#WARNING: DEPICTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE

[tangledinink]

Chapter Fourteen of I'm Sorry, Teenage Mutant What Now? is up! Everyone has a great time and continues to experience emotions and situations. Raphael has an anxiety attack in a Chuck E. Cheese. Read it on ao3 or below the cut!

[ prev ]

When Donnie next woke up, they realized quickly that they were somewhere cold and dark, and, upon shifting slightly, also realized that they were incredibly sore.

“Ow,” he muttered dryly, and immediately, four (almost, mostly, kind of) familiar faces were moving into his field of vision.

“Guys, he’s awake!” Mikey gasped.

“Oh, thank god,” Raph sighed.

“How you feeling, Dee?” April prodded gently, her brows pinched together with worry.

“Nasty,” he mumbled, beginning to sit up. “But it’s not that bad. Just sore.” It was worse with the movement, however, and he winced slightly. Ugh, whatever position he had been sleeping in had not helped. He realized vaguely that he was no longer wearing his hoodie or his backpack, and he wondered if his family had removed it or if it had been taken from him. 

“Whoa, hey, slow down, dude,” Leo scolded. “I’m, like, 80% sure you’ve got a concussion or something, and your back looks gross, so chill.”

“Oh, good, Leo isn’t falling anymore,” Donnie deadpanned, leaning back slightly and rolling his shoulders a bit. Ow. He kept doing it anyway. “How long was I out? What the hell happened? And where are we?”

“Not that long. You’ve kinda been in-and-out for the past, like… I dunno. Half hour,” Leo explained.

“Please don’t pass out again!” Mikey added.

“But, uhhh, I think we’re in a literal dungeon?” Leo added, looking around thoughtfully.

“We’ve been jailed? Oh joy,” Donnie sighed. “This is no fair. If I’m going to be thrown in prison, it should be for my scientific advancements…”

“Donnie, that’s not something you’re supposed to hope for--” Raph hissed.

“Did we get our asses kicked?”

“Okay, well, look at the bright side,” Leo said instead of answering. “You gave, like, at least three of the guys on the other side concussions, too! And they probably look just as fucked up as you do right now!”

A loss, then.

“Let me see.”

“See what? Your back?” April raised a brow. “I dunno if that’s a good--”

“It’s my back,” Donnie defended. “Let me see.”

April sighed deeply, rolling her eyes. “Okay, fine. Hang on, I’ll take a picture…”

Donnie shifted a bit to allow room for her to photograph, frowning to himself. He was quietly surprised that their phones hadn’t been confiscated when they got thrown in here, but he was sort of willing to bet that they wouldn’t have any service down here, wherever they were. He’d have to check later.

“Okay, here. See?”

He did see.

He did not like it. 

There were no lacerations or mangled bones or anything-- the injury really wasn’t that bad, all things considered, just horrendously bruised. That wasn’t really what bothered him. If someone showed him a picture of his own shoulders looking like that, all discolored and black and blue, it really wouldn’t be an issue. But they weren’t shoulders. Instead there was this plane of a vaguely leathery, flesh-like surface, gently bumped and freckled olive green-- not quite skin, but not exactly carapace like his brothers now had, either, just something in between, all dotted with little markings. His spine was clearly outlined, and, in this moment, darkened and mottled with bruising.

“Right. Thank you,” he said quickly, looking to the side and scowling. April sighed a bit, almost visibly resisted the urge to say ‘I told you so,’ and pocketed her phone again, settling back down beside him.

“You gotta be more careful, Don! You coulda been seriously hurt!” Raph pressed.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Donnie scoffed, rolling his eyes. “In the future, I’ll simply allow enemies to curbstomp our little brother! Silly me!”

“I would have been fine! You don’t have to protect me!” Mikey immediately protested.

“Look, hermano, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but apparently, literally all the rest of us have straight-up built-in body armor,” Leonardo said with an accusing gesture. “You don’t!”

Donnie bristled a bit, hunching his shoulders. Right. Of course.

Of course it would work this way.

Turtles. They were, apparently, literal fucking turtles, of all goddamn things, and so of course he would be the only one who didn’t have the signature feature that turtles usually had in the form of a hard shell. Of course he would be different and vulnerable. Why was he surprised? When didn’t things work out this way? Story of his goddamn life!

And it made sense, too! Wasn’t he the only one out of all of them who had ever been, like, actually injured? He had watched Mikey fall down three flights of cement stairs one time and pop up at the bottom with a thumbs up. Raph was basically an immovable object. And how many times had Leo wiped out on his skateboard with no consequences? Or, perhaps more pointedly-- how many times had Leo literally kicked his ass in martial arts tournaments? Admittedly, Donnie was still, generally speaking, hardier than the average high-schooler, but…

He was still the only one in the family to have ever broken a bone. The one who fell ill the most frequently. He was the only one who had ever cried and thrown up because the hems of his pants got wet and nasty, for god’s sake--

He vaguely remembered that Draxum guy from earlier, their so-called creator, claiming that they were experiments. He wondered what exactly his intention was, and if he would meet expectations if evaluated or if he would objectively be classed as a failure. Clearly there was a gap between himself and his siblings.

“Look, it’s fine, Don. We just don’t want you to get hurt,” Raph said, resting a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Just… let us take the heavy hits, okay? That’s all.” 

“Fine,” Donnie muttered.

---

Donatello whined softly, burrowing his way further into his Dad’s arms, hanging onto fistfuls of his shirt. Yoshi sighed, idly running his hand up and down the child’s spine. 

“I know, Purple,” he hummed, adjusting his grip on the other slightly, rearranging the blankets they were all but nested in. “The medicine will start working soon.”

The child sniffled miserably, peeking up just enough to give their father a rueful look. “You lied,” he accused, and Yoshi couldn’t resist a tiny laugh at the amount of rage his six-year-old could manage to put into his eyes. 

“When did I lie?”

“You said that if I took the medicine I would feel better. And it was disgusting. And I still feel bad,” he whimpered petulantly, burying his face into his dad’s shirt once more, and Yoshi chuckled softly, stroking his shoulders.

“That was ten minutes ago, Purple. It takes a little bit longer than that.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Maybe a little.”

“I’m gonna invent better medicine that works right away.”

“I’m sure you could.”

Purple always got this way whenever he managed to pick up any sort of bug from their various classes or after-school activities. Given how many children he had, how busy they were, and the fact that he, too, worked with a bunch of germy kids, they were, quite frankly, blessed with how rarely they were brought to their knees by some virus or another. Yoshi had always attributed this to the whole ‘mutant super soldier’ thing, and considered himself lucky that he hardly ever had to deal with nastier things like strep throat or bronchitis. Thank god. He didn’t think his heart could take it, quite frankly. But there was still the occasional cold, flu, or stomach bug, and almost invariably, it was either himself or Donatello who ended up bringing it home when they did.

And every time, Purple would be so damn pathetic about it.

Yoshi did feel bad for him, really, each and every time, because he knew that his kid didn’t feel well and wasn’t able to do all the things he usually did, and that was distressing to him, but oh my lord, was he dramatic. He’d always whimper and whine and carry on like he was dying, even if he just had a cough and a small fever, clinging to his dad and refusing to walk anywhere. Now, snotty, hacking children were not exactly Yoshi’s favorite things to snuggle up with, but he would admit that, as he so rarely received any physical affection from his purplest child on a day-to-day basis, it was a little nice to have him so clingy now. Especially given that when he was ill, Donnie was much more inclined to lay around and watch Lou Jitsu movies rather than science and math documentaries, or, even worse, partake in activities such as attempting to rewire the house, as he was apt to do. This was by far Yoshi’s preference. And though he did wish Donnie could enjoy it properly, he wouldn’t sit here and pretend like he didn’t enjoy spending the day curled up in his bed with his child in his lap watching movies together (now that he had been assured by their pediatrician that it was just a bug…) Even if he was sure he was going to get sick, too. 

It should be noted however, that even in his feverish, clingy state, Donnie was still quite particular about exactly what touch was and was not okay, which was evidenced by him literally hissing at his twin brother when he snuck into the room and attempted to join the pair on the bed.

“Use your words, Purple One,” Yoshi hummed, even as he redirected Leonardo to the foot of his bed, giving the two children a wide berth. Donnie only grumbled in response, but given the fact that he was sick, Yoshi let it slide this time. He couldn’t help but always feeling so… sorry for Donnie like this. It always scared him a bit when he got sick, even once he was sure it was only something minor. Just another reason he relished being able to bundle him up and hold him close. “I don’t think Purple wants to be touched by anyone else right now, Blue.”

“When’s he gonna be done being sick?” Leo sighed loudly, flopping down over his father’s legs. “I’m bored. Mikey and Raph don’t play right.” 

“Since when? You love playing with Mikey and Raph.”

“Yeah, but I wanna play Hot Wheelz and Donnie is the best at that game!” He complained. “Mikey and Raph are playing ‘Ninja Horse Tea Party Orphanage’ and I don’t wanna play that!”

That did sound like the type of game those two would play.

“If you give him a day or two, I’m sure he will be ready to play Hot Wheelz then.” 

“But that’s so LONNGGG!” Leo groaned loudly, sulking. “Can’t you make him better faster?”

“No, Donatello has not invented the medicine that works right away yet. It’s on his to-do list,” Yoshi explained calmly, squeezing the purple child just the tiniest bit. 

“Can I invent it, then?”

“I’m sure you could try,” Yoshi said with a shrug. 

“I want him to get better. And not be sick,” Leo explained, just in case it wasn’t clear.

“That’s very nice, Blue.”

“I bet I could find out a way to fix him.”

“Oh? Are you going to be a doctor, then?”

Leo wrinkled his brow, scrunching up his mouth and considering this for a moment before he shook his head. “No. I’m gonna be an actor. Or a ninja. Or a magician. One of those.”

“Ah. Well, you know what would probably be helpful right now?”

“What?” Leo immediately questioned, his eyes lighting up slightly.

“If you got your brothers to help you draw some get-well cards for Purple. I bet Mikey would be excited to help you if you asked.”

Leo latched onto the new ‘task’ right away, over the moon to do something to be helpful for his brothers, like he always was. It was one of the easiest ways to distract him. “Okay!” He replied, jumping back down off the bed, scampering off to go and find his remaining siblings.

He was almost gone, in fact, when Yoshi sneezed.

Leo stopped short, whipping back around and gasping loudly, pointing an accusing finger.

“YOU SNEEZED!”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“YOU DID! I HEARD YOU!” He shrieked, taking off down the hall. “Guys! GUYS! Dad sneezed! I heard him!”

“Dad sneezed!?”

“Code Green! This is a CODE GREEN!”

Yoshi sighed softly, his head flopping back down against the pillow. Leo came skidding back into the room a moment later, his eyes wide.

“DAD! Can we go to April’s house!?”

“What?” He scoffed. “No! April and her parents are not even home!”

“Yeah but we gotta QUARANTINE!”

“It was just one sneeze--”

“LEO! Leo, you gotta disinfect! I found Donnie’s hand sanitizer!”

“Hey,” Donnie picked up his head to whine.

This always happened.

“Donnie, you have to get better quick so you can take field notes! We need your research, okay!? You’re the only one who can spell ‘pathology!!!’”

Donnie mumbled in reply, laying his head back down, but gave a tiny thumb’s up before Leo went sprinting back out the room to re-join his healthy (for now) brothers. His other three boys never brought home sickness. But they always caught it when it came from him.

Well, at least they were not bored anymore.

---

April was having a bit of trouble keeping track of time now that they were in prison. 

She didn’t think they had actually been here that long, though she wasn’t exactly sure. She had long ago shut off her phone to conserve battery once they realized that they may be a while. Maybe 24 hours?... It was just that at first, when they still weren’t sure if Donnie was going to be okay or not, everything seemed to happen so fast. And now that they were all just cooped up here with nothing to do… everything happened so slow.

They had already formulated and executed multiple escape plans now, to no avail. They had attempted to teleport to freedom with the help of the yellow yokai, who April had recently begun referring to as “Mayhem,” but were sorely disappointed to find that the prison was teleport-proof. Leo had tried unsuccessfully to talk their way out. Raph made an effort to physically break them out, attempting to smash the bars that held them, but this too resulted in failure.

The only thing that really clued her into the passage of time was her and her brothers’ internal clocks. Donnie had gone down first, though his head injury may have had something to do with that. Mikey had followed shortly after, curling up with Raph’s flannel tucked under his head as a makeshift pillow, and then the oldest brother, too, eventually succumbed to sleep, until she and Leo were all that remained.

“Okay,” she whispered, keeping her voice low, careful not to wake anyone else up. “I’ll admit it. You were right.”

Leo hummed softly in response, and neither of them took their eyes off of Mikey, suspended peacefully in the air, just a few inches off the ground, a soft orange glow coming off of him in waves as he slumbered.

“It’s a little weird to watch,” she sighed, tilting her head slightly to the side. “Sort of spooky.”

“At least he’s getting some rest,” Leo mumbled, resting his head in a cradle of his arms and knees, all curled in on himself.

“Yeah,” April agreed, smiling a tiny bit. “We should probably try that too, huh?” She leaned over, just barely nudging Leo’s shoulder with her own.

He flinched, a visible shiver running up his spine as he immediately stiffened, pulling sharply away from the other. April frowned.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Leo muttered, drawing his arms even tighter around himself.

“You’re not hurt, are you? Because I swear to god, if you got hurt and didn’t tell anyone--”

“April, I’m fine!” He bit out, a bit sharper this time, hunching his shoulders. “I’m not hurt, okay? I just… I’m not in the mood to be touched right now.”

April’s brows pinched together.

“Leo…”

“Don’t ask me if I’m okay again,” he hissed.

“Alright.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.”

“Obviously, I’m not!”

“That’s okay.”

“Everything is so fucked up,” he hissed, digging his nails into his arms, drawing his head down to his chest. “Jesus christ. This-- fuck. And I got us all stuck in here!”

“Leo, you didn’t get us stuck in here. It’s not your fault.”

“I did!” He insisted, and April could see a few tears lining his eyes before he squeezed them shut. “This was my stupid plan. And Donnie-- Donnie almost got really hurt, and Mikey could’ve gotten hurt, and-- and I couldn’t help at all. I couldn’t help him at all when he was panicking. I can always help! I’m supposed to be able to help him when he’s like that! And I-- I can’t even help my own brother because I look like a fucking freak now!”

“Leo, you’re not a freak. It’s gonna be okay.”

“It’s not!” He snapped, bristling. “It’s not going to be okay. Stop saying it’ll be okay. How is any of this okay!?”

April bit the insides of her cheek. She didn’t have a good answer.

“I hate this,” he hissed. “Everything feels fucking awful. I can’t walk right, I keep falling, everything feels swollen and clunky and I-- I miss my face. I miss my body. And it’s just gone. I didn’t even like my body to begin with!” He laughed ruefully, struggling to keep his voice quiet. “I didn’t even like what I had, and-- fuck, April, I was so fucking excited. I was so fucking excited to change it. I’ve been waiting since I was fucking five to change it. I didn’t even know what I wanted to change then! I just-- fuck. Dammit. We had-- we had an appointment--”

He paused just long enough to draw in a heaving, shuddering breath that shook his entire frame.

“God. I just. I thought-- I thought I was used to this. I thought! I thought that I knew what it was like, to be quote-unquote trapped in the wrong body or whatever the hell, and I thought-- and it sucked and now this is just. This is just a million times worse, April. And it’s still wrong. Now it’s just more wrong!” He hiccuped weakly. “We were gonna fix it. We were finally gonna start fixing it, like, for real fixing it. We had an appointment. And. And Dad was g-gonna take me, and now it’s-- it’s just so much worse. Everything is so fucking bad now.”

“I know,” she whispered. “... Maybe you still can. You guys could still change back! I mean,” she glanced down at the silver bracelet still circling Leo’s wrist. “... We don’t know for sure that they’re broken. Maybe you just have to… to turn them back on…”

Leo bit back a sob.

“But now I know it’s not real.”

April was almost relieved when Leo fell into her side, hiding his face against her to cry, because she wanted so, so desperately to grab him and hug him and hold him tight, but he had said he didn’t want to be touched. But now that he was curled up against her, she wrapped her arms around him, and they sat quietly for a while like that. 

It took a while, but eventually the sobs died out, and Leo just laid with his head in her lap, all wrung-out and tired. 

“I meant it, you know,” she whispered. Leo didn’t reply, but he glanced up at her.

“I don’t care if you guys are freaks or mutants or whatever,” she continued. “That doesn’t matter to me. You were already sort of freaks when I met you, anyway. You’re my brothers, alright? No matter what. Even if things change. I’m not going anywhere.”

Leo sniffled a bit, staring at her for a bit longer before his gaze fell back down, staring off into the middle distance, looking at nothing in particular except for the pale orange light that lit up the room.

“Do you think he’s dreaming?” Leo finally spoke again, his voice scratchy and raw as he watched his baby brother sleep.

“Probably,” April said, leaning her head back to rest against the wall. 

---

“Daddy! Daddy!”

His father looked up from the dishes he had been washing, turning off the faucet to instead greet his youngest as he came excitedly racing into the house.

“Ah! Hello, my son. How is skateboard practice going?”

“Good!” Mikey chirped, excitedly holding up one leg so that he could proudly show his father his bloody, scraped knees. “Look! I did a kickflip.”

Mikey watched as bright red blood dripped down his younger self’s leg, and he thought to himself,

“So you did,” Dad said, sighing softly. “Go sit at the table. I will get the first aid kit.”

How strange.

“I want the orange band-aids! With the stars!” He yelled from his seat in a pulled-out kitchen chair, leaning over to call out his demands down the hall.

This was one of his dreams. Mikey was sure of it. Well, not a dream, exactly. A memory. Both. A memory inside of a dream. 

“Ah, yes, of course. Orange for Orange,” Dad assured, returning to the kitchen with first-aid kit in tow.

But this one was different from the rest.

“That’s my life color!” Mikey said happily, settling in the chair, sitting properly so his dad could clean and bandage his wounds.

The perspective had changed.

He wasn’t up above anymore, watching his father and his memory down below.

He was right here. He was standing right here on the same level-- right next to his dad, watching him tend to his younger self. No more than a few inches away from him.

He could almost touch him.

He reached out to try.

“Dad…?”

Mikey woke up with a gasp, falling heavily onto the floor and immediately sitting stark upright, scrambling a bit and looking around wildly. Donnie and Raph were asleep, but he quickly spotted April and Leo huddled together in the corner, both seeming slightly startled by his sudden trip back to the waking world.

Thank god someone else was still up.

“Guys!” He bit out, near breathless. “Dad is here! I can feel it! He’s really close by and-- and I think he might be hurt.”

---

Yoshi was getting very tired of the taste of blood.

There was a time, back when he was young, within his first year in the Nexus, when he could actually find joy in it. There was a time when he would face down unbeatable odds and come out the other side victorious, and would feel pride at what he accomplished, and not worry about those on the other end of the equation. There were times, in fact, when he would beat other competitors to unconsciousness just so that he could turn around and lounge in the luxury box, above it all, with his girlfriend-not-girlfriend in his lap. Just so that she would be pleased with him. Just because he wanted her to be happy. More specifically, happy with him.

He was still tempted, even now, now that he had gotten tired of the taste. Tempted to want her to be happy. It was so much easier when she was happy. When she was upset, he would always be miserable, but when she was happy things had always been so good.

It would be so easy to sit here and pretend like he didn’t feel that way anymore; to simply wave a hand and call his younger self a fool and distance himself from him, as if he were someone else entirely. But it wouldn’t be true. No matter how much he was loath to admit it at times, that young man was still him, and every action and stupid decision he had ever made was his to hold and wear on his chest.

He didn’t like the way blood tasted anymore. He had gotten tired of the taste years and years ago, way before he had returned to the Battle Nexus, before he had even become a father, back when he couldn’t even begin to imagine his path leading in the direction it had, before he could even picture himself raising children--

(Though, god, hadn’t there been a time where he thought, ‘but if she really wanted them, if it was with her…?’)

But he still couldn’t so definitively say that he didn’t like her, and that was what really upset him. Here he was, slumped against a wall in an empty locker room, not completely convinced that he wasn’t bleeding out given the increasingly unsettling blotch of color beneath his skin climbing steadily up his abdomen and the tell-tale lightheadedness, and he still wasn’t sure. He would kill to be sure either way, which was almost funny, given how many times he had killed for her. But to this day he didn’t think he’d actually be able to decide when it came down to it.

He didn’t want to be here. He wanted, desperately, to leave. He had wanted so desperately to leave for years the last time he had been stuck here. He had tried to escape so many times-- but then again, there had been so many opportunities to run that he hadn’t taken… 

He missed his children. It wasn’t a matter of choosing between them. If it were a contest, he would choose his kids every single time, and this he knew for certain. That was the only reason he was here to begin with, after all.

But god. The emotions were all so much easier when they were apart. When he wasn’t around her, it was easy to remember all the reasons why they didn’t work, to remember all the ways she had hurt him and how awful things had been-- to pretend that nothing lingered between them, that he didn’t care about her anymore despite all his best efforts. But when they were face-to-face again?...

He hissed softly, letting his head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk. Everything felt fuzzier than he would like it to. Colder, too.

Jesus.

He had really been in love with her.

“To the left a little.”

“Like this?”

“Mmmm… no. Now that’s too far. Move it just a smidge back?… No, that’s a skoosh, I said a smidge-- ooh! Ooh, yes, perfect! Just like that, Muffin!”

“Okay, alright. Just like this. Can you pass me the nails, Bug?”

It had taken them hours to get all their things moved in, even with the movers, and to re-arrange everything that allowed space for both of their extensive wardrobes and shoe collections. Divvying up space in the bathroom alone had been a nightmare, despite the sheer size of it, and they had had to make a detour to drive to the nearest department store and invest in a storage cabinet that could house all their hair care products. And Yoshi had been so confident that he was completely capable of putting together their new bed frame by himself…

“Okay. It says we need part 3-E… It has… The little spinny part at the top, and, ah, the spiral bit…”

“I don’t see it.”

“Well, it has to be somewhere.”

“Cuddlekins, hon, didn’t we use that part earlier? To screw the two corners together?”

“What? No, that was part M. With the cross-y bit at the top.”

“But isn’t this one part M? See. Look. It’s the same as the picture here, isn’t it?”

“Shit…”

It had taken a bit longer than he had originally anticipated. But it had, eventually, gotten done, despite the blood, sweat, and tears that it had cost them, and was now hosting their new, California king-size mattress, an absurd number of blankets and sheets, and many, many throw pillows. The kitchen had been unpacked already, (the easiest job of the entire move, given that neither of them cooked,) the TV hooked up in the living room, and all the furniture arranged just so…

And thus they had embarked on the last leg of their journey. And the one, Yoshi was well aware, that his girlfriend was the most particular about.

Decorating. Or, as she might say, interior design.

All he had needed to be happy was a few of his favorite movie posters framed and mounted on the wall, and she was perfectly willing to comply, even adding a few of her own selections to the collection in the living room they now shared. After that, she had free reign-- and reign she did indeed do. Of course, they could have easily hired people to do all this for them, but it just wasn’t quite the same as handling it on their own like this. Maybe she wanted the control. Maybe he wanted the experience. But either way, here they were… and they had been at this for a while now.

“Alright,” Yoshi sighed, taking a step back into her waiting arms so that they could examine his handiwork together. “What do you think? Good?”

She hummed happily, leaning over to press a kiss against the side of his jaw. “You didn’t even do it crooked this time!” She teased. He snorted softly in response.

“Sassy,” he mumbled, even though he kissed her forehead in return.

“It’s perfect, Noodles. Doesn’t it just ribbon up the whole room together so handily?”

He laughed, giving a shrug. “Something like that.”

“It matches the couch throw!” She insisted.

“I still cannot believe you insist on keeping that thing.”

“I adore it! It was a gift from you!” She protested.

“It is ugly!” He laughed. “I don’t know why I thought it would be a good gift. I just wanted to get you something and it was the best thing I could find.”

“It’s not ugly! It’s precious,” she insisted, as if lovingly defending a child, slipping out from his arm so she could stroke it affectionately, smoothing it out over the couch and straightening its corners. “I love it, cuddlekins, really, it just has this certain… crinkum-crankum to it, you know?” She said with a fond sigh, glancing back over at the other. “Besides, you got it for me. It always reminds me of my handsome cuddlemuffin whenever I see it.” 

He chuckled, holding out an arm with an inviting gesture. She agreeably returned to his side, fitting easily under his arm, looping her own around his waist in turn and resting a hand on his hip. “If you say so,” he hummed, leaning his head against hers. “I do enjoy the painting. I like surrealism… It’s a bit like, uh, René Magritte, don’t you think?”

“If you say so,” she echoed, shooting him an almost mischievous grin, and he scoffed in response, still smiling.

“Okay. What is next? Anything you need, my darling lovebug, and I will handle it for you!” He declared boldly, pulling away in order to strike a dramatic pose, knowing it would elicit a snort of laughter in response. “I have at long last mastered the ancient art of hanging pictures on walls! Just say the word!”

She snorted softly, plucking the hammer from his hands, placing it to the side.

“Noodles, that was the last one.”

He blinked in surprise.

“The last one?”

“Yes. That was all.’

“Then… we are all done moving?”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“We are moved in?”

“We are,” she confirmed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, letting her body relax as she leaned into him-- trusting him to keep her steady and hold her up against him. He did.

“Then…” He paused a moment before a wide smile slowly, surely stretched itself across his face, his hands moving to rest on her waist. “This is officially our apartment.”

“Officially.” 

He grinned, the two of them swaying back and forth in the middle of the living room of their new penthouse apartment, rocking to the rhythm of nothing but the distant sound of the city as a backdrop. Their feet shuffled against the carpeted floor, echoing the motion of each other. He spent a bit of time just looking at her, memorizing how she looked in this moment and what joy looked like on her face and reminding himself that this person belonged to him, and he belonged to her, and now both of them belonged to this apartment, together, before he leaned in to close the close the gap between them. He could feel her smile against his lips.

Right now, Yoshi could not think of a single thing that he would want to change about his life. If things could stay exactly like this forever, then he would surely have everything he could ever need. For the first time ever, he thought, this is something I built for myself. He thought, this is something I choose. He thought that, for the first time ever, that he had finally found his person and his place in the universe. What more could he ask for than this, really? What more could he ask for than to be loved with no strings attached, with no expectations or traditions or sacrifice or ‘destiny’ tied to it?

This was perfect. Just the way it was. 

The moths in the painting he had hung for her stood a silent vigil over their celebration from their new perch.

---

Yoshi’s vision was fuzzy when he opened his eyes, so he closed them and tried again, repeating the process until the world came into shape around him. His body was sore, but, surprisingly, less sore than it had been lately. A quick glance around told him that he was in the Battle Nexus’s medical ward. He had been here many times in the past, though this was his first visit on his most recent tour. It was an odd place, equal parts necessary and ironically useless given the line of work of its clientele. Sparsely stocked and staffed, yet equipped for the most dire of emergencies all at once. 

He supposed he must have passed out, then. 

He winced a bit, looking to the left, catching sight of a Nexus Nurse, already busy with some other poor soul who had found themselves down here. A glance to the right, however, surprised him, and Big Mama looked up at the movement, immediately catching his eye and making her way to his bedside.

“Oh, Muffin!” She tsked sympathetically, a hand reaching out to cup his face. “Are you alright?”

His heart absolutely swelled. Quite frankly, his head was still spinning, all stuffed full of cotton, and he didn’t have the presence of mind required to feel disgusted with himself for how excited he was that she was here. How fucking thrilled he was to have her attention-- to have her eyes on him, let alone her skin. He forced a very weak laugh, waving her off her concerns. 

“I am fine!” He mumbled with a shaky grin, his voice slurring slightly as he tried to get his tongue to move properly in his mouth. “A little internal bleeding never hurt anyone…!”

And she smiled, actually smiled at him, patting his cheek gently. “Oh, of course you are. That’s my handsome, fearless warrior,” she cooed. Yoshi chuckled very softly.

She had always done this. Laughed at his stupid jokes, raved over even his dumbest of movies, and showered him endlessly in praise. And, admittedly, he had always loved it. He had always soaked up the attention. 

That was what scared him the most, really. The thought that, maybe, that was all this ever really was at the root of it all-- just him wanting someone to pay attention to him and give him compliments. Maybe that’s why things were like this; because of his own selfishness poisoning something good. Because he was too broken and greedy for anything else. Maybe moments like these were the most he could ever hope for, realistically, and he just had to accept that.

Her hand left, and he heard her move away. Pathetically enough, it broke his heart. He was dimly aware of her hailing down one of the nurses out of the corners of his vision. 

“Make sure he’s well enough to perform in tonight’s line-up, understand? I want him in tip-top shape as soon as possible. No jiggery-pokery or bafflegab or anything else. And fetch me if anything else happens with him, won’t you?...”

He sighed, letting his eyes slide shut again.

---

“Okay, Red, listen to me very closely, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I will be gone for three hours. Okay? Three hours. Do you know how long that is?”

“Uhm…”

“That is the whole Scooby Doo video tape played twice.”

Raph nodded a bit, his eyes wide. Right. Dad would be gone for two Scooby-Doo’s.

“I’m going to go get some more food and things for you and your brothers, and then I will come back.”

Raph blinked widely up at his dad. “More tuna?”

“Yes, I am going to try to find more tuna cans for you,” his dad assured. “But listen. Okay? This is very important. I need you to watch your little brothers while I am gone. Okay?”

Raph glanced back over at his three younger brothers, who were all still asleep in their respective boxes. He was the only one who had been rudely awakened by their father, much earlier than they would usually arise on their own, but he had been gifted a peppermint candy for his troubles, so he couldn’t be too upset about it. 

“If you’re quiet, they should sleep until I get back. But if they wake up, I left breakfast out for you all. Right over there where we usually eat. Remember how I’ve shown you how to help feed Orange?”

Raph nodded. He’d fed Mikey lots of times before, repeatedly begging his father to let him hold his littlest brother in his lap and give him his breakfast. He knew how.

“And make sure Purple does not eat all of Blue’s food.”

Raph frowned.

“But… Donnie’ll bite me…”

He heard his father sigh, very softly, under his breath.

“I have told him not to bite today, okay? But Blue needs to eat, too. And besides, you are very tough and brave, aren’t you, Raph?” He hummed, smiling a tiny bit, leaning over just enough to rub his son’s scaled head. Raph beamed at the praise, nodding excitedly. Tough and brave? Of course he was! He wasn’t afraid of Donnie! Even if he did bite really hard.

“Good boy,” he said. “The Scooby Doo tape is already in the TV. Purple will help you rewind it and play it again when it’s over, okay? So you boys can watch while I am gone.”

“Okay.”

“But you have to make sure none of your brothers wander off, okay? You have to stay right here in this tunnel the entire time I’m gone. Understood? No exploring. You must be sure to watch Mikey.”

“Okay.”

“Red?”

“I’ll watch, Daddy.”

“Good boy,” he said again. “And if I don’t come back before the timer starts beeping--” he gestured to the kitchen timer that lived by his bed. Raph wasn’t that great with numbers yet, but he recognized the “eight” at the front. “Then bring your brothers and come find me, okay? But not before the timer goes off. Understand? Only if you hear the timer beeping. Do you understand, Raph?”

“Yeah.”

“Repeat it back to me, please.”

“Uhm…” He chewed on his fingers, looking to the side and shuffling his feet a bit. “Uhm, if the time… beeps. I’ll come find you…”

“By yourself, or with your brothers?”

“With my brothers...”

“But not before the timer, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Their father sighed very deeply, leaning over and kissing his forehead. “I will be back soon, my son. Take good care of your brothers.” 

---

“Come ON.”

“Raph, stop. It’s not gonna work,” April sighed.

“It will if it knows what’s good for it!” He snapped, reeling back and throwing himself at the bars of their literal cage once more with a loud crash, the very walls shaking in response. “Come on! Open already!!!” 

“Raph--”

“We’ve gotta get outta here!” He hissed, his tail whipping behind him, and the sharp movement threw him off balance, nearly making him stumble to one side. Goddammit. He swore softly under his breath, bristling, the anger scratching underneath his (foreign, strange, uncomfortable) skin only pitching higher in response. They had already been here for-- what?! Two days? Three?! They were so close, and now they were just stuck here, completely vulnerable, completely at the mercy of an actual, literal crime boss--

“Raph. Stop,” April said again, firmer this time, reaching out to grab his arm. “You’re hurting yourself.”

Raph yanked his arm away from her, whipping around to look at her, growling, his lips drawn back over his fangs in a snarl. April didn’t flinch away or back off. Her hand chased after his.

That was almost worse, and Raph’s snarl almost immediately gave way to a cracked little half-sob. His body slumped slightly, unclenching tight muscles to instead wilt in exhaustion.

“I have to get us out of here…” he insisted weakly, looking away from her again, hiding from her eyes out of shame. He didn’t want to look at her. He didn’t want her to look at him. Jesus, what did he look like right now…? His clawed feet scraped against the ground beneath them. Earlier today he had accidentally stabbed Leo with one of the spikes of his shell after moving too fast and left a bruise. A fucking bruise.

Yeah, sure, fine. Maybe his brothers were freaks now. But he was even worse. He was a monster. A useless one.

He sobbed properly this time.

“Raph, it’s alright,” April tried to comfort, moving close enough to rest her hand on his arm, and looking at how tiny she was compared to him made him feel sick. He was pretty sure he could bite off her hand if he really wanted to. Even if he didn’t want to-- what if he still did somehow? “We’ll figure a way out of here--”

“It’s not alright!” He hissed, his chest tightening. “I have to fix this.”

“Raph, we’ll fix it together,” Mikey spoke up, almost cautiously moving to Raph’s other side. “I’m sure we can figure out--”

“No!” He snapped, and he hated to interrupt Mikey, and he felt bad as soon as he did it, but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t-- panicking, exactly, but he was close to it. Next to it. “I’m-- I’m supposed to protect you guys, and I can’t even--”

“Raph, you don’t have to always protect us!” Mikey protested.

“But I want to!” Raph cried in protest. “I want to protect you guys, I wanna keep you safe, and I-- I didn’t! I’m supposed to take care of everyone! I’m supposed to be in charge when Dad isn’t here, and I-- all I did was bring us to some magic crime city, get us locked up like animals, and turned into mutants!--” He barked out a strained, teary laugh. “And I can’t even get us back out!”

A few tears tracked down his face. “Dad trusted me to take care of everyone when he wasn’t here and I just let him down.” He could feel the panic breathing hotly down his neck. “He’d be so disappointed in me--”

“Raph, stop.” Mikey hissed, his voice hard, so very much so that it quite nearly surprised Raph out of his spiral. 

“That’s not true at all,” his younger brother hissed, his own face kind of flushed and teary as well. “None of that is even your fault! And even if it was, I still wouldn’t care and neither would Dad! And you are protecting us! We’re all still here, aren’t we?” 

“More or less,” Leo mumbled softly, bitterly, and Raph looked ruefully down at his claws, shifting his joints closer and biting down a hiccup. Mikey glared.

“We are!” He insisted. “Look, we’re still the same people, even if we do look different now! Right? None of that other stuff matters so long as we stick together--”

“Mikey, stop it!” Donnie snapped, bristling a bit, his head jerking up so sharply that it was likely painful. “Just stop, okay!? Stop saying it doesn’t matter! Stop saying that we’re ‘still the same people on the inside,’ stop trying to find the dumb silver lining, okay!? Just admit that this sucks! Okay!? Just because you’re apparently all hunky-dory about being a fucking box turtle--”

“You think I like this?!” Now it was Mikey’s turn to snap, rounding on his siblings, his hands clenched into angry fists. “You think I’m happy about this!? Because I’m not, okay!? I hate it too! Does that make you feel better!? I’m fucking miserable. I hate this. I’m scared and I don’t know what’s going on and I’m really, really sick of falling over because I don’t even know how to walk anymore!”

Mikey sobbed loudly, plopping back down on his rear.

“I hate this,” he hiccuped weakly. “I hate it too. I’m just. I’m j-just… I’m trying my best…”

Another sob wretched itself from his throat as he buried his face in his arms.

For one long moment, quiet veiled the space.

Raphael was careful and calculated in his movements, taking care with the spikes and sharp edges of his body as he scooped his brother up in his arms, wrapping him up tight. Mikey wept, clinging to his brother in return.

“Sorry,” Raph mumbled, very softly.

Leo joined them quickly enough, burrowing in against his brothers’ side. “Me too,” he whispered.

Donnie didn’t join the embrace, but he did sit close by, hugging his legs to his chest and staring to the side, down to the ground. “Me… too,” he sighed, frowning a little, twitching uncomfortably. “... Sorry. This. This just really sucks.”

“It does suck,” Leo agreed.

“Yeah,” Raph mumbled.

“I keep dropping things b-because I-- I only have three fingers,” Mikey warbled softly.

“Me too,” Donnie admitted. “And I can’t really sleep, because I don’t know how to get comfortable anymore.”

“I keep accidentally biting my tongue,” Raph said.

“Every time I sit down, I crush my own tail under my ass, ‘cause I’m not used to it being there,” Leo confessed with a small laugh. “Isn’t that stupid?”

“My back hurts because of the shell. I’m just not used to it being there. It’s so heavy.”

“Everything smells so much stronger now. I hate it. It’s nauseating.”

“I still can’t figure out how to balance like this.”

“I just feel so stupid. How could we not know?”

“It’s all so overwhelming. I mean, just, everything. I can’t believe there’s so much that we forgot.”

“It seems so obvious now, looking back…”

“My skin is so thick now. It’s awful. I feel all swollen all the time, like I can’t bend any of my joints properly. I feel stiff.”

“If that guy made us, if we’re his ‘creations,’ experiments, then we’re not yokai, right? We’re something else. Mutants, I guess. Is there anyone else like us?”

“How did Dad even end up with us? What happened?”

“Do you think he’s a mutant, too? God. What else don’t we know? What else didn’t he tell us?”

“Do we still count as Hamatos? Are we Hamatos at all…? Do you think Ghost-Sensei knows?”

“I’m glad we know. I mean, mostly. We should know, but I just… part of me wishes we didn’t.”

“We can’t ever go back.”

“Our entire life was just, like, a lie. It was a trick. The whole time. And we fell for it. I can’t believe we all fell for it--”

“We just have to be different now.”

“We were always different, but at least before, we didn’t have to… to carry it. I don’t even know how I could even talk to people now. Even if we do fix the bracelets. How am I supposed to just talk to normal people when I’m in the back of my mind, like, ‘oh my god, they don’t know I’m a turtle’ the whole time?”

“I think I’m sort of glad Dad didn’t tell us. I mean. I’m upset, too, but I just… I dunno. Everything feels so complicated now.”

“I can’t believe we forgot.”

The longer they talked, all five of them bunched up together, the less tears there were, and eventually, during a moment of quiet, Mikey sighed, taking Raph’s big hand in his own smaller one.

“You hurt your knuckles,” he observed, noting the swollen, occasionally bloodied skin around the joints. Raph gave a very soft huff of laughter.

“Yeah, well, guess we match, then,” he said, though Mikey’s own knuckles were mostly healed by now, only bearing a few small scabs. Mikey smiled, just the tiniest bit, just for a second, before he sighed, laying his head back slightly. 

“I know this sucks,” Mikey mumbled. “... Like, it really, really sucks. But at least we’re still together. And that counts for something, doesn’t it? I think so long as we’re together, then we… we’ll be okay.”

Leo gave a wry smile, elbowing his brother ever-so-slightly. “Wow, Mikey, when did you get so wise?” He teased.

Mikey grinned, chuckling a bit and laying his head back again to stare at the ceiling, and then stare out the bars of the door that contained them. Raph sighed, his gaze following after his little brother’s, gazing out into the empty halfway. He had no idea why they were being kept here or what they were planning on doing with them. None of the guards would even speak with them. It was terrifying, if he was being honest.

But they had come here for a reason.

He believed what Mikey said. He did. If they were all together, they’d be okay. But that meant all of them.

“We’re gonna find Dad,” he finally said. “We are. And he’ll know how to help fix it. I know he will.”

---

“Raph.”

He wasn’t meaning to ignore his Dad. He wasn’t. He just--

“Raphael.” 

Mikey whined loudly, pulling against his older brother’s grasp, attempting to wriggle away from the iron grip Raph had on his wrist.

“Raphael.” This time, his father reached over, physically removing Raphael’s hands from his younger sibling. Mikey immediately went darting off, and Raph’s heart jumped up into his throat, his eyes growing wide.

“Dad--!”

“It’s okay, Red.”

“Dad, he’s too far!” He hissed, his voice strained with panic as he turned desperately to his father, grabbing at his pants leg. 

“No, he’s not. It’s okay, Raphael. Here. Look.”

He hoisted his child up in his arms with just a bit of effort, holding him up to his chest.

“See, my son? We can still see him from here.”

From up in his dad’s arms, Raph could watch Mikey throw himself into a pit of brightly colored foam balls with a squeal of excitement from across the play area. Leo wasn’t far off, immediately moving to join his little brother’s side, eager to show him all the blue balls he had collected. Dozens of other children scampered about nearby, clambering over play equipment and chasing one another. Raph frowned, grabbing fistfuls of his father’s shirt and fidgeting, chewing on his fingers nervously.

“What if he gets lost?”

“He won’t.”

“What if… there’s somethin’ dangerous?”

“There is nothing dangerous here, Raphael.”

“What if there is?” He pressed. “It’s big.”

“It’s okay, Red,” Dad soothed, readjusting his grip on his child, drawing him a bit closer. “I promise it is safe here.”

Raph looked down at the floor, clenching and unclenching his fists, the tiniest whine escaping from him. His father sighed softly.

“You have done a very good job looking after our family, Red,” he hummed, rocking them back and forth just the tiniest bit, idly swaying as he spoke. “But things are different now. Okay? Nothing here is going to hurt Michelangelo. And even if it did, I am right here to help. I am not going anywhere. I will not leave you alone. I swear I will take care of you and your brothers. Alright?”

Raph sniffled a bit, nodding the tiniest bit.

“If we are ever anywhere where it might be unsafe, I will tell you, okay? So you can watch out for your little brothers. Like when I tell you all to hold hands when we cross the street, right? Would that help?”

He nodded again, swallowing the lump in his throat as he laid his head down on his dad’s shoulder.

“Good,” he sighed, rubbing a few small circles along his back. “Do you want to go and play? There are lots of things here that I think you would like if you tried them. I think you’d have a lot of fun if you would let me handle looking after your brothers.”

Raph shook his head, burrowing further into his father’s embrace. He did want to go play, really. They had never been anywhere so cool before! They had been to the playground a few times now, but this was like a playground inside-- and they even had video games! And prizes! And he wanted to follow after his brothers, to stay close to them, but…

They kept going in opposite directions. And this place was so big and he couldn’t follow all of them, and, and--

“Okay. That’s fine,” Dad assured. “How about this? How about we sit and watch together for ten minutes, and then we can try going and playing something with one of your brothers. Do you think that would work, Raphael?”

Raph sucked in a deep, shaking breath, wiping at his eyes a bit before he finally nodded.

“Uh-huh.”

---

Though he had, in fact, performed in the Battle Nexus as scheduled that same evening, and then the following day as well, he was not actually ‘released,’ so to speak, from the infirmary until now, three-and-a-half blood transfusions later. Yoshi supposed he had no real complaints, given that the infirmary had actual beds in it to sleep upon, but the staff there were not exactly friendly, and he had quickly tired of being awakened at all hours of the night by other screaming patients. Not to mention that it was very awkward to share the same sleeping space with someone who’s leg you had recently broken in four different places…

But Big Mama had visited him each evening he was there. 

The guard escorting him was really a formality at this point, Yoshi suspected, and he almost dared to hope that he would be allowed to move freely through the Nexus in the near future. Surely Big Mama knew he would not try to run away with his children relying on her protection, right?

If he were permitted to wander without supervision, he might be able to corner a spectator and inquire about the current state of the Hidden City police’s hunt for Baron Draxum. He didn’t expect Big Mama would be informing him of such things, but if Draxum was apprehended, then there was a chance he might be able to find a way out of here and get himself back home, get those four remaining years like he had planned, or at least go visit his children and make sure they were okay… he hated that he had left without saying goodbye first, and had no doubt scared them with how he had disappeared.

 He had been researching for quite some time now, in between parenting and managing dojos, alternative sources for cloaking crystals. If he was able to pay for new ones, he could return Big Mama’s to her and perhaps argue to lighten his ‘sentence,’ or maybe even get out of it somehow. It was a long shot, but worth a try. Maybe this time could count towards that? He had had the crystals for ten years… did that mean he owed ten years time as a champion in return…? Ten years was still not as bad as a lifetime, assuming he lived through it all… 

He frowned as he calculated, shuffling his feet through the cold halls. 

The deal had still been worth it. He didn’t regret it. If a lifetime in the Battle Nexus was the price for his children’s lives in the world, then it was a price he was more than willing to pay.

He just regretted the pain he knew he inflicted on his family. It had always bothered him, sitting on his shoulder and hissing in his ear for the past ten years of his life. Every wonderful moment, every birthday, every movie night and dance recital and field trip, he still thought about it. Thought about how he would have to leave one day, and how it would hurt them. 

It was a shame. They deserved better than that. He had already done everything he could, even now, to prepare and to soften the inevitable blow as much as possible. Tucked away in the back of his nightstand back home, he already had hand-written cards for each of his sons’ college graduations, wedding days, and the birth of their first children, preparing for every scenario, just in case, since he knew he likely wouldn’t see most of them should they come to pass. He had had everything prepared, legally, for years now, so things would be taken care of in the event of his ‘death’ or ‘disappearance,’ and so that his children would have to shoulder as little of that burden as possible. He had invested in a hefty life insurance policy back when they were still in elementary school, ensuring that they would always be taken care of financially in his absence. 

He had even penned a letter, years and years ago, that could be delivered to his children once he was gone. He had been ready to die for a long time now.

But he still wasn’t prepared for how heavy the guilt would feel.

He, likewise, was not prepared for the shriek that pierced through the air a moment later as he passed by one of the dungeon’s many hallways, so sharp and sudden that he stumbled slightly.

“DAD!!!”

He absolutely froze in his tracks, his heart stopping still in his chest as he whipped around to face the familiar voice. His eyes widened so dramatically he was half afraid that they would fall from his head.“April!?” He cried, spluttering slightly. “Boys!?”

[ next ]

[mad-hunts]

🎤 - An audio transcript from a recording

[ ARKHAM TAPES: patient 0158, barton mathis. FOR STAFF USE ONLY. ]

contains potentially triggering content such as child abuse, heavy violence, and overall disturbing content.

[ the only thing that can be heard in the beginning of the recording is the faint murmur of a man's voice — the volume is very low, and yet, you can just hear the southern twang in his voice as clear as day. the sound of the recording device scrapping against something loudly is what resounded through the audio next. then, it stopped, and the volume is much better as it seems whoever was using it fixed it. from there, a man who seemingly goes by the name DOCTOR BOWMAN begins speaking to someone across from him.

❝ alright. this is session number 3 with my patient, known as barton mathis, and the date is 3/12/2015; for records, this is doctor bowman. is it alright if i record our conversation? ❞ the southern twang the doctor had is more pronounced than ever now, and it made the slight hum that came from somewhere across from him in response to this seem a lot quieter than it actually was. the hum was resigned as if to say ' eh, whatever ' but there is a hint of aggression just barely present in it. a velvety, but still equally as deep voice answers him, ❝ mm, sure — why not? not that you really care about whether i want it be recorded, or not. ❞ doctor bowman paused at that. the only sound audible through the recording is a half-suppressed ' ahh ' that gives off a peculiar aura of sad understanding, ❝ i do care. we just have certain... rules set in place here, that everyone has to follow. it's just a policy has been in affect ever since doctor crane was fired from here. ❞

a quiet snort came from the other side of the room, and the sound of some sort of furniture crunching under the weight of barton adopting a new position atop it is audible. he sounded snide whenever he talked next, ❝ oh, he was a lot more than fired from here, wasn't he? it's okay. you can say that he became a patient here because he was experimenting on people. if only he wasn't after such a foolish goal. then, maybe he wouldn't have gotten caught, ❞ you can practically hear that the sneer that had no doubt formed on barton's face at that moment. doctor bowman said nothing at first, and then made an attempt at reining him in. ❝ okay, well, either way... we're not here to talk about doctor crane. we're here to talk about you. so, it seems from one of your previous psychiatrists, ❞ doctor bowman took another pause as the sound of him flipping through papers escaped the recording, ❝ that march is a particularly rough month for you. can you explain to me why that is? ❞

the room had suddenly become very quiet, to the point where all you could hear was the sound of both of their breathing. that is, until barton's voice made a return, but the velvetiness from it is completely gone. when he answered the doctor's question, barton's voice had hiked up a few octaves and he let out a muffled sigh as if something was obstructing his speech. maybe he was biting on one of his nails, or he was covering his face with his hand. i was hard to tell, ❝ mm, no. you cannot. next question, please. ❞ now it was doctor bowman's turn to adjust his position on what was probably a chair that he was sitting on. the sound of crinkling leather resounded through the speaker, and doctor bowman chose to try to pry an answer out of him. ❝ look, barton, if you ever hope to get better then you must realize that it's going to take some discom — ❞ doctor bowman paused mid-sentence as a gasp suddenly left his mouth and the sound of something crashing to the floor resounded through the room they were in. it resembled breaking glass, maybe from a lamp, or something similar.

doctor bowman's voice trembled at the beginning when he began talking once more, but it became steady after a few more seconds as he was trained to keep it neutral, ❝ barton, why... why do you have that? no, how did you get that? ahh. you know what, i'm going to call the orderlies, ❞ what ' it ' is is unclear. the sound of shuffling, then what was probably the weight of the doctor himself being forced back down onto the chair, came through the speaker. doctor bowman attempted to say something but was cut off, now letting out another gasp. barton's voice sounded a lot quieter now, but there is a certain coldness to it. a fury, if you will, ❝ you call them, and i will kill them, then you. you think you know why march is a terrible time for me because i can guarantee you that it was scrawled down in that folder. but you actually have no fucking idea. ❞

instead of asking him to elaborate more, doctor bowman tried to appeal to the more human side of him. he sucked in a breath before coughing. ❝ do — do not do this. you know what is going to happen if you do, don't you? if you just put the knife down right now, i promise you, i'll make it so that you aren't going to face as severe of repercussions from this. ❞ another cough, and just like that, barton's voice wrang throughout the room. it was deceptively sweet now, like he was relishing in the other's terror. a series of low-pitched laughs came from him. ❝ ooh my god, doctor, you should've been a comedian. no... i'll tell you what you want to know, since you are one persistent person. and so you'll have something to think about while you're gurgling on your own blood. this is the month in which my biological father was killed by the worst pig of them all: jim gordon. but it wasn't just that he was killed that makes it so rough for me. ❞

barton inhaled deeply, clearing his throat, ❝ it's that i wanted to kill him, too. i thought about grabbing a knife from the kitchen, sneaking into his bedroom, and killing him multiple times. but that's not even the worst part. ❞ another laugh came from barton but it wasn't sadistic, or even snide. it was choked-sounding. ❝ despite all of the foul things he did to me, i think a part of me still loves him. i mean there can't be any other reason why i would want to keep a part of him, ❞ there was a long pause then before he sniffled and the sound of crinkling leather once more crept through the recording.

❝ ahh, but you know, you were one of the better ones. it's a shame i have to kill you. ❞ a high-pitched scream soon blared throughout the room in which this was recorded, before the room fell entirely silent. the only sounds after this were footsteps, which were undoubtably barton's, and the recorder being turned off. ]

[queers-gambit]

Mother Knows No Bounds

prompt: you are Rhaenyra's daughter, married to Prince Aemond, and the subject of Alicent's hatred. one day, she takes it too far.

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x female!reader technically Velaryon!wife!reader, but you can pick and choose

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

word count: 5.7k+

note: 10,000 points to your Hogwarts House if you can find the Lord of the Rings quote

warnings: cursing, vilified!Alicent, Aemond needs his big brother. descriptions of potentially triggering content: miscarriages, natural abortions, toxic family being toxic; um is this technically neglect? abuse? potentially triggering description of medical phenomenons, i guess OC Aemond ?

please note again and do not proceed if you are triggered by any of the following content: descriptions of potentially triggering content: miscarriages, natural abortions, involuntary termination, depiction of medical procedure.

you are not missing anything by skipping this, please value your comfort!

The city had come to a screeching halt the moment extreme temperatures skyrocketed, citizens unable to bear the scorching sun during waking, working hours. It was only the brave, stupid, poor, or accommodated persons that dared venture about their lives when the heat index had tripled; silent, since the heat was so sweltering, nobody wanted to add to it by talking. Even the animals were quiet and scarce around the streets, most seeking shelter under any shade they could find.

Women skinny dipped. Children ran around without their clothes. Men forewent any and all armor, most even going shirtless.

The guards were on short patrols and constantly rotated to try and save them from heatstroke. The fishermen all left port to spend time on the water since it was cooler than being on land. Whores wore less than ever before. Vendors constructed makeshift fans for their own air current.

The temperature spike was truly murderous. At dusk, gravediggers traveled the city with a bell and horse-toted cart, announcing if anyone wanted their dead disposed of, now was the time. The heat caused any elderly to dehydrate, their hearts simply stopping; and for young children to overheat and catch too-high fevers.

It was a dreadful time to be alive in King's Landing because the city had next to no coverage, so, the sun beat down on citizens in a suffocating, unbearable, offensive manner. None stood a chance: the young, old, rich, poor, everyone was a target.

For some reason, the fat Lords of the Realm had demanded the King hold court to voice their complaints; temperatures making many operate on short fuses. However, due to his sickly, deteriorating state and wicked weather, King Viserys was unable to sit the Throne; the responsibility falling onto the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower. And because she was Queen, his daughter, Alicent was always in attendance.

Yet for some reason, she had sent guards and servants to retrieve her children - including you.

You'd been married to Aemond about 21 months, and while a seemingly short time, certain single days felt more like three when loved by a man you considered your best friend. You had known the One Eyed Prince back when he had no need for an eyepatch, sapphire, or silly nickname, and for years, you were decent friends before growing to attach at the hip. He was kind, sweet, intelligent, and best of all, he was a wildly good listener. Even as a child, he didn't talk too much, but still more than he did now; and all his life, he was simply a listener. It made for a peaceful and trustworthy marriage.

21 months of marriage, and now, (almost) 7 months pregnant.

Aemond was over the moon with pride, joy, and excitement when you told him the news. He was eager to meet the babe, and the moment he learned, Aemond started gathering whatever material and furniture he could. He commissioned 11 Septas to knit a series of baby blankets; most with Targaryen colors and / or design. Otto was happy to see his grandson looking forward to married life, and Helaena was elated for you both. She's always liked you like a sister, always thought you were kind, just, and fair, with a healthy balance of being stubborn - all topped off with heaping loyalty. To everyone's surprise, even Aegon sincerely offered congratulations to you both when you broke the joyful news, telling you and Aemond he was excited to meet his newest niece or nephew.

However, amongst the fanfare and triumph, two women remained permanently dismayed by the entire marriage that the prospect of a child genuinely angered them.

The first woman was your mother, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, but she was annoyed simply because she knew the Targaryen Curse was real and thought this was not something you should endure. You were her firstborn, her brightest star, her dearest love; she worried herself to the brim about you, and while she respected your marriage, she's never offered approval.

The second woman was Aemond's mother, Queen Alicent Hightower, who chose to silently seeth to herself (for a time) instead of voicing any opinion or emotion. Years ago, she and your mother were the closest of friends, and after she married Viserys, Alicent lost her friend and the tension has only festered from there. However, now that Rhaenyra was living on Dragonstone, you were the only person close enough to take the brunt end of Alicent's anger and she found new ways to project that. Simply put, she despised you - but she would've hated whoever "took" her (unofficial) favorite child "from" her; who became the leading lady in his life. Alicent's anger was justified, but only towards Rhaenyra - not you.

Yet communication and emotional intelligence was rare in this day.

Alicent knew you were innocent of everything. Yet somedays, she could not restrain her anger and would lash out like a dog chained-up; but you had thick skin. You always endured her quick jabs, sharp tongue, and snarling insults because you loved and respected Aemond too much to bite back at his mother. However, while most days, Alicent was amicable, some days, she was a downright bitch, and other days, she was absolutely diabolical.

Alicent's anger took over and when this happened, she was powerless towards impulse; resulting in usually terribly stressful events that honestly have no business being so fucking stressful - or even further, by becoming catastrophic. For example, years ago, when Luke cut Aemond's eye from his socket, she took the King's dagger from his person and tried to attack Rhaenyra. She ended up slicing the Crowned Princess' forearm, but far more damage was already done, and nothing would ever be the same.

Alicent's anger often blinded her and drove her to impulsive decisions or reactions, and this today, in this heatwave, she went too far.

You were sat in your bedchambers, Aemond at your side as you both listened to a sweating Grand Maester; both your hand and your husband's resting on the curve of your pregnant belly.

"Now, remember, Princess, in these conditions, it's important to lay low for the sake of your health and the baby's. Don't be on your feet in the heat too long, don't exert yourself, drink more water than you usually would, and rest as much as possible." He handed you a tea bag, explaining, "For the nerves before bed."

"Thank you," you agreed, taking what he offered. Aemond saw the Grand Maester out of your chambers as you sighed, using a handheld fan to wave cooler air over your face.

"It's criminal, this heat. Gotta get someone in here with a fan," Aemond mumbled to himself, leading you to a lounge chair to rest on. "Can I get you anything, sweet love?"

"Water, if you'd please," you smiled.

He agreed and stood, but just then, a knock sounded at the door. "Come in," Aemond permitted, moving to the table in the room to pour you a goblet of water. The guard who entered wasn't known to you by name, but Aemond greeted him casually, "Ser Mythos. What do we own this pleasure?"

"The Queen's requested you both in the Throne Room, my Prince."

"Do you know why?" Aemond grit.

"The Queen's requested you both in the Throne Room, my Prince."

"I've asked you why."

"The Queen's requested you both in the Throne Room, my Prince."

"Fuck's sake," you snapped, "we heard you! Yeah? Gods," you cursed, head tilted back in annoyance; eyes squeezing shut as your child kicked your bladder.

"The Queen has requested you both in the Throne Room, my Lady and my Prince."

Aemond glanced at you, sighed shortly through his nose, then turned to Ser Mythos to snap, "I will be along shortly, but my wife was told to rest in this heat for our baby's health. We'll need palms brought in for fanning."

"And the Queen has requested you both in the Throne Room, my Prince, both of you. Both, my Prince, both."

Your eyes rolled, telling Aemond, "I think the Queen wants us both, my love." Then shifted your glare towards the messenger, sounding as tired as you looked, "All right, fine, fine, fine, fucking fine, give us a moment to dress and we will be there presently."

"My Lady," the guard accepted, turned, and left the room.

"What could Mother want with us both?" Aemond snipped at you when the door shut with an echoing-clang.

"Does it matter? She's called for us," you frowned.

"They can at least call you by your proper title - we are married now. You are a Princess of the City, they should address you as such."

You waved him off, "Who cares about that? C'mere. Help me up, my love, please. Your kid's sitting heavy."

You and Aemond dressed for court in thin clothing before fixing your hair so it didn't cling to either of your necks. It was already far too warm to even think properly, and surely, nobody would judge if you attended court with your hair pulled up, nor judge Aemond for the fashionably bun you convinced him to wear. No make-up was used, no heels; no corset, nor any pinch of leather. Aemond didn't like the last bit, but you were stern in your worry, telling him that leather would retain his body heat and today was already stifling enough.

When ready, you vacated your chambers and walked to the Throne Room, seeing it filled with a sizable crowd that surely would do nothing to help the sticky heat hanging in the air. Aemond held your hand tightly with his head held high to lead you towards his mother, who stood at the base of the Iron Throne. When close enough, Aemond asked, "You called for us, Your Grace?"

"I did," she eyed you both. "This is a good learning opportunity for you both, I thought it best we were all here."

"Mother, it's too hot for - "

"We are all suffering the same heat," she cut Aemond off.

"Yes, but my wife is pregnant, Mother. The Maester told her to rest, not stand in court with a hundred bloody people."

"You mean to tell me she has a higher priority than - "

"Yes. That is what I am saying, Mother. My wife certainly has priority over everything else as far as I am concerned."

Alicent shook her head, "For as long as we hold places in court, we will attend court. All of us, as a united family. Now, pay attention, you both will hold places here after King Viserys, best you know this all now."

So, you stood there like an obedient dog as slowly, one person after another approached the Throne to tell Ser Otto Hightower their grievances. They yapped up all the advice and court rulings; Aemond standing at your side, and while he was listening to what was being said, he also kept an eye on you out of sheer worry. There was no air to blow, no window to open; mediocre fans and palms brought in to manually wave by a few sets of servants. Yet it wasn't enough.

Sweat bulleted on brows. Pale cheeks flushed with heat. Legs started to shake from stress. Clothes dampened and clung to skin.

You were all of the above and then some!

The heat felt criminally offensive, and you knew you wore your displeasure on your face. Discomfort while pregnant isn't easy to hide, your hand smoothing over your belly as you exhaled a slow, calming breath that did literally nothing to aid your tangible anger. The common folk still reported to Otto, but you knew this was far from over, trying to blink back your discomfort as your stomach churned; twisted; started to cramp with increasingly stabbing pain. The heat festered a headache and soon, the nausea set in.

Taking another deep, long breath, you focused on the man complaining about his neighbor stealing his crops, his silver, and how the other man was fucking his wife - in his very own barn! The man asked for permission to sentence the neighbor to trial by combat, and for the life of you, you could not understand why you needed to be present for this.

Another farmer came up, saying there were too many maggots in his fields and needed the King's coin to bring in specialized mulch for himself and all the farmers in all of the Riverlands - who were plagued by this contagious maggot infestation.

Some Lord of Some Lineage From Some Castle of Some Place came up and asked for an increased patrol of "the King's Men", sell swords sent to "keep the King's peace." A group with radically different tactics than Daemon's Gold Cloaks.

This "Some Lord of Some Lineage From Some Castle of Some Place" even presented his daughter, saying she was fit to marry the Prince Aemond. Eyes turned to you and for whatever reason, you felt embarrassed by the sudden attention. So, you shied away from it, shifting slightly closer to Aemond as Otto spoke with a bored expression, "Prince Aemond is wedded already. As is his brother, Prince Aegon."

"What 'bout the li'l one?"

"Pardon?" Otto blinked.

"The Queen's last son?"

"With respect, my Lord, our son is still a child learning the ways of the world and is no way fit to marry quite yet," Alicent cut in, your feet going numb and making you sway slightly. "The Crown has learned from other marriage pacts to examine all offers carefully," but Alicent's sharp words flew over your head as something in your stomach pinched sharply like a severe period cramp. Your breathing came out in shudders; holding onto Aemond securely as he looked down at you with worry.

Your entire face, neck, and chest glistened with sweat. It clung to your hair, raced down your chest, and when he got a closer look, he didn't like the discoloration to your skin. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong...

"Then it shall be a long engagement so you might consider my daughter well!" The Lord barked, laughing gruffly. "She is not a disappointment, my Lord Hand."

"The Crown will consider your offer, Lord Peregrin, but the Crown must weigh other presented offers before marrying young Prince Daeron to anyone," Otto spoke diplomatically.

"Aye, I'll offer her dowry. Twenty thousand good men for your army, and I can spare about 500 Gold Dragons."

"Our army? Are we at war?" Otto faked a chuckle, your vision starting to blur but you refused to cause a scene. Your mouth had cotton in it; tongue sticking to your roof and your cramps were getting worse. You sweat so much, it was running down your neck, forehead, shoulders, lips, thighs, chest.

"Well, no, perhaps not in this moment, Lord Hand - Your Grace - but we know the rumors about the King's lineage," the Lord spoke boldly, making your blood boil, but the pain was over-powering your ability to speak. Tears actually coated your eyes. "Prince Aegon should be named the rightful heir to the Throne, so, if the time comes that he needs an army, my daughter's marriage to Prince Daeron would guarantee those men and swords."

Otto sighed as you gulped harshly, wincing in pain, a single tear rolling down your cheek. The cramping intensified, the bolts of pain setting your muscles on fire and radiating into your organs - or so it felt like. The Throne Room was too hot for you to withstand much longer; there was no water, and you'd been standing there going on three hours. Not to mention, you had been throwing up terribly violent in the night and mornings, meaning, you were probably (very likely) very dehydrated and that wasn't good for you nor the baby.

The longer you stood there, the sicker you felt. The longer you stood there, the more Aemond worried. The longer you stood there, the more time you had to develop a strong resentment towards Alicent. Your hand went to your belly, trying to regulate your breathing, but even your dress gave you away - sweat darkening the hemlines. Since finding out you were pregnant, you and Aemond agreed you would no longer wear corsets, and for a whole weekend, he took you to Highgarden to visit the tailors. They created a whole new "maternity wardrobe" that was loose but still womanly by being formfitting. They were made of breathable material, since Highgarden was tropical and often warm; and Aemond adored the sight of your bump.

"Aemond," you whispered, your husband looking down at you but so did Alicent. "I'm not feeling well, my love. I-I need to sit, I need water."

"We're almost done - "

"This is not the time to distract everyone," Alicent snapped quietly at you. "Focus, and let Aemond focus, too, he's the Prince. You don't need him for your every whim."

You only nodded and closed your mouth, clearing your throat of emotion, knowing something didn't wasn't right. It was more than a gut feeling now, you just inherently knew something was wrong. Disconnected. Short circuiting.

The hall was too hot.

Stifling hot. Suffocatingly hot. Stuffy sort of hot.

Overwhelmingly hot.

Hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, so fucking hot!

Your nausea got worse to the point you were going to hurl at any moment. You know that feeling? C'mon, yes you do! You start to feel a little shaky, then your mouth starts "sweating" (or watering) and you even get a little clammy; maybe you even start to look gaunt? Maybe your skin changes color? That feeling? Yeah, that's exactly what was happening!

So, to keep calm, you just start taking long, deep breaths. The last thing you wanted to do was panic when surrounded by so many members of court... Then something that felt like urine raced down your inner thighs, yet you barely noticed it, too distracted with keeping upright. Blood puddled beneath your skirts on the stone but nobody noticed yet. More Lords came and went, some Ladies, more and more farmers with trivial disputes. Fathers, sons, uncles, neighbors, you name it!

However, to your earnest shock, when a particularly amusing man came to speak to the King('s Hand), Aegon had glanced at his brother with an amused smirk, but caught sight of you, requiring a double-take. "Brother," Aegon turned from his 'front row seat', showing a rare moment of emotion by looking concerned at your being. "Oh, Gods, fuck," he worried, looking ready to extend his arms to you.

"Fuck," Aemond breathed, turning you to face him. "Can you hear me, sweet love? Hey, hey," he spoke your name, "can you hear me?"

But it was as if you were in a trance. Waves crushed over your ears, sweat rolling down your skin, appearing clammy and as if not in your own body. Aegon jolted forward when your eyes rolled back in your head, knees buckling, forcing your husband to catch you before you began your descent to the ground. When he caught you, it revealed the blood from under your skirts, and when Aemond got you on the ground, he realized your legs were coated in slick, mucus, and both dried and fresh blood; indicating you had been bleeding for hours.

"Call the Maester!" Aemond barked. "Get the bloody Maester!"

"She's bleeding," Aegon pointed out.

"I have eyes to see, brother, I know she is bleeding!" Aemond snapped, his panic tangible. "Love! My sweet love, please, open your eyes, please. Fuck's sake, please, open your eyes - let me see them. Sweetheart, please, c'mon - FUCK! Brother! Brother, help, please, there's blood! There's too much blood! Aegon! What do I do!? Aegon, please! What do I do!?"

"Let her breathe, brother, the Maester's are coming, it's gonna be all right, I-I've heard this can happen. Okay? Just gotta wait for the Maesters, Aemond," Aegon nodded, reaching a hand to his younger brother's shoulder in comfort. Otto descended the Throne to get a closer look as guards surrounded your unconscious body and Aemond's panicked, kneeling form.

"What happened?" Otto demanded.

"She passed out," Helaena frowned in worry, looking as if tears would soon fall. "And there's blood - she's been swaying, I-I think she was ill."

"It's the heat," Aemond snapped, tears down his cheeks. "We were told she needed rest in this temperature, but no." His glare turned to his mother, "We were both expected here."

"You saw the Grand Maester?"

"We did."

"He told her to lie down?" Otto asked, looking and sounding confused.

"To rest," Aemond nodded, supporting your limp head and neck.

When the Grand Maester arrived, he wasted no time in demanding your limp form be brought to his chambers for monitoring and examination. Aemond picked you up and carried you, leaving everyone else behind - or so he thought. The Maester spent a grand total of 43 minutes conducting diagnostic tests, and when the last exam was brought up, he asked Aemond to step out of the room as the examination would turn more intimate.

When Aemond stepped out, he was surprised to see Aegon and Helaena standing there. Aegon instantly pushed off the wall, asking, "Well? How is she? What's happening?"

"One last test," Aemond answered in a low mutter. "What're you doing here?"

"We wanted to make sure you were both all right," Helaena, his sweet sister, answered.

"Mother didn't demand you stay?"

"No, Mother actually called an end to court," Helaena told Aemond. "Grandfather was very angry."

"He was?"

"Never seen him like that," Aegon agreed, telling Aemond of the words Otto raged at Alicent.

When the chamber doors opened, Aemond was invited back inside. He took to your side instantly, but there was a knowing look in your eyes. You never looked at the Maester, only at your husband, as it was explained that due to the heat, you had become dehydrated over time and then spending the day in court, it was just too long a time being on your feet without water or fresh air. You had toppled over the side of heat stroke, the lack of hydration causing you to involuntarily miscarry.

The child would not grow and for your safety and health, the Maester would have to preform essentially what is an abortion to eliminate exposure to rot. Aemond blinked in astonishment, feeling confused about the turn of events, but when he realized you weren't able to respond, he looked at you.

He made the decision, seeing tears streaking your cheeks and the dead look in your eyes.

You were prepped for the procedure and while the Master tried to escort Aemond out, nobody was able to move him from his place at your side. It took the better part of an hour, but when it was over, not only were you given an additional dose of Milk of the Poppy, but Aemond was also given several vials for you in the coming days. He was also given a plethora of herbs, spices, remedies, salves, therapies, and treatments; being given explicit instruction and detail about all he was given, being told when to use what to best help you.

Aemond stooped to pick you up, again, refusing to let anyone else touch you, and the Grand Maester held the door for him. Aegon, Helaena, Alicent, and Otto were all revealed, but Aemond didn't even so much as blink at them; whatever life might've been left lurking behind his eye being completely snuffed out. He made a direct beeline for your chambers with the intention to let you rest in a soft, familiar bed for however long you needed, but he was followed by his family and knew this would be anything but a peaceful time.

"L-Love?" You whimpered when your husband laid you on your marital bed. "Aemond? Aemond?" You asked a little more frantically, being soothed swiftly.

"I'm here, I'm right here, sweetheart," he hushed, ignoring the audience; one hand holding yours as the other pet your hair back. "Hey, just breathe for me, darling, I'm right here. I've got you."

"I-I might be sick," you complained in a whisper, eyes unable to open as sweat bulleted on your skin.

"'S all right," he assured, grabbing a basin to leave on the bed beside you so he could sit at your side. "'M right here, you're not alone."

Aemond watched the way you harshly gulped, a hand dragging up to press to your belly. "W-What happened?" You mumbled, making his heart clench. "I just... There was a lot of heat and then pain." Your eyes finally opened to meet his, "I remember pain, Aemond."

With a glance up at his family, Aemond told you stiffly, "You remember correctly, love. The, uh... The heat was too much for you to handle, sweet girl, and that wasn't your fault." He took a long breath, clutching one of your hands in both of his, "But it was just too much. We couldn't save them... We couldn't save her."

"I-It was a girl?"

"It was," Aemond confirmed, reaching for your other hand to hold tightly. "And you didn't do this. Hmm? You hear me? This is not your doing."

"But my body - "

"No," he refused with a harsh tone. Realizing you were not the one to take his anger out on, he cleared his throat, "Sorry, love, I just," he took a breath. "Listen to me, okay? No, my sweet love, we were told to rest - you and I were told this heat was too much for the babe and that you would need rest. We meant to, we had every intention to follow the Maester's orders, but..." Another pause as he fought off the emotion clawing through his chest. "But for some reason, royal obligation was more important than our family, and Mother refused to let us miss today's court appearance."

"Huh...?" You breathed, still relatively drowsy from the day. But the emotion was real, your husband saw your pain. "What're you talking about, love? Aemond? What's - What the hell happened to our baby? Where's our baby?"

Aemond's jaw steeled and a tear streaked down his cheek as he forced himself to explain, "The Queen demanded our attendance in court today. And standing in the heat for hours cost us our daughter's life. I am so sorry, my sweet love, but we do not have our daughter because she is... She isn't in your womb anymore," his hand laid over your belly, your own automatically following. "She can't ever join us, our family," he spoke slowly, then tearing his glare away from your tired figure to his mother, sneering, "because my mother can't let go of a decades-old feud with a woman no longer living in this very city."

"Aemond," you whispered, heart shattered in your chest but still managing, "do not take this out on her."

"No?" He snapped, still glaring at his mother but clutching your belly, "If not for her, our daughter would still be safe in her mother's womb and we'd still have the chance to one day hold her. But no," he spoke as slowly as he stood to his feet, pulling his hands away from you, "no, we were unjustly denied that chance."

When her (favorite) child faced her with such hatred, dread, distraught, soul-sucking eyes, Alicent frowned with tears in her own eyes. She had so much to say, but only managed, "I did not intend for this."

"This hatred you feel for Rhaenyra is literally costing lives! For the love of all the Gods, my wife is nothing like her mother! They are not one in-the-same, this does not make her your new target to unleash Hell upon - she has done no wrong and yet suffers these heinous consequences!"

"I did not intend for this! You must know that!" She repeated in desperation. "I only wanted you both to partake in your duties - soon, you will be the ones conducting business at court and you must be readied for what may come!"

"That does not give you the right to forfeit her health!"

"How was I to know - "

"The bloody Maester told us - but evidently, the word of the trained professional is not good enough for you!" Aemond raged, something in his heart snapping. "We are denied the right to meet our daughter because, what? What is it? You cannot reach Rhaenyra right now so you will take the closest thing - being my fucking wife!?"

"Aemond," Otto tried to step in, "perhaps this is getting out of hand."

"It was already out of hand," Aegon defended with a sharp snap, "the moment the Maester was ignored."

"You refuse to respect us," Aemond snapped at his mother, everyone silencing themselves when another tear fell down his cheek. "You refuse to respect us, to listen, and all for why? You think you know better than the Maesters? Or because she is daughter of Rhaenyra?"

"Aemond," Alicent warbled through her tears.

"You've gone too far," his head shook, devastation taking hold, "and I do hope you find deliverance from the Gods, because from me? I do not see how I can find a shred of ability to forgive such a sin."

It was quiet. Helaena's head was bowed, Aegon glared at his mother like Aemond; Otto frowned as he avoided all eye contact.

Imagine everyone's surprise when bare feet padded over the stone ground, two shaking hands raising to press into Aemond's stomach from behind. "My love," you mumbled softly, "please, do not speak so hatefully in this prolonged grief. We will do all we can do now and pray on this, but if we want to heal, we will need to learn to forgive. This was not a malicious, thought-out plan executed in partner with the co-conspiring weather; it was a terrible circumstance that the Gods have chosen us to endure. Your mother can pray for forgiveness, she's owed that right; and we will say our own, but I know that one day, we will be blessed and bring a child into this world. Because it's you and I, Aemond, and our child would be the full embodiment of the purest, truest love - and for something that perfect, we'll need time." You took a breath, looking sickly, gaunt; eyes full of tears as you ended, "But it is not this day."

Aemond turned to wrap his arms around you, insisting, "You should be resting." When he got you to turn to move for the bed again, he snarled at his mother, "She's the one who just lost a child and yet still defends you."

"Perhaps it's best we leave them alone," Aegon recommended. "We'll have meals sent for you both," he told his brother with a meaningful nod. "You both just take your time."

"Thank you," Aemond sighed, easing you back to the mattress; laying a single, thin sheet over your body. When Aegon had ushered everyone out, Aemond just stared down at you for a long moment, sighing sadly and whispering, "I'm so sorry, sweet love."

"Just lay with me," you requested.

He moved to strip himself of his linens, the heat still sweltering, and laid beside you; instantly cuddling you into his bare chest. Aemond knew you didn't want to talk, but this needed said, and he whimpered, "This is my fault."

"What?" You gaped, looking up at him in shock. You quickly pulled his leather eye patch off to force his full attention, holding his cheek and demanding, "What did you just say?"

"If you and I did not marry, if I had not pursued you - courted you," he shook his head, brows crinkled from restrained sobs, "we would not be in this position, you would not know this pain. We knew the tension in our family, we knew the hatred between our mothers, and still I wanted you. This is my fault, I shouldn't've done this - you should not have to endure this."

Your hand reached up to caress the side of his face; foreheads pressed together to breathe the same air, warm the same space, sweat onto one another, but never wanting to be apart. It was a sticky embrace but you both needed it, and you hushed, "I regret nothing about us. Nothing, Aemond. If I knew how this would play out, I'd do it all again because I know I love you beyond words. Beyond," you giggled lightly, "rational thought, even. Aemond, everything you are, I adore, and all we are together is... It's the greatest pleasure of my life. My greatest honor."

"I do not deserve a woman like you."

"Perhaps not," you teased, "but you have me anyway. And what do we do with rare women, my Prince?"

His lips found yours in a sweeping kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. When he pulled back, he whispered, "We love them well."

A week later, King's Landing would find relief from the unwavering, record-breaking heatwave - only to be blasted by a wave of dragon fire. It was only then the Prince Aemond was seen with his wife for the first time since "The Throne Room Incident", and both were dressed in the traditional color of funerals: black.

You were bestowed an incredibly small bundle of black cloth, and with the rest of the Royal Family following, ventured to a distant hill where a funeral was to take place. Because your daughter was still so very tiny, she was laid in a fiery basin with only you and Aemond to preside over; offering prayer in High Valyrian. He held you close, the wind from the coast whipping all clothing around, and just behind everyone, Vhagar landed with a distinct thundering thud.

You didn't move, staring into the flames.

Aemond looked back, and when Vhagar saw the tears in her master's eye, noting the way he turned back to comfort you and grieve over your daughter, the dragon roared. A roar so loud, it was heard from the Riverlands. A roar so powerful, it shook the ground they all stood on. A roar so terrible, it made a few throats swell in emotion. A roar so sad, ballads would be written about it.

King's Landing might've been relieved from the weather's temperature, but as Vhagar felt her master mourning his daughter, she released an angry flame into the air that the citizens all felt.

For years, on the contrary, the entire city would feel Prince Aemond's cold shoulder to his mother, Queen Alicent, but for now, the heat of grief demanded to be felt.

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

[tightjeansjavi]

Forsaken, Forgotten Without Any Love

A/N: PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS. THIS FIC IS VERY DARK AND MAY BE TRAUMATIC FOR SOME READERS. PLEASE READ EACH INDIVIDUAL WARNING BEFORE PROCEEDING TO READ. I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME. Thank you to my pookie @syd-djarin for betaing and the beautiful moodboard <3 this is for my June writing challenge lovers to enemies

word count: 15.3k

Summary: you and Joel Miller met in the springtime. You were as naive as a fawn, and he was a ruthless guard dog. You were willing to do anything to survive, and he could offer you protection for the exchange of your body and whatever else he wanted. The mutual understanding you had worked…until it didn’t.

Pairing | dark!joel miller x f!reader

Warnings: ‼️DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT‼️GRAPHIC NON/CON, HEAVY COERCION AND MANIPULATION, VERBAL ABUSE, THREATS, TRAUMATIC VIRGINITY LOSS, CANON TYPICAL VIOLENCE, GASLIGHTING, MISOGYNY, GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF WOUNDS, LANGUAGE, IMPLIED AGE GAP (READER IS OF VOTING AGE WHEN THE OUTBREAK HAPPENS), SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, THANATOPHOBIA (FEAR OF DEATH AND DYING) MENTIONS OF GUNS/KNIVES, SEX IN EXCHANGE FOR PROTECTION, NO HAPPY ENDING, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY ANGST & GRAPHIC THEMES, readers nickname is little fawn, +18 MINORS DNI!

We met in the springtime when blossoms unfold. The pastures were green and the meadows were gold. Our love was in flower as summer grew on, her love like the leaves now have withered and gone.

Forsaken - abandoned or deserted

When you and Joel Miller first met after the world had gone to shit, and the home you once knew was no longer, it was springtime in the Boston QZ. The name Joel Miller rolled off the tongues of many residents of what remained of Boston. But who was Joel Miller really? Just another survivor haunted by the looming shadows of his past? A man hardened by loss, grief, and indescribable pain? Or was he more than just his brute strength, quick tongue, and menacing stature?

You never intended to find out what laid beneath his defensive façade, but like most things, it all happened…unexpectedly.

“I can’t.” You whispered solemnly through the drenched fabric of the bandana secured around your face. A makeshift mask to help with the constant stench of rotting flesh, death, and charred bones. It was one of the many grueling jobs the QZ had to offer, but it was not meant for those with a weak stomach as you learned very quickly.

He turned to you, a ghost of a scoff painted on his cracked and dehydrated lips. He barely acknowledged your presence with a slight roll of his shoulders. His piercing brown eyes hardened on your face, and then the culprit of your reason to bother him. A child, wrapped in a dirty cloth to be discarded with the rest of the dead infected, lay in the open bed of the truck, face covered completely.

When you opened your mouth to speak again, perhaps an explanation as to why you couldn’t dispose of the adolescents body, Joel Miller let out a grunt, brushing against your shoulder rather roughly. His arms tucked under the child’s limp corpse, lifting it from the bed of the truck with ease. He felt nothing, no remorse, not a lick of empathy washed over him.

“Move.” He snipped unkindly.

Your jaw went slack at his harshness, teeth grinding down and catching on the sensitive flesh of your inner cheek causing a burst of copper to ignite on your tongue. You stepped off to the side, body working on autopilot at this mystery man’s gruff command.

Joel could have shown that his latent Texas gentleman manners were not completely buried. He could have, but he didn’t. Instead he marched past you, carrying the corpse to the nearby pit. He paused, looking straight ahead with a dull expression on his face before he dropped the corpse from his arms and into the smoldering flames below.

He walked back to the truck where you were left dumbly standing looking like a lost lamb in all of this surrounding death. He wiped the dirt and grime from his hands with an old rag that was sticking out of the worn denim jeans that clung to his thighs like a vice. “Jus’ a word of advice, don’t let anyone around here know your weakness. They’ll tear you apart before you even see ‘em coming.” His unmistakable Texas twang reminded you of home, a simpler time when the world was normal and each day was promised, or so you used to believe.

“Thank you.” You nodded, reaching your hand out as an offering, an extension of friendship that sent his right eye twitching at your meekness.

“Ain’t a reason to thank me. Didn’t ask for it.” He eyed your outstretched hand suspiciously, eyes narrowed and brows tightly furrowed across his forehead.

You frowned, unable to conceal your immediate reaction to his denial of your kindness. Despite the world fucking ending, and your own losses, you were softer than most, and that made you an easy target. You were as soft as salt water taffy melting on someone’s tongue. Or the gooey center of a charred marshmallow on a stick. Joel Miller wasn’t accustomed to someone of the likes of you. You were foreign, something taboo—too soft for his liking. How the hell you managed to survive the cordyceps outbreak was beyond him.

He didn’t even give you the chance to respond when he abruptly turned on the heel of his steel-toed boots, and stalked off in the direction of where the ration cards for the day's work were being distributed. He staggered at an angle that looked mildly uncomfortable, especially in his lower back, and you could see that he favored his dominant side based on his gait. The words you planned to present to him died in your throat. You couldn’t help but feel miffed by his dismissal, but all the more intrigued to know what this grumpy, guarded man was really all about.

-

Every resident in the QZ had their means to get by in life. Some kept going for family, others for power and brutality—authority above all. Some were like Joel Miller; holding little value to their life, and spending their days drinking like a fish, and popping smuggled pills to alleviate the constant emotional and physical pain that they carried like a heavy burden on their shoulders. As for you? You simply were just trying to get by unscathed. Death terrified you, haunted you even in your dreams. Your survival was purely based on luck, with little to no survival skill sets. It was a fucking miracle that you had survived this long on your own.

That’s why you were the perfect candidate to join the elusive Fireflies. Marlene sought you out one evening before curfew in the QZ’s makeshift community circle. It was an open space sheltered between two buildings where residents could converse freely for a short period of time. Marlene and the Fireflies had one goal in mind; to overthrow FEDRA and liberate all of Boston’s QZ residents from the government's cruel and unjust authority.

Marlene could sense that you were weak minded and naive the second she laid eyes on you from across the way. The way you nervously fidgeted with your fingers in your lap, glancing around every so often as if you had something to hide. You stuck out like a sore thumb, the ugly duckling in a sea of normal…people.

The chair adjacent from where you were sitting scraped along the concrete like nails on chalkboard and your posture immediately stiffened at the sudden intrusion. Your invisible safety bubble had been popped, and there was nowhere for you to hide.

“Easy, friend.” Her tone was a complete juxtaposition to Joel’s innate harshness. Marlene’s eyes were kind, soft in the low light of the slow setting sun. You felt like you could immediately trust her, and maybe even view her as an ally? “Mind if I sit?” She gestured to the chair across from you, the same chair that dragged across the concrete and made you alert in the first place.

You eyed this stranger warily, glancing around before you meekly nodded, not finding your words quite yet. Marlene pulled up the chair, sitting down quietly with her forearms resting against the table in a casual motion.

“So.” She started, “you’re fairly new to the QZ, aren’t you?”

“…yes, how did you know?” You weren’t aware that you were sitting across from one of FEDRA’s most wanted, and the leader of the rebellious group known as the Fireflies.

“Sweetheart, I have eyes and ears all over the QZ.” She gestured to the surrounding area with her hands in emphasis.

“Really?” Your eyes widened slightly in shock and for a moment you were questioning whether you should get up and leave, or wait to hear what this woman had to say. “Are you…FEDRA?”

“No, not FEDRA.” She shook her head, reaching her hand out across the table in your direction, “I’m Marlene, leader of the rebellion, and commander of the Boston QZ Fireflies.”

Fireflies. You had heard the hushed whisperings of the ‘terrorist’ group that was at war with FEDRA. Sometimes there were calculated bombings, planned attacks, all for the cause of liberation and justice for the QZ residents—so you had heard.

You reached for her outstretched hand, giving it a gentle, yet firm squeeze before retracting your own hand back to your lap. You’re just about to tell Marlene your name, when your attention is stolen by something-someone. That someone being Joel Miller. He wasn’t alone. A woman walked alongside him, and from the angle you were sitting at, you could see his hand resting protectively against the small of her back.

His eyes were looking ahead, not behind or the area surrounding him. He was intently focused even as his companion leaned in close to him, her lips moving but you couldn’t make out the words. His chin dipped towards her, thick fingers flexing against that sliver of skin between the top of her jeans and the hem of her shirt.

You found yourself transfixed by his subtle movements, his natural authority permeating the small space. No one even dared to look directly at him, no one except you. He could feel a pair of eyes burning into the side of his face and he clenched his jaw tightly, cocking his head in the direction of the last empty table before he nudged his companion in that direction.

Marlene had said something to you, but you didn’t hear her the first time because you were frozen in your seat when Joel Miller’s piercing glare landed upon your face. He scowled, grinding his teeth together. He recognized you, that was a fact. But just as quickly as you had his attention for a fleeting moment, it was gone and he had sauntered off, taking the seat across from his partner.

Marlene watched the whole silent exchange go down from her seat. She observed your body posture intently, brow raised in curiosity. She leaned forward over the small expanse of the table, tone low, almost at a whisper, “do you know that man?”

You shook your head, meeting her curious gaze. “No—I mean, not really. He…sorta helped me out the other day though. I don’t have a strong stomach in the slightest and—”

An incredulous look crossed her face immediately to hear that Joel Miller ‘helped’ someone? She called bullshit immediately.

“Joel Miller did you a favor? That’s unlike his character. Only good thing that man has ever done is introduce me to his brother.” Marlene said almost bitterly.

So, that was his name. Joel Miller.

“He has a brother? Is he in the QZ as well? I guess…maybe it wasn’t a favor necessarily, but in my eyes it was.”

She nodded. “Yes, his brother's name is Tommy. He’s in Wyoming now. Tommy, like myself, was a firefly and Joel…he wasn’t too keen on his brother joining a rebel alliance. I tried to get him and his partner, Tess, to join our cause as well, but they wanted nothing to do with it. So, Joel and Tommy had a massive falling out, and Tommy left the QZ shortly after.”

“Marlene, when you said that the only good thing Joel has ever done is introduce you to his brother, what did you mean by that exactly? Is he…dangerous?”

“Sweetheart.” She started, almost in a patronizing tone, “he and Tess are the kinda folks you don’t want to associate yourself with. If you’re not careful, you’ll get caught up in their web. They ain’t good people. Did a lot of bad things before they ended up here. Killed a lot of innocent people and now they practically have FEDRA wrapped around their finger…most days.”

You mulled her words over in your head, falling into a silent thought of determining whether Joel Miller was who she said he was, or if he was more than just his past. You imagined he, like most of the surviving population, did what he had to do to keep himself and his kin alive. How could Marlene judge him for that?

“You tell me to look for the light, and I’ll break your jaw.”

His low, menacing tone rumbled like thunder in the distance, and the person he was addressing immediately scampered off into the shadows like a dog with its tail between its legs.

“Marlene, I mean no offense by this, truly, but didn’t everyone have to kill innocent people at some point to survive?” You couldn’t help but question her logic and reason to judge.

“Let me reiterate what I mean by that. You know what raiders are, don’t you?”

You nodded.

“Well, Joel and Tess were raiders at one point. Tommy as well, but Joel was the driving force of their operation. He was ruthless—still is.”

All you were hearing from her words was that Joel Miller was a capable man. More capable than most. He had a history of violence, and whether that was solely for the means of survival, or because he was a murderous, blood thirsty psychopath, did not concern you in the slightest. Joel Miller was exactly the kind of man that you were looking for. The kind of man that would lay down his own life for yours. The kind of man who would tend to your wounds, and then rip your enemies apart limb from limb, and then come home to you drenched in their blood; a badge of his conquest at exacting revenge.

Joel Miller was the type of man who would ensure your own survival above all else.

“If it’s protection you’re looking for, the Fireflies can offer you that.” Marlene interjected after you didn’t initially respond to her previous statement.

You chewed on your lower lip, gnawing on it for a moment feeling vulnerable and exposed when Marlene was easily able to read between the lines. You thought you were more discreet than that. More guarded, not a weak minded damsel in distress.

“What makes you think that I’m looking for protection?” You quipped back, opting to lean into the defensive side, rather than admit that you were in fact seeking just that.

Marlene stifled a laugh, briefly catching the attention of Joel from across the way. “You’ve been on edge since the moment I sat down. You stick out like a sore fuckin’ thumb, and I’m surprised that you haven’t realized sooner that you’re practically a fawn in the midst of a pack of wolves.”

Marlene was right. She hit the nail right on the fucking head. You weren’t cutthroat like Joel. You survived this long purely based on dumb fucking luck. Not because you were skilled with a weapon, or had fists of steel. You were not violent in nature, you had only killed when necessary, and you stayed hidden when trouble arose; much like a fawn in the dense thicket. Marlene didn’t need to know that you were seeking protection, that every night you lay awake fearing death and ending up pitifully alone; unloved.

“You don’t fucking know me, or what I need.” You hissed, finally finding your voice and standing your ground. You pushed your chair back abruptly, the bottom of it scraping on the concrete, and catching the attention of everyone in the secluded, intimate space.

Marlene shrugged at your defiance, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed over her chest. She may have not been successful in this first attempt, but she got under your skin, and that was only the start of it.

Unbeknownst to you or Marlene, Joel had silently eavesdropped your entire conversation, growing stiff suddenly when he picked up on Marlene’s little ploy to manipulate you to join the Fireflies. You may have been a nobody, bare bones and all, but he’d be damned if another naive soul would end up wrapped and constricted in Marlene’s web of empty promises and lies.

Preventing you from joining the Fireflies was about to become Joel Miller’s personal vendetta, and you hadn’t a fucking a clue. As far as he was concerned, the only person in this entire shithole QZ who would ever get close to sinking their talons into your flesh, was himself.

He watched you storm away from the table, your fists clenched tightly at your sides. You feel someone’s eyes locked onto the back of your head, but you didn’t dare turn around to see if your assumptions were true; you just knew.

~~

The following morning you and the rest of the QZ residents were required to attend a public execution before work would begin for the day. Three individuals were sentenced to death for breaking curfew, and attempting to leave the QZ without authorization. The three guilty perpetrators stood in a row, their faces covered with a cloth loosely draped around their heads so they could not be identified.

As the charges of the crimes that were committed were read out, you could feel your knees grow weak, and nausea bubbled deep in the pit of your stomach. Could you be next?

Joel Miller was in the crowd as well, concealed and aloof, but you could sense his domineering presence immediately, and he could sense you as if he was like a moth drawn to a flame. He imagined you couldn’t stomach the prospect of a public execution, and his assumptions were true when he saw you slipping between bystanders and fleeing towards the nearest alley.

He was quick to follow you, feeling more intrigued than anything when you scurried away like a little mouse. He took his time as he was in no rush, and well—there was nowhere else for you to go. He shoved his hands deep within the caverns of his jean pockets, his footsteps were heavy and calculated when he turned the corner to the alley.

You were waiting for him with your trusty pocket knife armed at your side, whipping around to face whoever had left the crowd to follow you. Your teeth were barred as if you were a cornered animal ready to attack if provoked.

He slipped his hands out of his pockets, holding them up so that you could determine that he wasn’t an immediate threat. His dark pools of brown locked onto your face and his head was slightly cocked to the side. “Easy there, little fawn. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” He rasped.

You took a shaky inhale, palms beginning to sweat and your grip around the worn hilt of your knife began to slip from the clamminess. You took a timid step back, closer to the impending brick wall behind you. “Yeah? I’d believe that if you—”

“If I what?” He challenged, taking a step closer to where you stood.

“If you didn’t follow me here like a goddamn stalker, Joel!” You half yelled.

“Hey!” He snapped calmly, “easy. Don’t wanna be drawin’ any unwanted attention to ourselves, do we? And for the record, I do believe that you were the one stalkin’ me the other night.”

“Excuse me? I—I don’t even know you! Why the hell would you think I was stalking you?!” You took another step back, the hem of your shirt just barely grazed against the exposed brick wall.

“Oh, so that wasn’t you sittin’ with Marlene?” He questioned you dryly, shaking his head with a grin tugging on the corner of his lips. “It wasn’t you prying for some information on me? Guess I oughta go get my eyes and ears fuckin’ checked then…oh, wait! Can’t really do that, huh?” He scoffed, crossing his arms against his chest.

Who the fuck did he think he was?

“If I’m not mistaken, it sure as hell sounds like you were the one spying on me.” You quipped back, nearly stumbling when the heel of your boot made contact with the brick wall; now he had you trapped.

“No, you are mistaken. M’jus’ a real observant guy. Plus, sniffin’ out a snake in the grass like Marlene ain’t rocket science. She give you her whole ‘liberation’ for all bullshit?”

“I don’t know, Joel. Did she?”

He looked amused by your response, not expecting you to bite back so fast, but at least now he knew you had a little gumption to work with, but instead of indulging you in your insignificant win, he danced around the subject to catch you off guard.

“That’s a pretty dull fuckin’ knife you got there, little fawn. Ain’t gonna do much stabbin’ with it lookin’ like that. When’s the last time you got it sharpened?”

You did not appreciate, nor like how he effortlessly changed the conversation on you in a blink of an eye. You glared at him, struggling to hold your ground when he was nearly on top of you, one step closer and his chest would be pressed against yours.

“I think it’s more than capable of doing a considerable amount of damage to you if you don’t back the fuck up in the next five—”

“Yeah?” He pressed, looming over you like a shadow blocking the sun, “I’d love to see you try.” He snarled.

And well, you did. A pitiful attempt that he immediately saw coming. It took nothing for him to overpower you as if you were a helpless bug beneath his steel toed boots. The knife was yanked from your grip, your wrists pinned in one of his large hands like a dart on a board. His eyes were a shade darker up close and they were locked onto you.

“Now I understand why Marlene wanted you in the first place.” He snickered, “you really are that fuckin’ gullible.”

“Y—you don’t know shit about me! You think you do, but you don’t!” You tried to push against his chest, but he was like a slab of concrete or an unmoving mountain.

“No?” His eyebrows quirked upwards in amusement. Toying with your fragile mind and now wounded ego was easier than he imagined. “Think you’re wrong, little fawn. You’re pretty damn readable, and that ain’t somethin’ that you want to deal with ‘round here. You might actually be the most transparent person in the entire fuckin’ Boston QZ.”

“W—why are you calling me that?”

“Because, you remind me of a fawn. You’re meek, quiet, and…naive.”

You wanted to yell and scream till you were blue in the face, but what was the point? Marlene saw right through you, and so did Joel. Maybe…you could use this to your advantage, somehow.

He backed off you then, dropping your wrists from his grip and gave you the space to breathe finally. He flipped your dull pocket knife over a few times, brushing his thumb against the unsharpened steel with a light scoff and subtle roll of his eyes. “You can’t even kill a clicker with this thing. You realize that, right? What was your plan if someone else followed you back here, huh?”

He was making your head spin, all this back and forth bantering, and him getting under your skin was becoming too much. Why the hell did he care, anyway? Did he always prey on the weak minded? Or did you just happen to become his unfortunate target?

“I didn’t really…have a plan.” You said quietly under your breath, taking a moment to rest your head back against the cool brick wall.

“Good god, girl. You didn’t have a fuckin’ plan of action?! You really are a damsel in distress.”

“I am not a damsel in distress! You’re just some asshole that clearly has nothing better to do except prey on the weak minded! So, how about you just go pick on someone your own size!”

“So, you agree that you are weak minded? Yeah, Marlene sure as fuck would have had you wrapped around her fuckin’ finger and indoctrinated into her fuckin’ terrorist cult.”

“Sounds like you have a fucking problem with Marlene, and not me.” You attempted to walk away for good, but his palm reached out to stop you, pressing flat between your breastbone, leaving you both feeling surprised.

“Relax, would ya? I see right through your little tough girl gimmicks, and so does everyone else. I also happen to know that you, my dear, are terrified. It’s written all over your pretty face, and of what exactly? I can take a few educated guesses, but I think I’ve already humiliated you enough for one day.”

You were stunned into silence. Pacified by his words and the weight they held over you.

“Yeah, that’s what I fuckin’ thought.” He concluded. The rational part of his brain was telling him to ease off and let it fucking go. Hell, maybe you wouldn’t fall into Marlene’s trap after all. The other part of him? Well, you can just imagine how it was telling him to proceed with tormenting you. “If it were anyone else that followed you back here, they would have the means to hurt you. And I don’t mean just by killing you, little fawn. You think that just cus’ we’re under the governments ‘protection’ that evil people ain’t just roamin’ around here freely lookin’ for their next meal?”

“Yeah? And are you one of those evil people, Joel?” If he was gonna go for your jugular, you were gonna go straight for his.

“Might be.” He shrugged indifferently. “If I had the means to hurt you, I would have already done it.”

He did make a fair point. He was a capable guy, and if he had ulterior motives to cause you harm, you would surely be dead already. Still, you were weary nonetheless, but also intrigued.

“Okay, so you don’t have the means to kill me and that’s great, Joel. I’m relieved, but I’m failing to understand…why did you follow me back here in the first place?”

“Because, little fawn, I have exactly what you’re looking for, what you need. No reason to lie to ourselves here, right? Especially when I’ve already got you figured out. You can deny it all you want, but I know a terrified person when I see one. You ain’t gonna last long lookin’ like a fuckin’ target to every passerby.”

“And what exactly do you think that I need, Joel?”

“Protection.” He stated simply.

“And what's in it for you?”

He thought about coming up with a lie, something that sounded convincing so you wouldn’t question his motives, but he chose the latter in the end.

“Means that Marlene doesn’t get to sink her fuckin’ claws into another naive person such as yourself. Less Firefly scum for me to deal with, and you’re too pretty to end up with a bullet between the eyes.”

Maybe it was the way that Joel Miller was looking at you like you were about to be his next meal, or maybe it was the fact that no one had ever called you pretty before. This guard dog of a man was the first person to ever truly take in your physical appearance, and man, did that feel fucking good.

“You think I’m pretty, do ya?” Your tone came out teasingly, mildly playful, and not what Joel was expecting from you at all.

“Christ.” He laughed, “is that really all you fuckin’ got outta what I was jus’ sayin? That I think you’re pretty? Don’t let that feed your little ego now, alright? That‘ll get you killed, too.”

You wanted to tell him that no one ever called you pretty before, but that felt too personal, too vulnerable. So, instead, you shrugged your shoulders and raised your brow suggestively in his direction. “I heard you loud and clear, Joel.”

“Good. Cause I ain’t gonna repeat myself.” He glanced around the secluded alley for a moment, mulling his thoughts over before he returned your knife to you with the blade facing downwards. His rough, calloused fingers brushed against your own when he returned the hilt of your knife to your palm. “For starters, let’s get that pathetic excuse of a knife sharpened.”

You nodded, tucking it back into your concealed holster around your waist. “Lead the way, Miller.”

He looked you over once more, brows tightly furrowed together, shoulders stiff before he turned on his heel and started to walk towards the opening of the alley. “Hurry up, little fawn. We ain’t got all day.”

You had just secured yourself your very own lethal guard dog, claws and all.

~~

Up until this point, you hadn’t thought about the prospect of Joel Miller wanting to fuck you. In your mind, he truly was just inviting you to his shitty little apartment to sharpen your knife and send you on your way. You were beginning to believe that his little fear tactic in the alley was just his bark, but you were about to experience his bite very, very, soon.

He said no more than a few words to you, a few grunts here and there when you ended up rambling because you finally had someone to talk to. He acknowledged your existence, and that was good enough for you to at least be seen.

“Do you always talk this fuckin’ much?” He gruffed out from where he was hunched over at the kitchen table, dragging the edge of your knife along what appeared to be a large, flat stone.

“Sorry.” You muttered under your breath, sinking further against the old, musty couch that had seen far better days.

“Thas’ better.” He mused.

A man of few words…unless he wants something.

“It’s getting late…I should probably head home before curfew. Can we pick this back up again tomorrow? FEDRA is gonna start patrolling soon and—”

He looked up from where he was focused on dragging the edge of the blade at an angle against the stone to gradually sharpen it. The glare he sent your way immediately had your blood running cold.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually that fuckin’ naive to believe that my generous services are free of charge, little fawn.” He tsked under his breath, shaking his head in disappointment.

Maybe you were the naive one to follow the wolf right back to his den.

Your eyes widened, fists clenching at your sides when the realization that you willingly followed this…stranger back to his apartment hit you and sent the warning alarms in your brain blaring immediately.

“I—I have ration cards.” You meekly responded.

He cocked his head to the side, lips curving upwards into a wolfish grin. “My god.” He chuckled, “you really are that fuckin’ naive, huh? You think I’m doin’ this because I’m a good man or somethin?’”

“Well, you said that you—”

He rose from the chair then, the hilt of your freshly sharpened knife clutched at his side. His eyes stayed locked on you as he staggered forward, coming closer to where you were sitting on his couch.

“And you really believed in every word that came out of my mouth?” He questioned dryly.

“I—I didn’t see a reason not to, you said that if you wanted to hurt me, you would have already done it.”

“You’re right, little fawn. I would have already hurt you if those were my true intentions, but you’re so foolishly naive to believe that I’m doin’ this out of the goodness in my heart.”

You were frozen on the spot when he stopped at the edge of the couch, bending down to meet your eye level, towering over you in such a menacing way, you truly thought right then and there that this man did lie to you, and you were going to die at his hand. Your body flinched on instinct when one of his big palms came to rest against the wall alongside your head, while his occupied hand that was still grasping your knife stayed glued to his side.

“I—I don’t have anything else I can offer you, Joel.” You met his gaze, trembling when he leaned in closer.

“Don’t tell me now that you’re truly jus’ beauty with no brains, sweetheart.” He cooed softly.

Your lips parted open in shock as you began to read between the lines of the words coming out of his mouth. He didn’t want your ration cards, he wanted you, and not just a piece. He wanted all of you.

“There she is.” He preened, “Knew you weren’t all that dumb. Those gears in your pretty little head finally turnin’?”

You wanted to bite back, to snap at him so that you wouldn’t feel so fuckin’ small, but he had you locked in a trance right where he wanted you, and deep down…you liked it.

“…you want me?” You whispered through the thick growing tension.

“Mhm.” He nodded in confirmation. “You didn’t think that I just said you were pretty without havin’ some ulterior motive in mind, did ya? You’re the one who decided to trust me so easily. The second I confirmed that I didn’t want to hurt ya, you wrote me off as a good man. Well, sweetheart, I hate to break the pretty picture you painted of me in your head, but I ain’t a good man. I don’t have the means to hurt you, but I have every intention to take what I fuckin’ want from you.” His forehead was nearly pressed against yours now, hot breath fanning your face. “Jus’ remember that you willingly followed me back to my apartment, and take this as a warning to not be so easily swayed to trust a fuckin’ stranger.”

You swallowed the lump that was gradually growing in your throat as your flight or fight instincts were in full swing. You briefly eyed your knife in his hand, thinking that maybe…you could get out of this, but he would be quicker, surely. He’d overpower you in a heartbeat.

“I’m a virgin, Joel. Are you sure you still want me, knowing what you know now?”

He stalled briefly, caught off guard by your admittance. He thought that maybe this was your cheap way of trying to get out of this situation all together, but based on your trembling, and overall demeanor, he could tell you weren’t lying and he took some satisfaction in knowing that he was about to be your first; completely his.

“You think thas’ gonna stop me from wantin’ to fuck you, little fawn?”

You shook your head quickly and pressed yourself as far against the couch as you possibly could. “No—no, I—I just wanted you to know.” You squeaked out.

He nods, flipping your knife in his hand a few times while his other hand slowly drops to rest against the crown of your head, “if anythin’, it makes me want to fuck you even more now. Can take whatever I want from you, and make you mine. How’s that sound to you, hmm?”

“Can you…promise me it won’t hurt? I’ll—I’ll do whatever you want, Joel.”

Whatever I have to do to live another day, I’ll do it. Keep me alive, and you can take whatever you want from me.

“It’ll hurt a little, sweetheart. Better me than anyone else. I’ll only be gentle till you’re adjusted. After that, I ain’t gonna hold back.” While his words were blunt and straight to the point, his tone was soft, gentle even.

“Okay. I trust you, Joel.”

“Good. Thas’ good to hear, little fawn.” He gently dragged his thumb against your hair, feeling the texture of it beneath his hold, and how if he truly wanted to, he could crush you like a bug beneath his hand.

Your hands worked on autopilot to reach for the hem of your shirt to pull it over your head, fingers shaking against the fabric.

He shook his head, brows raising in slight amusement. “No.” He rasped sternly, “I’m going to undress you. Hands off, and keep ‘em where I can see them, got it?”

You nodded, dropping your hands to rest along your jean clad thighs.

“Wanna show you just how sharp I got your lil’ knife now. Can cut through just about anythin’, I reckon.” He mused, secretly hoping to ease your impending fears just enough that your body would naturally begin to relax.

You took a shuddered inhale when the edge of your freshly sharpened knife rose and rested against your concealed breastbone, sending your heartbeat racing and rattling out of your chest like a stampede.

“Relax.” He whispered, careful to not apply too much pressure, but just enough that the blade easily cut through your flimsy top as if it was made of cheap paper. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

Your words were lodged in your throat as tears began to spring to the corner of your eyes. You couldn’t help it, you were terrified. One wrong move…

“Joel…please.” Was all you were able to get out. His hand that was gently resting on the crown of your head dropped down to gently cradle your face. His big thumb brushed directly under the tears leaking from your eyes, gathering them up with a soft sigh.

“If you listen to me and relax, this will feel good for you, little fawn. You jus’—gotta let me have my fun first, alright?”

You let out a silent sob, squeezing your eyes shut tight as you tried to wrap your mind around how this could possibly be fun for him. “This—this is fun for you?”

His nostrils flared, reminding you of one of those animated bulls from the old cartoons you used to watch as a kid on Saturday mornings. He let out a sigh, grinding his jaw and shaking his head. “Course this is fun for me. I told you already, little fawn. I ain’t a good man.” He carelessly yanked the scraps of your shirt down your arms and torso before he dragged the knife upwards towards your flimsy bra straps. “Only reason I’m choosin’ to be somewhat merciful on you is because you’re a virgin. If you weren’t, I would have shoved my cock so far down your throat, you’d be chokin’ on it, sweet girl. Gonna save that for another time.” He reassured you.

“I’d…prefer if you never did that.” This was your weak and fruitless attempt to try and gain any semblance of control in this situation.

“You ain’t in the position to be callin’ the shots on me. Keep it up, and I won’t be so fuckin’ nice. I’ll stuff your pretty little virgin pussy with my cock like you’re a fuckin’ pig on a spit.” He snapped. “Secondly, I’d prefer if you’d quit your yappin’ and start makin’ yourself useful by takin’ your jeans off—nice and slow for me. Make it last.”

“But you said—”

“Know exactly what I said, sweetheart. M’changin’ my mind, we clear?” He sternly asked while he sliced through one of the bra straps, watching with hooded eyes as it fell from your shoulder.

“Crystal.” You shakily reached for the button on your jeans, slowly undoing it followed by the zipper while he sliced through the other strap.

“Good girl.” He praised you, “you’re a fast learner. Thas’ real good, little fawn. That’ll keep you alive longer.”

“Thank you…sir.” You whispered, feeling your tears begin to dry on your cheekbones when you slowly began to shimmy your jeans down your thighs.

“Mmm…no.” He scoffed at you calling him sir. “Not sir. Jus’ call me Joel. It’s gonna be the only name you’re gonna be sayin’ for as long as I decide you’re worth keepin’ around. Best start gettin’ used to the way it tastes on your tongue.”

“Yes, Joel. I—I understand.”

He was kind enough to help you finish removing your jeans completely so you were left in just your cotton panties that were well worn. A touch of innocence could be found on the little faded pink bow right in the middle of the hem. His lips quirked at this, finding it endearingly…cute.

What remained of your bra fell away in pieces, the clasp old that was old and frayed, came undone easily. Now your breasts were bared to him for the first time. He liked that they weren’t magazine perfect, nothing like he had seen in his teenage to young adult years. They were natural, beautiful, and you.

“I know they aren’t—they aren’t anything special…” you trailed off, moving your arms up to cover your chest.

He shook his head and reached one hand out to stop you from covering them from his perfect view. “They’re beautiful. M’glad they aren’t perfect like the shit I would find in the old playboy magazines.”

“Really?…thank you, Joel.”

He didn’t acknowledge your gratitude and his eyes trailed southwards once more, right between your thighs. “Thought about cuttin’ these off, too.” He casually gestured to your panties, “But I think I wanna keep ‘em as a souvenir.” He mused with a wicked grin. “Don’t go all shy on me now, alright? Spread your thighs, sweetheart.”

You obeyed his request, your thighs falling open to his prying eyes. “You want to keep my panties as a souvenir?”

“Mhm.” He reached behind him briefly to set your knife down along the coffee table so both of his hands were free. You watched as he slowly lowered himself onto his knees between your spread thighs. “You won’t be needin’ them when you’re here, anyway.”

Before you could respond, his warm palms came to rest along your hips where his thumbs gently dipped beneath the hem of your panties and slowly began to peel them down your thighs. “Can’t remember the last time I had the pleasure of tasting virgin pussy.” He chuckled. “Been too goddamn long.”

“I thought most guys weren’t into eating…pussy.” It was your turn to giggle now, and Joel was secretly relieved that you were finally relaxing.

He slipped your panties down your ankles making quick work of stuffing them into the back pocket of his jeans. “What makes you say that, sweetheart?” He shifted his hands from your hips to rest between the apex of your thighs, spreading you open further at his leisure.

“Well, uh—before the outbreak, I had a boyfriend, and all my friends at the time told me that I should ask him to go down on me. I didn’t know what they meant at first, so my friends and I bought a porno from an adult film store to watch, and then shortly after I asked my boyfriend if he would go down on me, he said fuck no.”

Joel laughed, a real hearty laugh that sent a warm vibration and tingle creeping up your spine. He used his thumbs to spread your inner lips apart before he peppered kisses against the inside of your thighs, inching closer and closer to the seam of your pussy. “No offense, sweetheart. But your boyfriend sounds like he was a fuckin’ tool that didn’t know the first thing to pleasin’ a woman and makin’ her sing, and for that reason, I hope he got infected.”

Despite the gravity of the situation you found yourself in, it felt good to confide in someone and laugh about the past. “I hope he got infected, too.”

The tension flipped once more when Joel’s darkened pools of brown flickered up from between your thighs. His hot breath was directly fanning your exposed core, and you watched as he licked his lips. “I take a lot of satisfaction knowin’ that I’m gonna be your first for everythin’, little fawn. You belong to me, your tight virgin cunt belongs to me. Jus’ want you to understand what that means before I defile you, piece by piece.”

You found your words lodged in your throat when you felt Joel Miller’s hot, wet, and skillful mouth press directly against your clit. His thick, dark lashes fluttered shut, and a groan bubbled from deep within his chest. He was immediately a man starved at the first taste of you. Lathing his tongue through the seam of your pussy as if he was a cat lapping up warm milk. And once he got a taste, he couldn’t stop, and you didn’t want him to.

“Sweetest fuckin’ virgin cunt I’ve ever tasted, little fawn. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you’re like honey.” He rambled on, slurping and obscenely sucking on your sex. He meant it when he said he was going to defile you, and this was just the beginning.

Your fingers naturally found themselves tangled in his salt and peppered streaked curls. They were softer than you ever imagined them to be. And in that moment, when your orgasm rippled through you like a tidal wave, and your pussy drooled along his tongue, you were grateful that he at least took the time to make you feel good first.

But like most good things, it passed just as quickly as it came when he pulled his mouth back from your cunt, a translucent strand of his saliva mixed with your release hung from his lower lip like a thread from a spider's web. The strand reached all the way to your glistening clit and disappeared when he licked the taste of you from his lips.

Your cheeks felt hot to the touch, and there was a sheen of sweat coating your skin when he reached for his belt and began to unfasten it. That’s when the fear began to creep its way back in.

“Joel, do you think that maybe we can—”

“No.” He gruffed out over the sound of his belt buckle clanking open, and his zipper being yanked down in a haste.

You could see just how hard he was through his worn down briefs, and when you finally got a first glance at just how thick and large his cock was, you were immediately trying to clamber off the couch. There was no way he was going to fucking fit.

He let out an annoyed growl, one hand quickly darted out and grabbed your ankle with a roughness that immediately had you yelping in surprise. “Do not fuckin’ test me, or I will really fuckin’ make this hurt for you. Do I make myself absolutely clear?” He glowered, tightening his steel like grip on your ankle. “Get back to how I had you spread open. Don’t make me ask you twice.”

Only when you reluctantly abided by his request did he loosen his grip before releasing your ankle completely. He rose to his full height, kicking his jeans and boxers off to the side as his heavy cock bobbed between his thighs. “Try anythin’ funny again, and I’ll bend your ass over this fuckin’ couch faster than you can say stop.”

“I’m sorry, Joel—I didn’t mean to upset you I’m just—”

“Afraid?” He mused. “Yeah, I gathered that. But I told ya that it’s only gonna hurt a little. All you need to do is relax for me. Thas’ it, and the pain will only be temporary. I promise, little fawn.”

He leaned over you, grasping your thighs in his hands and molded your body exactly how he wanted to take you so that he could easily wedge himself between your thighs. Now your back was against the side of the couch, the arm rest acted as a makeshift pillow for your head while he wrapped your legs around his hips for support. “Missionary is gonna cause ya the least amount of pain, but after today we ain’t gonna play it safe anymore.”

“Joel, can we please—I’m not ready for this. There has to be someone else that I can offer you…right?” You glanced down between your thighs, right where his thick cockhead was lined up at your tight opening. There was a drool of arousal that pooled and dripped down from the seam of your puffy and stimulated pussy right into the already soiled fabric of the couch.

“You jus’ don’t fuckin’ quit, do ya? I’m about five seconds away from fucking you like you’re just a piece of meat. Do you really want that, little fawn? Do you want me to fuckin’ hurt you? Is that it? You’re so goddamn lucky that you didn’t get captured by a group of raiders who would take turns gang raping you, and ripping you apart like a fuckin’ ragdoll. Show some fuckin’ gratitude for the fact that I’m not like them.” He hissed between his teeth. “You are mine. Get that through your pretty little brain sooner, rather than later.”

“You’re not going to fucking fit! There’s no fucking way that you’re going to fit without ripping me apart from the inside, Joel!” You cried out, fists clenched so tightly at your sides, that your blunt nails were digging into your skin hard enough to draw blood to the surface.

“I sure as fuck ain’t gonna fit where you’re so fuckin’ stiff. Ya don’t want it to hurt, d’ya? Well, more than it’s already gonna. Jus’ relax for me. That’s all you gotta do.”

It did fucking hurt. It felt like you were being ripped apart seam by seam when he slowly started to press himself inside of you. Your body seized up around the intrusion, clamping down on his cock like a vice as tears began to leak down your cheeks again.

“You gotta let me in, little fawn. Or so help me god, I will fuckin’ force my way right into your tight little virgin cunt.” He growled out of frustration, wanting this part to be over already because that very minuscule part of him felt bad for what he was doing.

“I—I can’t, Joel! Please! It hurts! You’re hurting me!”

He let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping forwards and his forehead came to rest upon your own. His hand that wasn’t wrapped around the base of his cock came to gently rest upon your cheek, a moment of tenderness that sent your mind reeling. “I ain’t tryin’ to hurt you, little fawn. Please jus’ relax. Take a deep breath in and out. Focus on this instead, alright?” He dropped his hand from your cheek and slowly slipped it between your parted thighs so his thumb could gently thrum your clit. “Focus on how good that feels, and not my cock splittin’ you apart and takin’ what’s mine.”

Maybe you were the masochist, and he was the sadist. The mixture of pleasure with pain was something you never had experienced before, and when your body finally began to relax and let him in fully, that’s when you finally understood what he meant earlier about the pain only being temporary. It was numbed the second he started to piston his hips into you, stretching you open more and more with each heavy and calculated thrust. His thumb stayed glued to your clit, rubbing you in steady circles to keep your stimulation present in your mind.

He did defile you, piece by piece. Taking and taking while you continue to give and give. You want to be good, you want him to like you, to want you because if he does, maybe he’ll keep you around. Maybe he’ll fuck you again, protect you, keep you safe, and maybe you’ll never have to live in fear again.

Sometime after Joel had fucked you till he felt satisfied and spent, you passed out on his couch purely from exhaustion. He didn’t tend to you right away. He didn’t kiss your forehead, and he certainly didn’t kiss your lips. He left you there, stained in his cum and completely ruined for anyone else. That’s how he intended to leave things, but his need to care and tend to you ultimately won when he appeared from his bathroom with a wash rag in hand. His footsteps were soft as he padded into the living room and knelt beside you as you slept. In comparison to earlier, his movements were very tender as he gently spread your thighs apart so he could wash between them.

You stirred only slightly, mumbling in your sleep when the wash cloth gently dragged across the seam of your pussy and everywhere in between. And even after he was finished he sat there for hours in a deep contemplation over his decisions. He was a complicated man, with conflicted feelings driven by grief and loss. And that was the reason for his unkindness. His ability to remain aloof and cold. He just couldn’t wrap his head around the notion that someone as innocent as you, had survived the cruelty of the world for this long.

~~

Your relationship with Joel Miller, or lack thereof, turned into a mutual exchange. He offered you his protection, and you offered him your body and some semblance of control. It was his driving force, after all. To feel like he was in control of his life and the remaining frayed threads of it. The more times he fucked you, the more you began to enjoy it. You liked his meanness, and he liked how compliant you were. It was simple, no emotions tied up and he could simply just be.

Sometimes you did talk, and other times he just took what he wanted. You were like his personal punching bag, his means to get his frustrations out through having you beneath his sheets, molded however he saw fit.

Tonight was one of those nights.

“Yeah, thas’ it, little fawn. You can take all of me. Know you can.” He huffs out a hot puff of air against the shell of your ear. His broad shoulders, hard chest paired with a soft stomach, cage your softer frame like a protective shield. He’s drilling into you from behind, strong hips are flush against the soft curve of your ass, where he’s molded the shape of your body into the old, squeaky mattress. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through his tiny apartment, and your mind begins to grow hazy, consumed with pleasure, and him—Joel. He’s got you right where he wants you, where he can take, take, take, and you’ll give, and give, and give. The heady stench of sex, sweat and Joel swarms your senses like bees in a hive. He drinks in the wet, familiar sound of your pussy squelching around his cock, dragging him in further like a never ending vice.

He paints your insides with hot ropes of his seed, spending himself completely before he’s collapsing on top of you, drenched in sweat. His cock pulses inside of you for a few seconds longer before he draws his hips back and sits back on his thighs, resting his weight along his forearms as he catches his breath.

You lay flat on your stomach like a limp fish while you catch your own breath. He has your attention when you feel his hand gently curve around your ankle and you immediately roll over onto your back, silently begging him with your eyes alone to let you breathe a little longer. “I can’t go another round that fast, Joel. I need to catch my breath.”

“I wasn’t gonna suggest that, sweetheart.” He rasped softly, stroking your skin gently with the pad of his thumb. “I was—uh, gonna ask if you were hungry?”

You blinked a few times, trying to understand if you were hearing him correctly. Was he…offering you a meal? Did hell freeze over?

“Oh.” You couldn’t help but smile a little. “Yeah…I am a little hungry.”

Maybe he’ll ask you to make him a sandwich, hah!

“I ain’t got much to offer, unfortunately. But I think I got a couple cans of Chef Boyardee and some stale bread?” His cheeks are flushed from exertion, but there’s a hint of nervousness in your tone. It’s not like he said he loved you, he was just offering to feed you.

“Oh, man. That guy was great!” You sat up on your elbows watching his lips begin to curve upwards into a half grin from your enthusiasm.

“I actually agree.”

You ate in his bed, sitting across from one another in comfortable silence. Your knees were lightly touching, but neither of you seemed to mind the closeness. He even offered you the last half of his bread and you felt your heart swell at his selfless gesture.

A dog only bites when provoked. Maybe your guard dog was growing soft for his little fawn.

“Can I ask you somethin’?” He asked suddenly, breaking through the comfortable silence like a knife.

“Of course you can, Joel.”

He was never good at this sorta thing; talking about his feelings and emotions. He swallowed his last bit of food before reaching across to set both of your empty plates on the nearby nightstand.

“What are you gettin’ out of this? And don’t lie to me or try to give me some bullshit.”

“You make me feel safe…and protected.” You murmured softly, looking directly into his eyes for the first time that entire night.

He scoffs, gnawing on the inside of his cheek with his canines, “I ain’t a fuckin’ charity service, or your knight in shining armor.”

“You’re right, Joel. You aren’t. And that’s okay. I don’t need you to be either of those things. But—you’re all that I want, all that I need.”

His face softens slightly, that permanent frown between his brows and pout of his lips is almost not so permanent before his scowl returns.

Deep down in that black pit of his heart, he wants that too. To be relied on, wanted, needed. He likes that what he has with you is something that he doesn’t have to fight for. He could get all of this and more from Tess, but she always challenged him and wanted more. She would lay her life down for his own and he hated that. He was the type of man that would rather lay his own life down in the place of someone else. He valued his life very little at this point, and here you were acting like he had done something monumental by keeping you safe, fucking you, and providing you with a meal.

“Joel, can I ask you something?” You interjected through the silence, hoping that he wasn’t upset with your honesty.

“Depends what it is that you’re about to ask me, little fawn.”

You want to reach out and grab his hand, to feel his fingers lace through your own. You wanted him to hold you and whisper sweet nothings in your ear. You were his, but only under his terms. He wasn’t yours and he would never be. But that didn’t mean that you weren’t inclined to try and break through his nearly impassable walls that he had laid down himself, brick by brick.

“Why do you wear that watch on your wrist…if it’s broken?”

He froze like a deer in headlights as his ears began to ring, the blood rushed in his veins and his heartbeat began to race. His fingers twitched at his sides, and by the way his eyes began to darken, you realized very quickly that you had crossed a boundary. He didn’t speak, he didn’t even scold you. He ignored you completely and threw his legs over the side of the bed and snatched up the two discarded plates.

“Never fuckin’ ask me that again.” He muttered in the doorway, his back facing you and you could only see his side profile before he stomped off towards the kitchen.

Moments later you heard the sound of the plates breaking in the sink, one by one. You had never heard him sound so…violent before. He was yelling, but you couldn’t make out the words he was saying. He might have been crying at one point, but you didn’t dare investigate.

Only when you could no longer hear his pained yells, did you finally reach for your discarded clothes and quickly redressed before tiptoeing out of his bedroom. Your plan was to slip out the front door of his apartment undetected and never look back.

That plan went to shit when you stumbled upon the massacre in the kitchen and a broken man standing amongst shattered plates and shards of glass. He looked defeated, unmoving amongst the wreckage. His hand was trembling as small droplets of blood dripped from the open wound on his palm, the same hand where his broken watch was strapped to his wrist. The crimson droplets landed on the scuffed up floor beneath his feet. He heard the floorboards creak beneath your weight and he whipped around, eyes rimmed red from his incessant, crestfallen tears.

“Where the fuck are you goin?’” He croaked out, his voice sounding like it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper.

“Home?” You didn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but even you couldn’t determine exactly why you were trying to leave.

“Did I say you could leave?” He took a step towards you, somehow avoiding the stray shards of glass.

“N-No…I just thought that—”

“Yeah?” He questioned, cocking his head to the side as he observed your timid demeanor. “Well, unthink that. Please.”

He was…asking you to stay? Not only that, he said please?

“You’re bleeding.”

He glanced down at his hand in surprise. He didn’t even feel the glass cutting through his palm or the familiar wetness from the blood dripping from the fresh wound.

“Let me patch it up for you, okay?” You took a small step forward in his direction while he wearily watched you. He brought his injured hand down to his side, holding it out of your reach.

“Are you going to stay?”

You nodded. “Yes, Joel. I promise I won’t leave.”

So, he chose to trust you and allowed you to touch him and guide him to the couch where he was forced to sit down while you rushed to the bathroom to grab his first aid kit. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling when you gently grabbed his hand and rested it palm side up on your knee and began to tend to his wound. He wasn’t capable of love, not after she died. He wasn’t capable of softness and kindness, not when he watched the light fade from her eyes, and yet he sat quietly under your soft touch and gentle eyes. You had become like his supply, a new addiction, a craving, a need that could only be satiated by you. It scared him down to his very bones.

The personal vendetta was long since forgotten and was replaced with his latent nature to protect and care for. You had given him that purpose again, and maybe he could do better and become a good man again because of you. Maybe you were the answer to it all.

And unknowingly, and unintentionally, you had tapped into his inner psyche, one soft touch and gentle gaze at a time. And he was beginning to believe that maybe he wasn’t better off being alone and forsaken, after all.

~~

When Tommy Miller hadn’t returned any of Joel’s radio calls for two weeks straight, Joel was facing a tough decision that he ultimately was going to have to make. His kin was out in bum fuck Wyoming, he could be dead for all Joel knew. Despite how rocky his relationship with his brother was, he was still family, and now Joel was going to leave the QZ and find his younger brother.

This was the beginning of the end of yours and Joel’s mutual understanding, and it was happening before your very eyes.

Tonight he was in a haste after fucking you for hours. Usually he would stay in bed, his limbs tangled with yours, locked together like two puzzle pieces. You learned that sometimes he liked to be the little spoon, but he would never ask, not verbally at least. He’d turn his back to you, reaching for your hands to wrap yourself around him. Tonight, neither of those things happened while you watched him gather up his discarded clothes, throwing on his briefs over his thighs and hips.

You sat up slowly, using the old sheet to cover your breasts. Your heart began to sink when he sat on the edge of the bed, revolver in hand and bullet cartridges in the other.

“Joel?…” you asked in an unsure tone. Would this turn into another one of his meltdowns? You had hoped that it wouldn’t.

“What?” He gruffed out, reloading the bullets one by one.

You recoiled at his tone, chewing on the inside of your cheek to try and distract your mind from assuming the worst was about to happen.

“Is everything okay?”

He sighed, rolling his shoulders forward as he finished loading the revolver and looked over his shoulder, refusing to meet your eyes and instead focused on the peeling wallpaper along the walls.

“Everythin’ is peachy, little fawn.”

Even he didn’t sound too sure of his words. You had been around him long enough to pick up on his changes in demeanor. Sometimes they were subtle, less easy to detect, but tonight it was clearer than day that there was something deeply troubling him.

“You’re acting really fucking weird, Joel.”

He laughed dryly and turned to face you completely. “That’s because I got something to tell you, but you ain’t gonna fuckin’ like it.”

Your face fell immediately and your loose grip around the sheets became tight, as if the fabric between your fingers was the only grounding source available in the vicinity.

“Please, don’t look at me like that. Like I’m about to break your heart or somethin.’” He sighed. “You can’t look at me with those—eyes.”

“Well, are you about to break my heart, Joel? Cause if that’s the case, just rip the fucking bandaid off already.” Your voice cracked, and tears were already threatening to spill, but you held them at bay.

“I need you to understand that I don’t have any choice in this, alright? Tommy hasn’t returned any of my messages in two weeks. It usually only takes him a day to respond, and he’s gone completely radio silent. I’m leavin’ the QZ as soon as Tess and I can locate a truck battery, and I’m goin’ to Wyoming to find him.”

He didn’t have any choice?!

“Joel, do you realize how fucking insane you sound right now?! If Tommy hasn’t responded in two weeks he’s probably—”

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ say another word, ya hear me?!” He growled, cocking his revolver and stood up abruptly from the edge of the bed. “You don’t get a fuckin’ say in this! You ain’t my family!”

His words stung, slicing your heart in a million tiny pieces from the venom dripping from his lips. Maybe this was the wake up call you needed. The rose colored glasses were beginning to lift, and the ship that you and Joel had sailed for so long, was finally sinking.

“You’re right, Joel.” You agreed with him. “I’m not your family. So, what the fuck am I then?”

He looked at you coldly, eyes narrowed into slivers. His jaw clenched and unclenched. He didn’t want to be having this conversation with you right now. He needed to focus on finding this damn truck battery and going after Tommy. But of course you just had to be fucking stubborn about the whole thing.

“You’re nothing but a goddamn liability.”

There was no emotion in his tone, just the cutthroat truth of what you truly meant to Joel Miller.

“You don’t mean that. You’re just trying to hurt me!” You tried to convince yourself that this man did care for you in a sense. That he thought higher of you than just someone he fucked, someone he held, someone he shared his meals with.

“Why are you makin’ this so goddamn difficult, huh? You want me to stand here and tell you that I love you?! That I care for you further than what our relationship is?! Would you like me to spell it out for you?!” He yelled exasperatedly, throwing his hands up in the air out of frustration.

He didn’t even flinch when you scrambled out from under the sheets, desperately reaching for your discarded panties and shirt. You felt more exposed than ever in front of him as hot tears flooded and rolled down your cheeks. The same cheeks he had tenderly held between his calloused palms.

“You’re practically…a prostitute.”

You reached for your own gun that was resting on the nightstand closest to your side of the bed, and once you had a firm grip on the base of it, you whipped around to face him, gun aimed directly at him, mirroring his own.

“How—how fucking dare you! I’m not a prostitute, Joel! We—we have a mutual understanding! That’s how it’s worked, that’s how it’s always worked!”

“Had.” He corrected you coldly, cocking his head to the side. “And mutual understanding?! You mean our exchange?” He laughed and shook his head, “you offered me your fuckin’ body, and in return I’ve kept you alive! That ain’t a mutual understanding, sweetheart. Thas’ an exchange of services.”

“So, the time that I patched up your hand, and stayed with you even though I knew I shouldn’t have, meant nothing to you?!” You were full on screaming now, seeing red through your blurred tears. “My kindness meant jack all to you, Joel?!”

“Don’t stand there and act so surprised! I told you from the get-go, I am not a good fuckin’ man! You made those choices, sweetheart! I didn’t hold a fuckin’ gun against your head and force you to stay!”

You laughed, throwing your head back slightly because you couldn’t believe how fucking delusional he was being. As if he ever gave you a choice in the first place?!

You took one bold step in his direction with your gun still aimed and at the ready. “Choice?! Oh, please enlighten me on what choice you’re speaking of when you never even gave me a choice in the first place, Joel!”

“I ain’t got time for this. It’s fuckin’ done, alright? We’re done and you’re just gonna have to find someone else to keep you alive, little fawn. You can be someone else’s liability!” In the midst of his yelling, he eyed your gun wearily, already mentally planning in his head how he was going to disarm you if you made the stupid decision to lunge at him.

“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU, JOEL MILLER! I HATE HOW YOU HAVE MADE ME FEEL! DON’T YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO ME?! I—I HOPE THAT YOU NEVER FIND TOMMY. I HOPE HE’S DEAD, AND I HOPE YOU DIE ALONE, AND UNLOVED. I HOPE SOMEONE HURTS YOU THE WAY THAT YOU HAVE HURT ME AND—”

He wasn’t ready to admit just how shattering your words were. How it felt like someone had just ripped his heart out and tore it apart, piece by piece. But this is how he got by in life, by hurting those who he loved.

“I’m so fuckin’ relieved that you’re finally wakin’ up from whatever fairytale land you’ve been livin’ in, little fawn. There’s some hope that you won’t end up with a bullet between your eyes. Congratulations on joining the rest of society.” He muttered condescendingly. “Now, you’re gonna get that fuckin’ gun out of my face and go home, and you’re gonna forget all about me.” He deadpanned.

You did just that. He stood there just watching you quickly redress and tuck your gun into the waistband of your jeans. You strode past him, shoulder checking him on your way out.

“Careful. You might end up shootin’ your damn ass off.” He commented from the open doorway.

You didn’t have the strength to snap back at him. You felt broken, beaten, and defeated. He had taken all of you, and you felt like all that was left was your shell; withered and cracking away under his harsh cruelty and scrutiny.

You grabbed your backpack from the hook alongside the door and yanked the handle open, swinging it open loudly on its hinges. He waited till he heard the apartment door slam shut before he left his bedroom, padding quietly down the hall. He went straight to the door and locked it for good measure.

~~

When Marlene found you, you were in a drunken stupor after spending a day in lockup because you had stupidly punched a FEDRA officer in the face, oops. You traded a few ration cards for a cheap bottle of hooch, and proceeded to drink it in broad daylight in a deserted alley. It was nearing curfew now, and the bottle you had been nursing was completely drained and discarded by your feet. Marlene found you slumped over, covered in dried blood, vomit, and tears. You were curled up like a little fawn hiding in the thicket. She checked your pulse before you sputtered awake, lashes fluttering and eyes squinting through the massive hangover you were experiencing.

“M—Marlene?” You croaked out as you tried to wrap your drunken mind around how the fuck she found you here in the first place.

“He broke your heart, didn’t he? Told you he was bad news, sweetheart.” She sighed with a disappointed shake of her head. “Take my hand and we’ll get you cleaned up, okay?”

You neither confirmed nor denied her assumptions of why you were piss drunk in an alley. You simply reached for her outstretched hand and let her help you up from the ground. You were wobbly on your feet, like a drunk Bambi on ice, but she let you lean your weight entirely into her side.

A week later, you were officially a member of the Boston QZ Fireflies and under the direct protection of Marlene. If only you had known then that you had signed off on your own death certificate.

You were assigned to Riley’s position in the QZ mall making bombs for the Fireflies to use on an upcoming attack on FEDRA. When you asked Marlene what had happened to Riley, she cut right to the chase and told you that Riley had been bitten by an infected person. You didn’t ask for any further explanation, or where Riley had been bitten. Had you known that she was bitten in the mall, you would have begged Marlene for a different post instead.

When you proved yourself loyal to the Fireflies, Marlene decided that you were ready to be on the frontlines of the attack. Right in the midst of it. One of the bombs that you made with your own hands was about to be used in warfare; what a twisted turn of events.

~~

Tess Servopolous was having a shitty fucking day. After being jumped by a couple of Robert’s goons, and then finding out that he sold the truck battery that her and Joel needed, she was ready to go home and drink the whole thing off, when an explosion went off directly outside of the building that she, Robert, and two of his men were occupying.

She stumbled out of the wreckage, dazed and confused when she saw a FEDRA vehicle demolished and in flames. She squinted through the blinding sun when someone from a nearby rooftop yelled, “free Boston now, motherfuckers!”

And then, directly across the street, she caught a glimpse of you; Joel’s ex little fawn turned rebel scum. You were fleeing the scene just as FEDRA had shown up. Tess claimed she wasn’t a Firefly, but they threw her into lockup, anyway.

“He sold our battery to someone else, Joel.” Tess was sitting across from Joel in their shared tiny apartment. She had just disclosed to him that the men that had jumped her were with Robert, and she was in lockup all day. Joel was fuming.

“Who the fuck did he sell it to? That fuckin’ snake. Swear to god I’ll—”

“Joel, I need you to take a breath.” Tess said plainly, rubbing her sore temples with a sigh.

“I need that battery, Tess. It’s the only way we’re getting to Tommy and without it, we’re shit out of luck. He could be fuckin’ dead out there already for all we know. Where the fuck are we gonna find a battery now?”

“I saw her.” Tess said above a whisper to draw his attention.

“Don’t.” He warned her.

“Joel, I fuckin’ saw her! She’s—Firefly scum now. She was across the street when the bomb went off. She’s with Marlene now. She was fleeing the scene like a goddamn coward, too.”

It felt like Joel’s entire world was crashing down around him all at once. He hadn’t thought about you since your ugly departure from his apartment, but to hear that Marlene had sunk her venomous claws into you after all? He was furious, disappointed, and above all, he felt betrayed.

“You swear that you saw her?”

“On my life, Joel. It was her.” Tess would never lie. She had no reason to.

He swallowed the thick lump growing in his throat. It felt like hot bubbling tar was melting his insides away, melting the flesh from his bones and leaving him bare and brittle. He could taste the bitterness of betrayal on his tongue, and the dull ache in his heart. His fists clenched and unclenched, his brows furrowed tightly and his lips were in a straight, emotionless line. He looked across the table at his partner, giving her a slight nod of acknowledgment. “If I ever see her face again, I will kill her, Tess. I’ll make it hurt. I’ll kill her with my bare fuckin’ hands.”

He was a man of his word, but he was secretly praying that day would never come because he wouldn’t have the guts to do it. Not even after he promised Tess to her face that he would kill you. You were that weakness that he couldn’t shake free from.

“Good.” She nodded. “Now let’s go hunt that motherfucker down, and get our battery, our truck, and then we’ll go find Tommy, alright?” She reached for his hand that was clenched in a tight fist along the table.

“Alright.” He nodded.

Joel and Tess had a stash of weapons and supplies scattered about in different areas in and outside of the QZ. One of these areas included the boarded up mall, and this was Joel’s first stop. He had heard rumors sprinkled about that there were a handful of infected roaming the mall, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. He snuck into the building the same way he always did and retraced his steps purely from memory.

His confidence only began to waver when he approached the same door he had entered through over a dozen times and saw the unmistakable Firefly logo spray painted right across the frame of the door.

“Fuck.” He cursed under his breath and withdrew his concealed gun before pushing the slightly ajar door open with his broad shoulder.

On the other side of the mall, you were dealing with trouble of your own. Why hadn’t you asked Marlene more questions about Riley’s death—specifically where Riley had been bitten. Would Marlene have even told you the truth?! You were beginning to question the Fireflies true motives when you overheard Marlene and a few others talking about taking this girl out west to be tested in a hospital. This wasn’t just any random girl; she was immune to the Cordyceps infection. She could possibly be the cure to save the world, but even you were smart enough to know that Cordyceps grow inside the brain. This poor girl was going to die, and you wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

From that point forward you decided that you were going to sabotage Marlene and Fireflies plans. After setting off a bomb in the QZ, you fled back to the mall to dispose of the rest of the bombs you had made that week and then you were going to leave the QZ for good. It was supposed to be simple and go exactly as you planned it to, and it did up until the point when you ran into an infected person.

Your gun was knocked from your grip leaving you with only your knife for protection when the infected person shoved you against a nearby wall, knocking the wind from you. You fought like hell, stabbing wherever you could reach till the infected collapsed to the ground after you jabbed your knife directly into its neck before you sank down against the wall to catch your breath. Its body lay in a heap at your feet, blood pooling and leaking from the deep gash in its neck.

A few minutes later you heard a door nearby open and close followed by heavy footsteps. You scrambled to your feet, wiping your knife along your jeans and snatched up your gun that was on the floor a good few feet away. Your boots slipped in the puddle of blood and created a trail of crimson footprints. So much for remaining concealed.

Joel appeared shortly after you had taken off. He could smell the stench of blood and death permeating the air upon his approach. When he found the dead infected, he kicked it with the toe of his boot, checking to make sure it was actually dead. When the body didn’t move or twitch, he let out a brief sigh of relief before he noticed the trail of bloody footprints and followed them.

It didn’t take him long to find the room that you had been occupying. The trail of footprints had led him straight to another door and that’s when he noticed the fresh blood on the handle and proceeded with caution. When he pushed open the door, he expected to find a person on the other side but there was no sign of anyone. He was drawn to the table in the corner of the room where he recognized a plethora of materials used to make a bomb.

Jackpot.

He surveyed the small room with his gun still drawn at his side as he crept around. You were hiding in the supply closet which was an uncomfortable tight fit. You had no idea who the fuck was on the other side of the door, but you didn’t intend to find out anytime soon. Through the small gap in the metal closet, you were able to make out a pair of all-too familiar black boots.

No, no, no. Please. Anyone but him. Anyone but—

your foot slipped from the blood causing something from the top shelf of the closet to fall and cause a loud racket. Moments later the janitor closet doors were yanked open leaving you exposed. Joel didn’t see your face at first when he grabbed your arm and yanked you out onto the ground with his freehand.

You let out a yell, trying to claw at the man when he yanked you onto the floor. You scrambled to sit up, raising your arms above your head when he trained his gun on you. Your eyes simultaneously widened in shock. The masochist and the sadist together again.

“You have got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.” He let out a scoff. “So, Tess wasn’t lyin’ huh? You really are…Firefly scum?”

“You are quite literally the last person I ever wanted to run into, Joel.” You hissed between your teeth while you were at his mercy.

“Well, sweetheart, that makes two of us.”

“Hilarious, I’m absolutely dying with laughter right now.” You rolled your eyes and he scowled at your sarcasm.

“Turned into a joiner just like Tommy. How fuckin’ predictable.” He shook his head in disappointment. “I promised Tess that I would kill you with my bare hands if I ever saw your face again, but…I can’t bring myself to do that, little fawn.” He lowered his gun slowly just as you began to lower your arms.

“You were leaving me behind, Joel. What—what else was I supposed to do, huh? Marlene found me in an alley, covered in blood and vomit because I had gotten my ass thrown in lockup after punching someone from FEDRA in the fucking face. I had nowhere else to go, no one to turn to, and Marlene offered me protection.”

“You punched someone from FEDRA in the face?” He couldn’t help but feel a little amused with this knowledge. “Never expected those words comin’ outta your mouth.”

“Yeah, well, things have changed, Joel. I did what I had to do to survive. I’m sure you think I did it to betray you, right? Not everything is about you. And even if that were the case, why would you even care, considering I’m just a liability in your eyes.”

“You’re right.” He stated simply. “I do think you did it to betray me, but clearly Marlene’s war ain’t goin’ to peachy with you fuckin’ it up. If I’m not the one to kill you, then I’m sure she’s hot on your trail already.”

“You’re probably right. After I set that bomb off I decided that I was fucking done with the Fireflies. I came back here to destroy the rest of the bombs and then I’m leaving the QZ tonight.”

“Wow.” His eyebrows rose in surprise and he couldn’t help the grin that slowly tugged over his lips. “Look at you havin’ a plan of action. I’m impressed.”

“And I take it you haven’t located that truck battery, huh? Man, that’s gotta suck.” You snickered softly.

“Watch it.” He snipped, “We ain’t friends or nothin’ and I still can kill you.”

You both fell silent as your emotions swirled like a dust bowl. You could only imagine the hate that could spew from his lips next.

“Did you…” he was referring to the dead infected that you had killed earlier.

“Yeah, I did.”

He took a deep breath, nostrils flaring as he observed you from where he was standing. “And you didn’t get bit, right?”

His question hung heavy in the air between you. You don’t remember if you were bit or not. It all had happened so fast—

“I—I don’t think so.” You were unsure as you slowly rose to your feet and that’s when he noticed your hand and the obvious teeth indentations in your skin. The same hand that patched up his wound, the same hand that wrapped around his middle when he wanted to be the little spoon.

“Oh Christ.” He whispered in disbelief, taking a small step back from you, his instincts kicking in immediately.

You looked down at your right hand, noticing the bite and the blood slowly leaking from the grooves in the indented marks. You quickly wiped the blood away, thinking that the bite mark would suddenly just disappear.

“No, no, no!” You yelled a broken cry, “I don’t—I don’t want to turn into a monster, Joel!” You continued to furiously wipe at the bite mark, growing more and more frustrated—afraid when it wasn’t going away.

His heart sinks and he doesn’t know what to do, or how to react. His eyes are fixated on the bite mark and what it means, and he isn’t sure how much time he’ll have left with you. The one thing that he does know for certain is that he won’t let you turn into a monster. He’ll make it quick, painless. You won’t feel a thing. It’s the least he can do for you after all the pain he caused. It’s really starting to hit him now, all the hurtful things he said. The cruelty he thrashed upon you. God, how could he do such awful things to someone like you?

“I—I need you to take a deep breath for me, little fawn, okay? Please. You need to calm down.” He tried to reason with you as he took a half step forward.

“Calm down?! You—” tears began to profusely roll down your cheeks when you faced your own realization that it was only a matter of time before you would turn into one of those monsters.

“I’m—I’m not going to let you turn into a monster, okay? I swear on my life, I’ll make it quick. You—you won’t feel a thing, okay? I’m so sorry—I’m so sorry that I’ve been nothing but cruel to you. I pushed you away, I forced you to leave. I’m the reason you joined the Fireflies. It’s all my fuckin’ fault.” He was struggling to hold his own tears at bay when he saw your body begin to tremble.

“Let—let me be till…my last breath, okay? Please, Joel. Can—can you do that for me? I’m—I’m so afraid.”

He nodded and slipped his gun into his holster. “Until your very last breath, little fawn.”

You slowly sank to the floor and despite every cell in his brain telling him not to join you, he ignored his instincts and found himself sitting alongside you.

“Will—will you hold me? I—I want one last comfort before my mind and body is no longer my own.”

How could he say no to your final request? He knew it was risky, and the Cordyceps were already laying their claim inside of your body. “Of course I will.” He whispered softly.

You slipped into his arms as if they were made for you, and he held you close, resting his chin along the top of your head.

He told you about his daughter Sarah and how he closed himself off to all feelings after she died. He told you that she died in his arms on his 36th birthday and that he wore the broken watch on his wrist because it was her birthday gift to him. He was wearing it when she died, and the bullets ripped through her body. A stray bullet had pierced the glass on the watch and her time of death would forever haunt him.

The last words you spoke to him were of forgiveness, and the last touch you felt from him was his lips pressed to your forehead before your mind and body were no longer yours.

He could sense that your time was up, and that you were no longer with him. He had gone numb when he reached for the gun in his holster and quietly removed it. When the infected head turned towards him and he was met with its dead, glossed over eyes, this was his final confirmation and nail in the coffin that his little fawn was no more.

He mouthed, I’m sorry, before he locked the infected in a headlock. They tussled on the ground momentarily before he pressed the barrel of the gun between its eyes and pulled the trigger.

The body went limp in his loosened grasp, slumping into his arms like a bag of bricks. He broke down into silent tears that wrecked through his body as he cradled you in his arms, rocking back and forth to try and calm himself down.

“I’m so sorry, little fawn. You deserved so much better.” He pressed one last kiss to your forehead before he lifted your corpse into his arms. He wanted to lay you to rest someone soft and comforting in hopes that wherever you were now, was filled with nothing but peace, love, and no pain.

He found a bed of moss nearby and gently laid you down upon it. His fingertips brushed across your eyelids, pulling them down gently so that it would appear as if you were sleeping peacefully. He placed your pocket knife between your hands and said his final goodbyes.

When your body rotted and decayed, you became one with the moss and only your bones remained.

Years later, Joel still thinks about you, his little fawn. He wonders if you’re dancing amongst the stars when he sits out on the back porch of his home in Jackson. There’s frost in the air, but it’s a clear night with the moon shining bright. His guitar sits off to the side and his mug of coffee has steam billowing off the rim of it. He catches a glimpse of the tail end of a shooting star striking brilliantly against the jet black sky. He knows in his heart that it’s you up there.

banners made by lovely @saradika-graphics 💗

Follow @tightjeansjaviupdates for fic updates and notifications

[b14augrana]

Kiss of Strife

Football has always been your safe haven, but your home life gradually starts to manifest in different ways away from home, which doesn’t go unnoticed by your captain

Alexia Putellas x teen!reader

masterlist

Warnings: this story contains depictions of family issues associated with emotional unavailability and forms of abuse. read at your own discretion

A/N: an alexia x teen!reader angst fic was requested so here it is!! i decided this will be multiple parts as well so i hope you enjoy this chapter and the rest of this little series

(i wrote this pretty late at night and it isnt proofread so please excuse any mistakes regarding the tense, grammar etcetc)

Everything is perfect.

You’re scoring goals for your club and bagging assists. Your name is no longer a strange string of consonants and vowels but a recognisable word within the community of Cataluña, and it is only because of an ambition you dedicated the rest of your life to pursuing.

That’s just in the face of football though.

At home, there is a drought. The four walls of a family house are meant to behave like a dam which stores love and affection in the place of water, but your house is devoid of that.

Your house fosters a bitterness that doesn’t go hand in hand with anything along the lines of love and affection. The drawings on the fridge, created by a 5-year-old you, have faded over time, the ink being nothing more than splotches in some areas — a testament to the lack of care and attention your efforts received.

Relationships are barely surviving on simple greetings and empty ‘I love yous’. You crave something that is dangerous to want, but in your heart burns a desire to get the hell out.

Your lullaby is the faint yelling from the living room as you shut your eyes and focus on the gradually increasing volume of both voices, contradicting each other and trying to stab each other with no blade.

Your little sister crawls into your bed, her body flush against yours, another little arm wrapped around hers. Beneath your covers, there is warmth. Beneath your grip, there is safety.

During the school holidays, a child is supposed to savour every waking moment they spend at home and appreciate every day of it. You find yourself asking God why that isn’t the case, as you walk to practise with your sister’s hand in yours.

She sits on the sidelines picking grass as you train with your teammates, dreading the inevitable passing of minutes as you practise skill after skill. When you retreat to the bench for a quick water break, she runs up to you, bunches of chamomiles clutched in her hands that she begs to insert between the weaving of your braid.

From the day of your first training with the team, Alexia was drawn to you. She blamed it on her captain instincts, seeing as you’re the youngest on the team and therefore has the most potential, but now it’s gone beyond her captaincy. She’s known you for months, almost a full year now. She isn’t just your captain anymore.

She isn’t aware of the reality of your home life beyond the telltale signs such as the slightly sunken skin below your eyes or the bruises that taint your skin and are allegedly caused by your ‘clumsiness’. She knows there is something more to the extra effort you constantly put into training and games — she doesn’t know yet that it’s the pent up anger, sadness and fear manifesting in more productive forms.

You pour your heart and soul into the movement of the ball, in hopes that you can pursue your dreams of running away from what is restricting you from pursuing even greater dreams, an actual dream.

School starts back up for your sister. Things have been looking up for you, a huge burden off your shoulders. The house hasn’t shaken with another argument for a while and for once you get to know what silence is while you sleep, really sleep.

With every passing day, you find your memories with your father to resemble a garden; you can’t have a garden without flowers, just like how you can’t have memories of him without doing anything with him. When you were young, your garden was comparable to a rainforest, a new species in every corner, a kaleidoscope of beauty..

Until there was no more new species to plant and nurture, and the ones that already existed were getting neglected because all that you receive when you look at them are sour memories of what once was — the gardener you used to be, how rich the soil was, how steadily the flowers grew and how proud you were of your garden.

Your garden is dead now. It has gotten to the point where he doesn’t care about planting new flowers or watering the plants that already exist, leaving them to die of thirst. He’s absent and his emotional unavailability killed your flowers.

The little girl in you that wanted nothing else but love from her parents, loved that garden with her whole heart. She would’ve done anything she could to plant one more flower, she would’ve used the last drop of water in a drought to water her plants.

Alexia noticed something different about you today. The way you bounced around rather than the usual trudge… you had actual, sleep-induced energy.

Your sister also isn't with you. Alexia later asks you about it while you two are getting water and she learns that your sister is at school, and there is a smile on your face that she didn’t even realise had been absent for days until she saw it again.

Alexia has always been nice to you. The others treat you like a teammate, but she treats you like a friend. It feels like a special privilege, knowing ‘La Reina’ personally. She’s obviously a pillar in women’s football but to you, she’s much more.

She harbours a soft spot for you in her heart that becomes evident when she asks you if you need a ride home, and who are you to turn down such an offer when the ache in your legs is close to becoming unbearable?

“You’re talented, chica,” the woman says as you slink into the passenger seat of her car. “I haven’t had the chance to say it, but there hasn’t been a player like you for quite a bit.”

Her praise is so much more than just a couple of words from your captain. Though you smile and say a shy thank you, your heart races because you’ve just been called talented by one of the best players in the world, and there is no feeling greater than that. It gives you a tiny sliver of hope for a brighter future than what you’re already living, and for a moment, escaping your four walls seems possible.

The joy you experienced during the whole car ride is short lived once her car pulls into your driveway. Perhaps she can see the way your expression drops and your demeanour falls, because her hand finds your shoulder and squeezes it in a way that comforts you. “Do you want me to walk you to the door?” she asks, and though you really wish she could, you shake your head for the better.

There’s a slight frown on her face before she nods and drops her hand. You think about the possibility of her knowing that there’s something going on behind the closed doors of your home, and a big part of you hopes so, but no words besides a ‘gracías’ and ‘adios’ manage to find their way out of your mouth despite the pleas for help and support bubbling in your throat as you shut the door of her car.

When you reach the patio, the door opens to bombard you with the raucous of an argument happening around the corner of the hallway.

Your limbs are barely functioning and your eyes are struggling to stay open which is an obvious sign of the exhaustion soaring through your body, hence why you skip right past seeing your parents and beeline towards your sister’s room.

For as long as you can remember, arguments have been a consistent part of evenings spent in your household. Sometimes violence finds itself becoming the last resort, leaving you stuck to bear the brunt of a heavy hand. It’s what happens when two sides of the same coin try to work out — two negatives can’t make a positive, it’s impossible for them to get along and there is never a last word. That’s the unfortunate reality of your parents’ relationship.

You sink into the soft mattress of your sister’s bed and beckon her from the desk to lay beside you. She flips her paper over and abandons the seat to run over to you, her little body falling into your embrace. When she asks you what they’re talking about this time, you tell your sister that they’re just having a little disagreement, and if she sleeps it off, it’ll go away. It’s a promise, you say, before you proceed to tell her all about your training and your teammates. It’s her favourite thing, and she says it’s better than a bedtime story.

In no time, little exhales slip past her mouth as her eyes flutter shut, and you roll her off your body, tucking her into the butterfly printed duvet. With tentative steps across the hardwood, you find yourself at her desk and your fingers ghost over the piece of paper as you squint to read it in the dimness of her nightlight.

‘Mi papá hermana guapa

My sister is strong. She plays fútbol and she is good at it. My sister takes care of me and takes me to her pracktise, I like going with my sister. She helps me sleep and when I am with my sister, I am not scared. I am proud of m–…’

And the rest trails off. The body remains incomplete, but there’s one last sentence at the bottom of the page.

‘Amo a mi hermana.’

You place it back on her desk as you fail to combat the tears flooding your waterline. ‘She must’ve been instructed to write a poem by her teacher… for Father’s Day’, you think to yourself. Turning away so you don’t ruin her writing with your tears, you wiped them with the back of your Barça jacket sleeve and flipped the page around before making a dead silent exit. The house was completely still beside the low noise of talking from the TV and light snoring.

Your tears are not because of happiness. No, they stream down your face because it’s then that you realise something, and it opens up a whole new portal of questions.

As the streak of silence is broken and you’re forced to fall asleep to the low humming noise from the living room and a restless mind, you wonder what twisted realm of anger and bitterness your father lives in that forbids him from showing the smallest signs of love to his kids.

But, you already know the answer to that question, deep down. Instead, you wonder if you’ll see Alexia tomorrow, stretching in her usual spot, and you wonder if she’ll look up and smile at you again and invite you over.

You hope that’s what will happen. You pray for it.

[moetartart]

:*Trigger Warning for Abuse:** An analysis of the nuanced depiction of abuse dynamics in *Baldur's Gate 3*. Please skip if you’re uncomfortable with this topic or you hate long rants (this tumbler page as truly just became about one of my special interests and if I don't info dump I'll explode 😂)

**Cazador at the Head of the Table, and His Forced Family, with Astarion as the Scapegoat**

Cazador is one of the best-written abusers in fiction, showcasing how abusers systematically break down their victims in a way that is thoughtful and non-voyeuristic.

Astarion often receives criticism for his behavior. While I don’t seek to excuse his actions as if he were a real person, I aim to understand how his experiences shape his character and a depiction of a non perfect victim.

One of the most compelling aspects of Astarion's story is the depiction of the "scapegoat" abuse tactic. This is where a caregiver selects one child as the primary target of ridicule and abuse. Astarion says, "He took a special pleasure in my pain. He said my screams sounded sweetest!" Often, the scapegoat is the child who most reminds the abuser of themselves when they were vulnerable. The abuser uses this child to demonstrate the consequences of disobedience, bonding the other children against the scapegoat. They will also inflict the trauma they were exposed to in a twisted way to re-gain their own power and autonomy, and to inflict their internalised negative self talk on others.

Cazador's tactics of infantilization are particularly gut-wrenching. He calls Astarion a "stupid little boy" and forces him to call him "father," undermining his belief in his ability to make adult decisions on his own while simultaneously also forcing him into adult work. A way to break down his self esteem and take away his autonomy. This adds another level to Cazador's twisted, intimate abuse.

It's evident when you ask if Astarion called Cazador "master" in the bedroom, and he reacts negatively. It is also implied in the dialogue, "One final thrust... and I'll be rid of you..." as Astarion stands over Cazador, ready to stab him with a phalic symbol and Cazador in a submissive position.

In a Shadowheart playthrough, we see how Astarion seeks someone to follow because he doesn’t know how to think for himself. Auntie Ethel remarks that he misses his chains, and he admits he doesn't know how to make his own decisions. In Astarion's dream, you learn one of Cazador's rules is that Astarion must stay by his side unless told otherwise. We also see that Cazador regularly dined with Astarion, serving him putrid rats. He says "I have spent two centuries with You, and that should be punishment enough," which is quite an intimate insult. In non of these are the other spawn mentioned. He also mentions his sarcasm and jokes, something you wouldn't really think Cazador would permit. This suggesting an intense, twisted co-dependency. A lot of time spent alone together. As what? His child? His slave? His lover? It's sickening. Cazador seemed to want to fill every potential key roll in Astarions life. This is actually pretty common in adults relationships.

The extent of physical abuse is further revealed when Astarion sees the mad doctor in the House of Healing and remarks, "he's just like Cazador." The narrator says, "If you're late, he will flay you... again," and Astarion states, "Sometimes he would have us submit to torture. Other times he would have us torture ourselves."

So, why does Cazador do all this? Beyond sadistic pleasure and rituals off higher power, I believe it's driven by a fear of abandonment. His goal is to strip Astarion of any autonomy so he would return even if freed. When speaking to Cazador alone, he's convinced Astarion will come back because he cannot think for himself. Cazador wants to be the center of Astarion's life, and truly believes he is. A narcissist needing to see himself reflected in others, he required Astarion by his side to validate his awful existence. If Astarion leaves, Cazador feels he's losing an extension of himself. That Astarion is his and his alone to kill.

I also believe he genuinely wants to play house. That he wants a picture perfect family. We don't know much about Cazador before the game, only that he was from a vampire family. That his niece refused to partake. It's quite clear he felt like he was missing something in his family. We know his master committed acts of cruelty far beyond what he did to his own spawn, impaling him for ten years and draining his friend Infront of him. Surly a year of solitude is like being sent to your bedroom without supper compared to that? By Cazadors logic, he's far kinder than he was ever treated. He's been kinder and more loving than his own family. His children should be grateful that he protected them from what he went through. He believes his children are spoiled and if anything he has been to soft. After all, he gave thim his families birth right far above their station, eternal life. He gave them a family that will never abandon them. What more could they want?

And if course, we as plays see this cycle continues with AA, who says he will be a far kinder master he'd never make his dear lover eat rats. They wouldn't be his child, more a pampered pet. Compared to how Astarion was treated, what more could they want?

And how very true to live that an abuser will preach about how much worse they had things and how lucky their victims are. How soft they must be to complain.

This gives us a clear picture of Astarion at the start: someone with a fragile sense of self, preferring to see others tortured rather than be the one in the chair, and looking for someone to follow. He'll fake a smile to keep them around. While this doesn't excuse his cruelty, it explains it; Astarion is free for less than a day when you meet him. There are no perfect victims, and unlearning brainwashing takes time. Reducing Astarion to "evil" or "good" overlooks the complexity of a character who could become either an abuser or a liberator.

What I appreciate most is that Astarion's past doesn't vanish when Cazador dies; he still carries the scars, but in a positive playthrough, there is hope. Astarion has the chance to do better, starts making his own choices, and sometimes gets it wrong.

Crucially, the abuse is never voyeuristic. It is always shown from the survivor's perspective, focusing on its effects on their lives. It's always clear when a player choice disrespects his growth and autonomy. Cazador and Astarion are never framed to titillate or as a mind of grousome special to the viewer, unlike in shows like *13 Reasons Why* or Ramsey Bolton in *Game of Thrones*. The game handles the topic with a lot of care. Infact the only time we see Cazador in person is when we have the chance to stop him. We never see Astarion subjected to something we can alter in some way.

Also, we do hear of Astarions bravery in trying to defy his master and save people. Unfortunately as in the game and real life, people don't always have a choice. Still, in a good ending Astarion can choose to try and help others who have been hurt and use what he has learned to make real change.

The reasons why Cazador is the way he is are another rant entirely. But while I hate him as a person, I adore him as an antagonist. How can a character be written to be pathetic and terrifying at once?

**TL;DR:** *Baldur's Gate 3* presents a complex, nuanced abuse narrative, executed beautifully. Many people overlook or disregard Astarion as an excellent depiction of survival in my opinion.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Blood Ties Chapter 30

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Somewhat graphic depictions of afterbirth; Breastfeeding; Newborn bodily functions; Scars and allusions to past child abuse.

A/N: Fuck me sideways, I have struggled to write since all this shit in my personal life. This chapter is pretty boring but I guess there are some fluffy aspects. And Thumper gets a name.

The tiny creature that had just been shrieking in Hershel’s grasp, was now rooting around angrily while you studied every perfect little inch of her. Her skin was pink beneath the drying, waxy mess of vernix caseosa—or whatever Hershel had called it—and blood. The old man had said if he had to guess, he would put her at about six pounds. Hilarious since she felt like she weighed thirty while you carried her. 

Her round little face scrunched up before she wailed again, disturbed from her meal-seeking venture by Carol leaning around Daryl to drape a blanket over her. When you looked up to smile at him, you found the archer studying his baby like he wasn’t quite certain about something. 

“What is it?” You asked, moving the blanket a little so he could see her better. 

“S’just—” He reached toward the bundle but withdrew. “Feels like—feels like she ain’t real.” You could see the tears brimming on his waterline, crystal droplets shining beneath the pale yellow illuminance of the van’s interior overhead light; how he would squint instead of blink in an attempt to keep them from falling. 

“Daryl, you—ow.” You placed your hand on your lower abdomen, finding it tight within a cramp even if the skin itself was slightly looser. 

“Ow?” Daryl appeared panicked but was desperately trying to keep himself together. He wasn’t doing a very good job. It was so odd to see him constantly grappling for control over his emotions when he had always—for the time you’d known him—been so careful not to allow too much to show. 

The veterinarian checked the cord to find it no longer pulsing. The contractions you were having now were mild cramps compared to before, Hershel advising you that you would need to give up your hold on Thumper to deliver the afterbirth. The archer watched as you handed off Thumper to Maggie. You wondered if he even realized why you hadn’t given him a chance to hold his daughter yet. Regardless, it was immediately apparent he hadn’t been listening in the slightest—

“Just an easy push, Y/N.”

“Wait! What?!” Daryl shouted. Meanwhile, you were clenching your fists and bearing down. It wasn’t the worst pain but considering you had just pushed a tiny human out of the same opening, you were a tad bit sore.

“Good, good. I can see it. One more push.” 

Daryl’s hand wrapped around one of your fists. You uncurled your fingers and let his slip between them. “See what?! The fuck she pushin’ again for?” The archer gave no time for anyone to answer that particular question before he was crawling and leaning above the space between your knees—just in time for the placenta to exit your body while you groaned through the discomfort. “What the flyin’ blue fuck s’that?!”

“It’s alright, son.” 

“It��s okay, Daryl.” Carol repeated. 

The archer had gone white again, swaying slightly and swallowing convulsively while scooting back toward you on his ass. You tugged gently on his hand before anyone else could interfere. “Hey, tough guy. Look at her.” God, you were exhausted but keeping your partner grounded was your priority. He had a baby to meet. Daryl’s eyes shifted to you and then behind you to the infant over which Maggie was currently gushing.

“She’s perfect.” The elder Greene daughter chuckled through her own tears. 

The hunter stared at Thumper, the color slowly returning to his skin. “Rick!” He belted out suddenly. “We clear?”

“All clear for now.” The former deputy called back, even though there was little more than five feet separating them.

“Good. Stop.” 

“Stop?” Rick glanced back over his shoulder, once and then again. “Shouldn’t we—”

“Stop the van.” This time Daryl barked the command, growing irritated. He gently extricated his hand from yours, moved toward the door, and wrapped his fingers around the handle. It was obvious he was waiting for the vehicle to come to a halt.

“Daryl, what the hell are you doing?” You queried while trying to divide your attention between him and Thumper being placed back against your skin. The baby began to squeak, working up to another bout of shrill cries before you shifted her, trying your hand at offering up a breast without any guidance. When her tiny mouth latched onto your nipple immediately, you felt a tugging sensation, but no pain like you had actually expected. 

“You’re a natural!” Carol exclaimed through her own tears and sniffles. 

Before you could offer comfort while the other woman was obviously distraught—likely reminiscing of the times just after the birth of Sophia—the van jolted to a stop and Daryl was opening the door, jumping out with his bag and crossbow, and closing it before you could say a word. 

“What’s happening?” You sat up just a little, your eyes wide. “Where’s he going? Rick?”

“Stay still. Relax.” Maggie cooed, dragging a finger tenderly down Thumper’s cheek. “Let her nurse. I’m sure Daryl’s got his reasons.” You nodded even though you weren’t truly satisfied with the answer. You were just simply too exhausted to think about it any further. Carol started handing Maggie blankets to roll up behind you. “We’re gonna getcha all cleaned up and as comfortable as we can until we can find somewhere safer, okay?”

“Just wrap this up until Daryl gets back.” Hershel spoke softly, placing a bloody blob of something onto a large piece of cloth before handing it to Carol. The sac was connected to Thumper by the slimy cord. 

“Do you think he’ll want to?” The other woman whispered. Sight and sound were starting to fizzle out. Your body was demanding rest, all reserves depleted. Thumper was suckling away, making the sweetest little snorting breaths between gulps. Maggie was wiping the sweat from your face and neck, sweeping the fabric back and forth over every inch of skin she could reach.

Hershel and Carol worked together to clean up the mess between your legs, the area swollen and sore and thank god you were so exhausted or that would have really hurt. When you opened your eyes again, you were covered with a blanket and Thumper was gone from your chest. 

“Thumps?!” You bolted upright, caught halfway by Hershel’s gentle hands on your shoulders. 

“She’s fine. You were quite out of it when she finished. Maggie tried to burp her but breastfed newborns don’t always need it. Now she’s there with Carol, getting cleaned up the best we can without warm water. The vernix caseosa can stay on her skin until she can have a good warm bath. It won’t do any harm. We just thought she could do without the other fluids.”

You nodded tiredly. “How long did I sleep?”

“Only about half an hour.” Carol answered, shuffling on her knees with the baby in her arms. “Rick grabbed the diapers from the truck and checked on everyone. She’s such a tiny thing, the newborn size almost swallows her.” She pulled the blanket away to place the baby against your skin and then covered her again with the small receiving blanket. Once Thumper settled, Carol pulled the thicker blanket over both of you. 

You felt your expression light up—casting shadows over your exhaustion—at the sight of that little face. God, she was tiny. The lack of blood revealed wisps of blonde hair, still molded flat in some places by the waxy covering. You could already see so much of Daryl in her that it—

“Where’s Daryl?”

As if summoned by his name on your lips, the van door opened to reveal the archer, clearly shivering. He tossed his bag and crossbow to the side and climbed in, rubbing his hands up and down his sleeved arms. He was clean, his hair wet while the strands appeared damn near frozen. His dirty clothing—vest and poncho included—was missing, likely in his pack. 

“Daryl Dixon, are you trying to end up with pneumonia again?!” Carol admonished. She shoved his bag out of the way quickly and tossed the last larger blanket around his shoulders. 

“C-c-couldn’a held ‘er like I w-w-was, right?” His teeth legitimately chattered, his gaze leaving Carol to look you over. “D-doin’ alright?”

You narrowed your eyes above the ghost of a smile. “Did you really go find a body of water to take a bath in the middle of winter?” 

“W-wouldn’a left ya but w-was d-d-dirty. Wanted t-to—wanna hold ‘er.” Once again, he was pale as milk but there was some color slowly seeping into his cheeks. Hershel wasn’t freaking out over his current state, so—contrary to the pressure threatening to choke you from the inside—you wouldn’t either. Daryl ran his tongue over colorless lips and ducked his head.  “If that’s alr-right?” 

Your mouth fell open, your brow furrowing while you blinked at him. Did he just— “Daryl, she’s your daughter. Of course you can hold her.” You were already moving an arm from beneath Thumper’s miniscule weight. When your hand found his, you pulled back with a hiss. “Maybe just get a little warmer first though, okay?” The archer nodded, but he still looked so uncertain. 

Hershel cleared his throat. He had remained still and silent throughout the exchange but then slowly crept down to sit on his knees at your hip. “In the meantime.” With a gesture toward Carol, he held out his hands. The cloth-clad placenta was placed onto his palms. It had apparently just been traveling around with Thumper wherever she roamed within the van. “Would you like to cut the cord, son?”

Still shivering but teeth no longer clicking together, Daryl’s expression molded into equal parts disgust and confusion. “The hell would I wanna do that?”

“It’s a tradition.” The old man explained. Carol was busy cleaning her knife with some rubbing alcohol. “It marks the start of life outside of the mother, when the father can begin to be physically involved in caring for the baby.”

The hunter brought his left thumb to his mouth, chewing on the side, granting a physical form to his inner anxiety. “Don’t it hurt ‘er?” You were curious as well, and you looked away from your partner to await the answer. 

“There are no nerves in the cord. She won’t feel a thing.”

Daryl drew back when Carol presented him with the knife. He looked to you. You shrugged a shoulder, careful not to jar Thumper. “It’s your decision.”

“Must be done. It doesn’t matter if it’s you or myself.” Hershel added. 

Lowering his hand from his teeth, Daryl eyed the knife. It was clear that he didn’t believe he wasn’t going to hurt his daughter. His thumb was replaced by his lower lip, jaw inching back and forth to gnaw at it earnestly. Without a word, he reached for the knife. Carol offered him a smile that he unsurprisingly didn’t return. 

“Where do—how does it—”

“I’ll help you.” The veterinarian reassured, balancing the organ on top of one hand while the other lifted the cord. “Right between the tape.” 

“Don’t that leave some’a it?” Daryl’s throat was visibly working as he swallowed. 

“That will dry up and fall off. I’ll show you both how to care for it until that happens.” 

The exhale was audible, undoubtedly something he didn’t intend but also didn’t take notice. Daryl’s hand was shaking, the blade carefully pressed to slice upward and away from the skin of your newborn. You held your breath, afraid any movement or sound would cause her to stir. If Daryl accidentally nicked her, there’d be no consoling him.

The cut was clean and quick, Thumper remaining sound asleep throughout. Your head tipped back against your pillow of blankets, relief flooding through you in a tingling wave that left you once again feeling wrung out. Half an hour was not enough. You wanted to sleep for days. 

Turning your head was a chore, but worth it. Daryl was ignoring everything that was happening below the two of you, his eyes dancing between you and his daughter. “I know.” You whispered. His gaze found yours. “She’s finally here.” He nodded, his lips slightly parted with words he couldn’t seem to articulate. “It’s a lot, Daryl. I know. It’s okay.” 

He was trembling, but you were certain it was no longer from the cold. His entire world had just changed. He was a father, and—judging by the look on his face, the turmoil in his pretty eyes—he was terrified. 

“Do you wanna hold her?” Your question was met with a sharp inhale, his spine straightening. 

“I—” 

You were already shifting the baby, shushing and cooing when she squeaked and stretched in protest. 

“You should bond with her too, Daryl.” Carol was sitting against the interior wall, looking her own personal sort of tired. “If you feel comfortable, um—” She turned her head to look away entirely, staring at the opposite wall. “You should let her lay against your skin.”

Bless him, he looked as though he might hyperventilate. “What if—she might—don’t wanna scare ‘er.” Daryl stared at Thumper, her little head moving back and forth as you offered her to him. You wouldn’t tell him the baby was too little to be scared. That would only leave him wondering if she’d be afraid of him later, when she was older. He was so convinced that his scars would make his daughter fear him. 

That anger you had felt before, the inferno of rage that had boiled beneath your ribs—it was back. Had they been still alive, you would strangle those people that had hurt him, scarred him so deeply. Beyond physical. But they were dead. And you were there. You would do your damnedest to show him a different perspective. That he was good and not a product of his father’s anger or his mother’s absence. That he was loved. 

“She isn’t afraid and she won’t be, not of you.” You vowed, pulling Thumper in against your own chest once more. With a hand then free, you raised the blanket and slid over with a grunt. The pain wasn’t horrible but you were definitely sore. “Get under here with me first.”

Maybe one day, he would be beyond the urge to hide that part of himself. Until then, however, you were more than content to help him find any measure of comfort you could offer. 

Daryl hesitated, giving you a quick once over. “Won’t hurtcha?” 

You smiled, small and tired but genuine. “No. Now get under here. Don’t make me drag you while holding a newborn. You know I can do it.” You challenged playfully. Maybe you could lighten the atmosphere. With a pfft, he took the blanket from your hand and shed the one around his shoulders, his eyes darting over to Hershel and Carol. They had knowingly turned their backs. You almost wished they would leave but having someone knowledgeable there was a comfort you weren’t ready to be without. You had no idea what you were doing. Once he was settled, you did your best to pull up the blanket until he took over. “Unbutton your shirt?”

“Dunno if—”

“She already loves you, Daryl. You were the one to calm her down when she was river dancing on my intestines. Just—try?” He sighed, his fingers slowly working open the buttons before stalling. “If you’re too uncomfortable with it, we’ll fix it, okay? I’ll take her and then you can put her on top of your shirt.”

The deep breath he took trembled but he continued until he could part his shirt enough for his chest to be visible. Even with only your eyes on him, he began to exhibit obvious anxiety. 

“It’s only me.” You whispered while maneuvering Thumper. He could actually hold her later, when there weren’t four of you cramped up in the back of an old van with stow-and-go seats. 

The man looked like he was two seconds from sliding out from beneath the blanket and bolting—until the moment the baby’s skin finally touched his own. His wide eyes drained of any trace of fear to make room for awe. 

“Holy fuck.” 

Watching him closely, those two words were meant to be part of the internal monologue he had going on inside his head. His calloused hands had never looked so gentle, laying across Thumper’s back. He immediately lifted one and placed the other there instead with the previous palm resting on her little diapered bottom.

“She s’posed to be this small?” His voice cracked. You turned onto your side, slowly and stiffly, while he silently let his gaze wander over to watch you move. Wiggling to find a comfortable position, you settled with your head on his shoulder and your fingertips brushing repeatedly over Thumper’s head.

“Hershel said she probably weighs around six pounds.” 

“S’that okay?” His thumb was swiping back and forth through the slightly darker blonde hair on the back of the baby’s head. 

“She’s perfect.” 

“Yeah.” He agreed, quietly. His head was tilted, angled to be able to see the little face of the human he helped create. “I, uh—thank you.” You lifted your head to stare him down, quiet yet questioning. “Y’know—for her.”

Your expression softened. Your hand lifted from Thumper to Daryl’s chin, guiding his head to turn. Stifling the grunt of discomfort that moving caused, you shimmied up just enough to press your lips to his. It was chaste but no less passionate. 

“None of that for at least six weeks. Minimum.” Hershel chided from the back of the van. 

Daryl huffed in annoyance, only slightly turning away to bark out “the hell’s ‘er mouth got to do with anythin’?” You laughed in spite of yourself, the action jarring and uncomfortable. 

Hershel even chuckled. “I mean no further, son. No intercourse. She needs to heal.” 

Damnit. You knew at that very moment, it would take you twelve weeks to coerce Daryl into actual sex. God, if your vagina wasn’t ruined after pushing out a whole human. Oh well, you’d be fine as long as he was still yours. You blinked, eyes glazed and thoughts wandering. He would still want you, right?

“Gotta make things weird, old man? Christ.”

Shaking your head, you pushed those worries aside for later. He was now warm and you had your personal space heater back. You molded yourself to his side and willed your body to relax. Daryl was there. Your little family was safe. Sleep laid its claim on you within moments. 

“Claire?” You suggested. Your hand alternated between rubbing and patting the back of the frustrated infant on your shoulder, coaxing out a burp that vibrated your collarbone. Don’t always need it, indeed. While Daryl sat across from you on the bed, rubbing the length of his left index finger across his lips, you adjusted Thumper to the opposite breast. Her little fists were flailing, her face scrunched up and red. The little squeaks and grunts were aplenty as she worked herself up to a squalling cry. “Ssh, here, Thumps.” The moment your nipple rubbed against her cheek, the baby rooted for it eagerly, latching on and suckling with gusto. 

“When she scrunches ‘er face like that, she looks like Merle.” Daryl snorted. His expression didn’t show it but his eyes held a distinct shimmer of sadness. 

“Wanna name her Merle? Merlene? Marleen?” You almost cackled at the look he pulled. “Okay, okay. I said Claire, grumpy gills.”

“Nah.” He sniffed and briefly glanced toward the window. You could hear the van and truck rolling in, hopefully with more supplies. “Makes me think’a that ear piercin’ place in all the malls.”

You thought about people that you had lost. Maybe you could honor them this way. “Andrea?” Daryl snorted. 

“She gonna shoot me when she gets older?” He took a deep breath and balanced his chin on his right palm, elbow pressed into his thigh. “Don’t really feel like she should be a Andrea.”

“Patricia?” You pressed on, stroking Thumper’s cheek with a fingertip. “We could call her Patty?”

“No.”

Your aunt maybe. “My aunt’s name was—actually, no. Nevermind.” This time, it was you that snorted. Daryl shook his head before he turned it back to the window. Thumper had released your nipple, even as her little mouth continued to try and suckle. “Can you burp her while I get all—” you gestured broadly toward your entire self. 

“Sure.” He slid off the mattress and leaned down to take his daughter, so carefully maneuvering her against the front of his shoulder. You kept your sights on him as he moved toward the window, offering the baby a little sunlight. 

You and Daryl slept in the van until the current safe house had been found. No one even woke the archer to help clear it. Probably because Thumps was still lying on his chest. Carol had been the one to wake the two of you, sending you into the bedroom while she heated as much water as she could for you to properly clean up and then to give the baby a warm bath.  Daryl held your daughter while you wiped her down. There was a fire burning in the living room and though you could feel the house slowly warming, neither of you wanted to take any risks. You removed the little knit hat from her head and took care in wiping away the remaining film over her skin. Patting her dry, you replaced the hat and moved on. Each area was bared, cleaned, and covered. You couldn’t help but smile when the archer looked away while you removed the diaper. You made it all the way to her feet before she woke up properly and started trying to suckle Daryl’s thumb.  “Barkin’ up the wrong tree, lil’ one. Gonna hafta talk to your mama if you’re hungry.”

And now here you were, tucking away your tits into a nursing bra while your partner rubbed the back of your perfect daughter by a sunlit window. Thumper was in a light blue sleeper onesie and wrapped in a pink blanket— littered with little birds—to make sure she stayed warm. 

You didn’t hear her burp but had no doubt that she did if he was taking her from his shoulder to the crook of his right arm. From your vantage point you couldn’t see much but you could tell Daryl was talking to her. 

While daddy and daughter were occupied, you laid back on the bed and stretched tired muscles. Your abdomen was still swollen but soft. It was your lady bits that were hot and sore. Forget taking a piss. You had nearly screeched when Daryl had accompanied you earlier, leaving Thumper with Carol. You were bleeding but thank god, Carol had warned you and handed you a couple of pads before you headed out the door. You hadn’t thought anything of it until you were standing over where you had urinated and it looked like a murder scene. 

“Jesus, it’s Nightmare on Elm St in my underwear.” You said as you rounded the tree. Daryl looked unamused.  “Ya gotta be so—graphic? Good lord.”

“Need to hunt soon.” Daryl spoke suddenly from the window. You sat back up with a wince just as he made his way back to you. 

“We have a lot of canned stuff. You don’t need to—”

“Doc said ya need protein to keep makin’ milk for her.” 

You didn’t want him to go anywhere. Logically, you knew it made sense. He was the only other hunter besides yourself. Canned veggies wouldn’t do much towards milk production and of course Daryl had asked about it already. Hershel had been pleased that Thumper was appearing satisfied with the colostrum you were producing, but she would need more even within just the next few days. 

“When?” You tracked him as he lowered to the edge of the mattress just in front of you. The baby’s little hand was curled around his middle finger and you weren’t sure he cared about anything else enough to divert his attention away from his newborn. “Daryl.” You chuckled. 

“Yeah?” He still wasn’t paying attention. 

“Purple because aliens don’t wear hats.” 

“Mhm.” Had he ever been this distracted? You called his name again amidst a laugh, each syllable bouncing. Finally, he looked up. Straight ahead first, as if forgetting where you were sitting. Then it was over to you. “You say somethin’?” 

“Welcome back.”

He mocked a laugh and then deadpanned. “Funny girl.”

Your smile remained steadfast. “When are you going out to hunt?” 

“Thought I’d leave in the mornin’. Y’know, stick ‘round to help ya tonight an’ make sure ya both’re all good ‘fore I go. Try to bring back all I can so that—” His mouth was still open, but the words stopped altogether. His brow drew inward. “Think this diaper’s toast.”

Oh god. 

The first diaper change.  

“Should I get Carol?” You asked in earnest. You had never changed a diaper before and Daryl had never indicated he had any experience either. Still, he shook his head. 

“Gotta learn sometime, right? Between the two’a us, how hard can it be?”

The answer: really fucking hard. 

“Daryl, you have to look!” 

“Don’t feel right to see ‘er—areas.”

“You’re her father and you’re trying to change her. It’s fine. You’re gonna get it all over your hands if you don’t look.”

“S’it s’posed to be that color?” 

“How the hell should I know? Can you hand me the wipes?” 

“What wipes?”

“You didn’t grab the wipes?”

“No?” 

“Was that a question?” 

“No?”

“Daryl.”

“Y/N.”

“Get the wipes.”

Twenty minutes later, Thumper was snoozing comfortably on the mattress, wrapped snugly in her blanket without a care in the world. You and Daryl, however, were staring at the small creature, appearing every bit as though you were trapped in the flashbacks of war. 

“I don’t think it’s supposed to take that long.” You finally commented. 

“Walker guts don’t even look like that.” Daryl’s voice was just as quiet and monotonous as your own. 

“It didn’t even smell. Shouldn’t it smell bad?”

“You’re complainin’?” 

“Touché.”

When Carol knocked, your heads moved in unison, two sets of wide, troubled eyes landing on the woman in the doorway. Her eyebrows shot upward, lowering slowly as she took in the scene: you and Daryl cross-legged on the mattress. Thumper just a few inches away. Wipes and a rolled up diaper on the floor below the foot of the bed. Her hand flew to her mouth, pressing against it to smother the chuckle that tried so hard to break free. 

“You two okay?” She finally asked, clearing her throat. 

“We look okay?” Daryl rasped. 

She struggled against laughter again. “You look like two first time parents discovering one of the joys of a newborn.” 

“We need help.” You were practically pleading, feeling horrible to ask it of the woman who had lost her only child. Daryl’s expression was just as desperate even if he would never grant it a voice. 

“Okay, let’s go over the basics.” Carol shook her head fondly and closed the door behind her. 

Several feedings and diaper changes later, Thumper was asleep between you and Daryl. Night had stolen the sun and a candle burned on the bedside table behind you. She was so far a quiet baby, only crying when she was hungry and would squeak and grunt when her diaper was soiled. 

“Expressing herself in grunts and other noncommittal sounds. She’s totally your kid.” You teased.  “Shuddup.”

Daryl’s hand was on the baby’s stomach, likely just as much for his benefit as hers. He was dozing, making a valiant effort to stay awake with little success. You were just as tired but you couldn’t seem to coerce your eyes away from your partner and daughter. Daryl had been so attentive and tender with you while you carried Thumper but seeing him physically interact with her was an entirely different experience. 

Once again, it was likely something he would internalize but he was absolutely in love. That little thing lying between the two of you had already stolen his whole heart. If you had any doubt of his desire and ability to be her dad,—which you didn’t—that would be long gone now. 

When you weren’t nursing her, she was with Daryl. He talked to her in hushed whispers like sharing secrets he’d never speak to another living soul. And she slept or stared at him while he stared right back. She had the bluest of eyes but Carol said they might not remain that way. 

You hoped they did. 

When she looked at you, you could feel her curiosity and adoration. You were her mother and she knew. She knew your voice, your touch. She knew Daryl. Carol said Thumper could only see in shapes and shades of gray, but you didn’t believe that. Not for a second. They way she would stare at Daryl, her little fingers squeezing the edge of her pink bird blanket. No, you didn’t believe that. 

“Think I gotta name for ‘er.” Daryl spoke suddenly, words rough off his tongue, laced with exhaustion. You smiled. 

“Oh yeah?” You wondered if he was even awake or aware of what he was saying. His eyelids were heavy, flickering open every few seconds. 

“Yeah. S’okay if ya don’t like it. Don’t really make no sense.”

You laughed within a breath, reaching to brush the hair off his forehead. When he didn’t speak for a moment, you found yourself too curious to let it go. “Are you gonna tell me?” 

He took a deep breath, eyes still closed, with an mhm during the exhale. His index finger was gently rubbing back and forth over Thumper’s little hand while she had it fisted into her blanket. 

You almost moved your hand to his shoulder to shake him awake, but refrained. He was—like you—exhausted, and within that state, he was emotionally vulnerable. You almost felt as if you were taking advantage of that, but there was a realization that you wanted him to name her. So, you would wait. Let him sleep or listen when he was ready to tell you. 

“Birdie.” He finally breathed. Without opening his eyes, he moved his finger to tap one of the birds on the blanket. “Birdie Jade.”

You felt the wet tickle of a tear running across the bridge of your nose and wiped it away before it could sting your other eye. Sniffling, you ran your fingers through the hair above Daryl’s ear. His eyes finally opened, clear and sharp, watching, waiting for your reaction. 

You pulled back your hand and laid it on top of his, over the baby’s blanket. 

“Hi, Birdie.”

[tarjapearce]

can we get something about reader having a kid before she met Miguel. her ex was treating her poorly while she was pregnant and after she gave birth, having her to clean the house and take care of their newborn cause the ex was too lazy and verbally abusive? After knowing Miguel for awhile, reader becomes preggo and she’s super scared that she’ll be neglected, but Miguel’s with her the whole time. or a happy ending of your choice🫣

Yee ✨

Parallels and Opposites

Landlord! Miguel O'Hara x Reader

WARNINGS: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Verbal abuse, manipulation toxic relationships dynamics, controlling behavior, gaslight, mild graphic depictions of domestic violence, hurt, struggles, fluff towards the end. No proofread.

Summary: Miguel shows you what true love and family means.

If someone asked you, what would be your biggest regret, a simple name would come to mind. Samuel 'Sam' Lawson.

The man that with his sweet words and lies had stolen you out of the comfortableness and stability of your home. A man that had seduced you right after you finished college and spoke about how you'd be his perfect little housewife.

Someone that played a perfect house angel role and had convinced your parents to live with him a couple of days after the graduation ceremony. Someone that without a doubt, would've teached Judas his own lying game since it proved effective on you and everyone around you.

Samuel was loving, always filling you with gifts and smiles, always making sure you knew his heart was yours, and always making sure you wouldn't have to worry for things such as money. You were happy.

So happy that ignored the micro-aggressions that hid between the loving noise. Beyond happy that you grown used to his presence, even when he didn't need to be there and ignored your few friend's warnings of his controlling and possessive behavior.

They were just jealous that they didn't have someone like him. Right?

It was normal for your loved one to pull you apart from those friendships that deemed toxic, right?

"They're always criticizing us, babe. They're just jealous I take care of you the way they wished their simpleton partners would. You don't need people like that in our lives."

And little by little your friend's circle decreased considerably, but Sam was always there. Ever loving and supporting. Even when in his outbursts he always made sure to say it was all for your good, because he loved you. That everything he did was for you, like it's always been.

He loved you so damn much that it hurt and his relief was beer, staying outside home until late, or fucking you till your body begged for a break.

Life was generous and good, so good you had gotten pregnant. Sam was ecstatic. You finally were carrying his child. And it was enough to make you his fiancé.

"We ain't married yet, but til death do us apart, honey." He'd say, peppering your face in kisses.

There was nothing to fear. All those seedlings of doubts your friends had put, were sapped away, He loved you.

Until he found out you were having a baby girl.

His loving and protective facade begun slowly chipping away.

The beer's stench stuck on his body and breath most of the times Sam was awake. His bad mood was always rampant, making every little thing an inconvenience that didn't help your crumbling relationship.

A few dishes rested comfortably on the sink? He'd scream and to calm him down, you'd rush to clean it all up. His snacks crumbs were in his favorite seat? God forbid to Sam see them cause it was another round of cruel jokes.

"Maybe if you weren't that fat to clean, this place wouldn't look this bad."

It was his bad humor. You thought at first. You knew he had a bad temper, but you were too busy falling inlove to actually notice it seeping through the cracks. You were too busy loving him that ignored the liquid anger pooling at your feet. Slowly filling the four walls you inhabited.

He'll change.

You clung to that thought alone, hoping that this phase was only temporary. That he'd go back to the same man you met. The same mn that got you breakfast in bed and took you to dance the many times you wanted.

Not this man that hurt your mind with whatever nonsense about your body he thought and his mouth spilled. Or hit the walls, instead of hitting you because he loved you.

He loves me.

"Where's my fucking dinner?"

He's just having a bad time with the medical expenses. That's all.

"You fucking stay here all day long doing shit, instead of keeping it all together while I work my ass off to get your fatass whims."

"I clean and cook, Sam." your mouth mumbled and it was enough for him to be invading your space, his taller frame cornering you against the shiny counter you always cleaned up.

"The fuck did you say?"

You gulped. The words replaying in your mind but unable to come out of your mouth. He seemed pleased on the smell of your fear.

"Wouldn't it the least you could do to your hard working husband, hmm?"

You didn't want to admit that these sudden hot and cold games confused you to no end. But they fed your hope of bringing him back.

"I'm sorry." You hushed and he caressed your chin a bit roughly, making you look at him.

"I know. I know pregnancy is hard on you, but your babygirl is not an excuse to not tend your husband's need, honey. You gotta do better. For me."

You nodded while he kissed your forehead and you got away to serve him his dinner.

"We can't have any more mishaps, can we?"

"I'll do it better, ok?"

He squeezed you against him, satisfied you'd acknowledged your mistakes.

"Good girl."

-----

As the pregnancy went on, so did Sam's moods wings. One minute he had all the hots for you, and when he was done, having his fun, he'd go back to his cold and rude self.

Any little mistake on your end was the perfect excuse for him to throw his harbored venom your way. If he didn't attack the apparent laziness, he'd go for how weak and pathetic you were only cause the baby.

And the more he pressed, the more you got tired of only nodding with a head down. And when you talked back, he only laughed and blamed your hormones for being such a drama queen.

You amused him, and your fight response even better. Yelling became the new thing in the Lawson's home. And each made sure to have a proper turn.

Until little Lily was born.

Things grew obnoxiously quiet for Sam as you were too focused on Lily to indulge his outbursts.

At least he was gentleman enough to keep it quiet, for a bit. But Sam needed that hatred, that yelling and anger to fuel him. So he found a new way to make sure you engaged into his baiting.

He'd make noise on purpose, waking you both and Lily, keeping you exhausted and at the verge of tears. You even begged him once to let you sleep, you couldn't allow another accident due to you being beyond tired.

The bag under your eyes were heavier, weight fluctuated, but even so, Lily remained your priority. And that pissed him to no end.

That in and out continued, stretching for a long long time, everyone around you kept warming you, but you always managed to spin the conversation around. Tired was always something that described you. Your parents grew concerned and the few friends that remained on your side only supported you and Lily

Sam always had an excuse to skip family reunions. But everyone knew that it was a matter of time things to go sour.

And when your final wake up call arrived, it was like a blindfold had been removed from you.

It wasn't the argue this time, neither the beat down he awaited for so long to deliver you, despite your protest and pleas for him to stop hitting you, but the fact Sam was targeting Lily as the new victim of his rage out of control. Only cause you refused sex to him.

Because of her, you never wanted to fuck with him like the old times, you were never in the mood for anything since she arrived. Would it all be better if she was gone?

Definitely.

His mind reasoned.

But before any more tragedies could happen in the day, the vase he always complained about silenced him as it crashed on his nape, knocking him out.

And it was enough time for you to pack up whatever thing you felt necessary, grabbed your two year old crying toddler, and ran away. Ran into the freedom of the night away from Sam's suffocating claws.

No bruise or pain in your body mattered. No scream or insult engraved in your brain by his commanding and absolute voice did. Sam didn't matter anymore.

"We'll be fine, sweetheart." A reassure to you and your toddler.

----

After sojourning through different shelters and housing programs and financial aids, you finally managed to land a proper job that eventually managed you to afford a car. As long as it was functional, in good conditions, and safe wise for Lily, you couldn't care less about the model.

Your baby was three now, and finally you had managed to get a lease in a place in the middle of Nueva York's city. Perfect to reach Lily's school and your work. Life was making sure to reward your suffering with a fresh start.

The new landlord, however was everything you expected a landlord to be. Quiet, reserved, perpetually busy, grumpy at times but surprisingly, gentle and careful with the kids in the building.

Thanks to Lily, and her need of running away in random moments for you to play with her, you had ran into his apartment, your baby giggled as she stumbled upon a curious and surprised looking Miguel in the doorway.

"My goodness, I'm so sorry! Lily, darling come! This is not playtime."

Miguel chuckled softly as your daughter hid behind him.

"I think your mother is right, princesita. Go to her."

"But she is no fun!" Lily pouted, "And she's always busy and tired to play with me."

Your cheeks flustered and your eyes blinked, truly not expecting for her to vent your personal occurrences, but also hurting for the tinge of disappointment in her voice.

Miguel picked her up, and your heart leaped nervously, ready to take the harsh and judging words for not being able to properly take care of your child, like everyone.

But they never came.

"I know it must be frustrating for you to not having mommy to play with you, corazón, but running into places like that is wrong. And quite dangerous. Something could happen to you, and mommy would be extremely sad and upset."

Lily nodded apologizing, as he delivered her back to you.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. O'Hara. It won't happen again."

"Don't worry about it. They're children."

"Say sorry to Mr. O'Hara for running without his permission into his home."

Your baby girl apologized, and after him reassuring it was fine, that she only needed to be careful, you returned to your apartment.

Miguel O'Hara or Mr. O'Hara for the other tenants, seemed a regular man, always up to something in the building and making sure everyone lived in perfect conditions. A place that most in the neighborhood wanted to live in.

Not only because of him and his gorgeous looks, but the actual quality of life the building had, despite being an old one.

If the sink was dripping, he made sure to see it as soon as possible. You found out that plumbing, wall repairing and other appliances were in his repertoire of knowledge, he was a multitasking man, that always waved your little girl of they met in the hall, no matter how busy he was.

The 'Hi, Mr. O'Hara!' echoed every morning through the halls along his 'Good morning, princesita.' and every evening when you returned from work and picking up Lily.

But besides your toddler interacting with him, there wasn't much reason for you to approach him. Matters of the heart were too recent and fragile to approach. Your heart had so much to do to glue back the pieces Samuel had made sure to break.

And he was always busy. Always with his head into something. Life however had these little moments that conceded you a hint of what ifs and what not.

Like Miguel helping you with the grocery bags that gave you trouble, Him making sure everything in your apartment worked properly, fixing a tire from your car and sharing a bit of his food, something that Lily rambled once to him. She told him about you praising the smell of his food from across the hall, and next thing you know, is him delivering a bowl of freshly made Tinga in your hands.

"Made a bit too much of it." He mumbled with a coy smile after greeting Lily with a smile.

He was good with the other kids, but with Lily he interacted the most. The other kids just greeted him and kept it to themselves.

Food sharing however, was only the start of something neither were aware of it brewing.

It all started with you, retrieving the favor with some baked goods, a flan. Something your daughter saw him eating a couple of times along a pack of coffee. He was always smelling like that fancy colombian package with extra roast. And a little Thank you note.

He replied with an envelope full of coupons from the supemarket on things you'd need, along a 'Saw these in my mail, I think they're more useful to you."

Cause in truth, what other concerns a single and childless man like him could have?

He realized you were a single mom cause of Lily. He noticed how she never mentioned her dad.

"Mommy doesn't like talking about him."

The girl said and it was enough for him to understand.

A couple of days later, you'd have him in the kitchen sink, looking through the pipes of the dishwasher. As it refused to work.

Miguel was patient, and explained what was wrong and pulled out a couple of toys in pieces that obstructed the blades.

Your cheeks were burning from the embarrassment, but he wasn't mad. He wasn't angry at your toddler for behaving like a child. Unlike Sam, that yelled whenever Lily cried.

"Don't you worry about it. It happens way too often than you think."

"Still, sorry, There's times when I just wanna come home and crash on bed. Work is a bit stressful and I just wanna do my best for her."

"Hey, relax." His hand caressed your arm gently, a brief yet soothing gesture that had your heart running leaps in your chest, "She's lucky to have you as a mom."

"You think? I felt terrible when she said I didn't have any time to play with her."

"She's too young to understand all what you must do for her, preciosa. Don't rack your brain about it."

"Thank you, Miguel." His words had been like a balm to your aching soul. None had actually had the decency to acknowledge everything you did for your kid, as they were all too busy judging. But not Miguel.

He cleared his throat and rubbed his neck nervously.

"I... I was wondering if you wanted to come to my place and have some dinner?"

"Oh?"

He gulped on your surprise, "It's alright if you don't. I think... fuck. I think that was too soon." He swallowed again, tensing.

You chuckled, "It's alright. I'll bring the dessert. And Lily if that's okay."

"It's perfect" He breathed, relieved, "She needs to keep me updated in this story on the beetle she saw in her classroom."

You laughed and his heart shuddered at the sound.

"Seems we both need an update on it."

----

"And it flew! It was buzzing and then landed on a flower outside."

"No way! Look at that, you fought the beetle! "

"Mommy says they help the flowers to grow. But everyone was scared and I fought it off!"

"Good job, princesa." Miguel chuckled as he served Lily her plate of food while you cut the flan in pieces.

The not so-date was fun and offered you a new perspective on eachother. And so the many others you had.

But life had been in a weird mood that pressed enough just to remind you, the dangers out there.

You had just came from a true date with Miguel as Lily was with her grandma. You really never lost contact with your parents, and when you grew quiet, they were concerned. But now that everything was going as smoothly as it could, the weekend visits were a must to make up for all the missing time.

You took the elevator first, to change into something more, sultry to match the night overall's mood. The soft caresses and lingering looks between Miguel and you were undeniable. And rightfully so, he had earned that spot into your heart, and what a better way to reward him with something you both died for to enjoy?

As you grabbed your keys and opened the door, a rough calloused hand grabbed you by your hair.

"Well, well.. Long time no see honey."

He pushed you in, but you budged, moving away from him yet his firm grip tightened.

"Let me go!"

Samuel had found you, after years of looking on his own. His beer breath wasn't news, yet the stench of it all made you retch and move away.

He slammed you against the wall and hovered over your trembling form.

"Where's Lily?!" he grabbed you by the collar of your dress and you spat his face.

"Fuck you!" A punch landed on your cheekbone, sending you to the floor, stunned.

"Do you know how long it took me to find you?! Where the fuck is my daughter!?"

He sat on your hips to ground you as his fist hovered over your face. No harm came however.

Strong and tanned hands pulled the paler guy away from you, like a ragdoll, growling as Miguel squashed him against the floor.

Samuel was no match for him, but the last thing you needed was more violence. Despite the anger consuming him, Miguel tossed Samuel off the stairs, earning him a pained groan from the man.

Your ex laid on the floor, unable to get up as Miguel dialed the police. Within matters of minutes, Samuel had been taken care of and took away.

You on the other hand, cried in Miguel's arms. Shaking and sobbing as the landlord himself tended your wounds, apprehension in his face.

How dared that man to touch you?, How dared that man to even think about hurting his own child? He was thankful Lily wasn't around, or Migue truly didn't know what he would be capable of.

You had explained everything to him. How it all started with Samuel, how everything changed and how you had to escape him in order to save Lily from a certain death.

To your little surprise, Sam had been escaping the law for a few years now. But that chapter in your life was now closed and tossed forever to a vault underground and threw the key somewhere you couldn't care less at the moment, nor later or ever.

"You're safe now, corazón." He cradled you against his chest, promising not a single harm would come to you now.

----

The two parallel lines in the pregnancy test finally showed up, announcing the start of a new life within you.

Moving in with Miguel in his apartment, was only one of the many perks that came in hand when dating him.

Your heart finally had the chance of opening and receive and give all that love you always dreamed of receiving again.

Miguel didn't lie, Miguel didn't treat you good because he wanted something out of you, he praised you whenever your efforts came to fruition, and was always pampering Lily, to the point of her calling him by accident dad a couple of times.

But he liked it. He loved the sound of that title in your daughter's life. Miguel was everything that was good in this world. Sure, he had a temper, but never lashed out on you or Lily. He never yelled or screamed, or bait you into a fighting game.

And it terrified you at first. You were so used to chaos that anything like calm and conflict resolution was something you had to learn if you wanted him to be at your side.

Therapy always worked and it helped you to improve all those pestering thoughts Samuel had planted on your mind.

Miguel had taken his sweet time into proving that you no longer had to fear for your life and Lily's. That you no longer had to scream to have your voice listened or that you had to fight in order to have something done.

You didn't have to be on survival and flight or fight mode.

And when you delivered the news to him? He showered your face in affection, praised you for making him the happiest man ever. Even thanked you for making one of his dreams come true.

-----

And when you found out another girl was on the way, you braced for impact.

At first, a deep part you thought that Miguel would act exactly like Samuel, and as much as it hurt you to think that way, some pains never truly left. They just remained dormant and buried away.

But again, nothing but love came your way. Miguel rambled to no end about the baby's room color, how Lily would be an amazing big sister and how she was also thrilled to have a sister.

He was excited. Not yelling. Miguel complimented your body changes and kissed your baby bump in every chance he had, not calling you a lazy fat ass.

He'd cook for you and even going to the extent of visiting the convenience store at wee hours of the night to have your cravings met, not telling you to shut the fuck up an let him sleep.

Miguel didn't allow you to stand too much time once your last trimester hit. He took charge of your home and kept it clean and comfortable for you, not insulting, yelling and accusing you for being exhausted and putting up excuses to have the house clean and his dinner ready.

Miguel was gentle and always praised you. He spent those times when you needed him buried into you, worshipping your body with such care and love before, during and after he was done pleasing you, not fucking the daylights out of you and leaving you to clean after yourself the mess he created, not caring at all if you were sore.

The sole idea of hitting you, terrified him, he confessed once, not amused him. Miguel didn't get off by taunting you with slurs like Sam did. He didn't had fun into competing for who screamed more before your voices gave out, like Sam did.

He accompanied you to every single doctor appointment and even bought you vitamins and supplements, not complained all the way home on how expensive everything was and how much you owed him for the appointment and medicines. If he bought you any.

Thank heavens Lily came perfectly healthy thanks to the vitamins your parents gave you.

And he definitely didn't hit you, dehumanized you and treated you poorly, like Samuel did.

You felt ashamed for even daring to do such comparison, but it was unavoidable. Not when everything you had know was chaos and this man offered you a complete opposite spectrum of a love you always dreamed off.

And when Gabriella was born, yours and his dream was finally complete. You got true and untampered love, and he got a family on his own, ready to show you the true meaning of such word.

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

Keep Moving Forwards, Part 1

Azriel x Reader Fic

Summary: After finally deciding to leave your abusive and manipulative mate for good, you find unexpected companionship with Azriel, the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. As you navigate the aftermath of your traumatic relationship, you struggle to understand where the mating bond went wrong and contemplate your path forward, vowing never to return to the past.

Find other parts here: Master List

To follow this fic, follow that "Keep Moving Forwards Fic"

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of extreme emotional manipulation and abuse, mentions of physical abuse, loss of a child, and general trauma.

Word Count: 4.3k

Author's Note: This is the first part of what I anticipate will be a multi-part series. Unlike my previous works, this fanfiction delves deeper than just fluff, exploring complex emotional landscapes. As I navigate this new writing journey, I kindly ask for gentle feedback. The topics addressed are profoundly impactful, touching many lives with diverse experiences. Please be gentle with yourselves and others. Healing is a journey, and everyone processes it differently. Be kind to yourself. Take what resonates, and leave what doesn’t.

Please continue reading being aware of the above content warnings, ensuring you are in a healthy headspace. Give yourself time to process and be gentle with yourself.

Keep Moving Forwards, Part 1

There would be no going back. You had promised yourself that. As you stepped out of the cabin door, you vowed not to look back, not to turn around, not to wish for what was. You would move forward, one foot in front of the other, into the world. Yet, as you crested the first hill, your heart clenched, and tears welled in your eyes, a sudden and overwhelming loneliness gripping you. You shook your head, dismissing the thought. What could possibly bring you back to that place? A place where everything hurt constantly, and the only safe refuge was sleep—where even then, he invaded your subconscious.

You wouldn’t go back. Not this time. Not like the last time.

Pushing the tears down, you took another step forward. The companionship of the night, lit by the full moon, felt both lonely and liberating. You adjusted your pack and pulled your oversized, worn leather jacket tighter around your torso as you silently crept through the forest.

It wouldn’t be morning for a few more hours, and if you kept moving, you would cross the river while it was still dark. You had a plan and a general idea of where you were heading, but at the time you made this plan, your only thought was to get as far away as possible. To put as much distance as you could between yourself and the old, rotten cabin that had been your home for the past fifty-three years.

The moonlight made the trees seem farther apart, and you felt exposed. Glancing over your shoulder, despite the hill and the fallen trees and boulders between you and the cabin, you imagined you could still see smoke rising from the chimney. You quickened your pace.

You hoisted yourself over a fallen log, the moss soft and forgiving under your fingertips. The new spring air was beginning to overtake the cold of winter, and the damp scent of rain filled your nose. You had loved spring—or at least you used to, fifty-three years ago. Now, you couldn't remember what you loved or who you would be when you finally made it away. But you would make it away. You would not go back. Not for anything. No matter how much he begged, no matter how much he cried, no matter how much you ached to return.

Hours passed as you continued your trudge through the woods, your legs growing more tired with each step as you carefully descended the mountain. You lost your footing twice, but quickly regained your balance, careful not to make a sound. You wouldn’t stop moving, not until you had crossed the river.

As the night sky shifted from deep blue to purple, and the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, you heard the rushing of the river and quickened your pace.

When you reached the clear waters of the Highlawn River, you stopped, tossing your pack onto the pebbled shore, and leaned down to drink from the cold, clean water. You dipped your hands in greedily, cupping them to your lips, when you caught sight of your reflection glaring back at you. As you sipped, your eyes traced the cut on your cheekbone. What had once been a wound was now only a trace of dried blood, just like the gash on your forehead. You splashed water onto your face, scrubbing at the blood caked on your skin. You scrubbed the area raw and red, as if washing it away would also erase the memory of what caused the bleeding.

Kneeling there, your face burning slightly from the cold water, you took a deep breath and let yourself feel alive.

You pulled your jacket back over your shoulders, catching his scent, which made you recoil, your heart racing and your stomach dropping. But you reminded yourself you were alone. He was not with you. He would never be with you again. You grabbed your pack and hauled it back onto your shoulder, then turned and wandered down the shore of the river, searching for the shallow, rocky crossing. When you reached it, you carefully tiptoed across, taking care not to slip into the nearly freezing water.

Once on the other side, you turned and looked back up the mountain you had just descended, squinting to see the cabin's roof that sometimes poked out when the leaves were down. You couldn’t find it. Not that you wanted to, but you just couldn’t help yourself.

He would be getting up soon. He would find your note. Would he run from the house calling your name? Would he cry? Would he rage, swearing what he would do when he found you? Would he hunt you down, sending birds flying from trees and animals racing for their burrows? Or would he stand there in silence, reading the note, his green eyes calm and collected, before starting the kettle for his tea?

You hoped you would never find out. You turned again and walked farther into the deeper woods. You would not come back. You would live. You would live your life. You would survive this, just as you had survived the last fifty-three years.

As the early morning turned warmer and the sun rose higher, heating your hair and sending warmth radiating down your body, you removed your jacket, tying it around your waist. You continued wandering through the deeper woods, determined to reach the tavern, a day's walk away. Despite your legs burning and aching for rest, you kept moving forward. You would always keep moving forward.

The trees of the Night Court, now blooming with spring flowers, cast shadows on the forest floor. The sun's warmth on your face was both comforting and energizing. Morning shifted to afternoon, and afternoon into evening, and by the time you saw the tavern lights, you were nearly crawling with exhaustion. A renewed sense of energy hit you, and you made your way across the field, nearly running as you pushed open the creaky wooden door.

You peered around the lively room, searching for an open table. The crowd chattered animatedly, downing beers and spirits, guffawing with friends. You hadn't been around this many people in a very long time. Almost giddy with excitement, you chose a table near the back of the tavern. Settling into the booth, a waitress promptly placed a cold glass of water on the table, which you downed before she could introduce herself. You ordered a plate of chicken and potatoes and allowed yourself a moment to breathe. Leaning back in your chair, you felt your spine relax and the ache in your feet begin to subside.

When your dinner arrived, you scarfed it down as quickly as you had the water, the grease of the meat making your lips shine. You wiped your face with your sleeve, not caring if you looked like an animal. When you inquired about a room, the waitress informed you there was one left, but it was connected to another room already rented. You considered sleeping in the woods but knew you wouldn’t rest well and still had miles to travel. So, you pulled a satchel of coins from your bag, paid for the room, and gave the waitress a few extra coins, asking her to deny anyone who might come in asking about you.

When you made your way up the creaking steps, the lights in the other rooms had already been turned out for the night as the other travelers rested their weary bones. You found yourself at the end of the hall, the light under your door still lit. As you unlocked it, you were quickly taken aback by the sight of a man sitting in a chair across from you. His feet were propped up on an end table, and he leaned back comfortably in an oversized armchair, a book in one hand while the other hand lazily traced his lips. He looked up quickly, closing his book. He wore only a pair of black linen pants, his tanned skin covered in various whirling tattoos, and his black hair tousled as though he had been running his hands through it repeatedly.

“Sorry, I think you have the wrong room,” he said, quickly putting his feet back on the ground.

You paused, taking a tentative step back. “Um, no, actually, I rented this room. The owner said that someone else was staying in the adjoining one, but I can go to that one if you’ve taken this one.”

The man rose to his feet, and you suddenly noticed the large wings tucked behind him. He was much larger than he had looked when curled into that chair. “No, please,” he said, gesturing to the room and moving toward the adjoining door. “I was just using this as a sitting room.” He picked up his book, his bare feet padding across the floor. Opening the adjoining door, he ducked his head, turned back to you, wished you a goodnight, and quietly shut the door.

You didn’t move until the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears subsided. You hadn’t spoken to a man in decades, and the first one you see is half-dressed, and you walk in unannounced. Shaking your head, you muttered to yourself before walking in and shutting the door behind you, pressing your back against the wood, resting your head on it, and closing your eyes. You had worked so hard all day to keep the bond shut on your end, willing it closed while he pounded on the other side, screaming to be let in. You had given yourself a headache doing so.

You threw your pack down on the floor, pulling off your sweat-drenched shirt and pants from the hike and tossing them over the chair the man had been lounging in before flopping down onto the bed, your head pounding.

________________________________________________________

The sun beamed down onto your face as you squinted, eyes still shut as you rolled over in bed, groaning softly. You inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of the burning fire, the heavy wetness of the April woods, and the scent of spruce and sage. Your eyes opened, and you found yourself staring at the log wall, the window above it slightly open with sheer linen curtains fluttering in the wind. The quilt you had spent months making was balled at your feet, kicked away in the night as the pre-summer air seeped in through the open window. Your hair was plastered to the sides of your face with sweat.

You sat up, your cotton nightgown sticking to your torso, the lace scratching lightly at your skin as you rubbed your neck and eyes. The cabin air was slightly damp; it must have rained last night. Planting your feet on the hard wood floor, you looked across the room to see a small wooden cradle. Walking towards it, you tied your hair up with a ribbon from the window sill and leaned in to see your tiny babe, still sound asleep. You smiled down at them, brushing your fingers over their soft cheek as they softly gurgled. They were perfect, angelic, with your nose and lips, their tiny hands curled into loose fists beside their head as they slept on their back. Even in just their cloth diaper, the heat of the morning had made their cheeks red and their skin slightly damp as you continued to run soft lines down their face. Perfection. They were perfection.

The morning dove cooed its melody as the world around you seemed perfectly soft and hazy, as though all the colors were muted and edges somehow rounder. Then you heard it, the soft crying from the main room of the cabin. The babe stirred slightly but remained asleep as you looked through the open door to the living room. You glanced back at your perfect babe, still sound asleep, and then lightly stepped through the bedroom, trying to peek around the corner of the door without making the floorboards creak.

You stopped at the threshold, placing one hand delicately on the frame as you peered out. He was sitting there, on the couch he had carved for your 120th birthday, the blanket your mother gave you draped over the back. The window next to the front door was shattered in a moment of blind rage many months ago that he still hadn’t fixed.

He sat there, his head in his hands, sobbing quietly. The wet inhales and exhales formed a rock in your throat as you stood there, still as a deer. His head jerked up, and he turned to look over the back of the couch at you. His eyes were red, bloodshot, and he sniffled back another sob.

“Why would you do this?” he asked, his voice a breathless sob. “Why would you leave me?”

You said nothing, eyes wide in shock, seemingly frozen in place. The only movement in you was your heart, beating faster and faster. You worried he could hear it. Your hands and feet went numb, and you felt every twitch in your body as you tried to keep still. Your mouth parted slightly to speak, but before you could get a word out, he was standing, walking over to you, the heavy sound of his footsteps echoing in your head, pounding through the cabin until he stood in front of you. You took a step back, hands flying upwards to block the doorway.

He wrapped his arms around you, his large frame towering over yours as he sobbed into your neck. “We can fix this, baby,” he cooed into your ear, still sobbing. His height lifted you from the ground, rising to stand on your tiptoes as he continued to plead. “Just come home, baby. Come home. We can make this right.” Your arms slackened at your sides as he held you up. You swallowed the lump in your throat, unsure if you were going to scream or vomit as everything inside you burned. “Just come home,” he whispered again into your ear, his hot, wet breath streaming down your back as his tears glued your hair to your face. He pulled back to look at you, releasing you back to the floor. His green eyes peered into yours, searching for a response—the response he wanted. He leaned down to kiss you, and in a moment of bravery, you stepped back. He reached for your arm to pull you back, and you took another step backward, your hands behind you.

“Baby,” he managed to get out, but the sound of his voice, broken by sobs, no longer echoed through your mind. Instead, it was a warning. He took a step toward you, reaching out. He grabbed your wrist, which you tugged free. He took another step, reaching for you.

“No!” you shouted as he grabbed for you again. Your voice barely above a whisper, “I won’t come back.”

He stopped, his hand still extended toward you as his face twisted in anger. His mouth curved into a catlike smile, though his eyes darkened. “Where are you going to go, baby?”

You swallowed down the rock in your throat, your vision blurring as tears clouded your eyes. “I-I-” you stuttered.

He smiled at you again. “Where would you go?”

You took another tentative step back, your hands brushing the cradle, which rocked softly. Your babe cooed lightly, looking up at you with bright, brown eyes.

He peered over your shoulder at the babe in the cradle. “You want a baby? I can give you a baby,” he promised. “You just need to come home.”

You looked at him, your mouth hanging open, searching for words to shut him up. Words that would let you win. He reached for you again. “Where will you go where I can’t find you?”

You turned, grabbing the babe from the cradle, picking up their blanket with them. In the frantic motion, the babe let out a wail, but it didn’t stop you. You pushed past him, dashing through the living room, past the broken window, and down the steps. Your feet barely registered as you pounded through the front grass and headed into the woods, your babe pressed to your shoulder, crying out. As you hit the treeline, you turned to see him standing on the porch, his arms crossed, the catlike smile still inching across his face.

You tore through the woods, careful to hold your babe's head to your neck, trying not to trip over roots and branches, panting out wild breaths as the woods crashed around you.

As your babe let out another piercing wail, you found a hollowed out log that you crouched down in, trying to shush the screams. You rocked, hushed and pressed soft kisses into their temple as your heart continued to beat wildly in your ears. From behind you, you could hear branches and twigs snapping as he made his way towards you. Where would you run? Where could you go? Where can you go he wouldn’t find you? As your mind races you suddenly realize the babe has gone quiet and your arms are light, you look down and in your arms you hold an empty white blanket. A sob escapes you as you search around frantically for your babe, a wail crosses your lips as the sounds of the branches get louder and louder, you fall to the ground screaming as the sounds of him calling your name mixed with your pounding heart flood your head. It’s all gone. Everything is gone. 

________________________________________________________

“Hey! Hey!”

Your eyes shoot open, and the room around you is pitch black. You hurl in a heavy breath, wheezing out a cough, sweat pouring down your face and back as you scream, but no sound comes out. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you see moonlight streaming in from the window, tears blurring your vision, and the silhouette of someone yelling at you, their hands pressed onto your shoulders.

You rip their hands off, kicking back to ball up in the corner of the bed, pressed into the wall, ragged breaths tasting of iron in your lungs. You pull your legs into your chest, eyes wide and frantic. The figure in front of you is the male from earlier, sitting on his knees, his wings tucked behind him and his hands up, showing he means no harm.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, “It’s okay.” But it doesn’t feel okay. Everything is on fire.

You shake your head, snot running down your face, your lips quivering as you try to form words that won’t come.

He shushes you quietly, lowering himself from the bed onto the floor. He slides closer, reaching out a hand, his hazel eyes filled with concern. You look down at his hands, scarred and malformed. You try to let out another breath, but it gets caught in your throat as you cough. His extended hand covers your foot, and you continue to fight down sobs and screams. He hushes you again, “You’re safe. You’re here. You’re right here.” He squeezes your foot lightly, the pressure somehow grounding you. Your screams fade, but the tears continue to stream down your face as you cry silently. He runs his thumb up and down the top of your foot, his eyes never leaving you. After a minute, he reaches out his other hand, and you reach back. His hand engulfs yours, squeezing gently, kneeling beside your bed as if in prayer. “It’s okay.”

As if the reminder shatters something inside you, your tears fall heavy and full as your body relaxes. “Everything is,” you start, “it’s so loud.”

He lifts himself from the floor, and you curl away again, pulling your hand back. Realizing your response, he slowly lowers himself back to his knees, reaching out again. You take his hand, and he presses it between his palms so it disappears completely.

“There are clouds rolling in. I can smell the rain,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Between sharp intakes, you can smell it too. A storm is coming.

One hand stays with yours as he runs his other over the blanket. “This blanket,” he says, pressing your hand to it, “is scratchy and wool, too hot for this season.”

You nod slightly, unsure of what he’s doing. He glances at the clock. “It’s a little past two in the morning.” He looks back at you, your hand pressed into the bed, his hand over yours. 

“Can I stand?” he asks, still whispering.

You nod, unable to speak. Slowly, he rises from the floor, which creaks beneath him. His movements are deliberate, raising both hands as he gets to his feet. “Can I sit down?” he asks, gesturing to the bed.

You nod, and he turns to sit next to you, his back against the wooden wall. He holds out his scarred hand again, and to take it, you have to scoot away from the wall. He takes your hand and runs his thumb up and down the back, his face now calmer. “You’re okay,” he reminds you.

Finally able to breathe more steadily, you wipe your eyes with your free hand, never letting go of his. He never loosens his grip.

“I’m-” you start, your throat raw, “I’m so sorry.”

He smiles lightly at you. “It’s okay. I was already awake.”

You look around the room, everything as you left it when you went to sleep, but the bed is a mess. Pillows have been ripped, and the sheets are strewn about as though a tornado had passed through.

You glance back at him and suddenly become aware that you’re only wearing your underwear. You rush to pull the blankets up around yourself, the wool feeling immediately too warm. The male reaches for the armchair and hands you your shirt, which you gratefully pull over your head, pushing the blanket off of you.

He looks at you again, his hazel eyes scanning your incredibly red, puffy face. “Has this happened before?” he finally asks.

You swallow and nod, licking your cracked lips. In truth, it had happened many times before, whenever you had run. In sleep, when the bond opened up, he wormed his way back into your mind and tormented you. You had replayed this scene so many times: you and the babe you wished you had, sprinting through the woods to get away, only to find the babe missing. Normally, he made it all the way to you and brought you back to the cabin, finding your scent and coming for you. But not this time.

You wipe another rogue tear from your eye, pushing the snot from your face where it pooled above your lips. You sniffle as he takes your hand again, rubbing soothing circles into the back.

“I really am sorry,” you say, the words coming out broken.

He just shakes his head. “Like I said, I was already awake.” Then he smiles slightly at you. “Are you okay?” he asks.

You nod, trying desperately to clean your face.

“I’m going to grab you a wash rag, okay?” he offers.

You shake your head. “That’s okay. You can go back to bed. I’m alright.”

He gives you a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve heard less intense screaming on the battlefield.” You look down, shameful. “Let me at least get you a washcloth.” With that, he stands slowly and makes his way to the washbasin, running a rag through the water and bringing it back to you. You look up at him, your eyelashes clumping together from the tears as he props your chin up and runs the cloth delicately over your cheeks and eyes, giving you a soft smile. When he’s finished, and the cool water has soothed the burning on your skin, he pushes your hair back behind your ear.

He hands you the cloth as he takes his place next to you on the bed again. You run the cloth over your face and chest as he watches.

Your head feels heavy, your body like you’ve run miles. Everything feels sore. You let out a sigh, wiggling your nose slightly as it finally clears.

“I am genuinely sorry,” you say, looking down at the bed, hands in your lap.

“And I genuinely don’t want you to worry about it,” he responds, chuckling slightly. “It sounds like whatever’s going on in your head is much worse than losing a few hours of sleep, if I was sleeping at all.”

You chuckle slightly as well, then look up at him. His eyes meet yours. It’s so strange. This whole interaction is very strange.

“Thank you,” you finally say.

He smiles at you, a genuine smile, laced with a tinge of pity.

“I think I’m okay now.”

He nods, his smile fading slightly. “Are you going back to sleep?” he asks.

You nod, even though you’re sure you’ll spend the rest of the night with your eyes wide open, too afraid to let your guard down again.

He slowly stands, reaching out to take the wash rag, which he brings back to the basin to wring out. He turns, looking at you again, and opens his mouth as if to say something but stops himself. He makes his way to the door of the adjoining room, still flung open from when he crashed through earlier.

“If it’s alright with you, I’m just going to keep this cracked,” he says, one hand on the door.

You nod.

“Just in case you need anything,” he says again, “not that you do, but,” he pauses and smiles, “for my sake.”

You smile, the dried tears on your cheeks making your skin feel tight, and chuckle slightly, “Sure.”

With that, he closes the door to a crack. You hear him through the wall as he crosses his own room, the rustling of blankets being pulled back and the creak of the bed as he lies down. You wait until it goes quiet before pulling the sheets back up, resting your head on the last pillow that isn’t shredded, and stare at the window, waiting for the sun to come up.

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Practice On Me — Part Four — Azriel x Reader

Summary: It’s Solstice! Reader decides she should probably be honest with Azriel about some stuff. Things don’t quite go to plan.

Oof. Okay. This could be uncomfortable reading for some. There are some hints and depictions of domestic abuse and also of alcoholism, so if that’s something that might trigger you, please, please do not read this. The last thing I want is for my writing to be harmful to anybody. Read with caution. Take care and put yourself first. Lots of love.

Also, please don’t hate me for this 😭we know I’m a hoe for angst and it wouldn’t be one of my fics if there wasn’t some sprinkled in there lmao.

Word Count: 5k.

Warnings: Depiction of abusive behaviour. Heavy drinking. Some violence.

On a brisk winter morning, when the sun hasn’t yet graced the sky, the last place you wish to be is at the Windhaven crèche, watching over a group of tired, grouchy younglings. Every second thought that passes through your mind is a longing one, lamenting on how desperately you wish to be back in your bed.

But alas, you owe your friend, Vegha, a favour, making you the sole minder of ten restless little girls, all annoyed that their brothers get to join their fathers for training, while they have to stay back and be…girls. A downfall, according to most Illyrian males.

You’re supposed to be watching over them for a couple of hours while Vegha runs an errand. And that time is going very, very slowly.

You’re in the middle of reading a storybook — and, yes, doing all the voices — when the door opens behind you. You feel a glimmer of hope that perhaps Vegha is back earlier than planned, but when you swivel on the child-sized chair you’ve perched yourself on, it’s Azriel who looms in the doorway.

And you…your heart does a silly little thing in your chest.

“Don’t let me interrupt.” He says. “I can wait.”

Your eyebrows flick up in amusement. “Come take a seat, then. It’s story time.”

His lips twitch, and he goes to reach for one of those infant chairs — which you’re not at all sure can handle all his muscle — but this sparks a flurry of complaints from the girls, who all insist that they want to sit with Azriel the most, and within seconds, he’s cross-legged on the floor with the children somehow managing to settle around him without bickering, and they’re all able to command his attention at once.

Happy mediums, and all that.

Your gaze lingers on him as he does all the right things; leaning his head down so he can appear less…huge, while listening with rapt attention to one of the girl’s chattering; steadying another one as they climb over him to get themselves seated; gently telling them all that they have to be quiet if they want to hear the rest of the story. That, of course, achieves immediate near silence.

And thus begins an entire performance of you continuing the tale, and the girls — and Azriel — responding in all the right places. They howl when they’re supposed to make the sound of a wolf, and roar when it’s a mountain cat, and you don’t miss that Azriel helps the tiniest of the girls to remember which animals make what sounds.

Most males in this gods-forsaken place are an intimidating presence to these children, frightening them into silence whenever they’re around, because girls are supposed to be seen and not heard. But Azriel is always gentle, always kind, and they adore him for it.

It’s a combination of all these things that force you to face a truth that’s been rapidly snowballing inside your mind and heart for the past four days — something has changed. Shifted. Has been shifting and changing for a while.

You laid awake for hours that night in the dormitory, listening to Azriel’s breathing as he slept deeply, happily sated from the pleasure you’d given him. Your mind had been too much of a war zone for you to drift off.

Nine years, you’ve called this male your closest friend. Ever since the very first day you’d met him, when a group of males had pushed you to the floor and kicked mud at you, and he’d jumped in and defended you for no other reason than that he’s good to the bone. Nine years, you’ve been by each other’s sides, and it’s been comfortable and familiar and just…right.

But now — now, you think you may have jeopardised that all by going along with Azriel’s request for help. Help with kissing. Touching. Experiencing.

You’ll always want to help him in any way that you can, of course. But you didn’t quite anticipate the predicament you now find yourself in. That you want all of those things and more, not just under the ruse of building your friend’s confidence. You want to explore more with him, feel more with him. You’ve been able to think about nothing else for days.

And it might make you a total wretch, but you want Kaeda to be a distant memory. The thought of Azriel taking what you’ve shown him, shared with him, and putting his all into somebody else…it sours your stomach. Makes you feel sick.

Makes your heart hurt.

And, well, you’re fucked, really.

It’s a kind of hurt that won’t go away on its own. It isn’t avoidable nor ignorable. And so your only option is to confront it, be honest about it. Whatever the outcome may be.

The story comes to an end, and the girls are calmed and sleepy enough that they look ready to curl up on the floor and doze off. Azriel peels himself away from the cluster of clingy children and stands up, strolling over to you.

“Well that was fun.” He comments quietly, taking the book from your hands. “Who knew I was so adept at doing animal impressions?”

“One of your many talents, I suppose.” You smile, drinking in the sight of him. He looks tired this morning. Tired, but beautiful. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His expression sobers slightly, and he tells you, “We’re leaving this morning. For the training exercise.”

Immediately, your stomach churns. Being away from your friends sets you on edge. Windhaven is a lonely, lonely place to be without the love of Rhys, Cassian and Azriel to warm you. And not even Rhys’s mother is here to make it a little more bearable.

Az immediately recognises the bleakness that passes your face. He steps closer, his hand a gentle brush against yours. “I’ll be back for Solstice.” He reminds you yet again.

“I know.” You attempt to force an easy, breezing smile. “What’s the plan for Solstice, anyway?”

Normally, Rhysand’s mother would cook a meal in the cottage. You wouldn’t be able to attend, given that you’re always stuck at home with your father, but by the time he would pass out drunk, you’d sneak out and make it to the cottage just as the games were starting. Some of your happiest memories are of being curled up on one couch with Az, Rhys and his mother on the other, and Cassian stood in front of you, making a terrible attempt at playing charades.

But it’ll be different this year. With the High Lord keeping a tight leash on his pregnant mate in Velaris, there will be no meal, no charades. You, Azriel and Cassian would most certainly not be welcome at their intimate family celebration.

“Rhys will spend the day in Velaris.” Az tells you. “Cass and I will be getting drunk. There’s a celebration being held at the dormitories in the evening, so I suppose we’ll all end up there.”

You dip your chin. “I’ll come and find you there, then.”

His responding smile is a gentle one; one that says he sees right through you, right through to the panic that’s eating away at you, and he understands.

There’s no way he sees everything that you’re feeling, though. Perhaps that’s a good thing.

Your body goes slightly rigid as he dips down and presses a kiss to your forehead. His hand squeezes yours, and then he’s pulling away. “See you on Solstice.”

He bids a quiet goodbye to the dozing girls. It’s as he’s heading for the door that you find yourself stepping after him. “…Az?”

He turns, hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”

“There’s…something I need to talk to you about, when you get back. Something I need to tell you.”

Okay. Shit. You’re really doing this.

Azriel’s eyes rake over you, and then he smiles. “We’ll talk on Solstice.”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Your head’s not all there today, as you stare out of the window of your father’s forge. Azriel and the others have been gone almost a week, and you’ve spent every one of those days thinking about how you’re going to tell him…whatever it is you’re going to tell him.

You’re not even certain, yourself.

Just that…that things are different. That you know, to begin with, that this was about him and Kaeda — but it’s shifted in your brain at an alarming rate, and now that you’ve shared something so…so meaningful, with him, you’re not sure you can go on acting as though it was all just a favour.

Yeah. That should do it.

And it’s a huge fucking risk, of course. There’s every chance he won’t return the sentiment, and then a giant wedge of unresolved feelings will exist between you.

But you need to — perhaps selfishly — confront this before things between him and Kaeda progress. In case there’s a slight chance that it’ll alter the path it’s heading down.

And you haven’t thought any further than that.

The snow has started again, and you watch the flurries sweep past the window and join the thick layer on the ground. You’ve become so accustomed to the noise of the forge that you hardly notice it anymore — not the constant clanking, nor the heat that the fires swathe the shop in. You used to beg your father to teach you his craft, to allow you to get stuck in and get your hands dirty, but he’s always stubbornly maintained that it’s a male’s job, and that he needs you for the bookkeeping. You’re surprised he trusts you with that.

You breathe a soft sigh, your thoughts once again flitting back to Az. To what he might be doing, thinking, feeling. Whether he misses you as much as you miss him.

But before those thoughts can take a hold of you and sink you deeper into your predicament, the door opens, the bell above it ringing and a gust of cold air momentarily biting you.

It’s rare for females to come to the forge. Very rare, indeed. Which is why, for a second or two, you just stare.

That — and because she’s incredibly beautiful.

Her eyes — the colour of emeralds — sweep the workshop, before landing on you, and she smiles. She has the telltale tanned skin of an Illyrian, but instead of the dark hair that’s so typical around here, hers is red — not orange, not auburn, but blood red. You’ve never seen a shade quite like it.

And if that’s not enough to completely bowl you over, your gaze rakes over her clothing, and you stop, stunned.

Females around here wear homespun dresses of simple brown shades. A few, like yourself, favour basic tunics and breeches. Clothing is just a necessity, not something you lend much thought to.

But this female wears Illyrian leathers. Never, in your life, have you seen females wear Illyrian leathers. It’s simply not a done thing.

But she looks resplendent in them.

They cling to supple curves and accentuate a figure that you don’t think you’d ever be able to achieve with any amount of training. And perhaps the most shocking thing of all — and the most enviable — is the presence of brilliant, beautiful wings at her back. Unclipped. Untouched. Unruined.

How your wings might have one day looked, had your father not destroyed them.

You’re not entirely convinced that an angel hasn’t just stepped into your father’s forge. Or perhaps this is the Mother that everyone worships. Part of you wants to worship her, too, and beg her to bestow upon you her blessings—

You snap yourself out of it before you can fall head-over-heels in love with her. She’s just a customer.

A very, very beautiful customer.

“Good day to you.” She says, approaching the counter. Her voice is like pure music.

You incline your head in greeting. “And to you. Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m interested in having some gifts made for my father and brothers. For Solstice.”

Once again, you’re gawking.

Another thing that’s unheard of; females liking their family members enough to have gifts made for them.

You clear your throat, blinking out of your thoughts. “What…what kind of things were you looking for?”

“Personalised daggers.” She answers, and then she grins in a way that makes you want to tell her your life story, and leans closer. “A male can never have too many daggers, right?”

You breathe a laugh. It doesn’t sound natural. “Absolutely.”

“I’ll be needing three. One for my father, and one each for my two brothers. Can that be done in time for Solstice? I can pay extra…”

This female has beauty, leathers, wings, a relationship with her family members, money. She’s magnificent. A few exchanged words, and you’re awed by her.

Who is she? How have you never seen her before?

“It can be done.” You tell her with a flustered smile. “I’ll just need to sit with you and get some details of exactly what you want made, and then my father will get straight to it. I imagine they’ll be ready for collection by Solstice Eve.”

Her eyes light up in a way that reminds you of sunrise. “That’s perfect.”

There’s a second or two where you just…can’t help staring. Her beauty has knocked you speechless.

But once again, you snap yourself out of it and try to retain some semblance of professionalism.

“Can I take your name down?” You say, and clear your throat again. Gods, you hope you’re not blushing. “For the order.”

You grab a piece of parchment and a pen, hoping you’ll remember how the fuck to write.

“It’s Kaeda.” She says, and the pen nearly slips from your hand. “Kaeda Baralas.”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Solstice morning sweeps in just as abruptly as the fresh onslaught of snow that once again batters the camp.

It’s going to be a rough one. You can feel it in your bones.

You dread it every year, but this year is made even worse by the constant stream of thoughts that have been plaguing you over the last week. About whether telling Az about your feelings is a good idea. Not just because of what it could do to your friendship, but because…

Because you can’t deny that since seeing Kaeda in the flesh, you’re doubting yourself more than ever.

Of course, you can see why Azriel would want her. And why he’d want to be good and experienced for her. And you…you’ve been facilitating that. You’re the practice dummy. Kaeda is the real thing.

At least the chaos of Solstice keeps you busy.

You wake early, and from the noise and foot traffic outside your bedroom window, you know Az’s unit has safely returned from their training exercise. Your relief is short-lived, replaced by the dread of your father hitting the bottle.

Every year is the same. You spend the day trying to focus on your preparation of the huge meal you’re expected to cook, while your father knocks back drink after drink and gradually gets rowdier. You tell yourself that the more he drinks, the better — he’ll fall asleep eventually, and you’ll be out of here.

But then the front door bursts open.

It’s four of your father’s friends who pile into your cramped home, singing at the tops of their voices and reeking of booze. You’re only just able to stop one of them knocking a pot of potatoes off the counter with a careless, wayward wing. They barely acknowledge you, filing through to the sitting room to greet your father. Their voices get louder, and an ache is building behind your eye.

Day bleeds into late afternoon. You try to ignore them, to focus on the task at hand. Cooking is usually enjoyable for you, but with an unwelcome party happening in the next room, you find yourself getting more and more stressed.

By the time your father bustles his way into the kitchen and begins sniffing around the food, you’re close to losing it.

“Isn’t it ready yet?” Your father rudely demands.

You stare out of the kitchen window, at the dwindling light of approaching evening, clenching your jaw. “It is. I’m waiting for your friends to leave.”

“They’ll be eating with us.”

You whirl on the spot. “We don’t have enough food for that.”

“I told you we’d have guests.”

No, he absolutely hadn’t. This is a power play. He does shit like this all the time. Backs you into corners.

“I bought food for two people.” You snap, unable to stop yourself. “Not six.”

Your father’s nostrils flare. You know that look on his face a little too well — the one where his cheeks redden and his eyes turn cold. It’s always, always made your stomach lurch.

He steps closer, and you press your back against the counter, trying your utmost not to look intimidated.

“You’d better rectify that, hadn’t you?” His tone is deceptively gentle. “Be a good girl and find a way to make the food go around six people. You wouldn’t want to ruin Solstice.”

It’s a veiled threat. One you’d be wise not to ignore.

So you stare at him and he stares at you. And when he eventually nods and leaves the room, you turn and try to work out how to make a meal for two a meal for six.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The mountain of a male beside you jostles your chair so violently that you almost fall out of it.

His hand grabs a roast potato from your plate. He shoves it into his mouth, chews, and grins. “You weren’t going to eat that, were you?”

The entire meal has been like this.

Perhaps it’s your ice-thin temper that has you staring him right in the eye; a thing many Illyrian males consider a great disrespect from females. “Would it matter if I was?”

He swallows and swipes the lone, remaining potato you hadn’t planned to touch. “Not really, no.”

The dinner is usually the only part you enjoy of Solstice. A meal that you spend hours perfecting, of slow-cooked meat and roasted potatoes and a colourful array of different vegetables that are cooked to perfection. It’s the one part of the day where you can just sit and breathe, because even your father doesn’t usually have a bad word to say about the meal you’ve presented.

This one has been pure, unadulterated hell. 

To accommodate your unwanted guests, you’ve skimped on your own food, barely affording yourself a couple of mouthfuls. Wine and ale has been spilled across the table, and the conversation around it has only grown more and more uncomfortable — and vile — as the night has worn on. You want nothing more than to get out of here and find your friends, but your father and his cronies show no signs of slowing down. 

You sit, staring emptily at the plates, the little remaining morsels of the meal you spent all day cooking. You try to block out the laughter and jeering, the disgusting comments, the blatant disrespect, but it’s all getting to you, riling you up. You’re not sure how long you’ll last without snapping.

Your answer comes when your father looks at you. And he snaps his fucking fingers at the finished plates. 

“Clear this up, Y/N.” He says. 

You know your father. You know what he can be like, the damage he can do. Your ruined back is evidence enough. And you know the wisest and safest thing is for you to comply and rant about him to your friends later.

But you’re far beyond that point.

You meet his gaze, and your jaw ticks as you shoot back, “Why don’t you clear it up yourself?”

You regret it the second the room falls deathly silent. All the noise is gone in an instant. Every face is looking your way.

But it’s your father’s face you’re concerned with.  The expression that tells you you’ve made a grave, grave mistake. 

“What was that?” His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

You look away. Wish you could cram the words back down your throat. “Nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing.” The male beside you sneers. “You speak to your father like that, girl? If you were my child, I’d string you up by the remains of those wings you never should have been born with.”

“I’d do a lot worse than that.” Another one remarks, a sickening laugh in his voice.

Throughout it all, your father is staring at you. Saying nothing.

“Did it hurt, anyway? Having them ripped off like that? I bet it did. I hope it did.”

Your final straw is when the pig at your side has the audacity to reach around and touch your back. You tense immediately, and you’re shooting up from your chair, knocking it over as you do.

“Don’t ever lay a finger on me again.” You will your voice to be stronger, firmer, but it won’t comply. You shake as you gather the plates up in your hand. “I’m cleaning this up.”

That’s met with a chorus of laughter, a pelting of comments. You tell yourself to block it out, block it the fuck out, balance as much as you reasonably can in your hands and book it into the kitchen. You dump the plates onto the counter and grip onto the sink basin, trying to draw in deep, slow breaths.

But then there are footsteps behind you. And the kitchen door closes. And you know that’s not good.

“Y/N.” 

Your eyes shutter. You release one of those useless breaths before you dare to turn and face your father. 

And when you do, his face is…soft. Eyes filled with concern.

But you’re not stupid enough to buy it. 

You’re taut as a bowstring as he approaches you, stopping inches away. He drinks in the sight of you, tilting his head. You wait for him to tell you that you look just like your mother — a fact that only contributes to his vitriol. As if it’s your fault that she abandoned him, abandoned both of you. 

He thinks it is.

His hand touches your cheek, his thumb sweeping the skin there. You swallow, hoping he can’t feel the way you tremble beneath him. 

“What’s gotten into you, my girl?” He asks quietly. “What did I say about not ruining Solstice?”

You swallow. Lower your gaze. “I thought it would just be the two of us.”

“Do I not have the right to invite my friends into my home?”

“I’m just saying that a little bit of warning would have been appreciated. I didn’t spend hours cooking a meal just for your friends to come along and ruin it.”

“Your attitude has become insufferable. Perhaps it’s those three males you’ve been spreading your legs for. Giving you too much of an ego boost.”

You almost want to laugh in his face — laugh at his cluelessness. But your anger wins. Maybe you’re more like him than you ever thought.

“Or perhaps, father,” you snap, “it’s an accumulation of anger and desperation after twenty years of living with a repulsive, sanctimonious—”

He strikes you so hard that for a moment, you’re simply stunned as to why you’re suddenly on the floor. But the thwack of his hit rings in your ears, echoes through the kitchen. 

And then the metallic taste of blood is coating the inside of your mouth. It’s streaming down your chin, and you’re not even sure where it’s all coming from, only that it hurts and your eyes are stinging. 

Your father stares down at you. And in that moment, you realise that the eeriest thing of all is that he never glares at you. You think you’d prefer that.

He always stares with that emptiness. That icy vacancy. It makes his actions more unpredictable, more dangerous. 

He lunges down so suddenly that you flinch, yanking you up by the front of your shirt. Your legs don’t want to comply as he shoves you towards the door.

“Get the fuck out of my house.” He hisses at you, ripping the door open. “Go on. Fuck off, just like your mother did.”

And then he’s shoving you into the snow, a plume of it erupting around you. You hardly notice the cold. You’re too stunned.

Not stunned enough, though, to refrain from biting back at him. Just like a threatened animal would. 

“Fuck you.” You sneer, the words contorted by a mouthful of blood that you spit onto the snow. “Fuck you, father.”

The bastard laughs in your face. Just as he’s always laughed in your face. And then he kicks snow at you because he can and steps back into the house.

When the door shuts behind him, you push to your feet. You’re trembling all over. It might be the cold. It might be the shock.

There’s only one person you want to see right now. So you wrap your arms around yourself and head towards the dormitories.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Halfway through trudging across the camp, your shoes sodden with snow, your lip still bleeding, the emotions begin to hit.

You resent them. You resent feeling anything at all towards the male who is your only blood relative in this hollow, hollow place. The one who took your wings. The one who has tried to keep a firm grasp on the control he has over your life.

But you do feel things. Hurt and rage and humiliation and — bizarrely — betrayal. As if some small slither of hope had followed you from childhood into adulthood — that your father would one day miraculously awaken as a different person. A family member worth holding onto.

He never would.

No, your true family has always been the small, loving group that crams themselves into a cottage across the camp; a place of warmth and welcoming.

Rhysand and Cassian and Azriel. Rhysand’s mother, too. They are your family. They have always cared, since the moment you met them.

It’s for that reason that you persevere with your walk, even though you’re frozen to the bone. You think you might be crying. You’re not too sure anymore. Your friends will make it better. They always make it better.

The dormitories glow in the distance; a welcome sight, for once. You kick through the snow with desperation, and you’re definitely crying, definitely shaking all over, but the sounds of the celebrations coming from inside are a relief. Playful jeering and someone strumming a lute and off-kilter singing.

You push your way through the door. Inside is as crowded as you expect it to be, but you don’t even care. Anywhere is better than at home.

Your eyes — not really taking in much at all — scan the corridors, the common area, looking for any of your three closest friends. You see none of them, but a hand lands on your shoulder, and you turn to find Vegha there. Her eyes widen immediately at the state of you. You dread to think how bad you look.

“Y/N, what the fuck?” She blurts. “Why are you bleeding?”

“Fell over.” You know how stupid it sounds. “I…I need to find Azriel. Have you seen him?”

“Oh, I think he skulked off to his room a little while ago. Everyone knows he hates big parties like this—”

Perfect. You’ll hole up in his room together and block the rest of the world out. You’re already turning and pushing through people. You’ll apologise to Vegha for your rudeness later. Right now, you just need Azriel’s comfort, his love. The conversation you planned to have with him tonight is now a distant memory, an issue to confront later. You just…just want him. He always makes everything better.

You don’t notice the drink that gets spilled on you, or the disgruntled groups of people you have to shove through. None of that matters. Azriel is your family. He matters.

Finally, you make it to his room. The soft glow of faelights shine beneath the door — an indication he’s inside. You almost sob with relief as you grab the handle and burst in.

Two faces immediately look round at you.

Azriel’s.

Kaeda’s.

Kaeda lies on top of him, hands either side of his head. Her lips are swollen and inches from his. Azriel is palming at her waist, holding her against him. They’re both fully clothed, but…but you get the sense they wouldn’t have been for much longer, had it not been for your interruption.

Azriel drinks in the sight of you, his chest heaving. He blinks. You…you’re rooted to the spot.

And you fucking wince as Kaeda sits up slightly. Az’s hands fall back to his sides.

The beautiful female eyes you, tilting her head. And you want to get out of there, to fucking run, but you can’t do anything but stand and blink as something shatters inside of you.

“The shop hand from the forge.” Kaeda states in surprise, as if it’s ludicrous to consider that you might sometimes venture outside of your father’s workshop. “What happened to your face?”

Azriel is finally springing into action, then, sitting up and scooting out from beneath Kaeda. “Y/N…”

You cannot bear the gentleness of his voice. It may just finish you off.

All of this might. Staying here a second longer might.

So you, for some reason, shake your head and back slowly out of the room. Azriel lurches up, but you’re grabbing hold of the door handle firmly.

“Sorry for interrupting.” Your voice is all wrong and fractured. You quickly shut the door before it can morph into a sob.

You think Azriel might call after you, but it’s probably wishful thinking. You don’t know. Don’t know anything. Don’t know what to do next.

So you simply walk away.

You suppose you’ve taught Azriel everything he needs to know.

azriel tag list: @hanasakr @positivewitch @ruler-of-hades @brekkershadowsinger @nightscourtt @imperfect0angel @luna-1-3-5 @hyacinthoideshispanica @lucyysthings @lahoete @littlemoonash @blacksstarrynight @azriels-mate123 @ghostly-poetic @frieddesigninspiringquotesslime @a-frog-with-a-laptop @illyriansimp @morrie-rose @passingthroughfireandshadow @illyrian-dreamer @azrielsbabyg @96jnie @mich0731 @mulansaucey @truthtellerfanclub @acourtofbooksandmagic @insightsonmylife @basicbittywitty @curbside-cyanide @acourtofchaosandmess @123345566 @starrynights-frostbites @eos-princess @thesillyyogourt @ona-raising-07-l @acediahamartia @dontfollowmepleaseitsannoying @polli05927 @asdfjklbooks @azriel-luvr @amysangel @humanpersonlasttimeichecked @wildflowernightmere @audie-writes @aaronwarnerswifereal @starxqt @lulufairbank @laurzwrites @livelaughlovenestaarcheron @girlwith-thecinder-blockgarden @jjlevin @smitty-werbenjagermenjenson @spikertrash @kindagoldylocks @barbiezambie @kht1998 @soupghoul @nyctophiliawitch @gracie1234567891011 @gaymistakeboi @luvmxo @rinalouu @microwaveallthedemons @starlightshowdown

[prettyboykatsuki]

HOW TO BE A DOG. | S. GOJO

⊹ general tags ; fem + afab!reader, reader presents femininely and has some specific character traits (i.e. personality traits, nothing physical), reader is shorter / smaller than gojo but nothing specified, reader is a teacher, gojo carries reader at some point (but he is canonly able to do very insane things physically so)

⊹ content warnings ; dead dove. do not eat, yandere gojo satoru, manipulation, stalking, obsessive behavior, delusional behavior, workplace harassment (not from gojo), victim blaming, canon typical violence, graphic depictions of murder, minor character death, excessive religious imagery, coercion, gaslighting, abuse of power, something akin to stockholm syndrome, graphic depiction of noncon / sexual content, forced intimacy, fingering, hickies / bruises, begging, edging, loss of virginity, size kink, 18+.

all sexual content present in part two.

⊹ wc ; 17.3k / 36.1k

link to extended authors note | ao3 | how to be a dog, by andrew kane.

LINK TO PART TWO

⊹ a/n ; well. its here. i wont ramble too much but i hope you enjoy and if you dont...well don't tell me. thank you to ame for your endless patience. likes and reblogs mean the world. the title is inspired by the poem linked.

⊹ synopsis ; with six eyes to see it becomes clear, you are being watched.

“Of course you must learn to love, to love always and love entirely and to be wounded by nothing so much as the violence of your own love.” - andrew kane, how to be a dog.

⊹ PART ONE : A CHILD BORN IN WINTER MUST NOT LONG FOR SPRING.

There’s a dog living outside of Gojo’s apartment. It’s a collarless, lonely thing. Clever, too. 

Though, Gojo doesn’t know much about its life before it started hanging around the area, he gets glances on occasion. It’s not emaciated and it doesn’t look hungry, but it’s roughened up with matted fur and a healed tear in one ear. 

More importantly, it doesn’t bother anybody in the neighborhood. Despite its outward appearance and hostility when approached, its aggression won’t go farther than a warning bark or growl. Most of the adults living in the building know better than to try, but some of the kids living upstairs desperately attempt to befriend it. Of course they fail, and Gojo thinks that that poor thing is growing apathetic to the touches of sticky hands. 

The whole building is pretty fond of it, surprisingly. Gojo lives in a upend complex in a metropolitan part of Tokyo and the people here can be snobbish. So it comes as a shock that this dog wasn’t shooed away months ago. 

Everyones sort of agreed to take care of it. There’s a food and water bowl outside of the security office - and just last week a sign was implemented of Do’s and Don’ts for what food scraps can be left. There’s a donation box to get some proper shots and paperwork - since it looks like the building's doorman has agreed to take it in if everyone chips in for the expenses.

(Gojo suspects this has something to do with those very kids, devastated by the thought of it being gone.)

Warm welcomes from the residents aside, Gojo hasn’t seen it act friendly before. He wonders about that.  It seems hesitant to trust anyone and he’s sure there's a good reason. It’s just that it's clever. To be a stray in this area of Tokyo and be so calm is an impressive feat, so he thinks it probably has some grasp of his own situation. If it acted cuter, it could get a warm house and family too. Though the whole aloof and distant thing does the job just fine, Gojo can’t help but wonder what such a clever creature is doing, turning away from living lavishly. 

Much like everyone else, Gojo’s contributions have come in the form of food scraps and some donation money to work towards the 5,000 yen goal. On the occasion their paths cross, Gojo sits near it. Sometimes, they share a moment of silence and Gojo talks just to see if it’ll ignore him. It seems like it’s listening. It always makes a grunt of dismissal when Gojo turns to leave and he’s started to count that as a little victory. 

Gojo isn’t intrigued by anything as much as that dog. At least not lately. It’s damn near impossible to seriously pique his interest and yet that clever fellow is one of the few things he stops to ponder at. 

Today, Gojo is intrigued by the dog that lives on the street of his apartment and the strange woman who’s petting it like some sort of domesticated baby.

He’s very, very intrigued by that. 

The rain comes down in heavy sheets. It’s a Wednesday, and he has no classes to teach so he’s home and preparing to run errands. He’s going about his day as usual, basically. When Gojo isn’t swamped with a mission or the reformation of Jujutsu Society - he likes to play the part of the average man. 

The plan for today was to take his unused car out of the lot so he could get some dry-cleaning done, go buy a new pair of sunglasses because his old ones are scratched, and go do some shopping. He needs to buy groceries again ( an uncommon occurrence) so that one's on the list too. 

He’s dressed down. A black windbreaker is hanging over his shoulders, tight gray shirt and some comfortable jeans. He’s got on his errand shoes, a nice pair of sneakers and his keys are hanging from a loop in his belt. His hair is styled down and he’s got on his glasses instead of his typical mask.

He has a gameplan, a fully fleshed out expectation of how today will go, and it���s derailed by a woman he’s never seen before. He’s drawn to you so naturally it’s baffling. 

You’re crouched just in front of the security office. Dressed in a loose skirt and long sleeves, looking down by the local neighborhood stray. For the first few seconds, he just lingers on in utter awe. You’re carrying a comically cute umbrella, clear with flowers and a pink edge. He kind of thinks you look like a peony. 

He approaches slowly, quietly. 

When he finally gets close enough to really see, he can hardly believe his eyes. That old, menacing mutt is happily getting his chin scratched by you. 

“Oh, uhm. Hello?” 

The sound of your voice startles him out of his trance. Snapping back to reality, he glances down to where you are and realizes he’s towering over you. In an effort to be polite, he steps back and gives you his most disarming smile. 

“Hi. Sorry for the intrusion, I was just,” He glances at the dog who almost looks offended at the interruption “I noticed you were… petting this dog. Guess I was a little surprised.” 

“Surprised?” 

And your surprise surprises him even more. He blinks slowly. 

“Yeah. He’s not aggressive or anything but uh,” Gojo chuckles, concluding you must be a little new “Well, he’s not exactly friendly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone succeed in well…petting him.” 

You’re taken aback by this information. Yeah, definitely new. 

“Really?” You glance at Gojo before looking back down at it “I just gave him some treats and waited a bit. He’s such a sweetie. Sure you mean this dog?” 

Gojo gets a good laugh out of that. Partially at your cluelessness and partially at your disbelief. He nods, smiling a little. 

“I’m very sure, actually. He must really like you,” He says, hands in his pockets. He bends down to join you, but he’s still a little bigger than you at that height “I guess I can see why. You’re pretty friendly.” 

You peek over at him. You seem a little shy at the compliment. Gojo feels his interest pique a second time today alone. New record. 

“Oh, uh. Thank you. I teach kindergarteners so I sort of have to be.” 

He hums. Reaching his hand towards the dog, who sniffs and cuddles his palm (something it’s never done before) in order to win your favor more. It really is a clever little thing, just like he’d always suspected.

“I’m a teacher too. A highschool teacher, though. No need for me to be friendly, I guess.” 

You laugh at his joke, smile reaching your eyes as you hug your knees to look at him.

“You seem plenty friendly to me.” 

He pretends to think about it. 

“Maybe you have a gift for making people come out of their shell,” He says with sincerity, relishing in the fact he’s finally getting to pet the dog in any capacity “I think this little guy could probably attest to that.”

“And you have a knack for flattery.” You quip. 

The natural chemistry is noticeable enough for it to catch Gojo off-guard. He grins. 

“Hey. I’m not all bad. And what's flattery if I’m being honest right?” 

“Sounds like something a flirt would say,” You tease, airy. He laughs a little. 

“You seem like you’re having fun giving me a hard-time.” He pouts. You giggle. 

“A little,” 

“Jeez. How rude of you…” He waits, prompting your name. You smile. 

You give him your name. You say it soft and easy. He makes sure to return to the favor. 

“And yours?” 

“Gojo Satoru.” 

__

You live up to your first impression in the time that Gojo gets to know you as his neighbor. 

Friendly. The word he’s looking for is friendly. 

There’s other words though. Sometimes meek, typically cheery, oftentimes quiet. You’re quite unassuming, and possibly too gentle when compared to everyone else in the general area. You fit in fine, no worries there. And Gojo knows that for certain because he can’t stop himself from watching over you like a hawk. 

He doesn’t really understand it himself. Gojo gets along with everyone. He’s always been a people person who likes to talk and likes to get to know strangers. There’s nothing that special about your connection in that way. You live next to him, directly across the hall.  You often knock on his door to give him something that you’ve made too much of or ask to borrow some sugar 

And it’s not done with any romantic intent. Gojo is good at reading people. He’s never seen someone so blatantly  romantically uninterested in him. You’re not even conscious of him as a man, cemented to him  by the one time you came to the door dressed in paper-thin PJ’s. He hasn’t recovered from the shock. One of the many times in his life where he was grateful no one could see where he was looking. 

He’s had a few months since your first meeting to get an idea of your personality and what things about you he should keep in mind. You noticed that he’s often not in his house, so you’re relatively aware of your surroundings. You’re often up late because your lights are always on well into the evening. 

(He finds out later you’re usually making lesson plans or little gift bags or planning birthdays. You really love your job, something he can commend while simultaneously  feeling quite jealous about.) 

You favor the lovely spring colors like pink and purple because you have so much of it always on you. You dress brightly in general. And you smile, often, and stumble over yourself trying to be nice to the other tenants. The kids in the building adore you. The sheer amount of propositions you’ve received to be someone's full-time nanny could probably keep you employed for another two decades. 

And you always put your best into everything, no matter what. 

This is probably the aspect Gojo is most fascinated by. It’s not exactly a novel trait. He’s encountered something like it before. One of his most prized students is Maki Zenin. Her whole thing is kicking ass through sheer spite. 

But unlike his students or anyone else he knows - you don’t seem to be motivated by spite or anger or frustration. Even when you are angry or upset - you always force yourself into being more understanding. Into being nice, kind, and still giving it your best if you’ve been shorted somehow. He’s tempted to call you a try-hard. It draws on the line of people pleasing sometimes but it doesn’t matter either way. This is a quality in you Gojo likes all the same. 

He's always been drawn to people who are earnest. His company favors such things. He cherishes Yuuji for such a reason, and can say something similar for Nanami. It’s a refreshing perspective. He’s not a bitter person, but he’s not an earnest one either. So Gojo likes that you’re so properly, gently sincere. 

For the last few months he’s made a real effort to talk to you. So he’s not just the guy next door, but at least an acquaintance and at best a distant friend. On the mornings you both have classes to teach, he walks you to your car and if he wakes up before you - he’ll bring you a cup of coffee or a pastry he knows you enjoy.  

You’ll often do Gojo little favors and he’ll return them - joking to each other about being a good neighbor. An inside joke with each other that Gojo is growing increasingly fond of, all together with leftover cups of coffee and glances that linger too long. Some mornings, he takes out your trash when you’re feeling too tired and you’ll do him the favor of getting the stuff out of his clothes that he doesn’t want to dry-clean. 

It’s these little exchanges that make up the bulk of your interactions. 

He’s even been to your apartment (another reason he’s sure you’re not attracted to him). He went last week to help you cut out little autumn leaves to put on your classroom walls, and you rewarded him with some lemonade. 

He’s still thinking about it days later, how you sit on your legs and the way your cardigan hangs off your shoulder. When you’re focused, you leave your mouth open a bit and poke your tongue through your lips. He’s endeared by it. 

 By you in general.

It’s all boring and mundane, but that’s what makes it. It’s a luxury he rarely affords. Craves, really, which is why he’s starting to go straight home more often than not.

It’s nice that you’re always there. That you’re usually home and when you’re not - Gojo doesn’t have to guess too hard about where you are. It’s so constant. He basks in the feeling of constancy like an expensive silk. 

It’s little luxuries like that, he thinks, that make you so special to Gojo without much effort on your behalf. Being up at the top means he is always fascinated by the place closest to the ground. 

What’s heaven to a man born there?

__ 

In your fourth official month of residence, the neighborhood dog finally gets adopted. 

He’s not there for the big reveal. He hears it from you while he’s on a mission, through a text message and a photo. He acquired your number early on, but you’ve only started doing these text exchanges recently. Reason being Gojo’s had an unusual amount of cases that need his attention and you’ve been very aware of his absence.  

(The first time you texted Gojo after 3 days on the other side of the country, he was scarily happy. After all, most times when he leaves - people are expecting his return.  There’s an assurance that he will return alive, that he has to. It’s not often people worry.

It was another thing he learns about himself through you. Being fussed about is refreshing.) 

Currently, he’s all the way down in Nagasaki. He’s been investigating what the local government has described as an “infestation in the water,” leading to poison and all sorts of hallucination. It’s been causing all of the local hospitals to fill up and the news is advising people to distill their water if possible when at home. Make sure to buy bottled, and double check on your children. 

In other words, there’s an unidentified curse wreaking havoc in small towns and rural areas at an unusually fast rate and Gojo has been sent to figure out its origin. What’s really weird is the location. He’s in Nagasaki prefecture, specifically in Hasami - a town in the Higashisonogo district. He really didn’t have much time to do research on the area, save for a few quick google searches and probing questions to his student, the well traveled Yuta Okkutsu who is a hair more familiar with the region than he is. 

But there wasn’t much for him to find. Hasami is known for the porcelain it produces. The population is a little under 15,000 and the weather is nicer in spring than it is in summer where it gets too humid. It’s considered a small town, though that number is relative in consideration, and currently the local officials are sending off reports about the water supply. 

Even when doing deep research using official means, there was nothing that unusual about the place. No major criminal incidents or occult presence or some other thing that would make this occur naturally. Gojo is no stranger to small town violence or bullying and they can often produce the most volatile curses.

But he’s currently on his 3rd day here, where he’s taken up talking with the locals and he can’t find any specific attitude that would foster a special grade. 

It had led him to a conclusion,  but one he was deliberately avoiding. That someone planted the curse here in Nagasaki, or maybe somewhere else. Which really complicates the whole affair, because then this is an investigation and not just a situation of fate. It also means that this curse was likely harvested somewhere and that Gojo can’t be sure it’ll be easy to get rid of. 

Most importantly, all that fanfare means he’ll be home late. 

Given how much he’s longing to see you, it’s the thing he’s been dreading most. 

It’s weird. He’s never dying to see anyone, with the exception of an old friend long gone. But Gojo has been desperate to see you for the few weeks he’s been away from home. 

(He can’t tell if it’s normal to long this much for a person he truthfully doesn’t know that well.) 

But, while he’s away from home, the thoughts of you play on loop in his head. Like white noise, static yet constant -  there, all the same.  As he walks the rainy streets of Hasami, hands in his pockets - he can’t help but wonder when the next time he gets to see you will be

It’s like some sort of miracle (aren’t you always one?) when Gojo hears his phone ring, buzzing against his abdomen. 

He’s drawn back into reality when he feels it. In front of a store that sells handmade plates and glasses, he lets it go for a while. Feels it buzz against his pocket while he settles his thoughts. He examines his surroundings,  notices the cars, and the mother with her daughter across the street and the gray sky - all before he picks it up. Your name flashes him on screen, and something itches deep in his chest.

The clouds open up. And it’s still raining, but there’s a ray of sunlight cutting through them. For a minute Gojo feels worldly, grinning with damp skin before he slides his thumb across the phone. 

You’ve never called him before. 

“Hello?” He greets, wondering if it was an accident. Then you come through the other side of the line.

���Hi ~,” You say, clearly doing something in the midst of talking “How’ve you been?” 

“I’ve been alright. Very shocked you called me, yanno?”

You laugh quietly. 

“Sorry about that. I just wanted to check in. And I wanted to say thank you.” 

“I mean… I’ll accept but I feel like I should know what for.” He jokes. Your tone goes sincere, marshmallow soft and twice as sweet. 

“You paid the rest of the fees for the dog out of pocket, didn’t you?” 

He smiles to himself.

“Ah. Busted. That was supposed to be a secret between me and Mr. Security-Man,” 

“He didn’t tell me. I just…guessed. Seems like something you’d do.” 

His first instinct is to disagree.

“It’s not like I did it out of the goodness of my heart, okay? It was looking a little sad sleeping during the cold seasons. It was very pitiful. So bad, so sad.” 

“Why’d you do it?” You ask, probing but not too deeply “Like… really. It was really nice of you, but it was a couple thousand and that can’t be cheap.”

He relents, head leaning back on the wall behind him. 

“The kids, remember?” He murmurs, eyes staring up at the gray clouds “You said they’d be sad if the dog didn’t get adopted soon.” 

“The way you’re talking about it makes it seem like you’re doing this for me.” 

“And if I was? Would that bother you, hm?” 

You wait a minute, hesitating with your words. 

“Well…no. I guess not, I just—thank you. I guess I’m just a little… embarrassed about it or whatever.” 

“Shy, huh? Cute.”

“Jeez,” You huff. Gojo can practically hear your grinning from the other side; it makes his heart flutter. He wants to go home, to wherever you are “And you always say you’re no flirt.” 

“I’m not a flirt. I’m just telling it how it is.” 

“Yeah? Well, thanks anyway then. It made them really happy. You should’ve been there to see it. Maybe you can tell them when you get back?” 

“Don’t wanna.” He states outright. 

“You didn’t even think about it!” You exclaim.

“Mm, because I don’t have to. I definitely don’t want them to know.” 

“Why not, though? You’d be their hero, y’know? 

Maybe it’s something in the air. The damp weather out closer to the ocean, or the distance between you. There’s a tiny echo in your words, mechanical through the speakers. The word hero leaves a melancholy in his mouth, floating in the back of his throat like liquor refusing to go down. He chuckles. 

“Ooo, are you into that kinda thing? Like, super charming knights in shining armor? Or superheroes, maybe?” 

You giggle on the other side of the line. If you notice him avoiding answering you, you have the courtesy not to say anything.

“Isn’t everyone? I don’t know. I think if a really good-looking guy saved my life, it’d probably make my heart race a little, yeah. I’d catch feelings over that for sure.” 

He takes a deep breath. Everything smells like rain. 

“Is that so?” He says, chest blooming with warmth “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

__

Gojo returns from his mission empty-handed. 

He was out there for a long time, at least longer than usual when he’s traveling for a mission. He’s not used to hitting so many dead ends. The problem kept growing, but every trail he’d uncovered went cold in about a day. Just before he gave up hope, he was called in by Yagi. Since the issue has spread into other parts of the city, it’s no longer his solo jurisdiction. 

More hands on meant more time for Gojo to be teaching. It also meant that he would finally see you after so long. You waited for him outside the day he returned to Tokyo - wearing a cream colored sweater and the prettiest smile Gojo had ever laid eyes on. 

Gojo returns from his mission empty-handed but it’s not entirely pointless. Upon returning - he had a somewhat shallow epiphany about the way you make him feel. About the way he’s affected by you, which is arguably more valuable than some lead.

Being away from you for so long is something that makes him so irritable. He’s had some time between then and now to come into terms with it. 

Falling back into his routine, it was obvious. Suddenly there was a gap he’d never noticed before that blew wide enough for him to fall through. He actively avoids not seeing you if he can, and ever since your permissive conversation a few weeks ago - it’s harder to notice the way his desires fester. 

There’s not much he wants out of his life. So when anything noteworthy pops up, Gojo is always eager to get a hold of it before it’s too late. 

He usually soothes that by reminding himself of your position as a civilian, a kindergarten teacher at that. The responsible thing to do is make sure you’re safe. To play the hero from the sidelines and ensure you don’t encounter anything from his line of work. That’s his whole life's work. To create a life like that, and it helps to stay on that path when he believes you’re sheltered from that reality. 

That’s why, when you tell Gojo you can see curses, he feels the entire floor collapse from underneath his feet. 

He receives such devastating news over a cup of coffee at that.

It’s closing in to Fall slowly and Gojo has decided to take you out to eat as an apology for his disappearance. He intended to give you another half-truth about his job so you wouldn’t lose any sleep over him. 

When it happens, it’s less that you tell him, and more that you keep glancing. Just over his shoulder, with this terrified expression that Gojo couldn’t not notice, even if he tried. 

You’ve got your hands around a warm drink, in a white, ceramic mug but your gaze keeps diverting to the place behind him. When he looks over to that same place, a curse is there. Small. More insignificant than a bug, but there. 

It’s risky to mention it. Because if Gojo is wrong, it’s not something he can brush off. He’d have to come up with something to excuse himself, and he isn’t sure how to lie out of that (even with his natural disposition of being a trickster.) But when you keep looking, his instinct kicks in. There’s no way you aren’t seeing it. 

He doesn’t ask you directly. That’d be too incriminating, so he lowers his tone. Watches you briefly as you tremble in fear. 

(A small, small  part of him is only asking because he doesn’t like how distracted you are from him. Killing the curse seems like it’d relieve that annoyance too.)

“Can you see it…?” 

The question makes you jump out of your skin. You reel back, eyes widened before the realization really sets in. 

“....It?” 

Gojo looks around the cafe for a minute, to make sure no one is listening before he turns around and points to the cursed spirit behind him. 

“It,” He says, thumb pointed at the deformed curse moaning in one of the booths. 

When it dawns on you that Gojo sees what you see, you cup a hand over your mouth in shock. He can’t describe the way getting that confirmation feels. It raises so many questions about who you are. More than he had before, at least. 

No longer are you the innocent, clueless civilian and that changes every interaction he’s had with you since the start. Though it’s not uncommon for people who can see curses to fall through the cracks, he can feel his own curiosity dig into his skin like seeds taking root. He doesn’t think he should be excited, but he is. 

He’s excited watching your fearful tremble. He’s never seen you like that.

“Yes,” You say, voice a little shaky this time “I can see… it.” 

He takes the spoon out of his latte and cleans it with his mouth. Studying your expression momentarily, he takes a deep breath before standing to his feet. The terror is so subtle, the kind he can only catch because he’s so familiar.. He knows those emotions better than he knows most. 

Curses aren’t phobias. Not illusions or ghosts, but tangible madness. Impactful to those who can see it, but nothing to those who can’t. Fear like that, which can’t be shared with anyone, has a specific look when it shows up in someone. Gojo hasn’t felt that fear since he was very, very little. He watches curses with the same bland expression he might watch a horror movie, but he can understand your reaction at least.  He knows it like the back of his hand. All the people he’s saved, who could see them too, always wore the same one. 

Still, he’s caught off guard. He feels bad that you’re scared. But the proximity between you and him which was once oceans wide has decreased significantly in no time at all. That feels good. Even better than he would’ve imagined. 

“Are you scared?” He questions intently, maintaining a sense of neutrality.

You swallow a lump in your throat, eyes glued to the table in front of you.

“Yes,” 

Your voice is a hoarse whisper. The corners of his lips twitch upward. 

When he’s sure no one is looking, he stands up and walks over to the table behind him. Pretending to look for something so he doesn’t look out of place. It doesn’t take more than a second to destroy it. It’s tiny, something he’d never think of fighting since it’s so harmless. The curse equivalent to a fly. 

He gives it a violent death and sees you look on with horror in your expression. He finds himself pleased with that, wiping his hands on his pants before returning. Maybe you recognize his strength when he sits back down. Still, instead of pulling away again, you fold your hands in your lap. 

“T-Thank you,”

He grins at you. 

“Of course,” He says  “Can I ask you something?” 

You nod your head and sip your tea. 

“Do you know who I am?” 

You look confused.

“...Are you a celebrity?” 

He laughs hard at that. Hearing that makes him not want to tell you. 

“I’m Gojo Satoru,” He reintroduces. You nod slowly “I’m a sorcerer.” 

Another lie of omission. The strongest, he should say. He takes a sip of his latte, frowning at the bitterness. Through his mask, he watches as you fiddle with your hands. He stacks the empty creamer cups together before opening two more sugar packets and stirring them. 

“A sorcerer…” You look perplexed. Confusion settles into the lines of your face. Sheltered, Gojo concludes. Only parents, who shelter you wouldn’t tell you what a sorcerer was despite your ability to see them “What does that… mean exactly?” 

“It means I kill curses for a living” He replies simply. 

“I thought you were a high school teacher.” 

He smiles. 

“Smart cookie. I am, but the school I teach at specializes in cursed technique and sorcery.”

“Oh.” 

You look befuddled. 

Gojo thinks he might be an opportunist. 

“Do you really not know anything about them? It’s rare for people to be able to see them and not know anything about them.”

You shake your head, eyes peering into your drink. He watches how the image reflects in your eyes.

“Uhm. Not really. My parents told me to do my best to stay away from it. We lived in the countryside but I had to move out into the city for work so I kept… running into them. I can’t like… kill them. And I don't always see them.” 

“You can’t use cursed techniques?” 

“I guess that’s what that is. I don’t think I can, no.” 

Vulnerable. 

“Hmm. What circumstances,” He says, purposeful in weaving concern in his words. 

“Is it that bad…?” 

Not really. His job and the job of his peers is to make sure civilians make as little contact with curses as possible. There are more people like you, and because curses feed off of negative emotions - many dangers can be shafted by just not reacting. Even so, it’s customary for people to have some semblance of protection. A weapon if nothing else, for anyone who can see them.

“Do you carry anything with you?” 

“Like a weapon? I have mace for when I take the train late at night.” 

“Not that kind of weapon,” He says gracefully. He can tell you’re out of your element, and some small and twisted part of him would like to keep you in the fateful dark.

“What other kind would there be?” 

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” He half answers. Your frown deepens. He puts his palm over the top of his coffee cup but doesn’t feel any warmth “Aw, don’t be like that. I’m just teasing. You’re always so calm and collected, I was surprised to see how scared you got, you know?” 

“Everybody gets scared sometimes.” 

“Mm,”

His non-committal response leaves you nervous again. Fidgeting with the edge of your cup or the loose threads in the sleeves of your clothes. What a bundle of nerves you are. Gojo puts all the comfort he can in his voice, dredging up some sense of sincerity.

“Well, since it scares you and I’m such a nice guy, I’ll protect you if you get into any trouble.” He says, snapping his fingers and pointing at you.

That makes you relax. Makes your shoulders droop, a smile gracing your pretty face. Gojo can feel the floor underneath him sinking as you tease him. His eyes trace the curve of your neck. He’s glad you can’t see him or where they look. 

“Oh, what? Are you gonna come running every time I need help?” 

He smiles. 

“I’ll be your personal Superman.” He promises, making a silly expression trying to make you laugh. It feels good when he succeeds, the weight of his words softened by it. If you feel how heavy the comment is, it doesn’t show up on your face. 

You snort, taking a sip of your drink and there’s something so kind in your expression that Gojo aches over. 

“That right?” You hum, smiling over the edge of your ceramic mug “You’re my hero.”

__ 

Since then, Gojo’s kept quite busy.

The last time he saw you at all was at the diner a few weeks prior and little has been different since then. You send more nervous messages than before, but aside from that things are the same.

He’s done a good job, he thinks. Partly of ensuring you, partly of instilling healthy fear. Your eyes always widen like you’re caught off guard by his comments - sometimes washed away with a laugh but other times genuine. Gojo likes to keep you on your toes. A  bit of harmless fun and endlessly amusing. 

Gojo would be there to protect you just like he promised before, so even scaring you isn’t something he thinks of as bad. It’s not untrue that you should be a little more vigilant, but just telling you to do so is no easy feat. 

He would like to be spending time with you today just the same as he has before, but he’s home alone instead. There’s been a brief reprieve between cases so he’s on his own to unwind. There’s nothing he wants to do, so he decides on a movie. 

Gojo is the only one of his friends who still has cable TV. According to Shoko it’s a luxury purchase but for him it’s one less choice he has to make when coming home to relax.

It’s an American film on now, some psycho-killer classic that he’s already seen a handful of times with Japanese subtitles. 

None of the lights are turned on, so the TV illuminates the room in flashes of color. He grabs a soda from his steel-gray fridge and cracks it open, listening to the soft fizz that comes to a slow halt. Pulling it to his mouth, he travels slowly back to his couch. The leather squeaks under the weight of his body. The weight of his back creates a divet that he can be comfortable in. He rests his head, glancing back again at the screen. 

A scream rips through the house, agitating his every nerve. He picks up his remote and turns it down just a tad before watching the movie with a sort of disinterest. Horror movies aren’t his favorite, admittedly. He pretends he scares easily, but the opposite is true. Gojo has seen too much for it to be entertaining, no less scary. 

He likes movies based on their creative merit. He’ll watch one on its creative merit. 

But to be scared? For frights? Not really. Very little gets his heart pumping hard like that. Sometimes the storytelling is good. Other times there’s something cathartic about the formulaic death. The final girl, the call from inside the house. The dependable and clean ending of tropes. Even if it’s messy or sinister, it’s fantastical. Fictitious and detached. 

Gojo enjoys that. For anyone else, it’s probably a twisted way to think about it but to Gojo it only feels natural. He doesn’t examine that detachment very deeply. He’s just aware of it, lingering in the back of his head. 

He takes a long sip of his drink. The sickly sweet taste slowly coats his mouth. Fizzy and smooth, it goes down easily. He sits up in his seat, making himself comfortable as he tries to pay attention to the movie. The main girl is hiding in the bathroom, and the killers' steps are echoing through the house. The broken, somber string instruments in the background, fill the white noise with apprehension and terror. 

Gojo doesn’t feel a chill down his spine. His eyes are still fixed on the screen though, with slight anticipation of what's next even though he already knows. It’s nearing the end and he’s seen this movie before. She’s not going to make it, and Gojo knows that. 

He watches intently in spite of that. The door bursts open and there’s a knife in her chest - and screams. It’s horrific and ugly, blood-spattered and graphic. 

He doesn’t flinch until the whole way through.

It’s brief, but the thought passes his mind. Lately, the only thing that Gojo seems to react to is you.

But he doesn’t think about it too deeply. There’s no need to. 

The TV goes to commercial and Gojo realizes he’s finished his soda. He stands back up, onto his feet to toss the can and grab another. This time, he grabs some snacks too. Piles them onto a plate, dried meats, and something mildly sweet for after before he returns to his living room. Sitting back down on his couch, he scrolls through his phone for anything interesting but comes up short of any results. 

He sits up a little straighter as the next movie plays. 

__

Spending time around curses is a necessary part of the learning experience.

Things you can’t learn in all the lessons and tutoring in the entire world. Even though Jujutsu Tech exists, and even given Gojo’s lineage - when he started working officially, he didn’t know everything. You can’t. No matter to what extent you study, there’s some things that you can only gauge through experience. Going through something over and over, like muscle memory.

Gojo spent a lot of his life wanting it to make sense. Wanting curses and the way they showed up to make sense. This is a lesson in truth, divine truth you can only take up in experience. Curses are human emotions, which means that they are finicky and everywhere. And the dangers of them will always look like the aftermath of destruction. 

Sometimes, there’s nothing you can do to prepare for why things happen. It’s why Gojo is always grasping for light where he can find it. 

Gojo Satoru stands in an empty parking lot all the way in Osaka. He examines the sight in front of him and can’t find anything he’s learned to prepare for what's next. 

Fog has rolled in thick clouds over every inch, limiting his vision. The air tastes of smoke, and the earth underneath him is damp. The wet concrete squeaks under the weight of his shoes as he takes in the surroundings. The parking lot of an animal hospital, in particular - where all the staff were reported to have fallen unconscious. After being rolled out by the proper authorities and after all the animals were moved into a different location - Gojo was left to examine the remnants of the incident. 

The reports are similar all across the country. Not the location. but the symptoms. People falling sick and ill. The initial reports of a water-borne illness didn’t progress far past the first city. It’s evolved since then. People get sick, pass out and hallucinate and animals lose all control. 

The aftermath isn’t very messy so luckily it doesn’t attract too much attention. There’s no bodies, or blood - nothing  heinous thereafter. The effects appear later in the people affected, taken over by an unnamed madness that appears to turn their internal experience to ruins. Gojo would’ve preferred the first situation. Violence like that becomes easy to digest with enough exposure. 

These kinds of symptoms are always hard to stomach. Civilians get answers that placate them. The truth is that there's something bigger out there at play and they were just so unlucky to bear witness to the terror. With altered memories and the badge of trauma, what they don’t know can’t hurt them. 

Gojo knows though, and sometimes he envies their ignorance.

He makes his way into the building. A set of glass doors greets him when he turns the sidewalk, with a blinking sign. Osaka Animal Hospital is written at the top in neon, accompanied by the words 24hr service. Gojo only glances at it briefly before sighing, hands on the bar to push himself through the heavy glass doors. He has to lean some of his weight to get through, and there’s just another set beyond those where he has to do the same. 

Then, he’s inside. 

The presence of the curse and of cursed energy ignites familiar caution within him. It’s here, in some capacity - or it was recently. The perpetrator is here too. Why that is, Gojo can’t quite understand. It seems a little backwards to linger here after everyones been evacuated and there’s no doubt someone would come to investigate. 

All Gojo can think is that maybe they weren’t expecting him. But by now, they must know he’s there too. Gojo’s presence is intentionally oppressive - by nature it must be. Now it’s a waiting game, a quiet one at that. 

Hospitals are always echoey and this one is no different. The squeak of his boots bounces off the walls as he takes steps towards the receptionist desk just to see if he’ll find anything. 

He leans over it, to stare at the left over records - untouched by the authorities. Everything looks like it was left in a hurry. Strew pens and a corded phone just barely back in place - with computers on a blue idle screen. All the daily documents are still out sitting on the desk with no organization to indicate they’ve been filtered through. No paper clips or post-its telling the next person working about what to do. 

Instead of walking behind the counter, he climbs over it with relative ease. Once he’s behind it, he takes better note of his surroundings. He doesn’t find anything completely relevant. There’s painting of animals, and some certifications for bills of health as well - but nothing that warrants his attention. He redirects through the papers in front of him, coming across a stack unexamined. Those answer sheets they give you to fill out so they can assess the situation before meeting you. 

They’re split into two piles it looks like, though that could just be some coincidence. Still, he flips through them. Directing his attention to the little comment box with the prompt what are you being seen for? 

It’s nothing serious. Normal things an animal owner would be upset or worried about like bowel movements and eating something that shouldn’t have been consumed. A minor injury or a worrisome behavior - but nothing that sticks out. For pages and pages, Gojo flips through the little packets trying to find anything. 

It’s not what he sees, but what he doesn’t. A blank packet of papers, with no name for the owner or the pet. Only a description in the prompt box, neat handwriting in a single line. 

“Showing signs of anxiety.” 

Gojo smiles to himself. Interesting. 

He jumps back over onto the other side once he’s seen it. It’s strange. Why would they go to the lengths of premeditating it like that? Whether it’s the curse itself or some third party, it’s an unreasonable thing to do. 

“Not like people like this are usually reasonable, but,” 

He saves the rest of the thought, sighing. The room has two hallways to go down. Both directions have some lingering cursed energy,  but the hallway leading to the overnight area is much stronger. It’s separated by a big metal door, so Gojo braces himself to go through it.

He walks towards it slowly and through the doors even slower. It’s a long, empty hall. The ceilings are low, white fluorescent lights over his head like a falsified halo. They flicker on and off, with the ones at the very end of the hall having fizzled out completely. Gojo can hear, feel, and see everything. He can hear his own breathing and the artificial crackling  of electricity. Feel the lingering presence of sickness, the sediments of a curse preparing itself to emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon. 

He peeks into the different rooms of the hallway. One half of the hall is kennels, once again empty and left in the same messy state as the front desk. The other half of the rooms look like surgery rooms, with a storage closet tucked into one corner. The hall comes to an abrupt stop at the end, a painted gray wall with nothing to offer at the end.

But when Gojo is half-way through, he hears it. A heart-beat. A human one, slow and steady like it’s not worried at all. Not moving or running, just there. Thump, thump, thump. 

Gojo perks his head up as he walks, leaning over to get a look at every room. Empty, empty, empty. 

Then, in the very last one is a shadowy figure. The sound of the heartbeat is louder and the feeling of cursed energy is so strong it’s nauseating. Gojo pauses when he peers in, waits for there to be any response to his presence. There’s no way whoevers lurking doesn’t know he’s there, but there’s nothing that makes him react. He frowns. 

His hand reaches for the handle of the door with a sigh, the mechanism inside clicking to let Gojo know it’s open. He takes a deep breath before opening it, stepping inside and shutting it behind him. 

Even with the room as dark as it, the person inside is clear to his vision. A young girl. Probably no older than 17 with… 

He furrows his brow. With a dog, from what it looks like. No ordinary dog, obviously. A curse in the form of a dog, with teeth too sharp for its mouth and fur that looks like a smear of charcoal and nothing like hair at all. It’s on a long leash, the chain wrapped around the young woman's palms. 

The dog seems to tense up at the sight of Gojo. The eyes are empty and white - almost transparent. It’s a snarling thing, muzzle over the mouth and clearly on edge. Gojo looks at its owner, the perpetrator in this instance. Who looks calm, black mask tucked over face and long dark hair with bangs cut sharp.

Gojo doesn’t know what to say here. He wasn’t expecting to make contact this easily with a curse and its master. It’s been months now, the authorities chasing after this special grade from city to city. She’s obviously strong, and so is that curse that’s strained against its collar like it’s ready to rip him in half if he moves. Not stronger than him, because no such thing ever happens - but strong enough for him to be cautious. 

He doesn’t step forward. He stops by the door and tilts his head. He’s sure she can’t see his eyes, but they make eye contact all the same. None of it makes any sense, but making sense of it isn’t Gojo’s job. 

Instead of introducing himself, he opens the conversation with a question. 

“Why’re you still here?” 

“I knew I was going to get caught soon.” 

An answer he couldn’t predict even if he tried. Gojo huffs. 

“There was some time between the authorities coming and this investigation. You could have left before then, no?” 

“Doesn’t matter. Something would’ve stopped me.” 

“What a weird kid. What led you to that?” 

There’s a minute where the dog (?) starts barking,  but the noise is nothing like a bark. It’s cosmic and strained, and sounds more like a distorted radio than an animal noise. It’s in the shape of an animal but it isn’t one, like it couldn’t complete itself to be one. Gojo winces at the sound, intensified in the closed walls of the room. It’s piercing, and a little annoying. 

When she soothes it, it calms down quickly. It’s obedient. 

“Uh. A vision. Closer to a premonition. Fate.”

“Fate said you were going to get caught today. Right.” 

“Aren’t you a shaman? Shouldn’t be that hard to believe.” 

“Point taken. How did you know I was a shaman and not some murderer?” 

She gives Gojo a pointed look. 

“Look at you. Plus, I can feel that you’re a shaman.” 

“Another premonition?” He asks, this time sincerely. She shakes her head. 

“No. Your aura.” 

Gojo stares ahead. 

“...Right, yeah. It doesn’t look like you’re planning on attacking me.” 

“I don’t think I’d win. I’ve never met anyone stronger than me.” 

“I’m the strongest there is, so I guess not. How did you wanna go about this, then? Famous last words?” 

“You go first. I’d rather talk to you than the other officials.” 

“Hm. Don’t know if I have any questions, kiddo. My job is catching you, not interrogation. I guess I am a little interested in why.” 

This makes her deflate a little. It’s hardly noticeable, but Gojo sees it anyway. The dog seems to react, snarling at her discomfort. He’s starting to understand the connection between them.

She thinks for a minute longer before sighing. 

“Well. I guess I should start about why, right? It’s an old story. I came from a small village. I used to walk miles to school everyday and I’d get bullied a lot since my granny was a shaman. It was just us growing up. A nice old house with not a lot of modern anything,”

Gojo crosses his arms, leaning back on the wall and nodding his head. He figures she’ll tell him top to bottom, so he doesn’t give any input. 

“My granny died a few years ago. I didn’t have any family so I moved on my own. Even back then, the only other thing I cared about were animals. I started working at a shelter and then I met Senbei.” 

The more she talks, the worse he feels. Gojo already knows how this story will end, but he doesn’t interrupt her as she pauses between her sentences. Being 17 and bearing the burdens of loss is something he regards as a nightmare. 

“Senbei was my best friend. Most loyal dog ever. And you know, I started my job with high hopes and kept him by my side. I wasn’t always angry. Working in that shelter and watching animals come in trembling every time I fed ‘em made me angry. How cruel and sick people could be.” 

Her explanations are jumbled and clumsy. She sounds angry but it’s not that simple, curling in on herself the more she talks. Noticeably, she doesn’t try to justify it. She says it easily, with acceptance that it happened.  He thinks that acceptance is harder to bear than delusion. Gojo can’t help but commend her silently. 

“I’m sorry you went through that.”  Gojo replies. 

He’s being sincere. 

“Should you be sympathizing with me?” 

“Doesn’t matter. I just do.”

Her expression softens. She looks sad, and it’s not like Gojo doesn’t understand.  She keeps going though, hands shaking in her lap. Gojo thinks she might’ve been waiting to tell someone. 

“I don’t know when I stopped seeing the good in people….I always thought about—about my granny and how no one—no one came to see her. She was always taking care of everyone and no-one—“

“I know, kid,” Gojo says with a sigh “I get it.” 

“Then you know,” She pauses, taking a deep breath. There’s frustrated tears pouring down her cheek this time. What a strange, sad thing she is:  “That you can’t go back. Even if you forget. It just—it changes you.” 

Yeah. Gojo knows something about that, too. 

“I was already pretty desperate when Senbei was alive. Just trying to hold on. When he was killed, I lost it. I just fucking— I lost it. I’m sure you understand. You get it right?”

Gojo looks at her confused. She shakes her head, looking down in her lap at the curse in her hands.

“I can tell you're like me.  That's why your aura is so tainted and… fucked up and  malicious. It should be crystalline blue kinda like spring water—but it’s muddy. Rigid.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“The fact you’re hanging on by a thread. You can feel it too, right?“ 

Gojo remains quiet at her observation. He doesn’t know how to react. 

“When you want something so bad, it just— does something to you. Either because it won’t happen or because it needs to take your life to exist. Happened to granny, to me. It’ll happen to you, too.”

“I doubt that,” Gojo says, your face flashing in his mind. He shakes his thoughts away. 

“You’re thinking about it too literally. You want something, so you chase it and lose yourself in the process. You’re dead. No longer you, all tangled and in ruins. It’s not too late, but if you keep going—that thread is gonna snap.” 

“A premonition?” He says, partially sarcastic. She shakes her head. 

“No, a prediction. You don’t have to consider it if you don’t want to. I just thought I’d tell you since you gave me some last minutes with this Senbei.” 

Gojo shakes his head. 

“I don’t have any reason to be forceful if you comply. Take your time. I don’t have anything better to do.” 

Gojo glances at her as she pets it, having resigned herself to silently gazing upon it. He can’t stop himself from thinking about everything she’s said, so he averts his gaze to the ceiling and pretends otherwise.

The silent stretches, a pregnant pause before she speaks one more time. She has a look on her face Gojo can’t read.

“You know, it’s funny. Everyone thinks dogs are loyal to their masters, but that’s because we made them that way. We can’t stand being alone or unloved so we made something that can do both without ever seeing any less of us.” 

“You’ve had a lot of time to think about it.”  Gojo says, unsure of how to reply. She isn’t expecting anything, but remaining silent fills him with a sense of dread. 

“Guess so. You should take some time to think about it too,”

She says to him, petting the curse that whines like it’s been hit in her small hands. Gojo takes a deep breath. 

“…Yeah. I’ll do that.” 

__

The case ends anti-climatically. 

Gojo finds it funny. The officials came and the young girl was promptly arrested. He never even got a chance to ask her name. He learned through some probing that she only made two asks before being taken. 

The first, to keep her curse dog with her, and to send her thanks to the sorcerer who had apprehended her in the first place.

On the news, much later in the week - a news report surfaces. “Danger in the Deep,” giving reasonable and logical explanations for the events that occurred in cities across Japan not even a few weeks ago. New studies show, experts say, here’s a word from your local—a barrage of fancy language to pad the publishing, add depth and realism. The public is none the wiser. 

Gojo has to admire the commitment to keeping the peace. The case ends, and the girl gets arrested and put on trial. He doesn’t know if he’ll be seeing her again any time soon, though he’s sure he has the power to intervene. 

He’s hesitating to do so. Why stick his neck out for her in a situation like this one? Over other situations, more dire ones at that. She’d make a good ally.

Their last conversation hasn’t left the back of Gojo’s mind. He’s conscious of it, albeit it hasn’t slowed him down. He’s not looking for another assessment of who or what ghosts are haunting him. He’d prefer to put it all behind him now

So life, in some capacity, has returned to its baseline. It’s normal. He has cases but they don’t take him more than three days. He’s able to do his usual chores without anything impeding them. He’s been teaching, no longer forced to make his students fend for themselves. 

He’s been seeing you again regularly, too. 

He’s getting ready now to do just that. Scheduled to get another coffee together (something of a tradition now) and pick up some conversations. You’ve been busy, though Gojo doesn’t know the details of what.

He wants to know. He’s even tried asking but as soon as he gets close to the subject, you slink into yourself like you’re trying to disappear. Besides, he doesn’t want to intimidate you into telling him. 

(Though, it would be so easy to do. You’ve got a record for being a scaredy cat, and as much as it endears him - he is entirely too hung up on the potential for exploitation to admire it kindly. It’d be easy to turn the notches up, pressure you. With how easy going you are, you’d let him do it. Gojo bets you’d cave. He thinks the face you’d make would be entertaining too. 

Above all, the offer is tempting.) 

In spite of your refusal to discuss the specifics, Gojo does want to cheer you up in whatever capacity he can. So, he’s taking you out for a while and hoping a comfortable environment and the presence of other people will soothe your nerves a little. 

He’s getting dressed for it now, rifling through his closet for decent casual attire. 

He’s got his hair styled down, a pair of new sunglasses on the table and his clothes folded on his bed before he tries them on. Most of his closet is uniforms, plain black and boring. For now, he’s settled on a black crew neck and blue jeans - ripped at the knees. 

He looks over his appearance in the mirror, posing in it. Arms flexed and stretched over his head before putting them out in front of his body. 

He takes his time to take part in the ritual. He slips his boxers up over his legs, waist band tight around his torso and clinging to the curves of his thighs. He pulls his jeans up, low at his hips with a belt buckled through the front. Then comes his sweater over his abdomen. 

He wants to look nice. Though, he could be deluding himself - lately you seem a little more aware of his appearance. It makes him happy that his good looks haven’t failed him in the instance they matter most. 

As he puts on his accessories (in this case a watch and a ring) his phone buzzes atop his dresser. He stops to pick it up, a message from you on the screen. He peers over so his face can be read, then smiles. 

(sent 11:15am) Ready ~ 

He laughs to himself. 

(sent 11:16am) Almost ready. Need to look my best for such a tremendous occasion. 

(sent 11:16am) For coffee? 

(sent 11;17) For coffee with my favorite kindergarten teacher ofc ♡

You send back a simple reply telling him to hurry and come out. Gojo chooses to interpret your embarrassment as a sign. It puts some pep in his step, and he hurries to finish dressing up. 

He steps out of his house, locking his door from the outside before shuffling down a single flight of stairs and out into the front entrance of his complex. He notices you waiting at the front gate from where he’s standing. 

The neighborhood dog (officially named Pokupan) is asleep by the security office. You’re the same as always. Today's outfit is a dress with long sleeves and colored tights. It suits you. A splash of warmth in an otherwise dreary world, Gojo stands in place as he watches you for an unidentified amount of time. Minutes feel like seconds as you pace back and forth. Your phone must be in your purse because he can’t find it anywhere on you. 

He’s delighted when you finally turn your head to look at him. You cup your hand and give him a kind wave which he laughs at and returns enthusiastically. His stride is long, walking towards the gate. 

You have to tilt your neck up to look at him (making his chest squeeze unhelpfully) but you smile when you do so. 

“Hey,” 

“Hello there Miss. Waiting for a special someone?” He jokes. You flush. 

“They’re an important friend,” 

He tries not to let his smile falter. Friend. 

“Then, is it a bother if I ask to take you out?” 

This time you falter. Gojo notices it out of the corner of his eye, the briefest brush of nerves that makes it seem like you’re warming up to him after all. It’s gone as quickly as it came but it’s there and Gojo etches it into the back of his eyelids for memory. He smiles at you as you look away, flush

“Not at all,” 

He grins, again, even brighter. Then he sticks his arm out for you to loop in. You hesitate again. This time Gojo can’t be sure why.

“I’m just being a gentleman, you know?” He pouts. His frown takes effect as you loop your arms together. He keeps it friendly. Too much pushing and you’ll skitter away right before his eyes. Still, even this much progress feels good. It feels whole and light and good. 

It’s a pleasant sort of day. 

Not that it’s warm, or even sunny. It’s cold, on the edge of Autumn that dances into Winter. Freezing but bright out, the kind of sky where everything is clear. During the day the sky has no clouds and no stars when it comes to night time. 

Nonetheless it’s nice. The cold is the kind that makes you want to cozy into someone for warmth, so Gojo doesn’t mind walking in. The walk itself isn’t very long either. The cafe is near your complex, just about 15 minutes worth of walking. There’s no snow or ice to trip on, and because it’s freezing - you shiver every time you stray too far from the heat of his body so the walking is done exceptionally close together

There are kids and parents walking together on the street alongside you, dogs and their owners, street vendors with hot tea. It’s that kind of day where the cold doesn’t keep anyone indoors, in fact everyone seems to relish in the fact they can run and run and run without overheating. It feels like everything is in sync with each other, comfortable and harmonious in spite of everything else.

After 15 minutes, you’ve arrived at the store front. Not long enough for Gojo, but that’s okay. There’s next time he has to look forward too. 

(He tells himself this every time. It’s never enough for him. He can never get enough of listening to you talk. He could probably mimic your cadence without having to try. It’s a sound he doesn’t get sick of―a miracle, another one, because Gojo hates so many sounds―yet there’s one he always looks out for. 

There has to be a next time. If he forgets to tell himself as much, he gets so restless he can hardly stand.

The cafe is nice. It’s one of those places that you see on Instagram often with plenty of sweets for Gojo’s taste and plenty of fancy teas for yours. The outside has beige-colored brick and a brown sign decorated with cutesy drawings. You spend a good amount of time crouched beside it, taking a picture or two to later post on your story. 

“You have to tag me, okay? It’s your payment for wasting our precious time together,” He jokes. 

You stand to your feet and brush off your pants, the material of your coat rustling as you do. 

“Yes, yes ― I promise. I’ll have to ask who drew them when we get in there.” 

Gojo smiles at your enthusiasm before opening the door for you.  Another one of those glass ones with a logo printed on the top half and the metal tinted brown. A little bell chimes above your head as you head in first, and Gojo heads in after you. He has to duck not to his his head on the top of it.

It’s not too crowded at this hour. A handful of people sit among the many tables and booths. Your head is turned to the menu and Gojo trails behind you like a shadow. One to compliment all your light. 

It smells delightful inside. Like warm cookies and vanilla and tea. Gojo feels his sweet tooth kick in the minute you two stand in line. The barista is a doe-eyed blonde college student. There’s another employee with long dark hair and thin, narrow eyes. It reminds Gojo a lot of that girl he met a few weeks ago but he tries to put that thought out of his mind.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and eyes the menu. The special item is a yuzu cream cake, the picture of it hanging on the wall like employee of the month. There’s a glass display of all the other items and the menu matches the rest of the decor.

“This was a good choice,” Gojo says, entranced by all the desserts around him. You laugh, turning your head slightly to look at him. 

“Are you complimenting yourself right now?” 

“Am I wrong?” 

“Your sweet tooth is so bad,” You say through giggles “Your poor dentist,” 

He gasps in offense.

“I will have you know I keep my pearly whites pristine. Not a single cavity for the record.” He says back, placing emphasis on the last words. You snort a laugh. 

“I’ve never had one either,” You repeat back, perhaps mindlessly before saying “There’s a lot we don’t know about each other yet.” 

Yet. Yet. Gojo’s subconscious will hold onto that word for too long. It makes his heart beat too loud. He’s relieved that you’re nothing like him. If you were in this very moment, you would hear the thunder raging inside of his ribs. 

Instead of saying anything, he scoffs playfully. 

“I bet you were such a goody two-shoes that you never ate sweets before bed-time.” 

Your eyes widen in surprise followed by embarrassment, where you tuck your chin into your sweater. 

“Ugh,” You say, so weakly Gojo can’t stop himself from laughing “What’s wrong with being a goody two shoes, huh?” 

Gojo feels almost feline in his self-satistication. “I didn’t say anything was wrong with it, just that you were one.” 

Your frown deepens. 

“I don’t care for your tone, mister.” 

“Are you gonna scold me like one of your students?” 

“If it gets you to be nice,” You say firmly, in that Teacher voice that Gojo has caught glimpses of over the last few months. He does a fake salute. 

“Yes, ma’am!,” He proclaims,  soft enough so only you hear it. You break out into another set of his giggles, melting his cold heart. It’s not the smile so much as it is yours.  The line moves up just a little bit. Gojo steps in front of you before you have a chance, his figure shadowing you. 

“What do you want?” 

“I think I’m gonna get one of those fruit teas and some cake.” You say absentmindedly. He smiles at you playfully. 

“Heard,” 

Gojo turns to order for you both, laughing through your obvious protests about his paying for you. He’s able to block you from getting in the way as the cashier looks on the both of you bemusedly. When the order is placed, Gojo taps his phone against the reader before moving aside where you stomp your feet and follow him. 

“I told you I would get it this time,” You whine. He hums. 

“Mm, there’s always next time?” 

“You say that every time!” 

“So you never know? Maybe it’s next time for sure.” 

You seem to realize that this is a fruitless conversation and that he’s not going to relent. With a flush on your face, you cross your arms and pout. 

“I’ll get you back one of these times, I swear….Anyway, thank you.” You add the last part quietly. He hums. 

“It’s only fair, you know. After all, who else would come here to eat sweets with me?” 

You look taken aback but Gojo doesn’t retract his statement. He’s sure there’s someone he could ask. But there’s no one who would agree to it as easily as you have. The environment wouldn’t be so welcoming, either. Someone who would do something like this with Gojo is long lost. It almost feels foreign to him now. 

In order to ease the tension, you look up at him warmly. 

“Then, I’m glad you asked me.” 

There it is again. That warm, sort of fluttery feeling he gets in his chest being around you. He wonders if he’s allowed to be so happy. 

The food arrives at the counter, the young woman calling out for Gojo. You and Gojo split the task of carrying the plates, picking a nice booth in the corner with the top covered, You slide in across from him, situating your bag. 

You and Gojo go back and forth, setting up everything so it looks nice under the lights. Gojo takes on taking the photos this time, clicking from a few different angles and stopping to show you after each photo. 

“I’ll send you the picture later, okay?” 

“Don’t forget.” 

“I won’t, I won’t. Let’s eat, okay?” 

You nod enthusiastically.

__ 

You and Gojo eat and chat comfortably for a while. 

He’s not sure how much time passes. He wasn’t checking because why would he? He’d like to be with you a bit longer, so he refrains from thinking about it and hopes you do the same. Just a bit more, he tells himself. Until you really, really have to go. 

There’s nothing major to catch up on. You tell Gojo about your job, mostly and how you saw some friends from out of town the week before. Winter is coming and you want to do something nice for the holidays. You’re getting along well with your fellow teachers which is good. He was worried about that, but he can’t keep eyes on you at school. 

(Not for not having tried. He’s thought about it, but his presence would be too noticeable and he doesn’t trust anyone else to the task) 

So it’s relieving. Your only complaint has been that some of the students have the sort of parents you can’t handle. Pushy and involved in a way you can’t ignore but can’t tolerate either. Gojo jokes to take care of them, gesturing to his arm like he’s ready to knock someone's lights out. 

That makes you laugh, and following it you have this melancholy look that sends alarms blaring in Gojo’s head. You don’t broach the subject at all afterwards. You talk about everything else you can. The sale on radishes at the market, thinking about getting a car just to have it, maybe visiting your parents sometime soon. 

Gojo listens. He doesn’t have much to add. His work is strictly classified to people who aren’t in the field and it’s nothing fun to begin with. He does tell you what he can - usually about some antics his students have gotten into during training. He can at least talk about that. 

He tells you about the movies he’s watched, how he went drinking with his co-workers last week, and how he thinks Pokupan is starting to act friendlier to him. 

It’s fun because it’s you. Gojo likes feeling like he’s involved with you intimately. He likes hearing you talk. The sound of your voice is such a pleasant contrast to his own. You talk with a kind of joy Gojo could never hope to carry, all gestures and smiles and interjections - trying to make sure your point comes across. How you don’t think the kid sitting in the front is a bad kid, just needs guidance. How the material of your sweater isn’t really cashmere but more of a blend. 

Time passes  comfortably that way. The drinks and food have been reduced to crumbs and cold drops of tea, glasses emptied and phones abandoned. 

But neither of you have made any move to leave, and Gojo is still listening to you talk with a pleased smile on his face. It was a pleasant sort of day, remember? 

“So it was fine in the end, but the classroom was such a mess seriously―” 

So, it throws Gojo off when you stop speaking so abruptly. How easily the atmosphere melts, and what an unpleasant film it leaves behind. 

It feels like an axe hammering on a stop, a sharp and near violent thud that cuts off the end of your sentence. The air becomes tense in the blink of an eye. Gojo can feel it, the sensation of cursed energy. It’s stagnated, little like pebbles at the bottom of a creek. But it’s there, and Gojo can feel it creep over your shoulders like a sixth sense. Like someone skipped a stone over that same water. He senses it in the air like dust in the light.

He sits up straight, focusing his attention on you. 

“Hey,” He calls out, softening his voice as much as he can. Trying hard to identify what's wrong exactly “You okay?” 

Your hands shake as you lay them flat on the table. You’re almost completely spaced out by now. It all happens in the blink of an eye. 

Gojo stares at you, calling to you a second time. 

“Hey. Hey, look at me?” 

When you finally hear him, you jump in your skin. Your shoulders relax when you realize it’s only Gojo. Normally that would make him happy, but not like this. Your hands are shaking. A nervous fidget in all of your movements that he’s never seen before, like you’ve been shocked with electric wire. He hates it. The taste of your fear (this fear) is different and unfamiliar. 

He doesn’t like it. 

You turn your head to look at him then avert your eyes again. He can’t follow your gaze as it shifts. It’s too erratic.

“No, uhm. It’s just, uhm.” 

“Woah! Hey, Miss. I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” 

Everything feels like it slows down as Gojo watches your eyes snap up. Your expression drops again, even lower, and if he listens close enough he can hear the sound of your heart. Your discomfort is tangible. It leaves a metallic taste in Gojo’s mouth as you suddenly curl in yourself, shoulders hunched and peeling skin off your nails. 

You don’t even look to Gojo for help. Instead, your words go soft.  You become helpless in front of his eyes. 

“Oh. Yes, hello.” You bow your head trying to say as little as possible. Gojo stares as you shake like a leaf in the wind. Something ugly curls up inside of him, a knife twisting in his chest. 

“Aw, c’mon? What’s with the unfriendly act? Is it ‘cause you’re here with your boyfriend?”

You look up at him panicked. Not because of the comment, but because of his tone. Gojo hears it too. How sinister it is. Like he’s blaming you for it somehow, like you’ve wronged him. The feeling inside of him is so ugly, it’s so wretched. His knuckles turn nearly white from how hard he’s closing his fist. You put your hands up and go to explain yourself anxiously. 

It makes Gojo sick. He smiles, turning his head just a little so he can see. He opens his eyes and stares, focusing his vision on remembering every detail of the bastard's face.

“I’m not her boyfriend. We’re neighbors,” He explains, tone as cold as ice but smiling. 

Gojo puts pressure in the atmosphere. His natural and suffocating aura returns to him easily. He smiles and remains unnervingly still, waits in quiet for the man to respond. He scratches the back of his head, still indignant. 

“Uh. Okay. I guess that’s good. Wouldn’t be appropriate for a teacher to be out on a date like this huh?” 

Again. This guy, whoever he is, turns his head like he’s trying to talk down to you. Diverts his perversion and sadism towards you that leaves Gojo wondering what his head would look like against concrete. A bitter, heinous feeling waits inside of him, nesting into his ribs as the sound of every voice in the room comes to be muffled. All Gojo can hear is his heart. How long it's been since he’s heard it. 

It’s loud. A cacophony, or a hymn. Divine rage in the sound of his soul leaves has him unsure of how to proceed. 

Gojo glances at you. Your eyes are rounded, full of desperation. Pleading. 

Gojo hates whoever this is. Gojo wants to save you. He thinks you deserve to be saved. 

He stands up. He has enough height on the guy to be intimidating, the guy just barely coming up to his shoulder. Gojo stares down wildly, pulling his glasses to the bridge of his nose to peek briefly over the edge. The bastard stops talking immediately, words coming to a stutter, It’s satisfying. 

“Who are you?” He asks. 

“Wh-why is that any of your concern? Can’t you see I’m talking to―” 

“I didn’t ask about who you were talking to. I asked who you were,” 

He hears you from behind him “He’s a parent from my school,”

“Ah, okay. Interesting. Since you’re a parent, we wouldn’t want to make this a confrontation right?” Gojo says, bemused “It’d be a real issue for everyone if it turned out that way,” 

Gojo puts a hand on his shoulder, tightening his grip hard enough to hear him gasp. He’s weak, but that’s to be expected.

“So, I suggest you turn around and head home, hm? Since we wouldn’t want it to be a big fuss.” 

Gojo can see it now. With a little pressure, he could turn the blade of his shoulder in sawdust and watch him fall to his knees. He’d let out a cry, a sharp pathetic wail like a hit dog. Gojo would make him say sorry to you before he lets up his hand from his skin. He’d do it infront of everyone in the store so they could hold a little fear in their hearts. 

He won’t do it. Just for now. If it complicates your work then you wouldn’t be able to support yourself. What would he do if you ended up somewhere far away? Out of his sight, something like this could happen again and Gojo wouldn’t be able to take care of you. 

So he doesn’t crush it. He pushes his palms into his shoulder blades and whispers quietly, just so the two of them hear. He pulls away and watches as his face goes pale, a simple stutter leaving his lips. Something about how he’ll see you later and that somethings come up before he turns around and leaves.

Gojo watches as he does. The door chimes again, and the man disappears. The patrons who might’ve glanced turn away again like it was just a simple altercation, which is good. Then finally, Gojo looks at you where you are. Your hands are trembling so hard, a shake of relief in your shoulders as you cover your face. You look like you’re getting ready to cry, so Gojo takes it into his own hands. He cleans up all the food, wipes the table, and even grabs your jacket and bag as you take a minute to collect yourself. 

He taps your shoulder lightly afterwards, waiting for you to look up. Once you do he smiles, reaches a hand out to you so you don’t have to think twice. 

“About time to get out of here, huh?” 

You nod, so slowly. You look so relieved, even as you sniffle. Your hand is so small compared to his. He squeezes it protectively as you slide it into his own, and helps you walk out of the store together. 

The air is cold, the same as before, the temperature having warmed just a bit. The bell above the door rings as the two of you finally leave, standing in the street. Unlike before though, there’s something bitter in the air. The sun has hidden itself completely in the clouds and the streets feel emptier, lifeless. 

Gojo turns to you with a somber expression, trying to smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Do you want to go somewhere to talk about it, maybe?” 

You chew your lower lip then sigh “...Yeah. Probably should, huh?” 

You and Gojo decide on a place not too far from where you are. It’s a small park, a good place to end off an otherwise good day. 

You have to take the bus to get there, but there’s not many people. Gojo eventually gives you back your things, lets you slide your jacket on and fix your face - but ultimately takes your hand and holds it on the ride there. He brings it to his lap and you don’t pull away even though you seem to fidget the whole time. 

The bus finally stops in front of the park. It takes hardly any time, but Gojo finds he’s unable to let go of your hand so he doesn’t. Instead, he holds tight and lets you trail behind. You let him lead you quietly out back in the street. You give your thanks to the driver as the doors close. 

He can’t let go of your hand, though he knows now would’ve been a good time to do it. His grip only grows tighter. 

“Let's go find somewhere to sit,” He offers. You squeeze his hand this time and don’t look away. 

“Okay,” 

He tries to keep pace with you this time, instead of walking ahead. Your strides are shorter than his so he’s careful that you don’t fall behind. Your eyes still have that watery look to them but you’re no longer trembling from fear. Just the cold, if anything. 

And your heartbeat no longer sounds so hazardous. Gojo is still restless, still fidgety. His thumb is rubbing circles into your skin but it’s not really for you. 

You find a bench, eventually - in the middle of the long walk-way just a distance away from a playground. Gojo juts his chin out towards it, before turning over to look at you.

“Let’s go sit,” 

You nod as you walk together towards it. You sit first, and Gojo finally lets go of you. He sits besides you. There’s a minute where the whole world is deathly quiet. There should be something calm about it, but it isn’t. You’re no longer terrified, and a distance away. There’s no danger lurking in the dark and there’s no cars passing or children crying. 

Everything is calm and silent, but Gojo couldn’t feel more unease if he tried. He thinks he hides it well. But there’s that itch again, in a place behind his ribs he can’t reach into and he finds it hard to breathe. 

“So,” He starts, breaking the tension “I’m guessing it’s not a friend,” 

The stupid joke makes a smile appear on your lips. It’s small, but Gojo takes some comfort in it anyway. You wipe away your lower lash gently, a wet laugh leaving your mouth. 

“No, not a friend. He’s uhm… a parent from my school.” 

“The one who’s been bothering you for all these weeks?” Gojo supplies. You turn your head, eyes widened in surprise. Gojo lets out a breathy laugh. 

“You….knew?” 

“Not about him specifically, but I could tell something was bothering you,” He admits, and then adds “I always pay attention to my favorite person, you know?” 

The addition has you looking away, but Gojo doesn’t mind. You sigh, rubbing your face with your palms before leaning back against the bench with your head hanging off the edge. 

“He’s the parent of one of my students. Akio, he’s a good kid. A really well-behaved one but… too well-behaved. Never raises his hand, never complains or says he won’t do something.” 

“I’m guessing that sent off an alarm bell, huh?” 

You nod softly. 

“Yeah. I figure it was something at home, but I’d met his mom prior and she was a real angel. Then, his dad came to visit. The man we met at the store, and I knew right away.” 

Gojo feels his jaw clench listening to you talk. 

“But still, you know, my job as a teacher is to be as respectful as I can. I always politely declined him when he would make comments and remained professional. Eventually, his mom stopped coming altogether and—I tried, I really—but he…” You trail off, a lump in your throat. He watches as tears form in your eyes, his anger getting more and more tangible. He tries not to express it, putting a hand on your knee “He just… kept pushing. A-and once, he looked like he was gonna get violent. I made a report, you know, to the school. But you know how they are,” 

“They never even bothered investigating huh,” Gojo sneers. You laugh a tired sort of laugh. 

“Of course not. After that, I just tried to endure it. And I know he hasn’t done anything technically, but it doesn’t really feel like a matter of if but when,” You explain haphazardly.  Gojo squeezes where his hand rests. 

“I believe you. It’s okay,” He says as soothingly as he possibly can “It’s okay. I’m here,” 

There’s a sense of relief that washes over your whole body and before he knows it, you’re breaking down. He feels a lot of emotions all at the same time, watching your little frame as you lose it so easily in front of him. A part of him is so furious he wants to make it everyone's problem. Another part of him is so deeply sad knowing you’ve suffered all on your own. 

And the most notable part of him is the sense of protectiveness, burrowing inside of him. A sense of possession. It sinks into him like teeth, seeps into his blood like the venom of an animal so that he bleeds and breathes it. Gojo can’t shake that deep sense of urgency, a nameless and faceless desire that consumes him. He shudders.. He holds it in, all of it. Cups his hands so desperately so that it doesn’t spill over and touch you, the ink of ruining the soft white of your clothes. 

In a world that you have made beautiful, desire is ugly. Hideous and infectious, it tears Gojo limb from limb. It makes Gojo feel on edge. Gojo should not desire for any more than what he was. People always die when he does. 

But maybe they don’t have to. Maybe, he can protect you. He can keep you safe. He wants to keep you safe. He wants to keep you all to himself.

It’s in an effort to soothe those feelings that his arms find themselves around your form. It’s the first time you’ve hugged in such an intimate way. Where expects you to turn away - you don’t. 

Instead you cling, your arms around his jacket and your face in his chest. You cry and weep and sob and you look so small like that. You look like you’ll collapse and Gojo holds you. Says it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay as you let it all out. It must feel good to finally let it all out, after everything and he doesn’t intend to stop you. 

“I promise I’ll always protect you from now on,” And he says it, and means it. If you feel the weight of his statement, you don’t let it show “It’s okay. You can cry if you need too,” 

You cry and cry and cry. 

And Gojo thinks the call of heaven is nothing in comparison to the sound. 

__

In the end, Gojo can’t forgive him. 

It’s not without effort. He tries to do it at your request, because after all the tears he wants to help. He says he can maybe pull some strings. But that gentle heart you have declines. You don’t want it to become a big deal. You feel a little better knowing he knows. In the end, you don’t want it to affect that brats reputation. 

“You know how kids can be,” You say, voice full of concern for everyone but yourself “I don’t want to make school life anymore difficult than his life at home must be,” 

So, Gojo tries to listen to you. But days pass, and days turn into weeks. In the end, a month goes by and Gojo is full of terrible and divine anger. 

In the end, Gojo won’t forgive him. Gojo can’t let it go. He feels so righteous in it, he starts avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. There’s something inside of them he has no desire to look at. Eyes that tell all, Gojo turns away from their gaze. Gojo is angry for you, and it’s not in his character to do nothing about it. 

He decides on less of a whim that it looks. He wonders about alternatives, if there’s anything that can stop this feeling from imploding inside of him but nothing comes.

When he decides that nothing can be done, Gojo goes out of his way to start watching him. 

Like any mission, he needs enough background information to map out a plan.  He wants to make sure that it has virtually no pushback for you. There’s always a possibility you’ll get caught in the crossfire and that’d be the worst possible outcome. Gojo can protect you from a lot of things, but he’s not as confident about the law. 

(Not that he can’t. Just not in the good, right way he’s sure you want him to protect you in. Gojo’s love is divine, not right. There’s nothing in this world Gojo can’t shield you from, because he’s the strongest.)

 He also can’t make anything obvious or leave any room for interpretation. If there’s anything that feels off when the reports go live - you’ll stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. He thinks in the instance you find out (about all of it, the premeditation  especially) you’d probably tuck your tail and run. 

(Gojo would find you. But the chase means there’s some time you’re apart. The thought is almost nauseating.) 

He likes that you’re curious about everything. In most instances anyways. But he thinks it’s better to leave you in the dark sometimes. Having you worry about it would ruin the point of this. And sometimes, it’s better not knowing every detail. Honeytraps are more ethical than nets. 

He’s doing it for you in the end, like he does most things. And the kid will benefit, maybe even get some sympathy from his classmates for a while about the tragedy that befell his father. Gojo thinks it’s a good plan because no one loses.  It’s a lot like killing a curse. 

It only takes two weeks to learn virtually everything there is to know. A guy like that doesn’t have much he can hide. 

The name of his target, he learns, is Nobu Watanabe. Father to Akio Watanbe and ex-husband to Akiko Watanbe. He’s a recently released felon (let off on good behavior) with a battery and assault with a deadly weapon charge. He’s a college drop-out, and has been working a lot of odd-jobs since he was 16.

His personality is bad, worse is his drinking and smoking habits. He’s often found drunk in the street, and has a track record for single nights spent in a cell. His ex-wife is usually the one bailing him out. Gojo can’t help but feel sorry for her. Somehow, he doubts that he’s good to her. He’s a deadbeat father through and through. He only offers to pick up his kid to harass you. At least from what he can tell. 

He isn’t as awful to his kid as everyone else. Gojo doubts that was always the case. Akio isn’t a bad kid, but it’s hard not to notice the way the light in his eyes disappears when his father comes around to pick him up. A head always looking towards the floor, hands tucked in his pockets. 

It’s difficult for Gojo to feel any guilt about what he’s doing. After everything, he can’t find it in himself to feel any regret. 

His target is currently working at a dock, not too far from the city. He seems to work there most days, working at a bar on the weekends. It’s a big company that handles foreign goods that he does physical labor for. Lifting and moving boxings, checking inventory - it’s not a complicated affair. 

If there’s not a major shipment, he still seems to clock in so he’s definitely paid some kind of hourly wage. He smokes often on the job, but works diligently when there is something to do. An easy but physical job, he’s strong. Gojo can understand what intimidates you about him. 

Gojo, though, isn’t intimidated by him at all. 

He waits a week before he takes action. To shake off anyone or anything that might be trailing him, and to make sure that everything is the same as he observed. That his schedule wasn’t going to change. A week passes, and when Gojo has confirmation - he decides to do what he does best. 

Gojo Satoru decides to play God on a Sunday.

Sunday is a day shipments come in and a day he often works alone. The pay is better on Sunday and Nobu is the only one on his shift who takes it. He’s not expected to finish the strenuous work because he’s alone for such a long stretch of time - just to make a dent in it. The people at the next shift are the ones who finish the job. 

He starts his day as early as 6am. It’s near winter, so the world is painted in a miraculously melancholy blue. Gojo follows him that morning. He knows the route well enough to trail behind him and not attract any attention. They pass together, turning corners and taking bus rides until Nobu’s finally in at his job. 

There, they part briefly. His target goes into the big white building and he goes on top. Gojo has to teleport to the roof because everything is gated with security cameras covering every inch of the property. Following him puts Gojo at risk. So he waits on top of the building, hands in his pocket and pacing until Nobu comes out the otherside to the docks. His jumpsuit put on haphazardly, only half-pulled up to his waist, with a clipboard and pen as a bunch of boxes waiting for him to check them. 

After Gojo confirms that he’s alone, he lies in wait. He sits and waits - watching as the clouds pass. Watching the open sea, how it remains unchanging no matter what boats pass through to shore. He looks at his phone every now and again to check the time. 

It shouldn’t be too difficult to actually do it. 

You know, if Gojo turns his infinity on, there’s nothing in the world that can touch him. He can touch it, but it can’t touch him. There will always be a barrier between his hands and the world. Between him and the known universe, a bridge that started burning the minute Gojo was born into it. If Gojo turns on his infinity, there’s no way to leave traces of him behind. 

Did you know? If Gojo turns on his infinity, his fingerprints don’t show up. There’s no DNA to find. Not a trace of him in the world that he hasn’t left purposefully. Even if Gojo chokes him with his hands bare hands - he wouldn’t be touching him. But Gojo can feel it. Feel his pulse, feel his breathing come down slowly.

If there’s such a thing as heaven or hell, Gojo wants to ask God about being homicidal. If it was a flaw of human design or their Lord reflected inside of them. 

He lies in wait on top of the roof until 7. 

When 7 hits, the world around him is still so dark. No one kills in broad daylight. The heavens are murky, sky full of black clouds like puffs of smoke. It’s freezing cold, a spine-tingling chill making its way up Gojo’s skin and hardening his hands. . Gojo waits for the doors of the garage to creak open. When the sound echoes into the air, a metal screech in the void, Gojo stands to his feet. 

He jumps to the ground, landing with a dull thud. He comes out unscathed, a cat on his feet. He dusts off the front of his pants. Nobu hasn’t taken notice of him. Gojo takes a look around them. There’s no cameras in the warehouse. Gojo waits alone in the dark. 

Five minutes. It’s five minutes when all of the lights go out. 

“What the fuck?” Nobu mumbles, dropping his clipboard on top of a bunch of boxes, running a hand through his hair. Gojo waits in silence, watches as he turns around. 

When he finally does, he jumps back in shock. Gojo feels a cold chill run through his body. 

“What the fuck? Who the hell are you?” Nobu asks. Gojo grins. 

“Ah, you don’t remember? We met a few weeks ago! We had a nice little exchange and everything.” He says, voice going higher by an octave. The man in front of him stares, off put by Gojos’ presence. He stumbles in his thinking, his body tensing up. 

“Who the…what the fuck is going on?” 

“Hey, don’t be so scared,” Gojo says, then uses his teleport to phase himself closer. Nobu’s eyes widen, shocked. Scared out of his wits, with the story of heartbeat like he’s being hunted. “Tough guy like you has nothing to be scared of, does he?” 

“W-w-what…how did you…” 

Gojo shakes his head. 

“Don’t worry about it, man.” He says, voice calm and smooth and even. He’s surprised by how his emotions feel in his body. Like he’s so angry that he’s not. There’s something inside of him, the white waters that wade, that Gojo can feel. It’s strange “We’ve got about 5 minutes till the lights come back on.” 

For a while, they stand at a draw. No one moves. Not him, or Nobu, or the open oceans. It’s quiet for a dock. Even quieter for a dock in Tokyo, and Gojo’s not even using his abilities. He probably won’t need too, other than infinity - there’s not any good reason for him to exert himself any more than he must. 

Weeks of planning, weeks of watching, weeks of waiting. Nothing feels like it matters at the moment. He wants it to be over soon-ish. 

It’s not that Gojo is particularly sadistic. 

It’s just that, everything feels like it’s teetering over this very moment. He thinks it to himself quietly like someone trying to remember where they last left their keys. 

Briefly, Gojo thinks “I can’t go back,” after this. In the back of his head he just knows.

He envies this aggravating strangers' ignorance, too. 

“What do you want from me?” He says, stuttering - a gasping breath of fear in his lungs that snaps Gojo out of his thoughts. Gojo shrugs. 

“Nothing, really. I’m not short on money, you know? I make a good living,” He says, spouting off about nothing as he closes the gap between them. Stepping closer infinitely until Gojo backs him into the garage, into the tall tower of boxers where there’s no cameras and no witnesses “Hm…is there anything you can do to fix this?” 

No, Gojo answers mostly to himself, But wouldn’t that be nice? 

“P-please, I have—” 

“A son right? And an ex-wife, and a dead mom in Saitama. You didn’t think I came here without doing any research, did you? We’re the same in that way you know, I might be a frivolous - but hell if I’m not diligent,” 

He looks like he’s going to throw up. Gojo remains indifferent. 

“Who are you?” He asks, this time really wondering. With that hoarse voice of curiosity, of defeat.

Gojo hums.

“Good question. Who do you think I am?” Gojo poses and lifts his hands up. He puts them around his neck, pushing hard until his back is against the stack of boxes. It’s dark but Gojo can see everything. He keeps his open, tightening the grip of his hands slowly. 

Nobu tries to spit something out but the words get sputtered, muffled by lack of oxygen. 

“Do you think I’m a devil? An angel? God? I wonder,” Gojo says, staring. With his mask on, but his eyes opened wide. “Guess I’m kind of like a boogeyman,” 

Gojo can feel it. His body underneath his palms, gasping and struggling for air. He can feel his hands try to pry his hands off. He can feel his body slowly start to lose its air, how he deflates like a balloon. Gojo is unmoving, unfazed, unworried. He’s near motionless except the hard grip of his hand on his neck and the pulse that slows gently under his palms. 

It takes 5 minutes, maybe less, with all the strength in both his hands. Gojo isn’t counting. He holds on for maybe 2 minutes after that, just to make sure it’s not a fluke. He waits till the heart stops sounding in his ears and until the body is completely limp except for where Gojo is holding him away. He goes out sad. Useless, even. 

When Gojo stops, Nobu’s body drops to the floor with a dull thud. He stares at it for a while, then sighs. It’d be nice if he could just leave it there, but he does his due diligence. Picks it up from the ground with relative ease, over his shoulders. 

He walks it out towards the dock - the very edge, before tossing it in water and watching it sink. When it disappears from his sight, Gojo is left with his reflection in the deep blue. He meets his eyes for the first time in weeks, and knows he’s seeing exactly what he thought he would. 

His anger has settled, just barely. Just enough to be able to see the change in his own vision. With his Six Eyes, Gojo can see that there’s no turning back.

 With his mask on, he looks at himself, warped in the vision of the sea. The vision of him—crystalline and white and blue—murky and moving. 

Gojo jumps to the roof and turns the light on again. The power comes back. 

A dog barks distantly, over and over and over. Gojo watches the sun rise alone. 

__

The following weeks pass without a hitch. Gojo feels like nothing has changed. 

(But that’s not true. Everything is different. The same but different)

At the two week mark, winter has set in and Gojo is spending time with you in your apartment together. Currently, you’re cooking dinner (after carefully instructing Gojo to stay put in the living room.) Gojo is sitting watching T.V. He’s helping you grade papers at the coffee table, humming to himself. 

It’s about 7 when the news starts to play. A local news channel and a familiar face on the T.V. Gojo is surprised when the breaking news report airs. 

“Two weeks ago, a missing persons report was filed for ex-convict Nobu Watanbe. Sources say he was last seen working at a Dock in Tokyo - which experienced a power outage. It’s reported that Nobu seemed to have gone missing at the time, and hasn’t made contact with anyone since then. Could this be the work of a…” 

The rest of the report  Gojo tunes out. He turns his head slightly to see if you’ve noticed. Your eyes are glued to it., standing and staring silently. You place your spatula on a towel on the counter.

“We got word about a week prior to this,” You say, breaking the silence after some time without Gojo prompting. He looks at you “Akio started coming with his mom again and she gave me the story. It wasn’t unusual for him to up and disappear, but he hadn’t done so since Akio was born,” 

“That so?” Gojo says, nonplussed. You nod. 

“I feel guilty but,” You trail off, rubbing your arm anxiously “I can’t help but be… relieved. Just a little. I don’t want the guy to be dead or anything, but it,” 

Gojo stops you in the middle of your sentence. 

“You don’t have anything you need to feel guilty about,” He corrects, voice stern. You give him a sad look but he remains firm in his stance “He was harassing you for weeks. It’s only natural that you feel relieved, you know?” 

You’re not entirely content with the response, but you seem to know well enough this isn’t something Gojo will compromise on. You sigh, looking down at the floor. 

“Yeah. That’s true I guess, but still. I wonder what happened to him, or if he just decided to run away,” 

Gojo pretends to think about it. 

“Maybe. Otherwise…guess it was God’s divine punishment,” He says, continuing to grade papers. He doesn’t even look up as he says it. You let out a puff of air through your nose in amusement . 

“Yeah,” You say, “Maybe. I should thank him some time,”

Gojo hums.

“I don’t think that’s a bad idea,” 

[kurishiri]

ikémen villains content warning list .ᐟ

this is a work-in-progress compilation of complete content warnings per route (because ikévil tends to underwarn a bit maybe to avoid spoilers) that will be updated as we go. please let me know if I missed anything, regardless if it says ‘work in progress’ or not, or pitch in with warnings. ♡ and ↻ are appreciated!

some of the ikévil routes contain sensitive themes that may be triggering. so please remember to take care of yourself while reading 🫶

GENERAL ༉‧₊˚. 🕊️

canon-typical violence, (minor but named) character death, depictions of murder.

WILLIAM REX ༉‧₊˚. 🍓 —— work in progress !!

near death experience, drug abuse, sexual coercion (not by love interest), corruption, romanticization of death.

HARRISON GRAY ༉‧₊˚. 🦊

corruption of the police and higher-ups, mentions of human trafficking, coercion to commit crimes, mentions of kidnapping.

LIAM EVANS ༉‧₊˚. 🐈

attempted suicide, suicide and suicidal ideation, depression, anxiety, implied self-harm, mentions of child abuse (physical and emotional), fire, severe burn wounds, human trafficking, mental breakdowns.

ELBERT GREETIA ༉‧₊˚. 🍎

objectification both by and against love interest, mentions of sexual assault or rape (not by love interest), domestic abuse, attempted child sexual assault, pedophilia, obsessive and possessive behavior, stalkerish behavior, grooming, non-consensual touching, depicted suicide, self-harm, mental breakdowns, character death of a somewhat major and named side character, mentions of animal death, kidnapping, mentions of human trafficking.

ALFONS SYLVATICA ༉‧₊˚. 🪞

description of children’s corpses, depression, mortality, attempted suicide, near death experience, mental manipulation (?), dub-con: having sexual intercourse while one has “consented” in an intoxicated state or under the influence of a curse, non-con, mentions of drug abuse and the effects of drugs, mentions of child abuse, implied animal death.

(fyi if you’re curious about alfons but are not comfortable with these themes, i have a semi-detailed summary of his character as gleaned from his route here.)

ELLIS TWILIGHT ༉‧₊˚. ⛓️ —— warnings provided by @myusuchaa !!

romanticization of murder and death, family murder and death, suppressed emotions, emotional disconnect, people pleasing, attempted kidnapping, negative treatment of disabilities, coercion, child trafficking, gang activity.

ROGER BAREL ༉‧₊˚. 🍻 —— work in progress !!

a loott of alcohol consumption, drug usage or abuse (recreational drug use), cult activity, near/death experience of a side character, dub-con, self-harm especially in the past.

[bellaxgiornata]

A Favor from the Devil |Chapter Four|

Pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Mom!Reader Word Count: 4.1k [Series Masterlist]

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

a/n: Saint Matthew strikes again in this fluffy-ish(?) chapter that has been my favorite to write so far. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

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

“Dinner?”

“We'll see what we've got, cricket.”

The sound of voices in the hallway broke through Matt’s sleeping mind, pulling him back to consciousness. Groggily stirring on his couch, Matt tried to focus his senses around him as he rubbed a hand across his forehead. Waking from sleep always left him a bit disoriented, especially the rare times he allowed himself a short nap.

“Chicken nuggets?”

“You know I'm–I'm not too sure if we have any left, but we can look when we get inside.”

Pushing himself slowly upright on the couch with a hand, the leather groaned beneath his weight. As he continued to listen to the voices outside of his apartment, Matt quickly realized he was overhearing you and your daughter in the hallway. Leaning forward and resting his elbows along his thighs, he tilted his head towards the wall where the pair of you were now standing in front of your own apartment door.

“I’m hungry.”

“I’m sure we have something I can make for dinner tonight, Evie.”

A frown settled on Matt’s mouth, his tired eyes narrowing as he focused closer on your body out in the hall. It sounded sluggish, as if you were exhausted and low on energy, and if he concentrated really hard, he could hear the faint rumblings of your stomach. You were both hungry. And with the hesitant way you’d just responded to your daughter along with the burst of anxiety inside of you at your last statement, he’d begun to wonder how true it actually had been.

Shifting on the couch, Matt did what he’d told himself he wouldn’t continue to do. He focused on you as you made your way into your apartment. He found it odd how your young daughter didn’t seem to say much, even now when it was just the pair of you alone in your own place. Something about that unsettled him. A child so young shouldn’t constantly be so timid and quiet.

He heard you set something down on your kitchen counter–a purse most likely. He listened as you took four steps before you opened what sounded like your refrigerator door. There was a soft, quiet sigh that even he’d barely caught as you closed that door seconds later and opened the other. A few items faintly shifted around on the shelf as you clearly searched for something in your fridge. 

“Sorry, cricket, there’s no chicken nuggets. I’ll have to add them to the grocery list for this weekend. But I can make us peanut butter and jelly for dinner. How does that sound?”

“No bread.”

“Oh,” Matt heard you reply, your cheerful tone instantly shifting to something disheartened. “You’re right. I uhm, I guess we might need to–to make a trip to the store before dinner then. Maybe we can find something to make for tonight.”

Your heart rate had accelerated as you spoke, the sound piquing Matt’s curiosity. Why had you suddenly become so nervous at the prospect of going shopping? But then he heard you picking up the object you’d set on your counter, the soft noise of a zipper confirming that it had indeed been your purse. That’s when he understood–you were looking for your wallet. Probably to see what cash you had on you in order to find groceries for tonight. You were probably nervous because you knew how little you’d find to help you.

Eyes closing, Matt blew out a deep breath as he buried his face in his hands. So his suspicions had been correct, you were struggling financially. Even with being able to afford to feed your daughter. He felt sick to his stomach listening to your growing panic in the apartment across the hall in what was clearly a very vulnerable moment for you.

Desperately Matt wished he could head over to your place right now, knock on your door, and offer you that job that Foggy and Karen had agreed upon letting you have earlier this week. Except there was absolutely no way Matt could realistically do that without making you entirely uncomfortable and possibly scaring you further away from him. Because he’d barely ever spoken to you, there was no realistic reason that he should’ve known about the situation you’d found yourself in or for him to offer you a job. 

But he also couldn’t just sit here in his apartment and let you both continue to go hungry. 

Pressing the heels of his hands into his closed eyes, he tried hard to think of how he could help you. Chewing the inside of his cheek, his mind ran over countless different ideas before it finally settled on one realistic one. Lowering his hands from his face, a small smile slipped onto his mouth. While he may not have had an excuse to go over to your place and offer you that part-time position just yet, there was something else he could do to immediately help the pair of you and possibly open the door to communication between you both.

Getting up from his couch, Matt began to make his way into the kitchen and over towards his fridge. Mentally he was already trying to prepare himself for what he would say to you when you opened the door for him because he needed to make this interaction count. He couldn’t afford to have you slam the door on his face–or worse, completely refuse to answer.

“Thank you, Mrs. Amato,” he whispered under his breath as he pulled a dish out of his fridge.

Pulling your wallet out of your purse, you tried to calm the sick feeling in your stomach. You already knew how much cash you had in there. A single twenty dollar bill. And that was all you had until you got paid again next Friday.

Plastering a smile onto your face, you glanced up at Evie. She was standing at the edge of the kitchen, the glaringly empty living room behind her only cementing your feelings of inadequacy. But now wasn’t the time for focusing on that–you needed to find a way to stretch twenty dollars and fast.

“Hey, how about you go put your backpack away in your room while I try to figure something out for dinner?” you suggested. 

Silently Evie turned and headed over to her bedroom. Pressing your lips together, you watched her until she disappeared from your sight. Once she had, you focused back down on the wallet in your hands, spotting the lone twenty dollar bill sitting in your otherwise empty wallet. Shoulders dropping in defeat, you weren’t sure how you were going to make it last all of next week now.

Two soft knocks came from the door behind you, the unexpected sound startling you so much that you dropped your wallet back inside of your purse. Your heart jumped into your throat just as Evie poked her head out of her bedroom, her eyes growing wide and terrified. Yet again you did your best to plaster a calm smile on your face, not wanting to worry her further. Because while you didn’t know who was at your door, and while you were almost positive it wasn’t your ex-fiance, your fear had still sky-rocketted at the sound. The fact that someone was here when you didn't expect company was enough to put you on edge.

“It’s alright, I got it, cricket,” you told her.

Mouth going dry, you stepped out of your kitchen and nervously made your way towards the door. You weren't sure who you’d find on the other side because it had barely been a week since you'd moved in. You'd intentionally gone out of your way not to speak to anyone in the building, so there was no reason someone should've been trying to visit you right now.

Placing both of your hands very carefully against the door, you leaned forward and peered through the peephole. Sucking in a sharp breath, you were shocked to see your neighbor standing in the hallway. The same man from across the hall who you just couldn’t seem to get away from this week. You were about to lock the deadbolt and tell him to leave until he shifted his weight on his feet and you caught sight of what looked like a glass dish covered in tinfoil in his hands.

Was he bringing you food? Because that was…odd. You were in the middle of New York City, why the hell would your neighbor be bringing you food? Even where you’d lived previously just outside of the city, no one had been that friendly. Had he somehow overheard you and Evelyn talking about dinner in the hall? But even then, as you replayed the short conversation in your mind, nothing you’d said had implied that you were both in need of anything.

You’d truly contemplated telling this man to go away as you stood there watching him through the peephole. It was strange that he kept randomly appearing around you this week. But as you stood there chewing your bottom lip, you knew that if he was bringing you food–for whatever reason that he was–you weren’t entirely in the position to turn it down. Because a stranger’s kindness, however unexplainable, would certainly help you make it to your next paycheck.

Inhaling a deep breath, you tried hard to calm your nerves as you began to unlock your door. After all, he was only carrying a dish of food, not some sort of weapon, and when you’d very briefly encountered him on the roof a few nights ago he’d sounded friendly at least. Though there was still a part of you that internally screamed danger whenever you saw him, and you’d yet to put your finger on why.

Opening your door only halfway, your trembling right hand still gripping it in case you needed to slam it shut, you took in the sight of your neighbor. He was standing there in a pair of dark gray sweatpants and a crumpled olive green tee-shirt–a vast difference from the nicer suit you’d first spotted him in at the beginning of the week. There was a bright smile on his face beneath the red-tinted glasses sitting atop his nose. Your eyes didn’t fail to miss the small cut along his chin behind his stubble though, your gaze lingering along it as you nervously licked your lips.

“Can I help you?” you asked after a moment.

“Hey, I’m your neighbor across the hall,” the man greeted, his voice like honey to your ears as he spoke. “6A?” 

One of his hands briefly released the bottom of the dish he was holding to gesture at the door behind himself. Your eyes followed the movement before coming back to land on the dish in his hands. It looked like a glass dish filled with lasagna and your stomach gave a faint rumble. Your hand nervously gripped your door tighter, hoping he hadn’t caught the sound as your attention returned to his smiling face.

“Hi,” you replied awkwardly. 

“I just wanted to introduce myself,” he continued, clearly unphased by the tone of your voice. “My name is Matthew Murdock. I’m a lawyer over at Nelson, Murdock, and Page. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of us before, but we're known for helping out many folks in the Hell’s Kitchen area.”

“I haven’t,” you stated simply.

The man’s smile wavered for the briefest of seconds, but it didn’t completely disappear from his face. It was true, though. You hadn’t been in the city long enough to have become familiar with much in it yet. While you’d been at Hope Haven, you’d been more focused on getting you and Evie set up to make a life in Hell’s Kitchen. You didn’t exactly have a need to go searching for lawyers–not unless Daniel found you. But even then, you weren’t sure there was a single lawyer that you could afford who could save you and Evelyn from him.

“Well, we often tend to do a lot of pro bono work for clients in the area who understandably can’t afford a lawyer,” he continued, almost as if he’d read your mind. “And they tend to show their appreciation for our help with meals and baked goods–and sometimes far too much fruit.” 

He chuckled good-naturedly as he held up the lasagna in his hands. Your eyes once more dropped down to the dish and you swore you could smell the delicious red sauce through the tinfoil. 

“I just thought I’d bring over some food to welcome you to the building,” Matthew continued. “I know with a big move sometimes it's hard to find the time to cook or even pick up groceries, so I thought this might help give you a little break this week.” His charming smile grew even wider, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes behind his red lenses. “But I’ll be honest and admit upfront that I did not make this lasagna, so I can't exactly take credit for it. One of our clients made it as a thank you for dealing with some issues with her landlord.”

You eyed Matthew curiously as he stood in the hallway just in front of your door, examining his friendly and charming smile beneath those red glasses. While there was a part of you that still felt an unexplainable sense of danger from him–the hair on your forearm having prickled beneath his unseeing gaze–there was a smaller part of you that felt his sincerity. After all, how often did you hear about lawyers who handled pro bono cases happily getting paid in lasagna and fruit? 

Still, you found him incredibly strange and you planned to remain on your guard with him. 

“And why exactly is it that you're giving away a lasagna to a neighbor you don’t even know?” you asked cautiously.

He shrugged lightly in response. “I certainly don’t need an entire lasagna for myself. I’m just one man, there’s only so much I can eat.” He paused, a soft, disarming chuckle falling past his lips again. “I’m still trying to make my way through the soup I was generously gifted the other day. But if I’m also being honest–”

He leaned forward towards you but the unexpected proximity had you startle backwards a step, your hand squeezing your door in response. Strangely it almost seemed like he’d hesitated, as if he’d somehow known you’d moved despite being unable to see you.

“I don’t want the food to go to waste and I’d much prefer to drop it by your place than over at Mrs. Henderson’s in 6C,” he finished conspiratorially. “She frightens me a little. Very big flirt, that one. Doesn’t matter if she’s in her late sixties and widowed.”

You cleared your throat awkwardly as he leaned away from you once more. Curiously you thought you saw him even shuffle a step backwards into the hallway.

“Right,” you said, uncertain how to respond to that.

“But I’m sure you’re busy this evening and I'd hate to take up any more of your time,” Matthew continued, extending the lasagna out towards you. “I was told the instructions to heat this up were on a post-it note on top, but considering that I can’t see it, I’m certainly hoping that’s true.”

You glanced down at the yellow post-it note on the tinfoil. It did in fact have the reheating instructions noted. But instead of reaching out and taking the dish from him, you awkwardly stood there, your right hand still firmly grasping your door. Matthew’s smile finally fell at your hesitation.

“I’m sorry if this is making you uncomfortable in any way. I can leave,” he said. “I was hoping this would be a friendly gesture. I just wanted to introduce myself and let you know that if you ever needed something, I’m just across the hall.”

“Why?” you blurted.

His dark brows furrowed beneath his glasses, his head tilting just a bit to the side. “Why what?” he asked.

“Why’re you coming across the hall to welcome a neighbor to the building?” you questioned. “That seems quite uncharacteristic of someone in the city. At least, from the time I’ve been here so far. People are not generally this friendly unless they want something in return. And I'm not looking to owe anyone any favors.”

The charming smile returned to his mouth as he shrugged once more. “Maybe it’s my Catholic upbringing,” he told you, “but I prefer to be kind whenever the opportunity presents itself. But I assure you that I absolutely do not want anything in return. I promise.”

Your eyes dropped back down to the dish in his extended hands. You did, in fact, want to accept it, but you still felt uncomfortable at the idea of it. 

“I…don't really know what to say,” you awkwardly confessed. 

“You don't need to say anything at all,” he assured you.

Cautiously releasing the firm hold you had on your door, you slowly reached out and accepted the dish from his outstretched hands. You eyed him curiously as the smile on his face somehow grew wider when you did.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

“You're welcome,” he replied. “I hope you and your daughter enjoy it. And if you're a fan of baked goods, I know for a fact that we're receiving far too many peanut butter cookies on Monday. I'd be happy to drop some off because I certainly don't need them all.”

“Oh,” you breathed out, clutching the heavy glass dish in your hands, “that's alright. Really. We don't–”

You stopped short when something tugged at your dress slacks. Glancing down beside your leg you spotted Evie with one of her small fists curled around the dark fabric. She looked up at you and then over at your neighbor.

“Cookies?” she asked.

Matthew's head turned towards the sound of your daughter’s voice. The softening of his expression somehow almost completely eased that feeling of danger you often felt around him with the way he was now smiling down at Evie. He almost looked trustworthy. Safe.

Almost . Which made you even further suspicious of him.

“Hello there,” he greeted gently. “I'm–”

“Mr. Murdock,” Evie said. 

Shifting the heavy casserole dish over to your left arm and cradling it against your chest, your other hand landed protectively along her back and held her close to you. You were surprised she'd even come over and spoken to him because she usually disliked strangers and kept quiet. She must have sensed something else in him than you initially had.

“That’s right,” he said, still warmly smiling in her direction. “We're always getting sent so many baked goods. And it's up to your mother, but I could certainly bring you some cookies next Monday after work if you'd like?”

Evie's attention shifted to you, her wide hopeful eyes silently pleading with you. She didn't often get sweets anymore because they weren't a priority when you were budgeting groceries for the week, so you knew exactly what that look meant. She wanted you to accept the offer of cookies. But that also meant another inevitable interaction with your neighbor and this one was already one too many for your liking. 

But it was Evie and you’d do just about anything to make her happy.

With a sigh, you nodded at her before focusing back on Matthew. “If it's not too much trouble, I think Evie would like that,” you told him. “Thank you.”

“No trouble at all Ms….?”

Your lips pressed together for a moment, your initial instincts fighting you to give away your name and briefly causing you to hold your tongue. Though you had just given him Evie’s name and he already knew where you lived. What more harm was there if he knew your name, too?

Quietly you gave it to him, your stomach twisting into nervous knots. He repeated it softly, somehow the sound further calming you as he did. 

“It was nice meeting you,” he said, already taking a step backwards towards his door. “And I meant what I said. If you ever need anything, I'm just across the hall.”

A tight smile settled onto your lips even though you knew he couldn't see it as you nodded. “Thank you,” you replied, full well planning not to ask him for anything more. “I'll keep that in mind.”

You watched as he finally turned before you shut the door one-handed, the dish of lasagna still cradled against your chest. As weird as that whole interaction had been, at least you didn't have to worry about dinner for the next few nights. 

“I guess we're having lasagna tonight, cricket,” you said, carrying the dish over to your kitchen counter. “Sound good?”

Glancing over your shoulder at Evie, you saw the expression brighten her face. She nodded enthusiastically in response and the sight managed to put a smile on your own face.

Whoever that Mr. Murdock was, he'd at least put a smile on your daughter’s face tonight with his kindness.

“Mama!!”

Eyes flying wide open at the unexpected scream that ripped you from a dead sleep, you felt your heart nearly jolt out of your chest. By the time you heard your daughter shout for you a second time, you were already scrambling out of your blanket and rising to your feet.

“I'm coming, Evie!” you yelled back.

This was why you slept in front of your daughter’s door. Because it took you a matter of seconds to throw it wide open. 

Rushing inside her bedroom, you found Evie out of her sleeping bag and standing by the window across the room. You dropped down to your knees once you reached her, immediately beginning to inspect her with your hands for any sign of injury.

“What is it?” you asked her in a panic. “What's wrong? Are you okay?”

She nodded her head, your eyes drawn back up to her face. Despite her having shouted for you, she didn't look terrified. She appeared startled and a little surprised, but not scared.

“I saw him,” she told you.

Hands making their way back up to her shoulders, your brows furrowed at her words. “Who?” you asked her slowly. “You saw who?”

“The man,” she answered, turning at the waist and pointing to her window. “Outside.”

Your eyes flew to the window, scanning the rooftops beyond the fire escape outside of her room. There was nothing to see though. And with how bright the billboard across the street was, you would have been able to see if someone was there. 

This wasn't the first time this week Evie had told you she'd been seeing a masked man outside her window out on the rooftops. At first when she had told you about seeing someone, you'd let your fear take hold of you, worried it was somehow Daniel out there trying to torment you. But then when she hadn't been afraid of the man, you'd begun to worry that her fear of her father had led her to conjure up some masked imaginary figure that she kept seeing at nighttime when she was supposed to be asleep. 

“Cricket,” you said softly, your attention returning to her, “I've told you already. There's no masked man on the roof.” You reached a hand up, gently cupping her cheek. “Sweetheart, you're just dreaming. Okay? No one is out there. We're safe here, remember?”

“ He keeps us safe.”

Her strange comment gave you pause, your lips parting as you wondered what that even meant. Shaking your head a second later, you rose back up to your feet. At least this masked man wasn't giving her nightmares. 

“Let's get you back to bed, alright?” you suggested.

With a hand on her shoulder, you guided her across the room and back over to her sleeping bag. Despite being grateful that everything was alright after how terrified her screaming had made you, you really weren't a fan of her constantly waking at night because of this imaginary man. 

“He is real,” she whispered.

Expelling a soft sigh, you helped your daughter get back into her sleeping bag, tucking her in as you smiled down at her. If she wanted to believe some man on the roof was keeping you safe, you weren’t about to tell her that she was wrong.

“Alright, Evie,” you replied. “But it's late. You should get back to sleep. You can tell me all about it in the morning. Okay?”

You leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek before gently smoothing her hair. Telling her goodnight one more time, you got up and made your way back out of the room. But before you shut the door after yourself, you caught her quiet voice once more behind you. 

“He is real.”

[munsons-curls]

Black Dahlias

Pairing: Ghostface!Eddie Munson x F! Reader (18+)

Contains: 18+!! Heavy, graphic smut. Rough, unprotected sex, dirty talk, oral sex (M/F receiving), praise kink, slight degradation, breeding kink if you squint, possessive!eddie, mean!eddie, slight innocence kink. Minor ghostface!steve. CANON DIVERGENT.

Trigger warnings: DUBCON, knife play, stalking, panty theft, drinking and drug consumption, emetophobia, allusions to sexual assault and child abuse, graphic depictions of murder, violence and gore. <-PLEASE HEED THESE TRIGGER WARNINGS!!!!

A/N: happy All Hallows’ Eve!! 🎃 thank you so so so much to T @hotchs-bitch for leaving me 112 comments on this Google doc despite having her own 17k word WIP. I love u.

Somebody’s watching you. 

Your eyes dart around the open courtyard, scanning the area for anything, anybody that stands out, but the unease rolling in your stomach dissipates as quickly as it arrives. 

In the distance, you spot a tall figure lighting a cigarette under the awning of the drama block. His dark, curly hair sits at his leather and denim clad shoulders, ringed fingers bringing a cigarette to his mouth. He’s initially a cutting figure, intimidating and looming but you find yourself drawn to him in a magnetic way. 

You meet his eyes briefly, your attention ripped away when a girl with short, dirty blonde hair rushes past you, splashing you with her converse. She windmills to a stop and begins apologising profusely, running back to you. 

You meet his eyes briefly, your attention ripped away when a girl with short, dirty blonde hair rushes past you, splashing you with her converse. She windmills to a stop and begins apologising profusely, running back to you. 

“Holy shit. Holy fucking shit, I’m so sorry.” She rasps. “I totally didn’t even see that stupid puddle and now you’re soaking!” 

“No harm done.” You smile, downcast. “I was already wet.” 

She looks you up and down, her eyes widening at you soaking through your clothes. “I’m so sorry. Do you have, like. A ride or something? How long have you been waiting here?” 

“Since class let out. I’m just waiting for the rain to clear to walk home.” You smile.

“Okay. Forget it. C’mon. You’re coming with me.” You’re being dragged away by a well-meaning hand before you can protest, leading you to a dark red BMW. “C’mon!” She insists when you drag your heels, pulling you down the hilly path to the car. 

You curiously look back for the figure in the distance, but he’s gone by the time you manage to pull free of your new friend. 

“I’m Robin. And that head of hair you see is Steve.” She says, motioning to the driver in a green uniform vest.

You greet Steve quickly and he mock-salutes you with two fingers, offering you a tight smile as Robin ferries you into the back of the car, quickly taking her place in the passenger side. She shakes out her hair, water droplets splattering Steve. 

He squirms and wipes his face before starting the car. “I’ve been waiting here for ten minutes, Robin. I’ve told you—if you want rides from me, the least you can do is be on time.” 

Evidently, Robin bringing in strays isn’t new to Steve, he doesn’t seem at all irritated by an unknown girl dripping rainwater in the back of his BMW. He’s more irritated by the wait. 

“Vickie needed help with a special project! Besides, class actually let out fifteen minutes ago, so technically we’re both late.” 

You stifle a laugh in the backseat, and your driver’s eyes flit up to yours through the rear view mirror. “Who’s your friend?” 

“That. Is actually a great question.” She muses. “We just met and I couldn’t stand to leave her out in the rain. I didn’t get your name.” She turns around to face you. “Did I?” 

She seems harmless enough, a little frazzled and chaotic, but rumours about this town put you on edge. The cult-like unsolved murder of Chrissy Cunningham two months ago still sits like a layer of smog over the town, a simultaneous refusal of the townspeople to acknowledge it—or let it go. 

You know the guy accused was cleared. How or why—you’re not privy to yet. 

You will be soon enough. 

You smile and tell Robin your name. 

“Are you new to town? I don’t think I’ve seen you around.” Steve asks. 

“Yeah, my dad took a job at that new state lab, so I transferred in.”

“I see. And where am I taking you lovely ladies today?” 

Robin’s face crinkles and she rolls her eyes, a silent plea to ignore her friend and his overt-chivalry. “Do you have the video for Nance’s?” Steve nods. “Then we can go straight there.” 

Your brows furrow. “I’m sorry. Where are we going?”

“Our friend Nancy hosts a movie marathon every Friday with a few other friends of ours.” She adds proudly, “Courtesy of Steve and I — we work at Family Video, over at the strip mall on Franklin and Marsh.” 

“Ah.”

“Yeah. You’re gonna love it, it’s great!”

“Oh, no. No, I really appreciate the offer, but I wouldn’t want to intrude, I don’t think your friend would be too happy about somebody just, y’know. Waltzing in.” You chuckle. 

“Oh, trust me. You don’t know Nancy. She loves playing hostess, and she’ll love you. Don’t worry.” Robin reassures you, pulling down her visor mirror. 

Steve hums, agreeing with Robin. “She’s right. Half of Hawkins practically has a key to the Wheeler’s. Just, y’know. Don’t tell Ted.”

You smile awkwardly, settling in a little better in the backseat. You don’t interject in the conversation much, Robin thankfully takes care of that for you as she rambles to Steve about Vickie and her new boyfriend. 

You’re content to let the heaters warm your skin, and to watch the rows of houses go by, cautiously relieved at the possibility of some new friends after two months of loneliness. 

At the Wheeler’s, you introduce yourself politely to Mrs Wheeler, offering a smile to the distracted man in front of the TV. Steve looks at you, mouths, “Ted.” And you nod in understanding, suppressing a laugh. 

Mrs Wheeler hands you a warm towel and ushers the three of you down into the basement. 

“Nothing too scary.” She says pointedly, looking at Steve. “If I have to sleep in the same bed as my twelve year old son again, there will be hell to pay, Steven.” 

“Yes, ma’am. I promise. Nothing too scary.” 

You follow Robin and Steve down into the basement; cozily decorated with throw blankets, cushy rugs, a sofa and a loveseat bracketing a TV on the far edge. Sconces and low lamps light the space, illuminating the group huddled in front of the TV. 

“Who’s ready for Halloween II?” Steve exclaims, fishing out a VHS from under his windbreaker. 

“Ah, so he lives!” Says a theatric, but deep voice behind you. “You’re twenty minutes late, Harrington.” 

You let the voice wash over you before you turn around. Your breath hitches when you match the voice to the same figure who was lighting a cigarette under the gym awning just a little while ago. 

You study him now, up close. Shoulder length, curly hair, sharp bone structure. High cheekbones and an angular jawline, a strong neck, full, red lips and most disarmingly, big, brown eyes. He’s intense up close, but it’s not an intensity you necessarily have a desire to run from. 

His brow raises at your inquisitive gaze—you’ve been staring. “This one of your strays, Harrington? Or is this Buck’s doing?” 

Steve gestures vaguely before walking away, leaving Robin—Buck—to make your introduction before joining Steve too. You pull your towel closer to your body, goosebumps erupting on your skin under an intense gaze. 

He extends a large hand, chain link bracelet falling around his wrist. “Hey. Eddie.” 

You take his hand, warm and large, in yours, letting his fingers wrap around the back of your palm firmly. Your voice is hoarse when you tell him your name and he laughs. A throaty sound that emanates from his chest, a grin taking over his face.

He has dimples.  

“Yeah, I know.”

Your heart skids to a stop. “You do?”

“Yeah? Buck just told me.” He replies, looking at you quizzically. He wraps his hands around your upper arms, manoeuvring you so he can slide past, his chest pressing against your back. His leathery, piney scent drifts to your nose. “You comin’?” 

You nod meekly, watching him take a seat on the couch, legs spread apart as he adjusts his hips and sinks down in his seat. Fondness spreads through you at the awkward, oddly charismatic way he carries himself. He lays an arm over the back of the couch leisurely, opening himself up as Nancy winds the VHS. 

Magnetic as he may be, there’s a shroud of something around him, something dark that extends past his appearance. 

You make a resolution not to find out, to get through this year without mishap, but when Nancy takes the last viable seat, you’re left to take a seat next to the guy you promised to swear off. 

Eddie stiffens when you take the seat next to him, awkwardly tensing and stealing looks. Robin offers you a comforting smile as the movie starts, and while you stay firm on wanting as much distance between you and Eddie as you can manage, the heat between you slowly builds, and the distance becomes smaller. The pull towards each other becomes heady until you’re pressed up against one another, your shoulder tucked into Eddie’s arm, your head under his chin. 

You feel his heart rate spike at the jumpscares, matching yours, but where you wear fear and apprehension on your face—Eddie wears excitement. 

——————————————————————————

Somebody’s watching you. 

It’s a thought that crosses your mind multiple times a day, every day for around ten months now. It starts as a fleeting occurrence, something you can chalk up to anxiety, but as the days pass, the rolling unease in your stomach, and the pressure on the back of your neck becomes more insistent. 

Somebody’s watching you. 

It’s near constant; following you at home, through the school hallways, free periods, the mall. It’s worse at night. With fall on the horizon, the days are shorter, and in the dead of night, you feel as though there are eyes on you, crawling up your body like little fire ants. 

Curtains and blinds don’t help. The feeling is heavier when you can’t see what lurks outside. 

A heavy thump from downstairs tears you from a deep sleep, the sound grabbing you by the chest and slamming you into consciousness. You sit idly for a few seconds, allowing your brain to catch up and your heart to settle down before you brave breaching your covers. 

You glance at the clock. 

02:22. 

It’s not until you’re several shaky steps towards your bedroom door that you realise what the sound was. 

Somebody closed your front door. 

Adrenaline courses through your veins, making sure you’re wide awake. You reach for the door with trembling hands and step outside into the lit hallway—you can’t sleep in a dark home when you’re alone. 

“Dad?” You call out. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, wishing for his voice to call back so badly, you almost imagine it. He’s not due back for another five days, and when you lean over the bannister to look at the entryway, and don’t miraculously see his shoes—your blood runs ice cold. 

Somebody was in your house. 

There’s an idiom associated with horror movies. 

When you hear a strange noise, going to investigate is an almost sure fire way to get yourself killed and have your face plastered on the front page of tomorrow’s paper. But your feet carry you downstairs anyway, curiosity outweighing rational thought. You at least want to know if you need to get the hell out of your house, and with no escape upstairs, you’re safer downstairs. 

The floorboards under the stairs creak with your weight as you pad down to the front door, double checking the lock. You slowly check the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen when a chilling thought occurs to you. 

You freeze. 

The door closing could have been a person going out. 

Or a person coming in. 

Ice freezes down your spine, cracking your resolve as your heart jumps to your mouth. Suddenly, the kitchen phone rings and you yelp, body recoiling at the sound. 

“Hello?” 

“You want to play a game?” A voice leers. 

“What?” 

“I’m just messin’,” replies a more familiar voice. “What are you doin’ up this late?” 

“Eddie?”

“No, the fuckin’ Grim Reaper.” He deadpans. “Yeah, it’s Eddie. What are you doin’ up’?” 

“Nothing. Just needed some water.” You reply absent-mindedly, filling up your glass. 

You’re here, you might as well. 

The water replenishing your dehydrated body kicks your brain into gear, a thought occurring to you. “Wait. Why did you call me if you didn’t know I’d be awake?” 

“I saw your lights on.” 

Your brows furrow. “What do you mean, you ‘saw my lights on’?”

“Relax, 21 Questions. I’m doin’ a run for one of my regulars and I was in your neighbourhood. Thought I’d drive by and see if you were all good since you were so tetchy about a week alone. Saw your lights on—gave you a call. That okay?” 

You smile at his gruff gesture. 

You’ve learned that about Eddie in the past ten months. He’s well-meaning, but every sweet gesture is undercut by a layer of sarcasm and gruffness. You don’t blame him for his coldness. 

Despite moving to town two months after Chrissy’s death, you were quickly made privy to everything that happened, and the aftermath, you saw for yourself. Eddie, despite being cleared, still subjected to whispers and dirty looks, branded a devil worshipper and a cult worshipper and a murderer. 

Graffiti on his locker, snide comments in the halls, even his business took a hit. His only saving graces were Hopper, who’d cleared him, his Uncle Wayne and your group of your friends—and to a lesser degree—you. 

“Of course that’s okay.” You reply. 

He makes a non-committal noise. “You doing okay, though?”

A part of you wants to tell him you’re scared, maybe have him blow off his weed run and come keep you company. There’s a safeness with Eddie, but you decide against it. 

Your voice pinches when you speak. “Yeah. All good.” 

A moment of silence stretches between you, almost like he doesn’t believe you. He breaks the silence finally. 

“You sure?”

“Mhm.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“See you tomorrow.” You finish and slide the phone back into the hook. 

You replenish your glass of water, content to explain the slamming sound away as yet another coincidence—maybe as a dream your brain confused with reality when you were coming to. 

As you set the glass on the kitchen island, your eyes catch a glimpse of something behind the roll of tissue. You slowly reach forward, moving the tissue out of the way to reveal a single flower with thin, dark maroon petals and a pink centre. 

A black dahlia. 

You pluck it from the countertop with a shaky breath, examining it under the light, and drop it when you feel a pull at the back of your neck, the feeling of somebody’s eyes on you returning again, making you feel uneasy.

You don’t spare the flower, nor the window behind you a second look, the glass of water left on the marble as you grab a knife and walk firmly to the couch in the living room. You draw the curtains and switch on the TV, flick through until a rerun of a movie plays on mute in the background, lulling you into as deep of a sleep as you can manage in the circumstances. 

But somebody’s watching you. 

——————————————————————————

You drag your body through the hallways the next morning, eyes weighed down like dumbbells and head fuzzy from the lack of sleep. You let your head rest against the cool metal of your locker to offer you some relief as your eyes close, succumbing to your exhaustion. 

“Hey!” Nancy’s voice chirps. She looks at you perplexed when you jump. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

You blink heavily and pull your locker open. “No, it’s fine. Just tired, that’s all.” 

“Did you stay up late studying for Mr Haskell’s?” She asks, propping her hardback textbooks against her hip. 

Shit. 

“God, I wish. I actually forgot.” You sigh, grabbing your binders. 

Your peripheral registers something falling out of your locker and drifting to the floor as you take out your things. Nancy’s quicker than you, balances her books on her hip and bends to pick up the item, your heart skidding to a halt when you see it in her hand.

Another black dahlia. 

You feel the blood drain from your face, your stomach dropping and fingers going numb. 

He was here. You’re being followed. 

You feel that ominous feeling return, the feeling that you’re being watched, the crowd in the hallways offering you no solace. It feels like walking through a group of people with an invisible stab wound, nobody any the wiser of your impending doom except for you. 

Nancy spins the flower from the stem, a smile taking over her face as she extends it to you. “A dahlia… nice. Who’s the guy?” She asks in a sing-song voice. 

Your voice feels far away when you answer her. “There’s no guy.”

“Sure. She says sardonically. “You have flowers in your locker but no secret admirer. I want details.” As she walks away, she nods as an acknowledgement to somebody behind you.

You squeeze the flower between your hand just as a strong pair of hands pat, or rather, jostle your shoulders. 

“What’s this I hear about a secret admirer?” 

“Christ, Eddie. You almost gave me a heart attack.” You mutter, stuffing the flower into your pocket. 

His eyes narrow as he scans your face. His gaze is intense, but it offers you an odd kind of relief— his exuberance oddly cancelling out the nauseating fear clouding you. 

Leaning against Nancy’s locker with his hands in his pockets, he asks, “Why so tetchy? You okay?” 

“I’m fine.”

He leans in, looks down at you with a gaze that makes your skin prickle, a feeling you’ve had often during your friendship. 

He taps your shin with his foot. “You know, you’re cute when you lie.”

Your breath hitches. He smells like leather and pine, and he’s tall and broad and warm, and if you leaned into him just a little, you know that some of your tension would at least melt away. 

“Really, Eddie. I’m okay.” You smile, squeezing his hand. 

You retract it quickly, Eddie stiffening when Carol saunters past you, accidentally tripping over Tina’s leg to bump into you with a sickeningly sweet, “sorry, honey.” 

Your first instinct is to push her right back. You’d love nothing more than to pull out a chunk of her hair after what she and her asshole friends did to you. You’re smarter than that, though—she’d paint herself as the victim and you’d end up in detention with a serious mark in your permanent record. 

You roll your eyes, muttering a defiant, ‘bitch’, under your breath. 

“What was that about?” Eddie asks, jerking his chin towards Carol and Tommy. 

“Nothing.” You clip. 

He narrows his eyes expectantly, giving you yet another opportunity to reveal to him what he already knows. 

Around a month ago, after a fight at a party, Steve had ended up crashing at Eddie’s for a few days after being arrested—courtesy of his ex best friend Tommy crying over a busted lip. Hopper had reassured Steve it was for appearances, that he’d be free to go as soon as his dad picked him up, secretly knowing that Tommy had most likely deserved the right hook. 

Mr. Harrington though, had kicked Steve out after making his bail. It was then Steve had told Eddie about the incident at the party, about how Robin had called him absolutely furious after Tommy had tried to force himself on you. 

He’d gotten a knee to the balls from you, Robin and Nancy piling on, and a right hook from Steve, but the damage had been done. By the next morning, Tina and Carol had worked their magic, branding you as the whore who tried to steal Carol’s boyfriend. 

Eddie watches Tommy and Carol keenly now, an expression on his face that you’ve come to see more often recently. It’s as though the warmth drains from his eyes, leaving behind an unfeeling presence before he snaps back. 

The warmth returns to his eyes as quickly as it disappears, working its way to you as if by an invisible line. “You can tell me.” He says softly. “You know you can tell me anything.” 

Your chest constricts. “Eh. Apparently, I’m a whore. It’s whatever.” 

His jaw ticks again. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. You’re about as pure as they come.” He marvels, gaze lingering on your lips. His hand absently brushes some hair behind your ear, and he freezes, letting it hang awkwardly. 

You huff, slapping his wrist away. “Okay. Yoda? You sound like an idiot. This isn’t the 1800’s—women have and enjoy sex, you know?” 

He snaps back into his detached ruse, leaning against the locker to play with his rings. He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, suggestive lilt to his voice. 

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you tell me more about that?” 

“Dude, you’re nasty.” 

“Maybe.” His eyes darken before he inhales deeply. “Listen, I got a free period, so I’m gonna run. I have a business meeting that is most urgent and requires my utmost attention.” 

“Eddie-“

He’s already walking away, his broad back heading for the doors at the end of the hall. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll be back by lunch, Sweetheart.” 

You smile to yourself and reach back into your pocket, having temporarily forgotten about your present. You wish you could hold onto that feeling of safety and happiness that Eddie gives you a little longer, bottle it up and use it for when your anxiety reaches its peaks. 

Being around Eddie always has that effect on you, try as you might to push it down. 

——————————————————————————

“Turn on the news.” Nancy hisses through the crackly phone. “Now!”

“Christ, Nance. Do you even know what time it is? It’s barely light outside.” You grumble, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Forget about the time, just turn on your TV!” 

“Okay! Okay, gimme a second.” You groan. 

You rush downstairs for the TV remote and flick through the channels until you get to the news. On the screen, police and ambulance sirens paint the scene red and blue, police tape cordoning off a house just a few blocks from yours. You turn the volume up and catch the last few words from the reporter.

“—Tragedy rocks Hawkins once again, as the bodies of two teenagers, Carol Perkins, and her boyfriend Thomas Hagan were found butchered in the early hours of this morning.”

The words go off like a bomb in your ear, the floor giving out from under your feet as you slump down on the sofa, shakily clutching the remote. 

“Holy shit. Holy shit, holy fucking shit.” You murmur. 

“Yeah, you’re telling me.” 

Your voice sounds tinny when you speak. “They were murdered?”

“Butchered.”

“God, I know I said I wanted to see her head on a spike but this is awful. I can’t believe somebody would do that.” 

A shiver runs down your spine at your proximity to the victims—despite your vitriolic hatred for the both of them, Carol and Tommy are—were—people you saw everyday. You can’t say anybody deserves to be butchered. 

“Can you meet Robin, Jonathan and me at my place in an hour? We’re gonna go get some answers.” Nancy asks. 

“Isn’t that a reporter’s job? Or the PD?” You ask, alarmed. 

“I wanna major in journalism, that basically makes me half a reporter already. Just meet at my place in an hour. Bring sensible shoes.” 

Any room for negotiation goes out of the window as the line goes dead. You set the now clammy phone down on the hook and stay rooted in spot, staring blankly at the TV as the news reel plays out in the background.

“—Police and Fire were called to the scene at around 3:00am when Perkins’ parents arrived home to a fire. Upon their arrival, they found their home in disarray and the two teenagers dead. Hawkins PD are still combing the scene for evidence and are expected to make an announcement later this evening. One thing is for sure though, it seems that death and tragedy are never too far where Hawkins is concerned.” 

You’d completely forgotten about the dark cloud that had been looming over Hawkins this past year. These new killings seem especially insidious with the anniversary of Chrissy Cunningham’s death approaching in just a few days. 

Becoming cognizant of Chrissy, you want to reach out to Eddie to ask him how he’s doing following this news. You’ve no doubt that this time of year is likely to dredge up some horrific memories for him—it’s only been a year since he was labelled as the town pariah—ostracised through no fault of his own.

This won’t help. 

He’ll be subjected to looks in the street again and whispers as he walks by, as though he’s a stain on the town. He’ll be scapegoated. Again. 

You want to reach out to Eddie for him, sure. But there’s also a selfish undercurrent to your thoughts; Eddie’s an increasingly comforting figure in your life and you need him to knock you back on track, especially if Nancy’s going to be critiquing your journalism skills this morning. 

A hit of something to get your head right. 

You hit three on your speed dial, put the coffee on while the line rings and make your way upstairs.

His voice crackles through the phone and has the strangest effect by offering you almost-immediate relief. “Who the hell is this?” He grumbles, voice thick with sleep. 

It makes your heart pick up pace. 

You stifle a laugh. “Eddie, it’s me.” 

He moans, and you picture him with mussed hair, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His voice is still thick when he talks; though, much less irritable this time. “Mornin’, sunshine. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m guessing you didn’t see the news?” 

“Nah. Not yet at least. Late night. What’s going on?” 

“It’s Carol and Tommy. They found their bodies this morning, they were killed.” You whisper the last part in a hushed tone, like verbalising it will somehow bring the curse to you. 

“Wait, what did you just say? They were murdered?” You hear rustling on the other end and assume Eddie’s making a mad dash to the living room in his boxers to turn on the TV. “Do they know who did it?” 

“No, I don’t think so. Not yet—“

“—Hey, man. Turn that up?” 

You pause in your doorway, brows furrowing. “Who are you talking to?”

“Harrington—he got into another pissing match with his dad a few nights ago, told him he could have the couch while Wayne was at work.” 

“Christ, dude. They’re saying they were butchered.” Steve says, muffled in the background. 

You straighten the edges of your bedsheets and start to pick out the sensible shoes Nancy requested, zoning in on another pair you’ll inevitably have to loan to Robin. 

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, I thought you already knew. I just…wanted to check in.” 

Eddie pauses before he speaks hesitantly. “Check in?”

“Yeah. I mean, I know it’s coming up to a year since all of that stuff happened, and I can’t imagine this is gonna be easy for you, y’know? I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

A surge of warmth spreads inside him. Rarely does he feel truly content or peaceful, especially as of late; he has enough emotional baggage to last a lifetime. But he does feel blessed to have sporadic moments of lightness—short—but always with you. 

“You sayin’ you care about me or something?” He murmurs, no doubt careful to avoid Steve’s ears but you can hear the smile in his voice. 

You snicker, your eyes falling to your slightly open underwear drawer. You go to close it with an absent-minded push of your hips when your eyes catch something. 

Your heart plummets like a lead weight, a shot of dread piercing your chest. 

“Hello? You there?” Eddie calls out, but your hands are trembling. 

Stuffed in your underwear drawer, deliberately wrapped inside a pair of white cotton panties, is another black dahlia. 

“Eddie, I’m gonna have to call you back.” You squeak.

His voice shifts. “You okay? Something wrong?” 

“Fine. I’ll talk to you later.” You clip, the phone landing with a thud against your mattress. 

You reach for the flower, gingerly unwrapping it from the white cotton only to reveal a small note tucked under the stem. Nausea claws at your stomach and invades your throat, leaving your head tingly and eyes spotty. 

Black sharpie against red paper reads;

“The things we do for love. Be seeing you soon, my flower. I have some business to take care of first.” 

It's as direct a threat to you as you’ve had so far, but there’s an insinuation there too. An icy thought sends chills through your veins. You may be responsible for Carol and Tommy’s deaths which is in itself a steel weight, but this note doesn’t indicate any sign of the violence stopping. 

If anything, it connotes the opposite. 

You can’t explain the paranoia and the flowers away, can’t live in the content grey safety of denial anymore. He was here. 

In your room. Rifling through your underwear drawer. Watching you sleep. 

Could he have touched you? 

Are you the business he has to take care of? 

Your stomach rolls, and you run to the bathroom to empty your guts into the toilet, gagging until the remnants of last night’s barely-there-dinner are gone and you’re shivering and cold on the tiled floor. 

You’re hit with the feeling of somebody watching you again, pressure tugging at the back of your neck like tiny threads under your skin. Your eyes dart out of the window but you don’t see anything. 

Or anybody. 

You never do. 

——————————————————————————

Your investigation with Robin and Nancy turns up nothing except more disturbing information, which you grimly conclude could well predict your own demise. You’re running on fumes, paranoid and scared for your life, the walk up the stairs to get into school seeming like a chore. 

“Tommy went first.” Robin tells Eddie the following morning. 

“What?” He asks, dodging Robin’s attempt to snatch the cigarette out of his mouth. She tries again, but he dodges again, manoeuvring you to walk between them. 

“Yeah. We overheard Hopper and Callahan over the radio. He was shot in both knees first, tied to a chair, gagged, then stabbed. His insides…on the outside.” 

Eddie’s face contorts, not so much in horror, but in mild disgust as he exhales a cloud of smoke. It seems Tommy had enemies in just about every circle except for his own; and despite your best intentions not to think it, you conclude that somebody finally decided to take matters into their own hands. 

“And Carol? Stabbed in the back, chest, and neck. Gutted and tied to a tree. Can you believe that shit? This guy is serious.” Robin continues. 

She’s managed to dig up a rubber band from inside her pocket and snaps it against her wrist, each slap against her skin housing a migraine deeper in your temple. 

You wince. 

“Careful, Buck. Almost sounds like you admire him. Besides, how do you know it’s a guy?” Eddie asks, taking a drag of his cigarette. 

“Statistics.” Nancy interjects, clicking her locker shut. “Violent kills are almost always executed by men. That, and the fact that it would take a pretty huge guy to hog-tie Tommy, and then string Carol’s dead body up on a tree.” 

“Alright.” You feel nausea rising in your stomach again. Slamming your locker shut, you squeeze your eyes closed. “Can we not? I feel sick.” 

“You look it.” Robin deadpans, raising her hands in defence when you, Nancy and Eddie cut her a look. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it in a you-look-awful way, I’m just saying you look like you haven’t been sleeping.” 

Eddie’s hand cups your cheek, gently turning your face to his. “Yeah. Have you been sleeping?” He asks, cigarette tucked between his lips. His thumb runs over the delicate skin under your eyes. “You look so tired.” 

You tense up at the sudden contact from Eddie, who, despite being notoriously tactile, isn't somebody you’d ever describe as affectionate except maybe with Dustin and the kids. 

You allow yourself a moment of weakness to melt into his touch, his warm skin and icy rings, but your eyes dart to Robin and Nancy who share a wry look. You become aware of the droves of people staring and whispering as they go by too, and suddenly your throat feels tight. 

“I’m fine.” You clip, prying yourself away from his tender touch and he reacts by awkwardly shoving his hands in his pockets, hurt by the sudden change. 

He knows it’s because people are staring, he just hadn’t expected you to care. You can’t handle the eyes on you—not when there’s somebody breathing down your neck. 

The rational part of you knows that it’s because you’re in such close proximity to Eddie, who’s been re-subjected to dirty looks and hostile whispers since Tommy and Carol died yesterday. It seems that despite his name being cleared in good faith last year, the people of Hawkins merely needed a reason to scapegoat Eddie again, all too quick to spit the words devil worshipper and cult leader his way.   

Eddie brushes the looks off, his jaw tensing and releasing, tensing and releasing, shoulders tight like a coil as he takes a deep drag of his cigarette. 

“Fuckin’ morons.” He mutters under his breath. “A serial killer walks the streets of Hawkins but sure…” He mock lunges at a group of lowerclassmen who flinch and disperse down the hallway, earning more looks from passersby. “Let's all gather around to stare at the freak.” 

“Mr. Munson,” Higgins’ voice booms, his eyes falling to the cigarette in Eddie’s mouth. “You can either put that out, or I can put it out for you—and while I do relish in giving you detention—I no longer wish to see you roam these halls for yet another year. I’m frankly sick of seeing your face.” 

“Oh believe me. The feeling’s mutual, asshole.” Eddie grumbles, a begrudging appeasement on his face. He theatrically plucks the cigarette from his mouth and puts it out against the metal rim of the bin behind you. “Guy’s a pain in my sack.” 

Robin’s cackle is cut short when a sudden buzz crawls over the student body. It takes over like a swarm of bees, students yelling and clamouring in the direction of the football field. In the distance, you see Argyle and a pale Jonathan cut through the crowd, right as Mr Higgins receives a radio transmission and pushes through the horde himself. 

You narrow your eyes, your group pulling Jonathan and Argyle to the side of the stampede. “What’s going on?” 

“Dudes, they found another body.” Argyle tells the group. 

The news hits you with the subtlety of a crashing train, leaving the words ricocheting in your ear. You fight to keep your composure, doing the maths in your head to figure out where on your shadow’s roster you fall. 

“What? Who? Where? How? How do you guys know?” Nancy asks in rapid succession, grabbing Jonathan and Argyle with a hand each. 

“I was walking down to take pictures out on the football field for the yearbook, and saw what I thought was a doll or a scarecrow or something. Just hanging from the goalpost.” Jonathan pants weakly. 

“Yeah. Got closer and realised it was a real person. A lady.” Argyle adds, shaking his head. 

Eddie huffs, leaning against his locker. “A lady?” 

“Tina.” Jonathan corrects. “Somebody already tipped off the cops—Hopper pulled up right as we saw her body. She was in her pyjamas, you guys. All covered in blood.” He runs a stressed hand through his hair, bending to put his hands on his knees. “I think I’m gonna throw up.” He wheezes. 

Argyle rubs his back sympathetically, while Nancy kicks herself into high gear. Rifling through her locker, she grabs her school newspaper notebook and best ballpoint pen—the kind she reserves for sleuthing and writing speeches—and turns heel. 

“I swear, if you want something done right…” she mutters and she’s a flash of a perm as she scurries away, joining the now well-informed student body of the attraction outside. 

The gaggle eventually dies down and gets filtered into the gym, squashed together like sardines in a can; some taking up the bleachers, some using the benches, the lowerclassmen claiming the floor as their sitting space. 

Eddie tucks you into his arm on the sidelines where the rest of your friends sit in an effort to conserve space. He balances his copy of Lord of The Rings on his knee, the spine snapped, edges frayed and tattered, various motor oil stains soaked into the paper with rows and rows of annotations littering the page. 

At best, it's well-loved—at worst, it’s unreadable—but it’s one of Eddie’s prized possessions and it shows. 

Higgins’ voice through the speaker silences the hustle of whispering students, rumours and gossip dying down almost immediately. 

“All classes are henceforth suspended until further notice. When prompted, please collect all important belongings from your lockers and proceed to leave in an orderly fashion. Police Chief Hopper also has an announcement to make—please remain where you are for now.” 

Cheers for class suspension are cut short when Hopper swiftly implements a strict citywide 9:00pm curfew. 

“Any citizens reported to be out after this time will be brought in by an officer and questioned before release. It is vital you heed this curfew as it has been put in place for your own safety. Please report any concerns directly to the Police Department or call 9-1-1. Thank you.” 

A resigned groan makes its way through the crowd as students filter out, Tommy’s old friend group uncharacteristically quiet; haunted by the news. It tracks—the only discernible pattern so far is that the killer has a vendetta against their group of friends. 

It’s your own entanglement that doesn't track. 

“So. What’s the rundown?” Robin asks Nancy as you make your way down to the parking lot. 

Nancy looks pale. “Tina was cut from chin to stomach through her nightgown.” She says, shakily. “But there’s more.”

Your blood runs cold. “More?”

“Yeah. It’s not confirmed yet, but I overheard Hopper telling Higgins they found another body this morning on the other side of town. They said the description matched Fred Benson.”

“The guy who did the student paper with you?” Eddie asks. 

Nancy bristles. Her relationship with Fred had soured last year after he insisted on covering Chrissy’s murder, putting Eddie at the forefront. Nancy had refused—then fired him. 

“Yeah.” She goes on. “Parents didn’t even know he was missing.” 

Nancy’s words only stand to remind you that you too could be murdered and strung up like a carcass for the town to see—and nobody would be any the wiser until it was too late. 

You should tell somebody. Anybody. But your mind stops you, a terrifying thought crossing your mind. Telling your friends could put them in danger too. Taking out entire friendship groups seems like a day’s work for this killer, and if anything happened to your friends, you’d never forgive yourself. 

“I’m gonna wait for Will and the rest of those guys, make sure they’re okay, but we’ll reconvene at Nance’s?” Jonathan asks. 

“Wait—you heard Hopper. There’s a curfew.” You say.

Nancy shrugs. “Safety in numbers. C’mon.”

Eddie pats your shoulder as he lights another cigarette. “I’ll catch up with you guys later—I left my briefcase inside. I’ll bring the beer to Nance’s.” 

“Somebody’s gotta tell Steve, does he even know what’s going on?” You ask.

“I’ll take care of it.” Eddie says, voice thick with smoke. “I gotta swing by Family Video anyhow, it appears Keith is in the market for my recreational sleeping aids.” 

Argyle gestures to Eddie who gives him the affirmative—and you shake your head. A serial killer walks the streets and your friends are making sure there’s enough weed at an unmandated ‘gathering’. 

“Be safe?” You call out to Eddie.

He kicks his leg, gives you a mock salute. “Always am. You too.” 

——————————————————————————

“Well. I’m just saying, y’know. There are certain rules when it comes to slashers.” Jonathan mumbles through a mouthful of chips. 

“Is that what this is? A slasher?” Steve asks, adjusting in his seat. 

The basement air smells like weed and cheap beer, the sourness of the salsa that Robin opened twenty minutes ago cutting through the stench. Your stomach is already in pieces with worry, talk of a slasher movie and the dank air does little to quell your nerves. 

“Yeah. I mean. Think about it.” He munches. “You got a guy in a mask goin’ around, killing a bunch of teenagers, hanging them up on goalposts?”

Argyle’s content to listen, offering a grunt of agreement here and there, but he pipes up. “Yeah. Plus, y’know the whole haunted past in a small town thing. No offence, my dude.” He says to Eddie. 

Eddie raises his brows, shakes his head. No harm done. 

“So, these rules then. Let’s have ‘em.” Steve says. “What do you got?”

“Well. The first is that everybody’s a suspect. Everybody. That’s a given.” 

“Yeah. No shit.” Steve nods, huffing a laugh.

Jonathan stands up, his eyes wide. “Now the rules to surviving a slasher movie—well. That’s a whole different ball game.” 

“Go on.”

“Rule number one: never have sex.” 

You catch Eddie’s eye from across the room. It’s something you’d noticed pretty much the day you met; oftentimes you’d be engrossed in something, or just happen to look up at Eddie to find him already watching you. His gaze makes your skin prickle with intensity, blood warming under your skin. 

Despite being in a room full of people, your looks always seem like they’re reserved just for the two of you, an invisible string tying you to him and pulling you closer despite the physical distance remaining the same. 

“—Big no.” Jonathan continues. “Sex equals death. Slasher and horror symbolism in general relies heavily on the innocent virgin as a survivor trope. Promiscuity guarantees death.” 

Eddie’s gaze lingers on yours, his elbows perched on his knees, chin tucked into his chest. He looks good in this light, full lips casting a shadow, his eyes transfixed on you. You lose your nerve and look away, but can’t fight the desire to glance at him again. 

He’s still watching you with almost drunken eyes that you attribute to the beer, though you know he can handle his alcohol.

“Number two: no drinking or doing drugs. It’s an extension of number one—the sin factor. It’s a sin!” 

“Oh great. Guess we’re all fucked.” Steve mutters, taking a swig of his beer. “It’s bullshit, man. This isn’t a slasher and no serial killer is going to know if you’re a boring, sober, virgin.” 

Eddie finally averts his gaze, picking at the frayed denim on his jeans. “Byers, you know I make my living supplying recreational substances to those in need.” 

“—And Steve has deflowered every legal girl who likes men, all the way up to like, Fort Wayne.” Robin snorts, raising her drink. 

“Well—not exactly.” Steve squints. “But they both make a good point. By your so-called rules, Byers; Eddie and I would’ve been the first ones to go.” 

You shake your head, feeling a massive tangent coming and decide to cut out while you can. The thought of going home to an empty house fills you with dread, especially with the recent uptick in dead bodies. You can’t sleep, not when your ears pick up the smallest noises and twist them into sinister scenarios. 

The wind howling through the gaps in your windows sounds eerily like somebody screaming, the floorboards settling make you see an intruder out of the corner of your eye. 

You’re exhausted. 

Nancy follows you upstairs, turning you by your arm. “Hey, you doing okay?”

“Yeah. It’s a little much down there.” You inhale deeply now that the air is thinner and fresher. 

“You know what they get like when they drink.” Nancy laughs. “Do you wanna stay over tonight? Robin was thinking about crashing and I don’t love the idea of you at home by yourself with everything going on. Just stay with me until your dad gets back.” 

You feel a wave of relief wash over you. “Actually, would you mind? I don’t really wanna be by myself.”

“Yeah!” She laughs. “Of course. I can take you to grab your stuff in the morning.”

“Thanks, Nance. I gotta double check the alarm and locks anyway, so I’ll go grab my things now.” You smile, turning to grab your keys from the bowl on the credenza. 

“You sure? It’s late.” 

‘Rule number 3,’ Jonathan continues downstairs out of earshot, ’never, ever, under any circumstances, say you’ll be right back.’ 

“It’s a few blocks away.” You reassure her. “I’ll be right back.” 

——————————————————————————

Somebody’s watching you. 

You feel a tug on the back of your neck when you get to the top of the Wheeler’s cul-de-sac. It becomes more insistent as you turn left on to a densely tree-lined street, which, dimly lit as usual, is eerily silent. With the exception of you and your friends, it seems the residents of Hawkins are abiding by Hopper’s mandate. 

You brush the feeling off and slide your keys between your fingers, picking up pace. By the time you get to your driveway, your heart is in your mouth and you’re almost at a full sprint, nearly slipping on the corner of a flowerbed. 

You’d devised a plan on the way home. 

Check the alarms, downstairs windows, upstairs windows, grab your bag from the closet in the hallway and pack as you go. Simple enough.

But somebody’s watching you. 

Your trembling hands make you fumble and miss the lock a few times, the key bluntly jamming against the metal. You’re finally in, about to twist the lock when a hand aggressively swipes at your arm and drags you backwards. 

You yelp, stomach swooping in pure terror, blood pounding in your ears. 

He’s here. 

You come face to face with a bloodshot Jason, whiskey heavy on his breath. He looks desperate and frenzied in just a pair of chinos and a white polo—it’s freezing out. His presence offers you an odd sense of relief, you can tell from his appearance he’s not about to hurt you and he doesn’t pose any immediate danger. 

He seems scared. 

He pulls you in close, his vice grip making your skin pinch. 

“Let go, Jason. What the hell is wrong with you, why are you outside my house?”

“I came to warn you.”

“Warn me? About what?!” You snap.

“About the company you keep.” He slurs darkly. “You’re not new anymore, but you weren’t here when it went down. When Chrissy died.” 

You squirm, attempting to free your arm, but Jason’s grip is vicious in his trance-like state. “What the hell does that have to do with me?” 

He’s here physically, but his mind is elsewhere. “It’ll be a year tomorrow. And it’s like she was never here. Like she never existed.” 

Your heart sinks for him, a loss so large, so young is sure to rock anybody. But you know the other side of him—the side that radicalised half the town into hunting down Eddie. That almost killed Lucas and Erica when they tried to help. 

“Look. Jason. I’m sorry about what happened, but that doesn’t explain why you’re grabbing my arm.” You grunt, trying to break free. “What does this have to do with me?”

He jostles you, shaking you hard enough that the pain radiates up your arm like a vine. “Everything! This has everything to do with you! Your friend? Eddie? I know they cleared him, said that he had nothing to do with it, but I know the truth. I know what he is.” He says, words dripping with disdain. 

In a surge of defensiveness, you drag the serrated edge of your keys across his skin, drawing a little blood. 

“You bitch!” He sneers, snatching his hand away. “You’ll regret that. You’ll regret not listening to me. Don’t say I didn’t warn you; don’t say I didn’t tell you what he was!” He angrily stalks off, disappearing into the tree line.

When you’d first moved to Hawkins, rumours of golden girl Chrissy dying at the hands of a satanic cult had intrigued you. Dustin had filled you in on the rest and after meeting Eddie and the rest of his innocent D&D group, you knew those rumours were a work of fiction.  

“Hey!” Eddie shouts from a few feet away. He gestures in the direction of the tree line. “Was that Jason?” 

“Yeah.” You mutter, gingerly touching your arm. 

Eddie closes the last few feet between you, jogging to you as you open your door. “What did he want?”  

“Said he saw me walking home, wanted to make sure I was okay.”

Eddie looks at you incredulously as he steps inside. “Looked intense, you okay?” 

“Yeah. All good.” 

Eddie’s eyes fall to the raised welts on your forearm, your hands paler from the lack of blood flow. He gently holds your wrist and brings it up to the hallway light to examine the marks. 

“Did Jason do that?” He asks. “Did he hurt you?” 

“No.” You sigh resignedly. “He was drinking, and he said some stuff about Chrissy’s death anniversary, I think he was just… a little out of it. Got a little overzealous.” 

“Overzealous?” Eddie asks, getting closer to you. “He left a paw print. Y’know I swear, guys like him think they can get away with anything—“

“—Yeah. But I’m fine, Eddie. It looks worse than it is.” You place your hand around his and squeeze reassuringly. “Really. I’m okay.” 

“You sure?“

“I swear, Eddie. I’m all good.” 

Your peripheral suddenly plays a cruel trick on you, making you jump at the impression of somebody in the kitchen. 

Eddie finally lets go of your hand, laughing at your reaction. “You okay? You’re really jumpy.” He asks, rubbing your shoulders as you walk into the kitchen. 

“There’s a serial killer in town, Eddie. Why aren’t you jumpy?” You deadpan. “Is that why you’re here?” 

He chuckles self-effacingly, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah. Nancy told me you took off to grab your things and I didn’t want you to have to walk by yourself with all that stuff.” He stops you from reaching for the window with a hand on your hips, walking around you instead. “Here, I got it.” 

He extends his lean body to twist the window handle, his t-shirt riding up to reveal his toned abs. Red welts—scratches—mark his stomach and a twinge of jealousy creeps up your chest when you think about how he may have gotten those marks. 

“Hey!” Eddie says, snapping his fingers. “Where do you keep goin’, you good?” 

Embarrassment warms your cheeks, snapping you back into reality. “Of course. I have my knight in shining armour, don’t I?” You say sardonically, rounding the island to go upstairs. 

You’re halfway through the hallway before you realise you’re not being followed by Eddie; he’s since taken to standing in the doorway with a look that you can’t read. 

“What is it?” You ask.

He slowly steps towards you. “I know you’re kidding, but for what it’s worth—you never have to worry about that stuff when you’re with me.” He says softly, his voice thick. “You’re always safe with me. I hope you know that.” 

You share a look in the dimly lit hallway, and you don’t know what this thing is between you—the thing where you know each other best, and look out for one another, and make one another feel safe, but where touches and looks linger for longer than they should. 

You don’t have a shadow of a doubt colouring your answer when you reply, knowing wholeheartedly that you believe it. 

“I know.” 

When you get back to Nancy’s though, the night has taken a turn for the worse. The kids sit in the living room with the rest of your friends, everybody huddled up together around the TV as the breaking news reel plays.

“What’s going on?” You ask, setting your bag by the door. 

“They found another body.” Steve tells you in a hushed voice, mindful of the kids but it’s useless—they’re watching the same thing you all are. 

“Higgins.” Nancy explains, approaching you and Eddie. Out of earshot of the kids, she says, “they found him tied to the same goal post they unhooked Tina off of today. His eyes were gouged out and he was stabbed in the neck. He bled to death.” 

Three victims. Three victims in one day. 

Nancy mirrors that thought, but all you can think about now is how much longer you can outrun the shadow breathing down your neck, seemingly getting closer every day. 

——————————————————————————

Breakfast is a bleak affair. 

Mrs. Wheeler does everything to make sure you eat, encouragingly puts out a spread that most people dream of, while Mr Wheeler grumbles under his breath. You watch the boys, El and Max stuff their faces with pancakes, syrup dripping down their chins, but after the morning news, you can barely stomach anything. 

Youre realising after watching the morning news, that it’s becoming a twisted kind of routine to wake up and expect the news of another murder. 

Today’s victim: Andy Clayton. 

Jason’s best friend and yes-man; found hacked to pieces, fibres of his letterman jacket found in his stab wounds from the brutal kill. You stick close to Nancy and Robin for the rest of the day, but when you come back from investigating, you find a chilling surprise on the Wheeler’s doorstep. 

Nancy giggles and ducks inside with Robin, leaving you with your gift. Four black dahlias tied together with a length of twine, a note folded in half between the stems. 

“I promise it won’t be much longer until we’re together, my flower. See you soon.” 

Your head instinctually whips around, your eyes scanning the street, but it’s dead silent save for the occasional passing car. You turn back to the house, ice flowing into your veins as you realise you’re a sitting duck, and staying here would put everybody else in danger too. 

The Wheelers, the kids, Robin. 

You tuck the note into your pocket along with the four flowers and grab your bags, lying to Nancy that you’ll be back. Your first stop is going to see Eddie to ask for some company at the police station. You make the walk to your house, drop your bags in the trunk of your car and make the seven mile journey to Eddie’s trailer. 

The sun sets on your way there, casting the sky in blooms of oranges and pinks, the landscape so much more vibrant in Hawkins than anywhere else you’ve lived. Eddie’s beat up van isn’t anywhere to be seen, but the lights inside his trailer are on, you knock once out of politeness and come in anyway after finding the door unlocked. 

Not that Eddie ever remembers to lock his doors. 

Inside, he’s still nowhere to be seen, the only thing interrupting the silence is the hum of the energy saver light bulb in the background and the sound of a dog barking outside. 

“Eddie?” You call out, clicking the door shut behind you. “You home?”

You’re met with more silence. 

You glance at the small clock above the hat-lined wall. 

5:30pm.

Tentatively, you take a seat on the pull out couch that Steve and Wayne have taken to sharing by now, using the time you have to contemplate how best to broach the subject of your stalker with Eddie; where to start, how much to say. 

Your legs start to tingle from nerves and pent up anxiety, forcing you to your feet. 

You pace the length of the living room and to the kitchen and back again. Your stomach knots and unknots, a surge of nervous energy lodging in your throat and dissipating throughout your chest. 

Absently, you walk into Eddie’s room—a bomb site on a good day. As you close the door behind you, something large and black swooshes against the hook, a large coat or a cloak of some kind, probably for his Hellfire Club meetings. 

You should talk to Eddie about rebranding that soon. 

You smile fondly as your eyes travel over his poster lined walls, the acoustic guitar perched in the corner, the magazines on top of his nightstand. The second drawer of his nightstand catches your eye, ajar slightly because of something caught between the drawer and the frame. 

You look closer, eyes narrowing when you pull a length of twine out from the drawer. You examine it curiously, holding it up to the light when a thought occurs to you. 

With a hesitant hand, you reach into your back pocket to pull out the dahlias you’d received earlier that day, comparing the twine to the one in your hand. Your brows furrow as you bring both pieces of twine together, joining the two diagonal edges to fit perfectly. 

It’s a dead match. 

You pull out his drawer in a daze, head growing fuzzy as you rummage through his things. It’s a coincidence—it has to be. There has to be an explanation. 

Ice flows into your veins when you find five black dahlias tucked neatly into a roll of newspaper, red square note paper next to it. Your head rushes with blood, the room spinning as you try to somehow refute what’s in front of you. 

This can’t be what you think it is. It can’t be.

You gag and run to the kitchen to empty your stomach in the sink. It’s fruitless, your stomach turning up nothing, leaving you to dry heave and clutch the counter. 

No. No, no, no. 

Your hands tremble, blood rushing in your ears and pumping through your body to drive you into high gear, to get the hell out. 

You dart for the door, grabbing your bag and keys, and slam face first into a black wall, your hands taking the brunt of the impact, the shock forcing you back a few steps. Your bags and keys fall on the floor, the blood draining from your body when you look up at a cloaked figure with a white mask. 

You tense up, making peace with the fact that this may be your end but still hold out a small amount of hope that it isn’t who you think it is behind the mask. 

Then the figure speaks, says your name in that familiar way that sends shivers up your spine. 

Eddie. 

Your knees buckle and you trip backwards, the pressure inside your head increasing until you can hear a high-pitched whine. Shakily holding out your hands in front of you, you see them stained crimson, an unknown person’s blood licking your skin. 

It’s the last thing you see before you succumb to darkness. 

——————————————————————————

A horrible weight surrounds your head and there’s a ringing in your ears when you come to. It takes a few seconds for your mind to catch up, but when it does, you jolt in your seat, your movement restricted by something binding your hands and mouth. 

You start to hyperventilate. 

“Hey. Hey. Calm down.” Eddie says, crouching in front of your chair, sporting a busted lip, a bruised eye and bloody knuckles. “Fuck—Calm down, I need you to breathe, okay?” He rips the tape off your mouth and you struggle against the ties, but he pulls the chair in by its arms.“Hey! Breathe. C’mon—just match my pace, alright, you’re gonna pass out again. Fucking breathe.”

He exaggerates his own breathing rhythm now that you can see his chest in just his t-shirt to let your breathing fall into tandem with his. You let yourself breathe, focusing on the air expanding in your lungs, but terror still grips you.  

Eddie watches you carefully, like you’re a cornered animal, his mask pulled up, hair matted to his forehead. “I’m going to cut you loose so we can talk, okay? M’gonna explain everything, but you can’t run. Can you do that?”

Images of Carol and Tommy, Tina, and the rest of his victims flash before your eyes. Eviscerated. Bludgeoned. Gutted. 

You nod, not daring to look down knowing that the rope, the chair and your skin are stained with fresh blood. 

“Good.” He breathes. 

He brings a bloody hunting knife to your wrists, lodges the flat edge between you and the rope, and cuts upwards, slicing you free. You plant your shaky feet to test the waters, and launch yourself forward into Eddie’s chest, knocking him out of the way to start running. 

“Goddamnit!” He grunts. 

You make it a grand total of two paces before Eddie easily whips you around, pinning you against the wall. His nostrils flared, he reaches into his back pocket, brandishing the knife again. A scream dies in your throat as he places the glinting silver’s blunt edge against your neck. 

“I didn’t want to use this. But I told you not to run, didn’t I? Didn’t I?!” His voice thunders inside the trailer, and you flinch backwards, hyper-aware of the knife at your throat. 

The change in his demeanour makes you feel insignificant, like you never mattered to him. That realisation makes a lump catch in your throat. “You’re… you’re—“

He nods slowly, wide grin splitting his face. “Yeah. I am.” He replies mockingly, flipping the mask back on. “What did Jonathan say? Ghostface?” 

A part of you thought—hoped—that he would try to deny it. You’d believe any explanation he’d give you if you tried hard enough, because accepting anything else would be easier than this. 

Than accepting that your best friend is a serial killer. 

“Jason… man, the bastard knows how to fight,” Eddie laments, licking his busted lip behind the mask. He clenches and unclenches his bruised hands, silver rings stained with blood. “Pulled my fucking cloak off and everything—but what are you gonna do? I had a knife. He didn’t. Bled out on my clothes but he knew it was me.” 

You don’t want to hear this. You can’t hear this.

You look desperately for an escape, eyes darting until you spot something that makes your stomach swoop violently, grief ripping through you at the prospect. 

Steve’s white Nikes, covered in blood. 

You turn to Eddie shakily, eyes wide. “Did you kill Steve?” 

He softens, trailing the knife over your cheek. You’re as still as you can be despite your body feeling like it’s vibrating, knowing too well that the smallest of movements could kill you. 

“So sweet. So naive. My flower.” He whispers. “You think I strung Tina and Higgins’ big ass up on those goalposts myself?” 

“No…. He—Steve?” You blubber, another wave of grief washing over you. You’ve just lost two of your best friends in the space of five minutes and you don’t have the time to think about the implications. You just need to make it out alive. “Why? Why did you do this? Why did you kill those people, Eddie?” 

“Because there’s only so much a person can take. I mean, a year passed since Jason sicced his merry brigade of uptight Catholics on me. They all got to move on, get college scholarships, access to trust funds and opportunities to get out of this shithole. Me? I was gonna stay here and rot.” He seethes. “I tried my best to keep it under control. To push my urges down. But then I saw Carol bump you in that hallway, and I remembered what Tommy did to you at that party. That’s when I decided to end it.”

“How do you know about that?” You shudder. 

“Harrington told me everything. Y’know for someone who secretly loves killing, he protested far too much in the beginning. Though, in his defence, I think he was a little cooked after the whole Russian torture thing. It was a perfect plan, really. I killed the people on his list—he killed the people on mine. Solid alibis. No connection.” 

“I never asked for this. For any of it. You don’t get to pin your sick little indulgences on me, Eddie.”  

He flinches, recoils at your words. “But I did it for you. To keep you safe. Why don’t you get that?!” 

Salt falls from your eyes, trails down your face until your cheeks and neck are wet, a lump in your throat. “Are you going to kill me?”

He stares in awe at the pulse visible under your neck, lightly traces his knife over it. He may not even dignify your question with a response; all he would have to do is press in and you’d bleed out right on Mr. Munson’s orange carpet. 

“I told you that you’re always safe with me, do you remember that?” When you ignore his question, he uses the knife to tip your chin up and takes the mask off. “Answer me.”

His eyes soften when he waits for you to answer, as though hanging onto your words for desperate validation. You get a glimpse of the Eddie you know—knew. 

Your Eddie. 

“Yes.” You reply truthfully. 

“So how can you ask that? How could you possibly think I’d kill you?” 

“Then why stalk me? Why send me the flowers—the letters—if I wasn’t next on your list?” You sob. “You must’ve known what I’d think, that I was scared. Why did you do that?”

“Because I love you.” He whispers reverently, closing in on you. His eyes soften, and when he says those four words, it’s Eddie. Eddie, despite the blood spatter on his neck and arms. It’s why it takes your breath away, because you can’t disregard it as the ramblings of a madman. 

There’s some truth to it—even if it is sick. 

And you hate yourself more for wanting him. 

He sheaths the knife in his back pocket, closing the distance between you. “Do you have any idea…how long I’ve wanted you? How I’ve had to keep tabs on you from afar because I was afraid of what you’d think about me? I’ve wanted you since the day you moved here, way before we ever even met.” 

You hate him. You hate yourself. You hate this. 

Your palm makes a cracking sound against his cheek, leaving a blooming red mark on his face. “I hate you.”

His lips brush against yours. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I fucking hate you, Eddie. You broke my trust.” 

“I know.”

Your fists beat down on his chest and arms, throwing punches against a solid chest. He grunts and takes the brunt of your beat down silently, your palms picking up the blood from his soaked t-shirt. It’s only once you’re reduced to tears that he stops you, encircling both of your blood-stained wrists and pulls you close to his chest. 

“I hate you.” You repeat in a small voice. 

“Yeah?” He asks, looking down at you. 

He looks more like himself now, the version that makes you laugh, and loves to read, and has a rich imagination. The Eddie who makes your breath catch in your throat. His gaze is heated, loaded with the challenge of your hatred for him, as though he’s waiting for you to prove it. 

His lips are plump and red, the divot on his chin pronounced. 

“You really hate me?” He whispers. “Because I’ll let you go. You can go to the police, have me arrested, I don’t care. I just want you.” 

You launch yourself at him, crushing your lips against his for a burning, all-consuming kiss. Your knees buckle at the long-awaited contact, his lips full and soft, yet demanding when they slide over yours, capturing your mouth with a bruising intensity. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you to him so forcefully that it makes you mewl, the soft contours of your body moulding against his harder ones, blood soaking into your pale pink dress. 

You pull away, panting for breath. “I hate you.” You chant. “I hate you. I hate you.” 

He kisses you harder. 

Your hands tangle in his hair as his lips devour you, hungry tongue meshing with yours. He moans in pain when you suckle his bruised bottom lip, the sound going straight to your core. He frantically reaches to touch as much of you as he can, presses his body against yours to make your chest heave with pleasure.

You pull away, looking at him hesitantly. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” He pleads, voice cracking. “Don’t look at me like you’re scared of me.”

“I am scared, Eddie.” You whisper, a tear escaping your eye. 

“I’m sorry, baby. I meant it when I said I’d never hurt you. I just wanna take care of you. Make you feel good the way you deserve. Will you let me do that? Can I show you? Please?” 

Despite your fear, you’re warming to the idea that he’s still the Eddie that checks on you in the middle of the night, the Eddie that once drove an hour at 3:00am to pick you up from a party. 

You swallow. “Yes.”

His warm eyes sparkle, capture your lips in another heated kiss. He moans desperately into your mouth as your lips slide over one another, panting as he firmly runs his hands up your hips, trailing up your ribcage and to your arms. He pins your hands above your head, stretching your body out and shoves his knee between your legs.

You break away from his mouth in pleasure, the coarse denim of his jeans rubbing against your panties. Your mouth falls open, head lolling back against the wall. 

“Oh, you needed this, huh?” He says darkly, rocking his knee between your legs. “You like me. And you hate yourself for it.” 

You chase his mouth but he dodges, a wicked look on his face. You fist your hands in his shirt collar and pull him down to capture his full lips between yours again, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. 

Eddie groans, his mind immediately jumping to how you’re capable of drawing blood for him too, even if it is his own. His cock twiches. “That’s my fucking girl.” He murmurs, dragging his thumb against his lip to wipe the blood. “You’re not as innocent as you look, huh?” 

You wrap your hand around his large wrist, bring his hand to your own mouth to smear his blood on your lips. His eyes gleam, cock painfully hard. Your gaze falls to his lips, bruised and bleeding, blood in his mouth and on his chin. 

“Go ahead.” He smiles knowingly.

You let the tip of your tongue trace the blood on his chin and lick upward until you trace the seam of his lips. He swallows your next breath with a bruising kiss, your lips coming together in a frenzied, sick heat, the taste of copper and warm blood coating your tongue. 

He squeezes your hip with a large hand, brings you down to grind against his knee, the act debasing but you don’t care. Eddie makes you crazy, his broad build, his possessiveness; his dark side. 

“C’mon. Let me see that pretty face when you cum. Go ahead. Cum on my thigh like the sick little thing you are.” He murmurs, looking down at the mess you’re leaving on his jeans. He roughly forces you to look down, his hands framing your face. “Look at that. Look at the mess you’re leaving. Soaking fucking wet and I haven’t even touched you yet, do I make that cunt leak, baby? That all for me?” 

“Yeah, Eddie. For you. For you.” You chant.

“Atta girl. Cum for me now. Cum on my thigh.” He coos, rocking his leg up into you. “Let go, c’mon.” 

The coil in your stomach wraps tighter around itself, Eddie’s rough words making you throw your head back in a silent moan as you finally come undone. He holds you close to him, an arm around your waist to help you ride out your orgasm, your arms around his shoulders, held in a tight embrace as he continues to grind his knee into your pussy.

“Oh that’s it, that’s my pretty fucking girl. So good for me, doing exactly as I ask you. So fucking good, baby. Just breathe—you got it. Good girl.” 

His words somehow prolong your orgasm, your pussy convulsing around nothing, until all you can do is dig your nails into Eddie’s shoulders and cry. 

When you come down, you’re languid, but renewed, wanting more. Both of your eyes are blown, heady with lust, and Eddie brings your mouth back to his, unable to stay away. 

Cradling the back of your head, he licks into your mouth and you angle your head to kiss him deeper, hungry for more as you mewl into his mouth, scrambling against the wall. You tug at his t-shirt, pull him closer by his belt loops, and he moans at your show of control. 

Sinking to your knees, you keep your eyes up and on Eddie as you watch him register your movement, his brows furrowing with exertion. He plucks his blood-soaked t-shirt off his body, drops of crimson staining his abdomen and his hands now. 

You look up at him with wide eyes. He’s intimidating from this angle, tall and broad, but still lithe; ink and blood covering his pale chest and arms. You trace the scratches on his lower abdomen, shivers erupting on your skin at the realisation of how he really got them.

You kiss the still-red marks, tonguing over his v-line and lower abdomen, bluntly scratching at the smattering of hair that leads below his jeans. 

He cups your chin tenderly, leaving behind blood. “Tommy begged for his life. Begged me not to kill him, but I did anyway. Made him bleed out right by the pool while Carol watched. For what he did to you.” 

You should hate this. You should get off your knees and leave. But you can’t. Not when you’re one orgasm deep and you’re wet between the legs. Not when you’re about to worship this man. 

You kiss his hand, then his stomach, leaving a trail of wet kisses over his abs, tracing the tip of your tongue over the red scratches. You move over, scratching your nails down his stomach to mirror the other side, leaving angry red marks. 

Why should Carol be the only one to get to mark him? 

He hisses through his teeth, hands hovering over your head hesitantly as you lick over the fresh marks with more kisses. “What? You jealous?” He laughs.

You answer him with another swipe at his v-line, red claw marks imprinting on his skin. The tent in his pants begs to be touched, and when you rub over his hard cock through his jeans, his thighs tremble. 

“Can I suck your cock, Eddie?” You ask innocently. “Please?” 

“Jesus fuckin—“ He grits out, bracing against the wall in front of him. “Go ahead, baby. Take my cock out, lemme feel your mouth.” 

You bite back a smile at his eagerness as you undo his belt, shakily pulling down his jeans and boxers together to free his cock. You swallow, your skin heating at the sight of his cock; average length but the girth takes you off guard, his tip red and leaking pre cum. 

He looks at you knowingly, like he knows he’s going to destroy you when the time comes, but until then, he’s going to bide his time with your mouth. He groans breathily when you stroke the length of him, using both hands to twist and pull, goosebumps erupting on his skin. 

“Shit, shit, shit. That’s it. Squeeze a little tighter there—ah—fuck. Oh, that’s it, baby.” 

You sweetly suck on his tip, licking up his pre cum. Eddie’s abs twitch when your tongue swipes over the vein on the underside of his cock, and you make a mental note to tease him with that. His hips jerk forward on instinct, pushing his cock deeper into your mouth, his hands hovering over your head.

“Like that, Eddie? Am I doing a good job?” You ask, kissing his tip. 

“Yeah, baby. Such a good job like I knew you would. Need a little more.” 

You work way down the shaft, laying wet, open mouthed kisses on his heavy cock, languidly slapping his tip against your tongue. Eddie’s chest flushes with exertion. He looks down at you with hooded eyes, his expression darkening when you take his hands and direct them to your head, silently asking him to take control. 

“Show me what you want, Ed. Do it exactly how you wanna.” You murmur letting his cock slap your tongue. 

You stay like that; mouth wide and tongue out for him to take the lead. A splitting grin takes over his face as he nods, gently gathering your hair on top of your head. 

“My best girl.” He whispers.

He thrusts into your mouth slowly at first, tentatively testing the waters, but as your warm, wet mouth invites him in for more, his thrusts get deeper and more aggressive. Tears prick your eyes as his thick cock reaches the back of your throat with each rough thrust, his hands pulling your head forward. 

“Fucking Christ, your mouth. So pretty with your lips stretched out around my cock, on your knees for me.” 

You nod as he punctuates his sentence with a harsh thrust that makes you gag around him, and you feel him twitch in your mouth, spit and precum messily trailing down your chin, covering his balls and thighs in a slick sheen. 

He wheezes, squeezing his eyes shut. “Yeah… you’re my filthy little girl, aren’t you? Love taking my cock any way I’ll give it to you, huh?” He lightly slaps your cheek, feels the vibration against his cock and throws his head back in pleasure, his hair a halo around his head. 

“So pretty, so fucking pretty—my angel. My pretty little angel. A little wider—shit—just like that.” Eddie whines incoherently when you reach up and massage his balls, slick with your saliva while he holds you in place and fucks your mouth. “Thank you, baby—fuck. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” 

Tears stream down your face, but you’re drunk on the taste of him, your pussy throbbing with his words and needy voice. You’re galvanised knowing that on your knees, you’re capable of reducing a man as powerful and terrifying as Eddie to this. 

A whining, whimpering, mess. 

He withdraws from your mouth with a drawn out groan, his cock twitching in front of your face. You glance up at him, a flush spreading from the centre of his chest to his neck, his ears and cheeks bright red, lips swollen from biting them. 

“C’mere.” He murmurs, dragging you up by your throat—not even with enough force to reduce your airflow—but as a possessive gesture, a means of control. 

He disregards the mess on your face and kisses you in a desperate clash of teeth and tongues and heavy breaths, his cock pressing against your tummy. He swallows your moans and whimpers with a light grip on your throat as he takes the breath from your lungs. 

  “Let's get you off your feet, what do you say?” He rasps. 

You nod, hooking your arms around his neck as he sweeps you off your feet, dark gaze burning yours. He throws you on his creaky mattress, leaving you to crawl upward as he stalks towards you like you’re his prey. 

Shoving your knees apart, he strokes your calves, laying gentle kisses on your now sore knees. “You trust me?” 

You take a beat, making sure to run the scenarios through in your head. “Yes.”

He reaches for a knife from his bedside table, and your skin turns red hot, equal parts desire and terror mixing like a cocktail under your skin. 

“Eyes on me, okay? Just relax.” He coos, kissing your forehead. “Not gonna hurt you.” 

He settles between your legs, and despite you being the one fully clothed out of the two of you, you feel vulnerable but safely kept. He scrapes the blunt edge of the knife gently down your neck, circling your pulse point. It scratches against your collarbone as he continues its descent down in your skin. 

You close your eyes as he hooks it around the neckline of your dress, and you feel him stall, remember his words.

Eyes on me. 

“Good girl.” He breathes when you force yourself to look at him. 

With a sharp tug of the knife, he cuts a jagged line down the centre of your dress, starting at your neckline and ending just above your belly button. You startle at the sudden movement and jump slightly but a hand on your hip holds you down. Slowly, he takes the two halves of the dress and rips with his bare hands all the way down until it falls open at your sides. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re perfect.” Eddie rasps, trailing the knife back upwards. 

“Don’t tease, Eddie.” You whine, shivering at the cold. 

“Patience, my flower. I like to draw things out.”  

You stiffen, the reminder of his extra curricular activities reminding you of who he is. He dips down and places a sweet kiss on your lips to absolve you of your worries, then with a tattooed hand, drags the knife between your breasts, then to the left. The sheets in your hands are the only traction you have as he circles your nipple with the knife, flicking the bud with the metal. 

“One wrong move…” he reminds you. “One wrong move, and this could end terribly for you, couldn’t it?” 

You whimper, nodding. 

“Good thing you trust me. Better thing that I love you.”

He trails it down your stomach, watching the goosebumps appear on your skin as he travels south, the muscles under your skin jumping at the touch. The cold metal reaches your panties, scraping over your covered mound, and despite the imminent danger, you feel yourself dripping for him. 

“You’re doing really good, baby. Proud of you.” 

He goes further still, careful to always use the blunt edge of the knife, but with the weapon out of sight, you’re forced to hyper focus on the sensation, figure out which part is where. You cry out when the cold metal bumps against your puffy clit through your panties, your hips bucking. 

Eddie laughs throatily, a wide grin on his face. “Oh, was that good? You liked that, didn’t you? My depraved little angel.” 

“Yes, Eddie. Please, I need more.” 

“That’s right, you do. Well done.” 

You feel tension against the waistband of your panties before it snaps, your panties cut off at the legs. Eddie pulls you up roughly, dragging your panties off you and leaving you fully exposed and open to him. Gathering them in his hand, he brings them to his face, inhales deeply as his eyes roll back into his head. 

”Fucked my hand over n’ over again with the panties I took from you. Wrapped around my cock pretending it was you, whispered your name when I came. You know that?” 

His words make you squirm and he laughs knowingly. Gripping your chin gently, he tells you to open up so he can slip your panties into your mouth. The salty sweet taste of you floods your mouth, your slick coating your tongue and the cotton. 

“You keep nice and quiet for me, I swear I’ll make it worth your while, baby. Can you be good for me?” 

He’s in control and he knows it and it makes you writhe in pleasure. You nod eagerly, pussy fluttering at the prospect of what he has planned for you. 

He slaps your cheek lightly again. “Good girl. Nice and quiet, yeah?” 

He yanks you to the edge of the bed by your ankles and brings your legs to wrap around his waist, turning you as he lays on his back, moving up the bed. 

“C’mon, baby. Come sit on my face, gimme that pretty pussy.” 

You hesitate, feeling exposed and vulnerable, but he takes your hands in his, pulls you forward until you're straddling his waist. “C’mon. Let me taste you, baby. Please?” He coos.

Hooking two arms around you, he moves you up until you’re hovering above his face, the change in dynamic making your insides clench. 

“Please, baby. Just wanna taste you. Please? Let me kiss that pretty pussy?” He whines, tugging on his cock. 

You tentatively lower yourself onto his face, the only thing visible to you now, his upper face. He latches onto your pussy immediately, sucks your clit between his plump lips and your hips buck, trying to put some distance between you and the source of your pleasure. He moans loudly into your pussy, thick tongue and full mouth messily kissing your cunt, strong jaw anchoring you.  

“Such a sweet fucking pussy, you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me… could get drunk on the taste of you, so fucking wet, dripping down my face—my God.” He whines, hooking his arms around your legs to keep you flush to him.

Your legs tremble around his face—his face—blissed out and so full of concentration. You lean down and push the hair off his forehead, and he moans in pleasure, sucking your clit harder as you pull slightly on his scalp. 

“That’s it, baby. Grind on my face, use my tongue. Make yourself cum for me, baby. Grind on me.” 

Your heart beats erratically as you slowly work your hips in circles on Eddie’s face, moans and whimpers muffled by the panties in your mouth. His hands reach up to squeeze your tits, pinching your nipples almost painfully and pleasure sparks at the base of your spine. 

“C’mon, pretty girl. Make me proud. Cum for me.” He encourages, flicking your clit with his tongue. The sound of Eddie’s mouth and your wet pussy fill the room as you chase your release, melting into him while pleasure washes over you in waves. 

You cum with a silent scream, head thrown back and focus on the feeling of Eddie’s hands on your tits and mouth lapping at you. You come crashing down, electricity crackling at the base of your spine as you pull on Eddie’s hair. 

You fall onto your hands with blood thrumming in every single nerve ending, your hair sticking to your neck with exertion. Eddie lays a messy kiss on your clit before lifting you off him and gathers you in his arms. 

He checks your face for signs of concern, but you’re utterly blissed out. Unpicking the panties from your mouth, he wipes the saliva from your chin to kiss you. You’re boneless in his arms, trusting him to hold you up, sweaty body flush against his as his mouth moves over yours. He consumes your being, wanting you from the inside out, your entire body vibrating with need, more so when you feel his cock jump between your legs. 

“You’re so hard, Eddie. So thick.” 

He swears under his breath as you tug at his cock, heavy and warm in your hand. He grips your throat, a smile making its way onto your lips as he regards you with a knowing look. 

A look that he knows you’re his. That you’re just as twisted as he is. 

He spins you around, your back flush to his tattooed chest and grips your chin to make you look at yourself in the mirror in front of you. You stroke him languidly, feeling his sticky precum coat the tips of your fingers while his fingers spread your pussy lips. 

“Look at yourself.” He urges, kissing your cheek. “Look at how wrecked you are, spread out and naked for me. Look at how good we look together, my flower. Look.” 

The sight in front of you makes your knees buckle. Next to Eddie’s guitar, is your reflection, blissed out with your hair matted to your face, legs spread wide while Eddie’s ringed fingers rub your clit. Behind you, Eddie watches the reflection, his tattooed chest and abdomen littered with scratches and bruises. 

Both of you are stained with blood, handprints marking your throat, your hips, your tits, actual remnants of a crime on your bodies, mixing with sex. 

“Keep your eyes on that mirror, baby. Whatever you do, do not take your eyes off that mirror. You got that?” 

“Yeah, Eddie. Anything you want.” 

He lays a kiss under your ear to soothe the sting of two thick fingers plunging into your pussy, your head lolling back. The slick coating your thighs and pussy makes it easy for him to slide in, the sting soothed by the pleasure of him hooking his fingers inside you. 

“Ohh, I know you like that, don’t you, my girl? That feels good inside my pretty baby’s pussy, huh? You wanna close your eyes but you can’t, can you?” He coos mockingly, lightly slapping your cheek. “No, you can’t. Because you said you’d do anything I want. So you’re gonna stay right here…and I’m gonna finger this pretty little cunt to get you ready for my cock.” 

“Eddie…” you whine, palming his cock. “That feels so good, your fingers… so thick.” 

“I know, baby. I know.” 

He withdraws his fingers and plunges them deep inside you with each word, drawing out your pleasure like a length of elastic; tension building and building precariously close to a snap. The heel of his palm rubs against your clit as his pace increases, a furious work of his wrist leaving you hanging onto his arm for dear life. 

“Cum, baby. Come on, gimme another one, I know you can do it. Do it for me, baby, let me feel you squeeze my fingers.” 

“Gonna cum, Eddie…so close.” You whimper. 

You watch his biceps flex and his shiny, slick covered fingers as you come undone. You’re decidedly full, but not full enough, fluttering around his fingers wildly as he talks you through your release. Your eyes go hazy with ecstasy as you fight to keep them open, to watch his onslaught like you promised you would. 

“Good girl, good fucking girl. Pretty eyes on me, yeah? Just breathe baby, you’re doing so good. So fucking good squeezing me like that. So pretty.” 

When your heartbeat comes down, he kisses your cheek, holding his ring and middle fingers up to the light, your slick stretching between his fingers. 

He brings them to your mouth. “Suck.” He says simply, gasping when your tongue presses against his fingers to lick the taste of yourself off him. 

“Sweet?” He asks. 

You nod around his fingers. 

“Well done, baby. We’re not finished yet, though.” 

With a large hand on your upper back, he pushes you down into his pillows, the smell of him surrounding you like a haze. His sheets are rumpled, but a welcome reprieve, they smell like him and in a way, it’s like laying on him. 

Eddie’s large hands angle your hips upwards just slightly, the rest of you still face down on the mattress. You feel the blunt head of his cock slide up and down your slit, your sloppy cunt making him slip. 

A sharp crack lands on your ass, making you jump, the pain soothed by a cool relief as Eddie massages the skin, pulling at it posessively. He squeezes you hard enough to leave bruises but it only spurs you on, the sick thought of Eddie possessing you, marking you—owning you—makes you drip onto his sheets. 

“Eyes on me, remember?” He rasps from the exertion of controlling himself. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.” 

He braces himself over you with toned arms, his legs bracketing yours as he pushes the fat head of his cock inside you, agonisingly slow. His broad chest flushes a deep crimson. 

You feel him slide right back out of you, and try again, his lips between his teeth. “God fuckin’ damn it, you’re so tight, pushing me right back out.” He pushes in again, and you watch him mesmerised. “Let me in, angel, c’mon. Let me inside you, gimme that sweet cunt. C’mon.” He grunts. 

Every inch stretches you out, punching the air from between your lungs. You’re completely immobilised and at Eddie's mercy, trembling as he sheathes himself inside you. 

You gasp when he buries himself to the hilt, impossibly full and dizzy with pleasure. “Oh my God, Eddie, that’s deep. You’re so fucking deep inside me—so fucking big.” You sob, fluttering around his cock. 

He drops his entire body weight on you, pushing you further into the mattress, deliciously constricting your airflow. He pulls your arms out in front of you and interlocks his fingers with yours. 

You feel his chest vibrate when he speaks, a deep, quiet rumble that kisses the shell of your ear. “Yeah? That deep enough for my baby’s pussy, hm? Stretch you nice and good?”

You watch the carnal expression on his face as he slowly starts to grind into you, the angle bumping that spot deep inside you that makes your clit jump. You’re sensitive and pliant under him but it doesn’t stop him from leaning in close and snapping his hips, muttering filthy words into your ear. 

He pushes a thumb into your mouth. “Such a warm, wet, perfect cunt. The things I did for this pussy, to make you mine—God.” He grits. “You make me fucking crazy you know that? This pussy makes me crazy.” 

Every inch of his body presses against yours, your skin moulding to his, sweat slicked and sticky, both of your thighs covered in your slick. 

“Love your cock, Eddie. Love how you fuck me. Please, Eddie. Want more, please.” You whine, pulling his hair above you. 

He builds his pace steadily, his hips snapping into your while he sets a brutal rhythm, pressing you further into the mattress. The hot friction of your nipples rubbing against his sheets and his cock set your skin on fire. 

You barely register Eddie angle your hips up all the way before wrapping an arm around you and pulling you up—flush against him. 

“That’s better. Look at you—fucking ruined on my cock, aren’t you? Who else can fuck you like this? Who else makes you this fucking pathetic and desperate?” 

“Nobody, Eddie. Nobody. Just you, only you fuck me like this.” You choke out, legs trembling. 

With an arm around your waist to keep you steady, he hooks the other around your neck, effectively putting you in a light headlock. You’re so close to your release, so dizzy with pleasure that you’re on the verge of passing out. Your head lolls against Eddie’s shoulder and your eyes roll back, your face a sight with fat tears rolling down your cheeks. 

The lack of airflow increases the pressure inside of your body, fire pooling low in your stomach, making you drip . 

“That’s it, that’s it, there you go, there you fucking go. You like it when I choke you don’t you, my filthy little girl. Gonna make you cream all over my cock, want it soaking my thighs and balls, baby. Give it to me.” 

You can barely form words, settling for a litany of, “Yes, yes, yes. Right there, Eddie, don’t stop, please, don’t stop.” 

“Not gonna stop. Not until you’re crying. Now c’mon, gimme another one, let me feel this pretty pussy squeeze my cock, c’mon. Make me proud, pretty girl, cum for me.” 

You hang on for dear life as he fucks you right into another orgasm, your legs trembling and pussy convulsing around him, but he doesn’t let up. Pounds you right through your orgasm, skin slapping against skin, finally letting go of your throat so you can breathe again. 

“Good girl, good girl, good fucking girl, that’s it. There you go, just breathe—you got it. Just feel it, you got it, c’mon, keep going, keep going.”

White spots your vision as you ride out your orgasm and Eddie finally allows you to fall forward, draping his body over yours immediately. You pull at his hair to bring him closer, slowly grinding yourself against his cock as you come down, a panting, sweaty mess, drowning in bliss. 

You angle your head to kiss him lazily, his lips leaving your mouth tingling, tongue licking into your mouth. 

“Anyone ever tell you you’re really fucking intense, Ed?” You tease against his lips. 

“Why? You hear somethin’?” He chuckles, kissing you deeply. 

He pulls out of you, tugging at his slick cock as he turns you over onto your back. You’re both dishevelled, and desperate, chasing a higher and higher release. 

You spread your legs and invite him to use your puffy, sensitive pussy, your thighs and hips covered in juices. He slides in easier this time, grinding all the way into the hilt so his pelvis bumps your clit, while his pick chain dangles in your face. 

You whine, gripping the sheets for an anchor as he starts to drive into you with a rough snap of his hips. 

“Eddie…” you whine. “Feel so good, so deep.” You whimper. 

“Yeah?” He grins, dimple splitting his cheek. He presses his hand into your stomach, withdrawing his cock almost all the way out and slamming back inside again. “Right here? You feel me there? Nice and deep inside this pretty angel cunt, made for me to fuck, isn’t it?” 

“Just for you, Eddie. Just for you.” You chant. 

Your slick smears everywhere, coating Eddie’s lower stomach and happy trail, his pelvis and balls, everything a filthy, sticky mess and you’re in heaven. 

You fist your hands into the pillow next to you, spot a flash of black and white. Pulling on the material, you reveal another mask, and your heart swoops nervously, your body stiffening. 

“You’re okay, baby. Nothin’ to be scared of—here.” He reassures you, slipping the hood on. It takes your breath away, having to reconcile Eddie’s body with the mask, but when he grinds his cock deep inside you, you snap back. “Just me. Just Eddie.” 

You reach for his shoulders and spread your legs to invite him closer, wanting to feel more of him. Eddie smiles behind the mask, knows the reaction you have to it—to him—to the implications. He hisses at the feel of your fingernails digging into his back, cock twitching at your possessiveness.

“You like that don’t you, baby? I know you like seeing me with the mask on, I can feel you fucking creaming on my cock. Makes you horny doesn’t it, knowing I killed for you? You’re twisted. Filthy.” 

You whine for him incoherently, feeling the muscles in his back flex and contract as he fucks you deep and fast, his creaky bed matching his rhythm. The mask cuts off Eddie’s breathing, makes it hard to inhale properly but finally having you under him, writhing and moaning his name the way he’s dreamed of makes him whimper. 

“Wanna see you, Eddie. Please. Wanna see your face.” You cry, reaching for his mask. 

He dodges your hands, pins them above your head with his stronger ones. “Tell me you’re mine first.” He grunts. “Tell me you’re fucking mine.”

“I’m yours, Eddie. I’m fucking yours, I’m all yours.” You offer freely, squeezing his hands. 

He slides the hood off, forehead shiny with sweat, bangs matted to his face as he drops his entire body weight on you, pinning your hands again. 

“That’s right. Mine to touch. Mine to taste. Mine to fuck. All mine.”

You’re dizzy with pleasure, taking whatever he gives you, your pussy squelching with each brutal pass of Eddie’s thick cock. “All yours, Eddie.”

“Tell me I’m yours.” He pants needily, using his body to drive you forward. 

“You’re mine, Eddie.” You sob, raking your nails violently down his back to prove it. “You’re mine. You’re mine, Eddie.” 

His cock jumps inside you, both of you closer to your release. “That’s right. You could try to forget any of this happened. But we both know, baby. You love this too much.” 

“God—Eddie. Please. Please, please…”

“Please what? You losin’ your words, now? So drunk on my cock filling you up, you can’t think straight?” He slaps your pussy lightly, clit puffy and sensitive. 

He grips your throat, making your head fall back and tongue loll out of your mouth uselessly. In a moment of pure possession, he lets a trail of his saliva drip into your mouth, kisses you deeply and thoroughly until you’re seeing stars and on the precipice. 

“Good thing I can think for the both of us, huh? Dunno what you’d do without me, my dumb little angel. Need me to protect you, don’t you? I know, baby, I know. I can give you what you need, don’t worry.” 

You’re reduced to blissful silence as Eddie bridges the gap between you and your release, his own, right on the edge as well. 

“Gonna come, Eddie. So close, please, please, make me cum. I love it, I love you. I love you. I love you—Eddie, fuck.” You sob, hanging onto his back, crescent shaped welts marking his skin. 

“Gonna make you mine, baby. Gonna make all this worth it. All of it, just a little more, yeah?” He pants, rhythm turning sloppy. 

“Yeah. Make me yours, Eddie. Please. Wanna be yours.” 

He drops his entire body weight against you, your stomachs pressing together as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. 

“Gonna cum inside this pretty pussy, baby. Make you mine forever, yeah?” 

You nod, biting down on Eddie’s shoulder as you cum, locking your legs around his waist to pull him in deeper. You convulse around his cock, pulling him impossibly close. Eddie moans into your neck as he reaches his release, teeth sinking into the skin below your ear as he cums deep inside you, his balls nestled against your ass.  

He thrusts shallowly inside you, shuddering as you both come down, sweating and entirely ruined. Brushing the sweaty hair off your face, he kisses you deeply, pulling away with dopey eyes. 

“Proud of you, baby. You did really good. Thank you.” 

Your eyes grow heavy, and you’re content to lean on him on the way to the cramped bathroom, have him wash the blood off both of your bodies. You register it against the white porcelain of the bathtub as it circles the drain. 

It takes a few weeks and slowly but surely, Hawkins returns back to normal. A week-long procession of back-to-back funerals are grim, your guilty conscience making you sick, but the sicker part of you wonders what else you could have Eddie do. 

Two weeks after Andy Clayton’s funeral, you sit in the backseat of Steve’s BMW and watch the houses go by. You narrow your eyes, tapping Eddie on the shoulder once the white house comes into view.

“That’s the house, Eddie.” 

“You sure, Sweetheart?” He asks, squeezing your hand. 

“Positive. Jenny told me she saw it happen, Father Elijah with that little boy.” 

“Alright. You heard her, Harrington. Let’s go.” He inhales sharply, getting out of the car. 

You join them outside, tugging on Eddie’s hands, stopping him as he goes to put his mask on. “You’ll be careful, won’t you, baby?” 

“Always am.” He smiles, bending down to kiss you.

——————————————————————————

tags: @fezcoismypimp @urlocaltwink @cottoncandywings @stardancerluv @hoe-for-fictional-men @momsaysimpunkrock @southside-serpent-bae @umm-megan @cozyyellowcardigan @binanas @imasimptoowth @adamdrivershairfluffer @a-laura @rosecolorgardens

[dark-konohagakure2]

Tobirama caught the Uchiha spy and abused her with his squad

tw: noncon, threesome, mild discrimination, age difference, size difference, spitroasting, face fucking, abuse, slapping, cum marking, degradation

(I only included Kagami because he's the only one in the squad that I write besides Tobirama)

All characters depicted are 18+

After Tobirama senses a spy following him and his team during a mission, he and Kagami split off from the rest of the squad to find the spy and apprehended them. Much to Kagami's surprise and Tobirama's lack thereof, the spy turns out to be from the Uchiha clan, a clan that Tobirama has a very strong opinion on.

Tobirama isn't going to be as verbal about his dislike for the Uchiha when Kagami is around, since he's the only Uchiha that Tobirama actually likes, instead Tobirama will act like his anger at her is only because she's an enemy spy, and both shinobi agree that spies need to be punished.

Tobirama will take her mouth (he doesn't want to risk having a half Uchiha child), and Kagami will take her pussy. Tobirama is particularly brutal with the girl, both of his big hands on the sides of her head as he practically fucks her skull, his thick cock pistoning in and out of her mouth at an almost literally breakneck pace.

Kagami is a good-natured man, but he can be very ruthless with the enemy when he wants to be, so he'll be rather rough with her, but will simultaneously talk down to her in an almost paternal manner, since it pains him to see his fellow Uchiha go down such a treacherous path.

"Stop your struggling, little Uchiha, it won't work on me. Maybe next time you should be a good girl and mind your own business, unless this is actually what you wanted from the start..."

Tobirama is much bigger than the spy, so he can easily manhandle her however he wants, his cock sliding up and down her throat at a very rough pace, even smacking her in the face if she does something as awful as gagging on his cock or looking up at him with her Sharingan activated.

Kagami is a few years younger than Tobirama and much more sensitive, and as such he has to try and hold himself back from cumming prematurely, especially in front of someone like Tobirama, who he respects and admires very much.

The Uchiha man is rough as well, but not as outright brutal as his superior. His hips will slap against her ass as he moans and groans quietly, even occasionally praising her by calling her a good girl if she isn't fighting back against the two of them as much as she was before.

Tobirama will order Kagami not to cum inside of her under the guise of not wanting to leave behind too much evidence, when in reality he just doesn't want another pureblooded Uchiha running around the village. Kagami, oblivious to his captains actual reasonings, will comply, instead pulling out just in time and shooting his thick load all over the girl's quivering backside.

"I hope this taught you a valuable lesson, traitor, never underestimate the Hokage or his colleagues. Now let's go, Kagami, we don't need to bother with this trash anymore."

Tobirama let's her off with a warning and a tummy full of cum before letting her go on her not so merry way, but not before telling her that if she even thinks of spying on any of his comrades again, they won't be so lenient next time.

[ichorai]

hell, yeah ; series masterlist.

pairing ; roman roy x f!reader series synopsis ; pain was an old friend for the both of you. wc ; 105.3k and counting! themes ; fluff, angst, drama, slowburn, smut, childhood friends to lovers warnings / includes ; drugs, alcohol, depictions of abuse, mentions of death, hospitals, a lot of sexual jokes and general foul language, sexual situations, reader is logan's goddaughter, a lot of business talk, roman being an asshole, emotional constipation

main masterlist.

chapter one. “Jump, you fuckin’ pussy!” exclaimed Roman, though he was quick to shut his mouth when his therapist flung himself into the pool face-first.

chapter two. “I’m supposed to slip this under your pillow while you’re sleeping, but I have a feeling you’re not gonna let me get up for the rest of the night,” you whispered, crawling back to him and throwing a leg over his waist. He curled his own legs around you as well, leaning his weight into you. His head throbbed, his jaw throbbed harder, his heart throbbed the most.

chapter three. “We were kids,” you mumbled tiredly. Blurry memories of leering, smoking men and jaunty laughter crossed your mind. “How could I have known?”

chapter four. Kendall’s expression seemed to soften, recalling how the two of you would always argue over the last remaining strawberry popsicle during the summers you were still little children. When you would grab it from the freezer before he could, he’d tug on your pigtails and call you mean as you denied ever taking them, and you’d hide the wrappers in Rome’s room so he’d never know it was you. But he could always tell from the sticky red on the corners of your mouth and your sugar-highs that seemed to last for a little too long.

chapter five. “Dad,” Roman said, disrupting the eerie, tense silence. “Please?” He was a child asking for a dog again. He was a teenager asking to come home from military school again. He was a young adult asking for his dad to stop hitting him again.

chapter six. You sipped on a glass of champagne that Kendall handed you. There was more chatter—amicable and light and teasing. You poked fun at Kendall’s lame hat whilst Shiv plainly told Roman that his shoes were a size too large for his feet. That his feet were small and dainty and he would fall over if they were any smaller. More drinks, more giggling, more stories. You learned that fresh-faced college Kendall once puked on Stewy’s bed and cried at the foot of it after drinking too much. You told the siblings that you once slept with Angelina from accounting during your first year at the company, to which they responded with shocked snorts. There was a point where Roman grabbed your face and kissed you and kissed you until the rest of the siblings began faux-gagging, and Connor complained that it was like watching his siblings make out. Goddaughter-and-son incest, he’d said.

chapter seven coming soon!