backoff-imreadingdarkness

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Siri, I've been thinking about mob Curtis (yours, the awful but we still want him to ruin us Curtis). All these threats of showing you off to others, including actually taking you in front of his men. He does it to humiliate you and break you and because for him it's hot. But what if some of his men take it as a sort of invitation. A sign that they can humiliate you as if you were a free for all slut. Of course none dares to do it in front of Curtis. But when you're alone?

Maybe you've been walking from your bedroom to the dining room for dinner with Curtis, or to his office where he summoned you. On your way, one of his goons checks you out, makes some nasty comment and slaps your ass.

You're too scared to react, so you just quicken your pace to get to Curtis fast before the man does more. You don't tell Curtis of it either, thinking he would blame you for it, or that he wouldn't even react at all.

But Curtis reads your body language like an open book. He notices something is off. It's not just your usual tension and shyness. You will tell him what the fuck happened.

And what will he do after learning the truth?

Ramifications

Pairing: Curtis Everett x Fem!Reader Word Count: 5,895 Summary: It was only a matter of time before Curtis’ treatment of you inspired others to treat you the same way, but he’s sure to nip that in the bud immediately, and in a brutal and unforgettable way. Warnings: Mob AU. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. Mob elements. Implied captivity. Non con groping (not by Curtis). Degradation and being called a whore and slut (not by Curtis). Knife violence (not on Reader). Death of a minor character. Brief mentions of blood and gore. Vaginal fingering. Oral sex (f receiving). Face riding. Unprotected sex. Dirty talk. Overstimulation. General angsty vibes and possessiveness.

A/N: I just…have descended into the deepest depths of sin, and I’m taking you all with me lolll. Also: @biteofcherry your ask was amazing and I instantly had this idea when I read it but knew that I needed to establish some things before we got here, so thank you for being patient with me and for fostering my obsession with this Curtis 🥴

PRIZED POSSESSION MASTERLIST

It wasn’t unusual for you to be summoned to Curtis’ home office, or for one of his men to escort you there.

What was unusual was how closely Franco Jr.–Curtis’ head of security–was following you. How you could feel the way he was leering at you the entire journey across the manor.

Another thing that wasn’t unusual for you was feeling a constant sense of fear. You were in enemy territory after all–Curtis’ prized possession to do with as he pleased–and there was nothing you could do about it.

But right now, as you turned down another long hallway and realized it was only you and Franco in the vicinity, and that he was so close now that you could feel his hot breath along the back of your neck, all of your internal alarm bells started ringing.

You hugged yourself tightly, tucking your chin against the top of your chest and keeping your gaze fixed on the floor in front of you as you picked up your pace until you were practically speed walking the familiar path to Curtis’ office.

You didn’t get very far before you were being grabbed from behind and shoved into the wall hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs as you sank back against it in a frightened daze.

“It’s cute that you think you can play hard to get,” Franco laughed as he sneered down at you. He was pressed so close that you could feel the bulk of his body through his expensive suit, and it felt wrong.

It still seemed like a betrayal each and every time your body gave in–and eagerly responded–to Curtis and his frequent ruin of you. Perhaps it was a symptom of his complete ownership over you, the way that it felt so abundantly, terrifyingly clear right now that Franco in your personal space was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Suddenly one of his big hands shot out, painfully gripping your face and tilting your fearful gaze up to meet his. His nostrils flared when you choked on a scared whine, trying to recoil from his hold.

“You really think any of us are buying this innocent act anymore? We can all hear the way you like being fucked like a whore all day, every day. You act so sweet and innocent, but you sure do keen so pretty when you’re filled with cock. I bet you beg for it too, you fucking slut.”

Your insides curdled at the truth to Franco’s words. 

Because he was right. Your days were spent being fucked and flaunted by Curtis. He reveled in it. Putting you on display, using you, and sometimes in front of his men. You really were his prized possession–his human trophy–and there was nothing you could do about it.

What made it even worse was that there were so many times that he made you like it, made you beg for him and then thank him afterward for using you in such filthy, degrading ways.

So there really was truth to Franco’s words. You knew this was your reality now, you lived it day after day, but to have someone so callously speak it aloud, to rub your face in it, it made you want to shrink into nothing and disappear forever.

It made you feel so dirty and ashamed. It made you hate yourself, that this is what you had become.

Franco scoffed when your tears brimmed over, streaking down your hot cheeks and wetting his fingers that were still digging into your skin.

He leaned in close enough that his lips hovered over yours and made you cower against the wall even further. “Maybe once the boss is done with you,” he husked, “He’ll let the rest of us have a turn before we get rid of you, permanently.” 

Your heart lurched at the very idea, but then Franco’s free hand was shoving its way between your legs, beneath your dress, and groping your cunt through your panties hard enough to make you squeal in pain. 

It was over just as quickly as it started. Franco’s grip on your face retreated, and he tugged you away from the wall, pushing you toward Curtis’ office and slapping your ass hard enough to make you stumble. 

He sniggered behind you as you regained your footing, hugging yourself tighter than before as you sniffed back your tears and tried to stop shaking so hard. 

From the glimpse you had gotten of him and his mood this morning, you knew that Curtis wouldn’t want to deal with any tears today, so you made sure to wipe your face dry as you arrived outside of his office. You kept your gaze down as Franco opened the door and stood back, waiting for you to step inside. 

Keeping as much distance from him as you could, you timidly stepped into Curtis’ office, flinching as the door closed behind you, leaving you alone with the man himself. 

You should have immediately gone to stand before Curtis’ desk to wait to see what he wanted from you today, but you were still a little shell shocked from your encounter with Franco, and you weren’t able to shake it off before Curtis could notice.

He was nothing if not a shark able to smell vulnerability like blood in the water, and he rose from his seat and stalked toward you before you could even comprehend his approach.

Curtis loomed over you, his stoic face giving away nothing as he watched you, took inventory of your evident distress and the tears that still lingered in your eyes that you tried to keep anywhere but on him.

Having none of it, Curtis gripped your chin–his touch much gentler than Franco’s had been–and tipped your face up so he could meet your gaze. You weren’t sure what he saw reflected back at him, but it was enough to have him frowning as his brows drew together.

“What happened?”

“N-nothing–” you started to lie, terrified of what his reaction might be to the truth. 

Would he blame you for Franco’s behavior? Would he follow through on his minion’s wish to have a go with you before disposing of you altogether? 

Would this be the thing that finally set Curtis off in a way that you’d never recover from? 

“Don’t. Lie. To. Me,” Curtis enunciated slowly, dangerously, as he ducked closer, his blue eyes flashing in a way that made terror skitter up your spine.

The truth spilled out of you without reserve then, your voice quaking and tearful as you told him what had happened out in the hallway with his head of security.

Just as before, Curtis’ face was mostly impassive, but there was the most minute clench of his jaw as you finished speaking that had panic prickling all along your skin and a wobbly apology spilling from your lips like your assault had been your fault, “I’m so sorry–”

Curtis cut off your apology with a quiet murmur of, “I’ll take care of it.” 

Without another word, he turned on his heel, strode back to his desk, and pointed at the pedestal as he went before taking his seat.

Knowing better than to question the wordless demand, you scurried across the room and up onto the pedestal. Resisting the urge to hug yourself more–hide yourself away as much as you could–you forced your arms down to your sides and tilted your chin up ever so slightly, angling yourself toward Curtis to give him the best view of your still trembling body and the outfit he had picked out for you today. 

The entire time you stood there as Curtis resumed his work, stealing lingering glances at you every so often, you stewed in anxiety, your stomach churning as you fretted over all the ways that what happened with Franco could be blamed on you. 

And how, as a result, Curtis would undoubtedly punish you for everything.

You didn’t have too long to stew in your dread, because just the next day, you found yourself seated in a chair in the middle of the large meeting room Curtis often used for mob business. 

You couldn’t stop trembling as all of his men filed into the room, one after another. The security team, his own personal bodyguard, and a bunch of others that you knew helped keep his outfit running on a daily basis. 

Despite the way you kept your tearful gaze downward, you could feel all of the men leering at you. A few of them actually jeered, too. It took you right back to that first night–when Curtis had murdered your family before brutally assaulting you as his men watched.

Your insides roiled and quaked at the memory, and your dread was slowly morphing into terror the longer you awaited whatever was already set into motion. You curled in on yourself as you spiraled about what was going to happen next.

Would Curtis punish you in front of all of his men? 

It certainly seemed likely, because why else would he have brought you in here and sat you smack dab in the center of them all? 

Would he fuck you again as they all watched?

Your chest tightened on an aborted sob at the very thought. You didn’t think you could endure that kind of brutal, demeaning desecration again. Truly, you didn’t think you had the mental capacity to survive it.

And maybe that was the whole point–the final dose of punishment–to break you for good.

You closed your eyes and shuddered, quickly swiping away a stray tear that escaped, and then gasped as a warm hand suddenly touched your shoulder.

Your head snapped up to find Curtis standing over you, his handsome face somehow indifferent and stormy at the same time. The urge to cry increased tenfold as he watched you for a long moment, panic clawing at you from the inside out as you tried to predict and brace for what would happen next, what directive would come out of his mouth.

The longer he stared at you–and everyone else watched–the more frantic you grew, until you were reaching for Curtis’ hand that was on your shoulder and clinging to him as you whispered, “Please, I’m sorry–”

“Hush,” he murmured, his hand slipping from your shoulder. He held it out to you, an unspoken cue for you to rise to your feet. 

Scared and confused, you accepted his proffered hand and stood. Swallowing hard as your eyes flickered between his, you desperately tried to read the secrets within those stormy, blue depths, the wicked intentions that you knew were always brewing just beneath the surface.

Curtis’ intent became no clearer as he led you across the room toward the long meeting table, then the head seat where he usually sat during business sessions. Once you were sitting in the unfamiliar chair and anxiously gripping the sides of your dress like a lifeline, you stared up at him, still clearly confused.

He didn’t give you an explanation or any further directive, just gently pet your head before turning away–and toward his men–his body tensing as he stalked back to the center of the room to stand before the now empty chair you had just vacated.

You could feel a wave of tension wash over the room, Curtis’ men instantly going silent and many of them looking as outwardly confused and concerned as you yourself felt. 

“To my extreme disappointment,” Curtis began, his voice so strong and steely it had everyone around him standing at attention, “It seems as if you all need a reminder that you’re not to touch, or even look at, what’s mine.” 

He turned to Franco suddenly, pointing to the empty chair before him. “Sit,” he commanded his head of security, his tone edged with something that had all of your hair standing on end as you tensed in your own seat.

The ever present smirk instantly dropped from Franco’s face. He swallowed nervously as he glanced around the room, but no one else–not one of his other peers or direct reports–would meet his gaze. 

Straightening, Franco smoothed his now trembling hands down the front of his suit jacket before he slowly made his way to the empty chair and sat down. He anxiously gripped the chair arms on either side of him as his cautious gaze lifted to meet Curtis’. 

Curtis sauntered closer, until he was looming over the other man. “I heard you touched my prized possession, Franco. That you’re real eager to get a go with her.”

“No,” Franco immediately scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s not—“

Just a raise of Curtis’ hand had Franco going silent. “Did you touch what’s mine?” Curtis asked softly.

“Y-yes, but I was just scaring her a little—“

Moving faster than you had ever seen anyone move in your life, Curtis pulled a long serrated knife from behind his back–the handle of which you hadn’t even noticed tucked into his belt–and stabbed it through the back of Franco’s hand. 

The hand he had used yesterday to forcefully grope you. 

Franco screamed and writhed in pain as you whimpered and covered your face with your hands to block out the terrifying sight.

“Please, boss! I’m sorry—“ Franco’s plea turned into a scream so agonized and inhuman, that you felt your stomach lurch. 

Even with your hands covering your eyes, you squeezed them tightly shut, desperate to block out everything that was unfolding before you. Even though you couldn’t see what was happening, you could hear it, and it was horrifying.

You heard the sounds of a struggle, a grunt of effort, and then a strange, sickly wet sound that had your insides turning over. A beat later, there was a quiet sound of impact followed by a wet gurgle, and then…

Complete and utter silence. 

It was so silent, it was unnatural, and only emphasized the way your heart thundered in your ears. It took you a moment to comprehend that you could hear something else too–Curtis panting–and then his rough voice loudly snarled, “I hope I’ve made myself perfectly fucking clear.”

After another beat of excruciating silence, Curtis shouted, “Everyone get the fuck out!”

You were trembling so hard, you weren’t sure that you could actually stand, but Curtis’ directive was loud and clear, and if ever there was a moment to obey him, it was now. 

Slowly, you dropped your hands from your face, your breath shallow and difficult to catch, coming in quick, frantic gulps as your body was overcome by fear. 

First, you saw all of Curtis’ men filing out of the conference room in a quick, hurried line. 

Then, you saw Curtis himself, looming a few feet away, staring right at you. His big body seemed even tenser than before–his broad chest still heaving with exertion–and when he shifted slightly, you saw Franco just behind him.

Slumped back in the chair, dead.

Franco’s face was covered in blood. What used to be his eyes were now two sockets of gore that had bile instantly rising to the back of your throat. The long, jagged knife that had been pierced through his hand the last you saw, was now shoved through the underside of his chin to the hilt. 

You started shaking harder, your face twisting in horror at the grisly sight. And then suddenly it was blocked from your view as Curtis stalked toward you, making you feel like helpless prey now more than ever. 

But once you got a good look at him, you noticed that Curtis’ eyes weren’t wild or unhinged like you had expected. As he crouched before you, his gaze was calm. Placid. 

Pleased. 

When he cupped your chin, you felt Franco’s warm, sticky blood that coated Curtis’ hands smear along your skin now and the sharp smell of copper fill your nose. 

“See, I told you that I’d take care of it,” Curtis hummed. “No one touches what’s mine.”

You just nodded dumbly, because what else could you do? Curtis had just violently murdered a man twice his size, in the most gruesome and unhinged way, simply for touching you. 

And for some reason, in that moment, with the way Curtis was watching you expectedly, you knew that he had done this for you, in his own fucked up way.

“T-thank you,” you trembled, your breath hitching as you tried not to cry, tried so hard to stave off your terror and desire to flee so as not to have Curtis’ ire aimed your way next.

He smiled at your gratitude, and the beautiful sight seemed absurd paired with the scene that surrounded you both. The bloody aftermath of deranged violence and unapologetic retribution. 

But you really were grateful in a sense–so, so thankful that all of this hadn’t been directed at you.

“You’re welcome,” Curtis replied. He watched you for a long moment, something familiar sparking to life in his gaze. “Now, why don’t you help me get cleaned up?” He drew his thumb along your bottom lip, his eyes flickering there and lingering as his nostrils flared. “And then you can give me a more thorough thank you for taking such good care of you.”

You didn’t resist as he stood tall and tugged you from your seat along with him. As Curtis turned and led you from the room, you were sure to keep your gaze fixed on the floor and far, far away from Franco’s dead body.

You were pretty sure that you were in shock.

The journey from the meeting room to the master bedroom was a complete blank in your frazzled mind. You were having trouble focusing on anything other than your paralyzing fear, and each time you closed your eyes, all you could see was the gory aftermath that had once been Franco slumped in that chair.

As you stood in the shower with Curtis now, naked and trembling, the one functioning brain cell you had left was screaming at you to get it together, to be good, to not make him angry.

Because you didn’t want to end up like Franco.

You tried so hard to focus on that one goal–to be good for Curtis–but it seemed impossible to get your body to align with your mind. 

You just couldn’t stop shaking or suppress your tears of terror.

And to add to your complete shock and disorientation–Curtis was being surprisingly gentle with you as he finished rinsing Franco’s blood from both your bodies before tugging you flush against him.

As he hummed in content and nuzzled along your neck, it had a memory from your childhood surfacing out of nowhere, of the aloof guard dog your father had lethally trained as a method of defense that would viciously tear apart other small animals, then seek you out for love and affection after. 

That’s what Curtis reminded you of now, as he dragged his lips along your hairline, his big hands gently cupping your bare ass as his hips rocked and pressed the hard steel of his cock against your belly.

You couldn’t help but think that in some weird way, he was using intimacy with you to recalibrate after murdering Franco. 

It didn’t really matter one way or another, all you knew for sure was that you were trying your best to keep your terror at bay and be as compliant as possible as not to incur Curtis’ wrath.

Despite your efforts, Curtis was smart and observant, and he obviously picked up on your fear and overwhelm.

“You’re trembling so hard, pretty prize,” he husked as he cradled the side of your face and made you meet his gaze. As a few tears finally escaped and streaked down your cheeks, Curtis groaned, licking his lips as he leaned in to murmur, “I can tell by the way you so sweetly hid your face back there, that you’re probably not used to witnessing that kind of violence, huh?”

You shook your head quickly, an involuntary whimper spilling past your lips as the grisly remains of Franco flashed through your mind.

“Your father never read you into any of his business dealings?”

“No, never,” you whispered. 

“Mmm, he probably wanted to preserve that soft heart of yours.” Curtis’ grip on your face shifted, his head moving closer as his thumb tugged down your bottom lip. “My prized possession isn’t just pretty, she’s so fucking innocent too, isn’t she?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer before he kissed you. It was as possessive as ever, but there was also a…not hesitance, but curiosity to it, like Curtis was holding back to see how you would respond to him, especially in this moment.

It’s a test, your frantic mind screamed, and you knew you needed to pass it–to please Curtis–to keep yourself unharmed, to keep yourself alive.

You never really resisted Curtis’ kisses–or general advances–you weren’t stupid. But you never initiated anything with him either, and you just couldn’t shake the feeling that that’s what he wanted right now. Maybe it was his way of seeing how grateful you really were, that he had so brutally murdered your assaulter. 

That he had “taken care of you.”

He had mentioned before wanting a thorough thank you after all, and now you knew he meant it.

So the next time Curtis’ lips left yours for a brief second, you chased his retreat, kissing him now as you pressed closer and clung to his shoulders, offering yourself up to him in this new way.

He groaned at the small show of supplication–of desire for him–kissing you more fiercely as he framed your face between his hands and licked his way into your mouth.

You knew that Curtis Everett was a bad man. You, better than anyone, knew what he was capable of. 

But as he all but devoured you now, you had never felt such an intensely feral need directed your way. Something about his shameless, ardent desire for you made it easy to pretend that you wanted this.

When Curtis' hand found its way between your legs and his fingers started to trace soft circles against your clit, you didn’t need to pretend anymore, because it felt so good, and that–feeling good–felt so much better than being terrified and constantly on edge.

So you chased that feeling now, your body finally syncing up with your mind and spreading your legs enough to give Curtis’ hand more room to work. You gasped as he did just that, rocking your hips against his touch and meeting his dark, lustful gaze for a beat.

And then he was rearing close and once again kissing you with the kind of passion that genuinely stole your breath away. That had your knees buckling and your hands clinging to his shoulders to remain upright. That had you mewling into his mouth and tasting his primal groan as his tongue danced with yours. 

Maybe it made you a terrible person, but this–this desperate kind of intimacy with Curtis–was such a welcomed reprieve from the horrors of a little while ago, that you gave into it completely. 

You gave into Curtis completely. 

And your sweet compliancy only seemed to rile him up even more.

He had you out of the shower and into the bedroom so quickly your head spun. But you just melted under his touch–surrendering to him even more–as he guided you onto the bed, then rolled you over onto your belly. 

With each new press of Curtis’ lips against your back, you gasped, fingers curling into the blankets as you squirmed beneath the heavy weight of his body on top of yours.

You had a wild thought as his lips planted against your bare shoulder, that this felt close to worship, but you knew that Curtis wasn’t capable of that, especially with you.

That didn’t seem to stem his onslaught though, it was like he was determined to kiss and taste every inch of your skin—like it was a territory for him solely to claim—and all you could do was endure his passion. 

Until you were as worked up as he was—the two of you feeding off of each other’s desperate, needy energy and responsiveness to one another—and you were whining into the mattress when his fingers teased along your slit before quickly moving away. 

Curtis huffed a quiet laugh before rumbling, “On your knees, pretty prize.”

When you just blinked at him over your shoulder, so obviously dazed and uncomprehending, he grinned. It was a wolfish flash of white teeth before he himself urged your knees beneath you, allowing you to keep your shoulders and head down as he nudged your legs wide open.

You shivered as the cool air of the room touched the warm, weepy place between your thighs, and then you keened in surprise when Curtis suddenly leaned in and licked a broad stripe up your slit.

He groaned his own delight into your folds, his fingers digging into your ass cheeks and holding you spread open for his devouring of you. And devour you he did. He went at you relentlessly, his tongue lapping and laving, his lips teasing and sucking, until you were eagerly shoving back against his face and panting his name, begging for more in a way so sweet and desperate that he let you cum on his tongue with hardly any pleading at all. 

“Yesss,” you breathed, writhing in ecstasy as you rode out the wave of your pleasure, before moaning in appreciation as Curtis shoved his tongue into your fluttering hole as his fingers rubbed your clit to another quick orgasm.

“You always taste so good,” he groaned once he pulled away, his voice low and smoky in a way that made your insides swoop. “I want more of you, get over here.”

Your boneless body was easy for Curtis to maneuver how he wanted, and soon he had you perched over his bearded face and gripping the headboard as you watched him return to enthusiastically eating out your cunt. 

Something about this position had you burning up from the inside out, a kind of mindless want and need you had never felt before taking over as you gripped the headboard with one hand and tentatively reached for Curtis’ buzzed head with the other.

Your soft touch had his blazing eyes lifting to meet yours from between your thighs, and he held your gaze–shameless and challenging you to do the same–as he filled your cunt with three of his fingers and fucked you with them as he sucked at your clit without relent. 

The sound that spilled from your lips was pornographic, but you couldn’t even be embarrassed, because it felt so good. You gripped Curtis’ head harder, your own falling back in ecstasy as you rocked against him. Gasping his name, you encouraged the exploration of his tongue as that twine of need inside of you pulled tauter and tauter with every masterful flick and thrust, every lap and stroke.

Curtis didn’t stop feasting on your pussy until you came for him again, nearly purring at the creamy mess you left all over his face as a result of your pleasure before you collapsed beside him, still gasping and panting for breath.

“I need to be inside you,” he breathed, rolling you onto your side and pressing his font along your back. 

By the time his cock caught along your wet, messy hole, you were nearly on your belly again, but you didn’t care, you wanted to be filled as much as Curtis wanted to fill you. 

“Please,” you whispered shamelessly, fingers curling against the headboard as you pressed back against him, your body desperately seeking more. 

“Such a good girl, begging for my cock,” Curtis groaned. He sounded truly pleased, and it had your belly fluttering before the feel of his cock slowly sliding into you stole all of your attention and had your brain short circuiting more and more with each hard, thick inch that filled you.

You gave a broken cry of ecstasy when Curtis bottomed out with a hard rut, panting into the pillows as your cunt strained and fluttered, gripping his length hard enough to make him grunt.

“Fuck, you want it so bad, don’t you?”

You whined in response, your head spinning as your body went haywire at all of the sensations overwhelming you. Your cunt felt so full but you still needed more. Your nipples were hard and aching, your clit puffy and throbbing, and you swore your body was a livewire, waiting to catch and burn up entirely at any moment. 

All of that only intensified tenfold when Curtis started to move. The slow drag of his cock retreating from the deep depths of your cunt had you moaning without reserve. When he thrusted back into you hard and fast, rocking your body up the bed, you keened. He paused then, and you mewled, grinding back against him, desperate for more of him, making Curtis laugh quietly before he gave you what you so obviously wanted. 

You relished in another hard, deep stroke, before squealing as Curtis grabbed you and set you on your hands and knees properly. 

And then he went to town.

All you could do was take it as he fucked you hard and fast, the sound of skin slapping echoing loudly around the room. Soon the wet, squelching sounds of your pussy eagerly swallowing Curtis hard cock over and over again joined the sinful symphony rising up around you, and you couldn’t even be embarrassed, because you were so lost to your pleasure, and so close to cumming again. 

When your orgasm finally crested, your arms gave out, and you collapsed onto the bed, distantly aware of Curtis’ big, strong hands gripping your hips to keep your ass up so he could continue to pound into you, chasing his own release now.

He came with a shout not long after, and you gasped as you felt the warm bloom of his cum inside of you, felt his cock twitching and jumping as he pumped your pussy full of his cream until your greedy body milked him of every last drop. 

Still dazed and boneless, you moaned as Curtis slowly pulled out of you, feeling the gush of his seed trickle out of your pussy, and squirming as you felt his gaze watching the sinful sight.

He gave a quiet, boyish laugh before panting, “I’m still fucking hard for you,” and before you knew it, you were being flipped onto your back, and Curtis was sinking between your sprawled legs, slowly filling you with his cock once more as his big body pinned you beneath him. 

You whimpered, so beyond overstimulated at this point. A few tears escaped and streaked down your temples as you pressed a hand to Curtis’ firm stomach as if to hold him and his endless passion for you at bay. 

Gasping as he grinded against you, you quavered out a pitiful, “Please, too much.”

Curtis just tutted at you, but it was more playful than anything as he bracketed your head between his muscled forearms and gave another shallow thrust. “Don’t be that way, pretty prize. I gave you what you wanted, took care of you and this greedy pussy so good, didn’t I?”

You blinked owlishly, nodding in agreement at his sinful, teasing words.

Smile growing wicked, Curtis sank against you fully, his lips hovering over yours as he murmured, “Then be good and let me take care of myself now.” He nipped at your jaw, laughing when you squeaked. “Cause I’m not done with you yet.”

He started to fuck you again, keeping his thrusts shallow, his cock barely leaving your body but moving just enough to give him the kind of friction that had him groaning his pleasure. 

“God, this cunt is always so fucking tight,” he moaned, dropping his sweaty forehead to yours and groaning as you clenched around him hard. “Yeah, that’s it, squeeze my cock, fuck.” 

Your eyes fluttered, your body writhing beneath him without your permission, somehow needy and wanting once more. All you could do was cling to Curtis, your body his now to use as he wanted, while you were just along for the ride.

But part of you didn’t even care, and another part of you reveled in it.

Especially once Curtis snuck one of his hands between your bodies and began to strum at your clit with his thumb.

You squealed and jerked at the added stimulation, whining as more tears fell because now it really was too much. Your body was so oversensitive, every thrust of his cock and strum of his thumb making you tremble and writhe as your eyes rolled back into your head.

“Look at me,” Curtis demanded suddenly, his free hand framing your jaw so you couldn’t escape his piercing gaze once your glassy eyes aligned with his.

And that was just another dose of too much. Curtis’ constant, avid gaze. The way it felt like he could see right through you, right down to the deepest depths of your soul. The way it felt like he wanted to. 

He wanted to see you at your most vulnerable, stripped down to the basest part of you, undone in a way you never had been before, and all because of him. 

His next words just confirmed that. 

“Let go for me,” he husked your name–your actual name. “Give me all of you. I want all of you.”

Something about the exchange–perhaps the intensity of it all–unraveled you completely. Your body arched up against his as you came hard, making Curtis grunt as your cunt clenched around his cock, desperately gripping him like it never wanted to let him go.

Curtis scraped his teeth along the curve of your jaw before his thrusts grew harder and more intentional. Soon, he followed you over the edge with a groan so primal as he filled you with his cum that it had your body fluttering with another wave of aftershocks. 

Still gasping for breath, you clung to him, floaty and dazed, as if your mind had gone offline entirely. And maybe it had. 

You were exhausted too. As your boneless body sank back against the bed, it finally registered just how utterly tired you were–completely wrung out–and you struggled to keep your eyes open as Curtis laid beside you and arranged your pliant body over his. 

For a few long moments, it was quiet. You had lost the battle of staying awake, your eyes closed as you drifted closer and closer to sleep while Curtis’ fingers gently stroked along your back. But before you could descend entirely, his quiet voice drew you back to the surface of consciousness. 

“No one but me will ever touch you again.”

In your exhausted haze, as you slowly processed Curtis’ words, you couldn’t help but think that it almost seemed like an apology after what had happened with Franco, but you knew it wasn’t that.

It could never be that. 

Not from Curtis, and not to you.

It’s a steely promise, you reasoned silently before your mind finally surrendered to sleep.

And you were completely unaware of the way that Curtis stayed up for a good long while after you, his fingers gently, possessively tracing along your bare skin the entire time.

UMMM. I AM NOT OKAY. IN FACT, I AM VERY MUCH UNWELL. 🥴

—

Please take a moment to drop a comment or reblog. Engagement is the fuel that keeps writers writing and sharing their work for your enjoyment, so do your part to keep our fandom alive. Serial likers will be blocked.

I no longer do tag lists, but if you'd like to be notified when I post new writing, follow my side blog @‌sirisshamelesshoelibrary​ and turn on notifications to get pinged when I drop some new hoe fuel 😘

Please note that I do not give permission for my work to be translated, reposted, or published anywhere other than my Tumblr. I also do not give permission for my work to be fed into AI platforms. Reblogs are most welcome and encouraged though! ❤️

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

REWERITE HER?!? This man was scary before but NOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWW he’s on a new level! The league of shadows outside threat has made it all come to a head

Under His Skin ~ Chapter 6

Series Masterlist

Words: 6k

Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolanverse Batman) x F Reader

Warnings: Stalking, gaslighting, coveting, drugging, voyeurism, manipulation, veiled threats, fear of intimacy, plans to falsely imprison.

After texting Jonathan, you decide to show up at Arkham and when no one stops you, you think maybe you could find Ares room. Your plan goes horribly wrong.

Jonathan reinforces that you must follow his orders, watching you become further ensnared in his trap. But when Henri Ducard shows up, the League of Shadows behind him, Jonathan's hand is forced. He must now speed up his timeline for you -- to protect you.

Disclaimer:The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

Sunday mornings were quiet and predictable. That’s what made them useful. There was little noise, no interruptions or oversight. Jonathan had the time and space he needed to do his important work. 

And today, work meant testing the next phase of his fear toxin. He stood in the observation chamber, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the filtered mask hanging loose around his neck as he watched through the two-way glass. Bound to a chair in the room sat a man in his late twenties. He was strong, height above average, and misdiagnosed. Ares had diagnosed him some time ago as bipola,r but he was actually schizoeffective with a tendency towards violent hallucinations and he had a long history of aggression. Restraints were required.

Jonathan had chosen him deliberately. Not for compliance, but data. And fear from the strong? That was the cleanest kind.

He administered the toxin eight minutes ago. The subject twitched and grunted. When he screamed and started thrashing violently, he nearly tipped the reinforced chair over. His pupils were dilated and sweat broke out across his smooth brow. The patient's voice changed as he started to beg, fragmented and guttural. Jonathan stepped closer to the observation glass. 

"They’re inside me," he wailed. "Get them out... Get them out!”

Perfect. Making notes on his observations, Jonathan was satisfied. He managed to speed up onset, get paranoia at a lower dose, and noticed the strength response sustained beyond peak. It was still not fully where he wanted it to be. Not yet. But he would continue the work until it was perfect.

He could make that happen now. Arkham was finally becoming what it was always meant to be. His laboratory. His machine. 

The patient had his back to the door so Jonathan came in behind him with the sedative. Once the patient was under, he removed the restraints and left him to recover. Disposing of his gloves, he moved down the corridor, doing the usual rounds. A couple of hours had passed by the time he entered the secured wing with a quiet hiss of hydraulics.

Ares’s room. He unlocked the biometric panel. Entered in silence. Ares was seated near the back wall, eyes unfocused. Jonathan watched him for a full minute before the change happened. First there was a subtle shift in posture. A flicker of something behind his eyes.

“Crane," came out in a rough whisper, slurred but direct.

Jonathan didn’t move, continued to watch.

Not gone. Not silent. Just... trapped. And worse, trying to claw his way out.

Then Ares spoke her name. It was garbled and muddied but he heard it.

Jonathan forced down the anger welling up in him. 

You shouldn’t be able to say her name. Not with that calm certainty. Not like you’d earned the right.

That name belonged to him now.

You hadn’t held her when she was trembling. You hadn’t earned her trust, her dependency, her sleep-soaked voice whispering thank you before the tears gave out.

And yet, you’re drifting upward. Resurfacing. Finding coherence again.

That won’t do.

It wasn’t just the mention of her that had his pulse quickening, it was the inference. His system could still unravel, and the trauma hadn’t held. The effects of the toxin weren't permanent yet. That was the only flaw. His toxin worked brilliantly. But it wore off. Even in its most concentrated form, the hallucinations eventually faded. Cognitive function returned and memories reconnected.

With time, and a bit of luck, a patient could recover over weeks, months. But recovery was a possibility. That was unacceptable.

Jonathan turned sharply, but didn't sedate him. Ares would need to vanish cleanly. There were too many eyes and records for carelessness. This needed patience and a curated end.

Stepped into the hallway, his fingers tapped against his wrist. The silence was intact. Heading back to his office, he glanced through the narrow window above the main gate and stopped. Her car was in the lot, parked with its engine off. 

Jonathan stared, his thoughts stilling. No. You’re not supposed to be here. Not today. Not without me.

Turning, Jonathan headed for the security office. Now, control would need to be demonstrated.

You hadn’t planned to go to Arkham today. It was Sunday and you were still so tired from everything that had happened with Ares. You told yourself last night that you’d wait until Monday to return, and rest until then.

But then you read Jonathan's text message again from last night. If anything anchors him... it will be you.

And you couldn’t stop wondering... What if that was true? What if just being near him could help bring Ares back? What if he needed something familiar, someone, to hold on to?

You drove without deciding to and found yourself in the parking lot without even remembering the last turn. Arkham loomed ahead, gray and still. No one was at the security desk when you walked in. It was a first, but then you'd only shown up on a couple of weekends before. Both were times Ares needed you to bring him something he forgot. 

You should’ve stopped there, and waited. Or got back in your car and gone home. But you wandered from the front desk. Jonathan wasn’t in his office, and that was disappointing because you would have liked to talk to him, ask if there was any change. 

And then you got the idea... A misguided one, maybe. But it felt right at the time. 

What if I could just find Ares’s room? Not to talk. Just… to see him. To let him know I was still there.

You passed through the wrong hallway before you realized it. The lights were dimmer in the corridor where you were. It was colder, even with the cozy sweater you wore with your jeans. 

You moved slowly, checking doors for anything familiar. But the layout twisted and changed. And then came the voices. Not calling to you. Not even really speaking words. Just sounds. Soft scraping and whispered things. Laughter that didn’t match any expression you saw. Eyes watched you through narrow slats in steel-reinforced doors. Some called to you like they were coaxing a cat. Others hissed things you didn’t catch, but felt.

Your heartbeat climbed and you wrapped your arms around yourself, colder now. Still, you pressed forward. It didn't take you long to realize, you were lost. 

Every door you passed looked the same. Every hallway branched like a decision you weren’t sure you should’ve made.  And then the fear, not just of where you were, but of who might find you. Not a stranger. Jonathan. Your steps faltered. You didn’t tell him you were coming. You didn’t ask for help or wait in his office like you were supposed to. What if he’s angry?

What if he saw this as a breach of trust? What if he thought you were interfering?

What if… he didn’t help you next time?

That thought rooted deep in your chest. You didn’t want to lose Jonathan, too. Not now.

Jonathan stood inside the security room, arms folded, watching the cameras cycle. The desk chair spun slightly, empty. The security guard on duty wasn't where he was supposed to be. The monitor screen showed her wandering alone through the asylum. Not in the administrative wing and nowhere near his office. No, she was on the wrong side of the asylum. 

She had no badge or clearance. What are you doing? Who told you this was safe?

He switched cameras, angles flashing past until one caught her from overhead. She was walking slower now. He could see it in the lines of her body, the way she moved stiff and anxious. 

Good. Fear is appropriate here.

But fear wouldn’t keep her safe. And he hadn’t authorized this risk. Stepping away from the monitors, he fought back his rising anger at the entire situation. The guard was gone, nowhere to be found. Another variable to clean up.

But first, he'd deal with her. Pulling out his phone, he checked the status feed. Subject 41, today's test subject was awake now or at least somewhat awake from the sedation. Shoving his phone back into his coat pocket, Jonathan navigated to that cell on the computer screen using the controls in front of him. Jonathan’s finger hovered over the mouse before hitting manual override to open the door of Subject 41's room. The sounds of the door being unlocked got the subject's attention, and of course, he wandered right out. His gait was unsteady, his aggitation from the dose he'd been given obvious and lingering.

Jonathan retrieved sedatives from his office before heading out of the administrative wing. He moved in silence. 

If you won’t stay where it’s safe… You’ll learn what happens when I’m not there to protect you. 

You were just about to try and find your way back. You had no idea where you were anymore, but the halls had grown much quieter now. You couldn't hear the voices or taps behind doors. Just an eerie stillness that made you afraid. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, blinking here and there to escalate your unease. You reached a corner and stopped, no longer sure which way you’d come from. You felt like someone was watching you.

And then he was there. A tall, young man with broad shoulders and his hair in random spikes all over his head. His eyes were wild, unfocused, and his hands twitched at his sides.

You froze in place. He didn’t see you. Like Ares, he saw something else. Something worse.

When he rushed toward you, you screamed and bolted in the opposite direction. His footsteps thundered behind you. You ran blindly, hand skimming the wall, and your breath catching in your throat. You turned, turned again... Then to your absolute horror, you met a dead end, slamming into the far wall. And that man was right behind you. 

Your breath was ragged and your chest hurt. Your fists clenched, as if that was going to help you. 

The man muttered something, you couldn't make it out, he raised something--a bar, a pipe, you couldn’t tell. You threw your hands up...

Just before he could land the blow, you heard a sharp hiss. You noticed a shape behind him. You saw the needle plunge into his neck, fast and smooth. The man dropped instantly. 

It was Jonathan.

You stumbled back as the man fell. Jonathan stepped forward, appearing perfectly calm. 

You didn’t think to ask or look for help, and you didn't hesitate. You ran straight to him, choking on a sob with your vision blurring at the edges. Your hands found his coat before your brain could form a single thought. Your fingers curled tight into the fabric like it might hold you upright.

There was only a second's hesitation before his arms closed around you, strong and certain. Like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. You felt safer and warm, like the world had tilted, and only he remained steady. And you were shaking so hard you couldn’t speak.

You couldn't get your mind around the silent truth that something bad had almost happened. And if it weren’t for him, it would have.

She was clinging to him, trembling. Her breath rushing against his chest, her tears soaking into his shirt. He didn’t move or speak. Just wrapped his arms around her, steady and calm. But she was pressed fully against him now. Her face tucked into his chest, her breath catching against his shirt.

And for the first time since this all began, Jonathan felt the closeness not as theory or leverage, but as heat. She was warm, and her frame curved naturally into his side like it belonged there. Like she’d been designed to fit him. The scent of her, of summer rain, rose with every shaky breath she took. And now it was all over him. The scent of her on his coat and collar. His skin.

This is the closest I’ve gotten to either of you. And you gave it to me freely. Not in lust, rebellion, or fear. In need. 

Jonathan didn’t close his eyes, but he held her tighter. Because this? This he would remember.

You ran to me. You didn’t hesitate. You gave no thought of who caused this. Only who could stop it.

Footsteps came up behind him, quick and uneven. The security guard, red-faced and sweating, rounded the corner. And behind him, a nurse with wide eyes, already assessing the scene.

Jonathan supressed his anger at the fact that they interrupted his moment, but he didn't let go of her.

He glared at the guard, cold and sharp. “Where were you?”

The guard stammered something about checking the north hallway because of a patient out of place. His voice faltered when he saw the body on the floor, caught in his lie. That patient hadn't been out until Jonathan deliberately let him out. 

“She was unaccompanied in a restricted wing. You weren’t at your post. This patient was unsupervised.”

He said it evenly. For the record.

Then he looked to the nurse. “Make a report. Timestamp everything. I want to know how long he was out. And how this door was accessed.”

The nurse nodded quickly and knelt beside the sedated patient.

Jonathan turned back to the guard.

“You and I will speak later.”

The guard paled.

Jonathan turned slightly, guiding her through the hallways leading back to his office. Her grip on him never loosened. 

Let them see it. Let them all witness it. You trust me with your life. And now everyone knows.

Jonathan unlocked his office door without speaking. Ushered her inside with a gentle hand on her back. She moved like someone sleepwalking, numb and wide-eyed. It took him a minute to get her to loosen her grip. He didn’t ask if she wanted to sit, but guided her to the chair. 

He crouched in front of her, lowering himself instead of towering above her.

“You’re safe,” he said quietly. “He can’t hurt you. I made sure of that.”

She nodded. But it was mechanical. Her hands trembled.

“How did that even happen?” she whispered finally, her voice hoarse. “Why was he out?”

Jonathan exhaled slowly and sat back on his heels, keeping himself in control. “There are procedures in place to prevent this,” he said. “And they weren’t followed.” He let her take that in before he continued. “That’s why it happened. That’s what I’ll be correcting.”

She rubbed her hands against her face, trying to hide the tears. “I shouldn’t have come here today,” she muttered.

He rose slowly, calculating each motion as if he were stepping through glass. One wrong movement and something inside him would crack. 

She didn’t notice or see the way his breath hitched at the base of his throat. She didn’t feel the tremor that started in his fingers and traveled upward before he caught it, contained it. She'd clung to him like he was safe. That was the part that shook him.

Jonathan stepped back, his movements the same as usual. But inside, he was scrambling. She’d run to him, because in that moment, she believed he was the only safe place left. And now his body was betraying him with the aftershock. Her breath had hit his collar. Her hands had twisted into the front of his coat, and her entire body shook against him. And his body had reacted. It wasn't just arousal. No, there was something else. Longing. For more than touch, for possession.

For absolute psychological intimacy. Jonathan wanted more than her skin. He wanted her complete loyalty, her need. He wanted her devotion, not because he earned it, but because he designed it. He built the room she was standing in, and taught her to look at the lock like it was a window.

But now, Jonathan wasn’t in control of his own reaction, and that was dangerous. Turning from her, he kept his face neutral, filling the kettle with water and putting it on the small electrical heating device he now kept in his office. The task steadied him, making tea. The tea he'd laced for her, to calm her and reinforce her safety in his presence. It was a way to pull himself back from the intensity of that moment.

Jonathan needed to keep talking to her. “You came because you care. Because you want to help him.”

She didn’t argue or try to defend it. She just lowered her hands and stared at the floor.

Her tea took six minutes, and when it was ready, he sat again in the chair beside her. “I’m going to take care of all of it,” he said softly. “The patient. The breach. The guard.”

His gaze met hers. “And you.”

She didn’t drink the tea at first, holding it between her palms like it might anchor her. Her voice, when it came, was barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”

He said nothing. Let her fill the silence.

“I knew better. I should’ve called or waited for you... I was going to. I just thought…” Her eyes brimmed again, and she looked away. “I thought if I could just see Ares, even for a second, maybe it would help him.”

Jonathan turned slightly toward her, his posture calm. “I understand.” He kept his tone low, neutral. “You were trying to help. That’s never a mistake.”

But now you’ve learned. You don’t move without me. You don’t act unless I say so. And you blame yourself for forgetting that.

He let a beat pass. “Next time… we’ll do it together.”

His words settled in silence as she enjoyed her tea, not seeming in a rush to leave, but not as scared as she was. It was a comfortable silence. And the addition to her drink had her relaxing nicely without questioning how or why. It was warranted considering how the last three days had gone for her. 

She stood slowly, setting the cup on the desk with shaking hands. Her eyes were softer now. There were no tears, but she looked exhausted. But there was something else there now--resolve.

She looked at him, small and sincere. “I’ll listen from now on.” A promise unwrapped in slow, deliberate words. “I’ll do what you say, Jonathan. I know you’ll protect him… and me.”

Reaching out, lightly, her fingers grazed his sleeve. “I trust you.”

Then she was gone, closing the door softly behind her. 

Jonathan rose from his seat but he didn’t move for a full minute. His hands hung loosely at his sides, his posture still.

But inside? Pure chaos. She had no idea what she’d just said. What she’d given him or those three words meant, spoken in his office, in his space, after he’d saved her. It wasn't gratitude, no, it went deeper than that. Her words were binding. 

His chest rose sharply, a breath he didn’t want. Didn’t like.

Trust.

He’d manufactured it in others before, had watched it bloom in test subjects and patients too broken to question him.

But this? This was different. This was her choosing him. And now he was shaking again. Jonathan kept himself quiet and controlled but it was unmistakable.

You touched me. You clung to me. Gave me your weight. Spoke my name with trust. A complete absence of performance or manipulation. It was real.

His body knew what it wanted. It had responded the second she pressed into him, fit into his side like soft fire, like it had always belonged there. He hadn’t imagined the scent of her, warm and salt-sweet from fear. He didn't miss the brush of her thigh against his as she stepped into him. Her scent was all over him, lingering on his coat, collar, and skin. 

What did he do with something that wasn't theoretical? Wasn't academic?

Turning away from his desk, he walked slowly back to the sink in the corner of his office. Rolling up his sleeves, he washed his hands in cold water, using repetitive motions. He desperately needed to recapture some semblance of control. 

But he couldn't get her out of his head. Jonathan had slept with people before. Brief, emotionless encounters that were mostly curiosity though some he did to mimic normalcy. Some were useful to him. 

He’d never wanted someone like this. She was not them. She was caring, loving, creative with no displays of artifice in the entire time he'd known her. She'd been with Ares a few years and he'd been unable to find any traces of another lover and he'd searched thoroughly. She'd never take a stranger back to her hotel room at a conference or proposition a man for any reason. Intelligent? She was. Very emotionally intelligent and that was his blind spot. 

What if I break her? What if she can’t take it?

His mind had never once doubted his own restraint. But now with her words still echoing in the room, with her scent in his lungs and her warmth still in his coat, he wasn't so sure he could restrain himself with her. 

Jonathan's desires weren’t soft, and they never had been. They weren't about sex for the sake of release. No, for him it was all about dominance and obsession. Consumption and reprogramming. Not just her body, but her entire self. 

I want her to belong to me so completely that she forgets she ever belonged to anyone else. I want her to thank me for rewriting her. I want to devour her and call it devotion.

But Jonathan had no roadmap for this. No experience in intimacy with someone who meant something. He didn’t know how to take what he wanted when he cared if it scared her. Oh, the irony in that. 

Jonathan leaned his palms on the counter and bowed his head. His breath was steady, but his pulse was erratic. His fingers curled against the porcelain.

He couldn’t touch her until he was completely sure she wouldn't flinch. Wouldn't pull away from him. He couldn't have her seeing him as anything but what he needed her to see, her protector and anchor. 

When it happened, and he needed her soon, he needed her to want him. It couldn't be some unscripted encounter like today. No, he needed to be ready for it, and he needed her to come to him, initiate things.

Walking to the door, he locked it. With his heart finally slowing, he slid into the chair she’d been sitting in. The space still smelled like her. Pulling out his phone, he tapped open the mirrored interface to access hers. Not because he doubted her, he just needed to understand. He scrolled past today. Jonathan went weeks back, to around the time he arrived at Arkham. Back to when Ares Katsaros was still functioning as chief administrator, when he was still in the way.

The texts were easy and familiar. But there was distance, and it grew with each conversation. A hesitation in tone. A routine, not a rhythm.

Jonathan read them each carefully. A repeated use of “Sorry I missed you" from Ares. '"We’ll find time soon" was also a repeated phrase.  Finally, Ares was beginning to admit defeat.

Ares: I just don’t feel like myself lately. I don’t want to take it out on you.

Her: “I miss you. I miss us. But I understand.”

Then nothing for four days.

Her: Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll be here.

Jonathan sat back, taking it all in. They weren’t living together, which was curious since they were engaged. They hadn't been intimate in weeks. And it wasn’t her choice.

She was waiting. Loyal even then. Holding space for a man who wasn’t holding her.

​And now that space is empty. And I’ve stepped into it. 

​She’s grieving something that was already broken.

That wasn’t a vulnerability. It was an invitation. 

Jonathan wouldn't move recklessly. He never did. But their messages confirmed something he'd suspected. There’s room to rewrite her. To redefine what love feels like, and what safety looks like. There was an opportunity to give her something stronger than what she had with Ares. Something inevitable.

Yes. He could work with this. And she would never even realize it was happening. Not until she woke up one day and couldn’t remember why she ever loved anyone but him.

Jonathan had just finished his rounds, was logging his results from the experiment today, and trying not to think about what happened with her earlier today for the hundredth time. 

He didn’t hear his office door open, but he heard it close.

Jonathan looked up from his desk, instinct narrowing his breath. A man stood across from him, mid-fifties, lean, composed, dressed in black. His clothes were expensive, his wool coat and leather gloves. The man had sharp grey eyes, and had a military posture without the uniform. 

There was no warnign or security -- that guard was getting fired first thing in the morning. The man had no badge or clearance. 

The man offered him no fear either. 

“Dr. Crane,” the man spoke calmly like a greeting.

Jonathan didn’t stand. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“No... But you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

The man stepped forward and placed a small black case on Jonathan’s desk, right over the journal where he'd been making notes. He unsnapped the latches, and opened it.

The glass vial was the first thing that got his attention. It was filled with a translucent liquid and soft fragments of blue petals, suspended like they were floating in ice water. The scent was strong to reach him from the sealed container. It smelled strangley herbal and mineral rich. 

And beneath it, the case was filled with thick stacks of banded cash. 

Jonathan said nothing. Somehow he sensed the man preferred it that way. 

“Himalayan Blue Poppy,” the man said. “Used for centuries. We’ve refined it.”

He didn’t touch the vial. Just looked at it like it belonged here.

“The mind opens when it breathes fear. But this flower… It digs deeper.”

Jonathan glanced up, narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

The man gave a faint smile, then offered something worse than an answer. “A student. A teacher. A keeper of thresholds. We open the doors others won’t touch.”

Jonathan hated riddles. “What do you want?”

“To help you.” The man’s voice was smooth. “We’ve followed your work for some time. It's impressive, if a bit underfed.”

He motioned toward the money in the case.

“Now that the previous administrator is… no longer a concern, we thought it time to invest properly in your vision.”

That stilled Jonathan. “What do you know about that?”

The man tilted his head. “We know what you did.” His voice was calm and devoid of judgment. Almost like he was reading it from a file he’d already memorized. “And we know why.”

Jonathan didn’t react outwardly, but internally, something narrowed. Why. Not just opportunity or power. Not a career move. They understood the emotional calculus.

The man took a measured step forward. “I had a wife once,” he said. "She died in a way that left questions. Holes that never quite closed. I lost more than a partner, I lost order.” He glanced down at the case again, then back at Crane with unsettling calm. “When you find something worth protecting… you understand what you’re capable of. And what must be done to preserve it.”

Jonathan’s breath cooled in his chest.

There was no subtlety in the man’s next words. “You’d do anything for her.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement. One that shouldn’t have been said aloud.

The space between them shrank, not physically, but conceptually. For a single moment, his visitor stood where Jonathan stood. Not as a rival but as a mirror. And mirrors, Jonathan knew, were dangerous.

You see yourself in them. But you don’t control what they reflect. And now he’s looking at me like he’s already counted the cracks in my foundation.

“That’s none of your concern," Jonathan said flatly.

The man’s smile didn’t change. “Everything about her is our concern, Dr. Crane."

Jonathan didn’t move. But his entire internal world contracted into one singular thought. I need to get to her. Now. Before they do, and take what’s mine.

He reached into his coat and retrieved a folded envelope, laying it beside the file. There was no name or seal. But Jonathan understood. It was leverage.

Jonathan leaned back slightly. “This isn’t an offer.”

The man nodded. “It’s a gift. For now.” He turned toward the door. “We’ll be in touch, Dr. Crane.”

And with that, the man was gone. He stepped into the hallway and disappeared without another word. He didn't hear an echo of his footsteps, nor see a shadow in the glass. Just gone.

Jonathan kept his eyes on the closed door, chest rising slowly, mechanically. Then his gaze dropped to the case and the vial it held. To the black envelope that he opened without ceremony, and inside he found one photograph. 

It was small and cleanly printed. It was a picture of her. It captured her mid-stride, walking down the street near her gallery. It wasn’t recent. The angle of light, the coat she wore, the small gallery tote in her hand all pointed to weeks ago. But what mattered wasn’t the when. It was the who, and how close they'd been. Blurred in the background, half in frame, barely distinguishable, was a man in a long coat. He was facing her, following with no expression or interaction. But he'd been close enough to touch her. 

Jonathan's breath caught, sharp and cold. It wasn't fear but violation. The picture felt like someone had reached into his ribcage and brushed their fingers against something sacred. She'd been completely unaware, walking and smiling. And they’d been watching. They could have done anything, taken her, hurt her. Ended her. 

Their restraint was the message. They wanted him to know. 

His hand closed around the slip of paper folded beneath the photo. Cream-colored parchment unfolded with a whisper. On it was a single line, handwritten in careful ink.

She is lovely. Be sure you keep her.

His vision pulsed at the edges, heat, rising not from panic but from something colder. Claim. They were reminding him that she wasn’t his, and that she was only alive because they allowed it.

Jonathan stood slowly, took a deep breath. He set the envelope down with surgical precision, and closed the case over the vial and the cash. 

He reached into his coat pocket, retrieving his private phone and unlocked it. He accessed the mirrored connection again. Her phone loaded immediately.

There was a text exchange two hours old with Lexi, the other co-owner of the gallery. 

Lexi: Hey, are you okay? What’s going on?

Her: Just tired. Ares… it’s been a lot. I’m trying to hold it together. He's had a mental breakdown of some kind. 

Her: I miss him. And now I can't even see him.

Jonathan's hand tightened around the phone until the case creaked. She still loved Ares. Even now, even after everything, a part of her is waiting for him to return. And if they knew that, if they’d followed her this closely, seen that ache in her... They could use it.

No. Absolutely not. I took him from her to protect her. To make space for something better. Something safe.

I can’t leave her out there. I can’t let them near her again. Not when they’ve already shown they could touch her if they wanted.

Jonathan slipped the phone into his coat and picked up his keys, stepping into the hall without a sound. He didn’t alert the staff. He'd just been about to leave anyway, it was after midnight. He didn’t activate the gate. He just exited through the lower-level exit reserved for faculty on overnight shift.

He reached her apartment in fourteen minutes. Using the spare key he’d taken Friday night, he entered without noise. Her apartment was dark and quiet, but it still smelled the same. He moved through each room like a breath until he reached her bedroom.

She was asleep. One arm was thrown over her head, and the bedding bunched around her feet. She wore a T-shirt that had ridden up to her ribcage and a tiny pair of red panties. Fuck. 

Her phone was charging on the nightstand, and there was no sign of intrusion. No sign of fear. Everything was untouched and safe. For now.

Jonathan stood in her doorway and exhaled, barely audible. And in that breath was everything he was drowning in, relief, obsession, resolve.

This can't happen again. She can't stay here alone or be out of my reach.

I need to move her, and reframe this life. I need her with me, not just for her protection. For mine.

Jonathan stood at the threshold of her bedroom, completely still. One hand braced lightly against the doorframe. His other still curled loosely at his side.

She shifted slightly in her sleep, a breath escaping against her pillow, soft and human. She was oblivious to the wolves circling her, to the man standing in her doorway. The one who let himself in, who knew every inch of her layout now. Who could predict how long she’d sleep? What time she’d stir? What her next ten messages would be?

And yet, despite all his preparation, the mystery man had beaten him here. Weeks ago. He'd been close enough to take her and didn’t, just to prove he could.

Jonathan ground his teeth together for a moment before he unclenched. This wasn’t about anger. No, anger was noisy and wasteful.

This was about recalibration. The plan he’d built, his original timeline, was now too slow. He'd intended for her to slowly gravitate into his orbit as Ares slipped away. He'd let her feel safe in his office, dependent on him for comfort. He'd meant for her to ask for more, little by little, until the idea of staying with him became her own.

But that luxury was gone.

Outside variables had entered the system, leaving her too exposed. She leaves this apartment. Talks to too many people. She has a gallery she’s emotionally tethered to with contacts I don’t control. Too many open ends. Too many loose permissions.

He glanced around her room again as his mind began to turn.

Jonathan would start with severance from the gallery. He'd introduce uncertainty.  A patron incident? A break-in? Something small, but rattling. Something that makes her question the safety of that space. He would suggest she take a leave of absence for her mental health. Maybe he'd even insist. She'd been through so much between Friday and today. It would be good for her mental health to have a break from the gallery following whatever plan he devised. He had plenty of money now, staging something would be fairly easy.

Then he'd reinforce the fragility of her current situation. Jonathan needed to increase the illusion of threat without making her the target. Let her feel the weight of the danger again. The kind that makes her reach for him.

He'd create dependence at home, using a message like the one he'd received tonight. Jonathan could suggest those behind the message could be responsible for what was happening to Ares. It would be delivered somewhere she wouldn't expect. She'd realize that her apartment was no longer safe, and Ares couldn't help her. But Jonathan could. 

And he'd offer temporary shelter, a guest room. Security with no pressure at all, just concern for her well-being. 

But once she entered his house, she wouldn't be leaving. 

Jonathan stepped back from the bedroom, the shadows swallowing him again. In one week's time, she would be in his home by her own request. He'd make sure of it. 

And when she arrived, there’d be no gallery to pull her back. No friends who weren’t vetted first. There would be no space that wasn’t under his control.

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Damn in the parking lot?!

I hope those windows are tinted bc claiming a woman in a fishbowl is wild behavior but Steve is a wild man

Doing Time 10

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, threats, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to keep your brother safe in jail but put yourself in danger along the way.

Characters: con/ex-con!Steve Rogers

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You stare at Steve's large hand as you fight the urge to fidget. He rests is on your thigh, fingers curled just along the inside. He rubs the seam of your pants as his warmth radiates through the fabric.

He steers with his other hand. His posture is slack with nonchalance. Everything is going exactly as he planned and you're just trying to keep up. 

He hums as he tickles your leg. His hand sidles closer to your pelvis and he squeezes. He idles at the red light and smirks at you.

"You got me worked up again. I just wanna pull you across the car..." his eyes flick up and down. "You got thighs that make a man a glutton."

You twitch. While he scares you, his words send a tingle through you. He's skilled at twisting your flaws into beauty. You almost believe every word he says.

"Steve," you touch his hand gently. "The light's green."

"Oh, yeah?" He flicks his fingers coyly towards your cunt. 

You blink and point through the windshield. He glances at the traffic light and chuckles. He leans on the gas, keeping his hand in your lap.

"You should wear skirts," his nails graze the thick seam again. "You got the legs for it."

"I... I like pants." You say softly. 

"You got a good shape. Not just from the front," he ignores your protest. "That dress you wore... mmmph. I got buy you some more."

"You don't have to do all that," you clutch his hand to keep it in place.

"I want to, sweetheart. Lots of things I wanna do." He squeezes and you squeak at the spark it lights in your guts. "Firstly..."

He peels his hand away and turns into a lot. He draws up to the storefront and you glance up to read the big gold letters mounted over the shining windows. You rub the warm patch he left on your leg as you stare at the jeweler's shop.

"I thought about a crown but I'm thinking that's a bit much," he snickers. "I think a ring will do."

You look at him, stunned. It shouldn't be a surprise. He's been clear. As straight to the point as you wish you could be. Yet it's all so sudden.

He gets out first and comes around to open your door. He pauses and skims your figure with his eyes. He tuts.

"Definitely needa get you a sweet dress."

You stand and he shuts the door. His hand finds your lower back and he ushers you toward the shop. The world around you is hazy with futility. You know you can't stop him but there's that little human urge that won't go away.

He opens the shop door and lets you through first. He struts in behind you.

"Hello, sir," he greets the man behind the counter. "Lovely day."

The chubby man with the long mustache drooping around his lips winces. He looks up from the board of earrings in front of him and gulps. His brown eyes widen.

"Rogers?" He coughs.

"One and the same, Ahmad," Steve affirms as he nudges you forward. "Long time."

"Yes, sir. Very long. I thought you were in bars." The man nervously taps his fingers on the counter top.

"Behind bars." Steve corrects him. "Did my time. Now I'm out. And my lady needs a ring."

"Your... yes." Ahmad peeks at you and bows his head. "Very beautiful. Lovely lady." He clutches his hands together. "And you are such a handsome man, how could you not have a beauty."

"Yeah, yeah, Ahmad, you don't gotta do all that. Not to say she isn't a stunner." Steve nears and crosses his arms. He leans his elbows on the glass display and peers through. His shoulder round and he looks even bigger.

"Well, sweetheart. You want one diamond. You want a diamond covered in diamonds..." he bends his neck and squints at the selection.

"Oh, er, I'm not picky. Something small is fine."

"Be picky," he insists. "I don't want fine, I want perfect." He beckons you forward with a glance. "Come on."

You sniff and come forward. Ahmad smiles at you, "let me know whatever you like, miss."

"Thanks," you look down. The sparkle is too much to focus.

You're drawn to one in particular. A purple oval surrounded with little diamonds. You stare and chew your lip. You should look for something smaller.

"Which one's got you?" Steve shifts, angling toward you as he leans on one elbow.

"Well, that one's not bad," you point to the plain silver band with a small circle diamond.

He tuts. "You know, I see right through you. Be honest."

You rub your neck. "I don't wanna spend too much--"

"Don't fret about my money," he warns. "Which one?"

You drop your hand and point again. "That er, purple one. Sorry I don't know the stone."

"Amethyst, yes," Ahmad reaches underneath and takes out the entire board. "The stone of clarity and control. You must have a good head on you."

"Oh," you murmur and shrug. Not really. If you knew better, you wouldn't be standing here with this man.

Ahmad pulls free the ring and offers it up. You can only stare. The nicest jewelry you have is a hand-me-down silver chain and locket from tour mom.

Steve takes it then grabs your hand. You flinch as he stands at his full height and slips the band around your finger. You watch him push it down to your knuckle. He runs his thumb over it then cradles your hand in his. He lifts it higher to admire the stones.

"That the one?" He asks.

You stare at the ring. It's gorgeous but too much. You don't say so. You can't. 

You nod. "It's very pretty Steve. We could... wait until we get everything else sorted."

"It's sorted," he insists.

He lifts your hand and kisses your knuckle. You lower your eyes as he lets you go. You clasp your other hand over the ring as he turns to Ahmad.

"How much?" He reaches for his wallet.

The number makes your chest drop. That's more than your rent. A lot more. 

He counts out bills. You've never carried anything more than a couple hundred and that was for a deposit or something. He has a whole bank on him. 

It's another clue. He's not just a man with money, the way he wields it, the way others react to him. He has power.

"Th-thank you," you croak and pinch the ring. Steve stops you.

"Don't take it off. Never." He wraps his hand around yours and pushes it down. "That means you're mine." He puts his wallet away and looks back at the jeweller. "I'll be back for more. She'll need a full set."

"Yes, sir," Ahmad puts away the board of rings.

Steve takes you out. The sunlight is warm and bright, a strange sheen on the grey day. You can only watch as he whittles away the pieces of your life and rebuilds to his liking.

His hand slips off of yours and trails up your forearm as you near the car. A low growl rises in his chest as he lets you ahead of him. He spreads his fingers across your ass and kneads. You yelp on surprise.

He reaches around you and opens the back door of the car. You reach back to clamp down on his wrist. You trip on your toes as he slaps your rear.

"Just a quickie," he snarls. "Seeing you in that ring..."

"Steve. Please. We can go--"

"Get in," he commands and pinches your ass again. "On your stomach."

"Huh?" His sudden shift has you off balance. "Steve--"

"Now," he rasps as he grips the door. "Pants off."

You turn to look at him in horror and catch his hand as he tries to grope your chest. "I don't want to... here."

His eyes narrow and his jaw squares. He scoffs and shakes your hand off of his. He frames your face with his thick fingers and leans in.

"I'm not fucking asking. Let's celebrate." He pushes his nose and forehead against yours. "I waited before. No more."

You wince and pet his knuckles. You whimper and he lets you go. You bat your eyes and slowly sit on the back seat.

He's big enough to block your view of the parking lot. You tremble as you unbutton your fly. Disbelief numbs your touch. You lift yourself and peel off your pants, your underwear twisting down inside them. 

He looms over you and taps his fingers on the roof. You untangle your feet and drop the clothes onto the car floor. Steve sighs and it blows through in an icy wind. 

You shimmy back into the car. You turn over and he growls again. As you spread out on your stomach, he crushes in behind you, a knee between your legs.

He shuts the door as he crams into the back seat. He pushes your left leg over the edge of the seat. You quiver as you're exposed to him.

He bends over you and hooks his arm under your neck. He kisses the back of your head and pets your cheek. He inhales your scent.

"Can't help myself, sweetheart. This is what you do to me."

He slips his hand between your bodies, wriggling over you as he plucks open his fly. He grunts as he shifts his weight, the lack of space as suffocating as he is.

He guides his tip down along your cheeks. The fabric of his slacks tickles your skin. He prods along your entrance. He drags his hand free and hooks it beneath you.

He shoves between your folds and rubs your clit. He puffs into your hair as he teases you. His legs are bent up, cramped against the door as he smothers you. He bows down to nibble at your neck.

You slicken against his touch. He swirls and flicks as you close your eyes and clutch the edge of the seat. Humiliation scalds over you. What if someone sees.

He rubs you from clit to entrance and back again. He teases you until you moan, the soft mewl the final surrender. 

He frames your cunt with his long fingers and spreads your lips. He tilts his hips down and guides his tip between his knuckles. You hold your breath as he delves into you.

He rumbles as he dips into you in a single slow thrust. When he's at his limit, he shudders. He rocks his pelvis and you clench around him. His arm tightens around your neck and he kisses your jawline as he groans.

The wet noise of you clinging to him fills the humid space. He pumps into you, the tempo cloying in your ears. You babble as he grunts, each thrust more eager than the last.

His patience shatters as he hammers into you. You arch your back to ease the blunt force of his intrusion and he plays with your clit as your walls quiver around him. You heave down into the seat as his feet bounce of the window. The cacophony makes you dizzy. 

"Oh, sweetheart, you're so good." He snarls as he pounds you into the seat. "Hm, the way you're made for me."

He rolls his fingers furiously and you bite your lip. A fire-laced tide washes over you and floods your brain. You whine through your orgasm as it drips out around him.

"That's it, doll. You know I'm the best man for you," he pushes himself up, staying inside you as he unloops his arm from your neck. 

He pulls your hips up as he readjusts. You hunch down onto the seat, slack as you hang from his grip. He moves you up and down his length, slamming you back against his pelvis. He moves you to his will, growling and grunting, nails digging into your hip. Your insides twine around him.

He buries himself inside you as he holds you in place. He exhales shakily then starts again. He bucks into you as he gropes one side of your ass. The car shakes with his fury.

"Doll, I feel you clinging to me," he puffs. "Mm, you're so sweet... mmm, I'm gonna marry you and do this every day..." he grunts and bends over your again. "I'm gonna fuck you... til death do us... part."

He ruts until he collapses. He flattens you under him as he spasms and gushes inside you. You shiver as he spills out, his hips rocking slow and uneven as he rides out the aftershock. 

Your breaths are shallow, mingling damply in the closed space with your sweat. He groans and kisses your shoulder. He takes your hand brings it to his lips, kissing the wring on your finger.

"That's why you wear a skirt, baby." He pushes in as deep as he can. "I want access at all times."

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

WHAT?????? Let me in???? How about ABSOLUTELY NOT

Bucky’s flirting is like I will be the meanest possible and you will love me… or else 🤣

A Hold On You 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, bullying, depression, controlling and abusive behaviour, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to look on the bright side of life but a man comes along to blot out the sun.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Your eyes narrow as you hunch over the folding TV table. You work at tamping the felt in just the right shape. The headless body, made of metal wire encased in more felt sits on the corner, awaiting its final touch. Your vision is cloudy at the edges. You let yourself have a cry last night at the cost of puffy eyes today. Those grey moods exhaust you.

You sigh as you blend the grey black and white. The small raccoon will be the first of many. At least twelve for stock. 

A hobby and some extra income. You need it since they cut your hours to part-time. All the data entry firms are. You read on a forum that AI is slowly depleting the field. You don't relish going back to customer service... you're not very good at it. You can hardly make yourself smile at your reflection.

You sniff. You look up at the corner shelf, stuffed with similar figures to the one in pieces before you. Squirrels, bunnies, lots of cats. Those are a best-seller.

You put the head and needle down. You can't focus. Usually, the work puts a pause on the gloom. The grey sky outside your windows doesn't help. You sit back and press your hand around your forehead. You knead your temples with your thumbs.

It's too quiet. Well, not exactly. You can hear Katy yelling at her teens and Mr. Burton is hammering on the wall again. He needs to just call the building for whatever he keeps trying to fix. Or maybe he's breaking it?

You get up and go to the record player. You lay on the one album you've yet to listen to. That new poppy hit. It's probably a few years too young for you. You're in the limbo between twenty-five and thirty. A murky no man's land where all your friends are newly married, freshly pregnant, or celebrating promotions. You're doing neither of those.

You let the record spin the intro and retreat to the sagging armchair. The seat is molded to your shape but not comfy. You lean on the high armrest and close your eyes.

Oh, I leave quite an impression Five feet to be exact You're wonderin' why half his clothes went missin' My body's where they're at

You chew your cheek as you follow the lyrics as best you can. Scandalizing, scintillating, sexy. Not you. Maybe that was a bad choice. This is music for the young girls with their long lashes and coy glossy smiles. That was never you.

Affairs, flings, hookups, whatever the young ones say...situationships? You're not the type. You're not good for it. Too sad. Too quiet. You overheard the giggly whispering. It's your own fault you don't see your friends. Or that they aren't your friends anymore. 

Knowing what they really think of you... you're not good at pretending like that. You can smile, you can chirp, you can run a script with stranger, but they were supposed to actually like you.

Choices can be liberating but they can also be oppressive. Cut the cord and you're free falling into the void. You sit up as the next song starts.

I know I have good judgment, I know I have good taste It's funny and it's ironic that only I feel that way I promise 'em that you're different and everyone makes mistakes But just don't

You wish you had that confidence. You get up and turn down the volume so you can hear the melody but the lyrics are obscured. You shuffle over to the couch and flop onto it. You're tired. Another night wasted.

🧡

Punk Rock Market. You've never been to one. Never heard of one. The flyer was mixed in with your mail. Bills, adds, some religious pamphlet. It was the only thing that piqued your interest. You keep it on your fridge until the date of. 

You clutch it in your sweaty hand. It wrinkles as you keep checking the address. It's at an intersection. Hmmm. Okay. You think you know the one.

It's a few blocks further than you thought. You follow the swell of pedestrians into the browning green square. The grass is flattened from the traffic. Second thoughts slow your steps but the tides of patrons keep you moving.

You stop to look at jade and quartz medallions. Hand-made as the signs proclaim. The women behind the stall table have thickly-winged liner and lots of piercings. Their hair is shades of burnt-out bleach blond and pastels. One asks if you're looking for something in particular.

"Just look, I guess," you answer with a shrug. You bend to examine a cuff with opal. "Very pretty."

They don't hear you as they're already more interested in a customer who looks more like them. You move on. It's not unusual. Those who notice you, don't for long. Or if they do, it's never a good thing.

You stop to admire some hand-sewn dolls with twists of cotton for hair. You sell most of your things online, or a few places let you buy half a shelf for display, though they don't sell many. Something like this might be a good idea but you saw the prices for the other markets... you don't have that sort of overhead.

You're edged out of the stall by a group of platformed-booted shoppers. You back away and collide with a stroller. You spin and apologise, a glower from the mother and her husband as you do. You're trapped between them and the distracted group behind you.

Your heart picks up. You should've expected crowds but this is a bit much. You look around. You'll only hit the stroller again or someone else. You search until you see your only hope of escape. Between the stalls, right past the empty crates and thick electrical wires.

You flee, keeping your head down in case one of the sellers thinks to stop you. Your pulse tempos behind your eardrums. You curl around the back of the stalls and race toward the park entrance. You're going to call it another fail.

You slip out between a stall and the post of the banner for the market event. You're nearly taken off your feet as someone entering hits you with their arm. A rather thick arm that has you reeling and rubbing your side. You back up as the figure stops with a gruff growl.

It can't be. You're sure you recognise them. It's almost impossible to run into the same face twice in the city. Yet, your luck has always been grimly ironic.

As the deja vu clicks. You gulp. It's the man from the record store. You pout.

"Sorry, I..."

"What're you creeping around for?" He snarls.

"I... I was leaving--"

"Why were you back there?" He asks.

"Huh, oh, I got lost--"

"Dude, chill," his buddy peeks past him. "Place is packed."

The man's fist opens and closes, drawing your attention as his jaw grits. "I could get... through." You eke out.

"You," he raises his gloved hand and points in your face. "Girly pop."

You blink. Oh no. He remembers you.

"I..." you shrug. "Sorry, excuse me," you try to slip by and he catches your arm. 

"You didn't answer me. What were you up to?" He drags you back as others grumble behind you, pushing to get into the park.

"Yo, she told you," his friend jabs. "Chill, Buck. Let's get going."

He narrows his eyes as his forehead lines. He squeezes until you feel your blood struggling to course past the tension. He lets you go with a subtle shove.

"Whatever," he turns back to his pal. "Let's go find that oil or whatever you were going on about."

He stalks by and you turn to watch him. He's not a very happy person but neither are you. You turn and flee before he can have second thoughts. Strange how his friend seemed familiar too.

You head down the street and reach for your phone. Maybe you'll find something else. Going back to your apartment just means giving in to the grey. It's a sunny day, you want to enjoy it.

There's a cafe near here. They boast of nitro brew and protein coffee. You're not sure of either but they must have tea.

You get lost a block down and have to back track. You can be so clueless. You finally find the front door, though it is easy to miss. Black windows, black glass, like some sort of secret meetup.

You enter and join the line. It's not much less crowded than the park. You wait patiently for your turn and order the 'booster' tea.

You shove your hand deep into your satchel. You fish around frantically. Your wallet? Where is it? You blink helplessly at the employee behind the counter and apologise.

You run out and look up and down the street. Your wallet is gone. You feel around your pockets and all over. You retrace your steps, along your detour and back to the market. You gape into the sea of people. There's no way you'll find it!

What can you do? Cancel your card and figure out how to replace your IDs... figures. Nothing nice ever happens. Every idea you have is just a mistake. Go home. Stop trying.

🧡

The New York skyline looms darkly through the windows. The moonless night invades your apartment, the single lamp doing little to light the space. You sit in its glow, shoulders wracked, neck bent, tediously poking the pattern into the felt. The leopard was an optimistic choice in subject.

The record player turns. Etta croons richly as the clock ticks on. It's midnight, probably later. You haven't checked in some time. You can't sleep but you also can't bare to lay and stare at the ceiling.

Your tendons strain with your efforts. Everything is so precise. Your fingers feel as if they might lock into place. Your head is throbbing.

The record plays through Side B and the player clicks. You don't get up to stop it for some time. Your hands shake as you put the needle back and hit the power button.

You push your head back and stretch out the kinks. Your stomach clutches with hunger. Dinner is in the fridge still. You didn't bother reheating the pasta.

You close your eyes as you rub your cheeks. You yawn then drop your arms. You look around the empty box you live in.

You flinch. The windows are so dark, obscured with the reflection of the lamp, yet you swear you can see something. You shake your head. You're imagining it.

You got back to the table and gather up the felt and unfinished project. You have a few new orders. You need to go get some packing stuff to send them out. You tuck it away in the shoe box and slide it onto the cube shelf beneath the record player.

Tap, tap.

You raise your head and look over your shoulder. Something must have bounced off the window yet there's no wind, no rain. The weather is painfully still.

You ignore it and stand. You go back to the table to shut off the lamp.

Tap. Just one but louder. You keep your fingers on the switch attached to the wire but don't flick it. You glance over.

Slap. Something presses to the pane. You can't tell what it is. Small, rectangle. You near as your adrenaline flows and your heartbeat thrums. Something tells you to go back but it's impossible that anyone could be there. There's no fire escape, no balcony. The building is short a few codes.

You stop at the window as your face stares back. The small image on your ID where you don't smile, just stare. DOB, height, number...

Another face appears behind the small card. A scream blooms in your chest but can't escape as the man stares back at you. He taps again. How on earth did he get out there? That man. That one from the record shop and the market. The one you seem to plague more than your own sanity.

He tilts his head and mouths. 'Let me in.'

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Pls roo...

thots about mafia Andy 😩🤲🤲🤲

just a morsel

pls I beg 😵‍💫❤️❤️

-🌿

Vendetta

Summary: your sister got involved with the wrong person and now you're both caught in the consequences.

Warnings: noncon, violence, threats, guns.

Thanks to all who read and enjoy! And please leave some feedback in a reblog or ask! Love you. ❤️

Kiza doesn't answer. You growl at your phone and shake your head. You drop your hand, gripping the cell tight, and stomp up the stairs. You think she'd learn her lesson after everything. All she has to do is check in.

You get to the top landing and try again. No reply to your text and straight to voice-mail. Now your anger is starting to swirl into worry.

You approach the apartment door. Nothing's much different than it ever is. The brass handle and knocker are tarnished and there's strips of paint peeled from the wood.

You shove your key in and twist. You're in your head. You're paranoid.

As the hinges whine, your sister calls out.

"Hey! You're home." She announced oddly. Just the tenor of her voice keeps your hackles raised. You think of running back out but you're more concerned for her.

"I've been calling." You say as you drip your bag on the shoe mat and spin. "Ki, we talked about this--"

The heavy clock of the gun stops you just inside the front room. Kiza sits on the couch, face streaked eith tears. She sniffles and her brows wrinkle helplessly as she mouths, 'sorry'.

The barrel at your temple keeps you from moving. A large hand covers yours and wrestles free your phone. Your lip twitches. Fuck. You knew better. You're never going to be done with that boy and his bullshit.

"I know it wasn't this one who thought of getting the cops involved." The deep voice is as gritty as silt. It's not what you expect from those upstarts.

"Cops don't do nothing unless there's a reason," you shoot back.

The man scoffs.

"Eye for an eye." He growls.

You close your eyes and wait. You're not stupid. It won't just be you but even if you let that idiot keep messing with your sister, it wouldn't be any different.

"Kiza," the gun clicks and your peek between your lashes. You open your eyes all the way as he lowers the gun and heads for the couch. "You know, Jacob really liked you."

"And you went and snitched. Do wrong to one of mine and I'll pay you back in kind." The man bends and taunts her with the gun. You instinctively move closer. He just as quickly aims it back at you.

"So... you. Loving sister." He walks back to you. "Get on your knees."

You stare at him, face swimming with disgust and doubt.

"I'd rather die on my feet," you hiss.

He snorts. "You're not worth the clean up. Get the fuck down and take my cock out."

Your insides crawl with revulsion. You search his face. Bold blue eyes, chiseled jaw, long nose. He's much old than you and Kiza. Like as much as both of you together.

"Hell," he presses the barrel to your cheek and hooks his hand around your neck. "While you're down there. You can take your tits out too.

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

You will leak with my cum and swell with my child."

Well I feel the only appropriate response is YES DADDY!!!!! Curtis read her for FILTH and I love it! He’s meticulous and thorough and it makes you wonder does that extend to all aspects 🤔

Not a proposal

part of Unbreakable Ties

mob boss!Curtis Everett x female reader

summary: A direct follow-up to this bit that started the whole universe of dark mafia boss Curtis. You're taken to Curtis' home - your future home and argue with him about his choice of a wife.

warnings: dark and soft-dark elements; arranged marriage; forced marriage; threats; dominant and possessive behavior; Curtis is too damn smart; also who doesn't love to live a spoiled wealthy life; brief mention of breeding kink

Author's Note: I had this scene in my head forever, but somehow couldn't get around to write it. Until today. Just sat down to it at morning and ten hours later here we are 😅

Curtis Everett Masterlist

Full Masterlist

Curtis Everett was a scary motherfucker.

For many, his position as the head of the mafia was enough to deem him dangerous and terrifying. His orders were behind many lost lives, disappearances, blown up places, companies going forever out of business.

Yes, that was enough to consider him scary.

But as you sat in the back of his car, eyeing him from the corner of your eye, you knew there's more to be afraid of.

Until today, you thought yourself to be disinterested in him and the aura surrounding him. Of course, being connected to the mob web, you were aware of who he was, how he looked, and how he operated. But you were rarely at the events he frequented. Your family was in the mafia, but not on the upper levels, not in the inner circle that would grant you such nobility.

Well, until he dropped the bomb with his decision to fucking marry you.

Out of all the available, better matched mafia princesses.

That term might suit you in the general way - a girl who was brought up in the mafia; but it wasn't a category you'd put yourself in as an adult woman.

The fact you were mostly on the outskirts of mafia social life was one of the reasons. All the more making the whole situation unbelievable, that Curtis would for some reason choose you.

This unpredictability, as well the fact he appeared to be two steps ahead with every move, made him that scary motherfucker in your eyes.

Lack of physical violence against you (aside from being tossed over his shoulder and carried to the car) was surprising, too.

Your father and uncle might have been good men when it came to treating women, but there were enough disgusting scumbags in the mafia who raised their hands on their wives or daughters. Who held them hostage in abusive households, while wetting their dicks in diamond-encrusted bitches that dared to look down on those scorned women as if they were better.

Yet, something told you Everett, despite being the law when it came to the conservative traditions gluing this dark world, wouldn't raise his hand on you.

Even as he hoisted you over his shoulder, he was careful with his force.

Oh, you hated him at that moment. So much. But a slightly breathless thought passed your mind when he put you in the backseat of the car.

That Curtis Everett was a man.

As primitive as it sounded. Shallow, too. Still, you couldn't stop that fleeting thought that no man before him was able to just lift you up.

Well, not the men you dated, anyway. Aside from a short fling with one of the young mafia soldiers back when you were barely eighteen. After that, your choices have been guys outside of the famiglia.

Nice guys. Charming, non-threatening, with safe passions and gentle hands.

For so long, you told yourself that's what you wanted. That's what was healthy and normal. You were still convinced of that, it's just that some part of you liked the brief moment of being manhandled by an imposing, lethal man.

A man sitting next to you in the confines of a heavy black suv, with his legs spread wide, tattoos crawling up his fingers from beneath the cufflinked sleeves of a pristine steel gray shirt paired with an equally dark suit.

In the small space of the backseat of a car you could smell his perfume. Pine and herbs and salty sea.

Funny, you would expect that the ruthless devil at the head of the most powerful mafia to smell of grime, gunpowder, and death.

Taking a deep breath, you smoothed out the fabric of your dress over your knees.

"I really think this is the wrong choice." You spoke up, keeping your voice confident, but not daring.

You had the will to fight for yourself, but you were aware of the workings of the world, especially this criminal one. There were repercussions for everything and it'd be stupid to think you could get away with disrespecting the fucking Don.

You also liked living, so you had no intention of chewing through your own arm just to get free, like a caged animal.

Curtis' pointed a single finger at you.

"That is exactly why you're the perfect choice." He said, with the same calm, polite finality he was talking with at the dinner at your family's place.

"What?" You frowned, confused. "The fact I don't want it?"

"No. Because you are furious, but able to control yourself. Because, despite trying for many years to stay outside of mafia workings, you know how to play that game."

"If you want a smart wife, I assure you there are quite a few to choose from. Not every mafia princess is a spoiled, stupid bimbo." Which wasn't their fault, either. It was how they were raised.

Who knows, maybe if your dad was up in the ranks and more influential, you too would be groomed to be a completely docile, sweet mouse.

"Each woman brings different advantages." Curtis said, not the least remorseful.

"I don't come with many," you countered.

Your family was a part of the mob. Your father, his brother, your brother and your cousins. They all were on mafia payroll, though they dealt with a small part of the whole crime machine.

Their influence and wealth were slightly above compared to middle class civilians, but not much compared to mobsters of higher status.

Besides, it's not like Curtis needed more money. He had the most of all.

Power, too.

"I disagree." He surprised you with his simple but genuine statement.

"But let's continue this at home." It was that moment you realized the car had stopped and you reached the destination.

Home. Curtis used that word purposely. Not his place, not inside the house. He called it home, reminding you of the inevitable fate.

As you stepped out, the materialistic part of that future spread before you in its glory.

The mansion was impressive. The grounds surrounding it, as well. Not a monstrosity, but a surprisingly warm classic, like an Italian villa. You bet there was a swimming pool.

Damn, you loved swimming. And sunbathing. And sweet cocktails.

You shook your head, getting yourself back on track as Curtis' hand touched your lower back and nudged your forward.

Inside, the interior was welcoming and stunning. You half expected an overabundance of gold and kitsch, but was greeted by classic comfort. This was a place that could really feel like a home, not just a statement on status.

Curtis guided you to a spacious room in which a wall of windows was interrupted by a massive, stucco fireplace.

"You may claim to be insignificant or not belonging, but I see it quite differently." Curtis opened a small wine fridge in the custom made bar and poured two glasses.

He handed you one.

"I'm confident in my worth as a human being," you took the glass from him. "But I don't see reason behind choosing me for a mob wife. For you out of all!"

If some soldier working under a Capo wanted to ask for your hand, it would be more believable. More likely a situation to fight and decline, too.

But the boss of bosses staking claim? Unbelievable.

Inevitable, too.

"Hmm, the Don is usually expected to marry for alliance." Curtis agreed. He stood opposite of you, neither of you sitting down. "However, at the moment, I'm in no need to form an alliance. Don't need to support the power using outsiders."

"What I'm in need for is to strengthen inner structure."

You took a sip of wine, mostly to wet your lips and throat.

"Okay, I get wanting to marry a daughter of your own men." You nodded in return. "It provides them with honor and respect, while further securing their loyalty to you. Still, it doesn't-"

"Lower ranked can be the weakest links when it comes to loyalty, but your family has been spotless for many years." Curtis explained.

"I don't believe you made that choice just to reward my family." Curtis may have been an honorable man, as far as criminals went, but even he wouldn't make such a big gesture for an insignificant last name.

"I didn't." He took a sip of wine, and you couldn't help but watch the way his throat moved as he swallowed.

"Your family's so called reward will echo through all the ranks."

Curtis' eyes glinted something cold and calculating. Instead of being only scared, you found yourself intrigued by the plan he was weaving.

"For the others on lower level it will mean hope for their potential promotion in the future. That their daughters will marry to higher ranks, or sons given positions under Capos."

"Sons... you mean my brother will-"

"He'll be working under McGregor." Curtis confirmed, the corner of his mouth curved into a smirk. "And with that new prestigious position and connections, he will get the hand of Giana."

It was shocking that the Don himself knew of such minor, gossip-level things like a foot soldier being in love with Capo's niece.

"Moreover, it will shake the upper ranks." Curtis continued in the same calm tone, only his eyes betraying heightening triumph.

"And sometimes, when you shake a branch, bad fruit falls."

Shit! He truly was two steps ahead. Of everyone.

Your breasts rose up in a quickened breath. You had a certain weakness for intelligence. A dose of fear spiked anew, too, for it meant Curtis definitely had a counter argument to every point you might roll out.

"If it comes to it, you'll find out which of your ups are greedy and power hungry enough to betray you." You concluded with a nervous swallow.

Curtis only nodded, taking another sip of his wine. Taking you as his wife wasn't just a whim for him, even if some might see it as it. Actually, it served him well, if most of people remained clueless.

"As for you," the cold in his eyes transformed into something ravenous that almost made you take a step back, "before you list me names of other unmarried girls from lower ranking families..."

You really were ready to come up with some propositions.

"You're fit to play the game and be a rightful queen by my side. Smart, confident, brave. And-" he sighed with relief- "a woman, not a child barely out of age."

Pressing your lips together, you almost laughed at his clear discomfort at the prospect of marrying and fucking an eighteen year old. You'd give him a point for that.

"What about the part of me not wanting to be a mob wife?" It had to be the wine that made you ask so boldly.

Or, perhaps, you were slowly accepting the unchangeable fate and merely poking at the bear.

"I would call it bullshit." Curtis shrugged.

"Excuse me?" You bristled.

You took a few quick steps over to the coffee table to put your glass down, then braced your hands on your hips. Curtis didn't move from his spot, only turned around to face you.

"You paint this picture of someone who's been trying to cut ties with the mafia, but you're still here. Sure, we can discuss how you'd probably be chased and brought to heel, but-" slowly, he took another sip of wine, completely unbothered- "would you, really?"

Before you opened your mouth to retort, he continued:

"You're very smart and resourceful, know how to talk people up and make connections. If you were truly determined to get away from it all, you would. And we probably wouldn't find you."

"Honestly, it's possible we wouldn't even put much power behind that chase. A daughter of a lower ranking mobster, we'd do it for the sake of your family's name, but named the case cold after a few weeks."

Your pulse quickened with annoyance. At his words, but more at the truth he was revealing and which you knew at the back of your head. Because, if you put all your effort into disappearing, you'd fucking succeed. For-fucking-ever!

"Still, you stayed." Curtis' voice was a smooth blade, cutting off your armour piece by piece.

"You ventured outside the lines of mob's web with your dates, but never formed close friendships with those not from the famiglia. Perhaps you'll claim it was to keep people safe, but I wonder if it wasn't because you feel more at ease with those who understand this life. Who understand certain comforts, dangers, and... cravings."

Your blood rushed south, pooling heat in your core at the mentioned thrill.

"You went all bold with the degree unusual for most mafia princesses to choose, and I admire that. Yet, here you are, not looking for a job in that field. You upgraded your family's small business, but it's nowhere near what you're qualified to do."

Because you wanted to be different. You wanted to be more than just a mold everyone else was cast from. You wanted to sate your ambitions and stimulate your brain.

At the same time, you couldn't imagine not being at your family's cafe.

"Actually-" Curtis paused to put his own glass on the table and took a step towards you- "you don't seem to have been doing much different things than other mafia princesses."

"You work more, yes. You spend less, yes. You don't frequent many brunches and cocktails, only Carmella's monthly spa spree. But you eat only at mafia owned places. You participate in Fiore's and Layton's community cookouts."

You wanted to scream at him that you supported the community, nothing else. But was it the sole truth?

It was also a habit. And, somehow, a distaste for anything that wasn't from the world you knew.

You could also admit that you acted spoiled on rare occasions. You couldn't afford to buy only brands, or to splurge on three bags full at Sephora. And you were fine with it. Still, you bribed Sabrina at Claude's boutique, to put away for you that short, pale pink faux fur they had in the upcoming order list.

Curtis' gaze slowly slid down your body then up again. It wasn't lecherous, yet felt like a dark promise of devouring you whole.

"Maybe you don't like to be called that, but you are a mafia princess. And you can be swooped away by the mafia king."

"You have it all figured out, don't you?" You huffed, frustrated with losing all reasonable arguments, beside just pure spite.

"Yes." He didn't gloat, he simply stated.

"Well, you haven't even really proposed! No getting on one knee and offering a ring!" You blurted out, throwing your hands in the air.

Mirth formed soft wrinkles around Curtis' eyes. His mouth widened in a grin that balanced between amusement and a shark's bite.

"Because it's not a proposal."

No, it wasn't. Proposals had the option of refusing. He wouldn't accept yours. Already didn't. It was quite magnanimous of him that he even entertained the whole discussion on the matter.

"But if it matters to you so much-"

His hands gripped your hips in a flash. He lifted you, so easily once again, then tossed you onto the sofa.

The world spun, before your gaze settled on the light wooden beams crossing the pristine white ceiling. Then your eyes shifted to look at the man hovering over you.

He pushed your legs apart, kneeling on the floor between them. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box.

Your pupils widened, and breath hitched in your chest. Though you weren't sure if it was because the motherfucker was clearly prepared for an actual traditional proposal, or if it was because of the way he had you splayed under him.

Curtis opened the box and a setting of blinding stones sparkled at you. The ring was stunning. Possibly worth half of this mansion.

You gaped as he took the ring in one hand. With his other, he lifted your hand, which somehow felt beyond your control. Slowly, he slid the ring onto your finger, all the while holding your gaze.

"I won't ask if you marry me, because you will." Curtis rubbed your knuckles with his thumb.

His other hand moved to your chest. Fingers brushed over the swell of your breasts then circled your throat.

"In six months." He leaned down, his voice lowering into a purr as he laid each new tile of your fate for you.

"Official announcement comes next week. We'll host the annual Christmas party for the famiglia as an engaged couple. A few other events before our spring wedding."

He pushed closer. You felt the heat of him between your thighs. Your clit throbbed with interest. His fingers on your neck tightened slightly and your pulse quickened beneath his thumb.

"I won't fuck you until our wedding night. I'm traditional like that. Plus, I don't want anyone to have any doubt about me choosing you. There won't be any claims that I did an honorable thing after knocking you up."

There was a mention of condoms at the tip of your tongue, nearly rolling out in a begging tone.

"Because when I fuck you-" his breath tickled your lips as Curtis leaned closer- "you will take me bare. Always. In every hole. You will leak with my cum and swell with my child."

Your pussy clenched around nothing.

The gasp that fell out of your lips wasn't of an outrage, nor mortification. Curtis read it for the need that it was, his eyes igniting with victory.

He slid his hand up your neck, until his long fingers bracketed your jaw. He held you in place, with a dab of force to remind you that he would always be holding the reins, even as his mouth took your lips in a soft, sensually maddening kiss.

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

How can Steve be so infuriating and so panty melting at the same time?!???

There was a tradition at Vikings weddings (or maybe it was for all Nordic medieval) that the bride was given kittens, because they were symbol of goddess Freya. You know where I'm going with this ask, right? 🥺👉👈 Kittens from viking Steve? 🥺🥺🥺

Ceremonial Rituals

Characters/Pairings: Viking King Steve Rogers x curvy Female!Reader Word Count: 6.7k

Content/Warnings: DARK newly established relationship - kidnapped wife; explicit smut: rough sex, unprotected vaginal intercourse, insemination; use of pet name (little wife, little bride)

Notes: Takes place within a week after So Black the Darkness Hums (Come Down from Battle would take place a month or so after this).

Previous Part | Series ↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Six mornings after being ripped from your home, warm water envelops your aching body as unfamiliar hands move across your skin. Two women, their faces stern and focused, scrub at your flesh with soft cloths, working suds of soap over your skin. Their touch is not unkind, but there is no warmth in their eyes when they glance at you—only a wary curiosity.

Five nights passed at sea since you were ripped from your home. 

The voyage had been mercifully brief but miserable with your unfamiliarity of the churning sea that had you retching over the side of Steven's longship while he laughed and called you his "delicate flower." The warriors had sung and drank through the journey, celebrating their successful raid while you huddled beneath furs in Steven's private quarters, your body aching from Steven's relentless claiming of your body each night. He'd taken you in every way imaginable, a few times gently, more often rough, always leaving you confused by the pleasure he forced from you despite your circumstances.

You close your eyes against the memories of those nights at sea, the taste of salt on your lips, the rhythm of the waves beneath the ship matching the rhythm of his body against yours. You had learned quickly that resistance only made him rougher, more determined to break you. When you yielded, sometimes his touch would soften, and those moments of gentleness were almost more confusing than the brutality.

Five nights at sea, and then a late arrival after dark the night before. Steven had lifted you onto a horse waiting for him and brought you nearly straight to his bedchambers where he’d fucked you, then allowed you to sleep - a genuine rest without the rocking of a ship. Then just after dawn, he’d ushered you out of bed and into the hands of these two women for bathing. 

"Keep still," the younger woman mutters as she works a comb through your tangled hair. Her strong fingers work methodically, untangling knots with practiced efficiency. You hadn’t realized you were fidgeting. 

From their actions and a few of their murmured words to each other, you gather they're preparing you for some kind of ceremony. A formal introduction to Steven's people, perhaps.

"Stand," commands the older woman, her silver-streaked hair bound in complicated braids. She helps you from the wooden tub, wrapping you in soft linen that feels like a luxury after days at sea. 

The younger woman approaches with an undergarment garment of creamy white, richly embroidered with silver threads along the neckline and sleeves. The fabric is finer than anything you've ever worn, even your wedding dress.

"Arms up," she instructs.

You comply, allowing them to slip the garment over your head. The fabric settles against your skin like water, cool and smooth. They cinch it at your waist with silken ties. 

The younger woman leaves the room, saying she’ll be back presently. 

The older woman begins working oils into your hair, the scent of lavender and something spicier filling your nostrils. Her fingers move with practiced precision, weaving small braids at your temples before gathering them back. You wonder if this is how Steven's people prepare all their captives, or if you're receiving special treatment as his tribute. 

The door creaks open on iron hinges, drawing your attention from your somber thoughts. Two women enter the chamber—one balancing a wooden platter laden with a modest breakfast of bread, cheese, and sliced apples, while the other carefully carries a small woven basket from which tiny mewling sounds emerge. 

Your curiosity momentarily overcomes your apprehension. "What is that?" you ask, gesturing toward the basket as the woman sets it near the hearth.

“From the king.” She pulls back the cloth covering, revealing four tiny kittens tumbling over each other—one mostly black, one orange, and one with mottled gray-white-and-tan fur. “As is tradition,” she adds.

Before you can fully process this unexpected gesture, the younger woman who had been helping you bathe returns. Your breath catches as you see the gleaming white fabric draped over her arms. It's unmistakably a wedding gown—more elaborate than the one you wore just days ago, with intricate silver embroidery matching your undergarment, and small blue stones sewn into the bodice that catch the morning light.

"The king requests you wear this," she says, her eyes watching your reaction carefully. "The ceremony begins at midmorning." 

Your heart plummets and while there is yet the smallest of swoops in your stomach as understanding crashes over you. The bathing, the oils, the fine undergarment, the ceremonial gift of kittens—all of it suddenly makes terrible sense. Steven doesn't mean to merely present you as his captive or concubine.

He means to marry you. Today. Now.

"No," you whisper, the word escaping before you can stop it.

The older woman's hands pause in your hair, her expression softening for the first time. "It will be easier if you do not fight," she murmurs, so only you can hear. "The king has chosen you. That is... rare."

You swallow hard, fighting back tears. "I was already married. In my village—" 

"That marriage no longer exists," the younger woman interrupts firmly. "King Steven has claimed you. What came before means nothing now." 

The older woman resumes braiding your hair, her fingers gentle despite her words. "My name is Helga," she offers quietly. "I have served in this household since before Steven was born. The girl is Astrid, my granddaughter." 

You meet Helga's eyes in the polished metal mirror before you. There is kindness there, but also resignation. She has seen many things in her years of service, you realize. Perhaps even other women in your position. 

"Does he... does he do this often?" you ask, your voice barely audible. 

“No, you are the first woman he’s ever brought back.”

Astrid approaches with the gown, her expression neutral. "Arms up again."

You comply mechanically, too numb to resist as the heavy fabric slides over your head. The dress settles around you, surprisingly light despite its elaborate embroidery.

"Eat," Helga says, pushing the platter toward you. "You'll need your strength."

You take a small bite of bread, though the taste of it doesn’t register in your mouth. Your stomach churns with anxiety, but you force yourself to eat, knowing Helga speaks true about needing strength.

One of the kittens, the orange one, tumbles from the basket and pads across the floor to bat at the hem of your new gown. Despite everything, a small smile tugs at your lips as you watch its playful antics. 

"They are a traditional gift," Helga explains, noticing your interest. "Of course the king would send kittens for the new queen, to bring fertility and protection to the household as is customary for any new bride." 

"Queen?" The word feels foreign on your tongue, impossible. 

Astrid nods as she arranges the folds of your gown. "King Steven has no wife. He has had women, yes, but never a queen. You are to be the first." 

The implications of Astrid's words leave you reeling. Not just a captive or concubine, but a queen. Steven's queen. The thought is as terrifying as it is bewildering. 

"Why me?" you whisper, more to yourself than to the women attending you. 

Helga's weathered hands pause in their work, her eyes meeting yours in the metal mirror. "That is for the king to say," she replies carefully. "But I have known him since he was a boy at his mother's breast. I have never seen him look at a woman the way he looked at you last night or this morning."

Your cheeks burn, remembering the intensity in Steven's gaze during your nights together. The mixture of cruelty and desire, possession and something else—something you cannot name. 

The orange kitten pounces on your gown's hem again, tiny claws catching in the delicate fabric. You bend to disentangle it, grateful for the momentary distraction. The tiny creature purrs as your fingers brush its soft fur, and for a fleeting second, the simple pleasure of touching something so innocent calms your racing thoughts.

"It is time," Astrid announces, glancing toward the window where sunlight now streams fully through the leaded glass. A distant horn sounds, its deep note reverberating through the stone walls of the chamber.

Helga secures a silver circlet atop your head, nestling it among the intricate braids she's woven. "A queen must look the part," she murmurs, stepping back to assess her work. 

Your reflection in the polished metal is that of a stranger—a woman adorned like nobility, her eyes haunted with memories of another life. The white gown, with its silver embroidery and blue stones, transforms you into someone you barely recognize. Is this truly to be your fate? To be queen to the man who destroyed everything you once held dear? 

"The orange one seems to have chosen you," Helga observes as the kitten winds between your ankles, purring loudly. "A good omen. The goddess Freya sends her cats to women of strong spirit."

A knock at the door silences further conversation. Astrid opens it to reveal two warriors in gleaming armor, their expressions solemn. 

"The king awaits his bride," one announces. 

You take a deep breath, straightening your shoulders. Whatever ceremony awaits, whatever life stretches before you as Steven's queen, you will face it with dignity. Not for him, but for yourself. The tiny orange kitten mews plaintively as Helga gently returns it to the basket.

The warriors escort you through stone corridors adorned with tapestries depicting battles and hunts. Servants pause in their work to stare as you pass, their expressions ranging from curiosity to pity. 

You are taken to a clearing at the edge of the forest. There are many people assembled, but it’s the natural and wild beauty of the place that steals you breath away. There are wildflowers everywhere, and you can see snow-capped mountains in the distance, so different from the rolling hills of your homeland.

Sunlight filters through the ancient trees that encircle the clearing, dappling the ground with shifting patterns of light and shadow. At its center stands an enormous oak, its massive trunk gnarled with age, branches reaching skyward like outstretched arms. Beneath it waits Steven, transformed from the brutal warrior you've known into something more regal—a king in truth, adorned in finery that complements your own. 

His tunic is deep blue, embroidered with silver that catches the light with each breath he takes. A heavy cloak drapes his broad shoulders, and atop his head sits a simple crown of polished silver. His eyes find yours immediately, and the intensity of his gaze pins you in place.

The crowd parts as you approach, their murmurs rising and falling like waves. You recognize the hard, weathered faces of Steven's warriors mingled with—those of villagers, craftspeople, and servants. Some appear curious, others wary, but all watch with rapt attention as you're led toward Steven, wondering about the foreign bride their king has brought home. 

A wizened old woman waits beside Steven, her white hair flowing loose over her shoulders, adorned with feathers and bones. Her eyes, milky with cataracts, seem to see through you rather than at you.

Steven extends his hand as you draw near, his expression unreadable. You hesitate, heart pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird. To take his hand is to accept this fate, to acknowledge yourself as his queen. To refuse before his people would surely bring consequences you dare not contemplate. 

Your fingers tremble as you place your hand in his. His grip is firm, warm, drawing you closer until you stand beside him beneath the ancient oak. The old woman begins to speak in a language you don't understand, her voice surprisingly strong despite her age. You catch only fragments of meaning—words about bonds, strength, and the joining of two souls.

Steven's eyes never leave your face as the old woman speaks. The intensity of his gaze makes your skin prickle with awareness. For the first time, you notice a different quality in his eyes—not just possession or lust, but something deeper, more complex. But it’s gone in an instant, quickly masked when he realizes you've noticed.

The ceremony continues, the old woman producing a length of intricately woven cord. She binds your hands together—your right to Steven's left—the symbolic joining making your heart race with the finality of it. The cord is soft against your skin, dyed in shades of blue and silver that match your wedding attire. 

"This binding joins not just flesh, but fate," the old woman says, switching suddenly to the common tongue. Her accent is thick, but her words are clear enough. "What the gods have brought together, let no mortal tear asunder."

Steven's hand tightens around yours as the old woman produces a small silver knife. She pricks first his finger, then yours, pressing the wounds together so your blood mingles. The sharp sting barely registers through the haze of unreality surrounding you. 

"Blood of his blood," the crone intones. "Flesh of his flesh. Two souls bound by the ancient ways." 

The crowd murmurs their approval, the sound rising like a wave around you.

"You are mine now," he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear. "My queen. My bride.."

Before you can respond, Steven kisses you, a claiming, his kiss thorough, but it’s the dangerous grip of his hands at your waist that has you trembling - something none see, but you feel.

The crowd erupts in cheers and shouts as Steven's lips claim yours, the noise washing over you like a physical force. When he finally releases you, your head spins—from lack of air or the sheer enormity of what has just happened, you cannot tell. The binding cord is ceremoniously unwound from your joined hands, but the symbolism remains, invisible chains now linking you to this man, this conqueror.

"Smile, little bride," Steven murmurs against your ear, his breath hot on your skin. "They expect their new queen to look pleased."

You force your lips into what you hope resembles joy, though your heart pounds with a mixture of fear and confusion. 

"Come," Steven says, his voice carrying the unmistakable tone of command. "My people wish to celebrate their new queen." 

He leads you through the throng, his large hand firmly clasping yours. People bow as you pass, some reaching out to touch the hem of your gown for luck. Their faces blur together—a sea of strangers who are now your people.

The festivities are already underway, musicians beginning to play, the people laugh and sing, some raise horns of mead in celebration. A feast has been prepared, you realize, as servants begin bringing forth platters of food to tables set up at the edge of the clearing. 

Steven guides you to a table set on a raised platform, ornately carved chairs positioned at its center. The place of honor for the king and his new queen. As he seats you, his hand lingers possessively on the small of your back, a subtle reminder of your position. 

"Eat," he commands, gesturing to the array of unfamiliar foods being laid before you. "You'll need your strength for tonight's celebrations." 

The implication in his words sends a shiver down your spine. You reach for a piece of bread, if only to have something to do with your trembling hands. The food is rich and abundant – roasted meats, fresh fish, cheeses, fruits, and breads sweeter than any you've tasted before. Despite your churning emotions, your body betrays you with hunger after days of sea sickness and meager rations. 

As you eat, Steven leans close, his beard brushing your ear. "My people approve of you," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that only you can hear. "They see your beauty, your strength. You will make a fine queen."

You swallow your bite of bread, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "I know nothing of being queen to your people." 

A smile plays at the corners of his mouth, somehow both predatory and amused. "You will learn. I will teach you our ways, as I've already begun to teach you other things." 

Heat rises to your cheeks at his implication, memories of your nights together flashing unbidden through your mind. You look away, focusing instead on the celebration unfolding before you. Warriors drink and boast of their exploits, young women dance to the music of drums and pipes, children dart between the tables, snatching treats when their elders aren't looking.

People approach to offer congratulations and gifts—intricate jewelry, finely woven textiles, weapons of exquisite craftsmanship. You accept each with a gracious smile. It was not they who stole you from your home. 

As the celebration wears on, a strange feeling settles over you. These people—Steven's people—treat you with a deference you had not anticipated. Their eyes hold curiosity rather than malice, and some of the women offer shy smiles as they present their gifts. You realize it’s unlikely they know how you came to be here, that their king took you by force from another life.

"You're quiet, little bride," Steven murmurs, his hand coming to rest possessively on your thigh beneath the table. "Are your thoughts still with your village?" 

You tense at his touch but force yourself to remain composed before his people. "I'm merely... overwhelmed," you answer truthfully. 

Steven studies your face, his blue eyes searching. "You will learn to love it here," he says with no room for argument. "Our lands are rich, our people strong. And you..." his fingers trace a path up your thigh, "...will want for nothing as my queen."

You suppress a shiver at his touch. "And what of my duties as queen?" you ask, hoping to divert his attention from the intimate caress. "What will be expected of me?" 

Steven leans back, taking a deep draught from his ornate drinking horn before answering. "You will oversee the household, settle disputes among the women, bear my children." His eyes darken at these last words. "Strong sons to carry my bloodline." 

The thought of bearing his children sends a confusing mix of emotions through you – fear, resignation, and something else you dare not name. You take a sip of mead to hide your expression, the sweet liquid warming your throat. 

Your eyes fall on a group of children playing near the edge of the clearing. They chase each other, laughing, carefree in a way you can scarcely remember feeling. One small girl with wild blonde hair catches your eye and waves shyly.

"The feast will continue until nightfall," Steven says, following your gaze. "But we need not stay that long."

Your stomach tightens at his implication. Despite all he's already taken from you, despite the nights on his ship, the thought of the wedding night still fills you with a mixture of dread and a burning you do not wish to acknowledge.

"More mead," Steven commands a passing servant, who hurriedly fills each of your cups at the royal table. 

As twilight approaches, the celebration grows more boisterous. Warriors compete in feats of strength, their muscles glistening with sweat as they heft logs and stones to impress the crowd. Women dance with increasing abandon, skirts swirling as they weave between fires that now burn bright against the darkening sky. 

You've slowly nursed many cups of mead as pressed on you be Steven for hours, the sweet honey wine making your head swim pleasantly, dulling the edges of your fear, but as you’ve dutifully eaten throughout the day and not drunk too swiftly, you feel you still have most of your wits about you. It is something else that truly affects you - Steven’s hand has not left your thigh, occasionally venturing higher in a possessive caress that each time sends unwanted flares of heat through your body. 

"It is time," Steven declares suddenly, rising to his feet. The crowd falls silent, all eyes turning toward their king. "My bride and I thank you for your celebration, but now we must consummate our marriage." 

A raucous cheer erupts from the gathering. Several warriors pound the tables with their fists. "To the king and his bride!" someone shouts, and the crowd roars even louder. 

Your heart hammers in your chest as Steven pulls you to your feet. The crowd's cheering grows louder, more insistent, as he leads you away from the feast. Some of the men call out crude suggestions that make your cheeks burn, while women toss flower petals in your path—a strange juxtaposition of vulgarity and tradition that leaves you dizzy. 

"Must you have announced it so boldly?" you whisper, struggling to keep pace with his long strides.

Steven glances down at you, amusement playing across his features. "It is our way. The consummation is an important part of the ceremony." 

"We have already..." you begin, then falter, unable to speak the words aloud. 

"Yes," he agrees, his voice dropping to a growl that sends shivers down your spine. "But not as husband and wife." 

The walk back to the great hall feels both endless and too swift. Steven's hand remains firmly at the small of your back, guiding you through torchlit corridors. Servants bow as you pass, their eyes carefully averted. The sound of celebration fades behind you, replaced by the echo of your footsteps and the thundering of your pulse in your ears. 

You recognize the door to Steven's chambers—your chambers now, you suppose. Two guards stand at attention outside, their expressions impassive as they open the heavy oak door. Steven leads you inside, and your breath catches at the transformation of the room. During your brief glimpse this morning, it had been merely a bedchamber—impressive in size and furnishings, but ordinary. Now it glows with dozens of candles, their light dancing across walls hung with tapestries of rich blues and silvers that match your wedding attire. The massive bed has been strewn with fresh furs and linens, and scattered with petals of blue wildflowers. The air is heavy with scents of beeswax, pine, and something sweeter—perhaps meadowsweet or lavender.

The door closes behind you with a heavy thud, and you flinch at the finality of it. You are alone with him now—your captor, your king, your husband. 

Steven moves to a table that holds a flagon of wine, fruits, and honey cakes—sustenance for the long night ahead. 

His back to you, he speaks, "You performed well today, little bride.”

"Thank you," you murmur, uncertain how else to respond to his strange compliment. Your fingers trace the intricate silver embroidery at your sleeve, needing something to occupy your hands. 

Steven pours deep red wine into two goblets, the liquid catching the candlelight like blood. When he turns to face you, his expression has changed—the public face of the king replaced by something more primal, more intimate. More dangerous. 

"Come," he says, extending one of the goblets. 

You cross the room as slowly as you dare, taking the offered wine. Your fingers brush his, and even that small contact sends a jolt through your body. The wine is rich and heavy on your tongue, warming your throat as you swallow.

"Are you afraid?" Steven asks, watching you over the rim of his goblet. 

The question catches you off guard with its directness. "Would it matter if I were?”

Steven's eyes narrow slightly at your question. He sets his goblet down on the table with deliberate care, the soft clink of metal against wood echoing in the quiet room. 

"Yes," he says finally, surprising you with his answer. "It would matter." 

He steps closer, and you resist the urge to retreat. His hand rises to your face, fingers tracing your cheekbone with unexpected gentleness. 

"Fear has its purpose," he continues, his voice low. "It keeps us alive, makes us cautious. But there are different kinds of fear." His thumb brushes across your lower lip. "The fear of a warrior before battle is not the same as the fear of a child in the dark." 

You take another sip of wine to steady yourself, to buy time before responding. "And what kind of fear do you think I should have, my king?" 

A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "The kind that quickens your pulse and makes your hands tremble." His hand slides to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in the intricate braids Helga had so carefully arranged. "The kind that heightens every sensation, makes every touch more intense."

You swallow hard, acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, the scent of him—leather and pine and something uniquely male—filling your senses. His proximity affects you in ways you wish it didn't, your traitorous body responding to him despite everything. 

His hands move to the silver circlet atop your head, removing it with careful precision. He places it on a nearby table, the metal catching the candlelight with a soft gleam. Your heart pounds as his fingers begin to work through your elaborately braided hair, unraveling Helga's careful work with methodical patience. 

"Do you know why I chose you?" Steven asks, his voice a low rumble as he frees the last braid, allowing your hair to fall loose around your shoulders. 

You shake your head, not trusting your voice. 

"When I saw you in that wedding dress, fleeing through the forest..." His fingers trail down to trace your jawline. "Most women would have hidden, cowered. But you led others to safety. There was fire in your eyes even as my men dragged you before me."

His eyes search yours now, as though seeking that same fire. You stand perfectly still, afraid that any movement might break this strange moment of honesty between you. 

"And then," he continues, his voice dropping even lower, "when I took you to my bed that first night, you fought me in ways no one has dared in years. Not with weapons, but with the defiance in your eyes, the tension in your body even as it betrayed you with pleasure." 

You look away, shame burning your cheeks at the reminder of how your body had responded to his touch. His fingers grasp your chin firmly, forcing you to meet his gaze once more. 

"Look at me when I speak to you," he commands, though his tone lacks the harshness you've come to expect. "A queen must never lower her eyes, not even to her king." 

"Is that what you want?" you ask. 

His eyes darken as he looks at you. "I want a queen who knows her place."

The gentleness vanishes in an instant. Steven's hand suddenly tightens in your hair, yanking your head back with brutal force. His mouth crashes down on yours, teeth clashing, nothing like the ceremonial kiss shared before his people. This is possession, pure and raw.

"Enough talk," he growls against your lips. "You are my wife now, and I will claim what's mine."

In one swift motion, he tears at the delicate fastenings of your wedding gown, the sound of ripping fabric filling the chamber. The beautiful silver embroidery that had caught the light so elegantly now lies in tatters as he roughly yanks the garment from your body.

"Did you think marriage would soften me?" Steven snarls, shoving you backward toward the bed. "That a ceremony would change what I am?"

Your back hits the furs, and before you can recover, Steven is upon you, his massive frame pinning you down. His mouth crashes against yours in a brutal kiss that has nothing of tenderness in it. His teeth catch your lower lip, the metallic taste of blood blooming on your tongue. You gasp, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue invading your mouth with the same ruthless determination he'd shown in conquering your village.

"I may have made you my queen," he growls into your mouth, "but never forget who you belong to."

His hands are everywhere, rough and demanding, leaving no part of you untouched. The thin undergarment provides little barrier to his exploration, and soon that too is torn away, leaving you naked beneath him. 

"Mine," he snarls against your throat, teeth scraping the sensitive skin there. "Say it." 

You remain silent, a last, desperate act of defiance. His hand finds your breast, fingers pinching your nipple with painful intensity. 

"Say it," he demands again, twisting harder. 

"Yours," you gasp, the word torn from your throat. 

A triumphant gleam lights his eyes as he releases your nipple, his hand sliding lower across your stomach. "Again," he commands. 

"I'm yours," you repeat, the words burning like poison on your tongue. Yet beneath the bitterness lies something else—something you dare not examine too closely. 

Steven's eyes flash with satisfaction. "Yes," he growls, "mine to take, mine to pleasure, mine to rule." 

His mouth descends to your breast, teeth grazing the sensitive peak before his tongue soothes the sting. Despite your resistance, your body responds to his touch, as it has ever since the first night he claimed you. Your back arches involuntarily into his caress, and he chuckles darkly against your skin, the vibration sending shivers through you.

"Your body knows the truth even when your mind rebels," he murmurs, his breath hot against your dampened skin. 

His hands push your thighs apart roughly, settling his weight between them. You can feel him hard against you, still clothed while you lie naked and vulnerable beneath him. The disparity in power is evident, but that’s not why you’re unhappy he’s still clothed - you want to feel his flesh pressed against your flesh. 

The realization startles you, this unwanted craving. Your fingers find the fastenings of his tunic and begin to work them open. Steven's eyes widen slightly at your unexpected boldness, then narrow with renewed hunger. 

"Eager, little bride?" he taunts, but allows you to continue undressing him. His tunic falls away, revealing the muscled torso you've come to know intimately during your nights at sea. The candlelight plays across his skin, highlighting scars both old and new—a map of battles won and lost. 

Your fingers trace one particularly jagged scar that runs from his shoulder across his chest. "How did you get this one?" you ask, surprising yourself with the question. 

Steven's hand covers yours, pressing it flat against the raised flesh. "A Saxon blade, three summers ago. I killed the man who gave it to me and six of his companions." 

His admission s no surprise, yet still makes your blood chill. 

His voice holds no remorse, only pride in his lethal skill. You wonder how many men have fallen to his sword, how many villages like yours have suffered under his raids. Yet here you are, naked beneath him, your body responding to his touch despite everything he's done. 

"Does that frighten you?" Steven asks, his eyes studying your reaction. "To know you lie with a killer?" 

You meet his gaze steadily. "I've always known what you are." 

Something flickers in his eyes—approval, perhaps, at your honesty. His hand leaves yours to continue tracing the path of the scar, fingers trailing down his chest to the waistband of his breeches. 

"And what am I?" he challenges, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. 

"A warrior," you answer. "A conqueror." 

“Your husband,” he says, guiding your hands to the laces of his breeches. 

"My husband," you repeat, the word still foreign on your tongue as your fingers work at the laces. The fabric parts beneath your touch, revealing him, hard and ready. 

Steven's eyes darken at your words. "Say it again," he commands, his voice rough with desire. 

"My king," you repeat, louder this time. Something shifts between you in that moment - not submission exactly, but acknowledgment. This is your reality now, whether you chose it or not. 

His hand cups your face, the touch unexpectedly gentle despite the ferocity in his eyes.

"And what does a wife owe her husband?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that resonates through your body.

You swallow hard, meeting his gaze. "Her loyalty," you answer carefully. "Her obedience."

"Yes," he agrees, his thumb tracing your lower lip. 

"And what else?”

"Her body," you whisper, the words sending an unwelcome heat through your veins.

"Good," Steven growls, his approval darkening his eyes further. "And will you give your king what he is owed?"

Your heart hammers against your ribs as you realize this is no mere question—it's a test. Not of submission, but of understanding. Of acceptance. The wine and mead from the feast swim in your head, but not enough to blur the reality of your situation. This is your life now. This man—conqueror, king, husband—is your future.

"Yes," you answer, the single word sealing your fate more surely than any marriage ceremony.

His eyes flash with triumph, but also something else. He sheds his remaining clothing with efficient movements, then looms over you once more, gloriously naked, his body radiating heat in the candlelit chamber. Your eyes travel the landscape of his form - the broad shoulders, the muscled chest tapering to narrow hips, the powerful thighs. A warrior's body, honed by battle and hardship. 

"Look your fill," he murmurs, arrogance coloring his tone. "All this belongs to you now, as you belong to me."

His hand slides up your thigh, fingers tracing patterns on your sensitive skin. Your breath catches as he moves higher, his touch leaving trails of fire in its wake. When he reaches the apex of your thighs, you can't help the small sound that escapes your lips.

"So wet for me already," he taunts, his fingers circling your sensitive bud with practiced precision. "Your body betrays your true feelings, little bride." 

You turn your face away, eyes squeezing shut against the building pleasure. It's not fair how easily he can manipulate your responses, how thoroughly he knows your body after a handful of nights. 

"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with desire. "I told you a queen must never lower her eyes, and certainly not when I have you like this." 

Reluctantly, you obey, meeting his intense gaze. His hands slide beneath your thighs, lifting and spreading them wider as he positions himself between your legs. The head of his cock teases your entrance, hot and insistent. Despite everything, your body responds to his touch, growing slick with need.

"Tell me what you want," Steven demands, his voice husky with desire.

The words stick in your throat. To voice your desire feels like the final surrender, an admission you're not sure you're ready to make. Yet your body betrays you, hips shifting restlessly, seeking the friction he denies you.

"Say it," he growls, nipping at your earlobe. "I want to hear you beg for your king's cock."

"Please," you whisper, the word barely audible.

Steven's hand grips your throat, not hard enough to cut off your air, but firmly enough to demonstrate his power. 

"Louder," he commands, his thumb pressing against your pulse point. "I want to hear you, wife." 

"Please," you say, your voice stronger now. "I want... I want you inside me." 

A slow, predatory smile spreads across Steven's face. "As you wish, my queen." 

With one powerful thrust, he buries himself inside you. Your body, already accustomed to him after the nights at sea, accepts him more easily now, though his size still stretches you to your limit. He groans in satisfaction, his hand releasing your throat to brace himself above you.

Steven sets a relentless pace, each thrust driving deeper than the last. His hands grip your hips, positioning you perfectly to take all of him. The bed creaks beneath your joined bodies, the sound mingling with your gasps and his grunts of pleasure. You find yourself clinging to his broad shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he drives into you.

"Is this what you wanted, little bride?" he growls against your ear, his breath hot on your skin. "To be fucked by your king on your wedding night?"

"Yes," you gasp, the word torn from you by a particularly deep thrust that hits something exquisite inside you. The shame you felt at your responses has begun to fade with each passing night in his possession, replaced by a hunger that frightens you with its intensity.

His rhythm never falters, each powerful thrust driving you closer to the edge. One of his hands slides between your bodies, fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves. Your back arches at his touch, a cry escaping your lips. Steven's mouth crashes down on yours, swallowing the sound as his fingers work in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me, wife," he commands, his voice strained with his own approaching release. "I will have you shatter around my cock."

The command in his voice triggers something primal within you. Your body obeys before your mind can protest, pleasure crashing through you in waves that leave you gasping and trembling beneath him. Your inner walls clench around him as you peak, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest.

Steven groans in satisfaction, his pace becoming erratic as your inner walls clench around him. With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you, his release filling you as he groans your name—not "little bride" or "wife," but your actual name, the sound of it on his lips strangely intimate in this moment of abandon.

For several moments, the only sound in the chamber is your mingled breathing. Steven's weight presses you into the furs, his body slick with sweat against yours. You should feel crushed, should want to push him away, but there's a strange comfort in the solid weight of him—an anchor as your life has been untethered from everything you knew before, in an ocean of unknown future. 

Though he's buried to the hilt in you, Steven's hand still clutches your hip in a bruising grip, his breathing ragged against your neck. The candlelight flickers across his sweat-slicked shoulders as he finally stirs, pressing his lips to the tender spot beneath your ear in an unexpectedly gentle gesture. 

"Mine," he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. The possessive word should anger you, but instead sends an unwelcome shiver down your spine. 

He shifts his weight, pulling out of you with a slick sound that makes your cheeks burn. Instead of rolling away, he gathers you against his chest, one muscular arm banded around your waist as if afraid you might flee. His heartbeat thunders against your back, gradually slowing to a steady rhythm. 

"Your people seemed pleased with their new queen," Steven says after a long silence, his fingers absently stroking your lower back. 

"You did well today," he murmurs, his voice rumbling through his chest beneath your ear. "My people are impressed by their new queen."

You remain silent, unsure how to respond to praise for a role you never sought. Steven draws a finger beneath the line of your jaw, gently forcing your chin to look up at him.

"You will learn to love it here," he says, and though his tone is soft, there's an undercurrent of command. "This is your home now. These are your people."

"And if I don't?" you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it. 

Steven's eyes narrow, his jaw tightening at your question. For a moment, you fear you've pushed too far. Then his expression shifts, something almost like admiration flickering in his gaze.

"Then you will pretend, until the pretense becomes truth," he says simply. "You are no longer a village maiden, but a queen. My queen." His fingers trace idle patterns on your bare shoulder. "And queens must sometimes do what is necessary, regardless of their personal feelings."

You consider his words, the pragmatic truth in them. What choice do you have but to adapt to this new life? Your old one is lost to you forever.

"I'll try," you whisper, the words more honest than you intended. It's not submission exactly, but acknowledgment of your reality. You cannot change what has happened, can only move forward in this strange new life. 

Steven's expression softens slightly, his hand moving to cup your cheek. "That is all I ask."

And then he presses your face up to meet his hungry lips, devouring yours again in a kiss.

And when he breaks it for a moment of air, he adds an ominous, "For now," before demanding to drink more from your mouth.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

SEQUEL: Fierce Affirming Sight of Sunlight

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

this one made me think of curtis!! i hope you had a nice weekend!

"You're dangerous." – "Only if you ask nicely."

Trouble in the Air

Warnings: threats and dark insinuations.

Trope: Brother's best friend/biker.

The sunlight shines in slats across the dusty wood. The swelter of summer beams across you as the laze on the porch swing. You keep one head on your arm as you clutch the book, cover curled back, spine broke, entranced by the fictional world shielding you from the roiling heat.

So wrapped up in the story that you don't notice the shadow until the step creaks. You look over, expecting Greg, but not so disappointed not to. Your brother never arrives with good news or a good mood.

You sit up as Curtis rests his foot on the edge of the top step. He's tall but not lanky. The bristle of his shaven head matches the stubble across his jaw and cheeks. His blue grey eyes are icy despite the temperature.

"Haven't seen Greg today," you close up the book, ready to flee inside for something cool to drink. And away from Curtis. He's never been mean but you know who he is.

"Sounds like a good day," he drawls as he steps onto the porch. At his full height, he gives you second thoughts of standing. "How are you doing? He's not causing you guff?"

You shake your head and run your thumb along the book cover. Your nerves spin as his gaze is bolder than the noon sun. You fidget.

He walks along the railing and turns to lean on it. He crosses his arms and tilts his head. It feels like an interrogation.

"You're quiet." He comments.

You shrug and look down guiltily. It's not just with him but you can't find the voice to say so.

"It's fine. I'm quiet too. I say what needs to be said."

He drops his arms and pushes off the wood. He turns and sits next to you on the bench swing, anchoring it as he plants his feet. He looks too big for it.

"I don't like rambling, so I'd like you to be honest."

You blink. Your heart leaps into your throat. What's going on? He usually goes away when your brother isn't around.

"Do I scare you?" He asks.

You stare at him. The heat makes time slow down and you drop your gaze to your lap. You trace the title of your book with your fingertip. Your temples are throbbing.

He reaches over and puts his hand around yours. His touch is searing. He wiggles the book free and looks it over. He flips it and reads the synopsis.

"Interesting," he holds it out. "Why are you afraid?"

You take the book and squeeze until it bends. You swing your feet, toes dragging on the porch.

"You're dangerous," you croak.

He's quiet as he measures your answer. You must spund awfully stupid. He sits back and stretches his arm across the back of the bench.

"Only if you ask nicely," he says.

You don't know what he means. His touch frightens you. He tickles your bare arm.

"Sit back."

You obey. Your head rests on his arm. He sighs.

"I can be dangerous. I'm glad you realize that," he swings the bench as you sit rigid next to him. "Which means you'll tell me the truth."

"The truth?" You murmur.

"Uh huh. You're going to tell me where your brother put my money."

"Money?" You look at him. "I don't know anything about any money."

"I'm sure, sweetheart." He exhales again. He stares put at the yellow sky. "You gonna make me ask again?"

"I swear--"

He catches your by your jaw and pushes you back into the bench. You sputter and he leans in, pressing his nose to your cheek.

"I'm not leaving here without what I'm owed. So tell me where the fucking money is." He snarls. "If he spent it, say so."

You squirm and he squeezes harder.

"Please, I really don't know," you eke out.

His hand slips to your throat. You squeal. His thumb pushes behind your jaw as he drags his lips up your cheek and hovers before your ear.

"He takes something of mine, I take something too."

He's so quick, you can't think. He stands and the swing hits the house. He wrenches you from the seat and hauls you off your feet. Your book slaps onto the floor as he hangs you over his shoulder. You can smell his leather vest and sweat.

"Let's see what he likes more. My money or his own damn sister," he growls as he stomps down the front steps.

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Not my immediate reaction being AWWW BABY 🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣

Enforcer/Steve (well you just knew I will be all over him 😁 )

"Who touched her? I will ask this only once."

Thanks for playing babe! 💜

Cherry Masterlist

enforcer!Steve Rogers x female reader

warnings: mention and brief depiction of violence

You wanted to say it's no big deal, but with how still Steve was, how rigid his muscles were as he clenched his fists, you didn't dare to speak up.

Staying behind his broad back, you twisted the hem of your dress between your fingers.

This was gonna get messy and you were to blame for it.

Well, not exactly. You wouldn't take the blame for the whole incident, but Steve's potential reaction was kinda blown out of proportion. You think.

You asked him to pick you up from a club where you celebrated your friend's birthday. Everything would be fine, if Steve didn't notice how your face lit with relief upon seeing him and if your friend didn't mention that some asshole slapped your butt as you were passing one of the booths.

Steve's soft, blue eyes filled with hellfire. His nostrils flared.

He walked into the club; people scattered out of his way as he prowled forward.

He glanced at you over his shoulder and without prompting you pointed at the booth filled with laughing, drunk men.

Steve stopped at their table and the mere looming presence of him made them go quiet one by one. They stared at him, some too drunk to sense it was a bad idea to antagonize him, others confused.

"Who touched her?" He asked in a voice so sharp and cold it may as well be a blade itself. "I will ask this only once."

Gazes landed on you, then some moved to the guy on the right, with his hair slicked back and sunglasses atop of his head even inside the club.

"Hey. Can't blame a man for-"

The asshole's reply died in hos throat when Steve's fingers clenched around his neck.

It wasn't in the way he sometimes choked you. No, this was nasty. His fingers were digging hard, palm crushing the man's larynx. The flow of air was cut off completely, so fast the man could only flail his arms around without even scratching Steve.

Some of his friends jerked up, ready to intervene. But Steve was deadly fast.

His gun was out in other hand in a flash; steady arm pointing it at anyone who dared to intervene.

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

SIRI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That’s it that’s all I got

Just know my brain is broke and I can no longer work I has the dumb

Public Displays of Possession

Pairing: Curtis Everett x Fem!Reader Word Count: 2,884 Summary: Curtis isn’t shy about possessing you completely, in fact, he revels in it. Warnings: Mob AU. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. Soft!dark mob!Curtis. Shy!scared!Reader. Manipulation & coercion. Possessiveness. Fear kink. Crying kink. Intimidation. Dub con. Thigh riding if you squint. Vaginal fingering. Manhandling. Soft degradation. Forced cockwarming. Spanking. Unprotected, rough sex. Slight anal play. Forced exhibitionism. 

A/N: All of you who kept fawning and sweating over Prized Possession!Curtis are to blame for this, so thank you and you’re welcome 😌

Each day spent as Curtis’ captive made you more and more his–possessed by him completely–even in small, subtle ways.

For instance, despite having an obscenely long dining table, Curtis made you sit in the seat right next to him at the head of the table. That way, he could rest his free hand on your thigh or caress along your shoulder and arm throughout the entirety of your meal, like he was doing right now.

After weeks and weeks spent living as his pretty prize, you were no less fearful of him. If anything, you were even more afraid, constantly on edge and trying your best to navigate Curtis and his yet-to-flag interest in you.

It was like living with constant emotional whiplash, the way he could go from being soft and playful with you to terrifying and rough in his handling–and often fucking–of you.

You never knew what the day would bring, what type of mood he would be in, if he would hurt you or exhibit you in ways that made you wither and die on the inside just a little bit more with each occurrence. 

So as you sat beside him for dinner, you couldn’t help but tremble as you stared down at your plate. 

And even worse, you could feel Curtis’ ever watchful gaze on you the entire time. 

When his fingers trailed up your free arm before his large hand gently cradled the side of your throat, and you flinched so violently that you dropped your fork–wincing at the loud clatter–his lips twitched in dark amusement. 

It was like he was a shark and he could smell blood in the water, so naturally, he attacked.

Curtis shoved his seat out and patted his thigh, wordlessly directing you where he wanted you, because he didn’t even need to speak for you to hop to, even if you obviously didn’t want to.

In fact, you couldn’t hold back a wave of tears as you rose from your own seat and moved toward him. When you went to reach up to swipe away an errant tear, Curtis caught your wrist to stop you.

“Leave it. You’re so fucking pretty when you cry,” he husked, tugging you down into his lap. 

He arranged you so your back was to his chest and you were straddling the thick muscle of his thigh. He even rocked it a little, humming in approval as he felt the warmth of your cunt through your barely there panties plant more fully against his leg.

You squirmed at the pressure between your legs that you knew was just a prelude to whatever sinful whims were sparking to life in Curtis’ diabolical mind. More tears brimmed and spilled over as you watched his large, calloused hands so gently tug up the delicate hem of your dress so that he could get a peek at your panties below, uncaring of the way he put you on display, yet again. 

“Since you’d obviously rather play than eat,” he teased, his fingers ever so gently petting up your cunt through your underwear, “Maybe I should indulge you, huh?”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, struggling to catch your breath between Curtis’ wicked touch and the way your chest was so tight with anxiety, you could barely breathe. “I’ll eat.”

“Mmm, I’m not sure that’s what you really want, pretty prize,” Curtis smirked, nuzzling along your tear-stained cheek as he felt your panties grow damper and damper by the second. “But if you’re so eager to have something in your mouth…”

He shifted subtly, but it was enough that you could suddenly feel the hard, hot press of his erection along your lower back. 

You started to shake your head in denial–in resistance–but squeaked as Curtis’ free hand caught your face by your jaw and held you still with a grip so firm, it bordered on painful and had you choking down a sob of fear.

“On your knees,” his voice was low and tinged with steel in a way that had your body following his cue before your brain caught up to the conversation.

You slid from his lap to your knees, feeling your stomach churn as Curtis pet your head and cooed at you.

“Such a good girl, doing what she’s told.”

He waited for you to turn toward him before sinking back in his seat, reaching for his fork with a satisfied curl to his lips as your shaking fingers undid his pants. 

Just as your fingers touched Curtis’ bare cock, you heard footsteps approach. You instantly froze, your face flooding with such a humiliated type of heat, that you swore you were on fire from the inside out as Curtis’ head of security, Franco Jr., appeared beside him.

His gaze flickered to you and lingered, something in them sparking warm and mean, making your own eyes instantly fall to the floor as more tears spilled over and you trembled and drowned in shame at Curtis’ feet. 

“Sir, sorry to interrupt, but you said to update you as soon as I heard back on the issue we discussed this morning.”

“Then update me,” Curtis replied, lifting his fork to his mouth but pausing as his glittering eyes landed on you. He held up a finger to Franco, delaying his update as Curtis spoke again, his words now directed at you. “There’s a reason why you’re on your knees, sweetheart, and it’s not to sit there looking pretty, as much as I appreciate the view.”

Your lower lip wobbled as you met Curtis’ demanding gaze. For a second, your eyes flickered to Franco–who very much seemed to be enjoying the show–before returning to Curtis. “But–”

That single word alone was enough to have Curtis’ nostrils flaring, his lips turning down into a displeased glower as he suddenly shot forward and gripped you hard by the throat. 

“When I tell you to do something, you do it, you don’t whine about it, do you understand?”

You whimpered as he snarled in your face, nodding as much as you could around his grip on your neck. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be fucking sorry, be obedient. It’s why you’re here…and still alive.”

You shuddered at Curtis’ not so veiled threat, trying to ignore both watchful gazes searing into you as you retrieved Curtis’ hard cock from his pants and guided it to your mouth. You sank down on him as far as you could, suppressing a heave as Curtis’ hand found the back of your neck and pushed you down just a little bit further before keeping you there to warm his cock, just as he wanted.

And then Franco gave his report as directed, like it was the most normal thing in the world to do so as you knelt at Curtis’ feet with his cock filling your mouth and throat, tears streaming down your face. 

Thankfully, white noise began to blare loudly in your mind. It drown out the two voices speaking business as usual–like you and your current predicament didn’t matter at all–as you surrendered to a soul-splintering kind of shame and tried your best to breathe through your nose until this round of humiliation was finally over.

A few days later, it was business as usual as Curtis summoned you to his home office early in the day.

As you tentatively stepped inside, you tried your best to avoid looking at the homebase of your constant shame and defilement. 

The place where it was always put on display most.

The pedestal.

Curtis had made good on his word and made the pedestal a fixture in the room. He’d even hired contractors to come in and build it out and into the wall adjacent to his desk. 

The pedestal itself was a perfectly polished circle of walnut wood, about four feet in diameter, set before a black wall that curved up into an arch and made the space a little alcove for your defilement. 

Now, instead of an accent wall or a beautiful piece of art or furniture, the highlight of the room was you–usually on obscene display–for the man who now owned you.

“Put this on,” Curtis demanded without preamble, plucking up the sheer lace bra and panties set that was set out on one of the shelves beside the pedestal wall. “I want something pretty to look at while working.”

Today, numbness won out over shame as you did what you were told and began to strip. Once you were donning the bra and panties, Curtis handed off a pair of stilettos for you to put on next.

You tried not to grimace as you eyed the spiked heels, wondering how in the world you were supposed to wear these and remain standing for a long period of time. 

As if he could read your mind, Curtis smirked at you, offering you a hand up from your spot perched on the edge of the pedestal as you finished putting on the stilettos. 

“Go on, I want you right in the center and facing me,” he told you, watching as you teetered into place. “If you move or make a sound to disturb me, you’ll be punished, do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” you whispered, shivering slightly before you assumed the position Curtis wanted and watched him saunter back to his desk chair.

It only took a few moments for you to realize that you had been set up to fail. 

That Curtis must have cranked up the air conditioning to purposefully make the room absolutely freezing, so you had literally no chance of remaining still as a statue, especially in your current getup, when you were so very cold.

You were able to resist rubbing your arms to try to warm up, but what you weren’t able to do was prevent your body from shivering the longer you stood there freezing.

In no time at all, Curtis gave a melodramatic sigh of disappointment, jaw clenching as he set down his pen and aimed his displeased gaze your way. He straightened in his seat, lounging back in his chair for a beat as he tapped his fingers atop his desk and watched you with a mean smirk curling his lips.

It had never been more apparent that you were in trouble, and there was literally nothing you could do about it.

When Curtis rose to his feet and moved toward you, you cowered, trembling out a soft, “Please, I’m sorry,” as you hugged yourself tightly and tried not to cry. 

Curtis just faux pouted at you, holding out a hand until you hesitantly placed your own in his. He helped you down from the pedestal, his smirk growing more pronounced at how you struggled in the ridiculous heels, before he led you over to the leather sofa in the seating area of the room. 

He dropped your hand before sitting and reclining back like a king, now aiming his smirk up at you. 

You watched him nervously, your eyes big and wary as you continued to shiver. 

“Come on,” he said at last, patting one of his thick thighs. 

You went to perch on his thigh, but he laughed, holding up a hand to stop you. “Nice try, sweetheart.”

You only had a second to be confused before you were yelping as Curtis suddenly grabbed you. Your world went topsy turvy, until you found yourself bent over Curtis’ lap as he held you in place with one big hand gripping the nape of your neck. 

Your eyes immediately filled with tears as he yanked down your panties, and you realized you were yet again in for another round of being exposed and humiliated, demeaned and “put in your place.” 

You’d never been struck before–not even spanked as a child–so the first harsh slap of Curtis’ hand against your bare ass had you shrieking in pain and flailing in his lap.

“I told you if you didn’t do as you were told, if you disturbed my work, you’d be punished, so here we are,” Curtis hummed, giving your neck a painful squeeze that had you trying your best to go lax and stop struggling so much.

As he landed another agonizing spank, you gripped the bottom of his pants leg, trying to focus on remaining balanced in his lap, on breathing, on not crying so hard–anything to try to distract yourself from the onslaught of undeserving pain being rained down upon you.

Curtis was only half a dozen hard spanks in before you had dissolved into a sobbing, hysterical mess, your ass on fire as you begged him to stop and apologized over and over again for what felt like nothing more than simply existing. 

“You don’t have a very high tolerance for pain, huh?” Curtis cooed at you, sounding delighted by this discovery. “No, you’re far too sweet to have been treated so roughly in the past, but you need to learn that there are consequences for defying me. This is what happens when you don’t listen, honey,” Curtis sighed, caressing over your abused flesh and grinning as you whined and tried to flinch away. 

“Please,” you struggled to speak between your crying and sniffles. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I’ll do better, I swear.”

You heard a soft chuckle from above you, and then Curtis’ hands started to wander. You were so relieved by the gentle touch, that it took you a moment to realize the way Curtis was rocking against you, obviously hard and turned on by your “punishment.” 

When his fingers teased between your thighs and you immediately spread them to give him access to your cunt, he laughed. “You learn quickly, pretty prize, I’ll give you that.”

A different type of mortification warmed your face as Curtis’ fingers danced and swirled all along your bare cunt. You still couldn’t believe the way your body responded to him, how wet you got for him, and how quickly.

Even after he hurt you, even as you roiled in self-loathing, your body was pressing back into the questing touch of Curtis’ fingers, eager for more.

“Mmm, look at that, I’ve got you crying from both ends now, huh?”

Before you could even completely absorb his words, Curtis moved, with you in tow. You barely got your hands under you to perch on all fours on the floor before he was shoving into you so hard, you keened long and loud as he began to pummel your insides with his cock.

For the first time since the night you had met and he had ravished you in front ot his men and the cooling corpses of your family, you tried to move away from Curtis as he fucked you.

Because it was like a flash of agony each and every time his hips snapped against your raw, still burning ass.

“Please, it hurts!” you whined, trying to push back at him, slow his fervor, anything to stop the blistering pain.

“Hurts so good,” Curtis panted, shoving your face down into the carpet. He gathered your hands at the small of your back, grunting and groaning as your pussy clenched and fluttered, spasmed and gripped him tighter than ever before.

He came first, his talented fingers playing with your clit to drive you over the edge just after him.

“Fuck, that’s it, milk my fucking cock,” he groaned as he unloaded inside of you, hips rutting as he pumped you full of him, until your sensitive cunt had milked him of every last drop, just like he wanted.

Just like you were made for.

You sniffled, trembling and spent beneath him, whining softly as Curtis gripped your ass in both hands and gave it a harsh grope. He tugged your cheeks apart, pulling his cock from you slowly and watching in smug satisfaction as his cream trickled from your quivering hole.

“Don’t waste a drop, pretty prize,” Curtis’ voice was smoky as his fingers caught the mess and shoved it back inside of you. He gave your inner walls a few strokes, laughing as you squealed in overstimulation and clenched around his fingers. “One day, I’m gonna go at you and make you cum so many times you pass out, but not today, sweetheart. Not when you’ve been so bad for me. You don’t deserve all that pleasure right now.”

He swiftly rose to his feet before pulling you up to yours, not bothering to tuck his spent cock away as he marched you back over to the pedestal.

“Let’s see if you can actually listen this time,” he taunted as he shoved you to the center of the wooden perch. 

He arranged you so that you were face down and ass up, spreading your legs obscenely wide to give him the perfect view of your well spanked ass and cum leaking pussy at the same time. 

“You move a muscle and the next hole leaking my cream is gonna be this one,” Curtis murmured, thumbing along your virgin rosebud and laughing at your miserable wail. 

Giving your ass a final smack, Curtis sauntered back to his desk. He took a moment to put himself back together before he sank into his seat and enjoyed the view of you on pretty, perfect display for him for a long moment before finally getting back to work.

Please take a moment to drop a comment or reblog. Engagement is the fuel that keeps writers writing and sharing their work for your enjoyment, so do your part to keep our fandom alive. Serial likers will be blocked.

I no longer do tag lists, but if you'd like to be notified when I post new writing, follow my side blog @‌sirisshamelesshoelibrary​ and turn on notifications to get pinged when I drop some new hoe fuel 😘

Please note that I do not give permission for my work to be translated, reposted, or published anywhere other than my Tumblr. I also do not give permission for my work to be fed into AI platforms. Reblogs are most welcome and encouraged though! ❤️

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Need a ride, Ladybug?

My heart hurts for this girl!!!!! Come on you mean to tell me the person who shattered your arm and life is chillin in your house like it’s nothing????

NAH

Title: O U T S I D E [2 of 10]

Pairing: Ex-Con!Curtis x Southern!Reader

Summary: Your older brother is out of jail and back home, but old habits die hard, and you find yourself caught between what you need, and who can give it to you when Curtis Everett starts hanging around again. 

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Mild Stalking, Recreational Drug Use, Intimidation, Crime, Gang Activity, References to Past Physical and Emotional Abuse, Murder, more tags to be added

The words on the page in front of you shift and blur together before your eyes, and you rub at them tiredly. You’ve been at it since early afternoon, the impressive pile of your textbooks and binders serving as a testament to your attempts at dedication. But you’ve taken woefully few notes, and your attention remains split between what you should be doing and what is going on downstairs. With Damien in the house it feels like concentration is impossible, your mind returning to speculation like a dog with an old bone. 

You’ve seen precious little of him since your mother’s party, settling into a tentative schedule of purposeful avoidance. He doesn’t seem to rise from the dead until late afternoon, sometimes not until after you’ve left for class if you’re lucky, which means you don’t see him at all. His firmly locked door, though, is a constant reminder of his presence every time you pass by on your way to the bathroom, regardless of whether you see him or not. Sometimes you can hear him, speaking in hushed tones on the phone you know your mother is paying for. 

As you attempt to get back to studying, the doorbell rings. It irritates and jars you, sounding three more times before you realize that you’re going to have to answer it yourself despite both your mother and brother being home. Downstairs, she’s wrapped up in her favorite blanket, the T.V. blaring and the air conditioner blasting behind her. I bet she can’t even fucking hear it. It’s barely past one, but there’s an empty bottle of grocery store wine on the table, and the glass in her hand is dangerously full as she lifts it to her lips. 

Jealously you bask in the cool air for a minute or two before the insistent knock makes you turn away from the scene before you and reach for the doorknob. 

On your porch is a man you don’t recognize, dark hair pulled back away from his face. He’s broad, like Curtis, but not quite as tall, the expression on his face less than inviting. There’s a disappointed set to his features, maybe in the press of his lips or the narrowing of his eyes, and he doesn’t try to hide it. 

“D here?” He asks, cocking his head. The New York accent is so strong it practically bowls you over. “He told me t’ stop by.” You clench your teeth. Of course he did. 

“I’ll go get him. Who should I say’s here?” 

“Tell him Bucky’s here.” You make to close the door, but Bucky’s foot finds its way between it and the frame. “Oh, and Doll?” He grins. “He told me I could wait inside.” You leave him in the entryway, fists clenched as you storm back into the house. Damien’s door is closed, like it always seems to fucking be, so you rap your fist against the painted wood hard, and then two more times for good measure. In the split second before the door flies open, there’s a muffled curse that reaches you from inside. 

“What?” He glares down at you irritatedly, blocking the crack in the door with his own body. 

“Bucky’s here.” Damien nods, his expression unreadable. 

“Tell him I’ll be right there.” 

“You tell him yourself, I’m not your fucking errand-boy,” you snap. “He’s in the hallway.” He shifts, crossing his arms. As he does so, you peek into the room around his shoulder. For the briefest of moments you’re allowed a glance inside, clothes everywhere, but the table is clean, with a scale on it. You feel his hand before it touches you, and you move accordingly, taking a step back so his push is a light tap. 

“You’re a fucking asshole.” You shove past him, angry tears burning behind your eyes. The fuck’s he need a scale for? Your mind is racing. He’s dealing again, he has to be—that’s why these people keep coming by the house. It’s worse than fucking dealing—it’s distributing. You swallow hard. The house had been watched for months after Damien had gone in, you remember the unmarked police cars doing rounds on the block, the plainclothes cops following you from home to school to work and back again.

You don’t want that again. 

Mind your business.

You finger the scar beneath your shirt as you close your bedroom door as far as it’ll go before turning on the old A.C. in your room. It sputters a little before the air coming out turns cool. If they can run them downstairs you’re certainly not going to be the only one in the house suffering for the sake of the power bill. You bypass your desk—studying feels more impossible than ever, now—and go straight to your bed, flopping down on it like a ragdoll. 

You know better than to meddle, now. That lesson had been hard learnt but it had been learnt, first on the bathroom floor in agony as the broken bones of your left arm shifted beneath your skin, and again when you had left the hospital. 

Sister or not, you fuck with my shit again and I’ll put you in the goddamn dirt right next to her. 

As much as you hate D, you believe him, too. 

Maybe it’s selfish—but you’re not willing to go through it all over again, to withstand Damien’s rage just to feel righteous. You know how quickly that feeling fades—how quick the pain sets in. Absently you touch your shoulder again. If you press hard enough, you can feel the screws they put in, hard strange metal beneath soft flesh. 

What will he break this time, you wonder, if you’re brave enough to challenge him again? It had felt so good, so right to empty those bags down the toilet and flush them. You remember laughing, wondering if the rats living in the sewer would get high from being in the water. And then the memory of the door slamming open so hard the wall dented, Damien’s voice louder and angrier than you’d ever heard it—

“What the fuck did you do?!”

—

The uniforms at Peach Rings changes every two weeks. This week you’re forced to fend off the rowdy patrons dressed as some type of naughty nurse. Handsy Howard, as the rest of the girls all called him, stands in the wait-station doorway, watching as you adjust the stupid little white hat on your head. 

“What, Howard?” 

“You got sat. Jerry’s here. He wants to see you.” His eyes are glued shamelessly to your ass.  “He asked for you.” 

“Yeah, I get it. Can you move?” Reluctantly he peels his gaze from you, shuffling out of the way with his hands in his pockets. And they better stay there. Candy’s on the floor, halfway to the ceiling in six inch pleasers. It’s 4pm on a Wednesday night, though, so her signature flip-split is performed in front of a practically empty room. The only person sitting there is Jerome—you refuse to call him Jerry no matter how many times he asks—leaned back in his chair like he owns the place. 

You approach him from the side, keeping your posture relaxed and casual. 

“Jerome.” 

“Oh, hiya, Sweets.” He grins at you. “Liking the new uniform?” He cocks his head like he’s genuinely curious about your answer. Like it matters. “I love it.” 

“It’s great. I’ve always wanted to cosplay at work.” You reply flatly. “Can I get you a drink?” 

“Tom Collins.” You narrowly avoid his hands as you bring back his drink from the bar. 

“Hey, watch it or I’ll get you cut off, Jerome!” No jury on earth would convict me. The Wednesday night turn out is fairly pathetic on the best of days, but you end up with a few decent tables that keep you busy, running back and forth. They usually have three girls on—but tonight it’s just you and Bridget in your matching, ridiculous costumes. Your hands are always full, either with drink trays, your order pad, or tugging down your incessantly rolling skirt. 

At the end of the night, you have just shy of two-hundred and fifty bucks to show for your grueling shift, the majority of it in cash so you don’t have to worry about your mother seeing it get deposited into your account before you manage to squirrel it away into your savings. I really should take her off my accounts. I’m not fifteen anymore. You’re usually off early enough on a Wednesday to catch the second-to-last bus, but tonight you’re rushing for the last one, checking your phone nervously, watching the minutes slip away as you perform your list of mundane closing tasks. 

Like he can sense you’re in a hurry, Howard takes his time checking you, peeking slowly beneath each table before lazily signing his name on your check-out slip. 

“Christ, Howard, some of us have places to be,” you mutter, shouldering your bag. 

“Some of us have cars.” He gloats. You watch in real time as the underused lightbulb in the pitifully empty attic behind his eyes fizzle to life. “But, um, if you need a ride…” he doesn’t finish, trailing off hopefully. 

“I’ll walk.” You can feel the heat of his scowl on your back as you make for the door. There is a sliver of power in your rejection, and you cradle it preciously as you step out into the thick, muggy evening. It doesn’t matter that you now have to walk the bus route all the way back to the train station, that you definitely won’t make the last train, that you’ll have to spend money you don’t have on a taxi ride home. 

Handsy Howard won’t have you cornered in his 2004 Lincoln town-car, his greasy hand on your thigh. Not tonight. And if you have it your way, not fucking ever. 

You remind yourself of this after the first thirty minutes of walking, when the sidewalk becomes a narrow strip on the side of the road, and cars honk at you after swerving too close. And again when your shirt begins to stick to your back underneath your backpack and your inner thighs chafe painfully as they rub together. Google maps tells you that you have another hour-and-a-half walk ahead of you, and you feel your eyes water. 

It’s not fucking fair. 

Nothing you’re not used to. 

It’s already long past dark, and when the rumble of rubber wheels on asphalt isn’t drowning out all else, the sound of cicadas singing fills your head. You’ve been walking over an hour when a sleek black sedan slows as it passes you, going the opposite way. You aren’t expecting it to whip around as other cars honk, people leaning out of their windows to cuss at the driver, pulls up next to you. 

“Ladybug what are you doing out here?” Curtis leans down so you can see him through the passenger side window. You watch as he shifts into park, ignoring the angry tide of traffic growing behind him. 

“I—I missed the bus.” You say lamely, shifting your weight from foot to aching foot. “It’s okay, I’m walking to the bus station.” You don’t want to be in a car with Curtis either, 

Curtis laughs. “The hell you are. Get in.” 

“No, really—” Your legs are aching, unused to the strain, feet swollen in your cheap, dollar store sneakers. “I’ll be fine.

“I said get in. Respectfully, it’s not a discussion, Ladybug. Look at you.” You don’t really want to walk another hour in the stifling heat on the unpaved side of the road. At least he’s not Howard. As you waffle, a fresh chorus of honking horns and loud curses makes the decision for you.

“Get in the fucking car, lady, Jesus Christ!” Someone shouts, and your cheeks heat. 

“Fine.” You open the door and get in, holding your bag on your lap both to take up as little space as possible, but also to block access—just in case. The surge of power you’d felt denying Howard evaporates as you sink into the comfortable seat. The interior is as plush as the exterior; leather seats, a dashboard screen, push to start. The air conditioning feels amazing, goosebumps rising on your sweat-damp skin. You remind yourself not to get too comfortable, clutching your bag tighter. 

“You can, um. You can just drop me off at the train station.” 

“Ladybug, you know as well as I do that there’s no trains after midnight.” He glances at you. “Why don’t I just take you home?” 

“I don’t want to inconvenience you.” I don’t want to owe you.

“You’re not an inconvenience.” He’s not looking at you—he can’t, he has to focus on the road—but there’s a deep frown across his features, and it makes an unfamiliar sort of warmth bloom in your chest. 

“Thanks.”

When he drops you off at home the lights are off, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Your mother isn’t the type to wait up for you, and you’re glad you won’t have to entertain her nonsense after the shift you’ve had. You make to get out of the car, but Curtis catches your arm. 

“Wait, Ladybug. Can you get your phone out for me? I want you to have my number.” He smiles sadly. “In case this happens again.” 

“No, no, don’t worry about it, I’ll just—”

“Buckhead to the Five points is a long walk, Sweetheart.” For a second you forget to breathe. Right. Nita’s. Buckhead. 

“I have friends. In the area.” 

“Not very good ones, if they wouldn’t drop you off so you didn’t have to walk miles in the dark on the side of the road.” He replies. “Just take it. What’s the harm?” 

You hesitate before opening your phone. Taking his number doesn’t mean you have to use it, right? Carefully you hand him your phone and allow him to punch in his details. 

“Sent myself a text so I don’t ignore it.” He hands you back your phone. “Just want you to be safe, Ladybug. That’s all.” 

“I told you, no one calls me that anymore.” Neesh is dead and Damien’s a fucking twat. Curtis shrugs. 

“Guess that makes it more special, then, don’t it?” 

Your mother is passed out on the couch, a half-empty bottle of wine teetering dangerously on the edge of the coffee table. Old habits, you suppose. Old habits that seem to flare up when your brother’s around. Damien did tend to bring out the worst in people. Your stomach knots, thinking of Neesh. 

The very worst. 

Your mother mumbles sleepily as you tidy up around her, picking up an empty glass that had rolled under the couch. Could a person change? You turn the thought over and over in your mind as you pull a blanket up over your mother’s sleeping shoulders. Could they change underneath the skin, who they were, are, would be? You don’t know. You straighten up, turning off the television. 

You won’t be around to find out. The ticket from Hartsfield-Jackson to Portland International Airport is already paid for—you’re just finishing out the semester here before you’ve got enough credits to leave and never look back. You’ve got almost enough in your savings for first month’s rent and a deposit, and you’re confident another few weeks at the club will give you the rest. 

Momma and Damien can have each other. 

You’re going to be free. 

—

“And what is that an example of?” Professor Greenbalm looks around the lecture room before her dark eyes fall on you. “Any ideas?” Nervously you finger your pen, clicking it a few times. You regret the action instantly, the noise seeming to echo in the dead quiet. 

“Bias? Uh, media bias?” 

“Yes, exactly.” Oh thank Christ. “And what else?” Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth as you flounder. “It draws into question…” She hesitates before shaking her head. “Journalistic Integrity.” 

I should have known that. 

You spend the rest of the lecture shrinking, hoping that you won’t be called on again. You aren’t, but as you gather up your books to leave, Professor Greenbalm calls your name. 

“Stay a minute, will you?” Nervously you wait as the last minute stragglers finally trickle out the door, and the professor runs her fingers through her short, graying brown hair. “A month ago you were at the top of the class.” She says, brows furrowing. “What happened?” You don’t want to give excuses, the bitter ones that linger on your tongue. I had to take more shifts because Momma’s check’s not going as far with three people in the house. Can’t study at a strip club. 

“I know. I’m sorry, It’s just… things are kind of difficult right now. At home.” 

“I just don’t want to see your potential wasted. You could really be something, if you applied yourself. I think a lot of the other students could learn from you. But if this continues…” She shakes her head. “The missed assignments, the late ones. I don’t see how I can recommend you for the fellowship program.” Your chest goes tight. 

“It won’t.” You say quickly. “I’ll deal with it. It’s just—it doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with it.” You hadn’t had any trouble keeping up until Damien came home. The house was never quite peaceful but things had been at least predictable. You’d learned to live with your mother, learned at least how to tiptoe around the living land-mine in your home. Now it’s like there are pitfalls and sand-traps to avoid too, not to mention your increased workload.

“I’ll handle it.” You say again, as if trying to reassure both yourself and your professor. She only sighs. 

“I hope you do.” You blink back frustrated tears, practically tasting Professor Greenbalm’s disappointment. It’s chokingly bitter. You’re tempted briefly to stay, to plead your case, but you know it won’t help.

You blink hard, forcing back the angry tears that threaten to leak down your cheeks as you flee the lecture hall. The bathroom is only a few minutes walk but you barely make it before you begin to cry. You don’t even check if it’s empty, locking yourself in a stall before sitting down on the closed lid. The ability to cry silently is one you’ve perfected, quieting the gasping sobs as you clutch yourself. 

It’s the first time you’ve cried since Damien’s been home, the first time you really let yourself feel it, the raw anger, the rage. He never should have been let back inside in the first place. 

How could you do this to me Momma? How?

Before long you’re gasping for air, quiet trembling breaths that leave you aching. He’d hurt you so bad, and she just… she didn’t care. 

She’d never cared. 

You don’t know how long you sit there, but you emerge with puffy, bloodshot eyes and a runnyYo nose. The two girls at washing their hands at the sinks are gracious as you splash water onto your face, sniffling. 

“Is it a man?” The blonde asks, shaking her head. You accept her tissue with a stiff nod. “It’s always a fucking man.” 

Outside, the sticky Atlanta summer settles over you like a humid blanket, and you wonder if you have enough in your checking account to uber home. You don’t have to do mental math very long, though, because the sound of a horn nearly makes you drop your phone. 

“Need a ride, Ladybug?”

to be continued…

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Ohhhhh the dangers are coming in from all sides!!!!!! Why do I feel like she’s in the deepest water surrounded by sharks and Curtis is finna eat her alive!!!!

Title: O U T S I D E [1 of 10]

Pairing: Ex-Con!Curtis x Southern!Reader

Summary: Your older brother is out of jail and back home, but old habits die hard, and you find yourself caught between what you need, and who can give it to you when Curtis Everett starts hanging around again. 

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Mild Stalking, Recreational Drug Use, Intimidation, Crime, Gang Activity, References to Past Physical and Emotional Abuse, Murder, more tags to be added

A/N: hear me out—just hear me the hell out—

No. Fucking no. 

You can see the car parked in the driveway from down the block, as soon as you round the corner. Foolish, fragile hope flutters in your chest, the hope that you might be wrong. That the big, black Dodge sitting just behind your mother’s beat up Toyota is someone else’s. In someone else’s yard. But with every heavy step down the busy street it curdles into resignation. 

He’s parked badly, the truck askew in the driveway like a backslash. You walk around it, your shoulder aching as you readjust your bag. The front door’s open, the way it always is this time of year, and the smell of cooking food wafts gently through the screen door. The air outside is thick, wet, and stifling—Atlanta summer. You’re sweating as you dart up the stairs. Even though it’s only five minutes from the bus stop to the house, your shirt sticks uncomfortably to your back, your thighs chafing where your shorts end. 

Inside, a large pair of men’s loafers lay across the mat, equally as crooked as the truck outside. Voices and laughter sound from the kitchen, buoyed by the scent of honey and cornbread, and the muddy-water smell of catfish. You resist the urge to straighten his shoes, to fix them like you fix every-fucking-thing-else—

You don’t. 

I could just go upstairs. You can probably make it past the kitchen without being seen. Just pretend he’s not even here. You can’t, though, your feet refuse to carry you past, like they know you need the confirmation. Need to see. 

Your mother’s back is to you. She’s bent low over the stove, a long filet of catfish held in her cornmeal-crusted fingers. It’s even hotter here in the kitchen than it is outside, but your mother is old-school; the air conditioners down here are for company and for show—“not for you kids to run up my damn power bill”. 

Damien is seated at the head of the table like a king. His feet are propped up on another chair, arms pillowed behind his head. He looks comfortable, too comfortable, like he belongs there when you know he doesn’t. Not in the fucking slightest.

“Baby, you like your fish fried hard, don’t you?” Your mother’s bourbon smooth drawl rounds out the edges of her words and elongates her syllables with a warm twang. “Your plate’s almost ready.” 

Your stomach turns. He’s not supposed to fucking be here when I’m here. That’s the fucking deal. Your tongue is practically burning with the rebuke, but you swallow it instead, and the words burn all the way down. More respect, that’s what you need, she’d tell you, more flies with honey than vinegar. 

“Momma.” She jumps, turning around like you’d bitten her instead of just said her name. “D.” Damien grins at you, sitting straight up and dropping his feet to the hardwood floor with a loud thump. “Momma we talked about this—”

“How you doin’, Squirt?” He’s all smiles, all warmth as he rushes you, pulling you into an uncomfortably tight hug you don’t have time to return before he lets go again.

“Aren’t you happy to see your brother?” Your mother asks over her shoulder. “He’s been gone so long.” You were supposed to have my fucking back. The words pass unspoken between you as her expression turns pleading. Please keep the peace, her face says in the silence as you stare at the two of them. Don’t make a scene. “Your uncles are all coming over. To celebrate.” 

You glance at the pile of catfish, the bowls of greens and seasoned rice—it’s  enough to feed a small army. 

“Oh.”

 It’s all you can dig up from beneath the glass-sharp shards of her betrayal. You’d talked about it, had a plan—no one was supposed to contact Damien. No one was supposed to let him back in. 

Your brother squeezes your shoulder, laughing. “Good to see you too, Squirt.” You want to pull away from him, the truth burning in your lungs with the desire to be exhaled right into his smug face. 

I wish they put you away forever.

“Hi.” He goes in for a hug and you turn your body to the side, so that it sloughs awkwardly off of you. “What are you doing here?” 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” He says. “Thought you’d be glad to see me.” 

“When did you get out?” 

“Six weeks ago.” Six weeks. That’s all the time it had taken to get back into Momma’s head—to her heart. Six weeks to forget. 

“Oh.” He claps you on your shoulder—the bad one. It feels like his fingers linger on the raised scar beneath your t-shirt, but you don’t know if you imagined it or not, if it’s a warning—a reminder. 

“That all you got for your big brother?” Damien smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Things will be different this time. Better.” You swallow, tasting the bitterness of his lie before answering with one of your own. 

“Okay.” 

— 

The roof is still your only private space, given that the door to your room hasn’t locked properly since you were twelve. Tonight is much the same, as  your brother’s “Welcome back from prison, you piece of shit” party is still raging on beneath you. At least up here, the noise from your drunk uncles playing dominoes and cards is drowned out by the general Friday-night block-shenanigans, which is honestly preferable. 

You exhale a thick cloud of smoke from your nostrils, and it spirals up into the dark sky before disappearing. 

Just have to make it until August. Just two more months. 

The joint dulls your feelings of betrayal and rage until they’re minor annoyances, and not all-consuming the way they had been as you’d been forced to smile and tell your brother how much you’d missed him. 

Like a hole in the fucking head. 

When you’ve smoked it down to the filter, you flick it into the gutter, where it sparks and fizzles out against the decaying leaves filling it. Just another two months, and you’ll be in Portland. You’ve already put up with Damien for twenty-five years—what’s another two months? You slide down from the roof onto the little outcropping outside your window—you refuse to call that one by one rectangle of nothing a balcony. Your room is exactly as you’d left it, your father’s old amp in front of the door to keep it shut. 

It’s one of the only things you plan on bringing with you. 

Somehow, even with the door closed, your whole room still reeks like cigarette smoke. Which means Leonard’s down there smoking again. You grimace. There’s no use in chastising him—any of them. Your mother had agreed to no more smoking in the house—just like she’d agreed to no more Damien in the house. 

Respect your elders. Don’t go telling grown folks what to do. Your mother’s irritated voice rings in your head. It doesn’t matter that you’re more than grown yourself, not to them. You grab the worn pair of headphones hanging on your bedpost, and settle them snugly over your ears. The music quiets instantly, and you bask in the near-silence.  

Two months.

—

The air still smells like stale cigarettes when you finally roll out of bed late the next morning, the house eerily silent. When you venture downstairs, still in your pajamas, the evidence of last night’s party are still strewn everywhere—beer bottles resting on every available surface, red Solo cups with ominous contents and dirty paper plates on the sofas and coffee table. The ashtray that your mother continues to claim is merely decorative is now full of cigarette butts, and a few blunt roaches. 

The kitchen is hardly better, the counters packed with trash and dirty dishes you know are meant for you to clean up. For a satisfying moment, you imagine stiffening your arm and sweeping everything onto the floor, imagine the bottles shattering against the tile before you pull out a garbage bag from under the sink and get to work. There’s no use complaining—and you can’t ignore it, the trash rising up around your ears while your mother dotes on her favorite son. 

Don’t you know what I do for you? What I sacrificed to bring you into this world? 

You reach for the faucet, turning it viciously as your eyes water. I wish you fucking hadn’t. 

It’s mindless, at least, the cleaning. So much so that when someone raps on the locked screen door from the front of the house you nearly jump out of your skin. You drop the plate you’re washing back into the soapy water, splashing yourself. The knock comes again, more insistent. Probably Uncle Stefan. Left his wallet again. Shaking off the suds, you head for the door, rolling your eyes irritatedly as the banging continues. With a frustrated hmph you yank open the door, eyes narrowed. 

“Uncle Stu I don’t know where Momma put your wallet, she’s not home—” The words curl in on themselves in your throat. The man on the porch is most certainly not your uncle. 

“Good thing I’m not lookin’ for your Momma.” He flashes you a bright, white smile. It’s hard to talk around the lump in your throat but you manage. 

“D’s not here either.” You want to look past him, to stare at the air over his shoulder instead of into those stormy blues, anywhere but at him, but there’s so much of him he has to slouch to fill the doorway. Curtis is wider than last you’d seen him, his blond hair now close-cropped, the beginnings of a beard shadowed around his mouth and jaw. The edges of a tattoo peek out from beneath his sleeves and shirt collar, one he hadn’t had the last time you’d seen him—

Five years ago, in the back of the same cop car as your brother. 

“Now that’s a pity.” He clucks his tongue, and the silence that follows is nearly as heavy as his gaze. Beneath it, you are suddenly all too aware of your wet shirt sticking to your chest with every nervous breath you take. He licks his lips, slow and deliberate. “Mind if I wait for him?”

“I don’t know when he’ll be back.” You don’t know why you don’t just say no—men like Curtis Everett don’t hear that word enough anyway—but it feels like you can’t. Like his asking is only a formality. Like he’s daring you to say no. 

“He’s out with Momma. Don’t know how long they’ll be.” You hope the bitterness on your tongue doesn’t show in your voice. You should be over it by now, should have accepted the order of things long ago. 

But somehow, it still always stings. 

“I don’t mind.” Curtis shrugs, muscles flexing beneath his shirt. You don’t remember him being this big. He places a hand on the doorframe, leaning down till he’s almost eye level with you. “‘Sides, that gives you and me time to catch up.” He drawls, a grin spreading across his full lips. “Doesn’t it Ladybug?”

“Don’t call me that.” You snap. “Nobody calls me that anymore.” A slow grin spreads across his full lips. It makes you shiver.

“Nobody but me.” Suddenly, you’re fifteen again, buying your first eighth from your brother’s cool older friend, Neesh holding onto your shirtsleeve as you hand over the money. “Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” For a moment you debate whether or not to answer.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Memories.” Bad ones.

 He glances past you into the house. “Looks like you all had a good time last night.” You can’t help the scowl that crosses your features. “Your momma does love a good party.”

“Yeah. For me to clean up.” You wince. “Sorry, I mean—” 

“You’ve always been the responsible one.” He shrugs languidly. The silence between you stretches on until he breaks it again. “I really don’t mind waiting.” He shifts so slightly you don’t even really register it, and suddenly he’s towering over you, the width and breadth of Curtis Everett filling your vision. He’s half-inside already, his foot on the threshold, the bulk of him leaned in past the doorframe. You feel small, vulnerable, your heart a frightened rabbit in your ribs. “I won’t get in the way. Promise.” 

I’m coming inside. He doesn’t have to say it, he doesn’t need to.

“Fine.” 

— 

You can feel Curtis’ eyes on your back as you stand at the sink, suck in an endless cycle of wash and dry. You grit your teeth as you furiously scrub the breading-caked fryer basket. Sometimes it feels like you can’t win for losing—first Damien, now Curtis. Who next? With my luck it’ll be fucking Dave. You shiver slightly at the thought—the walls still have patches of off white paint from where he’d driven his closed fists through the plaster. 

You never could find the right shade of eggshell white to cover the damage.  

A furtive glance over your shoulder reveals Curtis, standing in the doorway, a garbage bag in hand. It’s practically full to bursting, the crinkle of crushed plastic cups and paper plates as he hefts the bag almost as loud as the silence. 

“Got the living room cleared up.” You turn to face him, wiping your soapy, wet hands on the dishrag by the sink. It’s like you need to see where he is, to gauge the distance between your bodies constantly, like the hyper-vigilance will keep you safe. You know of course from experience that it won’t, but it doesn’t stop the habit. There’s a certain irony in your fear—Curtis hasn’t ever hurt you, hasn’t ever even tried, but something about him terrifies you, and you don’t want to know what he’s capable of. 

“Thanks. You can just leave it by the back door. I’ll take it out on my way to work.” 

“Oh? Thought you were still in school.” Curtis drops the bag by the door on the opposite side of the kitchen, before draping himself over the counter. “Least, that’s what D told me, anyway.” 

“Maybe you should ask him, then,” you reply snidely. “Since he knows so much.” 

“Maybe. But I’m askin’ you, Ladybug.” Suddenly, you’re aware you’re the only person in the house. Not that you hadn’t been before, but it dawns on you now in a way it hadn’t when he was at the door—

Silly little girl. You’ve gone and let the wolf in. 

You panic, tongue searching the roof of your mouth for a precious second as the lie forms in your throat.

“Nita’s. In Buckhead.” He nods his approval.

“Nice place.” You hum noncommittally in response. “Maybe I’ll come see you sometime.” The cup you’re washing slips from your fingers, shattering in the shallow, soapy water. “You okay, Ladybug?” You’re the furthest from okay that you’ve been in almost a decade but you don’t know how to say that. 

“We’re ho-ome!” Your mother’s lilting, sing-song-y tone saves you from having to reply. She bustles into the kitchen, arms laden with shopping bags. “Oh good, you’re up. D will be in with the rest of the bags and—” She pauses, a sharp intake of breath marking her observation. Better late than never.

“Curtis Everett, you better not be standing in my kitchen with them outside shoes on.” She snaps, pointing down at his feet. 

“Miss Gregory.” 

“Don’t you Miss Gregory me. Go on and take ‘em off or go stand on the porch.”  She makes a shooing motion towards the front door, her lips pursed in a disapproving frown. “Go on, now. Take ‘em off.” Curtis moves too gracefully for someone his size, crossing the kitchen in easy strides. There’s more than enough room between your back and the table for him to pass without touching you, but he brushes against you anyway. You nearly drop the pieces of glass you’re holding as you go stiff. 

He did that on purpose.

But when you look at him all you see is his receding back as he moves in the direction he’d been instructed to, leaving you and your mother alone in the kitchen. 

“Help me put these away.” 

Groceries. It was bags and bags of groceries. You sink your teeth into your lip to keep the angry words inside. The fridge has been empty for weeks; between paying for your classes and covering her half of the light bill and your own has left you little to spare in the way of grocery money. Up until this week the two of you had been scraping by on frozen dumplings and ramen.

“Did you get paid, Momma?” You ask quietly, pulling open the fridge door. She sucks her teeth. 

“Not that it’s any business of yours, but yes. I did.” 

“It’s just, you said you’d pay me back for the power bill when you got your check.” 

“We needed groceries.”

“We needed them before, too.” You say pointedly, and she rolls her eyes. “I just…I hope you didn’t blow your whole check on a nice breakfast and groceries for Damien. I don’t have any shifts this week, and—”

“Girl, who are you talking to?” Your mother’s tone is low and accusatory. You know instantly you’ve gone too far. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t tell me how to spend my money when you live in my house rent free,” she snarls. “Disrespectful—” she mumbles something, a curse you can’t make out. “Move. I’ll do this myself.” She practically shoulder-checks you out of the way, angrily shoving her hands into the grocery bags. When you don’t move fast enough, she sucks her teeth. “Move, I said. Since you’re so grown.” 

You know defending yourself will only make it worse, so you clamp your jaw shut, your eyes focused on your trembling hands. 

Two months. 

Your mother places each item into the refrigerator as loudly as she can, slamming down bottles of juice and packages of frozen meat so hard you worry she’ll shatter the shelves. 

“Momma.” She slams down some frozen ground beef, shutting the freezer with equal force. “Momma, come on.”

“You giving me orders now? You just don’t know when to stop—”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m just… things are tight as it is. I’m just worried about us. I don’t want anything bad to happen.” 

“That’s my job.” She sighs. “I’m the parent, you’re the child. Stay in a child’s place.” 

I’m twenty six years old.

“Yes ma’am.” You clench your fists out of sight, where she can’t see them as you crawl back onto the proverbial tightrope. “I’m sorry.” 

“I know.” 

To be continued…

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

30+ year old women are the backbone of this website

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Stop *bonk* Drugging *bonk* People *bonk*

The obsession is sexy but STILL

Under His Skin ~ Chapter 4

Series Masterlist

Words: 8k

Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolanverse Batman) x F Reader

Warnings: Stalking, sabotage, gaslighting, head games, x-rated fantasies/thoughts, drugging, voyeurism, panty kink, manipulation.

You deliver the painting to Dr. Crane, hanging it in his office. The simple act sets your fiance off in a way you never could have anticipated. In the span of a day, your life comes apart around you with Ares' very sanity in question. Is Jonathan Crane your savior or the architect of the trap you and Ares fell into?

Disclaimer:The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

She knocked on Jonathan's office door the next day. The sound was gentle and polite, neither rushed nor hesitant. He liked that. She'd arrived at her usual time, time she normally spent with Ares. And she chose to spend it here instead. Whether she realized it or not, the shift had already begun.

When Jonathan called for her to enter, she stepped in, carrying the painting, the crows in oil-dark chaos on canvas. She balanced the frame carefully against one hip, as if it were more fragile than it actually was. 

Jonathan rose from behind his desk and crossed the room. "You brought it yourself," he said, a faint curve of a smile at the edges of his mouth.

"Delivery service was overbooked," she joked lightly, shifting the weight of the painting. "And anyway, art installation is one of my many hidden talents." She offered it like a peace offering. Or maybe she didn’t even realize that’s what it was.

Either way, he accepted it.

She was dressed elegantly today. Nothing obvious, but it pleased him because it marked a return to her pattern. The details were there in the smooth line of her blouse, the subtle gloss on her lips, and the faint shimmer along the hem of her sleeves where the fluorescent lights overhead caught it. The sleek heels she wore today made her legs look endless. The shiny nylon covering them made him wonder. Were they stockings? Jonathan loved stockings both for aesthetics and restraints. Or was she wearing full panty hose? A fragile covering with nothing underneath so he could just rip through the crotch and push his face into that sweet, heated cove. 

None of it was necessary for a delivery, nor accidental.

Jonathan logged it with quiet recision. Presentation. Awareness. She thought about coming here, and how she’d look when she did. Still, he was aware of the danger of believing it was for him. Perception creates pattern. Pattern creates meaning. And meaning... is a weakness if it isn't real. He was struggling with letting his growing personal hopes contaminate the data.

She shifted the painting in her arms, lifting it slightly. "Is it okay if I install it now?" she asked in a careful voice. "If not, I can come back another time." She offered the out so casually, like it didn't matter either way. 

Jonathan knew it was benign, an offer of convenience and nothing more. Still, some part of him unraveled at her offer because even in something as simple as this, even here in a sterile office with bad lighting and worse furniture, she was offering herself to him. Did he allow her to stay in his space? Could he pretend, even for a few minutes, that this was normal? That they were normal?

Stay. Choose me.

He hated how much he wanted it, how easily the fantasy bled into reality. Her choosing to stay, even for something as meaningless as hanging a painting in his office, fed the illusion. And illusions are harder to dismantle once you start needing them.

Jonathan smiled. "Now is perfect," he said.

And when she smiled back, bright and easy, turning toward the wall to measure placement, Jonathan allowed himself the smallest indulgence of believing that maybe, just for this moment, it was true. "Where do you want it?" she asked.

The simple question caught in his mind like a snare. Where do you want it? It wasn’t just about placement, but about agency, control. About her standing there, waiting for his instruction.

Where do you want me?

The thought struck fast and sharp. He curled one hand loosely behind his back to still it.

"Above the credenza," Jonathan said smoothly. "Center it between the shelves."

She nodded, already moving, already trusting his decision. Jonathan watched her stretch slightly to measure the space. He noted the careful way she balanced the frame, the ease in her posture. Mostly, he noted the unguarded comfort of her body in his office, on his time. He noticed the graceful lines of her body. The curve of her neck as she tilted her head. The smooth extension of her arms as she reached high, unaware, or unconcerned, that he was watching her so closely. Those long, graceful legs... He wanted to know what it was like to have those on his shoulders or wrapped around his waist, his face...

She moves like she belongs here. And the worst part? He wanted her to. And that was when the internal warning flared, sharp and cold. Crane turned slightly away, adjusting his stance, forcing his breath to steady. 

Observe. Don't attach. Classify. Don’t react.

Jonathan was a doctor. A scientist, a strategist... He didn’t feel. He mapped behavior. He didn't crave it. He forced himself to look at the wall, not her. To think of the composition of the painting instead of the way her fingers brushed the frame. But it was already too late. The system had been altered. 

She doesn't even know she's already staying longer than she meant to. And he wasn’t about to remind her.

That was when Ares appeared in the doorway with no knock or announcement. Just a shadow stretching long across the tile. "Everything alright?" Ares asked, his voice casual. Too casual.

Jonathan turned slightly to address him. "Perfectly." He kept his posture open and relaxed. He had to stay away from anything defensive or possessive. 

Still, he didn’t miss the way Ares's gaze moved from her to the painting and then back to him. Her fiancé didn't say anything else, just stood there, half inside the office, watching. Jonathan could almost see the suspicions floating through the man's mind. 

"Almost done," she said brightly, stretching to reach the top of the frame. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Ares in his doorway. She flashed him an easy smile. "Hey, Ares."

Ares didn't react. Jonathan moved a little closer to her, but not too close. Just enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo, something clean and unassuming.

Ares tensed. Good. Jonathan smiled faintly. Let him wonder.

"Thanks for your help," Jonathan said, his voice warmer than it usually was around staff. "It’ll look better with a professional touch."

She smiled back, easy and natural, focused on adjusting the level. 

Ares was still staring when Jonathan finally turned back to him. "Was there anything else, Ares?"

Ares blinked, caught. His mouth opened, then closed again. "No," he muttered. "Just checking in." He stepped back into the hallway, throwing one last glance over his shoulder before he disappeared around the corner.

Jonathan watched him go, then turned his gaze slowly back to her. "You really do have a talent for this," he said quietly.

She grinned. "Told you."

He watched as she carefully adjusted the final nail, completely unaware of the new fracture she’d just helped him inflict on Ares.

When she stepped back from the painting, she brushed her hands lightly against her skirt. "There," she said. "Perfect."

Jonathan smiled. "Thank you," he said warmly.

She glanced briefly between him and the now-vacant doorway, then adjusted the strap of her bag. "I should take Ares his lunch," she said, the words casual but just a little rushed.

"Of course," Jonathan said, waving her off like it was nothing. Watching her leave, he noted the small hesitation just before she turned the corner toward Ares’s office.

Jonathan closed his door and moved calmly to his desk, drawing open the second drawer. Pulling out his phone, he pulled up the camera feed. He'd hidden the camera in Ares's office over the weekend and hadn't needed to use it until now. The video feed flared to life, and he had a perfect view of the conversation about to unfold in Ares's office. 

She entered his office, the usual brown paper bag in her hand. Jonathan almost felt pity for her as she went in, smiling and soft. It had been his suggestion that she return, to reestablish the routine, and offer Ares comfort. And she’d listened. Of course she had. He'd learned that she would always listen when she felt she had the opportunity to help someone else. She had no idea what she was likely walking into. And it wasn't his intention to put her in that position, but as his plan evolved, it was necessary at this point on the timeline. Now, as the timeline accelerated, as Ares forced his hand, her presence had become necessary.

She was the last pressure point. The final variable in the sequence. Ares wouldn't break completely until she was there to witness it. Nor would she walk away unless she sees what Ares has become. So Jonathan let her go, let the moment unfold. 

You wanted to save him. I needed you to try.  Now you’ll understand why you can’t.

Jonathan observed from a quiet corner of his office, phone in hand. The camera angle was just right, wide enough to capture both of them. He hoped the audio would be sufficient too.

Ares stood stiffly behind his desk, arms crossed, his posture coiled tight. There was nothing welcoming or relaxed about his stance. He waited, watching her. 

That's when Jonathan saw the real change in him. He remembered the first time he met Dr. Ares Katsaros, his first day at Arkham. Ares had been poised and well-liked, a man who operated with ease and charm, within the illusion of control. And now? The man's shoulders were stiff, nearing his ears in his agitated state. His jaw was set tightly, his gaze frantic and sharp. Ares no longer trusted his surroundings, even worrying about speaking too loudly. What if his voice gave away the cracks in his composure?

Fascinating.

Even though the ending had been moved up, Jonathan hadn’t rushed the process. Hadn’t even had to push very hard. He'd just made a few adjustments to the system as they'd progressed. The result was a few perfectly placed fractures that were fully on display here. Isolation. Paranoia. Doubt.

And fear. Always fear.

She set the bag down gently on the desk between them. "I thought you could use something special today," she said, smiling. "It's your favorite. Monte Cristo."

Ares didn’t move to open it. His gaze was cold on her. "What was that?" he asked, pointing in the direction of Jonathan's office. 

She blinked, surprised. "What?"

"Hanging a painting in Crane’s office?" Ares scoffed. "Where did that come from?"

Her laugh was as easy and genuine as it always had been. She had no walls up. "He bought it at the gallery," she said. "I offered to deliver it. I figured, since I’m already here most days anyway."

Ares's shoulders twitched.

Jonathan leaned back in his chair, the corner of his mouth tugging into something too slight to be called a smile. He’s slipping.

Ares’s voice cut again, harder. "What was Crane doing at the gallery?"

She frowned, confused but still calm."He visited. People buy art, Ares. It's not a conspiracy." She hesitated, just a breath. "And honestly? He mostly came to talk to me about coming back here. For you."

Ares stiffened, the tension in his frame suddenly palpable.

She didn’t seem to notice. "I guess he thought... I was helping you," she said, shrugging, still trying to explain it away. "He said my absence might have been making things harder for you."

And there it is, Crane thought, watching the feed with cold satisfaction.

She had no idea how that sounded to someone already cracking. No idea how much damage those simple, honest words would do.

Ares didn’t answer immediately. He just stood there, tight and silent. Torn between trust and suspicion, he was losing. He took a step closer to his desk. It wasn't aggressive, but sharp. "You think he came all the way to the gallery just to talk to you about me?" he asked, voice low.

There was an edge beneath the words now. A pressure she hadn’t heard from him before. She blinked, thrown off by the sudden coldness.

"Yes?" she said cautiously. "He said he was concerned about you."

Ares let out a sharp, humorless breath. "Concerned," he repeated flatly. He ran a hand over his face, then dragged it down his jaw, slow and tense. "Jonathan Crane doesn’t get concerned. He takes what he wants."

Let him say it. Let him tear the ground out from under himself.

She shifted her weight, folding her arms, defensive without meaning to be. "You’re overreacting, Ares," she said carefully. "It was just a painting. Just a conversation." 

"You don’t see it," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

"See what?"

Ares shook his head like he was trying to clear it. He was trying to find the right words, and failing. "Don't spend time around him," he said in a rougher voice.

She blinked at him, genuinely surprised. "I really haven’t. I've barely talked to him outside of--" She stopped herself, realizing too late what that sounded like.

Ares latched onto it immediately. "Outside of what?" 

She exhaled sharply. "Outside of trying to help you. That’s all."

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” Ares' voice took on an angry tone. 

There it was. The edge of truth inside the spiral. Even half-shattered and coming apart at the seams, Ares had noticed.

You weren’t as invisible as you thought. Not to him. Jontathan wasn't panicking. It was calculation. Because if Ares had noticed… others might too. And she might start to question. The game board shifted. Ares wasn’t just in the way anymore. He was interfering, and that Jonathan wouldn't tolerate. 

She looked away, lips parting like she wanted to speak but was struggling for an answer. Discomfort. Doubt. A crack in the foundation he built with her.

She shook her head. “Sorry,” she said to Ares, voice small. “I don’t… I don’t think that’s fair. He’s trying to help.”

She was already doing the work for him, trying to rationalize his presence and explain away the pull between them like it was context instead of something deeper.

You’re not ready to look at it yet. That's fine. I can wait.

But he knew it was coming. She would bring it up soon, and when she did, he'd have the perfect words ready. He'd reframe it instead of denying it. It wasn't dangerous or obsessive. It was a genuine connection.

“You felt it too. You just didn’t know what to call it.”

The tension between her and Ares right now thickened. He took a step closer to the desk, gripping the edge like he needed something to anchor himself. "You don't understand what he is," Ares said tightly. "You think he’s cold, clinical. He’s not. He’s worse."

Jonathan leaned back slightly in his chair. Careful, Ares. You're almost making my case for me.

"Why would you say that?" she asked. Her voice was low with hurt creeping in. "Why would you even think that?"

Ares hesitated, and just that one second was everything. It wasn’t reason Ares was speaking from now. It was fear. Not fear for her, but of losing her. A brand new fracture that he hadn't been aware of before today had appeared.

She stood there for a second longer, searching Ares’s face, looking for something to hold onto. Anything. But all she saw were his suspicion and anger. 

Dropping her arms to her sides, she said, "Maybe..." She forced herself to meet his gaze. "Maybe I just shouldn’t come to Arkham anymore."

On the other side of the phone screen, Jonathan went still. The pleasant buzz of control, of watching the fracture widen, tightened into something sharper.

No. Jonathan wasn’t ready to lose her. Not from proximity nor from habit. And certainly not from some misguided attempt to keep the peace.

You’re part of the system now. You don't get to walk away.

The words seemed to knock the air out of Ares too. "No," Ares said immediately, too fast.

She took a half step back, small, but visible. 

Jonathan leaned in slightly, his eyes fixed on the moment unfolding. 

“But then… if I don’t come to Arkham, I’m never going to see you, am I?” she asked in a voice tinged with something he recognized instantly. Loss.

Ares said nothing, and the pause hung in the air like a final verdict.

Jonathan saw the way her shoulders dropped, the way her gaze dropped and didn’t return to Ares’s. That wasn’t the moment she gave up on him, but it was the moment she realized he already had given up. Jonathan blew out an exhale. Control. The fracture widened and it wasn’t about proving Ares was dangerous anymore.

Now she was feeling the distance herself. And soon, when fear came for her... She’ll have nowhere else to turn.

Ares ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I just..." he started, then faltered. "I just don’t want you caught in the middle of something you don’t see coming," he finished weakly.

Jonathan listened to the words collapse in real time, smiled faintly. You already lost the ground you’re trying to protect. Now all I have to do is offer her another one. He saw the way she took them in. The disappointment in her eyes and the soft retreat of someone who’d just gotten their answer.

She stood there another long moment, torn and hurting. "I’ll think about it."

And then she left, like she couldn’t get out of the office fast enough.

Jonathan watched her go, the careful way she held herself together. He didn’t stop watching until the door swung closed and Ares slumped back behind his desk, looking hollow.

Jonathan slowly lowered his phone onto his desk. 

You almost lost her. Not Ares. Him.

Her quiet offer, Maybe I just shouldn’t come to Arkham anymore, had struck deeper than he expected. She would have left trying to spare Ares and do the right thing. Jonathan couldn't have that.

He stood, began pacing in his own office, one hand clasped loosely behind his back. 

You’re part of me. I'm not letting you go.

That was the problem with emotional ties. They could be cut and softened, wrapped in guilt and worn down. But dependence? Dependence binds. There would be no need to lure her back to Arkham anymore. Not if he removed the obstacle entirely.

Let Ares fall. Let him become what Jonathan had always seen beneath the surface. Unstable, weak, and cracked down the middle by fear. He'd no longer be the protector. He'd become the one who needed protecting. Once Ares was a patient in Arkham, everything would shift.

She’d stay at Arkham in the hopes that Ares could be saved. She’d come to Jonathan with her questions and concerns. With her pain. And he’d have the answers, shape the narrative. Jonathan would manage Ares’s care himself with precision, control, and compassion, if that’s what she needed to believe.

When she reaches for someone...It will be me.

The timeline could no longer stretch. Ares was watching, and Jonathan now knew he was. The window was closing.

Good. That meant it was time to act. 

You left Ares’s office with your heart racing in your chest, your mind spinning. The lunch bag still sat unopened on his desk. You doubted he even noticed.

Crossing the hallway slowly, the familiar halls of Arkham suddenly felt heavier, smaller. Had the walls shifted while you weren’t looking? 

You’d honestly thought hanging the painting would be harmless. A small kindness for a man who, strange or not, had seemed to genuinely appreciate it. Ares's reaction took you completely off guard. You hadn’t expected the accusation in his voice. The warning.

Don't spend time around him.

The words still ran through your mind. You hadn’t been, not really. You barely spoke to Dr. Crane outside of a few polite exchanges. Talking, hanging out would be something of a miracle, because the man was just what Ares described, clinical and distant. 

And yet, something about today had been different. There'd been warmth in Crane’s voice. The faint smile he gave you. He didn't just accept your help, but he genuinely seemed to want it. You'd been taken by surprise, but not in the way Ares seemed to fear.

It wasn't because you distrusted Crane. It was more that you didn't. Was that worse?

You thought, for a second, about stopping by Crane’s office again. Would he be sympathetic now? Ares wouldn't talk to you about what was happening. It would have been nice to get someone else's take on it. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not after the way Ares had looked at you and the things he said about Crane. 

You weren't afraid of Jonathan Crane. It was fear of what it would mean if you stopped and talked to him now. Of how easy it would be, or how much you wanted to. 

No. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself and kept walking. Out the doors and back into the cold. Back into the illusion that everything could still be fixed.

Across the upper windows of Arkham, behind the tinted glass of his office, Jonathan Crane watched her leave.

She didn’t look back or stop. But she had hesitated. A brief, almost imperceptible falter in her steps as she passed his office in the hallway. And for him, that was enough. 

She’s pulling away from him.  Not from me.

He leaned back slightly from the window, hands folding behind his back.

Jonathan stood in the observation room, his arms crossed, his coat crisp, his face unreadable. The two-way glass between him and the consultation room was polarized. They couldn't see him and his four top students. But he could see everything. 

Inside the room, a man sat hunched on the couch. Restless and sweating. He was remarkably ordinary and forgettable. Except for what he took.

Jonathan’s gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. The man had a name and a career. He had a wife and daughter. He also had real trauma now. Witness to a brutal crime orchestrated by Falcone’s network though he himself wasn't a criminal nor the enemy. 

But he's not innocent either. Because he had her. And that, for Jonathan, made all the difference.

The session continued. The attending psychiatrist offered reassurance, soft language, and all the standard interventions. A diagnosis of PTSD, mild-to-moderate. Recommended a low-dose prescription. It was standard protocol.

His students, clustered around the notetaking table, scribbled in their binders. It was a textbook case. A form was printed, signed. A nurse entered with a plastic cup of water and a small pill. A dose to ease the symptoms. The man accepted it without hesitation, swallowing it down. He thanked them. 

Jonathan’s hand remained loose at his side, his fingertips brushing the pocket where a second vial had rested earlier that morning. Not a standard beta-blocker or an antidepressant. It was a new compound. His compound. The first generation of the fear toxin he'd been developing, in slow-release form. He had engineered it specifically to trigger panic, hallucinations, and violent survival responses within a delayed window. 

Clinical trial zero.

And the man, the one who had taken what was supposed to be his, was the perfect candidate. He almost wanted her to know that he was the one who had taken her husband.

Jonathan told himself it was scientific curiosity. An opportunity, nothing more. 

Liar.

Hours later, back in his apartment, Jonathan heard the news. A man had suffered a psychotic break in downtown Gotham. Driven his truck straight through the front windows of a busy coffee shop, killing three and injuring eleven. Witnesses said he screamed about shadows, about blood on his hands. That he grabbed a shard of glass from the wreckage and, before anyone could stop him, cut his own throat. He'd bled out in front of survivors right there on the sidewalk.

Jonathan stood in the dark of his living room, watching the breaking news report, video footage of the scene. He didn’t move nor speak. He just listened carefully. The man’s name was never mentioned. Just another tragedy in Gotham’s endless cycle, another casualty. Nothing that could ever be traced back.

Jonathan closed his eyes for a moment. And when he opened them again, he was smiling. 

Not for the data. Not for the science. But because that man never deserved her in the first place.

The success was undeniable. Fear isn’t a symptom. It’s a tool.

And now, it was his. His to direct, to shape... His to unleash on anyone he chose.

In that moment, Jonathan Crane stopped believing in treatment and rehabilitation. In hope and mercy.

There was only cause and effect. Stimulus and response. Fear and obedience.

And soon, they would all learn what it meant to fear properly.

Hours had passed, and it was nearly ten at night. Jonathan received the summons he had been anticipating. The message came through a staff intermediary, a woman who was tight-lipped and tense. “Dr. Crane, Dr. Katsaros has asked to see you in his office. Immediately.”

The phrasing was careful. It wasn't a request. To her credit, the woman's gaze was sympathetic on him. Jonathan nodded. The fact that the staff were so concerned about Ares' rapid deterioration would only make the man's downfall easier. 

Jonathan closed the notebook in front of him gently and locked it in his drawer. Retrieving his briefcase from the shelf, he opened it again to make sure everything was in place. The concealed dispersal unit was ready, along with a fresh vial of the perfected toxin. He'd been planning to use it for an experiment on subject 034 this weekend, but he had a better use for it now. 

And last, but not least, the mask he'd just completed. It offered him protection to observe the results of the toxin in person, not behind protective glass. But protection wasn't its only purpose. 

The mask was crude by design. He'd fashioned it using leather and burlap with jagged stitching and two hollow eyes that saw nothing but forced his victims to see far too much. There was no symmetry in the design because it wasn't meant to offer comfort or to express humanity. 

Jonathan could have chosen anything for the symbolism of it. But the scarecrow? It was inspired by the painting he bought from her gallery. A perfect symbol, one that lingers. Scarecrows by nature didn't hunt or kill, nor did they speak. They just stood there, waiting and watching. Truly a symbol of fear where they should be nothing.

Like the birds in that church...

That’s what made the mask work. The understanding that the human brain doesn’t fear violence first. It fears implication. Specifically, it fears what might happen. The scarecrow wasn’t a monster at all but a mirror. And fear, true fear, started when the mind began to fill in the blanks.

Let them project their worst onto me. Let their imaginations do the damage. I don’t need to be a god. I just need to be the thing they can’t explain away.

When he arrived at Ares’s office, the door was already slightly open. Ares waited for him, standing behind his desk with his hands braced wide, his knuckles white. His gaze went immediately to the briefcase in Jonathan's hand, and his face twisted. 

“You bring notes to a fight, Jonathan?” Ares asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

Jonathan didn’t respond, just stepped in and set the briefcase down in front of the desk before calmly shutting the door behind him, flipping the lock.

“You’ve always been a smug bastard,” Ares said, glaring at him.“I should’ve seen this coming the moment they hired you.”

Jonathan folded his hands behind his back. "Then why didn’t you?"

Ares stepped around the desk, slower this time. “Because you’re good at hiding it. I’ll give you that.” He stopped just short of Jonathan’s space, his gaze stone cold. “But I dug a little deeper. Took a look at your old university files. Or what’s left of them.”

Jonathan’s expression didn’t change. Of course he did. 

“You weren’t fired for policy disagreements,” Ares said. “You were fired for experimenting on your own students. On patients you were supposed to be observing. You violated every code in the book, and they covered it up to protect the institution.” A pause. “You think I’m scared of you? I know what you are.”

Jonathan blinked slowly. "No,” he said softly. “You don’t.”

Ares' laugh was a sharp, bitter sound. “You drugged kids. Gaslit psych patients. You used fear like a plaything.”

Jonathan dropped his voice. “Not a plaything. A lens. Then fear shows the truth.” His hands dropped to his sides, calm but coiled. “And they were subjects, not victims.”

Ares was furious. “And that drama you staged with my fiancée today? Yeah, stay the fuck away from her. Whatever it is you think you're doing, whatever game this is, you don’t get to use her.”

Jonathan just observed him, no emotion. Just scalpel-sharp calculation. "What makes you think it’s a game?"

Ares stepped closer, his voice rising. “She’s not like you.” He gestured to Jonathan with his hands, wide and mocking. “A woman like her, warm and kind -- and you? What exactly do you think you have to offer someone like that?”

Jonathan’s jaw twitched before he could avoid the response and Ares saw it.

“You think a few quiet conversations, a shared lunch, a fucking painting changes anything? You think she sees you?” He spat the word. “She’d never want someone like you.”

Jonathan's silence deepened. It wasn't avoidance, but focus. 

The insults themselves didn’t sting. He’d heard it all before. Variations of it from so-called colleagues, mentors, the first her. Jonathan used to question that. Now he saw it for what it was: a limitation.

Ares's voice cracked with certainty, but Jonathan heard the undertow -- his insecurity. He saw it in the way Ares’s hands moved, in the way his body leaned in like force could fill the gap fear had cracked open inside him.

He wouldn’t be trying to convince me if he wasn’t trying to convince himself.

And that question. "What do you have to offer someone like her?" That was projection. Ares was asking it about himself. For all his warmth and charm, Ares realized she was pulling away from him.

And she wasn’t running to Ares anymore. No, she was circling Jonathan.

I don’t need her to see me as kind. I need her to see me as inevitable.

And Ares? He’d just given him the perfect justification to act.

“You’re not capable of love, Crane. Or affection. I know your type. You’re a hollow man in a suit playing scientist.” Ares jabbed a finger forward at him.“And she is not yours to play with.”

Jonathan's voice, when it came, was quiet. “And yet… She keeps coming back.”

Ares snapped. That was the final straw. He moved fast, like Jonathan knew he would. Two strides forward, fury overtaking reason. One hand curled into Jonathan’s collar, shoving him hard against the office wall, the other still clenched in a fist.

Jonathan didn't resist. He’d been waiting. The dispersal unit was already primed, tucked into the sleeve of his coat. At that range, it was effortless. With a flick of his wrist, he released the trigger. A faint hiss. Barely audible.

Ares froze mid-threat, blinking. The first inhalation always did that. Then he coughed, staggering away from Jonathan before going completely still. 

Jonathan adjusted his collar like brushing off dust. Moving fast to the desk, he hauled the briefcase on it and popped it open, quickly grabbing his mask. 

Let the fear find shape.

He slipped it on with intention. And when he turned back, Ares began to scream.

Staggering backward, both Ares' hands lifted to his face like he could somehow wipe the hallucination away. He gasped, short, ragged breaths, eyes wild and unfocused.

Jonathan stepped closer, slowly, the mask casting jagged shadows across the floor. 

Ares screamed again. Louder this time. Only he wasn’t looking at Jonathan anymore. He was looking at everything else. The toxin was working beautifully. There was no visible resistance or delay in onset. Just fear, pure and undiluted, pulling the strings now. Ares was reaching for something that wasn’t actually there. Slapping the air, turning in place as if he could find a corner to hide in.

Jonathan just watched, becoming the shape behind the scream.

You tried to define me as a hollow man. A suit. A ghost in a lab coat. Now you see what I really am.

And still, Ares writhed, dropping to the floor in his terror. 

His words came out broken, desperate. “No... no, they’re watching...make them stop...”

But behind the mask, Jonathan's exhale was pure satisfaction. This is what truth looks like when you take off the blindfold.

A soft knock, three taps, pulled him out of his observation. It was her. What was she doing here this time of night?

Then her voice, muffled but unmistakably hers. "Ares?"

Jonathan froze. For the first time in hours, true stillness. His heart sped up, a response he could control most of the time. 

Ares, writhing on the floor, had descended into full hallucination. Crawling toward shadows only he could see, at invisible threads.

Jonathan turned sharply, arms crossed loosely, watching the chaos unfold.

When it went quiet on the other side of the door, Jonathan had his answer. She's going to find security, someone with a key to let her in. 

Collecting the briefcase and returning his mask to it, he closed the door quietly behind himself, making sure it locked. Ares was just conscious enough to scream himself empty. 

By the time she made it to the main desk, Jonathan was back in his office. Why was his office dark when she came up the first time? Jonathan had been busy making the evening rounds. He just returned to his office. A perfect alibi.

You ran, your shoes thudding against the tile. You didn’t even process the confused look from the nurse on call, you just demanded her help. "Ares is screaming! His door’s locked. Please, something's wrong!"

The nurse didn’t argue. She grabbed her keys and waved down a security guard. You heard them running behind you because you were immediately heading back to Ares' office. You didn't stop until you reached the administrative wing. 

Dr. Crane’s office was dark when you ran for help. But now, the light was on and he was inside.

Your hand hit the doorframe first, then your words came out in a panic. “Jonathan, something’s wrong with Ares!”

He looked up immediately, stood. No questions. No hesitation. Just your name on his lips for the first time, low and urgent. “What happened?”

You didn’t wait. You barely registered the nurse and security guard catching up behind you, your eyes were fixed on him. 

Crane moved quickly, already stepping into the hallway before you could say more. “Where?” he asked, voice calm but sharp.

“Ares -- he was screaming. His door was locked... I didn’t know what to do...” You couldn’t finish, as fear welled up in you. Was Ares okay?

Crane turned to the nurse with quiet urgency. “He’s been exhibiting signs of increased agitation for days. I asked him to take medical leave.” He looked at you then, earnest and regretful. “He didn’t want you to worry.”

The nurse nodded. The security guard stepped forward with keys already in hand. Crane walked beside you now, fully present and engaged.

The door opened, and everything exploded at once. “Ares --” you muttered.

Your fiance's gaze locked on you, before going wide with terror. He screamed your name like it burned, coming at you with no recognition in his face. Just madness and fear. His hands grabbed for you, rough and too fast. 

“MAKE THEM STOP!” Ares howled. “GET THEM OUT OF MY HEAD!”

Ares grabbed your arms hard, and started shaking you, his terror-filled eyes full of things you couldn’t see.

You screamed his name again, trying to break through to him. His grip on you was punishing and painful. 

Someone pulled you out of his clutches. Crane moved you swiftly, pulling your body behind his with surprising speed. 

“Hold her,” he told the nurse in a low voice.

Jonathan moved himself into Ares' line of sight, pulling a syringe from his coat and popping off the safety cap. Then he pressed the needle into Ares's neck. It took effect immediately and Ares went silent, collapsing in mid-lunge. His body folded in on itself like a light switched off. 

Jonathan crouched next to him a moment longer, just long enough to check his pulse. When he rose, he turned to you. 

Every inch of you shook but the nurse kept a grip on you, keeping you away for your safety. 

“It’s over,” Jonathan said softly. “You’re safe now.”

You stared down at Ares, collapsed but still breathing. What happened to him? Everything was wrong.

Your arms ached where he’d grabbed you, and your pulse thundered in your throat.

He just looked through me. Like I wasn’t even real.

Jonathan stood between you and what was left of him, moving with confidence. Turning to the nurse, his voice was low but firm. “Page Dr. Hilu. Full evaluation. I want Ares moved to observation and monitored continuously until I review his condition personally.”

The nurse nodded, rattled but obeying. What caught your attention was that she didn't seem surprised or unnerved. 

Jonathan continued, already shifting into a role no one questioned. “I’ll notify the board myself. If this episode is tied to his previous concerns, his ability to function as an administrator is compromised. He'll need to be relieved pending assessment.”

The security guard didn’t even blink. The nurse was already calling it in, cell phone at the ready. You… couldn’t speak. Your knees were about to give out.

Jonathan turned toward you now. And for the first time, you saw him soften. "I need you to sit,” he said gently, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and steering you in the direction of his office, helping you sit in the chair in front of his desk. Shrugging off his coat, he wrapped it around your shoulders. “You’re in shock.”

You didn’t argue, just shrinking into his coat. Now you couldn't tell if you were shaking from what you just saw or because you were so cold.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered. “He… he looked right at me, and…” Your voice cracked. “He didn’t know me.”

Crane crouched beside you, his gaze meeting yours. “That wasn’t Ares,” he said gently. “Not the man you know. That was fear, unchecked and weaponized by what I suspect may be an undiagnosed chemical imbalance.”

It all crashed in on you then, how Ares' behavior had been changing over the last several weeks. Had you been so worried about yourself that you didn't see the warning signs? Had you let him down?

Like he could read your thoughts, Crane sighed, pulled off his glasses. “You were right to be worried," Jonathan continued. “Now he'll get the help he needs.”

You blinked hard, your vision blurred with tears you couldn’t let fall. And Crane didn’t push or try to crowd you. But he stayed close. It made you feel safe.

You stared at the floor, your breath shaky, your thoughts worse. You wanted to get up and go to Ares, to sit beside him. Say his name again and hope something came back. But you couldn’t move, and fear ran through you like electrical current. You were afraid he’d scream again, or he wouldn’t recognize you. Considering how he acted when he saw you, maybe you should be afraid that he would recognize you.

“Can I see him?” you asked quietly, not looking up.“When they move him, I mean. I just… I need to talk to him. When he’s himself again.”

“You can,” he said, gently. “But not yet.” His hands clasped lightly in front of him, his voice soft and even. “The sedative needs to take hold. He needs time for the hallucinations to fade. If you see him too soon, it may only compound the trauma -- for both of you.”

Crane looked like he actually cared. “I promise you’ll be updated. And I’ll speak with him myself first. I’ll make sure he’s lucid… safe… himself again before we let anyone in.”

You nodded, slowly. It made sense and it was... kind.

Blowing out an exhale, you didn't know what else to do. But Dr. Crane did.

“Come to my office in the morning,” he added, his voice still low. “We’ll talk through everything then. I want you to understand exactly what happened today.”

Your gaze met his. Something about his steadiness and patience... It made the room stop spinning.

He rose when the nurse walked into his office, but you were having a hard time focusing on their words. Both him and the nurse helped you to your feet. Everything around you moved in soft voices and medical terms.

“You’re not driving home,” Crane said, back in your field of vision. There was no judgment in his voice, just certainty. “You’re in no condition.”

You opened your mouth to argue, because independence was easier than panic. But he was right. So you just nodded. He spoke with the nurse for another moment, his arm around your shoulders to steady you.

“I’ll take her,” he said. 

The passenger seat of his car was clean. Predictably so. Not a speck of dust nor a thing out of place. You buckled in without thinking after he helped you into the car. He didn’t turn on the radio to fill the silence.  Dr. Crane just drove, his steady hands on the wheel, his eyes forward, his posture composed. Outside, the city blurred by. Inside, your heart still raced. You were too tired to cry. Too confused to speak.

And somehow, the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. There was just stillness in the cabin of his car. Like a waiting room for thoughts you weren’t ready to have.

“It’s not uncommon for stress reactions to feel delayed.” His voice was soft beside you. Not clinical. “You may feel disconnected and exhausted. You might even convince yourself that today wasn’t as severe as it was.”

You didn’t respond. It already felt like a dream you couldn’t interpret.

He glanced at you once, briefly. “That’s not weakness,” he said. “It’s human.”

The rest of the drive passed in soft turns and low streetlights. When he pulled up outside your apartment building, he killed the engine, exiting the car to walk around to you. It never occurred to you how he knew where you lived that night.

You didn’t argue when he opened the door for you. The night air was cold against your skin, but his jacket was warm. His hand was steady, settling gently at your back, then your shoulder.

Because this was Jonathan, and he'd saved you. Wait--Jonathan? You blinked, realizing you’d just called him that back in the hospital. You blew out a shaky breath, tried to collect yourself. “I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to… I should’ve said Dr. Crane... earlier.”

He didn’t correct you. Just walked beside you in silence, his arm staying around you for support. You walked in silence to the elevator in your building, your feet heavy, your thoughts heavier. You reached your door. Fumbled with the keys, relieved when he took them from your hands.

His voice was soft beside you. “Just one more moment.”

You turned toward him, your brows drawn, barely processing the words... And then you felt it. A pinch at your neck, sharp and quick. And then there was nothing.

She collapsed softly into him, just as he had expected. Jonathan caught her easily, one arm beneath her knees, the other at her back. Her head dropped against his chest, the way a tired child might fold into sleep, peaceful and vulnerable. 

Mine.

Unlocking the door without a sound, he carried her into her apartment, gently laying her on the couch, arranging her carefully. He left his coat wrapped around her, pressing it around her like a second skin. Let her wake up with my scent on her. Let her wonder why it feels like safety.

He thought back to what she said to him on the way up to her apartment. “I didn’t mean to… I should’ve said Dr. Crane... earlier.” Jonathan hadn't corrected her or told her it was fine. Because it wasn’t. Not to him. 

Dr. Crane was what everyone else called him. Jonathan was different, it was personal and familiar. Soft at the edges.

You gave me your fear weeks ago. Now you’ve given me your intimacy. Even if you didn’t mean to.

And she’d apologized for it because she still didn’t understand what she’d done. That was fine.

You’ll say it again. But next time… you won’t flinch. You’ll say it because you mean it. Because I’ve become the only constant you have left.

Her apartment was warm and modest, a collection of paintings on the walls. Photographs in soft frames. Colors that didn’t belong to him.

Yet.

Then he moved through her home. The sedative wouldn't wear off for hours, so he could take his time. He walked through the space like a man reading a new text, studying. Books on the table. Spices in the cupboard. A spare key in the dish near the window.

He took that, sliding it into his pocket. 

Jonathan stepped quietly into her bedroom. No hesitation. The room was small, but layered in details. A bedside table cluttered with books, the spines cracked and pages dog-eared. There was a journal, closed with a worn elastic band around it. He looked forward to reading it at some point, but not yet.

One pillow was indented, but the others were barely touched. She slept curled up, always on the left side of the bed. There was a throw blanket at the foot, pulled halfway up like she reached for it unconsciously. A restless sleeper who likely had vivid dreams.Emotional fatigue compounded by inconsistency in routine.

The lamp by her bed had a low-watt bulb, casting amber light across the sheets. A comfort light, not for reading. 

His gaze moved to the dresser, its top drawer left slightly ajar. Inside, a shining wave of color-coordinated lingerie folded with care. With his index finger, he fished out one silky, cream-colored item. Delicate panties, trimmed in lace. Bringing them up his face, taking a deep breath. What did they smell like after she'd worn them? Were they diaphanous when her excitement soaked them through? He couldn't wait to find out.

Jonathan slid them into his slacks pocket with her spare key. 

There was a framed photo on the vanity, her and Ares dressed up, no doubt at some function to celebrate his achievements. Jonathan stared at it for a long time. You don’t smile like that for Ares anymore. He set it gently face-down.

By the door, he found something he hadn’t expected. A canvas, tucked behind a chair, a painting half-finished. Paints beside it. It wasn't from her gallery, it was personal.

You paint. You never said.

A woman, hunched slightly forward on the canvas, surrounded by long strokes of charcoal and dusk-blue. No face, just emotion. Grief and loneliness. Is this how you see yourself?

He committed it to memory, all of it.

When he returned to the living room, on the side table next to the couch was a photograph with her smiling, her arm around Ares. Again. Tilting his head slightly, he turned the frame facedown as he did the others.

Finally, he returned to the couch, standing over her with his eyes tracing every detail of her. She’d never know how long he stood there, thinking about the future ahead of them. The first her never let me get this far. This time… This one is going to stay.

Jonathan walked out and locked the door behind him.

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Ohhhhhh no

What exactly is he doing to Ares??!!!

Under His Skin ~ Chapter 3

Series Masterlist

Words: 5k

Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolanverse Batman) x F Reader

Warnings: Stalking, sabotage, gaslighting, head games, x-rated fantasies, oral (m receiving).

Jonathan continues executing his plan to temporarily stabilize Ares. But her continued absence disrupts the system. When she fails to return to Arkham for a second day, Jonathan decides to reestablish control by visiting her at her gallery... with unintended results.

Disclaimer:The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

Jonathan had returned to Arkham on Monday in exceptional form. The weekend had been productive -- precise, deeply satisfying.

He and Ares both primarily worked Monday through Friday, though they were technically on call on the weekends. A rotating PT doctor usually handled weekend rounds, a contract fill-in with no investment in long-term cases and no real oversight of facility activity.

So when Jonathan showed up Saturday morning? No one questioned it. He’d signed in, conducted “follow-ups,” and remained in the south wing for just under two hours. He’d completed another round of tests on a low-risk inpatient, one of Arkham's long-term residents. Unremarkable diagnosis. No family. No one watching too closely.

Subject 034.

Responsive. Highly suggestible.

Fear index response: elevated.

This time, the modified compound absorbed more efficiently. No need for direct injection. A simple aerosol dispersal had been enough. The results were beautiful. Shaking. Dissociation. Vocalized distress. But more importantly, truth beneath fear. Exactly what he was after. After logging the data, he’d started something new. Jonathan started designing a filtration system for his personal use. A way to be in the room without absorbing the poison. It would provide him with field readiness, a way to control the chaos, protection. 

By the time he left, Subject 034 was sedated and stable. Nothing had appeared unusual. He didn’t need anyone’s permission for this. Not anymore. He just needed a system distracted enough not to notice.

And right now, Arkham was very, very distracted.

Ares arrived late and reeked of alcohol. It wasn’t overwhelming, just faint beneath the cologne he’d clearly applied to cover it. But Jonathan noted it immediately. So did two of the nurses. The junior staffer at the front desk didn’t make eye contact when Ares passed. The security guard shook his head.

Jonathan didn’t say anything. He simply logged the observation.

Unshaved. Late. Auditory processing delay. Olfactory trace: whiskey or gin.

By eleven, Ares had snapped at a nurse, misfiled a patient transfer order, and quietly admitted to Jonathan in passing that he’d “forgotten” about a meeting with administration that had been on the calendar for two weeks.

Still functioning, but barely.

And sticking to his plan, Jonathan made no move to escalate. He reminded Ares gently about the admin meeting, handled the file fix himself, and smoothed things over with the staff with the ease of a man who knew how to fix a narrative before it bent too far. It was all part of his plan. Ten days of breathing room. Just enough time to make the fall look inevitable… and him look indispensable. It was working.

It should have been satisfying. But it wasn’t.

She didn’t come. Again. By now, she was off her pattern. Off his rhythm. You don’t get to become unpredictable now.

Her absence wasn’t just a missing piece. It was a disturbance, a weight in the system he couldn’t rebalance without her. He’d expected distance after their last interaction. A pause. Reflection. But not withdrawal or silence. Not this.

Ares was worse, visibly. Agitated, sluggish, and hungover. His judgment was fractured. His affect, unstable.

What happened over the weekend? Had they fought? Had something shifted between them that Jonathan hadn’t seen coming? He didn’t like not knowing.

Every other variable is accounted for. But not this one.

If Ares was spiraling and she was staying away because of it, it changed the timing. It changed the narrative.

I need her back in position. And if she wouldn’t return on her own? Jonathan would create the conditions to draw her out. He closed his notebook with deliberate calm. 

If she won’t return on her own, I’ll reestablish contact on neutral ground.

Not at Arkham. That would feel too formal, clinical. She’d feel cornered. A space where she felt safe would be better. Her space, her rules. A visit that felt like a choice instead of an obligation. He would bring a peace offering.

Moving to his desk drawer, he removed a slim folder he kept tucked beneath the more visible files. Personal notes nothing clinical or official. He flipped to the page labeled [Her Name] – Observational Patterns. 

Favorite café: Haven Leaf, three blocks from gallery. Orders consistently: arugula + lentil bowl, no onions, sub lemon vinaigrette. Always asks for extra lemon. Once corrected staff about packaging, prefers compostable over plastic lids.

He’d observed it three times. Noted it after the second. Confirmed it after the third.

It wasn’t just lunch. It was a demonstration. I see you. I understand detail. I listen. It was, in a word, earned.

This is the reset.  She’ll see I can adapt.  She’ll start to trust the version of me I give her.  And then she’ll come back into the story, exactly where she’s supposed to be.

He checked the clock. It was late afternoon. Too late to act now, not if he wanted the moment to feel deliberate. Tomorrow.

Jonathan would let her absence stretch a little longer. Let her wonder if she’d been forgotten and allow Ares to decline just enough to feel like it was all her fault. 

Then I’ll show up.  Not as a threat. As a solution.

He slid the folder back into the drawer and straightened the crease in his coat. 

Tuesday will be better for re-entry.

Tuesday afternoon, the gallery was quiet. Almost too quiet. 

You’d spent the morning rearranging an exhibit you’d already changed twice. The artists hadn’t noticed. But you had. Nothing felt settled.

You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t gone to see Ares. You kept thinking about the fight from Saturday night, the first night he’d finally made time for you in over a week. It should’ve been a relief. You'd planned to have dinner at his favorite restaurant and actually managed to grab a reservation last-minute on a cancellation. You’d picked the place for a reason. It was somewhere familiar and quiet. Somewhere that felt like you and him before all of this. You’d even hoped to go back to his apartment after, for a quiet, intimate night. Something soft and healing.

You just wanted to reconnect.

Instead, it had spiraled. It ended in shouting. A misunderstanding and misdirected frustration that caused wounds neither of you had words for. He’d shut down. You’d raised your voice and pushed harder than you meant to. And now? You weren’t even sure what you were fighting about anymore. It hurt.

You knew Ares was embarrassed by what was happening. That he was scared, but wouldn’t say it, not out loud. Not to you or maybe not even to himself. It was pride. Or fear of what it would mean if he said it out loud and couldn’t fix it.

You didn’t go to see him at Arkham yesterday. And today, you still couldn’t make yourself do it. Not because you didn’t care, because you did and you wanted to go. You just didn’t want to continue the fight in Arkham’s halls. Not if something you said came out wrong or if he looked at you like he had nothing left to give.

You were sipping ice water behind the front desk when the bell over the door rang. Your heart jumped just a little. You weren't expecting anyone. Was it Ares? Had he come to see you because he also didn't like how things were left? Maybe, for once, he’d come find you instead of waiting for you to do all the fixing.

It wasn't Ares. 

Dr. Crane stepped into the gallery like he’d done it before, calm and straight-backed. He crossed the room slowly, quietly--like he belonged--and placed a black bag on the front counter with deliberate care.

You stayed behind the desk, one hand still wrapped around your water bottle like it could anchor you, the other slowly lowering into your lap. A chill ran down your arms. Why is he here?

The last time you’d seen him, you’d nearly fallen apart in his office. And he’d done nothing, just sat there coldly watching. Like your pain had been an interesting reaction in an experiment he wasn’t really invested in, just there to log the outcome. There hasn't been an ounce of comfort or empathy. Nothing. Just observation. Like you were another file he’d already finished reading.

You folded your arms across your chest before you stood, a subtle barrier between you and him. This was your space.

If he thought anything of your reaction, it didn't show. Crane just watched you, waited. "Lunch,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You blinked, caught between annoyance, confusion, and something colder you didn’t want to name. “Dr. Crane.”

He inclined his head. “Miss.”

You didn’t invite him in. But you didn’t ask him to leave either. The long beat of silence stretched out uncomfortably.

“You didn’t come to Arkham yesterday," he said. "Or today.”

You stiffened, instinctively on guard. “I didn’t think I was required.”

“You’re not,” he said. “But your absence was felt.” He moved a little closer, slow and unthreatening. His tone was gentle, but exact. “Ares had a better day Monday. But that kind of improvement isn’t always sustainable. Especially without consistent environmental support.”

You stared at him. “Are you saying I’m environmental support now?”  You meant it to sound sharp, maybe a little sarcastic. Somehow you didn't hit that note. And underneath it, something twisted in your chest. Is that what I’ve become to Ares? A stabilizing factor? A comforting presence? Not a partner or someone he trusts? It stung more than you wanted to admit. Not because Crane said it, but because maybe he wasn’t wrong.

And worse? He made it sound like a compliment. Like it meant something. Were you just another condition to be managed then?

“I’m saying,” Crane replied, “you matter to him. And I believe he stabilizes faster when you're present.”

His phrasing was so matter-of-fact it disarmed you. 

“I thought you didn’t do emotional nuance,” you said quietly. “Back in your office, when I…” You stopped yourself.

Crane nodded, like he already knew. “I was trying not to make it worse. I’ve seen grief weaponized. I didn’t want to push you into anything you weren’t ready to feel.”

You looked at him, surprised by the softness in his tone. It wasn't warmth, but caution. Like he’d studied loss in a lab and learned just enough to simulate empathy.

“I wasn’t ready,” you admitted.

“I’m sorry,” he said and he meant it. Or he was good enough to make you think he did. 

He didn’t push, and he didn’t stay long. 

“Oh, before I forget.” He reached into the small black bag he’d set on the gallery’s front counter earlier and pulled out a neatly folded paper bag, sealed with a compostable sticker from your favorite vegan café three blocks down. “In case you haven’t eaten.”

You blinked, opening it to see its contents. Inside was your usual order. Not the standard menu item but your version. Subbed dressing, extra lemon wedge, no onions. Your stomach fluttered, more from confusion than hunger. How did he...

“Thank you,” you said cautiously.

He didn’t explain. Just gave a small nod. As he turned to go, he paused beside a large canvas near the door, a striking, oil-dark piece with a murder of crows painted in jagged, chaotic silhouettes. Their wings blurred into one another, sharp angles bleeding into a smudged black sky. There was no ground or horizon. Just movement, and darkness, and eyes that followed. You’d always admired the artist. She was brilliant, raw. 

But this piece? This one was different. It felt like darkness closing in, like something coming for you, whether you saw it or not. You’d never told anyone that and you usually placed the painting near exits, just in case.

You weren’t surprised he liked it. “Is that for sale?” he asked.

You nodded. “Of course. Local artist. She's good.” You walked over to him, grabbing one of the cards clipped to the frame. Your hands were slightly shaky, and it fell to the floor before you could hand it to him. "I'm sorry." You kneeled on the floor in front of him to retrieve it and glanced up at him, because you still weren't entirely sure you trusted him. Slowly rising to your feet, you handed it to him and your fingers brushed during the exchange. Just a second. You pulled away first, and he didn’t react. But for a reason you couldn’t explain, the gallery suddenly felt colder.

He took the card gently, slipped it into his coat pocket without looking. “I’ll see you at Arkham tomorrow, then?” he asked, his intense gaze locking with yours.

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

You walked him to the door, still unsure what had just happened and how it managed to feel like an apology without ever actually becoming one.

Crane paused before stepping out. “See you tomorrow.”

And then he was gone.

You watched him walk out into the afternoon sun, perfectly composed. The gallery felt lighter once he was gone, but you wouldn't say better.

Still…He hadn’t been what you expected. Not this time. You locked the door and turned back to the crows trapped on the canvas of the painting. You wondered, distantly, what he saw when he looked at them.

The door shut behind Jonathan quietly. The kind of silence that invited reflection. He just walked down the gallery steps slowly, coat buttoned, posture straight. The warmth of the late afternoon sun hit his shoulders, but he didn’t feel it. Not after what just happened. It was playing over and over again in his mind. The dropped card. The way she’d looked up at him from the floor before the brush of her fingers against his. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It wasn’t part of the plan.

But it had struck something in him that had never threatened his self control before now. By the time he reached the sidewalk and turned left toward Arkham, he still hadn’t gotten his balance back.

Shaking his head to clear it, Jonathan forced himself to concentrate. 

She took the food he brought her. Not with trust or ease, but she did accept it. He’d watched her fingers hesitate over the bag, watched the micro-tension in her shoulders. Her reluctance was visible. But she didn’t pull back or question the gesture. She also didn’t send him away which he half-expected.

That mattered. Fear was too obvious and resistance too loud. But reluctant permission, well, that was the truest kind of control.

She’s not ready to trust me. That’s fine. She’s ready to wonder if she should. And that's better.

It was better tham empathy, comfort. She was still deciding and he was shaping the answer. 

Progress.

More than that, she’d listened. She’d let him speak, uninterrupted. She’d allowed him to frame the absence -- both Ares’s decline and her role in the system. And in the end, she agreed to return.

Control regained. He exhaled, slow and steady. The encounter hadn't gone exactly as he intended. Reaching into his pocket, he fished the card out.  

She’d handed it to him from the frame beside the crow painting. She’d dropped it first, her hands trembling. From his visit? He could still see it in his mind's eyes. She kneeled in front of him to retrieve it, hand reaching across the floor, her eyes lifting to meet his from below. There was nothing calculated or staged about it. 

But the image? Kneeling. Looking up. Just… waiting. His breath hadn’t caught and his heart hadn’t accelerated. But something else had, something sharper from deep within. It wasn't desire or power, just the flash of something he struggled to name. 

She had no idea what that looked like, how naturally submissive that unintentional pose was, and that made it worse. Then she stood and handed him the card. For the briefest second, their fingers touched. Jonathan didn’t react outwardly, but internally, his mind stilled. Not because of the touch itself. No. It also wasn’t calculated nor was it part of the test.

She didn’t mean to touch me. But it still happened.

For years, touch and physical contact had been transactional. Sometimes a necessary step in gaining access or information. College trysts, colleagues at conferences, overeager interns mistaking distance for mystery. He’d allowed it, participated when useful. But he’d never felt anything.

Jonathan didn't feel desire or warmth. Certainly not pleasure in the way others described it. He didn’t believe physical closeness offered anything particularly valuable, not beyond the momentary biological release people seemed irrationally obsessed with. If there were any benefits, they were hormonal. Temporary and meaningless. Flesh wasn’t interesting. Behavior was. And behavior could be mapped and measured, predicted even.

Until now. 

I can't stop seeing her glance up at me from the floor, eyes wide, lips parted. Then she touched me by accident, and I can’t stopped thinking about it.

Most people didn’t touch him, not intentionally. And when they did, it was always followed by hesitation and regret. That brief flash of discomfort in their eyes like they’d just crossed some invisible line.

Once again, she hadn’t flinched or looked repelled. She didn't apologize. Like it was normal. Like I was normal. And that, somehow, was even worse. It stayed. 

He slid the card into his coat pocket, already memorizing the number printed in small black ink. And for the rest of the walk back to Arkham, he could still feel where her skin had met his.

When he reached the front doors of Arkham, Jonathan straightened his cuffs, adjusted his coat, and re-centered his expression into something neutral. Inside, the air was predictably cool. The hum of fluorescent lights, the faint antiseptic sting that clung to everything reminded him of where he was. Where his focus needed to be. 

Familiar ground.

Making his way to Ares’s office without rushing, Jonathan kept one hand tucked casually in his pocket, fingers brushing the edge of the artist’s card like it was an afterthought.

He knocked once. No answer. Crane opened the door anyway.

Ares was at his desk, awake, but slouched. His shoulders hunched, and his tie was askew. His eyes were bloodshot, and a mostly untouched coffee sat beside a stack of reports he wasn’t reading.

Jonathan stepped inside, wordless, and slowly circled the room. Scanned the files, checked the timestamp on the system logs. Picked up a clipboard to skim its contents before putting it down again.

This is what I know. This is control.

But the tension racing through his entire body didn't go away. His memory from the gallery wouldn't let him. 

Kneeling. Glancing up. That pause between her fingertips and mine.

Jonathan was here. In the system, in the structure he’d built around himself. And yet, he felt completely derailed.

Ares mumbled something, barely audible. Jonathan didn’t catch it and didn't care. He stepped back out into the hallway and let the door close behind him.

Control regained?

Maybe not. Not yet.

When Jonathan saw her again, stepping out of the Midtown bookstore on a rainy Thursday, he thought he was hallucinating. It had been ten years since he saw her last. She'd been away at college and came to visit her family. She'd been there for a long weekend, not enough time to try and orchestrate paths crossing. 

But there she was.  Older and softer around the edges. Hair pinned back in a way he didn’t remember, but her face… her face hadn’t changed at all.

He watched her from across the street. She didn’t see him.

She smiled at the clerk walking out behind her. Laughed at something small and adjusted the strap of her bag like it still didn’t sit quite right. 

She came back.

And for days, Jonathan followed her. N ot obsessively at first, but carefully.  From a distance, t racking her routine. Mapping it. Finding comfort in how familiar she still was, how she bought the same kind of tea, how she paused at certain corners when she walked. How she still left the house without an umbrella, even when it rained.  He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her until the system settled around her again.

It was a Wednesday when everything shifted.  He hadn’t been following her that day. Just passing through Midtown, almost mechanically. 

And then there she was, on the sidewalk, walking into a restaurant.  Laughing with h er hand in someone else’s. Matching wedding rings. He was a  tall man, clean-cut and confident. The kind of man people looked at without remembering.

In her other arm? She held a toddler, a girl of maybe two who looked just like her.  Same eyes and hair. Same quiet spark.

Jonathan stood frozen just past the crosswalk, one hand still in his coat pocket.  He watched the hostess open the door and watched them step inside. He watched her smile, not at him. She pressed a kiss to the little girl’s forehead as the man guided them to a table.

And something ripped quietly at the edges of his control.

You came back. But you didn’t come back for me.

He didn’t follow her again after that.  Didn’t need to.  The variable had changed and t he subject was no longer viable.

But the memory? That stayed.  Not because she left. Because she never gave him a chance to matter.

Jonathan returned to his office and shut the door behind him, softer than usual. The silence should have helped but it didn’t. He didn’t sit. Instead, he paced. His strides were long and measured across the floor with his hands behind his back, every motion precise. But his mind was elsewhere. 

Unacceptable. Jonathan didn't allow himself to slip into fantasy.They were distortions, unstructured internal projections with no measurable outcome. Psychologically speaking, they were the brain’s way of coping with unmet needs. False stimuli designed to soothe. He didn’t need soothing. He needed control.

And yet, his heart was racing. His hands clenched behind his back, nails pressing into his palms. He tried in vain to redirect his thoughts to data, structure, and most importantly, fact.

All he could see her was kneeling in front of him on the gallery floor. That glance up at him... It wouldn’t stop playing. Like someone had hit repeat. Like he was someone's else's behavioral experiment. 

Jonathan's mind went to picturing her entering his office without knocking, just a soft turn of the handle, a gentle creak of the door. She’s carrying the crow painting, of course, but it’s not about the delivery. It's merely an excuse. Her gaze moves across the room, her expressive eyes luminous, curious. Underneath is caution and something else...

"I didn’t want the front desk to handle something this delicate," she says, shifting the frame slightly in her arms. "And I thought…"

Watching her carefully turn to carefully place the paining in the floor, leaning it on one of his bookshelves, he waits.  Her gaze is on him, quiet and open. She wants something, but doesn't know how to ask for it. 

Her eyes are soft, her posture uncertain. She’s not here for Ares. She’s here for him, walking back to his office door and turning the lock with a graceful hand.

"Have you been a good girl, today?" Jonathan asks, knowing it will earn him that smile. Her teeth sink into her enticing lower lip.

​"Yes," she whispered because good girls answer with their words. She doesn't touch him, not yet. She doesn't have permission. 

But he grants that. "Show me," he says firmly, stepping back so he can lean against the front of his desk, keep himself steady.

Meekly, she moves closer before kneeling in front of him, getting on her knees. When she's better trained, he'll keep a special cushion in his office, just for her visits and occasions like this. In the meantime, good girls don't complain. 

Jonathan takes a deep breath, watching her delicate hands work the fine leather belt at the front of his slacks. She makes quick work of it, opening his slacks and pushing them down just enough to free his cock and when she sees it, she glances up at him -- that glance -- confirming she has his permission. At his nod, she gets her hands on him, her mouth on him. Jonathan knew he should have told her not to make a mess of him but as her heated lips close around the head of his cock, he sucks in a breath and his eyes slide closed for just a moment. Her hands are warm and soft as they work him, her little mouth heaven as she slowly takes him deeper. 

He loved the way that once she got him right there to the edge, she's stop and do something different to frustrate him, to drag it out. Today he wouldn't punish her for that. Not when that big-eyed gaze was on him, seeking his approval. Not when she was literally drooling around him and drops of it fell to form wet circles on her knees, darkening the fabric of her slim gray skirt. 

Jonathan let her know when he was ready to come, taking control of her head with his hands. He fucked her face, slowly at first. But as that wave on sensation started crashing around him, his movements were rough and fast. He reached his end when he noticed those pretty tears sliding from her eyes, a slight smudge of mascara at her left eye from her efforts, from choking on his cock...

Taking deep breaths, Jonathan leaned back in his office chair, thick white ropes of his come all over his hand, his briefs. Somehow his slacks has been spared. Tucking himself back into his slacks, he did a messy job of it, he wiped his hands with tissues from the box on his desk. Straigtening his coat, he hurried out of his office to the men's room and cleaned up there. 

Jonathan was angry at allowing it. Masturbation wasn't a problem, but a healthy way to keep biological processes from interering with his work. He did it often in the privacy of his own home. He'd never allowed himself to do it at work, however. He was grateful that at some point in his reverie he'd locked his office door.

Returning to his office, he again locked his office door. At least until he could compose himself. The fantasy folded in on itself like a trap. It was ridiculous. Out of character. Uncontrolled. But he didn’t dismiss it. Not entirely.

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and removed the artist’s card again. Studied it. Ran his thumb along the edge where her fingers had pressed it.

Then placed it carefully on his desk

Jonathan hadn’t decided to buy the crow painting for her approval or to impress, nor to connect. He liked it. It wasn’t beautiful, nor was it balanced. What he liked was its restless, unsettling vibe. A canvas of motion without origin. Aggression without consequence. Wings blurred, angles clashing, with no sky to escape into. It wasn't a piece that wanted to be understood and didn't care to be explained. It was the kind of chaos that didn’t apologize for existing.

Jonathan respected that, recognized it. And he wanted it on his wall here in the office until he moved into Ares' office as the new Administrator  Then it would hang there. Prominent. Permanent.

A reminder of the chaos that birthed control. Of what came before the fall. The shape of those crows, the jagged wings, the stretched silhouettes, the way the eyes bled into the dark, It gave him an idea for the mask he was developing. Something primal and stark. Something that blurred identity and turned fear into a specific face. 

He planned to go to the studio to pick it up himself. A calculated excuse to see her and initiate the next step on his terms. But the artist, chatty, perceptive in the way creatives often were, had offered a different arrangement. The artist could arrange for her to deliver it to him. 

“She’s at Arkham most days anyway to see Ares. I’ll have her bring it to you.”

At first, he’d considered declining. But then? He saw the value in letting it play out. He’d still get the interaction and proximity. But now, it would unfold here, in front of Ares. She’d arrive with the painting. For me. And Ares would watch it happen. And best of all? He didn’t have to lift a finger.

Flipping open a slim black notebook, not the formal logbook for patient records, Jonathan made notes. He turned to her page, reviewing the day’s observations. Small notations on marginal behavior changes. Tone, posture, word choice. Then he paused, writing a single line beneath the last note.

Unintended tactile response → retention trigger. He underlined it once and closed the notebook. There. Labeled and catalogued. Not about her. Not about me. Just data.

Done with his inexcusable mania, his gaze fell on the card again. It was worn slightly at the corners now, a faint smudge on the edge from where his fingers had lingered too long, too often. He stared at it for a moment longer than he meant to. Chaos, without apology.

Jonathan opened the drawer that no one else touched. From inside, he pulled the mailing envelope. Her necklace was already inside. Without a word, he slipped the artist’s card in beside it. There was no need for a note or label. Just the weight of the meaning he wasn't prepared to name. Then he closed the envelope, like he was sealing something sacred, and returned it to the drawer.

Reeaching for a blank notepad, he began to sketch.

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

If you're mentally unstable and need therapy but you can't afford therapy so you fall in love with fictional men who are also mentally unstable such as cannibals or murders clap your hands. 👏👏

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Steve’s gaslighting pisses me off

Wicked Games 14

Warnings: non/dubcon, cheating, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: you had a one night stand. Or did you?

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Bruce is nice enough. He does a typical checkup. Says he'll request the ultrasound from your doctor. You thank him and he chats with Steve before he goes.

"Says you're healthy," Steve declares at the door shuts. "Nothing of concern so far."

"Did you ever think...maybe, that whatever they put in you might kill me?" You scowl from the couch as you hug a pillow. "Pregnancy is already damgerous enough."

"Bruce doesn't seem concerned with that. He's a scientist. He's curious," Steve approaches. "You just need to take it easy."

"Take it easy?" You grumble. "Right. It's not very easy. There's a thing growing inside of me."

"Our baby," he sits beside you. "Look, I get it. It's not what you imagined but you gotta think about it. We met for a reason."

"No, we met because I was mad at my husband and my own stupid choices and what did I do? Made another one." You throw a hand up and sink into the cushy couch. "Shouldn't the great cap go out an find someone bubbly and pretty and perfect?"

"You're perfect," he insists.

You stare at him. You're so tired. He's relentless. No matter what you do, puke, gorge, snarl, he's not going to let up. For God's sake, he killed Barrett.

"It really was the greatest night of my life," he leans toward you.

You wince. "Steve..."

"I only want to take care of you." He says. "That night, the woman I met, she wanted that too. That's what you said. You said you were lonely and you just wanted to be wanted. I want you. I need you."

You look away as your eyes gloss with tears. He's not lying. That night you were bitter and dejected. Your husband wouldn't touch you and just that was enough to break you. You were drunk but you were still you.

You cover your face and turn away.

"It's alright," he touches your shoulder gently, rubbing your arm.

"It's not." You snivel.

"But it will be." He squeezes your shoulder. "Shh, sweetheart, relax."

He spreads his hand across your back and rubs. You shiver. He shifts closer. You can feel him. He slides his arm over your shoulders.

He pulls you to him. You don't resist as he turns you and puts your head on his chest. His other hand runs up and down your arm.

That's it. You have nothing left. You crumble. You bury your face in his shirt as another storm washes over you. You sob. You're not just grieving your husband, you're grieving for yourself.

He hushes you, rocking you slightly, and the waves ebb and flow until you're spent. He stays like that with you. You can hear his heart.

He relaxes against you. You let him hold you. Just like that night, you settle for any comfort you can find.

Time blurs and you drift in the haze. When you break through the ambivalence, you're still on the couch. You're on your side, hugging the pillow, numb and dozy. You're not sure you were sleeping, you're still exhausted.

Steve emerges and you watch him. He's in only a towel. His blond hair slightly curls from moisture. He looks at you and rubs his neck.

"How're you feeling?" He asks.

You groan.

"Hungry?"

Your stomach growls before you can answer. You've never felt hunger quite like it.

"I can make you something," he offers.

"No, no," you sit up. "I can manage. I'm not.... helpless."

"I know. I'm just trying to help."

You look at him and stand. You don't say anything. Funny, he keeps saying that word; help. Does he know what that means? It only seems to mean do what he wants.

You pass him to get to the kitchen. You try not to notice or think about his exposed physique. The hard muscle, his thick arms, that inhuman strength.

Remember what he did. You don't know that he wouldn't do the same to you. Sure, he wants the baby but he could find another woman, make another. You're not delusional. You don't think you're special like that.

You'll make a sandwich. Simple. It shouldn't make you sick. Just peanut butter.

Wrong. As you twist open the jar, the smell flips your stomach. You step back and cover your mouth. Steve's shadow moves into the doorway.

"You okay?"

You swallow the bile in your throat.

"As okay as I can be," you drop your hands.

"Like I said, anything I can do."

"Give me some space," you say abruptly. "I need a moment, okay? Like, don't you get it? I planned to be with my husband, not you."

You spin away and put the lid back on the jar.

"I get that," he says tersely.

"I never wanted a kid. Do you know that?"

He hums.

"But here we are so give me a chance to process this," you snap.

He tuts and steps into the kitchen. He crosses his arms.

"You think this is what I want? I never wanted to be in this century. I never wanted to wake up in a world where everyone I know is gone. Where all my hopes and dreams are quashed and this brave new world rejects everything I know."

His voice cracks and takes a deep breath.

You drop your shoulders. No, you didn't think about that. Yet, why would you even consider any of it when he can have anything he wants. Sure, his life isn't what he wanted but why does he get to do the same to you?

"I'm not the one who ruined your life," you mutter.

His brow twitches.

"No, you didn't. You're giving me a chance at that life," he sighs. "So, take your time, but we both know I'm going to get what I want."