#stay to burn only to drown instead

[summercourtship]

IT'S DONE! LAST CHAPTER OF STAY TO BURN IS UPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

i love you all so much

[dolicekiss]

Silver Sobs

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen X Sister!reader

CONTENT WARNING: incestous relationships (obviously) noncon, dubious con (?), somnophilia, smut (18+, mdni), dark aemond, unprotected sex, breeding, nipple play, forced kissing, threats, coercion, praise, obsessed and sick aemond, display of possessiveness, hair pulling, biting.

SYNOPSIS: After the terrifying battle which took place at Rook’s Rest, Aemond’s lust for power had still not subsided despite burning his own brother, the king of Westeros. He arrives at King’s Landing with one thing in mind; to claim everything that belongs to his brother which included — you, his sweet dear sister. The Queen.

Restless and relentless, you paced around the floor of your chambers. Finger nails scratching the skin around them, drawing blood from beneath the stripped flesh.

War was blooming, like a dangerous grey cloud above your heads with the prominent promise of a storm. Panic was everywhere, as well as despair. Multiple soldiers had died, leaving behind their families to fend for themselves, the King had fallen.

And amongst all that, you could only possibly worry for the well being of your only child, Jaehaera. After what had befallen your innocent babe, you had completely disconnected from everything.

Under the name of war, you suffered. You witnessed the atrocities committed by Rhaenyra’s men and your mind had become a void — as you found yourself sinking deeper and deeper into it. Images and reality merging together. Both a foreign concept.

There was no one there for you.

Everyone enamoured with the idea of winning the war, playing their parts, desperate to stay alive. You were all but a pawn, a machine to produce heirs. You knew they didn't even consider you a proper Queen.

The smallfolk and even your own mother, Dowager Queen as well as your brother, Aemond.

Yet you did not care.

You wished to be left alone, pay no mind to such things. Break free from the uneasy restraints of danger and war. Form peace, relish in it. Is all you wanted.

You were not blessed with the courage to go pay your badly injured husband a visit, choosing to nip and scratch at your own skin was a much better and comforting option.

Losing your babe made you realize none of this was worth it. Not a single person in Westeros could end the brewing war and you'd left everyone to fend for themselves — just as they had abandoned you.

Darkness fell over Westeros and meanwhile your maidens were preparing you for bed, Aemond on the other hand battled obscene thoughts and needs at such a dark hour.

Aemond drowned himself in wine yet it had no affect on him. Instead he found himself wondering about staking a claim over everything that belonged to his brother. He got the throne, when he didn't even wish for it and he got you — the sister that Aemond himself wanted.

From when you both were only children, little kids, Aemond had thought of marrying his older sister. Only a year younger, he was. Hoping he'd be the one who's children you'd carry, watching your stomach swell up with his babes and be his wife but even that was snatched right away from him in the name of serving the realm.

His childhood snatched — face left deformed and disabled, a laughing stock that he'd become for his older brother. The drunken fool who had no right to even linger around such a prestigious throne, made only for strong willed men and warriors to take a seat on.

Aegon was no warrior.

He was foolish, an embarrassment and an utter disappointment.

Incapable of pronouncing a word properly in high valyrian.

And he surely did not deserve to have such a sweet little bird such as yourself by his side.

He finished his wine in one gulp and slammed the glass down, aggressively against the wooden table. Criston Cole was nowhere to be seen and Aemond made up his mind to ravage you, to claim you like he had already desired to from the beginning of time.

His steps were stable and strong, booming through the halls of the red keep. Each step only brought him closer to your chambers, driving himself quickly up the stairs which lead to your chambers.

He was relieved to find no guards guardian you and scoffed, realizing how little and less important you were to the Hightowers.

Aemond’s hands moved to push past the doors and there you were, sound asleep in your bed. Your daughter asleep in a cradle a little far away from your bed. He closed the heavy doors and sauntered towards the bed, standing at its foot.

He had consumed wine but he was not drunk at all. Matter of fact, Aemond was as sober as the day he was born.

Your silk robe concealed the plush of your creamy breasts as they rose up and down in soft little attempts to inhale air, one arm laid leisurely over your stomach while the other somewhere concealed within your silver, sparkling hair.

Aemond felt his cock harden in his leather slacks, his sword still attached to his hip. Reaching for it, he undid it and placed it over a table across and then moved his body to continue admiring your body, the vulnerability you showcased had him frozen on the spot.

The lecherous act he was heading to engage in would surely leave you in disarray too but Aemond was too far gone to even care anymore.

He'd arrived to claim what was rightfully his.

He walked to the side of the bed, hands reaching out to remove the blanket from your frail figure. Then his hands pried open the robe, revealing your kirtle. It scarcely did anything to veil your dignity and Aemond shuddered.

His hands, his war causing hands, sinful hands, moved covetously over your body. Fingers digging into your neckline to pull it down, watching with his one good eye as your breasts spilled out. The cold air forced your pebbles into peaks and Aemond nearly lost all restraint.

Large hand cupping your left breast, a callous thumb flicked your nipple and your already parted lips released a short lived gasp. He was pleased with the soft sound, as subtle as it was.

Aemond sat next to you on the empty space, slithering his tongue over his plump lips. Your breaths were soft, the only sound echoing in the expanse of your room, cutting through the silence like butter. His own breath hitched in his throat, upon witnessing the disarray you were in.

Hair like rippled waves of the narrow sea, body loose and comfortable. Aemond leaned in, shrinking the space between the two of you, to analyze your features. He'd never gotten the chance to do, you'd never allow him. You were anything but an immoral woman who'd give herself to him on a silver platter.

You were the Queen.

Aemond knew he'd be reprimanded for even being in your room, staring at you up close like this. He had unraveled you like some gift, like a present and he wished to do so much more.

Your beautifully long lashes coated the apples of your cheeks and Aemond, with a gloved hand, reached to swipe the thick strand of hair away from your cheek. Just by touching you, despite having leather separate his skin from becoming one with yours, he was already thanking the Gods for blessing him with you.

Aemond slowly slipped his gloves off, resting them on the table next to the bed. He fully slipped into bed next to you, face buried in the crook of your neck and bare hands slithering to fondle with your beautiful, plump breasts.

Soft flesh with hardened nipples.

A soft breath from his lips ghosted over your nape, his hips pushing into your hip in dire need for physical affection. Aemond had slept with whores, he'd fucked them but for the first time in his life he wanted to lay with a woman to satiate his hopelessness for affection.

Something he never received from his mother, Alicent and Rhaenyra always managed to overshadow him.

He let out a guttural moan, pushing his hips more into you and when you shifted in your sleep — back turned to him, Aemond fucking lost it. You had exposed your perfect curves to him, how your ass was shaped and how your side dipped in, giving you the shape of a goddess.

In your state of unconsciousness, you had presented yourself to him like a feast.

Aemond’s actions grew haste. Hands reaching from behind to grope your tits much more roughly, hips stuttering into you from behind and his cock leaked from the amount of pleasure the depravity of this endeavor brought him.

His breath grew quicker, heavier and your sleep was soon disturbed. As you fluttered your eyes opened, revealing the purple hues, your sleepy brain finally acknowledged your surroundings and the cold, callous hands fondling you from behind.

You gasped, giving away hint of your consciousness and before you could even scream, Aemond had already wrapped a palm over your mouth.

“Sh, sh. It's me, Aemond.” As if that would make things much better for you, but this revelation only worked to make things harder for you.

Your eyes widening in horror and when you tried to shift, a feeble attempt to slip out of his tight grasp, you realized the severity of the situation. Aemond’s hard manhood was pressed up right between your ass. Your brother's and it left you completely astonished. Your flight or fight response being triggered.

You tried to say something but only muffled words paired with broken sobs tore managed to make through the little space between Aemond’s slim fingers clasped tightly over your lips. Your vision blurred as you tried to focus on the cradle in which your daughter laid, asleep and in peace.

Aemond had glued himself to you. “I've missed you, dear sister. I miss our childhood, I miss what we had. Remnants of our childhood always haunts me.”

You almost felt bad. Guilt ridden because somewhere, deep down, you were aware of the feelings your brother harbored for you. The two of you would even go as far as behaving as you were already betrothed to each other when younglings.

You moved past it, accepted your loveless marriage with the care less drunken brother of yours. You succumbed to your targaryen traditions, roles and duties bestowed upon you by the Gods but it appeared that Aemond decided to fight that Gods.

He chose to go against destiny and the traditions.

“I will remove my hand and you shall keep your honor and dignity intact, Dear sister.” You nodded in desperation and Aemond with great reluctance peeled his hand off your face, causing you to inhale a sharp breath.

You registered the situation you were in. Breasts spilled out, hair pushed aside with Aemond buried in your nape. Seeking solace that he never found in his mother's embrace and you swallowed. Tears streamed down, soaking into the cushions.

“This is wrong.” You whispered, hoping that you don't awaken the dragon in him. “Immoral, Aemond. I am your sister, the Queen. I carried His Grace’s heirs. You cannot do this.”

Your tone was fearsome and Aemond’s irritation grew when you faced him with the facts. He knew about this already and he did not care, not in the slightest. His arm which had wrapped around your waist, tightened, a warning to tread carefully.

“His Grace is also your brother, our brother, so what is so immoral about us engaging in such..” Aemond couldn't call it debauchery, because he didn't see it exactly as that. He saw it as something more, something pure beyond anyone's understanding. “acts.”

You tried to shift, to face him and when you did, Aemond was already staring back at you, his patch still over his disabled eye.

Surely with more persuasion he would leave your chambers and you could pretend that none of this happened but unfortunately for you, there was no God, no sept or no traditions that could change his mind.

“Aemond, I'm his lady wife. I'm merely your sister. Please try to understan—”

Aemond nearly growled. “Do not remind me over and over again that he – a drunkard, an idiot – managed to put his heirs in you when you were supposed to carry mine! You were mine, do you hear me? It is about time I get what is rightfully mine, what was taken from me.”

Before you could say more, Aemond closed the space between you two and captured your lips in a rough kiss. One with which you could not keep up — small fists banging at his chest, in tethered hope that he might have a change of heart and dissipate from your presence.

Your husband was fighting for his life, meanwhile you were laying nearly bare in front of your brother.

You felt bile rise up in your throat but you had no other option than to swallow it back down as Aemond’s passionate lip lock grew more restless and haste. Using up all your strength in an endeavor to push him, yet there was no retribution. He carried on with his sick intentions.

His hands moved down to grab a handful of both your tits, his lips swallowing your little whines and pleas. His rutting which had stalled, continued again as he pushed his hardened cock into your mound.

“A-Aemond.. ” You tried to reason, still.

His hands worked their way around your breasts, flicking your hardened peaks repeatedly and your body twitched. You did not wish to accept it but this was the most pleasure you'd felt in your whole life.

Warming your husband’s bed was only to fulfill his desires, his needs and wants. You were solely a doll, a lifeless being who only existed for Aegon to have his pleasures with. You always wondered how your own mother could subject you to such cruelty, such monstrosity.

To lay awake at night and welcome your husband, whom you do not wish to even breath the same air as, with open arms.

Aemond’s potent tongue pried your lips open and you let it happen, not possessing any more of courage. His tongue danced with yours, a reminiscent of the dragons that danced above Rooks’s Rest. He panted like a wild beast, and you followed.

Dire need to consume you warred with his ache for you and Aemond soon tore away from you but continued flicking your swollen buds. He stared at you, eye dark and rapacious.

Your cheeks were flushed and the rays of moonlight illuminated the beads of sweat on your forehead. Aemond was lost in you, drunk off a single kiss and he simply could not wait to have more of you.

“You have grown into such a beautiful woman, Sister.” Aemond praised, pinching both your hardened pebbles simultaneously and you cried out a wail. “But before me I still see my older sister, nuha byka hunte.”

You flinched at the name.

He addressed you as his little bird in high valyrian when you were kids and then he stopped, after witnessing your wedding to his brother. In all honesty, you longed to be called that and Aemond had finally responded to that longing of yours, unknowingly.

Aemond’s hands fell, fingers tucking underneath the edge of your silk robe as he tugged at it. You didn't allow it — still fighting back as you stayed still. He didn't like that one bit. The Targaryen man pressed his forehead against yours, warm breath lingering like a looming threat.

“You will let it happen.” He commanded, rendering you speechless. Chills dancing across your frail frame at the sheer dominance in his voice. Just when did your little Aemond grow up into a masculine and domineering man?

You shook your head, staring at him with a plea. “Stop ‘tis for I am the Queen, I am your Queen and I demand you to stop.”

Aemond tugged at the dress, bunching it up past your thighs. “I wish you were my Queen but instead those fucking cunts had you warming up my brother’s bed like some common whore.”

The overwhelming urge to cry took over and you sobbed, banging your fists against Aemond’s chest. It didn't seem to affect him much but it did rile him up how you fought to accept him but most probably allowed his brother in — gave yourself up to him in the name of duty and sacrifice.

“I'm not a whore!” You wailed, punching him over and over again. To flee from the upcoming acceptance of your situation but Aemond reprimanded you. He forbade you and greeted you in the form of your queasy truth.

Aemond grabbed both your wrists, glaring at you. “Yet he treats you as one. You're even below that for him. I have seen him show kindness he's never shown you, to a fucking whore. Not the mother of his children, not his queen, but a whore for some coin.”

The reality Aemond was making you face was slowly poisoning you from the inside. You couldn't even hit him anymore as your wrists had been restrained. Your demeanor fell and Aemond took notice, his fingers unclasping from around your small wrists.

He saw how you cried.

Softly, each tear falling as your pale pillow awaited to absorb your pain.

“But I would treat you differently. If it had been me, I would have cherished you like the only woman in the seven kingdoms and beyond that.” He whispered to you with yearning obvious in his voice.

Aemond managed to slip the petticoat off your body and revealed you to him — in all your glory. Skin bare and glistening from sweat. Each curve delicious and crafted by the seven Gods themselves. You were the embodiment of pure targaryen beauty, some even going as far as claiming you to be the most beautiful targaryen woman.

You tried to reach for the blanket, to cover the shredded pieces of your dignity but Aemond hurried to refrain you from doing so.

He grabbed both your wrists, slamming your back down on the bed and pinning you against the mattress. His body hovering over yours, knee bent and settled between your thighs. Your chest heaved, and tits bounced from the force of harsh pants.

Aemond’s knee pried open your thighs rather forcefully, pressing his knee against your cunt. His vile action had earned a whimper of discomfort and embarrassment out of you, your whole being resenting the throbbing sensation spreading in your core as it flourished.

“Tonight I shall have you and cherish you like you deserve, like I should have.” Aemond whispered, tone grave. “If you choose to stay adamant and resilient, I cannot promise you humility, nuha byka hunte.”

Your lips formed into a pout, tear ducts sore from all the droplets you'd shed. “A-Aemond please, don't. If you do this, everything will change.”

Aemond scoffed at your naivety. “Everything has changed, Sister. Brother is injured, I'm prince regent and you're going to carry my children.”

You shook your head, pushing at his slim frame but that only resulted in Aemond’s hand drowning in your silver, pale locks. A malicious grip tugging at the roots, a fiery sensation blooming.

“They will be bastards.” A lone tear slid down.

Aemond’s lips broke in a sadistic smirk. “And? The pretender can have bastards, not even remotely close to her late husband’s features but I can't have bastards with you?”

He licked his lips, his pointy, sharp nose caressing against your own. “Our children will look like true born Targaryens. They will have our purple eyes and silver hair.”

There was no point.

You were defeated.

Aemond saw you accept defeat and he smiled in victory, his other letting go off your hair and moving to grab yours. He pulled it to the strings of his leather slacks and encouraged you to undo them.

You shook your head and that angered Aemond.

How adamant could you be?

“I will shove my cock into your cunt one way or another and I will make sure my seed takes root inside you.” The vulgarity of his words made you sob, your hands trembling as you began to undo his strings. Pulling each one from the knots and finally loosening the leather enough for him to slide out of it.

Aemond was pleased and soon, he was naked too.

Leather pieces thrown over to the side along with his eye patch too.

When your gaze captured the sparkling sapphire in the void of his left eye, you were left appalled.

He had never ever shown you what was behind that eye patch. Even after you begged him to, he grew cold and pushed you away but now you had begun to realize it was probably because of the announcement of your betrothal to Aegon.

His silky strands were in a tedious contrast to your wavy, thick ones.

Lingering eyes caught the awakened cock between his legs and horror flashed in your widened eyes. He was blessed by the Gods, that was for sure and no wonder your brother was this famous amongst the ladies. He had the equipment to satisfy them.

You gulped, nervousness donning your face.

“I slept with other woman so I could become better for you. Incompetence and lack of experience would surely ruin this time, don't you think so, sweet Sister?” Aemond spoke, as his hand dropped from your knee to your center.

You flinched every time he caressed your skin and your abdomen twitched with absolute need. You failed to fathom where all this rush and need was birthing from — how the disgust lingered but along it roamed a feeling of desire which had erupted in the form of essence from your hole.

Aemond ran his slim, tenacious fingers over the stripe of your cunt, gathering the arousal you produced. “Your little cunt is very wet, Sister. Disobedience, wails and pounding at my chest. Is this all merely an act, to veil your sickly desires beneath?”

Your breath broke and humiliation draped itself around you like an invisible blanket. Your small hand reached over to deliver a tight slap to your brother's face, but it barely caused an impact. All you left was a red hand print on his face.

Aemond looked at you, head tilted and fire born in his eye.

You had awakened the dragon.

“Your actions tell me you have no desire to be treated with respect. So be it then.”

Your low chances of rebuttal were revoked as he slid two fingers at once into your opening, going to the point until he was knuckles deep inside your squelching cunt. You sobbed hopelessly, hands trying to push at him but none of it worked.

Your resistance only boosted his ego, his god complex. He had all the power over you, despite you being the Queen. How fucking pathetic and cruel life had been to you but Aemond was here. He was here to save you, and in order to do that, he had to claim you first.

You pushed inside you, caressing your cervix and your gummy walls clasped around his fingers. Your nails dug into his shoulder to cause him pain but that was a failed attempt as Aemond’s cock hardened even more — if that were possible — when he felt the prickling feeling on his shoulder.

The pain inflicted only heightened his arousal.

“A-Aemond, please.” Your cries were the least bit of his concerns, as he curved his fingers up and managed to hit that sweet concealed spot of yours.

Your back arched, lifting up from the mattress, hands bunching up the sheets in them. Writhing your hips, Aemond used his other hand to strike you down — a stinging sensation blossoming on your thigh. You suckled on your lower lip, to stifle your sounds. Jaehaera waking up could possibly ruin everything.

“The Queen’s cunt is truly worth becoming a kingslayer for. Look at how tightly you squeeze around my fingers, Sister.” He whispered, staring at you. You caught the shimmering of the sapphire and sniffled, your cheeks and nose a crimson color.

Death was much better than this humiliation at the hands of your own brother — one you used to see as your protector when you were a little girl.

“H-Have shame. Your sister.” You managed to whimper out and Aemond groaned in annoyance, retrieving his fingers from your cunt.

Your hole gaped as you whined at the loss of contact. He laid next to you, flipping you so your back was facing him. Aemond kicked your thighs open with his shins and pressed his red leaking cock head over your clit, moving it in soft little circles. The burial of your face in your pillows made you realize just how unbearable all this was.

“Do not turn away from me.” Aemond’s voice had a plea in it. “You allowed Aegon in, why is it so difficult to allow me in? I promise you, nuha byka hunte. You will never feel shame again, you will never be embarrassed by your husband again.”

His promises almost worked.

You found yourself wondering whether this was so bad. You'd slept with Aegon, in a much more brutal way, worse than Aemond. Usually he'd ignore you and your pleasure in his drunken state, only chasing after his own. Aemond made you feel good.

He actually cared enough to bring you pleasure.

You nodded your head with a soft sob. You wished things were better, that your betrothed was Aemond, not the other brother but things never turned out the way you wanted them to.

Aemond aligned his cock with your hole and sunk into you, face hidden in your nape as his naked body sought comfort in your presence, basking in it. His chin resting on the small cup of your shoulder, breath caressing the skin of your neck.

He was almost like a babe.

“Aemond.” You called out, feeling bad for what he was put through as a child. For what he had turned out to be.

Having your own children made you realize how easy it was to provide them with affection, so it was difficult for you to fathom why your own mother failed to show you and your brothers affection.

Aemond melted at the way you softly called out his name and his cock had fully sheathed inside your cunt, thighs pressed up against your ass. You'd become one and he was going to have you for himself now.

“Yes, my sweet sister?”

“It feels weird.” You spoke truthfully as you had never ever lay with a man in such a close and intimate position. Aemond figured what you were hinting at and he smiled, pressing a chaste kiss to your nape.

He moved his hips, stuttering inside you, grinding into your ass. Your sounds nearly woke up your daughter if it wasn't for Aemond’s hands slithering from behind, one groping your tits while the other silencing you.

“Quiet now. You don't wish to wake up your daughter, do you now?” You shook your head as he slowly rutted his cock inside you, pushing it deeper into that weak spot of yours and muffled sounds escaped your sealed lips.

Tears fell, and so did your dignity as your brother fucked himself into you with newfound vigor meant to swallow you whole.

Aemond lost his demeanor, his usually calm and nonchalant demeanor. Transforming into the sadistic monster that he was. He pulled his hand back from your swollen breasts and brought it to your hair, pulling it up rather harshly to expose more of your sweet skin.

A perfect spot. A clean canvas for him to paint his bloody streaks across.

He parted his lips open, baring his teeth and sinking the sharp canines into your skin. Being punctured with such severity, even his hand could not prevent the piercing scream that tore through your throat.

Your eyes squeezed shut as Aemond sunk his teeth. The searing pain of prickling bones a deadly contrast with the soft, sensual thrusts of his cock. A mess he had made you into and there was no escape from the lecherous bounds of your brother.

“I-It hurts. Aemond, it hurts!” You cried out, writhing against his body but his arm had locked you in place. Right against him.

The more you struggled, the more his long arm like a snake tightened around your stomach. He did not budge, not at all. Focused fully on the task at hand which was to leave a gut wrenching mark, as a testament to his claim over you.

When he was done suckling and drawing blood, he pulled back and hummed in satisfaction at the mark. A mix of reds, blues and purples. Such hues looked absolutely breathtaking on you. He pressed a soft kiss over the bruise, the two punctured hole and you shuddered.

Helplessness washed over you.

Your husband was hurt, in pain meanwhile you engaged in such debauchery with your brother.

Aemond snapped his hips, now ramming his cock into you. Pounding with potency and your body surged forward. He reached for your leg and pulled it up, holding it in air as he fucked you.

“P-Please. You're my broth–”

“Shut your damn hole.” Aemond snapped, patience wearing thin. “Keep saying I'm your brother but it only arouses me more.”

You gasped when you felt his cock head hit into that spongy bubble of sensitivity and Aemond scrunched his brows in over whelming pleasure. He had taken many maidens and whores but you were different – of course you were. A targaryen princess turned Queen, his own blood and flesh.

You ought to be different.

Aemond reveled in the feeling of your tight cunt pressing down on his cock, caressing every vein, soaking it in your juices. The sounds of his flesh colliding against yours enticed him in a way that he could not fathom. Like milk of the poppy, he wished to continue absorbing you.

His fingers rubbed your clit, the swollen bud twitching. All this pleasure, that you were so foreign to, it overwhelmed you. Thighs convulsing and abdomen building up knots, a warning of your upcoming orgasm.

“Brother, something’s happening. Aemond, please!” You wailed and he stared at your sweaty, flustered face.

Gods, had Aegon never once made you unravel?

How fucking pitiful.

Aemond grinned. “Yeah? You're going to make a mess, dear sister.”

Your stomach tightened and this unfamiliar feeling took over. Your eyes rolled to the back of your skull and your hands shifted hastily to find something, anything to grab a hold of as your body transcended to another realm. One visible to those who indulged themselves im such debauchery.

Aemond hissed. The sheer tightness of your cunt made him feel like he'll snap in half, his own groans and moans loud enough to reverberate through your chambers. He still continued to thrust, earning your climax out of you.

When you were done, Aemond raised himself and pulled his cock out of you. Relief washed over you but how naive were you, to assume he'd get dressed and leave without chasing after his own pleasure. Your eyes fluttered open and you found him right between your legs, kneeled.

“Are you not done?” Your voice was weary, soft and tired. Aemond chuckled at your innocence, both hands pulling your thighs apart.

His one good eye stared at your cunt, pink flesh glistening from your creamy arousal. He felt the urge to lean in and lick along the swollen stripe of your pussy but the throbbing of his cock made him cave in. He slipped inside you again, pulling both your legs up and balancing them on his shoulders.

Your lips released a gasp.

Aemond’s bestial and rapacious thrusts made you cry, muffled wails breaking apart. He stared at you as the sapphire glinted, his cock driving itself with fervor into your cunt, enjoying your sweet vice like grip.

Your shaky hands reached for his face, to cup it and Aemond leaned in your touch. Affectionate it was, his lips parted as he let out a broken breath, similar to how he felt on the inside. A broken boy and you felt horrible, like it was all your fault to begin with.

He had turned into a monster and it was all your fault.

“Your eye,” you whispered, his snaps coming to a halt. “its beautiful. You look so beautiful, Aemond.”

He admired you before snapping out of the trance and pounding into you. Aemond’s cock found comfort in your tight cunt and his release had grown closer to. You cried out, vision completely blurry and lips swollen, covered in drool.

“My beautiful sister.” He growled, pressing his pelvis against yours. “I shall fill you up, give you a child of mine. Your stomach will swell with our child. Your beautiful breasts will once again pump milk, this time for our babe.”

His palm laid flat on your stomach and you shook your head. You didn't want him to give you a child, as it would end badly for the both of you yet Aemond did not bother himself with traditions. He nuzzled his cock into you and with a loud groan, shot ropes after ropes into your walls.

Tainting your gummy flesh white. You sobbed as you felt the warm fluid fill up your stomach, your whole body suffering from prominent convulsions. Aemond’s cock bulged against your taut stomach, a fine print visible to you both.

When Aemond was done with his release, he pulled out and dropped on the bed right besides you. Body numb and throat parched from all the sounds you'd made, your gaze lingered across the room to find your daughter sound asleep.

Thank the Gods.

You turned to Aemond and found him already staring at you. His arm wrapped around you, refraining you from moving away from him as he nuzzled his neck into your neck. Aemond sniffed your scent, closing his eyes and relishing the sweetness of it. God, you were a dream come true for him.

“I will get rid of him soon.” Aemond whispered, hair mixing in with yours. “And then I will have you as my wife. Our child shall be conceived within the bounds of our marriage.”

[buckyalpine]

Actor Bucky x civilian reader 

I’m feeling angsty. Fluffy. Just a thought. But like a long thought. 

-

You should have known this would happen eventually. 

You knew you should have put your phone down and gone to sleep hours ago. Scrolling through social media did nothing to ease you mind as you stared at the 100′s of posts that showed Bucky whispering in her ear with a boyish smile. A sickly feeling spread from your chest, up your neck and to your cheeks, the type of heat that made your throat constrict and your eyes burn. The lump in your throat was painful to swallow, blinking back tears when you clicked on a video that had been shot by the paparazzi and leaked to the press, all the news outlets having a field day with brand new pics of a budding Hollywood romance. 

“Well, there you have it folks! Looks like Winter is warming up over here, stay tuned for more updates” 

“Single no more? Things steam up on the set of The Winter Soldier” 

“Swipe to get a sneak peak on the hottest new romance everyone’s excited about”

You wanted to throw your phone across the room, instead keeping your eyes locked on the way your boyfriend was cozied up with his co-star, the two of them seemingly giggling over an inside joke while taking a break between shoots. Her face was practically tucked into his neck while he laughed, both of them apparently blissfully unaware someone was watching. 

The image turned blurry from unshed tears, squeezing your eyes shut, turning your phone off all together. Your deepest insecurities reared their ugly head, thinking about Bucky’s effortlessly gorgeous co-star with her tall and slim build with curves in the right places. They looked like a dream couple; both attractive with obvious chemistry on screen and based on the “leaked photos”, in real life as well. Every single fear you had over the last few weeks were proved to be true with a few viral pictures. 

- 

Bucky groaned, silencing his phone after getting yet another unknown caller asking him if he’d care to comment on the latest headline about him and the lead actress in his upcoming movie. He ran his hand over his face seeing the way social media blown up overnight after someone had taken pictures taken out of context making it look like he was smitten and in love. His PR team insisted that a few candid shots would be good for promoting the movie and great for his image; when he agreed to having hired paparazzi's take a few “spontaneous” pictures, he thought it would be pictures with the whole cast; not just suggestive close up shots with his co-star that appeared intimate. 

Great.

He’d tried to call you repeatedly, every single one going straight to voicemail and all his texts unanswered. It had been a days since the new broke out and nothing had died down. Bucky hated that he was miles away from you, unable to even send anyone to check on you after you both agreed to keep the relationship a secret. The only person in his life who knew was his best friend, Steve, who was also on set. You’d been so understanding of his career, you hadn’t told a soul to make sure nothing ever leaked. Bucky knew you were used to a few rumors popping up every now and then about him and a potential new girlfriend but this was the first time there was photo evidence. 

New stories popped up like weeds. 

The last straw for him was when he spotted a magazine cover talking about his upcoming wedding and speculation over if there was a secret child on the way.

He couldn’t care less about PR or the movie anymore. A text to the director later, he was in his car driving off straight to you, carefully weaving through traffic while making a pitstop with his best disguise of a hat and sunglasses before speeding off once more. 

-

You sighed at the new stories that were still being posted on your social media feed, locking your phone once more to go back to the book you were reading. You’d ignored all of Bucky's attempts to reach out, choosing to spend less time on your phone, already drowning in insecurities and doubt. You took out a bunch of books from the library and spent more time the kitchen hoping anything would help take your mind off of the love of your life having an affair with another woman. 

The sound of the doorbell pulled you away from your book; you weren’t expecting anyone and it wasn’t usual for any of your friends to stop by in the middle of the afternoon. You were going to ignore it, thinking it was probably someone attempting to sell you something but-

“Y/n, doll I know you’re home, it’s me baby” 

Oh.

Your felt your stomach drop. Heart beating so fast, you could feel your veins tremble in your finger tips. He rang the bell again in hopes that you’d even hit him, smack him, happy to take it, anything to at least see you again. Your emotions swarmed all over the place, anxiety, anger, love, all of it fighting for dominance while you stayed glued to your spot on the couch. 

Asshole.

But that was your Jamie.

Dick.

But you loved him with your whole heart. 

“Babygirl” Bucky pleaded outside of your door, realizing the giant teddy that was 4 times his size and flower bouquet of 100 red roses did nothing to keep him discreet. “Sweetheart, please let me explain” 

You reluctantly opened the door, more worried that if someone saw Bucky at your door, a crowd of fans would end up swarming the area. If not for all the other emotions you were feeling, you almost giggled at the sight of a very wide, puppy eyed Bucky holding a stuffy that was larger than him and a bouquet of flowers that nearly covered his face. You wordlessly stepped out of the way while he dragged the comically large bear into the living room, placing the roses in its caramel fuzzy paws before turning to you.

You.

His pretty doll.

He could see your eyes were still puffy from nights of crying. Your lips were glossy from the balm you used when they were chapped after you’d nervously chew on them. Your poor little nose he loved to boop and kiss so much looked dry from how much you sniffled. Those gorgeous eyes he loved to stare into refused to even look at him, looking at your fluffy sock clad feet instead. You were still wearing a large hoodie of his but you probably hadn’t noticed when you slipped it on. 

Bucky hated it. 

His poor precious doll was so hurt all because of a stupid PR stunt. 

“Baby” You stood rigid as Bucky stepped towards you, his hand coming to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin, “Those pictures, they were taken out of context darling, they weren’t meant to come out like that-

“Then how were they meant to come out” You frowned, moving away till Bucky’s hand dropped, a sad sigh leaving his lips. 

“The team-they thought a few random, candid pictures would garner some publicity to get people talking. I thought they’d post pictures of everyone together, not just me and her”

“That doesn’t explain why you were so close to her” You fidgeted with the long sleeve of the hoodie, this time letting Bucky reach out to hold your hands though you left them limp while he gently squeezed them. “So that was all you then? That’s even worse Bucky” 

“No baby, no” Bucky frantically shook his head, pulling you closer with his hands now on your waist, “I pushed her away the second she got too close but apparently finding your co-star insufferable isn’t good PR. I looked irritated in all the other pictured so they didn’t use them. I promise baby, I’d never do anything to hurt you. I know I did and I’m so sorry, doll” 

While a part of you believed him, the other part of you couldn’t digest the fact that the rest of the world still thought they were a dream couple. It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. You didn’t even want to begin to imagine the headlines that would pop up if the public saw you with Bucky. You couldn’t scrub the image away of how perfect they looked together, feeling frumpy and awkward in comparison.

“I can’t be like her Bucky” You struggled to keep your voice steady, not willing to cry in front of someone who clearly could do better even if he looked like he was ready to fall on his knees for you.

And then he did. 

“Y/n, I don’t want you to be her. Or anyone else, I want you” Bucky looked at you with pleading eyes, taking your hands in his and kneeling, pressing his lips to your knuckles. 

“But no one else thinks I deserve you. I thought I’d be okay with you maintaining a single image, I know it’s important for your career but I-I can’t watch interviews with people talking about how perfect you look with someone else, how you both look so in love-

“I’m done”

“What?” Your heart stopped, your hands shaking wondering if done meant he was done dealing with your worries, your insecurities, done with you-

“You’re the one I want. Not anyone else. I couldn’t care less about what others think baby, not when it’s hurting you so much. I want people to know who I’m in love with”

“But-

“If you’re not comfortable with it, I understand. But I don’t want to hide you anymore angel. Never again” 

Movie Premier 

You swallowed thickly, your heart beating out of your chest, fidgeting with the gown you had been dressed in, nervously twirling the ring on your finger. The limo came to a halt, the driver opening the door to a sea of screaming and cheers, a plush red carpet ready for you to step onto. 

“Ready, princess?” Bucky grinned, stepping out of the limo and reaching his hand out for you to take, helping you step out of the car. You gasped at the flashes of cameras and shrieks of fans coming from all sides, everyone trying to get Bucky’s and your attention. 

“James! Over here! Who is your date for the night?” 

“Miss! Miss!” 

“Over there, darling”, Bucky whispered in your ear while you smiled at a different set of photographers, each of them clambering over another to get the best picture of you both. 

“Could you step over here please, great, now one with the young lady, beautiful, James, one more!” 

Bucky simply smiled and nodded, keeping his hand around your waist, guiding you down the red carpet and stopping for more pictures along the way. He skillfully avoided the reporters who called for him, keeping a protective grip around you as you both entered the hall to get seated. Hardly moments later, headlines had already started spreading everywhere, your phone blowing up with messages from friends and family wondering if they were seeing the news articles correctly: 

James Barnes steps out with Mystery woman

Secret lover? James Barnes shocks fans with his premier date

10 things we know about James’s girlfriend

You giggled at the numerous posts that started to pop up on social media, your heart fluttering at the beautiful pictures of Bucky looking at you with heart eyes in every single one. There wasn’t one where he was looking anywhere else, focused on you the entire time and clearly people had noticed. You couldn’t help but feel warm and fuzzy at the comments people left, silencing all the doubts you had in your mind.

Get you a man that looks at you the way he looks at her

No wonder he was hiding her, shes gorgeous

I love him but like can someone tell me who SHE is?!

Look at him, he looks like an absolute puppy around her

She’s perfect for him, they’re babies are gonna be BEAUTIFUL 

There goes my chance. I can’t even be mad cause he looks so happy and they look so cute

“What you reading there, baby” Bucky kissed your shoulder, peering over to see what you were looking at on your phone before slipping it away into your clutch. He smirked, sneakily nipping your ear lobe making you gasp before continuing to whisper in your ear. “They’re right you know. You look so beautiful baby, gonna rip this dress off as soon as we get to the hotel room”

“You can’t rip it Bucky, I have to give it back-” You hissed but he wasn’t having any of it, his hand moving to squeeze your thing, grazing your skin from the slit on the dress. 

“I’ll pay for it. But you’re right, I won’t rip it. We’re keeping it, I wanna fuck you all type of ways in that-

“Oh my god” You hushed him with a peck to his devilish lips, your face hot while he gave you a smug smile. He couldn’t wait for the news that would go wild in the next few months.

James Barnes proposes to long time girlfriend, y/n y/l/n

Ready to tie the knot? James and fiancée spotted at wedding venue 

Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Barnes!

James and y/n fly to the Amalfi coast for Honeymoon 

Happy Anniversary to Hollywood's favorite couple

Baby bump or food baby? Y/n Barnes steps out in oversized hoodie for a late night food run

Baby Barnes on the way? 

Double trouble? James reveal’s he and his wife are expecting twins 

y/n Barnes posts first pictures of babies and they couldn’t be cuter 

Bucky couldn’t wait. 

[revasserium]

Can i request OPLA zoro where he doesn't get along with reader but calls her my girl in front of a baratie waiter who was flirting with her.

my girl

zoro; 2,438 words; fluff, kinda enemies to lovers, fem!reader, straw hat!reader, lots of banter, slow...burn?

summary: just cause you don't see eye to eye doesn't mean zoro's down to watch you get hit on while he's in the same bar, either.

a/n: again. i've got no excuse. pls continue to send more requests feed my opla!zoro obsession u__u

it is perhaps what therapists and psychiatrists would call an incompatibility of character. or maybe something about you and him that simply acted like two jigsaw pieces from completely different puzzles. or maybe luffy had just jinxed it when he’d said the first time that he sensed some “tension amongst the crew”, but it’s no secret that you and zoro don’t exact see eye to eye.

in fact, sanji thinks, it might only be a matter of time before you each try to take the other’s eyes out permanently.

“you’re really not worried?” he asked luffy as they’d watched zoro and you bicker all the way down the wobbling boardwalk leading up to the baratie, you sniping at zoro for getting in your way and zoro biting back something equally acerbic and childish about you being too clumsy to be a good pirate.

“huh? why would i be worried? they get along just fine!” luffy had laughed, eyes bright and round as he’d readjusted his hat and bounded off towards the entrance, whooping about being hungry enough to take down an entire sea cow.

“wh —”

“bit rich, since you and zoro are always at each other’s throats, no?”

nami bumps sanji’s arm as she strolls by him with a stack of empty crates. sanji squawks, readjusting his own bags before jogging after her.

“c’mon, you know that’s different!”

nami smirks but doesn’t grace that with an answer, instead, she lets her eyes flicker back to where you and zoro are still snarking at each other even as the bewildered looking fishman at the front leads you all around back to the kitchen entrance.

“— wouldn’t have been in that situation if you’d just —”

“yeah? and if i’d just stayed put like you said, the entire going merry would’ve gone up in smoke cause last i checked, wood is very flammable!”

“the merry’s not that fragile.”

“you wanna bet?”

“yeah, maybe i do —”

“what’s goin’ on here? didn’t i tell you lot to get lost?” zeff’s gruff voice interrupts your bickering as the peg-legged chef looks from zoro to you and then the rest of the crew, “gotta new one, didya? don’t remember you from the last time these idiots were here.”

“she’s barely an upgrade from the clown head —”

you slam your heel into the toe of zoro’s boot and he hisses, nearly dropping his armful of crates.

“what he means is that i’m the brains of the operation —”

“we don’t need brains —”

“oh, so you’re admitting that you didn’t have any before i got here?”

zoro glares, dropping the crates as luffy pushes past you both to clap zeff on the shoulder and offer him a huge stack of berry.

“we came to pay you back for the meal last time! and to buy a new one! and… maybe some extra food stuff if you’ve got it.”

zeff opens his mouth to answer but it’s drowned out by the sound of your voice as you jab a finger into zoro’s chest.

“— just because you can’t hold more than one cohesive thought in your head at once doesn’t mean that —”

“— what’s that even supposed to mean? like you can think about two things at once?”

“enough! you two — outta the kitchen, now! i won’t have your lovesick teenage yappin’ distractin’ my line chefs!”

you both jump at zeff’s voice, and an unpleasant heat creeps into your cheeks as you realize that the entire kitchen had indeed gone very quiet, most of the white-clad workers staring at you and zoro.

“i need a drink,” zoro says, rolling his shoulders as he sidesteps you and pushes his way out of the kitchen.

“look, sir, i didn’t mean —” you take half a step forward but zeff jabs a finger at the doors still swinging in zoro’s wake.

“i said out!”

you glance between zeff and the rest of your crew for a split second before turning and scrambling from the kitchen, looking abashed.

“oh no, c’mon zeff, you didn’t need to yell at her like that —” sanji sighs as he tries to go after you, but nami nails him in the stomach with one of her arms.

“nope. this is something they need to work out on their own. and you’re on grocery shopping duty with me, remember?” she flashes him a smile even as he deflates slightly and turns back to the work of haggling rations out of the baratie’s storerooms.

you find zoro already posted up at the bar, even though the hour is still early enough that there’s only a few other patrons, mainly keeping to themselves. you fight the urge to march up to him and give him an earful about embarrassing you in front of sanji’s old master like that but zeff’s words about making a scene keeps your lips clamped shut.

instead, you seat yourself as far from zoro as humanly possible and wait for the bartender to sidle over. he flashes you a winning smile, making no attempt to conceal the way his eyes drag from your hair to your face and then down to your cleavage, where his gaze rests for a beat too long before he clears his throat.

“what can i get you, gorgeous? something sweet and bubbly, perhaps? or maybe something a bit more dark and… seductive? i can have a custom drink whipped up for you in a few if you’d like… on the house, of course.”

he shoots you a wink that has your eyebrows hiking up your forehead.

“laying it on thick, are we?”

the bartender shrugs, seemingly unbothered by your lack of enthusiasm.

“place like this doesn’t exactly breed subtlety.”

you make a noncommittal noise before sighing, “i’ll have a dirty martini, shaken not stirred, straight, with a twist, please.”

to his credit, the bartender doesn’t miss a single beat, “ah, a woman of taste, though i’ll admit that i prefer my martini’s naked instead of shaken, hm?”

he waggles his eyebrows and if it weren’t for the loud cough from down the bar drawing the bartender’s attention, you would’ve rolled your eyes.

at the opposite end of the bar, zoro taps his empty drink glass against the waxy hardwood, a vein ticking in his jaw. he’d listened to the entire exchange with a growing annoyance festering in the depths of his stomach. and here he was, hoping for a moment of quiet without the sound of your voice yammering in his ear. he shoots the bartender a glowering look as the man refills his drink and tries to make his way back down the bar to you.

zoro tosses the entire drink back in one and sets the empty glass down with a loud clack, clearing his throat as the bartender turns to stare at him. he holds the man’s gaze for a full three seconds before looking pointedly down at his glass and the bartender’s face visibly reddens.

“here you are, sir — the last three are on the house.”

the bartender lines up five identical drinks in front of zoro before marching away and zoro has to give it to the guy. he does make a good, stiff drink.

still, as he tries his hardest not to glance down towards where you’re sitting, sipping slowly at your martini, he can’t help overhearing the stilted stabs at conversation floating down the length of the empty bar. the bartender lavishes you with questions, asking about your travels, who you came with, where you’re from. you, for your part, never give him an answer more than three words long — travels were good, my crew, an autumn island.

zoro briefly wonders why you don’t tell the guy off like you so often did him. then, he briefly wonders if the fact that you’re always so easily set off by him means something. then, he not-so-briefly wonders why, if he’s always been so bothered by you, that he’s still thinking about you in the precious few hours he has to himself.

he clicks his tongue and downs another drink just as you finish your first.

“c’mon darlin’ — just a hint — what about the first letter? shall i try to guess?”

you sigh into your now empty glass as the bartender asks your name for the third time in a row, though to no avail. suddenly, a warm, solid presence appears next to you and the next thing you know, zoro’s arm is brushing up against yours as he leans over the bar to bear down at the bartender.

“right, now if you’re done trying t’pick up my girl, i think i’d like the check.”

the bartender blinks up at zoro, uncomprehending for a second before a blotchy redness seeps into his cheeks.

“y-your — you haven’t said a word to each other since either of you got here!”

you swallow passed a bewildered laugh as you glance up at zoro to find a challenge clear in his eyes. you slowly swivel back to the bartender with a light smile.

“ever heard of a lover’s quarrel?”

the bartender sputters as he stares between the pair of you for another long second before scurrying off to fetch the check. zoro chuckles under his breath, his earrings clinking softly in the dim light.

“damn — i really wanted another drink,” you say, staring at your empty glass.

wordlessly, zoro plops one of his in front of you. it’s the second to last.

you bring it up to your nose for a sniff before making a face.

“god that smells awful!”

“fine then, more for me.”

“i didn’t say i wouldn’t drink it!”

you bring the glass to your lips for a small sip. it’s tastier than you’d imagined but it still burns a line down your throat as you shiver.

“h-holy shit —” you cough, wiping at your mouth, “how many of these have you had?”

zoro shrugs, sipping on his own glass with a careless ease, “dunno. don’t really keep count.”

“ugh… this could knock out a war elephant…” you make another face before you take a second sip.

“figures you can’t hold your liquor, drinkin’ whatever girly shit you ordered.”

you round on him, “martinis are not girly!”

“tch. whatever.”

you settle into a huffy silence. zoro’s arm is still pressed against yours and neither of you makes to pull away. for a while, the only sounds in the bar are the soft clink of ice on glass and the light, liquid splashing of the ocean waves.

“why didn’t you tell him off?” zoro’s voice is quiet and when you turn to look at him, it’s to find him staring. you hold his gaze steady and don’t look away.

“why should i? he’s no one to me.”

“you don’t seem to have a problem yellin’ at me.”

you shrug, your eyes flickering back to the too-strong drink in your hand.

“i don’t tend to waste my breath on people i don’t really care about,” you say, your voice soft and careful and honest. zoro sucks in a slow breath, his mildly alcohol addled brain trying to process what you’d just said but his thoughts are interrupted by a peel of loud, raucous laughter echoing in from the dining room beyond.

“c’mon, sounds like dinner is served,” you say, grinning as you push off the bar, jerking your head towards the dining room door.

zoro lets out the breath before downing the rest of his drink and leaving the empty glass on the bar to follow you.

at dinner, you bicker less than usual and zoro is even more quiet than he normally is. though he wastes no time ordering another round for the table. no one really comments till zeff comes round at the end with the check.

“dinner’s already paid for but i was told that this is for the ‘lovebirds from the bar’,” he says, as he drops the drinks bill in front of zoro with a deadpan sort of look.

for a full ten seconds, no one moves. and then, usopp’s jaws hit the floor as sanji’s eyebrows jerk towards the ceiling. nami sits back with a satisfied smirk as luffy nods happily at the two of you before turning to grin at sanji.

“see? told you they get along fine!”

sanji has the decency to sputter just as usopp leans forward to point between you and zoro.

“wait… whaattt?”

you make to tug out your wallet but zoro slaps a stack of berry on top of the bill.

“give our compliments to the bartender,” he says with a slight smirk as zeff takes the money, glancing up at the two of you.

“yeah? what’d he make that’s got you so impressed?”

you purse your lips as you make a show of shrugging, waving a nonchalant hand through the air.

“oh, just a mean dirty martini.”

zeff lets out a loud bark of laughter as he takes the berry and clomps back towards the kitchens, shaking his head. zoro chuckles beside you as he stretches an arm over his head and lets it settle casually on the booth back behind you.

later, as everyone is making their way back towards the going merry, nami catches up to you on the docks, looping an arm through yours and pinning you with a meaningful look just as sanji sidles up to zoro and bumps him with a shoulder.

“so…” nami says, grinning as she tugs you forward a few steps.

“so.” sanji clears his throat, casting zoro a sidelong glance.

“wanna tell me what that was about?” nami asks.

“care to elaborate on that back there?” sanji questions.

you and zoro both take a deep, long breath. zoro glances up to see the way you toss a lock of hair over your shoulder, your bright laughter carrying back on the breeze. you allow yourself a smile, and you don’t have to turn to feel zoro’s eyes on you as both of you turn to your respective companions and say —

“i’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

opla!zoro reqs are (as always) open!!

[cordeliawhohung]

In Limbo [Chapter 15]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

strings attached

cw: hurt, a little bit of comfort, lots of dialogue

wc: 3.7k

Breakfast is ready.

Simon’s message stares at you through your phone screen, and you can do nothing but stare back. Blank eyes, slow blinks. You could smell its arrival before it even buzzed. Sausage links, almost burnt toast, pancakes — or, maybe that’s waffles you smell? He’s been cooking for a while. Slaving over the stove with quiet strings of curses as various utensils clatter onto the floor. It’s similar to the events of last night, when you’re pretty sure you heard him burn himself on the stovetop. The kitchen sink didn’t run for too long before he texted you dinner was ready, but despite all his effort, you couldn’t bring yourself to eat. 

The screen turns black and you drop your phone onto the mattress. Pristine white paint coats the ceiling above you as you stare, eyes bleary with less than restful sleep. You attempt to recall the events of yesterday in a way that doesn’t upset your stomach too mercilessly, but it’s an impossible task. Uncovered secrets, acrimonious betrayal; Simon’s eyes. While he was assisting you in setting up his room for you to rest in, every time he looked at you all you saw was pain. As if, for once, he was the one hiding the wounds. Every time he looked at you, it was like rubbing salt in the gash. 

He hasn’t slept. You’re certain of it. All night long you could hear the droning of the television from the other side of the door where he rested in the living room. Every half hour he would rise and march off through the front door. When he returned, the strong scent of tobacco would waft into the room through some unseen cracks. Seeping through the space beneath the door as if it was a love note and not ash. After a handful of times, he stopped leaving. Instead, he stayed bound to the living room where you could hear the tiniest metal tinkering and quiet muttering. Fingers too twitchy to stay still. 

Guilt absumes you. Patiently and gradually. You think of Simon having to shove himself on some couch in his own home — how you had once fought against the idea only a few days ago — and your self hatred grows. It swells in your chest, expanding to the point where you’ll burst. It forces you to bury your face into the pillows beneath your head, but hiding from a man in his own bed only unravels you further. 

Every scrap of cloth that makes up this bed smells like him. Like Simon. Earthy and warm — if you would have known the very scent that comforted you in Manchester would only rip you apart once you returned to London, you don’t think you would have ever allowed yourself to become so attached. But it’s too late. You are swathed in it. It permeates the clothes you wear and the hair on your head, and you can’t escape it. You’ve never been good at running from the things you fear, let alone the things you love. 

Heavy footsteps drown out your sniffling as they approach the door. It’s sudden. Sneaky. Heart stopping, you hold your breath as you await something. You think Simon will burst through the door. Shake some sense into you. Spit out that you’ve had enough time to think through your feelings. Instead, there’s nothing but the gentle knock of china against the wood floor just beyond the door, followed by fading thumps. 

Your phone buzzes again. 

Food is at the door for when you’re ready, sweetheart.

Simon sets his phone on the coffee table and then stares at his food. He tells himself it’s nothing special, but it is. More effort was put into this meal than ones he normally makes for himself, and his heart aches as he stares at it. He wants to hear your fork scrape against the plate and your teeth grind the food. He wants to hear every time you swallow a sip of water; wants to feel your weight next to him. Instead, all he gets is the quiet sound of running water spewing through the showerhead in the master bathroom. 

Once it’s evident that you — once again — will not be joining him for the meal, he eats. Each bite is hesitant. Simon isn’t exactly a cook, but he knows he’s not terrible and nothing tastes how it’s supposed to. It’s not as vibrant or as welcoming. Some pale imitation of what food is supposed to be. Each bite slithers down his throat as he contemplates his options; the things he needs to do to keep you safe. His mind is frozen on the images of you from last night. Curling away from his touch with wide eyes — that betrayal scrawled over your face. 

Despite the churning in his stomach, Simon finishes every bite of breakfast. Heavy weights pull at his shoulders as he cleans up the mess he made in the kitchen. His ears stay perked for the sound of creaking wood. He yearns for it. The sound of you exiting the bedroom. The quiet rumble of your voice as you say his name. He gets nothing but silence, and that terrible void persists even as he goes to check the plate of food he left for you. Everything is just as he left it. Not a single crumb out of place. It goes into the trash. When you eat, he’ll make you something fresh; he wouldn’t make you scarf down something cold. 

Things are still quiet by the time lunch rolls around. Simon’s thumbs tap away at his phone as he texts you another pathetic message over another ready meal. When he hits send, he scrolls back through his previous messages. How he informed you that breakfast was ready this morning and dinner the night before. How you ignored both of them. How it’s been nearly twenty four hours since you last ate. He’s been counting the hours. The minutes. The seconds. 

When ten minutes pass and you’re still locked away in the confines of his bedroom, Simon rises to his feet. Plate in hand, he approaches the door with attentive ears. For a moment he stands and listens for any sign of life: a sniffle, a shuffle, anything. Some proof that you’re there.

There is nothing. 

“Sweetheart?” He knocks on the door with a single knuckle and it still feels too loud. Too harsh. Like the sound alone will shatter you. “Baby?” 

He waits with bated breath for anything from you. Eyes wandering to the sandwich in his hands, he sighs before knocking on the door once more. 

“Chip… you don’t have to talk to me, but I’m not gonna let you starve yourself. You gotta eat something.” 

Silence stretches so long that his hand nearly shoots to the knob, fearing the worst. That you’ve vanished. That you’re gone; or worse. Before his fingertips even graze against the metal, the door opens with a small gust of wind from the force. The faint scent of your body soap washes over him and for a moment, all the frayed nerves sizzling in his body settle. He holds out the plate for you to take, and you stare up at him and his bobbing throat for a moment before you relieve him of the object. 

“Let’s eat.” Your voice is hoarse. Rough like the chords in your throat are too tight, but he doesn’t mention it. Surprised that you don’t just take the plate and run back into hiding, he nods, stepping to the side to lead you into the living room. 

Neither of you speak while you sit together, though Simon tries. His weight shifts on the couch as he pushes a glass of water your way, muttering something about you being dehydrated. He’s not wrong. Your tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of your mouth and you can feel the way your skin shrinks around your body, pulling everything taut to the point of snapping. So you sip. Enough to wet your tongue and get your throat to stop sticking to itself. Enough that Simon’s shoulders slouch, no longer plagued by tension. 

Each bite is agonizing. Bland and tasteless — though you know it’s not because of Simon. Your sandwich is well prepared with meats, cheeses, and the works. It’s difficult to enjoy them when a raging nervosity ravages your stomach. Angers the bile until it’s jumping up your throat. You’re only able to eat half of it before your body begins to protest. Contracting muscles, breath hitching in your throat; you feel as if you’re going to be sick. 

“I have work tonight,” you blurt out. Might as well let the words spew from your mouth before the vomit growling in your stomach does. “Here in a few hours, actually.” 

Simon swallows the last bite of his sandwich before dusting his hands clean. “You should call out. Would be better if you weren’t workin’ for now.” 

You scoff. The words that leave his mouth sound utterly insane. You attempt to recall the last time you called out of work willingly. A time that wasn’t Bruce fathering you and forcing you to go home for your own wellbeing. There are bills to pay — debts you owe — and the thought of skipping out on work makes your stomach sink. 

“I can’t just stop working,” you retort. You speak to him like he’s a stranger. As if he’s overstepping further than he should. “I don’t exactly have an exorbitant amount of cash in my savings. I’ve still got rent and-” 

“I’ll take care of that,” Simon interjects. “Anythin’ you need. Money, clothes, food. I’ll take care of it.” 

If the previous words Simon spoke were insane, then this is barbaric. Hands gripping your plate, you look at him with narrowed eyes. “I can’t let you do that.” 

“It’s safer this way,” he attempts to assure. 

“So I’m just supposed to stay here? Under lock and key and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist? That’s not realistic and you know it.” 

“Andrei had pictures of you.” 

Everything goes quiet. So much so you swear you can hear your heart rattling in your chest. It echoes up your spine, along your neck, and reverberates in your skull like a wailing drum in the distance. You think of what he means by that: pictures of you. Then your mind wanders. Someplace dark and macabre. It wanders far enough that — for a fleeting moment — you swear you smell mint. Once more your throat goes dry and your fingers itch for the glass of water in front of you, but you aren’t brave enough to reach for it. 

“What do you mean?” you choke out. 

“That night in the alley? Andrei met up with someone who works at the club,” Simon explains, voice careful and even. “Some poor kid just tryin’ to make his way through uni. Someone Andrei probably cornered tryin’ to go into his shift. I talked to ‘im wantin’ to figure out what he wanted with you. Kid said Andrei was askin’ questions ‘bout why you were at the club, things of that sort. Even had pictures of you so the kid would know who he was talkin’ about.” 

“Pictures?” you repeat. 

Simon nods. “Didn’t see ‘em myself, but the kid said the pictures were taken through a window of what looked like a restaurant. Means they probably follow you ‘round more often than you think. Don’t feel comfortable with you bein’ there if they’re lurking. Harder to protect you that way. Best if you stayed well away from the club, too. Bastard’s have eyes everywhere.” 

He sounds so… nonchalant. Like these words have been rehearsed and thought again and again until every detail is ironed and neat. Twitchy fingers rise to his chin as he scratches at the stubble growing there, eyes finally finding you. The alarum raging in your stomach rolls off of your body in visible swirls. He sees the way it churns in your eyes; the gravity of the situation crashing down upon you. Its weight crushes you, and you choke on your own spit in an attempt to wet your tongue. 

“Okay. Fine, so I stay here then,” you give in. Your attempt at sounding strong and sure of yourself fails the moment your breath shakes. “But I’ve still got my apartment to worry about. All those bills, paying Marco back…” 

“I’ll take care of it,” Simon reiterates. “All of it. Any damages left at your apartment, the debt Marco forced on you, all of it.” 

You scoff, but your bottom lip is trembling. “I know better than to get tangled up in shit like that. There’s not a single bit of coin in the world that doesn’t come without strings attached.”

“You wouldn’t owe me anything. I don’t work like that.” 

“Yeah, but Marco does. Look, I get it. I know Row asked you to look after me, and I’m sure John’s little mafia, or whatever, has more resources than I can fucking imagine but… I don’t think you understand. You keep saying that you’ll get me out of this mess or that we’ll work through it together but I know better than that. I don’t just get to go on living knowing the things that I do, Simon. There’s not a chance in hell that he’d let me go that easily.” 

“I got Tommy out of his mess with Marco, I’ll get you out of yours.” 

There’s a brief moment where Simon’s words refuse to properly string themselves together in your mind. Tommy. Mess. Out. Marco. Disconnected and disjointed. Raddled, you shake your head like you can’t understand a single word that left his mouth. 

“He went after your brother?” you ask in disbelief. 

For the first time since you met him, Simon looks away from you. Leaning back, weight settling into the couch, he stares at the television with empty eyes as if the images flashing before him are not the ones he’s truly witnessing. Your fingers interlace with one another, as if you don’t know what to do with your hands if you cannot hold or be held. 

“I used to box back home in Manchester. Illegally,” he begins. “Underground sorta shit where people would place bets. Every time I won, I got a cut of the pot which I’d give to my mum. Tommy was into drugs at the time. He would beg her for money and she’d give it to him because she loves him. She didn’t wanna see ‘im out on the street, but I didn’t wanna see her wastin’ away, so I did what I could. 

“Price approached me one night after a match. Said he liked my skills. Wanted to hire me, and I knew exactly what he was talkin’ about. Didn’t want any part of whatever the hell he was doin’ so I told ‘im to fuck off. Bastard gave me his card anyway. Dunno why I held onto it. Came in handy though ‘cause Tommy ended up getting into the shit with Marco’s boys. Was workin’ as a butcher at the time and he came stormin’ into the shop beggin’ for money like some goddamn vagabond. Turns out he was actively on the run from Marco’s men, and they followed him to the shop. Pulled a knife out, ready to gut him.”

Simon stares at his hands. Wide palms roughened from old work and new work. Still stained with viscera and blood like a noisome odor that he can’t wash away. 

“What… happened?” you question cautiously. Pulling your legs up onto the couch, you turn to fully face him. He’s never spoken to you like this before. As if he’s in the past. Telling you some story. Sharing the parts of him that haven’t seen the light of day in eons. 

“I fought. Hard as I could. Tommy might be older, but I’ve always been bigger. Too strong for my own good. It all happened so fast, things like that always do, but I ended up killing one of them. He was gonna pull a gun on us and I… I don’t regret it. I’d do whatever it took to save him. Cops came, determined everything was done in self defense, let us off the hook, but Tommy wasn’t safe. I knew he wasn’t. They’d just keep comin’ and comin’ so I called Price. Took his offer. Hardly started workin’ for him and he gave me the money Tommy owed like it was nothing. Seventy five thousand quid like it was fuckin’ pocket change.” 

Eyes widening, something flickers inside of you. A sputtering sanguinity that sparks and wavers, trying so hard to tear tinder from your bones and ignite into a blaze. It buzzes and vibrates until you can hardly sit still.

“And they let him go? Once everything was paid they just…?” You try to choke the question out, but the idea of freedom is so foreign to you that it refuses to dance on your tongue. 

Simon’s lips press together as he shakes his head. “Course not. They always want more. But I did it. Settled his debt, and got Makarov’s men to fuck off outta Manchester. Been over six years and they haven’t so much as looked his way.” 

Nodding, you swallow. “What… What more did they make you do? To fully forgive the debt?” 

A commercial blares over the television. Advertisements always seem twice as loud than the program they play between, and you nearly flinch at the upbeat music and overly joyous narrator. Simon doesn’t. Steady as a rock, he continues to stare at his hands. Stiff fingers clench and unclench, joints aching with abuse. 

“Nothin’ good,” he answers truthfully. “Doesn’t matter. I’d do it again. I’d do all of it again. No one messes with my family. No one messes with—” my girl “—you and gets away with it.” 

For a moment, you believe him. That you can get out of this mess. You think of how he fought Andrei and won. How those hands broke a man’s nose and then turned to gently lead you to safety. You think about how those hands held you in Manchester close to a warm chest, how those scarred lips pressed against the crown of your head, and you think — for the first time in a long time — that you might be okay. That you can finally exist without strings attached. 

“Thank you.” 

Those words finally pull Simon’s attention away from his hands. He looks at you tenderly as you curl into the couch; some feral stray finally settling into the warmth he brings. 

“I’ve got work tonight. I’ll talk to Price, assumin’ he’s back from his trip. See ‘bout getting gettin’ the money and we can take it from there,” he says with a curt nod. 

“What?” you breathe. “No. No, no you can’t tell John about this. Or Row. Anyone. Please, promise me you’ll keep this between us.” 

Brows furrowing together, Simon shifts on the couch. “They’re not gonna hold this against you, sweetheart.”

“I got Row’s dad killed,” you retort, voice fracturing. The words shatter in your throat. Bleed all over your tongue. The taste makes you sick. “She can’t… I couldn’t face her if she ever found out. If she ever put two and two together knowing about Marco’s involvement. If you tell them I’m in the shit with Makarov- fuck, she’s too smart. Simon, it’d fucking kill me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t ever face her with the truth.” 

“You said it yourself. You were just a kid,” he attempts to rationalize. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Your words are sharp. Honed enough to slice the molecules in the air. Surprised the very air itself hasn’t ignited, you stare at him with wide eyes as you try to suck in the breath to continue. “It doesn’t matter. All of this, it stays between us. Please. Tell me you’ll keep this secret.” 

All rationality leaves Simon the moment your voice begins to warble. Eyes glistening with fat tears lurking in the corners of your eyes, his fingers twitch. His thumbs crave the moisture. To wipe at them until they’re nothing but a memory. Then he remembers yesterday — how you flinched at his touch — and he keeps his hands to himself. 

“Okay. Just you and me, then,” he confirms. “It’ll take me some time to get the money then, but we’ll sort this out, yeah?” 

It feels like forever since he’s last seen a smile flicker along your lips. It’s puny. Hardly noticeable, but it’s there. 

“Thank you,” you choke out. 

“Anythin’ for you, sweetheart.” 

Simon rises after that. Towers to his feet where he bends to grab the dirty plates sitting before you on the coffee table. He makes no comment about your half finished sandwich, but he does motion toward the unfinished glass of water. 

“Should drink up. Last thing you need is to be dehydrated,” he fusses. 

His footsteps grow quiet as he leaves the living room and you are left alone with nothing but the company of the television still droning in front of you. Water gushes through the faucet in the sink, and you hear the gentle clinking of china as he washes up. The domesticity of it all isn’t lost on you, and for once it isn’t agonizing to experience. You can sit there on that couch and reach for the glass before you and not feel the hot breath of obligation down the back of your neck. All Simon has ever done is give and give, and never once has he taken a single thing. 

When you raise the glass to your lips, you realize things feel lighter. Not enough to keep from crushing you — not enough to cleanse you — but enough for you to notice. It’s contradicting. Subtle, yet glaring. For the first time since you got in this mess, you realize you finally have another shoulder to bear this burden. Hands to dust you off when you fall to the ground; to pull the glass from your palms and bandage them. A heart to listen to when yours refuses to quell. 

Finally, you are not alone, and what a terrifying thought that is.

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART TWO

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, kidnapping, 141 are mean pirates, brief mentions of gore/death masterlist

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

The time you spent in the brig was frigid and isolating. Despite it being summer, the cold gusts of the sea had crept in through the thin cracks of the wooden ship, rising goosebumps on your skin and sending shivers wracking through your body. You were in no attire to accommodate the chill, only dressed in your barest of summer garments, thin and dirtied from the poverty your village lived in.

Silence became your new friend, while also your enemy. As much as you were one to appreciate the quiet of the world, the waves crashing along the sides of the ship were far too loud, taunting you with a grim reminder that you were lost at sea with no home to return to.

Your home was burned down to ash, surely with no survivors, given the state of havoc you’d returned to when Ghost told you to fetch your things. Your home didn’t treat you kindly, but it was still the place you’d grown up in and planned on dying peacefully. Now, you were a prisoner to pirates, ones only told about in silly fairy tales.

The stories of pirates had scared you when you were a young child. The elders had grouped together all children on summer nights such as this one, feeding them useless fables of the dangerous men and women that ruled the seas. They were ruthless, showing no remorse for the ones they tormented, uncaring of the bloodshed they splattered along native lands of the innocent.

That’s all they were when you were a child. Stories. Only meant to keep the youth away from the seas as not to witness them fall in and succumb to a painful death of drowning.

Now, though, it was your cruel reality. A nightmare. The pirates from those tales had been plucked straight out of the book and planted right into your life, erupting it into living hell.

Nobody had come to check on you after Ghost left you locked up in the cell. It had been hours since, the only telltale sign being the peek of sunlight poking through the small brig window and illuminating the room enough to shower you in a faint glow. There was nothing but a cot in the cell, the lower deck bare of anything useful.

Your escape would be fruitless. You’d thought about squeezing through the tiny window, but even if you managed, where would that leave you? Captured in the waves of the sea until you’d sink to the bottom in exhaustion.

You had to play it smart. Staying awake for hours alone had left you with plenty of rapid thoughts, some irrational. The best thing you’d decided in the end was to play along, gain their trust, and fulfill your role. As much as a part of you wished you were dead, it would be betraying your village, betraying Mary.

They needed to be caught. These pirates needed to pay for their crimes.

Gain their trust. Get off of the ship. Inform the nearest guard station.

When daylight fully broke, the sound of a creaky door caught your attention. More sunlight poured through the open doorway from the top of the stairs, showcasing one of the pirates. This time, it wasn’t Ghost, but instead, the one who had tossed you over their shoulder like a weak sack of potatoes.

Gaz said nothing as he descended down the stairs. In his hand was a steaming bowl, swirling around him like an ominous mist. His eyes locked on to yours, hardened from years of thievery and slaughter. There wasn’t an ounce of kindness in them, nor indication that he was anything besides a sailing machine designed to follow Captain’s orders.

You watched keenly as he approached your cell. He stood over you like a brewing storm cloud, shadowing you from the stretch of light behind him.

For a moment, the two of you sat there frozen. You, terrified and cautious. Him, off putting and brooding.

Breaking the tension, his free hand scrambled for the keys latched on to the loops on his trousers, inserting one of the keys into the lock. He paused, eyeing you as a warning not to pull a brainless move. When he was satisfied you wouldn’t dare, he tugged the cell door open before stepping inside.

“Here,” he muttered, crouching down to place the bowl of food in front of you. Upon further inspection, you realized it was porridge. Bland and colorless.

You had no appetite after the horrors you’d seen. The sight of food had your stomach twisting, filling with rotten bile that begged to escape you and paint the floor beneath you.

Brimming with rage and seethe, you did the first thing that came to mind. Your hands picked up the bowl, carefully guiding it up to your mouth in attempts to seem starved. Gaz watched carefully, face set in firm lines that bristled a resentful itch inside of you.

With a turn of your hands, you tossed the porridge directly at Gaz, coating him in the piping liquid, chunks of vegetable that had been carelessly tossed in for flavor slipping down his front. His shirt and trousers were drenched, staining with the lifeless meal.

His face morphed into one of surprise before quickly shifting course. Instead, he was angry, eyebrows pulling taut, scowl curling on his lips. His eyes darkened impossibly more, filling the warm pupils with a menacing black.

“You fuckin’ wench,” he hissed, standing from his crouch to angrily swipe at the food that littered his clothing. It fell to the floor in a mushy mess right in front of you. Due to his aggression, a few stray chunks splattered back on to you in retaliation.

Realizing what you’d done, you tensed up, shuffling back from your place on the floor until your back hit the splintering walls of the ship. Gaz let out a roaring groan in irritation, sending a daggering glare your way.

“You are not hungry?” he asked tauntingly. He stepped out of the cell, slamming the door shut and locking it up tight. “Starve then. You will learn soon enough.”

Watching with widened eyes, he left the brig, grumbling angry curses to himself. When he shut the doors of your escape, you were met with sickening silence once again. The sound of waves taunted you, whispering insults in your ears for being such a stupid girl.

The pact you’d made with yourself was already in ruin. Befriending the pirates would be a difficult task if you couldn’t swallow down your enmity, and now you’d gone and made a foe.

Nobody returned to your cell for the rest of the day. It was punishment, that much you could figure out. Your stomach grumbled with desperate pleas, yet you could do nothing but wallow in your own acrimony for the remainder of the night.

When morning rose, you were awakened by the sound of the door once again. The light was blinding as it invaded the room, temporarily blocking your view of the person who’d stepped inside. When your eyes adjusted, you were faced with another pirate, the one who had held Mary down while you pleaded with him to release her.

Gaz stood beside him, arms crossed to appear larger. His face was unreadable, but you could feel the tease of resentment fluttering in his eyes.

“Not goin’ to toss yer breakfast on me, are ye?” the other snickered, eliciting a glare from Gaz. The pirate stepped forward, unlocking your cell and slipping inside. This time, he held the stale porridge while Gaz remained a pace behind him. “I know yer starvin’, so don’t be a prude. Eat up, aye?”

He set the bowl in front of you, just as Gaz had done. Remaining crouched in front of you, he made a gesture of his head towards the steaming meal, a toothy grin on his face.

You knew better than to feel relieved at the kindness. He was a pirate, just as the others, and he was cruel and unruly. Though, thinking back on your plan, his youthfulness may be a much easier one to befriend.

“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly with a respectful bow of your head. You reached for the bowl, gathering it in both hands. Gaz and the other studied you, seemingly waiting for a repeat of dirty laundry. It never came, though, and you lifted the wood spoon to your lips, swallowing down the first bite.

Just as you thought, it was bitter. How one could even make porridge bitter, you were unsure, but your stomach made no protest to the grainy oats. In fact, it was rather appealing, having been starved for two days.

“Take it ye like it, then?” the one pirate hummed, cocking his head at the display. “Get used to it, birdie. It’ll be yer meal for majority of yer time here.” He shot you another grin, resembling a mangy cat.

The reminder of your permanent stay was a difficult one, but your plan played over in your head. You wanted to go home, though it was no more, and you wanted your freedom back. Neither would be possible if you didn’t show kindness in return.

“What’s your name?” you questioned, making a poor attempt at conversation.

“Soap,” he introduced proudly. You didn’t mean to, but the name made you snort, triggering a light cough from the porridge you’d been in the middle of swallowing down.

“Soap is an… interesting name,” you grimaced. Soap didn’t seem to mind the back-handedness, only keeping that signature grin that was beginning to grow a bit hard on the eyes.

“Aye, got the name from bein’ a bit too rowdy. Price wanted to wash my mouth out.” His own words had him cackling, loud and boisterous in the cramped brig. Gaz had no reaction, opting for the hardened look that was practically piercing into you like thousands of knives. “What’s yer name, birdie? Got to learn who our new medic is.”

You wanted to remind him that you weren’t a medic. Not a professional one, anyway. You knew the bare minimum of proper medical etiquette and your medicines Ghost had told you to bring with were simply experimental mixtures. But you also knew that he wouldn’t listen nor care.

“The village called me dove,” you explained, swallowing down more porridge. It was warm in your mouth, coating your throat with gooey goodness. “Though, I don’t think it was much out of kindness.”

Soap hummed in acknowledgement, shooting a lopsided smile and a nod of his head. “Not quite a pirate name, dove, but it’ll do.”

“I’m not a pirate,” you defended with a frown.

“Ye are now,” he reckoned mindlessly, shrugging a lazy shoulder. Soap stood from his position, straightening up next to Gaz. “I’ll give ye some advice to be a part of this crew, dove. It’s not nice to throw porridge at a poor lad like Gaz.” Soap clapped Gaz on his shoulder, earning a scowl, which he ignored.

Your eyes shifted from Soap to Gaz, taking in the pure annoyance radiating off of him in waves. It was undeniable, practically filling the room’s atmosphere with black mist.

“I apologize,” you forced out, though that bitter part of you denied it. You wouldn’t feel sorry for these pirates. After all, they didn’t feel bad for the innocent lives they ruined.

Gaz’s nose twitched at your faux remorse, staring at you for a beat too long before turning away. He made no move to talk to you, but it wasn’t a blatant refusal of your apology. Perhaps he was just a tough nut to crack with a soft sweetness on the inside, even for a pirate.

The two men left you alone in the brig once again, only returning to give you meals as needed. It was terribly lonely the more the weeks went on with no move to release you from your cell. It was as if none of them trusted you, despite them being the ones to kidnap you. They burned down your home, slaughtered your people, and yet, wouldn’t allow you a chance to taste a sliver of freedom.

It was agonizing to wait, but you kept up your facade as much as you could, dripping with poisoned honey every time Gaz or Soap entered the brig with means to feed you.

Price or Ghost hadn’t made an entrance to see you. For the most part, you were grateful for it. In just the couple of weeks Soap and Gaz had been feeding you, they were warming up to you, slow and steady — Soap more than the other.

Gaz still had his reservations about you. He was reclusive, always standing on guard as if the shadows in the wall were prepared to attack at any given moment. It was better than before, where he had treated you like a burdening dog who he couldn’t rid himself of, but the progress was dwindling.

Soap was much more gracious. While he was obnoxious, he was much more welcoming company. You had no desire to truly befriend these pirates, but if any were to be the most tolerable, it was Soap.

Price and Ghost, though, were a mystery. Their absence made crucial falters in your meticulous plotting. You wanted out of the cell so you may roam the creaky decks of the ship, but the dream simply wouldn’t be possible without their trust.

It wasn’t until the fourth week of your imprisonment that the storyline had shifted. Rather than Soap bringing you your meal for the night, it was the Captain himself, standing tall and brute in front of your barred enclosure.

Unease rattled through your bones at his sudden appearance. You weren’t expecting him, nor were you prepared to face the very man who had slain your village with the help of his men.

He observed you like a lab rat, studying every movement like a variable in his experiment. It was prodding and exposing, leaving you sitting in your cell with a heavy lump in your throat.

“Soap tells me you’re warmin’ up to him,” he claimed, breaking the thick silence that smothered the air. He paced back and forth in front of your cell, eyes focused in on you. “Figured I’d properly introduce myself, seein’ as we’ll be spendin’ a lot of time together.”

You swallowed the rock in your throat, unmoving from your position on the floor. It was far from comfortable, but the cot was worn and dirty, so the floor became your only friend in the midst of all your dispair.

“I see,” you managed, clearing your throat. Price continued his relentless pacing, hands crossed behind his back in a formal manner. Ironic, really, considering his ruthless occupation.

“Dove, was it?” he asked. You nodded wearily. “A shame, really. Doves are lovely things, beautiful creatures made up of the purest white. Yet your village had called you it in ridicule. Or so I heard.”

Price was a man that spoke in riddles. He spouted conversation in the form of poetry, only tainting its beauty when angered. It was both unnerving and intriguing for a pirate. He wasn’t dirtied like you’d heard in childhood tales.

“I suppose they did,” you agreed with a small frown. The anxious pit in your stomach only grew, triggering alarm bells telling you that this man was an enigma. He wasn’t to be trusted.

“And why is that?” Price questioned. He ceased his pacing to face you properly, and you wished he’d return to it. His stature was that of a behemoth, overpowering and menacing, much like Ghost had been.

“Why did they call me dove?” you responded in confusion.

“Why did they ridicule you,” he corrected.

The statement made you pause. You hadn’t really thought about your townspeople dumbing you down to a mere crazy girl with too much ambition. You were the talk of the village within your age group as well as the occasional elder who tsked at you for never marrying.

The relationship between you and your people was one of complexity. While you loved them as your own, they battered you every chance they had. Hell, even Lucius himself had outed you to a group of pirates without care in the world. The very man who had spent countless months in attempts to make you a pretty village wife had sent you to your early grave to save his own ass.

“They thought I was different,” you explained woefully. “It is not normal for a woman to partake in medicine, let alone education. Doves are beautiful, yes, but they’re also adventurous. It is a dangerous conviction to be compared to as a woman.”

Price cocked his head to the side, filling the air with silence. You weren’t sure why you felt the need to explain yourself to a dingy villain such as him, but you feared that if you weren’t honest in your conversation, he’d be able to sniff out your deception from miles away.

“Who has told you it is not normal?” Price asked, and once again, he had stumped you.

“It is not a difficult thing to digest, Captain. Women do not involve themselves in ambition.”

“They quite do,” he retorted. You stared up at him through the bars, your own head cocking. You didn’t trust his word, but a shriveled piece of you was curious. “Sure, it is not acceptable in certain places, but it is quite popular.”

You blinked at him, before staring at the wooden floor, pondering.

You had been expecting the Captain to treat you with hostility, to throw nasty words your way with the excuse of being a pirate. That was what you had been told in adolescence, how dirty they could be, but he was calm.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Price said. He leaned forward to rest his forearms on the bars of your cell, standing over you with only that barrier separating you. “I am not a cruel man. You may think differently, and for that, I do not care. But I will say that I believe you will have a much better life upon my ship.”

His words were a mix of sweet venom being spat at you. While they could be perceived as kind, there was an underlying message, one you couldn’t decipher.

“You burned down my village and killed my people. You kidnapped me to be your medic on your ship,” you defended, unable to hold back the taste of lingering resentment.

You had nearly forgotten why you were there with Soap and Gaz visiting to shift your mind elsewhere. You almost dismissed your own plan of escape. Price had reminded you without realizing, and now, your heart felt heavy once again.

“Ah, yes. The people that willingly sacrificed their own in effort to save themselves,” Price mused mockingly. The words stung. “Yes, we took you against your will. I will admit that. But your people treated you far worse.”

“You do not know a thing, Captain,” you spat.

Price cocked his head once more, resting his forehead on the forearms that lay upon your cell. “Aye, I do not,” he admitted. “But I know a bird with clipped wings when I see one. Perhaps you’ll be grateful when you learn to accept things as they are.”

You wanted to retort, wanted to get the last word in, but he was right. You barely knew the Captain and yet, he had read you like a novel, flipping through your pages and memorizing them from one single look through.

It felt dehumanizing. He was cruel and vicious, as were his men. They were nowhere near saviors, yet he spoke to you as if he was. It sickened you to the core, but there was no denying his brutal honesty.

Price offered you a lazy smile before standing straight, arms falling to his sides. “I suggest gettin’ used to your new life. You’ve got no home to return to anyway.”

He retreated from your cell as if he hadn’t slapped you in the face with a dose of reality. His boots were heavy and aggravating as they trudged up the stairs towards the upper deck, where he promptly shut the door on you, leaving you alone once again.

Your escape plan was falling into shambles before it had even began to fester. 

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (32/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Some things are better left unsaid.

Warnings: 18+ (mentions of previous smut), angst

Word Count: 2.7k

series masterlist

previous part

A/N: sorry for making you wait for so long! please don't kill me. feedback is appreciated!

You feel Charles' fingers on the back of your neck as they press gently into your skin. Your forehead rests against his bare shoulder while your arms are wrapped loosely around his waist. You hold onto him, trying to get your breathing under control as your thoughts jump wildly through your head. 

In your entire life, nothing has ever felt as good as the last half hour. Like an echo, you can still feel the warmth coursing through your body as Charles helped you jump over the cliff. His hungry gaze is etched in your memory, as is the feel of his skin against yours. 

You breathe in and out deeply and Charles presses you closer to him, even though it's barely possible. As you remove your head from his shoulder, his hand slides from the nape of your neck down your back, where it joins his other hand resting slightly above your butt. 

As you look at him, he smiles lovingly. "Hi." 

There's a warm sparkle in his green eyes and you'd love to lose yourself in them and drown. He moves you a little on his leg to make it more comfortable for both of you, but you're a little sensitive between your legs so you close your eyes and scrunch up your face. 

"Are you okay?" he asks softly, brushing a strand of hair out of your face before placing his hand on your cheek. You snuggle against it and enjoy the warmth. 

"Mh-hmm." 

Charles' hands lift you up a little so that you can wrap your legs around his hips. As you sit astride him and he pulls you close to him, you feel his hard-on pressing against your crotch. As if dazed by the sensation, you open your eyes and realize that your faces are so close that the tips of your noses are almost touching. 

"I'm sorry," he apologizes softly, a blush rising to his cheeks. "Just let me -" he begins the sentence and makes an effort to push you off him, but your hands, which were still on his hips a moment ago, settle on his shoulders and hold him tight. He looks at you, a little confused, but you can only smile. 

"It's okay," you answer him. The thought that you're the reason for his condition causes the warmth that has been running through your whole body to build up between your legs again. Ashamed that you would like to jump him, this time to do more than just rub yourself over his thigh, you hang your head so you don't have to look at him. 

Charles puts his lips to your forehead. "We should go to sleep," he murmurs against your skin. "It's getting late."

Sleeping is the last thing you want to do. You want to close the gap between you and kiss him until you can't breathe. You want to feel his hands moving between your legs, his fingers pushing your shorts aside and touching you where you pulse for him and you need him the most. You want his lips on your neck, his bare skin on yours. You want to lie under him, his whole weight on you, while he makes you his own and you burn for him like the sun. 

"We should," you reluctantly agree with him, but neither of you makes any effort to break away from the other. Instead, you stay in each other's embrace, enjoying the warmth and security you give each other. You rest your cheek against his shoulder so that the tip of your nose nudges his neck and inhale his scent, which you can't seem to get enough of. 

Charles nuzzles his cheek against yours. "Are you tired?" 

You shake your head slightly. "No. Are you?"

"No," he breathes. His fingertips slip tentatively under your shirt, where they gently draw small circles on your bare skin. They travel up your back, over your side, until they stop at the swell of your breast. "There are so many things I'd rather be doing." His confession makes your blood race and you move as close to him as you can, but as your lips graze the soft skin on his neck, he takes his hands off your ribs. "But we have big plans tomorrow. And we need to be fully rested for that." 

As he pulls his hands out from under your shirt and gently pushes you off his lap, you suddenly feel cold. "What do you have planned?" you ask him, a little crestfallen, as he creates some distance between you and lies down on his side of the bed. You silently spread the blanket over you and try to restore the warmth that had enveloped you until a moment ago. But nothing compares to Charles' warmth. 

"You'll see," he smiles, resting his head on his forearm behind him. "But I think you'll like it."

You raise your eyebrow but don't respond any further, lying down instead. The distance between you both bothers you - more than you'd like to admit - but after what just happened and the conversation this morning, you don't know where you both stand. 

"I shouldn't have let it get this far," Charles said in the morning. "We're friends and the last thing I want is to lose you over this."

"Nothing changes," he promised you in the night . "We'll stay friends. I promise."

So why can't you shake the feeling that there's this insurmountable distance between you? An ocean of unspoken things that no one dares to talk about. But even if you dared, you wouldn't know what to say. 

There's no denying that you two are friends. You've both proven that to each other more than once. And, like him, you don't want to lose him as a friend under any circumstances, you're too fond of his friendship for that. 

But you can't deny that there's something else between you. Something more. More than friendship, more than roommates. You seem to be completely at the mercy of the attraction he exudes. You are powerless when it comes to Charles. But you don't know what exactly it is that draws you to him like an invisible string. 

This feeling is new to you. Not once in your relationship with Raphael did you feel the same way about someone as you do now about the man with whom you share your bed and the depths of your soul. And although this new feeling scares you, you want more. More of the feeling. More of Charles. 

You want everything with him. 

"What are you thinking about?" Charles asks after you've snuggled up in your comforter and are now staring at it. 

You can't tell him exactly what's going on in your head. You can't tell him that you miss his lips on your neck, the way his fingertips dug into your ass when you came on his thigh. You can't tell him that you long to feel him between your legs and watch him let himself go. 

And you certainly can't tell him that you want more from him than the friendship he's offering you. Because that's all you're going to get from him. But that's okay - you'll take whatever he gives you. Even if the little spark of hope inside you craves more than nightly cuddles and gentle smiles exchanged across his mother's dining table.

Especially because what you just did is definitely not something normal friends do.

You shrug your shoulders. "Christmas."

Charles turns to you. "Christmas? Why Christmas?"

You curl your lips into a thin line. Why Christmas? "'Cause it's two days away and I haven't got you a present yet." 

Charles reaches out and grabs your hand and when you place it in his without thinking about it, as if it were instinct, he pulls you close without much effort. He rests your head on his chest and wraps one arm around your middle as his hand draws circles on your back again. "I don't want a gift from you."

His warmth, which you missed a moment ago, envelops you like a warm blanket and you press closer to him without another thought. "Why not? Friends give each other presents." You place your hand on his bare chest and feel his heartbeat under your fingertips. 

"Because I don't want to." His tone is warm but firm, as if he leaves no room for discussion. 

"Why not?" you ask him, wanting to look at him but leaving your head in place. "I'd like to give you a present. For everything you've done for me."

His grip on you tightens. "When will you understand that I don't want anything in return from you? That all I want from you is your friendship?"

His heartbeat under your hand feels strange as your own stands still. 

There's a huge difference between telling yourself something to protect yourself and hearing it spoken. And that the man whose thigh you just came on, who let you sleep on him, who reaches out to touch you at every opportunity, is saying what you fear - not even the warmth of his body can stop the cold shiver that runs down your spine. 

"Are you cold?" Charles asks, wrapping you tighter in the comforter. But that doesn't stop your body from shivering. 

"It's okay," you reply and move away from him to put some distance between you. All of a sudden, it doesn't feel right to snuggle up to him. It doesn't feel right to lie next to him and want him more than is good for you, knowing that he doesn't want anything more from you than friendship. "I'm not actually tired yet," you lie and open the comforter. "I'm going to stay in the living room and watch some Netflix so you can get some sleep."

As you get up from the bed, Charles sits up too. "You can watch TV here too. I don't mind." 

You reach for a sweater lying on the floor in front of the bed and pull it over your head. Charles's smell hits your nose and you briefly regret putting it on. "That's okay. You go to sleep. I'll join you later." 

As you reach for your cell phone, which is lying next to your pillow, Charles puts his hand on yours. "Mon amour, what -" 

"Good night, Charles," you interrupt him with a smile and withdraw your hand. "Sleep well. I'll see you in the morning." Without looking back, you leave the bedroom and pull the door shut behind you. 

As you sit on the couch in the living room, you don't quite know what to feel. 

From the beginning, there was this connection between you that you couldn't put your finger on until you called it friendship. And even that didn't do justice to how you felt about him. There was a reason why you wanted to build that wall around your heart, brick by brick. After Raphael, you wanted to protect yourself, and Charles had managed to bring the wall down again. 

And you allowed it to happen without putting up much of a fight. 

You didn't defend yourself against his "mon amour", against his closeness, his skin on yours. You didn't resist the feeling that spread through you thanks to him because you enjoyed it. 

This new feeling that you didn't know until you met Charles. This warmth that pulses through your veins when he touches you. This feeling of home that you feel when you are close to him.

Suddenly you understand what he meant by "being touched intimately". 

You miss his fingers on your ribs, his lips on your forehead, his hand on your thigh. You miss him in the places that are only visible to him and that are only meant for him. Your neck, your nape, the curve between your legs and the arch of your bottom. Your calf, the one he grabbed in the car when you met up with Kika and Pierre. 

It feels as if he's cut into your skin, invaded you and taken up residence in your soul, burned himself into it, and changed the chemistry inside you. As if you were only breathing for him and as if your heart was only beating for him. 

You lean your head back and cross your arms in front of your face.

Your head screams at you that this feeling is not right, that it is not reasonable to feel so strongly for someone. That it's not normal to long for someone so strongly that it burns through your veins like heat and sets your heart on fire. 

When you hear footsteps in the hallway, you take your arms away from your face. Your gaze lands on Charles, who is standing anxiously in the doorway, stepping from one foot to the other. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers barely audibly. His mouth curls into a thin line and he scratches the back of his neck. "I - I went too far. I thought you -" He takes a deep breath and exhales before looking at you. "Friends don't do things like that. I'll - you go back to bed. I'll sleep on the couch." 

No. No, no, no, no. 

As you open your mouth to stop him from talking, to stop him from going on and saying the thing you're most afraid of, he raises his hand. "Don't worry. The couch is much more comfortable than the one in the other apartment. I'll be fine for the few days until my new bed arrives. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable around me."

You almost jump up from the couch and want to push him against the wall and tell him that's the last of the feelings you'd want to feel around him, but as you stand in front of him, nothing comes out of your mouth. You feel tears in the corners of your eyes and hope he can't see them. 

But he does. Hesitantly, he lifts his hand and brings it to your cheek to wipe away the one tear rolling down your skin. His touch burns like fire and you have to hold yourself back from clinging to him. "I'm sorry you feel that way. That was never my intention. Please believe that." He swallows before removing his hand from your cheek. "All I wanted was your friendship. And that's where we should go back to. Shouldn't we, mon ami?"

Without waiting for your answer, he goes back into the bedroom and reappears a short time later with his bedding in his arms. He spreads his things out on the sofa while you can only watch him. When he seems satisfied with his work, he turns back to you. A broken smile adorns his face and there's a shine in his eyes that you can't put your finger on. 

"Good night, mon ami. I'll see you in the morning."

Without answering, you flee from the living room and close the bedroom door behind you. You quickly hide under the comforter, which smells of Charles, and feel a heavy pressure building up in your chest, taking your breath away. Tears stream down your cheeks, soaking your pillow, which is far too soft, and you just hope that this rotten feeling will finally end. 

All you can think about is Charles. 

Charles, who introduced you to his mother. Charles, who makes you laugh even when you don't feel like it. Charles, who would drop everything for you to make you feel better. Charles, who is your home. 

Even though you don't want to admit it, even though you fight it because it hurts too much to admit it, it's as clear as day and so obvious that you wonder how you could have been so blind until now. 

You never wanted just Charles' friendship. You wanted him from the very beginning. From the moment he suddenly appeared in your apartment and the moment you let him as a stranger sleep on your couch. Just like he sleeps on the couch in the living room now. But now he feels further away than he did back then, which breaks your heart even more.

You love him. And there's no going back.

[jarofstyles]

Lullaby

okay... so here we are with a new vamprry. pleaseee let me know what you guys think, I am a slut for vampy so I figured we needed some more of him in our life :)

Check out our Patreon for early access and 180+ exclusive writings!

WC- 3.1k

Warnings- mentions of blood, vampires, stalking (Edward Cullen has nothing on him), twilight slander, invasion of privacy, morally gray H, etc

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Harry hated that stupid movie. 

It wasn’t at all what real vampires were. While he wished it was as lighthearted as the movie tried to portray, it was a bit more classy and a lot more hierarchical than the humans would truly ever know. They walked among them, yes, but in more plain sight than they could ever guess. Celebrities, politicians, even royalty were of vampiric life. It wasn’t as silly as this movie suggested, nor did they solely feed off of animal blood. It did taste a bit gamey, did in a pinch, but he wasn’t one who could stomach that sort of pseudo vegan lifestyle. Ever since that movie had erupted from whatever depths of hell it was created, it had caused him nothing but strife. Years later the vampire craze had seemed to slow, but lines were nearly burned into his ears after being subjected to the comfort movie of his unfortunate neighbor and object of his current affection.

He knew it was creepy and perhaps the one thing he shared with the Cullen fellow. Watching her as she slept. 

It was dangerous, stupid even, for her to leave her windows unlocked and while part of him wanted to scold her for it, the other part was thankful. He didn’t have to form another guise to get into her house, he could enter directly where his little human laid her head at night and he could watch her breathe. Listen to her breaths and heartbeats underneath the television shows she left on to drown out any noises the old house may make. That’s what she said in her journal, anyway. 

He sat in the chair across from her bed, listening to the comfort of her heartbeats as he flipped through the pages. It was an invasion of privacy, he knew it, and while sometimes he felt bad… it was his way of getting to know her. Morals had never quite been his thing anyway, let alone when it came to the girl snoozing in her bed like a pleased kitten in a sunbeam. Maybe he was deluding himself, but he swore that she calmed the fitful sleep when he entered his room. Like her body knew of his presence. Instead of being on edge, like any sensible human would be in direct contact with a predator, she possibly had a miswire of her brain. 

For all of the things he knew about her, for his addiction to her scent and being near her, they didn’t talk much. Harry owned the house next to hers, which was originally a rental, but the moment he had caught her scent he knew he had to stay longer. 

It was unnatural if you were a human, sure, but if you were a vampire you would understand. There were certain people, certain scents, that drove you insane. That weighed heavily on your brain and acted as an addiction. Y/N had captured his attention the moment he had pulled into the street, Harry immediately clocked that she had been the source of the scent that had caught his nose a few miles away. He’d been meaning to park at his place and go on foot in search of it, but as fate would have it; she was right next door. 

To get an invitation into her house, it had been quite simple. Using his cat that didn’t exist as an excuse; he asked if he could come around and look for him in her yard. The little thing had gasped, nodding her head ecstatically and inviting him in without second thought, only with the promise of getting a pet in if he were to find the fictional cat. A good thing for him, but worrying for the future. Inviting people in, vampires in, was incredibly dangerous. He had wanted to scold her for it, to make her understand the danger she had put herself in, but it was much harder to do that when said woman had no idea that his kind could even be a threat to her. 

From there it had been waving when he left and she sat on her porch with her book, feet tucked under her body as she rocked on her glider. A pitcher of cherry limeade next to her, sweetening her blood in ways that made his fangs prick his lips. The human did things she had next to no clue affected him so deeply. One particular day he had been desperate to hear her voice, going as far as stealing her mail so he could deliver it to her himself. Knocking at her door, he’d been anxious with anticipation hearing her walk up to the front of her house. Water had been on and there was the faint scent of lemon dish soap lingering in the air along with the slight clinking of dishes, cluing him into the fact she had definitely been doing her dishes. When his obsession did answer the door, his breath had caught in his throat as he looked down at her. 

Something about that day had shifted his addiction to her into overdrive. Watching her eyes widen and the smile grow on her face, tendrils of hair falling out of her ponytail and her heartbeat picking up, he had found out that he wasn’t the only one with an interest. He’d handed over the mail, swallowing the lump in his throat as her smaller hand brushed his own. Warm, silky skin, lighting him up with the single touch. It had been a short interaction, mostly due to the burning in his throat as the wind picked up and washed him with her scent yet again. A muttered excuse had made even himself wince as he was mindful of his pace, walking back to his place and getting directly into his car. He’d needed a feed desperately if he was going to be around her. 

Harry had done a plethora of ridiculous things in order to slowly wiggle himself into the little human’s life, but getting a pet cat was probably the most ridiculous. A fluffy black cat with golden eyes and a raspy meow had been his pick, letting it have the run of the house and the yard because what if Y/N asked about it? The plan was to get himself intertwined in her life, so he had to have some truths to it. 

As oblivious as some humans could be, he knew his human was far more perceptive in terms of figuring out if people had things off with them. Her diary had said as much. 

Tonight, he had been chomping at the bit for her to go to sleep. Waiting outside her house, watching her shut it down and go upstairs as he scaled the large tree next to her room for a view. He could tell she was tired, but she sat for twenty minutes scribbling away into her notebook with a smile on her face and the pace of her heart upticking a few times, making him wonder what she was writing about. Was it him? Her certainly hoped so.

It was pathetic. If anyone knew of his wistful sighs and his borderline obsessive routine of slipping into her room one she fell into dreamland, they’d surely remind him that getting involved with a human was surely a terrible idea. It wasn’t unheard of, no, but it ended in disaster some of the time. The vampire counterpart going too far during a feeding, accidentally hurting them during sex, the human getting sick and them perishing leaving the eternal to go insane after. Even still, the threat wasn’t enough to keep him away from her. 

As he heard her breathing even out, he climbed slowly into her room and made sure to keep quiet as she hadn’t entered the deepest part of sleep yet. Usually he had some sort of control on his need to be around her but after their conversation in her backyard, he had been itching to get into her mind. 

The journal was a deep brown, suede strings around it with a few charms on the worn material. It wrapped around to keep it closed, reminding him of his own journals back in his estate. She cherished each one of her journals, it seemed, and he found himself liking her even more because of it. Humans could be so wasteful, so unaware of the things they produced. His human, though, she was mindful of her footprint. A slight smile twitched at the corner of his lips as he looked down at her sleeping form. Looming over her wasn’t the brightest idea, but something in his restless soul had calmed with the vision of her safe and snug in the warm blankets. 

His stomach was full from one of those dreaded blood packets. Nothing like the real thing, required heating, but he needed to ensure she was safe from him. With blood that made his mouth water, even with his strong restraint he wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. The idea of anything happening to her weighed heavily on him, twisting his stomach each and every time it came to light in his mine. “Gorgeous.” He murmured, brushing his knuckle against her cheek. The touch was a compulsion, unable to help it as he felt the warmth under his cool digit. Every time he limited himself to just a few fleeting touches, but he could feel it getting harder and harder staying away from her as the days went by. 

Mentally prying himself from her form, he took the journal in his hand and padded over to the armchair in the corner. It gave a perfect view of her sleeping face, the soft lines making his chest squeeze before he opened up the leatherbound book to the newest entry. 

‘I saw him again today. I haven’t spoken about him much in here but I think its time to. 

He is ungodly handsome. I’m talking, how are you real, greek god, roman statue good looking.’

He had to stifle a laugh, running his finger over the inked words. 

‘His name is Harry and we’ve met a few times, but today was the longest we spoke. I finally met his cat, Midnight, which is a less than original name for a black cat but I’ll let it slide. He was so gentle with him, picking him up and letting me hold him. He purred and was absolutely the cutest little thing ever, but I was distracted by his owner. Usually he doesn’t say much and originally I thought he didn’t like me or something, but I think he’s just shy.’

Another thing that made him have to seal his lips from reacting to. Harry wasn’t shy, he was cold. He kept to himself not because he was afraid, but because he wasn’t fond of communication. In her case, though, it was because he wasn’t sure he could keep from asking her to come over to his place and find a way to seduce her. To get her just as addicted to his presence as he was to hers. As morally gray as a creature could be, he didn’t want to force her affections. 

‘ He has the nicest voice. It’s quiet but dark and deep and I felt bad for thinking about what else it could say later on, but it’s not like he’d ever know. There has never been another person to his house that I’ve seen that looks romantic, but maybe he just like fuckbuddies. Sucks that hes my neighbor and I get dreadfully emotionally attached, otherwise I’d suggest that sorta thing. Maybe. It’s unlike me to feel so curious about a man considering I’ve been doing my best to try and stay true to my no dating year, but it’s incredibly hard not to want to see more of him.’

Sitting up in his seat, he didn’t suppress the smirk on his face as he read what she wrote down. Maybe one day he’d feel guilt about reading her private thing, but right now? He was fucking thankful he did. There was confirmation of returned interest, interest in more nonetheless. Usually the idea of more than a night of sex would send the vampire running, but his little human had bewitched him. There would be no world in which he could have a single night with her and give her up. Being more in tune with the more primal parts of him, he had the knowledge that it was already finding himself tangled in her web. This mere human trapping his affections in steel threads. 

‘I think I’m gonna try and feel him out a bit. Not in a creepy way or anything but, maybe take more initiative. The only problem with that is he is super intimidating and probably a bit out of my league, and I’ve got no damn clue if he’s single or even looking. At the risk of making a fool out of myself, I’m gonna try and see. Mama always did say you never got anything if you didn’t ask. I still can’t believe how many times i've quoted her in here. I wish she was around so I could ask her what to do.’

The smile on his face slipped as he was reminded of previous entries. His sweet little human was pretty alone in the world. She had some friends, was good with the other neighbors, but she had no family. She still had no clue it was him that left her the pie and stack of romance books outside her door on Christmas. He’d feel gutted at the idea of her spending it alone, especially after reading and knowing how badly she craved companionship. There was no true talk of what happened to her family other than there being an accident, but that was something he would let her tell him herself. 

‘I hope I’m not just reading into things because I’m a little desperate for someone to want me, but I swore I could feel him checking me out. He gave me a cute little smile and the motherfucker had dimples. DIMPLES! How is it possible for a man as severely handsome as him to look adorable when he smiled? God does indeed have favorites.’ 

It was definitely a stroke to the ego to know how attractive she found him, but the next paragraph was what really moved him. 

‘Above all of that, he seems pretty smart. Really intelligent, actually. He’s quite charming once he starts talking to you, and I felt like he was really giving me every bit of his attention. In a way it was a little overwhelming because I haven’t ever felt that way before from a man, but it was so nice to have someone give me their time without the distraction of phones or work or anything. We talked for probably about half an hour and I found myself getting closer to the fence, almost asking if he wanted to come in for a coffee or if he was down, cherry limeade. I didn’t want to seem desperate though, so I said bye first. Stupid on my part. He seems like the type of person who I could talk to for hours and not get bored. That's a rare type of person. Then again, maybe I am slightly delusional.’ 

If only she knew.

Harry closed the journal, diligently trying to replicate the way she had wrapped the suede around the leather before getting up and placing it back on her nightstand. 

“If only you knew that you make me feel so insane that I’d risk stealing a star for you.” His words were delicate, hopefully entering her dreams. It was abundantly apparent to him that she wasn’t given the proper affection in her life and It would be his job to provide.A challenge he was up for. His fingers found her face again, delicately tracing the curve of her nose as he tried to commit each mark on her to memory. It was interrupted, though, when she let out a little whimper in her sleep, making him freeze and his eyes widen. He was fully prepared to have to wipe her memories, to have her eyes fluttering open and screams leaving her throat, but instead she did the opposite. Hands emerged from under the blankets, lightly grabbing onto his wrist and pulling his cool touch onto her hot cheek. Silky smooth skin, slightly damp from the light sweat in her sleep nuzzled into his palm. He watched as limbs stretched under her before she curled up again and held his hand to her face, urging the touch to stay put.

She was asleep and sought him out. The grip on his sleeve lessened as she fell back into the slumber he was jealous of, wishing he could be in her head and see the things she had running around up there. The sweetest hum left her throat in a final act of settling, Harry allowing the urges to win and ran his thumb over the curve of said cheek.  It was astonishing to him, given that her body should be sensing the danger of having the monster who had dreamed of sinking his fangs into her throat, her wrist, her inner thigh, feasting on her blood- but maybe she could also sense that he wouldn’t want to hurt her. Just a taste. He could live with just a taste of her on his tongue. “Sweet little thing…” He swallowed, finding the urge more strong by the moment. All he craved was crawling into the bed with her, pulling her frame into his own and burying his face in the curve of her neck. He would take a little bite, just enough to get it on his tongue before he licked it closed. He wanted to feel her breathing against his hand and hear every shift she made at night, the rush of blood through her veins. It was surpassing the normal urges a vampire would have with his prey, but he had a feeling it had never been normal between them. He couldn’t change it overnight. His body softened as he leaned against the bed, a soft hum leaving his lips as he began to lightly sing the soft lullaby he had been coaxed into dreamland with as a child.

There was no moving him, not until the first hint of sunlight lit the sky azure. The best night of his life had been sitting on his knees by her bedside, allowed to have his cold skin warmed by her cheek as she had put it there herself. When he had to finally pull away, the warmth tingled in his palm as he pressed it to his own cheek and imagined how it would feel the day she let him warm himself from the source. However long that would take, he would wait along for her and let her cling to his unknowing hand to sing her the quietest lullabies to quell any fears she had.

[redcoralpot]

Tougher Than Nails - Mike Schmidt X M!Reader

Warnings/Details: NSFW content, implied substance abuse, alcohol, cowboy!reader, hankie/cowboy hat code.

Summary: Mike goes to a bar downtown in hopes of getting his mind off of court, but instead finds something much healthier.

A/N: Everyone should thank my boyfriend for this idea; he's always the one that reminds me that I am technically a 'cowboy'. He saves a horse very often.

Word Count: 1.8K

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Bars weren’t really Mike’s thing. Any alcohol he’s ever had tasted like crap, and becoming an alcoholic would just be another check on Aunt Jane’s list to prove to the court that he wasn’t suitable for custody. Hell, he swore her perfume was still clinging onto his nose hairs, and all he wanted to do was escape her. Escape reality, too. Mike remembered when his father used to do just that after Garret disappeared, drowning himself in the bitter liquid at night, his speech slurred. That’s why he was here, at a bar in downtown Afton, while Maxine stayed with Abby. He was desperate.

The building was crowded, delightful chatter and jazz music filling the air. Lights were strung along the wooden walls, narrowly dodging the black and white photos hanging by themselves. More customers squeezed in behind him; Mike frantically searched for any open spot in the room. Hallelujah– a single stool was left vacant near the serving counter, and Mike shuffled into it, shoulders tense. The bartender seemed to notice his presence, as she leaned towards the man, still shaking another person’s drink. 

“You’re a new face,” she rattled, “may I see your license?”

Mike fumbled with his wallet, sliding the card for her to see, “Uh, sure.”

“Right, you’re all clear; would you like to open a tab?”

A man cut in before he could answer, and for the first time, Mike got a good look at the person sitting beside him, “Just add whatever he orders to mine, Molly.” 

She shrugged, the key hanging from her left pocket jingling, “Easier for me.”

You chuckled, the brim of your hat covering your eyes. It was decorated with embroidery and leather, complimenting your purple button up shirt, though that was partially hidden by a black vest. Two hankies hung out of your back, left pocket, similar to Molly’s keychain. One was rust colored, but the other was a complimentary gray; Mike thought it was an interesting stylistic choice. 

“I’ll just have a beer, thanks.”

As the bartender turned, scribbling in a notebook, you inquired, “So, what’s a fine boy like you doing ‘round these parts?”

Mike grabbed the foaming beer that was placed in front of him, “I live nearby.”

“That’s not the only reason, is it?”

He hesitated to answer, instead choosing to take a long sip of the beverage. It burned down his throat, the flavor making his lips curl and his head a little more dizzy. Somehow, it loosened his will, and he found his lips moving without his permission. Your energy was just hypnotizing; he felt himself being pulled in.

“Needed a break from stress,” Mike admitted, picking at the glass’ label.

You cocked your head to the side, your hat tipping upward, “Just ‘cause you’re in a hole, doesn’t mean you gotta keep digging. Alcohol isn’t the cure to what you’re feelin’.”

“What am I supposed to do? Not even my medicine works anymore.”

“I go here for stress relief too,” you assured, downing a shot, “but not necessarily for the drinks.”

Your hand hovered over the small of his back, looking at him for consent. When he didn’t move away, you settled your fingers there, feeling a shiver run through Mike’s body. Some of the previous tension released from his shoulders, and he almost leaned back in relief. Many of the customers in this bar were paired with the same sex, unlike most of the movies he’d seen that included the subject. So, he supposed it wouldn’t look too weird if he did.

You elaborated, “People can be cruel, can’t they, sweetheart? Comin’ to a place like this, where everyone’s like me in some way or another, is a damn good bonus.”

“Like you?”

“Y’know,” you gestured to your handkerchiefs, “queer and such.”

He paused, “Ah.”

“You didn’t know this was a boy bar?”

Mike replied, “I kinda just looked up the closest bar to my house.”

…

“Good to know.” Your hand fell away from his back.

He almost chased it. Mike liked the feeling, the weight of your fingers pressing into such an intimate spot. However, he wasn’t tipsy enough for that, and controlled himself. He watched as you spoke to Molly, the lady’s eyes flicking towards him and back, and you slipped her the money needed to cover the tab. You tipped your hat towards Mike, a respectful way to put distance between you, before disappearing into the suffocating crowd. Molly side eyed him, sweeping away his bottle, before leaving as well. Mike swallowed, pulling loose skin from his bottom lip with his teeth. It was now, or never– perhaps alcohol wasn’t the only way, after all. You were right. 

Mike could still see the very top of your hat swerving above the crowd, and he trailed after it to the best of his ability. A random girl almost elbowed him in the face, and he was sure his shins would be bruised after tonight. Your shadow was reflecting in the glass door, growing fainter and fainter as you walked further away, your hips swaying. Mike pushed it open, the vision dissolving, and cold air stung his cheeks. The moon reflected off of car hoods, the only way he was able to see where he was running. His hand reached out and grabbed your arm, as you flinched.

Mike’s ears were red, probably from the alcohol, and you stared at him, “What’re you doing?”

“I don’t know,” was the only answer you got before your collar was jerked forward.

Your lips crashed violently with his; your teeth clicking as he struggled to pull you closer. Mike was still fisting your shirt as you brought your hands to cup his jaw and the back of his neck, trying to gentle the kiss. 

You mumbled against his mouth, “Better not be some experiment of yours, pretty boy.”

“Nope,” he whispered, the aftertaste of whiskey on his tongue.

His back hit the side of your car, and his hands moved from your collar to swinging his arms around your neck. Your knee found its way in between Mike’s thighs, pressing against his crotch, and his groan was swallowed by your lips. Mike whined when you trailed down, aiming instead for his neck. Dark marks and bites soon decorated the pale flesh, his blood dripping a contrasting splash of color. 

Tugging on his earlobe, you challenged, “Gonna come back to my place?”

Mike doubted he ever agreed to something so quickly.

The drive was long, too long in his opinion. Though, it was most likely only fifteen minutes, at most. Mike didn’t even have to walk up the driveway to your cabin; his legs were locked around your hips as you carried him through the door and up the stairs. He ground his groin against you, searching for any possible friction. You tossed him onto your bed, unbuckling your belt, holding it taut. The man in front of you wiggled back and spread his legs to make room for you. You snickered at how willing Mike was, considering his hesitation when you first met.

You regularly kept lube on the bedside table, just to be prepared for when you brought men home from the bar. However, this one was different in a way you had trouble putting into words, other than positive. His thighs shook as you massaged the liquid into his hole, a hand covering his mouth to prevent you from hearing his noises. Ah, now that wouldn’t do, would it?

In response, you tugged his hand off of his mouth, “Lemme hear you.”

Such pretty sounds from a pretty mouth, it was truly a shame. When Mike immediately went back to covering them up, you slid your fingers out of him, instead reaching for your abandoned belt. His eyes trailed after your hands as they bound his wrists together in front of him, almost akin to handcuffs. Mike couldn’t see much of your expression after your head dipped down, only the shit-eating grin playing on your lips. Of course, that was before you took your hat off by the crown and placed it firmly on his head, though it was a tad too big for him.

“Why don’t you keep that safe for me, sweetheart?”

For a second, Mike was confused. Keep it safe? Just what were you planning on doing? He felt a grip on his waist, right before his world spun around him, and the positions were practically reversed. The guard was now sitting on top of you, or more so your crotch, his thighs caging in your hips. Mike’s hair was disheveled and the light on the ceiling created a sort of halo around him, and fuck, did you think he was pretty. Only a few select people had ever gotten to wear your hat, and you could confidently say that he was the most beautiful in it.

You unbuttoned your jeans, letting your cock slip through the opening, “You ready?”

“I’ve never done this before.”

You had a grip on his waist again, slowly guiding him down. You didn’t thrust, didn’t force him to go fast, and allowed him his proper time to adjust, “How’s that feelin’?”

“G-good,” he shuddered, precum leaking from his tip, “think ‘m ready.”

“You haven’t seen the brunt of it yet, boy!” You grunt, thrusting the rest of you inside, brushing against Mike’s prostate. 

The man on top of you moaned, and the sound was so uncharacteristically loud that even he seemed surprised by it. Mike leaned down, resting his tied fists on your chest in order to keep his balance. His sweat dampened your collarbones, his drool smearing on your neck, and the pathetic excuse of a guard tried leaving kisses over the areas he could reach. You soon found a rhythm to your thrusts; groans were punched out of your throat on their own.

Mike could feel heat rushing through his brain, bringing tears that stuck to his eyelashes, covering any thoughts or hesitance he may have had before. That wasn’t enough for it– it spread like wildfire down his body, down to where your fingers were leaving bruises, and down to his red, leaking dick. Something deep was brewing inside of him, nothing he’s felt since his hormonal teenage years. Hell, he didn’t even have time to process it when you kissed his cheek, whispering in his ear that he’s such a needy slut; it exploded.

When he finally came to, he could feel his thighs twitching and your heaving, sticky abs below him. His eyelids felt heavy, and all he wanted to do was stay there with you. You were rubbing circles into his back, attempting to pull out, but a grumble from Mike made you stop. In fact, you were saying things, but it sounded muffled and far away. He took great comfort in your voice, no matter what you were talking about. It was getting farther and farther away, yet still managed to follow him into his dreams. For the first time since the incident with Garret, he did not have a nightmare. 

-

Taglist: @cannabrisano @kai_beanz @fandomz-brainrot @slimemakermas

[maroonswan]

Imagine coming home after a rough day at work to wrap your arms around Kirishima's waist. Your gracious husband being so much taller than you; you're essentially burying your face his back. You can feel the muscles move under his tee as he laughs, broad sholders bouncing.

"Babe, that tickles." He says, words muffled in your ears by the thump of his beating heart. He's so warm and homie like this, prepping dinner for you both on a week day. Veggies and meat sizzling deliciously away on the stovetop so that you'd have a hot and healthy meal without ever having lifted a finger. Really, this talented charismatic man could be doing a million other things right now, but instead, he's here thinking of you.

It just makes you want to nuzzle your face into him more and drown in the clean but musky scent of his cologne. So, you do to Eijioro's disbenefit.

"Hey! Seriourlsy," He wheezed between uncontrollable giggles "if you keep that up I'm going to burn this shit!"

A serious concern, yes. But, you didn't really much care as your fingers worked under his top, darting along along his stomache and ribs.

Let dinner be ruined, let you have to order take out, if only you were able to stay with him like this forever.

[sanctus-ingenium]

we need to talk about Inprnt.com

Following a really good post with more screenshots and evidence by @dynasoar5 i'm going to talk about my own experiences with @inprnt and why I am about to put my shop on indefinite hiatus from Monday the 14th of August.

First of all I'll say that since starting my print shop last year it has been a significant help to me financially - I was able to not worry about affording car insurance or motor tax (together commonly over a thousand euro) when I bought my first car, for example. I am immeasurably grateful to anyone who chose to buy one and I treasure all the pictures I've been sent of my prints hanging up on people's walls. Right now they are displayed in a real (if small) art exhibition in my home town.

(top right print is not from inprnt though)

They're great prints. Never had any complaints about them. But here's what's going on behind the scenes.

Earlier this year, around March or April, Inprnt sales started increasing in regularity. I'd made as much as $600 a week during previous sales when I made proper promo posts here, but with this increase in regularity, I felt that I couldn't make promo posts every single week. And then one day, I'm not sure when tbh, the sale just never ended. It just didn't stop having that "Ending soon! 15% off your order" banner at the top of the site. Right now it says "Final Hours: $5 Worldwide shipping and save up to 35% off your order!" and not even for a second do I believe in this final hours bullshit. It's been 'final hours' for weeks now. Months, even.

Why is this a problem? Well, how tf am I meant to make a promo post for a sale that is always "ending soon!!" and then never ends. One week it'll say "this weekend only!!" and then when the weekend is over, the sale banner just changes its wording and the sale doesn't end. I can't promo this, it makes me look like a liar and a skeevy salesman by association! It makes the site look like it's 1 week from crashing and burning, and the site owners are just scrabbling to suck as much money from artists as possible before they drown.

And they are sucking money from us. To peel back the curtain, Inprnt money can only be transferred to my paypal account 30 days after the sale is made, just in case the order is cancelled and refunded. This means I used to make one withdrawal every couple of months, when there was enough build-up of money to make it worthwhile. It also forbids withdrawing any sum under $50 btw. I would make a withdrawal request and then, after a 10 business day wait, it would reach my Paypal account.

Not anymore! The past few withdrawals have taken over a month to complete. They are straight up keeping my earnings from me for longer the agreed period. This was my last fulfilled withdrawal:

Note the date.

Almost two months.

And here is the latest withdrawal request that still has not been fulfilled.

It's coming up on 1 month and if the pattern continues, it could literally be November or December by the time I fully clear all sales.

So what's going to happen to my print shop? Because my art is currently being exhibited with a QR code linking to the shop, I can't close the shop this week. Instead I will close it on Monday the 14th of August, next week. That means that on the 14th of September, I can withdraw all of the remaining money without having any left over. My account balance will go to 0 and stay there. Although I'll de-list my prints I will leave my account there, because at the end of the day I don't want to leave Inprnt. It still offers the best artist margins and as I'm now unemployed after graduating, the additional support is such a load off my mind. So this is a chance to wait and see - if they improve their services, I'll happily re-open.

It's a big deal to me because selling prints is sort of my ideal life as an artist. I never had the attention span or self-discipline for commission work and I found that it left me creatively stagnant. I always want to try new things, new concepts and ideas, and being able to think "yeah, people will like this as a print" while I experiment is honestly very reassuring. And I know that in going on hiatus, it'll break a lot of "buy a print" links in my circulating posts. Oh well lmao. If you want to buy a print right now - go ahead, it might be your last opportunity. Another way to support me would be to check out my ko-fi for once-off donations or some nice sketchbooks/comics/book samples you can buy, or subscribing to my Patreon.

As of right now, Inprnt owes me $381 (the unfulfilled request submitted above for $186.60 and my current standing balance of $194.80 which takes 30 days from each transaction to clear).

[summercourtship]

stay to burn (only to drown instead): chapter nine: treachery [part II]

masterpost | ao3 link

jonathan crane x reader; bruce wayne x reader; edward nashton x reader | warnings: canon typical violence, sexual content | word count: 6937 words

DISCLAIMER: these chapters are not meant to be read alone. not every chapter has content for one of the three pairings listed. this is an ongoing fanfiction that I am cross-posting here on tumblr, not a series of one-shots.

chapter one |previous part

For reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you were actually looking forward to being in the asylum without Jonathan. Maybe it was because you were planning on filing papers for an entire afternoon, sitting by yourself in the basement and organizing patient records. No inmates to bother you, no nurses to come pull you away from your job, no Jonathan to add more tasks to your to-do list. Just you, your thoughts, dust, and some files.

You clocked in quickly, heading upstairs. Already on your desk were a few crates of folders to be organized and put away. After putting your purse in the lockable drawer and slipping the lanyard with your ID and keys over your neck, you embraced the crate and began your journey to Jonathan’s second office in the basement.

While you rarely took the elevator, it was unfortunately necessary for this trip. The ancient elevator begun its slow descent into the bowels of the asylum, your eyes tracking the numbers on the small screen as they went from 2 to 1 to G to B1 to B2. Then the doors slid open with a faint chime and you stepped out, readjusting your grip on the crates.

It was rare that you came down here, even on days when Jonathan had meetings with his patients. You disliked the cracked, yellowing tile and musty smell of the basements enough to avoid bringing your paperwork down here until you couldn’t put it off anymore like today. The only benefit of the basement was that no one else liked coming down here, so you would be safe from prying eyes and other workers trying to rope you into helping out elsewhere in the asylum.

Juggling your boxes, you managed to unlock Jonathan’s office, nudging the door open with your hip. Flicking the light on and grabbing the crates again before they tumbled out of your hands, you rushed toward the desk in the center of the room to drop them with a thud. Wiping your hands, you looked around his office. It looked virtually the same as the last time you were in it, faded and dusty like the rest of Arkham’s basements. The dented file cabinets along the left wall were all you needed to worry about.

Quickly, you got to work. Pulling files out of the crate and making sure they were complete before finding the cabinet they belonged to and shutting them away became your only focus. You’d digitized everything already, so the physical copies were just for posterity reasons.

At least two hours passed, with you only needing to go back to your office once to grab a few more crates and a snack from your desk. The granola bar was incredibly unsatisfying, but you were content to sit on Jonathan’s desk and swing your legs while you chewed. And then you got straight back to work.

Towards the end of your second to last box, you were putting a file away in a bottom drawer when the drawer jammed, stuck on something.

Sighing, you tried to close it again, only for the drawer to stick once more. Pulling the drawer out, you peered into the cabinet, wishing you had brought your phone down to use the flashlight to see better.

Finally, once your eyes adjusted to the low lighting, you noticed what was causing the problem.

Stuck in between the drawer and the outside cabinet was a manila folder. Simple. Unassuming. A bit rough for wear, bent out of shape with some scuffing, but that was to be expected considering it fell out of the drawer.

Cocking your head to the side, you reached into the cabinet to grab the folder, yanking it out of the crevice it had lodged itself into. Turning it over in your hand, you examined it. It had no labels, nothing to indicate where it belonged in Jonathan’s office. Or if it even belonged there in the first place. Sighing, you flipped open the front, hoping to find a clue.

But instead of a patient file, you were met with a rather complicated diagram of a chemical formula. Frowning, you searched for any indication of what, exactly, it was you found when you saw the notes surrounding the diagram.

Heightened anxiety response.

Can cause hallucinations- more?

Pure, undiluted fear.

With a single finger, you traced the formula, not realizing that your hands were shaking until your finger veered off course. Unless you were reading the formula and its notes wrong, this was for a gas.

Scarecrow’s fear gas.

Overwhelmed by the sinking feeling that you should have realized something else was going on with Jon a long time ago and maybe you had, somewhere in your subconscious mind, you dropped the folder like it had burned you. Softly, it landed on the desk.

“Shit.”

Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of this new information- Jonathan was the Scarecrow, how on earth had you not noticed before- when a low creaking thud reaches your ears from somewhere else in the hospital.

Your head snapped up from where your eyes had been focused on the folder, your breathing stilled as you tried to figure out what that sound could have possibly been, heart racing even faster.

Then, like something out of a horror movie, the lights flickered above you, their humming interrupted as they flashed and faded.

Nervously, you looked up at the single light in the room, watching as it flickered again, once and then twice before you’re plunged into the cavernous darkness of Arkham Asylum’s basement.

Slowly, with your hand still on Jonathan’s desk, you moved towards where you remembered the door being. Your eyes are refusing to adjust to the darkness, keeping you in the inky black that only happens when you are far below ground.

There was no light here to be let in.

Finally, your hand grasped the thin door handle, cold against your palm. You peered out of the tiny window on the office door, watching as the emergency lights slowly flickered on, red lights that were staggered far enough apart to be of assistance to no one and that offered no illumination.

You could barely see enough to make out the door across the hallway from Jonathan’s, let alone down the hallway.

The asylum looked like a nightmare and you were stuck deep in its depths, reaping the consequences of your curiosity. If you had just done your job and not bothered with that file that wasn’t yours, you would’ve been back at your desk by now.

But because you hadn’t- because you were sticking your nose where it didn’t belong- you were stuck in a labyrinth with barely any light to guide your way. You just hoped there wasn’t a minotaur somewhere waiting in its depths for you.

Worse, worse than the lights being out and you realizing you weren’t quite sure of how to get out of the basement was the distant shuddering noise of cells opening. Low metallic clunks, one thud after the other, the heavy locks and bolts of the cells disengaging filling the air.

You almost laughed at how horrifying it all was.

Because of course, you just had to be in the bowels of an asylum as its inmates were starting to escape. With all the other things you’ve been through in this city, this was just the natural conclusion of it all. You pat your pocket, hoping to feel the comforting rigidity of your phone before remembering that it was currently in your desk. Not that it would be of any help for you in the basement. Or anywhere in the asylum at all, because the service was absolutely awful within its metal and cinder block walls.

But still, you would have liked to have it as a sort-of security blanket. It wouldn’t actually protect you against anything, no, but it gave you the illusion of protection and that was enough. Without it, you felt naked and defenseless.

Dread settled in your stomach at the prospect of journeying up through the asylum to your desk to grab it and then back down to leave, all while trying to dodge the literal criminals that were now roaming the halls.

Of course, you could always stay inside Jonathan’s office- lock the door, huddle in a fetal position under the desk and wait for everything to be over. You looked back at his desk, wincing when you caught sight of the open folder with the toxin’s blueprint on it. It was barely visible in the dim lighting but you could faintly make out the chemical composition, Jonathan’s elegant handwriting annotating its surface. But just seeing the folder again was enough to dissuade you from staying in the office.

You turned to the door, about to turn the handle when you had a quick thought. Rushing to the desk, you snatched the folder off the surface and shut it, hiding the formula away. For a moment, you consider taking it with you. But even if you did take it, was it enough to incriminate Jonathan? Did you even want to incriminate him? Shaking your head to clear your crowded thoughts, you put that question to the side to deal with when you weren’t in the middle of an asylum break-out. Taking one last look at the folder, you slipped it back into one of the file cabinets. It certainly wasn’t the correct one, but it was enough to hopefully prevent anyone else from seeing it.

And to keep Jonathan from realizing you knew before you could figure out your next move.

Returning to the door, you took a few deep breaths to try and steel yourself before you turned the door handle, opening the door. You half expected something to jump out at you when you peeked your head over the threshold, but it was eerily silent in the basement. Distantly, you could hear the noise of people moving quickly, commotion that wasn’t dissimilar to that of a city street. But at least for now you were alone and there was no imminent threat to your safety. You didn’t allow yourself to breathe a sigh of relief, saving that for when you were out in the free world again.

You began walking, one hand against the wall as you attempted to remember exactly how to get out of the basement through any other means than recognizing landmarks. Which you weren’t able to see because it was two steps away from being pitch black.

After walking for a minute, your hand was met with a button set into the wall, which didn’t light up as you ran your palm over it. Squinting in the darkness, you made out the chipped paint on the outside of the elevator.

Despite knowing what would happen, you pressed the button. As expected, the elevator was down. Though even if it somehow was still powered up, you wouldn’t have trusted it to stay running while you were inside. You continued past it, your hand keeping its place on the cinderblock wall. As long as you stayed close to the wall, you wouldn’t trip over anything and wouldn’t miss any hidden hallways.

Then, it seemed, your luck had decided to run out- if you had even had any left- because a herd of stomps and shouts echoed down the hallway. Suppressing your gasp, you skirted down the hall, not caring if you ended up getting turned around. Right now, the last thing you wanted was to meet a group of inmates and the only thing on your mind was escaping them before they noticed you.

Mercifully, one of the emergency lights was placed directly next to a supply closet, like a blood soaked beacon of hope. Looking around to make sure no one could see, you quickly ducked into the supply closet, waiting until the group passed.

Immediately, you pressed an ear to the door, listening as the group rushed by. From the sounds of it, they were running but their voices weren’t afraid. They were elated, their laughs and shouts bouncing off the walls.

Just enjoying this brief moment of freedom.

Moving deeper into the small closet, you squinted to try and make out what was on the shelves, running your hands over what you could reach. Maybe you could find something that would help you get out alive.

Your hand made contact with a familiar cylindrical shape and you grabbed the flashlight off of the shelf, flicking it on immediately, praying that it had charged batteries. A sigh of relief escaped you as a dim circle of yellow illuminated a small portion of the floor. It wasn’t great, but it was better than what you had before (which was, in fact, nothing).

You shined the beam on the shelf, trying to see if there was anything else of use. But all you could see was an arrangement of odds and ends, medical supplies, bleach, extension cords, lightbulbs. In the corner, a typewriter was shoved into the back of a shelf, its circular keys gathering dust. You were in the supply closet equivalent of a junk drawer.

As soon as the voices died down and you were wrapped in silence again, you approached the door.

But before you could exit, the door creaked open and someone else entered the room.

For a moment all you saw was a tall frame, silhouetted in red. Your mind immediately thought of your recurring nightmare and you allowed yourself the brief hope that this was all just another dream before squashing it just as quickly. Wishful thinking would do you no good here.

You turned the flashlight onto the intruder’s face before being temporarily shocked when your body relaxed when you saw who it was, squinting back at you through the beam of the flashlight.

“Edward.” You breathed, almost in a sigh of relief, your voice not even a whisper.

Out of everyone who could have come into the room, of course it was Edward. The only inmate who seems to always be where you are, watching and waiting for you to notice him. The only inmate who you had met, albeit briefly, before he was locked away in the asylum.

But he was also the only inmate you had any sort of relationship with- if that's what you wanted to call three conversations and at least two staring contests.

And you could weaponize that relationship against him, use it to get out of the asylum unscathed.

Cautiously, you lowered the light, pointing it toward his feet instead. The standard issue loafers they gave every inmate were scuffed but unremarkable. He hasn’t been getting into any trouble since the lights went out, then.

“What are you doing?” You asked. You’re not sure if you meant what he was doing in general at that moment or if you meant to ask why he had come into the closet in the first place.

“The same thing as you.” He gave you a look, then, knowing and pointed. Trying to get out.

“Then why are you down here?” You were still multiple floors below where his cell was located and he could have easily figured out a way to leave without coming underground. Unless there was something he needed in the basement.

With a sinking sensation in your stomach, you realized that you didn’t want to know what he was looking for.

Luckily, Edward doesn’t answer you. You were as you were normally during your more recent interactions with him- not scared, like you’d been that first time. No, you were annoyed with him and the fact that he was blocking your only exit.

“Can you at least get out of the way so I can leave this closet and try to get out of here as soon as possible?” You gestured your light behind him to the door, which was almost closed, the tiny sliver of red light on the floor the only indication that it was open at all.

He’s quiet, still, like he was thinking over something and you’re about to try and push past him when he finally spoke up.

“What is it that given one, you'll have either two or none?”

“A choice.” When he looked surprised, you shrugged with a small smile, trying not to swell with pride. “It’s not a particularly complicated riddle.” What you really meant was that you had looked up riddles during his crime spree and it was one of the few that stuck with you. Still, you could feel him bristle at the underlying insult of your words.

Then your smile faded as you realized the underlying meaning to his words.

“What choice?”

“I need something from you.”

An alarm bell, dusty and distant after being consistently ignored for an entire year, is tempted to ring in your head. You pushed down your unease.

“...What?”

“Cooperation.” His voice, for a second, took on a darker tone. And for the first time in a long time, you’re afraid of his presence.

You took a step backwards, your back hitting the shelf against the far wall, but he didn’t move. You held the flashlight in front of you like it would somehow ward him off, your arm muscles tense and ready to fight.

“Stay away from me.”

“What?” He tilted his head to the side before rearing backwards slightly, like you had actually physically swung at him. “I don’t mean… no.”

You wanted to relax and trust him. And, for what it was worth, you didn’t believe that he would do anything uncouth to you.

But you were still wary, unsure of why someone like him- a man who almost successfully killed hundreds of people and was responsible for four deaths at the very least- would need your help.

“Then what do you need my cooperation for?”

“Not right now.”

“I’m not going to agree to something I don’t-”

“I’ll help you get out of the asylum.” He interrupted you, waiting for you to fall silent before he continued. “In return, you’ll look the other way when I leave.”

“That’s the cooperation?” Even before he shook his head you knew that simply aiding his escape wasn’t what he wanted from you. Why would it be, it was just a federal offense.

“What you want won’t be illegal is it?”

Edward visibly hesitates, a flash of a pause crossing his face before he softens it again.

“Not at all.”

He’s lying, your mind whispers. You really didn’t fancy the idea of having an illegal IOU hanging over your head for the next few months as you waited for him to come cash it if it wasn’t completely worth it.

But your hesitation was enough for him to start to turn away, reaching behind him for the door and you’re seized with another bout of fear that if he left you’ll be at the mercy of the other inmates.

“Fine! I’ll help you out. I’ll turn the other way, let you go.” You gasped, relief flooding you when he stopped moving. “But you need to work fast. The police are probably already on their way.” And, maybe, hopefully, the Batman. But it’s probably best to not mention him. (Or the fact that if he arrived it wouldn’t be the first or even second time you met the caped crusader. The Riddler is actually the last person you want to know about your frequent encounters with the Batman.)

“I can do that.”

“And we need to go to my desk.”

“Why-”

“My phone and keys are in the drawer.”

“That’s-” He sighed, finally seeming as annoyed as you were at the prospect of the next hour of your life. “That’s farther out of the way than I was hoping to go.”

“I’m not leaving my things here. How will I leave without my keys?”

“Are you incapable of walking?” Raising your eyebrows, you crossed your arms. Petulant. Again. “Somebody has probably taken them already.”

“You don’t know that. And if we don’t go check, I’m not helping you.”

Edward took a step toward you.

“Are you really in a position to be bargaining?”

It would be so easy to try and tempt him with something stupid, something easy and non-consequential. But instead you sighed, doing something that was honestly more humiliating than what had just crossed your mind.

“Please.”

Yeah, maybe flashing your tits would have been easier than begging for help. But you didn’t, and the idea of offering it now made your insides squirm unpleasantly so you brushed the temporary urge for an easy way out aside.

He’s staring at you now, like he had read your mind and knew what you briefly considered doing. But he still didn’t do anything and you held back the scowl that had been threatening to cross your lips.

“Please can we go back to my desk. I promise I will help you in the future, just let me get my shit.” You sigh, unsure of what else to say. “Please.”

Slowly, he inhaled, like he’s drinking your words from the air.

“Fine.”

You followed him out of the closet, training your flashlight’s beam onto the floor in front of you. While it didn’t offer much in the way of light, it gives you enough reassurance that you aren’t about to trip over something so that you could walk a bit faster.

After a few minutes walking together, he spoke up again.

“Why didn’t you just keep your phone on you?”

“It doesn’t really work in the asylum. Also I’m not supposed to have it outside of my office.” You’re keeping your voice low, even though he isn’t doing the same.

He snorted. Like you’d been waiting for him to do something so you could snap at him, you immediately take offense.

“What’s so funny about me being in an office, you worked in an office too.” You’re so quick to get the words out of your mouth that you don’t realize what you’re saying until he stops walking, looking back at you. Shit. That was the kind of information that regular people didn’t just know. Sure, Edward Nashton’s background had been extensively reported on after he was revealed to be the Riddler. But not many people remembered the little details, like his fucking job.

But then again, you were both aware that you knew more about him than you let on.

“No,” He continued walking, and you’re not sure if you’re glad that he doesn’t bring up your indirect admission. If he brought it up now, you’d get it out of the way. However, him ignoring it for now meant he could use it against you later. “I didn’t realize you were such a…” He smiled. “Goody two shoes.”

“I mean, I’m not.” There was a crash on the floor above you. The flashlight’s beam wavered for a moment as you jumped, while Edward simply looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “I just enjoy having a job, that’s all. Even if it's here.”

“With Dr. Crane.” He looked back down at you.

“...I told you there’s nothing going on there.” The lie sounded weak, even to your own ears.

“You’re a really bad liar.”

You didn’t respond and after another moment of staring at each other, he turned and continued walking. You weren’t exactly content to give him the final word, but your desire to get out of the asylum trumped the frustration you felt at letting him win the exchange.

Just suffer his presence for the next thirty minutes. Get your phone, get out of the asylum, forget everything that happened. Pretend it was all another nightmare.

Finally, you reached the stairwell. Pushing it open, you were relieved to see the emergency lights in the stairs were yellow and not the red of the basement. You would still need your flashlight but at least it wasn’t two steps away from being pitch black.

As you ascended, you cleared your throat.

“My office is on the sec-”

“I know.”

He stopped, looking back at you for a moment before continuing to walk up. You trailed behind him, your mind surprisingly empty except for the same few words you’d been repeating since you started walking with him.

Get your phone, get out of the asylum, forget everything that happened. Pretend it was all another nightmare.

The hallway of the second floor was eerily empty when you emerged. While you could distantly make out the sounds of chaos, from what you could tell there were no one- inmates or otherwise- in the general vicinity of your office. But instead of being reassuring, you were uneasy again.

Why would an entire hallway be empty during a breakout?

You swung the flashlight around, examining both ends of the hall. Even though it was late afternoon, the sky outside was overcast and didn’t offer much natural light though the tiny windows in the hall.

Following Edward, you left the stairwell and began to walk down the hallway.

As you passed rooms, you peered inside only to see abandoned messes. People had been through here, then, and had just moved on to other places in the asylum. You prayed that your desk was intact with your purse still safe inside.

Then, breaking through the tense silence, footsteps.

A voice called out from behind you, loud and obnoxious, grating against a nerve in your brain that you didn’t know existed. Briefly, you looked beside you to a large vent and wondered if you could get out of this interaction by hiding in it.

“Eddy!”

Beside you, Edward stopped.

You turned to look behind you, cringing when you’re met with the scarred face and wild eyes of the only man in Arkham more famous than Edward. His gaze, dark and weighted, slid from Edward to you.

Then a smile broke across his face, pulling at the scars that already littered his skin.

“Ah, the good doctor’s girl.” John Doe holds his hand out.

You ignored it.

“I’m not his girl.” You can’t stop yourself from saying it even as the thought that you shouldn’t engage with him crosses your mind. (You’re vaguely aware that you’re slowly angling yourself closer toward Edward. You’re sure he’s noticed it and you throw a prayer into the universe that he won’t think too much about it- you just know which of the two men in front of you that you would rather deal with.)

“Is that so?” He blinked, slowly, his hand dropping back to his side. “Coulda fooled me.”

“What do you need?” Edward’s voice wasn’t cruel or impatient, not what you would have expected from him interacting with another inmate when he was in the middle of his own escape.

“I was wondering what you were up to, but now I see.”

You looked from Edward to John Doe, trying to glean the hidden meaning from their faces. But Edward’s remains impassive whereas John Doe’s is smug.

“And here I thought only Edward spoke in riddles.”

John Doe laughed, cruel and empty as it echoed in the hallway.

“What’s so funny?” You snapped, taking a small step towards the man. Careful, a voice in your head hisses, a warning you were content to ignore for right now.

“Let’s go.” Edward spoke up from beside you. You turned to look at him only to see him staring at you.

“Wh-”

“We have places to be.”

“Goodbye.” John Doe is smug again, his hand raised in a mocking wave as Edward starts walking away.

You maintain eye contact with John Doe, offset by the odd and stilted interaction you just had yet unable to break it until you and Edward turn into a different hall, the same hall where your makeshift office was located.

“Not many people would talk like that with him.” Edward is watching you, his gaze observant. You shrugged, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

“I’m discovering I have a problem with impulse control.”

You weren’t joking, but to your surprise, Edward laughs. Quick and short, like it had forced its way out of his mouth. (It makes you want to smile too.)

Finally you come upon your alcove and when you turn into it, you almost begin cheering when you see there are no further obstacles between you and your desk. Thankfully, it was virtually untouched- it was obvious that someone had been through the area but had found nothing of interest or had just not bothered to try and break the lock in your desk- and you were able to grab your phone from the drawer with ease. It barely had any charge and, as expected, virtually no service- emergency calls only- but you would be able to charge it in your car.

Once you got to your car, that is.

Edward lingered at the threshold to the alcove, watching you as you gathered your things. His posture screamed at you to hurry up. Snatching your purse from the drawer, you slammed it shut, the metallic boom echoing briefly before just as quickly being snuffed out.

“Alright, let’s go.” You shrugged your purse over your shoulder, snapping the phone inside. It was a crossbody bag, the kind people recommend for unfamiliar tourists visiting large cities. Pickpocket proof and ugly as hell. The more fashionable a purse was, the more likely someone was to mug you for it.

Your walk back to the stairwell was quiet, your hand worrying the clasp of your purse like it was a glorified fidget toy. You were so close to getting out of the asylum, so close to being back in your own apartment and your own bed.

Luckily, John Doe had disappeared from the hallway, leaving no indication that he had been there in the first place. You weren’t sure if he had decided to escape or if he was going to continue biding his time away in the asylum. Quite frankly, you didn’t care.

You had plenty of other criminals to worry about.

Even though you’ve been through the processing section of the asylum more than Edward considering it was also the employee entrance, you allowed him to continue to lead the way. You were content to ignore him, allowing him to fulfill his end of the bargain. Of course, his fulfillment would just lock you into cooperating with him in the future, but that was a bridge you would burn when you got to it.

Edward stopped in front of the fenced off clothing storage, the door already slightly ajar.

“In here.”

“Why?” The question sounds stupid even as you ask it. Like there was any other reason to go in there besides grabbing clothes. “Nevermind, I know.”

You followed him into the room, watching as he rummaged through the bins, searching the shelves for adequate clothes. From what you could tell, there wasn’t really any organizational system in place, leading to clothes that were decades old being stored next to clothes from inmates who were processed last week.

After a few minutes of him rifling through boxes and grabbing various pieces, he finally found enough clothes to change into.

He blinked at you, his eyes suddenly unsure behind his glasses. “Can you, um, turn ar-”

“Oh my god.” You sighed exasperatedly and, admittedly, a bit dramatically. He could murder people in cold blood but the idea of you catching a glimpse of his body was too much? “I’m not going to ogle you if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He didn’t move with the exception of a small shoo-ing motion with his hands.

“Fine!” Reluctantly, you turned your back away from him and stared back out of the room, but not without muttering under your breath about him being a stubborn bastard.

You heard the rustle of clothes and tying of shoes. He’s quick about it and before you knew it he’s cleared his throat- a nonverbal indication that you were allowed to turn back around. Sighing, you turned, unsurprised by the sight that greeted you.

He’s wearing different clothes than the ones he was brought in, but he pulled out a jacket that you recognize from the pictures you’d seen. A forest green, though the color looks faded from dust that has settled on the fabric. Of course, it wasn’t the jacket. His costume, for lack of a better word, had been taken as evidence and was probably gathering an equal amount of dust in an evidence locker somewhere.

No, this was just a jacket.

“You know it’s summer, right?” It’s all you can think of to say to break the silence that has built between you. For some reason, seeing him out of his asylum uniform and in pedestrian garb has given you an uncomfortable sense of unease, emotional vertigo settling in the bottom of your stomach like a rock. Because he doesn’t look like a threat, wearing normal clothes like this. But if you looked closer, if you peered into his eyes, you knew that you would see the cogs whirring in his mind as he figured out what his next move would be.

Or, you thought back to playing chess with him, as he figured out what your next move would be.

Like he can sense you unease, he simply folded the jacket over his arm in response. You stared, debating for a microsecond if you should continue needling him but ultimately decided that your time was better spent doing anything but arguing with him.

Especially when you were this close to getting out of the building.

“Right. Let’s go, I would like to be gone before I’m accosted by the police for statements or whatever.” You spoke as you walked backwards to the door, turning at the last moment to open it back up.

“That does seem to be your M.O., doesn’t it?”

You stopped moving, looking back over your shoulder at him. For a second, you wanted to believe that you had misheard him, that your mind had attributed words to a shift in fabric, or to the settling of dust in the room.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Would you rather the police come while we’re standing around and lock you back up?” When he didn’t respond, you simply turned around and opened the door again. “That’s what I thought.”

It was snippy and dismissive but you were so close to getting out that you no longer wanted to entertain him. You pictured yourself in your car, driving away from the asylum and straight to your apartment, where your bed was waiting, unmade and soft. Although, the prospect of going to sleep with your lack of air conditioning was a bit of a damper on your mood. You could always call Jonathan-

Oh. Right. That.

Your heart skipped a beat as you thought of him, not even realizing that you had stopped walking until Edward passed you and said your name.

You looked at him, eyebrows furrowed because you’re not sure he’s ever even said your name before.

“Sorry.” You don’t explain what happened or where your mind had gone. He didn’t need to know all of that.

He led the way through the unpowered metal detector, and you could feel yourself picking up speed as the door to the outside, to freedom, looms closer. You could only imagine what Edward feels.

And then, with a push of the handle, you’re crashing outside. Humidity washed over you, the thickness that only happens when a storm is about to break. You walked into the parking lot, running a hand through your hair.

Digging into your purse, you pulled out your phone, wincing when you had no notifications aside from one from your news app alerting you that there was a high level riot happening at Arkham. According to one article, they expected quite a few inmates to escape. Quite a few speculated that Edward Nashton, also known as the Riddler, was at the center of the event.

Thanks, I hadn’t heard.

You could feel Edward’s eyes on you as you checked your phone.

“This is me turning my back.” You didn’t look up at him. You wanted to be as passive a participant in your aiding and abetting a criminal escape as possible. Somehow, you don’t think the argument that you did it for your survival would work here. It certainly wouldn’t hold up in court.

You expected him to ask you how he was going to leave the island, what he was going to do now. You had your answer prepared- I don’t fucking care, do what you want, just leave me alone. But he didn’t. All you heard was the distant shouts of an asylum gone rogue and the faint crashing of waves on the rocks below. Beyond that, maybe the wail of police sirens.

When you turned back around to look at him, he was already gone, replaced by an unseasonably cold breeze, breaking through the stiff humidity. Thunder broke over your head, bringing with it heavy drops of rain.

All you had left to wonder about was how you had fit into Edward’s plan, whatever it may be. You knew that he would come to collect his debt for helping you escape unscathed. It was just a matter of what he wanted and when.

You looked back up at the asylum, the red glow of the emergency lights faint in the windows. Smoke plumed up from one of the far wings and you hoped that no one was hurt too badly. You didn’t want to imagine what would have happened if you had been found by someone other than Edward, whose plans didn’t seem to involve hurting you as far as you could tell.

Keeping a wide berth from the building, you began walking back to the employee parking lot, trying not to slip on still slick grass. There were a few cars left- the other staff members must have gotten out early on. You didn’t think about what was happening- or had already happened- to the employee’s whose cars were still left.

And there was your dingy car, sitting exactly as you left it. A sloppy parking job that you’d been too lazy to fix this morning when you’d arrived. A kitschy bumper sticker that felt like it was making fun of you now smiled at you.

If you’re gonna hit my car, make sure you kill me!

Pulling your keys from your purse, you shakily unlocked the door before yanking it open and scrambling inside, your limbs somehow coordinating with each other despite the buzzing in your brain.

Numbly, you sat in your car, the squeak of the windshield wipers against glass the only sound aside from the thick raindrops hitting the glass only to be swept away. Now that you were alone and out of the chaos devolving inside the asylum, you had time to process what you’d discovered moments before the lights turned out and your main focus had been escape.

Jonathan Crane was the Scarecrow.

Everything that you had suppressed over the past hour bubbled to the surface and oddly enough, over all of the horror and disbelief, was embarrassment.

How could you not have realized that Jonathan was the Scarecrow when everything now seemed so obvious?

His special topics class was even about fear.

Oh God, he had even seen your fucking wall dedicated to him. You bury your face in your hands, groaning as shame washes over you.

So now, the question transformed from who the Scarecrow was into why, out of all the people he could have picked, had he chosen to fixate on you? You doubted that your work in your earlier Psychology classes was particularly outstanding, nor were you a very interesting person. You didn’t even think of yourself as being a particularly alluring person.

Maybe, a small voice in the back of your head sneered, maybe you were just the most gullible, easily manipulated person available.

And even though the voice was clearly inspired by insecurity, you were inclined to listen to it right now. It was the only explanation that made sense. And it was the only explanation that made you angry enough to spur you out of the numbed stupor you’d been sitting in and into action.

With renewed conviction, you turned your car on, having to keep yourself from twisting the keys too far. The CD you had in the player (because yes, the car was old and maybe you liked CDs) blared to life and even though the music reminded you of what Jonathan had been playing every time you entered his car, you spun the volume all the way up.

Switching the headlights on, you began your journey off Arkham Island and to the empty warehouse with a lit searchlight, beaming the shape of a bat into the sky.

When you reach the same building the Batman had brought you after the Scarecrow attack, you sit in your car for a moment, wondering if you were doing the right thing. But before you could second guess yourself anymore, you thrust the door to your car open. The storm was in full force now, rain pouring down on you as you hurried to the elevator.

The industrial elevator creaked open, accepting you and then spitting you back out onto the dark roof.

You didn’t know if the Batman would return to the signal after he was done at Arkham, because that was surely where he was now. Either way, you perched next to the signal, not sure when the Batman would return but knowing that you would wait for him the entire night if you needed to.

next part.

[dee-writes-anime]

I'm Here, I'm Always Here

FEATURING Shoto Todoroki x Reader

SUMMARY Shoto can't take it anymore, good thing you are always willing to take good care of your icyhot sweetheart.

CONTENT WARNINGS fluff, Shoto being taken care of like he deserves, an excuse for me to wash my boys hair T-T, hurt/comfort, Shoto needs a hug PLEASE HUG HIM OML

AUTHORS NOTE this is not the BakuDeku slow burn that I've been working on the past week, unfortunately. I promise I am still working on it, it's just a BEAST of a fic and I am still not done writing it. So, instead of continuing in my silence, I decided to share this Shoto fic I've been sitting on for a FAT minute. <3

“You’ve worked so hard, love,” you breathed, pressing a soft kiss to his wet forehead. “So, so hard.” 

Shoto Todoroki is sitting on the floor of your shower, curled into himself, trembling violently. His knees are drawn tight against his chest, and his head is buried deep between his crossed arms, tucked into the wet skin of his legs. The water pounds mercilessly on his back, scalding hot, the sound of it a steady hiss against the tile as steam swirls like smoke in the air. It clings to the room in suffocating waves, thick enough to feel like it’s pressing down on him, drowning him with every strained breath. The water pelts his cold skin, too hot and too harsh, but he doesn’t move. He just rocks slowly, back and forth, shaking with each shallow inhale. 

You hadn't been home, hadn’t heard the news. You were a world away, caught in the aftermath of a grueling mission in Indonesia, helping local heroes dismantle a quirk-empowered sex trafficking ring. You hadn’t known what had gone down between Shoto and the villain he fought today. You hadn’t known he’d be fighting for his life while you were halfway across the world, in a place that had felt so beautiful, so serene in comparison to what he must have gone through. 

While you’d been basking in the warm Indonesian sun, calling him every night to talk, laugh, share silly stories, Shoto had been here, battling something far darker than either of you could have anticipated. You would stay on the phone with him for hours, sometimes dozing off mid-conversation, your voices filling the quiet voids of each other’s days. But today, today you hadn’t been able to answer. 

You’d been on a plane, finally heading home after days of tension and exhaustion. The mission was done; you had succeeded in catching the ring leaders, and the police were making their arrests. But it wasn’t over for Shoto. 

He had stayed at your apartment while you were gone, taking care of Mr. Wellbottom, your moody, gray tabby. Shoto had taken the task without hesitation, even though you’d thanked him a thousand times, feeling guilty for asking him to go out of his way. But Shoto had only smiled, brushing off your offers of repayment, telling you it was no trouble at all. The truth, however, was that Shoto preferred it here. Your apartment, small and cluttered as it was, was warm—unlike the empty coldness of his own space. Here, everything smelled like you—soft, comforting, familiar. He’d found himself sinking into the warmth of it, into the messy piles of books, your worn-out blankets, and even the prickly affection of Mr. Wellbottom. 

Because here, in your space, Shoto could pretend, just for a little while, that he was more than just your close friend. More than just the boy who kept you company and helped take care of your cat. Here, he could pretend he belonged. 

But today, the weight of everything had become too much, and all the warmth of your apartment, of your affection, couldn’t hold back the storm brewing inside him. He loved you more than anything in the world, more than he could ever say, which was why he had resigned himself to being just this—just your closest friend. Because losing you, risking what you had by asking for more, was something he couldn’t bear. So, he stayed quiet, enduring, grateful for whatever piece of you he could keep. 

The villain Shoto had fought today was unlike any other—someone who could take the deepest, darkest corners of a person's mind and twist them until reality blurred into something grotesque. He wasn’t a stranger to this villain, not after the many run-ins he’d had in his relentless hunt to stop him. Shoto had endured before, forced to relive the bitter memories of his father, the abuse, the cruelty that had shaped so much of his childhood. And then, as if that weren’t enough, the villain had dredged up the image of his brother—his death, and later, the painful fight against him. But even those memories, awful as they were, Shoto had withstood. 

Today, however, had been different. 

This time, the villain had reached deeper, pulling on a thread of Shoto’s mind that was too precious to tamper with. He had taken you. The memory of your warmth, your laughter, your soft presence that had become Shoto’s solace—and twisted it into something horrific. 

In the vision the villain conjured, Shoto found himself standing in your small, familiar kitchen. The tiled floor beneath him, a dull, faded yellowish hue, felt so real. Too real. And there, lying crumpled on the ground, was you. Blood—thick and horrifyingly red—leaked from a deep gash in your abdomen, pooling on the floor and staining the tiles beneath you. Shoto's heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he dropped to his knees beside you. His hands, shaking uncontrollably, grabbed the first thing he could find—the knit blanket you always draped across the back of the couch. The same one he had used just days before to coax Mr. Wellbottom into curling up with him for a late-night picture. 

But now, that blanket was being pressed against your wound, its soft cream fabric soaking through with the vivid, sickening color of your blood. The warmth that had once been your safety net, the thing that reminded him of you every time he wrapped it around himself, was now drenched in the memory of your loss. 

The image wouldn’t leave him. 

No matter how much he blinked, no matter how hard he tried to force himself back into reality, the memory the villain had warped stuck in his mind like a jagged shard of glass. He could still see your lifeless form, still feel the weight of the blood-soaked blanket in his trembling hands. It was too vivid. Too visceral. 

The villain knew exactly what he was doing, attacking Shoto’s weakest point. He had toyed with Shoto's mind, playing his memories like a puppet on strings, twisting them until every bit of hope, every ounce of warmth, turned to something grotesque. You were Shoto’s anchor, the light in the darkness of his life, and to turn that into something filled with blood and pain—that had broken him in ways nothing else ever had. 

When Shoto had finally snapped out of it, it had been too late. The villain was gone, disappeared into the chaos, and Shoto was left kneeling on the ground in the middle of the battlefield, still shaking from the aftershocks of the warped vision. His teammates had tried to help him, tried to call out to him, but he couldn’t hear anything but the sound of your blood dripping onto the cold kitchen floor. He could feel his own heart hammering against his ribs, threatening to tear itself apart from the inside. 

And now here he was, in your shower, trying and failing to wash the memory away. He had come back to your apartment because it was the only place that felt remotely safe, remotely real. But even here, surrounded by the things that usually comforted him, he couldn’t escape it. The scalding water beat down on his back, punishing him, as if he could burn the image out of his mind. But nothing helped. Nothing could erase the sight of your body, limp in his arms, as the life drained out of you in that twisted vision. 

When he heard your soft voice, it was as though the world tilted back into focus for the first time since the nightmare began. It started with a gentle gasp, a sound so quiet he might’ve missed it if he weren’t so desperate to hear something real. Then came the hurried footsteps, the soft padding of your feet against the floor growing louder as you rushed toward the bathroom. The water stopped abruptly, the harsh, scalding heat suddenly replaced by the cool air around him, and then—your hands. Your hands, warm and steady, were threading through his soaked hair, each stroke slow and deliberate, as though grounding him back into the present. 

But Shoto flinched at the contact, his breath catching in his throat. Was this real? Could this be another cruel trick, another illusion the villain had planted to break him further? He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure—not after what he had seen. 

And then he smelled it. 

Vanilla and cashmere, the scent you always wore, the one Mina endlessly teased you about. That familiar, comforting fragrance filled his senses, and something deep inside him cracked open. It was you. The scar on your palm, the one from that quirk accident back in high school, scraped lightly against his skin as your fingers combed through his hair, the faintest of rough edges that confirmed it. No illusion could replicate the way your presence felt—how solid, how real it was. 

It was you. 

The dam inside him broke, and before he could stop himself, a sob tore from his throat, raw and desperate. His body moved before his mind could catch up, clinging to you, burying his face against your chest as the sobs came faster, his body wracked with tremors he could no longer suppress. Water soaked through your sweater, dampening your leggings, but you didn’t care. Your arms wrapped around him tightly, pulling him closer as you whispered soft, soothing words into his ear. 

“I’m here,” you murmured, your voice steady, grounding him. “You’re safe, Shoto. Everything’s going to be okay.” 

He could feel your heartbeat against his cheek, strong and steady, each thud an anchor that pulled him out of the nightmare and into the present. You were real. You were here, holding him close, and for the first time since the mission, the suffocating weight in his chest loosened, just a fraction, as your warmth began to chase the cold from his bones. 

After what felt like minutes—or maybe hours; he couldn’t tell—of you simply holding him, your warmth wrapped around him like a lifeline, you shifted. Slowly, you stood, your movements careful and deliberate, as if afraid to pull away too fast. You reached for the shower knob, turning the water back on, this time to a much gentler temperature. The scalding heat from before was replaced by a soothing warmth that cascaded down his back, easing the tension in his muscles. 

Without saying a word, you grabbed the bottle of shampoo from the cubby—a fancy brand you always scolded him for trying to use when he stayed over. He could almost hear your playful voice in his head, telling him he wasn’t allowed to touch the ‘good stuff.’ But now, you weren’t teasing. You were quiet, focused, as you squeezed a generous amount into your palm and began to gently massage it into his scalp. 

Your fingers moved with care, threading through his hair in slow, circular motions. Each touch was gentle, deliberate, as if you were trying to wash away more than just the dirt and grime of the day. Shoto closed his eyes, letting himself fall into the sensation, the rhythmic motion of your hands calming the storm inside him. The scent of the shampoo—familiar and soft, just like everything else about you—filled the air, wrapping him in its comforting embrace. 

You worked the shampoo into every strand, massaging his scalp until his hair was thoroughly coated in suds. Each pass of your fingers through his mismatched hair felt like a promise—unspoken, but deeply felt. You weren’t going anywhere. You were still here, taking care of him in the only way you knew how. 

And for the first time that night, as you stood there with him, washing away the pain of the day, Shoto felt like he might be able to breathe again. 

After finishing with the shampoo, your hands moved with the same careful tenderness, reaching for the conditioner. You uncapped the bottle, the familiar scent wafting into the air, and squeezed a dollop into your palm. The water flowed in a soft cascade over Shoto’s back, creating a calm, steady rhythm in the background as you worked the conditioner through his hair. 

Your fingers glided through the wet strands, smoothing them gently. As you massaged the conditioner into his scalp, your voice broke the quiet. 

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something for a long time,” you began, your voice low and soft. “I’ve been in love with you for years, Shoto.” 

The words hung in the air, blending with the sound of water pattering against the tile. Shoto didn’t react at first, still processing everything. But you didn’t stop, your fingers working through his hair with care as you continued. 

“I don’t know when it started, really. I think it was sometime in high school, maybe even before that. You were always so strong, so quiet, but… you carried so much. I remember that day during our first year, when you told us about your father. About your family. You tried so hard to stay strong, to push everything down like it didn’t matter. But I saw how much it hurt you.” 

You paused for a moment, lost in the memory. You could still see it so clearly—the way Shoto had stood there, stoic and composed, while the weight of his words hung heavy in the air. But behind those mismatched eyes, you had seen something else: the vulnerability he never let anyone else see. It had been in that moment you realized just how much you cared about him. 

“And then… we got closer. We became friends,” you said, working the conditioner into his hair with slow, careful motions. “I would stay up late thinking about how brave you were. How strong. You didn’t let the things that had happened to you define who you were, and that’s what made me fall in love with you even more.” 

Shoto remained quiet, but you could feel the way his breathing had changed—slower now, steadier. You didn’t know if he was processing your words or just lost in the comfort of the moment, but it didn’t matter. You needed to say this, even if he didn’t respond. 

“And when we graduated and became pro heroes, I thought I’d let those feelings go. I thought maybe they’d fade with time. But they didn’t. Every time I saw you fight, saw you push yourself to your limits, I’d fall a little harder. You’re so strong, Shoto. You’re so brave. Even when the world tries to break you down, you keep going.” 

You paused, your fingers stilling for a moment in his hair as you thought back to all the times you’d watched him from a distance, your heart swelling with pride and admiration. 

“Like today,” you continued, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know what happened out there, and you don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready. But I know how strong you are. I know how hard you fight, even when things get bad. You’re the bravest person I know, Shoto.” 

Your hands moved again, gently untangling the strands of his hair as you rinsed out the conditioner. The water ran over his head, carrying the suds away, and you stood there in silence for a few moments longer, letting the weight of your words settle between you. 

And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, you leaned in close to him, your lips brushing against his damp hair. 

“You’ve worked so hard, love,” you breathed, pressing a soft kiss to his wet forehead. “So, so hard.” 

The word slipped out—love—and it felt so natural, so right, that you didn’t even hesitate. You weren’t sure if he heard it, but you didn’t care. You meant every word. Shoto had been fighting for so long, and all you wanted was for him to know how much he meant to you. How proud you were of him. 

You stood there for a while, the water continuing to run as you ran your fingers through his hair, soothing the tension that had gripped him for so long. 

As you rinsed the conditioner from his hair, the soft hiss of water filling the room, Shoto shifted slightly beneath your hands. His head tilted back just a fraction, and for the first time since you had come home, he spoke. 

His voice was barely above a whisper, fragile and hesitant, as if he were afraid the words might break the delicate moment between you. “I… I didn’t know how to tell you,” he began, his voice thick with emotion. “For so long, I’ve felt… something. I didn’t understand it at first. But every time I was with you, it was there—this warmth I couldn’t explain.” 

You kept your hands gentle, running your fingers through his hair as the water rinsed away the last traces of conditioner. The soothing rhythm of the water was a backdrop to his quiet confession. 

“I never thought I deserved you,” Shoto admitted, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “You’re always so bright, so warm. You make everything around you feel… alive. And me—I’ve always felt like I’m stuck in this cold, this distance from everyone, like I don’t belong in your world.” 

His eyes closed, the weight of his words seeming to spill out of him now that he had started. “But every time I was with you, it felt like I could finally breathe. Like maybe… maybe I wasn’t so broken after all.” 

Your fingers continued to move through his hair, slow and deliberate, each touch a silent reassurance that you were listening, that you were there. 

Shoto’s breath hitched as he leaned into your touch, letting the water stream down his face as he spoke again, more vulnerable than you had ever heard him. “I didn’t know how to tell you how much I love you. I didn’t want to risk losing you, so I stayed quiet. I thought if I could just be close to you, that would be enough. But… it never was. I wanted more. I wanted you, and it scared me.” 

His voice faltered for a moment, the weight of his confession hanging between you like the mist in the air. “I love you,” he finally whispered, barely audible over the sound of the water. “I’ve loved you for so long. I just… I didn’t know how to say it.” 

The last of the conditioner was gone now, his hair clean and smooth beneath your fingers, but you didn’t pull away. You stayed there, the water running over both of you as you cradled his head in your hands, your heart swelling with every word he spoke. 

Shoto was vulnerable in a way you had never seen before—laid bare, fragile, but so open, so raw. And it was in that moment that you realized just how much this meant to him, how much he had been holding back for all these years. 

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “You don’t have to be scared anymore, Shoto. I’m here. I’ve always been here.” 

You gently tilted Shoto’s head up, brushing your thumb along his jaw as the water cascaded between you, soft and warm. His eyes fluttered open, the weight of his emotions still lingering in those mismatched irises—one like molten lava, the other like glacial ice. But now, there was something different. Something softer. Something vulnerable. 

Your heart swelled as you leaned in, closing the small gap between you. Your lips met his in a kiss so soft, so tender, it felt like you were sealing all the unspoken words and emotions between you. The kiss was slow, delicate—a moment where everything else faded away. It was just you and Shoto, standing there under the warmth of the water, sharing something you had both waited so long for. 

He kissed you back with a gentle urgency, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real. His hand came up to cup the side of your face, the water from his fingers dripping down your cheek as he deepened the kiss ever so slightly, but still kept it tender, as though he were afraid of breaking the fragile moment between you. 

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. Your foreheads rested together, the water still trickling over you, but the world had gone quiet, a peaceful silence wrapping around you both. 

You smiled softly, brushing a stray lock of wet hair away from his forehead. “We should get out of here before we both turn into prunes,” you murmured, a teasing lilt to your voice, though your eyes remained full of warmth. 

Shoto blinked, as if snapping out of a dream, and then nodded, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “Yeah… that might be a good idea,” he said, his voice still hushed, the weight of everything that had passed between you lingering in the air. 

You stood up first, offering him your hand to help him rise from the floor of the shower. He took it, the touch of his fingers against yours sending a soft warmth through your chest. Together, you stepped out of the shower, the cool air of the bathroom a sharp contrast to the warmth you shared inside. 

Grabbing a towel, you wrapped it around Shoto’s shoulders first, gently rubbing his hair dry before handing him another one. He looked at you with an expression so tender, so grateful, that it made your heart ache in the best way. You both changed into dry clothes, the atmosphere between you calm, comfortable—like the two of you had reached a new kind of understanding. 

When you finished, you sat on the edge of your bed, Shoto quietly sitting next to you. The room was dim, the soft hum of the apartment’s heater the only sound between you. You glanced at him, noticing the way his eyes still held traces of exhaustion, but also something lighter—a quiet relief. 

You leaned your head on his shoulder, letting out a content sigh. “You’ve worked so hard, Shoto,” you whispered, echoing the words you had said before, but now they felt even more meaningful. “You don’t always have to carry everything on your own. I’m here.” 

He turned his head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I know,” he murmured, his voice steady and soft. “I know now.” 

And for the first time in a long time, Shoto felt a sense of peace settle over him. The weight of the day, the nightmares, the fear—all of it faded into the background as the two of you sat there, sharing the quiet comfort of each other’s presence. 

It wasn’t perfect. But it was simple, and that was more than enough for both of you.  

BONUS:  

As the two of you sat in the peaceful quiet, your head still resting on Shoto’s shoulder, you felt the softest brush of fur against your leg. Before you could react, a familiar weight jumped onto the bed between you. Mr. Wellbottom, your grumpy but loyal cat, had decided to make his presence known. 

The fluffy feline nudged his head against your arm, purring loudly as if to scold you for being away for so long. He then climbed into your lap, curling up into a cozy ball as he pressed himself into your warmth, his tail flicking slightly before settling down. 

You couldn’t help but smile, your hand instinctively going to stroke his soft fur. “I missed you too, Wellbottom,” you said softly, scratching behind his ear the way you knew he liked. 

Shoto looked down at the cat, a fond look in his eyes as he watched the little scene unfold. He reached out cautiously, his hand brushing against Mr. Wellbottom’s back, and to both of your surprise, the cat didn’t protest. Instead, he let out a soft purr, accepting the gentle touch. 

“Looks like someone’s been waiting for you,” Shoto murmured, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. 

You laughed quietly, the sound soft and warm as it filled the room. “He missed his cuddle buddy. But you took good care of him while I was gone, didn’t you?” 

Shoto gave a small nod, his eyes still on Mr. Wellbottom as the cat shifted to press even closer to you, as if making up for lost time. “Yeah, but… I think he was waiting for you. We both were.” 

Your heart melted at those words, and you leaned into Shoto a little more, your fingers absentmindedly petting the content cat in your lap. The three of you sat there, surrounded by a calm that was as comforting as it was rare. 

For the first time in what felt like forever, everything was still. There were no battles to fight, no villains to defeat, no painful memories clawing their way to the surface—just the soft purring of Mr. Wellbottom and the quiet warmth of Shoto at your side. 

“I’m here now,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you nestled into Shoto’s side. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

[firehose118]

rewatching Hen Begins

sal is definitely the one who took the initiative on reporting gerrard, right?

at the infamous Team Jacob meal, gerrard says he’s worried about putting his life and the lives of “his men” in the “hands of someone who isn’t up to the job”

and sal gives him this long, evaluating, critical look

this is before hen thinks quickly to save the woman in the mudslide

this is before hen puts together the clues that there was another car in the accident and saves a drowned child

this look might be about female firefighters or about black firefighters but it is NOT about hen’s as-yet-untested abilities

i think sal sees gerrard as “someone who isn’t up to the job”

i think sal doesn’t trust gerrard with the lives of “his men”

we see later how gerrard dismisses hen’s ideas even when those ideas save lives. he chastises her for having them at all. does he listen to anyone else’s ideas? does he listen to sal?

how many people have died or been in unnecessary pain because gerrard has been too stubborn to listen to anyone but himself?

i think sal has wanted gerrard gone for a long time now

does he sense an opportunity in hen’s arrival? we know from Bobby Begins Again that sal wants to be captain. the easiest path to that for him is to take over from gerrard

gerrard has his say about women and leaves the table. sal kind of rolls his eyes but looks at tommy and nods for them to both leave with him

he looks almost regretful? like he doesn’t want to follow gerrard but knows he and tommy have to stay on his good side

maybe that’s the only way to get gerrard to listen—to make him see you as an extension of himself

so sal is still playing the game, still playing along as a card-carrying member of the Straight White Boys’ Club (and plays it so well that it wasn’t until my 5th rewatch with my saltommy goggles on that i even noticed this moment of evaluation at all)

throughout the episode, tommy follows closely at sal’s heels. sometimes tommy will look to gerrard for approval instead of sal (cutting out the middleman), but if sal goes somewhere, tommy is only a step behind him

sal knows how to play the game. tommy knows how to follow along. to hide in plain sight under the wing of someone who will guide him

i think sal said “let’s report this guy” and only had more and more justification as time when on—as hen proved herself more than capable and gerrard only got nastier in response

once their mission was set, tommy sent in his own reports. so did chimney, of course. who knows how many others sal recruited to report gerrard en masse

yes, hen is a great firefighter. but gerrard leaving the 118 was a coup, and it started before she set foot on her first call

this was a coup—and an unsuccessful one

gerrard was gone, yes. but sal did not replace him

i think this casts sal’s Bobby Begins Again insubordination/meltdown over being passed over for captain yet again into a more interesting light

after all sal has done for the 118? he got gerrard kicked out. he saved hen’s career—one of the smartest and most determined firefighters he’s ever worked with. he’s held the place together and run scenes as their string of retiring captains bumbled through calls

and then this random guy from minnesota is chastising sal for saving a kid trapped in a burning building? he thinks this is his house?

[loves0phelia]

Saturday Meetings

Summery: When Eddie learns Y/N has a similar music taste as him everything change.

Words: 2.3k

Warnings: Bullying, fighting, grammar mistakes.

Eddie Munson was always seen as a freak ever since he entered highschool. The basketball team, cheerleaders, party kids and even the smart kids thought he was a satanist for listening to metal music and wearing ripped jeans accompanied with chains. The permanent ink that decorated his skin did not help his case either. 

High school was a nuisance for Eddie. The only thing that motivated him was the Hell Fire club. A club where kids from juniors to seniors played dungeons and dragons.

For the members, this game meant the world, it was packed with excitement and fun. Yet, for others, it served as a tool for bullying.

During lunch you sat multiple tables away from him. You were dressed in the usual green, white and yellow cheerleading uniform the school provided, your hair pulled back into a neatly curled ponytail, you blended in with the rest of the team. But deep down, you were different. You had a passion for the same things as Eddie Munson. It was a part of you no one else could ever know.

Your Metalica, Black Sabbath and AC/DC cassette were tucked away underneath Madonna and tears for tears inside your backpack. You thought how Eddie was freely listening to the music you loved so dearly while you couldn't. 

Your head turned over your shoulder and you watched as he talked. His arms were flying around as he expressed himself. His big and extraverted gestures made you giggle. Nobody at your table was this extravagant. Seeing someone like him felt refreshing. You always wondered what it was like having spontaneous conversation was like. At your table it was like a routine. Sport, girls/boys, parties, repeat.

“What are you looking at?" Jason's voice broke your concentration, prompting you to snap your head back to face him. He was sitting directly across from you at the cafeteria table.

"Oh, it's nothing," you attempted to brush him off, but the concern in everyone’s faces at your table made it impossible to avoid.

“You sure? Looks like you were looking at Munson” The judgment in his voice was clear. It was like mentioning his name burned his tongue.

"I, um, I was just... he looks weird, doesn't he?" you stammered, trying to save the situation. His brow furrowed as he glanced between you and him. The concern dissolved from his face as he chuckled and nodded in agreement with your previous statement. With a sigh of relief, your tense shoulders relaxed, and your racing heart gradually slowed its pace.

Your anxious gaze met Chrissy's, Jason's girlfriend, and she responded with a gentle smile. In that moment, her glance was reassuring, silently letting you know that everything was okay. 

…

That night, you layed in bed, the sound of "Thunderstruck" blasting through your Walkman, was drowning out the world around you as you stared up at the ceiling, thoughts filled your mind, wondering how different life could be if you were surrounded by people who truly understood you, rather than pretending to fit in where you clearly didn't belong.

“Y/n!” Your heart dropped when you barely heard your name over the music. You threw The headphones off and you saw your mom in the doorway.

“What is it mom?” You asked and sat up.

"I've been calling that dinner's ready for the past 10 minutes. Are you still listening to that crazy music?" she sighed, rolling her eyes as the sound echoed from the headphones now abandoned beside you.

“Come downstairs, now” she scolded and you followed her down to the kitchen where once again you talked about school, boys and sports instead of something that really interested you.

…

The next morning, the thought of staying home was tempting. Everything seemed to conspire against you, discouraging any motivation to face another day of repeating the same exact routine as the day before.

But you knew your parents would not want you to stay home.

As the school bus pulled up in front of your house, you found yourself once again lost in your music, the volume cranked up high enough to fill your ears but low enough to keep the people around you from hearing it..

When it arrived at its destination people rushed to get out of the yellow vehicle. You, on the other hand, walked slowly deadring the moment you will have to enter class.

As you turned the corner in the main hallway, you collided with someone so hard that the Walkman's headphones slipped off your head and began to fall to the ground. The cord connecting the headphones to the cassette player on your waist tugged, causing it to tumble to the floor as well making the Metallica cassette spill out onto the ground.

“Oh I'm sorry sweetheart” your heart pounds against your chest when you finally recognized the boy you bumped into.

“Let me get that for you- Metalica?” He examined the cassette as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

“You really listen to that?” his smirk is inevitable.

“No. It's- uh, for my brother” You snatched the cassette from his hand.

“You don't even have a brother” He laughed when he caught your lie.

“How would you know that?” 

"We've been in the same classes for two years, Y/N." The sound of your name rolling off his tongue sends a shiver down your spine.

In this moment you noticed how Andy and two other boys from the basketball team looked at you and Eddie as they passed.

In a hurry you grabbed his hand and tugged him away into the nearest janitor closet.

"You know, you could've asked me out first before dragging me in here, but I guess I'll give you points for spontaneity," he says with a smirk, his confidence made you roll your eyes and slap his forearm.

“You cannot tell anyone that you saw this alright?” You shoved the cassette into his face. ”Jason would ruin my life and probably find a way to kick me out of the team because he thinks it's… it’s satanic” Eddie sighed harshly.

“Fine. But-”

“No buts!” 

“BUT you have to help me with O'donnell's test for next month” you considered it for a moment. If anyone saw you with him they would probably do worse then kick you off the team. But you didn't have a choice.

“Fine but you come to my place on Saturday nights, and you have to come through my window.”

“Exciting, romantic, I like it”

“This is not romantic!” and just at this very moment you noticed how tight the closet was. How close your bodies were. “I- Am going to get out and you have to wait 5 minutes before you do, understood?” 

“Understood, maam” he nodded and quickly you came out of the closet. Fresh air immediately brushed on you.

The rest of the week went smoothly, you sneaked glances at him every now and then but nothing was abnormal. During the integrality of Saturday you were impatient for the moment eddie would come knocking on your window. And when he did you were listening to one of your many vinyls, as you opened the window and welcomed him in.

“Holy shit” he whispered as he took in your room. In his head it would have been filled with pinks and purples, neat and well organized. But there were vinyls of his favorite bands on the wall next to posters and a concert ticket framed in a black picture frame. You had books scattered on your desk that he had also read, and 5 pairs of different colors converse on the floor.

“You are full of surprises”  He had said and you just ignored the compliment and went 

straight to studying.

On the following Saturday night, Eddie returned without fail, and you both studied again. As the hours passed, midnight approached and you were both tired and yawning.

“I should go,” He said as he started gathering his notebooks and his backpack.

"Same time next Saturday?" you inquired as Eddie made his way halfway out of your window.

He nodded, a sweet smile lighting up his face, making your stomach erupt with butterflies.  Every Saturday preceding the test, unfolded the same way. Sometimes you found yourselves watching movies, almost cuddling, his arm draped around your shoulder, and occasionally you allowed your head to rest on him.

Friday, the day before your last study session before the math test, was a game day. You knew Eddie and his club had a reunion the same day but you still invited him to come watch your cheerleading routine along with his friends.

Surprise flickered across your face as you spotted him in the stands just before the end of the game. His unexpected presence threatened to throw you off balance, but you swiftly regained your focus.

After the game, as the team was heading back to the locker room, Jason spotted Eddie lagging behind waiting for you.

"Waiting for the girls to come out, perv?” Jason sneered, his minions laughing along with him.

Eddie tried to brush off the insults, but Jason's words cut deep. Just as Jason was about to deliver another cutting remark, you came out of the changing room holding your sport bag.

you looked between them for a second in silence. Eddie looked at you and a lightbulb lightened up on Jason’s head.

“Oh I see what's going on here. Munson’s got a crush on y/n!” His loud tone made everyone grow quiet. Students nearby started surrounding them, their eyes darting between Jason and Eddie. Eddie's cheeks burned with humiliation as he struggled to find the courage to respond

“Sorry to break it to you but a cheerleader would never go for a freak like you” With a smirk on his face, Jason draped his arm around you in a cocky way. It was in no way near as comforting as Eddie's embrace.

“Fuck off, Carver” you pushed him off your body. His smirk faltered for a moment as he received the unexpected rejection, but he quickly regained his composure, scoffing at Y/N's boldness. 

"Really, y/n? You're into Munson now? I didn't think you would go that slow but you've always been a slut” he shrugged and some people around you snickered and some other gasped

Jason's menacing presence loomed over you. You stood frozen after the words came out of his mouth. Eddie stepped forward, his protective instincts kicking into overdrive as he positioned himself between you and him.

Eddie hesitated before striking a punch right into his jaw. Jason’s head flew to the right and he stumbled backwards. Everyone gasped loudly.

With a fierce growl, Jason lunged forward, aiming a wild swing at Eddie's nose. But he was quicker. With fast reflexes, Eddie ducked under his punch and returned one to Jason’s gut, earning a grunt of pain.

The fight was on. Fists flew as Eddie and Jason traded blows. The students who were gathered around cheers added to the chaotic atmosphere.

“Stop!” You screamed but they were blinded by rage and humiliation.

Despite Jason’s size and strength, Eddie held his ground. With each blow, he could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

The echoes of grunts, cheers and strikes alarmed various teachers and when they saw the scene, they were both separated. The boys were panting and Jason was quick to put the blame on Eddie.

He looked at you desperately before walking into the crowd of students to storm out of the school ignoring the calls of a teacher demanding him to stay and explain himself.

You dropped your sport bag with your uniform inside and ran after him. 

“Eddie, wait” Once outside you saw him about to enter his van. Your calls stopped him and he turned to face you. You didn't fail to notice the large bruise on his cheekbone already forming.

“Eds- im so sorry” he shook his head dismissing your apology.

"It wasn't your fault, Y/N," He reassured you softly, and in a swift movement, you wrapped your arms around his chest. At first, surprise made him motionless, but after a few moments, he returned the embrace, his arms enveloping you in a tight hug.

“Y/n” A much softer voice called out behind you. You and Eddie both looked toward it and Chrissy was standing there holding your bag.

“This is yours. Right?” She extended her arm.

“You can keep it Chrissy… my uniform is in it, now that Jason knows, nobody will want me on the team” 

“I want you on the team, and I'm the captain” she pushed the bag inside your arms. “If someone has a problem with your relationship with Eddie, they will be kicked off the team.”

“Were not in a-” Eddie started with a shy tone.

“Thanks Chrissy” you hugged her tightly before saying your goodbyes.

“Bye Eddie. See you monday y/n, love you”

“Are we in a relationship?” His question is genuine and full of curiosity.

“I- uhm, do you want to be?” 

“Hell yeah I want to. The whole studying shit was just an excuse to spend time with you!” A goofy smile was plastered on his face.

“What?!” 

“Do you actually think I, Eddie Munson, would study willingly?” He giggled. 

"I can't believe you," you said between giggles, resting your head on his chest as laughter bubbled up between you both.

With a hesitant yet determined step forward, Eddie closed the distance between you, his hand reached out to gently cup your cheek. Your breath caught in your throat as you felt the warmth of Eddie's touch, a shiver of anticipation traveled your body. Eddie leaned in, his lips hovering just inches from yours.

And then, with a tender brush of his lips against yours, Eddie closed the gap, sealing your lips with a soft kiss. It was a kiss filled with all the pent-up longing and desire that had been building between you.

And when you  finally pulled away, your lips tingled with the lingering sensation of his kiss, the fight long forgotten. You knew that this was just the beginning of yours and his journey together—a journey filled with passion, love, and endless possibilities.

[cordeliawhohung]

the prowl - single dad! Price x teacher! stripper! Reader (fem) taglist

[2] Room 7

You pity every poor woman whose husband has made a quick run to The Florists just for him to return home with glitter on his clothes instead of a bouquet.

It’s been proven time and time again that the only flowers men enjoy are the ones that dance. Soft stems swaying in the faux wind of the club, eye catching color hypnotizing them into staying for the show. They enjoy the layers. Those soft stigmas that protrude from the core. They enjoy toying with them; picking the petals off one by one until they get the answer to their question.

“Chrysanthemum! You’re up!” 

Rich ochre flashes behind you in the mirror as Chrys passes by to get to the stage, and she takes care to playfully slap the exposed flesh of your ass on her way. Grinning, you twist in your scanty attire, teeth framed perfectly with blood-red lipstick. 

“Keep doing that and I’ll have to follow you home,” you tease. 

Looking over her shoulder, Chrys chuckles. “Yeah, says you and everyone else in this joint. Don’t worry, love, I’ll warm them up for you.” 

She vanishes from the room just in time for someone to douse themselves in thick, expensive perfume as if it’s disinfectant. It’s thick and floral — which is fitting, considering the theme of the club — but it’s utterly unwelcomed. It invades your lungs, and you fight the urge to cough lest you ruin your perfectly applied lipstick. 

Fog grows on the full length mirror as you huff against it, fixing the corner of your false lashes before stepping back to take a look at yourself. Having worked as an exotic dancer for some time now, there is very little you’re self conscious about. Red, yellow, and periwinkle lingerie press your tits together and compliment your ass to turn you into the perfect sex toy — beautiful petals to be gawked at by the men surrounding the stage you’re about to dance on. Caked on makeup coats your features so thickly your own face can hardly shine through, and the synthetic curls of icy blue hair down your back render you unrecognizable.

Right now, you are not Miss. Lolly. You are not the darling primary school teacher in a pretty dress, lecturing students about dinosaurs and maths. You are something else — someone else.

“Why don’t you just date him? You guys are already shagging in the back anyway.” 

“Are you trying to get me fired? Keep your fucking voice low.” 

There’s no need to look behind you in order to see who’s talking; you’re more than well aware of Daisy’s… situation. A secret lover with cash to burn and emotions to spew. Borderline prostitution isn’t exactly highly regarded in this industry. It could get the club in severe legal trouble if it was found out one of the dancers gave away more than a quick grope, but all the flowers at The Florists know how to keep their pretty lips sealed shut. 

“The only reason we fuck is because he has good dick and gives amazing tips,” Daisy explains as she twirls her bleach blonde hair around her finger. 

“In more ways than one, apparently,” Dahlia chimes in as she applies fresh lip gloss. 

“Oh, aren’t you cheeky.” Daisy rolls her eyes. “And the reason I refuse to date him, despite how drop dead gorgeous he is, is because I think I would rather die than listen to his woe-is-me moaning, groaning, and complaining every waking moment of the day if I had to live with the man.” 

“No amount of looks can drown out self centeredness,” Dahlia concurs. 

Closing your eyes, you drown out their conversation in favor of letting your mind rest for a moment. It’s the only moment you’ve been able to capture for yourself all day. Nerves are still fried deep in your brain, and though the throbbing has subsided into a gentle hum, it’s still there. Pulsing with the music, squeezing the blood from your brain until you can hardly hold a coherent thought. Pain twinges throughout your feet, exacerbated by the too-thin straps of your heels. You’ve been standing for too long, teaching and smiling jovially at your primary students with marker stained fingers from joint art projects you keep pinned to the corkboard next to your desk. 

No, you don’t have time to think about Miss Lolly. 

You are not Miss Lolly.

“Saffron! Go time!” 

That’s you. 

Figures shrouded in shadows surround the stage when you saunter up. It’s impossible to make out the features of their faces, but you can see their eyes. There’s always a glint. A fervid shine that shows just how closely you’re being watched. An eerie bloodlust to smell the center of the pretty flower about to perform in front of them. 

Hips sway with illecebrous aura drawing out slack jawed expressions from patrons as ushers collect generous tips from them. A nymph come to life, they cheer and whistle at you like dogs — or rather, insects waiting to feast on the flesh of your fibers, pretty petals and all. Still, you dance in the synthetic breeze as you bend and twist for their viewing pleasure. Hips bucking. Sliding on your knees. Tits cupped together with your hands as you press your face against the floor of the stage, ass high in the air. 

Your head pounds when you sit back up, blue waves of hair spraying around you like mist. Prismatic lights have you bathing in a wonderland of sexual desires and dreams, and still all you can focus on is the pain. No matter how many sultry smiles you flash, or how long Saffron can hang on the poll in center stage, Miss Lolly is still crying over the marcid grip on her ankles. 

If it wasn’t for the rank scent of alcohol and cologne, you would have taken a deep breath in relief after you got off that stage. Instead, you keep up the act. This perfectly crafted persona. Expertly sewn second skin. The ushers quickly hand you the cash you earned for your show, and as you slink back into the dressing room, you find yourself praying you attracted enough attention to earn yourself a few requests for private dances. 

Back in the dressing room, you’re quickly counting the cash you’ve earned so far while the girls whistle at your earnings. It’s a good start to what’s bound to be a long, torturous night. Though it’s not as much as you’d like to see by the end of your shift, it’s enough to cover the house fees. 

You’re stowing away fresh, hard earned cash into your locker when there’s a sharp knock on the dressing room door. Once the girls give the all clear — meaning that they’re as decent as they can be in lingerie and not buttass naked — one of the coordinators opens the door. Tired eyes scan the dressing room, until they land on you.

“Saffron,” he says, waving a black ticket.

Gold floral embellishments glint in the dim lighting of the room, and your eyes nearly pop out of your head in recognition. You haven’t just earned the opportunity to give a few simple private dances — you’re wanted for a VIP session. A long, private dance filled with booze, special requests, and a high payout for you. 

You’re about to make half your rent tonight. 

It’s not entirely rare that someone seeks you out for a VIP session, so the hallway that leads to the room isn’t unfamiliar to you. Dark paint coupled with erotic photographs line the walls as your heels click against the marble flooring. Muffled music fades into the background the closer you are to approaching the room. You look down at the card in your hand: Room 7. 

Its swirling gold letters match the same font on the door in front of you. With a deep breath, you quickly fix the stray strands of your wig before your hand reaches for the knob on the door. 

Rich maroon walls close in on a comfortable room with a lone chandelier as the only source of light. As the door closes behind you, any hint of music dies behind it, and you’re left with nothing but silence and your own breathing as you take in the sight in front of you. 

Thick, powerful thighs spread wide in pressed dress pants on a large leather sofa. Their circumference is bigger than your head, you’re sure of it. A wide-palmed hand lazily caresses a glass of bourbon on the side table; your patron has been given special treatment with his own bottle of whiskey and bucket of ice, which means extra cash in your pocket. You trace his body, sizing him up with hooded eyes. His broad chest is hardly contained by his slightly unbuttoned dress shirt, allowing thick curls of dark hair to peek above the fabric. 

When you get to his face, you freeze. 

Neatly trimmed facial hair, alluring blue eyes — you’ve seen him before. He tilts his head at you, hips shuffling forward to lean further back in his seat, belt buckle catching the light just like it did earlier in the afternoon. He even gives you a quiet smile, one that doesn’t quite curl as much as it usually does, and you feel your stomach twist with bubbling bile. 

This is no patron; this is John Price.  Your student’s dad.