of his hat. Occasionally he glances at the letters in your hand, but otherwise does not acknowledge you.

After one such glance, your discomfort with the silence becomes too much to bear.

“I read my favorites every night,” you tell him.

If Gaz is surprised when you break the silence, he doesn’t show it. “That so,” he murmurs.

All you have is his profile, very handsome in the light. The line of his mouth is taut.

“I know it’s silly,” you continue nervously—you have a bad habit of rambling when you’re uncomfortable. Adjusting your carpetbag in your lap, you go on, “but you must understand, this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. I never expected to marry, you see.”

He grunts.

“Much less to be a mail order bride,” you say. “I always thought I would be an old maid, for lack of available suitors if nothing else. Mama and Daddy thought I ought to learn to read and write, to improve my prospects, but most folks where I’m from don’t care much about all that.”

“I see,” replies Gaz. He still does not look at you.

“Sometimes I think it even made them like me less, like I was putting on airs, being smarter than them.” You realize immediately how arrogant you must sound. “Oh, but I don’t mean any offense! I don’t mean to suggest I have ideas above my station. It’s only just that, I wondered for years and years why no one offered for me, and it was the only thing I could think of. Why would a farmer’s daughter need to read and write? And why would a wife need to, if her duty is to tend to her children and her home? So that must be why no man has ever been very interested in me.”

You realize with horror that words are pouring out of you faster than you can keep up with them. And your driver’s attention has not shifted; his eyes remain on the road.

You look at your lap, face burning. “I’m sorry, I’m just annoying you, Mr. Garrick. I’m sorry.”

Shame grips you, tight and awkward. If you’d wanted to endear yourself to this cowboy at all, you’ve already failed.

But Gaz finally says, “Most men are idiots.” You look at him; he does not look at you. “I’ve only just met you, and I like you fine.”

He says it matter-of-factly, as if no more need saying on the subject. Simple and to the point; an economy of feeling you imagine must be characteristic of men in this part of the country.

Hans was like that too, in his letters. Communicating feeling without dancing around it, with a bluntness that ends up soft in its honesty.

It eases the tension frothing poisonous in your belly. “Thank you,” you say.

You ride in silence for a stretch. A cool breeze catches the free-floating ends of your hair, rustles along in the tall grass by the wayside. The steady thump thump thump of the horse’s hooves, and the creak of tackle and leather, are the only sounds populating the air.

Home was quiet like this, too; the fields stretching endless and green beneath the sky, the silence there so blank and open that birdcall traveled for miles, and the lowing of the family milk cow sounded sometimes like the trumpet of God.

You peek again at Kyle Garrick. There’s a furrow to his brow, the kind a man gets when he’s in a mood and won’t admit it if asked.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, quietly, because he made you feel better about things, and you’ve done little more than whine.

He finally looks at you, the edges of his face lined and glowing in the evening light. Studies you, for a moment. The furrow eases.

“No,” he says, “I’m sorry, Miss. I don’t mean to be short with you. I’m afraid manners are secondary on a ranch, without a good woman nearby to remind about ‘em.”

You give him a small smile. “Have you worked for Hans very long?”

He turns his gaze back to the road. “Six or seven years, now.”

You toy with the clasp of your bag; you’re brimming with questions. “Is he really all that tall?”

“Oh, yes,” Gaz says. “Like a giant.”

“What’s he like?”

Gaz gives a great breath through pursed, full lips. “Fair, I guess. Asks a lot of us—but then most bosses out here will. Worked for his father for a few years before him, too.”

“You must be a good hand then,” you say.

“I work hard,” says Gaz. “That’s all that matters.”

“I’m sure Hans is grateful,” you reply. “He must trust you very much, to send you for me.”

The furrow returns. “He must.”

It becomes clear to you that something is bothering him, and it’s nothing you will resolve between now and when you make it to the ranch. Perhaps it has something to do with you—a new face, an unknown quantity that threatens to knock the balance of his livelihood askew.

You sigh a little. Of course, you should have expected to have to win Hans’ people over. Their loyalty to the late Mrs. König will inevitably be challenged by your arrival.

Neither of you speak again—you decide not to push what little grace Kyle Garrick has given you, and he does not volunteer any more conversation. The rest of the ride is unremarkable, leaving room for anticipation to grow in your stomach; soon the wagon crests the slope of a hill, and your destination comes into view.

Long Mask Ranch sits at the base of a range of mountain foothills, fed and watered emerald green by spring runoff. You’ve been on Hans’ land for a while now; opening up before you is the ranch proper. A collection of buildings form a semicircle around a large corral in the valley: stables, a barn, some cabins, and a large two-story gabled manor, painted white.

The sun sinks further toward the horizon as you approach, painting the world in liquid orange. Figures resolve themselves, people moving tables and chairs around, and on the manor’s front porch, observing the proceedings, stands a tall man in a rancher’s coat and hat.

Lightning suddenly bolts through you. You sit very, very still as Gaz pulls the wagon through a cast iron archway adorned with LMR at the apogee. Your heart thrums in your throat like a picked guitar string. When you finally come to a stop, the man’s head turns to toward you.

At the worst possible moment, shyness grips you. You look around, at anywhere but him, at the house, the corral, the cowboy beside you.

You startle to meet Gaz’s eyes. The expression he wears is a mask of seriousness.

“This is it,” he says.

Your voice leaves your chest trembling. “Thank you, Mr. Garrick.”

“Just Gaz is fine, Miss.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” you reply. Propriety feels like the only solid thing to cling to just now.

He looks away. The line of his mouth tightens. “Of course,” he says.

He dismounts the wagon in one smooth motion, boots hitting the packed earth hard. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the tall man start his way over to you. Gaz rounds the back of the wagon, and you give your bag to him once he’s at your side. He offers his hand to help you down.

You’re dazed as you take it, lightheaded as suddenly the present moment becomes very, very real. It’s warm, his hand; rough in all the places you expect a cowboy’s hand to be. Yet there’s something soft in the way your palms meet, how the dips and contours align with each other and fit together. You’re shaking very hard as you ease your way from the seat, gripping him tightly until your feet meet the ground, and his grip circles yours with a solidness to it in a way unlike any man has ever held you.

You meet his eyes again when he hands you your bag. Gaz gives your hand a squeeze, averts his gaze, and lets you go.

“There she is!” an accented voice announces.

You pull your gaze from Kyle Garrick and the mystery of his tension with you, and turn to face your intended husband.

Hans König has loomed large in your imagination for half a year. He’d described to you what he looked like, of course, as best he could, but you find as you look upon his face that no written word can convey what it means to meet for the first time the man you will marry. You’d fallen in love with someone formless, absent, but inscribed in other ways with enough distinction to nurture your tender feelings.

Looking upon him now, though…his appearance offers nothing to that distinction. He’s neither ugly nor handsome. As he comes to stand before you, you think he rather looks like every other middle-aged man you’ve met in your short life, although certainly much taller. You meet his eyes—pale blue, as he’d related—and the rush of love you’d expected to feel, once you knew who he was, simply does not come.

This man is a stranger to you.

You reprimand yourself immediately. He isn’t a stranger. You’ve known him for six months. His face is simply not one you have attached any love to yet; the measure of his character is contained in the stack of paper in your hands. In the promises he made to you to make your quietest dreams come true.

So you smile the way you’d dreamed you would—like watching the sun crest the horizon after a long night of darkness, seeing the bounty of the near future coming toward you. Summoning joy by making room for it to exist.

“Hello, Hans,” you say, “it’s me.”

Hans König steps forward. He looms over you truly, now, eclipsing your vision. “It is you, indeed.”

Without another word, right there in front of Gaz, Hans grips your shoulders, bends down, and kisses you on the mouth.

Your brows shoot upward. It’s the first time anyone has ever kissed you. His lips are…hard, and motionless against yours. Almost perfunctory. You are so shocked he’s done it that you don’t think to respond, and then as suddenly as it happened, it’s over. He pulls away, pats your shoulders with a little smile, and then looks at Gaz.

“Get that wagon put away and then go help the others,” says Hans to the cowboy, slinging one arm around your shoulder.

Your brows lift further. Is that all he has to say to him, for delivering you safe and sound?

Gaz doesn’t seem to share your feelings. “Yes, sir,” is all he says, even and toneless.

But he looks between you and his employer for more than just the span of a heartbeat. Eyes going from him, to you, to the arm around your shoulders. Then he meets your gaze, expression stony.

If Gaz is wary of your presence here—if you’re going to win him over—the best time to start is now. “Thank you very much for seeing me here safely,” you say. “I was so glad of your company, Mr. Garrick.”

To your dismay, his expression only tightens. Gaz looks at Hans again, then back at you.

“You’re welcome, Miss,” he says.

Then he climbs back into the wagon, gives the reins a snap, and drives away.

next

a/n: fun fact, the ranch and neighboring town are based off Valentine and Emerald Ranch from rdr2 :) the ranch layout is more like Pronghorn Ranch however.

[blank-slate-jay]

Just for You

Elias 'Stack' Moore x Male!Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Request: "I would like to see something soft and fluffy for stack maybe male reader and his first I love you or smth like that? KEEP UP THE GREAT WORK POOKIE!!"

Tags: Black!Reader, Fluff, Flirting, Confession

A/N: Thanks for the request. This one's short and sweet! I really had fun with this one, lots of bickering between you two. I've been timing my fics on Sunday, unintentionally, but this week going into the next, is gonna be a wave of Male!Reader fics for Sinners so there's that! Anyways, hope you like this!

“I don’ know what your up too, but I ain’ approve of it if it’s anything bad.”

He sucks his teeth, fixing his posture in the driver seat, “You know I wouldn’ put you in danger.”

"Ok, so then where we going, huh?", you nudge his arm.

"You'll see."

You jokingly sigh, leaning back into the seat, the air cooler than usual. Stack drove the two of you past a familiar town, heading further south. You raise an eyebrow, glancing back momentarily. Suspicion started to set in, only made worse by Stack trying to conceal his smirk.

You stare at him, long enough to where he finally looks back at you. “Somethin’ is up,” you point.

He grabs your hand before it could fall to your lap, pulling it into his instead.

“Nothin’ is up, baby. You just need somethin’ new. Somethin’ that’ll make you shine even more.”

Your brows rose even more, finally getting somewhere, although still vague. But you decide not to press, wanting him to savor whatever scheme was up his sleeve. You almost rest deeper into the seat, but Stack pulls you closer til your knees touch.

He leans his head toward you, eyes still on the road, knowing you well. Promptly his cheek receives a kiss. Another follows as he wanted extra.

“One more.”

With one long kiss on the cheek, you let yourself relax against his shoulder as the ride continues.

The foliage opens up, and just up ahead was a town you were familiar with from the occasional times you came this far out. Wasn’t anything fancy or excessive necessarily. It was somewhat nicer from your local town in Clarkstown though.

Stack drove through casually while you pick up any bad-apples or suspicious folk among the road and street; a bad habit really. Stack turns into an open spot, just between two trucks, putting his vehicle to rest. He lets out a sigh, jumping out, fixing his coat, “Aight.”

“You sure nobody here’s gonna steal your shit?”

He shakes, “Nobody done nothin’ to my shit yet, cause they know who I am. They know my car.”

You nod, “Just give me the call if someone needs shooting. I got your back.”

“Tough guy.,” he states, leading the way. “Don’ worry yourself, they know what’s to come if they fuck with my shit”.

“If you say so.”

Stack leads you past a few places, from plant shops to general stores, until suddenly turning toward one painted in black. He holds the door open, a small bell ringing. “Noah.”

Clothes were everywhere, hanging and most folded along multiple shelves stretching across the room. A man, dawning in white and black, pops out from under the counter. He coughs, “Stack…”

Stack grips his coat’s collar, “You have some time? My…fine companion here is looking to buy something new.”

"Ah! Give me a moment, I'll be with y'all."

You glance at Stack, confused but also a bit surprised. “Clothes...?"

He leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper, "Trust me, you need it." He pats your chest, walking around as you curiously look yourself over. Your clothes weren't…bad, rather it was standard you’d say. Your attire wasn’t making it into any magazine in the delta. As for needing new clothes, you weren’t gonna say no to that.

--

With the right measurements, you were offered a selection of tailor clothing to try on. The first two weren't half-bad, they were a little too formal for your liking, but Stack insists you get at least something that screams wealth.

You didn't like any, until you button up your third coat, adding the top hat that matches perfectly. Observing yourself in the mirror, you wouldn't lie if it didn't make you feel like you shine, as Stack put it. It was perfectly in the middle of not too casual but not too fancy.

Stepping out, Stack was awaiting you. He pipes up upon seeing you step out, your hands fixing up your dented sleeve.

"Here we go", Stack compliments. You do a slow twirl around, dropping your hat as any gentleman would.

You had yourself a small applause from Stack. "What do you think?"

"What do you think?", he repeats back.

"It works. Would like a different color for the coat though."

"Noah-"

The store owner fetches you up the coat of your choice, and soon the streets of town would bear witness to your new attire. You were helpless to Stack hyping you up for the next hour or so in town, the two of you both spending time roaming around buying additional needs. The small smirk on your face never left, it was difficult to wipe off; how could you when he is building your ego. After a quick street performance, you return to his vehicle, feeling beat from the sun.

“I’ll drive,” you comment, putting your wrapped items in the back seat. 

You drive off, past town, heading back south. Steering out of town was a relief, less people as well as quieter rural roads were calming. 

Stack remains quiet, aside from you humming and him tapping on beat with the door.

“You ain’ hot?”

His head shook, “Ya get use to it.”

“Don’ know how you do it, Stack.”

He chuckles, biting at his finger. "Wear it often, sweat won' kill ya."

"It's the extra layers is all," you comment while playing with your collar. "Won' be bad indoors at least." He agrees, resuming his casual rhythmic taps. Though the heat was a complaint, you couldn't be more grateful for the gift. You never asked for it, nor was it a necessity, but it was certainly enlightening he gave something such as what you wore consideration.

You glance at him for a moment, "Thank you, by the way, seriously."

Stack was flattered, you could tell. "Of course, just don' cause a crash is all."

You maliciously step on the brakes for a split-second, gasping. Stack grips his hat tightly, for a split second seeing worry crossover his face was amusing. You laugh out loud, at him looking at you like you're crazy. "Sorry." You didn't mean it fully, your grin still remaining.

"Scared the lights outta me".

"Ya heard what I said?"

"Yeah! What you want me to say it formally, you're welcome?"

"No runnin', I'm tryin' be serious. I owe you."

He huffs, "Stop with that."

You laughter settles down, "No think about it, the shack, money, this", you motion to your clothes.

"Look, I love ya, you don't gotta do nothin' you aren' already doin' to make me any happier."

Your eyes left the road, observing him. It could be inferred you were questioning his words, if he was actually being serious.

Stack picks up on this, nodding, “Yeah, yeah see I'm being serious now too"

You focus back on the road, feeling your cheeks slightly becoming flushed. You huff, biting your tongue, at a loss for words. 

“I ain’ lyin’, you know.”

You nearly stumble over your words, but you find your footing, "When two people care…love each other, they usually give back to one another. So, I think it's fair that I give something to you." Stack doesn't say anything, perhaps he was coming up with another refute, or reading between the lines; so you clear it up. "And yes, I love ya too."

Uncontrollably your gaze darts to his for a second, seeing him nod repeatedly. The two of you go quiet for a moment, with Stack silently commenting how hot it was, ironically so. He offers up his hand for you, which you happily take up, a warm fuzzy sensation riddling your stomach.

“I’d happily take whatever you want for me,” he mentions.

You give a silent hum, with vague ideas springing. Those could wait, for now, you let the feeling silk in. Learning two things, Stack loved you and he doesn't like to be scared; both were duly noted.

[anxiouspotionofgloom]

Scarian fics rec!

Ok so, here's me dumping all the Scarian fics I love and find underrated (under 1k kudos, please go give them some love if you see this 🥺)

No particular order except for number one, because this is my favourite fic ever and I think of it almost every day it is so criminally underrated and may or may not be the reason I created this list...

Sorry for the ping authors, I've been told most people would like to be pinged on those if I included their fics, so here we go I guess!

as above, so below by @birrdies

Hermit’s Hollow was a quiet town where you learned to ignore whisperings of nonsense and the dull, persistent feeling of being watched before you learned to ride a bike. To call it pedestrian would be a great disservice to all the terrible oddities occupying it— folks and legends alike. Not that Grian believed any of them, of course. Or; There's something wrong in Hermit's Hollow. There's something wrong with Grian. Neither of these are a surprise to him.

I'm begging you to give it a chance, it has legit rewritten my brain chemistry, the scarian dynamic is so perfect in here, the plot so fleshed out and it reaches, dear lord it reaches inside your chest and twist. I cried. I laughed. I smiled so hard it felt like it was carving itself on my face. My favourite Scarian fic forever probably.

2. they say my star is a little lonely (so how about staying a little longer?) by Lappisu (I don't know if they have Tumblr please lmk if they do ;-;)

Forgive Grian for not keeping track of the time. Centuries and seconds all feel the same when it's been so long since anything has happened on the little planet Grian calls home—until a being that calls himself Scar lands. He's too loud, and too bright, and too much of everything. Unfortunately, Scar is the single most interesting thing Grian has laid eyes upon in a long time. Forgive Grian for wanting more. or: Grian and Scar, strangers in space, and then some.

This fic is so so good, I am so intrigued by the concept and the lore behind it all, I am genuinely reading it for scarian but also for the world surrounding them, and thinking of Grian, alone on his little planet, it Gets to me. And the ending moment!! I was literally kicking my feet twirling my hair, I'm very weak to 'I'll kill them all' moments thank you <3

3. counting steps by @ilexdiapason and @greyquills

“Well - if nothing's broken, you didn't chip any teeth or anything, then I guess it's all good, right?" (It is not all good. It has lost everything. It has unbecome itself and now it has nothing, not even the wings on its back, not even the Sight in its core.) "Yes." Or: in which Grian has Fallen, but somebody is there to pick him up again. And again, and again, and again, every time he cannot find his way.

This fic is 9 kudos away from being out of this list but I'm squeezing it in there because it is SO good. I ate it up the whole way through. Fallen angel is such an interesting trope, and I love what they did with it. It is such an ode to humanity and what makes us us, seeing how Grian slowly creates himself out of all the things he has discovered, the things that Scar has made him discover, it goes very hard. Tears in my eyes perhaps.

4. it feels good to be known so well by @roseandmaple

Somehow, in the chaos that is the apocalypse— former human beings rising from the dead and whatnot— Scar has managed to find his way into the Compound, a makeshift gated community of survivors from all around the world, led by a man they call Grian. By some grace of God (or, more accurately, his own silver tongue) Scar has quickly climbed his way up the ranks, and has found himself in the position of their leader’s right hand man. The unfortunate thing, though, is that Scar’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve it. Because Scar is still himself— clumsy, forgetful, reckless— but for some reason, Grian hasn’t sent him away yet, hasn’t replaced him with someone better, and a nagging voice in the back of Scar’s mind has one question: why? Or: Scar gets injured, Grian fixes him up, and they finally talk about their feelings.

Very cute fic!! I'm so interested in the relationship Scar and grian seem to have! It balances humour and self-doubt well, coupled with soft scenes that I'm 🥺 about.

5. Moths to a Fluorescent Flame by @entropyhours

Scar's there, standing, a cheeky, ever so slightly bashful grin on her face. It's almost a smirk, her classic slightly off-kilter upturned smile that frequently makes a cosy home on the tanned lines of her face. She makes a door opening gesture with her arms, a silly, dramatic thing that involves far too much motion for the small amount it realistically communicates. Can I come out? I'll leave you alone if you really want. Grian doesn't know what she really wants. In there it's warmth and joy and noise and people and the fear that all this is transient and bound to crumble in her careless hands. Out here it's cold and lonely and unchanging stillness and safety. Devil you know better than the devil you don't. Moth burning up in the neon radiation it trusts more than anything else. Icarus inside, Icarus outside. (in which a substantial New Year's kiss is shared at midnight, but feelings are best left unspoken)

It is MY rec list and I get to decide which fics go on here which is why I'm nominating my friend!!!!!!! It is such an amazing yuri fic (we need more of those in the world) The way scarian are so soft at each others in here, they have this understanding of each other, the things left unsaid and the things that are indeed said, it's all so lovely!!

6. The Love of a Killer by Anonymous

It has been 3 years since Detective Grian caught and apprehended the ‘Goodtimes Killer’, almost dying in the process. When the serial killer escapes prison, Grian is once again thrown back into a game of cat and mouse to catch him. Only this time, the killer has a new obsession with the detective that may prove detrimental to the case and his life.

Obsessed with this one. It's darker than the other fics but my god. MY GOD. This got me to rewatch hannibal for the fourth time and start a fifth. It is just so amazing, from the cat and mouse relationship between Scar and Grian (where they both try in turn to be the cat) to the plot besides the 'romance' that is so intriguing to me, it goes way beyond being a simple chase of a murderer, truly i'm amazed and oh so patiently waiting for a new update!

7. Splinters by orangeghosts

When Grian has trouble with a build, his solution is to just work harder. Unfortunately, this can lead to him neglecting pesky things like basic self care, including the preening of his wings. Enter Scar, who agrees to lend a hand with the terraforming on Grian's base - if he agrees to clean his wings first. And to stop him from sneaking off and working instead, Scar insists on watching him the whole time. This puts Grian, master of deflection and ignoring his feelings, in a rather tricky situation.

Honestly anything by this author is amazing, they've got a way with words that i find so magnificient, and it comes out so beautifully when coupled with their great characterisations. Honestly i'm weak to preening fic anyway, this is so soft and in love and if you've been yearning for them gay love, I would suggest you give it a try!!

8. A Certain Je Ne Sais What by @good-chimes

Literally any one of Grian’s friends would be a better soulmate than Scar, and Grian is going to prove this scientifically. Grian’s already felt it, a pinprick in his thumb. He’s familiar—he’s so painfully, unforgettably familiar—with the way Scar sees something and is already reaching out to touch it before he’s asked questions like 'what is this' and 'is it bad news' and 'is it going to hurt me, Scar, and by extension the unwilling bystander my physical sensations are now linked to'. Scar just immediately reaches out.

Another author I'm obsessed with. Pure bangers. This particular fic of them is one of my favourite, purely because of how well it gets the personality of Scar and Grian. It's so much them reading it again makes my heart vibrates: these are the men I (metaphorically) fell in love with. It is also frankly hilarious. So very Grian to list everything like that and still cuddle up to Scar. Big seal of approval, love this fic!

9. Graveyard Cinderella (the whole cemetery cryptid au) by @sisyphean-torment

As a necromancer, the last thing Scar expected when he dug up a coffin to raise someone from the dead and con them out of their valuables, was for the resident to already be alive. It only gets more confusing from there. Or, hey what the fuck is up with Grian

This AU is soo funny and I'm fascinated by everyone's deal, author has a way to write everything so naturally and yet we barely get some details about what's happening, which is one of my favourite kind of stories!! Though really, check out anything they've written, it's a gold mine :>

10. do you ever think of me and my two hands? by froggenbie

Grian and Scar drift back to each other throughout every season of the Life series. Except drifting makes it sound like it’s an accident, like it’s not purposeful. Like it’s not love. Like it’s not fate. or: hearts embroidered in clothes, puppy love laughter, three seasons of mountains, and a big fuck you to the universe or or: desert duo’s history throughout the life smp

I really liked this one!! The writing is so emotionnal, almost poetic, and I love this type of stories that explore characters within the bounds of canon (almost!).

11. out of memory and time by @purple-nightfall-writes

Scar looked at him with interest. “You’ve been living here, all by yourself, for five years? I think I’d go crazy." “Well, can’t promise I haven’t,” Grian said, shamefaced. After all, minutes earlier, he’d tapped into ancient magic to scream at a total stranger. Likely not a total stranger, actually… he mused, remembering the matching rings. There was an obvious question they raised. It was much too weighty to ask. “Do you think we knew each other?” he asked instead. “During the months we both lost, I mean.” Scar leaned back, thinking for a moment. “I mean, we must have at least met, right? If I knew your name, and you’ve got a ring I enchanted.” Grian startled slightly. He hadn’t really had time to process the implications of the name, on top of everything else. “You used my real name,” he said quietly. “Not many people even knew that one.” Or: Famed wizard Scar finds himself wandering in an unfamiliar land with no memory of how he got there. Grian, the dutiful Watcher, finds himself staring at a reflection he doesn't quite recognize, haunted by a sense of unease. Together, they must figure out what happened and what connects them to each other.

Another friend :D This fic is so cute and really funny, I promise, once you read it fully the silly gets you ahahahha. Man, Scar and Grian in here are dumb in the best way.

12. Scar's Magical Emporium for Lost Grians by butterfly_wings

Things! It's Scar's Magical Emporium for Lost Things. - Grian (Scar runs a shop for lost objects. Grian is the unfortunate soul who keeps appearing in the store.)

It is SO adorable I immediately fell in love with the premise of this, and it upheld its promise as I read through the story! All in all it's deeply cute, but if you think about the reason behind Grian's appearance there's this bittersweet feeling on your tongue, how Grian is lost and Scar knows it and is so patient with it ahhh <3

13. a little victimless crime by @definitelynotshouting

On a technical level, the rite he’s performing is paltry compared to what he executed all those heady months back– chalk-powder in concentric circles, a matchbook, the potential for flame. Simple. Too simple; any of his old professors (Academy-trained, tried, and true) would have failed him for presenting such a stripped summoning spell. But half the magic lies in intent– with enough bull-headed, scrabbling belief, you can claw anything into a shape of your choosing. Grian had taught him that. One breath. Two. No room for doubt– no room for second chances. Scar strikes the match and, with a deft flick of his hand, tosses it into the chalk-powder.

A bit of a short one but I'm frankly enamoured with the rich universe the author managed to write in so few words. (One of my favourite author too, please check them out!) The way Scar and Grian fit together, the way their softness is contrasted by their fury at the world for wronging them... Amazing. I'd read a hundred more of them.

(The next two fics are '&' (platonic), but I didn't have enough to make two list separately so if you want Grian and Scar in all their forms, you can read those too, they're amazing, but please don't bother authors about it thank you)

14. Interlude From Another Reality: Peacock's-Eye by @sixteenth-days

"My assistant," announced Scar Goodtimes, newly-promoted Head Archivist of the Peacock's-Eye Institute, to nobody in particular except maybe the paused audio recording software on his laptop, or perhaps the small pile of tape recorders his predecessor'd left piled on a shelf in the corner, or arguably the little peacock-feather eye logo that dotted the office as haphazardly as it did the entire Institute, "is weird." (In which Scar is Grian's Archivist, and Grian is Scar's assistant.)

Ok skirting the edges of small fics here, but I really liked this fic!! You don't necessarily need to read the hermitcraft serie to get it, just have some basic knowledge from the podcast, but be aware this fic contains spoilers for the original TMA! Absolutely love how Grian was written here, he's just a funny little guy, and all the possessive use on words despite him not knowing the source, chef's kiss!!

15. catching signals that sound in the dark by @droidofmay

“Poultry Man, I’m gonna have to ask you to step back,” Scar said, and Grian went still. “Or, y’know, I guess I’m telling you? Definitely telling you, this is an order– step away from the Voidsong. Remove your digits from his person now, please, or I am going to have to explode you and explain that to Pearl and she will never give me extra concert tickets ever again.” Scar had his bow drawn, an arrow pointed in Grian’s direction. He was close enough that it would tear through Grian’s host body like paper, though the explosives in Scar’s quiver would’ve been more effective, and he was tense around the eyes, a wobbling downturn to his mouth. His voice had trembled, emotion leaking through like before he’d gone professional. Grian knew how those feelings tasted from the inside. He knew those hands, that vascular system, how Scar’s smooth voice felt as it vibrated out of his throat, as his tongue shaped the words– and that was what drew him back from Voidsong, even if it really would’ve been wiser to keep himself intertwined, because he knew that terror, too. Incredibly well. Way too well, as a matter of fact.

I'm thinking of this fic at least once a week. I'm such a fan of complicated relationships, and adding in the mix Grian as some strange symbiote thing? Complicated doesn't even begin to describe the way Grian was wrapped inside Scar's body so deep like a second soul, intertwined in such disturbing manner, I live for that!! The way they know each other so intimately and yet there's so many dark stains on each other's understanding, I'm so unwell it's not even funny. Odaigahara is such an amazing author in general, the words gut you. Like a knife, those sentences cut through your skin to twist your insides, and there's nothing you can do but continue to read.

-

Anyways that's it! It was my first time doing a fics rec, I hope it was to everyone's liking!! Please give some love to the authors, as an author myself I know most of us get oh so happy to see a little comment in our inbox or even a kudo!!

You can also contribute by putting your favourite under 1k kudos scarian fic in the tags or reblogs!

Amazing day to all, hope you'll find some fics you haven't heard of before :>

And if you have read them all... well you get the knowledge that you have excellent taste 😌

[creganslover]

Spicetown Shore

Pairing: Addam of Hull x Fem! Targaryen! Reader

Summary: Being the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, she had no choice but to let you be the one to confront Seasmoke's new rider.

Word count: 2.7k

Warning/s: s2 spoilers! canon events followed but strayed towards the end, not beta read so sorry for any mistakes!

Note: so hotd s2 just finished and i am absolutely in shambles and also in love w addam so i just know i had to get this out there. if i have the time perhaps, i could write for more hotd characters <3 likes, reblogs, and feedbacks are greatly appreciated.

GIF is not mine, credits to the owner!

Last evening upon learning Seasmoke had gained a new rider upon the sands of Spicetown, Rhaenyra was taken aback, especially with the events that happened regarding the late Ser Steffon Darklyn, a member of Rhaenyra’s Queensgard helplessly burned by Seasmoke’s flames with the hopes to claim the dragon by Rhaenyra’s idea of playing chance with folk who looked to even have a chance of having dragonseed within them. 

Now this morn, Rhaenyra paced the hall as the council looked at each other as the news had been disseminated. Eventually, Rhaenyra halts and she places her finger on the table, looking at everyone. “There is no choice, I must ride dragonback to meet this new rider and know where they stand.” Rhaenyra voiced. 

Jacerys was the first one to disagree, refusing to even let his mother out of his sights, the council agreeing. “Your grace, the prince is right, you would be left vulnerable if you chase the unknown dragon rider on your own.” Lord Baltimos agreed, Jacaerys gesturing to the older man to make a point as he looked back to his mother. 

“Then what would you have me do? Seasmoke is out there flying the skies with a new rider that we know nothing of, nor where they stand whilst we are on the brink of war!” Rhaenyra countered, exhaling loudly as she rubbed at her temple with her hand, trying to massage the tension, though all of her body was tense.

You, however, had also been the one to receive the news early, now marching towards the hall of Dragonstone, the voices of countless opinions, risks and ideas being shared getting louder as did your footsteps, a Queensgard announcing your presence making the Black Council’s heads turn. 

“Daughter.” Rhaenyra breathed. “Where have you been?” She said in worry, brows creased as you stood across from her. 

But you did not even answer her question as you had already made up your mind. “Let me be the one to go, mother.” 

Jacaerys, your older brother turned to face you next, and he was about to speak. Though already sensing what he was going to say, you spoke again to halt his words. “I know my way through Spicetown and its beaches,” you began. “Surely spotting Seasmoke and his rider is an easy task.” You added, since you’ve been known to ride out often on your dragon to explore, taking after your mother Rhaenyra to which the latter now could see the stubbornness she once possessed. 

“Your grace, if I may,” interjected Lord Simon as he looked at you then back at Rhaenyra. “The princess has a habit of scouting Dragonstone and nearby islands, surely Spicetown had been one of them.” You offer Lord Simon a thankful nod before facing your mother once more. 

Picking at your gloves that you held in hand, Rhaenyra could see the determination in your eyes that reflected her youth. “Do you promise to–” “I would get back at once if I deem the situation inoperative.” Shutting down her doubts, Rhaenyra swallowed thickly. 

“Sister, you do realize what you might face?” Jacaerys then comes walking around the table to stop by you, his brown eyes scanning you as if searching for an ounce of hesitation that he couldn’t find even if he tried. You saw and knew what that look meant, both of your minds running over the memory of Lucerys, and you could not blame him so. 

 “Trust me brother, no harm shall come to me.” You replied, meeting your brother’s gaze, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving a squeeze which Jacaerys only sucked in a breath, his hand gliding to the hilt of his sword again, a habit he acquired when he thought deeply. He bowed his head, free hand placing itself on top of yours on his shoulder, squeezing tightly. “You promise.” He said. 

Rhaenyra saw the interaction between her two oldest children and her chest panged, two of her oldest children forced to fight for their birthright and for her, their mother. “Then it is done, (Y/N), you shall seek Seasmoke and find its rider at once.” Rhaenyra voiced, though anyone heard the lace of care in her tone. 

You looked up and nodded, feeling emboldened by the task given. Looking out the window, the sun was still high and up, and there was no more time to waste. 

Taking a bow, you took in a breath. “I shall see to it, your grace.” You said before bowing and turning on your heel to prepare. 

Once being donned in layers fit for dragonback, you quickly rushed to the hallway leading to the inside of the dragonmont, the atmosphere heating as well as the sight and smell of smoke filled your senses. 

At once, the dragonkeepers had already called upon your dragon, screeching at once as it sensed your presence. Approaching the magnificent creature, you breathed in as you placed your palm against its snout. “Lykirī (be calm), Naerax.” You hummed. The dragon crooned and you looked it in the eye. “Ready for another adventure?” You grinned, before hopping and strapping yourself onto the saddle. 

Breathing in, you nodded and tugged on your saddle, sending Naerax screeching before spreading its wings and taking flight, easily gliding out the mountains and out into the skies, Dragonstone shrinking from view.

It had been a while of flying, keeping your eyes peeled as you finally were able to make out the forms of Spicetown and the beaches scattered upon it, diving lower, you tried to find a sign of Seasmoke somehow, the silver-grey dragon seemed to be nowhere in sight. 

Until you had rounded into a particular patch of land, sands white and unoccupied, except for what you had been looking for. 

And there surely was Seasmoke upon the ground, a silhouette of a person standing in front of it. Naerax’s cries only further confirmed your thoughts and was enough to echo in the sky, Seasmoke screeching in turn as you quickly manoeuvred, circling the area before diving down onto the beach a good few yards away from Seasmoke and his new rider. 

Your heart pounded in your chest, never really having a plan once you’ve found them, but you steeled yourself, quickly sliding off the saddle and letting your feet touch the sandy ground after a while of patrolling the skies. 

Standing there, you couldn’t really make out the appearance of the rider but you had guessed it was a man, possibly residing from Driftmark. 

The two of you stood in utter silence, only both your dragons roaring at each other, until he had the gall to walk forward, Seasmoke following in tow as you turned over your mind for possibilities of how this interaction would go. 

Dragghar decided that the man had walked close enough as it sent a warning bellow, succeeding in making the man stop. This was the opportunity given to take a closer look at him, a tall young man by your age from the looks of things, having a skin of deep umber, face contorted to an apprehensive expression. 

After another beat of silence, you began. “You stand before the daughter of the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms with a dragon of House Targaryen.”  You shouted, making your voice firm as you kept your gaze onto him and Seasmoke behind him. 

“I had no design upon it!” The man had shouted back, voice full and deep. You furrow your brows in turn. “What do you want?” You asked, “To learn the ways of dragonriders,” Came his reply.

You were about to counter his request when he did something you were not expecting at that time. He knelt before you, “And to serve the queen!” He followed, bowing his head down. 

It sent you stunned, blinking back as you stared at him, still wary of his quick submission as the dragons continued to grumble at one another, with a sharp intake of breath, you slowly began to walk towards him, Naerax following suit, dragging his wings across the sand as it crawled, Seasmoke bracing as he roared at the two of you. 

“You kneel so quickly, for a man who’s suddenly elevated.” You commented, gaze switching from the man to Seasmoke. “This dragon came to me, not I to him.” He responded, his gaze never wavering from yours, you had to applaud his integrity.

“I have sweated blood in service of House Velaryon,” He continued, pausing and swallowing before gesturing to himself, still knelt.

“I may appear lowborn, but I know much and more of service… and if the Gods call me to greater things, who am I to refuse them?” He finished, huffing a breath as he looked at you, willing you to believe. 

The hand that was resting on the hilt of your dagger suddenly loosened as the wariness slowly started to ebb away with the waves crashing against the shore, the air feeling suddenly cool. Your feet had made the decision to walk towards him, stopping right across from him. “Is what you say true?” You questioned as you looked down at him. “I swear it, my lady.” 

“Stand.” You said, watching as the man seemed to be flooded in relief as he slowly stood back up to his full height. Remembering your mother’s task, you straightened yourself.

“What is your parentage?” You asked, tilting your head at him, seeing his features crease before answering. “My mother was a shipwright. My father is… no one of consequence.” The last part he uttered with a tone of indifference. 

Nodding, you continued to ask. “Your ancestors, do they happen to be of House Targaryen?” 

“We’re not the sort of family to keep annals, my lady.” He responded, by now he seems much more relaxed, which meant the most since there was no ounce of hostility from both parties moving forward. “What is your name?” You asked as he answered without missing a beat. “Addam… of Hull.” So you were right in your suspicions that he resided in Driftmark. 

Seasmoke grumbled in the background as you nodded. “You have done something my mother, the Queen, had feared unimaginable, Addam… the Queen will be most glad of it.” 

Addam then turned to face Seasmoke and back at you, a small grin settling on his face as he exhaled in relief, nodding as the words sinked in, feeling somewhat gratified.

“Thank you, my lady.” “(Y/N).” You offered with a smile settling on your own lips. “(Y/N).” He repeated, never had your name sounded so pleasant before. 

With this, a playful air began to take hold as you grinned. “Think you could get him to Dragonstone, then?” You asked, jerking your head to Seasmoke who grumbled. Addam blinked for a moment, never thinking to travel that far before, much less on dragonback. “I can try.” He chuckled nervously. 

And so, you were delighted that Addam had sided with the Queen, your mother. 

Climbing back on Naerax, you watched as Addam did the same on Seasmoke, the greyish creature letting Addam take his time as you rounded Naerax, tugging on the ropes as your dragon obliged, screeching and running before spreading its wings once more, a gust of dust left as Naerax took to the skies once more. As Addam and Seasmoke made it off the ground, you gestured for him to follow.  “Sōvēs (Fly), Naerax.” You commanded, heading for Dragonstone. 

Naerax calls out once Dragonstone comes to view, making you glance to see Addam following, though he didn’t look too well at the moment, making you laugh as you gestured for him to follow and show where to land the dragon. 

After dismounting, the two of you were making your way to the castle.

Rhaenyra was pacing back and forth as Jacaerys had been gripping the pommel of his sword tightly, knuckles turning white until Baela had to talk to him to calm him down. At once, a member of the Queensgard approached and Rhaenyra snapped to look at them, face expecting the news as the knight bowed. “The princess is unharmed.” 

Rhaenyra felt the tensions seep away from her veins as she sighed in relief, also with Jacaerys letting out a breath while Baela was glad of the news. “What of the rider? Do we know who he is?” Came Corlys Velaryon’s questions. 

“He appears to be a shipwright in your employ, Lord Hand.” Answered by Maester Gerardys. “A commoner? With respect to your workers, Lord Corlys, the lowborn cannot go around seizing dragons. Has the thief been secured?” Lord Baltimos conveyed. Rhaenyra’s brows furrowed and she was about to speak when in came (Y/N) Targaryen with Addam of Hull, immediately turning heads as they stopped inside the hall. 

“He is no thief, Lord Baltimos.” You spoke as Addam stood beside you, Rhaenyra then watched closely the man who Seasmoke now claimed as his rider. “Seasmoke had come to him and chose him as its rider, and I am sure no one in their right mind would face a dragon so willingly.” You defended. Glancing beside Addam, you nodded for him to speak.

 “Your grace, I am Addam, of Hull…” he began,swallowing as he ignored eyes on him and solely focused on Rhaenyra, bowing, “I realize a great power had been given to me, and I may know nothing of what awaits me from this day forth, but I stand here now to swear on my allegiance and with the belief that the Gods steered me to this path, to serve you, my Queen.” He voiced firmly, never wavering. 

Rhaenyra looked at him then at you, knowing that she trusts her daughter with her own calls, and if her daughter deemed him enough to come and lay bare here on Dragonstone, with his words so sincere and determined, Rhaenyra took a deep breath. “Very well, Addam of Hull.” She began. “He is here to remain as a guest, so as to be instructed in the art of dragonriding, teach him some High Valyrian.” Rhaenyra voiced. “With the help of maester Gerardys and the princess.” You blinked but nodded. “Of course, your grace.”

Thus, as the days blended, Rhaenyra had monitored Addam’s progress, further fueling her idea just might work as she spent relearning countless Targaryen lineages whilst Jacaerys seemed to resent the whole idea of other people who had the chance of dragonseed to simply up and claim a dragon, after having suffered to be proclaimed to be a bastard his whole life, but war was brewing and he as many others knew, needed the additional resources if they wanted the chance to bring down the Greens. 

With you, you had taken your time with Addam, often alternating with maester Gerardys to teach him, often bearing witness to his fails and successes when you stayed behind and watched, thus this allowed a small bond to be formed between the two of you. 

Now, you were with Addam again, at one of the many balconies in Dragonstone.

“Repeat after me, ‘rȳbās’, it means listen.” You explained, accentuating your High Valyrian as Addam looked at you with a hint of a fond gaze as he cleared his throat, repeating the command as best as he could. “That’s good.” You praised, smiling.

“A little more firmness to it might do good, but you’re a fast learner.” You added. 

“Must be because I have an impressive guide, won’t you say so?” He grinned boyishly, making you roll your eyes. “You did not say that the last time you slipped on Seasmoke’s saddle and almost smacked to the ground.” You teased with a light shrug as you flipped the pages on the tome.

“No, no, my boot got caught on the ropes!” He defended lightly, making you both laugh. “Something really bad could’ve happened to me, have you not thought of that?” He jested, face souring in mock hurt making you nod and play along. “Oh yes, I have, but your squeals proved far more entertaining.” 

Rhaenyra had been observing the interaction without the pair’s knowledge, finding it almost special as Addam had proved himself to be a man of integrity indeed and was quick to learn through his efforts, but now her daughter had a different certain glow to her as the days passed as Addam resided here in Dragonstone, and the two had only gone closer it seemed. 

Even as the threat of war loomed, here there were still the chances of finding light in unexpected circumstances. 

[slut4thebroken]

Practice Makes Perfect

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | stepdad!Jackson Rippner x reader

Summary | You go to your stepdad for help… with very pure intentions… obviously. (Heheh)

Warnings | Smut, 18+, sexual content, innocence kink, corruption, large age gap, but not under age, hand jobs, oral both m and f receiving, spanking, daddy kink technically, also incest I guess?, groping, thigh riding, praise, a sprinkle of degradation and humiliation.

Words | 7.5 k

Notes | I hope it was worth the wait folks. Also ionno how I feel about this gif but whatever lol

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

You liked making men crave what they could never have, that’s why you dress the way you do. But it seemed like the one man you actually wanted to crave you, never did. Much to your disappointment. 

But you liked doing it in a subtle way, where at first glance, it wouldn’t seem like your goal was to get his attention. You’d wear loose, frilly skirts, always on the shorter side, but not short enough to be too obvious, and tight crop tops that were somewhat see-through. You also liked wearing pretty dresses and knee high socks and dainty jewelry and soft makeup. All of which at first glance would just seem like a cute, unintentionally sexy— yet still in an innocent way somehow— outfit. 

Nothing you ever did caught his eye though. Sometimes you’d forego the bra all together so that your nipples were just barely poking through the thin fabric of your top, but you still didn't get a reaction. So you decided to step it up. 

“Mr. Rippner?” You asked quietly, making him look up from the computer screen as you hesitantly walked in. 

“How many times have I told you to call me Jackson.” He said teasingly.  

“Sorry…” You couldn’t help the blush that painted your cheeks when he gave you a soft smile. 

“What's up?” 

“I can come back later if you’re busy…”

“Never too busy for you. Come sit.” He clicked a few buttons on the computer then gave you his full attention. You dragged one of the arm chairs a little closer to his desk, then sat down. 

“I just… had a question— questions. But I’m scared to ask my mom.” You said quietly, nervously playing with the fabric of your skirt. 

“Scared?” 

“I don’t want her to see me any differently… and I’m scared that asking this might do that.” 

“You can talk to me.” His tone was so genuine that it made you want to tell him anything and everything about yourself, even your deepest secrets. His warm smile wasn’t helping much either. 

“Thank you… So, um— there’s this guy that I like..” He just barely stiffened when you said that. “He’s older,”

“How much older?” 

“A little more than twenty years…” 

“He’s in his forties?” 

“Early fourties, yes.” You said quietly, not able to maintain eye contact any longer. You couldn’t figure out what emotion was on his face right now. “But I really really like him, Mr. Rippner, and he treats me right.” 

“Any man going after you who’s that old will not treat you right.” 

“Oh…” You kept your eyes on your lap as your chest ached. Even though this wasn’t a direct rejection it still hurt. “Sorry.” 

“Hey— no, I'm sorry.” His tone was noticeably softer. “I just worry about you, kiddo.” Your whole face heated up at the name, as it always does. “I'm sorry. If you still want to talk, I'm here for you.” 

“Thanks…” When he didn’t say anything, you took that as your cue to continue. “I- I’ve been having.. bad thoughts about him, Mr. Rippner. And I know that it’s wrong, but I just can’t help it. I don’t even really know what he’s making me feel, just that it makes me feel dirty…” His cheek tensed as he clenched his jaw.  

“Inappropriate thoughts, you mean?” He clarified and you nodded in response. “I see. And before I respond, what exactly is it that you’re asking me?” 

“I- I want to impress him… but I’ve never done.. anything. I’m scared I’ll make a fool of myself, so I was hoping… you could help me?”

“Help you?” He choked out. You nodded and bit your lip. “Let me just make sure I’m hearing this right. You want to fuck a man twice your age,” you blushed at his crude words, “but you’re nervous about it… so you’re asking your step father, who’s also twice your age, to help you practice so you feel more confident?” 

“I’m sorry, this was stupid.” You muttered as you got to your feet. 

“Sit down.” His voice was technically still soft, but you could hear the underlying sternness in his tone, so you lowered yourself back down in the chair. “Why me?” 

“I just… I trust you a lot, Mr. Rippner— more than most. I know you’d never do anything to take advantage of me.” You said, even though you hoped he would. 

“And what about your mom?” That made you frown. 

“I didn’t mean it in a cheating way. Just for you to show me what to do— to teach me. That’s not cheating.” 

“Sweetheart…” He started, making your frown deepen. “You understand why this would be wrong other than that, right?” 

“…No.” You did. 

“Not even talking about the fact that I'm twice your age— I’m your step father. This is not something that step fathers teach their step daughters.” He explained gently. 

“Oh.. I guess you don’t have to, then. I can just… ask him to teach me or something.” 

“Absolutely not.” He said sternly, startling you. “Telling him that will practically give him the green light to manipulate and coerce you.” 

“He wouldn’t do that.” You frowned. 

“Yes he would. Every man would.” 

“Clearly not every man.” You muttered. 

“Look,” he sighed, “I do want to help you, kiddo, but it’s more complicated than that.” 

“It doesn’t have to be..” 

“But it is.” 

“Are you not attracted to me?” You asked suddenly. “Is that why?” He sighed again and looked away from you, making your stomach churn. “Oh.” You felt like you were about to cry any minute now— this is not going how it was supposed to at all. You felt stupid and embarrassed and you wished you never came in here. 

“I…” he sighed, “It's not that. I shouldn’t be attracted to you, honey. It’s wrong.”

“…But you are?” He said ‘shouldn’t’ so maybe that’s a good sign. 

“It’s doesn’t matter if I am,” 

“I’m attracted to you, Mr. Rippner.” You said quietly, waiting nervously for his reaction. “It doesn’t feel wrong.” He let out a heavy breath and closed his eyes as his head tilted back a little. You watched him carefully, trying to figure out what he was thinking. When he suddenly leaned back up and opened his eyes, they were significantly darker, the pretty, pale blue almost gone now. “Mr. Rippner?” You asked when he didn’t say anything. 

“I’m not going to show you, but I’ll tell you. How does that sound?” You frowned and looked away. 

“Okay… If you think that’s best, I trust you.” You said, silently praying for him to do more than talk to you. 

“Let’s just start off with you telling me what you do know.” 

“Um… Well, I’ve seen people kiss.. and I’ve tried to practice, but it feels awkward and I don’t want it to be weird when it happens.” 

“You never kissed anyone?” His eyebrows were raised as he stared at you in poorly concealed surprise. 

“…No.” You said, voice small. 

“Okay,” he cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, “okay. What else?” 

“I mean… I think I mostly know how the rest of it goes? The part where.. I don’t really do much. It’s the other parts that I don’t know.” 

“You mean foreplay?” You nodded with a blush. “And you know how to practice safe sex, right?” 

“A condom?” 

“That’s the most common way, yes.” He leaned back in his chair and let out a heavy breath. “Okay. I think I can help you out with some of it, but the rest you might just need to practice on your own. 

“But I have!” Your blush deepened when you realized what you just implied. 

“You have?”

“I- I mean.. I just— It…” Nothing you could say would save you. 

“Dirty girl… Do you have a toy hidden somewhere?” He said teasingly and you didn’t know how to respond, not when the real answer is so much more embarrassing and perverted. 

“Something like that..” He examined you carefully, making you feel like he was uncovering every secret you've ever had. 

“Oh I see.” He chuckled. “Creative little minx, aren’t you? What’d you use?” You looked down and bit your lip, feeling far too embarrassed right now. “Hairbrush handle? Cucumber?” 

“Stop teasing me, Mr. Rippner.” You pouted and he gave you a small smile.

“I’ll stop teasing once you stop calling me that.” When your gaze stayed on your lap, he continued. “Where'd you use it? Your mouth or your cunt?” Your head snapped up with a gasp at his vulgar language. 

“Mr. Rippner!” You scolded him, but your cheeks were far too red to uphold the sternness of your reprimand.

“It’s just a simple question, kiddo. You’re going to have to get used to those words if you want my help. I can’t really explain it without saying it.” 

“I- I know. It just caught me off guard is all and um… mouth.” You muttered, not able to maintain eye contact. “But I couldn't do it, it was too hard.” 

“What’d you try to do, sweetheart?”

“I dunno… just— anything that I thought might be right. I didn’t really know what to do.” You looked up at him with puppy dog eyes. “Need someone to teach me…” 

“You know that I can’t.” He said softly. 

“But how else am I supposed to learn? Why can’t you just help me?” You pouted, making him sigh. 

“I am helping you.” 

“But….” You were going to beg again, but so far that’s gotten you nowhere, so you decided to try something else. “Fine— I’ll just find someone else!” You said, standing up and turning around to walk out. 

“Sit down. I won’t tell you again.” He said sternly, making you freeze, but not turn around yet. 

“Mr. Rippner…” You finally turned back to face him, but you couldn’t look at him, “I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one day,”

“You really don’t want me to tell you again.” He warned and for the first time, you felt a little afraid of him. It was flustered fear, but fear nonetheless. You slowly walked back over and sat down again. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to help you, but you’re not going to tell anyone. Especially your mother. Do you understand?” You couldn’t help the smile that creeped up on your face as you nodded. 

“Come here.” You got back up and walked around the desk, waiting awkwardly for the next instruction. “On your knees.” Your stomach fluttered and you could feel the ache between your legs that you usually get when you’re near him. Slowly lowering yourself to the ground, you placed your hands on your lap and looked up at him as he rolled his chair back and faced you. 

“Do whatever you think is right. I’ll stop you or tell you what to do if you need help.” Even though that made you nervous because there was a higher chance you’d embarrass yourself, you agreed. 

Shuffling forward, you settled between his legs and reached for his belt. The bulge in his pants was already making your mouth water and you pressed your thighs together without thinking. His breath hitched when you accidentally brushed his crotch, but he let you continue until his pants were open enough for you to pull them down a little and reach inside to take out his length. 

You gasped at the size of him and stared at it with wide eyes and slightly parted lips— how is this ever going to fit.. anywhere inside you when it barely fits in your hand? He brushed your hair out of your face and you swallowed thickly as you forced your eyes away from his length to look up at him. 

“Y-you’re… Are they all this big?” You asked nervously, making him chuckle quietly. 

“Not all, but I’m only a little above average.” 

“Oh.” So the average is only a little smaller? That didn’t ease your nerves at all. 

“Just take it slow, kiddo. Don’t rush into it, go at whatever pace you’re comfortable with.” You were struggling to get yourself to follow the soft demand because of how badly you wanted to impress him. “Start with your hand.” You nodded and swallowed down the lump in your throat as you reached for his length. Tentatively grasping it in your hand, you stroked him slowly, looking up at him for confirmation. “A little harder, love.” You squeezed harder, but immediately pulled back when he winced. 

“I’m sorry,” 

“That’s okay. Here,” he took your hand in his and wrapped it around his cock, moving it slowly. “Like this, okay?” When you nodded, he let go for you to continue on your own. You noticed that his limited reactions seemed to mostly happen when you were at the tip, so you focused on that, rubbing your thumb over the bead of clear liquid on top, making him curse under his breath. 

“You know what that is?” He asked, almost breathlessly. 

“…Precum?” You were terrified of embarrassing yourself by saying the wrong thing, but you vaguely remembered learning that somewhere. 

“That’s right.. good girl. Have a taste.” With a blush from the praise, you tentatively brought your hand up and sucked your thumb into your mouth. “Do you like it?”

“I think so. It’s… watery but a little sweet almost?” He laughed quietly and you gave him a small smile. 

“Keep going.” You started stroking him again, keeping the pace a little slow as you got used to it. “Do you want to try using your mouth now?” You looked up at him nervously, but nodded anyway. “Okay, just suck on the tip while you keep stroking it.” You shuffled forward even closer and placed your free hand on his thigh to steady yourself as you leaned up a little. When you wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, he let out a shaky breath and put his hand on top of yours on his thigh. 

“Suck it and flick your tongue over it,” you obeyed and he let out a low moan, “there you go… Keep using your hand.” You hadn’t even realized you stopped stroking him until he mentioned it. 

“Atta girl. You’re a natural, kiddo.” You couldn’t help the whimper that slipped out at the praise, even if he was just teasing you. You continued stroking his length while mouthing at the tip, not sure what to do next. Thankfully he seemed ready to help you with that. 

“You want to draw it out a little so how about you practice kissing, hm?” You perked up at the thought of finally being able to kiss him, but almost pouted when you realized he didn’t mean on his lips. You gave the tip and quick kiss, then looked up at him, asking a silent question of what to do. “Kiss all over it, sweetheart.” You obeyed, working your way down the underside of his cock. “Good girl. Keep going down.” You were quickly reaching the base and you looked up at him in confusion. 

“You didn’t think you were just going to suck my cock, did you?” He chuckled, making you frown. You did think that… What else would you suck? “Start with kissing and licking my balls.” That made you pull back as your eyes widened. 

“Your— But… Is that,” 

“You’re not going to impress any man with a mediocre blow job. I’m trying to help you, baby.” You didn’t know that was a thing you had to do… and for some reason it felt dirtier than everything you’ve done so far. He picked up on your apprehension and his teasing smirk dropped into a more serious expression. 

“Hey, we don’t have to.” He said softly, genuinely. “The second you change your mind, we’re done, no questions asked. I can make you some hot chocolate and put on that movie you like and we don’t have to mention this ever again.” 

“I…” You swallowed the lump in your throat as your gaze shifted between his eyes and his cock. “Can we still do all of that after we do this?” You asked timidly, making the corners of his lips turn up into a small smile as he reached out to pet your hair. 

“Of course we can, kiddo. I’m pretty much done with work for the day so I’m all yours until it’s your bedtime.” You flushed at the mention of the silly rule he was so adamant about implementing. You told him that you’re an adult and adults don’t have bedtimes and he said that he just wants what’s best for you and that getting a good night's sleep is one of the best things you could do to take care of yourself. You didn’t protest again after that— mostly just because you liked the idea of him having that power over you. 

“Since it’s Friday… could we maybe.. extend my bedtime?” You asked coyly, staring up at him with wide pleading eyes. He raised his brows as he looked down at you for a moment before letting out a breathy laugh and looking away. 

“You’re getting too spoiled. I might as well start calling you princess.” He said with a sly smile, making you blush. 

“If I’m your princess, does that make you my daddy?” You asked innocently, making his breath catch in his throat, but he recovered quickly and decided to tease you a little. 

“Now where did you learn something like that?” Your blush intensified and you couldn’t maintain eye contact any longer. 

“Heard some classmates talking about it…” 

“Aren’t you a nosy little thing? But no kiddo, that doesn’t make me your daddy. I’m still just plain old stepdad Jackson.” He said with a small shrug. 

“But… if I want you to be?” You asked nervously. He let out a heavy breath that turned into a quiet chuckle. 

“If you want me to be… Then, we'll do a trial run tonight, how does that sound?”  

“Good. Thank you, daddy.” You decided to try it out immediately and it was strange how natural the word fell from your lips. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his cock twitch. 

“Okay, princess. You do a good job and I’ll reward you by pushing your bedtime back an hour.” That made your face light up, but you were feeling bold right now. 

“…Two?” 

“Thirty minutes?” He asked, in the same tone as you, making you pout and accept his original offer of one hour. “Pick up where you left off.” He spread his legs to give you more room to shuffle forward and lean your face close to his length, but instead of aiming for his cock, you went lower. You did as he instructed, kissing and licking them gently. It felt dirty and wrong doing this, but somehow, at the same time, like the most fulfilling thing you've ever done. 

“Now suck one into your mouth.” The second your lips wrapped around one, he cursed under his breath and let out a sigh of pleasure, but it quickly turned into a wince, making you pull back instantly. “Gotta be gentler, honey.” 

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” You rushed out, face flushing with shame, and he shushed you. 

“It’s okay. Just do it a little softer.” You hesitantly leaned forward to try once again, now much more apprehensive this time. “There you go…” He cooed, “Few more seconds, then do the same to the other one. Don’t forget to use your hand on my cock while you do this.” You blushed at the crude words but wrapped a hand around his length again to start pumping slowly before releasing him with a loud pop and moving to the other one. His sounds gave you confidence and you flicked your tongue as you sucked, then pulled back to keep licking and kissing while you stroked him. It was hard to multitask though with how overwhelmed you were getting from his scent and his hand holding yours on his thigh and just his closeness. 

You tried not to get too embarrassed when your spit kept building up until it was covering your lips and chin, making you feel even dirtier. But you realized that you like how it feels. You like feeling filthy as you make him feel good. 

You kept mouthing at his balls, occasionally sucking on them, and he placed his free hand on your head, stroking your hair. 

“Fuck… Look at you— Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” He asked teasingly, not giving you a chance to reply before speaking again. “There’s no way this mouth belongs to my innocent little girl.” You blushed, feeling shy at the compliment. 

“Daddy…” You whined against him, never stopping the movement of your hand or mouth. 

“It’s okay, kiddo. You just keep sucking on my balls and stroking my cock. Don’t need to do anything else.” You whimpered and squirmed at his feet, quickly growing uncomfortable with the weird feeling between your legs. 

“Daddy, it hurts.” You didn’t want to disobey him by stopping right after he told you to keep going, so you barely pulled back enough to get the words out. 

“What hurts?” You whined quietly and pressed your thighs together. His gaze traveled down your body curiously. “Your cunt?” You mewled and blushed at the vulgar word, but nodded in agreement. 

“You’re a proper whore, aren’t you?” He chuckled, making you frown and pull back. 

“No…” 

“There’s no need to be embarrassed, baby. If sucking balls is what gets you off, that’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“Stop making fun of me.” You pouted, making him smile. “And ‘m not a whore.” 

“Of course you’re not a whore, princess. You’re my whore.” Your entire face heated up and the ache between your legs got infinitely worse. “Isn’t that right?” You whined quietly and he chuckled. 

“Y-yes…” You whispered. “Yours.” 

“My what?” Your expression turned into a pout and you averted your gaze. “Hm?”

“Your— your whore.” You choked out as tears welled in your eyes from the humiliation of it all.  

“Good girl. Keep going.” 

“But,” He gave you a warning look so you ignored the fire in your belly and leaned back in. Your hand picked up again as you tried new things with your mouth on his balls, making sure to repeat the ones that drew any sounds from him. There was even more saliva now and you could feel some of it dripping down your neck to your chest.

“Go a little lower now.” 

“W-what?” You choked out, trying to pull back, but he used the hand on your head to hold you there. “Relax, kiddo. Just a little bit.” He explained, but you were still apprehensive. He pushed you down until your chin hit the chair then pulled you closer, burying your nose into his balls and holding you there. 

“Lick.” He demanded, but you weren’t sure what you were supposed to be licking. Since you weren’t able to question him, you just stuck your tongue out and moved it as best you could with how close he was holding you to his body. “There you fucking go.” He groaned, bucking his hips against your face. 

“So fuckin’ filthy.” He said through a breath. Despite the degrading words he used, his tone was full of admiration and pride. “Covered in your own spit as you lick my taint.” He chuckled, voice a little darker now. “Work your way back up slowly.” He lessened the pressure on your head and you gave one last lick before moving up to his balls, mouthing at them for a few seconds, then kissing up his length until you reached the tip. You pulled back and looked up at him, waiting for the next instruction eagerly. 

“…I’m on the fence about teaching you this.” You furrowed your brows in confusion. 

“What is it?”

“It’s not necessary for a good blow job, you can leave a guy plenty satisfied with what I’ve taught you so far, but this just makes it even better.” You wanted to make him feel even better so there wasn’t any doubt in your mind. 

“Please teach me?” You asked, even though you still weren’t really sure what he was talking about. 

“Are you sure?”

“Please, daddy.” You whined. 

“Okay, princess. Hands off.” You let go of his cock and placed your hand on his thigh. “Open.” Your mouth fell open and he adjusted so he was gripping your hair, then slowly lowered you onto him. 

“First I want you to show me how far down you can take it.” He kept his grip on your hair, but let you move freely. Slowly forcing yourself down, you looked up at him for a moment before taking a deep breath through your nose and closing your eyes to concentrate. This is what you’re not good at. You kept going down until he brushed the back of your mouth. When you tried to move down even more, you gagged and had to pull off. 

“Good girl. Almost halfway.” You all but beamed at the praise. “I’m going to try holding you there. Pinch my thigh if it’s too much, okay?” You nodded and he gave you a small smile. “Take a deep breath.” You inhaled and let your mouth fall open, waiting for him to guide you down onto his cock. He pushed your head slowly until he reached the back of your mouth, then held you still. You were fine for a few seconds as you breathed heavily through your nose and focused on suppressing your gag reflex, but once it started, you couldn’t stop it and you had to pinch his thigh. 

“That was good, kiddo. You’re already getting better. Just try to keep your mouth open wider so your teeth aren’t touching it, okay?” 

“Okay. Sorry…” You looked away, feeling embarrassed. You didn’t know how you were supposed to open your mouth any wider when your jaw was already starting to ache because of his size. 

“Don’t apologize. You’re learning, you’re bound to make a mistake or two.” He said, easing your nerves. 

“Can I try again?” 

“Whenever you’re ready.” You sank down on his cock voluntarily this time and took deep breaths through your nose as he held you there. You didn’t want to gag, but you could feel it coming anyway. When it happened, you squeezed his thighs to keep yourself from pinching him, wanting to hold out a little longer. He shushed you and used a hand to pet your head while the other held you down as your body instinctively tried to pull up. 

“Good girl. See if you can control it.” You squeezed your eyes shut with a strangled whimper and tried to breathe slowly. “That’s it… I'm going to pull you up a little so you can take a breath.” He lifted you only an inch or so up and you heaved in a shaky breath before he pushed you back down. You weren’t expecting him to actually only let you take a single breath, so you gagged again the second he hit the back of your mouth. This time though, you gagged hard enough to make you feel like you could throw up if it happened just one more time so you pinched him and he pulled you off. 

A string of saliva connected your lips to his cock and you panted heavily, trying to catch your breath and push down the nausea. 

“I’m so proud of you, kiddo. You’re doing amazing.” It didn’t feel like you were doing amazing, but you blushed at the compliment anyway. 

“Thank you.” You rasped, giving him a small smile. He cupped your cheek, rubbing the saliva on your lips around a little as he returned the expression. 

“Keep this up and I might consider pushing your bedtime back two hours instead.” Your face lit up at that and he laughed under his breath. 

“Really?” 

“You deserve it.” You smiled and his thumb swiped over your lips again, so you took it into your mouth and sucked lightly. “Christ— You’re going to kill me, baby.” He groaned, making you blush. “Do you think you can try something a little harder now?” 

“I think so.” You said quietly, after reluctantly pulling away from his thumb to speak. 

“I’m going to push you down farther, okay? You’ll probably gag, but I know you can take it.” He pushed your hair out of your face and gave you a reassuring smile. You nodded and moved closer to his length, taking a deep breath and waiting for him to push you down. He did it slowly and stopped once he reached the back of your mouth. Placing both hands on the back of your head, he applied more pressure, but did it quickly. You gagged instantly, but it cut off into a garbled whimper when he breached your throat barrier and pushed you all the way down until your nose was buried in his pelvis and your chin was resting on his balls. 

“Fuck— good fucking girl.” He said through a moan. You tried to stay there despite the intense need to gag, but it was quickly becoming too much. “You feel incredible, baby.” You squeezed your eyes shut, hearing him curse under his breath as you choked. When you couldn’t take it anymore, you pinched his thigh and he hesitated for a second before letting you pull off. He stroked your hair as you coughed and tried to catch your breath. You looked up at him through teary eyes and his other hand moved to cup your cheek and brush his thumb over your lips that were slick with even more saliva now. 

“How you holding up?” He asked softly and you cleared your throat before responding. 

“Good I think..” 

“Do you want to stop?” Kind of… but at the same time you wanted more. More of this— more of him. 

“No- no… I want to keep going.”

“Don’t just say that because you think it’s what I want to hear,”

“‘m not. Wanna keep going.” You whined. 

“Do you want to keep doing this or go back to what you were doing before?” He seemed to like this the most and you wanted to practice so you could get better for him. So even though your throat was already sore, you said yes. 

“This.” 

“Okay, baby. Whenever you’re ready.” You cleared your throat again and tried to even out your breathing before wrapping your lips around the tip again, waiting for him to push you back down. He moved you slowly until he reached the back of your mouth and you braced yourself for what was about to happen. 

Even though you were anticipating it, you still gagged when he applied more pressure, and then choked when he finally entered your throat. You were coughing and sputtering around him, each time forcing more spit out of your mouth, making your face heat up when you felt more of it roll down your neck to your chest. 

“That’s it… Good girl.” The moan that escaped you because of his praise sounded more like a garbled, incoherent sound rather than anything else. “Fuck— I’m gonna come, baby.” He groaned, making your stomach flutter. 

You wanted nothing more than to pull off so you could breathe and cough, but you wanted to let him finish. So you squeezed his thighs hard enough to make him wince and his hips flinched up, burying his cock even deeper. 

“When I pull out, keep your mouth open.” He rushed out and you could only make a strangled sound in return. His hips were rutting up into your mouth now as he kept a tight grip on your head, not letting you move when your body reflexively tried to pull away. He cursed under his breath, then let out a loud groan, and you felt heat in your throat until he pulled out. You coughed, but tried to keep your mouth open as he stroked his cock in front of you, making more come land on your tongue and around your lips. When his sounds quieted and his hand slowed to a stop, he stared down at you as he panted. 

“Swallow.” He demanded softly. You reluctantly closed your mouth and swallowed, then he swiped up the come that landed on your face and put it on your tongue for you to swallow as well. 

You tried not to let it show in your expression, but you weren’t expecting it to taste like that at all and it caught you off guard. Especially because you were expecting more of the sweet taste that the precum had. 

“Everyone tastes like that?” You asked quietly, making him chuckle. 

“I wouldn’t really know, sweetheart, but I would assume so.” He wiped your tears and the spit from your chin and your stomach fluttered again at the soft, simple action. “You did such a good job. I’m so proud, kiddo.” Your whole face flushed at the compliment, but you didn’t understand why he said it since it didn’t seem like you improved much. 

“Thank you..” You said anyway, making the corners of his lips turn up into a small smile. 

“Get up here, princess.” You immediately got giddy at the thought of being so close to him and you eagerly climbed onto the chair and straddled his legs, putting your hands on his shoulders. He rubbed up and down your thighs slowly, teasing you. 

“Do you think you’ve learned enough?” You tried not to frown at the thought of this ending so soon. 

“No…” You muttered, looking down. 

“No? What else can I teach you, baby?” He chuckled. You knew his question was rhetorical, but you answered anyway. 

“I- I don’t know how to… touch myself.” You said with a blush and his eyes widened a little. 

“You don’t touch yourself?” He asked through a breath, almost completely frozen. 

“I’ve tried… I just end up feeling awkward and dumb so I stop. But I need you, daddy, it hurts. Make it go away.” You whined, giving him puppy dog eyes and a frown. He cursed under his breath and closed his eyes for a moment, his grip tightening on your thighs. 

“Fuck— fuck, okay. I’ll teach you, but after that, no more.” 

“Okay.” You agreed, even though you knew you were going to be begging him to keep going when he decided to stop. He took a deep breath and you waited anxiously for him to do something. 

“You have to start slow, build up to it. Women are different from men, they need more than we do to get started.” His hands dragged up your thighs— over your skirt— to your hips, then up your waist, and sadly back down again. 

“Don’t wanna start slow.” You whined, squirming in his lap. 

“You told me to teach you and that’s what I’m doing, princess.” You huffed and looked away from him with a pout. When he suddenly grabbed your cheeks in one hand, then turned you back to face him and pulled you closer, your breath caught in your throat. 

“I don’t want any attitude from you when I’m the one doing you a favor.” He said lowly, but you were distracted by his breath fanning your lips and his grip on your face. “I control how fast or slow we go. Do you understand?” There was that fear again, only this time you subconsciously tried to grind against him. 

“Y-yes.” You whispered, staring at him with wide eyes, getting needier and needier. “Please,” You whined, squirming again, but stopping when his hand moved down to your throat. 

“What did I just say?” He gritted. 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry— But I can’t take this anymore, it’s torture!” You cried. He stared at you with a dark look that made you nervous and you waited anxiously for what was next. 

“Fine. Up.”

“Daddy…” You whined, but it cut off then he roughly grabbed your hips and lifted you to your feet. He didn’t even give you a demand before pulling you forward by your hips so that your legs were on either side of one of his. You gasped when he pulled you down and reached for his shoulders to steady yourself. “Grind on my thigh.” 

“W-what?” You choked out, eyes widening even more. 

“If you want to act like a bitch in heat, that’s how you’ll be treated. Hump my fucking thigh or we’re done for tonight.” He menaced, making your whole face heat up. You’ve never heard such degrading words before, especially not aimed at you, and even though you were probably supposed to be upset that he basically just called you a dog… you started moving your hips anyway. 

“You need to learn,” he landed a hard smack on your ass, making you cry out and tighten your grip on his shoulders, “when to fucking listen.” Another spank, this time on your other cheek. “I didn’t have to let you suck my cock, but I did…” When he hit you again, you felt tears brimming in your eyes. “I didn’t have to teach you how to deep throat,” you let out a choked sob when he hit you again, the hardest so far, “but I did.” He growled, spanking you twice in quick succession. 

“I’m sorry!” You cried, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“Look at the fucking mess you’re making.” He roughly fisted your hair and forced your head down so you could see the damp spot on his pants where you were grinding. You whined, getting so overwhelmed with the feeling between your legs and his words and his hands and just him. 

“Get the fuck up.” He suddenly said, making your heart drop. Was he going to leave you like this? All needy and achy?

“Daddy, ‘m sorry.” You whimpered, staring at him with puppy dogs eyes and a pout. In response, he just lifted you off of him by your hips and stood up. You protested with a whine, but it cut off when he pushed you in front of the desk and roughly forced your chest down on it. You tried lifting yourself up, but he just placed a firm hand between your shoulder blades and forced you back down. 

“Stay.” He growled, making you stiffen. He flipped your skirt up and you squirmed with a low whine. “No shorts?” He spanked you again and you quickly scrambled for purchase on the desk. When he roughly groped your ass, you let out a quiet moan and squeezed your thighs together, but he kicked your legs apart, not letting you have any relief. 

“Daddy…” You whined, but it cut off into a yelp when he spanked you again. He roughly cupped your sex and you mewled in response as you pushed your hips back. 

“Such a needy fucking pussy for a virgin.” He gruffed, making you blush, but it only intensified when he pulled your panties to the side. 

“Fuck…” He muttered, then dragged a finger through your slit, spreading your arousal. “Fuck!” You jumped at the sudden increase in volume. Was he mad? He sounded like he was quickly losing his composure and you weren’t exactly sure why or how you could help him. 

“Daddy?” 

“Shut up.” He hissed, roughly gripping your underwear and pulling until he ripped it off of you. “Just shut the fuck up.” 

“Mmph!” He shoved your panties in your mouth before you could even register what was happening. He ignored you and roughly groped your ass again, pulling you apart to spread your holes and cursing under his breath. When wetness and heat replaced the chilly air on your clit, your hips flinched back toward the pleasure as a surprise moan escaped you. 

He licked over you slowly, still having a firm grip on your ass to keep you spread open. Moving up to your hole, he licked and sucked, making a loud, vulgar slurping sound that had you whining from embarrassment. 

You whimpered, hiding your burning face in your arms. He lapped up your arousal for a while before going back down to your clit and sucking it into his mouth. You choked on a whimper at the sudden, intense pleasure, making him chuckle against you. 

Your knees shook and you moved your hands to grip the desk, trying to ground yourself, but it was just so fucking intense. Eventually, your legs got too weak to hold you up and all of your weight was resting on the desk with the hard wood digging into your hip bones painfully. 

You whimpered, feeling your stomach tighten with arousal even more, but let out an anguished sob when he suddenly pulled back. Your head was spinning with how fast he lifted you off of the desk and sat you down on his chair, removing the makeshift gag.

He pulled your hips to the edge and dove back in eagerly. Your hands landed in his hair as you rocked your hips against his face, moaning and whining at the new feeling— you could already tell you were getting addicted. Moving down to your hole, he lapped up your arousal and rubbed his thumb over your clit, making your stomach feel even tighter.  

“If you let that… that fucking pervert anywhere near you I swear to god you won’t be able to sit for a fucking week.” He growled and you moaned at his words as well as the sudden possessiveness in his tone. “This pussy is mine. Do you understand?” You mewled and tugged his hair, trying to pull his mouth back on you, but he was stronger. 

“Y-yes. Yours, daddy.” You whined, tugging harder. “Please!” You cried, when he still wouldn’t give in. “It’s yours, daddy! I’m all yours.” You sobbed out, grinding your hips in hopes of getting the stimulation back. 

“Pull your shirt up.” He gruffed, only leaning back down after you obeyed. His mouth took over his thumb again and he reached up to grope your breast as he sucked on your clit in an almost feral manner. “Who’s tits are these?” He mumbled against you, starting to toy with your nipple now. 

“Yours.” 

“Who’s allowed to see them?” He switched hands, giving your other nipple the same treatment. 

“Only you.” You said through a breath, feeling the coil in your stomach get impossibly tighter. 

“Who’s allowed to touch them?” 

“Only you, daddy. Please!” He didn’t respond, he just worked harder and faster on your clit until you fell over the edge. You sobbed out a moan and pulled on his hair hard enough to make him hiss in pain. But that was overshadowed by the feeling flooding your entire body, making you tremble and writhe as you rutted against his face. You weren’t lying when you said you don’t touch yourself, but now that you know what an orgasm feels like? You might start trying honestly. 

Once your body sagged into the chair and your sounds died down, he pulled back, his lips and chin glistening. You were panting, still trying to calm down even though you were practically dizzy with pleasure. You felt warm hands running up and down your thighs, soothing you, and you gave him a dopey smile as your eyes fluttered open to look down at him. 

“You’ve got quite the grip on you, kiddo.” He chuckled, making you blush and loosen your hands in his hair. 

“Sorry.” You said sheepishly, trying to rub his scalp a little to soothe the ache he must be feeling from you pulling so hard. 

“You okay?” He asked and you nodded wordlessly. “I… I didn’t mean to get so harsh. I just worry.” 

“I know, it’s okay. I won’t go near him.” It felt like you were hit with a wave of exhaustion all of a sudden. Is that what orgasms do? Make you sleepy?

“Good girl. You tired?” When you nodded, he chuckled quietly. “Let’s get you cleaned up really quick. Wait here.” As if you could stand on your wobbly legs. You thought with an internal scoff. He left the room and returned with a damp washcloth a minute later. He started with your face, gently wiping the mascara from under your eyes and the dried spit around your mouth, trailing down your chest. Once that was cleaned up, he went even lower. You jolted when the cloth brushed over your folds. 

“I’ll be quick.” He said, trying to soothe you. He wiped the area gently and you couldn’t help the quiet moan that slipped out when he brushed your clit. “None of that.” He reprimanded you softly and with a smile. When he finished, he pulled your top back down and fixed your skirt. 

“Do you still want that hot chocolate and movie?” You nodded with a lazy smile and he chuckled before picking you up and carrying you to the living room. He set you down on the couch gently and laid a blanket over you, then kissed the top of your head. As he was walking to the kitchen, your brain was already starting to come up with new ways to get this to happen again. You still have so much to learn, after all. 

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[dancethroughthethunder]

Been There, Done That

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Word Count: 7.6k

Summary: The residents of Jackson keep trying to tell Tommy they think there’s something going on with you and Joel but he’s not buying it. Tommy doesn’t blame them, he spent over two decades trying to get the two of you to admit your feelings for each other, and that was before the outbreak.

Author’s Note: My first ever Joel fic. This one has bounced around in my brain for quite a while, and I really have to thank the very kind commenter on my WIP list (not sure if they want to be tagged so I won't) whose kind words encouraged me to wrap and post this. My sweet, soft Joel Miller and a mischievous cast of folks in Jackson. This work can also be found here at my ao3. I hope you enjoy! Divider below credit to @saradika-graphics :)

You’re out on patrol with Joel, Jesse, and Cat walking through Teton Village. In a mile or so you’ll split off with Cat to the west while Jesse and Joel go east. For now, you’re all walking alongside your horses, giving them a chance to rest before riding ahead further. Cat is in the lead with you and Jesse in the middle, and Joel bringing up the rear just a few steps behind you. 

Compared to you and Joel, Jesse and Cat are still newer to patrolling but they’re no longer considered in training. Still, Jesse can’t help but to glance over at the two of you every now and then, making sure to follow your lead, while still maintaining an active view of his surroundings. He’s trained and patrolled with Joel enough to know just how good his situational awareness is, and how it puts him a step ahead of some of the other patrolmen.

Luckily, it’s been an easy patrol so far – there’s been no signs of infected or other people, and yesterday’s patrol didn’t turn anything up either though. two days ago someone noted some tracks. Your guards are still up, but you’re able to chat while you’re going, there’s no need for complete stealth and silence right now.

“So, Jesse, how’s Dina?” Rolling his eyes, he knows even before he turns to look at you that you’ve got a shit-eating grin. 

“I’m pretty sure you know as well as I do since you ate breakfast with her right before we left.” It’s all good natured as Jesse tries to deflect away from what you’re really asking.

“Oh, I’m not sure I know her as well as you do.” You joke.

“Alright, give the kid a break.” Before Jesse has a chance to reply, Joel catches up to you and takes your hand in his. At first, Jesse thinks that maybe Joel is trying to get your attention, or lead you somewhere but he’s shocked when he realizes that he’s just walking alongside you, his hand in yours.

He’s trying not to stare but it shocks him. Joel’s not exactly the affectionate type, but here he is with his left hand in your right, like it’s something he does every day. Neither of you seem bothered by it, and Jesse doesn’t want to make it weird so he just offers Joel an amused “thank you” for stopping your line of thought and keeps walking. 

About half a mile later, when you pass the library, you make a big show of wanting to go inside and grab a book.

“I don’t think so.” Joel interrupts.

“Oh come on, the weight of one book won’t make or break me.” You look up at Joel with a look as sweet as honey.

It’s clear you’ve had this conversation before as Joel as he fixes you with a look but doesn’t say anything. You both continue walking, it’s clear that if you really wanted to take off towards the library, you could, and it’s equally clear that Joel could tug you away if he wanted. But neither of you do. It’s a practiced song and dance between you two and Jesse watches as a smile starts to break through Joel’s attempt at looking stern.

“I’ll stop on our way back.” 

“I figured you would.” Joel says, and it’s the softest Jesse’s ever heard him sound. “Cat, don’t let her grab more than two, y’hear?” 

Cat just silently nods at the direction, and when you lock eyes with Jesse, you’ve got a mischievous look in your eyes. Jesse makes a mental note to check later – he’s almost sure that look means you’ll be returning with no fewer than three books. (You come back with five.)

Not long after that, you and Cat prepare to part ways with the guys. Jesse’s not sure when you and Joel stopped holding hands, but then again after the initial shock, it did sort of make sense for him too. He’s always assumed there was something going on with you two even though you’ve always sworn you were just friends. Hell, he’s even talked about it with Tommy. He’s looking forward to telling him this latest update later. 

“Alright, watch each others’ backs. Just because we haven’t seen anything come from those tracks doesn’t mean there’s nothing out there.” Joel tells you and Cat.

“I know. You do the same.” 

You and Joel exchange a quick nod, and Jesse does the same with Cat. Then you split one way while he and Joel go the other way. They don’t see you for the rest of the afternoon, but that’s expected with the way your routes diverge. Aside from one clicker that Joel takes out, it’s an incredibly calm patrol. 

As they enter the gates, Joel offers to sign Jesse’s gun back in with his own and take the horses. Jesse hands the gun and reins over before heading to Tommy’s office. It’s partly a chance to update him on how patrol went, but it’s mostly a chance to gossip while Tommy takes a look at some blueprints he’s been working on with Joel.

“So how was patrol?” Tommy asks after a few minutes of idle gossip, turning his focus back to his work. 

“Good, we followed up on those tracks that were spotted the other day, found one lone infected that Joel took out. Other than that, nothing out of the norm.” Jesse subconsciously stands a little straighter as he delivers this mini-report, his mind in business mode. 

Tommy doesn’t have much more to ask, he’ll get any details from Joel later and he trusts that if there’s anything to know immediately, one of the four of you would have already told him. Jesse’s a good kid and good on patrol, if he says it was all good, it was. So Tommy just nods and hums his approval.

“Tommy, they were holding hands.” Jesse says, sitting down and finally dropping what he thinks is going to be the biggest piece of gossip of the day.

Tommy doesn’t even bother looking up, “Were they near the old library?” 

“Well yeah, how’d you know?” Jesse’s eyes widen with surprise. How could Tommy possibly know that? 

“She’s always been a big reader, kid. Back in the day they’d go to the mall with Sarah, and Joel would have to practically drag her away from the bookstore before she could buy everything. Now it’s as much an old habit as it is practical. She can only carry so many books back on patrol.” 

“I’m telling you,” Jesse shakes his head, “they kept holding hands after they had walked past.”

“Joel was probably giving her shit about her running back to the library, and she was probably giving it right back about being tempted to do it.” Tommy shrugs. 

“Alright, if you say so.” Jesse wants to argue that he knows what he saw, how the two of you looked, but he gives up. Tommy’s just as stubborn as Joel and it’s easier to let it go. 

“Trust me, kid. They’ve been like this for decades. You’re not the first person to tell me you think something is up with them. I spent years thinking the same thing. But on a more interesting note, what’s this I hear about you and Dina getting back together again?” Tommy smirks, finally looking up right at Jesse.

“How the fuck could you possibly know that already? How does everyone know?” Jesse sighs exasperatedly while Tommy laughs. 

The two men spend the next hour together, talking and working as Tommy starts walking Jesse through what he’s been doing. Jesse is focused on the work but at the back of his mind, he’s still considering what he saw on patrol. The instinctive way that Joel grabbed your hand, the way it didn’t even phase you.

Sure, you were near the old library and you did joke about getting books but you didn’t look like you were trying to head there, and it didn’t look like Joel was trying to lead you anywhere, he was just trying to be with you. Frankly, it was quite a sight: big, bad Joel Miller, strapped with at least four weapons, eyes constantly scanning his surroundings and one hand softly holding onto you. What kind of trust that must entail to tie one hand to yours, knowing that’s a few extra seconds before it could reach for a weapon. Jesse loves Dina, he really does, but he’s not sure that he’d hold her hand on patrol. Not when it could be by his side, ready for action.

But, he figures, you and Joel are old hat at patrolling together. Everyone knows that you and Joel have been best friends since way before the outbreak, back to your school days. He’s seen the way you two move as one, so maybe those few seconds aren’t as concerning, as necessary. Maybe it’s an old habit, of a friendship from a lifetime ago. Besides, Tommy’s known you his whole life, has had decades of seeing you two together. Maybe he’s right, but if he isn’t, Jesse won’t wait to say I told you so. 

Just like he told Jesse, Tommy is so used to having to tell people no, you and Joel aren’t an item that he doesn’t even think to mention it to anyone. It’s old news, not even worth a mention to Maria at the end of the day despite the other gossip he passes along. He doesn’t give it another thought, not even when he’s thrust into a similar conversation with Eugene at the Tipsy Bison a few days later. 

“So, guess who I saw leaving your brother’s house early this morning?” Eugene asks as Tommy slides up next to him at the bar. 

“Do I even want to know?” Tommy asks with a groan. Joel’s really not as much of a ladies man as the gossip mill wishes he was, but he has been known to go on a date here or there. Still, as far as gossip comes, Eugene’s a pretty reliable source. 

Eugene doesn’t say anything, he just looks at Tommy as if to say, come on, guess. After a moment of silence, the look morphs into one that seems to indicate you’re not this dumb. I know you know who. 

“Oh come on, you can’t seriously tell me that even you think there’s something going on with them?” Tommy rolls his eyes. Neither man says your name, they don’t have to, they both know that they’re talking about you.

“No, I know. I’ve been on the other side of this conversation, myself, but this time there’s something to it.” Eugene jokes, taking a sip of his drink as Tommy just shakes his head. 

“You’re nuts. I think the weed is finally going to your head.” 

“That may be, but I know what I saw.” Eugene says. “We got that heavy rain this morning, and I was out on the porch just watching it come down when I saw her come out and head down the road towards her own house.” 

Tommy just shakes his head, “alright so she was there. You and I both know that doesn’t mean anything. They were probably just having breakfast.” 

You were, in fact, having breakfast. Joel had fried up a few eggs and you had brought over a loaf of bed to have some toast. The two of you ate your breakfast and sat there, watching the rain through the window as you drank your coffee. Eventually, a glance at the clock told you that it was time to head home so you could get ready before your shift. You were helping out at the school today – in another life, you were a substitute teacher to get through grad school, and while you’re a bit of a Jack-of-all-trades nowadays, you still find yourself slipping into the classroom from time-to-time. 

“Alright, thanks for breakfast, I’ve gotta head home.” You told Joel as you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, watching as he put away the last dish you’d washed and dried. 

“Are you sure I can’t talk you into staying for another cup of coffee?” Just like every time you’re over for breakfast, Joel refused to let you wash your coffee mug right away, just in case you want another, he always says.

“Joel Miller? Offering to give away even more of his coffee? That’s crazy talk. You keep that up and people are liable to think you’ve been body snatched.” You laughed as you headed to the front door to lace up your shoes. You didn’t notice the way Joel pauses for a moment, glancing back into the kitchen as if to confirm he’s still got an extra can tucked away high in the pantry where you wouldn’t think to look. 

“At least take a jacket. You should’ve brought one.” Joel moved to grab his raincoat from the hall closet.

“It wasn’t raining when I left. Besides, a little rain never killed anyone.” You smiled. 

“I don’t know about that, you might be sweet enough to melt.” Joel teased.

“You’re incorrigible, Joel Miller. I’m fine, I’m only going over two streets to go get ready. I can dry off and grab my own jacket before I head to the school.”

“Yeah, alright. Have a good day.” Joel knew he'd lost, it’s always a battle of stubborn will between you and it was his turn to give in. 

With the rain pouring down around you, you gave Joel a quick wave before setting off towards your house. It was the type of heavy rain where you just keep your head down and trudge through to your destination. You meant what you said, you didn’t mind the walk in the rain, but it did keep you from really noticing Eugene watching from a few porches down as you departed. 

“Nah, it was too early to be decent. Hell, I couldn’t even tell you why I was up. Maybe the storm woke me.” Eugene tells Tommy, now that he’s done recounting the way he saw you leave this morning.

Instead of continuing to focus on your alleged walk of shame, Tommy takes the opportunity to joke with Eugene. “Ah, that old man sleep schedule.” 

Before either man can say anything else, Tommy feels someone coming up behind him. 

“You’re no spring chicken yourself, anymore.” Joel knocks shoulders with Tommy, joining their conversation. 

Whether Eugene agrees with Tommy’s assessment of a casual, platonic breakfast or not, he takes the hint to drop the conversation while the brothers start bickering. Even if Tommy completely missed the point Eugene was trying to make. There’s no way you would have been out in that weather early enough for breakfast, and even if you had been crazy enough, you would have had a jacket.

No, Eugene knows what he saw and what it meant. Tommy can think whatever he wants, but Eugene is sure you didn’t just go over for breakfast, but woke up and had it there. At the end of the day, he’s amused but it’s really none of his business so when the next conversation comes along, Eugene lets it go. There’s no point in bringing it up any further yet, but maybe he’ll keep an eye on you two and see if he notices anything else. 

A week later, Dina heads towards the front gates, waiting for Jesse to return from another patrol. She knows how proud he’s been to get to go on more and more patrols, and today he’s out  with Joel again, just the two of them. Dina’s only been on a few patrols so far, and she knows Jesse likes patrolling with and learning from Joel the best, but she prefers your style of teaching. She likes Joel and he knows what he’s doing, but you feel like a cool aunt, or a fun older sister, even out on patrol. Dina misses Talia, and while neither of you are trying to replace the people you’ve lost, it’s nice to have someone in that familial role. 

Today, she gets to go out on patrol with you, taking over after Jesse and Joel. The two of you had grabbed lunch with Ellie before you offered to go sign out the guns if Dina would get the horses, telling her you’d meet her by the gates.  

By the time Dina (and both horses) walk up to the gates, you’re already there chatting with Maria. Dina walks up to join you and you exchange her gun for the reins to your horse. 

“Alright, I’ll stop by later.” You tell Maria, turning to make sure everything is set the way you like it. Dina waves to Maria as she turns to walk away. 

“Let’s just wait a few minutes for the guys to get back and then we can head out.”

Strategically, it’s a smart choice. It means the gates only have to open once, and that you can quickly touch base and see if there is anything you should know before you head out. Selfishly, Dina’s glad to have the chance to see Jesse. Plus, she’s convinced there’s something going on between you and Joel so she’s taking every opportunity she can to pay attention. 

Sure enough, not even a minute later she hears the call to open the gates and the two of them move forward so they can meet the guys right at the opening.

Dina watches as your eyes light up with relief seeing Joel and Jesse back in one piece. She notices the way you give each of them a quick once-over for any injuries before your gaze lingers on Joel. She feels an immediate sense of satisfaction, this is the exact type of thing she's looking out for.

“Hi, you. Come here often?” You ask.

“I’ve been known to.” Joel responds, and it’s easy for Dina to see why the women of Jackson love to watch him – with that charming smile and gleam in his eyes, not to mention the accent. He’s not her type, but she gets it.

Dina takes a minute to say hi to Jesse while you and Joel talk.

“Anything we should know?” She asks, in a similar version of the conversation you and Joel are having.

“We didn’t see anything, so hopefully your route is quiet too.” Jesse tells her. 

“Okay.” Dina says, giving him a quick kiss. “I’ll see you later.”

“Be safe.” Jesse tells her.

“You be safe out there.” Joel tells you at the same time.

“Always am. Love you.” Dina’s glad she’s looking at Jesse and not towards you and Joel because her jaw drops. Sure, she thought something was going on but she wasn't expecting anything so direct.

Joel grunts back something that sounds like “love you too.” Dina doesn’t think her jaw could be any lower. She knows you’re an affectionate person but telling Joel you love him? In the middle of Jackson? And him saying it back? No way is she hearing what she’s hearing. A quick glance at Jesse’s look of astonishment reveals that she’s not the only one shocked or who heard it.

“Alright, miss Dina. Time for us to head out.” 

Dina just nods, still stunned by your matter of fact, nonchalant tone, and mounts her horse to follow you out of the gates. 

You do spend a good part of patrol talking about people in Jackson (general), relationships (hers) and rumors, but you never mention what you said to Joel. She has so many questions but doesn’t want to scare you off, or make patrol weird. No, she’ll keep waiting and watching and bring it up later. 

The next day, she stops by lunch with everyone to grab a sandwich and is delighted to see Tommy and Ellie eating together.

“Oh my god.” She says, in lieu of a greeting.

“Good afternoon to you, too.” Tommy says while Ellie just nods with a mouthful of food. 

“You’ll never guess what I heard yesterday?” She’s so excited she doesn’t give them a chance to answer before continuing, “so, as you know we had patrol after Joel and Jesse and we met them at the gates to switch off and right before we left, I heard her tell Joel she loves him. And he said it back!” She’s nearly yelling, she’s so excited.

“Okay.” Tommy says, before taking a bite of his sandwich.

“Okay? Okay! This is big news!” She exclaims.

“Dina, I hear you. But, I’ve been hearing her say that since high school.”

“No way, this was romantic. Trust me.” Ellie snorts as Dina digs her heels in. 

“I thought that too. It’s easier when you just accept it.” He shrugs.

“I dunno, Tommy. They do look pretty damn cozy lately.” Ellie adds in Dina's defense. “But then again, it is Joel, so.” Dina’s smile fades as she groans in reply to Ellie.

“Exactly, it’s Joel. Joel!” She tries again.

“What’s this about Joel?” You ask, walking up to the table with your own plate in hand. 

“Ah, Dina’s just telling us about you telling Joel you love him.” Tommy pointedly ignores the look Dina is giving him to be quiet, and tells you the exact thing she’s trying to avoid him saying.

“Tommy what the fuck?” She bursts out and you just laugh.

“Oh, fair enough.” You say, sitting down. Dina watches, exasperated as you unwrap your sandwich and start eating. No, it doesn’t matter how Tommy denies it and you play it off, she’s positive something is going on. And she’s going to keep watching until she has complete proof. She was already on a mission, but now she's determined to double down. While you start talking with Tommy, she scoots over closer to Ellie, roping her into her plan. 

It takes another week for the girls to come up with their plan and get everything ready, but it’s finally time. Ellie has talked Joel into another movie night and Dina has gotten you to promise that you’ll attend, not that it took much convincing. 

They almost go so far as to ask Maria what kind of movie you should watch, but decide against it, worrying that she’d tell you their scheme. They do tell Tommy, much to his amusement. 

“Hold on, so your big plan is to watch a movie with them, and just see what they do?” The corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement. “And you think this will be different from any other movie you’ve watched with them, because…?”

“We have a plan, Tommy.” Ellie says, almost defiantly.

“Yeah. I asked her about what movies she likes on patrol, and talked her into looking at the library to see what they have. She found a few she said she liked that we brought back. This way it’s something she already knows, and they have options.” Dina nods as if this is the lynchpin of their entire plan. 

“Plus, Dina will pretend to get a headache and go home and I’ll ‘fall asleep’ on the couch so they’ll think it’s just them but I can watch them.” She’s so excited about it, it brings a genuine smile to Tommy’s face.

For a minute, Tommy is thrown back 20 years, instead of Ellie, it’s Sarah scheming over the two of you. He tries so hard to see them each as their own person, but sometimes, in moments like this, he can’t help but see the similarities. But he can’t say that, so instead he just smiles.

The girls spend the rest of the day excited and finally, it’s time to head over for dinner. They’re full of excited energy as they meet you and Joel at the house, and instead of going off to Ellie’s room like they normally do, they sit with you in the kitchen while you cook, talking about a little of everything until Joel finally cracks and sends them to the living room, “It's not that big of a kitchen, it’s gonna take twice as long if you’re hovering.”

You just laugh and wink at Dina as the girls groan and go to the living room.

“They’re in good spirits today.” You say.

“Teenage girls, still the same as 20 years ago apparently.” Joel grumbles, but you see through it to know that he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Who would have thought at our big age we’d still be surrounded by them?” You pause your stirring and share a smile with Joel. You miss Sarah more than anything, and are glad to have Ellie and Dina in your lives, even when they’re being ridiculous. 

Without the constant interruptions, you two finish making dinner and call the girls to the table to eat. It’s a practiced routine with you and Joel dishing out food around each other listening to Ellie’s recount of her day. 

You’re not entirely sure what’s up during dinner but it’s clear that the girls are up to something . The little looks between the two of them, the way they keep giggling when they mention movie night. You’re just not sure what. Dina had the great idea to check out the movie selection at the Grand Teton library on patrol so you know you’ve got a couple of new options and you can’t think what might be causing it. Oh , you realize, one of the movies you grabbed was Dirty Dancing, the title is probably what’s giving them the giggles.

With that mystery solved, you turn your attention back to your dinner, leaving the girls to their own amusement. By the time dinner is done, they seem to mostly contain themselves so you send them off to pick a movie in the other room while you and Joel do the dishes. 

“What is with the giggling?” Joel says, the second you hear laughter coming from the other room.

“My best guess? We grabbed Dirty Dancing. I think the title is setting them off.” You shrug as you scrub the next dish.

“Could be.” Joel muses. 

It doesn’t take long for you to finish the dishes and dry your hands. Before you can make your way to the living room, Dina and Ellie come back to the kitchen.

“Dina’s got a headache!” Ellie nearly yells. It’s almost laughable, only Ellie would shout next to someone with a headache. 

“Yeah, sorry, I think I need a rain check on movie night.” Dina says, almost looking sheepish.

“Alright, honey. You want to go up to Ellie’s room and lay down? I can grab you a cool cloth.” You offer, concerned.

“No, that’s okay, I’m just gonna head home.” Dina says with a small shrug.

“Why don’t we save the movie for another night? We can play a game with Ellie instead.” You look over at Joel who nods in agreement.

“No!” Both girls yell, startling you and Joel.

“Dina doesn’t mind.” Ellie says.

“Yeah, I don’t want you to miss out. I’ll watch another time!” Dina adds. You and Joel exchange a look but frankly, you don’t have the energy to try and decipher every bit of teenage weirdness from the girls so you just agree. Dina gets sent home with a couple of cookies you were going to share during the movie, a hug, and a promise to you to get some rest. 

You and Joel turn back to the dishes to finish cleaning up while Ellie walks Dina to the door.

“That was fucking perfect, I don’t think they suspect anything.” Ellie says, louder than she intends. In the kitchen, you have to bite back your laughter. Truthfully, you’re not sure what this performance has been about, but you definitely suspect something is up with Dina. Even if you didn't, Ellie's momentary inability to whisper would have looped you in.

“Okay, you’ll have to tell me everything.” Dina says.

“Tomorrow at breakfast.” Ellie nods, seriously, as if they’re discussing battle plans and not an attempt to catch you and Joel in a romance. 

Dina leaves and Ellie meets you and Joel in the living room. She claims the slightly larger of the two couches, and sprawls out hoping it will push you two to sit closely on the other.

“How does one small person take up so much space?” Joel teases. Ellie just lifts up a middle finger in response while you laugh. 

You toss her a blanket as you cross the room towards the small stack of VHS tapes. 

“I’m thinking Raiders of the Lost Ark. It’s one of my favorites, I think you’ll like it, El.” Joel just laughs, knowing how many times you’d bring it over for movie night back in the day.

“Sure.” Honestly, Ellie doesn’t care what you watch tonight, since her focus is going to be on you and Joel. 

With that decided, you pop the tape in the VCR and grab a blanket for yourself. You make your way back to the couch and Ellie nearly jumps for joy when you curl up right next to Joel like you always do. 

As Joel extends an arm on the back of the couch behind you, he raises one eyebrow at Ellie, trying to figure out why she’s being so damn weird. When she gives him a thumbs up, he’s no less confused but brushes it off as Ellie being Ellie. 

She makes sure to get cozy at an angle where she can see the tv and you and Joel, but you won’t have an easy glimpse to know whether or not she’s awake. A few minutes into the movie she makes a point to yawn, and then she does it again a few minutes later. Damn, she thinks, this does look like a good movie, but it’ll be worth it to watch you and Joel. She’ll just have to see if you want to watch it with her again sometime. 

Not even twenty minutes into the movie, you look over at Ellie and nudge Joel, “she’s out cold.” 

Joel moves to reach for the remote before you can stop him, “no, it’s okay. Let her sleep, she and I can watch it another time.” Joel just nods and when he moves back, his arm falls from the back of the couch to around your shoulders. Ellie thinks she deserves some kind of award for feigning sleep during this. 

With Joel’s arm around your shoulders, one of your favorite movies on the tv and a cozy blanket draped over your laps, you’re happy as a clam and contentedly drop your head to Joel’s chest. The two of you stay that way for the rest of the movie. On the one hand, Ellie considers your cuddling a win. On the other hand, she was definitely hoping for something more exciting. Though she does eventually actually fall asleep, but she won’t tell Dina that part. 

The next morning, she’s wide awake the second her feet hit the floor for once, ready to meet Dina for breakfast. She tosses out a “good morning, going to breakfast, bye” all in one breath before she runs out the door. 

Dina’s already waiting for her with two plates when she gets to breakfast, and she eagerly fills her in on what happened after she left. It doesn’t take long for them to spot Tommy and wave him over to share their information.

“Them cuddling during a movie? During Raiders? Sorry, kiddos, been there done that. Literally.” Tommy offers them a sympathetic smile.

“You can’t ruin this for us, Tommy. Something’s up with them.” Ellie insists.

“Whatever you say.” Tommy laughs and shakes his head before saying goodbye and heading off to work for the day.

This time, he does mention it to Maria when they’re chatting after dinner. 

“Honestly, hon, I don’t know why everyone is suddenly so focused on them. They’ve been like this forever. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been convinced that they were finally getting together. It’s always ‘no, Tommy, we’re just friends’, ‘Tommy it’s platonic’, ‘she’s just a friend, Tommy’ so I finally was like fine! Short of them fucking making out in front of my face, it’s all platonic.” Tommy’s being overdramatic and Maria is having a hard time keeping a straight face. 

“I’m sorry to say, I also think that there’s something going on there.”

“Oh, not you too.” Tommy groans.

This afternoon, it was Maria’s turn to stop by the store to get what passes for groceries nowadays. They still have some things in the pantry, and later this week they’re having a birthday dinner for you, so she mostly focused on grabbing some produce and meat. 

She had looked over and saw Joel entering the store. They exchanged a pleasant nod and she continued with her shopping while Joel began his. Joel seemed to be a man on a mission and quickly gathered what he needed, with them both arriving at the front at the same time. 

With a slightly larger basket, Maria gestured to let Joel go first. 

Joel set his purchases down on the counter where it could be marked off for inventory purposes. Maria glanced down and saw sugar, flour, eggs, and some applesauce. With a nod, Dominique reached under the counter and grabbed what appeared to be a container of spices. Wordlessly, Joel pulled a can of coffee out of his bag in exchange.

“Normally you’re taking home the coffee, not bringing it back.” Maria couldn’t help herself from saying. 

“Well, her birthday’s coming up.” Joel scratches the back of his neck and shrugs. “Her favorite has always been spice cake, and I asked Dominique a while ago to keep an eye out for any spices I could use.” 

Maria’s heart melted. Coffee is hard to come by, and it’s long been a running joke in Jackson that now that they’ve got a steady supply, nothing could come between Joel Miller and his daily cup. But to see him willingly handing over an entire can of it, just to get something for you, is something she never expected from him.

“You were in luck, too. I almost feel bad asking for the whole can in return.” Dominique joked, despite taking the coffee anyways.

“Thank you, mighty appreciated.” Joel nodded, grabbing the rest of his goods to put in his bag before delicately placing the spice jar on top. 

Maria wanted to say more, but it was clear that was enough sentimentality for Joel as it was. So instead, she said, “well, I, for one, am looking forward to this Friday night birthday party. It’s nice to be able to celebrate things even though it’s not how it used to be.”

Joel simply nodded in return, but one glance at the look in his eyes told Maria that he was visiting a faraway time, a time where he could have gotten you a cheap cake from the supermarket, ice cream, and easy, store bought presents. If she could have seen in his mind, she’d have heard years of singing each other happy birthday with laughter – his, yours, Tommy’s, their parents, and Sarah’s. She’d have seen the way that Sarah insisted on learning how to make a spice cake every year, even though you promised you’d have been just as happy with chocolate cake, or vanilla; the way your eyes would always light up with the first bite, the perfect mix of the spices in the cake with the frosting (regular, not cream cheese, thank you very much). 

She couldn’t see any of that, but she could see Joel’s love for you in this simple act of preparing to bake a cake. So, much like the other residents of Jackson, including their friends lately, she filed it away to tell Tommy. 

“Alright, I’ll admit, you make a compelling argument. I guess that’s what I get for marrying a lawyer.” Tommy jokes, pulling her into his lap. “Still, they’ve always been close. I’m telling you, they’re just friends. After all this time, I’ve given up hope of matchmaking them.” He jokes. 

“You never know.” Maria teases, laying her head on her husband’s shoulder, before changing the subject slightly to what’s planned for your birthday party and who is responsible for what. 

The next few days fly by for your group as everyone is looking forward to getting together. Naturally, everyone spends all of their time together anyways but it’s nice to have an event planned, something to look forward to that celebrates something like Maria told Joel. 

Tonight’s party is being held after dinner, and has your closest friends and family. You’ve got a big flannel on over a comfortable dress that lives at the back of your closet for every celebration under the sun and Ellie plopped a homemade, paper birthday crown on your head. Everyone has finished their dinner and Joel disappeared for a moment before bringing out a cake. Which, admittedly, made you tear up. It’s the end of the world and he’s still making you a birthday cake, you shake your head at the thought.

“Alright, thank y’all for comin’. I know I don’t usually host or make a big speech, but bear with me just a minute.” Joel stands, with a drink in hand, looking around the bar at everyone gathered for your birthday: you, Ellie, Dina, Jesse, Maria, Tommy, and Eugene. The best of your community, as far as you’re concerned. 

“Someone often tells me that it’s okay to celebrate, the big things and the little things. Hell, she’s been telling me that most of my life. So today, this one’s for you, darlin’. It’s hard work to keep a place like this running and lord knows how much we all owe Tommy and Maria, but we also owe it to you. To the way you volunteer for a little bit of every job, take care of everyone, and I’m sure everyone agrees that we owe you a big thank you for putting up with me and keeping me as in line as you can, all these years.” Joel says, laughing when Tommy bursts out laughing. 

“I love you, honey. I ain’t got any candles but you’ll just have to close your eyes and make a wish anyways.” 

Tommy watches Joel tuck you into his side and press a kiss to the top of your head while you close your eyes to make your wish and blow out the lighter Eugene offers. It’s such a familiar scene to Tommy that he can almost picture Sarah sitting on your other side, waiting to help you cut and serve the cake. He’s so busy thinking about the life you all deserved that he nearly misses seeing you open your eyes, and lean up to press a kiss to Joel’s lips.

“Hold on, what ?!” Amidst the chorus of ‘happy birthday’ that’s starting, Tommy is staring at you two, wide eyed.

“What do you mean ‘what’, Tommy Miller?” You’ve got a mischievous smile on your face as you grab the knife from Maria and start cutting the cake. 

“Ain’t you been the one tryin’ to get us together all this time?” Joel adds.

“Well, I was. But the two of you are hopeless so I gave up. Years ago. You’re just friends. That’s what you’ve been saying, that’s what I’ve been telling everyone.” Tommy throws his hands in the air, exasperated, as though the two of you have organized all of this just to frustrate him.

“I mean we were, and then we weren’t.” Joel adds, unhelpfully. 

“Tommy, we haven’t exactly been subtle,” you laugh, “I’m pretty sure Jesse saw us holding hands a few weeks ago.” You nod your head towards Jesse who doesn’t get his chance to finally say I told you so before Tommy cuts him off. 

“He said you were passing the library, Joel always had to hold your hand passing the bookstore so you wouldn’t wander off and buy the whole fucking store.” 

“He was holding my hand long before we got to the library.” You smile, leaning back into Joel.

“That’s what I said!” Jesse whispers to Dina, who tucks her head into his shoulder and giggles.

“Okay fine, so you were holding hands.” Tommy concedes.

“Right, and I know Dina heard me tell Joel I love him before patrol one day because y’all were talking about it the next day.” Dina’s giggles continue. 

“You’ve been telling him that for decades. Hell, you tell me and Maria you love us. I don’t see you kissing us.” 

“I didn’t know either of you wanted me to, sugar.” You wink at him. “But nah, fair enough. Well, he never said anything to me but I think Eugene saw me leaving Joel’s too early to be decent one morning.” Your voice trails up, unsure.

“I did.” Eugene confirms, very matter of fact. 

“Though he might not have said anything.” You add, assuming that maybe he hadn’t since it had never gotten back to you or Joel.

“No, I did that too.” Everyone laughs. Eugene might be a cranky old man, but damn does he love his gossip. But you have to earn the right for him to like you enough to include you in it, and all of you at this table have been lucky enough to have been brought into the fold. 

“How many times in school did I come downstairs and you were already there for breakfast? Half the time you came over with breakfast in exchange for a ride to school and half the time you’d fallen asleep studying or watching a movie with me right there too. How was I supposed to know this time it was different?” Tommy continues ranting.

“Tommy, have you been watching my girl all this time?” 

“How the hell could I not, Joel? Everywhere I’ve gone for decades it’s ‘are they together’, ‘have they finally kissed’, 'are they sleeping together', nobody wanted you two together more than me. But no, every time I thought there was something going on you convinced me it was just platonic. Excuse me for finally believing you.” Tommy’s doing a remarkable job keeping up the facade of being annoyed, but you can tell how delighted he is for the two of you.

“Okay, so my brother and my best friend are together. Finally, after all these years. It’s all I’ve wanted, so why the hell do I feel cheated?” He finishes his rant with an exaggerated sigh.

“In our defense, we really thought you knew. Don’t think I don’t know that Miss Dina and Miss Ellie over there have been watching our every move.” Ellie looks sheepish for once at having been caught. 

“Well regardless of who knows or not”, Joel cuts back in, “I wanted to thank all of y’all for helping me put together this party for the best woman I’ve ever known. I don’t know why you put up with me, with any of us” Joel says with a wink to Ellie, “But we’re sure glad you do. Happy birthday, baby. Let’s have some cake.”

“Oh fuck yeah, finally!” Ellie yells as she squeezes past Maria to grab one of the first slices of cake. She’s never had spice cake before but Joel has told her about it, how it’ll be the first one he’s been able to make for you in years. It's been a monumental effort for her not to have ruined the surprise for you and she's pretty proud of herself, and ready to finally try it.

Sure, Tommy had a point, or several, with the reason he assumed you two were still platonic but Joel still can’t believe his brother didn’t know you had gotten together. Joel doesn’t need a mirror to know that he looks at you like you hung the moon in the sky. He’s still got one arm around you, and looks down to see you laughing at something with Dina and Jesse while you’re scooping a bite of cake into your mouth. When that first bite hits your tongue, your eyes light up at the familiar flavor that you never thought you’d get to experience again.

Joel loves you in every mood, but damn does he love the way you look when you’re happy. He knows you’ll tease him for it later, that everyone here is likely to, but he doesn’t bother waiting for you to finish your conversation as he uses his other hand to tilt your chin towards him and kiss you. You’re still finishing your cake so you end up accidentally covering him in frosting as well. 

“Oops.” You say, not at all sorry, as you grab a napkin to wipe his face. But Joel doesn’t let you, he just pulls you back in for another kiss. This one is long enough that Ellie starts complaining about “old people germs” and “public indecency”. You start laughing into the kiss before pulling away, setting down your plate to chase Ellie around the room to press a sloppy kiss to her cheek.

“I mean really, holding hands, being together at all hours, saying they love each other, saving up for a spice cake? From the two of them? Been there, done that, for over 30 damn years!” Tommy grumbles one last time to Maria as she hands him a plate of cake. In truth, he’s thrilled. He can’t keep the smile from his face as he looks at you, at the love that was there all along that you’ve finally given into. 

I hope you’re seeing this, sweetheart. He sends a thought up to Sarah, knowing that she wanted you two together as much as he always did. The world might have ended long ago, but as long as there are pockets of love and joy like this, they can keep going.

[kumkaniudaku]

Caught

Summary: When their guest is away, Terry and Patrice will play.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 3,067

Warnings: Smut (18+ content)

Recommended Reading: Spoiled

Author's Note: Spoiled, Back Up, and Caught all happen on the same linear timeline. Consider them present day events. Hopefully that helps pull things together because you'll need the context later. Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays!

"Mommy, the recipe for the hand pies is so good. Thank you for finding it for me." 

"Oh, of course, baby. One day, I gotta get you to help me put all your Nana's recipes in a book or something. I'm tired of digging through all these scraps of paper." 

"I didn't wanna say anything, but that's insane. I can barely read her handwriting." 

Rosalyn scoffed on the other end of the phone line. "You and me both. I have to call Sybil every time or end up making up what I think goes there. I cook. I don't decipher chicken scratch."

Patrice laughed along with her mother as she passed a piping hot meatball over her shoulder to satisfy her taste tester for the night. He hummed his approval of her gift, providing a thumbs up as his rating before returning his hand to her waist and swaying them in time with the slow rhythm of Christmas music playing in the background. 

Christmas Eve brought preparation for the big day on the other side of a wake-up and a smaller get-together to celebrate Imani's and Jesus's birthdays in one evening. Patrice had offered to continue the tradition at her house to accommodate her cousin's request for loud music, liquor, and good, grown folks' fun. In a few short minutes, she and Terry would have a house full of adults gorging themselves on party food and fighting fits of giggles during a drunk game of Taboo. For now, she'd enjoy the calm before the storm with her shadow attached at the hip.

"The cinnamon smell for the apple version was way too strong, though. I almost skipped those altogether." 

Rosalyn responded with a sound of cautious curiosity. "Really? You usually love the smell of cinnamon." 

"Right," Patrice exclaimed. "Maybe I had a bad batch or something. It doesn't taste bad, but it smelled awful."

"Hm." Rosalyn filed the information in her head for a later moment of privacy, preferring not to stress her daughter with the questions buzzing around in the mind of a mother who knew her child better than anyone in the world. Instead, she continued. "Terry, did you like the hand pies?"

"You don't know if Terry is even in here, mama. He could be anywhere in the house," Patrice answered, her face screwed in confusion.

"Child, don't insult me. If you're in the kitchen, Terry is in the kitchen."

She wasn't wrong. A few too many glasses of Patrice's special holiday cocktail mixed with his ever-present desire to feel his wife at all times had Terry sticking to her like glue. Even after she'd given in to each of his kisses and allowed him to taste her the moment Imani stepped out to run a few errands, she still couldn't shake him. Whiskey was in control. Terry was only along for the ride.

He chuckled into the crook of Patrice's neck before confirming his presence. "Yes, ma'am, I loved the pies. Treece made a few on the side for me so I wouldn't have to share." 

"She still got you spoiled, I see."

"Nah, not too bad. You know she gets sweet once a week. I caught her on a good day." 

"Oh, hush."

Patrice's attempt to get out of Terry's grasp came up empty, prompting him to hold her tighter and press wet kisses onto the back of her neck. She was sadly mistaken if she thought she could get away from him that easy while Uncle Nearest was pumping through his veins. 

"Well, let me let you two go," Rosalyn started with a small laugh. "Tell me how the chicken salad turns out. I might throw some together as a little snack for your daddy tomorrow. You know how he gets when he's ready to eat." 

"Mhmm. Just like somebody else I know."

Terry patiently waited for Patrice to wrap up her conversation and safely end the call before resuming his handsy approach to PDA. His hands slid up and down the fabric of her cotton pajama pants, the pair matching his at her request. Full lips attached to her neck, creating a light suction with every open-mouthed kiss. 

His wife rolled her eyes as she loaded a pita chip with dip for his culinary opinion. "You are insatiable, TJ. Taste this." 

He obliged, opening wide as she slid food into his mouth and waited for a response. Instead of a verbal assessment of her work, he kissed her cheek twice to signal his approval, then returned to his shameless groping.

"How long before Imani gets back?" 

"I don't know. Fifteen minutes or so. She only went to grab some more cups and water." 

Terry's eyes flickered to the digital clock on the stove before sliding his hands up Patrice's torso and leaving a trail of kisses on her shoulder. "Think you got a few minutes to get back to what we started?" 

"Haven't you had enough of me yet? We've been going at it every day since New Orleans."

"What you think?"

Having enough of her touch, the feeling of her body against his, or her attention was a foreign concept for Terry. If he could quit his job and be totally devoted to her pleasure, he would do so without a second thought. Fortunately for him, though, extended absences from the slough of office life due to the holidays provided the closest opportunity to spend the whole day in it. 

Patrice smiled to herself as Terry slowly removed the serving spoon from her hand, bringing her delicate palm up to the back of his head. Coarse hair grown into a short tuft of curls and shaped by his barber tickled her fingertips as she closed her eyes, officially caught up in how Terry caressed her with the care afforded to precious works of art. 

A low purr slipped past his lips as his hands slid beneath the hem of her camisole to rub her stomach, filling her ears and mind with filthy sounds and images from earlier in the hour. Had he had enough of her? She wasn't sure she'd had enough of him. 

His fingertips inched higher, further intoxicating Patrice until a full squeeze on both breasts at the same time made her hiss and wince in pain. 

"Easy, baby," she complained as she gently pressed down on his arms to direct him away from the sensitive area. "They're super tender right now. I'm not sure why." 

Lust was quickly replaced by concern as Terry dropped his hands and turned Patrice to face him. "You okay?" 

"I'm fine, Pooh. It's probably the tattoo healing. 

"Yeah, but it shouldn't be making the entire area hurt. Especially not on both sides. Let me look."

"Terry, you never just look."

His attempt to slide the thin straps of her tank top down her arms was quickly cut short as Patrice brushed off his contact to save herself from what she assumed would come next. Her aching was a serious matter. Terry getting a look at her bare tits was not nearly as high on the list. 

Terry softened his eyes in unmistakable sincerity. "I'm serious, Treece. I know what it should look like. Come here."

Patrice didn't protest as Terry led her to the kitchen table. She stood perfectly still until Terry was comfortable in one of the chairs and then placed her between his legs. 

He gingerly pushed her tanktop straps down her arms before bunching the thin fabric at her waist to free her breasts, watching for any sign of discomfort.

"You don't think you're like…sick, do you?" 

"I think it's just tenderness," she quickly retorted, wanting to push the thought of more grave explanations for her discomfort far from her mind.

"Okay, okay. I'm only asking." 

Her brows furrowed as he lifted the right side to get a look at the moment from a charged few days in his family's old stomping grounds. 

A day alone and nothing to do but explore had them wandering into the same shady tattoo parlor where Terry got his first piece for matching ink. Terry opted to tat their wedding date on his ribs after having to be talked down from plastering her name on his neck. Patrice, however, was set on making her first experience one to remember. 

Slanted script crafted from his handwriting spelled Terry's full first name, curving just under the crease of her boob and the spot that he liked to grip in the depths of passion or simply at his leisure. Terry ran his thumb along each letter to check for abrasions or abnormalities. 

He looked up at Patrice to gauge her reaction. "That hurt?" 

"Not really. It's more here," she added, gesturing toward her areola. "Anything rubbing against it is so uncomfortable. I can barely wear a bra." 

"I noticed. They've honestly been looking a little bigger. Do they feel heavy to you?" 

"Not heavy. Mostly…full? They look great, though. I'm not complaining about that part." 

She joked, the attempt sounding silly once it received no reaction past Terry blinking as he used the pad of his thumb to ghost contact over her pebbled nipple to test her pain level. It was challenging to stay present, with a third of her upper half unnecessarily exposed in their kitchen for no real reason. The entire ordeal felt like a farce. Terrence wasn't a doctor, and him holding her titties in his hands like fleshy snowglobes was as much an actual check-up as WWE was real wrestling. 

When she giggled like a teenager learning about sex for the first time, Terry looked up at her with a quizzical expression, and his left eyebrow lifted high. "What's so funny?" 

"You, Doctor Richmond," she laughed. "How can you tell they're bigger? I couldn't even tell until the other day." 

"I spend a lot of time with my girls. I better notice when they change. Been looking at them since I was sixteen." Terry answered, a boyish grin making his cheekbones nearly touch the corner of his eyes. 

"I knew you used to look!" She exclaimed, finally feeling vindicated in her suspicions from childhood. 

"Looking was the least of what I was doing." He shrugged as he gently pushed both breasts together for his own viewing pleasure. He kissed the small crease they made two times over, then looked up at Patrice through long lashes. "Unfortunately, ma'am, I couldn't diagnose you, but I think I have some treatment available if you're interested." 

Patrice bit back a smile to play along. "Oh yeah? How much is this gonna cost? It's the holidays, and I ain't got it." 

"I offer payment plans that we can discuss in that room back there later tonight." 

"I like the sound of that," she answered, previous problems vanishing into thin air as he roped her back into his web of liquor-charged desire. 

"I knew you would," he winked. "Don't move."

Tingles rippled across Patrice's skin while she listened for any indication of Terry's secretive treatment plan. The soft crack and subsequent rush of cool from the freezer created goosebumps on her bare chest, making her nipples jut out proud from the sensation. Next came the cupboard opening and shutting in two seconds time. From the direction, she could tell he was grabbing a glass from over the sink. 

Ice cubes clinked against the cup like little masters of whispers attempting to give Patrice the scoop on what to expect. Terry quietly shut the freezer and took heavy steps back to his seat, smiling at how Patrice truly hadn't moved a muscle in his few minutes away. 

He placed the glass on the table behind him before tugging her hand to guide her closer. "Cold hot therapy. I sprained my knee once, and this got me back up and running in no time. Ice for the cold…" Terry's voice trailed as he plucked a piece of ice from his glass and pressed it to her nipple. He watched her jaw drop with a sharp inhale, intently focused on the way her eyelids fluttered closed at the sudden shock of frozen water. When a single drop began to make a trail down the swell of her breast, he pulled the ice away and brought his mouth closer. "And I'll take care of the hot."

"Oh…my God." 

Whispers of unexpected pleasure sent Terry into a far-off place where he was only concerned with running a flat tongue across supple skin. Patrice rushed to steady herself by bringing her hands to the back of his head, cradling him while he went to work. 

Ice cold. Soothing warmth. Ice cold. Soothing warmth and a light suckle. Again. And again. 

He eyed her like a lion watches prey, taking notes of every little sound and twitch to know that he was fulfilling his job. 

"Good job, baby," Patrice whispered, her head tossed back and praises spoken to the ceiling. "Good fuckin' job."

Terry ran his hands up the back of her thighs to roughly grip her ass. He groaned at the affirmation before pulling away to retrieve more ice. He held a small cube between his teeth to multitask, running it across her left nipple and areola until it had melted enough to fit both in his mouth. 

Was it fixing her tenderness issue? Not really. But Patrice would be damned if his subtle slurping and moaning with her backside firmly in his clutches wasn't sufficiently taking her mind off things. So far off, she'd lost all concept of time and space. 

While Terry pulled Patrice into his lap for a more intensive inspection, Imani entered the house high off the exhilarating freedom that can only come for night drives with a carefully curated playlist blasting from the speakers. Being stateside for the first time in a year was the perfect opportunity to experience one of life's simple pleasures. 

Grocery bags rustled and knocked against the wall as she hummed along to the fragmented lyrics from a song on her Spotify playlist still coursing through her brain. A short pause in her personal concert to lock the door left space to hear a string of curious noises. Muffled half-sentences and a sort of trembling sigh made her quirk an eyebrow. She thought to herself that Terry and Patrice left the television on far too often for a pair of people who claimed to not spend much time in front of the tube, but quickly found that they'd taken to making a scene the old-fashioned way. 

She stood in the open space, a perfectly shaped eyebrow pushed high on her face and an impressed smirk tugging at the right corner of her lip while she watched her baby cousin makeout with Imani's newest family member with a ferocity she didn't know Patrice had in her. 

Patrice held Terry steady by his jaw, slightly hovering over him while she had her way leading a sloppy kiss. When she moved to push his head back toward her chest with a string of words filthy enough to make a pornstar blush, Imani cleared her throat to finally announce her presence.

"Oh shit," Patrice yelped, rushing to tap Terry's back and end his check-up. 

His head popped up to survey the room, then slowly found a home on top of Patrice's once she pressed close enough against his chest to cover her naked breasts. The vibrations from his concealed chortling made Patrice pinch him in frustration. Nothing was funny, at least not to her. 

Imani held her hands up in faux surrender. "No, please. Don't stop on account of me," she laughed. "Y'all were just getting started." 

"We are so sorry, Moanie. This isn't what it looks like. Well, this part is exactly what it looks like, but I promise it didn't start like this. Terry was looking at my boobs to check on my tattoo and -" 

"Girl, you do not have to explain anything to me. This is your house! Honestly, if I had those big ol' mommy titties, I'd want them in somebody's face too. And you got them for free! The girls gotta go under the knife or get pregnant for those. How does it feel to be God's favorite? Terry, can you help me get the water out of the car when you finish?"

Terry looked down at his visibly distressed wife and then back at Imani to save face for the both of them. "Yeah, I got you. Gimme a minute." 

Moanie didn't notice how she'd launched her cousin into an internal spiral as she pranced off to busy herself with getting ready in her room for the week, but Terry did. He carefully sat Patrice up and helped redress her, careful to ease into conversation. 

"You alright?" 

"I had my cycle this month," Patrice rushed out, her gaze far off as Terry lifted her arm to put it back in her camisole strap. "It can't be that. I had my cycle." When her focus returned, her eyes snapped to Terry's for confirmation. "Right? I did, right?"

He nodded, unsure of how to proceed to quell her fear. "You did, baby. But, maybe…"

Sure, it was lighter than usual, but she'd had a cycle. Her body functioned like it did every month, on time and without pomp and circumstance. There was no cause for concern. 

But…maybe. 

Patrice looked down at her belly then back up at Terry, searching for answers in his sympathetic expression. He leaned forward and held her head with both hands to give her a kiss she couldn't return before he spoke. 

"Don't drink tonight. Just in case. We'll figure it out in the morning. Okay?"

"Okay." She whispered back without truly processing the gravity of his instruction. 

Terry slowly lifted Patrice from his lap to fulfill Imani's request for assistance, leaving her to stand perfectly still in the kitchen. She counted backward in her head, retracing her steps and important dates until a headache sent her to take a seat. 

It was just tenderness. It'd go away by morning, and all of this would be a silly story to tell whenever they got together in the spring for their European honeymoon. She'd drink an entire bottle of wine over heaps of pasta, turning the whole situation into a fond memory before raising her hand to call the server for another round. All water under the bridge, right?

But…maybe.

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