#tw electrical weapon

[irequirealobotomy]

tw: blood, electrical weapons, injury, child injury, transphobia (just one intentional misgender), murder, attempted murder

Bo’s heart pounded as he limped away from Bishop. As if a show of power, the human didn’t run. He knew his prey couldn’t escape. The voice that echoed from the man wasn’t natural. ”Thats enough, hybrid,” He snapped, and Bo flinched, the hand pressed to his bleeding leg tremor harder with each passing moment. “I should end you right here. Like I ended that stupid human before you before she cheated!” His voice raised, and the crackle from his weapon increased until it filled the room.

-Just Around The Corner: Little Hybrid

——————

Well, here we go, finally designed and drew Bishop. Heavily based on his 2003 design because I don’t like him enough to work on him. /hj

No, this fic won’t be out for a looooong time. But I wanted to draw something based off of it!

Reference is by @adorkastock, below is the pic and also the sketch :)

[pookalicious-hq]

blue velvet... jinx x reader

| 0.1. wrecking ball | next | masterlist

synopsis: two girls trapped within a world full of hate would do anything for eachother. too bad they're both crazy. tags/tws: mentions of mental health illnesses, mention of suicide, blood and gore, mc has split personalities word count: 1.7k

To the people of Piltover, you were a storm devil, a dark figure wielding unnatural power and chaos. In Zaun, though, they sang a different tune. There, you were their angel of death, a symbol of protection—or a promise of impending ruin. Your name meant salvation to some, doom to others. And depending on who you asked, it marked either a savior or a death sentence.

The billowing smog swirled around you, outlining your feathered wings like a ghostly shadow against the vibrant glow of Zaun’s undercity. This was no gentle welcome—the air was thick, saturated with oil, smoke, and the sharp bite of chemicals that burned your nostrils. It clung to your skin, coating everything in a fine, greasy layer. Eyes were on you already, peering from fractured pipes and shadowed alleyways, watching your every move.

The streets stretched before you, cracked cobblestones that seemed to pulse with a life both unsettling and invigorating. It felt as if the city itself was breathing—exhaling dust, shimmer, and a constant undercurrent of danger. Each step you took sent faint crackles of electricity tingling across your fingertips, the remnants of tonight’s mission still simmering through your veins.

Your wings, usually sharp and sure, were now folded tightly against your back, their feathers singed and dulled from the exertion. As you passed, people cast wary glances your way—some with awe, others with suspicion. Silco’s orders lingered in your mind like a bitter taste, a reminder of the duty that had brought you here.

You took a steadying breath, feeling the sharp current of electricity crackling through your body. Each pulse felt like an unbearable mixture of pain and power, the dark remnants of Silco’s relentless trials etched into your bones. Even now, the energy surged restlessly beneath your skin, reminding you of everything you’d endured to become his weapon.

You clenched your fists, grounding yourself against the power that begged to be released. This wasn’t the time to draw attention, though every instinct inside you screamed to let the storm loose. For now, restraint was your duty, and unruliness would be your downfall.

The smog of Zaun barely settled in your lungs when a sudden pop split the air, followed by a burst of glitter that exploded in front of you. It coated your face, your wings, and the grime-caked cobblestones beneath your feet. The sparkling mist shimmered mockingly under the dim neon lights of the undercity.

You froze, coughing as the glitter bomb went off, its sharp, chemical taste lingering in the back of your throat. You flapped your wings to dispel the cloud, the gritty particles sticking to your feathers. “Holy shit—”

“Birdie!” Jinx’s gleeful voice rang out, her silhouette dropping down from a pipe above. A wide, mischievous grin stretched across her face, pink smoke trailing from her latest concoction, the scent of sulfur heavy in the air behind her. “Gotcha good, huh? You were so focused on being grumpy, didn’t even see me coming.”

Your heart was still racing, the burst of noise and color stirring every survival instinct within you. A spark of electricity jumped from your fingertips, lashing out reflexively. It wasn’t deliberate, just the aftershock of the moment. The faint crackle of power hit Jinx square in the shoulder, and she yelped, staggering back, though the sound quickly dissolved into giggles.

“Woah!” she gasped, blinking in surprise, then patting the singed edge of her sleeve. The gleam in her eyes sharpened, her smirk widening. “Do that again!”

“What?” you sputtered, still coughing out glitter, the sharp metallic taste lingering on your tongue. “No, I’m not—Jay! Are you insane?”

She tilted her head, her grin crooked and knowing, the flickering neon lights casting shadows on her face. “You know, people say that a lot about us,” she teased, her voice light but laced with something sharper beneath it. A shared understanding hummed in the air, like the crackling static that clung to your skin.

You couldn’t help but laugh—a dry, unsteady sound, still choked with the taste of glitter and the pulse of raw power in your veins. She mirrored you, that familiar, wild energy swirling between the two of you, filling the space with a chaotic kind of warmth.

Her fingers reached out, brushing through the faint static still buzzing in the air around you. The tingling sensation ran along your nerves, a constant reminder of the force contained within you.

“C’mon,” she pressed, her voice low and coaxing, the coolness of the alley around you suddenly feeling a little too close. “Just a little zap? You know it’s cool.”

You shot her an exasperated look, swiping at the glitter stuck to your cheeks, the gritty particles scraping against your skin. With a resigned sigh, you muttered, “Absolutely not. And stop throwing glitter bombs at me—it’s stuck everywhere now.” The metallic scent still clung to the air, mixing with the heavy smog that seemed to saturate every corner of the undercity.

“Everywhere?” she echoed, a mischievous smirk pulling at her lips, her eyes gleaming with that familiar spark. The playful challenge in her voice was undeniable, but you knew it was just another one of her stupid jokes. You stared back at her, unimpressed, brushing your hands against your jacket as though to rid yourself of the last traces of glitter.

She crossed her arms, tapping a foot against the cracked pavement, the rhythmic tapping contrasting sharply with her casual tone. “Whatever. Glitter’s classy. You look like... like a hot and deadly, sparkly peacock.” The words danced in the air, teasing the edges of your irritation but lightening the mood just enough to keep it from escalating.

You shot her a glare. “Shut up, if anyone’s a peacock, it’s you.”

Jinx just laughed, skipping up beside you as you resumed walking. Her pace slowed when she saw where you were heading—back to Silco’s headquarters.

Her usual chatter quieted, and her grin faltered for just a moment before she slapped it back on. “So... uh, you sure we gotta go back right now? I mean, we could hang somewhere, grab a drink, blow something up—”

The slight tremor in her voice gave her away, betraying the calm she was trying to maintain. You paused mid-step, the gritty pavement shifting under your boots as you glanced down at her. “Jinx.”

“What?” she snapped, too quickly, her voice tight, like she was trying to cover something up. “I didn’t say anything. Why are your eyes all scrunched up? That’s gonna give you wrinkles, y’know?”

You frowned, sensing the lie beneath her deflection. The faint bruise near her temple caught the low, flickering light, deep purple against her pale skin, and it twisted something inside you. The way she scratched at her wrist, tugging her sleeve down almost defensively, made your stomach churn.

Without another word, you crouched, bending slightly to open your arms. You felt the faint crackle of static tingling along your skin as your wings shifted behind you. “Come here.”

Her brows furrowed, confused, but the hesitation in her eyes said everything. “What are you—”

“Jay,” you said again, softer this time, the tenderness in your voice breaking through the exhaustion you carried. “Come on.”

It took a moment, but the stubbornness faded, and she stepped into your embrace. The warmth of her body against yours made the cold grip of the city seem distant. Her head dropped against your shoulder, and though she didn’t cry—Jinx rarely did without the comfort of four walls surrounding her—you could feel her body relax, tension leaking away in small, silent waves.

The silence settled between you, the low hum of Zaun’s distant noise—smoke-streaked lights, the hum of machinery—filling the quiet. You didn’t need to say anything more. She had already said it all with her quiet surrender.

“Hold on,” you whispered, and your wings unfolded behind you, the air rushing against your skin as you stretched them wide.

“What are you—holy shit!” she yelped, her fingers gripping your jacket as you lifted off the ground. The sudden rush of wind swirled around you, the city stretching beneath you like a vast, dark labyrinth of neon lights and smoke. You could feel the electricity crackling at the tips of your wings, the air charged with your unstable power as you shot upward.

Jinx clung to you instinctively, her bravado fading away with the city’s dizzying height. Her breath was warm against your neck, rapid and sharp, as the familiar streets blurred beneath you. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if willing the world to slow down.

You didn’t go far, just high enough to leave the alleys behind, heading for a quieter rooftop on the outskirts. The cool air hit you once you landed, the scent of rust from the old water tank mingling with the smoky haze that clung to everything. The roof was sparse—just an old, rusted water tank and a few scattered crates—but it was quiet. Safe.

You set her down carefully, your wings folding back behind you with a soft flutter. The ground beneath your feet was solid, a welcome contrast to the dizzying heights you’d just left behind.

Jinx stared out across the city, her eyes narrowed in that sharp, calculating way she often had, but there was something different in her gaze now—a vulnerability, quiet but clear. Something unspoken hung between you, but for once, you didn’t need to voice it. You both knew the weight of the world you carried, even if you didn’t always acknowledge it.

The night stretched out before you, dark and endless, as you stood together—two figures on the edge of Zaun, floating in the same currents, bound by something far deeper than the chaos of the world.

a/n: so this is the start of my jinx x reader series!! i hope you like it, we're starting at around 17 years old for both jinx and mc,,, then after w few chaps we're gonna go into season 1 arc and eventually season 2. mwahhh

taglist: @stupendousbananasharkcop

lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist loves <3

[corkinavoid]

Okay, yeah, I just wrote a post about good!GIW like three days ago, but

DPxDC GIW Using Ghosts as Living Weapons

TW: dehumanization, mention of electrocution, whump

I've been watching Hell's Paradise, and it got me thinking. What if GIW doesn't just catch and study ghosts? After all, their tech is no match for something like Vortex or Undergrowth, or even Technus.

What if they catch ghosts and turn them into living weapons? Train them into following commands like dogs, and force them into obedience. Dehumanize them in the worst way possible, treating them like machines.

Ghosts are not sentient or sapient in their opinion, but they feel pain. They can be trained.

What I'm saying is whump Danny, mostly, but make it interesting. Make it not just a teen in pain, no, make him a merciless machine that follows any given order with unmatched efficiency, someone who doesn't feel any emotions anymore, knowing no pleas or cries will work.

I'm thinking along the lines of a muzzle, or a collar that gives him electric shocks every time he either disobeys or does anything he was not told to do.

Now, I've got two ideas of where this can go. One, GIW gifts Danny to the JL as an ultimate, all-powerful weapon. Maybe they don't even specify he is a ghost at first, presenting him as an object, and then they get to do a demonstration, and the JL is promptly horrified at the sight of what they think is a meta kid in a muzzle that doesn't even have holes for him to breath. And when they very carefully try asking GIW to explain this, GIW just shows off Danny's powers. Which are, well, a lot. Maybe they ask Danny to do something like, I dunno, destroy an asteroid or shit. Something big, something most members of the JL are not able to do single-handedly, but Danny does it easily, with little effort. And GIW explains that this kind of power, especially coming from a ghost, a being malicious at its core, can not be kept on the loose without any restraints.

The second idea includes Al Ghul Twins. GIW can have some ties with League of Shadows, so maybe they made Danny into a living weapon with the sole purpose of making him Ra's' living weapon. So Danny ends up back in the League, and Ra's tasks him with killing one of the Bats, or maybe stealing something, anyway, he ends up in Gotham. Where he meets Damian, and, boom, siblings' feelings hit. Cue all the whump angst you can imagine.

I'm not sure how to incorporate Fentons in the second idea. Maybe it was all a coincidence - Talia faking Danyal's death, him being adopted by Fentons, then later found out and contained by GIW. Or maybe it was all staged beforehand, and Ra's specifically put Danny there. Or maybe we bypass the Fentons in the first place and Ra's simply gives a spare kid to GIW in order for them to try and make him more powerful with the help of Lazarus Waters/ectoplasm. Maybe this can even be some kind of reincarnation.

Also, more ghosts can be added to the mix.

Danny disobeying the orders in order to protect Dani and getting tortured for it. Ember being used for mind control. Dan being the prototype of the living weapon program, the first experiment that turned out wrong and has been locked and kept contained.

The opportunities are endless.

[greenglowinspooks]

(DCxDP) Drowning in formaldehyde (Prologue)

—

Tw: Danny is having a Certified Bad Time™️, dissociation, vivisection mention, suicidal thoughts (kinda?), basically just heavy angst for now

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

Note: you don’t need to read this chapter to understand the rest of the story, it’s mostly just to explore Danny’s headspace when he first escapes the GiW

(Pt. 1)

(Subscription post/masterlist)

—

Danny rocked back and forth, trying to soothe himself as the truck he was in continued to speed along.

It had been an eternity since he was captured by the GiW. He didn’t know why they were moving him to a new base after all this time, but he knew it wasn’t a good thing.

Still, he couldn’t find it in himself to feel afraid.

He couldn’t feel much of anything these days. The GiW had a routine and they stuck to it religiously, and that routine had sucked every bit of Danny’s soul out of him.

Something churned in his chest regardless. Anticipation? Excitement, maybe?

Perhaps they were finally going to let Danny fade. Was that a bad thing? Danny couldn’t decide if it was or not.

He wasn’t scared of fading. It seemed inevitable, especially with how he was treated on the daily. He would stop hurting if he faded.

Still, he’d like to see Jazz and Tucker and Sam at least one more time before he does. That would be nice.

The truck continues forward, unmoved by Danny’s thoughts.

The sound is nice, Danny thinks.

The hum of the engine, the crackling of pebbles being crushed under the tires, the electrical buzz of the anti-ghost handcuffs and shield keeping him trapped.

The only sound Danny’s heard the last few years has been the clatter of metal tools, the crunching of bone, the sawing and thunking and squishing of surgery, the murmur of voices.

It’s nice to hear something new, Danny thinks.

Strange, but nice.

The truck stops again. Another red light, probably. Danny continues rocking back and forth, back and forth, like the ticking of a clock.

Seconds pass. Second after second after second.

Danny hears shouting now.

Gunshots crack outside, and Danny sees holes appear in the side of the truck.

That’s definitely new.

Chaos is erupting outside. There’s a lot of screaming, and frantic footsteps, and cars zooming away.

The driver door slams open and shut. The truck speeds off, tires screaming as the driver swerves erratically.

Danny is thrown back and forth in the back of the truck, bumping up against the many weapons and other miscellaneous inventions stored alongside him. Pain blooms in his head and chest, an agonizing heat lining his surgical wounds. Danny licks his lips underneath his muzzle. It would be nice if the driver was a bit better at their job, he thinks.

The truck continues careening wildly.

Danny counts the seconds.

Second after second after second.

After around two thousand, three hundred and seventy four seconds, the truck comes to a stop. Danny didn’t lose count this time. He’s proud of himself.

The driver door opens and closes yet again. There’s chatter outside, excitement clear in the voices that Danny hears. There’s lots of talk of “congratulations,” and “lucky that the Bat didn’t follow you here.”

Then, the back of the truck is opened. Danny hears noises of confusion and shock. He turns his head, looking to see what’s happened.

There’s several men at the door of the truck. They’re wearing black tuxedo suits—Sam was right, black really is such a pretty color—and they’re staring at him.

They begin talking among themselves. Something about them not knowing about a kid, and not knowing what to tell the boss. It’s confusing to him. It’s not what he usually hears spoken.

Then, one of them climbs up into the truck. He approaches Danny slowly, speaking in a calm voice. He’s asking Danny if he can stand, he realizes, asking him if he knows why he’s in the truck.

Danny just stares at the silver glint of the gun at the man’s side.

It’s a nice one, he thinks. Semi-automatic, with a few modifications to make the reloads smoother and the gunshots quieter. His fingers twitch. He’d like to poke at it a little, see if he could improve it any.

The man notices where he’s staring and curses. He takes the gun and lowers it to the floor. Danny just continues to stare.

Silver is an ugly color, he thinks. He much prefers black.

Silver is the color of stainless steel, the color of lab and surgical equipment.

He doesn’t like it much.

The man reaches out a hand and grabs Danny’s shoulder, shaking him gently.

After a moment, he sighs, and hoists Danny up, carrying him effortlessly. He hands him to one of the men outside of the truck, hopping down himself a moment later.

They’re warm, Danny realizes.

He curls further into the new man’s arms, closing his eyes. It’s nice, he thinks, being held like this. He hasn’t been held with such care in a long, long time.

The man sets him down on a crate.

After a moment Danny opens his eyes again, watching as the many black-suited people take things out of the truck. He counts the inventions in his head as they do so, beginning to rock again.

Then, a new man enters the room, and everyone freezes.

He’s congratulating them, asking them about their escape, and then he spots Danny.

Danny would very much like to be invisible right about now.

“Where did you get him?” He asks, tapping his umbrella against the floor.

“He was in the truck,” the man who carried him says, “we don’t know why.”

The stout man looks at him closely.

“How did you get into a government weapon shipment? Did someone put you in there?”

Danny nods his head. He tries to speak, but his voice cracks painfully underneath his muzzle.

“You- someone get that thing off his face,” he says. Several of the other men scurry off, probably looking for something that can break the muzzle, “can you speak?”

Danny shrugs. He tries to talk again, but it seems that his voice doesn’t want to cooperate with him. The only sound he can make is a painful, broken wheeze.

“Hey,” the man says, resting a hand on Danny’s shoulder, “if it hurts to talk, stop trying, alright? We’re gonna get that muzzle and those cuffs off, and then we’ll figure out why you were in there. You know how to write?”

Danny nods.

“Good,” the man responds.

“You two, get something to write with,” he barks to a few of the other suited men. They, too, run off.

A few people come up, carrying a bolt cutter and a few other tools with them. They make quick work of the muzzle and handcuffs, the restraints falling to the floor with a clattering sound.

Danny looks down at his hands. They’re shaking. Slowly, slowly, he brings them up to his face. Thin fingers brush up against cracked, dry lips. He’s fascinated by the sensation.

Someone brought him a mirror, he realizes.

That can’t be right, though. The person looking back at him…isn’t him. That isn’t Danny.

That face is not his face.

Their cheeks are far too thin and sunken, their eyes dull and haunting. They’re far too old as well, they look like a young adult.

Still, they move when he moves. They stare at him with a look of fascinated horror that’s far too familiar.

He brings his hand up to his head, and they follow his movements. He trails his fingers over the stitches in his head, and they do the same.

Danny tries to speak, but is cut off by a painful cough.

One of the men brings up a pencil and notepad. Slowly, shakily, Danny writes down a question.

“What year is it?”

The man who had spoken to him earlier quirked his eyebrow up. He answers, and Danny freezes in place.

“What’s wrong?”

Danny looks down at his hands again. He looks into the mirror. The stranger staring back looks horrified. They look sad. They look…like him.

Danny lets out a mournful keening sound. He curls up into himself, covering his face with his arms. Distantly, he’s aware of someone rubbing circles into his back. He cries harder, his entire body shaking.

Three years.

It’s been three years since he was captured, three years of being cut open and sewn back together. Three years of burns and cuts and chemical damage and electrical shocks.

Three years of torture.

Danny sobs, hands gripping the thin fabric of his medical gown like a lifeline. Three years.

Danny’s being lifted up again. He wraps his arms around the person holding him and wails into their shoulder. Everything is quiet.

“I’ll deal with the kid,” the man holding him says, “the rest of you, finish unpacking the truck and dump it somewhere that the Bat won’t connect to me.”

The man brings Danny through the building, still rubbing his back comfortingly. He’s humming some song that Danny doesn’t recognize, occasionally pausing to bark orders at people.

Danny’s beginning to calm down now. He’s still shaking, but his breathing is beginning to even out.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt alive enough to cry.

He feels exhausted.

Danny tries to hold onto consciousness for as long as possible, but he’s so tired, and so sad, and he’s being held, and he’s warm, and…

Danny’s eyes flutter shut.

—

[fangdokja]

Fleeing is futile. The hunt has only just begun.

❤︎ Synopsis. As they claim you piece by piece, the silence of your resistance is the sweetest melody to their madness.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Granger x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Gusion x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Aamon x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Xavier x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. When Love Kills - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 3,966

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non con, psychological manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, forced relationship, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non con kissing and touching, implied kidnapping, bondage and restraints, stalking, BDSM

♡ A/N. Why can't I find any quality reader insert for my favorite game of all time. Gusion + Granger + Xavier combo wohhh. I've now fulfilled a childhood want. So gonna do this again, I don't care if it's fanfic underrated. Granger's cooked so hard.

♡ Granger.

The shadows of the dimly lit room press against your skin like the cold fingers of death itself. His gaze—piercing, calculating—lingers on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. Granger does not speak; words have never been his forte. It’s the weight of his silence that crushes you, the unspoken symphony of violence and desire that thrums between you like an electric current.

You stand there, your arms bound, the rough cords biting into your wrists, a grotesque imitation of the violin strings he cherishes so dearly. He leans against the far wall, the red scarf draped over his shoulder like a swath of blood, his pale hands meticulously cleaning the barrel of Dirge. The metallic sheen of the weapon glints in the low light, and for a moment, you wonder if the cold steel of the muzzle will touch your temple tonight, a kiss of death laced with his deranged affection.

He has always been methodical, deliberate. Granger does not rush, for he finds no pleasure in haste. His every movement is a calculated note in the sonata of your despair. His leather gloves creak softly as he sets the gun aside and steps closer, his boots echoing ominously in the confined space. The smell of gunpowder and faint, acrid sweat follows him, a scent you’ve come to associate with your cage—both physical and emotional.

His touch, when it comes, is featherlight, a mockery of tenderness. His fingers trace the curve of your jaw, tilting your face upward to meet his shadowed eyes. They’re not cruel, not overtly violent, but they burn with a simmering hunger that no amount of carnage could sate. He studies you like he’s dissecting a prey he’s already gutted, curious and detached yet filled with a predatory satisfaction.

"You think you can scream," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your bones. "But here... no one hears. No one comes. This silence—" he leans closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear—"is the sweetest part of the requiem."

The violin case rests nearby, its ominous presence a constant reminder of his duality. Inside lies Requiem, a weapon that has sung the dirge of countless demons, yet in his hands, it becomes something more—a symbol of his madness, his grief, his obsession. You’ve seen him caress the case with more reverence than he’s ever shown another human being. It’s as if his soul, fractured and jagged, resides within its confines.

His hands trail lower, the leather of his gloves scraping against your skin, leaving a path of gooseflesh in their wake. You shudder, but it’s not from the cold. It’s the way his touch feels like ownership, like a brand searing into your flesh.

Granger is not gentle. He doesn’t believe in softness. The world has never been kind to him, and he sees no reason to extend that courtesy to anyone, least of all you. Yet there’s an artistry to his cruelty, a methodical precision that speaks of his inner torment. You are his audience, his instrument, and tonight, he intends to play you until you break.

His lips curve into a faint smirk as he tilts your head back, his gloved hand gripping your throat with just enough pressure to make your pulse quicken. "Do you know," he whispers, his tone almost conversational, "why I keep you alive?"

You don’t answer. You can’t.

"It’s not for love," he continues, his voice dark, melodic. "It’s not for affection or warmth. Those are luxuries I cannot afford. No..." His thumb brushes over your racing pulse, savoring the way it flutters like a trapped bird. "It’s because you make the silence bearable. Your fear, your resistance, your tears—they’re the melody that drowns out the noise."

And then, with the same eerie grace that defines him, he steps back, leaving you gasping for air. He retrieves the violin case, opening it with the care of a man unveiling a sacred relic. The instrument gleams in the dim light, its polished surface unmarred by the bloodshed it has witnessed.

He plays for you sometimes—not out of kindness, but to remind you of the life you’ll never reclaim. The mournful notes fill the room, echoing off the walls like a dirge for the living. It’s beautiful, haunting, a stark contrast to the violence that defines him.

As the final note fades, he sets the violin aside and turns to you once more. His eyes gleam with a dark satisfaction, a predator surveying his prey.

"You won’t leave," he says, his voice soft but firm, like a command written in stone. "Not because you can’t... but because deep down, you know. You belong to me."

And as the darkness closes in, you realize with chilling clarity that he’s right.

────────────

♡ Gusion.

The moon hung over Castle Aberleen, a luminous scythe against the abyss of the night. Its light seeped through the jagged cracks of the ancient stone walls, pooling on the icy floors in fractured streams. The chill that crept through the air was unnatural, a biting presence that clung to your skin and made your breaths visible, each exhalation dissipating like ghosts lost to the void. In the suffocating silence, he waited, cloaked in the shadows that seemed to bend to his will, as though even the darkness obeyed his command.

Gusion watched you from the far corner of the room, his lean figure blending seamlessly into the dimness. There was a precision to his stillness, a calculated tension coiled in his frame like a blade poised on the verge of unsheathing. His eyes, sharp and unforgiving as cut glass, traced the fragile contours of your form. Every rise and fall of your chest as you slumbered, every shift of your limbs under the thin blanket, was etched into his memory with surgical exactness.

He had always been fascinated by fragility—how effortlessly it could break, how its destruction revealed the truth beneath. You were no different. Soft, vulnerable, utterly unprepared for the monster that had breached the sanctuary of your quarters. You were an enigma he sought to unravel, a riddle written in the language of skin and bone, breath and pulse. And oh, how tempting it was to solve you.

You stirred faintly in your sleep, your lips parting as a muted sigh escaped. The sound was nearly imperceptible, but to him, it resonated like a siren’s call. His fingers twitched at his sides, where faint tendrils of light magic flickered like the dying embers of a fire barely restrained. It would take so little to touch you—to mark you—and leave behind evidence of his existence in the hollows of your being.

“You sleep so peacefully,” he murmured under his breath, his voice a low cadence of menace and reverence. The words were not meant for you to hear, yet they seemed to hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. He stepped closer, his movements so deliberate, so unnervingly silent that not even the creak of the floorboards betrayed him.

The room itself seemed complicit in his intrusion. The faint scent of lavender that clung to your skin mingled with the metallic tang of the cold, creating an intoxicating blend that muddled his senses. He stopped mere inches from your bed, his gaze devouring every detail of you. The delicate curve of your neck, the vulnerability in the way your fingers curled loosely against the sheets—all of it was an invitation, whether you realized it or not.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?” he whispered, his breath brushing against the shell of your ear. His words were a scalpel, slicing through the stillness with surgical precision. You stirred again, a faint whimper escaping your lips, but his hand was already on you, firm and unyielding, pinning you to the bed before consciousness could fully grasp your predicament.

Your eyes snapped open, wide and glazed with panic as they met his. The sheer intensity of his gaze rooted you in place, a predator’s focus locking onto prey. He loomed over you, his presence overwhelming, suffocating, as though the air itself had been stolen from your lungs.

“Shh...” His voice was deceptively gentle, a soft croon that barely masked the razor edge beneath. “Don’t scream. You wouldn’t want to make this harder than it needs to be, would you?”

His fingers brushed against your jaw, tilting your chin upward with an unsettling tenderness that belied the bruising force of his grip. The juxtaposition was calculated, designed to disorient and unnerve. His touch was cold, clinical, yet imbued with a possessiveness that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“You’re trembling,” he observed, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts amusement and malice. “Is it fear? Or something else? I wonder…”

Your body betrayed you, trembling under his scrutiny even as your mind screamed for escape. The struggle only seemed to amuse him further, his expression darkening with satisfaction as his hands began to roam. Every movement was deliberate, methodical, as though he were dissecting you with his touch alone.

“So fragile,” he murmured, his voice laced with something akin to awe. “So exquisitely breakable. It’s almost poetic, really.”

The faint hum of his magic grew louder, a pulsating rhythm that resonated in your very bones. The light it emitted cast eerie shadows across the room, distorting reality into something nightmarish. He leaned closer, his breath hot against your skin, as his lips ghosted over the sensitive curve of your neck.

“Did you think you could run from me?” he asked, his tone conversational yet dripping with menace. “Did you truly believe you could hide?”

His teeth grazed your skin, a fleeting threat that sent a jolt of terror coursing through you. The pressure increased, sharp enough to draw blood but not quite enough to break the skin. He reveled in your reaction, the way your body stiffened, your breaths coming in shallow, desperate gasps.

“You belong to me,” he growled, the words a binding oath that echoed through the room. “No one else will ever touch you. No one else will ever have you. Do you understand?”

The air was thick with the scent of blood and magic, an intoxicating blend that blurred the line between pain and pleasure. His hands tightened around you, his fingers digging into your flesh with bruising intensity. The room seemed to close in around you, the walls pressing in like the jaws of some monstrous beast, trapping you in this twisted tableau.

“Stop struggling,” he hissed, his voice a venomous command that left no room for defiance. “It’s pointless. You’re mine. You always have been.”

When he finally pulled away, his expression was one of dark triumph. His fingers trailed down your body one last time, leaving behind a searing heat that felt like a brand, marking you as irrevocably his. The faint glow of his magic lingered in the air, a haunting reminder of his presence.

“Remember this,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “No matter where you go, no matter how far you run, I will find you. And when I do, it will be as though you never left.”

As he disappeared into the shadows, leaving you trembling and broken in his wake, the echo of his words lingered, a sinister promise that etched itself into your soul. And in the oppressive silence that followed, you knew with chilling certainty that he was right.

────────────

♡ Aamon.

It begins in the silence of Castle Aberleen, where the cold moonlight filters through stained glass, painting the stone walls with fractured colors of blue and crimson. Aamon, the Duke of Shards, watches you with an expression carved from ice and fire. His pale eyes are unreadable, glinting like his conjured mana shards—beautiful, sharp, and merciless.

To him, you are not just a curiosity but a challenge—a test of his resolve, his discipline, his control. Yet control is a tenuous thing, a thread stretched too tight. He doesn’t break it outright; no, breaking things is for common men. Aamon unravels control strand by strand, methodically, purposefully, until there is nothing left to bind him but his own desire, raw and unrelenting.

You never asked to be caught in his orbit. Perhaps it was your misfortune, or perhaps it was his. He doesn’t care to decide. He only knows that you are here now, your shadow crossing his domain like a streak of sunlight piercing the abyss, and that alone is enough to condemn you. Not to death—no, death is too fleeting, too easy—but to him. To the cage he will forge from his affection, his obsession, and his cruelty.

When he first touches you, it’s almost gentle, almost tender—a gloved hand brushing against your arm as he leans close, his breath cold against your ear. He whispers something, words meant to soothe, but the undertone is unmistakable. It's a warning, a claim, a promise. His lips curl into a faint smile, but his eyes betray him. They are dark, bottomless, promising horrors you can barely fathom.

You try to resist, of course. It’s in your nature, as much as it’s in his to pursue. Resistance makes it sweeter for him. He thrives on the dance, the back-and-forth, the tension stretched so tight it threatens to snap. Each time you pull away, he tightens his grip, his patience fraying but his desire sharpening. Aamon is not a man to be defied lightly, and you learn this in ways both subtle and brutal.

In the shadows of the castle, he strips away your defenses with a precision that speaks of his training. His words are daggers, cutting through your resolve, leaving you raw and exposed. He speaks of duty, of loyalty, of love twisted into something unrecognizable. His voice is a low murmur, smooth as silk and just as binding. "You don't understand," he tells you, his tone almost mournful. "Everything I do, everything I am, is for the ones I love. For you."

But love, in his hands, is a weapon. He wields it expertly, slicing through your will until there’s nothing left but your trembling submission. When he finally claims you, it is not an act of passion but of possession. His touch is scorching, his hands roaming your body as if to memorize every curve, every shiver, every desperate gasp. He moves with calculated grace, his strength tempered by an unyielding need to dominate, to control. Every kiss, every caress, is a mark of ownership, a declaration that you are his and his alone.

He takes his time, savoring each moment, each sound you make, each futile struggle. His voice, low and commanding, pierces through the haze of fear and desire. "You belong to me," he says, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "Every breath, every thought, every inch of you. Mine."

And yet, there’s a fragility to his madness, a crack in the armor. In the quiet moments, when the heat of his rage and desire subsides, he looks at you with something resembling vulnerability. He doesn’t apologize—he never would—but there’s an unspoken plea in his eyes, a desperate need for you to understand, to accept him for what he is.

But acceptance is not your choice. He has stripped that from you, just as he has stripped away your freedom, your dignity, your sense of self. What remains is a hollow echo of the person you once were, a reflection of the man who has claimed you.

Aamon is not kind. He is not gentle. But in the rare moments when he allows himself to be soft, it is almost worse. Because in those moments, you see the man beneath the monster, and it becomes all too clear: he is not beyond redemption, but he chooses this path, this darkness. And he has chosen you to walk it with him, whether you will it or not.

And so, the Duke of Shards keeps you close, his most precious possession, his most exquisite torment. He watches you as he would a star in the void—something beautiful, distant, and entirely his.

────────────

♡ Xavier.

The silence drips like blood, thick and suffocating, pooling around the dim chamber where you stand paralyzed. Shadows lick at the edges of the barrier Xavier has erected, its stark light casting cruel illumination on the scene. His eyes—blue, sharp, and cold as a blade—are fixed on you, and though his lips curl into the faintest approximation of a smile, there’s nothing but venom beneath it. He looms over you, impossibly tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in the pristine vestments of his station. A contradiction: the embodiment of light, yet soaked in a darkness that seeps from every pore.

“Did you think,” he begins, his voice a measured hum, low and dangerous, “that you could slip from the light’s grasp? Even shadows are born of its radiance.”

You flinch against the searing gaze that seems to strip you bare, his power coiling like a serpent around your chest. The mystic energy that crackles in the air is suffocating, a living thing that laps hungrily at your skin. Each breath you take feels stolen. He has caged you here, the walls of light forming an inescapable prison—your last, bitter sanctuary. His presence dominates the space, a crushing inevitability that consumes the very concept of escape.

He steps closer. The sound of his boots on the stone floor echoes with deliberate finality, each step a nail driven into the coffin of your freedom. The heat radiating from him is overwhelming, oppressive, and alive with a silent promise. You try to look anywhere but at him, anywhere but at the man who stands as both executioner and savior. But his gloved hand is there, tilting your chin with a gentleness so at odds with the storm raging behind his eyes.

“Look at me,” he orders, and the authority in his voice strikes something primal within you. Reluctantly, trembling, you obey. His sapphire eyes gleam with an unholy intensity, a fire that threatens to consume you. “That’s better. I prefer seeing the truth written on your face.”

His thumb brushes over your lower lip, slow and deliberate, as though testing the boundary between what is his to possess and what he has yet to claim. The contact burns, not with heat but with the cold inevitability of a man who has decided he will not be denied.

“You defied me,” he whispers, his tone threaded with something more dangerous than anger—a quiet, simmering madness. “You spat in the face of everything I’ve sacrificed. Do you understand what that means?”

You want to answer, to plead, to scream, but his grip shifts faster than thought. In one smooth motion, he’s seized your wrists and pinned them above your head, his strength inhuman, unyielding. The barrier at your back thrums with energy, and its light burns against your skin. You can feel his breath against your cheek, warm and steady, even as yours comes in ragged, panicked gasps.

“Ten years,” he growls, the words rasping out like a confession to the abyss. “Ten years of serving hypocrisy, of fighting for a world unworthy of salvation. Ten years of losing pieces of myself, piece by bloody piece.”

His voice breaks, but only for an instant. The mask slips, revealing the depth of his despair before the cruelty returns, sharper than before. He leans closer, his lips brushing the curve of your ear.

“And now you dare to defy me? You, of all people?”

The question is rhetorical; he’s not interested in answers. His other hand, gloved and steady, moves from your chin to trail down your arm, each touch a cruel mimicry of affection. Your body reacts against your will, muscles trembling under his predatory attention. There’s nothing soft about his touch—it’s clinical, calculated, the touch of a man dissecting his prey to savor its fragility.

“You’re afraid,” he observes, his voice tinged with something akin to delight. “Good. Fear suits you. It’s honest.”

There’s a glint of amusement in his eyes as he tightens his hold on your wrists, forcing your body flush against the barrier. The light behind you flares, casting his features into stark relief. He is beautiful, impossibly so, but it’s the kind of beauty that scars—the razor’s edge of a man who has abandoned all pretenses of humanity.

“Do you want to know what I’ve learned in all these years?” he asks, his tone softening to something almost mournful. “Righteousness is a lie. Justice, mercy, hope… illusions spun to keep the masses compliant. There is no light without darkness, no salvation without sacrifice. And you—” he pauses, his lips brushing against your temple, “—you were supposed to be my solace. My tether.”

His words hit like blows, each one carving a deeper wound in the fragile armor of your resolve. Tears prick at your eyes, unbidden, and he notices. Of course, he notices. A cruel smile spreads across his face, and his thumb brushes away the first tear that falls, smearing it across your cheek.

“But solace is a luxury I no longer deserve,” he continues, his voice dipping into something darker, more intimate. “So instead, I’ll take what I need. What I’m owed.”

The mystic energy in the air thickens, the barrier behind you pulsing in time with your racing heartbeat. He presses closer, his body a furnace against your trembling form. There’s a hunger in his eyes now, an all-consuming need that has nothing to do with the righteousness he once championed. He wants to break you, to carve his name into your soul, to make you his in every way that matters and some that don’t.

“You can struggle,” he murmurs, his lips so close to yours that the words seem to linger between you, “but it won’t change anything. The light consumes everything it touches, and you… you are too exquisite to remain unclaimed.”

His lips brush yours, a ghost of a kiss that’s more cruel than tender, leaving you gasping. His grip on your wrists doesn’t falter, even as his free hand moves to cradle your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. You search his face for humanity, for some shred of the man he once was, but all you find is the abyss staring back.

“Hate me if it makes you feel better,” he says, his tone almost gentle. “Fight me. Curse me. In the end, it won’t matter. You’ll belong to me.”

The barrier flares one last time, bathing the room in blinding light. For a moment, you’re weightless, untethered from everything but the reality of his presence. Xavier’s lips curve into a smirk, and his voice drops to a whisper that cuts deeper than any blade.

“One way or another.”

────────────

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[ravenna-reid]

hey babe! how you're doing?

so here's an idea i had. Maybe something like reader was kidnapped by joker, tortured just like jason but Batman saved her before the same fate as the second robin hits her. And Bruce -needs- jason to help her because he's the only one who passed through what she passed?? like, they're relationship could be something angsty, idk

Hey!! I'm doing well and I hope you are too! <3 Tysm for requesting!!! I love writing for ya'll and this idea!!!! This idea is everything omg....I hope you enjoy what I've written hehe

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Old Scars - Jason Todd x Reader

TW: torture via electrocution, trauma (canon things)

Three and a half hours.

That's how Bruce had tried to smooth it over.

By saying it was only three and a half hours. But as far as Jason was concerned, that's three and a half hours too long.

"Bruce...fuck I can't believe he did this again."

"Me either..." Bruce murmured over the comms, barely audible. "It should never have happened."

It wouldn't have happened... if only you would let someone put the clown 6ft under.

The bitter thought repeated in Jason's mind like a broken record, but he kept it to himself. Because all he could think about right now was you and what had happened. All he could focus on was the traumas and fears that were resurfacing, itching away at him like a disease. Consuming him like a plague. And it was even worst knowing you had gone through it all too now.

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Three and a half hours.

It'd only been three and a half hours...and yet it was feeling like an eternity. You spluttered on the water that had made its way into your mouth and down your throat.

The manic laughter was numbing your ears. The straps on your arms and legs were digging so deeply into your skin it was making your stomach churn. The burning in your veins and jolts tracing through your limbs were near unbearable.

Wasn't it ironic how your main weapons on patrol involved electricity. And now, the clown had you strapped to some sort of hospital bed; routinely dumping a bucket of water on you before turning up the volts attached to your limbs.

Well, that's what the punchline was according to Joker. That's what made this all oh so funny.

All you could think was how much longer?

How much longer until Bruce came? Or Dick, Cass, literally fucking anyone. Clark or Diana even.

But no matter how hard you fought to suppress it, that same thought repeated in your mind like a broken record.

No one had come for Jason. They were too late.

Black dots were swimming in your vision and your head was pounding. It took you a second to realise that no one was actually hitting it to cause that sensation. Everything was blurred and hazy, but he was laughing again. You could tell. And laughing meant another jolt of electricity.

No please. You just wanted to go to sleep. Close your eyes.

Maybe if you slept, the pain would all go away. Fade away like a sick dream. Maybe it'd stop. Just for a second.

"No.." You cried, then cursed yourself. This sick freak would find satisfaction in your begs, but the words fell from your lips before you could stop them.

"I can't...I..."

Your scream tore through the atmosphere as he flipped the switch.

Then...glass shattering. The clown falling to the floor. Pointed ears.

And finally...darkness.

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It'd been 30 minutes.

30 minutes of Jason standing outside your bedroom door.

But he just couldn't do it.

He knew how selfish it was. Selfish and cruel.

You'd both had been friends for a while now. Nothing major, not like you and the others. But he had a deep-rooted respect for you. You and your backstory, your unwavering morals and goal. He really did admire you...he just had a shitty way of showing it.

You were kind without being a doormat. Strong without being unhinged and violent. And you always appeared at the perfect time. Whether it was when he was outnumbered in a fight, in need of some extra bandages and headache medication, or when he was alone on a rooftop contemplating everything.

You seemed to have always appeared at the perfect time. And he couldn't even do that.

"You have to help her through this Jason, regardless." Bruce had said to him. Chastised him. Berated him.

"Do you think..." Jason trailed off, those horrible words dying on his tongue.

'Do you think she'll end up like me now?'

Bruce hadn't given him the chance to explain what he was trying to say. "Jason this isn't about you!" He had snapped, ripping Jason from his thoughts.

"Y/n needs you right now. She needs someone she can relate to. Someone who can understand. Can you do that Jason? Be there for her when she wakes up?"

So here Jason was, before your door 35 minutes later.

A stupid tremble began in his hands as he glared down at them. Begging them to just rise and knock on your damn door. Was it the fact that you had just been involved in something so heinous that was crawling under his skin? Or was it his visit with the past? Most likely both. It was most likely everything-

The door swung open, Alfred dressed in his usual attire, now bloody and dishevelled, and a mournful look on his face.

Jason's heart leapt into his throat. "Alfred, is she-"

Alfred raised his hand and closed his tired eyes. "She should be fine Master Todd. Few bruises here and there, but most of the damage is internal."

Jason let out a shaky breath he didn't know he was holding.

"That vile man..." Alfred began with the shake of his head. "Whatever he used to electrocute Miss y/l/n, it was made so that she wouldn't die instantly..."

"He wanted the moment to last as long as possible." Bruce was behind Alfred, face as blank as ever.

Jason stiffened. Frustration and panic and hate bubbling all at once inside of him. For who was to blame for this deja vu of a situation?

The clown that should have been killed, or the man that keeps protecting him?

"I'm glad you decided to come Jason."

Jason wanted to scoff. Huff in annoyance. But stuck to his bitter glare. "So she's alright? A-alive, she'll live?" He snapped.

"Yes, she just needs a lot of rest. She's not fully conscious yet but, you should still go in and see her."

Jason swallowed hard. "You can leave then."

Bruce tried to keep his temper, and to do so, he left with Alfred without another word. Alfred gave a weak smile for encouragement before Jason forced himself into the bedroom.

No doubt Alfred and Bruce had performed numerous medical procedures on you. 'Electrocution' Bruce had explained, for who knew how long. But he had assured Jason that he did everything he could, and that for the mean time, you should be ok...

The door squeaked as he shut it behind him, and suddenly it was as though the room was trying to swallow him whole, the only comfort being your scent.

The sun fought to break through not only the dark clouds outside, but the sheer curtains that were drawn over your windows. It casted dark shadows across your room, and they sat and watched as Jason neared your bed.

He wish he would stop fiddling with his hands. Stop sweating. Stop continuously swallowing. But he had no idea what state you were in. What he'd see once he looked down at you.

Nearing the bed, he saw your form nestled amongst the thick duvet and pillows. And as he quietly sat himself down on the chair beside your bed, he let out another sharp breath.

Your face was pale like snow. Colourless like the overcast sky outside. Your eyes were closed as you remained in your slumber, and Jason only hoped it brought you more peace than reality did. That the drugs you were hooked up to weren't keeping you trapped inside of a nightmare.

Was this what he had looked like afterwards? So sad? So silent and distant from the world?

Every now and then you twitched, and instinctively Jason reached out to you. He took his time, gingerly running the back of his finger across your bruised cheek. Brushed the hair from your face. Your skin was still cold.

How could he make you warm? How could he get rid of the cold?

He could still remember that cold, and he wondered where Joker had tortured you. Most likely not where Jason had been beaten with a crow bar, but his memory still dragged him back there. To that abandoned wing. The cold tiles. The dirt and grime and darkness. The laughter and weapons and tools...

Jason clawed his way back to the present only to be greeted with the full impact of the grief that came with the fact that Joker had done to you what had been done to him.

And Jason hated it.

With the lump in his throat and pain in his chest, he rose from the seat and quickly left your room.

He was glad you were asleep. At peace for the time being before awakening and having to deal with it all. He was glad that you were asleep so you couldn't see the tears in his eyes.

[meat-141]

Simon Ghost Riley fallout au

Raider Simon x Vault dweller fem reader

TW- Mentions of starvation, Yandere themes, Kidnapping, Murder, Bad writing, NSFW insinuation, S/A mentions. It’s the end of the world y’all, what do you expect?

If i missed anything please let me know :(

I haven’t written in a very very long time, but i miss it tons, i hope y’all like this small work i’ve cooked up :)!

MDNI!!!

Life in the shelters were anything but sweet- while shelter living was incredibly easier than life uptop, it still managed to stab you in places that would force you to bleed out, for your life to crumble- men to marry you off, family members to laugh in your face, tell you who you’ll be- what you’ll do.

Your overseer was a dictator. Most people in your vault starved, working all day, farming, churning the giant water machines, kicking at electricity boxes only to give up everything to the overseer- and a few of his goons. You could feel your bones pressing against your mattress when you slept sometimes- and trust me, somehow you were one of the better off ones. Atleast you could move.

So really, you couldn’t help but feel a little bit of joy when your vault had gotten attacked by raiders. Men in scary outfits, barbarically shooting, lighting fire to crops, destroying everything- each room, each bed, shoveling every last bit of food your vault had into their greedy mouths while slicing your family members heads off.

You felt horribly numb.

You weren’t terrified of your life being destroyed as you knew it, no. You were used to that, life wasn’t easy from the start- what you couldn’t fathom was just what was happening to the women that these raiders got ahold of.

They were monsters.

Sick freaks- and you knew, with your button nose, doe eyes, freckles dotting softly across the bridge of your nose- jesus- you were going to be on the chopping block next.

You think you manifest it, ‘cause once you finish your thought a man with greasy hair flicks his gaze to yours, your soft hands pressing to the tin metal wall behind you, a thick sob forcing itself out your throat- Oh god,-

Its only then that a growling voice echos through the large vault common room- nearly the biggest room in the entire facility. The voice silences the noise, all for one second- the clatter of weapons, the screams, yells, laughs, taunts-. Nothing.

“You!” The voice snaps, your bones straightening with a newfound anxiety at the power, the girth- he hardly even yelled and somehow he silenced these people, somehow he made these monsters zip their lips shut.

His thick finger is pointing towards you, his shoulders squared, yet when you glance at the powerful mans face (noting his height in the process, good lord.)- all you see is a skull? He didn’t look like a ghoul, his skin wasn’t peeling, instead just covered by a cloth, a messy white skull painted where his face would be. Two slits let his rich hazel eyes poke through, glinting in the artificial sunlight that shone across the vault walls.

His finger was pointed towards you- but not at you, no, not yet. Instead pointed towards the greasy haired raider, the one with the tar covering his teeth, chipped fingernails. His laugh sounds like you’re grilling meat in a pan, sizzling that could haunt nightmares. Daydreams even.

“I’ll deal with ‘er!” The thick accented man grunted out, his boot covered feet booming on the floor closer and closer to your small shaking body. You were just a little thing, weren’t you? couldn’t ever last a day up in the real world, sheltered from all, bright eyed, bushy tailed.

Within the last five steps of you Simon knew you’d just be the most perfect pet.

If you could see under his mask you’d see thet he was grinning, his hand that wasn’t holding a thick bloody butcher knife gently cupping at the soft of your cheek. The blood slid from the metal in his other hand, hitting the ground with a loud tap, tap, tap. Simon could barely think.

You were the most angelic little thing he had ever seen.

And what you did next?

Simon can’t help that his cock might’ve twitched in his pants.

Simons thumb brushed gently across your cheek, smearing a bit of maroon liquid across the squishy skin- your hand crawled up, curling around his heavy wrist as best as you can with nimble fingers. Head tilting softly into Simons touch, a loud breath falling from your lungs in comfort.

Oh so, you were just helpless then?

If Simons grin could widen it would- so instead a thick laugh bubbles up his belly, his shoulders shaking, yet he never takes his eyes off the little one with terrified tears leaking down her oh so pretty cheeks. “If I find out you touched ‘er!” His voice raises a few octaves. Your body flinches in his touch, and he smooths his thumb under your eye softly again, as if to calm you. “You’re a dead man walkin’!” He addresses the still silent crowd of raiders behind him. Your family, friends, people you’ve grown with since birth were torn apart, splayed across walls, mangled together to the point where you couldn’t even fathom who was who.

The silence stretches, and then the man in the mask yells once more. “Continue.” He snaps- and the noise riled up as if it never stopped in the first place.

Your nervous gaze met with the skeleton mans- “C’mere dove,” his voice takes on a new sound, a soft edge to it, his bloody hands grazing your hips, hosting you up. He barely even flinches as he slings you over his shoulder, hand splayed across the back of your thighs to hold you there, pressing into the fat of your legs, rubbing hard enough to leave marks. “‘m, gonna’ take my pet home, hm?” he hums out, head lulling to the side as he stomps you toward the door- towards the outside, towards the rads, the fallout- home, apparently.

“Little dove wanna go home? hm?” he whimpers at you in a condescending tone, making fun of the way you whine when his meaty hands dig into your skin, groping at your flesh.

And although this was by no means healthy, although life in the vault sucked- things change. Without this man life uptop might suck a whole lot more. Against all better judgement, you helplessly nod, hands finding a way to loop your fingers securely through Simons belt loops. “Home please.” You mutter out, puffy glossed lips pressing together in thought.

Oh yeah. You were definitely helpless. It’s okay though baby, Simons got you now.

[cypherbxbe]

PART 4/4 - Ghost x Reader

previous part

notes: I’m still a newbie so bare with me pls, slowbuuurn, portrayal of violence tw (blood, weapons, injuries etc.), will contain smut in this part so beware lol

add. notes: features sexual content so mdni take care lol ♡ (also this is my first time writing smut so pls keep that in mind)

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Simon couldn’t bring himself to walk away, not like this. When you glanced back at him, his tall frame filled the doorway, his gaze locked onto you in the dim lighting of the room. The sight of you safe should have been enough, but it wasn’t. He needed to be closer, to touch you, to know you were truly okay.

His hands flexed at his sides, tension rolling off him. “Can I…” he started, his voice rough. You could only give a small nod, and he stepped in, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. The silence was deafening, thick with tension and words left unsaid. His piercing gaze pinned you in place, drinking in every detail.

When he finally moved, each deliberate step forward sent your heart racing. You instinctively retreated, your back hitting the edge of the bed. He closed the gap faster than you expected, and before you could react, his hands seized your wrists, drawing them gently but firmly behind your back.

Simon could feel himself losing his restraint, but to hell with it anyway. His breath was hot against your ear, his voice a low whisper. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Before you could respond, he pulled off the balaclava, tossing it aside, and his lips found your neck, softly yet insistent. He slowly pressed you down onto the bed, his weight grounding you, his voice ragged as he murmured, “Let me make it up to you.”

“Wha-” you began, but the words faltered as his hand came up, his thumb brushing just below the bandage on your shoulder. The touch was featherlight, a striking contrast to his usual roughness. “Just let me take care of you,” he murmured, his voice deep and raw with an unexpected tenderness.

Your gaze locked with his, and the intensity in his eyes sent a shiver down your spine. The air between you felt electric, heavy with unspoken emotions. His restraint snapped, and before you could react, his lips captured yours in a searing kiss.

His hands cupped your face, his touch firm yet reverent. The kiss was fierce and consuming, his tongue sliding past your lips with a hunger that spoke of everything he’d been holding back. He pulled back leaving you breathless, only to let his lips trail down your neck again. Rough hands sliding underneath your shirt, cupping your breasts through your bra. “Tell me to stop..“ The whispered words sent a shiver down your spine.

A moment later your shirt was discarded god knows where, Simon‘s warm lips moving across your stomach, hands roaming over your body like a starved man searching for water. His rough fingers surprisingly gentle when they reached the waistband of your pants. The moment your gazes met, your breath hitched in your throat. In a moment of silent understanding, the longing in your eyes gave him all the permission he needed to go on.

With one swift motion you were completely bare, exposed and yet you hadn’t felt more comfortable, safer than this, ever. Simon reached out, his fingers digging into your thighs, hooking them onto his shoulder and before you knew his face was buried right where you needed him most. A strangled gasp escaped your lips, your hand sliding into his hair, grabbing the disheveled strands as if searching for an anchor desperate to keep yourself from falling apart. „Simon..“, his name leaves your lips in a breathless whisper - part sin, part prayer.

He got to work like rent was due, his tongue lapping eagerly at your slick folds. The groan he let out reverberated through your body, intensifying the overwhelming sensations his tongue was letting you feel. You inhaled sharply once he sucks in your swollen nub, two fingers sliding into your needy entrance curling up to that sweet spot that made you see stars behind your eyelids. „I‘m so sorry, love.. You got hurt because of me.“ His voice was muffled against your skin.

At first you barely even registered his words, too caught up in the pleasure he was letting you feel. „Ngh.. It‘s- Whatever, just..“ Struggling to get the words out, your hands tightened their grip in his hair. „Just please d-don’t stop..“ The words leave your mouth in a shaky, breathless whisper.

And just like that it was as if a switch was turned in Simon‘s head, a faint yet wicked grin forming on his lips. His eyes flick to your face, an almost dangerous gleam in his gaze, as he spoke against your wet heat. „You begging for me already, dear?“ All you managed in response was a soft huff, blinking down at him a few times, your mind struggling to keep up. He was enjoying this way too much, but hell, you weren‘t complaining.

Your gaze, hazy and heavy-lidded, locked on his, and a slow smirk tugged at the corners of your lips. “You’re gonna make me cum or what..?“ The challenging glint in your eyes was enough to elicit a deep growl from the back of his throat, his face buried into your creamy folds in an instant, his tongue back to tormenting your clit, swirling teasing circles around the rubescent nub. He groaned as you pull him closer, your hand greedily pushing his head against you.

Simon could feel you getting close, leg’s twitching against his head and it made him redouble his efforts. One hand moved to slip two fingers back inside you, curling them against that sweet spot, while the other hand kept your thigh firmly in place. Your walls clenched and his name left your lips in a breathless moan, your juices dripping onto his fingers. He lapped up your release greedily, not lifting his face until he was sure he'd gotten every last drop. Once his head lifted, his hand came up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, his face glistening with your sweet juices.

At this point he was so hard it hurt. “We‘re not done yet, love..“ he muttered through gritted teeth, his body moving back on top of you, hands working eagerly to get his pants unbuckled until they end up on the floor along with the rest of your own clothes. “I was hoping you‘d say that.“ Your voice came out in a breathless murmur, your eyes intently tracking his every movement.

Simon looked down on you, pumping his girthy length slowly to ease the throb of need pulsing through the thick veins. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, your eyes shamelessly staring, unyielding - a ghost of that signature smirk on your lips. Simon‘s lust-blown brown eyes stared into yours as he moved back on top of you, the matress creaking under his weight.

And then without warning he buried himself balls deep in your drooling hole, rough fingers grabbing ahold of your hips as he set a relentless pace. Your eyes rolled up, a shaky whimper leaving your lips as you felt your vision blur white. His veiny length stretched you unforgivingly, gliding back and forth, rubbing against your walls, one of his rough hands coming up to grab ahold of your bouncing tits. “Fuck, let me hear you, dear..“, Simon growled through gritted teeth, adjusting your hips so that his swollen tip pounded against your cervix.

Your mind was hazy, every thrust eliciting yet another breathless moan from your lips, the rhythmic movements making your leg‘s twitch and your toes curl. His fingers dug into your hips with a bruising grip, his other hand moving back in between your thighs rubbing your pulsating clit eagerly. A wave of pleasure washed over you, legs twitching as your walls clenched around his cock in a vice, milking him as he came along with you filling your heat with his warm seeds.

For a moment only the soft sounds of both of your labored pants echoed through the room. Simon‘s head dips down nuzzling against the soft sweaty flesh of your neck for just a faint moment before he pushed himself up, sliding out of you, leaving you feeling sore and empty. ”Don’t move,” he commanded, his deep voice slicing through the silence. He strode to the sink, returning moments later with a damp cloth in hand. His touch was unexpectedly gentle as he began cleaning you, far softer than you had anticipated.

A smirk played on your lips, mischief glinting in your eyes as your arms snaked around his neck, pulling him back down on top of you. The move caught him off guard, a faint, surprised huff escaping his lips as his stoic facade faltered. Yet, to your surprise, he didn’t pull away. Instead, his strong arms encircled your waist, and with an easy motion, he rolled onto his back, taking you with him carefully avoiding putting pressure on your injured shoulder. “Such a damn troublemaker,” he muttered, his chin resting lightly atop your head, the gruffness in his tone softened by an unmistakable warmth.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips as you buried your face against his chest, your ear pressed to his warm skin, catching the faint, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “You love it,” you teased, though your voice was softer than usual, lacking its typical playful edge.

“Yeah… I do,” Simon murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, his head dipping slightly to meet your gaze. The warmth in his eyes lingered, speaking volumes in a way his words never could. And as silence settled between you, his arms tightened around you, a quiet promise that he‘d never let you go.

ㄨㄨㄨ

(thanks for reading and if you read all parts bless you srsly I appreciate it a lot ♡)

tag list: @chosolovrrr @larkeyy @lostintransist @matchavulpix

[acapelladitty]

shifting sands

Summary: Caught in a moment of weakness by the Scarecrow, Bruce finds himself held in a position that sheds fresh light on the twisted dynamic which connects him to the self-proclaimed Master of Fear.

Fic Masterlist �� AO3 Link

(tw list: spitting, canon typical violence, obsessive talk and thoughts, shock collars, unwanted advances)

Bzzt.

A vicious bolt of electricity rocked through Bruce's neck as the shock collar delivered yet another warning - this one a result of his fingers as they rolled across the thick leather-bound collar which circled his throat. He was attempting to find a weak spot which could be used to snap the device free without damaging his neck but his investigations were quickly ended by the electrical current making his fingers clench involuntarily with a cruel, continuous spasm.

"Keep those trembling fingers safe, Bat." Crane's deep, familiar voice warned, the deadpan tones of which were betrayed by the slight, excited tremble that slithered across the syllables. "Otherwise..."

The threat hung in the air as Crane dropped to his haunches before Bruce's kneeling frame. Even with the difference in height, the hulking mass of Bruce's wide torso - bolstered by the thick armour of his suit - engulfed Crane's much more sleek limbs and the smell of burlap was quick to fill his senses as the shock ended as quickly as it had started up.

Crane had caught him off-guard, a shameful moment of weakness which left him vulnerable to having the shock collar looped around his throat. With it came a thick plume of orange-tinted smoke and the tell-tale initial symptoms of Crane's fear toxin, a haze which Bruce immediately recognised as his body instinctively started to fight off the blossoming effects with increased adrenaline. The rough blow to his head continued to throb its distress, sparking a disorientation which was only made worse by the chemicals now freely coursing through his pulsing veins.

"I won't kill you, Bat. We have far more interesting work to do together but your refusal to work with me through your issues without resorting to snapping my wrists or breaking my jaw is bothersome. The collar will nicely do its job to keep you in check while my toxin runs its course and lays your anxieties bare."

Of all the costumes villains who lurked within the walls of his city, Crane was truly one man who Bruce had dedicated more thoughts to than many of the others. Both he and the scientist used fear as a weapon and that foil was one which he could not ignore in those more introspective moments. A brilliant mind poisoned by circumstance and experiences which no child should have been forced to endure, and yet, such incredible work only served to cause pain and misery to those unfortunate enough to stumble into Crane's path. Including Bruce.

He hated Crane's fear toxin. Hated it with such fervour that he often had to restrain himself from breaking more than just Crane's bones when he was finally captured and subdued, ready to be hauled back to Arkham. The constant, developing flux of his toxin, growing ever more potent and vile, brought his traumas to the forefront of his focus in a way that was often difficult to pull back from.

And Crane knew of his trauma.

Not the specifics, but his knowledge and expertise made him a dangerous opponent to face as he often commented on the myserious traumatic event which Bruce must have undergone to force himself to follow the life he did. To sacrifice everything to right some wrong that had shattered his worldview and forced him to build anew. These and other such facts about his own life were always delivered with the same creeping certainty, a professional cadence poisoned by something almost fascinated - a need to know what horrors lurked in the shadows by his side and demanded such discipline and penance.

"Crane." Bruce's gritted out between his teeth, an attempt to rise to his feet being offset with a grunt as Crane kicked harshly at his knees to keep him down. "You're insane if you thin-"

"Insane." Crane scoffed, interrupting quickly. "You do love your petty diagnoses," his thin hand dropped to press at the collar which wrapped around Bruce's throat as a wide grin split his lips, "but we both know I'm beyond that now."

In his darkest moments, Bruce almost wondered what would happen if Crane did break through and discover his secrets. Would having that clouded, driving suspicion finally brought into the light satiate Crane's curiosities enough to allow him to move to fashioning a workable solution?

Could there be a solution which would allow him to stop waking every night in a cold sweat as the echoes of gunfire swept away with the dusk breeze?

Possibly.

But it was a reality which would never come to fruition and regardless of the shudder which Crane's words and action forced to spread across Bruce's skin like a creeping chill, it was a thought better banished to the recesses of his mind. A temptation that needed smothered in the crib.

"I know such submission must feel like a thousand daggers piercing your toughened hide," Crane continued, his finger hovering over the button to deliver a fresh shock, "but one must accept a loss of control from time to time, even if we fear handing those reins over to another. You've made me realise that about myself, boy, and I would live to see the lesson returned."

Refusing to allow Crane into his head, Bruce lashed out with his fist but narrowly missed as the collar sprung to life and caused his hands to drop to the floor as he grit his teeth against the intense pain which flowed through his most vulnerable skin.

"Hmm, perhaps you are not quite there yet. I fear we may need to press the issue deeper. Open your mouth."

Stubborn if a little confused, Bruce did not and his gaze remained staunchly planted on Crane's manic expression as he refused to indulge the shifting shadows which lay behind as they threatened to reveal their hidden demons to him. But another sharp flash of agony made him grunt as the collar delivered another shock across his neck. It was the sting of a thousand needles and it was continuous as Crane kept his finger pressed on the button until Bruce was no longer able to withhold his reaction and roughly gasped as his muscles spasmed.

However, as soon as the breath left his throat, Bruce blinked as Crane used the opportunity to pull at the ears of his cowl and spit into his mouth. Disgust flared and recoiled violently in his throat as something equally as hot laced around it, anger and an unfamiliar humiliation lancing his gut as he reacted to the insult in kind by launching himself forward and knocking Crane to the floor.

Rolling across the dusty floorboards in a messy pile of limbs and hissed insults, there would only be one winner and Bruce felt heat flush across his face - rage and loathing mixing with adrenaline - as he pinned Crane to the floor with a hard movement which left him straddling the much thinner man. His hands wrapped around Crane's wrists so harshly that he swore he heard the bones creak, Bruce took a steadying breath as he glared down at his fully winded enemy.

Crane's eyes were wild, filled with a delirious pleasure that he has achieved such a rise, and Bruce experienced his revulsion anew as he felt a distinct hardness pressing at his inner thigh. In an instant, the obsessive tone and need to push which Crane had been indulging in their recent confrontations gained some clarity and the disgust gained a bedfellow of petty irritation as Bruce narrowed his gaze.

"You're a monster, Crane."

If anything, his words only seemed to excite Crane more as his bony hips rolled against Bruce's body - pressing roughly into the smooth material of the batsuit as a flush sat high in his thin cheeks.

"As as you, Bat. Such control over your fears, such desperate control. Only a man who has known horror with a terrible intimacy would dare to have such a tight, stranglehold on his anxieties. My studies have robbed me of my ability to fear but you," Crane grinned as a huff of breath filled the air between them, "you have mastered your own in a way that is unthinkable. You could be my key."

Darting forward with a serpentine strike, Crane once again opened his mouth but this time his tongue brushed across the exposed flesh of Bruce's chin - the skin there damp with sweat and roughened by the slightest stubble. His tongue was wet and warm and Bruce hid his recoil well as he pulled his head back only enough to ensure that he couldn't do it again.

Visibly pleased by whatever picked up taste was now swirling around his mouth, Crane continued on his deranged musings.

"Such a lovely specimen. The perfect key wrapped in such pretty packaging and begging to be ripped to shreds, exposed to the world. As the key to unlocking fear itself, you would serve a greater cause than anything you are currently willing to die for, boy."

Feeling uneasy at just how earnest Crane's words were, the genuine passion which coiled around each word like a serpent, Bruce felt the revelations of the confrontation shift the hateful dynamic he shared with the mad scientist. Obsession was more treacherous than hate; a savage tango he had endured before and one he had no wish to take part in again as Crane was too dangerous a partner to allow a space on his dance card.

With the remote to the shock collar lying inaccessible off to the side, the cold air of the warehouse swept across their heated position as both men took their time in sizing up the other, Crane's fierce delusion met by Bruce's calculated composure, their brilliant minds considering the next move of the chessboard.

Whatever it would prove to be, the change that had shifted the tide was undeniable.

[raineandsky]

Could you do a story where a guard of a Supermax prison befriends a supervillain, because he treats him like a genuine human being instead of an animal; and later, all the power-dampeners suddenly fail; and all these villains just revolt against the guards; but supervillain makes sure he’s safe since he was always kind to him?

Love Ur writing!!

aaaaaaa this was such a fun idea - im absolutely in love with this lil dynamic!! hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing it :D

-

tw blood, death

Animals. That’s all the agency ever saw the villains as. Animals they could poke and push and test and break into nothing.

So when the jail’s power-dampeners fail, the villains are more than happy to make like the tigers are out of their cage.

The villain to the supervillain’s right is burning the lock on his cell door. The villain on his left has fazed straight through hers. The supervillain steps up to the iron bars across his own cell to look beyond.

VIllains are flooding the corridor, breaking for the stairs one by one. “You,” he snaps as someone passes, and they thankfully slow down. “Open the door.”

Escape might be tantalising, if the villain’s quick glance to the stairs is anything to go by, but no villain ignores a supervillain. They rest their hands against the door for a moment, their brow knitted in concentration for a moment, before the lock clunks open.

They pull the door outward as the supervillain steps into the corridor, waiting impatiently. “Thank you,” the supervillain says shortly.

The villain wastes no time continuing their great escape, chasing the tails of the other villains. Golden light flashes against the walls of the stairwell like fireworks, panicked shouting drifting from above, dull thumping as inevitable bodies hit the floor. The superhero strolls up the steps to take in the carnage the villains are wreaking on the pristine agency.

Gunfire showers the corridor in the light of heaven itself. Agency guards are backed up against the one exit. Most of the villains have already pushed past them into the room beyond, but those who haven’t are springing on them from all directions with fire or ice or electricity or nothing but hatred.

He can see someone familiar through the chaos, the eye of the storm. His gun sprays death, his face twisted into a mix of anger and fear, his eyes set on the villain currently making her way towards him with palms of steaming water.

Almost all of the villains have passed through. Most guards are either lying in a puddle of crimson blood or following the flock into the next room. There’s two of them—his Favourite, and someone he couldn’t care less about.

The villain’s water flicks from her fingers and sprays the guard, earning a pained cry and a cringe away from her. His attention falls to the scalding cutting through his skin, and in one fatal move the villain swipes the gun from his hands.

The supervillain doesn’t have time to intervene. The other guard swings his weapon to the villain, and with a flash of golden light she drops to the ground. The gun clatters to the floor with her.

The two of them heave a breath like they’re free, and the supervillain sees his chance. He sweeps up the gun from the floor, shouldering his Favourite out of the way, before turning it on the other guard and opening fire. The force of the bullets shove the guard into the wall behind him, and his descent to the floor is accompanied by a nauseating streak of red.

The supervillain turns his gaze to the last guard, his Favourite, the one who helped him from the day he got here. The one who saw past the animals and saw a person.

The guard returns his gaze with abject horror, defenceless, trapped. His eyes are wide, his back pressed into the wall, his mouth working in a desperate attempt at what is probably a beg for mercy.

The supervillain doesn’t waste time. He doesn’t have any. He grabs the guard’s arm, earning a startled squeak, tucking the gun under his arm. He can see the burns left on the man’s arm from the villain’s attack; small but undoubtedly painful. He lays a hand over them and the guard hisses and pulls in his grip, whether in pain or fear of pain he can’t tell.

His hand is cool—he can tell from the way the guard relaxes in his hold after a moment. The supervillain holds down a pleased smile. “That’s it,” he says smoothly. “Is that better?”

He lets go and the guard tips his gaze to his skin, unblemished and unharmed. Like the water never touched him at all. His mouth opens. Closes. His brow creases.

“Your power…” he tries after a moment, confused, “they never figured it out. They thought you’d have something violent.”

The supervillain throws him a smile, unhidden this time. “They never expected a healer at the head of evil, did they?”

The supervillain drags him along, following the path of bloodshed like a map. Some villains are still loitering—one of them slinks up to the pair with a grin. They inspect the guard closely for a moment before running the edge of their knife across his jaw in thought. He tries to shrink away but the supervillain’s grip on him holds fast.

“Oh, isn’t this one pretty?” the villain purrs. They give the blade a flick for emphasis, and the guard flinches as the edge cuts a crimson line into his cheek. “Can’t wait to show the agency what happens to good little boys like him.”

“No one touches him, understand?” the supervillain snaps coldly. “He’s with us.”

The villain scowls, clearly unsatisfied with his answer. “Oh, we keepin’ pets now, boss?”

“We don’t keep pets, [Villain].” His gaze turns to the guard for a moment, a touch softer, almost thankful. “They’re not animals.”

[luveline]

if you are taking suggestions, I would love to see a steve zombie!AU blurb!!

for you my love, steve zombie au — the college collapse and the fallout afterwards. fem!reader, 5k words tw for zombie apocalypse typical violence and gore, cuts/bruises, mentioned extreme violence/death, mentioned sexual assault (implied to have been attempted, no graphic description), hurt/comfort

You can hear people crying from the quad. 

You don't blame them if they look anything like you right now. Your hands are crusted with blood, your knees more cut than skin. Evidence of the dead marrs the floor, and evidence of the living stains the walls, black gore streaks across the linoleum and bullet holes like inverted stars in the walls, backlit by the bonfire lit in the centre of the quad.

There hasn't been a shot in hours. Still, you hide, and still, you bite your tongue to stop from crying. Crying isn't going to help. 

A familiar sound echoes from the east. A geek, the undead monsters that haunt what's left of the world, groans and sputters somewhere you can't see. Your skin crawls —sounds bound off of the tiled floor and walls, and in the dark you fail to pinpoint the exact origin. The smell of carrion is pervasive. You can't stay here. When the sun rises, you'll be plainly visible to foe rather than friend; raiders and geeks are waiting for morning to find you and whoever else survived. You have no choices, no weapons, nothing more than the clothes on your back. 

By now, the dormitory that you called your bedroom will have been seized, your meagre possessions gone. Each precious gift, every book and blanket. You'll never get to see it again. All those memories–

You bite your tongue again. The pain doesn't count for much. You're already in agony. Your lungs ache from screaming, from running harder than you've ever run, and you've been cut from head to toe by shards of glass. You're in the worst state you've ever been in minus one risky head injury, but you're far from hopeless. 

You've prepared for this. You know what you need to do. You'll do more than crawl across glass if it means you can reach the rendezvous point by morning. 

Taking quick, terrified breaths, you bounce to your feet and hold out an arm. It's a bad strategy. If you get bit, you can't fix it. You don't have a knife, and if you did you don't have the nerve to amputate yourself. But your choices are to lead via hand or face, and hand seems wiser. You step over slippery tile in your ill-fitting shoes until you find a wall, your panting echoed back at you. 

The sobbing has stopped. An eerie quiet takes its place. Something bad has happened. 

Something bad already happened. Something is over. 

You freeze when you hear chuckling. It's quiet but unquestionable. 

Who could laugh? After seeing the carnage of the cafeteria? The bodies lining the east gate? 

The pitch blackness wanes the closer you get to the door. A rogue tear races down your cheek as you squint against the flickering firelight. There's a herd of men standing at the pit of the quad, warming their hands with the spoils of the lives of the hundred who found shelter here. You hide your body behind the wall, the glass door of the gym you'd been secluded in stuck half open. They likely hadn't meant to, but the raiders tripped the electricity, and it hasn't come back on since. It likely won't come on ever again. 

You squeeze through the door, so afraid of being out in the open that it makes you physically retch. 

You rag your body through the door and wince at the deep gouges it feels like it leaves behind. Your knees don't want to bend, they're so shredded, but you've no choice but to sprint to the side of the gym, and then the fallen gates, and the treeline behind it. 

You step over the heavy metal gates that once protected you slowly. Each grind of fence into the asphalt below feels like a siren call. 

The only light is the orange flicker of the fire cast between the trees like grabbing fingers. You step in the shadows, flinching at every snapping branch under your feet, every dry leaf. You don't look back —you can't. You're terrified of what you'll see. 

Please, you think, over and over, a prayer if there's ever been one, please, please. You're so afraid of not getting what you're asking for that you can't finish the sentence. Your head is a loop of pleading, begging, offers to someone who isn't listening. 

I'll never complain. I will never wonder why. I won't cry, or ache, or so much as sigh. So please. 

It happened at dinner. The entire community, what felt like every member of The College gathered in one place for 'thanksgiving dinner'. There was thanks to be said, sure, but nothing that aligned with the original celebration. Thank you for a place to call home. Thank you for the meal. Thank you for a safe haven. Thank you for– 

But a shot rang outside. 

Heads bobbed. Adults and children alike shifted at the cafeteria tables to try and see which of the patrolling gate guards had needed to fire. 

It was like rain after that. Pop pop pop. 

You grip the present like a bouy and hold on tight. You can't think about what happened while you're still in it. The fear will paralyse you. 

Your shoe steps onto something soft. You look down though you don't want to, and it's too dark now to make it out. You bend at the waist and let out an involuntary whine at the pain that lances up your abdomen. 

It's a blanket. You don't think it's one of yours, though you had so many you can't be sure. It's green and rough and the best protection on offer. You wrap it around your shoulders and keep walking. 

You know where you are only because it has been drilled into you so thoroughly. 

I'll meet you at the bottom of the hill… Do you remember, we ate vegetable soup and dumplings cold? It was the best meal we'd had in months. 

"Oh, fuck," you say, losing the strength in your legs. You grasp at the rough trunk of a tree and gasp for air. You can't breathe, you can't think. "Fuck." 

Your sniffling whispers are lost in the wind. 

"I don't think I can do this," you mouth. 

I promise I'll meet you there. 

"I can't." 

But you have to. You can see it all laid out in front of you. Eating sour cherries on the floor, bare-legged and brimming with love, his hand on your straggly knee. His hand on your back, guiding you through doorways and under tree branches. His hand on your cheek, your shoulder, your thigh. 

His hand in yours, a hundred miles of highway behind you. Pulling you along. 

You walk for what feels like hours but can't be so long. Your shoes are doing more harm than good, blisters like pebbles on your heels and toes. You step out of them and carry them down the hill, grass sharp under the soles of your feet. The socks you wear are threadbare. 

You hadn't realised you'd have to do this, and that was a mistake. You could've been prepared for this; you should've been carrying a knife in your belt everywhere you went, and you never should've left yourself open to the elements. How many jackets do you have under your bed? 

The convenience store beckons like a beacon. The night is heavy but the moonlight strives to lead you, and you follow it to the white walls one exhausted step at a time. 

You circle the building. 

There's no one waiting for you. He isn't where he promised. 

You try to open the door but can't find the strength. Everything hurts more than anything has ever hurt before. Your hands are immobile now, your shoes falling to the concrete beneath with a dull thump. One springs away too far to reach. 

You sit down against the back of the convenience store, drained of everything you have. If he isn't here, he's dead. If he's dead, you might as well die. He was everything, and he's gone. 

You fall asleep sitting up against the wall, face smashed to your shoulder. Let whatever comes across you first finish you off while you sleep… 

There's a pressure around you. You wake in a struggle, still too tired to move, to flail, completely encompassed. Your first thought is that you've died, but the pressure tightens, and you feel all your hurt reawaken. 

"I know, baby," Steve murmurs. You must've made a sound. "I know. It's okay. I got you." 

You really have died if he's here. 

You grab limply at his back, trying to pull him away so you can see his face. It's a geek chewing through the juncture of your neck, and whoever's looking down on you feels sorry enough to let you see him before you go. It's a raider, tying you up and hanging you from a pike, the ropes constricting your blood flow. It's not Steve. 

"What fucking happened to you?" he asks, his voice shaking. "What happened? Did someone–" 

"Steve," a familiar voice says, "come on, man, she can't understand you." 

Steve pulls away from you and it's him, his face, his pale cheeks and almond brown eyes, one ringed in a purple wine stain, the white bisected by an ominous red. 

"What…" Your mouth won't cooperate. A cold hand grabs your face. It can't be Steve's, his hands are always so warm. Water is tipped into your mouth, the majority of which runs down your neck to your clavicle. 

"Do you have, um, do you have that bottle of malt still?" Steve asks. 

"She'll pass out–" 

"Maybe that's best," Steve says. 

"Not if she doesn't wake up again." 

"She's gonna turn septic, no doubt. I have to go back, I can get antibiotics." 

"You can't go back, are you stupid?" 

You groan, their words rushing in one ear and out the other, indecipherable from the whooshing that feels like it's originating behind your eyes. 

"Y/N," Steve says gently, "can you understand me, honey? Do you know what I'm saying to you? Can you nod?" 

You nod as best as you can. 

Steve puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gingerly. "I'm going to make everything better, I promise. I promise." 

You try to say sorry, you should be really fucking sorry, he has to save you all over again, but the only thing that wants to come out is shattered breath. 

Things are spotty after that. You have the sense of being moved flat on your back and dragged. It's not pretty, the distinct memory of a hand over your mouth, and then, when your bearings are coming back, you remember that you'd been screaming. 

You have your head in someone's lap. You don't fall asleep or wake up, it's like you're treading water and your head's been under. Now you're breaking the surface, and it's to the tender touch of a fingertip climbing up and down your nose bridge. 

Something crackles. It takes you right back to the bonfire in the quad, is it the bonfire? You try to lift your head and the person holding you startles. 

"No, stay still," Steve says gently. 

"Steve?" 

"Who else?" He says, still gentle but a hint of his usual derision peaking through. "Do you let other guys treat you this way?" 

"Steve," you mumble, tears pricking your waterline. 

He can't hug you from the way he's laid you out, but he leans over slightly as though he's shielding you from the grey above. You try to turn your neck and find the white hot pain a quick deterrent. 

"Look at you. Fuck, look at you," he says. 

You cry a little, unsure if you can speak. Tears sting an abrasion beside your eye. 

"Don't upset her, Steve," says a girl's voice. Your heart skips a beat as Robin Buckley comes into view, lip split and without a jacket but otherwise unscathed. "Hey, Y/N. Don't worry, you're not stuck solely with him." 

You laugh, but you're crying so you cough, and pain zips up and down your arms and legs. 

Robin kneels down beside you and hugs you lightly. Her hair, scraped back into a pony tail, tickles your cheek. 

"I love you, I'm so glad you're okay," she says. 

"Me too," you mumble. 

Robin pulls back and smiles at you. "You gotta eat something, killer." 

"I don't really think she can move, Robs," Steve says quietly. 

"She won't be able to if she doesn't eat." 

Steve sighs and helps you up painstakingly slowly, his hands under your armpits. He sits forward rather than pulling you back, supporting you like a Steve-shaped chair.

You realise for the first time since you woke up that you're inside, rather than outside. 

And there are lots of survivors. 

Jonathan and his mom are standing across the room. Jonathan has two little kids in his arms, and you're so shocked you actually try to ask about it. "Did he have babies while I was out?" you croak. 

Steve hums near your ear. "He saved nearly all of the kids all by himself… Most of their parents are dead. I think he feels responsible." 

"Most of them?" you ask. 

"Yeah." 

Lots of survivors doesn't mean all. It doesn't even mean the majority. The College had almost four hundred people living in it. This room houses what couldn't be more than a fifth of them, and there's at least a dozen children. You don't say it aloud, but you feel it thick in the air like an electric charge. 

This is not good. 

"Don't worry," Steve says, hands crossing over your stomach. "Please, honey, just– just think about yourself for now." 

"I can't believe it." 

He shushes you. 

"Steve, all those people…" 

"I know." 

You use him as impromptu furniture and Robin returns with a can of peaches and a fork. She loves you enough to feed you. It makes you want to cry again. 

You're relieved to be far away from what happened, but there's a feeling of unreality that won't cease. You keep looking at the corners of the room like the light will dim and the blood caked to your hands will reappear. Someone wiped them clean while you slept and bandaged them with care. 

You feel sick after the peaches. 

"Throw up if you gotta," Steve says mildly, his nose resting against the back of your head. 

You fall asleep again. 

When you wake up, it's night. You feel stronger than you had as soon as your eyes open, digging your elbows into the blanket tucked beneath you and hiking up to look around. Steve's asleep to your left, his hand screwed in the bedraggled fabric of your shirt, and Robin's asleep to your right, her hand touching your elbow. 

A woman you couldn't name from the back sits in front of the door. The muzzle of a long gun sticks out over her shoulder. 

The room isn't big enough for this many sleeping bodies, and so the group sleep toe to toe and hip to hip. The only people with blankets are the children and the badly injured. You have two. You have no idea how Steve managed it, one under you and one over your legs. 

Or, you don't think you know how he managed it until you slide the blanket down and realise you aren't wearing any pants. Underwear that aren't yours have been pulled up your thighs and cinched with an elastic band. 

Poor lovely Steve. He always does the gross stuff. 

You pull the blanket back up for the sake of decency and swallow. You swallow again. You're thirsty and in an insane amount of pain, the intensity increasing the longer that you think about it. You don't want to wake him, but you know it's what he'd want, and he's saved your life for the millionth time, so. He should get what he wants. 

You try to be sweet. You can barely breathe, your chest hurts that badly. 

"Stevie," you whisper, tugging his fingers from your shirt and squeezing them imploringly. "Stevie, please, are you awake?" 

It's Robin who rouses. 

"He–" She yawns and her jaw clicks. "He might not wake up, I made him take a quarter of an oxycontin." 

"Yeah? What for?" 

"He wrecked his knee, and he made it worse carrying you up the stairs here." Robin scratches her eyes with her hands. "Not that it's your fault, it's not your fault. Just what happened." 

"Oh." You pull Steve's hand to your lips and kiss it. Wincing, you turn onto your side to face Robin, pulling his slack arm over your tummy. He doesn't hug you closer in his sleep, and it feels wrong. "I know you look after him 'cos he's yours, too, but thanks." 

She smiles, her cheek appling against the hand she's using as a pillow. 

"Do you want a quarter of an oxycontin?" Robin asks. 

"No, you should save it." 

"I know you need it. It's not all superficial. Jonathan's mom gave you stitches, did you see?" 

"Everything sort of throbs right now." 

She pulls a half of a pill from her pocket and apologises that you have to bite it in half. She can't give you the full half because this is the full capacity of painkillers and she's lucky she has that. 

"It's okay," you say, accepting the water she offers. 

"I really don't know what we're gonna do, Y/N." 

"I don't even know what happened, I… don't even think I want to know. I remember the beginning." The gunfire and the shattering windows. The shouting. "I don't remember where you went." 

"We didn't know where you went." 

"Sorry. I don't know." 

"It honestly might be better if you don't remember any of it," Robin whispers wryly. "I wish I didn't." 

You grab her hand with your free one, pretzelled between her and Steve. "I'm sorry, Robs." 

"Me too. But we'll be okay. We're together."

"Do you want to talk about it?" 

Robin blows a curl of her hair from her face. She looks young, sun tanned and freckled as she is, and scared, which isn't her style. She acts like nothing ever gets to her. It's a privilege to be let in. 

"I was terrified that you were dead," Robin whispers. "And then I thought me and Steve were gonna die anyways, and he got into a fist fight with a geek and Dustin almost died." She stops abruptly. 

"Is that how he got the black eye? From a geek?" you ask. 

"No. There was a man," she says, "trying to pin me down. I don't know what he… Steve pulled him off of me." 

You rub the back of her hand with your thumb. "He hurt you?" you ask, eyes burning with heat. Angry and sad tears at the same time. 

"Nah, Steve saved me. He's good at that." 

"I'm so sorry."

"I'm sorry. You really don't get how bad you look, I shouldn't be telling you anything. You need," —her voice takes on a saccharine but not ingenuine pep— "to get better, and to worry about yourself. I'll be surprised if you ever walk again."

"Really?" The oxycontin must be working (if a quarter even works), 'cos you're not nearly as disenfranchised by this possibility as you should be. 

"No. But think about how much that would suck and this is almost the winning situation." 

"Sorry, Buckley, I swear I'd laugh…"  

"But everything sucks."

"Yeah." 

You have one hand full of Robin's cold fingers and another woven between Steve's warm ones. You have two whole blankets, you're mostly fed, and there's a lady guarding you with a gun bigger than your head. You can rest easy, if only for an hour. 

Robin falls asleep gradually, quiet snores growing louder by the by. 

You try to sleep, but every time you close your eyes you can see shapes like bodies standing over you, or hear a disembodied groan as it echoes in the shower room. You regretfully remove your hand from Robin's and turn back to Steve. There's a twinge in your thigh as you that reminds you about Joyce's stitches. You wonder how many there were. It feels like a lot when it pulls. 

You put you hand on Steve's cheek. Thinking you might cry and actually crying are surprisingly far apart. He deserves to have some tears shed for him, your poor boy, defending his friends, hurting himself, almost losing you, losing his home, and watching the community he loves die all in one night. He deserves so much more than he gets. 

"I love you," you say under your breath. 

The mantra. Please, please, please, let him be waiting for me. 

— 

Your hand is like a hummingbird in Steve's, twitching twitching twitching. He rubs the back of your hand and tries not to wake you. The pain you're in now while sleeping will feel a thousand times worse when you wake, and he has nothing to give you for it. 

He woke up to your fingers twined in his. You must've done it in the night. 

Robin's sleeping curled up next to you, his two favourite people in the whole world getting a well-needed break from the horror of it. Horror doesn't even feel like the right word, it doesn't encapsulate the grimness of your situation. There's no potable water, barely any food, and a lot of months to feed. Steve knows they need as many people out looking for resources as they can get so they can move on, and they need to do it fast, before someone comes looking to pick off the rest of them, but he just can't do it. He can't leave your side. 

He tries to think about how he got separated from you and every time it's like a kick to the chest. He looked to his left in the bloodshed and you just weren't there anymore. 

Things got messy in between. 

When he finally had the choice he tried to backtrack, and Chris and Robin had to forcibly drag him to shelter. 

He told you and Robin the same thing, meet me at the store, though thankfully Robin hadn't been out of sight for longer than a minute, and he'd been able to protect her. He wasn't the only one to pick a familiar place. A small crowd of people had been waiting inside the convenience store, a gun aimed at the door.

He'd wanted to go back for you. He would've if he could stand, his knee a twisting hot pain, an agony —he tried anyway. 

They stayed like that, kids hiding behind the shelves, the adults at the door like a barricade, waiting for a sign as to what to do. Waiting to be put down like animals by the monsters who invaded the community, geek and human alike. 

There was a thump by the door. Steve realises now that it must've been you, but they'd been convinced it was a geek, and so nobody stood. It had his nerves aflame, because what if you were huddled somewhere unable to move? What kind of boyfriend, what kind of partner, would leave you vulnerable? He'd rather put himself in moral peril trying to save you than leave you to that fate. So he stood on his fucked leg and he eased open the door, Christopher beside him because he's a good man, and together they stepped into the dusk. 

Steve did not have to look very far for you. You'd been laid out against the wall like you'd been thrown there. 

He collapsed to his knees as soon as he realised it was you, scared to touch you, your clothes more blood than fabric and your eyes scrunched closed in pain. 

"Holy shit," Christopher said.

Astute. Steve felt for your pulse, found it fast despite your state of unconsciousness. A wound on your leg was weeping furiously, and Steve ripped off the bottom of his shirt bare-handed to wrap it up. 

He hugged you even though it would do nothing. It was selfishly all for him. 

Steve had thought for a moment, Fuck, I cannot keep doing this. The level of adrenaline, the sharp spike of fear thinking he might have lost you. I can't keep doing this. 

But he can, and he will. 

They carried what food they could with them to the block of apartments they're currently taking shelter in, but Steve had carried you with help, and so he hadn't managed to grab anything at all. He relies solely on the charity of the community to feed you today, and he promises he'll make it up. 

"Y/N," Steve says, a can of soup in hand, not knowing if waking you is the right thing to do, but his hand on your shoulder anyways, "wake up, I have something for you." 

You mumble into the floor. 

He hums. He could heat the soup up. He'd need to go outside, which would be exhausting, and he'd have to start a fire, but they'll be starting one soon enough to boil water while the sky is still dark enough to hide the smoke. Maybe he can call in a favour. 

He limps over to Joyce. She's been great since the attack, considering what happened to Hopper. 

"Hey, honey," she says. "What are you upto?" 

"Can I be a total dunce and ask you for a favour?" 

Joyce takes his can of soup. He limps back to your side and looks you over for a while, peeling back your blanket to check that the big cut on your thigh and the tens on your knees aren't visibly infected. He's been given a tube of antiseptic and applied it to you generously, but he worries it won't be enough. Your legs are fucked, really fucked, cuts and bruises on every inch of skin. He has no idea how it happened and you haven't been lucid enough to ask.

He tucks the blanket back around your legs to ensure some privacy and moves onto your arms. He thinks you must've fallen onto debris, if the scratches near the base of your forearms are any indication. 

He puts your arm down gently and his eyes flick to your face. You're looking at him. 

"Oh, hi," he says, breathless with relief. 

"Hi Stevie." 

"Hi." He covers his eyes with his hands. 

"Steve…" You murmur, your fingers ghosting his elbow, stretched as far as you can reach from your position. "Baby, please."

He scrubs his eyes until they burn but successfully pushes away any waterworks. 

"You have to stop doing this to me," he says, practically begs, nodding with each word like it might drive the sentiment home. 

"I'm sorry." You sit up, clasping his elbow. "Really sorry." 

Steve exhales until he's completely empty of breath. "God, I know. It's not your fault." 

"Hey, Steve, stop using my mom like a catering service," Jonathan says suddenly, interrupting your moody conversation.

He's holding a camping bowl with a rag underneath it, pretending to be more pissed than he is. He smiles down at you. "Hey, how are you?" 

"I'm fine." 

"Well, eat up. Get better. I need friends that aren't fourteen years old or Steve," he jokes, lowering the soup into your lap. "I'm glad you're okay." 

"Thanks, Jonathan." 

He smiles and leaves, accosted by little kids as he goes.

Steve puts his hand under the soup despite the rag, worried you'll burn yourself. You protest, and Steve's actually happy to hear it. It means you're feeling more like yourself. 

"Are you sharing with me?" you ask. 

"If that's what you want." 

"Yes, that's what I want."

Steve lets you have the soup dumplings, hot and sweet, the best part. He doesn't bother eating even one. You take turns drinking from the corner of the camping tin, thigh to thigh, Steve guiding it to your lips whenever you look ready for another sip. 

It's actually him that cries, to his surprise. He thought for sure he'd hold it together, but he's just so grateful that you're here and in one admittedly battered piece, eating soup and warm against him, they start of their own accord. You rest your head wonkily on his shoulder, seemingly unaware. He tries not to sniffle.

"I love you," you whisper, dropping your hand on his thigh. 

He puts his cheek on your head. His tears seep into your hair. "I love you too." 

"Are you crying?" you ask, sounding heartbroken as you turn to him. Your eyes widen in shock. "What's wrong? Is it your knee?" 

It's not his knee. It couldn't be further from it. 

"We lost everything," he says, everything coming out in a rushing whisper, "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to take care of you anymore. You almost died, again."

"I didn't almost die, I was tired," you say gently. "I wouldn't have died." 

"That doesn't mean I can still do this." 

"Steve, I'm not asking you to do anything. I know I was hard work–" 

"No–" 

"But this time it's different. I'm not saying you don't look after me, I'm not even saying you won't have to again, but I don't need a bodyguard this time around. And we aren't alone. You're not alone. I need you to be my– to be mine. That's it." You put your hand on his cheek. It's heavy, rough, but you try to be kind and he knows it. You're uncoordinated, stroking under his eye. "I'm sorry, Steve, I am, I'm so sorry, please don't–" 

His turn to interrupt a ridiculous notion. "Please don't what?" he asks, not unkindly. You take your hand back. Your face crumples, your head dipped toward your shoulder. "Don't what? You think I'm going somewhere, really?" 

"Please don't blame yourself for everything," you say. 

It's not even that. He isn't blaming himself. He isn't blaming you. He's just mind-numbingly terrified to be back on the road.

"We're together," you say, nearly shy. "Isn't that okay for now?" 

"...That's the only thing that's okay," he says. 

He scrubs his face with his hand, scratching through his limp hair. He rolls his shoulders, and, after a deep breath, he takes your hand and pulls himself together. 

Steve doesn't know what to say, and he suspects you're facing a similar dilemma. 

"Don't get it twisted," he says eventually, his voice rough with earnestness, "you're the only thing that matters to me. But…" What do you say? After all those people have died? When your sweetheart can't stand, she's so cut up? All to get back to you and nothing good promised? "I wanted more than this for us." 

We had more than this.  

"This is the world now," you say, tired. 

"Remember that phrase? 'I'll give you the world'? I'd say that to you, but I don't think you want it," he says, trying to lighten the impossibly heavy mood. 

You laugh under your breath. "I do, though. I want it with you, handsome, so just… don't give up yet. Okay?" 

"I'm not giving up." 

"Thank you." 

Steve wraps an arm around your shoulders. "Don't say thanks, you don't even have to ask me for that." 

He rests his face against yours, mouth to your temple, his eyes slipping closed. He doesn't have it in him to unpack everything that's happened. Maybe he never will. 

But he has his girl. 

—-

ty for reading! requests for this au are open so let me know what you wanna see if you’d like to<3

[baronessvonglitter]

if love be rough with you, be rough with love | chapter 16 | "all i want for christmas is you"

Dave York x f!Reader

Word count: 5,473

Summary: Years later, you run into Dave on Christmas Eve.

(Spoilers are in the Warnings under the cut so please peek responsibly)

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, Time Skip, TW for physical altercation (pushing, choking, pinning down), alcohol consumption, talk of weapons, hinting at reader being killed, mention of chemical paralytics (NMBA's), surprise pregnancy (happened after Chapter 15) and revelation of paternity, mention of wetwork, reader has C-section scar, wears a dress and nail polish, masturbation, pussy pronouns, p in v sex, quickest enemies to lovers ever, and one Christmas Eve marriage proposal (if I've forgotten anything please do let me know)

Author's note: I defrosted Mariah Carey earlier than anyone would like her to be, and yes I was listening to this song as I wrote. I don't care. It's one of my favorite Christmas songs ever and nobody can convince me otherwise 😜

Series Masterlist

dividers by @saradika-graphics 👑

Six Years Later

You step out of your car into the cold St. Louis night. It's Christmas Eve, and the streets are lined with snow. Brightly lit storefronts boast presents of all kinds, the electric glow of the holiday season luring in last minute customers. You keep your hands in your coat pocket as you walk, eyes scanning the perimeter.

Pour Decisions, the bar you've owned for the past couple years, is filled with its usual patrons, the atmosphere friendly and charged with holiday cheer. Checking to see that the staff is doing well and everything is in order, you ask for an old-fashioned, enjoying the warmth that spreads through you as you sip the whiskey cocktail, sitting at an inconspicuous table in the back and looking around at the one thing you can really call your own, the only place that doesn't hold bad memories.

That's when you see him enter your establishment. The man who claimed to have loved you with all his heart. The man whose life you destroyed. The man without whom you wouldn't be where you are right now.

Walking to the bar and sitting by himself, drinking to take away the pain, is Dave York.

It feels like all your breath leaves your body yet you give an audible gasp. He doesn't see you, doesn't even appear to be looking for you.

In your darkest nightmares he returns for you and kills you. You carry that fear with you. You've been preparing for it since the day your plane left for London years ago.

Emergency exit to my right you think to yourself, a habit you've formed in the six years since ruining his life. Glock, switchblade, syringe, you do a mental checklist of what you have on you.

You don't know whether to stay or leave. You're rooted to the spot, keeping an eye on him, poised to take whatever action necessary.

The jukebox finishes "Baby, It's Cold Outside" and moves onto "All I Want for Christmas is You" by Mariah Carey. You cringe at the sudden mood dissonance. This song would've expressed your feelings for him, once upon a very long time ago, but now it's almost comical. You want each other in a different way now: gone, even if it means dead.

Dave sighs and takes another sip of his drink, clearly lost in his own thoughts. He looks at the other people around him, some smiling and drinking to make the pain of Christmas a little more bearable, others in town for friends or family, eagerness evident on their faces.

He'd give anything just to be in their place right now. To be happy. To be able to smile like he used to smile. And it was all taken away from him by you.

Suddenly he hears someone calling out your name over the music.

In fact, he's been waiting for it. His head jerks up to see where you are, but he can't find you. His eyes scan the bar from face to face.. until finally he sees you. You're sunk low in your chair but he knows you immediately. He knows those eyes that have haunted him for years.

You're nodding and talking to your friend, and the moment you nervously glance around you meet Dave's gaze. It feels like pinpricks all over your body.

For one moment the world stops. All of the moments of his time with you come rushing back as he looks at you. All of the joy he felt with you, all of the pain you caused him. For a moment he allows himself the memory of your pliant body beneath his, your soft, slender throat beneath his grip, thumbs pressing just hard enough on your windpipe to make you cum.

What a waste, he thinks, keeping his cold gaze on you.

You talk to your friend a little longer then finish your drink, order another, and down it.

Now you have liquid courage to face him.

You approach him but it feels like you're moving underwater, your limbs fighting the current.

And there he is. There you are. After six years apart. He hasn't changed much in all this time. He's still handsome. A few gray hairs here and there, and a slight scruff of facial hair when he'd always stayed clean shaven. Still wearing a suit like he's just left the office, the subtle scent of his cologne wafts to you. It suits him. But you force the thought away. You take stock of your own looks: burgundy sweater dress, black boots, hair styled differently from how you used to, perhaps in the hopes that disguising yourself would throw him off your scent, confuse him and leaving him chasing his tail.

"Fifty thousand dollars," you tell him. "I'll give you fifty thousand dollars to leave."

He says nothing, just staring at you as he hears the offer.

Fifty thousand. That's all it would cost for him to let you go. Fifty thousand dollars to spare your life.

But..

..is that what he wants, really?

"No," he says firmly. "You can't make it up to me with fifty thousand dollars."

Your heart sinks to your stomach. "Then name your price. Whatever it is I'll pay it."

Dave takes a long sip of his drink as he considers your offer. For a moment he's tempted to accept it, to end this nightmare once and for all. But..

..no. It's not a question of money.

"The price is a hell of a lot higher than that," he says with cold finality. "You destroyed my family and you left me without my soul."

In your time on your own you've learned to be assertive. You're no longer the shy, simpering girl he used to know. "You did that to yourself, Dave. I only held up a mirror to show what you really are. Besides," you give him a devious smile, your words dripping with venom, "we both know you have no soul."

"Maybe I don't," he meets your gaze with unwavering ire. "But neither do you.. you destroyed everything good and beautiful that we had."

He takes another long sip, savoring the taste and savoring this moment where he's dissecting you. "You can try to blame me. You can try to make yourself the victim of this story. But you're not the victim. You're the monster. You're the one who brought darkness into my life when I didn't deserve it. When I gave you nothing but my love and my faith.. you used them to destroy everything I held dear."

"I disagree." You hop onto the barstool next to him, unafraid of him. "The real victims are my father, who you killed, and your wife and kids, who you betrayed. We both lost our families, Dave. I evened the score."

His eyes bore a hole into your soul as you speak. "That's the thing you can't seem to understand, sweetpea. Life isn't a zero-sum game. One person's loss is not another person's gain. You didn't 'even the score' by getting your revenge."

His voice turns cold and harsh as he speaks the truth. "You made a choice to try to destroy me. That's something I can never understand. And you'll never be forgiven for."

"I'm not interested in your forgiveness, David," you correct him. "You're the one in my city, in my bar, looking for me. With you, there's always an ulterior motive. Out with it."

And then he smiles at you. It's a cold, hard smile. "I came here to see you. So we can end this."

You stare into his eyes and wear a sardonic smile. "You mean, so you can end me."

"Yes," he answers simply.

You consider getting another drink, but two old-fashioneds on an empty stomach has you feeling good already. Maybe that's why you're not afraid.

"My late husband owned this bar, and now it's mine," you say, looking around with pride and wistfulness. "I met him here, years ago."

"Husband," he repeats in a dull tone. "Did you ruin his life too?" he asks.

"Well, he is dead," is your deadpan reply and you hate that your heart misses a beat when Dave smirks in reply. "It would be bad for business if you were to kill me in my own establishment, at peak holiday season," you remind him, proud of your practical tone of voice.

"You may be right about that," Dave admits. "The customers would scramble out of their seats, trample each other to get to the exits. In this day and age you know I'll be caught on camera. And that's not good for my.. 'business'.. either. But," he adds with a grin, "that doesn't mean you're safe."

"I've been looking over my shoulder ever since I came back to the states. I was surprised you didn't follow me to London. In the meantime I've just been waiting for the day when you would come and exact your revenge."

"That's exactly what I've come to do," he says coldly. "I made a promise a long time ago that I would never forgive you."

He takes a long drink and looks at you as if he's seeing you for the first time. "And now, the time has come."

You can see it in his eyes. You can see the darkness that now resides there, different from the one that used to excite you. It's Dave, but it's not the Dave you used to know.

A chill goes through you. You nod, knowing this day is long overdue. If your father faced death at the hands of Dave York, so can you.

You put down your glass, the whiskey still on your lips. "I'm glad it's you. Poetic that way." You stand up from your seat, surprised that your knees don't buckle automatically. "Outside," you tell him.

In the darkness of the alley behind the bar, your coat offers no protection from the cold you feel in your heart. The back street is empty. You look up at the stars in the night sky, feeling small in their midst.

This is it.. the end of it all.

He looks at you and sees the same calmness that he saw in your father. He sees that you've accepted your fate without fear, and he can't help but admire that.

"You know.. I thought about it a lot as I came here," he says. "What I wanted to do to you when I found you.. and what I wanted you to feel in your last moments."

You languidly turn to him, as if in a dream. "So tell me."

"I wanted to make you suffer. I wanted to see you beg for mercy, to see you plead for your life." His smile is cold and cruel. "But you're not scared, are you, sweetpea? Either you're as tough as I believe, or your self-preservation instincts are for shit," he sneers. "Even now, you're calm.."

Your placid countenance belies your shivering heart as you stand against the wall, deep breath in, deep breath out. "How are you going to do it?"

"You really want to know? You trust me that much?"

"You're the best, right? I'm glad it's you." You smile a little, shaking your head. "I loved you from the first time I saw you, Dave. I've loved you all this time. I love you right now."

He almost laughs. It's comical to hear you talk about love at a moment like this. "And I've hated you for all these years. I hate you for what you did to my family. I hate you with every fiber of my being.."

His voice turns to a whisper. "And I hate you because I still love you."

A brief smile flickers in your eyes. "As you once told me.. 'If this is love, we're both fucked.'"

Dave seems reluctant now, as if he's had a change of heart. You love each other, despite everything, and even now you're willing to let him just take your life, snuff it out with a single blow.

"Don't disappoint me, York," your voice pierces his thoughts like an icy blast. "Don't tell me you've come all this way for nothing. Not when I've been getting ready for you."

In an instant he pins you to the wall, his weight pressing you into the bricks as his hands wrap around your throat. Your breath comes in labored gasps as you fight to free your arms and legs. Despite your efforts, Dave is physically stronger. He's methodical, using his strength to subdue you rather than overpowering you with brute force. You can feel the desperation rising, your struggle becoming more frantic as you wrack your brain for any possible means of escape.

In a moment of clarity amidst the chaos, you find a small sharp object in your purse - the syringe. With a burst of adrenaline you jab it into the soft area right below his ribs, keeping your thumb off the plunger.

He lets out a sharp grunt and loosens his grip, staring dumbfounded at the needle sticking out of him, your finger hovering over the end, ready to press the danger into his bloodstream. "Let me guess," he says, his breath warm against your face. "Propofol? Rocuronium bromide?"

"Air," you answer with a winning smile, your voice hoarse from his choking you.

He swallows thickly, face pale even in the wintry moonlight.

You've never felt a surge of power like the one shooting through your veins right now. "I'd say my instinct for self-preservation is pretty fucking good."

Right as you see that angry spark in his eye you take advantage of the temporary adrenaline rush and push him away from you. Dave stumbles back, pulling the syringe from his torso and tossing it away right before you crash into him again. You both topple onto the cold wet pavement, grappling with one another, and it doesn't escape your realization that it's all an inverted display of the way you couldn't keep your hands off each other years ago.

You're unaware that the contents of your purse have fallen out in the scuffle, until Dave pins you down and notices the knife, the gun, neither of which you bothered to use on him just moments before. Then the bright light of your phone screen illuminates its presence in the shadowy alleyway.

Your wallpaper is a picture of you, holding a small boy who's smiling as you're kissing his cheek.

Still beneath him, your stomach lurches and you scramble for phone. "Give that back!" But Dave doesn't listen.

"You have a child?" he asks, completely bewildered that he hadn't thought of you having a life apart from the history you have with him. You'd mentioned a husband, but not a child.

The photo is lovely, taken recently as he guesses from the similar hairstyle as you have now. He's a beautiful child, with his mother's eyes. The love between mother and son is palpable, something pure and sweet that he has only experienced with his own children. It takes the wind out of him. He looks at you and all of the anger, all of the hate and rage he felt towards you seems to dissolve like salt in water.

Your heart is near palpitating as you take the phone from him, gently wiping the falling snow from the screen, taking a tiny moment to admire the photo for yourself. "The last night we spent together in that little motel room.. before everything happened.. a couple months later I found out I was pregnant."

It takes every ounce of courage you have to confess this to him: "This is Benjamin.. your son.."

Dave is paralyzed by your revelation, utterly unable to move or even breathe as he stares at the photo, puts the pieces together. He sees his features in his son, the perfect combination of you and him in another being, a little boy who is the culmination of your love.

He sees you as he never saw you before. You're not the woman who betrayed him and destroyed his family. You're the woman who gave him a son, a part of himself that he never knew would exist.

"He's beautiful," he murmurs, drinking in this moment, helping you to your feet as you struggle to stand, asking if you're all right but you don't answer him.

You've never envisioned how this would go. Not even your late husband knew Ben's real paternity, just that you needed stability to raise him. A part of you is on edge. You've just revealed the person who means the most to you in this world, and in one moment Dave could take it away.

"He just turned five in September," you tell him, "That night.. that terrible and wonderful night before I left you.. something good came from all of it," you tell him.

He nods. "I guess it did." He looks at the picture once more. "Where is he?"

You take a moment before answering. "He's at home. A friend of mine is watching him."

"I want to see him."

"You already have kids, Dave. Or have you forgotten them?"

"Don't go," he pleads as you start to walk away. Around the corner you can hear the holiday music blaring from the bar. "Last Christmas" by Wham!

"I want to see him," he says, catching up with you. "Please."

Being a mom has made you soft. And the truth is you spent the majority of your energy in your short scuffle with him moments ago. "Follow me home."

"Leave whatever weapons you have in the mailbox."

You wait on him, arms crossed, ensuring your safety before you let him beyond your threshold. Dave puts his semi-automatic pistol and a knife. He had these on him all the time but didn't use them..

"Now you," he says, watching as you put your own gun and knife into the mailbox. One corner of your mouth lifts up into a half-smile as your eyes meet, realizing you've both thought alike.

Inside your home it's cozy. A brightly lit Christmas tree glows with warm golden light in front of the main window in the living room. Dave looks around, taking it all in: the decorations placed with love and care, the presents piled under the tree for Ben - his son - to open the next morning.

A woman, clad in a soft gray sweater and jeans, comes out from the hallway, carrying little Ben in her arms. "He couldn't sleep without you here," she tells you, her glance jumping quickly between you and Dave.

You take him from her, letting her know you're home for the night and giving a quick introduction to Dave. "This is Paige, she helps me with Ben from time to time."

They exchange hellos, a little awkward under the circumstances. You take Ben in your arms, and he immediately wraps his arms around you. You wish Paige a happy Christmas and she leaves.

Now it's just the three of you. "Can I hold him?" Dave asks.

You hesitate before nodding, asking Ben if he's okay to go with him. Watching him with his father you can see the resemblance, plain as day. "Is he what you looked like as a kid?" You ask curiously.

"I think so," he smiles, still amazed that he's holding his child, a piece of him that he left behind with you for so long, your love made real.

Ben is bathed and put to bed. Dave knows everything about him by now: his birthday, favorite foods, his friends in his kindergarten class, the names of his stuffed animals and favorite superheroes. All this Dave takes in with the same interest he had when his daughters were younger.

He even reads him a bedtime story while you watch from the doorway, watching a scene you never imagined would come to life. Ben has Dave's smile, his hair. It's uncanny. You remember when you first started working for the Yorks, the first night you walked in on him reading to the girls before bed. That was the moment you fell in love with him.

It might be happening all over again.

After he's asleep you sit in the living room, sipping coffee spiked with brandy.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" he asks.

You sip your drink, letting it warm the chill that's going through you, hoping it'll dull the overpowering emotions coursing in your veins. "I was afraid you'd come after me, kill me, and take him away."

"Is that what you think of me? That I'd kill you for our son?" For a moment he actually looks hurt.

"I don't know what to think of you."

"I deserve to be in his life," he says stubbornly, and you get a peek of the old Dave from before. "We can put the past behind us. We can get reacquainted. We can be what we should have been all along. He belongs to both of us. And I want to be here for him." He pauses, seeing the photos on the table and walls: you and Ben throughout his young life: on a beach somewhere with pure white sand, at a zoo posing in front of the zebras, and in every picture it's obvious he's loved.

"You did a good job with him, sweetpea. Our son is happy."

"He was my reason for going on," you tell him. "I was still in London when I found out I was pregnant. At first I thought it was the worst possible thing that could happen, but when I really sat down to make a decision I realized there was no other option but to keep him and love him. I knew a miracle could be reaped from the awfulness we sowed."

You raised him alone, mostly, with some help from your mother, who of course asked who Ben's father was. There was absolutely no way you could tell her, so you simply said it was a boyfriend who'd wanted nothing to do with the baby. After getting your Master's you found yourself here in St. Louis, met Liam who cared for you and your child, and lost him to sudden illness only a year after you married him. And every day you did not stop thinking about Dave.

"I assume you're still involved in your.. activities?" you ask him.

He takes a deep breath, mentally going over the jobs he'd done in the past six years, of which he'd taken more than before you'd left. Not only had he needed the money, but he needed something else to keep from thinking about you.

"Yes, I am," he replies. "I know you were hoping for a different answer than that."

"I was hoping for a different answer, but I wasn't expecting one," you tell him. "And the situation with Carol and the girls.. did she leave you? Did you work things out?" You hate that this is the answer you dread the most.

"We're divorced now," he says curtly. "And the girls.." an actual smile melts away his bitterness. "The girls are great. They're teenagers now. We've worked out a custody arrangement and we're keeping things civil for their sake. They adapted better than I thought they would."

"Do they all hate me for what I did? For my part in the affair?"

He pauses. "It's complicated.. the girls know why you left. I haven't given them any details and I doubt Carol has told them anything they shouldn't know. But you shouldn't blame yourself. It takes two to tango. I'm just as guilty."

You've finished your coffee, and just as you start to rise from your chair you pause, giving him a smirk. "Dave.. calling yourself 'guilty' after everything you've done is probably the funniest thing I've ever heard."

He takes your hand as you try to walk past him. "What would you say if I said we should be together for Benjamin's sake?"

You should have seen this coming, should have known he'd attempt to ingratiate himself into your good graces to keep some control over your life. "I've already done that. I married my late husband so that Benjamin could have a father.. I'm not going to go into any more relationships under false pretenses."

There's something more he wants to say, something that he wants to get across to you. "A lot of my life is gone. Lost. Because of what you did."

"I know. And I can say the same about you. We took each other's lives away."

"But you," Dave continues, "you gave me this. All of the happiness you took away, you gave it back to me in a way I never would have dreamed." He takes your hand in his. "And what if this isn't false pretenses? What if I'm asking because I know.. because we know, you and I are meant for each other?"

He knows he's getting ahead of himself. He's letting his emotions and his desire take over.

But you shake your head. "You only want me because I'm the one left standing in the ashes."

"You're partly right," he agrees. "I want you because you're right in front of me now. That's just natural, I'd say. But I always wanted you, sweetpea," he says with total honesty. "You were always the woman I loved."

"Fucked up people always love other fucked up people," you remind him. "And you and I are the most fucked up people I know,. Weren't we just about to kill each other in an alley?"

"Maybe you would have killed me.. but you didn't. And I could have killed you.."

"I get it, I get it," you playfully roll your eyes. "Am I your first failed mission?"

"Yeah, but.. definitely worth it."

He manages to get a smile out of you, and as he pulls you close he rejoices that you don't pull away. When he brings his lips to yours for a kiss, you don't stop him. You come together as fluidly as if you'd never been apart all this time, and you kiss him back hungrily, having missed his taste.

In the bedroom your appetite only grows stronger as you unbutton Dave's shirt, running your hands over the warmth of his chest. He lifts your dress over your head and you continue to unwrap each other. Your eyes take in every inch of his frame, seeing that he hasn't changed much in six years. His side job keeps him fit and he's kept his little belly that you've always found so attractive.

He reaches for you, takes your curves under his touch and gently kneading your soft flesh. "I missed you so much.." he whispers as you gasp with pleasure. "Missed what's mine." As his hands trace your skin he discovers the small scar on your lower abdomen, nearly hidden by the softness of your own little belly.

"What's this?" he asks, noticing that his touch doesn't seem to register there.

"It was Ben," you explain. "I had to have an emergency C-section."

His fingers trace over the scar, imagining the pain you must have gone through, the fear you must have felt. "I should have been there with you."

"I'm not made of glass, Dave." Breaking from him you lay back on the bed, legs parted as you begin to touch yourself, lifting your eyes to meet his dark gaze as your fingers continue their pleasured work across your delicate folds.

"Open wider," he says in a low command, crawling over you on the bed, watching intently. "Make yourself come."

He follows each dip and swirl of your fingers, the tips painted in red glitter lacquer, as they brush across your clit, disappearing into your already drenched cunt.

"How does that feel, sweetpea?" he asks, his voice husky with lust.

"Good," you moan. "But not nearly as good as you." You reach for him, and though he wants desperately to dive into your sopping wet hole, he practices control.

"Not yet," he says gently, chiding you. "I said, make yourself come."

He watches as you add pressure to your clit, your pussy swallowing up your middle and ring fingers while your other hand palms your breast, twists and pulls your nipple. He's never seen you more gorgeous, chasing your pleasure. The scent of your sex is in the air, beckoning him, and it takes every shred of his self-discipline to keep where he is, cock in his hand, lazily stroking as his dark eyes dance with the vision of you spread out before him, coming at last.

He takes his time about getting inside you, and though you're slippery enough to handle him it's still a tight fit after years apart. He's careful until you ask him not to be, and then he fucks you with smooth, steady thrusts, bottoming out as you arch your back, crying out his name, the sound of your flesh slapping together a perfect symphony with your moaning and his praise in your ear my good girl, missed this pussy so much, needed her all this time, and she needed me, gonna tame her, make her mine all over again.

He moves with you, as if he's connected to every beat of your heart. This is the only thing in the world that feels right, no matter how wrong it is. You can't not love him, You've never felt more like yourself, realizing that he brings it out of you. The air between you becomes electric, frantic, your movements desperate and wild.

"Come for me, sweetpea," he whispers, taking your bottom lip between his teeth. "Let me feel this tight little hole get her fill of me."

It's a fucking relief when you finally come, the moment prolonged as he continues to move, stimulating your clit beyond your point, only letting up when you forcefully shove his hand away. Watching you come is a miracle made true, something he never thought he'd get to experience again, and he comes with the final clench around him, keeping him there, keeping him home.

You're both vulnerable, perhaps for the first time, with each other. There are no more secrets to be had, no more devastation to wreak. Just you and him, and an ocean of possibilities before you.

"Can you forgive me?" he asks, meeting your eyes. "For what I did?"

It's weighed heavy on your mind since the day you learned the truth, and you've come to realize that all the tragedy did was allow you to move on, even if it brought you to have to face your past more clearly.

"Yes," you answer. "I do forgive you. And now you have to forgive me."

It's easier to do that now, now that the walls you both built up have been knocked down. "I forgive you," he echoes. "We'll never bring it up again."

There's a clarity you never imagined you'd receive, a gift that's long overdue after the years of being in limbo. You snuggle to him, pressing a kiss his throat.

"I thought about you every day, sweetpea," he whispers. "And maybe I'm crazy, but.. marry me."

You're at a loss for words. You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out. "What.. what did you say?" you ask slowly, usure if you even heard him right. "Did you ask me to marry you?"

"I did," he says assertively. "So? Will you marry me?" A little smirk crosses his lips and there's a light in his eyes that you've never seen before.

"I'm just so.. stunned," you sit up against the headboard and he does the same. "Why would you even want to marry me? Don't you remember everything that happened?"

"I remember everything. I remember it every day. But like you said, 'fucked up people always love other fucked up people' and look at us: still crazy about each other even after we've ruined each other's lives. There's nothing for us except to be together."

"You sound so certain," you look at him with a conflicted smile. "Are you really sure this is what you want? To wake up every day and remember what happened and who we are?"

His smile lights up his whole face. "I'm counting on us to remember who and what we are. If we forget everything that happened between us then we've learned nothing. But now we're standing in the ashes of our old lives and look at us: we won. If anything, that just proves we're supposed to be together. We know all the bad parts of each other and we still choose to be here."

Watching him, and listening, you become convinced. You can't ignore the truth of what he's saying. "I'm gonna marry you, Dave," you tell him, your voice full of love and joy.

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next chapter ->

taglist: @untamedheart81 @guelyury @auteurdelabre @darkheartgatita

[hypewinter]

This is a Danny POV tidbit from this right here. I didn't put it with the rest because I felt it might be a little jarring to suddenly switch to it. Plus it got way longer than anticipated.

Also tw warning for possible body horror and vivisection.

Anyway here we go!

--------

Danny's life was finally looking up. His rogues had calmed down with their attacks (They were now more like sparring matches than anything) and he was finally getting sleep which of course meant he was doing better in school. But the best part was his parents had accepted him!

It had taken him a lot of courage to talk to them. So many different scenarios had ran through his mind and his knew it was risky without any backup. He was just so tired though. Tired of hiding his secret, tired of dismantling their weapons behind their backs, tired of running from them, his own parents. So he had made the decision to tell them.

It was a little... rocky at first sure. His dad wouldn't stop spontaneously hugging him for a week and it didn't take an expert to know his mom still had her reservations. But his dad had assured him she was coming around and Danny trusted his dad.

That's why when Maddie came into his room one evening, with Jack out doing something, asking for help with something in the basement, he hadn't suspected anything. This was just her trying to bond after everything that went down right? That's what Danny told himself to ease the growing pit in his stomach.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs and painful electricity coursed through his body, Danny cursed himself for not listening to his instincts, the very things that had allowed him to survive for so long. Then everything went black.

--------

When Danny came to, he was strapped to a table. The lights overhead blinded him and made his growing headache much worse. Then he heard shuffling as someone got closer.

Danny craned his neck to see who it was, the guys in white perhaps? No, it was much worse.

"Mom?"

"Don't call me that ghost!" She snarled, "You may have somehow fooled my husband but you won't trick me." As she said this, she fixed her gloves and pulled a little table towards her.

Danny couldn't see what was on the table, but he didn't have to.

"Mom." He whimpered, "mom it's me, it's Danny. I swear it's me please."

But his words fell on deaf ears. Maddie plucked a scalpel off the table. "Once I expose you for the imposter you are, we'll be able to get back to our work."

"No. No no no no no no NO!" Danny jerked against his restraints. Tried everything, anything to get free. But it was no use. He couldn't transform, couldn't even go intangible. All he could do was look in horror as the scalpel descended towards his chest.

--------

He could vaguely hear his mother scribbling things down on a clipboard as she cut out his organs one by one. She also seemed to be muttering something. To herself or to a recording device Danny wasn't sure. All he could feel was pain.

He desperately wanted it to stop but he had long since exhausted his strength. Too weak to do anything about his predicament, Danny's mind instead tried to search for comfort inward.

In his mind, big strong arms surrounded him, protecting him from danger. His dad. He wanted his dad. He wanted Jack Fenton to wrap him in his arms and tell him everything was going to be alright.

He wanted to go back to a time where he would have believed that.

--------

Danny's first memory was of voices. Well he thinks that's his first memory. He gets a feel that there was a memory before that. One of...pain? But it was so distant and blurry, Danny decided that was a dream.

Danny was snapped out of his thoughts by the voices getting closer. One was loud and frantic. He didn't like that voice. The other was... tired maybe even sad or angry. Regardless it was much softer than the first voice.

The voices got closer and closer until Danny felt himself being picked up and embraced. He liked the embrace. It was warm and comforting. Somehow Danny knew, now that he was in these arms, he was safe. And so, he fell asleep, content to be enveloped in these warm, safe arms.

--------

There was a noise that startled Danny awake. He blinked at the white door in front of him. Strange, the last thing he remembered was a dark room. A scary room. The door opened to reveal a man. The man was weird with long hair pulled back into a ponytail. The weird man had a funny look on his face , as if he didn't want to see Danny or the Safe Arms. Then that man's face changed as Safe Arms spoke. He looked like he couldn't settle on which emotion to show was trying to show all of them. Danny concluded the weird man was in fact a funny man.

The man let them instead and the two began talking. Danny tried to stay awake but what they were talking about was sooooo boring and Safe Arm's hold was sooooo warm. In the end, Danny drifted off once again.

--------

They were moving, Danny knew that much. He also knew there was some sort of restraint keeping his still. Danny didn't like that. He wasn't sure why, he just didn't. So he tugged and fussed at it.

Next thing he knew, hands reached down and unclasped his restraints. Then the big strong hands pulled him up.

"Don't worry Danno." The voice said, "You're dad's got you and I'll protect you."

Dad. That's right, this was his dad. Danny cooed as he snuggled into his chest.

--------

Danny liked being with his dad but he wasn't sure he liked being in this city. It was stinky and the people were all weird. Then again it had a lot of ectoplasm and Danny loved ectoplasm. Plus he was able to play fun games with his dad here so maybe it wasn't all bad.

If only the weird people in costumes would stop staring at him through the window.

Next POV!

Edit: A paragraph was out of place. No idea how that happened.

[idkfitememate]

Idk if it's obvious or not but I love the boar!creator so much! Could you possibly do one where they spend time with klee going fish blasting (fish blasting™ is not jean approved) and they run into razor? I really want to see what razor thinks of fish blasting :D then maybe we could get a little more andrius content? Ahh this is just such a cool concept!

Fish Blasting With Friends

૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა Pairings : GN! Boar Reader x Klee & Razor

૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა W.K. : 542

໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ Tags/CW&TW : Fluff & Crack

Being surrounded on all sides by wolves was an amazing feeling.

The warmth, the fuzziness, the feeling of Razor’s hands running up and down your spine. Knowing Andrius was just a snort away.~

Yes life was good.

…

…

…

*BOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM*

…Uh oh.

Klee.

You jumped up, making Razor flinch. You immediately apologized with a small huff to his face, which made him giggle. You tried to get out of the pile, only to be picked up by a certain blue wolf. You allowed yourself to be carried like a cub by the wind spirit. You also noted that Razor had climbed on Andrius’s back.

Now you’d have to witnesses. Neato.

As the three of you wondered out of the Wolvendom, you immediately found the child solider at a nearby pound. Blowing it sky fucking high.

You struggled out of the larger’s maw and ran towards the child, snorting the whole way. She must’ve heard your steps because she turned around immediately and gasped.

“Boar-boar! Razor! Mr. Andrius!” She said with the cutest smile agh your heart-

You ran up and nuzzled against her and she hugged you back. Andrius bounded over and let Razor off his back. Noticing this you rush back, grab his pants, and pull him towards the lake, Andrius chuckling.

“Would you like to fish blast with me!” Klee asked, Razor looked confused and you urged her to continue.

“Oh! Fish blasting is when we blast fish! Like this!” She summoned a bomb and threw it into the pound, the water bursting towards the sky was the explosive beneath the surface exploded.

Razor watched as fish flew through the air, some landing on the ground and some landed back in the water. He glanced at you and you looked… well you looked more than happy to be here.

He nodded and Klee bounced in joy, stepping aside so he could take his turn. Summoning his blade, he slung the weapon into the water after charging in, causing the pond to erupt into a brilliant purple.

Both you and Klee awed at the sight, and cater it was done Klee ran and jumped up to give Razor a hug, completing him over and over for his skill.

And now it was your turn.

You back up, before running up and jumping into the pool. The duo looked into the water…

Before it exploded upwards in a supercharged explosion! Fire and electricity danced with each other in the air and the smell of singed fish filled their noses.

Soon enough - after the water fell back into the pound - you crawled out, your fur drenched and you wagging your tail at the accomplishment.

“WOW!!! THAT WAS SO SUPER DUPER AMAZING BOAR-BOAR!!” Klee cried. She ran to you and hugged you hard.

“…That was… cool..” Razor said. He was still a bit start struck from the display, but he was able to bring himself to running a hand through your fur.

You looked for Andrius to see if he’d give you a compliment… only to see him eating the singed fish. You both made eye contact.

And you burst out into snort laughter. Rolling in your side, Klee and a Razor also began to laugh.

Today, was a good day.

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : Mmm fish blasting with Klee. I wanna do that so bad- MMMM WHY CANT KLEE BE REAL

૮꒰ ˶꒦ິ꒳꒦ິ˶꒱ა♡-

[anonymousonlyanonymoud]

The Lost de Rolo

"I wonder... if you will ever find... Ciara?" Ciara de Rolo. Fourth-born child of the de Rolo Family, younger sister to Percy de Rolo, older sister to Cassandra de Rolo, and was believed to have been killed with the rest of the de Rolo family the night the Briarwoods attacked. But, Delilah Briarwood had choked on her blood to spit out those words. Whether to send them on an impossible search for someone who had survived the massacre, or send them on a goose chase for someone long dead.

TW: Death and murder

Next Chapter

Chapter One: At the Start

Vox Machina had defeated an army of the undead and killed a vampire and his necromantic wife which stopped them from unleashing an entity they called the 'Whispered One.' They had avenged Percy's family and liberated the people of Whitestone.

And helped rid their friend of his literal inner demon.

They had returned to Emon via Sun Tree teleportation thanks to Keyleth and cleared their names to Uriel and his council.

Afterward, they were allowed back to their Keep, given a parade, and seats on the Sovereign's Council. The taverns and brothels were once again open to them and they were awarded a small fortune for their work against the Briarwoods.

The Sovereign had even taken Percy aside and apologized to him personally for bringing the Briarwoods to Emon. And while Percy stiffly accepted it, the rest of the team could see that much still weighed on his mind.

He returned to his workshop in the Keep and began work on a gun to replace his original pepperbox and an electric glove he had dubbed 'Diplomacy.' The metallic clang of his hammer echoed from the basement, louder than before they had left for Whitestone since he kept the door open and did not lock himself in.

But as his creations took shape, his mind became more tangled as Delilah Briarwoods' last words rang in his thoughts. In all of theirs.

"I wonder... if you will ever find... Ciara?"

Ciara de Rolo.

Fourth-born child of the de Rolo Family, younger sister to Percival de Rolo, older sister to Cassandra de Rolo, and was believed to have been killed with the rest of the de Rolo family the night the Briarwoods attacked. 

But, Delilah Briarwood had choked on her blood to spit out those words. Whether to send them on an impossible search for someone who had survived the massacre, or send them on a goose chase for someone long dead.

Either way, Delilah Briarwood had found a way to haunt the siblings until they died.

Percy and Cassandra had spoken on the matter for hours before Vox Machina left Whitestone, on the possibility that their sister was still alive.

The siblings agreed that since Cassandra would be staying in Whitestone to help rebuild and lead the people, Percy would look for any sign of Ciara.

But, there had been an agreed-upon deadline of three months. Cassandra had insisted on it,

"You've spent your life devoted to avenging our family, Percival. While I do wish for our sister to be alive and have her found, I don't want you to be devoured by this quest either,"

He could not fault her worry, and agreed, asking that the three months only began when he had replaced the weapons he had lost.

That bargain had been struck, and now, with Percy carefully placing the four-barreled pistol on the table before him and staring at the jeweled glove on his left hand, he knew it was time.

Originally, Percy had intended on going alone as he felt that his friends had done enough when it came to his family. But, when he declared his intentions to Vox Machina the next morning, Percy was met with disagreements from all sides,

"You honestly think we would let you do this alone?!" Vex questioned in disbelief as Trinket growled from where he sat,

"Vex... Look, I appreciate everything you have done-"

"You better fucking be! We've fought zombies, vampires, and even a fucking demon!" Scanlan exclaimed while Grog piped up,

"Yeah! And I let you shoot me!"

Pike put her hand on Grog's arm and turned to Percy, "What they mean, is that you shouldn't expect us to let you do this alone,"

"They're right, Percy," Vax nodded, his tired gaze meeting the equally exhausted eyes of Percy,

"I mean, it's like Scanlan said, we just defeated an army of the undead. So how hard can finding one person be?" Keyleth asked with a slight laugh.

Percy sighed while placing his hands on the table,

"Given the fact that no one has seen her since, the Briarwoods attacked, and all we have to go on is the dying words of Delilah, very hard, Keyleth,"

The druid's expression fell at his words as Vax rolled his eyes,

"Well, Percival, if you were planning on doing this alone, what was your first step?"

Percy didn't have an answer,

"Could scrying work to find her?" Pike questioned, "I've never attempted to do it myself, but we could ask someone at the Temple of the Everlight. Or Lady Allura?"

"Yeah, but, I think we don't exactly have the best relationship with Allura?"

"What? C'mon, Scanlan!" Exclaimed Grog, "She totally likes us!"

Percy sighed and glanced at Pike, "If, you are willing, would you go with me to the temple this afternoon?"

The gnome smiled and nodded, "I'd be happy to,"

A hand was placed on his shoulder as Vex said, "You're not going through this alone, darling. We won't let you,"

Agreements were heard around the table as Percy sank into his seat, disbelief crashing over him.

He'd thought that, after what happened, they would agree to let him go on his own.

What happened at the Ziggarut was a bit of a blur, but most prominent was when he'd pointed the pepperbox at his friends. As the barrel spun, and that thing showed him name after name in fiery lettering.

The names of his friends, and Cassandra.

The only family he had, this new one he had built and what remained of his old one, and he had almost killed them! 

But each of them was willing to put their trust back into him.

Percy didn't think he deserved it, but he would not squander this second chance. He didn't know what would happen if he lost it.

Again,

"Thinking about your sister?"

He looked up at Vex's question, realizing that everyone else had left the room which left him and the ranger by themselves,

"Yes," He sighed, placing his head in his hands, "With Cassandra... I, could at least begin to understand what she went through. Since the two of us were kept together before our attempted escape. But, Ciara, I... know next to nothing,"

Vex carefully reached out, grasping Percy's gloved hand, and held it tightly with silent encouragement,

"The last time I saw her, was at that, damned dinner," Percy hissed, "She was standing next to Julius. She'd... Ciara had..."

The ranger squeezed the hand she was holding as Trinket nuzzled against Percy, placing his armored head in the gunslinger's lap with a huff,

"Darling?"

Percy slumped further against the table, his free hand resting on Trinket's head as he returned the grip Vex had on his fingers,

"They killed our parents first. A sword through the chest for my father, two bolts to the neck for my mother," The hand Vex held was shaking, "Julius saw what happened and tried reaching us. But, he had been next. Ciara had been standing next to him, his blood hit her face, and she froze. I..." Percy glanced up at Vex, "The last I saw of her, was when our sister Vesper grabber her and Whitney's hand, and ran out of the room,"

The kitchen was now silent as Percy's arms shook while he attempted to gather what fragile grip on his emotions he had,

"Then I saw Whitney being, tossed onto a pile with Ludwig and Oliver as if they were nothing more than trash and then- Vesper..." His glasses fogged from the tears as he forced out, "I heard her scream, followed by her body hitting the courtyard,"

Percy's voice fell into a broken whisper, "I never saw Ciara's body. But I'd...

Vex closed her eyes, once again imagining the horrors her Percy had faced before pressing her lips to the cold metal on his left hand,

"If Ciara is alive, we'll find her, Percy,"

"And what if she's dead? What if she'd been killed?"

"Then we find who killed her, and give them the same treatment as the Briarwoods,"

The determination in her voice brought a small smile to Percy's face, but it fell as quickly as it appeared when he asked,

"And what if it was the Briarwoods who killed her?"

The ranger, as if expecting this question, answered quickly,

"Then you and Cassandra mourn Ciara. Without either the Briarwoods or Orthax hanging over your minds,"

Trinket let out a light grunt as he licked Percy's hand, then nuzzled the man hard enough that he fell into Vex's side as she wrapped her arm over his shoulder,

"One way or another, Darling, you will get answers to what happened to her,"

"I... Thank you, Vex'ahlia,"

[alien-magnolia]

His Little Grace

Prince Sidon x Hylian hyperfem! reader

Fic description: As Ganon’s minions infiltrate the Zora Domain, you, a weary, small, gentle traveler, are caught in a rut, on the brink of death, not being able to face creatures corrupted by the calamity on your own. The kind prince of Zora, Sidon, accompanies you, protecting you from the monsters. The two of you eventually are drawn into something more…

Tw: 18+ MINORS DNI, shark anatomy, omegaverse biology, breeding kink, sub-coded/super bottom hyperfeminine reader, SIZE kink, kind of non-canon breath of the wild, protective sidon, damsel in distress trope, rough sex, shark love bites, some sidon x link as well, pls reblog and help a writer out!!

Omegaverse rules:

https://www.wattpad.com/amp/706590591

It was a rainy morning in the Zora Domain, 7 o’clock to be exact. The rain battered alongside the icy pathways, the waves crashed below. The King, Dorephan, sat on his throne, concerned due to the noises heard outside the domain. The King has summoned some of his attendants and soldiers, including Link, the Hylian Champion. The King voiced his concerns to the group, saying that the noises sound like an attack on the kingdom; possibly Vah Ruta and guardians back under Ganon’s control. Link volunteers to go inspect the area outside the domain, in Upland Zorana. Sidon burst through the archway.

Father! What horrible news! I have heard that Ganon is possibly attacking the kingdom again! It is preposterous! Let me know what I can do to protect the kingdom!,” the shark smiles, winking and flexing his bicep, his signature look. “My son. Perhaps you can swim down the river, and see what is in the Lananryu Wetlands, closer to Central Hyrule, near the entrance to our domain,” the King suggests. “Of course,” Sidon agrees, and bids a goodbye to Link, whom he did have relations with. Sidon would never admit due to his pride, that he had a soft spot for Hylians. They were so tiny, so soft. The opposite of him. Link was his best friend, and sometimes lover. Link was a beta, however. Sidon, as an alpha, really yearned for a Hylian that was an omega. He wanted to feel one, experience being with one. As biology said, alphas and omegas were made for each other, regardless of race in Hyrule. Same or interspecies, it did not matter. Yet, Sidon failed to find a female, omega, counterpart to his sweet Link’s beauty.

He waved to Link, telling him to be safe, before watching him use Revali’s Gale to fly up into Upland Zorana. Sidon swam down the river, watching as electric Lizalfos, electric chu-chus, and golden bokoblins prowled around the plains, at the side of the river. “So many monsters…,” he thought to himself, swimming faster, hoping not to run into them. He swam to the bridge at the outskirts of Tabahl Woods. He saw a crowd of Black moblins, shrieking, with Dragonbone weapons, attacking something on the ground. He looked a little closely, barely visible to the monsters. He saw that they were attacking a Hylian. A very small one at that. He growled, jumping onto the bridge, facing the moblins, and took a few of them out swiftly, using his muscles and sharp teeth.

After throwing the last moblin down into the waterfall, Sidon comes closer to inspect the Hylain, to see if they were okay. A sickeningly sweet smell has hit him. He crouched down, taking a closer look. A very small Hylian woman, laying on the bridge, gravely wounded. Her blood, her body, smelled so good to him… could it be? An omega?

He stops his dirty mind from trampling him, and gently picks up the Hylian. Placing her in his arms, he swims up the river as fast as he could, eager to get her into the domain, so she could be properly healed and taken care of.

He reaches the domain, swimming up the waterfall, careful not to drown the woman. “Somebody! Please help! I have found an injured Hylian!!,” he shouts, and at instant, a few other Zora take her away to heal with herbs, in the lower chambers of the kingdom. Sidon meets back with Link, glad that he is okay, giving him a few kisses as well.

“My Link. I think I have found an omega. What should I do?! I am a bit worried!!,” Sidon shouts at him, the little man looking at the shark with a smirk.

“See if the chemistry is right, when she wakes up. If it is, perhaps then you could mate with her, for real, unlike you and I,” Link sheepishly tells him.

“Yes! Link! You are amazing! A genius! An absolute marvel!!,” Sidon shouts at him, giving Link his signature smirk and wink, and hugging him before running off to check on the Hylian he just rescued.

“My dear. Are you okay?,” he leans over the woman, his large shadow covering her small one. She moans in pain, looking up at him. “I think I’m okay now, yes. Who are you?,” her voice was small and shy, quiet. She meekly looked at him with her beautiful green eyes. Sidon blushed, loving how soft her voice was.

“Quickly, young one. Tell me your name.” The woman tells him. “Lily.” “Ah. What a beautiful name that is. I am Sidon, Prince of the Zora. I was making my round down the Zora River, when I saw you being beaten by monsters on Inogo Bridge!!,” he exclaimed, clearly worried for the young woman.

“I should have been more careful,” the woman replied, slightly blushing.

——-

You had been beaten by Moblins, and were about to meet your end, when you feltl a strong presence lift you up, carrying you up the Zora River, up a waterfall. You did not know who that was, yet you were extremely grateful. You awoke to a beautiful Zorana leaning over you. His smile, his voice, his muscles. You loved it.

Best of all, it seemed like he was an alpha. You could tell right away. This is who you had been searching for.

You had been born in a Hylian village off the coast, Luteno Village, full of Betas. The only other Alpha in the village was already mated — to a Beta. They did not have heats, ruts, pheromones. Sometimes, you wished to be one of them. Oh how easier it would be. Omegas were weaker than most, softer. This did not do you any good, especially in the calamity — so many monsters around. What options did you have?

Therefore, you left your small, coastal fishing village in hopes of finding a mate, a lover. You traveled up the Zora River, into Shatterback Point, up mountains, in the rain, in a thunderstorm. The time could have finally come. You were positive that whoever saved you, this ‘Prince Sidon’, was an Alpha. Further, he was royalty.

The size difference between you two was massive. You nervously watched as his clawed hand rested near your body. His palm was the size of your entire arm.

“My dear. Are you alright? You look positively out of it,” the handsome prince spoke to you. You replied that you were, which then coincided with him asking what you were doing in the area.

“Well, you see, Prince Sidon, I came here to find a mate. In Luteno Village, most of the people are Betas — normal. I’m a little helpless on my own, you see, with the calamity and all. I’m not strong enough to fight these monsters. I don’t even think that Omegas and Alphas are common in all of the kingdom of Hyrule…,” you trail off, a bit sad.

The shark grinned back at you, with a knowing yet gentle smile. “My dear. You see, they aren’t that common in the land of Zora either. Alpha and Omega pairs used to be more common before the calamity. All of our Zorai, they are mated pairs, since we usually have very long life spans. Except for me, of course.”

You nod, starting to realize what he was implying. You were sure that he was able to sense the tension between you. You had read, in an old book your grandmother owned, written before the calamity, that just each other’s presence can indicate true love between an Alpha and Omega. You hoped that your late grandmother’s book was right.

“Lily. I want to ask you something, sweet pearl,” Sidon starts. Perhaps, once you feel better, I can show you around the village?,” his yellow eyes look hopeful, bashful, even. A prince, paying attention to you. You were over the moon, and so, you obliged.

—-

Just in a few days, the Zora had healed you. You spent more and more time with the Prince every day, whom you now called Sidon. After a week, Sidon had asked you to accompany him for a nightly swim. The two of you had started doing that ever since you had healed.

You loved how fast he was in the water, how gentle he was with you on his back. Most of all, you loved how big he was. <3

Sidon took you into the lake next to the domain, and up the Veiled Falls. The two of you sat on the luminous stone filled dock, tension between the two of you rising. Sidon tapped his sharp nails upon the dock, nervous on what to say.

“What is it?,” you asked, putting a concerned hand on his shoulder, which made him flinch. “My Pearl. Lily. I have gotten to know you over the past week or so. You are truly amazing! I have never met a Hylian such as yourself before! This is a personal question to ask..yet.. are you possibly looking for something more than safety , here in the Zora Domain?”

You wince, deciding to tell him the truth. “I came here to look for a mate, Sidon. I’m an omega. They aren’t very common after the calamity,” you look down as you say it. Perhaps he has an arranged marriage already.

“My Lily. I am so glad to hear you say that!” He looked enthusiastic suddenly. “You see, I am one of the only other Alphas in this town myself! Everyone else is male or female, just a Beta. You are right, sweet Pearl! How clever you are,” he praises you.

You blush as he compliments you. He moves a bit closer to you. His clawed hand gently holds your head. “You and I, my pearl. I think you’re the most adorable little Hylian I’ve ever seen. The fact that you’re an omega — that is just even more precious and intriguing to me. Be my mate, sweet pearl,” he gently asks of you, yellow eyes full of passion.

You agree, giggling as he brings you in for a kiss. He was gentle with you, although you could feel his sharp teeth grazing your lips. You kiss him back with passion, you feel your lip start to bleed because of his sharp teeth. The two of you are inextricably close now, and his two hands easily grip your hips, almost as long as your whole torso. He gently moves you closer to him, although you can feel his sharp claws pierce your soft tummy.

His smell, his lips, his eyes, all of it was intoxicating. In your grandmother’s book, you have read that those with ‘sexual variance’ (gender classified as omega or alpha — instead of male or female (what Betas had) have greater chances for passionate and intricate sexual and romantic relations. It was biology, after all.

You press your smaller body closer to him, your softness against his rougher skin. You traced your small hands over his torso, his wide shoulders <3 as you could feel him moan into your mouth. He pulls away for a second, manhandling you onto his lap, where you felt a rather big bulge forming already..<3

“You know, sweet one…I have always hoped to find someone with sexual variance… a little omega I could have all for myself, to love, to breed…,” his voice seemed much lower now, you swore you could hear a growl behind it. “Make me yours then,” you softly reply back, gazing into his yellow eyes.

He smirks, and then uses those strong muscles of his to pin you onto the ground. A trail of wet kisses is left all over your face, your neck, your breasts, which he cups so gently, mindful of his claws, your hips. He asks if he can take off your clothes. You nod, and he does so, careful not to rip them with his claws.

“My little grace smells so good for me,” he chuckles darkly. “That’s all you wanted, hmm? A strong alpha to come breed you, claim you…,” he whispers, his sharp teeth grazing your lips. You nod. “Please, Sidon. Want it, please…,” you beg him, doe eyes meeting his.

“You know, my little love…Zora actually have two cocks. I wonder how they’ll fit inside my Pearl…,” he chuckles, bringing you in for another kiss. There you were, caged in his arms, your small hands around his large, bulging biceps, and you can feel him start to grind into you for a bit, before his cocks spring up, all hard, veiny. You almost drool, yet you stop yourself.

You have read in your grandmother’s book that alphas have bigger cocks than betas, than omegas. They have superior strength too…

You stare in awe as the Zora runs his clawed hand over his cocks, over his ball sack, all full and ready to burst!! “Sidon. Please, want it in me,” you beg of him, pathetically reaching up to him like a little girl would to her father.

“I’ll give you anything you ask for, little Pearl. So sweet…,” he moans, and with that, you see him gently line up his two cocks to your already soaking, wet, pussy. You wonder how his sharp teeth would feel on it … <3

“Sidon. I’ve never.. never had this before…,” you tell him shyly. He reassures you with a few kisses. “I will be gentle, little love. You will get used to it, you will want more. Don’t know how long I have been waiting for an omega, all to myself,” his grin showcased his row of sharp teeth, scaring and making you want him more at the same time.

You were ready. He gently began to push his pulsating cocks into you. The stretch hurt, yet since you were wet, you were ready for him. You could take it. He pushed in little by little, and the deeper he went, the more delirious you got. His cocks just stuffed you up so perfectly!! <3

Your eyes met his, your soft hands ran alongside his cheeks, his fins on his head. He has you in a mating press, and you could swear you were seeing doubles from how nicely his cocks filled you. Your eyes began to roll back into your head, as you drift away from the world, and solely focused on the moment: him.

“My sweet Pearl. Doing so well, my love. Taking these big cocks so nicely, can’t wait to breed you, my Pearl, have you carry my heir…,” he moaned out, just as delirious as you were. You were his prey, to be caught, bred, owned by him!! “Please, my prince, Sidon, please!!,” you squealed, eager to agree to everything he was saying, due to how earth shatteringly amazing you felt right now.

“Mate me. Claim me. Please, sir,” you beg him, a moment of clarity in your delirium. He smirks in response, giving you a little (sharp) love bite on your shoulder. “My pleasure, my little love.”

He starts rutting into you, faster, your little body shakes and you have to hold onto him as tightly as you could muster, burying yourself in the crook of his neck. You see stars, with his throbbing cocks inside you, you’ve never felt something be so right. You feel them twitch, and with screams from the both of you, you come at the same time.

You feel his hot seed spill into you, filling you.

You fall asleep in his arms after a bit of cuddling, and he gently takes you back to the Domain, to the palace, into his private chambers. You were his now. His mate, his little grace.

Author's note: Enjoy everyone! Let me know if I should make a part two, or maybe a sidlink fic!! Pls reblog and help a writer out!! <3