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not-another-leon-blog · 7 months

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Condor Two

RE4! Leon Kennedy x Reader

Summary- You're Leon's partner, separated by villagers when you arrive in Spain. Word Count: 3425 Established Relationship A/N: Something different, there will be more to the Family Matters series coming soon!

I should’ve gone with Leon, you thought. Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t be tied to a pole and helplessly watching a Spanish police officer being secured to a pyre. What a way to begin your search for the president’s daughter.

Even more frustrating, you could hear Leon talking in your earpiece, trying to reach you. But with your hands literally tied, there was no way for you to respond. You hoped Hunnigan would be able to get a location on you. Of course, Ashley Graham remained the priority. But knowing Leon, he wouldn’t rest until he’d recovered the both of you.

The scent of old manure and death filled your nose. Your wrists and ankles ached and burned from the ropes binding you. At least you didn’t have to go looking for that village, you supposed. Still, you doubted that you’d find Ashley here.

As the sun rose, you surveyed your surroundings. Old wood buildings surrounded you. Chickens, cows, and pigs roamed freely and the villagers… well, you didn’t know what to make of them.

You and the officer tied to the pyre had been ambushed. They’d slashed the tires of the police car that had brought you out here and quickly overwhelmed both you and the officer. There was a throbbing in the back of your head where you’d been hit before waking up here. Wherever ‘here’ was.

Villagers wandered aimlessly through the small town, muttering things under their breath in Spanish. Something wasn’t right with them. Black veins covered their pale skin and their eyes were wild. It didn’t even seem like they fully registered pain. Some were covered in cuts and blood that they hadn’t bothered to clean and the bandages you did see were old and dirty.

“Condor two,” came Leon’s voice again, “Condor two, do you read me?” You rolled your eyes and groaned. You wanted nothing more than to answer him. “Y/n, where are you?”

Waiting for Leon to find you wasn’t an option. If your suspicions were correct, you were next on the sacrifice list.

The villagers had taken your guns when they’d taken you, but they hadn’t stripped you of your jacket. The small knife sheath strapped to your forearm was still hidden beneath the sleeve. There wasn’t much room to move, but you could move your arm against the pole just enough to free the knife from its sheath.

Warm leather fell into your hand and you gripped the handle as tight as the rope would allow. The angle was awkward and your hand was already beginning to cramp, but you slowly began to saw away at the rope.

Keeping an eye on the villagers, you watched them begin to gather in the middle of town where they’d constructed the pyre. As long as you stayed quiet, hopefully, you’d avoid drawing their attention.

A thought crossed your mind. How were you going to save the officer? He struggled and yelled, pleading with the villagers to let him go. His words carried no weight.

The ropes around your wrists fell to the ground. Now you just had to free your ankles and then–

One of the villagers approached the pyre, a thick burning stick in his hands. Before you could blink, he tossed it into the wood pile and within seconds the whole thing had gone up in flames. The officer screamed and flailed. The smell of burning flesh filled your nose and you knew there was no saving him.

Heart pounding, you reached down and cut the rest of the ropes. Finally free, you crouched down and quickly dashed between the nearest buildings. If there was anything you knew for certain, it was that you couldn’t stay here. You didn’t stand a chance against a whole town with only a knife.

You turned the corner and skid to a stop. Not everyone was in the town square. An old woman stood in front of you, a pitchfork held firm in her bony hands. She raised the pitchfork and swung so fast you were barely able to dodge. You dropped to the ground and kicked her feet out from under her. You were on her in a second, pinning her shoulders down with your knees and driving your knife into her temple.

She lay dead and you quickly searched her body for anything that might be useful. Your shoulders slumped. Nothing.

Mud squished behind you and you turned to find a group of four more villagers stalking toward you.

"C'mon," you muttered, frustration laced in your voice like venom. There was no winning this fight. Your only choice was to turn tail and run. But to where? The last thing you wanted to do was run deep into the woods with nothing more than you knife. So what–

An axe whizzed past your head, lodging itself into the wall behind you. "I take it we can't talk this out," you said. The villagers only growled back at you.

You vaulted over the fence next to you as they pounced, narrowly avoiding another axe. Then you were running as fast as possible.

Branches scratched your skin, mud sloshed and slid beneath your feet. You didn't know where you were going, and nor did you really care at the moment.

You burst through the trees and found yourself in a small clearing. You stopped to see if anyone had followed you and when you didn't hear anything but the sound of rustling trees and chirping birds, you let yourself relax.

"Condor one," you said, reaching to activate your earpiece. "Condor one, I'm here." No reply. "Leon?" Nothing. You tossed your arms. Of course your equipment would stop working the instant you were free.

You looked back toward the village. Smoke rose into the sky. The screams of that poor officer still echoed in your ears. You knew you needed to go back, that if you were going to find Leon the best place to start looking was there. But having nothing more than your knife to defend yourself with made you hesitant.

Still, it's not like you had much of a choice.

"You got the stench of battle on ya," a rough voice said. You whirled on your heels, knife ready. A man in a black cloak stood behind you, a purple mask covering the lower half of his face. "You can put the knife down, I mean you no harm."

"Who are you?" You demanded, not lowering your knife.

He chuckled. "Just a man tryin' ta make a living. Got some rare things on sale for ya, stranger." He held out an arm, revealing a variety of weapons and ammunition along the inside of his sleeve.

"Impressive," you mused. "But I don't have any money. So thanks, but no thanks."

"Nothin' wrong with doing things the old fashioned way," the merchant replied. "How 'bout a trade?"

His offer was tempting. You didn't have much, but maybe there was something you could give him in exchange for that pistol you spotted on his sleeve.

You lowered the knife and folded your arms. What did you have to offer? Your knife wasn't worth much and you were hesitant to part with it. Aside from that… Your heart sank as you remembered the one valuable you did have on you.

Leon had gifted you a necklace on your birthday last year. A beautiful silver piece with a small yet intricately detailed bird hanging from it. He never told you what it had cost, but you knew it had to be expensive. Subconsciously, your hand came up to touch it.

"That's a fine piece you got there," the merchant said.

You didn't want to, but it could mean the difference between life or death. After a moment of silence, you asked, "What will it get me?"

"It may be small, but this beauty packs a mean punch." He showed off a revolver. "And as a first-time customer, I'll toss this in free of charge." He flaunted a can of first aid spray. "Whaddya say, stranger?"

Given the circumstances, you weren't sure you could pass up the offer. Reluctantly, you took off the necklace and handed it to him. As promised, you received both the revolver and spray.

The merchant must have noticed how your eyes continued to follow the necklace as he held it. "This is in good hands, I assure you. Now, don't go gettin' yourself killed." There was nothing more to say. The deal was done. With a simple nod, you turned away and began to trek through the forest back toward the village.

You felt naked without the weight of the bird against your chest. Ever since Leon had given it to you, you'd almost never taken it off. What would he think when he saw you without it? That necklace was his silent claim on your heart.

Romantic relationships between agents were frowned upon, forbidden almost. As far as the agency was concerned, it was a conflict of interest and if anyone found out, it was likely they'd separate you. Leon couldn't have that. He needed you as his partner both on and off the field, to be sure you were (somewhat) safe and alive.

He must be worried sick, you thought. Unless it was absolutely necessary, Leon hardly ever allowed radio silence between you two. It had been hours since you last had contact with him. Hell, the last time you saw him was when he left the police car to find the first police officer that had wandered off, instructing you to keep an eye on the second.

You checked the chamber of the revolver. Six bullets. Six shots. You had to make them count.

You tried your earpiece again. Still no answer. Maybe the signal would get better the closer–

"Mother of god!" You yelped, pawing at your ear in pain. A loud screech filled your ear, followed by the sharp crackling of static.

A voice was coming through the other end. It was Hunnigan.

"Condor two," she said, "What is your status?"

"You could warn me next time before you almost blow out my eardrum," you shot back. "I'm still breathing. All four limbs are accounted for. I'm on my way back to the village."

"Negative, Condor two," Hunnigan replied curtly. "There's a good chance Baby Eagle is being held in a church by the lake. I've sent you the coordinates."

"Well, I'd love to see those, but I've lost pretty much all my stuff." You could practically see her rolling her eyes.

"Alright, I have a lock on your position. Head north from your position. Leon is on his way there now."

"Roger that, Roost. Condor two out."

You finally managed to find a path leading north. So far you'd encountered no one else and you hoped it'd stay that way. You wanted to hang on to your six bullets for as long as you could.

"Condor one?" You tried again. If Hunnigan was able to reach you now, you should be able to reach Leon. Right? "Leon?" Silence. You'd be having a serious chat with your techies when you got back.

The lake couldn't be too far now. Trees and brush was beginning to thin and that musty lake smell began to hover in the air. The gravel path you walked along slowly turned into a muddy trail. You emerged onto the bank of the lake. A castle stood menacingly in the distance on the other side. To your left, you saw old wood scaffolding webbing up the side of a cliff. A dock sat just underneath it and at the top, you could just barely make out a church's roof.

Looks like that was where you were heading. With a new determination, you began the long walk over, falling back into the treeline to avoid detection from the water and clifftops.

Ashley Graham was the priority. She was the one they were here to save. Even if one of you had to be left behind or killed to do it, she was the objective.

But Leon refused to leave you. Even if he had to take your body back to the States, there was no reality where he left you here in this hell.

He'd come so close to you in the village. He'd seen you through his binoculars and then you were gone. Once the villagers had retreated into their church, he'd searched the place high and low, finding only your guns and equipment. He was fearing the worst knowing you were out there with only a knife, assuming it hadn’t given out on you yet.

He continued along the winding path, still trying to catch his breath. The village chief had nearly choked him to death not long before and he still felt the ghost of his fingers on his neck.

"Looks like you're in quite the rush, stranger." Leon stopped and rolled his eyes. It seemed like this merchant was there at almost every turn.

Oh well. Leon could stand to lose some excess weight from his bag. As he opened his mouth to reply, his words caught in his throat. There, among the vast array of goods, was your necklace.

"Cat got yer tongue?" The merchant chuckled.

"Where the hell did you get that?" Leon said, his voice low.

"What? This?" The merchant held up the necklace. "An exchange with a traveler lookin' to keep their head on their shoulders."

A part of Leon wanted to be hurt that you'd traded it. But his more rational side understood that you didn't have a choice. He'd found everything but your knife in the village and he knew well enough that you'd need more than just that to make it through this.

The merchant was a reasonable enough man. Leon was sure he could trade something to get the necklace back. Without a second thought, he rummaged through his bag and pulled out two silver goblets and a handful of gems he'd found in the village.

"Must hold sentimental value if yer gonna trade all that for this," the merchant observed. "Can't put a price on that." Still, the merchant tossed Leon the necklace and stashed away the rest. "Pleasure doin' business with ya."

That was easy, Leon thought. Much easier than he anticipated.

Pop pop

Leon perked up. Two solid gunshots had come from the direction of the church. It had to be you. It had to be.

He took off running, not caring if he drew attention to himself. He had to find you.

The church was crawling with villagers. You'd managed to kill three already, but the rest materialized from everywhere. From behind the church, from the graveyard, from the way of the lake, they were everywhere.

Down to four bullets, you had a choice to make. Ashley could be just within reach. You could potentially thin out this crowd for Leon by the time he got here, make his job easier at the cost of (most likely) your life.

Or you could turn tail and run. You refused to keep running.

Someone grabbed you from behind, wrapping their arm around your neck to choke and hold you still while another prepared to swing their axe.

You dropped your weight and threw the one holding you over your head. Grabbing your knife, you threw it as hard as you could. The one holding the axe fell with a hard thud. You ran and pulled the knife free, turning just in time to stab it into the head of another.

A pitchfork came flying at you. It whizzed past you, the spokes just barely missing your arm. Blood began to flow from the wound but you had to keep fighting. Any hesitation could result in your death.

Four more surrounded you, cornering you against the fence. Your drew your pistol and fired twice. Two flew back and dropped to the ground. Two bullets left.

You took aim once more and just as you were about to pull the trigger, something slammed into your back. You were thrown fast and far, landing hard against a headstone. The pistol clattered out of reach and when you went to pull your knife, the blade snapped from the hilt.

Your arms shook as you tried to push yourself up, only for them to give out and leave you nearly limp against the headstone. A monster of a man towered over you, a massive hammer held menacingly in his hands. He raised it high over his head.

Time slowed down. Memories began to flash through your mind. Your first time meeting Leon at bootcamp. Sparring with him in the middle of the night, comforting each other when the whole world felt like it was collapsing in on you. The first time he kissed you.

A sense of peace washed over you as you watched the hammer begin to fall, sunlight glinting off of the metal.

No. You couldn’t let it end like this. You rolled, the hammer meeting the ground where your head had been not a second before. Scrambling to your feet, you dove for your gun. Back on your feet, you shot down two more villagers. Better to have them dead now and not wait for them to gang up with the big one against you.

Your bullets were gone and your knife was broken. You scanned for anything you might be able to use. The brute marched toward you, hammer ready. You lept over headstones, ripping a shovel from the hands of a dead villager.

You turned just in time to bring the shovel up to meet the hammer, stopping it in its path. The wood handle splintered, your arms shook with the strength it took to keep the hammer from you. The handle cracked into two pieces and the brute charged into you, throwing you hard against a tree and knocking the air from your lungs. He charged again, hammer high and then–

BANG!!!!

The man stumbled back forward. Another BANG and he fell to the ground lifeless.

“Y/n?” came Leon’s voice. A second later he was in front of you, cupping your face in his hands.

“I had it handled,” you muttered.

“Of course you did.” He helped you sit up the brushed your hair away from your face. The urge to pull you into his arms was overwhelming, but with the beating you just took he didn’t want to risk hurting you even more. At least you were alive. “Think you can stand?”

You nodded and let him help you up. Your legs were shaking and your head felt dizzy, almost falling into Leon as you tried to regain your balance. He held you against him until the world stopped spinning and you could stand on your own again.

“What happened?” Leon asked, his arm tightening around your waist, almost as if he were afraid that you’d disappear the moment he let go.

“Got bored, decided to go sightseeing,” you replied. He gave you a look. “We were ambushed and I have been hit in the head too many times today.”

He nodded and dug around in his pocket. "I found something I thought you might want back." He held up the necklace you'd traded with the merchant.

"Leon…" Guilt and shame came over you, but also relief at the sight of it. "I'm sorry, I–"

"I know," he said, moving to fasten it around your neck and tucking it under your collar. "You didn't have a choice, I get it. I also found the rest of your stuff."

A weight lifted off your shoulders. Your pistols felt like a comforting blanket as you strapped them back on. "What would I do without you?"

"Crash and burn," Leon said simply as he hooked an arm around your waist and drew you back to him, crashing his lips against yours. He pulled away and smirked down at you, knowing the kiss left you breathless.

It took a moment for you to regain your senses and when you finally registered the knowing look on his face, you swatted his chest. “C’mon, Romeo. We still have a job to do.” It took another moment for your feet to start moving again, your body wanting to stay wrapped up in his arms. They couldn’t waste any more time. “Baby Eagle’s still waiting for us.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Leon watched as you quickly approached the front gate of the church, a new pep in your step. He’d do everything in his power to make sure you weren’t separated again.

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy #leon scott kennedy #resident evil #resident evil x reader #re4! leon kennedy #resident evil 4 #re4 remake #re4 leon #leon x reader #resident evil leon #leon s kennedy x reader #x reader #leon kennedy fic #Leon Kennedy

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lady-lauren · 8 months

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Apotheosis

↬ Pairing: Erwin Smith x Fem!Reader

↬ Rating: Explicit, 18+ Only

↬ Word Count: 2.3k

↬ Warnings/Tags: breeding, talk of pregnancy, dacryphilia/tears, possessive actions, power dynamic/age gap, cum eating, excessive cum/creampie

↬ A/N: It’s been a while since I showed love to my favorite man 💕 Apotheosis: the highest point in the development of something; culmination or climax.

Tears are expected in Erwin’s world. Fat, emotional tears upon the loss of a comrade, tears of frustration at the end of a failed mission, cries of agony of a population ravaged by fear and unrest.

But he could drown in your tears, feast on them like waters from the heavens. You’re pretty when you cry, delicate and overwhelmed, all from him and him alone. His actions, his words, his pleasure and pain.

“Take it, darling, all of it.”

You’re barely undressed, tits spilling from the torn buttons of your uniform, leather straps of your gear pressing into the fat of your thighs as the fabric of your pants struggles at the spread of your legs.

“C-Commander, I, please, I—” nonsense, it’s all nonsense as he flattens you against his desk, cockhead spearing through the unprepared, yet dripping folds of your cunt.

It’s been weeks since he’s seen you. He has no patience left to spare.

Erwin breaches the first ring of muscle into your depths, hissing through his teeth as he feels your pussy suck around him.

He can’t even remember if he locked the door to his office before he pounced on you, his favorite little cadet.

“Good girl,” he coos, thumbs smoothing over your ass as he bullies his way inside of you. You choke below him, sucking in air at the intrusion.

It’s all too much, the burning spread of your cunt and the way he presses your aching breasts against the crumpled papers, fingertips mean and eager against your hips. But he adores when you get overwhelmed, gasping like you haven’t taken his cock countless times before.

“I’ve been thinking of you,” he grunts as he bottoms out inside of you, your ass slapping against his pelvic bone, belly quivering as his cockhead brushes against the most sensitive parts of you. “I’m going to cum inside of you, darling, fill you to the fucking brim with me.”

“Oh god,” you whine, wiggling against his hold as you come to terms with the full stretch of his length. His veins are throbbing inside of you, pulsing against your walls. He doesn’t give you the time you deserve to adjust, instead using your flesh like a toy and bouncing you back and forth on his cock.

“I–we–I-I can’t have…we shouldn’t…” you moan and writhe below him, asschecks bouncing with every sharp thrust.

The vision of you pledging your oath to the nation, to him, is crisp in his memory. Your fist over your chest, eyes gazing up at him from the second row of fresh cadets. He’d noticed your faith then, felt drawn to you like a moth racing toward a funeral pyre.

He’s let himself be consumed by your dark flames, let dreams of you belonging to him, only to him, fill waking thoughts.

“You don’t want my babies, darling? Is that it?”

The sound that drips from your throat is sinful, longing, like his words have speared through your heart and ripped tender emotions.

A heavy hand runs the length of your spine, stopping at the base of your neck to press you down harder, keeping you trapped below his strength.

“Y-yes, Erwin, I–fuck, but we can’t,” your tone lingers on your opposing declaration, brave but lost. You mean it, but you don’t.

Leaning forward, Erwin drops his lips to your ear, slowing his pace to a grind into your cunt.

“Your pussy is desperate for me, I can feel it—you want to milk my cock, want me to fill your insides with my cum.”

Your nails scrape at the wood in his desk, leaving lines in their wake. Your bodies are heady, sweat bleeding into cotton and leather straps catching against the press of his thighs to yours.

“Let me tell you what I think about, darling,” he whispers wickedly, hand slipping between the press of your stomach into the edge of his desk. He is brutal with the remainder of your shirt, ripping threads and snapping buttons as he claws his way to your skin.

“I think of you ripe with my child, my seed growing inside of this strong, perfect body. I imagine you glowing, flushed with hormones and proud at the mention that your child is mine. That I came in your body, took you, bred you.”

Perhaps he’s being purposely crass—he wants a reaction from you, wants to feel your emotions bubble over and spill at his feet.

“Oh fuck,” you squeak below him as he continues to press into you, his cock hot and angry, his weight heavy upon your back. “I want that, god fuck I want your babies, b-but it’s so…” your thoughts trail away as the mental image becomes too much to handle—you, pregnant and showing, growing the Commander’s child in your womb.

Erwin relents, pulling his aching cock from your cunt. He smooths his hands over your body, warm and affectionate, coddling you as he repositions to have you face him.

“It’s too much…” your voice is soft, eyes blinking away the treacherous emotions that have settled into your psyche.

“Look at me.”

He says your first name as he pets your cheek, the taste of the syllables like sin on his tongue.

“I want you,” he asserts, latching his lips to yours to prove his point, “more than you'll ever know, darling. You’re mine. You always have been.”

He plucked you away from the Military Police the moment he laid eyes on you; requested a direct transfer to have you working below him, for him. Then he got inside of you, felt every raw desire and built an unwavering trust. Every time he’s fucked you, he’s been discreet, kept you away from prying eyes. Now he wants all eyes on you, on him, on how he’s taken you.

Gently, he peels the tatters of your shirt from your breasts, placing hot, long licks along your nipples. You buck against him, brave hands tangling in his hair and pulling at the roots.

Taking his time with you almost feels foreign. Every fuck has been to satisfy the obession inside of him, a whirlwind of potent feelings and lust. Claiming you in the dark, a palm over your mouth, his fingers on your tongue and in your cunt.

Now he kneels before you, experienced hands unbuckling the worn scout leathers from your thighs, kissing at the grooves left behind in your tender skin.

You awaken the most primal of needs inside of him—to have, to claim, to breed.

The lines of his roman nose disappear between your legs, skimming along the folds of your pussy as he licks along your slit.

“Erwin, please…” Naked, you sigh with the utmost content, head tilting back as you fall prey to all the emotions swirling in your gut.

“Please what, darling? Use your words, tell me what you want.”

Gazing from between your thighs on his cheekbones, your slick on his tongue, his cock throbs against his pants as he watches the faintest of tears pool on the apples of your cheeks.

He loves ruining you, overloading you with so much passion that it becomes visible.

“Breed me. I want to feel you cum inside of me.”

“Are you sure you’re prepared for this?” He rises to loom over you, tugging your body against his, his clothes sticking to your soft, dewy skin. “I will fill you until you can take no more, fuck you as many times as it takes to breed you properly.”

Pupils dilated and dark, you nood, fisting your fingers around the leather strap that clings to his pectorals.

“Please…make me yours, all yours.”

Erwin slots between your plush thighs, golden hair falling against his brow as he shoves his cock back into your depths, groaning at the feel of you spreading for him.

His size is to his advantage as he consumes you, bucking hips and bouncing you along his shaft. The boldness inside of you is growing, he can feel it in the way you move against him—hungry, greedy, eager to take everything he can give.

A hand grips meanly into your thigh, while the other traces up your back, coming to rest on your jaw, keeping your gaze smoldering into his. He moves ruthlessly inside you, hips snapping against yours with every sharp, deep thrust. Little sounds leave your lips with every plunge, blissful tingles stemming from where your bodies were conjoined. He adores how he can feel the head of his fat cock dragging along your tight walls, thick veins throbbing under silken skin.

A coil of pleasure begins to tighten within his lower stomach, boiling in his balls, hot and mean, like it is ready to tear and erupt with a rush of ecstasy. You moan his name like a prayer, eyes closed tightly as you focus on the intensity of his cock thrusting inside you.

“Everyone will know,” he murmurs against your wet lips, stealing your breath, “your babies will look just like me.”

He knows how to play you, circling your clit so perfectly with his thumb that you’re already shaking. Your lower belly clenches, all the euphoria rushing to your head and making you feel drunk.

“God you get so fucking tight,” Erwin grunts at the feel, starting the kind of brutal pace that told you he was already aiming for the finish line, ready to fill you up and watch you drip just so he could do it all over again.

Everything is burning, like a warm, wet glow between your legs, filled to the brim with him. You gasp and moan, little sounds you just can’t help, too overwhelmed. He stretches you so wide that you feel breathless, tears leaking down from the corners of your eyes.

“Good girl, let it all out. I’ll take care of you, promise.”

“G-gonna cum, Erwin, fuck…”

“Me too.”

His hips still for a moment so you can both feel the way his cock pulses, forcing his seed deep into your womb. The heat breaks you along with his thumb on your clit, making you cry into his chest as you fall over the edge. Your pussy is a milking compression around him, squeezing every last drop of his cum. There’s too much to keep in, hot seed dribbles out over your pussy and around his cock to paint the inside of your thighs and make a mess against his desk.

But he doesn’t stop.

His cock is still hard and twitching inside of you, fat and heavy as he starts to push back deeper into you. Your head dips forward against his shoulder, one of his hands holding your neck while the other splays across your belly before moving lower. Two fingers slide along the folds of your cunt, spreading around his intrusive cock so he can feel his leaking cum.

“Feels so good,” you mumble, “your cum feels so fucking good.”

Erwin groans, lifting his messy fingers to your agape mouth. You take them in without question, sucking at the taste of cum and slick pooling against your tongue. He keeps your mouth stuffed with the digits, allowing you to scream around them as he picks up his pace.

He’s a man determined, sight sets on a goal. He promised to breed you, and he will. No matter how many batches of cum it takes for his seed to take hold.

The squish of his cum spurting with every thrust is mesmerizing, breathtaking, and he can’t help but marvel at the sight of his pretty little girl taking in his cum. You’re a mess, streaked with tears and cum, spit dripping down your chin as you choke around his cum stained fingers.

Erwin removes his fingers from between your lips, angling you back so he can watch your tits bounce with every plunge of his cock. Brushing wet knuckles over your breast, he tugs on your nipple until you mewl.

“C-Commander,” he’ll never tire of hearing his title in your mouth, “I want more.”

“More what, darling? Tell me.”

“More cum, god, fuck I want to drown in it.”

In the back of his mind, Erwin is distinctly aware of sounds outside of his office door, shuffling feet and whispers. But nothing could stop him, not even God Himself could bust into the room and remove Erwin from you. He has you where he’s always wanted you—panting, weeping, begging for him to breed you, to keep you.

He tugs you against him, using you like a little cocksleeve made to suck his cock dry.

“One more,” he groans, “give me one more, darling. Let me feel you cum for me.”

You nod like you have any choice, pulling your thighs up farther so you can lay flat against his desk and take his onslaught.

Long fingers circle back to your puffy clit, rolling the tender bud until you can no longer keep quiet. The feel of you is electric, spiraling, pussy spasming against him, slick gushing with every crest of pleasure that comes over your body. Your climax has you splitting apart, and also sucking him in so deeply that he can't help but to pour his load into you.

Erwin finally pulls his still throbbing cock from your cunt. You are ruined, the tightening of your belly in the aftershocks of your orgasm making cum continuously bubble out of your hole, drooling onto the edge of the desk and into his floor.

“You look so perfect covered in my cum.”

Erwin’s fingers are quickly back between your legs, making you whine as his fingertips glide over your swollen clit. He trails his fingers down your thighs, gathering what cum is still traveling down your legs. He pushes the lost cum back inside of you, making your back arch at the oversensitive feeling. Over and over again, he repeats the motion, taking his time to gather every viscous droplet and push it back into your quivering cunt.

“I expect you to meet me in my room tonight, understood?”

“Of course, sir.”

#erwin smut #erwin x reader #erwin smith #tw:breeding #aot erwin #erwin smith smut #aot x reader #aot smut #attack on titan #erwin smith x reader #erwin smith x you #erwin x y/n #erwin x you

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readychilledwine · 8 months

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Requiem for a Dream

Part one - Home

After 50 years without his mate, Rhysand is finally free and Home.

Warnings - Rhysand's SA trauma is alluded to, depression is alluded to, terrible self care is seen from Rhiannon the OC. Oh, and as always unedited 💜

A/n - this ended up being a 4 part thing, and they are all scheduled to be posted 2 days apart (because I don't want to make you all wait when I am PROUD of the final smut scene) Each jumps is month into Rhysand being home. Each part gets spicier with time. Each part was also written with different songs involved and in mind. "Home" by MGK, Bebe Rexha, and X Ambassadors was trapped in my mind during this part

Part Two Part Three Part Four

✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

Rhys collapsed on the floor of the House of Wind. He was panting before finally breaking down. His arms wrapped around his torso as sobs tore through him. "Rhys?!" The sound of heels slapping against the floor came before arms were around him. "You're home."

He found himself clinging to Mor, head buried into her neck. "Mor, what happened?" A deep voice came into the room followed by heavy foot steps. "Rhys? Az!" Mor pulled away, allowing Cassian to fall before Rhys and pull him into another tight hug. "Let's get you inside, brother."

Rhys allowed him to support him and move him into the living room. Shadows had begun to scurry, moving with a purpose as Azriel appeared in the room and then froze. He walked to Rhys as if he was seeing a ghost, his scarred hands holding his face before his own tears began to fall and they embraced.

"Why are we all gathered in the living room? Food is that-" Amren stopped mid sentence, dropping the flute of blood she was holding. Azriel released Rhysand, backing away to be held by Cassian as the ancient being approached. "Do not ever scare us like that again, boy."

Rhys couldn't help but to laugh and nod before feeling shocked as Amren buried her face into his chest and held him. The Inner Circle stood in silence and tears. Before the question Rhys had since landing finally came out of his mouth. His voice was broken, confidence leaving his body as he asked, "Where is my wife?"

—------------

Rhiannon was hunched over a desk. She was reading through countless reports that had suddenly shown up once the barrier broke.

She refused to go to dinner, choosing to instead distract herself with work. The House had tried pulling her chair from under her, a shadow had tried dragging her out of his office, and the faelights had flickered indicating to her someone had entered her home, but Rhiannon didn't move.

She'd rather work herself to death or starve than get her hopes up that her mate was finally home. She'd rather be burned on an Autumn Court Pyre than allow her heart to break any further than it had.

50 years. 50 long years without Rhysand. Without hearing his laugh. Without the smell of citrus and salt. Without feeling his hands on her body, his lips on hers. 50 years without hearing the sound of his voice. She was broken. Broken from the nightmares he unknowingly sent down the bond. Broken from his last words to her being a command to stay in the House of Wind. Broken from feeling the bond they had never closed grow colder than ice.

Another shadow came, Weaving into her hair to let her know her true brother, Azriel, was thinking of her. That he wanted her to come downstairs and eat. "Tell your master I will eat later. I'm busy reading 50 years of reports from Illyria."

—---------

Azriel sighed deeply, looking at Cassian and shaking his head. "She's going to work herself to death." Cassian whispered as they watched Rhys stare at her chair. "He needs her."

Azriel stood. "I will be right back." Rhysand shook his head, standing next.

"You stay. I'll go." He took his whiskey with him, moving out of the room. "I'll be back soon. I'll just pull rank on her."

—-------

Rhiannon sighed in annoyance as the door opened. "I told you I'd eat later, Az. Fuck off." Rhys watched her. Her long dark brown hair was falling in waves to her hips. Her hazel eyes were reading through paper after paper, marking things she had questions over before moving to the next.

She was wearing a beautiful black dress that dipped low in the front, allowing him a view of her tan skin, of her full breasts, her toned stomach. She was thinner than when he had left, causing his heart to ache. He sat across from her, slightly shocked when she didn't look up. He wanted to pull her into his lap, to hold her, to cry into her shoulder. But he would wait. Wait until they had spoken about the choices he made.

"Just say what you want to say and leave, Azriel. I'm genuinely not in the mood."

He chose then to open the bond. It flooded both of them, causing Rhiannon to drop the paper she was holding. "There's 50 years of things I'd like to say to you, wife." He took a sip of his whiskey as she was taking uneven breaths to try to regain stability from the emotions taking over her own. "I'd prefer to eat first though, and then we could speak later tonight at the River House. Away from everyone else." She gave him no reaction. Shock was sitting in the middle of their bond, blocking him from her feelings, her mind, her needs.

"Please come eat with us. I-" His eyes squeezed shut as her emotions began to hit him. Her longing, her love, her needs, her stresses. "I need us all to eat together. I need family dinner. The papers can wait. They've waited 50 years, darling."

Rhiannon stood, moving to be directly in front of her husband as he stood. She had not spoken. Hands shaking as she lifted them to touch his face before stopping. He realized slowly that she already knew. She knew what had happened to him. What he had done. "You were actually there in those dreams, weren't you?" His voice was broken as he tried to step away from her before her hands shot to his wrists. "Rhi-"

"Please don't pull away from me. I won't touch you without your permission. I'll do whatever you need. Just please don't do what I can feel you thinking about."

Rhys nodded. His own hands trembling as he laced their fingers together and took a deep breath. "It might be awhile, Rhiannon."

She shook her head rapidly. "I don't care. It doesn't matter as long as you are here. I'd wait forever for you." The sentence was all it took for him to pull her into his arms, releasing a sob of relief as she whispered how much she loved and adored him.

#acotar x reader #acotar #rhys x reader #rhysand x reader #rhys acotar #rhys fic #rhysand

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lets-try-some-writing · 2 months

Note

What does Ultra Magnus's funeral plan for Kids includes? 😂 Is it based on Cypertron or Earth customs? UM's search history looks very worrisome, "How to bury a dead child?". Ultra Magnus has funeral folder for each kid.

Ultra Magnus's plans for each of the children varies wildly between all three of them. He has not told anyone about his funeral plans, but the team know he has them stored away somewhere and have helped him work on them in quiet ways. His plans are as follows:

Jack

According to Earth customs, Jack still being a minor, is to have all of his inheritance go straight to his creator for her to handle. Aside from that and the legal hassle, according to the laws of Cybertron, Jack is also to receive additional honors in the event of his death.

As a chosen Herald of a Prime, in the event of his death, he is to be given religious honors and buried on Cybertron's holy grounds. Or barring that, his frame is to be melted, or in this case burned and turned into an ornament that the reigning Prime may wear on his frame. This way the Herald may serve eternally, at least according to religious doctrine. His remaining family is to be given a singular wish within reason to be granted as payment for his service.

Ultra Magnus made some additional notes in response to Jack's habits. That being that Jack's body will need to be cleaned out by humans before funeral handling since no Cybertronian in their right mind will want to run that kind of mortuary work. His body is to also be dressed as the humans see fit before being fitted with ritualistic armor, as is only proper according to the Primacy.

Miko

In accordance to Earth customs, Miko's body will go back to her family for a limited time so that they might settle her affairs. But in the event of her death, that mourning period will only be permitted for so long. As a Wrecker, Miko's body must undergo the correct Cybertronian rituals.

Her body is to be cleaned and then a badge of honor laid over her chest. From there, the Wreckers who mentored her, worked with her, or had direct interactions with her are to give her a funeral rite that they feel fitting with their knowledge of her personality. In this case, all control over her funeral rites falls to Bulkhead and Wheeljack. Ultra Magnus got their statements and according to them, the only end they find fitting for her is simple.

Wheeljack has stated that for a Wrecker like Miko, she should go out with a bang and have a pyre built and laced with explosives. Her body can then be lain on it and join the flames. Bulkhead suggested instead having her body preserved within Cybertronian crafted armor in order to honor her warrior's spirit. Those two ideas are likely to be combined in spectacular fashion if and when she dies.

Rafael

In accordance with human customs, Rafael's body will be entirely returned to his family, except for one key component. All his affairs will be handled by his human family due to his youth and position, but there is one small Cybertronian addition that must be seen to.

Rafael doesn't know. Ratchet doesn't know. Not even Bee knows. But in order to protect Rafael and give him proper honors, he is listed as a Cybertronian special agent on record. His name is Redacted and all information on him is carefully secured. According to Cybertronian tradition and law, when a special agent dies on a foreign world, a piece of their frame is to be returned and added to the hall of the fallen faceless.

Very few are allowed into that hall, and only there will his identity be revealed for the correct parties to see. That way he will be forever remembered, but in a way that won't compromise those closest to him. It was Optimus's suggestion to list him as an agent, and so in the event of his death, an officer is to retrieved some core part of Rafael, be it his heart or his brain, to be turned into a gemstone and preserved.

Ultra Magnus is prepared for their deaths. He knows fleshies don't last long.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #ultra magnus #tfp kids #rafael esquivel #jack darby #miko nakadai #cybertronian culture

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lovelyverosika · 29 days

Text

Hellfire

Implied Hazbin Hotel! Adam x Fem!Sinner!reader

Warning: mention of blood,lust and death

A/N: Here’s a short one-shot based on the song "Hellfire" from the hunchback of Notre Dame. I thought this will be very suitable for this sinner!reader scenario.

3rd POV:

Last Extermination a simple sinner caught the eyes of the first man Adam. She was really quick and escaped his gasp by pure luck. For one moment he was distracted by her "sinful" body, the perfect chance for her to escape. Of course Adam wouldn’t just let her go, he wanted every dirty sinner dead. She not only managed to trick him but also to hurt him with her claws, the scratch marks on his back were still bleeding as he got back from the extermination. Anger was not the only thing he felt towards that demon, he also felt a certain kind of lust for her, which disgusts him. She was a dirty sinner who belongs under his feet begging for mercy before he kills her regardless of her pathetic cries. So why does he feels this heat growing within his body? Why could he still feel her touch on his body, the way her claws dig deep into his back while her shaky breath reached his skin? The beautiful tears streaming down her cheeks as she fought for her life. With a frustrated groan he took off his robe and let Lute clean up his wounds. After he dismissed her and locked himself in his office, he fell into some kind of trance, locked inside his mind as he sang:

"Beata, oh Sera,

You know I am the first man of my power I am justly proud.

Beata, oh Sera,

You know I’m so much purer than the disgusting, vulgar, weak licentious sin.

{Quia peccavi nimis}

Then tell me, oh Sera.

Why I see her standing there?

Why her pathetic eyes still scorch my soul?

{Cogitatione}

I feel her,", he hugged himself, feeling the marks she left on him. "I see her.", a fiery illusion of her appears in front of him.

"The light caught in her h/c hair, is blazing me out of all control.

{Verbo et opere}

Like fire…

Hell fire…

This fire in my skin.

This burning desire is turning me to sin.", the room got darker only the illusion of the sinner crawling closer to him as he turns around bringing a fiery light into his office.

"It’s not my fault {Mea culpa}

I’m not to blame {Mea culpa}

It’s the sinner girl…the demon who set this flame! {Mea maxima culpa}

It’s not my fault if in destinies plan, it made the devil so much stronger than the man.", he tries to wrap his arms around the illusion as she banished into thin air.

"Protect me, oh Sera.

Don’t let this siren cast her spell. Don’t let her fire seal my flesh and bone.

Destroy this dirty sinner!

And let her taste the fire of death or else let her be mine and mine alone.", he looked into the mirror in his office.

"Hellfire, dark fire…now sinner it will be your turn. Chose me or your pyre. Be mine or you will burn!

Oh, have mercy on her.

Oh, have mercy on me.

But she will be mine or she will burn!", he finishes as he fell to his knees.

"Next year I’m coming back for you…just be prepared. I’ll have you even if I have to break the principles and drag you up heaven myself. And if you refuse I’ll have your head as a trophy.", he said with a grin.

Suddenly there was a knock on his door. He stood up and opened the door. There was Lute standing in front of him, she heard it all. "What is it?", he groaned. "Nothing, sir, just checking up on you like the Seraphim asked me to."

Taglist: @kelppsstuff @hobbylobbyy @n3r0-1417 @lilteamushroom @l0vedi3n

#adam x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel adam #x reader #hazbin hotel adam x reader

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mmgwritings · 6 months

Text

I'M GONNA TAKE MINE OF YOU WITH ME

Character: Kaz Brekker / Wife! Reader

Prompts: There is a word for children who lose their parents, but there is none for parents who lose a child.

Warnings: Canon divergence; Angst; Character death; Grief; Kaz suffering; i'm sorry :(

Never trust the Saints; they give and take away.

Initially, a curfew was imposed. Without prior warning, patrol officers closed all clubs, brothels and merchant mansions, causing a commotion among the population that was soon violently suppressed. Later, when the disease spread from the interior of Kesh to the suburbs of Ketterdam, the healers' homes became crowded, and before long even the healers needed the assistance of the Grisha in the merchants' hospital.

Thus, Ketterdam remembered how to act. They had faced an epidemic before and would face this one with the same practicality. The funeral bells echoed incessantly throughout the day, while the bay south of the city was used to transport the bodies, piled on fishing vessels confiscated by the Council of the Tides. The former party town, Ketterdam, has transformed into a highly efficient funeral operation.

Burials were strictly prohibited. Thus, when the boats failed to remove bodies from the city quickly enough, in less favored neighborhoods, residents were forced to dispose of their loved ones on improvised pyres in the middle of the street.

This was the first scene we saw upon arriving in Ketterdam through the northwest gate, when the carriage had to make an abrupt stop in front of a pile of twisted ashes, which at first glance appeared to be the remains of slaughtered animals. However, horror soon hit us when the coachman, in a state of shock, vomited and exclaimed: “They are people, Saints, they are people!”

From the windows of the houses along the street, I could briefly see thin faces peering through the cracks in the windows. They were, without a doubt, the relatives of those poor burned creatures. Their looks were blank, as if they had already resigned themselves to the idea that the remains of their loved ones would end up on the street. I hastily closed the windows to hide the cruelty, but it remained etched in my eyes even when I closed them.

The trip was quick and extremely stressful, from Lij to the capital it was just two days of march that lasted the longest a lifetime. The exhausted horses showed visible signs of fatigue when the coachman left us at the hospital doors. However, as quick as it was, it apparently wasn't enough. The little girl was remarkably pale, her lips were dyed purple and her eyes were trembling under the weight of nightmares caused by the fever. My dear girl, a gift bestowed by the saints, the reward for any act of benevolence I have done in this world.

My mother used to say that the saints' mercy was unfair to mortals, because, as divine beings, they no longer understood the pain of any sacrifice, they no longer understood what it was like to lose someone. They were above everything and everyone. But I was a stupid young woman, I ignored my poor mother's advice because I thought it was the condescending words of a woman with pagan customs.

“Mommy,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with exhaustion, her eyes barely opening.

"I'm here my love. It’s going to be okay,” I whispered as I took her small, feverish body into my arms. At the beginning of the year, I could barely hold her on my lap for long, she was growing fast and turning into a beautiful, healthy five year old. Now, feeling how light her body was in my arms, my heart squeezed with pain.

Despite it being the early hours of the morning, a small crowd was sitting on the steps. They were probably sick people, but not sick enough to get a bed inside the hospital. I was trying to carefully pass between them, when, at the door, Nina appeared.

She was dressed in the black clothes of the doctors, with the distinctive blue apron of the merchants' wing, stained with small drops of blood.

“Y/N, come this way, sweetheart. I’ve already prepared everything for her,” said Nina, her kind face and caring voice leading me down a corridor to the east of the main hall. She was different since the last time I saw her, during the holidays. She looked sterner than ever.

“Any news from him? Did Kaz send any letters? Do you think he will arrive today?” I asked as I followed Nina through a corridor packed with doctors, heartrenders, healers and all sorts of people. I must admit that, little by little, the composure I had managed to maintain during the last two days of the journey from Lij to Ketterdam was starting to crumble. Felt like I was on the edge of an abyss, spiraling into darkness.

Nina looked at me with sadness as she led me into a small, but well-lit room with a comfortable bed, where I rested my daughter. She was in a restless sleep and quietly muttering nonsense words, the fever must be getting worse.

“Kaz didn't send any letters, none of them. Y/N, they must be on the way,” Nina reassured me. “Now, I need you to stay calm for her, please. We will examine her immediately, but you also need to undergo tests. You could be as sick as she is.”

“No, you don’t need to. I'm not going to leave her alone here” I said, freeing myself from Nina's hands the moment when a tall, tired-looking man entered the room, he seemed to be middle-aged, even though he was visibly a Grisha.

Nina walked over to him and they started talking in whispers, probably discussing the situation. It was not uncommon for merchants and their families to seek privileges in cases of calamity, but being Kaz Brekker's family, these privileges often extended to any kind of perk. Obviously, by now, the entire hospital knows that the wife and daughter of Ketterdam's biggest criminal are looking for help.

I sat next to my daughter, holding her soft hand and massaging her temple with my fingertips. Just like she is my joy, she is Kaz’s world. The gravity, the humanity, the warmth that keeps him alive. She looks much more like him: her light eyes, her dark hair and even her pert nose. At times, they seemed to share the same thoughts, to the point where I felt like I was somehow invading their space. She was his world.

Kaz would be able to destroy cities to protect her from her enemies, but that would not be enough to protect her from death.

Death came. It invaded my life so abruptly that I didn't even have time to cry for mercy. One moment, my daughter was in a restless sleep, and the next, she was convulsing, with blood pouring from her eyes and nose... The harrowing sounds were the most terrifying, they seemed to echo endlessly in my mind; it was the sound of her choking as she tried to breathe through vomit.

When it was all over, as my daughter lay on the bed with her head at an awkward angle, a horrible sound filled the room, resembling a wounded animal. I couldn't take my eyes off her to find the source of that sound. Only then did I realize that I was the one issuing it.

Once, when I was a child and still enjoying my hunting adventures with my brothers, we witnessed a fox with its cub in a trap set by my father. The cub was trapped, one of its paws shattered between the iron teeth of the trap, it was still too small to understand human antics, and its mother, whether out of compassion or instinct, killed it before we could get closer.

In those minutes when I was afflicted with acute pain, I reflected on that fox mother facing the suffering of her cub. I thought about how I didn't have the same courage as her, about how I would rather rip my own legs off with my teeth and offer myself to the hunters in exchange for freeing my cub from his torment.

Later, when Nina released me from her embrace with a pale, tearful face, speaking words I could barely understand, I considered how naive both I and the hypothetical fox were being in placing our faith in the benevolence of a superior, divine being. Tearing out my legs, my heart, begging, crawling – would that make any difference? Probably not. Yet even so, I would be willing to sacrifice myself for centuries on end in exchange for my daughter's life.

When I got up from the ground, with shaky legs and still immersed in a painful lethargy, I walked over to my daughter. The heartrender had cleaned her face, but there were still bloodstains on the collar of her blue dress, the same one she had received as a birthday present from her father and which she loved because it made her feel like a fairy.

When I held her little face between my hands she was still warm, it seemed like at any moment she would wake up and smile and tell me it was just a trick. But it wasn't, I spent a long time holding her face waiting for this trick to end and it didn't happen.

When I placed a kiss on her forehead, my tears fell on her face. It was an eternal kiss, I didn't want it to end, I didn't want it to be the last. However, when I pulled away, Nina wrapped me in a comforting hug. Finally, she retreated to a corner of the room, leaving me alone to watch over my pain.

I held my daughter in my arms, I ran my fingers through her hair, her face, memorizing every little detail of her. Finally, when she was starting to feel cold and heavy, I moved closer to give her another kiss, and this time, it was Kaz's goodbye kiss.

It was outside the hospital that Kaz found me. Nina took me outside when a team of healers told us they needed the room. In Ketterdam, the city of death, they are very practical about sorting things out. I was sitting on one of the steps, trying to catch my breath and looking at nothing, when Kaz, Inej, Wylan and Jesper arrived in a grain truck.

I didn't understand what emptiness was, nor how distressing it could be. I had no idea that it could be deafening, that the blood would rush through my veins and that everything around me would feel cold to the touch. Emptiness was the absence of all emotions, and at the same time, it contained them all. And the pain of emptiness made it extraordinarily difficult to notice anything around me other than the image of Kaz.

He was disheveled, his black coat was dirty with dust, and his hair was messy, as if he had spent the last few hours pulling out the strands. His usually restrained blue eyes were showing all of his emotions. A shadow hovered over them, something I had never seen before: fear. And I didn't know how to act other than getting up, walking a few steps, and finally succumbing at Kaz's feet in the hope that the ground would swallow me.

My breathing is heavy and shallow, sobs tear from my throat. There were no more tears, it seems that I was no longer able to produce them, however, a rain began to fall on us, as if it could cry what I was unable to. Above me, Kaz was standing still. He was like a wall that refused to fall under a storm, under the weight of reality. He refuses to vocalize whatever he's thinking, I think he's also feeling empty. It's as if any trace of humanity has been drained from him.

Would he become Dirtyhands, being all practical while he waits for the poor creature I've become at his feet to pull herself together? Or would he become the fox cub caught in the trap, hoping I could rip his throat out when he, for the first time in his life, didn't have a plan to get around the situation?

“Y/N, darling,” whispered Inej, as if calling my name could tie me to the ropes of the earth again. Besides, what else could she say?

Is this the moment when I would hear the lamentations, the pity, that would follow me for the rest of my life when they found out about the daughter I lost?

“She's gone,” I said, lifting my head and looking at Kaz. “We were waiting for you... but she got worse, so I came to Ketterdam. I really thought she would get better, but she's gone, Kaz” my voice broke completely.

I think whatever strength had kept Kaz up until that moment was gone. He turned his back on us, walking toward the side of the building, his steps swaying as if he were drunk, until finally he collapsed. A scream tore through his chest, a scream of rage, of frustration and sadness. But above all pain.

There is a definition for children who lose their parents, but there is none for parents who lose their children.

What are we now? A mother without a child? What would I do now? Just go home and put all her things together in a box like party decorations?

I got up and walked over to Kaz, hugging him from behind. We lay huddled in the rain, me holding Kaz's body as he thrashed about in a horrible cry. I offered whatever comfort I had: I kissed his head, whispered empty words, held him close to me. If I wasn't a mom, then Kaz wasn't a dad.

He would never hold her in his arms again, he wouldn't smile when she played with his gloves, which were too big, and he wouldn't stand by her bed on sleepless nights, watching her sleep.

“Kaz, she loves you more than anything” I said. Loved, whispered my treacherous brain. Then, fighting the lump in my throat, I said, “They've already put her with the dead people.”

Kaz shuddered, the crying became silent. The vision no parent, least of all Kaz, wants to imagine. Like any other death in Ketterdem, whether of the poor or the rich, our daughter's would be treated with little ceremony. No mourning, no funeral.

She, who was always warm, was now alone in the cold of the Harbor.

On the days when Kaz couldn't bear any touch, she was the one who defied him by clasping her little hands around his neck. Or on the worst days, when he came from the Barrel with someone's blood on his sleeve, she covered him with kisses and smiles. Kaz loved her the moment he saw her, covered in blood, wet, crying... and warm. When she was a baby he treated her like porcelain, if he could he wouldn't even let me touch her.

My hands met Kaz's, he was clutching his chest as if he wanted to rip out his own heart. I held him, afraid that he would somehow disappear under the weight of his own grief. If he leaves too...

“On the trip, when she was awake, I told her that you love her. That you love her so, so much,” I whispered in his ear. Then, the worst. “I gave her your kiss goodbye”

How can we survive this?

“No, Y/N,” Kaz said in a pleading tone, “I’m sorry, please. I'm so sorry"

When we lack words, guilt appears. It's our fault? Were we really that horrible?

The Saints. They give and they take.

#mmgwbrekker #six of crows #grishaverse #kaz brekker #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker x reader #shadow and bone

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strangerstuffandthingsimagines · 2 years

Text

The Gallows (Hangman x Fem!reader)

Summary: They call you Angel, sometimes you wonder if “of death” was too long. When tasked to join the best of the best, you are forced to confront your past.

Warning’s: descriptions of injuries (reader is a medic), mentions of sexual content, semi-steamy?,cursing, mentions of sibling death, ptsd (the reader and Hangman both have shared trauma), alcohol consumption

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Call sign: Angel”

It sounded like a nails of a cat clinging to a chalkboard, slowly, painstakingly trailing down the black slate, dragging each syllable out like a taunt. An-gel.

The office felt stuffy, like one of those old silver-screen detective films your grandma would make you watch whenever you visited for Christmas, though there was nothing comforting or warm about it.

Vice Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson is across from you, flipping through your entire naval career in a package of papers. “Quite an impressive portfolio you have here.”

“Admiral Kazansky vouched quite heavily for you. I don’t know if that should delight or terrify me.” he sighs, scanning through the pages without so much as looking up at you. “You’ll be working under the command of Captain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, I’m sure you’ve heard about him.”

Slapping the folder down, Cyclone rises from his seat with the the sound of leather creasing and wheels rolling against the linoleum. “Follow me. I’ll take you to the debriefing room, maybe you’ll be good at keeping Maverick...grounded.”

Orientation never sat well with you. You stopped bothering to focus your vision on the pilots and WSO’s before you; To take in their faces or remember their names. It became a bad habit that morphed into second nature, instinctual to the very structure of your DNA. It was easier that way.

There was an eeriness to the echo of Maverick’s voice as it reverberated throughout the aircraft hangar, his eyes flickering to you for a moment.

“This mission will be physically demanding on your bodies and minds. That is why we have brought in Lt. y/n “Angel” y/l/n. One of the best flight surgeons the navy has to offer.” It’s all so formal that it feels forced. Undeserved. Unwarranted.

The walk from the entrance of the hangar, to where Captain Mitchell stood was gruelling. You pictured yourself being ushered to the gallows, or maybe a pyre like a witch, either way, both of those situations seemed more appealing than this.

“Thank you.” you saluted back - It was muscle memory at this point, not respect. “It an honour to work with you Capt. Mitchell.”

“We’re down three of our best today to G-tolerance training. Don’t worry, you’ll get well acquainted soon enough.” he grins, looking your way for a moment. He could practically feel the tension radiating off your body in a cold heat.

Orientation went by in a haze, you hadn’t paid much attention to the formalities and empty social interactions, not when everything in the very fabric of your being told you “No, you aren’t ready. Run. Run. Run.”

“Phoenix.” a firm, but eager hand reaches out to you, breaking your daze like a slap to the face. Your palm meets her’s and you think maybe, just maybe, you can do this. Maybe you can try.

Before you are even aware you’ve spoken, you agree to meet at the Hard Deck for drinks. Then you remember you haven’t touched booze since you got so drunk they had to pump your stomach. Then you remember why you had gotten so drunk in the first place. Then you kind of want to scream, and you kind of want to cry.

But you don’t. You never do.

~~~~~~~~

A stale breeze ocelots throughout the room as you lay in the dark, alone in a loose tee and your underwear. Giving a grunt, you roll onto your back and run a finger across the creases of your sheets, that imprinted into the flesh of your cheek, pondering how you might muster the strength to get up and dress for the bar tonight.

You move in thoughtless motion, tugging on the loose blue jeans that are too hot for California, and a white tee you’d probably stain at some point throughout the night. You take your time on the ride over, even the twinkling lights of gazebos and restaurant patio’s seem so bleak.

With a quick movement, you switch off the radio and settle for the sound of tires grinding against asphalt. Music wasn’t enjoyable anymore, not like it used to be, not when you were sixteen in your brothers jeep, cruising around with his best friend and it’s all so easy.

Your eyes felt painfully heavy, you almost feel stupid for getting behind the wheel. You want to give in and close your eyes, to just float and forget.

~~~~~~~~~

“There you are, fuck! We were about to send out a search party,” Phoenix laughs as she slides of the barstool with a rum and Coke in hand. It’s all so exhausting. Socializing, growing close - friends even, and then the inevitable doom of being disappointed.

“Hey.” You smile softly, suddenly feeling so small. The gazes of your new crew consumed you and you hold your breath. “Thank you for inviting me out, it’s nice to…”you wonder where exactly you were going with that sentence, then settle on sounding like a moron. “…get out.”

“No, thank you for being the one to lug one of our sorry asses out of the sea one of these days.” Laughs another, your eyes shift toward the name badge. Payback. “My bets on “ol Fanboy here.”

“You realize if she’s pulling my ass out of the water, you aren’t far behind.” Fanboy counters, elbowing his pilot in the ribs. “Right?”

“Hey Rooster!” Phoenix shouts over the loud chatter of the bar. “Come say hi to our new doc!”

You’d forgotten how ingrained peoples callsigns were into their identity. Land, sky, or sea, their callsign was more valuable then their real name. It hadn’t been quite as intense when you were working in the hospital, but they did exist.

“Hu-heyyy,” he drawls out, a little drunk already no doubt. You couldn’t help but smile when you saw him. It were as if the literal sun had been captured in his body, its light threatening to rip through the seams of his tacky Hawaiian shirt. “Nice to meet ya!”

He looked for your name tag, only to realize you had been the only one not in uniform. Civvies was a strict rule you had made for yourself, no matter how tired you were, you never wore your uniform off the base. Plain and simple.

You tell him your name, but he waits for the name that really counts. You clear your throat as you brace yourself with the back of a chair. “They call me Angel.”

“We gotta hear how you got that name.” Payback presses before taking a swig of beer. “I bet it’s one hell of a story.”

The politics of a call sign was just another example of military machismo. It made sense logically, why they were necessary but you had heard your fair share of awful ones to take them too seriously - T-bag, Tiny (last name Richard’s) and Hot crotch to name a few.

Truth is, Angel had been misogyny, thinly veiled as a joke. It’s such a clear memory, you remember it better than your cousin’s wedding that was only a few months ago. The men of the element you’d been assigned didn’t think of you as an equal, but a young, naive girl.

A pet name. A patronizing pet name, the very same ones women had become accustomed to since the dawn of time. When you were quiet, wide eyed and new, you were “princess”, “baby face”, “darling”, “sweet cheeks”, when you stood up for yourself, or commanded the way the others had, suddenly you were “woman”, “bitch” or reduced to just simply “female”.

Lieutenant James “Big Bird” Larson was the worst of them; his taunt’s never took a day off - you weren’t sure if he was capable of ever shutting the fuck up. It wasn’t until shrapnel blasted through his throat, slitting his carotid artery that he was quiet. The blood had spurted like an Italian fountain, the kind you would find in the romantic stretch of Venice that was riddled with wishes in the shape of coins. You had pinched the vein and listened to his gurgled prayers before his wound could be stabilized by back up medics on route.

They still called you Angel, but at least now they had a reason. At least it felt earned.

The comment lingers in the air, you avoid the bait like the plague before gladly taking the hard seltzer Phoenix handed your way. The burn made you cringe as it slithered down your throat like salt in a wound. The last time you’d drank alcohol also happened to be the first and last time you got wasted beyond comprehension.

“Well?” Urges fanboy - damn, so close - with a sigh you give in.

“This guy was bleeding out, so I was pinching off the gash. If I let go he would’ve died…so he said I was his guardian angel.” You over simplified as per usual. “Just medical shenanigans.”

“Dope shit right there.” Fanboy beamed, grateful it wasn’t ironic or an omen that your platoons didn’t have a high rate of survival.

Meandering chatter continued amongst your new comrades, your eyes flickering to the door here and there just to confirm you still had an exit. It felt…insincere. Somehow, you were doing them a disservice by pretending to be present.

You wanted to care about the light hearted jokes, the pool games, the songs they sung at the top of their lungs, but it felt physically impossible. So, alone you sat at the table, more focused on the tiny bubbles of your drink that float periodically to the surface, than joining their game of pool.

“Hangman! Coyote! Get over here so we can kick your ass at pool.” one of them shouts, it didn’t matter who had yelled the name, it mattered who answered the call.

“In your dreams, Rooster.” his voice is the same as you remember, still dripping with cockiness and oozing with cool. Your fingers curl around the cool glass in your hands, pressing your fingertips into it so hard your nails could have snapped clean off.

Water blasts through the windows with a shriek of breaking glass, flooding the bar, uprooting chairs and tables, carrying bottles and bodies. It’s cold and all consuming, and you’re back. Most times it came to you whilst you slept, vulnerable and defenceless, that’s when those memories invaded your mind and possessed your body.

The water is red, a frighteningly, bright red, and it leaves the taste of pennies on your tongue. The body floats. You fought the water with every muscle in your body, and your throat burns as a mixture of salt water and blood sting your lungs. You nearly have him in your arms but it’s just so hard, you almost have him, his parachute ghosting at your finger tips as you reach, desperately trying to cling to him.

“No” It’s horrible the way it comes out, like a strangle in the back of your throat. “Please, no, please!” And suddenly you’re praying, and wondering if God exists at all in the same breath.

“Angel, you good?” Phoenix asks, resting her chin on the que, concern washes over her face.

Hangman’s attention shifts from the pool game onto Phoenix for a moment, following her gaze he settled on you. A look of confusion falls into a soft, sullen look.

“No.” you squeak out, your head shaking ever so slightly. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t dare move until you do. Digging your heels into the varnished wood floor, your chair screeches as you get to your feet. It’s more of a whisper this time, but it slips out again. “No.”

Jake Seresin had run through your life like a tornado through a small town, and you’d spend far too long digging through the debris and picking through the pieces that broke apart in the chaos , to put yourself through that again. You slap a five, or maybe it was a ten, you couldn’t be sure or really give a damn, down on the table. It’s a sickly feeling that creeps up from the pit of your stomach and radiated throughout yours nerves, seizing your spine and rendering you fingers numb.

“Sorry.” You choke, a lump forming in the back of your throat. “Sorry I just have a headache, erm, I guess I forgot to eat today.” You realize in that moment how terrible of a liar you are. Fibs never came easily to you, it was something you wished you worked on, like a fine skill you could hone when necessary.

Gently Bob taps the cup to your arm, now convinced you are famished beyond compare. You yield, taking a few peanuts in your hand.

“Thanks.” You don’t even like peanuts, but you force them into your mouth and chew, and chew and chew until it’s mush. Make them believe you take care of yourself, you remind yourself. “Hey tonight was really fun-” you begin, realistically you’d spent all of what you rounded up to as ten minutes at the Hard Deck. “But I’m not feeling so good, so I think I’ll just head home.”

“Yeah, no, no of course.” She knows it’s a lie, but she smiles anyways.

The second you slip out the back door you gasp for air, taking in as much as physically possible. It almost hurts how far you push your lungs. You brace yourself on the patio ledge, thankful for the privacy of such a pathetic moment. Your head pounded like you’d just been on a three day bender despite having but a lick of alcohol. The bile rises faster then you can even realize what’s happening. Emptying out what little you have, you stifle a sob and heave and heave and heave.

Upside down, the world felt simpler somehow. Perhaps it was due to the fact you couldn’t physically think for a moment, but you weren’t going to waste a moment of peace going over the logistics.

The blood rushes back to your brain as you straighten up. Like divine intervention, your vision clears suddenly, and you set your sights on an unopened bottle of water. Had it not been screwed on so tight, you wouldn’t have trusted no one had put their lips to it. There were worse things, you thought, there were definitely worse things. Taking the warm water in your mouth, you swish it about and pretend it’s not the flavour of melted plastic in the California sun.

Your face buries into the palms of your hands as you lean your elbows on the rail, the sound of waves crashing did well to ease some of your nerves that had been drawn taught.

~~~~~~~~~

Scrambling for your keys as you round the Hard Deck, you freeze just before the drop of the curb. He’s taller then you remember, but perhaps you’ve just forced him out of your mind so often, you simply forgot what he really looked like in person. Even the way he leans against your car is self righteous. It’s your beloved army green jeep, but Jake Seresin could have convinced you it belonged to him had he spoke it into existence.

“You’ve grown up. Christ it’s been forever hasn’t it?” The cool and collected nature of his tone had all but shrivelled and died, what was left was something you couldn’t quite decipher. “I thought our reunion would be a bit more explosive.”

“When have I ever been explosive?” You asked, patting around your jeans for your damn car keys.

“I can think of a few times.” He smirks, but it falls when he see’s how frantic you are to find a means of escape. “Really, are you that desperate to avoid me?”

You ignore him, patting at the denim of your pockets over and over as though the keys might magically appear.

“Look at me, please.” Jake pleads, but you don’t.

It isn’t until you hear the sound of metal meeting metal that your eyes snap up to catch his gaze for the first time in two years, dangling the key ring in front of himself. Coaxing you to step closer like he were holding a string of yarn out to a kitten.

“You left them on the table inside.” He answered before you could even think to ask.

“Oh.”

Twirling the key ring around his finger, he quickly retracts them into his palm. You couldn’t recall ever putting them down. “Can we at least talk?”

“I’d rather not.” It’s empty. You’re empty. It physically pained him not to reach out, to touch and comfort you. He thinks of the Claremont Motel.

Jake’s jaw sets in a hard line, grinding his teeth ever so slightly. “You can’t avoid me forever. I’m inevitable.” His words struck you like a freight train, knocking the wind from your lungs.

“Why? What more is there to say?” You ask, the moon catching in the teary glow of your eyes. You leaned against the hood of your car, stabilizing yourself as the world spun and your stomach flipped.

“It doesn’t even have to about that. I just wan’t to talk. I literally would settle for a discussion about the goddamn weather…how’ve you been?”

“I’m fine.”

“God you’re such a shitty liar.” he conjures a low laugh, with a grin that stirred something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Fine, I’m not fine.” You shakily concede. The last time you’d been fine was a time you weren’t sure even existed. “Jake, I-I don’t know what you want from me? If you want to talk, there’s really nothing else to say.” Something clicks in your mind, like a puzzle piece you had spent ages trying to place in it’s spot, sliding into the curves and aligning the edges. “Nothing that couldn’t have been said two years ago.”

Jake had knocked the wind out of himself before, at least three times if he were to count, but this was nothing any physical push could cause. This was a wind he’d held onto in the chambers of his lungs for so long, never thinking it would be stirred again.

“I just want to talk. Please, can we just talk.” His walls are reinforcing, stubborn determination trickling through his demeanour. “Christ, I’ll settle for a chat about the weather…I just miss you.”

“No.” Your teeth grit together, ready to spit, throttle and scream at him. But you breathe out, it’s slow and focused. “The weather is lovely, with zero humidity and a light breeze, and you, Jake Seresin, do not miss me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Trust me, I’ve spent a long time coming to terms with the ugly truth that you don’t.” It visceral, it’s somewhere between depressed and furious, but it’s so calm that it confuses him.

Waiting, and waiting and waiting, so much time waiting on Jake.

You would have been happy with an e-mail, a voice mail or just any trace of proof that you weren’t just a vessel for his guilt for one night. You hated how badly you wanted him to want you - but you put that dream to rest.

Dreams were silly, and you’d grown far too familiar with nightmares to really mourn the loss.

~~~~~~~~~

Drunk off boxed wine you picked up at a overpriced market on the way home, you sat on the floor of your bedroom, sinking into the lush, fluffy white rug you’d spent way too much money on. The pale blue glow of the television offering the only light you would allow. Anything could of been flashing across the screen, you would have been none the wiser.

There’s a small part of you, it’s minuscule, but you find yourself praying to hear a knock at the door. To have someone hold you and let you sob. Your eyes close and you find yourself pretending the muffled voice on the tv are a crowded room, and you aren’t so incredibly alone.

~~~~~~~~~

Hangman fucked up. Badly.

It was such a small interaction but it stuck to him like glue. The smile your way, the the meeting of gazes, the air of hope that maybe, just maybe, you would give him an inch, but you resisted by a mile. To make matters worse, you’d been so excruciatingly warm to Fanboy. The pressure of G-force had royally wrecked his neck, and Jake could not tear his eyes away, watching as you pressed and prodded the tender flesh at the nape of his neck, feeling for displacement or injury that was worse for wear - you were practically jacking him off.

You even laughed at something he said. What the actual fuck?

It played over and over like a scratched disk, repeating and repeating, anxiety building in his chest. It was a stupid mistake, it was such a colossal rookie mistake. Nearly clipping Phoenix’s wing, Hangman lost control for a moment after getting caught in the jet wash, descending into a terrifying flat spin. White noise fills his ears, the radio fell on deaf ears, someone was hollering his callsign frantically - Rooster maybe? No, no maybe it was Coyote, or Payback?

“Hangman pull the fuck up!” Alphabet’s voice jolts him back into a plane of existence neither here nor there, that for a moment he’s alive, and Hangman’s flying a two seater. “Pull-up!”

And he does. Just hardly recovering from the death spin.

The debrief that followed was tense, uncomfortable and could have been avoided had he just focused.

Had he not gotten Alphabet killed.

Finally dismissed, his fellow TOPGUNS stretched and yawned as they rose from their seats, meandering toward the exit but lingering about the room as they slipped into conversation. A chorus of “I need a drink after that” and “Let’s get wasted” filtering out of their mouths.

It wasn’t often Hangman was criticized or his technique critiqued, more often than not because he didn’t screw up, but led by example. He couldn’t make anymore mistake from here on out, he refused to, but that started with you.

“You’re going to get me killed.” He sings, striding toward you with . there’s hint of anger interlaced with the smoothness of his voice. “But I guess you wouldn’t hate that, would you?”

You quirk a brow his way, hands deep in your medic bag. It’s so ridiculous you almost don’t acknowledge it. “Sorry?”

“This whole cold shoulder shit? It’s getting in my head. We need to talk this shit out, right now” It’s just above a whisper, not wanting the others who lingered around to hear.

“You can’t be serious.” You sigh, zipping up the bag without so much as meeting his eyes.

“Look, I get it. You hate me. I’m a horrible person. But we need to leave that shit outside of the base, it’s affecting my work.”

“You are the one that keeps bringing it up. Just stick to your own shit and I’ll stick to mine.” your throw your hands up in bewilderment - It sounds simple in theory but it was far more complicated than that. “I’ve literally not said a word to you today.”

“That’s what I’m fucking talking about!” It’s louder than he’d hoped. Rooster’s attention now drawn to the two of you. Phoenix and Fanboy take notice soon after. Bob had noticed long before the others, but dare not get in the middle.

“You good over there?” Rooster asked as he stepped away from the group.

“It’s nothing.” Hangman snaps, looking over his shoulder with a venomous look in his eyes.

“Look, if we’re going to be working together, we need to at least try to-to come to an understanding” he offers, the sound of his voice reverberating throughout the room as he focuses back on you.

“Jake-“ you start, but he’s still going, wound up like a toy car that’s only started his race.

“I mean, with all due respect, I just want to be able to do my job and not be distracted.” He continues, your knuckles pale at your sides as they ball up the material of your uniforms.

“Jake.” You make another attempt, but it’s futile.

“But I can’t, because you’re acting like a child.” Now he’s really getting riled up, but you were no stranger to that. “You’re being selfish, you realize that don’t you? How long can you hate me for?”

“Hangman!” You bark it out like an order, and it takes him by surprise. You don’t give him a chance to overpower the conversation. “I don’t hate you.”

The truth punches him in the throat, you swear his face softens from the hardness he usually carries.

“I never did, but it’s so hard being near you. When I look at you, I see him dead. I hear him every day. I hear his screams. I hear the static of his com being crushed. I look at you and it all comes back.” The words break apart with a sob, you pout your lips with a twist - a feeble attempt to not cry. “When I look at you it makes me physically fucking sick.”

“Woah, woah guys, chill out!” Phoenix advances on the situation, ready to pull you out. “It’s been a long day, let's just cool off.” Phoenix tries but you dodge her touch, swerving around her attempt to peace keep.

“Hurting him wasn’t enough, was it?” you hiss - it’s cruel and you know it is. Protecting his conscience was no longer a concern.

~~~~~~~~~

The hot steam of the shower seemed to soothe the tension you’d developed in your muscles after your little run in with Jake, but the thought of him grazing near death today set your stomach in painful knots you were struggling to ignore. The cool tile brought relief to the headache you’d developed as you couldn’t stop reliving the horrible, stupid, awful fight in your head. The rhythmic thud-like heart beat in your temples was growing louder by the second.

Thud.Thud.Thud.

Pushing off the shower wall, you feel around for the tap, carefully listening as you weren’t sure if you were going crazy - sure it felt like a percussion was sounding off in your skull, but that was not just a headache.

Grabbing a towel, you quickly wrap around your check and tuck it into itself, securing it atop your breasts as you stumble out of the shower. Sliding your feet into the dry, cotton slippers you wore about the house post shower, and crept out of your bathroom.

Your heart raced, keeping with the frantic pace of the knocking. “Hold on!” You holler, discreetly tip toeing around furniture so you didn’t alert whoever was waiting outside the door of your proximity - a skill you mastered from the countless times your neighbours tried to invite you over for wine.

Peeking through the peep hole, you freeze.

“Jake?” You ask, the distorted fishbowl view of him was almost humorous. You unbolt the chain, and slide it across before turning the main lock. Just a crack, you open the door and peer out. “Sorry I didn’t hear you over the shower…”

“Can I come in…and talk?” God, he really wanted to do that huh?

“I’m not really dressed.” You almost laugh, but he’s so serious that you can’t bring yourself to.

“Don’t worry, nothing I haven’t seen.” He purses his lips matter-o-factly to the side. He’s looking at you, waiting for permission, and against all better judgment you let him in.

“You-how do you know where I live?” It’s squeaky, not at all how you wanted to convey the question.

“The jeep.” It’s not original to own a four door jeep in army green, not in a town that is etched into a naval base. But you know how he knows. It’s the same way dog tags all feel the same, but if you blindly felt through a pile of silver names, you could pick his out every time. You’re brother had that effect on people. His soul stashed away into little pieces of a life left behind.

You linger in the entrance of your small apartment for a moment, not quite sure what to say or do. Protectively fingers clutch the tucked knot of towel, and you feel his eyes stealing glances.

The last and only time you’d been so naked in front of him was the night of the funeral. Both on grievance leave for the next three days, you decided to stay in a motel. You couldn’t handle being at home, not without your brother. It was so empty. The absence of his hollering laugh, or the sound of old sixties rock and roll blasting from his speakers as he’d roll up in his jeep - just coming home as you were waking up. It would kill you if you’d spent another second in that painfully quiet house. You were sure of it.

Your feet ached as you walked around the town you grew up in, leaning into Jake, passing back and forth a bottle of whiskey in a brown paper bag, searching for memories of your brother in the streets, and the stop signs he drove through, or in the tree’s he climbed when he was twelve and you were just nine, worrying yourself sick he’d fall and crack his skull. In truth you both drank that night, but not enough to get wasted, just enough to ease the sharpness that made a home for itself in your chest.

For weeks you’d thought about how he reclined you on the hotel mattress, lips on yours, a salty taste on your tongue as quiet tears slipped from his eyes and mixed with your own. His loose tie dangling down and sending shivers across your skin as it brushed your neck. For months you could feel the ghost of his touch climbing up your pantyhose clad thigh, slipping beneath the black skirt of your dress, slipping into you.

You’d spent so long believing he hadn’t given the night at the Claremont much thought, just another drunken escapade for the books, but Jake still felt the imprint of your heel that hooked around his leg when he kissed you against the motel room door; the husky moans that sung at the back of your throat as you ravaged each other in kisses. He closed his eyes more often then not, and tried to relive that moment, to memorize every detail and sensation, to chase that high for as long as possible. He thought about it when he climbed altitudes, he thought the higher he went the closer he’d get to that feeling again - not once, not even close. Not by a long shot.

You could hear the whispers of sweet nothings still humming in your ears when you tried to focus, when you tried to drown out the aching feeling that you couldn’t shake. You think of that dingy hotel room, lit by nothing but the milky glaze of moonlight and the “Vacancy” sign flickering in seedy neon reds. The feeling of his lips on your jaw, down your neck, peppering across your breast, lower and lower, here and there and there.

“Why did you make me go through it alone?” it’s courage mixed with fear and it leaks through the cracks of your voice, like downpour on an old roof.

It’s so vivid in your mind; the morning haze bleeding through motel curtains, seeping onto your bare skin. The nervous excitement that settled in, as flashes of the night came crawling back into your consciousness like a hangover. It’s the devastation of his clothes not strewn about the room, entangles with yours, and the absence of a text - god, you hadn’t been worth a ten second text - and the absence that follows for months, dragged onto two years.

“Because I’m a coward.” It’s the most honest thing he’s ever said. The facade of top gun, machismo, ladies man surrendered, leaving behind the man who stood before you. It was almost voyeuristic, like a sight unseen - a sight you weren’t supposed to see, and yet there you were, baring witness. “I was scared. I couldn’t face you sober. If I stayed I thought you’d realize you hated me.”

His gaze is distant, like he doesn’t want to be there. He can’t be there. A raw pain simmering in the blue of his iris, he couldn’t face you then or and he couldn’t face you now

“I was such a fucking idiot back then.” He sighs, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. Slowly he nodded, settling on the statement. “I was being stupid and reckless, all for a stupid mission I didn’t even end up going on in the end.”

Rivalry was nurtured by the military, encouraged by old men who hadn’t put their lives on the line in decades. They made you feel like you had to be the best, it was terrifying to think you weren’t. It was unbearable how hard the pressure to be the top of the class became, but when Hangman was running out of chances, Alphabet was there to spare another life.

He had been warned they were too high, that the others weren’t on their asses anymore, but it was too late. Higher and higher he made them fly, he wouldn’t be shot down - he wouldn’t allow himself to lose. Jake had surrendered to G-LOC, they both had.

While Jake came to, and ejected when it counted, it was too late for Zach, the timing was all wrong. Tangled in his parachute, slammed against the cliff sides, shattering bone on bone - it was all too gory to even imagine. He knew you didn’t have to though, and that’s what killed him.

“Honestly, I wish it was me.” He stifles a sob, pinching the bridge of his nose as he drops his head.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, it’s all so caring and sweet and he doesn’t deserve it. He knows it. “What I said before, about hurting him…it wasn’t fair.”

“I wish I could go back.”

“We can’t, Jake. We can’t. I think it’s time we stop trying to.” you reach for his hand, still clutching the towel with your other.

He finds himself pressing a kiss to the flesh of your knuckles, it’s hesitant, careful. You pull free before grabbing fabric of his shirt and putting all your faith in the towel, pulling him into you. Pull. Pull. Pull.

You’d spend so much time pushing, you couldn’t stand to waste another second of not being in his orbit. Your lips find his, and a cross between a moan and whine murmurs against your mouth vibrates. It’s messy at first, his reaction time off but he quickly comes to, a firm hand finds your waist and he walks you back.

For so long you wanted to be numb, to rid yourself of feeling. Whether you’d achieved it through booze, or an edible here or there, as long as it let you forget, as long as it could lull you to sleep in the sanctity of your bedroom, that’s all that counted.

But now you wanted to feel everything. The sting of his teeth biting at your lip, the light tug at your hair, the taste of his tongue that had the lingering flavour of his favourite strawberry sports drink - everything, all at once. The strength of his grip dug into your waist, too afraid he’d lose you if he didn’t anchor you in place, he could’ve cried.

“Promise me.” You murmur between breaths, his mouth finding your neck.

“Anything.” He breaks away, cupping your face in the palm of his hand.

“Promise me that you want me.” You almost weep, it’s such a terrifying thought. “That you want me, not just need me right now.”

“I want you,” he breathes, dragging the pads of his thumb along your cheeks as you clutch his wrists. “I want you so much that I can’t breathe.”

For the first time, in a long time, you could look at the man who made you feel this life altering fight or flight, and felt safe.

As dawns kiss painted you in it’s pale golden light, wrapped and entangled sound Jake’s legs, he allowed himself a sliver of forgiveness. Your touch was healing, even in slumber, even when you didn’t try.

There wasn’t a chance in hell that Jake “Hangman” Seresin was running away, not from this, not from you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: This is my first TG:M fic, I hope it’s okay. I literally went off the deep end lol, enjoy! Reblog’s and comments make me feral, I will kiss you if you do. Let me know if you liked it <3

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #top gun maverick #top gun: maverick #jake seresin imagine #hangman x reader #hangman imagine #hangman self insert #hangman x you #hangman x yn #hangman x y/n #glen powell #glen powell x reader #glen powell imagine #glen powell fanfiction #hangman fanfiction #hangman fanfic #top gun:maverick

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curiositydooropened · 7 months

Text

Wildfire • Ignite

New evidence has been discovered among the Flayed, and it brings up terrifying memories. The tension simmers between you and your new partner as your time to return to the Ether draws near.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Wordcount: 9,800

Warnings: enemies/rivals to lovers, second chance romance, slooooowburn, unrequited love, so much pining, blood, gore, character death, best friend!disabled!Eddie Munson, character injuries, trauma, PTSD, hallucinations, drowning, concussion, hurt/comfort, fire

Fic Masterlist • Navigation • Masterlist

Chapter Two: Spark • Chapter Four: Pyre

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NOW

September 1988

Your dormitory was muggy. The thunderstorms of August faded into early fall heat waves. You’d gone on an early morning run, and managed an ice-cold shower, but heat rose, and your dorms filled with hot air, sticking your clothes to your body. You wrapped a strained wrist with athletic tape, quelling the ache with pressure, and avoided the reflection of bags under your eyes and slumped shoulders.

Knuckles wrapped against your door, and you pulled your watch from the tabletop to look at the time. 08:25. With a resigned sigh, you buckled it over your wrapped wrist and answered the door. You startled to find Nancy Wheeler on the other side, brow crinkled and hair curled around her slender features.

“Owens wants us.” She informed you, managing the softest of smiles.

You swallowed, nodded, and went for your room key on the countertop. Wheeler moved on down the hall, the crowd of Scorchers growing around her.

You followed, hanging back, still feeling a bit left out. You and Steve had passed your trials, but you’d yet to be sent on an official Scorch mission as partners. You hadn’t seen either of your names on the call sheet. You and Harrington had both found yourselves in Hopper’s office again, arms crossed over your chests in perfect mirror images, while Hopper waved you off to take a phone call, questions left unanswered.

Maybe this was it.

You reached the far side of the dorm floor, adrenaline pumping with each addition to the group. Wheeler’s knuckles hit a rhythm, and the door opened to reveal your partner, and just over his shoulder, a messy, blonde bob.

Your heart sunk, panic laced through your veins as you stepped behind Argyle to avoid being seen. Curiosity got the best of you, and you peered around him to watch the exchange of goodbyes. Harrington’s arm slung over Robin’s shoulders, a chaste kiss pressed to her temple that she swatted away with a laugh, and a “be careful”. Her voice was as raspy as you’d remembered it, her eyes just as blue, and all things considered, she looked incredible. She looked like she’d been sleeping, like she hadn’t been wasting away, like she was living.

You saw her wandering gaze, eyes searching the small group, and in a panic, you broke off from the group and scurried down the staircase, down past the War Room, down to the labs.

The long hallway was well-lit this time of day, bustling with men and women in white lab coats. Not a soul acknowledged you, hunched over clipboards or monitoring machines with print-outs that escaped your purview. You heard the shuffle of feet behind you, a sign that the Scorch team had caught up, so you pressed yourself against a double-paned window and waited, arms crossed like you’d been there the whole time.

Wheeler and Byers blew past you, unseen, the group following.

“Hey,” Harrington sidled up beside you, soft touch to your elbow. You nodded, ignoring his gaze, watching the group meander into a nearby office, Owens voice greeting just beyond the swinging doors. “What’s going on?”

You shrugged, pushed yourself off the wall, and the two of you filed in.

Owens spoke your name as you entered, and the entire room fell silent. You felt too many eyes on you, and Harrington’s broad shoulders came into your periphery as he took a stance to shield you. “Mr. Harrington, good. I’m glad you’re both here. Could I have you make your way to the front, please?”

You didn’t look at your partner, kept your eyes instead on the wall of glass Owens was referring to, and what was just beyond.

Inside a sterile, white room, between two figures in full-body HazMat suits, was a glass box on a table. The box had holes for access, made of metal, and through the holes, you could make out the charred and puckered flesh of a man. He was restrained, although maybe it wasn’t necessary, because the paler of the man ensured you he was dead.

Your stomach dropped, the metallic taste of blood and ash filling your mouth.

“This man went out in our last round of scouts.” Owens explained, voice soft, but loud enough to the group to hear. “He’d been back for about forty-eight hours before we noticed tell-tale signs that he’d been Flayed.”

You grit your teeth and stared down at the man’s body, lifeless, pale, cold.

“His partner said he’d encountered a large flower. Said it looked similar to a nest.” Owens then placed a hand to your shoulder to captivate your attention. When you looked his direction, you shuddered under the pity in his gaze. “Does that sound familiar to you, at all?”

You swallowed the dryness on your tongue, tried to think. Your memories all blurred together, smoke and ash and maroon lightning, vines and demo dogs and moulded groceries. You shook your head.

“Well, when he was brought in for testing, we noticed these distinct marks on his body,” Owens wrapped his knuckles against the glass, and the two men in suits reached into the box to tip the body.

Across the man’s back, now exposed to you, were a handful of bumps. They were like mosquito bites, but larger, blackened, a trail of something under the skin. Someone in the back of the room puked into a trash can.

“We’ve seen these marks before, on other flayed victims.” By the extra squeeze on your shoulder, you knew he meant Vickie. You knew they’d pulled her body, covered in ash and burns, from the pockmarked pavement and examined her, found blackened bumps edging across her narrow shoulder blades.

Owens continued, releasing your arm to address the group. “Hopper and I felt it was important to share this information with those of you on the front lines.”

You tore your eyes from the black marks on the man’s back, and glanced up at Harrington. He was watching you, jaw-clenched, arms crossed tight over his broad chest. You shirked under his gaze. Did he know? Had Eddie told him?

“As many of you know, your team leaders, Ms. Wheeler and Mr. Byers will be following a team of scouts to retrieve this flower for further examination. They will be equipped with precautionary measures, but I thought it was good for all of you to know what you’ll be up against in the coming weeks.”

Harrington’s eyes widened, darting from you to the Scorch team. “Whoa, what? No. Let us go.”

You nodded, turning your back to the body beyond the glass, a chill settling over your spine. “Yeah, Harrington and I will go. No need to risk the leads on this.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Owens nodded with a half-smile. “Everyone, if you could please join me down the hall, I have a few other things to show you.”

The team filed out behind him, but you remained in the sting of rejection, told off like a couple of children who weren’t allowed to use the Big Kid Toys.

Wheeler finally stepped forward, pushing her way from the back wall. She was staring over your shoulder at the body, a grimace etched across her stern brow. Then, she made eye contact with Harrington, plastered on a smile. “We’ll be alright. Just a quick in-and-out, make sure no one else gets flayed. We’re just the flamethrowers.”

You felt something kick in your stomach again, this pervasive feeling like you were intruding on a private moment between the two of them. An unease that settled like the eyes on the back of your neck. You stepped away from them, back to the hallway, trying to shake off the itch between your shoulder blades.

“Nance,” Harrington mumbled under his breath.

“Steve,” she teased. “I promise. Besides, you know she needs you.”

You swallowed, closed your eyes, thought of the beautiful girl in her dorm room. Nancy was right. You couldn’t take him from Robin, too.

A hand at your shoulder startled you, dainty, but firm. And you spun to find Wheeler grasping you, eyes sparkling with something mischievous. “It’s really good to have you back.”

You managed a nod, mouth dry, and you stepped out of her way as she followed the group closely up ahead. You lingered in the doorway, watching the sway of her hips, the bounce of her hair, the curve of her biceps, the strength in her shoulders. If anything got to her, she didn’t let it show.

—-

The migraine came on in the Scorch course. The dull thud radiated in a cluster at your temple and spread to the scab healing on the back of your skull. The brightness of flames were blurred with aura, bright orange rimmed in blues and purples. The smell of jet fuel and burning plastic churned in your stomach.

You didn’t realize you’d missed three targets until Harrington peeled his mask from his face, crease forming around his pointed nose, and gripped your shoulder with a sweaty palm. “Alright, what the Hell?”

You winced, eyebrows unable to lift, and swallowed. “Sorry, um… headache.” You pressed the heels of your palms to your eyes and pressed, the pressure relieving your sinuses ever-so-slightly.

You expected him to yell, to tell you headaches happen, and it’s time to suck it up. So you were surprised to feel nimble fingers unbuckling your pack and lifting it off aching shoulders. You blinked your eyes open, as far as they’d go, and watched Harrington’s brow crinkle in concern.

“You seeing floaters?”

You shook your head. “More of an aura.”

His jaw clenched, and he nodded toward the doorway. “C’mon. Think we’ve torched enough decoys for today.” Then he started down the staircase, your pack swinging by its straps from his arm.

You followed him across the tarmac. The mid-afternoon sun stung, too warm and too bright, a rainbow cast over Harrington’s broad shoulders. You followed him back into the supply room. As he put your packs away, you peeled your mask from your face and slumped onto a nearby bench.

You heard the shake of a pill bottle and felt a tap against your forearm, and when you peered between your knuckles, Harrington had extended a water bottle and two white pills.

“Take these. Do you have a cold compress?”

You nodded, accepting his offer and throwing the pills back. The water was fresh, but lukewarm, and it churned in your stomach a bit more than you wanted. You weren’t sure you could keep them down.

Harrington nodded. “Put it on your neck and go to bed. If you want, I’ll wake you up before Nance and Jonathan head out.”

You blinked back at him, wondering if you were hearing the softness in his voice, or if your mind was creating that, a fuzz, glossy, rainbow-filled world. “Okay.” You managed.

Harrington grabbed his gym bag and yours, holding the door open for you to pass into the corridor. The florescents buzzed a steady beat just above your ear, somewhere behind your eye. Harrington fell into step beside you.

“Do you get migraines often?”

You shook your head, tried to take another drink. “I haven’t had one in years.”

“It was probably the concussion. I get them constantly.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, they suck.” The corner of his lip turned up at you, soft, a familiar smile that had your stomach swooping.

You’d come to the elevator doors. The button was pressed, and you waited in silence, your heart beat rhythmic in your head. When it reached your floor, you stepped in one after the other, and you closed your eyes to the buzz of lights and the whir of the machine. Harrington settled in beside you, presence warm and quiet, a wall just outside of your periphery.

—

The War Room was silent save a steady blip of the radar and the occasional fuzzy transmission from the Ops Team as they descended into the Ether and traveled Northward.

You tiptoed in, happy for the dim lighting quelling the steady pulse in your skull that hadn’t subsided. The aura had slipped from your vision, and you felt a bit groggy from your nap, but Harrington’s advice for the cold compress had seemed to help.

The only seat available was beside him, too close, biceps and thighs touching.

Eddie’s chair spun to face you, massive headphones over one ear, and he offered a two fingered wave, smile sad, tense. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife.

You nodded back to your friend, and startled when you felt a pair of lips at the shell of your ear, warm breath, the spice of deodorant and shampoo.

“How’s your head?”

You swallowed and shrugged, offering Harrington a half-hearted smile, shivers erupted down your spine.

“Scorch to Base. We’re approaching our destination now.” Byers’s voice came in, crackled.

The room sat upright. You glanced from Eddie to Hopper, Joyce wrapped in a cable knit sweater, Murray, Owens, a dozen others in front of screens and buttons, making sure the AV system stayed up-and-running.

One such familiar man flicked on a series of switches until you heard the buzz of static. The room illuminated in pale grey light, and you peered between shoulders at a television screen, now huddled around.

The Scout Team, with Wheeler and Byers on backup, were slowly approaching a covered bridge. The camerawork was shoddy, a bit all over the place, like one of the horror films Eddie delighted in forcing you to watch, but the setting was unmistakable. Thick, black vines looped themselves along the sides of the road, sprouting up from the empty river bank below and climbing into the cavern, or maybe out of it. The steps slowed, camera panning the site to give a full view of the area.

A handful of crew members stood in full hazmats. Wheeler and Byers were the smallest of them all, weighed down by massive packs. You couldn’t hear the crunch of gravel, the heavy breathing through masks, but you felt it. You could taste the ash in the air, could feel the frigid damp.

You recognized the bridge, having biked over it too many times to count. It resided over Sinner’s Creek, an off-shoot of the Roane River. Thanks to its name, there was a rumor that the Devil himself lived inside that bridge, asking residents if they’d like to make a deal. The memory sent chills down your spine.

The crew took measured steps forward, scaling the wooden ramp that would bring them up and over the creek. Torchlight was shined through the opening, and you realized it was so overgrown, blackness enveloped through to the other side. Vines tightened their grip on the siding, paint crackling and fading away.

“We have visual. Are you guys seeing this?” Byers sounded disgusted, like he was barely containing the bile that crept up alongside your own.

The camera shifted slightly to the left, and you all saw it. Gaping maw, riddled with teeth, red and blue stripes, dangling from the wall at the height of a demogorgon. Everyone jumped. You stretched impossibly closer, nearly in Harrington’s lap to get a better view.

From the looks of it, it was a demogorgon, stuck to the wall with vines, the same way your fallen comrades would be taken over by the terrain, only more was growing from this one. The hole in which you’d seen dozens of things be consumed, there grew a sack. Large, black, shimmering with puss, and at the shine of the flashlight, it dispersed a puff of spores in the air. The camera shook as the camera man fumbled backwards, out of the spray.

Your entire body went cold. You had seen this before, on the bank of the Roane River, probably two miles north of the covered bridge at Sinner’s Creek. You’d been walking alongside Vickie, packs running low, stumbling back from a particularly long Scorch, back to the meet-up coordinates.

You’d been reminiscing, laughing about something silly Robin had done, or maybe Eddie. Vickie hadn’t been watching, hadn’t been careful, nearly twisted her ankle. You caught her mid-fall, scolded her to watch where she was going.

There, in the river bed, was a dead demogorgon. It’s skin had been blackened with char, body taken over with demonic foliage. And it had something in its mouth, a pulsating black sack.

You’d scorched it again for safety and scurried home.

You leapt from your seat and rushed into the hallway, pulse matching the thing beat for beat. Your head throbbed, your stomach flipped, and you felt feverish, too warm, too claustrophobic under the buzzing static of the television, the sound of Jonathan’s voice over the walkies.

You thought of Vickie, of the look of panic on her face, of her tightening her mask, rolling her ankle back into place. You thought of her clawed grip on your arm, of the look of terror at your discovery.

Something wet and warm hit your upper lip, and you reached to wipe a nostril. Your fingertips were stained red. You wiped frantically, ignoring the near debilitating ache at the base of your skull.

“Are you okay?” Harrington’s voice was too close, towering above you while you painted the leg of your black cargo pants with the blood on your hands.

You licked iron from your upper lip, wondered what to do, what action to take. Eddie stared you down from inside the War Room, jaw clenched in worry. You blinked from him to Harrington’s pitying gaze.

“I’m fine. Thought I was going to throw up. I think I might go back to bed.” You croaked. You could taste the iron at the back of your throat, hoped it didn’t show.

Harrington nodded, clenched his fists at his side. “Okay. Do you…” He sighed. “Do you need anything?”

You shook your head, managed to grimace, and hid your nose behind your hand.

He gave one more curt nod in understanding before letting himself back into the little room.

You caught Eddie’s gaze again on the other side of the window, but his eyes weren’t the only ones you felt on you. There was someone else too, someone far away, over your left shoulder, a stare too deep, too menacing, too real.

—

You stumbled through the woods, that shock of orange just out of reach, on the horizon. You scampered after it, legs aching, calling for her to slow down, to wait up, telling her it wasn’t funny. A game of hide-and-seek, after all these years. You knew all of her hiding spots, in treehouses and behind cars in the junkyard, tucked into abandoned beaver dams. You couldn’t catch up.

You slipped, plummeting downward, too far a fall, couldn’t catch yourself on twigs or branches, can’t touch the vines, Hive mind. Your back scratched and scraped. You hit the basin.

A swimming pool lay before you, lit in soft blues, plastered, empty. You helped yourself upright, depth taller than you. You spun in circles, not recognizing your surroundings, missing the flash of orange. You cupped your hands to your mouth and called out for her, told her to come out. This wasn’t funny.

Your name was called over your left shoulder, muffled, deep. You spun.

They were caught up in vines, pinned to the walls of the pool, their charred remains. Nancy, Jonathan, Robin, the shock of red hair. You screamed, tried to release them, hacked at vines with the hatchet in your hands, scrambled, begged them to come back, this wasn’t funny.

Vickie opened her eyes, jet black, and then she opened her mouth, and you inhaled the spores. Black particles that flew from her and infected you, and there was no stopping it as they entered every orifice, as you succumbed to them, as they dug into your spine, laying eggs beneath shoulder blades.

—

You sat upright, panting, tangled in sheets. Your body convulsed in shivers, clothes and hair slick to you with sweat. Your room was dim, not dark, the lamplight pooling yellow in your periphery, dousing everything in the blur of reality. It was a dream, just a dream.

You pawed at your eyes, scrubbed your face with your hands, tried to shrug off the pervasive itch at the small of your neck. You reached under your sleep shirt to scratch and paused when you felt a bump, a ridge beneath your skin that hadn’t been there before.

You leapt from your bed and threw your shirt up, trying to look in the mirror, but the glass was a too stained, and the light was too dim, and you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t breathe and your hands were shaking.

You threw open the door, linoleum freezing beneath bare feet. The hallway was too cold, too dark, the glow of moonlight cascading in from the common area, while the Exit sign cast a red glow on the far end. You had no choice. You needed help.

You raced down the hall as stealthily as you could, balls of your feet slapping against the floor. You tried to shut out the horrors that crawled behind you, the vines that erupted from closed doors just beyond your line of sight. You tried to stop them from crawling up your esophagus, tried to rid your mouth of the taste of ash.

Your knuckles wrapped before your brain could process it, frantic, clinging to some humanity, to memories of your past you hoped he’d cling to, to promises he’d made. “Steve,” you called, voice hoarse, hands shaking.

The heavy door opened in a split second, Harrington looking bewildered behind wire-rimmed glasses. “What’s wrong?”

You shoved him inside, two palms to the flat of his broad chest, and it wasn’t until the door closed behind you that the words spilled out. “She knew in April. She was infected in April, and she knew, and she didn’t tell me. A whole month.

“I’m getting migraines and nosebleeds, and I’m having nightmares. So many nightmares, and I can feel him, Steve. I can feel him. He’s always there, always behind me. And I see her too, sometimes, and I’m so scared. I don’t want to die, please don’t let me die.” You couldn’t focus, head gone fuzzy from hyperventilation.

You felt a strong pair of arms around you before you even realized you were pacing. Large hands at your ribcage, broad shoulders in the path your bare feet were burning into the tile.

“Stop, slow down,” he ordered.

You smacked his hands away, threw yours into your hair, turned heel to pace the opposite direction. “You don’t get it. I saw him at the pool, when I hit my head. Eddie found security footage. Someone came into the pool room. The camera didn’t catch who it was.”

“Wh - ” You could tell he was struggling to grasp what you were saying, lost in his own world.

His bedding was crumpled in the shape of him, a book lay upside down on the nightstand, lamp illuminating the room in a honeyed glow.

Steve reached beneath his glasses to rub at tired eyes. “You think he was here? Like, here here? Rightside up?”

You shrugged and scrubbed at your own face with your hands. Your body ached, and that chill that resided between your shoulder blades hadn’t left for weeks. You swallowed, peered between your knuckles at the man frowning across the room from you.

His spectacles fell back into place, hands dropped to his hips like a confused soccer dad.

“I,” your voice quaked against your will, “I think I have marks on my back.”

The way his eyes trailed your frame had you painfully aware of your state of undress, sleep shirt falling at the tops of your thighs. You shifted bare feet against the linoleum, air conditioning pebbling exposed skin. You swallowed when his eyes met yours, dark, jaw clenched.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he took a measured step closer. “Can I - ” He cleared his throat. “Want me to…?”

“Sure um…” You swallowed. “Y-yeah. Would you?”

He took another belabored step forward, nodding slowly, mouth falling open as his eyes trailed your middle.

You closed your eyes and turned your back to him. With a deep breath, you pulled the thin fabric over your head, gathering it at your chest with crossed arms for modesty.

Too long a moment, breaths held, static building like the clouds of an incoming storm. You failed to steady your heart rate, flames that licked at your skin, pooled at your core, a heat that coursed through you.

His hands found you, fingertips spread the expanse of your mid-back, making purchase with every bump, every groove. His touch trailed your ribcage, lithe, and you itched under it, too hot. He inched up your spine, brushing hair from the base of your neck. His thumbs massaged circles into a knot between your shoulder blades.

You released a sigh, easing into his safe hands, letting your head lull to one side.

His nimble touch trailed either side of your spine and outwards again, pushing at the plump skin under your arms, and you lifted them without thinking. He muttered a quick apology, breath warm against your neck, minty.

You hummed, allowing him to mold and model you as he needed to get a better look.

He spread his hands once more down your back, massaging circles into the dimples at the base of your spine, and before you could arch into them, they were gone, the heat of him replaced with cold air. He cleared his throat.

Your eyes blinked open, adjusting to the soft lamplight, the view of yourself in the mirror above his countertop. You looked at flustered as you felt, shoulders and clavicle exposed, eyes dark.

You could just make him out over your shoulder, eyes on you, heavy as your belabored breaths.

“Well…?” Your heart pittered behind your sternum again.

“Heat rash, I think.”

You startled forward a few paces, quick to place your t-shirt back over your head. You tugged at the hem in a vain attempt to lower it, and chewed on the inside of your cheek. You spun to look at him, your own hands diving up your back to feel the gentle bumps of your skin. They were all in a line where your sports bra would have glued itself to your skin.

You groaned and buried your face in your hands, the tension washed away with the tide.

He inched around you and busied himself at the sink, pouring a large glass of water, the red plastic cup stolen from the Mess Hall. “Did you get any sleep?”

You sighed, shrugged, accepted the cup in trembling hands. “A little. Had a nightmare.”

Steve nodded, tight-lipped, stared at the cup in your hand until you rolled your eyes, brought it to your lips.

The water was tepid, but not unwelcome, soothing your nerves.

Satisfied, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter. “Jonathan and Nance made it back okay.”

The news served more relief, a loosening of your shoulders, slowing of your heart rate.

“You’ve seen that thing before?” His brows were furrowed in concern, and the way he looked at you, you knew there was no point in lying, not anymore.

You swallowed more water, nodded, mopped at the corners of your mouth with the back of your hand.

Steve reached to take the cup from you, refilling it while you explained what happened with Vickie, with the demogorgon flower, the spores, the infection. He didn’t say anything until you took a deep breath, took another drink.

He sighed, ran thick, warm fingers through his hair. “Tomorrow, we’ll go down to the office and pull all of Vickie’s logs from April, and I’ll help you go through them. We can go downstairs and see what they’ve learned that thing. And I want you to show me that video. I’ll talk to Eddie.”

You frowned and wrapped your fingernails against the textured plastic cup, a new nervous energy settling behind your sternum.

“What?” He scoffed, pushing off the counter to pull the cup from your hands once more. “You want to fight about this too?”

You laughed at that, a wet sound that ached somewhere unfamiliar, and you watched his lips dip shyly in return as he ducked his head in a snort. “Okay.”

“Okay, you want to fight? Or okay to the rest of it?”

“Both.” You delighted in the roll of his eyes, the sound of irritation that rumbled low in his chest.

He turned to fill the cup again, and you watched the curve of his spine as he hunched over the sink. In his reflection, you caught that faint, lingering smile, barely visible beneath the etched concern, the worry that had been laced across his beautiful features since the moment you met him. You wondered if his shoulders ached carrying the burdens of the world. You knew yours did.

“Steve,” you rasped.

He looked up at you first, in the reflection, before spinning to look at you properly, hands outstretched as if he was ready to catch you, always waiting.

You blinked back the emotion that blurred your vision, tightened your throat. Guilt clawed at your ribcage, echoed the spaces between your joints where his fingers had been, sunk into the marrow of your bones, filled your mouth with ash. You wanted to apologize, for abandoning him, for ruining his life, Robin’s.

With slow movements, timid, he crossed the room to meet you. His hand found your hip first, fist clinging to the gossamer fabric of your shirt to tug you centimeters closer. His other hand was hesitant, and you watched his chest rise and fall before he reached out to cup your face.

You folded, all cards shown, eyes closed, breathing in his warmth. You clung to his forearms, trying to stay glued together, to not fall apart in your need for this, for him, for safety and warmth and home again.

Your mind echoed with memories of his lips pressed to yours, bodies tangled under sheets, heavy breathing. From celebrations after serious wins, tongues painted whisky sweet, to comfort after serious losses, tear-stained cheeks and tight grips. To his arms around your waist, hauling you away from the charred remains of your best friend, laughter fading from a flash of orange, a spark in a wasteland.

Your eyes flew open, fearing you’d find a mangled mess, too many teeth, an outstretched claw cupping your face.

Seeing the anguish in your eyes, Steve released you, his features laced with worry, mouth agape.

The guilt returned, settled into every part of you save the section between your shoulder blades where He resigned, ever-present, ever-watching. You swallowed, managed a few steps back, stumbled over the leg of a chair, caught yourself on the table.

Steve reached out to catch you, a white knight.

“I should,” words felt odd in your mouth. “I should go to bed.”

He nodded, scratched at the back of his neck. “Okay, sure.”

“Yeah, thanks for the…” You gestured to his room, to the sink, to the reflection staring back at you. “Thanks.”

“Sure, yeah.”

You flung open the door, and he met you there. Your hands met on the handle. You recoiled, and squeaked a whispered goodnight. He reciprocated. You couldn’t look at him again as you made your return to your dorm room.

The red sign at the end of the hall glowed like firelight. A shadow stood beneath it, grinning back at you.

—

The steam from your post-gym shower was refreshing, rejuvenating, muscles finally looser than they’d been in months.

Vickie used to yell at you for walling things up, for winding your opinions so tight within yourself until you snapped. She used to coax emotions out of you with French toast sticks and movie nights, well-timed games of truth or dare.

There had only been two screaming matches: one when she hadn’t told you her family was moving to Hawkins until a week before they moved, and another when she thought you wouldn’t accept her sexuality. Both ended in tears and snacks and sticky maple syrup splattered against kitchen walls.

You squeegeed the moisture from your hair with a towel, and glanced at your reflection in the pockmarked mirror above your countertop.

You wondered what Vickie would say now, what screaming match would ensue about your persistent arguments with Steve, about her hiding the truth for a full month before she died, of her making Steve promise to take care of you.

Tears prickled in your eyes, and you blinked back at your blurry reflection, muscles taut, more fit than you had ever been. You were working yourself to the bone, teeth grit, fighting to avenge her death, when you could have been fighting to save her.

“Fuck, Vickie,” you coughed, the letters of her name foreign against your tongue after all this time.

You hung your towel on the back of a chair and let yourself out of your room. You halted in the doorway, a piece of paper fluttering in your periphery, folded and cell-o taped to your door.

You’d received two similar notices: one when you’d been given your final mission, and another the day after, informing you you needed to report to Quarantine.

You wiped clammy hands on the thighs of your cargos before checking either side of the hall and ripping the flyer down, unfolding it to scan, reading and rereading in case you’d missed important information in your haste.

Please report to PSYCHIATRIC for a mandatory evaluation at 10:00.

It was signed by all of the important people.

Betrayal tasted of ash, felt like a swift punch to the gut, blurred your vision like heat waves. The same heat that licked at exposed shoulders stung in your chest. You slammed the door behind you, paper crumpled in one hand, and stomped down the hall.

You hadn’t gotten far, slipping just past an open stairwell, when you saw a dark head of hair scurrying downwards and out of sight. You followed two floors down, calling his name just as he was a about to slip out near the Mess Hall.

Harrington stopped, looked up at you with knit brows as you finished your descent and shoved two fists directly into his chest. He stumbled backward, back pinned to a concrete wall.

“What the fuck?” You seethed, slapping your notice into his chest.

He didn’t even look at it, jaw clenched, eyes stoic. He knew. He knew because he’s the one who ratted you out, who spilled all of your secrets to the wrong people. He’d been waiting for you to slip up, and you’d been dumb enough to fall into his trap.

“What is your problem with me, huh?” You shoved at his shoulders again.

No response.

You shook your head, laughed dryly. “You can’t even use her as an excuse because you hated me for months before she died.”

His nostrils flared, but he just stared down at you, crossed his arms over his chest as a shield.

“Tell me what I did to deserve this,” you shook the creased notice in one hand. “I trusted you. You know that? I felt safe with you. For the first time in months, I felt safe, and you went and called Hopper on me?”

The scurry of sneakers and chatter down the hallway startled you, and you pulled back, breath heavy, face warmed in embarrassment and anger, betrayal. A few kids snuck past, muttering apologies before they giggled up the staircase. When you were sure they were out of earshot, you rounded on Harrington again.

“I thought you were supposed to ‘protect me’.” You put the words in air quotes, digging deep, throwing his words back in his face.

“Are you done?” His voice sent chills down your spine, measured, snapped, venomous.

Your jaw clenched, fists too, at your side.

He snatched the paper out of your hand and trailed his fingertips across the page as he read. Then, he pulled a slip of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it, passing it to you.

You scoffed, but felt the nausea settle the moment your eyes found the words.

Please report to PSYCHIATRIC for a mandatory evaluation at 10:00.

“Hopper told us we’d have one more psych eval before they put us back on the field. He wants a medical professional to reassure him we aren’t going to kill each other.” Harrington’s voice was nothing short of catty, the bite of a mean girl you knew he’d harbored in his past. He ran his fingers through his hair and tugged before emitting a growl that startled you a few steps backwards.

“God, you’re so fucking frustrating, you know that?” He tossed his arms in the air, voice finally cracking the soft, stoic barrier you were used to.

You read the words on the page again and again, pushing through the embarrassment to undying panic, the root of your problems, the girl with red hair that lingered at the end of the hallway, just out of sight, taking great delight in your pain. You took a deep breath, folded the paper carefully back up to hand it to Harrington, who snatched it quickly from your grasp.

You swallowed. “I haven’t told Linda about any of it.”

“What?” His jaw was clenched now, fists too, and you were burning under his gaze.

You shrugged. “I lied to her about all of it. She knows about the nightmares, but she thinks they went away. She thinks I’m going through the normal stages of grief. That’s why she told Hopper I was fit to go back on the field.”

You expected him to yell, to throw something, to abandon you here in this hallway.

Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and sighed, shrugged. “Fucking, whatever.” Then, he gestured for you to turn and head back up the stairwell. “Let’s just get this over with.”

—

Linda’s office was musty, poor ventilation and heat wave combing with the misters she used for her plants. You were suffocated, heart racing, warm under buzzing fluorescents. Harrington’s seat was too close to yours, his bouncing knee shaking your thigh, making you seasick. Linda paced and hummed that stupid tune.

“How are you two doing?”

You glanced sideways at Harrington, who rolled his eyes and slumped further into his chair. “Fine.” You both managed in various tones of annoyance.

Linda peered at you from over her glasses, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “Excellent. Then you’re definitely both up for some team building exercises.”

An alarming, but gruff sound escaped your partner, and he played it off as a cough into his fist.

“Yes, Steve, you’ve always done well with these,” Linda smiled, tone every bit patronizing as she wheeled her finger in a circle your direction. “Go ahead, face each other.”

“What?” You glanced sideways at Harrington and watched in horror as he turned his chair to face yours, feet scraping along linoleum. You’d nearly fallen off your own seat when a large hand met your thigh, encouraging you to do the same. “Is this really - “

You weren’t sure how to finish the question, stumbling under Harrington’s grasp as he manhandled you into an about-face.

“I can do it,” you snapped, standing with a huff to turn your chair around, and slumping back into it, knees knocking with his own. You crossed your arms over your chest and sat up straight, as to avoid any further physical contact. Your toes curled back around the chair legs while his leg continued to bounce incessantly millimeters from your own.

“Perfect,” Linda chimed, just out of periphery. “I’m sensing a bit of tension this morning, so why don’t we start with frustrations?”

You blinked at her from over your shoulder, feeling suddenly warm under Harrington’s gaze. Your entire body tensed in the proximity, confusion radiating into anger that clenched your fists tighter under your arms. “What does that even mean?”

“Steven, why don’t you start? You’ve done this before. Let’s get it out. What about this partnership is frustrating you the most in this moment?”

Harrington barked a laugh, and when you snapped your head to face him, he was grinding a wry smile back between his molars. He avoided eye contact, choosing instead to stare at your knees while his head shook, hand scrubbed against the stubble on his jaw.

You dipped your head to catch his eye, and you were torn between whether to silently plea for him to keep your secret or dare him to speak his truth.

He took one more sideways glance at your proctor before releasing an exasperated sigh, hands in the air as if throwing all caution to the wind. “I’m frustrated,” he emphasized, as though he was a good little boy who had spent hours learning I-statements in this very room, “in this moment,” he punctuated with a fingertip to his knee, “with how competitive she is.”

You fought the urge to argue, to allow the words of protest to slip from your open mouth.

Linda was thrilled. “Speak on that. In what ways does her competitiveness hinder your partnership?”

“What is this?” You stepped in, waving your arms to stop the flow of their teamed attack.

Harrington held his hand out as if you stay you were providing fine examples.

“It’s important that we foster an environment where we can all get our grievances out. Let’s listen to what he has to say, and then I promise it’ll be your turn.” Linda scolded like an elementary school teacher, scribbling unmentionables on her Godforsaken legal pad.

You recrossed your arms and glared at Harrington’s returning scowl.

“Go ahead, Steve,” she offered for him to continue. “How does her competitiveness hinder your partnership?”

He scooted upright in his chair again, halting the bob of his knee in favor of picking at a loose thread on his inseam. “I feel like we can’t get anything done. There’s always push-back, always an argument.”

“I feel the same way,” you interjected, slumped further in your own chair in defiance. “I feel like I can’t do anything without you scrutinizing it, and if I do ask for your feedback, I’m met with the silent treatment.”

“I don’t feel like I can get a word in edge-wise.” He leaned forward still, a challenge. “You won’t let me say anything without beating me to the punch.”

“Because I know what you’re going to say!” You sat upright again, tossing your hands in the air.

“Okay, alright,” Linda cut you both off with the click of her pen against her notepad.

You both shuffled back to relaxed seating positions, and she walked back to her spritzer to continue over-watering her plants. Maybe it was a nervous habit. You suddenly found yourself wishing you had a watering can handle to wring.

“Answer me this. When did you both start viewing your relationship as a competition?”

You swallowed, glanced back across the span of your knees to where they met his. His began to bob again, and you withheld that ever-present need to halt his movement. You closed your eyes, tried to shut out the gentle waver of the floor beneath your feet. There, in the darkness, humidity clinging your clothes to your chest, you felt her, just between your shoulder blades, that smiling face, mischievous.

“Last year,” your voice came before you opened your eyes.

Harrington stared back at you, crease folded between his brows.

“We were competing for Scorch Leads: him and Robin, Vickie and me.”

“That makes sense,” Linda spoke from somewhere behind you, too far away. “You were in separate teams, going after a set objective.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, swallowed back the lump forming in your throat as you dared to look him in the eye. “If I had known what would happen, I wouldn’t have tried so hard.”

“What do you mean by that?” Linda asked.

Harrington eyed you, head tilted downward, a shadow cast down the bridge of his nose.

You shrugged, your response heavy on your tongue, but part of you figured this session had to facilitate a conversation that wouldn’t be allowed outside those doors, wouldn’t be tolerated. You felt a spectral hand on your shoulder, warmth guiding you to speak. You chewed on the words before they fell from your throat a little wrong. “I mean, he’s better at this than I am. He’s strong. He’s capable. He knows what he’s doing. If he and Robin had become leads, we probably wouldn’t be in this… predicament.” You let out a shaky breath, swirling your hand around your own head to indicate what you meant. “Vickie would still be alive.”

“Or Robin or myself would be dead,” he snapped back. “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” he tossed his hand your direction again. “There’s always a competition. One of us always has to come out on top. One of us has to be better.”

“I’m conceding to you!” You scoffed. “What more do you want from me?”

“I don’t know, for you to listen to me, for once?”

Your molars slammed together at the tightness of your jaw, and the room fell to silence. Not even Linda’s spritzing continued.

Steve grit his teeth, cracked the knuckles on his right hand, still a bit scabbed over. Then, he pieced his fingers through his hair. “I feel… so much guilt… every single day.” His eyes were dark, shoulders slumped.

That feeling restrained you, asked you to hear him out.

“Because I couldn’t save her, for Robin.” He licked his lips, met your gaze. “For you. Because I couldn’t protect you.”

The loom of something darker lingered in your periphery, an ice-cold chill down your spine.

“And I feel so guilty because of how,” he shuffled in his seat, broke eye-contact, “relieved I feel that it wasn’t me and Robin.”

It struck like he’d doused a full glass of water in your face, a gasped breath, the wash away of any comforting warmth that had been replaced with a cold chill. You shifted in your seat, knocked your knees across his as you turned away from him.

“You get everything you need, doc?” You snapped.

Linda reached for her notes, scribbling a few more things down with a pinched expression, but you had already stood to leave, taking the handful of strides to the doorway to release yourself back into a less-stuffy hallway.

“No, shit, that’s not -” Harrington’s words were cut-off as the door slammed behind you.

He was relieved. He said he was relieved that you had been the one to murder Vickie. He was relieved that it hadn’t been him, hadn’t been Robin, a sentiment you’re sure you would have understood from his position, but from where you sat, in an endless swirl of chaos and panic and agony, it felt like a stab to the back, to the gut, like char and ash and smoke.

You made it halfway up the next flight of stairs before he caught up with you, a sturdy hand catching your wrist and wheeling you to face him.

You yanked yourself out of his grasp and shoved at his chest hard enough to have him tumbling downward. “Go fuck yourself, Harrington.”

—

Eddie’s room smelled of stale weed and peanut butter. His government issue bed was far squishier than yours, but it didn’t matter because you weren’t going to sleep anyway.

“After that shitshow, she still told Hopper you were good to go out on the field? As a team?” He guffawed, lips stuck together with peanut butter from the spoon in his hand.

You shrugged, squeezing two Saltine crackers around a chocolate bar, the spread squishing out on either side, and you licked around it before crunching into the sandwich.

“She needs a fucking psych evaluation.” Eddie’s joke had the corners of your lips turning up, and he elbowed at your side until you swatted him away.

He laughed, mouth full and hearty, before you sank back into the comfort of each other’s shoulders again, a closeness you’d missed with everyone else, thankful for his surrogacy.

“Really though, how are you feeling?” He asked after a moment, breath evening, sticky midnight snacks swallowed.

You shrugged, licked melted chocolate from your hand. “Well, I’m in your room at quarter to one in the morning. How’re you feeling, Eds?”

“Terrified,” he answered, and you expected more humor in his tone.

You felt his eyes boring holes into your skull as you respun the lid to the jar and tightened it, wiping any residue on your pant leg. “Don’t be. Everything’ll be fine.”

“She says with Evil Incarnate looming over her.”

Eddie’s words sent an increasingly familiar chill down your spine, the reason you’d been evading sleep, a presence you hardly wanted to stir mere hours from setting foot in the Ether.

“Could we change the subject?” You pushed off from the bed, crumbs rolling off your chest and onto the floor beneath your socks.

“Have you seen him again?”

Your temple began to twitch, the first sign of a headache, and you squeezed your eyes to dull the throb. “Eddie,” you warned.

“I’m not kidding. If this is serious, I’ll call Hopper right now.” Despite his words, you didn’t sense truth in his tone, and when you met his gaze, there was a softness to his dark eyes, a fear that radiated through you both.

“I haven’t seen him,” you shook your head, began rinsing his spoon in the sink. As the particulars of food and suds circled the drain, your vision blurred from exhaustion, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath.

In two hours, you’d be wrestling gravity downward. You’d be strapped to Harrington, oxygen mask on, carrying a heavy pack of jet fuel. You’d be back in that cold, dark, damp place that held nothing but agony. And somehow, this is what you wanted? What you’d been working toward?

“What’s it like?” You asked, blinking your eyes open to stare at your own reflection in the smoke-stained mirror. Your features looked gaunt, unrecognizable. The muscles of your right eye began to twitch.

Eddie spoke your name, soft, uncertain.

You turned to face him. “What’s it like to be Flayed? For real. Don’t give me any of the ‘I didn’t feel a thing’ bullshit. I know you lied to me when she died. I don’t need to feel better, I need to know.” Your hands were trembling, and you clenched your fists at your side to steady them.

Your friend, your only real friend, emitted a sound of distress, pulling spindling fingers through his curls. Seeing your stance hadn’t changed from between his knuckles, he sighed and patted the spot next to him for you to return to your place.

With careful steps, you crawled back onto his mattress, choosing a spot near the foot to face him. When you were finally seated, and he’d torn the rest of his thumb cuticle off with his teeth, he spoke, that Midwestern drawl so specific to Eddie Munson.

“It’s not like anything I’ve ever experience before. It’s cold. Like teeth-chattering cold, and your muscles want to react, but it’s like something else is calming them. It’s a bit like dreaming, like that weird in-between when you’re laying in bed but your leg’s asleep so you can’t get up and go to the bathroom.

“You know that pit in your stomach when something horrible is about to happen?”

You swallowed, nodded, shifted in your spot to quell the chill growing at the base of your spine.

“I felt it the day my Mom died. The whole day. I just knew it was going to happen. With Chrissy, too, when I found her standing there, I got it.”

He grimaced, ran his hands down his face again. “Well, when he’s got you, it’s like that all of the time. Like you’re aware of how wrong it is, how unnatural. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

You closed your eyes, pushing back the ache that had spread into your jaw, settled behind your eye socket. “How do you know?”

“I don’t really know. For me, I was attacked. Bats got me. I lost most of my blood, my leg was dangling by a fucking thread. When I woke up, he’d already had ahold of me. I hate that I feel like I owe him my life.”

You reached across the sheets to tangle your knuckles in his. His were bonier, long, spindly. He’d been through so much, and although you didn’t know him before all of this, you were sure he’d been a healthy young man, prime of his life. You all were. Now, alongside the world, the Ether was sucking you dry.

“Just promise me something, okay?” Eddie squeezed your hand until your knuckles whitened with his, and you looked up into those big, sad brown eyes. “The minute you feel him, the very microsecond, I need you to tell Steve, and I need you two to get the Hell out of there.”

“Eddie,” you muttered. You’d thought about this since before Vickie, since before the screams burned at your lungs, since before Harrington had hoisted you away from her burning corpse. All of you made peace with it, knew what had to happen if any of you were Flayed, for the betterment of the group.

“I came out on the other side,” he growled. “And so will you. You come back, and you Quarantine, and we figure out how to burn him out of you.”

—

The Gate’s pull made you sick. The topsy-turvy gravitational change that had your stomach churning but never righted. You were hyper-aware of Eddie’s warning, feeling wholly not-right, like everything in your body knew you weren’t meant to be here, that this was unnatural. Although it’d been so long, you couldn’t remember if this was how you always felt.

Everything was cast in greyscale, a lack of sunlight providing a lack of color, but nothing had changed from when you’d seen it last. Vines blanketed the world in intricate weaves, keeping from areas already charred black. The tear hung skyward, pressed into the roof of a cart port somewhere near downtown, though downtown down here somehow felt more alive.

Melvald’s denoted an autumn sale. The Hawk was showing All the Right Moves. Times were simpler, and somehow that made everything more sinister.

You walked in step with Harrington, your pack heavy against your shoulders, sweat beading there turned ice-cold. Your breath fanned from your face in a cloud that went nowhere, atmosphere stagnant, wet.

“Alright, you two,” Wheeler rounded on you at a fork in the road. “Just a routine burn, we’re torching houses surrounding the area. You know the drill. Burn what you can, and meet us back at the Gate at 700.”

You glanced at the numbers of your watch, the red softened. 4:00. “Copy that.”

“And guys?” She tucked her fingers into Harrington’s oversized hand. “Be careful?”

“We will, Nance,” he offered a weak smile, tight-lipped. “You guys, too. Jonathan.” He nodded to the other boy.

Byers nodded, solemn, and the eyes he made at you were nothing short of worrisome, judgmental.

“Ready?” You hoisted your pack higher and broke off from them, heading down Indiana toward Elm, Maple, Hemlock. You heard the scuttle of boots as Harrington trudged to keep up.

You didn’t grow up in this town. You had no attachment to the Tigers. Hell, you had no real attachment to your own mascot, the Roane County Ravens. Your only real memories of Hawkins were tied to the Fair, smoking in parked cars, hooking up with boys along the banks of Lovers Lake.

But you could remember the first few times you’d stepped foot in the Ether, the chill up your spine at the memories consumed by black ichor and vines. That was before the Spread, before it had seeped so deeply into the roots of the real world that bits and pieces of your home had been swallowed, sink holes and pits dured to gaping mouths, full of brambles and teeth and aching, throbbing pain.

Harrington pulled you by the elbow to the first house. A massive oak sat out front, charred to devastation. Red pockmarked it, a wide crack down the center that had split the wood and caused half to crash to the ground, blocking street access. Vines had grown over it, decaying the underbrush, painting everything slimy and black.

“Are you good?” He adjusted his pack, pulling the hose and trigger from its holster.

“Fine,” you grit your teeth. Your headache had thrived in the handful of hours since you’d seen Eddie, that piercing ache in your eye socket that blurred everything in an aura of technicolor. You’d taken more pills, closed your eyes on the drive over, thankful for cloudy skies and the darkness of night.

Harrington muttered something unintelligible over your shoulder, and with a deep breath, you took simultaneous steps inside a half-eaten garage.

Everything was charred beyond recognition. The roof was caved in. A skittering sound had you walking faster, nimble feet to an unlocked doorway, and not until you were inside did you stop to settle your racing heartbeat.

“Kitchen,” Harrington spoke, voice muffled under a plastic mask.

You nodded, took a few steps forward to let him through. You wanted to follow, to crunch your way onto charred linoleum tiles, but something compelled you the opposite direction, around a large brick fireplace. You left Harrington his devices, sidestepping onto polyester shagged carpet, the color and smell of burned plastic long since faded.

A wide window, smashed and cracked, exposed the ruins of the oak tree. A field of despair lay westward, a place where cattle once grazed, now scorched Earth, scorched Ether. This little sitting room, with replicated antique furniture and copies of classics on broad bookshelves, seemed mostly untouched, unmarred save a few pockmarked walls, peeled paint and wallpaper, a broken window. Just a bit moth-eaten, but otherwise, a safe-haven.

You closed your eyes and breathed in the damp air inside your mask, felt the relief of an ache dispelled.

Then you heard her voice, soft, a whisper on the wind. Your neck snapped with the force of your head turn, glancing toward a rickety staircase. Harrington climbed, pack strapped, and your eyes honed in on the heel of his heavy boot, where it met blackened staircase.

“Steve!” You called out, leaping his direction, but it was too late, the stairs were collapsing, upper floor with them, scorched and broken, a mess of ash and wood, and Steve Harrington was lost in the rubble before your eyes.

---

A/N: This chapter contains the inception moment of the idea for this entire fic! I love the little moments between them, the push and pull, no matter how exhausting and competitive they are. Please come yell at me about it. Thanks. Love you! Thanks, as always, for reading xo xo xo

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#stranger things #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington enemies to lovers #steve harrington angst #wildfire fic #steve harrington #stranger things fic

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kiwisbell · 8 months

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The Hitman's Guide to Getting the Girl: Chapter 6 [dave york x f!reader]

It's just another job, until Dave York decides to kidnap an enemy’s wiseass daughter. It’s just another job, until he falls in love.

series masterlist

status: complete

chapter 6 summary: Encouraging bad habits.

pairing: dave york x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings for entire fic: kidnapping, murder, violence, the world being horrible to women, reader having a very terrible sense of self-preservation, unprotected piv, oral sex (m and f receiving), dave york finding his second calling as a pussy-eating god, pining, possessive sex, jealousy, daddy issues, (stockholm syndrome?), dirty talk, actually filthy talk, hitmen and politicians, revenge, scary man with a soft spot for his woman, philosophical foreplay, tramp stamp worship (you'll see), a little sprinkle of breeding kink if you look hard enough, obsessive behaviour, anal fingering, anal sex, implied age gap, light dom/sub vibes, light bondage

tags and warnings for this chapter: possessive behaviour, sex while on the phone, dave york is still a munch, protective dave, dirty talk, soft dave, a lot of sex and then a lot of sappiness, light anal play, unprotected piv (seriously do not follow my lead), creampie, biting, sex on a desk, very slight free use kink

word count: ~ 4.7k

chapter 6: fuel the pyre of your enemies

AUGUST

On the top left corner of his desk, scrawled on a pink Post-it note, Dave keeps a list of the men who have kidnapped you. He crosses off their names when they are dead.

He also crosses off their names when they are financially destitute, their families turn on them, and/or they are paranoid for their lives. This is because he does not want anything to be traced back to you. If suspicion turns to him, which it will not, he counts on the cops in his pocket.

Whether they die or live has little strategic value. It merely depends on Dave’s mood that day. Or, in many cases, how severely they appear to regret their choices.

Robert Shipman.

Hansen McCarthy.

Norman Beretta.

George Reilly.

Lawrence Dare.

Bernard Flint.

John Fisher.

Hammond Fisher (no relation).

Ali Riggs.

Michael Fredericks.

Patrick Ulrich.

Oliver Goodman (irony not lost).

Kendrick Vears.

Michael Juarez.

Gregory Cochran.

Vincent Gallo.

He's getting close now. By tonight, Cochran will be caught on sixty-eight counts of child pornography. The bastard won’t survive prison. Dave will let the other prisoners take out their frustrations on him.

He hasn't been able to track down Gallo quite yet. Chances are, he’s fled back to Florence to conduct business from the relative safety of his home. Not that an ocean will be enough to save his life. Dave has Kovac and Ari looking into it.

As for the final name on the list—

Dave York.

—he hasn't figured that one out yet.

For now, it's business as usual. But his fingers flex and his eyes flicker repeatedly toward the door. He’s missing his girl.

A soft knock on the door heralds your entry, and of course you can read his mind. You’ve been away all day, taking calls from your publicist and your agent and even your stylist, who is already brainstorming for your Met Gala appearance next year. You've been assuaging concerns regarding your need for a security detail, conducting the typical damage control (no, you are not pregnant, and no, you are not on drugs), and talking far too much about your own appearance for one afternoon.

You step inside Dave’s office and close the door gently behind you, miming bashing your head against the wall. Dave watches you and tries not to laugh while on the line with a client.

You're a vision in your little skirt and your glimmering diamond ring. Your eyes are tired and heavy, but you smile when you see him and let your shoulders sink a little. He’s got an earpiece in and a pen at his lips, chewing up the end. At least he isn't smoking.

You hold up a dry-erase board, on which you've scrawled the word: MEETING?

Dave nods, and you pout, padding into the office. He mocks your pout, holding out his hand to invite you into his arms. You settle on his lap, straddling his hips as he leans back and idly caresses your thighs.

You aren't one to just sit and stay silent. You fondle the buttons of his dress shirt, popping them out from the top down. Dave watches you the whole time, brows lifted in idle warning while he continues to listen to his client drone on. Your eyes trace his hard chest, opening up the planes of his body for you to map. When the last button is undone, you push open the edges of his shirt and curve your body up against his, your lips finding a home beneath his jawline.

You feel it flex against you as you nibble, rubbing your nose against his strong jaw as if you want to impart your scent to him. Dave’s hand slides to your back, his pinky slipping beneath the hem of your skirt and tracing the shape of your tattoo.

“Think of it like an exercise in discretion, Sam,” he says, dropping his skull back against the chair’s headrest to give you better access. You take advantage, playfully biting his neck like his own personal vampire. He bares his teeth, slipping his hand down your skirt and pinching your ass in retribution.

“You ensure everyone is out of the building, my team install the equipment, and you spend the rest of your career spying happily on your employees. Yes, I’ll need your signature and half the payment up-front. No, I won't take twenty-five per cent.” Dave scribbles a number on a piece of paper behind you as he traces your spine with his fingers, up and down and back again. “That's not my concern. I don't make a habit of building relationships with my clients.” Dave gives you a knowing look, and you suppress your laugh in his throat, grazing your teeth along his artery.

He squeezes your hip hard. “No. We’re done for today. My assistant will send you a copy of the forms. Yes, discreetly.”

He hangs up, practically wrenching out his earpiece, and gives his full attention to you, his hands sliding up your back beneath your sweater. “Hey, baby,” he says, gently tugging your head back by your jaw so he can kiss you properly. “So pretty today.”

“Mmm. You don't have an assistant.” Grinning against his mouth, you find your way down to his belt, the softness of his stomach and the trail of hair leading down to your destination so enticing you can't wait.

Dave grunts when you unbuckle his belt, breaking the kiss to nip your chin. “You're bad for business,” he grumbles.

“I am business,” you point out, sliding the belt out of the loops and draping it around your neck. “And we need to discuss some things, Mr. York.”

“You aren't business,” he says, his mouth curving down in a grumpy pout as he brushes your hair away from your face. “You’re my fucking wife.”

“Not yet,” you tease.

“Soon enough that it doesn't matter.” Slowly, his thumbs make circles over the place where your hips meet your thighs. He knows it can make you melt. “Tell me.”

You beam, biting down on your lower lip. “I’m your wife, Dave York. God help anyone who says otherwise.”

He hums, apparently satisfied, bringing himself toward you and kissing you deeply. His strong, muscled arm curves around your waist and his palm presses into your lower back. “This colour on you,” he murmurs, his mouth travelling from your mouth to your jaw. “So beautiful.”

“You say that when I wear pink, and green, and blue, and—”

“We both know it's just you.” Dave lifts the hem of your sweater up over your head and helps you out of it. He surges up against you and resumes the kiss, his erection bumping your clit through your underwear. “Too pretty for your own good.”

You gasp, grinding down into him, fumbling with the button on his pants as desire turns your vision hazy. “Dave,” you plead, looking down at him, nearly cross-eyed from how close your noses are to touching. “Please…”

“Want me to make you feel better, sweet girl?” he asks, whisper-soft, the brush of a velvet blanket over your bare skin. “I’ve been neglecting you all day. Like a bad man.”

“I like you bad,” you tell him, nudging your nose against his. “I even like you nice.”

Dave bucks his hips and your eyes flutter shut at the delicious pressure against your clit. “Like when I make you squirm?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I like it a lot.”

“Bend over my desk, baby. You know the drill.”

Business can wait.

You slide off his lap and turn around, lowering your upper half to his desk and wiggling your ass at him. Dave shucks up the hem of your skirt and teases his thumb over your clothed pussy. “Wet already,” he muses. “You wear blue just for me?”

“Take them off and see for yourself,” you pant.

“Don't make it easy on me,” he coos, his cool, rough palm scorching your ass even in its gentle path across your backside. “I think I’ll take you just like this.”

You feel his fingers slip under your panties and shift them away from your pussy, baring you to a cool gust of air. “Fuck,” you rasp, your back arching. “Like this?”

“Yeah, pretty girl. Like that.” He keeps your panties askew, two fingers sliding between your wet folds. “Spread your legs.”

You do, shifting your thighs apart. Dave hums in satisfaction. “That's it. She does know how to listen.”

“Oh, you’re so full of it,” you say breathlessly. Beside you, a cell phone begins to trill.

Dave stops feeling you up to pick up your phone, lifting his brows at the screen. “Full of it, huh? Is that right?” He places the phone next to you, draping his body over yours to whisper in your ear. “Answer it,” he demands.

You freeze, your body alive with electricity. “Dave?” you squeak, seeing the caller ID on the screen. “What—”

Apparently feeling impatient, Dave presses the Answer button and puts Victor Brock on speakerphone. You crane your head to glare at Dave when your betrothed-to-be says your name.

“Victor, hi,” you chirp, feeling the weight of Dave’s body leave you. Still, you're pinned down by your hips. “How are you?”

So polite, he thinks. Such a sweet sound from that mouth. He feels pride swell inside him as he sinks to his knees behind you. You'd be such a good wife to Senator Brock, if you obeyed your father’s wishes.

It's too fucking bad you’re already spoken for.

You and Victor trade pleasantries, but because he's a complete asshole, Dave waits until the conversation truly begins to spread you wide and put his mouth on your pussy.

“I was hoping we could discuss the wedding,” says Victor. His tone suggests otherwise.

“Of course we can,” you say pointedly, a little loudly, as if you're giving Dave one last opportunity to behave.

Fat chance.

“My mother wants a fall wedding,” says Brock, “inside a church.”

You slap your hand over your mouth to stifle your helpless whimper when you feel his hot, wet tongue lick between your folds, slathering his saliva on your clit. “Mmmhmm,” you say as nonchalantly as possible, slamming your hand down on the desk and squeezing your eyes shut. “And what… what do you want, Victor?”

“Are you all right? You sound out of breath.”

“Oh, God,” you gasp as Dave sucks your clit between his lips. “God, no. Just got back from a run. I’m fine.”

Oh, you're fine, are you? Dave will have to rectify that.

“Churches get a little warm,” says Brock. “Maybe we should take it outside.”

“That sounds—mm!” Dave’s tongue flicks over your clit repeatedly, his fingers digging mercilessly into your thighs. “Sorry. I… stubbed my toe.”

The man underneath you continues to eat you out like you're a drink of water and he's been stumbling through the desert for days. Oh, you're going to get him for this.

“I can call you back,” offers Brock.

Dave takes that moment to bring his palm down in a passing smack to your ass. “No!” you cry out. “No, it’s fine. We—we should keep going. Please keep going.”

Dave smirks, licking your clit and spreading you open with his rough fingers, his index tucked under the lace of your panties to keep them in place. Your thighs are trembling, your breathing going shallow, and you're trying ever harder to sound like nothing is amiss.

You and Victor—well, mostly Victor—discuss the merits of an outdoor wedding, piano player or DJ, flowers or candles, while Dave’s face is buried in your pussy. Your wetness mixes with his saliva, his brain buzzing with the feel and taste and smell of you, your thighs slick with sweat and your hands grasping uselessly for a way to hold on. You're going to come apart under his tongue while on the phone with your impending fiancé.

But not before you dip into your sleeve and find a trick of your own.

“Victor, have you thought at all about the honeymoon?” you ask coyly.

Hands squeeze your thighs hard and a faint growling noise emits from the mouth suctioned to your clit. Dave pulls away and stands up, pressing End Call with such ferocity you’d think your cell phone called him a crude name.

“You think you’re funny?”

You giggle, pushing your ass against him. You're still needy, after all. “You think you're funny, pulling that stunt. Why shouldn't I have fun, too?”

“You can have fun all you want, baby.” Dave smacks your ass. “As long as it's with me.”

He reaches into his pants and pulls out his cock, steel-hard and too heavy in his hand. It’ll feel better in your pussy, anyway. When he guides himself to your tight hole, you mewl, burying your face in your elbow. He's not even inside you and you're already weeping for him.

Your hand snakes down your body to swipe your fingers over your clit, and Dave is surprised to see a spurt of precum bead on your pussy. Something about your desperation has him splitting you open on his dick, wasting no time as he pushes past the tight seal of your cunt and disappears inside you down to his balls. You sob with relief, your fingers leaving your clit to clutch onto Dave’s hip from behind, keeping him fixed to you, unmoving.

It lights fireworks in his ears. The world crackles around him. You're so fucking warm and wet that his vision whites out. “Jesus. Fucking… fucking dirty girl,” he says through his teeth. “You belong here. Bent over my desk, taking what I give you.”

You squeeze his length tight enough to make him feel like he's choking on air. “Dave.”

He pulls out halfway only to thrust hard, jolting your hips against the edge of the desk. You sob his name again, and Dave wraps a hand around the back of your neck. “Such a pretty sight. I should just keep you here. My beautiful wife spread open for me whenever I need some relief.”

It's so filthy. It burns on your cheeks, tingles at the tips of your fingers. It's so… good. His hand on your neck, his cock buried in your pussy, treating you like a toy that's upset him. Your body flushes with arousal and a loud moan slips from your mouth as Dave begins to fuck you hard, punching his hips against your ass.

The squelching noises of your coupling send your head spinning. Your chest is slick with sweat, slipping along the desk with every thrust and fleeing farther from him. He does not like that—he scoops his arm under your body and fixes you to him, bending over your body and humping you like an animal.

You bite down on your own arm to muffle your scream. Your knees give out and your stomach tightens as the hand at the back of your neck slides down to your ass. Dave’s mouth imprints a wet kiss at the junction of your neck and shoulder, his voice like thunder, like blood pounding in your ears. “Tell me,” he says. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Your fingers curl uselessly against the desk as you try to hold on. “I… oh, God, it feels so good.” It’s whiny and pathetic, but he groans into your throat, nipping the skin as if he’s trying to break through—as if he’s trying to possess the whole of you.

“What else?” he demands.

“You’re so—ngh! You’re so big!” His hips grind hard against your ass and stars burst behind your eyes. You’re so close to coming that your words slur into one another, gasping heaves from your smothered chest.

Dave isn’t much better off. His back pinches with the pleasure of being inside you, his arousal building past a rolling boil and his teeth sinking into your throat to give himself somewhere to put it. It isn’t sweet. It’s sweaty, animalistic sex, and it’s the gnashing teeth of love that punctures you both.

He gets sloppier the more he fucks you, his mouth leaving wet kisses along your back. You keen underneath him, your back arching and your ass insistently pushing against his hips. To answer your implicit pleas, he presses the pad of his thumb to your puckered asshole.

“Oh, fuck!” you squeak, trying to close your legs as the pleasure notches up high and threatens to overwhelm your body. He isn’t letting you, keeping them kicked apart with his strong thighs. Tears wet your cheeks and your mascara runs. Dave York will destroy you. And you’re going to let him.

“So tight,” says Dave, massaging your asshole with his thumb as tremors begin to buck your body against him. “Have you ever been taken here? Have you let some other man use what’s mine?”

You choke, swallowing down his words and feeling them clog your throat. “No,” you whimper, the sound sticky between your lips. “Never.”

“Would you let me?” he coos, bumping his nose into your throat.

You nod your head so vigorously your chin knocks into the mahogany. “Yes,” you gasp, your voice surprisingly clear even as white-hot static envelops your brain. “Yes, I’d let you. I’d let you do anything. You’d be so good to me. I love you, baby. I’m in love with you.”

The gruff sound he makes at your babbling reverberates inside your rib cage, batters against the membrane of your heart. Cavitation. The final flap of wings before the fall begins.

At the very same time, your orgasms wreck your bodies. You hold onto his hip, keeping him inside you as your cunt sucks him deep, pulsing around his length with every wave you ride. Bucking helplessly into him, you cry out, a small spurt of juices splashing onto the wood underneath and the body behind you.

Dave collapses on top of your body as he comes, his balls pulling up and pumping, pumping, pumping. He bites you again, this time on your shoulder, seizing from the pleasure while he dumps his hot cum inside of you. Instinctively, he tries to push deeper; your sweat and your perfume and your hormones blind him from any reason, any thought besides burying himself in the warmth of your body.

Faintly, he hears his name, and he realises he’s crushing you under his weight. “I’m sorry, baby,” he says, hauling himself upright and squeezing your ass as he readies to pull out.

“No,” you croak, still grasping his hip. “Stay inside me. Just for a minute.”

He feels his bones settle. He can do that.

“Your back will hurt tomorrow,” you point out.

He idly caresses your lower back. Muscle memory. Knowing your body better than he knows himself most days. “I promise I won’t blame you.”

You giggle, a pleasant fog descending from the ceiling of your brain. “We have an important date tomorrow, Dave. You gonna need a massage?”

“I wouldn't say no,” he teases, tracing the left wing of your tattoo. “But we have work to do.”

You groan, in the mood to complain now that you've been satiated. Why should you have to work at all when you're so sleepy and comfortable, your man’s cock buried inside you? Dave chuckles at your petulance and gives your ass a playful smack. “C’mon, sweet girl. We’ll sit out by the pool.”

Your ears perk up at that, beaming at him over your shoulder. Dave’s cock gives one last feeble pulse inside you at the sight before he pulls out of you. You immediately buckle, slowly lifting your upper half off the desk and bracing your hands on the edge. Dave kisses his way across your back, blowing cool air onto your neck and making you laugh, ticklish.

“Is this a good time to tell you that I’d love a summer wedding?”

Dave hums, grinning against your skin. “I know you would. And pink roses. White daisies. A grand piano and taper candles.”

You turn in his arms and pin him with a glare, though you're sure it's inoffensive. “You read my binder.”

“Baby, it's a beautiful binder,” says Dave, smoothing your skirt back down over your ass. “I have no notes.”

“Good. Because I’ve already started working with an organiser,” you chirp, threading your fingers through his. “I’m going swimming. You can come outside with me.”

“I’ll be right there,” he says, kissing your forehead.

Wrong answer. You lead him toward the door and give him a look that makes him feel like following a siren to his demise. “I’m not going to bother with a swimsuit,” you add.

It’s easy to make him forget about business. Dave follows you happily, the sailor to the song.

By the night of the gala, two problems are becoming apparent.

One: Dave’s back is killing him.

Two: Vincent Gallo.

In the early afternoon, Dave paced inside his office for an hour as he waited for Ari and Kovac to return. It did not help his back problem, but it helped him map fifteen or so backup plans in his head. A man like Gallo would not get one up on Dave York. After the things he has done, a man like Gallo could hardly call himself a man.

A knock at the door, and Dave barked, “Inside,” not once slowing his pace across the room or removing his fingers from his mouth: a thinking pose you liked to tease him about.

“Boss, we might have something,” says Kovac. “Tracked those bastards back to their hole. Got pictures.”

Dave would look at the images later. He was itching with anticipation. “Where's Gallo?”

Kovac and Ari were used to Dave’s snippy moods, so neither were particularly disappointed. “Not in Chicago,” said Kovac, which was to be expected.

“Italy, then?” Dave guessed. He needed a lead. He needed something.

He did not like a target he could not find.

“You asked me to keep an eye on the Gallos’ books,” said Ari.

“I did.”

“More frequent transfers have been going to Florence and fewer coming here. Not only is he in Italy—”

“—He may be getting desperate,” finished Dave. It was good. It was the something he needed. He had finished jobs on far less than a location. “What about the rest of his family?”

“If they know we're snooping, they haven't made it clear. It’s bad business as usual.”

“Which means, if he comes back to Chicago,” said Dave, “it's because he needs his family’s support. I don't want him to get that support. We need to predict their next moves.”

“Already on it,” said Ari. “Bugged a couple of the guards’ vans during a shift change.”

“By next week, we’ll know what times of day they pick their noses,” said Kovac.

“Good. That’s good.” Dave finally stopped pacing and leaned over his desk. His security system pinged, indicating that another person was on the front doorstep. He looked down and lifted his brows.

Carrying fifteen huge shopping bags in just two hands, you waved at the camera. “Can I please have some help?” you said sweetly. “Honey, are you home?”

Dave, along with an Ari and Kovac who knew better than to weasel out of helping you, relieved you of the bags. Now, you’re trying to choose between two dresses for tonight’s gala while Dave sits on the edge of the bed and watches you.

He has a perfect view of your ass from here while you cock your hip and fold your arms over your chest. You're wearing only a pair of black lacy panties to make trying on your options easier. “Do you really think he’s coming back to Chicago?” you ask.

You've been relatively quiet on the subject until now, but Dave catches the worrying of your bottom lip. “Sweetheart, I’m doubling security tonight, and he wouldn’t try anything even if I weren’t. He has a reputation to keep.”

That word again. Reputation. “That isn't what I’m worried about.”

Dave crosses the room to put his arms around you from behind. “The last thing you need to worry about is me.”

Your head falls back to rest on his shoulder. “I know you’re big and strong,” you begin, twisting his watch around his wrist, “but they’re a family. If one gets hurt, the others will swarm. I don’t want you being the product of someone’s revenge. Not for me.”

He doesn’t quite know how to breach this threshold—to tell you that he will do anything, kill anyone, trudge any path, to keep you. That he has never known selfishness like the press of your body to his. That your brilliant smile justifies each new crime he commits. That remorse cannot fill his heart the way you do.

“Tell me the promise you want me to make,” he says, “and I’ll make it.”

“Promise me that you'll love me enough to stay alive.”

Dave splays his hand over your belly, his lips meeting your jaw in a soft kiss. “You're wrong if you think there’s anything in this world that will take me from you. If you're alive, I’m alive. And if I’m alive…” He nibbles your earlobe and you laugh breathlessly.

“That wasn't a promise.”

Dave kisses your neck, his hand sliding up your sternum. “I…” He squeezes your breast. “… promise.”

“That's better,” you whisper, turning your head to the side to kiss him. “Now—sit down on the bed.”

“Mrs. York,” he teases, grabbing a handful of your ass. “Such a dirty girl.”

“Sit down,” you repeat, turning around and giving him a decent shove square in the chest. It turns him on so much that he obliges without any further teasing.

“Tonight won't be easy on you.” Slipping your panties down your legs, achingly slowly, you peer at him coyly from your corner of the room. Dave instinctively licks his lips. “I think you need to remind yourself who you are.”

Dave eyes your body hungrily. “I know who I am.”

“Is that right?” You approach him slowly, a tiger to its prey.

“Come here.” Dave’s gaze is fixed to your pussy as you prowl closer. He wants to devour you. “Let me show you who I am.”

Your submissive instincts have you folding your hands behind your back, pushing out your chest to give him a good view of your tits, but you manage to stop in your tracks. “Then, I think you should remind yourself who I am.”

Dave lifts his brows, rubbing his fingers over his mouth. “Come. Here.”

You walk toward him as he bunches his sleeves up to his elbows, the lamp’s soft yellow glow rolling over your body with every shift in your movement. “Give me your hand,” he says when you're close enough. You know what he wants; lifting your left hand, you let him put his lips to your diamond ring.

“Tell me what this means,” he demands.

“It means I’m yours.” Clear and resounding. It rolls off your tongue. It's true and assured. “It means only you get to touch me.”

“That's right.” His hand splays over your stomach. “Now tell me who I am.”

“You’re Dave York,” you tell him, whisper-soft now, pressing closer into his space. He ghosts his lips over your belly, a silent encouragement to keep going. “You’re a bad man… and a good one. You’re going to be my husband.” Another hand finds your hip, squeezing, relishing. “You’re Dave. And you’re mine.”

For a moment, when his hands wrap around your thighs and tug your body snug to his, you see blood on his fingers. A faint crimson veneer, sticky and wet, pooling in his lifelines, dribbling down his wrists. But the blood is cool. It does not burn or sting. It soothes. It is a promise. The blood will save you because it will destroy everything else.

“I love you,” says Dave, looking up at you with wide eyes, letting the rareness of the sound peter to a soft echo. “Nothing in this world means shit. Nothing amounts to anything. Everyone just lives and then they die. But you’re my purpose. You’re my meaning. You’re living. I’ve got no use for a world that doesn’t have you.”

You can unpack his nihilistic tendencies later. Now, you beam, threading your fingers through his. You let the blood soak. You let it cleanse.

“Who are you?” you ask softly. His eyes are dark and his lashes spread shadows over his cheekbones.

“I’m Dave York,” he says, resting his chin on your belly, “and I’m yours. ‘Til the fucking stars fall down.”

#pedro pascal #dave york #kiwisbell's fics #dave york smut #dave york fanfiction #dave york x you #dave york x reader #pedro pascal fic #equalizer 2 #dave york x female reader #dave york x f!reader

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willowhaired · 7 months

Text

Fresh Start

Jeb Pyre × Reader

Summary: After shutting the case of the Lafferty brothers, Jeb finds it difficult to find his place in the church - so much so that he divorces his wife and starts anew in Boulder, Colorado. What he didn't expect was a pretty evidence handler at the Boulder PD.

(Please note that in this story Jeb has no children.)

Word count: 3,381

Warnings: mentions of religion, swearing, a bit steamy but nothing explicit

After shutting the case, Jeb tried his best to re-integrate into his community. To at least "sing the song", even if he no longer believed the words, as his partner suggested - but he was still eyed with suspicion and the forceful kindness of his fellow churchgoers became sickening. He felt as if he was tested, and they pressured him into recanting his beliefs at every opportunity. It was the worst with his wife who got him promising he'd stay faithful to the church whenever she felt uneasy, which was more often than he liked. He could see her mind turn whenever they were in the same room as if he was under constant surveillance. It angered him, but he knew showing it would throw him into a pit even deeper.

Things in the bedroom were terrible. Beca was insistent on conceiving, and he didn't blame her for it. He knew what it meant to her. Still, he was growing tired of having sex - a thing which he'd never thought was possible for a man. Somehow, whatever trick or new lingerie his wife would try just made him desire her even less. Whenever he couldn't perform, he'd blame it on work, but that opened a whole can of worms he didn't want to talk about. Arguments were frequent and even calm days were disturbed at least by a quarrel.

He got out when his mother passed. By then, the tension was palpable, not only in his marriage, but in the church. Eyes were even wider and glued to him - they expected him to turn to his faith in a time of need as such.

But he finally felt free. He divorced his wife, leaving her in shame, and the bishop was quick to retaliate by excommunicating him.

He was finally free.

He moved to Boulder, Colorado, to escape his own home, the cocoon. It was only natural that Taba followed him.

'You could stay, you know?' Jeb said one day as they were having lunch together. He bought fries.

'And be left in the snake pit alone? Not a chance.'

It made Jeb smile. He'd never conceal the amount of relief this gave him. Because he was afraid. As much as he wanted to get out, the newness of the "outside world" scared him. To have his friend by his side on this new journey gave him hope.

They both got a job at the Boulder Police Department and Jeb quickly became a favourite among his superiors and fellow officers. With no family and a pain to drown, he was always first to apply for night shifts, weekends, especially holidays. He poured his all into work.

'You are becoming a bit of a workaholic,' Bill noted on one Christmas Eve. There was a snowstorm outside, unlike anything else he had seen in Utah.

'You are here with me every time,' Jeb pointed out, watching the wind raging outside.

'Yes, but I'm not staying overtime,' his partner adjusted himself in his seat. It was getting to him not being able to smoke because of the crazy weather. 'Besides, you're young. You should find yourself someone.'

'I have you.'

'I'm flattered, but I don't like you like that,' Taba chuckled but was met with the mortified stare of his fellow detective. A lifetime of conditioning is difficult to weed out.

'What I'm saying is,' he started again. 'This is a new town. Maybe there's someone who tickles your fancy.'

Jeb honestly doubted that. He didn't find anyone interesting, and even if he had, he wouldn't be ready to open up.

That was until you came along.

You were the new evidence handler, archiving and organising everything the officers brought along, let it be testimonies or physical evidence. You were young and sweet which didn't sit right with him: he didn't want you to look at all the darkness that was out there in the world. He reckoned you should be protected from it, living in a bubble, not having your delicate features be degraded away by the horrors.

But above all, you were incredibly attractive. He saw other police officers trying to charm you or readily offer their help whenever there was an evidence box that "looked a little too heavy". Even Bill got into a harmless banter with you on occasion - you were easy on the eyes, he said, and Jeb agreed, though not out loud.

He could feel his heart in his throat whenever you passed by, and there was an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach whenever you arrived at work. Looking at you felt like a sin.

It just so happened that the two of you were very similar. Even if it meant staying longer, you'd get all the handwritten notes typed in, each piece of evidence filed away correctly. Before leaving, you cleaned your desk, despite it being a catastrophe the whole day.

It was a Thursday night and the detective was about to leave to check out a crime scene. On his way out, he spotted you, at your desk, still lost in paperwork. He checked the clock and then outside: it was already dark.

'It's getting late,' he announced as he stepped to you.

'Oh, it's alright,' you shrugged. 'Just a few more things to file away.'

He contemplated for a second before turning to a young officer:

'Deputy Jones, when Miss Y/L/N is done with her work could you give her a ride home?'

'That's really not necessary,' you knew you were blushing and you didn't want to cause any trouble to anyone.

''Course, Sir,' Deputy Jones said without hesitation. Jeb nodded to the deputy and left you with an "Evening" and completely confused.

That night, he could not sleep. He worried you might not have been escorted home, or worse, took a liking to the young deputy. He should've taken you home himself.

Even though he was head over heels for you, you got the impression that he did not like you. He was cold, distant and you'd never seen him smile in your presence. When he dropped off any evidence, he seemed as though he was trying to escape the soonest possible.

'Five forged checks and interrogation of two witnesses,' you scanned through the documents on your desk, then flashed a warm smile at him. 'Anything else?'

'No, thank you,' he replied quickly, his mouth more crooked than ever.

You watched him walk to his office. It was a shame, really, upsetting, even. For one, you never gave any reason for him to hate you, and besides… You found him incredibly handsome.

He was eyeing you from his office, sometimes glancing in the direction of Jones, even though it was a few weeks after that incident. Jeb made it a point to avoid you, but couldn't fool his partner.

'I don't blame you for liking her,' he flipped the page in the folder of their current case. 'I would be surprised if you didn't.'

'I've never felt this way,' Jeb admitted nervously. His friend had a smug grin on his face before it turned serious.

'Look, you should make your move soon. Nobody is blind in this department.'

It was this conversation that ultimately pushed him to ask you out. It was a few days later, and all of your colleagues had left already. You were still finishing up some tasks and he tried to do his own, but his nerves wouldn't let him concentrate. Finally, he gave in.

'Are you staying for longer?' Jeb had to swallow for he felt like his throat was going to close up.

'No, I'm packing away for tonight.'

'Do you… Need a ride home?' He asked, then quickly added: 'I can take you.'

'Oh, I… Don't wanna cause you any trouble,' you chuckled nervously and pushed the last folder to its place.

'I insist.'

'Well, okay,' you gave in sheepishly and grabbed your coat.

The drive home was even more awkward, if possible. You tried to strike up a conversation but he hardly replied. He sat stiffly behind the wheel and kept his eyes on the road. He parked just outside your apartment complex.

'You know, Detective Pyre, you don't have to take me home.'

'I just like to know you're safe.'

'Anyway,' you said quickly over the sound of your loud heartbeat. 'Thank you for the ride.'

You were about to step out of the car when he blurted out:

'Can I take you out for dinner sometime?'

You turned back and were muted by surprise.

'You can say no if you don't want to,' he felt as if he was being suffocated by his own tie so he pulled it looser.

'Yes,' you hurried your answer. 'This Saturday?'

'Perfect. Pick you up at 7.'

Friday, he was a mess. If it was possible, he avoided contact with you even more which left you doubting he ever asked you out. The truth was, he didn't know how to react. You made him feel such emotions he was unfamiliar with; was he supposed to just wave at you as he passed by when he felt his insides burning with the heat of a thousand suns?

'Bill, I need your help,' Jeb closed the door of their office behind him. 'I'm taking Y/N on a date tomorrow.'

'Does she know?' His partner teased, but as Jeb replied with such exasperation, he knew this was no time for jokes.

'Of course!'

'So you finally asked her out. What do you need me for?'

'I'm nervous,' he leant to his desk and pulled his hand across his face. 'I can't even look at her.'

Bill glanced out towards you: 'I think she looks pretty, still.'

'Don't do that,' his friend begged defeatedly.

'Jeb,' Bill looked at him. 'Do me a favour and relax. Just be yourself.'

'What if the church thing freaks her out? What if I make a fool of myself?'

'There's no way around it, pal,' he shrugged. 'Sooner or later, she will know. Don't worry, I haven't seen her eat anyone. Try and enjoy it.'

It was easier said than done.

Jeb knew he was done for right as he picked you up on Saturday. You had a black dress on that hugged your body, and your shoulders were bare for you had your hair in a bun. Inside of him was a raging battle between what his former church made him think about your attire and what he felt. He was hoping he could forget about both, and most importantly not mention his past, but it was unavoidable.

'No, I… I have never drunk.'

'You haven't?' You asked in disbelief. 'Surely you were a teenager at some point.'

'Yeah,' he chuckled. 'I grew up in a very strict church. Alcohol was forbidden.'

'So it wasn't the kinda wine tasting that disguised itself as Sunday church, huh?' You joked. 'Are you still part of this church? Should I not drink?'

'No, no,' he shook his head. 'I was excommunicated. I no longer hold those beliefs.'

'So…' you swirled the wine around in your glass. 'Why don't you drink?'

'I guess old habits die hard.'

'Do you want a taste? It's sweet wine. If you like lemonade, you're gonna love this.'

You held your glass towards him and he took you up on your offer. His movements were sheepish, almost fearful as he held the glass to his lips and took a small sip. It really was sugary, with an uncanny resemblance to the way he felt about you: sweet but intoxicating. Throughout the dinner you shared a few glasses, most of which you drank, but he was finally easing up by the alcohol. Jeb felt his stomach warm from the wine; he was more comfortable with his feelings towards you, while also finding it harder to keep them in control. Your eyes seemed even more alluring and your cheeks were tinted red from the alcohol. He found it cute and smiled dumbly at you throughout the whole night; and honestly, with him opening up, you really enjoyed yourself. Not only that, you realised that you did actually like him: he was kind and wholesome and made such intelligent remarks you knew he was listening to your every word. You joked and gently poked his hand and his eyes lit up like a teenage boy's. He tried to (very seriously) pick out the notes of the wine, only to add at the end that it mostly just smelled like alcohol. He accidentally kicked you under the table and you teased him whether you were getting friendly.

You had your fingers crossed that the effects of the wine would stretch into the workdays.

But apparently, you spoke too soon.

'Thank you for the night, Jeb, I really enj…' you could barely open your mouth when he stopped the car at your home, and his lips were on yours. His left hand came up from the gearshift to cup your face as his quick, eager kiss was followed by a deeper one. You leant closer to him and rested your hand on his thigh. You got so lost in the sensations (the scent of his cologne, how his tongue explored your mouth against yours, or how it ran across your lips every once in a while), that you didn't know how much time had passed. Was it minutes or half an hour?

'I'm sorry,' he broke away abruptly. 'I can't do this.'

You couldn't really comprehend his words.

'I… I don't think I'm ready for this,' he followed, seeing your puzzled expression.

'We can take it slower,' you chuckled.

'It's not about that,' his body was turned away from you. 'I can't be with you.'

Honestly, this left you in shock. You don't remember if you said anything or just left the car - the whole thing didn't make sense. He was the one asking you out, the date went well, he came in for a kiss… Which was amazing.

You were confused, and above all, hurt. You thought that there must've been something so wrong with you for him to turn you down like this.

When Jeb told Bill about the date, his friend's first excitement died away as he heard how the night ended.

'What's wrong with you?' Bill asked, almost angrily. 'That date was going great and you chose to close it like a teen girl who hasn't fucked before?'

'Language!' The other hissed.

'That girl likes you. You come to me worried you'd screw up the date but you did it in such a way I would've never imagined.'

'It's not easy, Bill. I was raised to believe everything I've just done is a sin. Even though I no longer think the same, I…' he ran his fingers through his hair. 'Can't help but feel that it's wrong.'

His partner seized him up, sighing out the frustration he felt.

'I guess I understand. You do what you feel comfortable with. But she'd be good for you.'

But would I be good for her - Jeb pondered, staring at the papers in front of him.

That was until an office party: his colleagues pressured him into beer after beer, so he'd already had more than he should've. Then, you arrived - late, but no less beautiful. The cream dress you had on was a lot more modest than the form-fitting one you had on during the date, yet its satin fabric draped on your body perfectly. You looked better than ever, which he never thought was possible: your smile was charming and your eyes twinkled in the decorative lights - though he couldn't help but notice that you carefully avoided his direction.

The other officers were quick to bring you your favourite drink and they'd made it a competition who would make you laugh louder. Hearing your chuckles turned his blood bitter, and he kept shifting between chewing the inside of his mouth and adjusting his lips.

'And you, Detective Pyre? Anyone special?' A fellow officer asked.

'Who? Me?' He said, half-stupefied, then chuckled, his eyes on the table. 'No, no one.'

To be fair, since the failed date, you had been avoiding him just as he did with you. You gave a cryptic description of the date to your friends, and your colleagues knew nothing of the encounter: they merely concluded that Jeb's past hunted him, and that's why he was so uncomfortable in your presence.

Maybe they were closer to the truth than anyone thought.

You accompanied some officers out for a cigarette; you were craving some fresh air and the cold of the night on your cheeks. You borrowed a cigarette from Detective Taba to take the edge off.

'You, dear, look prettier every day,' he took a long drag from his cigarette after lighting yours. 'Is there a gentleman you saw before coming here?'

'Nah,' you smiled sheepishly as if the suggestion itself was ridiculous. 'I was looking after an old relative and my cousin arrived late to take over.'

'Don't act so innocent,' he scorned with a grin and gestured with his cigarette. 'I bet you make every man turn anywhere you walk by.'

He wasn't wrong: you only had to take some letters to the post office to come back with a date for the next day, but lately, all you had on your mind was the kiss from a certain detective. Even at work, especially after seeing him, your thoughts would slip from your grip to morph into his firm grip on your waist or the unmatching tenderness of his lips. You'd mistyped witness names and found that you had catalogued a set of crime scene photographs into the wrong folder. You were incredibly embarrassed, despite the officers only laughing at these mishaps, reassuring you that they happened more often than ever with you.

So, you avoided Jeb's eyes, knowing that their dark brown colour would melt you right on sight.

Even though Bill was nudging him every ten minutes to go up to you, Jeb couldn't bring himself to do it. All night, he had been imagining how your dress would fall from your shoulders if he'd unzipped it and how soft your skin would feel under it - softer than the satin itself, he was sure.

The air of the venue grew heavy with each passing minute. Jeb resolved to peel the stickers from the beers, while you were constantly entertained by at least two of your coworkers. They were all respectful, although sometimes a bit loud. You needed a few moments of peace; so you excused yourself to the bathroom.

Once on your way back, you bumped into him.

'Hey,' you forced a smile.

'How you're doing?'

'Good, good. And you?'

'Pretty wasted,' Jeb admitted with a chuckle and after a brief pause (during which he stared long into your eyes and your legs began to feel like jello), he brushed a few hairs that got stuck in your mouth behind your ear. You got a whiff of his cologne, something you only caught once or twice when he brought evidence bags to your table. It always left you spellbound.

'I'm so sorry about that night.'

'Don't be,' you said. 'It was an amazing date.'

Jeb was only half-there, his thumb brushed the edge of your lip.

'Until the end I suppose,' he said dreamily, as if not even to you.

'Do you like me?' You asked abruptly.

'I'm fucking mad about you.'

His answer threw your head in a spin. You grabbed his tie and pulled him into a kiss which he reciprocated with a groan. His hands quickly found the small of your back from which one ran up into your hair. Unconsciously, he gripped a handful of your locks to pull your head back and give him better access to your lips. You were rendered weak with a wave of emotion but this very same thing reminded you where you were and that any second colleague could appear.

You cupped his face and gently pulled away.

'Maybe this is not the best place…'

'No, it isn't,' he agreed. 'I want to make it up to you. Please, let me take you on another date.'

'I'm free on Sunday.'

'Well, not anymore.'

#jeb pyre x reader #jeb pyre #utboh #under the banner of heaven #andrew garfield #andrew garfield x reader #reader insert #jeb pyre imagine #andrew garfield imagine

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