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dancingbirdie · 1 year ago

Note

Okay so on Astarion, I was reading this fic about him not knowing Tavs true intentions with him and it bothering Astarion a lot, so what if he goes to some mage or magic user and asks them to show Tavs true intentions to him, when he does the vision he sees is just... being snuggled. It's Tav on top of him and the both of you are falling asleep, his hands are under your shirt softly petting your skin as your sleepy self is contently snuggled up to him. I just start crying about him finding out that Tavs DASTARDLY and EVIL plan with him, their greatest desire from him... is to simply be held. 🥺

Hi @goblin-creatcher! Thank you so much for this BEAUTIFUL prompt. I, uhh, kind of took it and went a million miles an hour with it. This is honestly one of my favorite things I've ever written. I hope you enjoy it as well! xoxoxo

Something Imagined / Something Real

Word Count: 3.9K

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Astarion x f!Tav

Warnings/Tags: Brief but detailed description of rough consensual sex, descriptions and references to Astarion's trauma/trauma responses, minor Act 1 and Act 2 spoilers, FLUFF, angst

Suggested Song Pairing: Slow Dancing in A Burning Room (Stripped) - cover by ST LUNA

Summary: Astarion has been suspicious of Tav’s true intentions toward him. He persuades Gale to cast a spell and reveal her motivations. ANGST and FLUFF ensue. A rewriting of Astarion’s confession scene from Act 2.

The sun had just begun to set on the campsite when Astarion decided to put his plan into action. He had waited until Tav departed with some of the other party members before making his way over to the wizard. Gale was too busy reassembling the bookshelf inside his tent to notice Astarion’s approach. It wasn’t until he gave a polite cough that Gale jumped and whirled to face him.

“No, no, no,” he began all at once, hands raised in a sort of shooing motion. Astarion stared at him in confusion. “I can respect Tav’s indulging in your need for blood, but as I’ve said before: I taste terrible.”

Astarion scoffed. “Charming. Actually, wizard, I was coming to request your aid in a different, though somewhat related, matter.”

“Really? Care to elaborate?” Gale responded, still somewhat wary. It wasn’t often he found himself alone with the vampire.

“Testy, I see,” Astarion crooned teasingly. His knee-jerk response to people treating him like a monster, to behave in the most false saccharine sort of way.

But he drew up short, censoring himself before saying anything else he might regret. He knew he needed to get on the wizard’s good side if he had any chance of getting the answers he sought.

“I was hoping you knew a spell to reveal someone’s true intentions. Their… motivations for behaving in a certain way, so to speak,” he finished more seriously.

Gale pondered the question for a moment before answering.

“Hmm… yes, there is magic to determine that sort of thing… Although it’s been some time since I practiced it…” He trailed off, rubbing his chin in thought.

“Why are you asking for such a thing?” he asked suddenly.

Astarion had been prepared for this question, of course. No one did anything for free, no questions asked. He delivered his explanation perfectly, as he’d been rehearsing in his mind.

“One might say our dear sweet Tav and I have been growing a bit… closer these days, but I can sense a master manipulator when I see one. I just simply want to ensure their intentions toward me - toward the party - are true,” he replied with mock innocence.

“Ah, yes,” Gale nodded. “I gathered as much when the two of you slipped away from the tiefling’s party a few nights ago.”

“But,” he continued on,”I needn’t think you should worry when it comes to Tav. She seems about as transparent as they come. I’m sure any intentions she has toward you are true.”

Yes, but the best actors always mask their motivations behind innocence and transparency, Astarion thought to himself. I should know. I’ve been doing it for centuries.

After the party’s unfortunate meeting with that Gur in the Sunlit Wetlands, Astarion realized he would have to take potential threats from Cazador even more seriously. He wasn’t about to lose his freedom, not now that he finally had some small taste of it.

It didn’t hurt to be more suspicious of everyone he encountered, even the sweetling Tav. Anyone could be an operative sent by Cazador, and the best ones would be as skilled as he was in the art of manipulation. It was well-known at this point that the person he’d grown the closest to on their journey was their brave party leader, Tav. Unlikely as it may be that she was scheming for his master, Astarion’s paranoia wouldn’t let him indulge in interactions with her a second longer unless he knew how she truly felt.

Given Gale’s hesitation, Astarion knew he would have to kick his acting up a notch. Press on that wizard’s heartstrings. Touch the one nerve he knew he was sensitive to.

“Gale, darling, from one literally damaged soul to another, indulge me just this once,” Astarion beseeched him.

The wizard glared at him a moment, before finally relenting with a heavy sigh. “Fine. Fine. But I want it known that I don’t agree with this so-called solution one whit,” he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, yes, noted and formally documented, on my word as a former Baldurian magistrate,” Astarion replied cheerily. “So, let’s hop to it then, shall we?”

“What, right now?” Gale asked, shocked. “Shouldn’t we be, I don’t know, a little less conspicuous?”

“What better time than now?” Astarion responded. “Tav’s out gathering firewood with Wyll and Karlach. They won’t be back for some time. As for Lae’zel and Shadowheart, well…” he paused, gesturing over his shoulder.

Said two were engaged in a heated sparring session on the outskirts of the camp. Snarls and curses could be heard emanating from both warriors as they tried, and failed, to gain the upper hand against their opponent.

“That lovers’ dance could go on until morning,” Astarion finished.

“Fair point,” Gale admitted begrudgingly, grimacing at the sound of swords clashing violently. “Very well. Let’s get started.”

Clearing his throat, Gale began to utter a series of phrases completely foreign to Astarion. He watched as the wizard began moving his hands in a wavelike pattern, forming a circle before them. Suddenly, a mist began to form from seemingly thin air, taking shape according to the boundaries Gale’s hands were creating. The mist grew more and more opaque until it appeared before them like a clouded mirror.

As the fogginess of the ethereal magic began to clear, the “mirror” became a confusing blur of scenes whipping by, too fast for Astarion or Gale to really comprehend. There were flashes of Tav and Astarion, together and separate, but they disappeared too quickly to ascertain their context. It was as though the spell was shuffling through the entirety of Tav’s thoughts, assessing each one at breakneck speed.

Finally, the spell slowed to a halt, stopping on one scene in particular. Astarion was struck speechless by what began playing out in the foggy portal before them. So distracted, he didn’t even notice Gale’s tight cough, or how the wizard suddenly became intensely interested in a copse of trees nearby, rather than the revelation the spell was revealing.

Not that the scene was especially profound, objectively speaking. In fact, to anyone else, it might be viewed as the least revelatory thing possible that the spell could have shown. Boring. Inconsequential, even. But to Astarion, it was almost earth shattering.

He saw himself - he could see his face! - with Tav, lying tangled together in some immaculate four-poster bed.

That was the first shock that coursed through him, nearly causing his knees to buckle. He was seeing himself for the first time in over 200 years. Or at least, he was seeing himself as Tav saw him. And… the person he saw… Well, he was gorgeous. White blonde locks, curled and tousled in a devil-may-care sort of way. A strong, patrician nose that suggested good breeding. High, sharp cheekbones. Full lips, upturned in a thoughtless grin. Red eyes bordered by long, sweeping lashes. Delicately pointed elven ears. Smooth alabaster skin, without blemish or spot.

Astarion could scarcely believe his own eyes.

The second shock to his system was the nature of their activities. He would have been less surprised had the vision shown them fucking. Him taking her roughly from behind perhaps. His name a cry of ecstasy from her lips as he pistoned in and out of her with a feral sort of determination.

Fantasies of lust, of total domination, now those were things he was familiar with inspiring in the minds of the victims he had taken as lovers. It was what he strove for, in all honesty. Desire like that all but ensured he would capture his prey and live to serve another day for his master.

But nothing of the sort was occurring between vision-Tav and himself. Instead, they were just… embracing? What in sweet hells was this?

She lay halfway on top of him. Her hair was mussed, perhaps from sleep or perhaps from previous lovemaking. One hand was drawing absentminded shapes across his chest, her lips trailing behind, leaving kisses in their wake. He watched as vision-Astarion chuckled softly, as his hands slipped beneath her sleepshirt to caress her waist, as he placed an innocent kiss on the top of Tav’s head. Eventually, she reached for his hand. They both watched their fingers intertwine, blissfully content.

It was the purest, unadulterated expression of affection that Astarion had ever seen. Something in his heart quaked at the sight of it. He wanted that moment. He envied, he hated, vision-Astarion for enjoying such apparent happiness.

So absorbed in the vision and its implications, Astarion failed to notice the soft padding of feet that indicated someone’s re-entry into the camp.

“If the two of you are quite finished poking around in my head,” an angry voice suddenly spat from behind them, “I’d appreciate you preserving what little privacy I have left and shutting that damn spell off.”

Mortified, Astarion and Gale turned to see Tav, arms crossed and visibly seething with rage. Gale quickly dispelled the magic with a flick of his wrist. A blush was slowly but surely rising up Tav’s neck to reach her cheeks. Whether from rage or embarrassment, Astarion couldn’t be certain.

“Tav, let us explain-” Astarion started.

“It was his idea-” Gale blurted at the same time, pointing at Astarion.

Both paused, glaring at one another. But Tav would have none of their feeble attempts at backpedaling.

“The explanation doesn’t matter. Whose idea it was doesn’t matter. The fact is that both of you violated the privacy of my mind, which I’ll remind you, has ALREADY been violated by having a bloody tadpole forced inside of it!” Tav shouted. At their words, the camp became enveloped in a heavy silence. Even the crickets ceased their chirping.

Astarion cringed inwardly, knowing the other party members could plainly hear this altercation and had likely stopped whatever it was that they had been doing to listen in. He noted the sounds of swords clanging together had ceased. He was certain Lae’zel and Shadowheart at least were aware of what was happening. Nosy bastards, all of them.

But what disturbed him even more was the realization that Tav’s eyes were welling with tears. She was too proud to acknowledge them or wipe them away. Such was her nature. But they were there nonetheless, and the knowledge that Astarion had brought her to the point of tears was enough to spur a rush of utter self-loathing inside him.

Without another word, Tav turned on her heel and marched stiffly out of camp, toward the direction of a nearby creek they’d identified as a water source earlier in the day.

“I can’t believe I let you convince me to perform that spell,” Gale said as she disappeared between the trees. He dragged his hands down his face.

“How could we have been so doltish, forgetting that all of our privacies have already been violated with this tadpole business?”

Astarion didn’t have an answer to that. At least, not one the wizard could possibly understand.

The thought hadn’t occurred to Astarion, he realized, because violations of privacy had been something so intrinsic to his being for over 200 years. He didn’t even recognize it as something abnormal. Like a fish unaware that the water surrounding it is, in fact, water.

Violations of privacy were a part of life, at least for him. So much so that his request for Gale to perform that magic hadn’t even occurred to him as an overstepping of boundaries. To Astarion, it had simply been a matter of survival. He had needed to know another potentially manipulative person’s true intentions, and so he had found a means to uncover it and maintain the upper hand.

Belatedly, he also realized that Gale’s hesitation to cast the spell had had nothing to do with being inconvenienced for the evening, but because the wizard had known that it was improper to do to another person. If he had misread that, Astarion wondered, then what other truly benevolent behaviors had he mistaken as pragmatic manipulation?

“I need to go find her,” Astarion murmured, clenching and unclenching his fists in an uncharacteristic fit of uncertainty.

“Yes, you do,” Gale asserted. “We both owe her a sincere apology… if she’ll even accept it.”

“I’ll see if I can convince her to come back to camp,” Astarion replied, making to leave in the direction Tav had stormed off.

“Wait,” Gale said, a hand on his shoulder. Astarion turned to meet his gaze.

“Look, well, I’m obviously not an expert in healthy demonstrations of affection. But I do think it’s obvious from what you saw in that spell that Tav well and truly cares about you. In perhaps the purest way possible. Treat that carefully.”

Part of Astarion wanted to laugh aloud in utter hopelessness at the wizard’s advice. Someone cared for him? Truly and purely? No hidden games, no strings attached? Oh certainly, that wouldn’t be a problem for Astarion at all. Obviously, his 200-year existence as a master-manipulator-fetch-hound for a power-hungry vampire lord had perfectly prepared him to respond to this situation in a healthy manner. Obviously.

But all that was too much to reveal to someone he barely knew and too heavy to say aloud. Rather than giving some smarmy retort, Astarion opted instead to give a stiff nod and continue walking toward the edge of camp. He had no idea how he could make things right with Tav, but at the very least he could try.

***

He found Tav sitting on a fallen tree near the edge of the creek bed. Her legs were drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them as she rested a cheek to her knees. In the waning twilight, she reminded Astarion of some misbegotten gargoyle perched on the roof of a temple, solitary and so very sad.

Her ears twitched as she noted his arrival. Astarion wasn’t trying to be stealthy. On top of everything else, the last thing he needed to do was scare her.

“Can I join you?” he asked softly, wincing to himself at the awkwardness of the question.

The reality was that there was no way to broach this conversation without some stilted beginning, and he hated it. Navigating tricky conversations was normally something he excelled at. But as he was quickly finding, when it related to Tav, nothing in his past life had prepared him to respond to her well.

“If you’d like,” Tav answered tonelessly.

Knowing it was probably the best response he was going to get, Astarion swallowed thickly and moved to sit down on the log next to her.

“I… wanted to… apologize for what you saw, back at camp,” he began.

“Apologize for doing it, or apologize for getting caught?” Tav asked as she turned her head to look at him, resting her other cheek on her knees.

Astarion balked at the question. Her piercing gaze unnerved him. He hadn’t really thought that far.

“Both, I suppose?” he answered honestly, although it sounded more like a question to Tav. She huffed a laugh.

“You know, part of me really wants to yell at you. Scream in your face. Tell you off proper,” she mused.

“So why don’t you?” Astarion asked, perplexed.

Tav didn’t respond at first, just sat there studying him. As if by staring at him long enough, she could project the answer into his mind.

Astarion didn’t interrupt her, much as he would have liked to. Part of him always bristled when people gazed at him for too long. It was unfair that they could study him, when he hadn’t been able to so much as glance at his reflection in over 200 years.

Finally, Tav released a heavy sigh, her body curling further in on itself. She closed her eyes as she spoke.

“Because then I would be just like every other bastard in your life who’s mistreated you.”

Astarion flinched in surprise. Those had not been the sort of words he’d been expecting. The truth of them cut deeper than had she raged at him like she wanted to. It left him feeling even more vulnerable, and that in turn made him want to retreat into the comfort of viciousness.

“I don’t need you to pull any punches,” he scoffed, glaring at her. “Go ahead and say what you will.”

She straightened up at his tone, opening her eyes and returning his glare.

“No. I don’t want to,” she said testily.

“I don’t need your pity,” he hissed. “It’s insulting.”

“Gods damn it all, Astarion!” Tav exclaimed suddenly, causing him to jump in surprise. She threw her hands up in defeat. “I’m not doing anything out of pity! I don’t want to rage at you, because I know that whatever I say right now, I won’t mean it come the morning!”

Astarion blinked. Once again he was left feeling flat footed by the turn of the conversation. Sensing his surprise, Tav continued on with her deluge of words.

“You hurt me tonight, and I’m angry at you - and at Gale, for that matter - for what you did. But you’ve shared enough of your… history… with me, that I realize your behavior is just… just a byproduct of centuries of abuse and manipulation you’ve endured! And I won’t be another abuser in your life. I won’t,” she asserted.

Astarion continued staring at her, as if she were some otherworldly creature that had just wandered across his path. He watched as Tav inhaled a deep breath, releasing it shakily. She turned away from him to peer out into the forest, uncertain. She opened and closed her mouth several times before actually speaking. As if whatever she was about to say was more intimidating to her than anything else she’d said tonight.

“I… care deeply for you, Astarion,” she said quietly. “You obviously saw that in the vision. I’m not playing any games. There’s no hidden motive. I’m not trying to manipulate you.”

She turned to look at him again before continuing, her breathing a bit unsteady.

“I didn’t sleep with you that night of the tiefling party as some sort of maneuver to gain your trust. Although I understand if that was your motivation for doing so.”

Astarion’s expression morphed into one of guilt. But Tav nodded soberly, as if she had already expected it, before continuing on.

“It’s okay. I’m not angry. But I’m putting all my cards on the table now, so to speak. Actually, your decision tonight forced my hand, but I had been planning on telling you soon anyway. So, there you have it. The truth of my intentions. What you do with that information is up to you.”

She turned back to gaze out at their surroundings. Like she was giving him the opportunity to bolt away without her watching him. As if she expected him to flee from her confession.

But Astarion didn’t flee. He remained seated, staring at her in complete wonderment.

“Why?” he asked quietly.

She looked back at him again, confusion evident on her face.

“Why what?”

“Why do you care for me? You’re so… well-adjusted. And I’m well… this,” he finished lamely, placing a hand on his chest.

Tav pursed her lips. “It would be a mistake to misconstrue my empathy for you as me being well-adjusted. Everyone has their own demons, Astarion,” she murmured. “Mine just look different from yours.”

Astarion mulled her words over in his mind, considering them. He leaned forward to brace his forearms on his knees, his head drooping slightly.

“I…,” he started, unsure. “That vision… what it implied… You deserve something real, Tav. You’re incredible… truly.”

Tav closed her eyes, bracing for the fallout. Even though she would accept his decision, whatever it was, she didn’t think she could bear to watch him deny her. It would hurt too much.

“Look. When we met, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan,” he blurted all at once. Rising swiftly to his feet, Tav watched as he began to pace before her, near to bursting with frenetic energy.

“Seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you’d never turn on me,” he counted off, laughing half-heartedly. “It was… easy - instinctive. Habits from two hundred years of charming people kicked in. All you had to do was fall for it. And all I had to do… was not fall for you… which is where my nice, simple plan fell apart,” he finished, stopping to stand before her.

She held his gaze, speechless.

“I want you,” he whispered fervently. “I want what was in that vision… I want us to be something real.”

Never in a million years had she thought he would respond to her like this. She opened her mouth to speak, but Astarion cut her off with another sudden exclamation.

“I just don’t know what real is,” he confessed, his tone a touch hysterical. Tav knew from his body language that being this transparent was completely out of Astarion’s comfort zone.

“Being… close to someone - any kind of intimacy - was something I performed to lure people back. For him. Even though I know things between us are different, being with someone still feels… tainted. Still brings up those feelings of disgust, and loathing. I… I don’t know how else to be with someone. No matter how much I’d like to,” he finished, staring at her with beseeching eyes, willing her to understand.

Tav rose to her feet, coming to stand before him.

“I don’t want you for your body,” she whispered. “Or to perform any acts of intimacy. We can be together, without sleeping together, for as long as you need.”

“Really,” he asked softly, his voice pitched low, rough with emotion.

“Really,” Tav asserted, giving him a small smile. “Would it be all right if…” she paused, conflicted. He eyed her curiously.

“Could I hug you?” she whispered.

The fact that she asked before doing so caused a well of emotion to spring up inside him. Eyes watering, Astarion nodded.

Slowly, Tav moved forward to wrap her arms around his waist. Her head nestled into the crook of his neck and shoulder. A perfect fit. He felt her exhale a deep sigh.

Tav hugging him was a sensation unlike any he had ever felt. At least, any he could remember feeling. The act of being touched, embraced, without any desire for something more. She just wanted to hold him, feel him close to her. It was incomprehensible to him, but utterly enjoyable, at the same time.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Astarion raised his arms to return Tav’s embrace. Drawing her even closer, he bowed his head to rest his cheek against her hair. It was soft, like the finest silk. He closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply, appreciating her sweet, floral scent.

She made to pull away after a moment, not wishing to overwhelm him. But Astarion gripped her more firmly, a silent urge for them to stay that way a little longer.

“This… this is nice,” he whispered.

He both felt and heard Tav hum contentedly in response.

It wasn’t identical to the vision from Tav’s mind that he had seen, but Astarion reveled in their embrace nonetheless. It felt like the beginning of something new. And for the first time in his very, very long life, Astarion felt excited at the prospects of what would come next.

#astarion #dancingbirdiewrites #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate astarion #baldur’s gate astarion #astarion x f!reader #astarion bg3 #bg3 astarion fic #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x mc #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic

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redcherrykook · 8 days ago

Text

──── ⊱ ☆ ⊰ Evidence of a criminal bond- part one

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

enemies to lovers at the detectives office

Jeon Jungkook has been your annoying coworker at the detective´s office for what feels like ages. What happens when he gets assigned as your partner against crime for seouls´s ongoing case of the masked serial killer? Will a vulcano and a tornado manage to find peace in each others chaos, while trying to catch the person responsible for the horror unleashed upon the nation?

content warning: please keep in mind this au revolves around the job as a criminal detective, therefore dealing with darker topics, including sensitive topics such as SA, m^rder, assault, robbery, blackmail, sex work, trauma, therapy.

A large portion of this work is fiction, while some aspects also have valid foundations in actual crime cases as well as psychologically related crime studies and research

further content: slow burn, angst, misunderstandings, comfort, eventual smut, trying to work it out for each other, a lot of plot/work focus, side characters such as officer Kim Namjoon and criminal psychologist Park Jimin, good ending

no taglist! - sorry for misspellings and typos!!

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

6:53 am

Static buzzing sounds around the entire office, a hasty jog through the chattered people and with a slam of your big leather bag to your slightly decorated desk, finally, you arrive at work.

the ordinary, bustling with people in cool blazers and coffes, couple cops and a large story board cluttered with red marker and pictures, at least that's what the countless shows make it out to be,

it wasn't like that in real life

While, surely, there are an array of different people having serious conversations, while there may the occasional cop visit, this whole, rushed overly analyzed office doesn't come close to your neat workspace.

Days mostly consist of reading through the piles upon piles of boring paperwork left by your superiors and attorneys, or investigating some string of robberies that are operated by biker gangs,

Some prostitution rings disguised as karaoke bars or massage parlors,

Nothing like a serial killer, no nothing even close has hit your very own, very organized desk in the span of your bloomed carreer

In fact, seoul hasn't seen an unpleasant visitor like that in 30 long years, three full decades

Wind rushes through the heated room as a window opens down the hall, most likely in an effort to flush out the stress that spans throughout the people- yesterdays events have left the investigation sleepless, having seen the on scene cops and crime scene investigators while passing through the door,

It was fairly easy to tell who it was,

a souless, empty glaze clouds their colorful irises- dark, deep circles making it clear that these people were there when it happened

"What the fuck did you do Hwang?"

your head shoots up, locking eyes with someone you did not wish to see right when starting your shift- with the entire department working on a serial killer case, irritated and occupied with following a majority baseless leads- the last thing you need is him.

"Thats quite the different tone from yesterday Jeon"

he scoffs, cocking his head while pushing his hands deeper into the pockets of his darkwash jeans

"Yeah? Well i called you and-" he sighs, "Explicitly told you not to take the case didn't I?" you nod, irritated at his obvious anger that you knew you had absolutely no business in,

you didn't take the case, hell, you had just arrived at the office

"look, it's too early to blame your issues on me-"

"Blame?" the disbelief in his tone messes with your already risen cortisol, only deepening the wrinkles of your frown, probably prolonging the sprouting of grey hair on your scalp.

"Hwang? Jeon? You already received the order?"

The monotone voice of your superior, also known as chief, makes both of your heads turn to face him in all his pale, 6'2" middle aged glory, the suddeness creating a small Oasis of peace between the two of you, stopping your petty argument for a bit

You had now wished that this blatant, confusing misunderstanding will be easily dissolved,

"There must have been a mix up" he states, his face curling into the typical shit eating grin that is etched into his features, like clockwork, it always appeared whenever he thought he was in the right.

the bubble of hope bursts in a split second, stabbed in full force

"As partners?" you blurt out, eyes practically bulging from your skull, the absurd implication of being Jungkook's partner makes your chief sigh, nodding his head in something you can only label disappointment

"Yes. I deem both of you as highly qualified, young individuals. i'm sure i don't need to remind you how serious this is" the chief explains, the same monotone voice now sounding like a cruel joke, however the lack of sleep and evident annoyance plastered on his face doesn't allow room for further complications

As expected, it earns him a shake from Jungkook's head, looking down and taking a breath to prepare himself to complain,

You were faster,

"We will do it. Thank you chief"

your heartbeat hammers in your chest, almost making you feel sick,

It isn't solely that now, you're being responsible for this huge nation wide case,

As abstract and insignificant as it may sound, alongside that, you're facing the difficult task of working with detective Jeon

"I am relying on your ability to stay professional and not let your personal fuedes get in the way" chief gestures his fingers between the two of you, resting his droopy eyes half lidded on yours, haunted by the Terrors of the previous night as he strides off,

Looking over to you newly aquired partner, he looks back at you with a clenched jaw, meeting your tranquill gaze as he speaks,

"Unbelieveable"

11:23 pm

You find out that working with him is in fact, difficult.

15 long hours had passed since your mangled, conjoined mess of what can be roughly considered as partnership had started,

This would have been hundretfold less hair pulling without the countless complains and microagressions,

"Can you move? I can't read this"

you huff, pushing the rolling chair further to the side of your desk, creating even more of a chasm beetween your two bodies,

This reffering to the monster of a case file that had ben handed to you- consisting of every possible report, witness statement, newspaper, autopsy report, possible subject you name it,

it was there- written somwhere in the horribly unorganized pile of paperwork

It slumps down your heavy shoulders, weight down by the hope and responsibility over the country,

"I can't get a read on this bastard" he utters, shutting his eyes. The same frustration that courses through your veins also shows on him and the way he rubs his forhead with his large hands,

The issue is, surprisingly there is nothing in this everything,

"Me neither. The witness statements all contradict themselves and there isn't anything helpful in the other reports" he watches you erratically reorganize the papers for the hundreth time, humming in agreement,

While you had been sitting at this bitingly cold, empty office for the past 15 hours, analyzing every line- reading between them, speculating upon the relevancy of each syllable, on duty officers are being chased around the city like headless chicken, led by baseless tips that somehow- always end up in sheer nothingness.

Nonetheless, you had read every word, soaked up ever piece of Informationen like a greedy sponge without a filter,

Jungkook is on his third cup of coffee, stratically pacing his caffeine intake to maximise his ability to stay awake,

"The department that had this case before us were nutjobs" he says, making you let out a small laugh, a rare occasion which cuts through tension and inevitable irritation that corresponds with this unexpected partnership

A long sigh of desperation follows as you recall what you have managed to gather in the past 15 hours, recalling the possible profiling there is to make on your killer,

Witnesses all contradict each other apart from stating that the victims had been in contact with an ominous man previous to their deaths caused by the rivers ghost- that man presumably being him

"All we have is his patterns. Women, all dismembered and thrown in the river" you tell him, leaning back in your chair with your arms crossed over your chest,

he nods, granting you a look,

"Very throughly dismembered it says in the autopsies, clean cuts at the right spots. That sick creep must be a surgeon or something" jungkook adds, swiping through his hair

"Yeah, or a butcher" you agree, retracting your mind to the details of the killings. There had been no traces of dna found any where on the crime scene, no hair, fingerprints even scraps of clothes- something rarely seen in murders no matter how premeditated- even if the perpetrator had worn gloves, leaving without a speck is practically impossible,

how does he do it?

Aditionally, by how meticulously dismembered the body parts were, it transmitts the notion that the killer must be experienced,

"Possibly cumpulsions? He's uncharactaristically clean" your question makes jungkook think for a second, contemplating, "i figured. But that usually implies a history of mental illness"

"Yeah, and that narrows it down if he's on file"

you pause, "We should look into that"

He hums before turning the bright screen of your pc torwards him, guiding the mouse along the pad,

"The only reliable witnisses we have are the on scene cops. Let me write a email for an interview" he whispers, prominently groaning as you pry the mouse away from his hands, rolling your eyes at him

"Let me write it, it's my pc" your voice falls into a lower grumble,

"Oh okay miss, didn't know i couldn't use your pc, partner" jungkooks lips turn into a mocking grin, you lamely tell him to shut up

he pushes himself away from the desk, sliding the rolling chair back as he releases himself from the suffocating shakles of a long shift,

"I'm leaving. Another hour of this and i'm going insane" as he puts on his thick black coat, the dim light above you flickers, without a further note, his presence leaving subsides, resulting to your solitude inside the four walls of the eceptionally empty, staticly buzzing office

Your fingers type away at the keyboard, the blue, bright light eliciting from the screen strains your exhausted eyes with all their might, in the email directed towards your loyal friends and helpers, you´re practically begging them for an interview the following day

As you finally press send, your face crashes down into your hands- fingers rubbing the crumbled remains of what once was your mascara into your skin, highlighting the lack of rest you so clearly suffer from

With the obnoxiously loud sound of heels clicking on the floor and the shutting of the floor hall doors, the department falls entirely empty,

gushes of frosting wind hit your skin upon your exit already inhaling the smoke from your freshly lit cigarette, you attempt to make the trainride home to pass in the blink of an eye by disassociating into thought, thoughts that expectedly, revolve around what you had spend the past hours of existance with,

It felt surreal, that he must be out here right when you are as well,

In the same city, inhaling the same polluted air

"This stupid woman"

Jungkook pulls into his usual spot down at the apartment block, the tall lights shining a oddly comforting, yellow glimmer on his street

His hands slam on the steering wheel, blowing out air from his puckered lips as his head falls back- final relief, while simultaneously, dreading to be back at work in a meer time of 7 hours

Reverting back to the thought of you, he curses underneath his slightly labored breath,

he doesn't hate you- at least that what he tells himself, in all rationality, his unfounded fascination with your patheticly annoying "i can do it all" attitude is precisely that, unfounded

The keys jingle between his rough fingers, revealing his dark apartment, before a very hungry- playful Doberman greets him with a jump and about a million licks to his hands,

"heeyy bam.. you hungry bro?" Bam barks and Jungkook giggles in return, throwing his coat onto the hanger while the dog strides happily torwards the empty food bowl

On the other side of town, a siren blares- red, blue lights reflect on your fogged up kitchen window as the vehicle speeds down the road,

both of you silently prayed that it wouldn't be his fault once again

#redcherrykook #jeon jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x you #bts fanfic

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seireiteihellbutterfly · 9 months ago

Text

JJK Men And Reader With A Sensitive Clit

part 2 with Geto here

♥ Warnings: Mentions of trauma, sexual themes, clit and vaginal fingering, oral sex

♥ Summary: Reader with a sensitive clit. What will our men do to work around this?

♥ Featuring: Gojo and Nanami

♥ Word Count: 1957

JJK Masterlist

Gojo

“So fucking wet… can't believe this is all for me…”

Your new lover is eager to please and you lay back as his tongue pampers your clit, licking at it like candy. Whimpers escape your mouth, your hips rocking to meet his rhythm, but the thoughts at the back of your mind are distracting you.

That's it? You couldn't last longer than that?

That's no fun… You cum too soon

You and your over sensitive clit… You don't deserve to be eaten out if you're going to cum so soon…

You are suddenly filled with anxiety and you stop being responsive. You were already close. Super close but your body jerked at those thoughts and moved your pussy away from Gojo, making him lose his rhythm.

Piercing blue eyes look at you, his mouth setting into a frown. “Did you not like it?”

You take a few deep breaths, trying to gather your thoughts but the memory is still stuck, taunting you. “No I liked it…Was about to cum actually.”

Gojo's eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Then why…?”

You bring yourself up to a sitting position, feeling embarrassed and slightly humiliated. Gojo scoots over to you and starts stroking your hair. “Are you uncomfortable? Because if you are -”

“It's not you.” You cut him off, unsure if you wanted to tell him. You're worried he would think the same way your past boyfriend did. That you were boring, that it's not fun when a girl cums too soon, that you should not expect oral if it gets you off that fast…

Gojo has been watching you patiently this whole time, trying to process your reactions. He strokes your arm, concerned. “What are you not telling me y/n?”

You sigh, your face burning. “I cum too fast.”

Gojo blinks, unsure if he heard you correctly. “You… What?”

“It doesn’t take long for me to orgasm, Like if it’s really good, I can have one in under a minute.”

Gojo still looks confused. “And this is a problem because…?”

“You don’t think it’s boring to have a partner who cums too fast?” Your chest tightens at the thought, wondering what he thinks about you. Gojo continues to stroke your arm, before giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Ah…I’d say that’s kind of hot. Under a minute? Really?”

You look at him in surprise. “Really? You don’t think it’s weird? You don’t think…” you pause before saying the rest. “You don’t think you’ll get tired of giving me oral if I keep cumming so fast, and it’s over before you really got into it?”

He chuckles softly and pulls you against his chest. “Pretty girl…where’d you get it in your head that giving oral gets boring if you cum quickly?”

You blush against his toned chest. “Just…an ex…”

“Then they’re not worthy of you. Aw baby, no. Don’t you ever think that way.”

Reassured, you nestle against his chest. A few moments pass in silence before he speaks again. “Have you ever had multiple orgasms before?”

You look at him in confusion. “No but, what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, I read somewhere that if you cum really quickly, that’s not your real orgasm. It’s a pre-orgasm which then leads to the big one.” He looks at you thoughtfully. “Wanna try it out?”

The expression on your face says it all. “You’d want to do this with me?”

“Hell yeah. You think I’m not up for it? A chance to make you cum over and over?”

Internally, you couldn’t believe it. He really wanted to do this. Were you even capable of multiple orgasms? You were so sensitive after it happens. Gojo seems to read into your uncertainty and he reassures you. “At any point if you’re uncomfortable just tell me. I swear I’ll stop.”

He kisses his way down your body, parting your legs, licking your inner thighs, before going back to licking the sensitive bud. His arms lock around your upper thighs to prevent them from closing.

You feel the buildup happen quickly, moaning as your folds grow wet from your slick and his saliva. The orgasm grips you within a few seconds and you moan lewdly, feeling Gojo’s tongue press up flat against your clit as your sex spasms from pleasure.

“You weren’t kidding…” He laps up at your juices, the sounds of wetness adding to your arousal.

“No I wasn’t I - ohhhh.” Your words cut off as Gojo gets back into it, his lips pulling on your clit, abusing the very tip of it with his tongue. You feel your mind go hazy, pussy sensitive from the recent climax and whine. “Gojo…It’s…sensitive…ngh…”

His eyes lock onto yours and you can’t help but stare back, seeing nothing but enthusiasm. Sweat breaks out on your skin as he keeps eating you out, his long fingers slipping into your leaking core, finding that spot inside you and curling his fingers into it. It’s like a hook behind your navel is pulled, and you mewl your pleasure as a second orgasm hits you almost instantly.

The second one felt so much different than the first. The first one felt almost delicate in comparison to this one which had a stronger intensity, your pussy spasming around his fingers for what felt like minutes before finally receding. You try to catch your breath as Gojo grins at you from between your legs.

“How about a third one?”

You chuckle weakly and bite your lip.

“As many as you’ll give me.”

Nanami

It’s finally happening. After patiently dating for nearly 2 months, you and Nanami decide you’re both ready to get physically intimate. His kisses were so tender and sweet, taking his time until you started sighing against his lips, slipping your tongue for more. Both your clothes came off slowly, as he laid you back on the bed, drinking in your blushy face and how sensitive you were to his touch, his every whisper and tickle.

You were enjoying yourself at first, moaning as he kissed and nibbled your neck, your collarbone, as he came down to your breasts, swirling your hardened nipples with his tongue. Your body was soft and compliant under his, admiring how beautiful and toned he was, his sharp brown eyes looking at you with affection as he ran his tongue between your breasts, down to your belly, nibbling your belly button as he continued down to the sweet spot between your thighs.

You try to remind yourself this is a different person, that Nanami wouldn’t ever shame you or hurt you but memories keep intruding your thoughts as he starts to part your legs.

It hurts…don’t do it like that…

It hurts? What’s wrong with you? You’re a chick right? Don’t like having your clit touched? What’s the fun if you can’t handle some pressure?

I don’t like it that hard…

The pain will pass…just wait it’ll feel good….

No…stop…

Let me touch it…

You’re hurting me…stop…STOP…!

“Y/n?”

You hadn’t even realized you’d squeezed your eyes shut and that there’s a tear rolling down your cheek. Mortified, you look to see Nanami crouching between your legs, his expression full of concern. He stops immediately and moves up towards you as you clutch the blanket and try to cover yourself, shame filling you. You had hoped the trauma would go away if you had tried to have sex again, with someone you felt like you could trust. To get Nanami’s hopes up like this, then to have this response…Would you be able to enjoy sex like a normal person ever again?

Strong, warm arms envelope you from behind, pulling you to his chest, comforting you. Nanami rests his cheek on your hair.

“I’m fine.”

”You were crying y/n. That’s not fine.” His hands gently cover yours, which are tightly clasping the blanket. “Talk to me.”

Those words, spoken with so much sincerity, almost make you break down completely.

”It’s nothing, I just…I don’t like…” You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling mortified that you have to say this. “I don’t like having my clit touched. Every time anyone tries to touch it, it’s too…hard? Painful? I don’t know. I just don’t like it.” The words roll out.

”And…were you crying because I was about to…?”

You take a deep breath, realizing you’ll have to tell him the truth because otherwise, he’ll probably assume it was something he did, because that’s just who he was. “It wasn’t you. In the past I wasn’t treated very nicely about this. A lot of people told me it’s supposed to feel good, that the pain was part of the pleasure. And I know it can feel good, because it does when I do it by myself. But others…”

Your voice trails off. You wait for it. For him to realize you’re a freak. There’s a moment of silence. Then…

”Why not tell me if you didn’t want me to go there?” His voice is soft, full of understanding.

”I don’t know. I just didn’t want you to think I was weird. I want to have someone touch me there and feel good but it just hasn’t worked well in the past.”

The delicate strength he holds you with comforts you and you manage to calm down. He was silent for a moment then he asks you, “How do you do it?”

”What?” You’re surprised by the question.

”You said it feels good when you do it. So how do you do it?”

Your face flushes red. No one had asked before. “I um…kind of…just…grab both sides of my pussy…and roll it in between.”

“Would you be open to me doing that?”

You take a minute to process his words, unsure.

”I’ll stop if it starts to hurt,” he adds immediately. He’d never hurt you, never on purpose.

With a nod of your head, you turn to lay on your back and the both of you start up again, the kisses, the little tickling caresses. When you start sighing, he slips his hand down and gently places his thumb and index finger on the fatty folds of your pussy, giving a soft squeeze which has you gasping.

You take deep breaths, and then he brings the folds together over your clit and its heaven. Your eyes close, savoring the gentle pleasure that you thought you would never experience. He keeps his eyes on your face, looking for signs of discomfort, but none show up. He keeps a steady rhythm, rolling the little bud between your steadily moistening folds, building up your arousal until you feel yourself dripping with need.

A delicious shiver passes through your body and before you can stop yourself, you say, “faster”. There had never been a time you’d asked for it to be faster.

His fingers, so dexterous and clever, pick up the speed that’s rolling the folds of your sex and you whimper at the sensation, not painful at all. You half open your eyes, your mind somewhere between pleasure and reality, see his brown eyes fixated on yours, making you blush at the intensity of his gaze.

His free hand tugs your hardened nipple, his mouth coming down over the other one. The sensation builds slowly, the room filling with your delighted mewling, hips bucking, desperate for a release. Heat gathers in your belly, your abdominal muscles tightening, his fingers patient and tender.

Your fingers grip the bedsheets as you sob out your pleasure, climax gripping you so softly yet intensely, wave after wave racking your system. His fingers keep up their movements guiding you through it. When you start to quiet down he tenderly kisses your lips.

“Was that all right?”

You sigh and rest against the pillow.

“More than all right.”

dividers by @/cafekitsune

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thewidowsledger · 3 months ago

Text

The Call

Chapter 1: First Day | 3.9k

Summary: You were supposed to take her out—the infamous Black Widow—Natasha Romanoff. The S.H.I.E.L.D. has been keeping an eye on her for a while now and for some reason, another high-ranking agent as you was sent to get the mission done. But then, he made a different call leading the mission to be here in front of you, soon to be a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

Pairings: Ex-Russian Agent Natasha Romanoff x Senior S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Female Reader

Tags | Warnings: 18+, bad writing, slow burn, angst angst angst, violence, triggering Natasha’s trauma if you squint because that's what we do for a living

Author's Note: You are Fury’s adoptive daughter in this series and I wrote Yelena as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, not a Black Widow. So basically Natasha and Yelena doesn't know each other. I tried doing my best researching about Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. so please spare me with my mistakes.

I dedicate this chapter to @a-spes and @notlhecxzsa because they’ve been nothing but very supportive of this series🤲💗

Navigation | Masterlist | Series Masterlist

⧗

“Natalia Alianovna Romanova”

“Natasha Romanoff”

“Red Room”

“Black Widow”

Your eyes hurt as you look at the screen fiercely, having to put your eyeglasses on your head. Your eyes run over every word and detail gathered by S.H.I.E.L.D. on the assassin's life. You’ve read and reviewed all of this, you’ve studied her for almost half of your life.

She was supposed to be taken out by Clint, a high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. agent like you. The difference between you and Clint is that Clint is a level 6 agent and you are a level 8 agent who has more access to information and works as a mission controller. While Clint’s level specialized in espionage and combat.

You and Clint have earned your positions through years of service and exceptional performance. In S.H.I.E.L.D., agent rankings ranged from entry-level recruits to senior positions such as Director and Deputy Directors. In the field, agents were typically divided into levels based on their experience and mission success rates, with higher levels earning more autonomy and responsibility. You and Clint were both considered to be in the upper echelons of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s field agent ranks, respected and entrusted with important missions.

You studied Clint's mission report from Budapest as well.

“I made a different call.” You read to yourself.

You remembered that day, your father, the director, Nick Fury, accepted that call without hesitation. However, you found yourself unable to accept it as easily as he did. You knew that Natasha's past made her dangerous and unpredictable, and you couldn't shake the feeling that the assassin had her own agenda. Your concerns were real, but you knew that your father, the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. trusted Clint's judgment, and you had no choice but to accept that call.

You turned your attention to the screen of your computer scrolling through the series of surveillance photos, eventually pausing at one particular image that caught your eye. It was a picture of Natasha, her face and arms bloodied. She’s wearing a tight-fitting black tank top that emphasized her toned abs. You’re fixated on the image, your eyes tracing the curve of Natasha's biceps.

“Y/N?”

You jumped in surprise and quickly closed the tabs on your computer. You composed yourself before calling out, “Come in.”

“Deputy Hill.” You nodded, Maria intently eyed you before the both of you bursted into laughter. “What's up, Ri? I missed you.” You immediately circled over your desk and gave her a big hug.

“Fine and you? How's the vacation?” She asked, squeezing your left hand. “Great, so, so great that I wanna sneak out and ditch missions just to go back to Fiji and lay there while I keep my tan up by the beach.”

“That sounds really great, Y/N.”

“Oh yeah, it is.” You replied with a smirk as you walked back towards your desk. “And then I’ll get a call that Hawkie made a “different call” with his last mission.” You raised a hand, gesturing with your two fingers to make an apostrophe sign in the air as you said, “different call.”

Maria just chuckled, her gaze landing on the stack of paper you're fixing on your desk. “I know what those are.” She said, before eyeing you softly.

Of course she does, everyone in S.H.I.E.L.D. knows what it is, who’s behind all those thick papers.

It's all about the shot Clint couldn't take, Natasha Romanoff A.K.A. the Black Widow.

You let out a deep sigh as you looked up at Maria, gathering the papers on your desk. "She's coming today, right?"

“Actually Y/N, I’m here to say that they're all in the meeting room now. Clint, your dad and her.”

“Oh.”

⧗

There was a charged energy in the air, the assassin's senses something intimidating coming in, she braced herself and leaned her back straight at her seat—and then here you are, entering the meeting room.

Natasha's eyes widened as she took in your appearance, drinking in every detail. Her gaze slid down on your body, taking in the way your skirt and heels accentuated your legs and the way your cleavage peeked on your top…

“That's my daughter, finally.” Fury said, smiling at you, you peck a kiss on his cheek before standing beside him.

As soon as Fury spoke the word “daughter” Natasha cursed under her breath, realizing that she had just been checking out the director’s daughter. She felt a wave of shame wash over her, embarrassed at her own behavior.

“Agent Y/N Fury.” Fury introduced. You scanned the room taking in the presence of Clint and the infamous Black Widow. You smiled politely at Clint, acknowledging his comeback.

“Barton.”

“Y/N.”

Your gaze swept over the assassin, your eyes meeting for a brief moment. She quickly averted her gaze, clearly uncomfortable with the direct eye contact. You couldn't help but smirk slightly at her reaction, finding it amusing.

You took your seat in front of Clint, eyeing her once again before the meeting began.

You glance at the assassin every now and then and the assassin is very aware of it, you made it obvious that you're staring at her even Clint knows but he did nothing about it.

If looks could kill this assassin would be dead on the spot. Your gaze fixed on every detail that you’ve seen on the tabs of your computer, your eyes finally landed on her arms—they're much bigger in person you thought but you quickly erased the stupid thought when the main topic of discussion was finally brought up.

“Natasha Romanoff will now be a part of S.H.I.E.L.D.” The deputy director, Maria announced.

There was a moment of silence as everyone digested this information. You know this is going to happen, you saw it coming. You huffed trying to keep your expression neutral but it didn't go unnoticed by the people in the room.

Fury leaned forward in his seat, his gaze focused on you as if he's expecting you to show your disagreement to this decision. “If you have any issues with the situation, just report it,” he said firmly.

You tried to downplay your concerns and annoyance, giving a small shrug in response, but you couldn't hide the tension that had settled in the room. You know damn well that the entire team, including the assassin herself, could sense your disagreement and disapproval but of course you didn't give them the satisfaction of having their thoughts right about you.

Their eyes shifted between you and Fury, watching carefully for your reaction. But the assassin kept her head down.

“If that would be all, I'd like to excuse myself.” You quickly stood from your chair without giving anyone a chance to respond and you made your way towards the door.

Just as you reached for the handle, Fury's voice called out to you, stopping you in your tracks. You shut your eyes before turning to face him, your expression emotionless.

“Sir?” You said, acknowledging his authority, he’s still the director after all…and not to mention that he’s also your father who you always had dinner with every weekend.

“Romanoff will be under your wing.” Before you could even react, he spoke again. “You will be responsible for overseeing her in missions, training, and other SHIELD operations, including both field work and theoretical training. You need to evaluate her progress and provide feedback and guidance as necessary.”

Your eyes scanned the room and landed on Natasha, who sat quietly in her seat.

“Doesn't seem like I have a choice, do I?”

Clint pinched his nose to your reply, he already expected this attitude from you. You saw him squeeze the hand of the assassin.

But the assassin once again tried to avoid your gaze, you couldn't help but feel a small sense of satisfaction at her reaction once again. It was clear that your presence and authority intimidated her, which was a good start.

As you turned to leave, you called out to the assassin, “Tomorrow 0800, in my office.”

Before Natasha could even reply, you’re already gone.

“Yes ma’am.” She muttered in the air.

⧗

You were surprised to see the redhead standing in front of your office. You walked past her as if you saw nothing and immediately placed your bag to your desk, you sat back down and saw her figure still standing outside the glassed windows of your office.

You let out an annoyed sigh and stared at the clock on the wall, counting down the minutes. It was still ten minutes before your scheduled meeting time.

You fidgeted with your foot, tapping it against the floor. The seconds seemed to tick by slower than normal, and you just wanted the clock to reach exactly 8 o'clock so you could call the assassin.

“Come in.”

Before she could even close the door you fired off a series of questions.

“Did you report to Deputy Director Hill? Before you come waiting outside my office for what seems like hours?” You asked, cocking your brow at her.

She answered quickly, “Yes.”

You continued, "Did you complete your assigned training?"

Again, her reply was prompt, “Yes.”

Impressed but not fully satisfied, you pressed on, “Weapons training?”

“I thin—”

As soon as Natasha began to respond again, you cut her off. “What? You think you don't need them?” You demanded, your voice sharp as if you know what she's going to say.

Natasha's head jerked back, clearly not expecting the abrupt interruption. She looked up at you, her eyes wide, and replied softly, “No, ma'am.”

You tilt your head, “Then go, meet me after.”

“Deputy Hill told me that I might need some guidance in the traini—”

“Guidance?” You shot back with your shocked mocking tone not letting her finish once again, “With a trained assassin like you? You need my guidance?” You chuckled in irritation and disbelief as you slowly shook your head side by side.

“You’ve got so much red on your ledger, I don't think you need my guidance.”

The assassin flinched at your words, it clearly touched a nerve and you knew you had hit that sensitive spot. In that way you wanted her to know that you weren't going to go easy on her.

But only if you knew how much your words affected her.

⧗

“Clint, what's up? Are you supposed to be here? I thought you're still on leave?” Clint brought Natasha in a big hug that she really needs right now after your shoot-to-kill words.

“Nah, not if my best friend is at her first day of work,” he replied, patting her shoulder reassuringly. They continued walking together and Clint asked, “How was it?”

Natasha shrugged nonchalantly, “It's okay.”

“How's Y/N?” Clint noticed the change in Natasha's mood when he asked about you. She seemed hesitant to talk about you, her answer short and clipped. “She uhm…she's okay.” She spoke again, changing the subject quickly. “I’m heading to the training room right now.”

He picked up on her avoidance and decided to play along, though concern still flickered in his eyes.

“I can see through you, Nat,” he started, “Y/N can be tough, she's not the Furious daughter for nothing.”

Natasha looked at him questioningly, “Furious daughter?”

Clint chuckled, finding the ironic nickname funny. “You know, because she's Fury’s daughter, fe-yu-ri…fe-yu-ri-us—because she can be furious at times,” he explained, adding a little pun to it.

He then grew serious again, looking at the assassin intently. “But seriously, Y/N is not someone to mess around with. She’s tough as nails and can be pretty intense when she wants to be.”

Natasha muttered under her breath, “Yeah, I knew that right after she walked in the meeting room yesterday.”

Clint just chuckled and patted her shoulder reassuringly. He knew that you had made quite an impression on her, and he found it somewhat amusing.

“Seems like she left a lasting impression, huh?” he teased.

Natasha's head dropped slightly as she remembered the words you had shot at her a while ago.

“Guidance?”

“With a trained assassin like you? You need my guidance?”

“You’ve got so much red on your ledger, I don't think you need my guidance.”

“Oh yeah she did.”

⧗

You summoned all the agents under your wing. There are 5, Natasha included.

Natasha intently observed each person in the meeting room, her gaze flitting from one face to another as if trying to glean something from their expressions.

Typical guy with blue eyes and blonde hair, with a muscular body and cocky attitude, but Natasha thought that his muscles were just gym muscles. This one girl who introduced herself to Natasha, her name is Madisynn, though chatty, could sometimes talk a mile a minute. And another girl that had this uncanny ability of appearing lost in her work, her face almost buried in piles of papers and documents as soon as she entered the meeting room.

Natasha, the newbie, of course, had observed each of them closely during the small or almost no interaction at all, making mental notes about their personalities but suddenly a girl with blonde hair entered the room with a big smile and boisterous greeting.

“Hiiiiiiii!” She immediately made her way over to you and enveloped you in a tight hug.

“Hi, Lena.”

Natasha watched this interaction intently. She observed the way your stern demeanor seemed to soften slightly as the small woman embraced you. It piqued her curiosity as she realized it was the first time she had seen you even crack a smile.

Just as Yelena was settling into conversation mode with you, she suddenly turned her attention to the team and started greeting them individually, her cheerful persona on full display. When she got to Natasha, Yelena's eyes widened in recognition.

“You're...the Black Widow?” she exclaimed, excitement evident in her voice. “I’m Yelena! I'm such a huge fan!"

Natasha looked slightly uncomfortable, wincing at the sudden attention. She saw how you glared at Yelena but of course Yelena didn't see. But before she could even respond, Yelena quickly turned her focus back to you.

Yelena bounded over to stand in front of you, her face lit up with her signature grin. You couldn't help but chuckle lightly at her infectious energy.

"Seriously, what are you doing here, Lena?" you asked, your voice laced with both fondness and a little bit of annoyance.

With a shrug, Yelena replied, "I'm a part of your unit, right?"

You chuckled again and clarified, crossing your arms together. "You're in the process of becoming a senior agent."

Not missing a beat, Yelena dropped her smile and adopted a playful pout, giving you a puppy-dog look. "But I still need your guidance. I'm still your baby, right?" she whined, her bottom lip sticking out in an exaggerated manner.

You looked at her now with a serious expression, your gaze narrowing as you asked your question.

"Did Maria ask you to be here?"

The agent shook her head innocently.

You pressed on, your voice was soothing as if you're trying to talk to a kid to have them say the truth. "Did the director ask you to come?"

Again, Yelena replied with a simple, "Nope." Her answer was so childlike popping the p and carefree that it left you no closer to understanding why she was here.

You hummed as you guessed again, “Clint?”

Now she did not reply or give any hint of response, she just fidgeted with her hands.

You sighed, now serious and knowing you were finally getting to the bottom of it. "Did Kate...?"

Yelena's response, "Yeah," was delivered like a kid caught red-handed. Seeing the change in your expression, the agent looked up at you, her eyes widening with realization as she saw just how seriously you were taking this.

"Okay, okay!" she pouted, her mood shifting quickly to defensiveness.

"Well, I guess Clint told her," she muttered, still trying to justify her actions.

You couldn't help but give her a stern look, silently waiting for her to get to the point.

Realizing she was in trouble, Yelena quickly continued, “And you know how Kate is! She told me you're being a 'meanie' to the newbie.”

Yelena's explanation had left you a little taken aback, but you're actually satisfied at the thought of being perceived as mean…to the newbie.

That call hadn't been an easy one for you, so might as well don't go easy on her.

“I'm not being mean,” you denied calmly, immediately defending yourself as you glance towards the direction of the newbie.

Yelena quickly countered, her pout and the respectful tone in her voice contrasting with her defiance, “You did not make me come at 0800 at your office and expect everything done by that time.”

You chuckled at her audacity, a little amused. Just by making her come to your office early everyday made you mean already? How is she supposed to handle all the things you’re about to unleash to her?

“And they thought sending you here will stop me from being mean to the newbie?” you asked, raising your brows at her.

“Nope, they sent me so the newbie will have a frennie.”

“Frennie, huh?” You replied with a huff. “Great, two pains in my ass.”

Yelena shot back, offended at your words, “See? You're being a meanie!”

Hearing her fiery and child-like reply, you couldn't help but chuckle softly, unable to maintain being serious in the face of her petulant pout and defiant attitude.

With a smirk, you gestured ever so slightly with your chin towards the direction of the newbie who has been patiently sitting alone in the meeting room.

“Shoo, go to your frennie now. It seems like she's waiting for you.”

“Now you're being a bully.” Yelena crossed her arms across her chest, her pouty expression never leaving her face.

You tilt your head, slightly leaning towards the agent, “Go now, before I show you how meanie I can be.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

⧗

“Y/N go easy on her.”

“You're the second person to tell me that today,” you replied coldly to your father, a touch of defensiveness in your voice. “What did I do now? Make her come to the office on weekends when the others don't?” you huffed.

Your father just hummed and you immediately snapped back to reality after you just exposed yourself.

“I heard you never let her out of your office. Never sent her to missions, you know she actually can be the same level as Clint.” Your father noted making you bite your inner lip in frustration. She just got in the agency and the thought of her being on the same level as Clint that quickly made you feel threatened. Are you? No. But that's not fair, you spent years getting onto your level.

“Can we just eat, ‘pa? Let's just leave work behind for just one night?” you asked curtly despite the tension growing between you and your father.

“I’m starting to think you might actually be obsessed with her.” Your father casually said, chuckling slightly thinking you wouldn't take it seriously.

But something just snapped in you.

“Shut up!” Your response came out sharper than intended, your frustration seeping into your tone.

Your father flinched slightly as he was shocked by the suddenness of your outburst making him stop cutting the steak he was eating. The sound of the fork and knife rattling against his porcelain plate echoed in the brief and awkward moment of silence that followed.

You breathe heavily, “I studied her for almost half of my life! I was the one who tracked her down!” Your voice started to rise, and you gesticulated wildly as you spoke, feeling the heat of anger rising. He thinks this is funny?You wished he understood how excruciating this is for you. You have kept this to yourself for so long, keeping it under control but at this point, you're starting to crack.

“She was my mission! I know every fiber of her being for fuck’s sake! Soviet Intelligence to KGB, Red Room,” you listed off furiously, “How she thinks, who she killed and how she’s done each kill!”

“You think this is easy on me, Papa?” you looked at him clenching your brows together, trying not to break down in front of him. “Go easy on her? How about go easy on me?”

“Fuck, go easy on me,” you repeated, muttering under your breath. You sobbed and immediately got up your chair to retire for the night.

You never had any major disagreements with him and even now, you were aware that you had crossed a line by yelling and cursing at his own home, it's the rules he strictly maintained especially when you were younger. You have always been so respectful of him. Hell, you look up to him—the man was your hero.

“Your mother was a Hydra agent before I met her.” He suddenly spoke, the mention of your mother made you stop from your tracks. Fury's voice took on a softer tone as he continued. “The level 10 S.H.I.E.L.D. director falling in love with one of the affiliates of a terrorist organization. What would the world think of me?” He chuckled to himself.

Fury stumbled upon your mother when she was still under the control of Hydra. He had managed to rescue her from their clutches, though she was still imprisoned for the reason that she contributed to the Hydra’s hell-bent expenditure.

To secure her freedom, your mother agreed to work as an undercover agent for Fury, infiltrating Hydra's ranks. It was a dangerous task, but she had hoped it would give her the chance to start anew with you and leave Hydra’s ties behind.

She had died of sickness when you were just 13 years old, but even before that, Fury had adopted you.

“Like you, I knew her too. Every experiment she has done with Hydra, every network operative, plans to overthrow the world government…” he had his own list too. “Her birthday, where she was born, that she was an only child and then I learned her favorite flower, her favorite food, and that she gets rashes when she eats eggs…like you.”

You stood with your back to him, silently crying as you clench your fists together. Each tear rolling down on your cheeks whenever Fury listed off everything she knows about your mom.

“And then,” he said quietly, “I found out she had a little version of herself, you. I found out that you were the light of her life, her reason for living. She loved you more than anything in this world. And I did too, Y/N.”

You felt Fury approach you from behind, his footsteps echoing faintly on the floor. As he spoke, you could tell he was now standing right behind you.

“I was losing hope for the world, I was tired of putting everything back in place. Everyone might think that I spared her, gave her another chance. But your mother was the one who gave me a reason to give life another chance, she changed me. You both did.”

“I miss her,” you managed to say between gasps of air. Unable to hold back anymore, you crumble into your father's embrace. Fury wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as you cried into his chest. He gently stroked your back, comforting you as you let your emotions pour out.

“I do too, baby,” he whispered quietly, “I miss her, too.”

The Call: Masterlist

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff au #natasha romanoff fanfic #black widow x reader

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avis-writeshq · 1 year ago

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04 — you are in love

summary: “you can hear it in the silence.”/”you can hear it on the way home.”/”you can see it with the lights out.” in other words; the four times spencer wants to kiss you, and the one time he wishes he did. pairing: spencer reid x bau!fem!reader genre: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, slow burn, warnings: drug mention, alcohol (reader gets a little tipsy), vomit (not in detail) wc: 3.4k a/n: thank you again to the wonderful amazing @astrophileous for beta-reading MWAH zara you're a real one <3 SPARKS FLY MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST

Falling in love is something that Spencer thought he would never get the luxury of doing. It’s a fairytale. After all, his parents were supposed to be a perfect example of what love should be like and look how they ended up. Yet despite it all, he always seems to find himself going back to you. You, who makes it so easy to love but he doesn’t deserve it. He refuses to believe he deserves it. He feels so horribly broken that it doesn’t make sense why you would love him, or why he deserves to love you.

It takes Spencer another three months to actually properly come to terms with the fact that he’s in love with you. He’s spent most of his free time attending Narcotic Anonymous groups upon your insistence and he hates to admit that it helps. He didn’t think they would at first, despite the swirling statistics of their effectiveness but he figures that it wouldn’t hurt. The other times when he’s not doing something drug related, therapy related or work related, he’s with you. Your apartment is almost like a second home to him and you’d given him your spare key (he went home with a ridiculous grin on his face and had to chug several cups of water to calm himself down).

Since your leaving the BAU, he’s left a series of trinkets on his desk that remind him of you. A little ceramic blue bird beside the animal skull models. It’s no bigger than his pinky finger and when he asked you why you gifted it to him, you told him that it represents hope and renewal. He thinks he needs a lot of that.

In the first drawer of his desk is a framed picture of you and him at a Doctor Who convention with him dressed up as the Tenth Doctor and you in all blue in an attempt to dress up as TARDIS. It was a fun and silly day but it was enjoyable and that was what mattered. After a series of unfortunate events, Derek happened across the photo, claiming that there was no platonic explanation for it.

(“Care to explain this?” He had asked, holding the frame with a grin on his face. He was looking into Spencer’s desk for a specific file on the Benson murders, only to be met with a very familiar face.

Spencer immediately lunged for the photograph, grabbing it and securing it back in his desk with a heavy slam. “Don’t.”

Derek put his hands up in mock surrender, although his eyes were sympathetic. “There’s nothing platonic about that, kid.”

He huffed in response, rubbing at his eyes and taking a seat at his desk. “I know.”)

The first time he came to terms with the fact that he actually wanted to be with you was after a specific realisation. Some cases are harder than others. It’s a given; some cases are just more difficult to deal with and therefore harder to compartmentalise. Each person is different, especially when you factor in trauma. Derek struggles when pedophilia is involved, and JJ finds suicide cases the worst. Hotch can barely function properly when children are targeted, and Emily hides behind a mask so effortlessly that the most mundane things can get to her. After a period of thought, Spencer realises what he struggles to deal with: bullying.

“You should have– you should have heard what they were saying!” Spencer insists, pacing his living room floor while throwing his hands up in the air in frustration.

He had just returned home from a case in West Bune, Texas, and it was probably one of the most difficult cases he had to go through. The UnSub was a teenager named Owen and after a very tense confrontation with him outside the police department, he was taken into custody. The entire nature of the case irked him. So many deaths could have been prevented if people just did something but now a boy is in custody with a body count nearing the double digits.

“They didn’t even try to deal with the bullying,” he continues, running his fingers through his now long hair. He can’t bring himself to get it cut; especially not after the incident with Hankel some moons ago.

You don’t say anything, sitting on his couch and sipping your tea, your eyes trained on the way he paces back and forth.

“People are dead because of them. I’m not saying that they didn’t deserve it because they did, but something should have changed.” His words are harsh as he continues to walk, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“You can’t change anything about it now,” You say gently, your gaze shifting from his hands to his arms to his face. “What’s done is done. All we can do is hope that the school board learns from their mistakes.”

“But they don’t!” He exclaims, turning to face you. He swallows thickly before sighing, slumping into the seat beside you and pressing himself into his side. “It’s just so… frustrating. They never learn.”

You nod, running your fingers through the knots in his hair. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“That could have been me,” he says quietly, burying his face into the palms of his hands. He presses the pads of his fingers into the corners of his eyes, stars dotting his vision.

“But it’s not,” you say firmly. “You’re a good person, Spencer. You’re saving people and putting the bad guys away. That’s a far cry away from being an UnSub.”

You’re looking at him now and he tilts his head to meet your gaze. You’re so close to him and Spencer can hear his heart pounding in his ears.

Kiss her.

The words that enter Spencer’s mind are enough to give him whiplash and he pulls away, pretending that he doesn’t see the hurt in your eyes when he does.

What?

“Are you okay?” You ask, frowning up at him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, trying to shake the thoughts from his mind. He offers a smile. “I’m okay.”

***

“Emily doesn’t blame you, you know.”

The words hang in the air as you sit on the floor of your bedroom, the thundering storm pounding against your windows. Spencer shrugs, sitting next to you. The power is out across Washington and the flickering of candles helps to light up the room. Spencer fiddles with the rug on the floor and your brows knit together.

“Walter.”

“I know.” He buries his face in his hands and lets out a groan. “I know, I know. It’s not my fault. It just feels like it, you know? We knew that it was a cult but we didn’t know that it was… that bad. God, angel, you should have seen her. She was beat up and everything and it feels like I could have done something.”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” you chastise, brushing your shoulder against his for a moment. “You really need to take better care of yourself.”

He doesn’t respond, simply moving so that he’s lying down on the rug in your room. It’s a soft tufted rug that goes from a dark purple in the middle to white around the edges. It’s one of his favourite rugs in the world. You’re sitting cross legged beside him, leaning against the bed. The soft glow of the candles illuminate your face and you truly look like an angel in this light.

He just came back from a case in La Plata County in Colorado and he was ordered to take a week off by Hotch to deal with the traumatics of the case. What started out as an undercover investigation in an underground cult led to a gun fight and a bombing, all while Spencer and Emily were inside the compound. The way Emily looked so in pain after the whole ordeal would haunt him forever; the black eye she suffered from, the bruising to her chest… he doesn’t even want to think about the rest of the things that could have happened.

“Stop.”

Your voice pulls him from his thoughts and he sucks in a breath.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says meekly, playing with the rug underneath him.

“It’s not your fault.” You smile at him before hitting him lightly with one of your pillows. “Stop that.”

He laughs loudly, grunting a little from the impact of the pillow colliding with his face. “Hey!”

You grin teasingly and hit him again with the pillow. He retaliates quickly, gripping the pillow and trying to tug it out of your hands. Your grip is a lot stronger than he thought it was and his tug sends you flying towards him, a shriek leaving your lips as your forehead bounces off his.

A hiss of pain leaves your lips but you’re laughing as you clutch your forehead. “Spencer what the hell?!”

“I’m sorry!” He says, not really meaning it, and rubbing at his head. He’s laughing along, his cheeks warm as he smiles up at you. His hands move to your face, one to your cheek and the other to brush the hair on your forehead to the side. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You laugh again, smiling a brilliantly beautiful toothy smile. The candlelight dances in your eyes with a warm orange light as you do. “Are you?”

His gaze meets yours, watching the way you brush a strand of hair behind your ear and the way your eyes crinkles when you smile. He watches the way you lean against the side of the bed, tilting your head back with your eyes closed. God. He swears you’re trying to kill him.

“Spencer?” You ask with a soft chuckle, and the sound is so pretty that he doesn’t mind the fact that you find amusement at his expense. “Are you okay?”

He nods, his throat dry and his cheeks hot. He blames the candles.

***

The couch is never comfortable. You are well aware that the couch feels strangely lumpy and you’re pretty sure one of the springs is broken but for some reason you keep insisting to take it whenever you stay at Spencer’s apartment. The blanket he lets you use is thick and cosy to make up for it and the pillow is always fluffed.

“Good morning.”

Spencer’s voice is raspy with early morning vocal fry and it makes your heart lurch in your throat.

“Morning,” you murmur, eyes still closed in an attempt to calm yourself down. Maybe if you don’t see him you won’t embarrass yourself.

“Still tired?” He asks, and you hear him start the coffee machine. There’s the sound of rustling in the background along with the flicking of a switch. Too many sounds for too early of a day.

“Mm.”

He chuckles, deep and rumbling, before sipping some water. “Yesterday was fun.”

Yesterday involved fourteen hours of watching Doctor Who and passing half way through the nineteenth episode after stuffing yourself full of junk food. Yesterday involved passing out on Spencer, forcing him to move you to the couch and into a position that wasn’t going to destroy your neck. Yesterday involved the most platonic and innocent activities known to Earth, despite the way his words insinuated something entirely differently.

“You fell asleep before the best part,” he says, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“You could have watched without me.”

He shakes his head as he stirs the sugar. “That wouldn’t have been right.”

A hum leaves your lips as you get up from the couch, stretching your arms and making your way over to him from behind the kitchen island. You’re wearing one of his old Doctor Who t-shirts that he let you keep, the sleeves reaching just past your elbows. Your hair is a mess and your eyes are half closed but you look so…

Cute. Seeing you in his shirt drives him wild. There’s something possessive about it and for a second he feels gross. He feels like he’s taking advantage of you but he’s obviously not; you’re the one who stole that shirt from him many moons ago and you’re the one who chose to wear it that day. Regardless, he can’t help but be transfixed as you walk around his kitchen like it’s your own home. Spencer’s eyes follow your figure as you pull open one of his cupboards and grab your mug (a really stupid avocado mug that’s bright green with a lid) before pouring some coffee into it.

“You’ve been going to your NA meetings, right?” You ask him, sipping your drink.

He nods immediately, his gaze never leaving you. “Yeah. Once a week.”

“That’s good!” You tell him, the caffeine slowly beginning to wake you up. “That’s really good, Walter.”

He smiles at you, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Thank you.”

For a few moments, all he can think about is you. Your hair smells like your special vanilla shampoo that Penelope got you hooked on and your skin smells like lavender and orange blossom. He remembers JJ giving you a sample in the office and you went and ordered a whole bottle during your lunch break right after. The compliments you got that day were like no other, and he remembers the way your eyes would light up every single time someone commented on the perfume, as well as the way you would excitedly talk about the different notes. Now, whenever he smells lavender or oranges he thinks of you. He doesn’t think it’s a problem in the slightest.

You sip your coffee again, the sound of the toaster dinging in the background, accompanied by the thick smell of char. In an instant, Spencer jolts from his place and places two very burnt slices of toast onto the plate, his nose scrunching up in frustration.

“I was gonna make you breakfast,” he tells you lamely. “I think we should get croissants.”

You laugh, dumping the pieces of toast into the bin and nod. “I think that’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”

***

The rare occasion when Spencer drives is when you’re not fit to. He picks you up at two in the morning at a bar and you’re sitting in his passenger seat. Your hair has a few tangles here and there and you’re wearing the prettiest purple dress.

“You really didn’t have to pick me up,” you tell him tiredly, rubbing at your eyes. “I could have gotten a taxi.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, leaning over the console to buckle in your seatbelt. “You called me, I’m here. I’m not going to let you get into a stranger’s car when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!” You protest, your head leaning against the car door. “I had one drink.”

“Which can lead to a blood alcohol level of 0.01 to 0.03,” Spencer says, shooting you a smile. “I’d rather not risk it, angel.”

You groan and lean back on the chair. “I swear I’m fine.”

“Why didn’t your friends take you home?” He asks, starting the ignition. “Didn’t you say you were going to hitch a ride with them?”

A hum leaves your lips and you nod. “That was the plan. But one of the designated drivers couldn’t come last minute and the car wasn’t big enough.”

Spencer frowns, backing out of the driveway. “How long were you waiting outside of the bar?”

“Um…” your brows furrow as you think of the answer and you fiddle with the hem of your skirt. “Ten minutes?”

“(Y/N).”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t think it would have been that long,” you huff, rubbing at your eyes. “I promise I was careful.”

Spencer shoots you a frustrated look, sipping at his lukewarm takeaway cup of filtered coffee but keeping his eyes on the road. “You should have called me sooner.”

“I felt bad,” you respond sheepishly, offering him a guilty smile.

Spencer hums, running a hand through his hair. He hasn’t had the time to get it cut so for the time being it’s left slicked back and out of his eyes. He’s wearing his glasses now, too, because he didn’t have the time to put in his contacts. He looks a lot better than he did eight months ago, and he feels it, too. The white t-shirt he’s wearing is filled a little better now that he’s gained a little weight. Happy weight you had told him, pinching at his sides, it means you’re healing.

“Can you pull over?”

Your voice comes out small and Spencer snaps his head to look in your direction. “Yeah. Yeah, of course– hold on.”

He parks at a random McDonald’s on the side of the freeway and you immediately get out of the car and hurl in one of the bushes. He grimaces, getting out of the car to rub your back comfortingly.

“You okay?” He asks, continuing to rub circles on your back. He holds your hair away from your face, watches as your necklace dangles from your neck and catches the light from the 24/7 fast food place.

“... I might have had a little more than one drink.”

He can’t bring himself to get upset at you. Instead, Spencer just sighs and brandishes a bottle of water from the side pocket of his car. “Sip it slowly.”

You do as asked, taking small tentative sips of the cold water. He holds your hair in place, brushing a few strands away from your eyes and forehead.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want you taking a taxi,” Spencer says with a hum, satisfied when you finish drinking half the bottle. “What if you threw up in their car?”

You groan, wiping a hand over your face. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know, angel,” he says sympathetically, lifting your chin with his index finger so that you’re looking at him. “I just worry. You should be able to rely on me, too, you know.”

“Okay,” you say through drunken stupor. “Didn’t mean to worry you, Walter.”

“I know,” he repeats softly, running his fingers through your hair. “Hey. Look up.”

You do, and you stare up at the sky. Stars dot and litter the navy sky, and if you squint you could see a faint blue star.

“That’s Venus,” he explains, gesturing to the little dot. He points to a smaller, redder light just below it. “That’s Mars.”

Even amidst the light pollution, the planets shine brightly. Your gaze is fixed upon the little planets and stars, enjoying the midsummer night’s breeze, the nausea you felt moments prior beginning to subside.

“Do you know what Venus represents?” Spencer asks softly, brushing his shoulder against yours, smiling when you shake your head. “Venus represents love and beauty in Roman mythology.”

You laugh, pressing your nose into his shoulder. “Do you believe that?”

“Scientifically? No,” he admits, “Venus is a planet. It doesn’t really represent anything but a giant ball of gas. But people place significance on insignificant things because it gives them meaning so I understand why they do it.”

It’s quiet for a little while, aside from the occasional sound of a car passing by and a cicada chirping. A cool breeze blows past but it’s more comforting than anything as the two of you sit on the hood of his car: an old 1965 Volvo Amazon in the colour blue horizon with paint chipping off at the inner fenders and bumper ends. He lets you sit on his jacket, your dress and legs protected from the dirty car bonnet. Your head is on his shoulder, your arms wrapped around his and you’ve traded your heels for a pair of Spencer’s spare mis-matched socks.

“(Y/N),” he whispers, rubbing his hand on your arm. “We should get you home.”

You nod, wiggling your toes in the socks. “Yeah.”

Spencer pauses and looks at you, watching as you yawn and hop off the car. He says your name again, chuckling a little bit when you look up at him a little dazed. The words get caught in his chest as he takes a tentative step closer to you. You’re so close. Just one small move. That’s all it would take… he dismisses the thoughts when he can smell the liquor on your skin.

“You’re my best friend,” he says quietly after several moments of silence.

You smile at him. “You’re my best friend, too.”

He drives you home that day with more regret than necessary. He wishes he kissed you. It would have made his life so much easier.

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full work

reblogs are always appreciated!

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bellaxgiornata · 3 months ago

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A Favor from the Devil |Chapter Five|

Pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Mom!Reader Word Count: 4.5k [Series Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+; Domestic abuse, depictions/mentions of sexual assault, struggles with past trauma, canon-typical violence, angst with a happy ending, friends to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut (possibly more warnings to come)

a/n: Another update to this little series that I'm really enjoying working on! Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

Tag list: @kee-0-kee @dethspllz @a-half-empty-g1rl @senjoritanana @kezibear @sleepysleepymom @danzer8705 @scriptedmoon @flowher @wanda-maxamommy @guccicloudz @loves0phelia @withasideofmeg @mattmurdock-wife24 @sarraa-26 @mylastarrival @mdanon027 @kmc1989 @abiisscared @dreamtofus @rebeccapineapple @peterman-spideyparker @littlenosoul @writtenbyred

Rubbing at your tired eyes, they’d begun to burn from staring at your computer screen all day long. The mindless data entry you'd been doing for most of the day had been turning your brain to mush, your eyes frequently glancing down at the corner of your screen to check the time. You were dying for your shift to end so you could pick Evie up from preschool and go relax at home for the evening.

Secretly you were also hoping to hear that her second week at preschool had started off better than her first. You'd already been told by her teacher that she'd been very quiet all of last week, barely speaking unless she absolutely needed to. And it sounded like her lack of speech was affecting her opportunities for making friends in her class, which had only broken your heart to hear. Because every mother just wanted their kids to succeed and be happy, yet here your daughter was seemingly miserable and struggling.

Jaw tightening, your eyelids slowly lowered. All your fault , the voice in your head reminded you. She's like this because of you .

“If I have to stare at a spreadsheet any longer I'm going to lose my damn mind.”

Your eyes flew back open at the familiar voice of Amira behind you. She'd become your only real friend in the city ever since you’d moved here and gotten your job and you always welcomed a free moment to chat with her at work.

Pushing your chair away from your small desk, you turned it around to see her leaning against the entrance to your cubicle. She was raising a mug of steaming tea up to her lips which were stained a dark purple today.

“Gary in the bathroom?” you asked her.

Swallowing down her sip of tea, she nodded before a grin spread on her face. “Of course he is,” she told you. “I swear that man shits at the same time every day.”

Biting your lip, you fought down a laugh. She wasn't wrong, though. Your boss always kept a tight schedule–even when it came to his bathroom breaks.

“Gives us time to catch up, though,” she said. “And I hope your weekend was more eventful than mine because I did nothing but clean and wished I'd won the lottery so I didn’t have to come back to this damn place.”

You shrugged in response. “Not really anything interesting to share on my end,” you told her. “Found a park near our building that I brought Evie to play at. Did some cleaning and some grocery shopping, then I brought Evie to the library for Sunday morning story time. That's about it.”

“Hmm,” Amira hummed out, glancing down at her mug as she tapped a finger thoughtfully along the side of it. “Sounds about as eventful as my weekend.”

You watched as she brought the mug to her lips and took another drink. As she did, your eyes slid over to the clock on the wall behind her. You still had twenty minutes left.

“What about your love life?” Amira asked. “Anything more going on with that?”

A bitter laugh fell out of you as your attention returned to Amira. Shaking your head, you tried to stifle the humorless sound.

“You know I'm not looking for a relationship,” you reminded her. “That's the absolute last thing I want right now.”

“So you mean to tell me if some man asked you out, you wouldn't even consider it?” she asked. “I mean, I'm sure you've got needs, you know?”

You glanced down at your hands that were now fidgeting in your lap. “That's not exactly a priority in my life anymore,” you told her. “And I'm not sure I could even trust someone to get that close again anyway. Besides, the only man who's taken an interest in me is my weird neighbor from across the hall.”

“Oh?” Amira asked, instantly perking up. “Why's he weird?”

“I don't know, I somehow just keep running into him,” you answered with another shrug. “It's just odd. And he's always so…friendly?”

“Like friendly friendly?” she asked. “Or like I'm-going-to-peep-through-your-panty-drawer-when-you're-not-home friendly?”

You shook your head, your mind returning to your neighbor and that damn charming smile of his that he always threw your way. You still weren't entirely sure what to make of him. He'd seemed sincerely concerned when you'd encountered him on the roof that one night, even though you figured there was no way he could know that it was you he'd talked to briefly. And he had brought you that lasagna, which as weird as that had been, you couldn't deny it wasn't a nice gesture. Assuming it really was a no strings attached lasagna.

“I don't know,” you answered. “I haven't exactly figured it out, but I'm also not really interested in trying to, either. As long as he leaves Evie and I alone, I don't really care. But he…brought us a lasagna last week.”

“He did what now?” Amira asked, suddenly straightening up.

“He brought us over an entire lasagna,” you repeated. “Apparently he's a lawyer that does a lot of pro bono work in Hell's Kitchen and I guess his firm often gets paid in food? So he brought us a literal whole lasagna.”

Amira's head tilted to the side, her eyes narrowing curiously back at you as her finger began tapping against her mug again.

“Is he one of the men from Nelson, Murdock, and Page?” she questioned.

“That sounds about right,” you answered.

“Alright girl, now you need to tell me which man it is. Nelson or Murdock?” she pressed. “Cause they are both fine as hell and I've only ever heard good things about them.”

“Murdock, I think?” you answered, brow furrowing in thought. “He said his name was Matthew?”

Amira let out a long, low whistle that only had the crease between your furrowed brows growing. A bright smile lit up her face immediately at the look of confusion that landed on your own.

“Are you telling me,” she began, “that Matthew Murdock, the hottest lawyer in the goddamn Kitchen with a heart as big as his ass, is your weird and friendly neighbor?”

“Yes?” you replied hesitantly.

Amira barked out a laugh, shaking her head. “I would let that man peep through my panty drawer while I'm home if he was my neighbor. Are you kidding me? That man is sexy as hell and with all the things I've heard about him in bed?”

You pulled a face at her comment, your nose immediately scrunching up. If his sexual prowess had somehow landed in your co-worker’s ears then you could only imagine what that said about him. Good in bed or not, that definitely didn’t brighten your view of the man.

“So he sleeps around, I assume?” you asked her, a look of disdain still on your face. “Because then I can completely assure you that he's absolutely not my type.”

Amira sent you a stern, serious look, her laughter immediately fading. “I think he'd be great for you, actually,” she said matter-of-factly. “He's a kind-hearted man who'd fuck you senseless and then leave you be. What more could you want?”

“The just being left alone part?” you half-joked. “Seriously, I don't care what he looks like or how good in bed he is, I don't want anyone, Mira. I've got enough on my mind as it is.”

“You're right,” she agreed, tone softening. “In all seriousness, how've you been holding up?”

Leaning back in your chair, you exhaled a long sigh. You were close with Amira, and she understood quite a bit about your situation, but you still weren't about to be entirely honest with her. It wasn’t necessary for her to know absolutely everything about your past.

“I've been alright,” you answered. “Things are going as good as they can, I guess. Wish this job would give me a raise so I could afford living here, but I'm making it work.”

“How're the nightmares?” Amira asked.

You shrugged. “I don't think Evie is having nightmares exactly, they're more like–”

“I meant you,” she cut in, shooting you a knowing look. “I imagine you have them, considering what you’ve been through.”

You could feel your throat closing up and your mouth going dry at the fact that she’d been able to see right through you so easily. How she kept managing to do that remained a mystery to you. Hands beginning to tug at the hem of your blouse, your attention returned to where they fidgeted once more in your lap.

“I'm–I'm fine,” you lied. “I'm managing.”

“You know, I think you'd benefit from some self-defense classes,” Amira said slowly. “Probably make you feel a whole lot safer at least. Have you considered something like that?”

“You know I can't afford self-defense classes,” you told her quietly. “I'm lucky to pay rent on time and put some food on the table as it is. Anything extra goes to Evie.”

Amira opened her mouth, clearly about to say more, but her eyes darted over the top of your cubicle. A frown settled on her lips as her eyes narrowed and you immediately recognized what that look meant.

“Appears his bathroom break is over,” she grumbled, pushing off of your cubicle wall. “Guess that's my cue to pretend I'm busy until we can get the hell out of here.”

You sent her a strained smile before she ducked out of your cubicle. Slowly turning your chair around back towards your desk, you sighed in defeat as your work glared back at you on the screen. Eyes darting down to the clock on your computer, your shoulders dropped when you saw you still had fifteen minutes left.

The elevator felt like it was moving exceptionally slow this evening, partly because you were eager to get back to your apartment and change out of your work clothes already, and partly because the lift had been fairly crowded tonight with everyone else coming home from work.

As you impatiently waited for the elevator to make its multiple stops on its ascent to the top floor, Evie silently held your hand, her eyes remaining fixed on the numbers changing above the doors each time it stopped at a new floor. She’d barely spoken more than four times on your entire walk home. From what you’d gathered from the lopsided conversation, this week of preschool had started off about the same as her previous one, which had only further dampened your mood after the long day at work. So when the doors of the elevator had finally opened onto the sixth floor and you’d stepped out of it with Evie in tow, you weren't thrilled to see that not only was your strange, friendly neighbor in the hallway, but he was in the hallway with two other people.

Your hand gripped Evie’s tighter in yours as you reluctantly began to make your way down the hall towards your apartment and inevitably towards the small group that was chatting in front of your neighbor’s door. You desperately hoped you’d be able to get away with just giving them a polite smile before ducking inside your apartment, but your hopes were dashed the moment the pretty blonde woman on your neighbor’s left spotted you passing the door to 6C and making your way ever closer to them.

“Oh, Matt, I think your neighbor is actually home!” she exclaimed. “What perfect timing!”

Briefly pausing midstep, your eyes grew wide in fright at being acknowledged by the little group. What could they possibly have wanted with you ? Trying to regain your composure, you plastered a stiff smile on your face, but your pulse increased the second your neighbor’s covered gaze fixed on you. It felt as if he was looking right at you, almost as if he knew exactly where you were walking as you finished making your way down the hallway. The gentleman on his other side turned at the waist, focusing his attention on you next. You wished that you could drag Evie straight through the wall into your apartment with how uncomfortable all three sets of eyes were currently making you feel. You heard Matthew say your name and the hair on your forearms rose at the impending conversation.

“Yeah?” you answered awkwardly, pausing in front of your door.

Directly across the hall, Matthew took one step towards you before holding out a hand. Eyes darting down at what he was offering you, your brows shot up onto your forehead in surprise when you noticed it was a plate of peanut butter cookies covered in cling wrap. Beside you, you heard the excited inhale from Evie just before she began ecstatically tugging at your hand.

So he hadn’t forgotten the cookies he’d mentioned to your daughter a few days ago when he had dropped off that lasagna. You’d entirely expected him to, but now you supposed you’d at least give him credit for not crushing her hopes. She’d certainly excitedly mentioned the cookies he’d promised to you a few times over the duration of the weekend, and you’d tried your best to prepare her for disappointment when he inevitably forgot that he’d ever brought them up. But here he was proving you wrong and not disappointing your daughter like so many others would have.

“If I recall,” Matthew began, a broad smile on his face, “I think I owe someone peanut butter cookies today. If that’s still alright with your mother, of course.”

Evie’s head immediately darted up in your direction, her eyes big and pleading. “Please, mama?”

You knew there was absolutely no way you were about to deny her and decline the baked goods, especially after having already agreed to accept them in the first place. Trying to maintain that strained smile on your face, you briefly released Evie’s hand and cautiously took the two steps across the hall to accept the plate from Matthew’s outstretched hand. Your heart was pounding loudly in your ears the whole time, your body begging you to just get inside and away from this situation already.

“Thank you,” you replied quietly, taking those two steps immediately backwards towards your door and grabbing Evie’s hand again. “I know Evie appreciates that you remembered her.”

Matthew had opened his mouth to reply, but your daughter shocked the both of you when she spoke before he’d even had the opportunity to get a single word out. Your eyes flew to her in surprise the moment you’d heard her voice.

“Thank you, Mr. Murdock,” she said.

For a second you stood there dumbfounded, holding the plate of cookies in one hand as you stared down at your daughter. She had intentionally raised her voice when she'd spoken, speaking loud enough to be heard–something that wasn't common for your daughter because she often spoke so softly whenever she did speak. As you openly gaped down at her, you saw that she was even smiling up at him, wearing a smile so bright you couldn’t even recall the last time you’d seen one like it on her face.

“You’re very welcome, Evie,” Matthew replied, having focused on the place where she stood when she’d spoken. “Maybe another day I can bring you something else from the office. Assuming, of course, your mother is okay with it.”

His attention returned to you and you immediately began shaking your head. Whatever this was, you weren't about to begin accepting his constant charity. Or worse–to feel like you owed him something in return after the conversation you'd had with Amira earlier today. You absolutely weren’t about to sleep with your neighbor to thank him for his kindness.

“Oh, no, really,” you began, “This was plenty already. You don't need to bring us anything else.”

“Mrs. Anderson makes a mean cherry pie,” the gentleman beside Matthew said, drawing your eyes towards him. “You might not want to say no until you’ve tasted it. It will quite literally change the way you see the world.”

You shot him a tight, friendly smile as you once more shook your head. “I’m sure it’s great,” you continued politely, “but really, that’s alright. We don’t–”

“Who’s that?”

You stopped short at the sound of Evie’s question. Head shifting over your shoulder, you saw Evelynn’s little hand pointing across the hall. Following her finger’s path, you saw she was pointing at a newspaper partially folded beneath the blonde woman’s arm. The woman looked startled before she glanced down at the newspaper tucked against her body.

“Oh,” she exclaimed softly, slowly beginning to pull it out from beneath her arm.

She glanced down at the front page before exchanging a look with the man on Matthew’s left immediately afterwards. Something strange and tense seemed to settle among the three of them as they stood across the hall from you. Clearing her throat, the woman quickly plastered a smile on her face before she turned, bending partially over and holding out the picture on the front page of the paper for Evie to see.

“You mean the man in this photograph?” she asked.

Evie nodded quickly, her eyes wide and glued to the image that you couldn’t quite see at this angle.

“That’s Daredevil,” the woman answered.

You briefly caught a note of something strange in the way she’d replied, but the thought completely left your mind when Evie whipped around towards you, her finger still pointing to the paper.

“That’s him, mama!” she shouted.

Pulling a face, you shook your head in confusion. “That’s who, cricket?” you asked.

“The man!” she exclaimed. “On the roof!”

“What?” you asked.

The woman straightened, a smile on her lips as she showed you the paper. Your eyes narrowed, squinting at the dark and somewhat blurry image of a man in a costume crouched on a roof. You could vaguely make out the shape of something like horns on his helmet.

Eyes flying up toward the woman, panic rose within you. If this psycho was real, then there really was a man out on the rooftops that your daughter had been seeing. Which was a completely horrifying thought.

“Who is that?” you nearly demanded. “The deranged man running around in a devil suit?”

“Oh, uh,” the woman stammered, clearly taken by surprise. “Daredevil isn’t–he's not crazy. He's just uh–”

“Kind of like a superhero who beats up bad guys,” the man next to Matthew quickly cut in. “Though technically he is considered a vigilante.”

Quirking a brow at him, you shook your head in disbelief. “A superhero vigilante?” you asked skeptically. “What do you mean?”

“He’s known to protect Hell’s Kitchen,” your neighbor’s smooth voice cut in, your eyes drawn back towards him. “You don’t have to be afraid of him, though. I can assure you, it’s well known that he’s never harmed anyone that wasn’t a criminal.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, eyes narrowing at him, “but there’s a madman dressed as a devil running around on the rooftops near my daughter’s bedroom at night and you think I have nothing to worry about?”

“He’s more like a protector, not a lunatic!” the other man told you. “He protects the people of Hell’s Kitchen specifically. He’s rescued all kinds of people from human traffickers, he’s stopped various gangs–”

“He even saved my life,” the blonde added, a hesitant smile on her face. “Once or twice.”

“And he’s helped our law firm put bad men away,” your neighbor said. “I can assure you, he’s not a danger to you or your daughter. No matter how…startling it is to hear your daughter say that she’s seen him outside of her window.”

Jaw tightening, your eyes darted around the three of them, scrutinizing them closely. It was strange how quick they were to defend this costumed lunatic. You also weren’t thrilled at the prospect of a violent man running around outside your apartment at night while you and your daughter slept. How were you supposed to believe his violence was any different than Daniel’s? How could you trust he wouldn’t break into your apartment and hurt either of you? How could you know he was safe?

“I told you.”

Evie’s small voice broke through your thoughts, your attention returning down towards her. She was smiling proudly up at you, the sight only further confusing you.

“Told me what, cricket?” you asked.

“He protects us,” she answered.

Frowning, you found you weren’t entirely sure what to make of the masked vigilante that this city seemed to respect, especially after the comments these three had made. And you didn’t quite understand why your daughter wasn’t afraid of him and repeatedly kept seeing him at night–something that made you more uncomfortable now knowing he wasn’t imaginary.

But you knew there was nothing you or the three people across from you could do about this Daredevil, and you really wanted to end this interaction already. Clearing your throat, you glanced back over at Matthew. There was a conflicted twist to the shape of his mouth, the corners a bit downturned. You ignored it, the feeling of your growing panic the only thing that mattered right now.

“Thank you for the cookies,” you said tersely, “but I should probably get Evie inside and make dinner. I hope you have a good evening.”

You turned your back on the three of them, releasing Evie’s hand so you could dig the apartment key out of your purse. In a hurry you began to unlock your apartment door, not remotely surprised when you heard your neighbor behind you.

“I hope you both enjoy your evening as well,” he replied. “And like I said, I’m just across the hall if you ever need anything.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you pushed your door open without a backwards glance or another word. You ushered Evie quickly inside your apartment before you darted in after her, locking the door and the deadbolt behind you.

“Seriously, man?” Foggy asked in exasperation. “Her little girl has already been seeing you out on the roof? They’ve only been here a week, Matt! You need to be more careful!”

“I thought I was being careful!” Matt shot back, pacing in front of his apartment windows with his hands on his hips. “I didn’t think she’d caught me the first night when I’d been on their fire escape, but she must be seeing me when I’m heading back home at night.”

“You do need to be more cautious,” Karen warned from the couch. “You don’t need her to see you heading back into your apartment. That could be dangerous.”

Foggy let out a low groan, his body slumping forward in one of the armchairs. Matt ran a hand across his mouth, feeling a little rush of panic inside of himself. He really hadn’t realized your daughter had been so aware of him coming home in the evenings. She was surprisingly observant.

“The last thing we need,” Foggy complained, “is for your neighbor to realize who Daredevil really is and to take that information to the authorities. That’s dangerous information that could get you killed, Matt. Or disbarred and imprisoned. Hell, it could get all of us disbarred and sent to prison!”

Matt shook his head, still continuing his pacing. “That won’t happen, Fog. I won’t let it, don’t worry,” he assured him.

“Well,” Karen began slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears, “at least her daughter trusts Daredevil. Even if her mother thinks he’s batshit crazy. I suppose that’s something. I don’t know what, but it’s something.”

“Not helping,” Matt grumbled. “I don’t need her to be more terrified in her apartment than she already is. I imagine her being put further on edge won’t make it any easier for me to get closer to her.”

“Matt, buddy, did you ever think that maybe she won’t want your help?” Foggy questioned. “Maybe you should just, I don’t know, let this one go? You can’t help everyone, dude. I mean, she seemed pretty cold at the end of that conversation out there.”

“She seemed scared,” Karen softly corrected, her attention focusing on Foggy. “She was scared, not cold, Foggy. There’s a difference.”

Matt came to a stop at the edge of his rug, his hands readjusting the waistband of his dress pants. He’d felt your fear the moment your daughter had recognized Daredevil as the man she’d apparently been seeing at night in that newspaper. It was just as strong of a rush of the feeling through your body as when you’d first seen him in the hallway. Daredevil terrified you.

“Karen’s right,” Matt told Foggy. “I could feel her fear. Someone has her afraid. And the thought of some other violent man running around the city at night only seemed to scare her further. Something is going on, and I’m not going to stop until I figure out what.”

“Dude–”

“ No ,” Matt nearly growled the word out, immediately quieting Foggy. “Don’t you tell me to let this go. They’re a part of Hell’s Kitchen, Fog. And I’m going to make sure they’re safe. Because no one hurts the people of my city. I won’t allow it.”

“Alright,” Foggy relented, nodding his head slowly. “Okay. I hear you, Matt. I just worry you’re going to drive her away in your best attempts to do the opposite is all. She seems quite set on keeping you at a distance.”

Foggy wasn’t wrong. Matt knew you were repeatedly pushing him away at every opportunity he took to get closer. And he was afraid of pushing a little too hard and having the opposite effect of what he was after. But your daughter, somehow, seemed to be reacting to him differently now. That first night when you’d both run into him in the hall after moving in, she’d matched your terror. But tonight…he hadn’t felt her fear towards him. Or towards Karen and Foggy. Though you were still putting your walls up.

“He protects us.”

Your daughter’s words about Matt’s alter ego ran through his mind. She’d been so positive in that thought, he’d read it in the tone of her voice and the steady beat of her heart. She wasn’t afraid of Daredevil, not like you appeared to be. And hearing that from a scared little girl had somehow further softened him to the both of you in that moment. This was quickly becoming less a matter of Matt trying to do the right thing while attempting to keep the people of his city safe, and instead steadily becoming something personal to him. Even if he didn’t fully understand why exactly that was himself.

“I’ll figure it out,” Matt murmured, running a hand across his forehead. “Somehow, I’ll figure out how to get them to let me in so I can help.”

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock angst #matt murdock x you #matt murdock #daredevil

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gasolinerainbowpuddles · 2 months ago

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𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 · · · · 𝙸𝚇. 𝙰𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚕 ║ ⓒⓗⓐⓟⓣⓔⓡⓔⓓ

𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 || 𝚗 𝚊 𝚟 𝚒 𝚐 𝚊 𝚝 𝚒 𝚘 𝚗 || 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 | PAIRING(s): Joel Miller x fem!OC/reader

| RATING: explicit material | 18+ | CHAPTER CONTENT: this chapter contains a sensitive content warning (please refer to the dedicated warning below), POV switching, soft!Joel, protective!Joel, mental/emotional/financial abuse, trauma responses, high functioning alcoholism, angst, hurt/comfort | WORD COUNT: 13k

| CHAPTER SUMMARY: The storm rolls in.

Please read with caution if you have difficulties with works concerning domestic violence and abuse. This chapter contains several depictions and discussions of graphic violence. Highly sensitive portions WILL BE MARKED with my sensitive material banner if you wish to skip the more challenging portions. The sensitive material banner looks like this:

April Fool’s Day felt like a very fitting start to the month. Every day lately had felt like one massive joke the universe was playing on you, repeating ad nauseam and never letting you forget just how stupid you were. The extent to which you’d fucked things up with Joel had illuminated your shortcomings so brightly that it nearly burned everything else out. You’d gone so full throttle with your defensiveness that you risked severing the entire relationship during your first real fight.

The fact that it was entirely avoidable made it all the more humiliating. Of course, avoiding it would’ve required you to not be so damn defensive over everything, holding things so close to your chest that they ended up crushing your ribcage and making you implode on yourself.

The shame in the aftermath was almost immediate, starting before you’d even walked all the way home, and it had only flourished since. You’d responded like a child - petulant and overreactive. Like you were nothing more than an injured animal backed into a corner, all bristled fur and warning snaps of teeth before finally striking when pushed too far.

But you hadn’t been backed into a corner, and Joel had simply sought understanding and connection. The trust he’d asked you to grant him was something he’d more than earned by this point, but you had still rebuffed his kindness and treated him just the same as someone acting in bad faith. A brief moment of retrospection made it obvious his usually coolheadedness slipped in the moment after being shaken up by your disclosure about what had actually happened on New Year’s Eve.

Of course he wasn’t himself after learning that you’d been carrying around such a jarring experience. Of course he’d begun to worry what else you might be shouldering on your own if you were capable of hiding such an upsetting event. Of course he’d reacted by pressing you for an assurance that there wasn’t anything else you were dealing with on your own – especially when he was right there and wanted to help.

He’d toed that line for months around you and had finally crossed it no more than a hair, and you’d gone nuclear. It had been too much, but, the further removed from the fight you got, the more you realized it was always going to be too much. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d walked on eggshells or barged right in with it. Your inability to handle his push for emotional intimacy was inevitable, and you never even put in the effort beforehand to counteract any of your spiraling. You could’ve at least had a plan. You could’ve at least had something to fall back on. But you didn’t. You’d failed yourself and, maybe worse, failed Joel.

You’d barely spoken to him the entire week following. Too much anger seated in your chest. Angry at him for prying. Angry at yourself for not giving him the trust he’d earned. Angry at all the life experiences you’d accumulated that made it impossible to just behave like a normal fucking person for once.

Just like he’d done the whole time you’d known him, Joel let you dictate where things went from here. He gave you the space you were clearly signaling for, and you wish he’d force your hand. Call your bluff. Not give you the option to avoid him. You wish he’d put his foot down and demand you get over yourself and your pride and whatever else was holding you back. Make things get back to normal. But of course he would never disrespect your autonomy like that. He’d already apologized for poorly vocalized feelings on his part and pressuring you for information when you clearly weren’t comfortable sharing it.

You, on the other hand, were too much of a coward to apologize.

What if you apologized and he realized just how crazy you’d acted? What if acknowledging your faults only highlighted them to the point he realized you were never going to grow past the broken person you are? What if by speaking on all your shortcomings he realized he was wasting his time on somebody who was too far gone? Too much of a lost cause? Too undeserving of someone like him?

So, you didn’t apologize. You don’t acknowledge it. You just keep the two of you in an emotionally stunted purgatory. When you kissed him good morning and goodnight, it felt so reserved and loaded. It was like all the life had been sucked out of your energy together. Like you’d sucked all the good out of this relationship just like the emotional vampire you were. The shame spiral was hollowing you from the inside out, and you didn’t know how to make it stop.

You were already on week 3 of fucking up you and Joel’s relationship, and you wanted to slam your head into the wall until you stopped acting like this. Why were you acting like this? Not only was it completely draining, but you had put yourself right back into that cycle of not chasing happiness and going after a better life.

It took every ounce of willpower you possessed to keep your cool with your dad, but your anger was steadily chipping away at whatever sanity you had left because his girlfriend — no, fiancé — Denise had shifted wedding planning into top gear and made it a sort of forced group activity whenever she was over, which unfortunately was happening more and more. She’d been making herself quite cozy in your house lately and especially when her kids were at after school clubs or spring break sleepaway camps.

While you cooked everyone dinner, cleared the table, and started on the dishes, she set up shop right in the middle of everything with her tacky venue pamphlets, hideous color palette cards, pricing charts for cakes, and all other assortment of wedding planning staples. You were looped into all of it by default as you stood at the sink washing dish after dish and putting leftovers into containers.

You bitterly wondered to yourself why she wasn’t the one cooking the meals and cleaning up after everybody since she was so desperate to be your dad’s wife. If she wanted to play house so bad, why not start right now and spare you the chore of all this mundane labor and forced interaction?

It had never been a mystery what your dad saw in her. She was an attractive woman who fulfilled the role of beautiful wife with two kids young enough that they could be “trained up” with a bit of effort. It was the redo for the perfect nuclear family that your mom, brother, and yourself had never been able to uphold. It made your stomach twist to think of how your dad would no doubt take all the mistakes he’d made with you all – namely, not being harsh or strict enough – and correct them with this second try.

What Denise saw in him became a little more clear with night after night of inane, one-sided conversations she held with your dad somewhere nearby throwing her a bored hum of agreement every now and then. It was clear that she was projecting her idealizations of a man onto your father rather than seeing what was in front of her. The way she didn’t even seem to care if he answered her or seemed interested made it obvious that any man could be sitting in his place. He was her little paper doll to play house and happily ever after with.

She was so lost in her willed delusions that she was missing the writing on the wall. You had no doubt this time around with a wife and kids that your dad’s corrections would be swift and fierce. Denise was so busy projecting her dream life onto him that she didn’t even realize the horrors waiting for her and her children in the near future.

Would you have to be there to witness your dad destroy another three lives? Would you have to watch him overpower and break down more children? Would you be the silent, complicit counterpart in all this, having learned to keep quiet if you want to survive?

You start to feel nauseous imagining the looks of panic in their eyes, settling on you to please save them and watching their faces drop and contort when they realize you can’t. You’re stuck here, too. This is your prison, too, and has been for a very long time.

“Are you even listening?” Denise snips.

You whip around to find her looking at you expectantly. Your dad wasn’t sitting at the table anymore. Denise held a trifold pamphlet in her hand, but you couldn’t see what it was about.

“Are you talking to me?”

“Well who else would I be talking to?” she drones with an eye roll. “You’ve really got your head in the clouds today, huh?”

You grit your teeth at her blatant impoliteness but hold your tongue as best you can. “I must not have heard you over doing the dishes,” you say pointedly.

She’s already got her focus on the pamphlet again and hardly acknowledges your remark. “Well put that thing down for a minute and let me ask you about this.”

You rest the soggy sponge on the edge of the sink and dry your hands on the towel hanging from the stove. Your brain was just going through the motions as it tried to multitask and figure out what on earth she could possibly have to ask you about. You’re not sure you’ve ever held an entire conversation with just her. Usually your dad was hovering around, no doubt making sure you didn’t say the wrong thing and incriminate him.

She motions for you to sit without glancing up, and you settle into the chair across the table from her. “Uh, what exactly did you want to talk about?”

“I need to make sure we can count on you for the wedding party. We’re working on the lists right now, and I don’t want to put you on there if it’s going to be a problem.” She pins you with a haughty look and crosses her legs and arms.

You sit in silence for a moment, stunned at the idea that you’d ever willingly take part in this stupid marriage. “Uhhhh, I’m not really sure what you mean by that.”

She rolls her eyes again and shakes her head like she’s already talked this over with you a million times. “What I mean is,” she huffs with a sour look, “the people in your dad’s life seem to have a bad habit of just…. running off and leaving their responsibilities in the dust. I want your word that you are going to actually be reliable and not blow the whole thing off the day of just because you get a wild hair up your ass.”

It takes a while for her words to register. The charge of them felt too audacious to have actually come out of her mouth. Had she really just said that? It barely sinks in before she’s talking again.

“So? Are you going to give me your word that you’re not going to skip town so famously like your mom and Calum?” Her eyebrow is arched so high it almost reaches her hairline. She leans forward and snaps her finger in the air as if you need to be yanked from some inattentive state. “Hello? I’m talking to you!”

“Go fuck yourself,” you say quietly.

“What was that?” she asks, turning her head slightly to hear you.

“I said,” you repeat louder, “GO. FUCK. YOURSELF.”

She gasps and drops back against her chair, hand clutched over her heart. “Excuse me?!” “I don’t want anything to do with your sham of a wedding,” you seethe. “I don’t want anything to do with this entire stupid marriage that’s just going to end up in the gutter because you’re such a shallow, vapid bitch that you can’t even see what you’re dragging yourself and your kids into. You’re a shitty mom and I guess a shitty wife since this is gonna be your second marriage. Failed the first time. Gonna fail again.”

Denise sits in a stunned silence before her look of shock morphs into a furious indignation. You cut her off before she can even think to speak negatively about your brother again.

“So to answer your question, Denise: NO. You can’t count on me to be there. I wouldn’t waste my time on somebody who’s so far beneath me and my brother. Keep his name out of your disgusting mouth and spend more time worrying about what sort of hell you’re about to drag your kids into.”

Your chest heaves with adrenaline, fists balled tight, as she jumps up from her chair and rounds on you. She shoves a shaky finger in your face and hisses, “How dare you!”

You swat her hand away and stand your ground. She’s not much taller than you, and, much to your morbid amusement, she’s patently nervous to engage in such a confrontational, physical way.

“What the fuck is goin’ on in here?” your dad thunders.

You spin around and lock eyes with him. Your face must be a dead giveaway because his own darkens with a foreboding anger. Denise swipes her things from the table and shoves them into the tote bag hanging off one of the chairs before shouldering past you, sniffling loudly, and stopping in front of your dad in the doorway.

“She doesn’t even show you any respect, so I don’t know why I thought there’d be any for me.”

She looks back at you with an expression of pure disdain and straightens herself taller. “I’m not staying a single night in this house if she’s going to be here,” she declares before stomping past your dad and down the hallway to the front door.

He calls her name, but she doesn’t stop. Her disregard for his instruction seems to surprise him. He chases after her out of the house and leaves you standing in the kitchen. Your head is pounding, and everything is a little fuzzy around the edges. Your chest bounces up and down with stilted breaths, and your entire body begins to tremble with the realization of what you’ve just done. You hadn’t meant to unleash all of that on her, but something about her mentioning Calum was the last straw.

It never felt quite right sticking up for yourself. You were never convinced it was worth it – that you were worth it. Too much trouble for too little of a person. But Calum? He was someone worth sticking up for. Despite having virtually no interaction at all with him, Denise felt qualified to make outlandish statements and character judgements about him. Maybe she felt emboldened because he wasn’t here to defend himself, but you couldn’t just let his name drip from her mouth like a poison she was trying to spit out.

You hear her car engine roar to life. The peal of her tires sound all the way down the street until it fades away completely. You unclench your hands and run your clammy palms against your jeans. The silence grows louder as you wait for your father to come back inside and address you. Your eyes dart to the back door for a split second.

Should you run? Did you have time? Could you just bolt and run to Joel’s?

The heavy creak of footfall in the hallway makes you jump. Your dad walks wordlessly past the doorway and heads into the garage. You stand frozen on the spot, bewildered at his decision to not even confront you about making Denise upset and speaking negatively about him. Was he going to make you wait it out? A sort of psychological torture knowing that his reprimand was inevitable?

His footsteps grow louder as he stalks back to the kitchen with a large glass bottle in tow. He eyes you as he takes a large pull from it before setting it aside on the counter. Your fists instinctively clench again as he calmly approaches you. Without a word or a warning, he draws his arm back and forcefully strikes you across the face with an open hand hit. The impact of it knocks you off balance, and you catch yourself before dropping to the floor.

“Get up.” His voice is a monotone, distant reverberation.

You shakily prop yourself up from the tiles and stand up again. Even though you knew it was coming, the second hit still catches you off guard. You crash into the floor hard this time – so haphazardly that your knees are stinging just as badly as your face.

“Get up,” he repeats in the same dead tone.

You shake your head. You lock your vision to the tiles beneath you, too frightened of making eye contact with him should he consider it some sort of challenge of his dominance. You hear the bottle clink against the counter after he takes another large gulp. You track his dress shoes as they get closer.

“No? You can’t face the consequences of your choices?” he derides.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. The thick sole of his shoe connects with the meat of your hip, sending a sharp shooting pain down your leg. Your mouth opens in silent wheeze. Somehow amidst all of this you still don’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing you scream. He kicks you again, forcing you onto your back, and you stare blankly up at him. The ceiling lights illuminating him from above cast a shadow across his face, but you can make out the hard edge of his jaw where it pulls into a sneer.

The vice grip of his hand encircles your bicep, and he wrenches you up with it just as his other hand balls into a fist and strikes you twice in the face. A shrill noise fills your ears like a bell’s been wrung, and white speckles dance in your vision. You taste the metallic bite of blood before you feel it drip from your nose and mouth. You’re too disoriented to realize you’ve been hoisted up onto the table until you feel the wiry cinch of his fingers closing in around your throat like a vice.

“You think you call the shots,” he hisses. “You don’t call the fuckin’ shots.”

He grips your throat tighter and throttles it for what is probably a few seconds but feels like an eternity.

“ The only reason you’re even allowed to breathe is because I let you.” To emphasize his point, he squeezes hard enough that you start choking and coughing against the pressure. Your fingers work fruitlessly against his hold, and he lets go just as black begins to fog your vision. You scramble for the hallway, your brain screaming at you to run run run. Your entire body snaps backward, and you hazily gather that he grabbed your hair and yanked you downward.

“Running away from your problems, huh?” he tuts. “Just like your mom and brother.”

Your hands are clamped around his forearm, but it doesn’t do much to loosen his grip on your hair where the hold of it makes your scalp prickle.

“Well, you don’t get to give up and run off like they did, so how about we clear a few things up, hm? Here’s how this is gonna go from here on out,” he fumes.

His eyes bore into yours, but there’s nothing more than an angry void staring back at you. Even the vicious wrath and violence consuming him are not enough to bring life to his eyes. You swallow hard and feel the sting of your skin where he’d just been choking you. He jerks you around like a sad little puppet and effortlessly maneuvers you across the room to the sink. Droplets of blood fall and bloom into the dirty water. You plant your hands onto the edge for the tiny bit of leverage you can manage, but he threads his arm through your elbows and captures them behind your own back and against his chest. You can only go where he directs you to go, and that place is head first into the dirty water.

You gasped as your face plummeted but managed to hold your breath just before the wide cast of his palm held it submerged. You puff out a blast of air and suck another one in the second your mouth rises above the liquid.

“You are going to apologize to Denise,” he spits.

He slams your head under the water again rougher this time, and your face knocks against plates and glasses before coming up again.

“You will not embarrass me.”

You don’t close your eyes in time and get a heavy, soapy wash in them. They sting and burn, but your arms aren’t free to wipe it away. You splutter and wheeze, desperate to center yourself and keep as calm a mind as possible. It was hard to think beyond the primal instincts of catching and holding your breath. Apparently your survival instincts are vexing to your dad because the next time he sends you under, he grabs and twists one of your wrists while simultaneously digging a knee into the soft curve of your inner thigh. You scream at the surprise pain, gurgling and inhaling water in the process.

You’re still shrieking and coughing when he brings you up, and he screams in your ear. “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

You flinch and whimper but manage to choke back frightened sobs.

“If you ever embarrass me like that again, you might never come back up from that water. Understand?” It’s said like a twisting knife through your ribs, and you wordlessly nod your understanding.

“You realize nobody would give a shit if you were dead? You know how long you’d have to be missing for someone to realize it and go lookin’ for you?”

“Dad, please,” you whisper. “Please don’t.” You’re not sure what you’re asking of him other than to not hurt you anymore tonight.

He huffs a humorless laugh and shakes his head. “Un-fucking-believable.”

He flings you across the room, sending you flying into the table and chairs. They screech and clatter around your bumbling body, and you don’t have the energy to fight the fall. You lie in a crumpled heap halfway under the table and suck in generous lungfuls of air.

“Clean this mess up and fix your face,” he barks before gripping his precious bottle of liquor and ambling down the hall and up the stairs.

The reality of what just happened begins to register. Your body throbs all over. Your chest is tight, and your breaths feel harder to take. Your body shakes with the effort of getting yourself off the floor. Little drops of blood fall from your nose. You grab up a handful of paper towels and shove them against your face. The applied pressure drowns out the quiet little cries that are wedged in your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to take normal breaths, but the adrenaline slamming through your veins practically demands your inhales barely make it past your windpipe.

Everything hurts. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to move. It hurts to cry. Your mind goes a bit numb as you quietly right the upturned chairs, wipe up the dirty floor, and clear out the sink. Your hair and face drips water onto the floor you just dried. You can’t say how much time has passed, but it’s dark outside now. Upstairs is quiet. You pray he’s drank himself to sleep. Your mind is chaotic and sluggish all at once, and pulling a cohesive thought together feels impossible.

A deep part of you just wants to go to sleep and not be conscious for any of this. The louder, bigger part of you is ringing every alarm bell in your mind. This was just like the time you thought your dad was going to kill Calum in front of you. It was the same feeling of fear, except this time you held it for yourself.

Calum. He said go to Joel’s. He’d made you promise that you’d go to Joel’s if you needed to.

You want to.

You’re going to.

But what if your dad finds out? What if he shows up to Miller Contracting offices? What if he finds Joel’s house? Did he own a firearm? You don’t think he does. But what if he did? Would he hurt Joel for intervening?

Your brain fires off a million miles a minute, but none of it is helpful. Your phone buzzes on the dresser. It’s Joel. You hit the big red button and shoot him a text.

You: I don’t feel good. I can’t come to work tomorrow. Sorry.

He calls again, and you decline again.

Joel: Please answer the phone. Do you need anything? You: I’m ok You: I just rly need to sleep rn Joel: Please call me tomorrow morning when you wake up! You: ok I will Joel: Get some sleep. Please tell me if you need anything.

You set the phone back down and sink down onto the edge of the bed. Your head feels heavy in your hands. Your body gives way and slumps to the floor. You lay there so long you feel the impression of whatever you landed on pressing into your arm. You crawl to your dresser and pull yourself up to look at the clock.

11pm.

You slink quietly to the bathroom and run the tap. You should probably shower, but you don’t want to risk waking your dad. You look at yourself in the mirror for the first time and burst into a fresh wave of tears. You bury your head into a washcloth and cry. You cry until you can’t anymore. The crying makes your face even puffier. You douse the washcloth in ice cold water and press it against your face. It’s not enough to offset the swelling. It’s going to look even worse tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Would your dad even remember any of this in the morning? Worse yet, would he feel like he hadn’t gotten his message across the first time and come back to make a firmer point?

A shudder rolls through your body. You can’t stay here. You can’t be here. He might kill you. He wants you dead. He might try to kill you the next time. There will be a next time. The next time could be the last time. You can’t stay here. You can’t be here.

You clean yourself up as best you can and change into a hoodie and clothes that aren’t soiled with blood. Your hands shake and make it hard to hold the bobby pin steady while you unscrew a few vents and retrieve the small amounts of money you’d been diverting over the past several months. You have enough to stay somewhere for a little bit. You cram what belongings you can into a backpack and threadbare dufflebag. The rest will have to get left behind.

Your head is empty and buzzing. The night air smarts against your busted lip, throbbing nose, and puffy eye. Your legs are a lead weight, each step forward harder than the last. The shed door feels impossibly heavy and strains muscles you’re pretty sure you’ve never used before. The effort of mounting the bike almost makes you cry again. The muscle spasms and sheer exhaustion make it difficult to steer. You bike slowly but surely to the rundown, affordable motel you’d passed enough times to have the location burned into your brain. There certainly weren't enough reserves there to have found lodging any other way.

The front desk clerk barely gives you a second look as she slides you a room key. Paying cash makes things easier. You aren’t even sure the credit machine is working anyway. Her lazy drawl curls into your ear: there’s some vending machines on the righthand side of the building if you’re hungry or thirsty. You give a curt nod and wobble to your room. It smells moldy and is full of dust. You lock the door and collapse into the bed. Dawn bleeds on the horizon.

Joel anxiously passes your house on his way to the office. Nothing seems amiss. Maybe you really were just feeling under the weather and needed a day to rest. Your texts last night were so curt, and the declined calls did little to ease his worry. You hadn’t texted him this morning like you’d said you would. Maybe you were still asleep.

You’d been off ever since that argument. He’d apologized for overstepping your boundary, but things hadn’t gone back to normal. You’d been pulling away ever since. He was afraid you were going to break things off entirely, find a different job, find a new life without him . . .

It’s almost noon, and you still haven’t replied to the text he sent this morning just to check up on how you were doing. The anxiety makes his stomach clench so tight he can’t even eat lunch. It just about bottoms out when you text later that afternoon to say you weren’t going to be able to make it in tomorrow either. You don’t respond when he calls. It rings and rings and rings before going to voicemail. Last night you’d at least hit the decline button and sent him to voicemail after the second ring.

Something was wrong.

To hell with boundaries. He needed to check on you. He needed to see for himself that you were okay. If you were upset with him and planning on breaking things off with him, he at least wanted a chance to beg and plead for you to hear him out and keep trying. He’d do anything you asked. He’d do anything to make things right.

Your dad’s car is in the driveway when Joel pulls up and parks along the curb. He knocks on the door – three firm raps – and waits. A few seconds pass before your dad swings the door open, a waft of grain alcohol emanating from him with the motion. Your dad looks surprised for a split second before pulling his face together into a tight sneer.

“Joel Miller,” he drawls. He drags it out like the punchline to an unspoken joke.

“Sorry to interrupt your evening activities—” Joel deadpans before getting cut off.

“You here to get the rest of her shit, huh?” he scoffs.

The callous lilt in his voice instantly raises Joel’s hackles. Dread pours into his bloodstream. Where were you? What had happened? Were you okay?

“Yeah. S’pose I am,” he responds tightly.

Your dad mutters something about “not brave enough to handle her own messes” under his breath and gestures broadly for Joel to enter. He stumbles down the hall, pausing at one point to steady himself, before waving Joel off into your room.

“S’all yours, pal,” he slurs.

Joel pushes past him and takes in the disheveled state of your room. It was clear that you’d left in a hurry. Anger swells in his chest as he pieces together what at this point is undeniable. How long had you been living in this? Why hadn’t you told him? He’s sick to his stomach knowing he could’ve helped if you’d just let him. He’s angry with himself for not demanding you let him help.

He gathers up what’s left of your things, but there’s nothing to pack it in. He improvises with some plastic construction bags from his truck.

Your dad hovers and sways in the hallway, snorting loudly at the bags. “Yeah, that’s about right,” he chortles.

“What’s that now?” Joel grits out.

“Couldn't help but-but laugh at the garbage bags. Just very fitting,” he notes with a theatrical shrug.

Joel shakes his head, not following the wet brained commentary spilling out.

“Garbage for garbage,” your dad clarifies in a nasty tone.

Joel feels like he could grind his jaw to ash with how tightly it's clamped. He’s held his tongue long enough.

“Could say the same about you havin’ nothin’ to offer,” he bites back. “A big nothin’ of a man who has nothin’ to offer either of his kids. Two kids that have done worlds beyond what seems possible considering the absolute shit hand they were dealt with having parents like you.”

The look on your dad’s face sours instantly. “Y’know, I’m not sure what the ‘arrangement’ is between the two of you, but I’ll just say I’m glad she’s somebody else’s problem now. Best of luck with that one. Even her own mom never even looked back when she left. My ex was dumb as shit, but she was smart enough to know neither of those kids are easy to love.”

Joel draws himself up to full height and towers over this poor excuse of a man and a father. He considers kicking in a big patch of drywall in the hallway or maybe even your dad’s head for a split second, just to fuck something up. Just to send a message. Just to show dominance and sow the seed of fear. Just enough to make your dad uncertain of his own safety.

But he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction or waste any more time here. He needs to figure out where you are and if you’re okay. The last of the plastic bags are shoved into the bed of the truck and into the seat. He starts up the engine and shifts it into drive.

“You got anything to say to her, you go through me,” Joel growls out the driver side window without bothering to make eye contact.

“Oh, don’t worry. I already cut her line today,” he laughs from the porch. “Should be cut off by now or at least by tomorrow. Couldn’t call her even if I was dumb enough to want that kinda thing.”

Joel doesn’t bother saying anything else. He waits until he’s parked in his own driveway before pulling his phone out and calling you. No answer. He calls four more times with no answer. Every time it just rings and rings and rings until sending him over to voicemail. There’s no new texts from you. He starts to panic.

Joel: Please just let me know you’re okay.

He placates himself with the thought that maybe you went to Kenzie’s. She didn’t live too far away if memory served him correctly. He unloads your things from the truck and haphazardly sets them down in the living room. A work email pops up, but he ignores it. He goes straight for the text notification bubble and breathes a sigh of relief to see it’s from you.

You: I’m ok You: just need to rest more You: hopefully will be better over the weekend You: sorry for having to call out

He stews over what he should say. Were you hiding from him, too? Were you getting out of the city? Where were you?

The same work email comes through a second time. Then a third. Then a fourth. Joel clicks on it and reads the vague, nondescript request from some woman named Jasmine to please reach out to her about an urgent matter concerning her parents’ flooded basement. He hasn’t done a basement in a while. This lady’s gotta have the wrong contracting company, and, by the looks of it, she’s not going to stop pestering him until he responds.

Joel sighs and taps the number she gave. It rings twice before it goes through. He wants to get this conversation over with as fast as possible and send this Jasmine woman on her way and in the right direction of whichever contractor it is that’s actually responsible for her parents’ basement.

“Hey there, just giving you a call back from an email you sent. I’m not sure you’ve got the right compa–”

“Sorry, is this Joel Miller?” she interrupts.

“Yes, ma’am, and I’m one of the owners of Miller Contracting. Like I was sayin’, I think you’ve got–”

“Hi, sorry again, but I wasn’t sure how else to get a hold of you.”

Joel’s throat suddenly feels tight. “Who is this?”

“My name’s Jasmine. You don’t know me, but I’m Calum’s girlfriend. I think you know his sister? That’s why I’m calling,” she explains.

“Is she with you? Is she okay?” he abruptly prods.

The line is quiet for a moment, and then a deflated reply, “No. No, she’s not. I was calling because–”

There’s some muffled conversation coming through, and Joel talks loudly into the receiver. “Hello? HELLO?”

“Yes, hi. I’m still here. Sorry. That’s Calum. He’s a little worried is all. He hasn’t been able to get a hold of her, and—”

The line is a fuzzy static for a few beats before a male voice comes through. “Joel? This is Calum. Man, I haven’t heard from her, and I was trying to think of how to get in contact with you. Jazzy thought of sending the email. You haven’t heard from her? She didn’t respond to any of my texts yesterday, and when I tried calling her earlier she didn’t pick up. It’s not like her. I’m getting fuckin’ nervous, man.”

“She responded to my texts last night and today, but she didn’t say much. Said she needed a few days off from work but didn’t say why. Just that she wasn’t feelin’ good.”

“So you haven’t seen her?” Calum presses, sounding more panicked by the second. “When’s the last time you saw her? Heard from her?”

“No, I haven’t seen her today. I went by your house to check on her, but she wasn’t there. Your dad was shitfaced. Most of her stuff was gone. He assumed I was there to get the rest of it, so I just went with it. I don’t know where she went, but it’s pretty clear she left the house for good.”

There’s a muffled conversation on the other end, and Joel strains to listen to it. Bits of “Calum, baby, you have to stay calm, okay?” and anxious sounding responses each time is all he can make out.

“Joel, man, please–”

“Listen to me, kid. I’m gonna go find her, okay? You listening to what I’m sayin’? You hear me?”

“Y-Yeah, I hear you,” Calum stammers. “I just– you don’t know everything about what’s going on. It’s… it’s not a good situation.”

“I gathered as much,” Joel lightly corrects. “Give me your number and Jasmine’s number. I’m gonna get to the bottom of this and make sure she’s safe, alright? I’ll get in touch with one of you to let you know when I find her, and I promise you she’s safe with me, okay?”

“Thank you,” Calum breathes.

Joel jots down the multiple numbers Jasmine gives him – “just in case” – and, after giving another round of assurances, ends the call. He takes the time to center himself and calm his racing thoughts. He wasn’t going to be effective in locating you if his mind was shooting off every second. The device location feature on all the work phones springs to mind, but his search comes up empty. He knows someone who could help him figure it out, though.

“Dad?” Sarah’s voice comes through. “What’s up? Shouldn’t you be in bed by now, gramps?”

“Uh, yeah. Probably. Very funny. Listen, I need your help with somethin’.”

“Is everything okay?” she asks, voice shifting into concern.

“Sort of.”

He explains the situation without the more worrisome details and is feeling like he’s finally getting somewhere when she walks him through the steps and helps him locate the dingy motel a short drive away where your location pin is highlighted.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, baby girl?”

“Look, I know I was kinda… I know I was sort of hinting at it with some jokes when you were here helping with our kitchen – and I’m not saying I know everything about your, um, situation with her – but what exactly is the plan? I mean, does she want to be found? Because if you go looking for her but she doesn’t want to be found….”

Her loaded silence hangs heavy over the line. Joel understands. If he inserts himself into a situation where he’s not welcome, he could land himself in trouble or just make things worse.

He lets out a heavy exhale. “I think if anything I can’t live with the idea of her being out there scared and by herself.”

“I get that, dad, but what if… look, just- just be careful, okay?”

“I promise I will, baby girl. I’ll shoot you a text when I get this sorted out, alright?”

“Okay. Just please be careful, and, like, get Uncle Tommy to help you or something if you need it, okay? I don’t want you getting hurt.”

It warms his heart to hear how protective she is. “I’m not gonna get hurt. I just need to get to the bottom of all this. I swear I’ll text you when I get word of somethin’, okay?”

“Okay. Love you, dad. Be safe.”

“Love you, too, baby girl.”

The pitter patter of rain snaps against the window as the call ends and quickly picks up into a full blown shower within minutes. The windshield wipers on his truck can barely keep up with the downpour, but thankfully it’s not a long drive to your location pin. The bright orange doors with peeling paint all look alike in the wet blur of the storm. He can’t even make out room numbers.

Between the late hour and the storm, there’s not a lot of movement. He considers knocking on doors until he finds you, but he doesn’t much want to get the front desk or cops called on him for disturbing the lodgers. He wants to get out and walk around just to feel like he’s doing something productive, but that didn’t seem like that great of an idea, either. So, he waits. And waits. And waits. The storm picks up and stalls in a waning cycle. A few people answer their doors for food deliveries or step outside for a smoke, but he’s only eliminated a handful of possible rooms that could be yours.

It would’ve taken you a long time to get here by walking, so he assumes you biked. It was unlikely you’d leave that outside, though, given this wasn’t the best area. It was sure to be stolen if left unattended. There really isn’t much separating the rooms from the parking lot and nearby street. The thought of you being here by yourself, practically out in the open, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It wasn’t an ideal layout for privacy and protection if your dad wanted to find you and somehow managed to figure out where you were.

You haven’t responded to any of Joel’s most recent texts and calls. He dims his phone and sighs. A crack of thunder makes him flinch, drawing his attention to a dimly lit hallway he hadn’t noticed before. His insides get tight when he starts to wonder if you’d even gotten a room at all. What if you were just huddled up in some random hallway because you didn’t have enough money for a room?

That singular thought is all it takes to get him jumping out of his truck and making a beeline for the flickering hallway. The buzz of old vending machines grows louder as he approaches. A small figure stands in front of the machines, hugging tightly around their torso as they look over the offerings. The smaller frame skewed feminine in build, but it was far enough away that he couldn’t be certain. The last thing he wanted to do was give some poor, unsuspecting woman a scare.

Joel kept his distance and pretended to be on his phone, although he wasn’t even certain the person could see him from where he was loitering between a minivan and a tall truck. They seemed skittish and distracted as they grabbed their dispensed snack and scurried back across the parking lot. He wanted to yell out your name, just in case, but that would frighten the already jumpy person regardless of who it was. Thinking quickly, Joel pulled out his phone and tapped your contact icon. The figure paused just as they got to their door and tugged a glowing phone from their pocket. A quick tap and the screen went black – just as Joel’s did.

The figure slipped through the room door and quickly closed it behind them. It could’ve been a coincidence, but this was the closest thing to finding you that he’d come across all night. With a renewed determination, Joel strode quickly across the lot and towards the room.

The rain had finally let up enough for you to wander over to the vending machines. Your face – along with pretty much everything else – was still sore, but the bag of flavored popcorn you got was as soft a food as you could find to settle your gnawing stomach. You hadn’t eaten or drank much of anything due to the discomfort of moving your jaw and chewing. Your stomach gurgles on cue and reminds you that the tense ache crawling up the nape of your neck is probably going to get worse if you don’t get some water and food soon.

The bag slips from your hand at the first gentle knock on the door.

At first you thought you were hearing things, maybe from low blood sugar or lack of sleep over the past couple of days, but then a second firmer knock came. Your legs froze to the spot. How had your dad found you? What was he going to do? Were the people who’d been staying in the room next door still there? Would they be able to hear you if you called for help? You should’ve answered Joel’s call that just came through instead of hitting the decline button.

“Baby, it’s Joel. Are you in there? Sweetheart, if that’s you in there, please just let me talk to ya.”

A sharp gasp jerks your entire chest as it culls into your lungs. Without even thinking, your body propels itself towards the door and towards Joel – towards safety.

“Joel?” you ask in near disbelief. “Is it really you?”

“It’s me, sweetheart. Been lookin’ for you. Been worried sick,” comes the muffled response.

You begin unlocking the door but pause when you remember the current state of your swollen and bruised figure.

Misunderstanding your hesitance as not wanting to see him, he offers, “I know you want space, but… just-just a minute is all I’m askin’. Just give me five minutes and I’ll be outta your hair. I swear it.”

Your heart plummets to the floor knowing he believes you don’t want him here. “No, it’s not that. I want to let you in. It’s just….” You struggle to find the words. “Listen, I need you to close your eyes, okay? Promise me you’ll close your eyes and keep them shut the entire time.”

There’s a loaded silence on the other side of the door. You can only imagine the confusion of such a request, but you aren’t sure how else to go about this.

“I’ll keep ‘em shut. I won’t even touch you, baby. I swear I’ll keep my distance, okay? I swear it.”

“Okay. I’m– I’ll open up the door for you now, so close your eyes, okay?”

“They’re closed.”

You draw in a deep exhale and brace yourself for the interaction ahead. No more secrets. No more hiding. No more lying. You pull the door open and want to crumple into him right then and there. Big, broad, and safe. Waiting for you. Came looking for you even though it’d been storming for hours now.

You gingerly grasp his hand and lead him inside, shutting the door closed behind you. His nose wrinkles at the damp smell of the dingy room that you’ve become nose blind to at this point. You guide him to the edge of the bed where his knees hit and prompt him to sit. He reaches for your other hand and gently holds them in his own.

“Sorry. Know I’m not supposed’ta touch you. Just need to feel that you’re really here. Been worried about you.”

“That’s okay,” you whisper. “You can hold my hands. You can hold me. It’s okay.”

“How come I can hold you but I can’t see you?” he hedges.

“That’s… hard to answer.”

“Hm. Got anything to do with your room lookin’ like a bat flew outta hell?”

Your stomach clenches uncomfortably. “How do you know that?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Went to check on you. Like I said, I got worried. Your dad answered the door and assumed I was there to get the rest of your things, which I did.”

“Did he… Did my dad say anything?”

“Nothin’ worth repeating,” he huffs humorlessly. “Just some shit about turnin’ your phone off. Told him if he ever wanted to talk to you he had to do it through me.”

“Y-You said that?”

“Yeah. I did. And I meant it.”

A velvety, piercing thread of emotion weaves around your ribcage at his words, and you’re overcome with the magnitude of just how much this man in front of you cares about you.

He shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat. “I really wanna see you, sweetheart. I wanna see you and hold you. I just need to hold you tight for a minute. Please.”

“Joel,” you choke out in a flare of trepidation and warning of what happens once he sees you. “You have to promise me, Joel. You have to promise that you won’t have some big reaction. I really don’t think I could handle that right now.”

His brow crunches together like he’s recognizing that whatever he’s imagined is probably not bad enough. “I promise.”

“Okay,” you breathe. “You can– You can open your eyes.”

His lids barely flutter apart before his jaw sets hard, eyes going into a muted fury as he takes in your constellation of bruising and swelling. He dips his head and nods a few times as if he’s gathering himself, honoring your request that he not have some huge response.

“This happen a lot?” he grits in a low, dangerous tone.

You shrug and ignore the hot feeling growing behind your eyes. “Been a while since it was physical.”

“Is he–Did he–Did he touch you any other kind of way?” His question catches like it burned his throat on the way up. He looks up again, eyes boring into yours.

“No.” You shake your head and drop your gaze. “No, nothing like that. Just, uh, knocked me around a little. Shook me up to make a point, I guess.”

“Do you–Are you hurt?” He grimaces at his own inane question.

You shoot him a humorless smile and shrug your shoulders again. “Feel better than I did this morning, I guess.”

“Did you go anywhere? Were you seen by somebody? A doctor?” he presses.

You shake your head and squeeze his hands tighter. “No. Just, um, just came here right after. Got some ice from the machine in the lobby and got most of the swelling under control. Don’t think there’s anything so fucked up that I felt like it would justify a stupid expensive emergency room visit.��

“I’ll pay for it. I don’t care. Whatever it is, I’ll cover it.”

The impulse to reject his offer springs up, but you let the dismissal die on your tongue. If you wanted to honor this newfound trust in your relationship, you had to have the actions to back it up. You weren’t going to hide anymore. You weren’t going to ignore and rebuff ever offer to care for you. You weren’t going to weather the storm alone.

“Only if you’re, you know-only if you’re sure. If you want, we can go in the morning. I’ll go with you tomorrow. I, um, appreciate you offering to pay.”

He can’t conceal the brief astonishment of your amiable acceptance, and it quickly bleeds into elated relief. “Yeah, of course, sweetheart. Okay. Good. Yeah, we’ll go tomorrow and get you looked over. Make sure everything is okay.”

You lean into him, arms vining around his broad torso, and sink into the asylum of his embrace. “Can I stay with you tonight?” you whisper.

His body tenses as he pulls back to see your face, wearing an expression of confusion on his own. “What do you mean ‘stay for the night’? We’re goin’ home tonight, you and me. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

“Your home?”

“No. Our home,” he reasserts. “So let’s grab your stuff and get the hell outta here. Let’s go home.”

You bury your head in your hands in an effort to stimy the swell of emotion threatening to overcome you. He shushes and pries your defensive veil away, laying a tender path of small kisses along your forehead.

“None of that. Not anymore. No more hiding, okay?”

Your body mindlessly lists into his hold, and you allow some of your weight to shift to him. “Okay.”

It’s late enough into the night that the lobby isn’t busy, but that doesn’t stop Joel from constantly glancing up from his phone to make sure you’re alright. He closes out the text window to Sarah and opens up a new thread to Jasmine and Calum before sending them a quick update that he found you, you’re safe, and you’ll be with him. He hesitates to add anything more before discussing it with you first.

Now that he knows it’s you, he watches the skittish, hesitant way you move about. Hugging closer to yourself as you talk with the clerk who looks like the only thing of interest to her at the moment is ending the conversation as soon as possible so she can step outside for a cigarette. He can’t see your face, but just the way you hold yourself looks like some part of you has been extinguished. He hopes it’s just the stress and exhaustion from whatever happened between you and your dad and not something that has taken root in you and altered you. He doesn’t think he could forgive himself for not insisting to check on you sooner if that were the case.

The drive home is hushed and calm despite the frantic energy of relief flowing from you both. When he cuts the engine in the driveway, you reach out and stop him before he can get out.

“Hey,” you say softly. He stills and soaks up your tired, buoyed demeanor. “Thank you for coming to find me.”

He swallows hard and nods, thumb smoothing over your fingers in gentle, tentative strokes. “Thank you for lettin’ me in.”

You both know he doesn’t just mean through the motel door.

“I know it ain’t easy,” he adds in a hush.

You dip your head in quiet agreement. “It’s not. But sometimes it’s easier than others, you know? If it’s–If it’s the right person.”

He brings your hand to his lips and presses a chaste kiss there. “I do.”

He studies you for another moment and nods. “Let’s get you inside so I can get some food in you.”

You don’t say anything about the black bags full of your things scattered about the living room, but he wishes he’d taken a few seconds more to make it look less chaotic. He wishes he knew how to explain to you that sharing a home is something he would choose and isn’t just something that happened as a result of misfortune in your life. He’d choose you a thousand times over, any day of the week.

He subdues his reaction when you tell him the softer the food the better because of your injured jaw and face. He whips up some scrambled eggs and sliced banana and even cooks another egg when you’re still hungry. You have an odd look on your face when he takes the dirty dishes to the sink, leaving them to be scrubbed clean in the morning when you’ve both had some rest.

When you’ve made it to the upstairs hallway, the look on your face when he offers you the guest bedroom is almost comical. “Just wanna make it clear you’re not, you know, obligated to, uh, to stay in my bed with me,” he explains. Your face softens as you insist that you absolutely want to stay with him. He tries to not let on how elated he is to hear that. He rifles through the medicine cabinet and makes you take something for the pain and the swelling.

“Do you think I could get a quick shower? I just– I feel so gross, actually. I didn’t really notice in the motel, but I think between the state of the room and the lack of food I didn’t really notice.”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

He shows you his setup in the main bath and grabs fresh towels and washcloths. His heart pinches when you wince trying to get undressed.

“Do you mind?” you ask and gesture to the hoodie engulfing you.

He crouches down to shimmy it from the bottom up even though his knees scream in protest. While you work the top half, he helps you out of your pants and panties. He has to fight back all the anger ballooning at the sight of your body covered in red marks and bruising. He heaves a sigh and stands again, only to freeze when he sees the telltale maroon ring of clenched hands around your neck.

“Did he fuckin’–” he cuts himself short and turns his head away until he can regain his composure. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him if I ever see him again.”

“Joel,” you caution – a soft reminder that a hostile reaction, even if it’s not directed at you, is not what you need right now.

His hands are pinned to his hips as he paces around the bathroom trying to reign in his disgust and anger for your father. He shakes his head and wipes his brow, pinching the bridge of his nose while he takes deep breaths. He’s brought back to reality and what should be his focus when he hears the water start up.

“Sorry, baby. M’sorry, I got beside myself for a minute there,” he atones. “Here, lemme get you situated.”

He adjusts the controls until a pleasantly warm spray is falling into the stall. You take his hand when you enter and let out a small, placid sigh at the soothing water. He helps get you washed up, making sure to be extra delicate around all the injured swaths on your body. You sway contentedly under his care and the warmth of the shower, and it nearly makes him misty eyed that you’re trusting him with this.

You appear to be slipping into a relaxed state when you tilt your head and get an unexpected spray of water into your mouth and nose. Joel isn’t sure if it was just the surprise of it or if it actually stung your nostrils, but your reaction is borderline panicked over it.

“Hey, whoa whoa.”

“Sorry. Sorry,” you sputter, eyes clenched shut. “Just got freaked out for a second. Sorry.”

Something in the distressed bend of your words gives him pause. “Tell me what I need to change. I want you to be comfortable. Is the spray too strong? Do you want me to adjust it?”

You shake your head, fat drops of water falling from your face and blending in with tears that have finally broken free from the edge of your lashes. You sniff loudly and turn your face away, and that’s when realization hits Joel like a ton of bricks.

“What the fuck did he do to you, baby?” He can’t begin to imagine what on earth that monster did to have you go from such a peaceful spot into full blown panic.

“I don’t want to say. It’s just gonna upset you.”

“You can tell me. You can tell me anything. I won’t get upset with you. I won’t get upset. You can tell me,” he insists.

Your wet, wide eyes slide over to meet his, and thankfully whatever you see makes you feel safe enough to voice it.

“Part of our… argument,” you begin in a shaky breath, “was by the kitchen sink.”

His eyes narrow slightly at the fear creeping into your voice, and a bad feeling starts brewing in his gut. He thinks back to a little earlier when your expression was indiscernible as he cleared the dishes.

“It was so scary, Joel,” you whisper, barely audible above the sound of the streaming water.

“Tell me. You can tell me.” He cups a hand along your jaw and strokes the purple and green patches of your skin with his thumb.

“He kept… He was holding me under the water. In the sink. Where I had been doing the dishes,” you choke out.

“Jesus christ,” he heaves, wrapping his arms around your dripping wet body and drawing you into a gentle hold.

“I thought he was going to drown me,” you sob.

“You’re safe now, sweetheart. You’re safe, you’re safe,” he repeats in a calming chant. “He’s not gonna get to you ever again, you hear me? You never have to be afraid of that again.”

Joel’s shirt and one leg of his pants are completely soaked by the time he manages to calm you down. He guides you out of the shower, towel dries you, dresses you in an old, soft t-shirt and pair of boxers, brushes your teeth, and gets you snuggled into bed. That same sense of gratitude of you letting him help you washes over him as you cuddle into and sniff his comforter, whining softly like a tired little kitten in need of a midday nap.

He makes quick work of peeling the wet clothes from his skin, brushing his teeth, and crawling into bed. He’s dead tired and realizes a moment too late that he’s gotten into bed completely naked. Any indication that you’re offended or think he’s trying to put a move on you now of all times goes out the window when your eyes flutter open and you pull him closer.

“You’re so warm,” you mumble sleepily into his shoulder.

He breathes a little laugh from his nose at how precious you are. “Go to sleep. We can talk more in the morning.”

“M’kay,” you slur back. You flatten your bodies together, arms wrapped around his middle, and start to drift off.

Joel watches you and strokes your cheek until you’re asleep. He tries to not stew in the hatred and rage he feels for what your dad did to you. It’s probably for the best that he didn’t know the full extent of the situation when he went to your house and collected your things. He’d have beaten him to a pulp, if not worse.

His stomach felt rancid at the fleeting relief it had been to hear that the brutalization hadn’t gone past physical assault. And to think you’d phrased this as “a little knocking around” in the grand scheme of things. It made him nauseous to entertain the reality of what you’ve been living with all these months. No, years.

Joel wanted to kick himself for asking such a stupid question in the motel: are you hurt? Of course you’re hurt. How could you not be with all the nasty purpling patches blending into bits of puffed flesh that hadn’t fully recovered from the swelling? How could you possibly be okay after fleeing your own home in the middle of the night just to avoid another violent attack by your own father? After he toyed with the idea of killing you?

Guilt clung to Joel like a too tight second skin. He could’ve done something if he’d known. He could’ve gotten you out of this situation, helped you avoid it altogether, if only he’d just pushed for you to tell him the truth. If only he’d shown you or proved somehow that you could trust him. He watches your eyes dance behind your lids, and he prays your dreams are peaceful.

“I’m never gonna let him hurt you again. You’re never gonna be hurt like that ever again. I won’t let it happen. You’re safe with me,” he whispers into your ear. “I love you.”

He kisses your temple softly and pulls you into the cocoon of his arms. You can’t hear him, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not a promise that can be kept without action, and he intends to show you he will keep it until the day he dies.

It’s the heat bordering on furnace that stirs you. Soft little breaths from Joel’s open mouth puff against your forehead. Your eyes droop a little, the cradle of his body so intoxicating that it practically lures you back to sleep. Warmth engulfs you in an entirely different way now, waking up in a safe place with a sanctuary of a person. Even through your muddled mind, you know you’ve never experienced this before in such a profound way.

The loud gurgle of your stomach wakes him with an amused, confused smile.

“Mmmm sounds like somebody needs suh’more eggs,” he gently teases.

“That actually sounds good,” you admit.

His eyes peel open at that, and his grin broadens. “Yeah? You gonna let me cook ya somethin’?”

“Yeah.” You nibble your bottom lip in a shy grin and immediately wince at the sensitivity of your teeth against your healing split lip.

“Careful, baby,” he cautions with a pinched brow. He runs his thumb tenderly against your lip and presses a small kiss there.

You nod an acknowledgement and snuggle your face into his chest, fingers grazing through the little gray and brown bits of hair in the middle of it. “What time is it?”

“Don’t matter. You don’t worry about what time it is or what day it is or any of that. You just focus on relaxing and feelin’ better.”

You snort at his cliche girl dad answer and throw him a sarcastic “sir, yes, sir” for good measure. His eyes brighten at the first bit of genuine levity you’ve shown since he found you at the motel.

“We’ll get you somethin’ to eat and then get you checked out by a doc, okay?”

You remember last night’s promise to be seen by a medical provider and groan. “Alright,” you concede with a sigh.

“That’s my girl,” he beams.

Just as he had offered, Joel whips up some scrambled eggs, bacon, and sliced banana for the both of you. You busy yourself with finding something comfortable to wear and get dressed. Breakfast is a quiet affair with Joel spending most of it fussing over you. He makes you take another pill for the pain and swelling. He sets you up in the living room to finish your water and juice without any explanation, although the clinking of dishes from the kitchen gives you a pretty decent guess that he wanted you away from the potential trigger of it.

You don’t ask where he’s taking you to be seen. You trust him to make that decision for you, even if it’s a bit nerve wracking to relinquish that sort of control. He pulls into a mostly empty lot next to a newer looking building with a large sign that reads CORBITT HEALTH SYSTEMS URGENT CARE. The woman at the patient intake station looks warily between your appearance and Joel’s contrasting broad, strong frame. It hadn’t occurred to you until this moment that people were going to assume he had done this to you. Joel shouldering any of the blame for your current state made you sick to your stomach.

“Can my friend come back with me? To help me?” you blurt out in some effort to absolve him of the unmerited charge.

She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she doesn’t eye him as coldly now that you’ve insinuated this isn’t a significant other. “Sure. Assuming you don’t have any life threatening medical concerns, fill this out and get it back to me.”

You try to concentrate on the form, but it hurts to pinch your fingers tight enough to hold the pen. Joel wordlessly takes the clipboard and pen from you and quietly fills out what he can while you supply him with the rest. He turns the clipboard in for you, and it’s soon after that you’re called back. The series of waiting rooms is making you anxious, but at least there’s two chairs side by side so you don’t have to hoist yourself up onto that crinkly papered examination table.

“Thought she was gonna set me on fire with some telepathic brain powers,” he chuckles low and quiet. He jerks his head back towards the direction of the main waiting area.

“I hate that she assumed you did this,” you huff.

“Can’t really blame her, though, to be fair.” He shrugs it off, considerate to almost a fault. “It’s kinda the norm for the asshole who did it bein’ the same one breathin’ down your neck so you can’t talk to anybody in private.”

“But you didn’t do it,” you protest, growing more and more irritated at the idea of him bearing the brunt of responsibility for this.

“No, I didn’t,” he agrees softly. “And you’re never gonna go through anything like that ever again.”

His hand finds yours and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“You’re really gunning for Boyfriend of the Century Award, you know that?” you tease.

A loose, jubilant smile spreads across his mouth.

“What?” you ask. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“‘Boyfriend’, huh?” he repeats with a practically beatific glow.

“Oh,” you exhale in a laugh. “Uh. Yeah. I mean, if that’s… okay with you? We don’t have to do names or anything. I didn’t think when I– it just came out.”

He snorts and shakes his head, dipping to press his mouth faintly against yours. “More’n okay with me, sweetheart.”

You don’t know what you ever did to deserve this man. The memory of you telling Joel you didn’t need him or anybody else echoes like a ghost in your mind.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“I-I don’t think I’m too good for help from people.” You shift awkwardly in your seat but hold yourself to be present in the conversation. “I know I need your help.”

“Where’s this comin’ from?” “I just.. when we had that fight, and I said I didn’t need anybody… It’s not true. I need you. I want you, and I need you in my life.”

“That makes two of us.” He raises your hand to his lips and plants tiny pecks on each knuckle. You turn your hand to cradle his jaw and lean forward.

“I was scared. I was so scared you were going to find out and then leave like everybody else.”

He rests his hand atop yours and bends his head to kiss your wrist, working his way up your arm as far as your sleeve will allow. “Not gonna happen,” he says plainly. “I’m not goin’ anywhere unless you’re comin’ with me.”

Before you can get too caught up in his declaration of commitment, a quick knock at the door signals it’s your turn to be seen. At one point during the appointment, the provider informs you some tests will need to be conducted to make sure there’s no internal injuries, and you both leave Joel to sit in the room while they guide you into the hallway towards the bathrooms to start with a urine test. You round the corner with them but stop short of the restrooms when they turn to face you and speak in a low tone.

“I wanted to speak with you privately,” they inform you. “Is the person who gave you these injuries here with you today?”

The question rattles you more than you expected. You certainly hadn’t anticipated the topic to come up in the middle of the hallway between rooms. There it was again – that assumption of Joel being your abuser. You do your best to hide your irritation. You know they’re simply doing their job. When you don’t answer, they rephrase it.

“Do you have any concerns leaving with the person accompanying you today?”

You shake your head, too nervous you’ll snap at them for accusing Joel. He didn’t deserve this. Every part of you knows this person is just doing their due diligence, but Joel didn’t deserve to be viewed as some abusive scumbag.

Your patience wears thin after the third delicately worded question regarding your current safety with Joel. “He wasn’t the one that did this,” you snip. “If you really need to know that bad, it was my dad, alright? Joel made sure I don’t have to go back, so can you please stop acting like he’s the fucking monster here?”

Their eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but they quickly fix their expression to the placid, neutral one from before. “Ma’am, I really intended no offense with my question. Our goal is to make sure you are not in immediate danger. We have resources like emergency housing or crisis intervention for people in those situations, and it is my duty to you as my patient to determine whether or not those resources would be helpful to you,” they explain calmly.

You sigh a long exhale and shut your eyes. “Sorry,” you mumble. “I-I know you’re just trying to do your job. I appreciate it. I do.”

They accept your awkward apology and move on with the appointment. You end up actually having to pee into a cup as well as go through some imaging to check for breaks or concussions and everything in between. When you finally wind up back to your room, you tell Joel what the practitioner had said to you in the hallway. He of course lauds the artful intervention – “that’s actually so smart because it doesn’t raise any suspicion from whoever is here with you.”

It turns out you’ve got a fractured nose that needed to be aligned and packed, but it should heal without any need for surgical intervention. With your nose splint in place and prescription for pain medication in hand, you and Joel stop by the checkout desk. You grimace at the paperwork the woman slides over to Joel. You don’t even want to think about how much today cost you. Well, how much it cost Joel. You probably couldn’t even begin to cover the cost of it. The topic of medical bills whips your brain into an alarming train of thought.

“Joel.”

“Yeah? What’s wrong?” He stops midway through opening the truck door for you.

“We need to go to the bank,” you practically choke out.

His expression hardens in understanding. Your joint account. The one your dad’s email is linked to that you don’t even have the password to. The one you can’t close without both parties consenting but either party can withdraw any amount at will.

The drive there is tense and quiet. The woman at the teller window nearly gets a verbal lashing from you when she glances hesitantly between you and Joel, doing the exact same thing the patient intake woman had done at the urgent care. Thankfully Joel ushers you off to the side before you can give her a piece of your mind. A different woman comes round with a dubious glance at Joel and leads you both to her office.

Your heart lurches as you force yourself to calmly and politely explain that you need to access your account and transfer the money into a new, single user account. Her fingernails clack loudly on the keyboard, her mouth drawing up to a worried pout.

“Was this something you and the joint account holder had discussed?” she wonders aloud with a tone that doesn’t sound very promising for you.

“No,” you answer flatly. “Is there a problem? I thought I could transfer the money without his authorization?”

“Well, yes, you could.” She fidgets in her seat nervously and folds her hands on the desk before leveling you with an uneasy look. “I asked because I assumed there must have been some previous discussion with perhaps a … miscommunication between the two of you about who would be initiating that action.” You stare blankly at her, not grasping what she’s trying to explain, but you don’t have time for her to dance around the subject. “Look, I’m not trying to be rude, but—”

She glances Joel’s direction like she’s looking for someone to help her out. You turn to see his face pulled into a stony frown.

“So he already transferred it to his personal account,” he grits.

“Ah, yes, that would–ahem–that would be correct,” she confirms.

All the blood drains from your face as it dawns on you. Your dad got here first. He drained your account. The only money you have to your name is what you were able to hide in the vents and escape with. You’re aware that Joel has continued the conversation, but you don’t make any of it out. Everything sounds and feels like you're underwater.

His warm hand covers yours, a reassuring stroke of his thumb against your trembling fingers. “I’m gonna get this paperwork started for your new account, okay?” You blink a few times and realize he’s been given the document for you to open your own account. It seems silly to open an account when you’ve got no money to put into it, but Joel doesn’t seem deterred by this distressing turn of events.

You give a jerky nod and take a deep breath. “Okay.”

It was hard to see this dismal end of a situation as the new life chapter that it was, but as you watched Joel scribble his address – your address now, too – into the banking form for a new account, you at least knew wherever you were headed with him was better than what you were leaving behind.

Thank you all so much for your patience on this one. It was a tough chapter to write, but I'm really proud of myself for sticking with it until I worked through it. Thank you all so much for reading!

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic abuse, the National Domestic Violence Hotline has a 24/7 hotline that can be reached at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233). There are also chat and text options available through the site.

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