#darkest promises (oc) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yall-batman-fanfic · 21 days ago

Text

DC x MARVEL Crossover: Covenless Witches | Bruce Wayne/Batman x OC!Magician

Synopsis: Inspired by Agatha All Along. Focusing more on Agatha and Vivian’s relationship.

There is a song that Vivian remembered her mother would sing to her every night, not as a lullaby but as a warning. Madeline Pryor would have Vivian sing the song with her and then with a voice of warning say: when you hear that song, you run. Don’t look back, don’t go looking for it. Run. That song is a lie—a lie lure witches to have their wishes made. You run. Do you understand, Vivian?

And everytime, young Vivian would say: I promise, Mommy.

For years, as she grew up, she would remember that promise, luckily for her she never heard it. Until she did hear it on the radio but not with the same lyrics as what her mother would sing to her, but a rock rendition of it sung by Lorna Wu. It was a banger song, and though she promised her mother then to never sing it—Madeline even forbade Vivian to listen to that song rendition—she bought the album of that song, hid it from her mother, and listened to it whenever she could using her Walkman.

Still, Vivian never heard a group of witches sing that song nor did she meet the witch who would lure their kind with it. And even though it was a warning for the mother and daughter, Vivian couldn’t help but sing the ballad for her young daughter whenever they are together.

“Seekest thou the road to all that's foul and fair

Gather sisters fire, water, earth and air”

Valerie would always start to giggle whenever she would hear her mother sing, especially if it was that song. It would bring some sort of sensation around her, like the winds were tickling her. Seeing her infant’s smile, Vivian picked up her daughter from the crib and brought her to the bed where they could lay down.

“Darkest hour, wake thy power, earthly and divine

Burn and brew with coven true and glory shall be thine…”

Vivian used her magic and created little robins made of light flying around, awing the little girl. Valerie tried to reach out to grab one.

“Down, down, down the road

Down the witches' road

Down, down, down the road

Down the witches' road

Down, down, down the road

Down the witches' road

Circle sewn with fate

Unlock thy hidden gate…”

Valerie turned to her mother and made noises as if she were singing too. Vivial laughed, she took her daughter’s hand and kissed her tiny fingers. “Maiden, Mother, Crone…”

“Singing that song again?” Bruce appeared at the door still in his business suit. The sound of his voice had Valerie turn to him and made grabbing motions.

“Uuuhh! Ddd! AAAA!” Valerie called for him.

“Well, she loves it,” Vivian sat up and met Bruce as he leaned down to kiss her. “Welcome back home, my love. How was your day?”

“Uneventful, the usual things in the office. Yours?” Bruce took off his shoes, loosened his tie and discarded his blazer before joining his wife and child on the queen-sized bed and letting Valerie crawl to him.

“Well, Valerie and I had a lovely day with Alfred. We tended to the garden, did some groceries—make sure to tell Damian I restocked his vegan snacks, he is a growing boy—and then Val had her nap. I also took a nap with her, and now we’re here, singing out little song.”

“The song you said is actually a scam to lure witches to their deaths,” said Bruce.

“What can I say, it’s catchy,” Vivian shrugged. “You know Lorna Wu?”

“Can't say that I do.”

“Well, she's this rock star who made a rendition of that son, and who is also a witch, but her magic is mostly focused on protection spells, and turns out her entire family line has this generational curse that burns them at a certain age.”

“Jesus, Viv.”

“Yeah, the only living survivor is her daughter who I believe works as a security guard in this mall somewhere in New Jersey.”

“How do you know that?”

“There's this thing about witches---without any sort of connection—it's instinctive to relocate to a place where there is, at least, a 13-mile radius from a witch. In Liverpool, there were a handfull within that radius. Here, in New Jersey, there's Midnite's club and then there are the ones outside of the city.”

“You met with them?”

“I check up on them without knowing.”

Bruce chuckled, he caught Valerie before she could crawl off the bed and had her standing on his lap while holding her hands. “And you'd tease me by calling me a stalker.”

“Force of habit,” Vivian reached over to tickle Valerie, making the girl squeal into laughter. “When my mother and I would move places, the first thing we would do is cover that 13 kilometer radius to see any neighboring witches. We'd place our marks at the epicenter and then commute around town to check. If we find that there's this really dangerous witch, we'd leave.”

Bruce frowned. “Not an ideal way to live as a child. Always on the road.”

“We had good memories. Mom was running away from a lot of people, and after knowing she's an immortal witch, it makes a lot of sense. Madeline Pryor made a lot of enemies for the past centuries she's lived.”

“Mmmmm-aaa!” Valerie reached out to Vivian. “Mmmmmm-aaaaa!”

Bruce handed their daughter to her and Valerie happily snuggled in her mother's embrace, clutching on a strand of hair. She then started to make noises, trying to get the same melody as their song earlier. Laughing, Vivian continued their song again:

“Marching ever forward

'Neath the wooded shrine”

Vivian summoned the light once again and the flames created the silhouette that told the story of the lyrics. Bruce adjusted to sit beside her and watch with his daughter as his wife made the most immersive storytelling there is. If they were asked who was the best in bedtime stories, it was always Vivian.

“I stray not from the path

I hold death's hand in mine

Primal night, giveth sight

Familiar by thy side”

“If one be gone, we carry on

Spirit as our guide”

Valerie began humming the melody with her.

“Down, down, down the road

Down the witches' road

Down, down, down the road

Down the witches' road

Down, down, down the road

Down the witches' road

Blood and tears and bone

Maiden, Mother, Crone”

In the end of the song, the flames created the image of the three-faced goddess. The Hecate. Standing as they circled the witch in the middle who summoned them. Lighting flashed outside, between the flashes of light, three figures appeared in the room standing just as they did the story she told.

The Hecate was in their home.

Looking around, Vivian saw that she and her daughter were alone with the Three-Who-is-One. Bruce was missing. This was a summoned meeting. Holding her daughter, Vivian got up from the bed and went to the center of the circle.

“Mother, you have summoned me.” Vivian bowed her head.

The Maiden stepped forward, wearing her white chiton. Her smile was sincere as she asked if she could touch Valerie. With a nod, Vivian lets the Maiden caress her daughter's cheek and place a magical rattle in her hands as a toy. Valerie squealed in delight and began to shake the trinket and listened to the sound.

“She has grown so much!” The Maiden said. “So precious.”

“A precious life,” said the Mother who came to see Valerie.

“Life is precious to our sisterhood,” said the Crone.

“She has yet to show power, Mother,” said Vivian.”

“You doubt us, girl?” said the Crone. “Your daughter bares witches’ blood.”

“It will come to show itself, Vivian, give it time.” said the Maiden.

“She will grow and you will see,” said the Mother.

Vivian can only smile. “May I ask why you have summoned me---summoned us?”

The Hecate’s smiles disappeared and the atmosphere changed to a serious one.

“A warning to the daughter of Oneiros,” said the Crone.

“An old friend comes with purpose,” said the Mother.

“Heed our warning and you and your child will be spared by the tragedy,” said the Maiden.

“Do not let her pass thy threshold without warning,” said the Mother.

“And let Death have her souls,” said the Maiden.

“She brings a child of Chaos,” said the Crone.

Outside, they heard a loud car blaring its horn. As she turned her attention to the window, the darkness disappeared, bringing the sunset once again, and she was once again in the bright room and she could hear Bruce calling for her in panic.

“Vivian!” Bruce finally approached her, holding her arm. “What happened?”

“I was… the Hecate showed herself to me,” Vivian replied as she handed Valerie to him. Sensing the distress, Valerie began to whimper and tried to hold on to her mother. She felt safest with her mother.

“What did they say?”

“Someone’s coming, I don’t know who—”

A loud car horn blared from the front.

“What the…” Bruce trailed off as Valerie began to cry in his arms.

“Stay here, I’ll deal with it.”

“Viv!” Bruce called after her but Vivian closed the door and was running to the front door, hoping to beat Alfred. She can easily teleport but she had to make sure that everyone was inside and all the doors and windows were closed. When one of the boys tried to go with her, she pushed them back inside with magic and closed their rooms.

She heard Jason punching the door and called out: “Ma!”

“Alfred, don't!” VIvian called out to the man. But just as she teleported to the door, Alfred had already welcomed the visitor.

“Yoohoo! Where's my favorite goddaughter?” The woman stepped out of the car, her black hair tied to a loose braid, and despite her age, she didn't look like someone who is over her thirties or forties. “Nice place you got there, Viv. I'd say from all the witches I met, you're the only one who moved up in the world.”

The woman wasn’t alone, with her was a teenage boy. A bit skinny and had some kind of emo-vibes on him.

“Agatha Harkness,” Vivian said, shocked to see her there and all smiling and not murder-y.

Agatha kept her mocking smile, “Vivian Pryor, it's been a minute.”

“Thirty---forty years, give or take,” Vivian kept blocking the witch’s way to get into the house.

Agatha saw and rolled her eyes and pushed past Vivian with a shov.

“Excuse me!” Alfred tried to reprimand her but Vivian stopped him.

Agatha walked in the house, looking around. “That long, huh… And that many birthdays and Christmases I missed. Not to mention the wedding and the new kid. Where is she? I got…” she made a gesture to the teenage boy, he quickly took out a store-bought teddy bear from the paperbag he held. “Great-godma got her something.”

“Do you really think I'd let you see my daughter, Harkness? After our last encounter.”

“Friends fight, Viv. You gotta get over it. Your Mom did.”

“Mom’s dead by the way.”

Agatha stopped on her tracks and turned to her in shock. “When? How?”

Vivian wasn’t surprised she didn’t know. Despite the witches community having this “third sense” of knowing about a another witch’s current state of living, her mother was good when it comes to hiding. It’s one of the reasons why her Endless father had trouble finding her.

“It’s been decades. One of Dream’s Nightmares did it.”

The boy turned to Agatha. “What now?”

Agatha gave him a pointed look, and from the shortest glimpse of seeing the real Agatha, she was back to wearing the mask: “I always had the impression she would live longer… that was Mads’ annoying quality. She’s like a cockroach who just…” She made a gesture of a cockroach having antenas.

“Do you really thing it’s a good start to associate my mother to a cockroach in my home, Agatha?”

Agatha shrugged. “You gotta give me a tour.”

“Agatha, we don’t have time for that,” said theTeen, he was about to run after her but he first handed the teddy bear to Alfred.

“Considering your guests will be staying, shall I prepare some tea?” Alfred asked.

“Water and the iced tea in the fridge is fine, Alfred—because they won’t be staying long,” Vivian purposely called out the last part louder as she followed Agatha to the living room.

Agatha’s smirk grew. “You got a butler, you really are moving up in the world. I read that you married this rich guy… does he know?”

“They all do,” Vivian answered. “And Alfred isn't just a butler. He's family… wanna explain who the kid is?”

“Oh, I'm---” the boy began but Agatha cut him off and said, “He's Teen. Nothing important.”

“Teen,” she chuckled.

Their waters arrived along with a pitcher of iced tea and snacks.

“So, where’s the hubby? Working late?” Agatha looked around the place, her attention was caught by the large portrait of Vivian and Bruce, the one that Alfred had commissioned for them both. “A little over the top, don’t you think?”

“Socialite traditions,” Vivian shrugged.

She walked around again, and grabbed the family photo on the mantle—it was the first family photo they had in the Manor with Valerie, the photo showed just how chaotic their family was with Tim telling everyone to shut up and look at the camera, everyone else telling him it was taking too long, then the others startled with the outburst, and then Valerie was laughing at them and was the only one smiling.

“I read you adopted about a dozen kids. But none, I see, are witches.”

“Family is family.”

“But I can sense in this huge house that more than one has touched Death. How’d he get away?”

Vivian frowned. “Lazarus Pit.”

“Ah, the green glowing goo. You know, I never really liked that. It’s like this shortcut for immortality, there’s no challenge at all—”

“Why are you here, Agatha?” Vivian asked getting straight to the point. “Better yet, what did he mean about you don’t have time? What are you running from?”

“Oh, you know, the usual… Salem’s Seven.”

“You’re bringing the Seven here?!”

“I’ll be out of your hair before they come, don’t worry. Besides, I heard you had Sinners Nine on your tail not long ago. We’re not so different.”

“Yeah, but I dealt with the Nine and they’re sent back to Hell.”

“You can send people to Hell?” Teen stepped out of the background, his smile a little too enthusiastic for such a dark turn. “Is it some kind of spell or is it a hex, I think it’s a hex.”

Vivian turned to Teen and then to Agatha. “Where did you find this one, Agatha? Protege or familiar?”

“The latter.”

Vivian took a breath. “Agatha, you are running out of time,” Vivian looked at the setting sun. “What is it that you want?”

For a moment Agatha looked disappointed, did she really think Vivian would give her sanctuary after what she did all these centuries? She should have known Madeline would warn Vivian to never trust her. Only a dumb witch would, especially with her reputation. “I know you won't join us,” Agatha forced her practiced smile. “Mads was paranoid enough to save you from all of this, and given that you’re reunited with your Dad and you have all your powers, and this mansion. You don't need the Road.”

“Get out,” Vivian said. The doors slammed open and the winds picked up, sending them to the direction of the open front doors.

“Viv.”

“I said get out. I don't know why or how my Mom had the stomach for your bullshit. But not me. Get out,” Vivian then turned to Teen. “And if you really know what's best for you, you'd stay away from her too.”

“Viv,” Agatha began, sounding defeated. “Please, just listen.” She approached Vivian and held her hands.

“Viv, please. Just… my deadline is coming and I didn't come here to ask you to join.”

“But you were here for Mom. You were going to lure her into it–”

“Not Mads. Never Mads. I wanted to see her because…” Agatha raised her hand. Nothing. No purple flares.

“I know what happened to you, Agatha. And you gotta say, you got balls to think you’d stand a chance against the Scarlet Witch.”

“Just so you know, I did.”

“But you lost your power and now you’re trying leech it out of someone.”

“She’s not!” the Teen spoke. “We’re trying to get to the Road so she can get her powers!”

“Shush, the adults are talking!” Agatha told him. She turned again to Vivian. “I just need one thing… I know your Mom and I never saw eye to eye, but we respected each other. I just need one thing from our good old days. Please. Just one. I'm running out of time.”

“You want Mom's spell book?”

Agatha nodded. “You don't need it anymore, Viv. You're all grown up now.”

“That's one of the last things I have of her, Agatha.”

“Then I promise to give it back to you.”

Vivian snapped her fingers and the old and ratty book appeared on the table. Teen was the first to retrieve it. “This is an actual witches’ spell book?” He asked.

“And one last thing,” Agatha said.

“I can't interfere with Fate, Agatha. The Mother has visited me, warning me about you. They told me not to interfere.”

Agatha sighed. “I guess, Mom always did have her favorites. That's fine. We'll be fine with this… can I hold her before I leave?”

Sighing, Vivian called for Bruce to come down with Valerie. Her husband appeared from the pillar of the stairwell and descended, in his arms was Valerie, and joining them was Damian who held a staff.

“I gotta say, Viv, you do know how to pick ‘em,” Agatha smirked at Bruce’s way. Agatha's gaze turned to Valerie and her smile softened to a mother's. “May I?” Agatha asked Vivian.

Turning to Bruce, Vivian nodded. Though he was hesitant, he handed Valerie to Agatha and let the woman hold her like a fragile porcelain doll. The look on Agatha was different from how she met her earlier. This was real. This was sincere.

“Mads would have loved this,” Agatha said as she caressed Valerie’s cheek. The infant looked at her with curious brown eyes and patted her cheek, just like how she would with her family. The simple action made Agatha chuckle. “I remember, your mother and I… we always dreamed of… Madeline lost so many before you and when she had you, she… it was the happiest I saw of her and I…” She didn't finish and handed back the child to Bruce. “She'll be a powerful witch.”

“You can tell?” Teen asked.

“Her mother's a witch and the holder of Creation, of course she'll be a witch,” said Agatha, rolling her eyes at the teen. Turning to Vivian, Agatha reached to Vivian and cupped her face. “Madeline loved you so much… and I’m so sorry if I scared you all those years ago.” She whispered the last part.

Memories of her last encounter with Agatha came back. She was around six years old then, she and her mother were walking home after a day of work (her mom brought her along) and their path was blocked by Agatha. The witch wanted something from Madeline but Madeline didn’t give in, then Agatha saw her and something just broke. A line of sanity was cut.

Why does it always have to be you?! Agatha cursed her mother then. I lost everything! But you, everything is handed to you on a silver platter! You don’t deserve this!

Vivian held the woman’s hands. “Good luck, Agatha, and may the mother bless your journey. I’m sorry if I can’t help you but I have a family now.”

“I know…” Letting her go, Agatha then snapped her fingers. “Come on, Teen. We need to get going. We have guests waiting.”

The witch and the teen went to their car, and just as they were to leave, a portal appeared in front of them. Agatha got out of the car and turned to the door where she saw Vivian holding her palm out in the direction of the portal.

“It’ll take you to where you need to be,” Vivian told them. “Now go, I already dealt with the Nine. I don’t need the Seven on the porch either.”

Agatha nodded and went back inside the car.

They drove through the portal and it closed.

~ Days Later ~

Valerie liked crawling on the grass, unlike other babies who would cry at the foreign feeling of grass touching their skin. Bruce thinks it’s because she grew used to crawling outdoors with Vivian always having picnics in the garden by Helena’s grave, but Vivian knew it was because of her connection to nature. Despite common beliefs that Green Witches are the only ones who have a connection to nature and the whole cycle of life, all witches have a connection to it. It’s one of the things that the Three-Faced-Goddess represents.

The cycle of life and death.

And witches have the ability to cross those thresholds if they learned how to.

Most never learn, too scared of what lies beyond. But others, much like Vivian and John—well, he’s an occultist and got his magic through Demon’s blood—they have seen and conquered any god there was, they’ve even made deals with God and the Devil.

“Dow, dow!” Valerie sang. “Dow!”

Vivian laughed and sang:

“Down, down, down the road

Down the witches' road

Down, down, down the road

Down the witches' road

Down, down, down the road

Down the witches' road

Blood and tears and bone

Maiden, Mother, Crone”

Bruce later joined the mother and daughter on the grassy ground. He called for Val to join him, Valerie quickly crawled to Bruce and snuggled in his embrace and said, “Ddd–aaa!”

Bruce smiled and brought Valerie up so he could kiss her cheek.

“I was a baby when I first met Agatha,” Vivian began, catching Bruce’s attention. “I didn’t know then that she and Mom would go way back, all I knew is that they were like friends. Mom made her my godmother too… then the last time I met her, I was a kid. She already had this reputation of being a witch killer.”

“A witch killer? But she’s a witch,” said Bruce, completely confused.

“She has the power to absorb your magic and entire lifeforce. She made that song, the Ballad of the Witches’ Road, and the idea of the Witches’ Road to lure witches to her trap… They would sing the song and she would get them riled up and have them blast her with their magic and she’ll just take and take…”

“The Witches’ Road isn’t real?”

“No, it was a scam… Agatha thought that by giving Death souls she would save the one soul that she really loved. Her son… but from the moment he was born, he was living on borrowed time. When my mom and I met her again, she already lost her son centuries ago… but some wounds will never heal.”

Just like with Helena.

“I guess seeing Mom again with me triggered some bad memories because they were good friends… it’s just, Agatha has been alone for so long and the only person she ever loved was taken from her.”

“You could say she and Madeline were the same,” said Bruce. “Madeline has always wanted a child, and when she had you your father tried to take you from her. But unlike her, Harkness lost her son, while your mother found a way to defy the gods.”

“You can say that.”

Bruce went to sit close to her and had Valerie on the ground where she could touch the grass again. “Viv, is there a part of you who wanted to help her that day?”

“It was the first time I ever saw her so vulnerable… a part of me wanted to help her but I would be risking… for the first time in my life, I have so much to lose. I can’t risk that. I can’t risk you, Val, and this family.”

“We can handle it,” Bruce smiled. “I put everyone at risk every time I wear that mask.”

“No offense, Bats—and not that it’s a competition—but having a witch and the forces of magic as the enemy is a shitton scarier.”

“We battle monsters, aliens, and gods,” Bruce had her look at him, “I’m pretty sure we can handle it.”

Vivian laughed and welcomed his kiss. When Vivian was to pull away, Bruce followed her lips and kept kissing her, making her laugh.

“Bruce, Val can see us,” Vivian said.

“Then she’ll see how much I love her mom so much.”

“Other people would think otherwise.”

“Kiss me and I’ll stop.”

Giving in, Vivian cupped his cheek and returned the kiss.

“Augh, seriously, in front of the kid, geez…”

The sound of the voice had Vivian and Bruce pull away. The latter took Valerie from the ground while Vivian prepared to fight with magic as they faced the person—

Ghost?

“Agatha?” Vivian said.

Bruce was confused. “Where is she?” He asked.

“She’s a ghost—you died?” Vivian said.

“Surprise!” Agatha said. “Won’t you be a dear and do your whole magic thing so the hubby doesn’t look like a fool.”

Vivian cast the spell, letting Bruce and the others in the Manor see the ghost of Agatha Harkness.

“Hey, handsome,” Agatha waved at Bruce.

“You died,” he asked but it sounded more like a statement.

“Yeah. Turns out you still gotta pay your debt even if it’s centuries overdue. Anyway, so I’m here.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to haunt our home,” Vivian groaned.

“Oh no, I just came here to tell you that someone is driving over and you might wanna prepare that old witch wisdom.”

“The kid.”

“Have you heard of the Scarlet Witch, Viv?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Well, he’s the son of the Scarlet Witch—”

“What?!”

“And he needs a lot of guidance. Now, I can only teach him so much, but you…” the Ghost of Harkness came closer to Vivian. “World Walker, Host of Creation, Phoenix, Endless… you have more connections to the cosmos than any other witch there is. He’ll need your help.”

“I can’t leave Gotham to teach some kid—”

“Teen.”

“Teenager about magic!”

“Who says anything about leaving. Just make a door that would let him pop in whenever he needs help! Easy peasy.”

“Agatha,” Vivian sighed.

“He’s the child of the Scarlet Witch. See this as a chance to get a literal shield from her… and he’s kind of on his way here, so…”

“Viv,” Bruce spoke. “After learning about the lore of Scarlet Witch, and knowing that this is her son, this is your chance to keep watch on him. Guide him. Just like what we did with the others.”

“Be my Robin, you mean. But it’ll mean we’ll be having an open door to this. It could—”

“If you’re trying to hide the fact that he’s Batman, don’t bother. I already snooped around the place before I came here. I saw the man cave under the house,” Agatha scoffed. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

Bruce sighed.

“But for our security, I’ll have to place a protection spell.”

Agatha rolled her eyes. “Sigils are so beneath you, Viv.”

“I have other ways. Where’s the teen?”

The honking from the front door had their attention towards the door.

“I guess that’s him,” said Agatha. “I better join him so it’s not too awkward.”

The ghost disappeared, leaving Vivian and Bruce in the garden with Valerie.

“Looks like you finally have your own Robin,” Bruce mused.

“Ha! I never thought I’d see the day.” They entered the manor. A wave of a hand and a tea set was being made for three people and the tray floated behind Vivian as they walked to the living room. When they passed Damian, the boy told her that the teenager from the last time was there, but he looked different. Vivian handed Valerie to him and said to watch her while she sees the guests.

Coming to the living room, Vivian saw the young man looking at the large portrait of her and Bruce on the wall.

“You’re back,” Vivian spoke, catching his attention. He turned snappily, shocked to hear her so suddenly. “I’d ask you how it was but considering how Agatha is now…” right on time her ghost appeared. “I guess not so good.”

The teen frowned. “You knew, didn’t you? That it was all a lie.”

Vivian nodded stiffly.

“Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“There was an agreement made between my Mother and Agatha… that they don’t meddle with each other’s business. Call it a courtesy to their friendship that I kept that promise.”

“A lot of witches died, if you only told us then I wouldn’t have…”

“What do you mean?”

He was hesitant but he eventually said, “I made the Road. I created it and it killed Alice, Lillian, Mrs. Davis… I killed them.”

Vivian stepped forward. “You created the road.”

“I told you, he has potential,” said Agatha’s ghost. “A little untrained to stop him from accidentally making a murder maze.”

“What’s your name?”

“My name is Billy Maximoff.”

“Well, Billy… I never really had a Coven before—and I never had a student either.”

“I guess we’re all the same with that. I never had a teacher, I had Google.” Vivian laughed at that. “I’m also a covenless witch. Agatha said you can help find my brother… and help me with my magic.”

“Dark magic is tricky and it has consequences, Billy. You think you’re ready for that?”

“I am. I want to… I don’t want to hurt people.”

“Okay, we’ll try that… but I can’t promise you that it’ll be easy. And there is rule in this household, Billy. We do not kill,” Vivian told him. “Do you understand?”

Billy nodded. “I do. I understand.”

“Well. We can start our lesson tomorrow after my class and I’m sure you still have school too. But this afternoon, maybe we can have a little drink.”

Billy smiled, “Does this mean you’re joining our coven?”

“Uh… I won’t say coven…” but the look on his face was so innocent and sweet that Vivian couldn’t help but say, “Fine—but before I even join this little coven of rogue witches, you gotta learn how to be a witch.”

“Trust me kid, she’s the best one you can find that won’t kill you,” said Agatha.

“We’re just about to have lunch, I’ll have Alfred add another plate on the table,” Bruce said and walked to the kitchen.

Billy ran to her side and followed them to the dining area, that was a yes. “But I do need to head back before sunset. I’m kind of grounded for making my parents worry.”

“I thought… you know what, you can tell me all about you later. Let’s just have lunch first.”

“Does this mean we’re like sisters? Because I always wanted to have a sister—a big sister—that I can call if I need some help.”

“Whoa there, kid, slow down,” Agatha floated beside him. “She’s kind of a public figure so we gotta lay low on that.”

“Right, right… but if you want I can babysit sometime too—I have more experience with that than the whole magic thing.”

Vivian sighed. “We might consider you when we get to that point. Oh, and by the way, I might call in a favor from John to help out.”

Agatha groaned. “I can’t believe you talk to John Constantine, he’s a con!”

“He’s legit.”

“He's got demon’s blood in him, that doesn’t count.”

“Who is he?”

“He is, but he’s the best one who can teach you the things that I dare not do with magic. And since you’re going to be a common face here, might as well meet the family…”

They came to the dining room where everyone was settling in, Damian was still holding Valerie while Cassandra and Duke were making her laugh. Jason was setting the table, Dick and Tim were already settled in.

“You adopted another one?” Jason spoke.

“Funny,” Vivian had the spatula hit him on the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“He’s going to be my student and he’ll be popping by from time to time for his lessons,” Vivian told them. “Billy, meet the family. Kids, meet Billy Maximoff.”

“Hi,” Billy said, slightly blushing because he was not expecting Vivian to have so many good looking sons.

Tim opened the seat for him. “You can take this seat if you want.”

“Val, no, you stay here,” Damian said as he tried to stop Valerie from reaching to greet Billy.

As everyone settled in, Bruce went to Vivian’s side and sighed. “I guess we’ll need to have a bigger table, huh?”

“I’ll handle the extensions,” Vivian told him.

“I’m excited for you.”

“Why?”

“I know you’re more than happy to be part of this family. This team. But it’s different to have that team who has the same background as you. Constantine is there when you need him, but he’s not always there… This is the start for you. A coven of witches, albeit, it’s a teenager and a ghost.”

Vivian laughed. “And soon, our daughter.”

“I guess. How do you feel?”

“I guess I’m a little excited. I always wanted to join a coven… you think John would join?”

“I always had the impression you and him were like that.”

“Well, he doesn’t have a choice now,” Vivian got on her toes and kissed his lips. “Thank you for putting up with the mess that is my life.”

Bruce chuckled and kissed her again. “I think we’re tied to that now, Pryor.”

“Yeah, I think we are.”

“Augh! Come on, we got a guest!” Tim called out, gesturing to Billy sitting beside him.

“You’ll get used to it,” Duke told him. “But best to always knock, like, a dozen times before going in the room.”

“Noted,” Billy chuckled awkwardly.

#batman x reader #bruce wayne #batfam #dc universe #dc batman #batman #batman fanfiction #fanfic #dc comics #dc fanfic #batman x vivian pryor #bruce wayne x vivian pryor #bruce wayne x oc magician #batman x oc magician #DC X Marvel #Batman x Iron Man #Batman vs Iron Man #Bruce Wayne vs Tony Stark #marvel x dc

31 notes · View notes

coloraturadiva · 4 months ago

Text

The edge of the horizon (Jake "Hangman" Seresin x OC One shot - Sequel to Afterburn)

This story is a sequel to my one shot Afterburn

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x OC (Stephanie)

Summary: A Navy pilot’s near-death experience forces him and his estranged wife to confront their fractured past. As fear, regret, and love collide, they must decide whether to rebuild what was lost or let it fade forever.

Warnings: angst, fluff, character getting injured, plane crash, marriage issues, absent father, and hopefully I didn't miss anything.

Word Count: 4300

A/N: english is not my first language (or even the second) and this story hasn't been betaed, I just had some help from Grammarly.

Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.

Feedback, reblogs and constructive criticism are always appreciated!

Please don’t post any of my content anywhere else without my permission. Comments and reblogs welcome!

Stephanie had just stepped into her house, the heels of her work shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. She hadn’t even had time to set down her bag when her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. A glance at the screen showed Grace’s name. Smiling faintly, she swiped to answer, but the moment she said, “Hello?” the world shifted beneath her feet.

Grace’s voice was a torrent of sobs, barely coherent as she tried to relay the news. “It’s Jake... the Navy... they called me... he’s alive, but Stephanie, they said he was shot down on a mission! I—I don’t know anything else. Oh my God, Stephanie, what if—”

Stephanie’s breath caught in her throat. The phone slipped from her hand, clattering onto the floor, though Grace’s wails still filtered through. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the ground, tears streaming down her face.

Her chest tightened painfully, her emotions splintering in a thousand directions. Anger burned through her first, a deep-seated fury at the man who had once again brought this pain into her life. "Why, Jake?" she whispered brokenly. "Why do you have to make me suffer like this?"

But the anger was fleeting. Worry surged in its place, gnawing at her insides with a relentless, almost unbearable ferocity. Her mind conjured him so vividly it hurt—his cocky grin that could light up the darkest room, the gleam in his eyes whenever he talked about flying, like the sky was his true home. She could almost hear his voice, teasing and confident, reassuring her that he was untouchable. And now... now he was out there somewhere, hurt and vulnerable, and all she could do was wait. The thought of him in pain, of those strong hands—so steady in the cockpit, so tender when holding their children—now clutching at his injuries, made her chest tighten until she could barely breathe.

Through the haze of her anguish, another emotion clawed its way to the surface: regret. The weight of the past bore down on her. She’d left him to protect herself, to shield her children from this very nightmare. But had she been too harsh? Too unyielding? He wasn’t just the man who’d broken his promises—he was also the man who had held her hand through labor, whispered love into her ear, and made her laugh until she cried, the man who had swept her off her feet with a roguish smile and boundless ambition; he was also the man who had stayed awake all night comforting her when their youngest had a fever, the man who had carved out moments of family amidst the chaos of his career. And now, he might never get the chance to prove to her—and to himself—that he could be more than the sum of his flaws. No matter how hard she tried, she had never stopped loving him.

Her mind replayed the last time he had stood on her porch, his voice heavy with regret. “I know I’ve made mistakes. Big ones. But I’ve had a lot of time to think. To see what really matters. I… I’ve changed. I’m trying to make things right.”

Her heart had twisted at the tear that slipped down his cheek, something she had never seen before. But she had hardened herself against it, shaking her head.

She had stood firm, arms crossed in defiance. “Jake. Go. For the good of the children. Please.”

Now, hearing Grace’s sobs on the other end of the line, the possibility of losing him forever loomed like a shadow over her. The sharp edges of her words replayed in her mind, cutting her deeper than she thought possible."Go. For the good of the children." Had she been wrong? Would she ever get the chance to take those words back? To tell him that she never truly let him go?

Tears blurred her vision as she pressed her face into her hands. Her mind echoed with his desperate plea from that day:“I miss you all.”

Dragging the phone back to her ear, her voice shaking, she tried to console Grace even while her own heart was breaking. “He’s going to be okay, Grace,” she said, the words as much for herself as for Jake’s mother. “He has to be okay.”

- - - - - -

Maverick’s hands gripped the controls tightly, his voice tense and unwavering. “We can’t outrun this guy,” he said, his eyes scanning the controls and the endless sky around them. “We have to eject. We need altitude. Pull that ejection handle the second I tell you.”

“Mav, wait!” Rooster’s voice broke through, desperate, pleading.

“There’s no other way!” Maverick barked, cutting him off. He yanked back on the stick, and the jet surged upward, climbing toward the heavens with a stomach-lurching force. The roar of the engines reverberated through the cockpit as the F/A-18 strained against gravity. G-forces pinned Maverick and Rooster in their seats, every movement a battle against the crushing weight.

“Eject, eject, eject!” Maverick shouted, his voice sharp and commanding over the deafening cacophony of alarms.

Rooster grabbed the ejection handle, pulling with all his might. But nothing happened.

“It’s not working!” Rooster’s voice was a mixture of panic and disbelief.

Maverick’s heart sank. In that moment, he knew. The grim reality of their fate hit him like a cold wave. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. He exhaled a breath heavy with guilt. “I’m sorry, Goose.”

Behind them, the Fifth Generation jet loomed closer, a predator stalking its prey. The sleek silhouette was a deadly phantom, its missile bay sliding open with mechanical precision. In the cockpit, the enemy pilot’s targeting system painted a red square over Maverick’s jet, the lock tone a piercing confirmation of impending doom.

But before the missile could launch, a blinding explosion erupted behind them. A brilliant bloom of fire and shrapnel lit up the sky, the Fifth Gen jet obliterated in an instant. The shockwave rattled Maverick’s plane as the wreckage disintegrated into fiery debris.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” a voice crackled over the comms, smooth and full of swagger. “This is your savior speaking. Please fasten your seatbelts, return your tray tables to their upright and locked position, and prepare for landing.”

Rooster’s face broke into a disbelieving grin as the unmistakable silhouette of Hangman’s F/A-18 screamed past, trailing smoke but very much alive. “Hey, Hangman... you look good.”

Hangman’s grin was almost audible in his reply. “I am good, Rooster. I’m very good.” His tone carried his trademark bravado, but beneath the bravado was an edge of adrenaline-soaked determination.

Maverick and Rooster exchanged a glance, relief washing over them like a wave.

Hangman’s F-18 roared triumphantly as he flew in formation beside Maverick and Rooster, his victory roll a bold signature in the aftermath of chaos. The comms crackled with tension turning into relief, but just as Maverick’s hand began to ease off the stick, a sharp alarm blared in Hangman’s cockpit.

“What the...” Jake’s voice was sharp, the easy swagger gone in an instant. His eyes darted to the radar. “We’ve got incoming from below—surface-to-air missile!”

The call snapped through the comms, and Rooster’s heart leapt into his throat. “Hangman, get out of there!”

From a concealed position on a rocky outcrop, the anti-aircraft station fired its payload. The missile shot upward, a white-hot spear against the vast blue expanse. Its contrail curled like a deadly serpent, homing in on Hangman’s jet with unrelenting precision.

“Hangman, break left!” Maverick barked.

Hangman reacted instantly, wrenching the stick hard. His jet rolled sharply, diving into an evasive spiral. The missile followed, closing the distance with terrifying speed. Jake’s breath came in sharp, shallow bursts, the cockpit filled with the insistent wail of alarms.

The missile streaked past, its proximity detonator triggering a thunderous explosion just behind him. The shockwave slammed into his jet, sending it into a violent spin. Shrapnel tore through the fuselage, warning lights blazing red across his dashboard.

“Dammit!” Hangman growled through gritted teeth, his hands a blur as he fought to steady the aircraft. The F/A-18 sputtered and groaned in protest, its right engine coughing black smoke. He forced the jet into a shallow climb, but every maneuver felt like dragging a wounded beast.

“She’s not gonna make it,” Jake muttered to himself, his voice grim. “I’m ejecting!”

Before he could act, another alarm shrieked: fuel leakage, fire risk imminent. Jake’s jaw tightened. The carrier was visible now, a speck on the ocean’s horizon. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the throttle forward, coaxing every last ounce of power from the crippled plane. The enemy anti-aircraft station faded behind him, out of range, as he closed in on the carrier.

The jet wobbled precariously, the left engine surging unevenly. As Jake neared the carrier, the distance seemed to stretch endlessly. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the stick. “Come on, girl. Just a little farther,” he whispered, urging the jet to hold together.

At last, the moment came. Jake yanked the ejection handle, the canopy blasting away with a deafening crack. The seat launched him skyward, the force slamming into him like a freight train. Wind roared in his ears as he shot into the heavens, the ocean spinning below in a dizzying blur. His parachute deployed with a sharp jerk, and he hung suspended, the world suddenly quiet save for the distant rumble of waves.

Below, the F/A-18 spiraled downward, smoke trailing like a dark ribbon in the sky. It hit the water with a final, echoing impact, disappearing beneath the waves in a burst of spray.

Jake hit the water hard, the impact rattling through his bones. Waves crashed around him, salt stinging his eyes as he struggled to orient himself. As he floated in the cold expanse of the ocean, Stephanie’s words came back to him with the force of a tidal wave. “I don’t want to spend most of my life home alone, with you on the other side of the world, waiting and praying for you to come back all in one piece.” He had scoffed at those fears then, brushing them off as overly dramatic. But now, bruised and battered, the ocean pressing against his body like an unyielding force, he finally understood. The pain was unbearable. His ribs screamed with every shallow breath, sharp and unrelenting. The explosion had tossed him like a ragdoll, slamming him into something hard before he’d been thrown into the sea. He wasn’t sure what had cracked—maybe two, maybe three ribs—but every movement sent a white-hot agony lancing through his torso. His left shoulder was useless, dislocated or worse, the pain radiating in nauseating waves. Blood from a gash on his forehead dripped into his eyes, mixing with salt water, stinging like fire. His fingers trembled as they tried to grasp onto anything, but the ocean was an unforgiving void, dragging him down, forcing him to fight for every second.

The cold was just as vicious as the pain, gnawing at his bones, wrapping around him like a death shroud. It seeped into his lungs, making each breath more of a struggle, more labored, more desperate. His limbs felt sluggish, the weight of exhaustion pressing down, urging him to give in, to just let go.

And yet, none of it hurt as much as the echo of her voice in his mind.

She hadn’t wanted this—not just for him, but for herself. She had feared this agony, the waiting, the not knowing. She had feared waking up to a phone call, or worse, silence. And here he was, body battered and broken, trapped in the nightmare she had dreaded. If he died here, she would feel this pain too—not in her ribs, not in her bruised skin, but in her heart.

The sound of a rescue chopper overhead was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard, but it couldn’t drown out the echo of her voice in his mind.

Strong arms hauled him aboard minutes later, his body aching but intact. He managed a weak grin as the crew checked him over. “Guess I won’t be winning any beauty contests today,” he quipped, wincing as they prodded a particularly sore spot on his ribs.

Back on the carrier deck, Maverick and Rooster were waiting after their difficult landing. As Jake’s boots hit the steel, Maverick was the first to step forward, pulling him into a tight embrace. Rooster clapped a hand on his shoulder, his relief evident.

“You okay, Hangman?” Rooster asked, searching his face.

Jake’s grin was razor-sharp, his voice dripping with mockery. “What’s the matter, Rooster? Afraid I’d let a love tap like that get the better of me? Please, I’m too good to go out like that.”

Maverick shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You scared us there for a second.”

“Scared? Nah,” Jake replied, though his voice faltered slightly. He felt nauseous and tired. The pain was too strong. He needed to lay down as soon as possible. He looked out over the ocean, the weight of what had just happened settling in. It was the first time he had been hit during battle. For the first time, the reality of how close he had come to the edge hit him like a sucker punch. Stephanie’s voice echoed in his mind, her fears, her anger, her heartbreak. “Jake. Go. For the good of the children. Please,” she had said, her words laced with a finality he hadn’t wanted to hear. Those words rang louder now, their meaning carving into him deeper than the bruises from the ejection.

This was it. This was what she had been afraid of all along.

He masked the tremor in his chest with another smirk, giving them both a playful shove. “Alright, let’s stop hugging and start celebrating. Drinks on me when we get back.”

But as the others laughed and moved to debrief, Jake stood on the deck for a moment longer, staring out at the horizon. The salty air stung his face, or maybe it was something else. He reached up and touched the spot on his finger where his wedding band used to be, the emptiness there heavier than it had ever been.

- - - - - - -

The hum of the military transport plane echoed in the cabin as the Dagger team sat strapped in their seats, exhaustion etched into their faces. Despite their weariness, there was an undercurrent of relief and quiet pride in the air. The mission was completed succesfully, and they were headed home.

Jake leaned back in his seat, his bruised body reminding him of the events with every jolt of turbulence. He closed his eyes, listening to the muffled hum of engines and the murmur of his teammates’ quiet conversations. Images of the mission flickered in his mind: the chaos, the close calls, and the moments when everything could have gone horribly wrong. His hand instinctively went to his ribs, the ache a constant reminder of just how close he had come to never making it back.

The announcement of their approach to the base jolted him from his thoughts. As the plane descended, he could see the crowd gathered below, a sea of people waiting to welcome them home. Friends, family, and colleagues stood shoulder to shoulder on the tarmac, their cheers already audible even through the thick walls of the plane.

The aircraft landed smoothly, and the ramp lowered to reveal the throng of people. Jake stepped off with the others, the cool San Diego air brushing against his face. The roar of the crowd engulfed him, shouts of celebration and relief echoing in the evening sky. His teammates were greeted with open arms: Rooster swept into the embrace of his father’s old friends, Phoenix laughing as her siblings ran to her, Maverick clapped on the back by Admiral Simpson.

Jake put on his usual cocky grin, waving to the crowd and soaking in the applause. As a fellow pilot approached, Jake smirked and gestured toward the ocean. “Just gave the Grim Reaper a swimming lesson. Poor guy wasn’t ready for me.”

The pilot chuckled, clapping Jake on the back, though Jake’s sharp wit barely masked the persistent ache in his side.

He slapped hands with a few colleagues, his charm as polished as ever. But beneath the surface, a hollow ache gnawed at him, and it wasn’t coming from his broken ribs. Around him, the other Daggers were swept into tight embraces, kissed on cheeks, their loved ones holding them like they might disappear again at any moment. Jake’s smile faltered for just a second.

“Hangman!” a voice called, pulling him back to the present. He turned, greeting another colleague with a casual nod, but before he could respond, he felt a small tug at his pant leg.

Jake froze, his heart leaping to his throat as he looked down.

“Daddy!” his son, James, exclaimed, his little arms already wrapped tightly around Jake’s leg. His daughter, Mary, followed close behind, her wide eyes shimmering with joy as she reached up with both arms. “Daddy, you’re home!”

The world around him seemed to fade. Jake dropped to his knees, the persistent ache in his side a distant memory as he scooped them both into his arms. Their small hands clutched at his flight suit, holding on as if they’d never let go.

Their laughter rang out, a sound so pure it brought a lump to his throat. Jake kissed their heads, his voice trembling as he held them close. “Hey, my little wingmen. I missed you so much.”

James grinned, pulling back slightly. “Did you fight the bad guys, Daddy?”

Jake ruffled his son’s hair with a playful smirk. “You bet I did, buddy. But nothing’s tougher than getting hugs from you two.”

Mary giggled, clinging to him even tighter. “Mommy said you’d come back. She was right!”

For a moment, Jake couldn’t speak, his throat tight with emotion. He pressed his cheek against their small heads, closing his eyes as the relief and love washed over him.

Jake’s grip on his children tightened as if afraid they might vanish if he let go. The smell of Mary’s strawberry shampoo and the faint trace of peanut butter on James’s fingers flooded him with a sense of home he hadn’t realized he craved so desperately.

His heart swelled, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the weight he carried—the near-miss, the crash, the tension of battle—seemed to lift, replaced by the simple, overwhelming joy of their presence.

James tilted his head back, his blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Did your plane go really fast, Daddy?”

Jake chuckled, the sound catching in his throat as he met his son’s gaze. “Oh, it went faster than fast, buddy. Like lightning in the sky.” He tapped James’s nose, earning a delighted laugh. “But not nearly as fast as I flew back to see you two.”

Mary squeezed his neck, her small voice cutting through the moment. “Did it hurt, Daddy? Mommy said you got... um...” She searched for the right word, her little brow furrowed. “Bumped?”

Jake’s chest ached at the innocence in her question. He pulled her back just enough to look into her wide, green, tear-filled eyes. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I got a little bumped, but I’m here now. And nothing—nothing—could keep me from coming back to you and James.”

Mary sniffled, resting her head against his shoulder. “I don’t like the bumps.”

“Me neither, princess,” Jake murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He glanced down at James, who was already inspecting the insignia on his flight suit with fascination.

“Did you fight the bad guys for real, Daddy?” James asked again, his voice full of awe.

Jake grinned, though his emotions churned beneath the surface. “I did, bud. But you know what?” He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The ones doing the real hard work are you and your sister. You keep me going out there.”

James puffed out his chest, his tiny hand patting Jake’s arm. “We’re your team, right?”

Jake nodded, a lump forming in his throat. “That’s right. My best team ever.”

Mary lifted her head, her small fingers brushing over the dark bruise forming on his jaw. “Can we help you feel better, Daddy?”

Jake’s eyes stung as he smiled. “You already are, sweetheart. Just being here is all I need.”

As he held them, his eyes searched the crowd, his heart pounding. Then he saw her.

Stephanie stood a few feet away from the throng, her arms wrapped around herself. Her tear-streaked face glistened in the twilight, and her eyes met his with a mixture of relief and sorrow. For a moment, everything else faded—the noise of the crowd, the ache in his body, the weight of his guilt.

Without a second thought, he took Jimmy and Mary’s hands and walked toward her. The crowd seemed to part as he approached, murmurs rippling through the onlookers. “Who’s that?” someone whispered, as they had never seen Stephanie or the kids before, but Jake didn’t care.

Stephanie’s lips trembled as he stopped in front of her, their children still clutching his hands. “Jake,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in utter disbelief.

“I came because...” She stopped, her voice faltering. “Because I had to know you were alive.”

His trademark smirk flickered for a moment, but it lacked its usual conviction. "Guess I’m too stubborn to let a little thing like gravity keep me down."

Her gaze softened as she took in his visible injuries, her worry evident in the way her eyes traced every bruise and cut. “Jake... you scared the hell out of me," she said, her voice trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thick with sincerity. “For all of it. For not listening, for making you feel like you didn’t matter as much as the Navy. For making you go through this. For not being the man you deserved. You were right, Stephanie. About everything.”

Her eyes shimmered with tears she refused to let fall. “Jake, I didn’t want to be right. I just wanted you to come home. To us. I’m the one who’s sorry. I thought... I thought I was doing the right thing. But I was so scared of losing you that I pushed you away.”

“I know,” he said, his hand reaching out to gently touch her cheek. His thumb brushed away a tear. “I finally get it. I finally understand what you meant, what you were so afraid of. And I swear to you, I’m done. No more missions. I talked to my CO on the way back. I’ve requested to become a teacher. The Navy accepted. No more flying into danger. No more making you wait and pray for me to come home.”

Her eyes widened, her breath hitching. “You...”

“I want to be here. With you. With Jimmy and Mary. For the rest of my life,” he said, his voice raw with honesty, every word trembling with the weight of his emotions. His eyes searched hers, desperate to make her understand the depth of his resolve. “I love you, Stephanie. I love you so much. More than I ever thought I could love anyone. And I’m done running, done chasing after things that don’t matter. You and the kids—you’re everything to me. Everything. I just want to come home to you every day, hold you, watch our kids grow up, and give you the life you deserve.”

Stephanie’s shoulders shook as she broke into a sob. Her voice quivered as she took a step closer, her words tumbling out through the tears. “I love you, Jake. I never stopped. Not for a second. I was just so afraid. Afraid of losing you, of the pain of waiting for news that you’d never come back.”

He closed the distance between them, his hand moving to cradle the back of her head as he whispered, “You’ll never have to feel that way again. I swear it.”

And then, in that moment, he kissed her. It wasn’t hurried or tentative, it was a kiss that spoke of all the words they hadn’t said, the years of longing and regret, the promises of a new beginning. Her arms wrapped around him tightly, as if afraid to let him go again, and for the first time in years, the broken pieces of their hearts began to mend.

When they finally pulled apart, tears still glistened in Stephanie’s eyes, but now they were mingled with a smile. She reached down and touched Jimmy and Mary’s blonde heads, their small faces beaming up at their parents. “Daddy’s home,” she said softly, her voice filled with love and reassurance.

Jake knelt down again, pulling his children into another embrace. “You know what this means, right?” he said, his tone lighter now, a spark of his old humor returning. “No more long trips. No more waiting. I’m going to be here to tuck you in every night, to make pancakes on Saturdays, and to embarrass you when you’re teenagers.”

Jimmy giggled. “You already embarrass us, Daddy.”

Jake chuckled, ruffling his son’s hair. “Well, get ready, buddy, because I’m about to make it a full-time job.”

Mary climbed into his lap, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck. “I don’t care if you embarrass me. I just want you to stay.”

He kissed her cheek, his voice tender. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. I promise.”

Stephanie knelt beside him, resting her hand on his shoulder as they held their children together. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over the reunited family. For the first time in what felt like forever, Jake felt at peace—not in the skies but firmly on the ground, where he truly belonged.

[Stephanie's clothes for her meeting with Jake]

#glen powell #fanfiction #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin #top gun maverick #jake hangman fic #jake hangman seresin fanfiction #hangman fanfiction #jake hangman seresin x oc #glen powell fanfic

36 notes · View notes

fandomficticn · 2 months ago

Text

Lost Then Found* — Prologue

LOST THEN FOUND* Masterlist

Word Count: 1952 words

Series Synopsis:

"So, none of us can fly?" "So what, we all just punch and shoot?" "I know someone who can fly"

After finding themselves ensnared in a death trap, an unconventional team of antiheroes must embark on a dangerous mission that will force them to confront the darkest corners of their pasts. Bucky Barnes and Maggie Bauer haven't spoken in a very long time and with unknown and known enemies looming in the horizon, with the Avengers nowhere in sight, Bucky knows that he has to end this prolonged silent treatment and ask the one person who swore hell would have to freeze over before they ever spoke again for help to stop Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Seems like that time has come to see the light of day.

Chapter Synopsis:

Warnings: thunderbolts* spoilers, therapy, drug trial mention, mental health mention

Author Notes: thank you to everyone who's wanted to be apart of the taglist for this new series! i'm so glad that I was able to put this prologue out and I finally was able to complete a rough outline of the story. This series will follow the plot fo the Thunderbolts* movie with my own oc's and certain scenes added in. I hope you guys enjoy!

Prologue | Chapter 01 »

"This is Maggie Bauer and it is…10:42 a.m. on February 14th, 2027. I'm here with Robert Reynolds for his morning session." The brunette woman adjusts the notepad in her lap before addressing the man in front of her with a warm smile. "Good morning, Bob."

The short-haired man smiles hesitantly at her and nods, "Good morning."

"You seem uneasy this morning." She stated, clear from his demeanor and body language, "Are you settling in okay?"

Bob nodded, ruffling his hair as he shifted in his seat, "I'm, I'm settling in fine. Just fine." He sighs, "I just…"

Maggie set her pen down, "Is everything okay, Bob?"

He nodded rapidly, "No, No, yeah, everything is fine. I just…I just don't know why I'm here?"

She was confused now, "You don't?"

He sighs again, "No, I mean, I know why I'm here." He scratches at his arm as he looks around the room, which looks very much staged to be homely. "I mean at this place specifically. I thought I'd get turned away because I'm not…you know, super."

Maggie, realizing where his train of thought was going, nodded, "Oh, I understand, but you know that you're not the only non-super patient here at Solace."

He tilts his head to the side slightly, "I'm not?

She shakes her head, "No, of course not. Solace not too long ago opened its doors to cater specifically for enhanced individuals going through different types and levels of trauma and recovery. I know a lot of the advertisements for this place are geared more towards "super people" but I promise you that you'll find the care you need here."

Bob nodded along as she spoke but still appeared on edge with nerves. He began playing with and fiddling with a royal blue friendship bracelet on his wrist as he kept eyeing his surroundings, a bracelet Maggie noticed and knew where it came from, "I see you've met Steffi."

Bob gave her a confused look, "Who?" Maggie gestured to his wrist and his eyes followed, realizing who she was referring to, "Oh, yeah. She, uh, she found me this morning during breakfast. She said that even though I'm pretty new around here that it doesn't mean I shouldn't get a gift on Valentine's Day." He laughed as he recalled that morning's events, "She actually put it on my wrist before I could say anything and then she just walked away."

Maggie nodded with a fond smile on her face, "Yeah, she does tend to give gifts without prompting." She said, lifting her wrist and showing a similar bracelet in a vivid red color. "She said red is very much my color."

The two shared a light chuckle before a now comfortable silence enveloped them. Maggie leaned over to the side table for her water when the necklace around her neck came into view. Bob thought nothing of it until he noticed that it wasn't an average necklace with a jewel glittering in the light. "That's a pretty ring, Ms. Bauer."

She looked at him peculiarly and he mirrored her earlier actions, gesturing to his necklace and her eyes following to the necklace that she normally kept hidden beneath her shirt. "Oh, uh," Maggie swiftly hid the necklace once more before forcing a tight-lipped smile on her face.

Bob shook his head before she could go further, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have— I didn't mean to pry or point it out, I wasn't trying to— "

Maggie shook his apologies off and morphed the forced smile into a genuine one, "No, no, it's okay. I don't normally have it out so it's not something that gets brought up a lot."

He nodded at her explanation, "Can I ask a question about your ring?" She was visibly hesitant but nodded for him to continue, "Did it belong to someone important? Is that why you keep it hidden?"

Her mind wandered as she tried to find the right words to use. She rarely talked about herself or put herself as a center of attention but on the off chance that she did, she made sure not to give too much of herself or information away. Keeping her personal life to herself was integral to her protection here.

She placed her hand over her chest, feeling the lump of the ring through the fabric. "It did belong to someone important," She smiled but Bob could see the smile wasn't reaching her eyes, a smile he was very well versed in, "That person gave it to me with love and trust and this is where I like to keep it."

Bob nodded, a small smile appearing on his face, "That's nice."

Maggie nodded and placed her hand back onto her notepad, grabbing her pen in hand, "Okay then, Bob, let's talk about your day yesterday."

----------

It's been a a handful of months since Bob's arrival to Solace and so far it seems he's adjusting well to his new surroundings. He's made nice with other staff, opened up slightly more each day with Maggie and he can confidently say that he and Steffi are the closest two patients that have ever been there. Even with Steffi being in another wing, she would still find the time to leave little gifts or trinkets for Bob in the morning or after group to brighten his day even just a little bit.

Around the end of the summer, Maggie began to notice some of her usual patients were no longer in the facility and initially she didn't question it. After the first two, she chalked it up to being moved to outpatient treatment, and then after the next couple she began to grow curious and suspicious at the lack of familiar faces in the halls.

After finding out her tenth charge was "moving on", Maggie knew something more serious was going on.

She had no reason to question it at first but she began to grow concerned more and more, especially when no one could give her a straight answer. Asking her co-workers, her supervisors, and even going as far as to ask the director of the facility but she was either given vague answers or dead ends.

Something was going on around the clinic and she could tell it was affecting more than just her.

Maggie was making her rounds, checking in on new arrivals and her usual group when a certain bouncy redhead appeared in her path.

"Maggie! Mags! Magpie!"

The brunette chuckled as she placed her hands on the smaller woman's shoulders and held her in place, "Steffi, that's a lot of energy this morning, even for you."

Steffi scoffed and became serious, "Please, this is important!"

It was rare for the redhead to be serious, she was anything and everything but serious, and when those rare moments of focus happened, Maggie knew to give her attention to her. "Is everything okay, Steffi?"

She shook her head aggressively, "No! Bobby's leaving!"

It was like ice was running through her veins, her mind racing a mile a minute, "Steffi, I'll be right back" She began jogging in the direction of Bob's room, "Go to group, I'll be there shortly."

Out of everyone that had been transferred out, Bob was the first one she'd be able to catch before he left. Everyone else was already gone before she could question where they were going and why but now she was determined to get answers once and for all.

Out of breath and only slightly dizzy, Maggie arrived at Bob's room, catching him off-guard with her thundering footsteps, "Maggie?"

She took a few quick deep breaths before walking further into his room, "Bob, I'm glad I caught you. Steffi told me you're leaving, is that true?"

He smiled and nodded, "Yeah, I, uh, I'm gonna take your advice and spread my wings so to speak."

Maggie felt relief that he wasn't being transferred to a mysterious outpatient facility but she still felt sadness over him leaving. She was seeing the progress he was making and wanted to witness him grow even more. She crossed her arms over her chest, "I'm glad you're going out and seeing more of the world. Where are you heading?"

"Malaysia"

It was like experiencing deja vu.

This wasn't the first time that she'd heard about a patient traveling to Malaysia. She'd heard from one of the nurses that one or two patients mentioned heading that way, one for sure said that it had been due to some unheard of drug trail but had no more information on what was in Malaysia or the trial itself.

Maggie shook her head, approaching Bob slowly, "Bob, I really don't think you should be heading there."

He stopped packing up his things, what little he had, and turned to face her with genuine confusion written all over his face, "What? What do you mean?"

She truly didn't know what she meant. Maggie had been trying to crack this on her own for months and was hitting dead end after dead end. Nothing was forming in her head as a good reason as to why he shouldn't leave nor why he would believe her. "Bob, I can't explain this properly but something is going on around her and people are disappearing. I just don't think it's a good idea that you leave."

The silence was heavy as Bob processed her words but Maggie could tell him his body language alone that she wasn't swaying him. "Maggie, I can't stay here." He had a sad, tight-lipped smile on his face. A look Maggie had seen with many patients. "I appreciate everything you've done for me, talking things out with me in the beginning but I just…I just can't keep talking about the same things. I can't keep going through the same routines day in and day out." Bob let out a sigh, a sigh that not only held the relief he was feeling about finding his solution but also his exhaustion.

Maggie knew very well that there was nothing she could do or say that could change his mind and it broke a part of her inside that she couldn't. She nodded, the same sad, tight-lipped smile on her face, "I get it." Bob nodded back to her, zipping up his bag before slinging it over his shoulder and heading towards the door where she was standing, "I understand, Bob, and I hope you find what you're looking for."

She gave him a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder before he stepped out into the halls and down towards the exit. Maggie watched from her spot as Steffi stopped Bob before he left, the two having what she could only assume was their own personal goodbye. With the racing thoughts in her mind and despite knowing she couldn't make Bob stay, she knew she could make sure he stayed alive.

Maggie reached into her pocket for her phone, dialing the one number she swore would be the last number she'd call. She rolled her eyes at the generic voicemail message, grabbing the ring on her necklace as she waited for the beep, "Hey, it's me." A breath to center her emotions and her thoughts, "Look, I know it's been a while since we last spoke but something is going on with my patients at Solace. They're leaving the facility for out-patient services but no one knows where they go once they leave here. I can't explain it and I don't have proof but I think they're in danger." Her eyes followed to where Bob was after saying his goodbyes to Steffi and finally stepping through the doors, "I can't lose another one. I need your help. I need you, Buck."

Ending Author Notes: Ahhhhh! I'm loving what i have thus far and I hope you guys do too! I haven't really come up with a schedule per se of when I'm releasing my chapters but every Monday seems nice unless the fire strikes me and I post more than that. Speaking of fire striking, the brain is already storming with ideas for spin-offs, like what happened during the 14 months of being The New Avengers and even some New Avengers tower vibes! One step at a time!

🏷️ tag list;;

@sophiewicket, @karlyblackw, @artemis0054, @bennypears00, @loserbaby66, @kawaiimessiah, @abcies, @iyuandherideas, @fuzzysock2x, @ssp33dyy, @stars4birdie, @bethjs-2005, @g1rk, @unicornmage2003, @withthelightoff, @reberosesblog, @nashiflavor, @adumpsterbaby, @aaaaccount, @whoisbaek15, @alexanderachillesisgay, @onlycucumberry, @ae-aeitch, @whatsshaken-bacon, @chxosunbound

if you want to be added to the tag list of this story, like this post

if you notice your blog is struck through, please refer to this post here

26 notes · View notes

gldrushh · 10 months ago

Text

SUGAR AND SIN | JK FANFICTION

→ TEASER

synopsis: Aurora Beckett is as sweet as the cupcakes she makes and as bright as the morning sun that fills her bakery, the first thing in the morning. With a knack of making friends every chance she gets and putting them before her, she finds herself in trouble more than a friendly neighborhood baker should. Yet this time, the trouble came barging itself. Jeon Jungkook- the shadow syndic, a name whispered through the darkest corners of South Korea, feared like the devil himself. Certain circumstances lead him to her, and the next thing he knows, 5'4 "inches of pure headache is his self-proclaimed partner in crime. But when annoyance starts to twist into a need for the girl, who's everything he's not, he realizes that she is the one who's trouble.

TITLE Sugar and Sin.

PAIRING Mafia boss! Jungkook × female oc

GENRE Mafia au, grumpy × sunshine, forced proximity, slow burn, dark romance, crime/ thriller.

WARNINGS violent acts - including murder, physical confrontations, and threats of harm. Dark Themes – Themes of crime such as kindapping and human trafficking, power dynamics, moral ambiguity, mature language, characters experiencing physical and emotional abuse. Please continue with caution.

TAGS Mafia boss Jungkook, peirced and tattooed jungkook, he is also a meanie, sociopath Jungkook, jungkook with a gun, RICH man, he kills people for a living or maybe for vengeance, oc and Jk both struggle from a traumatic past, oc is a cat person, oc is an extorvert, people pleaser oc, she is sick and tired of bills, oc is a daddys girl, oc may or may not have a tiny crush on the mafia boss, she is also a little reckless, sloooooooow burn, yearning and pining, a great amount of both from Jungkook's side until he eventually admits it and becomes a simp (he will be downnn horrendously bad), he fucks up at some point, angst angst and angst, but also angst with happy ending? eventual fluff after a longgg wait but it's tooth rotting so maybe it's worth it, eventual smut (maybe Idk man), protective Jungkook, he will die and kill for his people, possessive Jungkook, obsessive too, he is also kind of pathetic but his aura goes insane, oh and he also wears gloves 24/7

A/N woah maybe this sounds kind of cliché but writing this brings me great joy and I hope you feel just the same if you choose to read it. This is my first time posting a silly work of mine to a public platform and I'm not really hoping for something big but genuine readers and friends I plan to make along the way. Thank you if you're reading this. I hope my words can be worth your time.

Also If you wanna get ahead, I have already posted 9 parts of this on my wattpad.

Thank you again. I will be starting to post here soon.

He was here.

In her goddamn living room, sitting on her couch like he owned the place.

The realization hit her slowly, like the creeping cold of winter sneaking under the door. She hadn’t heard him come in. She hadn’t seen him approach. But there he was, every inch of him radiating danger.

He was here to fulfill the promise of something dangerous.

He was here for her.

She didn't need to look through her memories of last night to recognize him. The inky voids that were placed where eyes normally are were proof enough, and so was the horrifying calmness he carried with himself surrounding the small space of her apartment.

Her lips parted, her breath shortened and her unblinking eyes went all over him, his gloved hands that were skilled for taking lives-she was sure of it- resting flatly on his broad, muscled thigh clothed with the black of his pants, his shirt of a softer fabric soft yet unyielding, strained against the hard planes of his chest. The tailored suit jacket stretched over biceps that seemed too solid, too real, for this moment to be anything but a nightmare and there was the face she hadn't properly grasped in the chaos of last night, now all sharp lines, cool beauty, and unsettling stillness.

Maybe the devil wasn't a short red man with thorns and tail at all. Maybe he wore tailored suits and silver piercings.

"Breathe. And sit down."

#jeon jungkoooook #jeon jungkook #jungkook imagine #jungkook fanfic #bts au #bts fanfic #bts jungkook #mafia au #jungkook scenarios #jk #bangtan #dark romance #tw violence #fyp tumblr #writers on tumblr

57 notes · View notes

itwasrealtome · 4 months ago

Text

AGENT GRAY

Chapter Four • How Insensitive

TAGLIST FORM

Previous Chapter • Next Chapter

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI AGENT OC

Summary:

Content Warning: Usual SVU talk • SA, kidnapping, human trafficking (women and minors), Murders, Death, Weapons, Drugs, underground auctions |Mention of not sleeping and bad habits | Mention of SEALS missions | Fight scene • broken glass, giving and receiving blows, blood, falling from a building, mention of stabbing and strangling, head underwater - drowning.

MONDAY, AUGUST 22

Manhattan 16th Precinct, 11:04 AM

The summer sun hung high over Manhattan, casting sharp shadows on the pavement. It was late morning, but the heat was already creeping in, making the air thick with the scent of exhaust and the faint lingering bite of freshly brewed coffee from a cart down the block.

Miles leaned against his car, a to-go cup in one hand, phone in the other, scrolling absentmindedly while he waited. He wasn’t in a rush. He knew Alexis would show up exactly when she meant to—never late, never early, just right on time in that way only she managed.

The month had flown by at lightning speed. It had been a game of coordination, chasing bad guys while maintaining a peaceful ground to work with the Special Victims Unit. At this rate, Miles was certain the Sixteenth Precinct had become more familiar to him than his own home. He saw it as a never-ending race. Wandering from his desk at the Bureau, to the SVU bullpen, to the sometimes darkest streets of the city. It was the cost of working with Alexis.

It was a heavy, complicated case: an entire ring to dismantle, traffickers to track down, victims and future targets to protect. Time was running out, and they'd dragged on long enough as it was. Though other agents would have taken their evenings off, Miles spent his by his partner's side, seeking a gentle balance between work and a list of natural needs. And when he finally took a break, Alexis was always the last to leave.

As the navy blue SUV finally pulled up, the agent pushed off the car and turned just in time to see the woman step out. He didn’t need to see any more. Alexis looked like she hadn’t had a break in months. The usual sharpness in her green eyes was dulled by exhaustion, her movements a little heavier than normal, like she was running on fumes and sheer force of will. There was a stiffness in her shoulders, a tension she carried like it was as natural as breathing. It wasn’t new—Miles had seen it before, too many times to count—but it didn’t mean he had to like it.

—You look like hell. He grabbed the extra coffee he’d set on his roof earlier and held it out. Drink.

—You’re a saint.

Alexis didn't mind the slight burn in her throat. The coffee was hot and didn’t taste like anything she’d been served earlier. It wasn’t much. She could only feel the warmth relaxing her for a moment. Just enough to keep both feet on the ground.

—Nah, snorted Miles. I stopped being one a long time ago. I just know you well enough to know you didn’t stop to grab one yourself.

She took another sip, exhaling slowly as if the coffee was the only thing tethering her to reality. The day had started early, right before dawn. A sharp morning run, a shower and a protein bar had been enough to get Alexis on the road. From then on, it had been nothing but meetings, files and a liquid barely able to keep her awake.

—I had things to do.

—Yeah, like not sleeping.

Miles sent her a knowing glance, though his lips tightened in concern. Ever since he'd started working with Lexi, it had been the same old story. Evenings spent alone at the office, meals consisting of military rations and coffee, and a certain taste for workaholism. He already knew she hadn’t slept a wink all night, busy with reports and tactical fieldwork to catch their targets.

—I sleep, promised Alexis, lips quirking into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

—Sure. When’s the last time you spent a full night in your bed?

—My couch is comfy.

He opened his mouth to fire back, probably with some quip about actual beds and adult life choices, but the low hum of an approaching engine cut him off. A black SUV pulled up to the curb, smooth and precise, right behind Gray’s vehicle.

Lieutenant Olivia Benson parked with practiced ease, sunglasses down her nose, jacket slung over the backseats. The engine off, she was already moving, long strides and sharp eyes that missed nothing. Rollins was a step behind her, blond hair tied back, forehead glistening with fine droplets of sweat. For a brief moment, she could see her reflection in a mirror, finding in Miles a sense of familiarity.

—Morning, greeted Olivia, already sensing a curious vibe. Is this a bad time?

She pushed her sunglasses up on her head, pushing back her dark hair. The two agents stood right in front of her, a somewhat awkward silence between them. She glanced briefly at Amanda before turning her attention back to the feds. Miles wore a soft frown, lips pursed as if he’d been stopped dead in his tracks. Alexis was leaning against the hood, coffee burning in her mouth, wearing her usual look.

—We were just talking about comfy couches.

—Can’t say I’d put ‘comfy’ and ‘couch’ in the same sentence. Amanda raised an eyebrow, a smirk ghosting over her lips. What’d yours ever do to you?

—Nothing. It’s my bed that’s holding a grudge.

Olivia crossed her arms, the corner of her lips twitching. She caught Miles’ eyes for a second–enough to understand the depth of his thoughts. He was worried. Alexis wasn’t just any agent. She was his partner, someone who hadn’t emerged from Quantico with a college degree. A woman who had enlisted right out of high school, who had experienced combat zones, war, and who had never once revealed to anyone the reason for her departure from the Navy.

—Rough night?

—Rough month, muttered Miles, earning a stern look from the SEAL. What? If you wanted me to lie, you should’ve said so.

Gray just rolled her eyes, finishing her cup of coffee bottoms up. She didn’t need some barstool therapy sessions. This wasn’t about her. Or the fact that her bed felt too soft to sleep in, even after three years. A trafficking case awaited their full attention. They had to focus on that.

—We’ve been tracking Manovich and other guys for the past few weeks. Alexis led the way, her stride unhurried but purposeful as she guided everyone into the precinct. He was never the big fish, but he did exactly what we hoped–led us straight to his boss.

She reached a door, and without hesitation, held it open. Olivia and Amanda exchanged a quick, almost imperceptible glance, understanding each other without even using words. They weren't used to this, least of all from the feds.

Still, over the past few weeks, the unit had discovered Alexis's quiet, old-school manners. Opening doors, saying thank you and showing the same respect to everyone, no matter their position or whatever made them a unique individual.

They were still getting used to this. To her.

—Dmitri Kalinov. He’s been hiding out in a villa on Staten Island with his inner circle.

Alexis was the first to step into the elevator. She wedged herself at the back, arms folded tightly over her chest, eyes fixed on the glowing numbers above the doors. The small space forced her closer to Olivia than she’d like, the Lieutenant standing just to her left, close enough that the brush of a sleeve or the shift of weight felt magnified.

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft chime, and the hum of the precinct faded into an almost uncomfortable silence. That is, until Miles cleared his throat and picked up seamlessly, his tone a little warmer, a little more conversational.

—Kalinov used to run a private security firm back in Russia. Real high-end stuff–politicians, celebrities, oligarchs. Then he got mixed up with the wrong crowd. A few arms deals, some money laundering, and he burned too many bridges. Came here to start fresh. Now he’s got his hands in everything–drug smuggling, human trafficking, underground auctions.

—Auctions? asked Olivia, voice edged with disbelief.

—Not just trafficking. He sells people. Women, mostly. Some minors. His network’s tight, but we’ve seen enough to know he’s preparing for another event.

Alexis’ voice was sharp, a fierce edge in her eyes reflecting all the cruelty she’d carefully studied over the last few weeks to even have a chance of dismantling a ring of such magnitude. Reports from the coroner’s office, photos, old eastern documents she’d had to translate. The land was colder, further north, but the horrors had the same source: evil.

—And the villa? Amanda’s lips pressed in a thin line, fingers curling into a fist at her side.

—It’s his fortress. We’ve confirmed his inner circle is there. At least four victims too. The place is big: high fences, security cameras. He thinks he’s untouchable.

—He’s not.

The tension in the small cabin only increased at the SEAL’s firm conclusion. She remained focused on the glowing floor numbers, her expression tight. The other agent already knew what he’d find if he dared to look, he had watched his partner all too closely before. Instead, he just turned a little more towards Amanda, trading a tight smile with her.

Still, a certain someone couldn’t quite shake off the intrigue surrounding the brunette. Olivia’s gaze found her, studying the lines of exhaustion beneath the surface, the set of her jaw, the way her hands remained fisted at her sides.

The elevator jolted slightly as it slowed, the movements pressing them all just a little closer. Olivia’s shoulder brushed Alexis’, the brief contact sending a pulse of awareness between them. It was subtle, but it made the Commander’s spine straighten, a rigid line against the press of the metal wall.

—You look tired.

—Been a long week, replied Alexis, finally glancing toward the other brunette. I’ll sleep when it’s over.

—That an FBI thing or just you?

A ghost of a smirk touched Alexis’ lips. Green eyes focused on the way a few strands of Amanda’s hair were beginning to fall from her updo. She could breathe in slowly, away from the captivity of the woman’s gaze.

—Maybe both.

The elevator dinged, the spell of the enclosed space breaking as the doors opened to the bustling SVU floor. Miles moved first, slipping through the gap with a stride, the detective hot on his heels. Back in her corner, Gray invited the unit head to step forward first, arm braced to keep the doors open. She offered a simple nod to Olivia’s thanks, her face a mask of professionalism, prior to following suit.

The Lieutenant’s office had not changed since last time. The smell of coffee was ever-present, as was the sweet perfume of the person who worked there. Alexis couldn’t help but allow her gaze to wander, unconsciously mapping out every detail. Lots of folders, awards, framed photos. The little boy must have been barely four years old and had a smile that lit up the city. Yet even that couldn’t overcome the world’s wickedness.

—Kalinov’s got three points of entry at the villa, began Alexis, her voice steady. Front, back, and a service entrance through the basement. We’ve been monitoring the place for weeks. His guys are good, but not perfect. We’ve identified patterns in their movements.

—The villa’s got a full security system, stepped in Miles. Cameras, motion sensors, likely armed guards. We’re thinking a coordinated approach–FBI handles breaches, SVU focuses on victim recovery and processing.

Olivia nodded, briefly meeting Amanda’s eyes, before finding the commander’s tense face again. She stood on the side, allowing everyone enough room, her arms crossed, the shadows under her eyes more pronounced in the harsh overhead light.

—And if Kalinov decides to go down swinging?

—We make sure he doesn’t get the chance.

MONDAY, AUGUST 22

Staten Island — Kalinov Villa, 06:04 PM

The villa loomed over them, its stone facade cloaked in shadows as the late afternoon sun dipped behind a line of pines. The air was thick with salt and the distant murmur of waves crashing against the rocky shores. Tactical teams worked their way in with precision, dark silhouettes against the crumbling elegance of the estate.

Alexis moved through the first floor, her Glock steady in both hands. Her breaths were measured, her steps a careful rhythm on the aged hardwood. She swept each room, eyes sharp and unyielding, every corner a potential threat. Behind her, just a few feet away, Olivia mirrored her pace, their unspoken coordination an uneasy truce.

—Ground floor clear, signaled Miles through the comms. We’ve got Kalinov’s men in cuffs. No sign of the boss.

—Roger that.

The commander stopped near yet another door, waving to her colleague of the day to keep an eye on the corridor. Olivia positioned herself, weapon in hands, and didn't move again until she felt a tap on her shoulder. Another room without Kalinov's presence. It felt like a manhunt. A long and bumpy road, in the care of a woman who had spent years carrying out operations of this kind.

It was a far cry from anything Gray had ever experienced. There were no bomb threats, no war material pointed at her, not even mines under her feet. Still, Olivia could feel all the intense energy emanating from behind her. There was something about the way the brunette walked, so silent that the lieutenant doubted she was even there at one point.

She was the first to step onto the wide landing that overlooked the grand foyer. There, extensive bookcases lined the walls, stuffed with antique and Russian books, whose covers echoed the rugs on the wooden floor. There was a small lounge, a desk and a few plants. The kind of place that’s quite comfortable if you forget the numerous trafficking activities held there.

As she approached the railing, Olivia spotted Miles on the floor below, directing officers and agents, his voice firm but calm. A line of suspects had already been placed against one of the walls, with the task force keeping an eye on them. As they did so, Amanda, Carisi and Fin led each of the victims out of the same fortress that had held them captive.

The Lieutenant, clearly distracted, heard the commotion before realizing what had provoked it. The impact echoed through the space, a harsh thud followed by the rapid shuffle of feet and the harsh scrape of furniture being shoved aside. She turned around just in time to see both Kalinov and Alexis crash into the ornate bannister of the villa’s grand hallway.

The two hit the polished hardwood floor, the impact rattling through the bones of the old house. Their target recovered quickly, twisting beneath the woman and slamming an elbow into her ribs. Alexis grunted but didn’t lose her hold, her grip like iron as she rolled them over and forced his face against the floorboards.

—Stay down, she commanded, her voice low, dangerous.

Except Kalinov wasn’t the type to surrender. With a growl, he planted his feet and bucked, sending her off balance. She hit the bannister again, wood splintering under the force. The Russian was already on his feet, fists raised, eyes cold and calculating.

He struck first–a jab, then a cross, as she weaved under the blows, her movements sharp and economical. She countered with a brutal hook to his jaw, the sound of knuckles on bone echoing through the hall. He stumbled for a second, retaliating with a sweeping kick. What he hadn’t expected was for the brunette to catch his leg and twist it until his knee gave a sickening pop.

The commander watched him collapse to the ground, howling from utter pain. The man was relentless, already pushing up to the glass coffee table to retrieve a heavy vase. In a matter of seconds, almost desperately, he hurled it straight at her. The porcelain shattered as it collided with her shoulder, causing a slight tingling sensation on her skin.

Alexis hissed at the sharp sting of pain, but it only seemed fuel to her. She charged him, her shoulder slamming into his chest. They crashed again, this time shattering the glass of the furniture, creating hundreds of tiny pieces that still reflected the sun. The rest was an explosion of blows, a gentle dance between giving and receiving.

From the corner of the room, Olivia didn't know precisely where to look. She was doing her best to follow the movements, weapon in hand, determined to find a shooting angle. Only the fight was faster and tougher than she'd ever experienced. Gray and Kalinov both had blood on their faces, their fists clenched and ready to strike again. He was flying her from one side of the room to the other. She used the computer screen to punch him in the face before stabbing two pens into his thigh.

Before Olivia could react, Alexis charged at their target and dragged him through the window with her. They tumbled through the air, glass shattering as their world turned into a chaotic swirl of sky, shards, and fresh air before they plummeted into the stone fountain below. Water exploded around them, the force of their fall cracking the basin. Alexis hit first, the shock of icy water stealing her breath. Kalinov landed on top of her, his weight pinning her down as they both scrambled to find footing in the shallow pool.

The trafficker didn’t waste a second. His hands were around her throat, fingers digging into her skin as he forced her head under the splashing water. Alexis barely heard Olivia’s cry as she struggled beneath the surface. Her vision blurred, bubbles rising to the surface with her last gasp. Outside, her hands never stopped moving, finding the edge of the fountain and using it as leverage. She brought her legs up, boots connecting with Kalinov’s chest and offering a solid push that sent him reeling backward.

The air had never tasted so good. Back at the surface, Alexis barely had time to get up and gasp for air, water streaming from her hair and clothes, before he charged again. She met the man with a spray of water to the face, blinding him for a split second. It was all she needed. Makes him unaware of his surroundings–her every move.

She surged forward, her first connecting with his nose in a wet crunch. Kalinov’s head snapped back, blood mingling with the water. Next came a swift elbow to his jaw and a tight grip on his collar that helped her slam his head against the stone edge of the fountain. The impact left a crimson smear against the pale stone, Kalinov’s body finally going slack as the water lapped his head.

—Gray!

Olivia's voice echoed again from the broken glass on the top floor. Alexis didn’t respond. Her breathing was ragged, chest heaving as she released the target’s collar. She stood in the fountain, water dripping from every angle, a dark silhouette against the pale stone and clear sky.

Slowly, she raised her gaze to her day’s partner and found only worry plastered on her face. The Lieutenant's eyes were full of questions. She'd gotten used to the idea of the federal agent's career, but she'd never imagined she'd be at the forefront of such a fight. Was this her daily routine? Did she consider it a heavy struggle like Olivia did, or was it just one of those days?

—Target neutralized.

TUESDAY, AUGUST 23

Manhattan 16th Precinct — SVU Bullpen, 9:17 PM

Dmitri Kalinow was dead.

This was the first successful co-operation between Violent Crimes and the Special Victims Unit. The major trafficker and his entire network had fallen. His men were in custody, his operation dismantled and his victims taken to hospital. It was a win. Justice, finally, had a chance to breathe.

The day following the raid had been long and trying. The villa had been seized–agents, officers and technicians from various departments engaged in a hunt for evidence. The paperwork had piled up, interviews had stretched into the late hours, and by the time the clock hit 9 p.m., exhaustion sat heavy on everyone’s shoulders.

The precinct, however, hummed with an unusual lightness. The end of a hard-fought case called for a celebration, and as the last files were signed off, Olivia stood in the bullpen, a rare, genuine smile on her lips.

—Alright, everyone. Bar down the street in twenty minutes. First round’s on me!

There was a beat of silence before the room came alive with murmurs of approval. Everyone had been through their share of tough cases, but it was true this one was enough to put some people off. Though the FBI had handled the drugs, weapons and organized crime part, Olivia's unit had been present for each of the young women who had fallen victim to Kalinov. Four of them were still in the heart of the villa, as planned. Others were not so lucky and had been murdered. And yet others had been discovered during interrogation - names, dozens of them.

Miles leaned against a desk, arms crossed, watching the energy shift. There was something different about the air tonight. It wasn’t just the end of another case–it was the kind of win that didn’t come often. A dismantled operation, a dead trafficker, and victims who could finally have a shot at something close to justice. Cases like this usually ended with frustration, loose ends, loopholes that let monsters slip through the cracks.

This time, they had won.

—Langford, Gray–you in?

The agent barely had time to glance at his partner. Alexis was already pulling her jacket from the back of her chair, ready to leave. She shook her head gently, car keys in hand.

—Can’t. Gotta get home to my boy.

The words were casual. Alexis hadn't meant to catch anyone by surprise, but she did. Rollins watched from her desk, eyebrow raised in curiosity, as Sonny emerged from the last file he’d been working on. Even Fin–who rarely engaged in idle speculation–made a small sound of interest. The woman who had struggled with their main target the day before had someone waiting for her at home?

It was Olivia's reaction that Miles found most intriguing. It was subtle, but it was there–the slight pause, the way her head tilted ever so slightly at Alexis’ words. He could sense a hint of disappointment, as if the brunette had hoped to enjoy the SEAL's company for a while longer.

—Your boy, huh? Olivia echoed, her voice carrying the same tone she used when pressing a suspect. Didn’t know you had someone waiting on you.

The commander barely looked up as she zipped her jacket, shrugging one shoulder. Miles could practically hear the gears turning in Olivia’s head. She was taking in the faint bruising along Alexis’ knuckles, the way her left wrist was wrapped, the shadow of a cut just along her temple. The remnants of her fight with Kalinov–of the moment she and the trafficker had gone crashing through a second-story window and landed in the villa’s fountain below.

She moved stiffly, a little slower than usual, but she hadn’t complained once. Hadn’t even acknowledged the bruises. If anything, she seemed to wear them the same way she wore anything else–like they were nothing more than another part of the job.

—Yeah. He’s a handful.

Once again, the words came to her easily, so naturally, and yet there was an undeniable finality to it–no opening for further questions. That didn’t stop anyone from wondering. Didn’t stop Olivia from watching her walk out the door after waving them all goodbye, files and duffel bag in hands. She was looking, not just at the bruises, but at Alexis herself.

And Miles didn’t miss that.

—She’s got a boyfriend? asked Amanda as soon as Gray was out.

—Or a kid. Either way, I wouldn’t have bet on it.

Fin said nothing, his gaze falling on a silent federal agent. If anyone here knew Alexis better than anyone else, it was probably Langford. They were partners, spending their days and nights together, protecting each other. Of course, he knew.

Miles exhaled slowly, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. He knew they were waiting for him to confirm or deny, to give them something–anything.

Instead, he just smiled.

—What can I say? She’s full of surprises.

TAGLIST: @nciscmjunkie @certainlychaotic @thefatobsession @ginasbaby @makkaroni221 @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr @hi-i-1

#olivia benson x reader #law and order svu #agent gray #chapter four #amanda rollins #sonny carisi #fin tutuola #law and order svu x oc #olivia benson x oc

40 notes · View notes

siravalondulac · 3 months ago

Text

sapphire steel | chapter six - secrets

j. snow x fem!oc

summary: the attempt to make cerelle confess her darkest secrets goes very, very wrong

tags: canon divergence - rhaegar won the trident, smut (f/m, p in v, mentioned doggy, she sits in his lap at the end), mentioned animal death, discussions of attempted suicide

word count: 2204

author's note: hope you have fun with this chapter :) nothing bad will happen :) don't worry :))

masterlist | additional works masterlist

previous | next

He tried not to let that night's events affect him. And they didn't.

When Cerelle returned the following evening, he took her from behind for the first time in weeks, simply to prove to her how little she or her pleasure meant to him. He could survive without her pretty face.

Afterwards he permitted she lay on her back again. She said nothing.

What exactly his goal was with her now - now that she had come before and with him, now that she had even sat above him during sex - he wasn’t quite sure. Only that he would never let her go.

Five nights after their conversation, she had entered his chambers in a red dress again. Not the one she had worn across several moons and driven him into absolute madness with, but one even darker. She likely expected him to say something, yet he only pushed her onto the bed and fucked her with the garrment still clinging to her body.

Cerelle had never been afraid of him, he knew. She was absolutely and terrifyingly indifferent towards him. But his recent bursts of insanity - sucking her fingers still covered in their combined spent, and letting her sit on top - had seemingly given her a false sense of security.

She now let lone emotions slip through her perfectly curated facade. They weren't nice emotions, by any means, but he took whatever she gave him. Soaked it up. Became addicted to it.

There seemed to be neither rhyme nor reason to the way she reacted to his treatment of her. Some days she simply laid there, no matter if he simply fucked her or actually tried to make her come. All she did was stare at him with those burning blue eyes he knew he should be scared of.

Then there were some nights she reacted to everything. A touch to her breast, a bite into her neck, even the most gentlest of brushes to her pearl made her tremble and gasp beneath him.

Mostly, however, she did as he expected of her - muted, plain, and underwhelming.

He was close to asking her why she had come to him in the first place. Why she continued returning to him. Why she had shown up in King's Landing at all. Casterly Rock must have been safe and comfortable for her; only a fool would leave such a place voluntarily.

But then she would almost certainly demand he answer a question as well. And the kind of things she would likely want to know sent him spiralling into a nightmare with no return.

So he continued fucking her as if nothing was wrong.

Sometimes, he woke during the day - a truly dreadful experience - and the only thing it provided him was another opportunity to drink and hate himself. The constant snow storms outside his windows certainly did not improve his situation.

When was the last time he had shown up at court?

It had to have been weeks, if not even moons ago, otherwise he would have retained even a sliver of the memory. He was not missed, that he was certain of, but a member of his family would drag him into the public again sooner rather than later. They always did, and it never ended well.

Did Cerelle appear in court? Her grandfather was the Master of Coin and she was the whore of the Black Dragon, people had to be curious about her. Perhaps she entertained their fantasies and prejudices, perhaps she tried to prove she was not as bad as they made her seem. Or, perhaps, she hid from them as he did.

He looked at her face, sometimes, wishing to read her mind.

She laid beneath him, chest rising and lowering raggedly, the marks left by his teeth and tongue slowly darkening, promising to at least be there when she returned the coming day. Her hair stuck to her forehead, gold cascading around her head, brushing against his hands. She had closed her eyes when she had come, and now it almost seemed like she was asleep.

It looked… peaceful.

“Tell me a secret.”

Her gaze sat onto him slowly, flickering across his features, assessing his words. Its blue reminded him of nothing but her own eyes - a colour so rare, so terrifying.

“A secret,” he repeated hoarsely. “Something no one knows about you.”

His cock pulsed inside of her as she almost unnoticeably raised a brow. A challenge. He wanted to fuck her right again to show her her place.

“Tell me a secret,” he said one last time. “And I'll tell you one of mine.”

A smile played around her lips. “Alright.” She laid her hands onto her stomach. “My favourite flower is the snowdrop.”

“That doesn't count.”

He hoped she did not notice the way his hips had jerked forward at hearing her voice again. Or, at the very least, had mistaken it as an accident.

“You demanded something no one else knows about me.” Her smile had turned into something akin to a grin. “That is something no one knows. Now you.”

He wanted to throw her out of his bed at her brazenness. No, better yet, out of his room. Without her gown, to force her to walk naked down the Keep's halls, so that everyone would know she was a dirty whore.

(They already did. The courtiers always knew.)

“My favourite drink is ale, not wine.”

She did not react to his words, did not challenge them, did not claim someone to already know. And when he removed his dick from her cunt - only narrowly defeating the urge to stuff his escaping seed back into her - she dressed herself, curtsied, and disappeared without a word.

Snowdrop.

Not a flower one could easily gift a lady. Not that he wanted to, of course, least of all her, but he merely considered a thought. Winter had reigned for almost three years, and would last for even longer. Snowdrops bloomed in spring. And by then, Cerelle would be long gone.

He emptied the remaining ale from the flask on his bedside table, threw the bottle out of his window, and fell into a restless sleep.

The following weeks, they repeated this game.

He fucked her in ever more intimate positions, she reacted ever-increasingly to his ministrations, and afterwards, with his cock still shoved deep inside her cunt, they shared secrets. Breathed into the space between them, knowing, begging, pleading none of it to ever leave it.

In the beginning, their words carried little meaning. Favourite animals and clothes and colours, mentions of interesting stones and marbles found throughout the week, hidden places they heard about. Trivialities. He almost thought of stopping their conversations.

But ever so slowly, something changed.

Cerelle mentioned her childhood. He talked of memories of his siblings. She told tales of solitude, he of despair. Her blue eyes became emotionless as she talked. He did not hold back his tears.

She once owned a cat named Guinevere, with white fur and eyes like hers. Her grandfather took her away, claiming such things had no place in the chambers of a bastard. She had found her carcass in the kennel the following day. He had ripped off the drapes of his bed because he hated the colours. Black and red. No one had replaced them, and so the wooden posts stood uselessly around them.

Cerelle loved to paint. Hidden in one of the tunnels below Casterly Rock, she had worked on her art, far away from where her grandfather could find her. Rhaenys had taught him how to ride a horse. After none of the knights and stable boys had been able to keep him on the animals long enough, his sister had taken him to the tourney grounds and kept him there until he had figured it out.

She had never left Casterly Rock until coming here. Besides the few times he had trained with Rhaenys, he had never left the walls of King's Landing.

Her name day was close to the end of the year. The twenty-first day of the last moon. She apologised after saying it, claiming she did not know what had gotten into her. That it wasn't even a secret, despite it sometimes seeming like it. His was on the twenty-first of the third moon.

She wanted to see what was north of the Wall. He had been invited to come to Sunspear by Elia.

She had once been locked into her chambers for an entire year. He had once stood on his balcony's banister, thinking of killing himself.

“Why did you decide against it?”

“My father wants to be rid of me, but is too craven to do it himself. Why should I do his work for him?”

What started as a way to coax targets out of Cerelle, means to attack her, to punish her for her indifference, turned into… Yearning. For something better for both of them.

One night, after he had thrown her leg over his shoulder to fuck her even deeper and harder than before, she did not look him in the eyes as she spoke.

“My grandfather blames me for my mother's death. He wanted to use her for alliances, and he can’t do that with me. No one wants a bastard.”

“I should have been a girl. My father had this ideal in his head, of recreating the conquerors, of returning the glory to his house. He started a war for it. Now he only has me, and a realm destined for destruction.”

She shared her loneliness. He his hatred. Equals, despite their standings. Bastards, hidden from the world. Problems no one wanted to deal with.

She did not know who her father was. He had never met his mother's siblings.

The servants at Casterly Rock were instructed to avoid her. The servants in the Red Keep were afraid of him.

She killed someone once. He did not know how many bastards he had.

One night, he kneeled before her once more, hands buried into the soft of her hips, slamming his cock over and over again into her wetness. It ought to feel good, despite how quiet Cerelle remained. She was his whore, a simple set of holes for his pleasure, someone to discard once the need had faded.

Then why was he not able to cum? What was this strange longing he felt whenever he looked at her?

He sped up his thrusts, crashing so hard into her it hurt even him. The slapping of skin against skin echoed in his empty room, yet his grunts sounded wrong. Forced.

What was wrong with him?

He suddenly grabbed Cerelle's body and hauled her upwards, seating her onto his lap. She caught herself quickly, wrapping her arms around his back as he started slamming her down and onto his cock.

Her hair fell around them like a curtain, shielding them from the horrible outside. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, glad over the change in position and the opportunity to hide his tears. Her nails left indents in the skin of his back, perhaps even drawing blood. He welcomed the pain.

Moans and whines spilled from both their lips now, melting into each other, the sounds combining and becoming indiscernible. Prettier than music.

One of her hands glid upwards and found purchase in his short curls, tugging at them, tilting his head back until her lips pressed against his forehead. Her hips, ever so slightly but still, rolled on their own against his body.

It was the first time they peaked together.

They sat in the afterglow, neither daring to move, neither daring to break this strange peace they had found themselves in.

He felt her heartbeat underneath his lips.

“I have dreams.” Her words were barely above a whisper. “Of the past, and the future. I hear my mother’s screams as she dies, I see Robert Baratheon's head swept away by the water, I feel the cold that will kill us all. And I see you. A wolf with black scales. I have known I would meet you long before I came here.”

He traced her spine. Slowly, terrified she might break if he was too rough.

“I have no more secrets.”

He curled a strand of her hair around his finger. Soft as silk, golden as the sun.

“I will call for you when I have need of you again.”

She detached herself from him, and he liked to imagine the moment she let her hand linger on his skin meant something. Then the moment was gone, and the thought faded.

He did not watch as she dressed herself. As she pulled the purple gown over her body, tightened the laces on her back, slipped into her black shoes. Nor as she straightened her hair, wiped away the tears, and took a deep breath to focus herself.

The door fell close, and the candle went out.

He stumbled into a corner of his room and vomited up every scrap of food and alcohol he had consumed the past days. Retching and gagging until his throat burned and the only fluid passing his lips was spit.

Then he cried.

previous | next

#jon snow #jon snow x oc #jon snow smut #asoiaf #game of thrones #asoiaf smut #asoiaf fanfic #game of thrones smut #game of thrones fanfic #fic: stars above songs below #fic: sapphire steel #oc: cerelle baratheon

20 notes · View notes

urdgealesisbaby · 1 year ago

Note

Hii :)

Can I request a scenario with Mika, Ferid, Crowley and Guren where their s/o is suicidal and how they feel about it?

(sorry if it is too disturbing)

Thanks in advance <3

Hello! Sure thing! It isn't disturbing,I wanna write what makes you comfortable and that's just it!

So thank you for the request!

WARNING! SUICIDAL THEMES!

How Mikaela Hyakuya,Ferid Bathory,Crowley Eusford and Guren Ichinose react to their suicidal s/o

Mikaela Hyakuya

As Mika returns home from a mission, he notices the exhaustion etched into his s/o's features.

They try to smile, but it doesn't quite reach their eyes.

Concern gnaws at Mika's heart as he sits them down, gently probing to uncover the root of their distress.

When they finally confess their thoughts of self-harm, Mika's world shatters. He feels a surge of panic, grappling with the weight of their pain.

Despite his own fears, Mika vows to be their rock, staying by their side through the darkest of nights.

He spends sleepless hours researching therapy options and support groups, determined to find a way to bring light back into their life.

Ferid Bathory(may be too OC but bear with me)

Ferid lounges languidly on his couch, idly flipping through a magazine as his s/o sits across from him, lost in their own thoughts.

Their sudden silence piques Ferid's curiosity, prompting him to inquire about their well-being. When they confess their struggles with suicidal thoughts, Ferid's facade cracks.

Beneath his suave exterior lies a maelstrom of emotions - guilt, fear, and a strange sense of vulnerability.

He pulls them into a tight embrace, promising to do whatever it takes to help them find peace. Deep down,

Ferid wrestles with his own demons, haunted by memories of loved ones lost to despair.

Crowley Eusford

Crowley's sharp gaze softens as he watches his s/o from across the room, sensing the weight of their invisible burden.

When they finally open up about their struggles, Crowley's heart clenches with a mixture of sorrow and frustration.

He feels a surge of protectiveness wash over him, vowing to shield them from the darkness threatening to consume them.

Crowley throws himself into action, scouring every corner of the city for resources and support networks.

He may not always show it, but his love for his s/o burns fiercely, driving him to fight tooth and nail for their happiness.

Guren Ichinose

Guren returns home late, his mind still reeling from the day's battles. He finds his s/o sitting alone in the dimly lit living room, their expression distant and hollow.

Guren's instincts kick into overdrive as he approaches them, his usual stoicism crumbling in the face of their pain.

When they confess their struggles with suicidal thoughts, Guren's world grinds to a halt.

He feels a surge of helplessness clawing at his chest, but he refuses to let it consume him. Guren pulls them into a tight embrace, silently promising to be their anchor in the storm.

Though he may stumble along the way, Guren is determined to walk alongside them, guiding them towards a brighter tomorrow.

Thanks for requesting and if you liked these,make sure to request again!:)

141 notes · View notes

kingofbodyrolls · 3 months ago

Text

End of the World: Epilogue (m) | myg

*this is a re-upload since I deleted my old account 🫣

You think about all the shit you’ve been through, how far you’ve come and what you can look forward to in the future.

→ Pairing: Yoongi x reader (female) → AUs: post-apocalyptic!au, dystopian!au turning into utopian!au. → Genres: baby angst with fluff and hope. → Tropes: established relationship → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 0.9k → Warnings + triggers: mentions of the nuclear war, pregnancy, future, a cancer cure, dystopia turning into utopia? → Author’s note: this is just a really short drabble for the sweet anon that wanted to know if OC and Yoongi got cancer free or not, and also just an epilogue to the story [link to the request]. So here it is 💕 → Read on AO3? [link]

navi: [s.masterlist] | [m.masterlist] | ← prev |

Your hand finds its way over your tummy. Your very round tummy.

You smile at your boyfriend, your rock through this whole nightmare of a world. And now you’re going to bring life into a broken, but healing world.

You had discussed endlessly as soon as you found out you were pregnant, debating if bringing a child into a dystopian world was even a good idea. The idea of putting a tiny human into this shattered world seemed impossible, but you and Yoongi didn’t use protection all the time, and it’s really your own fault. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

But you’re okay with it. The thought doesn’t seem as terrifying as it did a few years ago when the war started. That wouldn’t have been a good life to bring a child into. But now? With the way the world is gradually healing and things are beginning to be better, you think this time is alright. The New World Order is gone, there’s no longer an elitist group at the top, people are free to do as they please, and most importantly, all information is free.

You think of cancer, not just for you and Yoongi, but for many of the world’s population who suffered due to the radiation after the bombings. Seokjin has been working nonstop since Jimin got the important data from the New World Order. Sadly, it wasn’t a cure as you’d all hoped, but now, years later, Seokjin has practically been living in his lab. And he has finally succeeded in making a cure.

A cure for cancer.

You can hardly believe it, but he has.

You and Yoongi were the first to get it, and after, Seokjin studied your tissue and cells tirelessly to make sure that no cancer cells were left. And they’re all gone. You’re cancer free.

Seokjin has made a cancer cure that is free for everyone.

And you think the world is truly healing. People are happy again, people are smiling.

Cities are slowly being rebuilt. People can go to the doctor, dentist, and have showers—everything that was taken away when the nuclear war started. Everything is almost back to normal, but you can still feel the scars, and you think they’ll always be there. You must not forget all the horrible things that happened to make this possible for everyone.

The sun is shining every day. Sometimes it rains, sometimes it storms. The greenery is slowly getting its life back thanks to the sun and its photosynthesis. Watching trees, bushes, and plants grow is amazing to you, and it makes you feel alive. Hopeful.

You glance at Yoongi, his eyes filled with a tenderness that mirrors your own feelings. Together, you will bring new life into this world, nurturing it with the love and hope that has sustained you through the darkest times. You place your hand over his, resting on your belly, and in that simple touch, you feel the promise of a brighter future.

The nightmare of the last few years has been gruesome, and you’ve all endured so much, but you’ve finally made it, thanks to the wonderful people at Whalien52. You can’t imagine what you would have done without them.

Taehyung has helped build a house for you and Yoongi, a secluded sanctuary reminiscent of the one Yoongi had all those years ago. You can already picture its beauty in a few years when the greenery truly takes hold.

You meet up with the crew almost daily, cherishing their company. The guys have been joking about who should be a godfather to your unborn child. Even though you don’t really believe in God, you like the idea of someone taking care of your child in case something happens to you. And you already know that someone is Jungkook.

“Excited?” Yoongi asks, his hand finding its way on top of yours on your tummy again.

You hum softly. “Yeah,” you say, turning to face him. “I just hope everything will be fine.”

“Of course it will, babe,” he replies with conviction, his voice filled with so much emotion. “You’re strong and incredible. Think about all you’ve been through. You’ll be an amazing mom.”

You smile, hoping he’s right. You’ll borrow his words and repeat them to yourself over and over until they become true. You have been through so much—surviving a nuclear war, getting sick with cancer, getting shot, starving, and now being cured. It has been a hell of a ride, but you made it.

You kiss him deeply, lovingly.

You and Yoongi are now researchers working under Seokjin, trying to develop cures for other diseases. You truly want to save everyone. This dedication to research is also fueled by your desire to create the best possible world for your child. You want the best for them.

You gaze out the window from what will be your child’s room; the view outside is a mix of brown and green, mostly dirt, but grass is beginning to peek through the ground, and small trees are growing in the backyard. It’s going to be great. You’ve finally made it to the other side, and you wonder if this horrible dystopia you’ve endured will transform into a utopia one day.

“I’m so happy this wasn’t the end of the world,” you quip, Yoongi’s hand still resting on yours, on your tummy.

“Me too. It’s just the beginning,” he says, and you feel his words reverberate through your body. It truly is just the beginning—the beginning of a wonderful life for you, your child, and everyone else.

→ Requested taglist: @idkjustlovingbts @lovelgirl22 @gimeow @sweeetas @viankiss @goldietigers294 @this-most-assuredly-counts @futuristicenemychaos @funnygirls-things @ysljoon @livingformintyoongi @as-hs-blog @urmomluvsrose @yasmineixyjay @purpleheartsandarock1 @alextgef @coree730 @wobblewobble822 @coldcoffee2121 @zzoguri @jeonsbabygirlsworld

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379 @jeonsbabygirlsworld @fancypeacepersona @ktownshizzle @pjmxxjm @ajoonniice @kookiewithluv @mikrokookiex @rapmonjoon94 @parkitrighthere

→ Author’s endnote: I know this was really, really short. I could probably have done a lot more, but I’m not really feeling it a lot in terms of writing. I was nice to revisit this couple though, and I hope this reassures everyone that they are fine and safe 🫶 Thank you for reading this story and series! I hope I improve my writing soon, but I might just take a break… I don’t know. I’m not in the best place, but writing helps me escape, but it’s also not the thing I wanna do when I feel like everything I write is crap? 🥲 Ahahaha.

26 notes · View notes

inthiseverymoment · 5 months ago

Text

silhouettes emerging: chapter viii

"she Flies with No Fanfare but the Voice of Her Own"

and softly found, now fully realized, finally her mind was free.

iwtv oc, this chapter ~1.8k

reynaldo hahn fans rise

there'll probably be about one or two more chapters left of this. pretty please like reblog lmk what yall think etc etc

enjoyyyyyy

chapter vii fic masterlist chapter ix

“So. When was enough enough?”

He’d waited to ask this, having studied her face for more than a few moments in the hanging silence of Isabelle’s confession. Blood tears stained her cheeks, and a very tired sort of fury had set itself behind her eyes, as if disappointed that the memories could still elicit this much emotion from her after so many years.

“Enough had been enough for a long, long time, if I’m being entirely honest.”

She collected her thoughts for a moment, then-

“Daniel?”

“...Yeah?”

It was not the first time she had called him by his name, but it certainly felt like it.

“You know how, by human standards-some human standards, at least-you’re supposed to have full mastery over yourself by a certain point? How, these days, if someone you’re with says something awful, all attraction to them is supposed to disappear if you’re a good enough person to simply stop desiring something once you learn it’s wrong? How it’s easy to feel like an awful person for needing to try in order to keep yourself strong?”

He blinked.

“You and I have led very different lives, Ms…Isabelle.”

“Yes, I certainly know that. I never had the space or privilege-or even the opportunity-to go wild and have my fun before learning all my ‘lessons’. From a very young age, I always told myself that I’d be better than those who let jealousy or lust or anything else cloud their souls, and even as I settled into a life of killing to survive among friends who killed for fun, that deeper knowledge-that judgement born of youthful idealism-weighed on me, a lingering burn at the back of my mind. I never had that messy teenage love, never got to get the hormones out of the way while it was still socially acceptable, and then I became eternally stuck at a perpetually guilty, emotionally intelligent but worldly naive, constantly wondering twenty-two.

“I listened night after night as Santiago promised our audiences that the darkest parts of themselves were encouraged here-and, though the audience knew it was all to gain their dollar, I could still feel the relief and release coming from just about every one of them. We were monsters, and so were they; the blemishes on every soul were celebrated for once. That is why the Théâtre des Vampires endured for so long.

“It is not a moral failing to yearn to be seen, but I was…I was not myself. Armand did so much to make me stay, because I think I was the closest thing to healthy he’d ever had-and I was another in his line of those who challenged his structures, who shattered what he’d started growing tired of. A new piece was written for me, everything he thought I wanted: a more earnest meditation on grief and life, a deep burgundy velvet gown and long opera gloves, and a French artsong to boot. And the audiences…”

“Didn’t love it?”

“Not as much as I’d hoped. Édith and I exchanged letters secretly and often, and she said she wished she could have seen it live, but she was one of very, very few. The occasional patch of audience members appreciated it, but most just wanted to get back to the mockery and killing. They all thought I was talented, though.”

She rolled her bottom lip for a moment, as if chewing it in thought without the act itself.

“Talented, but pretentious. It took a remarkable amount of self-control to keep from reading their minds too often; upon first being turned, I loved the opportunity to know what people were truly thinking about my performances, my appearance, me-”

A small twist came into her face here, as if cursing herself for self-centeredness once more, then she almost relaxed out of it-

“But that unlimited bombardment of others’ opinions…we’re not meant to live like that.”

“There’s a hell of a lot about the way we live that I’ll take a guess no one was ‘meant’ to experience,” Daniel said.

“That was another thing I loved about Louis’ perspective. I had so many of those same questions-is our nature inherently evil? How did this all begin in the first place? Are vampires creatures of God if there is one, of the universe, part of the food chain as anything else? Every intricacy of human development-the stages of grief, the growing and decaying of the mind, changing relationships, all that was supposedly meant-what’s the effect of eternity on humanity? So many of our kind have lost it, and I’ve tried, tried to hold on. But something about what Claudia said stuck with me; I’d always known the coven had a sense of ‘vampire pride’, but the way she put it made it seem like any other societally put-down identity, like something to truly celebrate. That’s one way it’s often been looked at in fiction, with the other being the curse that Armand had found it to be before Lestat…Lestated his way into things. I am proud of my power, but I cannot call myself proud of all I did to gain it.”

“And all of this inner turmoil got to be too much after about how long?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it too much exactly, the leaving was…something more noble than that, I’d hope. But this lasted a few years. I made a survival tactic of pushing away all of this questioning, of seeing only what was put in front of me; after a lifetime of trying to stick to a certain sense of morality, I needed some way to let go, so I suppose I just went entirely in the opposite direction. We had our motorcycle hunts, like the one Louis described, and those were heaven: the open sky, the glimpses of the centuries-old buildings we whipped past, our shouts and songs ricocheting through the streets, the half-righteous glory of bleeding dry those wealth-hoarding motherfuckers who turned a thousand blind eyes to the mounting political horror. I had a family. And a few members of that family resented me, a few outright hated me, but I had a wild kind of freedom that I had never felt at home. This was new, deliciously new, and I tried to focus on that feeling because I…frankly, Daniel, although my power grew as the ancient blood simmered and perhaps I could have escaped, part of me didn’t want to give up the intoxication of what I had.”

He nodded.

“Until?”

Nineteen Thirty-Eight, Paris, France

This was it.

The horrid and powerful theatre folk of Paris had been slowly extinguished, spaced out enough that suspicion would not find the Théâtre des Vampires, and tonight was the last. Their offense wasn’t quite as unforgivable as a few of the rest, but being condescending towards young artists was being condescending towards young artists, and she and her coven needed to eat.

Tonight would be the downfall of the company owners who had told Isabelle with a smile that she didn’t have herself quite figured out yet.

This one was petty, something in her said, just as petty as her lack of grief upon watching that privileged young bully meet her death all that time ago. It was that, she knew, that had likely been one of the first things to alert Armand to her vampiric potential. And for these years, she had dreamt of what it would be like to witness those vapid, fake-deep hypocrites finally realize that Isabelle de la Rue knew who she was.

What she had not expected was that their haunted gaze from the stage right wing, held in place by Gustave and Estelle, would be the only thing she could think of, boring through flowing masses of perfect auburn curls straight to the ever-present and oft-dismissed burn at the back of her mind.

The artsong that she and Sam had chosen was one praising the inherent beauty of night, fitting for a theater filled with creatures of darkness; and the auditorium, usually restless throughout its duration and eager to return to its crudely mocking laughter, was stiller tonight.

“La lune blanche luit dans les bois; de chaque branche part une voix sous la ramée…”

The white moon shines in the woods; from each branch, a voice emerges under the foliage.

Behind her, projections of trees swayed eerily as animations of glowing eyes between their branches appeared and then disappeared, gone with a breath to leave the audience wondering whether they were truly there at all. The haunting nature of the context gave a striking and oddly beautiful contrast to the peace of the song, and despite herself, Isabelle smiled, relishing one of the few nights that her audience seemed to get it.

It was nights like these that almost let her think she was just another young singer, living her human life’s dream.

Breathing deeply to fuel an upcoming high note, she looked up towards Armand, whose fingers absentmindedly tapped the piano accompaniment on the balcony as he gazed down at her with something close to true admiration.

“Ô, bien aimée,” she floated.

Oh, beloved.

There was love there, that was certain.

So why did this moment of peace feel like a respite, not like the usual course of her days?

She glanced over to the company owners, their faces hollow after their capture with hardly an ounce of the arrogance they had once held. As the piano continued, Isabelle took a moment to search their thoughts-

“L’étang reflète, profond miroir…”

The pond reflects, the deep mirror,-

They barely recognized her.

“...la silhouette du saule noir…”

-the silhouette of the black willow-

They did not recognize her.

“...où le vent pleure…”

…where the wind weeps.

Looking back out to the audience, she halted for a moment, then poured her sigh into her major sixth.

“Rêvons…”

As her vibrato bloomed, there was then a spark that came from one of the minds, that they suddenly had put a name to the face, but Isabelle was beginning to realize…

This is not the triumph I had thought it would be.

“...c’est l’heure.”

It is the hour.

Her face painted even more pale, her finger bound by a lover’s blood that seemed to weigh her hand down more with every passing month, standing cold in the spotlight while hundreds upon hundreds of bodies lay under her feet-

This is not proof that I know who I am.

This is…

This is quite the opposite.

“Un vaste et tendre apaisement semble descendre du firmament que l’astre irise…”

A vast and tender calm seems to descend from the sky of the iridescent star.

She had fancied the idea of leaving many times, but it had always come with a tinge of desperation or loss, of knowledge that that willpower would fade at one smell of rust and makeup backstage or one sound of Armand’s voice.

But as her rich soprano climbed through Hahn’s softly wondrous buildup, she breathed into the beautiful certainty that this time was different.

A liberating bittersweetness filled the air as Isabelle promised through her final notes that they would be her last upon this stage.

“C’est l’heure exquise.”

#silhouettesemerging #iwtv x reader #interview with the vampire #iwtv #amc interview with the vampire #amc iwtv #iwtv amc #iwtv oc #daniel molloy #the vampire santiago #the vampire armand #louis de pointe du lac #the vampire claudia #lestat de lioncourt #the vampire gustave #estelle arnaud #theatre des vampires

36 notes · View notes

jesterfairy · 5 months ago

Text

.♠︎.💜 𝐀 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭 💚.♠︎.

Chapter 8: Twisted Comforts

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Chapter Word Count: 5,131

Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gotham’s haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Joker—a man as captivating as he is terrifying.

As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she can’t control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself he’s brought to life.

A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.

Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance

Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, dead dove do not eat

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Chapter 8: Twisted Comforts

The next morning, Alina lay still, the thin blanket wrapped tightly around her. The warmth it offered felt like a betrayal, like something she wasn’t supposed to need. It seeped into her bones, coaxing her toward a fleeting comfort she hadn’t earned and didn’t trust.

Her body felt raw, like she’d been scraped clean. She wasn’t even sure who she was anymore. Pieces of herself were missing—pieces she hadn’t even realized were there until they were gone, leaving only jagged edges behind.

And there was more to lose. He had promised her that. When he returned, there would be more of herself to give, more of herself to break.

Why? Why did he want her submission so badly? Was it because she had stayed in the chair, ended his little game, robbed him of whatever cruel satisfaction he’d been chasing? The thought brought a tremor of dread, a wave of anxiety gripping her chest. She’d tried to leave that moment behind, but it clung to her like smoke, staining everything in its wake.

And then there was him—his presence. The way he looked at her, touched her. It was inescapable. Every glance, every graze of his hand, sent a jolt straight through her. She hated it, but her body didn’t seem to care.

What did he want? It felt like he was circling closer to something darker, something she didn’t want to face.

Was he… She swallowed hard, her stomach twisting. Was he getting off on this?

The thought hit her like a jolt, sharp and sickening. She recoiled, trying to shove it away before it could take hold. It was absurd. Twisted. Horrible. She could barely entertain the idea.

No. No, that wasn’t it. It couldn’t be.

But the way his eyes lingered on her, the way he touched her, the way he had watched her sleep... Could it be?

The question hung in the air, smothering. She curled tighter into herself, her fingers gripping the blanket like it could shield her from the answer.

A slow warmth unfurled deep in her stomach, spreading like a betrayal through her veins. Her skin prickled, her breath hitched, and for a moment—just a moment—her body felt alive in a way she hadn’t known for weeks. A flicker of heat, unwanted and undeniable, made its way through her, pooling low and heavy.

Her stomach churned at the realization, disgust twisting deep inside her.

This isn’t real. This isn’t me.

What kind of person felt this way? How could she— about someone like him?

He was a monster. A killer. A man who had taken everything from her.

Her chest tightened. It had to be the isolation—the hunger, the desperation. She'd been stripped of so much—warmth, food, freedom. Maybe her body was just betraying her because it didn’t know any better, seeking comfort in even the darkest most twisted corners.

But that didn’t make it less pathetic. Less revolting.

She pressed her knees tighter to her chest, her breath shallow and uneven, each inhale feeling too loud in the suffocating silence of the room.

Before she could wrestle with her shame any longer, the door creaked open, its groan scraping the edges of her nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

Her heart lurched, thundering against her ribs.

Alina sat up quickly, the blanket clutched tighter around her, as though it could protect her from whatever was coming. Her knees drew to her chest as she pressed herself against the wall behind the bed, bracing for the Joker’s entrance.

The air seemed to shift, heavy and foreboding, as his shadow stretched long and jagged across the floor, a silent promise that the worst was yet to come.

---

The Joker strolled in, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. He carried a crumpled brown paper bag in one hand and a larger, heavier bag slung casually over his shoulder. Without breaking his stride, he tossed the smaller bag onto the mattress. Two bagels spilled out, pale and imperfect, but Alina didn’t move. Not yet.

He noticed, of course. His gaze flicked to her, bright with amusement. “Saving them for later, are we?” he teased as he began circling the bed. “Smart girl. You’re learning.”

The words sent a chill down her spine. Learning what? How to survive this? How to survive him?

Her gaze shifted, almost unconsciously, to the larger bag hanging from his shoulder. Something practical. Something useful. She hated how her pulse quickened at the sight of it, hated the small, traitorous flicker of hope that rose unbidden in her chest.

The Joker smirked, watching her gaze flicker to the bag. “Curious, aren’t you?” He slowly lowered himself to sit on the edge of her mattress, the springs creaking slightly under his weight.

He unzipped the bag with excruciating leisure, his eyes flicking to hers as though daring her to lean closer. One by one, he laid the items out before her: a hairbrush, soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a towel, and a neatly folded piece of clothing.

Alina’s breath caught in her throat. She stared at the items, her skin itching at the thought of washing away the grime. The sight of the soap alone felt like salvation. The hairbrush, so ordinary, tugged at something raw inside her—a longing for familiarity, for normalcy.

She needed to feel clean again. She needed to feel human. But even as that need clawed at her, the unspoken cost loomed heavy.

The Joker leaned back slightly, propping himself up with one hand, his posture loose, indulgent—watching her with the kind of fascination that made her skin crawl. “Go on,” he said, gesturing lazily to the items. “They’re all yours, I'll even let you have a shower. Imagine that, doll.”

Her gaze darted between the items and his face, searching for the trap she knew had to be there.

“But,” he continued, his eyes darkening as they locked onto hers, “you know the deal. Everything has a price.”

Of course it did. Her stomach clenched, the weight of his words pressing down on her as his grin widened, sharp and predatory.

“Come here, doll,” he murmured, patting the empty space beside him on the mattress.

She didn’t move. Her breath felt shallow, each inhale tight in her chest. What did he want now? The question loomed, suffocating, and for a fleeting moment, she wished she didn’t have to find out.

“Come here, now,” he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, commanding growl, the kind that left no room for disobedience.

Every nerve screamed at her to stay where she was, to hold onto the distance between them, but the dark, dangerous edge in his voice left her paralyzed with fear. Her pulse raced as she wrestled with herself, knowing that refusing him wasn’t an option.

Slowly, reluctantly, she scooted forward, the motion dragging out like a death sentence. The mattress dipped as she settled beside him, her blanket clutched tightly around her shoulders, a thin, useless barrier between them.

The heat of his body was immediate, overwhelming. It poured off him in relentless waves, wrapping her in a cruel parody of comfort. The walls seemed to press closer, the room shrinking around them as his gaze locked onto hers. His eyes, framed by the smeared black grease-paint, were like inky pools—depthless and consuming—pulling her in no matter how fiercely she fought to resist.

"First," he murmured, his voice a dark caress, “I want you to let me in a little closer.” His hand moved deliberately between them, his gloved fingers brushing against her shoulder, then trailing down her arm in a slow, measured glide. “You’ve done well so far, but I think you can do better.”

Her breaths came short and shallow as his words slithered into her mind. Let me in. The phrase echoed relentlessly, unraveling her thoughts and flooding her with dread.

The hungry glint in his eyes only made it worse.

What does he want from me?

“No flinching, no pulling away,” he rasped, his voice low. The intensity in his eyes didn’t waver, holding her captive even as his hand rested on her arm. “Just let me in.”

Her heart pounded, a mix of fear and something more disorienting—something she didn’t want to acknowledge.

“And second,” he continued, his voice growing softer, darker, “I want to ask you a question.” His fingers paused on her wrist, gripping it lightly, his touch firm but not painful. “I want an answer. A real one. No lies.”

Alina swallowed hard, her mind racing.

There was no space to think.

He leaned closer, watching her, waiting, his presence heavy and oppressive. The shower, the clothes, the toothbrush—they were right there, just out of reach, dangled like a cruel reward. But the price felt steep, far too steep.

“Do we have a deal, sweetheart?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with amusement as though he already knew her answer, as though he’d already won.

Her heart pounded as she clutched the flimsy blanket tighter around her shoulders. She didn’t want to give him more—more space, more of herself—but the thought of a shower, of shedding the grime and despair, was too tempting. Too vital.

Her resolve wavered, then shattered as she nodded. The gesture was small but monumental, a surrender of something darker, something fragile within her.

The Joker’s grin widened, his eyes alight with a predatory victory. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against her skin in a way that made her flinch internally.

Without warning, he yanked the blanket from her shoulders, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, as though it were a merely trivial obstacle in his way, instead of her only remaining lifeline. The cold air bit at her exposed skin, but his voice cut through it, low and commanding.

“Take off that filthy sweater,” he said, almost lazily, but there was no mistaking the demand behind the words.

Alina’s hands clutched the thin fabric instinctively, the cardigan feeling like her last fragile shield. But his gaze bore into her, unyielding and hungry, daring her to resist.

Her fingers trembled as she loosened her grip. Slowly, she peeled the fabric from her body, the cardigan slipping from her hands to the floor, joining the discarded blanket.

The cold air stung her bare skin, sharp and unforgiving.

It wasn’t just the sweater now pooling at her feet. It was her pride, her resolve, her agency... slipping away into the abyss of his control.

Beside him now, wearing only her thin black top and tattered skirt, she felt exposed, the heat radiating from his body a suffocating reminder of her powerlessness.

His hand moved then, gliding down her bare arm with an unbearable slowness, his touch feather-light yet weighted with intent. The subtlety made it worse, each deliberate graze sending a whisper of sensation across her skin.

It was a claim, quiet and insidious, a reminder that no fabric, no barrier, could shield her from him.

Alina bit her lip, fighting the tremor that coursed through her, desperate to stay still and avoid provoking him into something worse. But as his hand lingered, trailing lower, the tension became unbearable—a mix of fear and something darker, something she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Her arm moved on instinct, jerking back in a desperate attempt to escape his touch.

He caught her mid-motion, his fingers closing around her wrist like a steel trap. The suddenness of it sent a jolt through her, her pulse hammering in her ears as his grip tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her she wouldn’t win this.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tsked softly, his voice a dangerous purr. “None of that, sweetheart.” His other hand grasped her jaw, turning her face to meet his gaze. His smirk was gone, replaced by something darker, more serious. “I’m trying to be nice. Don’t make me change my mind.”

Her gaze flickered down, catching the sliver of exposed skin at his wrist where his glove stopped short of his sleeve. It wasn’t just bare skin—it was the sharp, defined bone, the subtle flex of tendons beneath, raw and primal. The sight stirred something unsettling in her chest, quickening her pulse before she could stop it.

Her eyes snapped back to his, desperate to escape the pull his bare flesh ignited. His smirk returned, sharper now, as though he sensed the shift in her body language, the way her resistance faltered.

“That’s better,” he murmured, his fingers brushing lightly against her wrist, lingering there before trailing slowly up her arm. His eyes never left hers, drinking in every flicker of her defiance. “Just relax,” he whispered, his voice low and insistent.

She swallowed hard, struggling to calm the tremor in her breath, willing herself not to melt beneath his touch. He watched with quiet intensity, waiting for the moment she would yield, savoring every flicker of her resistance.

She despised it. Despised that smug look on his face, the satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

But most of all, she despised how his touch stirred something deep within her—a flicker of life in the emptiness that had consumed her for days.

Her stomach twisted in confusion as his gaze held hers, dark and inscrutable. There was menace in it, sharp and undeniable, yet beneath the threat lay an intoxicating allure, pulling her closer as the last shreds of her will clung desperately to the edge.

“You don't have to fight so hard,” he whispered, a dark thrill flickering in his eyes as he felt her body gradually relax under his control. “I'll take care of you. All you have to do is... let go.”

Alina’s breath faltered as his words wrapped around her, slipping into the darkest corners of her mind. The way they unraveled her with such ease left her spiraling, the dangerous reverence in his voice sending shivers that reached far beyond fear.

Her breaths quickened as his hand slid further, brushing her collarbone, before gently moving to the nape of her neck. Her hair was tangled from days of neglect, but that didn’t stop him. His fingers wove through the strands, tugging softly, almost absentmindedly.

Then he reached for the brush.

The shock of it hit her before she could process it. He held it up like a weapon—innocuous, everyday—but to her, it felt like a symbol of something deeper, something darker. She stiffened, her heart hammering in her chest.

What was he doing? What was he trying to prove?

To her astonishment, he didn’t start anywhere near her roots—he took the brush to the tangled ends, slowly, gently, working through her knots like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The intimacy of it was too much. The strange kindness knotted inside her chest as she flinched, her shoulders stiffening against the unexpected sensation.

“Now, now,” he scolded lightly, his tone sharp but laced with amusement. “No flinching. You know the rules.”

His hand stayed in her hair, fingers tight but not painful, keeping her in place, forcing her to accept this. "Relax, doll," he murmured, his voice low and deceptively soothing, laced with a dangerous sweetness. "Let me do this for you."

She wanted to fight, to lash out, but the words—those simple, soothing words—unraveled something inside her.

He wasn’t being cruel, not like he usually was—and somehow, that made it so much worse.

His strokes with the brush grew slower, more deliberate, each pass working gently through her long waves. The rhythmic motion was almost hypnotic, the soft scrape of the bristles against her scalp sending shivers down her spine.

Slowly, against her will, the tension in her shoulders eased. Her breathing steadied, the tight coil in her chest loosening as the soothing sensation seeped in. It was maddening—how easily her body betrayed her, responding to something as simple as a brush gliding through her hair.

“There’s my girl,” the Joker murmured, his voice dropping into something softer, almost affectionate. “See—it’s so much easier when you stop fighting.”

Her stomach churned at his words, but the brush didn’t falter. Each stroke felt like a lullaby, coaxing her into a dangerous calm. Her mind screamed to resist, to not sink into this false sense of security, but the warmth spreading through her veins was undeniable. It wasn’t just the motion; it was the contrast—the shocking gentleness in the hands of someone so cruel.

What’s wrong with me? Her thoughts clawed at her, horrified by how easily her resolve was slipping. This wasn’t comfort—it was a trap, danger disguised as care.

He twirled a lock of her hair between his fingers, the gesture almost soothing, though it carried the weight of possession. The scent of leather and soap clung to him, intoxicating in a way she couldn’t deny.

“You like this, don’t you?” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin.

His fingers threaded through her hair, and before she could stop herself, she leaned into the touch—then jolted back, horrified.

The Joker’s grin widened, sensing her internal struggle, his eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. “Oh, don’t fight it, sweetheart,” he purred. His hand slid down her scalp, fingers curling around the back of her neck, pulling her closer with a possessive ease.

“We both know you’ve been waiting for this…for someone to take care of you. He leaned closer, his lips grazing her ear, making her shudder, "You just needed someone who knows how to do it right.”

Her fists clenched, nails biting into her palms as she fought the urge to recoil. But his words dug into her, each one laced with an insidious truth that twisted her insides.

“I… I hate you,” she whispered, her voice trembling, but the defiance in her words was hollow, weak.

His laughter was low, rumbling against her skin. “I know,” he whispered, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “That’s what makes this so fun.”

For a moment, he stayed there, his touch unnervingly gentle, toying with her hair like it was something fragile—something he might break.

Then, just as abruptly, his hand left her. The loss was immediate, stark, leaving an emptiness that gnawed at her. Against all reason, she mourned it, shame rising in her chest at how deeply she’d let herself fall into his snare.

She hated herself for wanting more, for the sick sense of comfort that lingered even as the cold air replaced his warmth.

"Now," he whispered, his voice still soft but with a new, sharper edge, "let’s talk."

He pulled back entirely now, just enough to look her in the eyes, the moment of deceptive intimacy shattered.

Her pulse quickened. His grin stayed, ever-present, as he studied her like a puzzle he was eager to solve, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Tell me, dollface,” he said, his tone light but with a dangerous undercurrent, “why did you do it, why did you stay in the chair?”

Alina blinked, her mind struggling to process the question. Her lips parted, but no words came. She knew exactly what he was asking. The bank. The hostages. Her sacrifice.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” the Joker continued, his eyes narrowing again, as though he were truly trying to understand her. “You had a choice, didn’t you? You could have picked someone else. You could have saved yourself. But you didn’t.” He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “Why?”

Alina swallowed hard. She had asked herself that same question a thousand times. In the moment, it had felt right—like the only choice. But now, with him so close, with everything she had endured since, it all felt so far away. So distant.

“I…” Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. She closed her eyes, trying to find the words. “I couldn’t…”

“Couldn’t what?” he pressed, his eyes alight with genuine curiosity. “Couldn’t pick someone else? Couldn’t save yourself?”

Alina’s breath hitched, her mind racing. The truth was tangled up in so much guilt, so much pain, that she wasn’t sure she could even put it into words. But he was waiting. He wouldn’t let her escape this. She had to give him something.

“They didn’t deserve it,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

The Joker’s eyes narrowed, his grin fading slightly. “Didn’t deserve what?”

“To die,” she said, her voice stronger now, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “None of them deserved it.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The Joker’s grip on her arm tightened, and his eyes gleamed with something dark, something unreadable. He stared at her for a long moment, as though weighing her words, processing them.

“And you did?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. “You deserved to die?”

Alina’s chest tightened, and she fought the urge to look away. She nodded, barely able to hold his gaze. “Yes,” she whispered. “I did.”

The Joker was silent for a long moment, his eyes never leaving hers. His hand slid up to her chin, tilting her face up slightly, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Why?” he asked, his voice soft but edged with menace. “What makes you so special, sweetheart? What makes you think you deserved to die?”

Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let him see her cry. The words caught in her throat, the weight of her guilt and self-loathing pressing down on her like a boulder. She didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to give him this part of herself. But the shower, the clothes, the toothbrush—it was all so close, just within reach.

“I…” Her voice cracked. “Because of them. My parents. They died, and I—”

Her words broke off, the pain too much to bear. The Joker’s eyes gleamed with interest, his fingers still gripping her chin, waiting for her to continue.

“I survived,” she finished, her voice barely above a whisper. “I survived, and they didn’t. It was my fault.”

The Joker’s grin returned, slow and predatory. “Ah,” he murmured, his voice a dark purr. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

He released her and leaned back slightly, his arms crossing over his chest, the sharp lines of his posture radiating both ease and control.

“Tell me,” he began, his tone soft yet laced with something far darker, “what happened to your parents?”

Alina’s breath hitched in her throat. She hadn’t spoken about them—about that day—in so long. Her hands instinctively reached for the locket at her chest, clutching it like it could somehow shield her from the painful memories.

She didn’t want to talk about this—not to anyone, but especially not to him. He would twist it, warp her pain into something he could wield against her, something that would give him even more control. But there was no escaping it. She couldn’t lie—not to him. Those eyes—dark, unrelenting—could unravel her deepest thoughts with a single stare, and she felt them burning into her now, waiting, watching, peeling away her defenses.

She took a slow breath, steadying herself before speaking. “We were at the fair,” she whispered, her voice tight, quiet. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, unwilling to meet his eyes. She didn’t want to see the twisted pleasure she knew would be there, feeding on her pain as she opened up this raw, fragile part of herself. “It was supposed to be fun... a family night out. My idea.” Her eyes grew distant as she drifted into the memory—the swirling lights, the chaotic hum of carnival music and laughter, and the faint, sticky sweetness of funnel cakes and candy apples. “I begged them to take me...”

She paused, her throat tight with the weight of what came next. “We stayed late. I wanted one more ride, one more moment. And when we finally left… the roads were dark. My dad… he was tired. I—I don’t even remember how it happened, just the sound, the impact, the… the metal crunching. The glass.”

Her voice faltered, but the Joker’s silence pressed her to continue.

“When I woke up… they were gone.” Her fingers gripped the locket even tighter, her words heavy with guilt.

For a moment, the room was quiet. The only sound was her ragged breathing, the pain of the confession settling between them like a dense fog.

Then, slowly, the Joker’s grin returned, sharp and predatory, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction.

"Survivor’s guilt,” he mused, the words drawn out, almost teasing. “Classic.” He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, his fingers drumming lazily on his thigh. “And you’ve been dragging that little burden around with you ever since, huh?”

Alina’s fists clenched in her lap, her nails digging into her palms as fury surged through her. How dare he reduce her suffering to something trivial, something amusing? Her chest tightened with the weight of his mockery, and anger burned through her veins, bubbling just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over.

But she bit back her rage, knowing it would only feed his twisted amusement.

“Here’s the thing, dollface,” he continued, leaning in closer, the sharp edges of his grin fading into something unsettlingly serious. “You think it’s your fault… but it’s not.”

Her breath caught, and she dared to look at him, confusion flickering across her face.

His expression hardened, a rare stillness settling over him, as if he were about to reveal some grand, dark truth. “It was never about you. Life just doesn’t care, sweetheart. It’s mayhem. It’s random. It’s cruel.” His voice dropped to a dangerous rasp. “It wasn’t fate, wasn’t destiny. Just brutal, mindless chaos. You had no say in it—don’t fool yourself into thinking you did.”

He straightened, his gaze cold and unforgiving. "Clinging to that guilt like it means something—it’s pathetic. You’re just making yourself bleed over and over, and for what? No one’s watching, no one cares. The sooner you understand that, the better."

The words lingered, hanging heavy in the air like a storm cloud. Her breathing quickened, her fists clenching tighter as his eyes bore into hers. She wanted to scream, to throw the words back at him, but she couldn’t. She was frozen beneath the weight of his truth.

“It’s just pain, Alina,” he said, his voice stripped of mockery, stripped of anything but a grim, quiet certainty. “It means nothing.”

For a fleeting moment, something unguarded flickered across his expression, a crack in the mask he never let slip.

“Trust me, sweetheart—I’ve been there.”

Her eyes darted to his, unwilling but unable to resist. In the inky depths of his gaze, she saw something that felt impossibly familiar. Not kindness, not comfort, but a raw, bitter truth. Something that cut as deeply as it connected, binding them in ways she didn’t want to understand.

She hated that she believed him—that she saw in his eyes the same raw hollowness that had clawed at her for years.

“You wanna survive, sweetheart?" His voice softened, almost gentle. "You let it go. You let them go. They’re dead. And you…” His fingers grazed her cheek, sending a shiver down her spine. “You’re still here.”

Her stomach twisted as the weight of his words settled over her. She wanted to recoil, to push back against the intimacy of the moment, but the strange vulnerability in his eyes—fleeting as it was—held her captive.

“How?” she whispered before she could stop herself. The word barely escaped her lips, but it hung in the air between them, trembling with hesitation.

The Joker’s expression shifted, his gaze sharpening as though her question had pulled him back to reality. The crack in his mask was gone, sealed tight once more, but the ghost of whatever had been there lingered, like smoke in the aftermath of a fire.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his tone flat, final. His mouth curved into something resembling a smile, but it was humorless, a hollow echo of the grin he wore like armor. “What matters is that you stop letting it own you.”

Alina felt a coldness settle over her, his words both freeing and horrifying. He was trying to strip her of the one thing that had defined her all these years—her guilt, her grief—but in the ugliest, most twisted way possible.

Let it go.

The thought crept in, seductive and dangerous. Could she? If she let go of the blame she’d nurtured for years, what would remain? The emptiness? The numbness? Or something worse: the possibility that none of it ever mattered—not her pain, not her love, not their lives.

A dark part of her whispered that he wasn’t lying, that he knew the weight she carried because he’d borne it himself—and dropped it. But how could she trust someone who wielded cruelty so effortlessly?

She was tired. Tired of the guilt, the endless blame. Tired of fighting. The simplicity of surrender loomed, dark and inviting. To let him decide. To let the darkness consume her...

Her gaze dropped, her shoulders trembling under the weight of it all. But his fingers caught her chin, forcing her to look at him. His dark eyes locked onto hers, unrelenting, stripping her bare. In their depths, she saw her reflection—small, fragile, breakable.

He leaned in closer, his fingers brushing against her skin as he whispered into her ear, “Let me give you a little secret, sweetheart,” his voice dripping with venomous intent.

The flickering light above them cast strange, erratic shadows over his starkly-painted face, distorting his features, turning him into something monstrous—an angel of death tempting her into the abyss.

“None of it matters, Alina,” he whispered, “Not your guilt, not the pain. Those ghosts you've carried around all these years—they're gone. But you... ” His thumb slid across her cheek, deceptively soft, a twisted mockery of tenderness. “You’re still breathing… and that’s because of me.”

Alina’s heart lurched, her breath catching as she saw the shift in his eyes. The twisted amusement drained away, replaced by something darker—colder. His gaze held her in a choke hold, sharp and unyielding, with a chilling intensity that made her blood run cold.

His voice dropped even lower, rough and unforgiving. “The only thing that matters now is me. I’m the one keeping you alive, the only thing standing between you and oblivion.” His fingers curled tighter against her cheek, the chill in his words sinking deeper. “Do you understand? Without me, you’re nothing.”

Her chest constricted, dread twisting in her gut. She wanted to fight, to push back against his words, but his voice—cold and unyielding—slipped into her mind like poison, curling around her thoughts and sinking into the darkest corners of her soul.

She nodded, the smallest motion, unable to force herself to speak.

Because deep down, in this nightmare of a reality he had crafted around her, she knew that he was right.

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Thank you so much for reading! I really hope the slow burn is working for you. I’ve been agonizing over editing and rewriting this chapter, worrying about boring you all, but I truly believe it’s important not to rush things. Building the psychological foundation is so key to making Alina’s eventual fall feel believable.

Your thoughts mean everything to me, so please let me know—does the story feel like it’s working, or should I pick up the pace. I could get lost reading and writing their interactions but I'm curious how you feel about it. 🖤

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Taglist: 💚

@furisodespirit

Navigation Links:

Masterpost | Next Chapter →

#A Poison I Can't Resist #dark knight joker #joker fic #joker fandom #Joker fanfiction #dark romance #gothic romance #Toxic relationships #power imbalance #Captor x captive #Heath ledger joker #Dubious consent #non con

27 notes · View notes

chirp-a-chirp · 10 months ago

Text

Simmer

Story Preview: “You keep saying my name like you can’t remember it,” Carla jokes, her breath hitching at his movements. “I promise I know what my name is.”

“Oh, I know.” Leon’s eyes darken. “But I’m aiming to make you scream mine.”

For @xxsycamore Sexy Ikemen Summer Creation Challenge! • Challenge Prompts: Blowing air on neck; not wearing underwear • Rating: Mature 18+ (MDNI) • Fandom: Ikemen Prince • Pairing: Leon Dompteur X OC (OC named Carla, f!character) • Word Count: ~2400 • Tags: Teasing; Vaginal Fingering/Sex; Pet Names; Kissing

…

Music from a summer festival floats in the breeze, lively and vibrant. Street lanterns give way to bright lights within a boisterous tavern. Festivalgoers line every available table and bar stool, enjoying rowdy jokes, copious mugs of ale, and simmering plates of food.

The day had been spent in a blur of dancing and celebration. However, the only thing occupying Leon’s mind now is the pair of playful, simmering blue eyes following him. Leon takes Carla’s hand, fingers twining together, leading her away from the crowd.

There’s an energetic warmth the fourth prince emanates, framing a wide smile and sparkling eyes holding more love than words could ever express. The tavern lights catch in Carla’s hair, reflecting a kaleidoscope of rich copper and ruby tones. Her hair cascades past her shoulders, strands flying with abandon except for a single wisp tucked behind her ear, held in place by a yellow flower. The flower recalls warm memories from earlier in the day.

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

“A pretty necklace for a pretty lady!” An eager shopkeeper had made a pitch to Leon at the festival, showing off a series of glittering jewels at a table from an outside market stall. “Make her day more splendid by buying one of these.”

Carla laughed joyously, shaking her head. “The day is already splendid with him here.” Carla did not care how saccharine her words sounded—they were the truth, and that showed in the vividness of her smile. Her arm curled around Leon’s waist as she leaned against him. “Besides, I’d rather wear flowers in my hair than diamonds around my neck.”

“That can be arranged.” Leon grinned, bending down to pluck a yellow buttercup growing in the cracks of the cobblestone road. His fingers gently wove the flower in her hair, just behind her ear. The shopkeeper left to talk to another customer. Leon bent his face and whispered so only Carla could discern his words.

“Wear this for me tonight. And nothing else.”

Carla’s cheeks turned bright pink. She murmured back teasingly. “If you’re THAT impatient, we can get things started—once the flower drops from my hair.”

The air simmered with adoration, laced with anticipation. Leon’s breath caressed her ear. “Until it drops. Not a moment longer.”

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼��

The buttercup clings tenaciously to Carla, as if it wants to prolong the wait. The tavern Carla and Leon are in doubles as an inn, with several bedrooms and a spacious suite for the more well-heeled clients. Leon leads her upstairs, winking at the barkeep. Carla has her suspicions of what’s to come as a trail of red rose petals lines the stairs towards the double doors of the suite. Those suspicions are confirmed when Leon picks her up bridal style and carries her over the threshold.

“A year since we met.” A soft grin tugs at Carla’s lips at Leon’s words. From the moment they met, Carla had been drawn him, and he to her. Carla was delicate in form, yet strong in will; her compassion and fearlessness enveloped his senses. Leon exuded a natural magnetism that shone brightly even in the darkest corners. Carla looked forward to the next year with Leon and the next. But now, she looks forward to tonight and what it will bring.

“I love you so much, it’s absurd. So, I thought we should celebrate. Proper like.” A loving purr rings in Carla’s ear.

“Proper,” Carla snickers, wiggling out of Leon’s arms. “Your tongue is many things…proper is not the first that comes to mind.” Carla’s hands lift Leon’s black shirt, her fingers tracing his lower stomach.

“Eager already?” Leon teases, his fingers grazing the petals of the nearby buttercup. At that precise moment, Carla’s stomach rumbles. Leon laughs. “Let’s eat. We’ll have our little fun soon enough.”

“Little fun? You’ll pay for that!” Carla huffs at the short joke, sauntering her hips as she walks towards the kitchen in the suite. An appreciative chuckle and subtle tweak to her backside her tells Carla that Leon riled her up intentionally…and she fell for it. Two muscular arms encircle her waist from behind.

“Well worth the price.” Leon’s chin rests on top of her head. Carla leans back against his chest reveling in his presence. He marvels in how effortlessly they fit. Fun-sized Leon often called her. But a presence larger than life. She turns in his arms, smirking. “It’s not like we lack for choices. So, which is it—hot and hearty, or quick and efficient to satisfy?” The tone in her voice implies other meanings.

“Ha, either as long as it involves you.” Calloused hands trace the small of her back.

Carla’s eyes dart towards Leon’s waist and back at him. Her hands resume exploring the threads of his shirt, raw desire radiating from her. From their beginning, there was no hesitancy. His warmth drew her in, making her want to bask in all that was her Leon. Hers. Carla nips affectionately at the triangle of exposed skin just below his throat. “And something of substance, I hope.”

Leon’s amber eyes flash with heat. “Hmmm, I do have something pressing for you.”

“Oh?”

“Come closer and find out.” His eyes dilate as Carla leans further in, their bodies just pressing together. Leon’s smile grows as he tries to keep a cool demeanor. “Put your arms around me,” he intones huskily.

“So that’s how it’s going to be.” Carla wraps her arms around his upper back as she stands on tip toes.

“Hold yourself just like that...if you can.” The playful challenge is impossible to ignore. Her lips ghost his neck, her breath caressing Leon’s skin. “No mischief little lion.” Carla chuckles as she twirls fingers in his dark hair.

“Good girl,” he praises.

“For now, love.” The more Carla tries to focus, the more Leon distracts her. His lips graze her forehead and down her cheek. He blows a gust of air onto the buttercup, shaking it mostly but not completely away from her hair. “You can say you want me you know Carla. I won’t bite…hard.” Goosebumps prickle her skin at the thought of Leon loving her without abandon. “You’re practically begging for it.”

“Says the man who uttered the word beg first.” Her lips are tantalizingly close to his.

A wave of lust and affection overtakes him. “I could kiss you now.”

“And just like that you admit defeat.”

An amused snort escapes Leon. A part of Leon wants to continue their banter, but he wants to immerse himself far more in everything Carla brings. He leans in to kiss her, pressing Carla against the kitchen counter. The flower is freed from its confines, falling to the floor.

“Hmmm…” A rush of fiery warmth envelop the pair. Leon’s mouth pours everything into these kisses, licking into her mouth, open and eager. Carla mewls against Leon’s lips, eliciting a low guttural moan of his own, telling her she was not the only one swept away. Carla hooks his hip with one of her legs to pull him even closer. Her skirt floats up her legs, exposing more of Carla’s glorious skin. Leon’s hand slides up her thighs under her skirt and travels further upward, grasping her ass, pressing heavily against her skin. His eyes widen at the lack of fabric underneath his fingertips.

Baritone laughter reverberates in the air. “Forget what I said about you being a good girl!” Leon teeth graze the shell of Carla’s ear.

“You aren’t the only one who can surprise their lover,” murmurs Carla. “Took you long enough to find out.”

“Let me show you my appreciation then.” His tongue teases, slowly sweeping across her lower lip, mirroring his fingers as they circle intently around her wet, unclothed entrance.

“Leon…please…”

Carla’s soft voice, muffled against his lips, briefly stops his movements. Her head nestles against the crook of Leon’s shoulder, her breath shaky. Is this too much? His fingers trace backwards along her inner thighs, away from her core. His kisses become lighter, scattered across her hair, still carrying the same warmth Carla craves. “Carla,” he murmurs.

“Sweetheart…” She laughs breathlessly against his skin, feeling cherished yet bursting with need. “That was a plea to continue. Just in a way I can return your affections better.” Her eyes move to the bunched-up position against the counter.

How is she so cute and sexy at once? A mini battle of Leon the gentleman versus Leon the lover plays out before Carla’s eyes. Spying a plush beige couch in the suite, Leon half runs, half drags Carla there. Intuitively sensing her lover’s thoughts, Carla pushes him in a seated position on the couch. He reaches out and pulls her in his arms and onto his lap, kissing her hungrily, hands roaming her curves.

Carla’s hands travel greedily down his shirt, quickly undoing his buttons. “Hmmm…” Her fingers skim Leon’s exposed muscles. “I do appreciate a man of substance.” Carla flashes Leon a naughty smile as lips join fingers, skating across his pecs with sweet, ravenous intent. Leon’s black shirt slides off his arms and is quickly discarded.

A gasp of surprise is heard as Carla’s blouse and corset fly off with Leon’s skilled hands. “Impatient man!” Carla lets out a delicious giggle, her hands looping around his neck. Her body begins rolling against him.

“You’re one to talk lioness.” Leon’s predatory smile belies his chiding words. His hips thrust upward towards her heat, his taut pants providing some but not nearly enough friction. “Carrrrrrrrrla,” he pants.

“You keep saying my name like you can’t remember it,” Carla jokes, her breath hitching at his movements. “I promise I know what my name is.”

“Oh, I know.” Leon’s eyes darken. “But I’m aiming to make you scream mine.”

Carla stills at that proclamation, her teasing bravado vanishing under the intensity of his gaze. Leon pulls Carla’s body so that his face presses against her chest, hands traversing under her billowing skirt to grip her hips and butt.

“Eyes on me love.” He looks up at her, his eyes the color of liquid amber, reflecting the lust boiling through him. His lips press invitingly on her soft mounds, licking stiffening peaks with hunger and precision.

Carla throws her head back and closes her eyes. “Oh GOD,” she cries, not bothering to lower her voice.

“Leon.” The mischief in Leon’s voice, though muffled underneath bouncing flesh, is readily apparent. “That’s my name. Say MY name when I give you pleasure like this.” His lips wrap around a pert nipple.

“What,” Carla mumbles, her thoughts scattering at his flickering tongue. Those thoughts reassemble at the cocky smirk she feels rising on Leon’s lips against her chest. Carla’s mouth opens and shuts without a sound before she laughs loudly. “You REALLY need a modesty lesson!”

“Just telling you what I’m going for, that’s all.” Leon shrugs his shoulders lazily. “I’ll wait. Show you what patience looks like.” Leon grins, leaning slightly back against the couch, a wet nipple popping out of his mouth.

Her half-lidded eyes widen at the threat. “Don’t. You. DARE.” Carla gasps, her breasts rubbing against Leon’s face. Her fingers grasp the back of his head, threading through his hair. “Don’t stop…please.”

“Please what?”

“Please…Leon…”

Carla’s voice, soft and pleading, leaves Leon beyond pleased. His grin widens against her chest, his fingers caressing the back of her thighs.

“Well, since you asked so nicely lioness.” I NEED you. Need you to be as crazy for me as I am for you. His grip becomes lighter, palms traversing up and down the back of her upper thighs and rear, wet kisses raining down her chest. Carla sinks into his touch, melting like molten golden onto him, crowning their love. She shakes with anticipation and then pleasure as two fingers swirl within her. For several minutes, her body rocks against his fingers until it becomes too much. Her hands quiver as she unbuckles Leon pants.

Leon knows he’ll be quicker at this activity than her. He plucks Carla off his lap, setting her on the side of the couch. Shoes are hastily removed and his remaining clothes shucked off in one quick, effortless movement. As he picks Carla up and puts her back in his lap, he notices she’s taken her skirt off, rendering her fully bare before him.

“Yes,” Leon growls.

They crave. They want. They come together, their shared body heat electrifying. Their names fly from one another’s mouths in unrepressed delight.

“Carla,” Leon rasps, his heat thrusting into hers, her encompassing warmth and pressure capturing him completely. He pants, pushing down the waves of pleasure cascading through his veins to prolong the moment. Carla shudders, overwhelmed, eyes glazed over as she bounces up and down Leon’s lap. The fire in Leon eyes tells Carla he feels the same. Their lips crash onto one another as she bucks against him, clinging to his shoulders and curling her toes tightly, her rhythm matching the heat rapidly pounding into her. They grip one another, crying out as they release, their world going dark in a scorching blaze.

Leon sinks against the couch in the aftermath, arms still tightly wound around Carla’s waist. Carla collapses against him with a groan.

“Leon…” The room is filled with heavy panting and intermingling breath. She presses her forehead to his, still craving a connection to him. Sounds of the festival and tavern below are faint and distant.

“God, I love you.” Carla laughs tiredly, blushing, placing a feather-like kiss on the tip of his nose. His heart leaps at her words—unvarnished, direct, vulnerable, like Carla herself.

“And I love you.” Leon gives a soft, lop-sided grin. “You really are too much.”

“Happy anniversary Leon. The first of many I hope.” The tender note in her voice tells Leon how much she truly means it.

“The first of many, I KNOW.”

“You hungry?”

Laughter echoes in the suite. Carla tumbles on the couch, Leon’s arms enfolding her as he lays overtop her. Smoldering flames of desire reignite from the top of her head to the tips of her toes as his lips press against her neck eagerly.

“For you, Carla? Always.”

#ikemen prince #ikepri smut #ikemen prince smut #ikemen prince leon #sexy ikemen summer #sexy ikemen summer cc #otome #otome fanfic #ikemen smut #ikemen fanfic

35 notes · View notes

atinylittlepain · 2 years ago

Text

Chapter Five

no-outbreak!Joel Miller x f!oc

series masterlist

series playlist

warnings: 18+ heavy angst, references to past injury related to DV

a/n: so we are in for another heavy sitting. as always, my goal is always truth, nothing gratuitous, but honest. my DMs are always open, I'd love to hear what you're thinking about this one.

............................................

And on this bed there lyeth a knight

His wound is bleeding day and night

By his bedside kneeleth a maid

And she weepeth both night and day

Corpus Christi Carol - Jeff Buckley

.........................................

Suicide watch. When he first moved out here, those were the two words he was offered about the month of January. The darkest, meanest, coldest stretch of winter. Spring isn’t even a promise yet, and any warmth, any light from the glow of the holidays has already flickered and faded out. A lonely time, a time when people start thinking about things they shouldn’t. A time to check on your neighbors when you can, when the snow lets up and parts clear enough to venture out on the roads, at least. But for now, everything is close and quiet and white, a sheer wall of wind and freeze when they trudge out in the mornings to check on the chickens and the sheep. Always quick to shirk and shiver back inside, the promise of a near-continuous fire and coffee that stings warmth back into fingers,

Sarah came home for Christmas, another strange explaining, maneuvering and moving around the fact of the friend, right, friend, staying with Joel. A swell of pride when his daughter was gracious about it, if not a little smug, knowing smiles when Dolores wasn’t looking that Joel refused to indulge. Everyone making careful room for each other around the dining table until, by the end of the week, New Year’s flirting, it wasn’t careful anymore, just care. Definitely on purpose, Sarah saying something more like see you later rather than goodbye to Dolores. A promise and a prayer for her lonely father. Another thing he heard when he first moved out here from his daughter over the phone. Worry, I’m worried, dad, it’s lonely out there, lone and alone out there.

But he’s not alone, not lone, and certainly not lonely. Learning, the both of them. What he thought would be two steps back had been more like a stopped breath, quick to catch itself and keep humming. Because she stayed, is staying. For the winter, at least. But for now, spring is so far away, so he can allow for this to feel like a staying. Like something has changed, and it has.

When did it change, he isn’t sure. Early December, her still collecting all the tender angles of herself, that terrible thrum of bruise still healing around her throat. Middle of the night and he heard something, the creak of floorboards jumping his heart hot and to the hilt of his chest. Bleary, both of them, he found her tucking up into the corner of the couch, something dark pulling around her eyes. He had asked her if she was alright all on one quiet exhale. She started to speak, then stopped herself, taking her bottom lip between her teeth as if to dam the words back. Maybe a breath, maybe two, and she finally told him that her room was too cold and that she would just sleep on the couch, really, no worry, really. But he knew that she wouldn’t, all those mornings in the beginning, finding her folded in on herself, awake and unblinking, on alert. Easier, maybe, for her to say that her room was too cold, to call it something else, even when they both knew what it was.

And he knows for certain now, because now, when night pulls a heavy pall down over the mountains, they both toe their way upstairs, a careful accounting of space when they slip into bed. His side, her side. She cries in her sleep, small, broken sounds that rouse him. She kicks in her sleep, thrashes and jerks, and he lets her. Takes every small hurt she could possibly lay upon him, and doesn’t make a sound. He hasn’t decided if it would be better to wake her when it happens. It always passes. Always, eventually, her hand finding some part of him, clutched in the thin fabric of his t-shirt, or caught around his arm. And it passes, quietly, carefully, bodies curling around each other, nothing ever said about it in the morning. By the time Sarah came to visit, a conversation about who would get the guest room didn’t even have to happen. It had already changed by then.

But tonight it isn’t cry or combat that wakes him. It’s her, well awake and shaking his shoulder, her eyes shining in the pale slant of moonlight. He murmurs, quiet, what, what is it? Slow to sit up and fumble with the lamp on his nightstand, finally awake enough to fully see her, kneeling in a rumpled nest of sheets on her side of the bed, her hands dropping in her lap in an anxious twist.

“I have a feeling.” It takes his mind a moment to configure those words into any meaning. A feeling, right. She’s been anxious all week, lingering in the barn with Avril and Lucy, had even called the vet of her own accord, asking if he was sure that it would be another few weeks until it was time. He was sure, but Dolores wasn’t.

“Okay.” No questioning it, he’s already unfolding himself from bed and stumbling around the room to get enough clothes on to keep him warm when they trudge out to the barn. She quietly follows suit.

Snow has a way of turning everything silent. When it’s this cold, the flakes coming down are more like fluff, a constant blink to clear them from his eyes as their boots sink and slurry into the thick muffle of it. Dolores is undeterred by any of it, a few paces ahead of him, already slipping through the barn door before he can help her open it.

Of course, she was right, somehow. He hears it before he sees it. The doleful bleating of a very ancient pain, an understood pain. The ewe is laying on her side, lifting her head with a despondent huff from time to time, lips curling back to loosen another moan. As if they know, the rest of the flock huddles away from the corner she has nestled down in, nervous chatterings and thumps of hooves in the dim light of the barn.

There’s no hesitation in how she kneels down alongside the animal, palm to stomach, a smooth circle through her thickening wool. Joel knows that the ewe will do this all on her own, that, unless something goes wrong, they could have stayed in bed and waited until the morning to greet whoever is coming without the viscera of this moment. But he doesn’t say a thing, hangs back with the rest of the herd and lets her murmur quiet comforts to Lucy.

It isn’t much longer before there is a body, slick and slight, tucked behind its mother. It is perfect, curled on its side, cream coat, and so impossibly small. It is not moving, and Joel knows that life must move, quickly, and as soon as possible. But it does not move, does not cry, does not unfold its thin legs.

Something that Joel had failed to tell Dolores. An intentional failure. Something that the vet had told him. This was Lucy’s first time lambing, only one, they had discovered through the thick thrum of an ultrasound. A warning, a preparing, that the first is always uncertain, always a question mark. That afternoon, when he picked Dolores up from work and she asked him what the vet said, perfect hope rounding her cheeks, how could he do anything other than lie to her? And now, oh, how he regrets that. His fault, her hope, his fault.

She shuffles over on her knees to the quiet, unbeating body, and she knows immediately. He can see the quick jolt of knowing pass through her, a tensing, a turning inward.

“I–” That is all she manages to get out, her hand doing something that looks like reaching or grasping, suspended somewhere in the air between herself and the lamb. And Joel is going to have to lie to her again. A gruesome thing, what must be done when something like this happens. A body cannot just be a body, and it certainly cannot be treated like one. It had made him feel sick when the vet first told him what must be done to something small and unmoving to protect the rest of the flock.

“We need to call the vet, he’ll come make sure Lucy’s okay and take the body–”

“What?” It startles him, the loudest she’s ever spoken to him, a clipped bark of a question, her head jerking around to look at him with narrowed eyes. Made even more striking by the strange scar of pain that rasps in her voice now. He has to swallow hard before he answers.

“The vet, he’ll take the–”

“No, he’s not taking anything.” She sets her jaw in a firm line when she finishes speaking, and Joel still finds himself stunned by this steeled resolve of hers, trying to stay gentle, careful with what he says.

“Dove, it’s not safe to leave it in here with the rest of the flock.”

“I’m not going to leave it in here, Joel. I’m going to bury it.” She glances back at the lamb, its mother still laying in a slump of exhaustion, nearly as unmoving as it is, save for the soft rise and fall of breath. And Dolores is already getting up before he can say anything else, shrugging out of her coat and laying it out in the hay, careful hands cupping around the fact of the lamb’s body, his protests die in his throat as he watches how gently she wraps it in the fabric, some sort of makeshift funeral shroud. She cradles the bundle in one arm, like a gift, like a child, and she spares no attention to Joel as she walks past him, plucking a shovel from the wall of the barn before shouldering her way back out into the night. All he can do to dumbly follow after her.

It’s insane, and frankly, it’s stupid. A good couple inches of snow on the ground, the frozen solid ground. Dark for miles save for the cast of light from the front porch of the house. Yet Dolores moves with a schooled purpose, like she knows just the spot, like there is a place for something like this, out behind the house.

Well below freezing, and she’s no longer wearing a coat, but there is no hesitation to her movements, how carefully she sets the small bundle down in the snow, and how decisively she drives the shovel down through the frozen layers, the clean slice of sound when she sinks it into the dirt. There will be no arguing with something like this. She is ready, hackles raised when he says her name, fierce eyes and the hard jut of her chin, all slanted in the shadows of the dim light bleeding out from the house. But he is not looking to stop her, not looking for a fight, only to offer her his jacket.

“I’ll go get the other shovel.” And so he does. And so they dig. And so it is a tedious, terrible task. Snot freezes to his face, tears too. His whole body moves past the shake of it, a resignation to the cold, muscles locking up close and tight. Neither of them say a thing, the hard pant of their breath getting swallowed up by the snow.

Eventually, there is a hole in the ground that is big enough for the lamb. She does that thing again, that near-painful thing to watch, how she cradles the body close to her chest, like a mother, like she knows exactly what to do in a situation where nothing could possibly be a right answer. And a small part of him wonders if the way she moves comes from something in her past. Care that once was, and no longer is.

By the time the earth has been turned over fresh and lifted where they buried the lamb, the sun is sending the first stream of milky light down the face of the mountain. Both of them too cold to do much more than prop the shovels against the side of the house and crawl inside, instant relief in the fast flood of heat. Dolores wordlessly shuffles into the bathroom downstairs, the shower starting to run as Joel calls the vet. He’s too tired, and too cold, to give the vet much more of an explanation than that the lamb has been taken care of, and that Lucy needs checked out. He hangs up before any questions can be asked.

Everything smarts and stings under the heat of a shower, and when he gets out, skin pink and singing with it, he can see through the crack of his bathroom door that she has gotten back into bed, turned away from him on her side, sheets pulled up tight, one hand clutching at them to keep them up over her shoulder. And it seems like the best idea, really, to try to put a few unconscious hours between them and what just happened, so he pulls on a clean t-shirt and boxers, and joins her. He turns on his side, hands kept close to his body, the slightest bend in his knees so that they won’t brush against hers. Her eyes are open, palm tucked under her cheek, unwavering gaze that he gives back to her.

“Are you okay?”

“I think it was a girl.” When she speaks as quietly as she does now, everything starts to rasp a little, and he has to wonder if it isn’t painful, the sound of struggle present and clear.

“I’m sorry, Dovey.” Because it is certainly painful for him, a thick flood of tears gripped in his throat. Something nearly loosens in his chest when she lays the gentlest palm on his cheek, her thumb stroking just beneath his eye, like she can feel the salt collecting there, soothing it away.

“I am too.” He could tell her that she has nothing to be sorry for, but he knows that isn’t what she means. Sorry for the situation, sorry for what had to be done. His sorry, something else. Sorry that protection seems to always turn into something sour. Sorry that he can’t seem to get it right for her. They curl their sorry around each other. For the first time like this, conscious closeness. He lets her lead, shifting closer only when her fingers curl in the front of his t-shirt, draping a careful arm around her waist, only letting it rest there when the quick tensing of her body smoothes out.

How long does it take? For them to fit all the pieces of themselves together. A slow process, a small process, muscle shifting and shaping around muscle until her nose is pressed in the center of his chest, and his palms have spanned the slope of her spine.

Sleep, he finds, comes easily like this.

…

The vet comes later in the day, a merciful break in the snow. Lucy is fine, he says, just an unlucky first season. Dolores doesn’t speak to the man, but keeps close, arms crossed over her chest and mouth screwed to the side.

There is just enough daylight left for them to go into town after the vet leaves, groceries and the library, and Joel using whatever will he has left to not ask the question that has been chewing at the edges of his mind since last night. No good way to ask it, no right way, wanting to know where she learned to care like that, pretty certain that he already does.

Until unfortunately, after dinner, on the couch, the words find their awkward way out of his mouth. A question that’s more like observation. She sighs.

And he learns that hers is a phantom care. Something that could have been, but wasn’t. Something that she didn’t let get far enough for it to become another thing shackling her to husband. How often small things, cared-for things, become pawns, become lock and key and chain. How quickly love can get used against us. No, she did not let that happen.

“Did he know?”

“He knew nothing.” They sit on the couch side by side, close enough that her shoulder brushes against his with every small shift she makes. So when he asks her how she managed that, she doesn’t look at him when she answers, eyes turned down to her hands in her lap.

“I caught it early, so it was simple.” He nearly laughs, because what else could he do with the sick feeling her words swirl in his stomach? Nothing about this is simple, no matter how hard she tries to convince him that it is, tries to convince herself that it is. What gets saved, and what must be lost.

“Dove.” Quiet and small, she makes an indignant noise in the back of her throat at the way he says it.

“Don’t, Joel. I don’t regret what I did.”

“I didn’t say that you should.”

“Well, I don’t.” Anger, that’s what this is. What it has been since last night. He hasn’t seen her angry, not before this. Like she doesn’t quite know what to do with it, fists bunched up, knuckles tightening over and over again, on the brink of tears.

He can, he thinks that he knows he can, that she will not recoil if he does. Though he still moves slowly, plenty of space and time for her to give him no. But she doesn’t, lets him smooth out the tight furl of one of her hands with his. Fingertip to fingertip, every line in his palm pressed to hers.

There is nothing that he could say. And there is no making this right, any of it. But he can hold it for her, right here, in his palm.

She has managed to sustain this anger for long enough that he can see the fatigue starting to slip in around the edges of it. The pained pinch between her brow, and the way she keeps letting out little huffs that are starting to sound more like sighs. He sits with her, watches and waits for it to turn from simmer to slump. And when it does, he is ready to tuck her into his side, and she is ready to allow it.

“I don’t like that vet.” Said with a weak breath of a laugh, he can feel the small jump of it in her ribs pressed into the side of his.

“He’s just doing his job.”

“I know, I still don’t like him.”

“Then I don’t like him either.” He thinks he can see a smile trying not to curl in the corner of her mouth. Like bird or butterfly, some rare and winged miracle in her palm settling on his thigh, soothing a circle into the fabric of his jeans. Her care, and how she shows it.

…

It’s another week before Avril gives birth. Two perfect girls that come in the middle of the day. They meet them in the evening, just home from work, Dolores always heading to the barn first before anything else, still in her uniform. The rest of the herd steps aside, something dignified in how they part around her to let her into the barn, clear now who they really answer to these days. For every martyr there is mercy, and it comes in the sight of two small, uncertain bodies, stumbling over each other, still tinged pink around their young angles, already nursing sure and strong from their mother.

He knows that these lambs can be sold for slaughter. Small, unknowing bodies are worth so much, after all. But he has never had the stomach to do it, something that will soon be a problem with how the flock continues to grow year after year. Maybe he will just build a bigger barn when the time comes for it.

“Will you name them?” She’s pleased with his question, he can tell, a smile over her shoulder for him. She names the one with a blot of black on her nose Punch, and the one with ears pink as shells Judy. A peculiar harkening to those old, slapstick puppet shows, though maybe it’s fitting with the way the lambs shove and stutter into each other, still learning grace.

Dolores maintains a distance of respect, her arms clasped around her middle, intent to watch new mother and daughters figuring each other out for the first time. Not wanting to disturb, Joel murmurs something about starting dinner, only a faint nod from her as he steps out of the barn.

He has gotten better in the kitchen these days, Dolores showing him how, to the point that dinner is almost ready by the time she comes inside. Her cheeks are flushed down by frost and something else, something that’s rounding them up until her eyes crinkle. Warmth floods in his chest at the sight.

“I could watch them all night, but I don’t think Avril would appreciate that.”

“She’s always tended toward the fiercer side, but I reckon she wouldn’t mind your company.” Because he certainly wouldn’t, not ever. Never minding, not with her.

When they sit down to dinner, it’s intentional, the way he keeps his chair tucked in a little closer so that his knees brush against hers under the table. If she notices, if it bothers her, she doesn’t show it, cheek propped in palm, all the ways this is different now. Puts her elbows on the table now. Takes a bite before he does now. Small, contented sounds in the back of her throat now, a swell of pride that he did okay for her.

…

“I need to buy a new coat.”

“Alright, then you and I are gonna have that talk.” That talk, the one he promised to Patty two months ago. He’s done a good job of avoiding her, blame it on the weather, blame it on the holidays, on business that no one in this town can really lay claim to. But he had to come in, because he needs a new coat, happy to give his old one to Dolores, who seemed glad enough to be wearing it that he wouldn’t imagine ever asking for it back. Or maybe he’s the one glad enough that she’s wearing it. Either way, there was no more avoiding Patty, a new coat too needed.

Easy enough to find something that fits, something warm enough, it’s the rest that he’s worried about. Maybe not worried, but resigned. Because with Patty, there is never anything except for the truth.

It all comes out slowly, a bit awkward. After all, Joel has been telling many lies lately. But he tells it all to her, sitting in the backroom of the shop, surrounded by the sweet, soft smell of old clothes. And when he finishes speaking, Patty sits back, silent for a moment, nodding, the lines around her mouth deepening in a tight purse.

“And that’s all of it?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s not coming back?”

“No.”

“Who else knows?”

“No one, just you.”

“Jesus, Joel.” Like a scolded child, the fact of the mess he has made finally faced by someone else. And it is a mess, he knows that. That doesn’t make him want it any less.

“Does she plan on staying?” A question he wasn’t prepared for, because he has been battering it away to the edges of his mind, not letting it seep in. A good question, one he cannot answer. Patty sighs when he says nothing in reply.

“Is she okay?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am.” Yes, he can answer that with perfect confidence. Even with everything that isn’t right, that hasn’t been right, he knows that Dolores is okay. That, at the very least, something he can be sure of, make sure of.

“Well, okay then.” It is left at that. Because, somehow, Patty understands. And he’s pretty sure that a handy majority of the people in town would understand too, not that he is eager to test that theory. It takes something happening to move to a town like this. It takes something happening to choose a town like this. It takes something happening to get out, and not look back.

…

Something has changed again. Still the shared, quiet ascent upstairs at night. Except now, there is no his side, and there is no her side. They are still slow about it, shy about it, but eventually, every night, their bodies relearn the boundaries of one another, seeking out the softest parts, the places that will give to a gentle palm or a tired cheek. Sometimes, she still cries, the small shake of it beneath his hands, over his ribs. But there’s no more thrashing, no more dormant violence. Maybe she just needed something to hold onto.

..................................

taglist: @cassiopeia @eleganthottubfun @anoverwhelmingdin @sscorpiiio @joeldjarin @casa-boiardi @suzmagine @syakhairi @spookyxsam @northernbluess @hier--soir @joelsgreys @wannab-urs @tieronecrush @trulybetty @softlyspector @noisynightmarepoetry @csarab615 @ratoonstown @harriedandharassed @survivingandenduring @lizzie-cakes @beskarandblasters @narxisus

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #tlou #tlou fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #the last of us #joel miller series #joel miller story #joel miller fic #joel miller au #joel miller fics

176 notes · View notes