#together like how does he have handcuffs. how does he have a gun

[theinfinitedivides]

Seung Ho being so f*cking gentle with Ki Cheol and telling him to stay in the car bc he doesn't think he should go and do this himself before pulling the gun on him is really just 'do you betray [the Son of God] with a kiss, Judas?' and i think i'm going to go f*cking feral about that

[skzdarlings]

vexatious vixen ; felix x reader ; part 2/2

masterlist.

PART 2/2. READ PART 1 HERE. ( READ ON AO3. )

You always get what you want. When an unassuming security guard named Felix stops your latest venture, you escalate the stakes until he has no choice but to put you in your place.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: romantic comedy. strangers to enemies to lovers. cat-and-mouse. dom/sub dynamics, dom!felix and sub!reader. brat tamer!felix and brat!reader. everything that transpires is fully consensual with implied conversations on kink preferences, and an established colour safeword system before the scene. that being said, they still get a lil kinky. please heed the following content warnings: fear kink/cnc, hiding, chasing, lots and lots of dirty talk, fingering, blow jobs, face fucking, throat fucking, a little bit of crying, penetrative sex. (protected but dirty talk like it's not.)

(chapter word count: 7750 words.)

enjoy! <3

-

The gentlest nip of a summer breeze moves through the settling blue darkness.  Everything feels romantic.  Everything except the handcuffs chaining you to Felix,  Security Guard of the Year, Man of the People, and Defender of Propriety and Pop Star Penis.   

Felix does not look at you as he drags you away from the stadium.  He smiles sweetly at passersby, doing his best to hide the handcuffs no thanks to your flamboyant gesticulations, but it dissolves again to that grim, determined countenance. 

Felix has an interesting face, so many sharp lines, but the overall effect is somehow delicate.  A body of contradictions, slender but strong, a stark masculinity rippling beneath the glittery prettiness he happily indulges in.  Blue hair should not look that good on anyone, but you doubt anything could make him look bad.  He sparkles like the glitter star on his cheek. 

You poke that cheek.  A muscle in his jaw twitches.  He looks at you sideways, all pretty brown eyes and a constellation of even prettier freckles.  

“Do not,” he says. 

“Do not what?”

“Just. Do not.” 

You obey his demand for silence.  For about six seconds. 

“So how long have you been a security guard?” you ask amiably. 

“You’re really trying to have a normal conversation with me,” he says.  “Now? After that introduction?”

“I prefer the term meet-cute.”

“We wrestled on the ground then you handcuffed us together and threw away the key—”

“Adorable.”

“Right.” He picks up his speed.  You could easily keep pace but you decide to stagger along like he is too fast for you, whining as he drags you behind him.  Felix sighs but slows his pace.  To your surprise, he answers your question.  “A month,” he says.  “I’ve been working there a month.” 

“And you’re already gunning for CEO,” you say.  “Considering how dedicated you are to bringing justice—”

He slams to a stop.  Your chain jingles when you collide, hands smacking together.  He faces you. Wisps of blue escape from his half-ponytail to dance across his face.   

“I already told you,” he says.  “My job is checking tickets.  Chasing you down was my personal pleasure.”

“You’re a sick bastard,” you say.   

He smiles.  It is a gentle smile, seemingly sympathetic out of nowhere, his eyes softening with the lift of his brow.  He has an uncanny ability to make softness more threatening than roughness. It gives you a shiver. 

“Let me guess,” he says.  “You don’t have a job, do you, sweetheart?  You can’t hold one down.  You don’t know how. Your parents have money and it’s nice, sure, but they were overbearing your whole childhood, weren’t they?  Until one day they decided you were grown and just stopped caring.  And now you’re out in the world with no more rules and you don’t know how to deal with it.  Except by acting out.  It’s fun, right?  Looking for trouble.  Makes you feel something for a minute.  Because even though you have everyone fooled into thinking you’re this wild and carefree person, you’re locked up inside.  You’re not scared of consequences because you’re already trapped.  Oh, uhh, stop me if I’m getting cold, yeah?”

You just stare as he blithely runs his pretty mouth. 

“You don’t really care about the prize, it’s just about the chase,” he continues.  “You told me I was a good boy, yeah?  Your words.  And you think you’re bad.  A bad, bad girl,” his deep voice drops even more, like the heavy-handed thud of a low blow, striking some place intimate inside you, “but that’s not really true, is it?” 

He smiles that particular smile again, full of affection and tenderness, an expression that is completely alien to your brash and aggressive nature. 

“Deep, deep down, you just want to be good,” he says.  “But you need to earn it to enjoy it, don’t you?  You need someone to tell you that you can, that it’s okay.  But you don’t make it easy.  And you’ve been running for so long, you probably can’t even remember how it feels when someone cares enough to catch you.” 

You suddenly feel the weight of the handcuffs. You expected this dull pretty boy to have a hidden mean streak to rival your own, not for him to blast through your barriers and drag your innermost thoughts to the surface.  To say nothing of his perfect speculation on your background. 

“So what, you’re some kind of stalker with a philosophy major?” you ask. 

He is still smiling. 

He laughs, a low chuckle.  He looks like a star, glittering silver and blue in the moonlight. 

“No, I’m not,” he says.  “I’m just the same as you.  Vexatious, apparently, because I’m all smiles all the time.  Just so good, you know?”  He is almost theatrical in tone.   “Of course, that’s technically the opposite of you.  Isn’t it?” 

When you don’t answer, he touches your chin, just his fingertips.  It is still enough to guide your face to his, locking eyes. 

“I said, isn’t it?” he asks, his tone sharper. 

If he is insinuating that you are only pretending to be bad, then that means he is only pretending to be good.  If you are secretly good, then he is secretly—

His mouth hovers close to yours.  He abruptly steps back. 

Oh.  You blink quickly.  Yes.  Of course.  It is always the real bad boys who take care to be good, isn’t it?  He does not need to flaunt it.  He can just smile at you. 

“Come on,” he says, interlocking your fingers with his.  He tugs you along, humming to himself as he leads you down the street.  So seemingly innocent.  Grinning to himself like the cheshire cat. 

You stare at those freckles, the glitter stars, his dimples. 

A vexatious vixen, indeed.

“So that Jisung guy,” you say. “The one who gave you these handcuffs.  He thinks you’re a nice guy who needs some adventure in his life.  It was just a prank gift and he thought he was being funny.”

“Yup,” Felix says, popping the sound.

“Little does he know you’re actually some sick and twisted pervert,” you say.

“Tsk,” he says, looking at you with a cheeky grin, as if to say what a silly girl you are.  “I’m not sick.  See, unlike you who bothers everyone whether they like or not, I only chase the ones who like to run.  Twisted, on the other hand… well…” 

The handcuffs jingle, strung around your joined hands like the red string of fate.  You look at each other, starlight on your faces, a noisy arena behind you and a game ahead of you. 

You smile back at him. 

You still intend to win.

-

It is a twenty minute walk.  Your conversation weaves around implications, some very forthright flirtations, and a couple scandalizing explanations.  Despite his previous goading, Felix is far more reserved in his desires.  He blinks when you describe a very dirty scenario and get detailed.   Very, very detailed.   

“Um, right,” he says.  “Fun as that sounds, I’m pretty sure that constitutes as a human rights violation.”

“So?”

“I, uhh, prefer to do things that don’t get me put on an Interpol watch list.” 

“Coward.”

You nonetheless accept this and describe a totally different scenario.  He looks a little wan. 

“Where would I get a rocket launcher?” he asks when you are finished. 

“I dunno, get creative.  My friend Seungmin once—oh shit, my friends!”

“Wait, huh?  Your friend Seungmin has a rocket launcher…?”

You take out your phone to find a gathering collection of texts from Seungmin and Minho, ranging from teasing you about losing your touch to asking if you got arrested and they need to bail you out.  Your friends are a nightmare which is why you like them, but they always get you out of trouble in the end. 

You confirm you are safe, that you already left, and that you are trying to have sex with a hot, insane, kinky sadist of a security guard.  

“You know I can read everything you are typing right now,” Felix says.  “I am standing right beside you.  You’re typing with a hand literally attached to mine.”

“Well, mind your own business.”  You do not bother hiding your texts. 

“You are giving them my name and address,” Felix replies.  “It sounds like my business.” 

“Well, it’s not.  We’ve already established the world revolves around me.  You’re the supporting character, pal.” 

“Right,” he says.  He blinks at the screen.  In a more serious voice, he asks, “Do you want the postal code too?” 

It never hurts to be thorough.  You type the address and send it to the boys. 

Good thing you waxed, Seungmin writes. 

Felix squints at the screen and tilts his head like a curious cat.  “You waxed for a concert?” he asks, giving you a once-over.  “What did you think was gonna—”

“I am prepared for every eventuality,” you interrupt.  “It’s why I always win.”

He holds up your handcuffed wrists and cocks an eyebrow.  “Is this what you call winning?” he asks. 

You smirk, your whole expression bright despite the suggestive wiggling of your eyebrows.  “Matter of opinion, I suppose,” you say.  “And my opinion is the only one that matters.” 

“Right,” he says, forcing a frown.  Despite his efforts, a smile is tugging at his lips.  He suffices to roll his eyes and march ahead, yanking you along behind him.  “Come on,” he says.  “We’re almost there.”  

Once your friends have your information, you put your phone in your little purse.  You turn the corner and find yourself looking at an absolutely gorgeous house.  Your jaw drops as Felix leads you up the driveway.  It is an ostentatious design to say the least.  You pass a gate mounted with two lion statues.  

“Not my style,” he says when you gawk at the stone kitties.  “This place belongs to my parents.  They usually rent it out but they let me live here while I go to school.” 

“So you weren’t kidding,” you say, a funny sensation in your chest and stomach.  “About your background, I mean.  You and me really are alike.” 

You realize the sensation in your chest is an inkling of feelings.  Genuine, heart-felt, soul-stirring feelings. You look at Felix and see a lot of yourself, though he is like a mirror version, exactly the same and completely the opposite.  It makes you huff, holding a hand to your stomach like you can control the butterflies there. 

“What’s wrong?” Felix asks, pausing at the front door. 

“When was the last time you had a feeling?” you ask.

“A… feeling?” he asks.  He stands silent for a long moment.  When he realizes you are not going to elaborate, he asks, “What kind of feeling?”

“Just a feeling,” you say.  “You know.” 

“Uhh.”  He blinks quickly.  “I have feelings all the time.  Every day.”

“Wow,” you say.  “That sounds exhausting.  Explains a lot about you.” 

“All right.”  He shakes his head.  He reaches into his back pocket and fishes out a set of house keys, twirling them around his fingers until he finds the right one. 

“Wouldn’t it be funny if I threw those keys too?” you ask.

He gives you an exasperated look.  You grin.

With a shake of his head, he sighs and unlocks the door.  The foyer lights flicker to life and the house alarm starts ringing.  It gives you a punch of adrenaline which has the predictable effect of getting your blood pumping.  Your body does not know the difference between fear and desire.  You have only been here two seconds but you are already licking your lips. 

Felix is none-the-wiser.  He flips open the alarm panel and punches in a code.  It beeps and goes quiet.   You look at each other in the soft golden glow of the foyer lamplight.  He still looks stupidly pretty, blue hair and glitter, sleeveless shirt and jeans.  Unassuming, gentle, sweet.  Not at all like he could throw you over his shoulder or manhandle you in the grass.  But he can.  He did.

“Come on,” he says, tugging on the chain between you. 

You feign disinterest but your eyes scour his space.  You pass through the kitchen where there is an array of baking utensils drying in the dishes rack.  The entire kitchen is clearly maintained with great care.  The rest of the space is a little chaotic, shelves and desks and units overflowing with technological equipment that you can neither recognize nor name. 

“I build computers,” he says, catching you staring at the pile of miscellaneous parts.  “Sorry for the mess.  I wasn’t expecting company.” 

This is uttered dryly and you wave it away.  You do not want to admit you find it somewhat endearing.  Your hobbies primarily consist of keeping the local PD on their toes, but you appreciate the practice of a craft.  It only adds another layer to this weird dude, pretty but athletic but intelligent but ridiculous but charming but geeky.  And just as competitive and crazy and freaky as you. 

“Bedroom’s this way,” he says.  “And, uh, don’t get any ideas.” 

“Too late,” you answer, though truthfully your filthier fantasies are fracturing in wake of the reality of him.  The computers, the baking tools, the wall of games and consoles, collectible toys and ughhh why did he have to be kind of adorable and secretly have a personality.  Mutual objectification is more your style.  Not quivering under a gentle touch and feeling… feelings. 

“You look like you are thinking way too hard,” Felix says, pausing at his bedroom door.  “It’s freaky.” 

“Not thinking anything,” you say, because you are too busy feeling to be thinking.  Ugh.   You shake it off and push open his bedroom door. 

He shakes his head and leads you in.  He has a pretty elaborate gaming setup, the rest of the room plain in comparison.  His bed is neatly made and you cannot help but envision a mess of sheets.  Yes.  That is more your thing.  Taking that sweet and gentle façade and corrupting it, right down to the core.  You want him to lose control.  You want to drive him crazy.  You want to draw this out, use the handcuffs and—

“Aha,” he says. “Right here.”

He pulls open a bedside drawer.  A pair of handcuffs is sitting inside it, the key right on top.  He takes it out and immediately unlocks you. 

The cuffs fall to the floor.  He scoops them up and jingles them in your face. 

You stare at them then slowly meet his gaze.

“Oh,” you say.  “You evil son of a bitch.”   

He looks at you with a soft little pout, like he cannot imagine why you would be upset and you are hurting his oh-so sensitive feelings.  But he knew you wanted to play him.  He knew you wanted the handcuffs a little longer.  Now there is no reason to linger.  Now you can just walk out the door and never see him again. 

He is going to make you ask for it. 

That is not your style.  You hate being out-smarted.  And you really, really, really hate losing. 

“Right,” you say.  “I guess that’s it then.”

“Guess so,” he says.  “Bye.” 

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

You are still standing in his bedroom.  It is dark but there is an elaborate lighting rig around his computer, all bright blue neon and blinking lights.  You are swimming in blue, breathing it in.  His hair, the room, and moonlight. 

You will never see this colour the same way again.  Of that much you are certain. 

“Blue,” you say. 

His brow crinkles.  “Blue?” he repeats. 

“Mm.”  You look around the room, pretending you are unbothered by the intensity of his gaze.   “Red.  Yellow.  Green.  Colours can say a lot, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” he says, exhaled on a breath.  The neon light catches the little star on his cheek, glinting at you.  He is dazzling.  This moment is larger than life.

You take a step back, holding his gaze. 

“Red for stop, yellow for slow down, green for go…” you drawl, backing out of his room.  “It’s amazing what you can say with just a colour…” 

“Uh-huh,” he says.  He looks at you like he did at the arena, maybe even more intensely.  Now he knows what you are capable of doing.  Now you understand each other. 

He follows you, assessing every step you take.  There is a subtle flex to the lean muscles of his arms, reminding you that while he is beautiful, he is also capable of more. 

“And what does blue mean?” he asks.  “To you?” 

You walk backwards, an unspoken understanding that once you turn your back, the game begins.  So you hold his gaze, smirking, inviting.  The foyer lights flash on and gold light fills the space between you, casting shadows across your smiling faces. 

He walks like a predatory cat, slow and smooth.  His confidence is easy.  He needs no grand display of machoism.  He just smiles that pretty pink mouth.  The glitter on his cheek sparkles.    

“Blue is the colour we show on the outside,” you say, “when deep down we really want something else.”

“I see,” he says.  Abruptly, his intensity vanishes when he laughs and says, “Put it back.” 

Somehow, despite diverting his attention, he still saw your slight-of-hand.  You swiped the closest object, a little jewel-encrusted clock on the nearby table.  You waited until your body obscured the view but he still saw.  

He can read you that easily, predict your moves that well.  Because it is not as though he loves the clock.  It stands out from his things, clearly one of the ostentatious designs, courtesy of his parents.  You can read him that easily too.  He does not like gaudy, shiny little knick-knacks.  He likes neon and blue and you. 

“Put what back?” you ask.  You have reached the front door.  Your hands are behind your back, the bauble in one, the other twisting the doorknob. 

“I’m not gonna ask twice,” he says. 

You push the door open. 

“I’ll give it back, if that’s what you really want,” you say.  With a suggestive little smirk, you ask, “So what’s your colour?” 

Red to stop.  Yellow to pause.  Green to give in. 

“Blue,” he says.  To play. 

You smile.  You hold up the bauble, wink, then zip it into your purse.    

“In that case,” you say, “you’ll have to catch me first.” 

His expression changes in an instant, that playful giggling gone as quickly as it came.  He breathes and it fills him, makes him look sturdy, makes him look ready.   

“Sweetheart,” he says.  “Don’t make me do this.” 

The softness of the pet name is completely undone by the dark tone of his voice.  There is nothing soft about him.  He is ice cold blue and burning red heat at once, searing you with his eyes, the way they rove your whole body.  You feel each glance.  A shiver races down your spine.  Instinctively, your body braces itself, fearful of that voice and that gaze. 

It also gets you so, so hot. 

All that tension snaps. 

You turn and run, bolting down the driveway and past the fancy gate.  You are quick on your feet, practiced and lithe.  You show him no mercy this time.  Earlier you were unprepared, severely misjudging his capabilities, but you will not make the same mistake again. 

You glance over your shoulder.  He is no where to be seen so you slow your pace, bemused. 

A minute later, he comes tearing around the corner and your heart starts pumping again.   Just like back at the arena, he grins as he thunders after you. 

An instinctive little yelp leaves your mouth.  You resume your pace, booking it for the corner of the block.  There is a little patch of green park so you run there, disappearing between the bushes. 

It seemed like a good idea but the streetlight barely breaks the thick tree branches. It is darker and eerier here, genuine fright overcoming you.  You come to a clumsy stop, fumbling with your purse to grab your phone.  A flashlight will stop you tripping, but it will also lead Felix right to you. 

You hear him behind you, clambering through the bushes.  Your heart leaps.  The darkness makes you forget this is all pretend.  You run without a light, dashing down the narrow path and squinting for even a glimpse of street light.  You need to get out of the bushes otherwise you risk falling on your face, then he will be right on top of you in seconds.   But running on the road will expose you too quickly. 

You will not surrender that easily.  He knows that. 

Torn between the garden and the road, you get a brilliant idea.  You dash back onto the street and hope it takes him a minute to follow.  He is not behind you so you race back to his house. 

There is no way he will circle back here.  He knows you want a chase, so a chase is what he anticipates.  He would never guess you ran back into his house.  Oh, you can’t wait for the look on his face when he finds you perched on his bed, feigning boredom as you wait. 

You run back up the driveway.  The front door is closed and you crash right into it, assuming it would be unlocked.  Nope. He locked it.  Maybe that is why he was delayed. 

You spin around, halfway expecting to find him there, ready to push you up against his door and cage you in.  But no, you are still winning.  He is undoubtedly still running through those bushes. He will circle the whole block before heading back here.    

You hurry down the side of the house, looking for any open windows.  You do not think he had time to set the alarm.  Did he?  Maybe that is why he was so far behind. 

The side gate is unlocked so you slip into the backyard.  You come to a surprised stop because it is a beautiful landscape.  The greenery is pristine and there are little couches and chairs scattered around.  There is a shed, some storage trunks, a fire pit.    In the middle of everything is a pool, sparkling blue in the golden lamplight.  Of course. 

You do not rush. You cross the yard in a slow walk, taking a moment to catch your breath.  You strategize your next move.  Should you pose on one of the pool chairs?  Wait by his back door and knock when he gets home? 

Your thoughts are interrupted by a low hum.  Someone is making their way down the side of the house.  

You panic.  You are often caught scampering around places you are not supposed to be, so instinct propels you to hide.   You run to one of the storage trunks and duck behind it. 

No sooner have you hidden does Felix stroll into the backyard.  He is a little dishevelled, a few strands of hair escaping from his half-ponytail, but he seems mostly unbothered.  He moves at a leisurely pace, humming to himself as he swings the gate open. 

He pauses there, leaning against the tall fence.   You are quite certain the world has never been this quiet.    

 “I know you’re here,” Felix says, his deep voice shattering the silence. 

Your heart leaps into your throat.  You should have known better.  Of course he had the same idea as you.  Now what?  How can you outsmart someone who can predict your every move? 

You peek around the storage trunk.  Felix is smiling, all dimples and delight.  Even his eyes are glittering as he swings the gate shut.  He looks across the yard as he curls his fist around the padlock.  He slams it shut, effectively locking you in with him. 

So that is why he took so long.  He unlocked the gate before giving chase.  He laid a trap and you ran right into it. 

His walk is more of a prowl, a slow but steady tread across the grass.

“Come out, come out,” he sing-songs, uncannily chipper. 

You cannot believe you are about to be beaten so quickly.  It has your head spinning, your heart racing from your run, your adrenaline pounding as he approaches. 

Your heart tempers itself when he stops.  He pokes his head around the fire pit to see if you are hiding there.  

“Sweetheart,” he says, casting his gaze around the yard.  “You don’t need to hide.  I promise I’m not mad.”  He strolls around the pool, looking from here to there, even up at the trees.  He hums thoughtfully to himself.  “Now, now… If I was a troublemaker who needed to learn a lesson, where would I hide…”  He ducks behind a pool chair, frowning.  “Hmm, hmm, hmm…” 

He stands for a minute, tapping his chin.  You want to glean some semblance of your surroundings, but you do not want to take your eyes off him.  You are convinced if you do, he will manifest right beside you.  So you look at the house then at him, the gate then at him, the trees then at him.   You almost want to scream.  He is not even moving and he has you completely captivated, every last sense in your body attuned to him. 

“Pleeeeease,” he says in a long drawl, a cute little tone.  He ambles over to a different storage trunk and lifts the lid.  “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

He slams the lid down so hard it makes the unit wobble.  Even though you are far away, it makes you jump.  You have to cover your mouth to stop a yelp from escaping. 

You stare as he leans over the other unit, peering behind it.  He huffs in frustration when he finds nothing.  Despite the angry grimace, when he stands upright, he is wearing that saccharine smile. 

“You’re hurting my feelings, sweetheart,” he says.  “I thought we were turning into friends.  Don’t you want to be my friend?” 

He flings a chair out of his way, then swiftly drops to his knees to peer under the picnic table.  He is getting closer, bit by bit, which is somehow more terrifying than if he beelined right at you. 

He is giving you time, you realize.  He wants you worked up.  He wants your heart racing.  He wants you quivering and soft and afraid. 

You look around frantically, searching for an escape. 

Your hope rises then plummets.  The back door is ajar but that is an obvious trap.  It leads into the house but there is no way you are crossing the yard without him seeing you. 

You jump at another slam.  It was the shed door.  He is stepping inside it, rifling through the yard tools in case you are crouched inside. 

“Come on,” he says into the shed.  “Don’t be scared.” 

You take a deep breath.  You have only seconds to cross the yard while his back is turned.  You do not waste another moment, jumping to your feet and running as quietly and as quickly as you can. 

He is just as quiet.  You shriek at the sudden arm that catches you, just like it did at the arena.  Felix tackles you onto the grass again, pushing you down on your back and covering your mouth. 

You wrestle him, just like last time, ignoring his laughter as you claw and bite at him. 

“You’re a little mean, you know that?” he says, waving his hand after narrowing dodging your teeth.  He dives back in, undeterred, grabbing your face in one hand.  “Yeah, that’s it,” he says.  “Fight me.  Brat.” 

You do not surrender easily, but he manhandles you with the same effortless skill as before.  There is no doubt he has training that you lack, flipping you in his arm then pushing you down on your front.  You kick your legs as he straddles your backside.  He brings your hands together on the base of your spine. 

You know what is coming and it makes you shriek with frustration.  Just like last time, he slaps the handcuffs on your wrists and locks your hands behind your back. 

“You stupid little—” you start, your words stifled when he puts his hand over your mouth and yanks your head up.  He holds the handcuff key in front of your face, then makes a show of throwing it.  You are pretty sure it is still in his fist, but the very idea has you whimpering into his palm. 

“That’s better,” he says, slowly taking his hand off your mouth.  It hovers like he expects you to start screaming.  You just exhale heavily, glaring.  “All right,” he says.  “Very good.  Come on.” 

You play at obedience long enough to get off the ground.  He helps you stand, then you immediately kick at him.  He tries to grab your leg but you dodge the swipe of his hand, running the opposite way. 

Your balance is thrown, dizzy from the takedown and the handcuffs.  He catches you quickly.   You yelp when he sweeps you off your feet, boasting all that hidden strength again. 

He carries you over to the deck where he drops down, sitting with his legs spread to fit you in between.  With your back to his front, he pulls you against him, an arm across your chest to keep you pinned together. 

“Oh fuck you,” you say, wriggling helplessly. 

“Not quite,” he says, laughing.  “I’ve been picturing something else.” 

He covers your mouth again, catching your shriek when he tugs your shirt open.  The flannel falls down your shoulders and he yanks the tank top down, getting a handful of everything you inadvertently flashed him earlier. 

Despite the force of his initial touch, he is not rough.  You might have kept your cool if he was; you are used to rough, fast, hard.  But his hand is tender, almost loving, a slow touch that trails from your neck down your chest, thumb circling the peak of your nipple before he squeezes your curves in the cup of his hand.   It is maddeningly slow and careful, your whining trapped in the palm of his hand. 

“This is what I was picturing,” he says.  It sounds like a growl, his deep tone just above a rough whisper.  His lips graze your ear and you shiver. 

You gasp, taking in deep gulps of air when he frees your mouth.  A weak whimper is all you manage when he hooks his legs around yours and pries them apart.  His hand dives down to your shorts, making swift work of the buttons. 

“Yup, just what I thought,” he says as his fingers sink inside you.  “Do you feel that?” he asks, as if your attention could be on anything but the thorough, rolling touch of his fingers, torturing the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs.  He slides his fingers into you with no resistance whatsoever. He starts finger-fucking you, laughing when you moan, when you rear up under his hand for more.  “Mmm, yeah, you want it don’t you?”  You try to resist but it is hard, especially when he teases you, making you chase him with your hips.  He just laughs again, slowing his touch maddeningly.  “God, that’s hot,” he says.  “You might be a brat but your pussy...   It’s begging for it, isn’t it?  Does it like this, sweetheart, hmm?  Hmm?” 

He is absolutely torturing you, rubbing those swollen nerves to the crest of an orgasm then withdrawing, again and again, until you swear it burns.  You make a strangled sound, clutching his hand on your chest, still cupped possessively on your naked breast. 

“Tell me,” he says.  “Tell me how much you want me to make you come.” 

“Mmmph,” is your oh-so intelligent reply. 

“You can do better than that,” he says.  “Come on.  Show me how much you want it.  You can’t lie to me, sweetheart.  I can feel it, hmm?  Gonna feel it when you come.  Gonna feel your pussy get nice and tight around my fingers, asking for it, baby—oh yeah, what’s that?  What’s it want?” 

“Ugh, fuck you,” you whine. 

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart,” he says.  “Fuck you.  You can run that pretty mouth but I know what you really need.  You’re gonna be begging me for my cock, to fill you up and make you feel all full for real. Isn’t that right?  Go on.  Show me you want it.  Show me.” 

Your chest is heaving.  Your eyes close.  You concentrate on that orgasm, chasing it desperately.  It approaches rapidly and your thighs start shaking. 

He covers your mouth again, once more predicting you.  He knows you are about to come.  This time he takes you right over, groaning in your ear, clutching you tight while never once slowing the deft thrust of his hand.  You scream into his palm, the intensity of the orgasm washing over you.  The blue light of the pool flickers even with your eyes closed, seeing nothing but blue, blue, blue.   He surrounds you, his voice, his moans, his touch. 

Your hips buck, your heart skipping a frantic beat when pleasure turns to sensitivity. He chuckles but stops, dropping his hand off your mouth.  You catch your breath, slumping against his chest. 

He touches your face with the hand he just used to fuck you, wet fingers streaking across your mouth as he turns your head.  You blink at him and part your lips just for him to shove his fingers in your mouth.  You cannot help but moan, eyes closing as you suck the tangy wetness right off his fingers.  You watch when he takes them back, when he licks them for himself.  Strands of blue fall across his forehead.  He looks as flushed and filthy as you feel. 

He grins around his fingers.  Then he grabs the back of your neck and pulls your face to his.  He kisses you for the first time with the taste of your pussy on both your mouths.  His kiss is deep and bold, as if you are already his.  You are dizzy when he stops, gasping when he pecks your lips with sweet, chaste little kisses. 

“Gonna uncuff you now,” he says softly.  “Because for what we do next…”  He grabs you by the throat and you mewl, clenching around nothing when he rolls his hips under you, showing you how hard he is.  “Yeah, sweetheart.  For that, I need all of you.” 

You sit quietly while he uncuffs you.  You feign complacency, standing on shaky legs when he guides you upright.   You fix your shirt, glaring at him, though it is a little harder while you are still catching your breath. 

He was right about one thing; you need him like you have never needed anyone.  You are throbbing, completely and totally aching with the loss of his touch.  You have never felt such clear pulsations, your body begging for more even while your expression is petulant. 

You follow him to the open door.  One step, two steps. 

Then you say, “Blue.” 

You take off running into the house. 

He laughs incredulously, not even making an attempt to grab you. 

He slams the door shut behind him.  You skid to a stop in the hall, listening to the gentle beeping of the alarm as he arms it from the inside.  It is the same quiet threat as the padlock; there is no escape. 

Giddy, excited, practically vibrating with anticipation, you run and hide.  There are boxes and tables piled high with gadgetry, not to mention his couch and bookshelves and general appliances.  Plenty more places to hide than that big back yard.  And when he finally does find you, when you have worked him up the way he worked you up—

That is what winning is all about. 

You sit in your hiding place, breathing hard.    

“Sweetheart,” Felix says in that too-sweet voice.  His footsteps are slow, unhurried, casual.  “Stop hiding.  I said I didn’t want to hurt you, but if you keep this up…” 

You peer at him between some boxes.  He stops in the middle of the room, catching his breath too.  The glittering amusement has left his eyes.  They are narrowed, his flushed cheeks and sweaty hairline only exacerbating his predatory air. 

He unties his half-ponytail, then bends over to run his fingers through the length of it.  He flips back up, all that blue falling prettily in place.  He licks his lips as he prowls through the room, looking behind boxes, ducking under tables. 

You shuffle with him, moving when he does.  He checks your previous hiding space with a jaunty, “A-ha!” then curses. 

“Come on now,” he says, turning around.  He smiles like a shark, all teeth, hungry despite the innocent flash of a dimple.  “You’re only hurting yourself,” he says.  “I know you, sweetheart.  You’re in here somewhere, and you can’t tell me you’re not thinking about what it’s gonna feel like when I catch you, yeah?  Hmm.  You’re fast.  I bet you’re flexible too.  I bet I can get you into all sorts of positions.  Get you making all sorts of noises for me…” 

It is a struggle to be quiet as you move.  Your limbs are still shaky.  Every word out of his mouth makes your breath catch. 

You swallow hard, freezing when he pauses.  Did he hear that?  Maybe not.  He turns the other way, heaving a deep sigh before he laughs.  It lacks amusement, a harsh sound as he turns and turns. 

“Come out, come out,” he sing-songs.  In a harder voice, he snaps, “Stop hiding from me.”  Then he smiles again.  He turns in your direction slowly.  “You’re not scared of me, are you?” 

You cover your mouth, cowering down when he seems to look right at you.  Your heart is pounding so hard, you would not be surprised if he could hear it, even feel it, shaking this whole damn house. 

“If you come out on your own,” he says, “I promise to make you feel good.  You’ll come so hard, you’ll forget how scared you are.” 

You keep that hand over your mouth, fighting to keep quiet.  It stifles a shriek when he suddenly waves at you, a drole little finger-wiggle.    

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says.  He crouches down, putting himself at eye-level, peering between the boxes that shield you.  “Don’t make me come get you,” he says.  “I’ve been nice, haven’t I? Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.”    

You shuffle to the side.  He slaps a hand over his face, shaking his head while he laughs. 

“Right,” he says.  “Fine.  We’ll do it that way.” 

You bolt when he does, shrieking as you clamber around some equipment to get away.  You manage to escape to the foyer, cursing when the automatic lights flash on.  It feels like a spotlight, illuminating you in the middle of that big empty space with no where to hide. 

You can hear Felix stomping after you.  You scurry into the kitchen, looking around frantically for somewhere to hide. 

You yelp when he bursts in behind you.  This time, he does not give.   He grabs you roughly when you try to run again.  With very little effort, like you are scarcely more than a mild inconvenience, he lifts you off your feet and slings you over his shoulder.  He says nothing while you curse and squirm and slap his back. 

“You know what I wonder?” he eventually says, marching you right into the bedroom.  “I wonder… if I make you cry, is that gonna make you tighter, you think?”  He slides you down his body, holding you flush against him.  He smiles.  “Worth a shot, no?” 

And then he handcuffs your wrist to his wrist and tosses the key across the room.

“Oops,” he says. 

He grabs your throat and you gasp, spilling onto the bed when he pushes you.  He puts your on your back then straddles your chest, swiftly unbuttoning his jeans. 

“Open up,” he says, practically prying your mouth open, just giggling when you bite at him.  “If you bite me,” he says, two fingers shoved deep in your mouth, “I promise, I’ll give you something to be fucking scared of.” 

You were right.  You will never see the colour blue the same way again.  You will never be able to settle for anything less than Felix again. 

With a whimpery sigh, you relent, blissful as your mouth falls open.  He shoves his clothes out of his way, just enough.  He is rock hard and wet at the tip when he guides your mouth around his dick.  He cradles your head gently, even if the rest of him is not gentle.

You moan, your pussy literally twitching for attention as he shoves into your throat and makes your eyes water.  You take him well and he groans, pulsing in your mouth when tears start running down your face.  He fucks your mouth and throat, a back and forth that has your seeing stars.  Eventually he pulls back, laughing as runs his fingers through his hair. 

“Oh, baby,” he says.  He reaches down to wipe a tear.  “I wanted to do that the second you started mouthing off to me.”

“Asshole,” you say, though it comes out with a giggle. 

He laughs, sliding down your body to get between your legs. He gets your shorts and underwear out of his way, kissing across your pussy and up your stomach.  He lifts your shirt and crosses your breasts with his mouth, leaving little bite marks in his wake.

With the hand cuffed to yours, he interlocks your fingers sweetly, pressing it into the mattress.  Then he swoops up.  He kisses you, his tongue a soothing touch after everything. 

You moan, literally shaking with need as he smiles against your lips.   He speaks in that low, rasping voice when he says, “I can’t wait to see the look on your face when you realize you’re gonna come all over my cock.” 

“Oh god,” is your rough reply. 

“It’s Felix,” he says.  “You’re gonna be screaming it in a second, aren’t you, sweetheart?” 

He has a condom in his bedside drawer.  Though you see him put it on, he still leans down to dirty talk, holding your throat as he whispers, “Was gonna be nice and wrap it, but you don’t like it nice, do you?”  He spreads your legs with his own, pushing down with his hips.  You whimper when the head of his cock glides over where you are very wet and very needy.  “No, sweetheart,” he says.  “I’m gonna have all of you.  And you – are gonna – take it.” 

He punctuates this with short thrusts, gradually easing inside you.  You moan, canting your hips to meet him, needing more.  When he starts fucking you in earnest, your whole body gets pliant like it never has before.  You let him hold you, tethered to him by the handcuffs and something else, something to do with those feelings inside you.  You let them melt into the physical sensations.  When he touches you, working you into an orgasm while he is deep inside you, it all washes over you.  You come with a cry, screaming his name just like he said. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” he says.  Your bodies are flush together, chests touching, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist.  His face is in your neck when he laughs.  It is not a fake laugh, not coloured darkly, but ringing with true amusement.  “What’s your name?” he asks.

You laugh too, whispering it against his mouth when he leans in to kiss you.  He groans, kissing you, and says your name against your lips when he comes.  It binds you to him more effectively than the handcuffs. 

You lay there for some time afterward, all that pent-up adrenaline taking its time to dwindle.  He lays on your chest, your free hand in his hair, stroking it.  Eventually he looks at you with wide eyes. 

“I’m not, you know, like that, I mean—” he says. 

“I know,” you reply, massaging the nape of his neck.  You get uncharacteristically bashful.  Usually your partners, being more dominant, are the ones offering consolation to you, and you seldom need much.  Felix, you can tell, needs something, and it draws something out of you that you hardly knew existed.  Something tender and soft, that enjoys touching him and soothing him and making him smile. 

“Do you still have that, uh, feeling?” he later asks. 

You nod.  He smiles. 

“Me too,” he says. 

“That’s nice.  Can we get the handcuff key now?” you ask, making him laugh. 

The handcuffs end up on the floor with your clothes. 

This is usually the part where you run away, but you think you are done with running for a while.  You lay down with Felix, side by side, washed in the neon blue light.  You take a breath and roll onto his chest, resting your head there, and he runs a hand down your back in a soft caress. 

“I’m just glad I didn’t wax for no reason,” you break the silence, making him snort.  He slaps a hand over his face, shaking his head.  “What!  Don’t look at me like that or I’ll try and sneak into another concert when you’re on the clock.”

“Mm, will you?” he asks, grinning.  “I better be prepared.” 

“Oh no, I’m not messing with you.  I’m picking an easier target next time.”

“I’ll find you anyway,” he says.  “Can’t hide from me, sweetheart.”

“Hmm,” you say, hiding your face because that squishy feeling in your chest is back.  “I still won this round.” 

He lifts your face so he can look at you.  Your eyes close when he swoops in and kisses you.  You can’t even pretend to be annoyed with him anymore.  Vexatious vixen, indeed.   

“I think,” he says, “we might have tied this round, sweetheart.” 

“Fine,” you say.  You kiss again, long and sweet.  Then you bop him on the nose.  “But next time it’ll be me.”

He sighs but smiles, shaking his head.  Then he cups your face and pulls you in for another kiss.   

[johnwickb1tsch]

A Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick Imagine Part 6 by:

@treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake @johnwickb1tsch and now featuring @tammykelly

Warnings: So many dead doves! Do not eat! Unless you like dead doves, that is. You're in good company here. 😘 Violence, sexual content, blood, murder, kidnapping, possessive behavior, dubcon, yandere sh!t...it's all here! Please take care! 😘

ALL CHAPTERS

Treedaddymcpuffpuff:

Bradford keeps you cuffed to this chair for a whole lot longer than you can stand. You’ve tried getting out, but only succeeded in cutting steel into your wrists and ankles, leaving bloody raw rings that sting and throb.

You’re not a medical professional by any means, but you know it just can’t be a good thing that your fingers and toes are numb and stiff and bloodless. Of course, maybe that’s in part due to the temperature of this room - the room that he has left you in to rot. 

No, not rot, it’s too damn cold to decompose. Freezing. Like the dead of winter without snow. And all you have is this little ripped sundress to protect from it. 

Bradford left you here bolted to the floor after letting you know that when you were ready to give up information on Tex and John, you could just say so and it would end. 

You won’t. You won’t give that asshole the satisfaction. But, god, you’re cold, thirsty, listless, unable to flex your fingers without hot pain shooting up your arm. And really, you don’t know much about your boys, anyway, right? Except for what the inside of John’s house looks like and the brand of the sometimes too strong cologne Tex uses that makes your nose crinkle up and your toes curl. Little stuff. Would revealing that hurt them?

Of course it would. Of course these government parasites would latch onto every little detail and use it to smoke your boys out. You keep your mouth shut, your eyes on the table. You want to bawl, sob, scream, but make a solemn vow not to give Bradford anything except a blank glare. 

You don’t know how you actually manage to fall asleep like this, but a cold bucket water wakes you up,  screaming and thrashing, handcuffs cutting deeper into your flesh, blood in the water pooling at your feet. 

“Wakey, wakey,” Bradford tells you. “Time to go watch Tweedle Dee and Dumb die.” 

“Fuck you,” you try to say, but the chatter of your teeth and violent tremor of your muscles make it impossible to form coherent insults. 

Four of Bradicks goons manhandle you into the trunk of a car, and, honest, you do try and fight, kick and bite and scratch while they uncuff you from the chair only to string you back together again.

Before Bradford can close the trunk of the SUV, you look up at him and ask, “why?” 

He flicks damp hair off your mouth in an almost fond gesture. “You’re insufferable, anyone ever tell you that?”

You manage to find the gumption and roll your eyes at him. “Yeah, bigger and badder men than you, agent fuckwad.” 

He slams the trunk down, leaving you in the darkness. And whoever the driver of this car is does not go gently into this good night. They make sure you roll around and slam into seats and knobs and handles and acquire some nasty bruises.

The next time you see anything, it’s bathed in the white fire headlights of a car army. You feel the need to fold in on yourself, cover up the welts and bruises and wet, shredded, clinging dress. You didn’t even bother to put underwear on before you started rummaging through the kitchen, and now here you are half naked and shaking in front of a group of angry Russians with big guns.

A young man with a thick accent - you assume him to be the recent successor of the Nobokov Bratva - smiles and it sends ice through your blood. “Hank,” he calls, like he’s seeing an old friend. “How are you?” 

“Fuck off, Igor. Where are they? And before you go into some fucking Russian monologue about debts and consequences, know that we have a time limit here. I don’t come out in 3 minutes, the agency lights your boys up with c4.” 

Igor’s grin turns wider.

The body with the black hood over its face is one you intimately recognize. Your fears are only confirmed as the hood gets torn off and Tex’s bloody, bruised face is revealed. 

You make a desperate, croaking sound, and try to go to him, but Bradford pulls you back by the scruff of your neck. You’re pathetic. A pawn in a game. A speck of dust hiding in a corner that can’t even save itself from the vacuum. 

“His buddy gave him up,” Igor explains. “Turns out John Wick isn’t that tough when you pin him against a hundred men and his only ally.” 

Bradford nudges his gun into the air. “We had a deal, Igor. Both of them. And my wife.”

Igor clicks his tongue like he’s disappointed. It reminds you of John. You feel hot tears spring down cool cheeks. Tex. That fucking bastard. Of course he would sell John out. You should have expected it, but your heart still aches. 

You look at John, and he looks back, only able to keep one eye open because the other one is swollen shut. He winks at you, and even though the grin on his face is a weaker version of what it usually is, you know for a fact that this is not John Wick. Oh. Oh.

“Hank,” Igor continues, “do you really need Texas Johnson if you have John Wick? Baba Yaga? How many confirmed kills under his bloody belt? Oh, it must be in the thousands now, eh John?” Igor kicks Tex on the hip, making him grunt in pain. 

You glare at the bastard son, and he turns his wicked smile on you. “Ah, this one has fire, and I hear she likes being kidnapped. Maybe I’ll kidnap her for a while before I kill her.” 

Bradford gets a ding on his walkie. “Yeah?” 

Something about moving in and securing the target and cutting losses, and Bradford sighs. 

He pushes you forward, and you land on the wet gravel face first. “My wife, Igor.” 

“Oh, yeah, you know you really should have just called her yourself, Hank. These chicken shit assholes didn’t even go to the trouble of actually taking her. They used ai technology to clone her voice.” Igor chuckles. “Don’t worry, we all make mistakes.” 

“Fucking bastard,” Bradford - Hank - spits at Tex. 

You raise your head to look at him, see his handsome face maybe one more time, and Tex Johnson is scowling, seething, an animal that only gets angrier the more you beat it.

Just like how John’s rare smile unnerved you, Tex’s glare does the same.  You’re not sure how it happens. You’re not even sure you’re alive - not after fire tears through the sky and shakes the ground and busts your eardrums open. But Tex is not in handcuffs anymore, and he’s wrapping his arms around you. Gunshots, screaming. One minute you’re in the dirt - the middle of a war zone, and the next you’re cradled against something solid, broad and warm, watching the ground zip by.

You touch your saviors cheek, feel the rough blood caking his facial hair. If you’re dead, this is heaven. Because Tex has got you and you somehow know that he’ll die before ever letting you go again.

“Where’s John?” You ask.

“I missed you too, rattlesnake.”

Johnwickb1tsch:

You are hiding behind a boulder with Tex, his steady arm around your shoulders, holding you upright, if you’re being honest. Bradford’s unkind methods of keeping you immobile rendered your limbs into an unreliable fucking mess.

One last distance to cover, Tex claims, before you reach your getaway vehicle, and with any luck, freedom.

You hurt everywhere, and all you want is to go home.

“What was that, rattlesnake?”

You realize you accidentally said that part aloud, and you sigh, banging your head back against the rock. How insane is it, that your idea of home now is a soft bed with Tex and John wrapped around you?

You should be enemies.

You should be fighting this tooth and nail, trying to find your own escape that doesn’t involve Bradford, the Bratva, or your assassin Beaus.

But the fact is…you don’t want to, anymore.

The system that was supposed to protect innocents like you instead fucked you royally, exposing the true corrupt underbelly of the way the world actually works. You’re beginning to grasp that it’s all a construct to keep the little people like you in line. The elite need a complacent workforce, after all. And that makes you question everything else you’d ever thought was wrong, or right, or something in between.

Tex is looking at you intently, even through his swollen eye, a warmth in his gaze that makes your insides melt. Fuck it. You all might die today. Maybe you should tell him. “I said—”

A hail of bullets cuts you off, Tex shoving you down nearly into the ground. He returns fire with a pistol he picked up from a dead Russian, and you press your hands over your ears, already half deaf from all the explosions and gunfire. Apparently the FBI had descended on the Bratva in what they thought was an ambush, and John…John was killing everyone.

You’d seen a glimpse of it from a distance while Tex had been pulling you to safety. The absolutely savage beauty with which John killed. It was like watching a vicious deadly dance, the artful way that man could seemingly effortlessly unalive a group of armed and dangerous people was a sight to behold.  

“I know it’s you, Tex!” rises a hoarse voice from the darkness beyond.

“What’s it to ya, Bradford?” answers Tex, checking his clip to see how many shots remain. He frowns at the one bullet he has left, and he slides it home back into the gun with a menacing click. racking the slide to feed it.

“Slick trick you two played. Well done.”

“Thank you kindly!” Tex looks down at you, making a jerking-off motion with his hand and rolling his eyes. It makes you giggle quietly to yourself, winning that heart-stopping devil-may-care grin.

The fact that the two of you can joke at a time like this probably means you’re both half insane. You’re probably in shock, which is your excuse. You’re afraid Tex doesn’t have one.   

“Give me the girl and I’ll let you go!” offers Bradford, winning an incredulous scowl and a shake of the head from Tex. The FBI agent sounds haggard. Desperate. Tex hopes he can take advantage of that. He peers around the boulder and squeezes off a single shot.

This is answered with a full-on barrage, and then the clicking of an empty gun. “Fuck,” you hear off in the distance.

“Stay here,” Tex mouths silently at you. You shake your head, clinging to him, desperate not to be left alone in this chaos. Gripping your chin none too gently, Tex kisses you hard, stealing your breath, and your senses. His hand possessively runs up your thigh, to your bare ass, squeezing you with his fingers maddeningly close to your center. With a devilish glitter in his eye he licks his fingers, whispering, “Keep that warm for me, darlin’.” He renders you into a befuddled little puddle of molten desire, then disappears into the night.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck!

You hear more gunfire, then grunting, the sound of flesh striking flesh. You dare to peek out from your hiding place to see Tex and Bradford fighting with fists, grappling on the ground. Tex gets the upper hand, straddling the FBI agent. Between punches he snarls, “Did I—” punch “hear you,” punch “lay hands” punch “on my woman” punch “over the phone?” punch “you piece” punch “of pig-fucking shit?”

By the time Tex is done with him Bradford can’t give an intelligible answer, just groans with excruciating pain through broken teeth and bloodied lips.

Tex spits on him before standing, and delivers a kick to the man’s ribs for good measure. Bradford grunts again, coughing blood. You run out from behind the boulder on shaky legs, and Tex loops his arm over your shoulders again, pulling you in the direction of your escape route. You’re not sure who’s leaning on who more now.

You look back at Bradford one last time—and see he’s pointing a gun in your direction, specifically, at Tex’s broad back. “Tex!”

You don’t know why you do what you do. It just happens, and you are throwing your weight with what little strength you have left against Tex’s body. “Wha—”

It seems simultaneous. The report of Bradford’s last shot, and a searing pain in your side. It burns, and you whimper in Tex’s arms. He’s shouting something at you, maybe your name, or bawling you out for being stupid. Your ears are ringing, and you watch as though through a tunnel as John—dressed in a black western-style shirt a-la Tex—emerges from the shadows, and shoots Bradford in the head.

“What fucking part of keep her safe and I’ll do the rest did you not understand?” snarls John, going to his knees beside you, his laser-like stare fixed on your side.

“I was!” protests Tex, equally as worried as they examine you. “Goddammit, woman, why did you do that?”

“Shut up,” you manage weakly, winning yourself a grin despite everything.

John produces a black handkerchief, folding it and pressing it to your wound. It hurts. “Keep pressure on it. Time to go.”

They help you to your feet—but your legs aren’t really working. You almost fall again, but Tex hoists you in his arms. “I got you, honey. You’re ok.” You’re not sure who he’s trying to reassure more—you, or him. But you nestle your cheek against his collarbone, and your thought from earlier returns. Home.

Through heavy lids you are vaguely aware of the boys—your boys—loading you into some kind of 4x4 vehicle. As it starts with a mean grumble and you pull away with tires spinning in the dirt you pass out.

-----------------------------

Murmuring voices. A beeping machine. So annoying.

Hands on your side, pulling, prodding. You wish it would stop.

Voices speaking rapidly, not in English.

The bright flash of treetops and sunlight speeding past.

Palm trees. Blue skies. Birds singing.

Fingers sliding through your hair. “You’re gonna be fine, sweetheart. Promise.”

Promises, promises, promises.

When at last you wake, you feel as though you’ve been dreaming for days.

Your vision focuses selectively. First, upon the sloping contours of a muscled bare back adorned with black ink. The chiseled cut of a bicep, and raven-dark waves of hair. Beyond that you see a gauzy curtain waving in the breeze, the shimmer of impossibly blue water just visible beyond. You hear waves, and the plaintive call of sea birds. You can smell salt on the breeze.

Oh. So you’re not dead. Isn’t that nice?

There is a furnace of a body behind you as well, a heavy hand upon the curve of your hip.

The warmth you feel, not just on your skin, but kindling in your heart…is a wonderful, damnable thing.

You lift your head a little, winning a grumble of protest from behind you.

Then you notice dark eyes shining from behind the curtain of that mop of hair on the pillow next to you. “Hello, beautiful.”

“John?” Your voice sounds like you swallowed a cup of borax, like you haven’t spoken in a week. You reach out to touch him, and find that even that makes your side ache.

“Next time,” advises your assassin boyfriend no 1, kissing your fingers, “Just let Tex take the bullet.”

“Hey,” grumbles Tex from behind you, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “That’s not nice.”  

__________________

Sweetwolfcupcake:

Things are slow at first. You remember you were thirsty--parched, to be precise, you drank around a jugful of water and you remembered that everything ached. Especially your side. Left shoulder.

How lucky, you think cynically, could have been your spine cord.

Then, Tex gave you a pill, and you were awake enough to eat before you fell asleep again.

This time, you are more aware, more coherent, and surprisingly far more tolerant of the pain. Or maybe it is the painkiller in your system. Whatever, the pain is not a bitch on your shoulder, on your whole body anymore. The bed is soft, it seems like it's late and you are wide awake.

You are alone in the room, you notice. Although (surprisingly), it is a little bit disheartening, it helps you to think. Process things, finally after the storm is over and it has left a silence behind.

So, your life was pretty normal, and then you became an accidental witness to a crime, you were whisked away by the two assassins who were paid to kill you and somehow they decided that you are interesting enough to be kept alive and to be taken for themselves. You are practically dead for the world. They faked it. No one is coming to get you. The one person you thought was on the right side, turned out to be the villain in your story.

Now, coming to Bradford--- asshole showed his true face, the fuckling system failed you, your moral beliefs, your perspectives, everything has toppled down, turned into ashes and through this wasteland, emerge these two handsome assassins who eerily look exactly the same and harbour similar affections for you.

Also, you are falling in love with them.

With your brain in survival mode, you had not even properly registered the torture Bradford put you through, and the dangerous situation he pushed you into. Heck, you barely understood anything before pushing Tex away and taking a bullet for him.

You don't understand where you stand, where your relationship with them stands. But if they are willing to risk themselves to save you. It might just mean something.

You don't feel the tears streaming down your face, not until a few drops land on your hand. You are finally processing. And of course, you are at the brink of ugly crying.

If someone advised you to ugly cry a few days ago, you might have rather held things up within, bottled it all up, gulped it down and raised your chin instead.

But now, you think of it as the only way. You need to let it all out. Too much has happened. Too much has changed too soon. So you allow yourself to ugly cry, not counting the ticking of the clock, not heeding to your pain, not even hearing the door open with urgency.

"Hey, hey, hey--what's wrong, what's wrong?"

It isn't Tex's panicked voice that pulls you out of your deep dive into your own pit of loss, confusion, and misery, but rather his touch, his hands cupping your cheek.

Funny how a few weeks ago, you would rather take any possible escape route to slip through their clutches, and now you can recognize them by their mere touch.

Through the blur of your tears you can see his worried expression, especially his panicked eyes. You feel the bed dip beside you and fingers running through your hair.

"It's alright, let it out, let it all out."

John's voice is steady and soothing as he tries to comfort you. He is much better at deciphering and handling your situation, you assume.

"Does it hurt?" John asks, wiping away your tears. You look up to meet his concerned gaze. But there is something else in it-- something dark, sinister. "What did he do to you?"

You instantly know that he's speaking about Bradford. His thumb rubs against your sore wrist. So, he knows... Of course he knows. Your eyes flicker between your wrist and his eyes. His burning orbs that let you get a hint of why is he so feared in the underworld.

But you have no energy to elaborate any further, you have no energy to even reply. You just shake your head and look away. Lips still quivering, eyes wanting to be, ironically, anywhere but on them.

Tex mutters something under his breath that sounds more or less like a snarl, but you're too far gone to care. You feel John's fingers back on your hair, but you don't look his way. His touch is comforting, yes, but you can't bring yourself to acknowledge that.

Too bad because it is the softest Tex has sounded so far. Nothing is teasing or mean about him at the moment. You would have teased him for the panic in his voice, but you just can't bring yourself to care. It doesn't even occur to you to pass any comment.

Everything that has happened has finally dawned upon you, and you have at last acknowledged it. It's all too much, too bad, and you feel yourself spiraling. But deep down, you know. You somehow know that they won't let you fall into the abyss.

Tammykellly:

- a flashback-

You feel like you are one of the dead doves, forever frozen in a cage that is deafening loneliness and drug-like need for love. Love that’s gonna give you purpose to keep waking up. A visceral need to love and be loved. Love with a price tag of $2.5 million.

Sofa cushions bend under your weight, before you take a sip of your tea. You notice birds fly in the distance, across the dawn sky. You can’t remember the last time you woke up before the sunrise. But this sunrise feels cold and almost menacing. As hot water makes contact with your throat, your chest tightens, as you think of how those little creatures can fly anywhere they wish to, almost always together, in a flock. Your gaze shifts to the water, trickling across the porch outside the panoramic windows, and a tiny squirrel, running around the backyard, bringing food to its nest, before a cat comes to catch it. You feel a sigh, escaping your mouth.

You lean back, listening to the sound of silence. When you’re alone, the peaceful world inside the house is so otherworldly mundane in the sense that you’ve never known before. Your ears take in the distant sound of the washing machine in the laundry room, loaded up by one of the boys, who, you’re sure, are out and about by now. Your eyes notice the dim blueish hue of the living room, that’s connected to the kitchen and the terrace, the misty colour of which seems to have bent the glass, separating both worlds. Two worlds, divided by the bulletproof glass. One world - mocking you, the other - keeping you away from it.

You try not to notice a lump in your throat and burning sensation in your eyes. You don’t bother to wipe a tear, running down your cheek, before placing the cup on the designer coffee table. For you don’t think you should hold anything right now, when, in fact, you can’t hold anything in at all. Your arms wrap around your body, bringing you anything but warmth - a reminder that you’re alone, so utterly alone, no one will see you’re inside this glass house, built by your captors.

But what you don’t know is, the walls have eyes. The walls have ears. And shadows in between the walls hide secrets, spilt by the devils. One of which is watching you with his intense obsidian eyes just around the shadowy corner, letting you cry your heart out, for he knows some lines aren’t meant to be crossed. Yet. He’ll make sure to be your comfort, but for now, he’s just an observer, for he guesses he’s the reason why your cries fill the space. John’s gaze takes in your broken, lonely shaking form, as you’re holding yourself in the middle of the sofa. A tiny smirk curls up the corners of his lips.

The code that is you turns out to be so easy to crack.

You wake up on the couch in the living room from the warmth that touches your skin. The cold blue of the early morning has been replaced by bright yellow midday sunlight. You hear clinking in the kitchen and steady steps towards you, as you stretch. A cup of hot tea appears in front of you, as if it’s been waiting for you to wake up to taste it. Your eyes lock with jet-black chocolate ones, warmth radiating off them, making you feel more cozy and relaxed than the soft cushions you’re sitting on and the scent of your tea.

You feel the sofa fabric dip beside you, a warm body now sitting next to you. John smiles at you: “Change of plans, princess, you’re spending the day with me”. You can’t help but return the gesture, before quickly touching your puffy cheeks and dried up tears. “Oh, what a delight”, - you sit in a way your body is facing his, “what’s Tex up to?” John watches you throw one arm on the back of the couch, taking it as a sign to slightly lean in closer.

He says: “You’re here with me and asking about him?” The warmth of the teacup plays on your fingers again, before it touches your lips that hold a reminiscent scent of toothpaste you’ve used in the morning: “Y’all are like two peas in a pot. One can’t go without the other”. John quirks an eyebrow, seeing you freeze, your mouth slightly open upon realisation. He darkly chuckles but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes: “Cowboy has really gotten to you, hasn’t he?” He can’t help but notice how adorably innocent your wide eyes gaze up at him, still in shock you’re picking up Tex’s manner of speaking.

John lets you place the cup back on the coffee table, and you feel his large hand around your wrist, pulling you closer. “Get over here. Now”, - he tells you, his muscular thighs now in between yours, the thin layer of your silky pyjama shorts doing absolutely nothing, apart from making you feel the harsh fabric of his jeans. He feels your arms loosely wrap around his neck, never breaking the eye contact, letting you study him however much you want, akin to a shark, showing its fins through the murky waters, before disappearing into the depths of the unknown.

And it works, for you’ve been caught by his mesmerising charm, as you notice how pretty he can be from up close, so serenely majestic, wrapped up in your arms, his energy never letting you fully escape him. You run your fingers through his raven hair, mixed with silver strands. You can’t help but feel stuck in the emanating jet-black radiance of his eyes, that you discover have many colours you haven’t seen before.

And that’s how you learn darkness has different shades and they all taste like John. You lean down to kiss him, which he reciprocates without missing a beat, bringing you closer to the whirlpool that might drown you one day. You play with each other’s power of will for a while before you have to pull away for air.

“You taste like oblivion”, - you whisper against his lips. “What does that mean?”, - he replies, a curious glint in his eyes and his lips eager to feel yours again before you let him relish your sweet flavour once more. You pull away slightly to look him in the eyes, watching him study you. You simply state: “It means there’s no way out”, watching a smile appear on his face again, as his hand travels to the back of your neck: “You’re going to be a good girl for us, right?” You don’t reply. For it’s not about the possibility of the fall anymore, but the depth of the crash.

Playful midday sunlight slowly grows into early evening specks of light, splashed across the living room that you’ve been in and out of. Your crying session in the early morning seems like a distant memory, replaced by conversations with John and slow afternoon sex.

Could this be a dream come true?

You can’t help but look over at John, feeling his magnetic gaze on you. Instead of feeling stiff like you often would under his intense dark eyes that emit power and control, you choose to embrace this new feeling of being seen. Moments turn into long seconds, passing through the slick of time in between the kisses.

“Baby”, - John calls you quietly. You hum in response to his lips against your neck. “I want you to fuck me”, - he tells you before looking up into your eyes, that strong threatening flavour of power and attraction catching you deeper in its web.

“Huh?” - you can only manage to get out of your mouth, that might hit the floor at this rate. Strands of hair fall across the man’s face, as he tilts his head, his hawk-like eyes testing the limits of your self-control. He doesn’t wait for you to continue: “Fuck me, before I change my mind”. You don’t even try to hide the possibilities flashing through your eyes from him, knowing exactly what he expects of you.

Behave, be a good girl. It’s all just a game.

You lean down to kiss him, before dragging your lips across the sensitive skin of his throat. “If that’s what you want, sir”, - you lick up to his jawline, before his palm finds its place on your cheek. “Is this what you want?” - he questions and you believe he sounds genuine. For the first time, he watches a playful and almost cunning sparkle appear in your irises. He doesn’t believe the sound of your voice when you tell him: “I want you to beg”, which makes him smirk. Your fingers inch closer to his pubic bone and nether, as you expectantly look at him, at last, giving him the taste of his own medicine.

“Please, fuck me, babygirl”, - John calmly asks, though swallowing, when you wrap your hand around him. Now it’s your turn to return the smirk. “You gotta do better than that, sir”, - you begin to pump him harder, watching his chest rise and fall a bit deeper, as he twitches against your skin when you swipe your thumb across the most sensitive part. It’s so satisfying, seeing a man like him cracking down because of you. A little rattlesnake pinned against a serpent.

“I need you to fuck me”, - his breath becomes a bit more shallow, “now. Please”. You line him up before starting to painstakingly slowly sink down on him, not breaking the eye contact that makes you both feel like the house of glass is about to burst into shards around you. “As you wish”, - you kiss him and bite his lower lip, seeing the way his eyelashes flutter, when you close the distance between your bodies in one move and feel his full length inside of you.

John’s hands grip your thighs, but you don’t move, his questioning eyes find your teasing ones. “I told you to beg”, - you whisper, “so be a good boy and fucking do as you’re told”. You add: “Sir”, for good measure. John’s fingers sink deeper into your skin, both of you knowing it’s gonna get bruised later, which makes you involuntarily clench around him, receiving a guttural hiss from him.

“I want you to fuck yourself on me so hard that the only thing you’ll remember is how to scream my name”, - John’s tongue collects the sweat, dripping down your chest, as you slowly move your hips, both of you feeling every part of the other’s body in the most delightfully hot sense possible. His hands guide you to increase your speed, which you cannot get ahold of controlling anymore. You feel John’s breath on your face: “And you’re gonna do, as you’re told, princess”, he sucks your lower lip and kisses you hard, which earns him a moan from your lips against his mouth. John looks up at you, his eyes filled with brooding darkness that holds a promise of a tsunami, something so primal you dare not to even attempt to overpower. “Yes, sir”, your shuddering breath barely escapes, before his lips hungrily find yours again and you feel yourself move against him, without his hands on your hips, as if your only purpose is to please him.

As the sound of sloppy kisses and moans fill the living room, you don’t care to pay attention to the way John takes in your sweaty form that he knows is desperate for him, while you pick up the pace, his hands placed loosely around your waist. His eyes lazily roll over your body, down to where your skin meets one another, his chest filling with pride and joy that he is the one making cracks appear all over the essence that is you and everything about you.

With every thrust and love bite, you feel yourself lose the control and further tangle in the triangle of devilish delusions, daunting dreams and dangerous desire. With every deep kiss from John, you let go of your position in the Devils’ game and succumb to the faceless decay, akin to a house of cards eaten to ashes by the flames of pretense and a masquerade of hopes. John’s arms pull you closer to his heated body in a possessive embrace, every fibre of his being titillated by the thought of you. For, as you and John cross the joint everlasting limit, you become the incandescence of a fire and the event horizon of all consuming oblivion.

- present -

You get off Tex, his arms still wrapped around your body, the AC blasting on both of you, as you watch the Seychelles sun grow closer to the horizon. Tex kisses you sweetly, making you smile against him: “What was that for?”, you lean back to take a long look at him. “Nothing”, - he replies cheekily, putting a loose strand of hair between your ear. “It’s never nothing with you”, - you chuckle, basking in sunset light, letting Tex stare at your magic after sex glow. You lay your gaze back on him, as he asks: “Is this how you see me?” You feel the warm sunlight lick your skin, as you put your silky dress back on, still careful around the almost completely healed bullet wound, still not used to seeing it on your body. You sit back down: “I don’t know, you tell me. We are nothing more or less than what we choose to reveal”. You and Tex watch the ocean waves sparkle under the setting sun, cloudless sky turning more orange and pink with each passing moment of silence between you. You feel a small sigh leave your mouth, thinking about what happened months ago, hoping the sentimental softness for the two men would slip away from your heart with specks of dust.

The more you think about it, the more you begin to sense your blood flow through your veins, your cheeks painted with blush not just because of the sun and the sex.

First, months ago, there was a flood of tears and denial. Now, anger takes the stage, setting up the diverse uncanny possibilities for a deal with the Devil.

You clench your jawline and let it go before saying as softly as you can: “Hey, listen…uh…I gotta talk to you about something”, from the corner of your eye, you can vaguely make out Tex turn his head to face you, as you keep the ocean and palm trees in your direct view, “It’s been bothering me for quite a while and I know it might seem like a silly little thing to you, but it matters to me a lot”.

You finally look at him, choosing not to divide your attention on the way his eyes and skin beautifully glow under orange sunset lights. “Okay, lay it on me”, - Tex tells you in a soft voice, as you pace your breath, so as not to give into the temptation of letting him see right through you.

“It’s about the day I got kidnapped and shot”, you watch Tex stiffen.

“Why didn’t you give me something to cover myself up?” - you question, tilting your head, watching Tex’s eyebrow twitch.

“What are you talking about?”, you hear his deep voice.

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you”, - you tighten your jawline again for a split second, “you saw I was literally butt ass naked and you didn’t even offer anything to cover it”. A shuddered breath from the man next to you enters your personal space, as he replies: “There wasn’t enough time”. You raise your brow: “But there was plenty of time to touch me, wasn’t there? You just didn’t care enough, did you?”

You calmly watch him search your eyes, though the smile you have put on reflects none of how you feel. For how you feel is far from letting his hand brush against yours. Your hand slips away onto your thigh, while Tex apologises: “Listen, I’m sorry. I’ll never forgive myself for what happened. All I could think about was saving you”. You stop yourself from clenching your fist, sending an unkind smirk his way.

“Oh, you want a cookie? Having to save me is nothing to be proud of. It shouldn’t have happened in the first place”, a cushion next to you dips, as the man shifts, while you continue: “and, Tex, I was so fucking scared I thought I was out of my mind”.

You poke his chest: “Admit it, you see me as nothing more or less than a plaything”.

Tex seizes the opportunity to snatch your hand, which, in turn, makes you flinch, as he smiles: “That’s not true. You’re my woman”, you shakily wiggle your hand out of his grasp, crossing your arms, chuckling, unamused: “Yeah…I heard when you were punching the life out of Brad”, your voice full of sarcasm and venom, “well, guess what, Tex Johnson, you don’t let dozens of blood thirsty men watch your woman’s private parts”.

Tex doesn’t reply, so you continue: “and it’s not even the fact that you didn’t offer your clothes to cover me that makes me mad”, you inhale slowly before looking into his eyes, illuminated by something more than sunlight. “It’s the fact that you further took away my dignity by touching me. I felt so exposed, so vulnerable and hurt”, your voice raises slightly, your fingers digging into your skin, “and you took advantage of that. You just wanted to show off, didn’t you?”

Suddenly, you feel Tex’s hand on your throat, his breath on your lips, your heart pumping so fast you think it might jump out and spill into the waves of pain when you hear the man’s growl: “I’ve been so good to you for the past few months. We traveled everywhere you wanted”, he makes you lock your eyes on his fiery ones, “Why? Because I care about you”. His jawline dangerously plays under the skin, as he tells you lowly: “Be careful with your words now. Or you’ll pay for it”.

You quietly laugh, earning a look of confusion: “I already did, I fucking took a bullet for you”.

Tex watches your eyes narrow, as you smirk, the fire in your stomach adding fuel to the way you spit in his face, mirroring the growl of his own: “Do you really think a bird forgets how to fly once you lock it in a cage? The thing is, toys break. You don’t wanna see me at a breaking point, do you?”

You feel like you can breathe again, as Tex leans back, saying: “What are you talking about, y/n?”

You lean closer: “You don’t fucking know me, Tex. Neither of you do”, you let yourself drown in the couch cushions, for it’s Tex’s turn to laugh this time, his words and self-indulgent voice punching holes in your soul, as you try your hardest to stop the burning occur around your watery eyes. “We know everything about you. Your background, your family, who are all dead, you got no friends. We know your hopes and dreams, how you like your eggs and pancakes in the morning, how you like your tea in the evening and what you look like when you’re sound asleep. We know what helps you feel better when you’re on your period and how you look like when you’re falling apart because of our touch. Everything”.

You exhale sharply, as the cushion shifts under the weight of the man, when he gets closer: “Look, doll, I’m so sorry”, his voice so unbearably soft, sweet and apologetic you feel your stomach turn, “We are so sorry that it happened and we’ll have to live with that guilt forever. We’ll never let it happen, ever again”.

You slap his hand away, the boiling fire in the pit of your chest coming out sooner than you thought it would, as you scream: “Stop fucking saying that! I’m not your fucking doll!”

You feel tears pooling in your eyes and quickly wipe a fallen one, as you repeat in a low shaky breath: “You don’t know me”, before getting up in a swift motion and storming off, as Tex’s loud voice chases after you: “We never wanna lose you, Y/n!!”

Tex hears a click of the door lock, making him curse, feeling a strong presence behind his back, as it’s coming out of the shadows.

“Let her cool off. You know she doesn’t actually mean any of it”, - John sits down on the couch, handing Tex a beer bottle, which he opens with his bare hands, saying: “Yeah, didn’t sound like it. She started crying, for fuck’s sake”, his voice frustrated and almost sad. The men look ahead at the ocean and palm trees, engulfed in flames of sunset lights. John exhales: “She’ll come around”.

Behind the closed doors, you don’t even understand yourself anymore, for you can’t recognise any of the pieces of who you’re seeing in the mirror.

Point of break when you got nowhere to run looks different on everyone.

They want a plaything? They’ll get it. You’ll get them hanging by the strings. Before they decide to break your wings, completely.

You continue to study yourself in the mirror. Maybe that lucid knife play was a prophecy, disguised as a dream.

The mask of sanity has slipped.

.

--------------

ALL CHAPTERS

[otdiaftg]

What came is a police car, and it backs into the spot beside them. Nathaniel doesn't recognize the baby-faced officer who gets out the passenger side or the seasoned cop that comes around the hood a few seconds later. The older man gestures, and the younger cop goes to pop the trunk. Romero climbs out of the car and goes to exchange a few quiet words with them.

Romero nods satisfaction and opens the passenger door. He unlocks the handcuffs from Nathaniel's ankles only long enough to untangle him from the rails. As soon as the metal snaps shut again, Lola undoes the cuffs on his wrists. Romero hauls him out of the car by his shirt and locks his hands together again. Nathaniel flicks a cool look at the cops, who are studying him with blatant interest and zero remorse. "How much do my father's people pay you to break your oaths?" "More than the state does," the older officer says. "Don't take it personally." "I have to," Nathaniel says, voice hoarse with pain and hatred. "It's my life." The only thing in the trunk is a small toolbox, so there is plenty of room for him. He can't climb into the trunk himself when he is bound like this, but the cops help Romero hoist him in. Lola takes Romero's offered gun and climbs in after him. She winds herself around his battered body, holding him close, and cocks the gun in warning. Nathaniel answers her smile with a blank stare.

Day: Saturday, March 9th / 10th* Time: 2:45 AM EST

*Due to the Leap Year, I have opted to highlight the day rather than the date to keep the events in occurrence to the 2007 year. I will continue to mark both days accordingly.

[merakiui]

Wow! The way you write his jealously is spot-on, Mera! 🤯❤ i can see Floyd, after that incident, doodling crudely drawings of him, reader and the future baby (or babies. He likes the idea of making them with you, many times) he'll have with you, all living together as a one happy family.

Something to appease his jealously while he waits for his next visit with you or his freedom, he fills his wall with these drawings, looking dreamily at the one he's drawing right now.

Maybe baby shrimp will have your eyes? He loves your eyes (and the idea of keeping them in a jar, only looking at him). Oh! He'll love it if they're born with his teeth, having sharp teeth is very useful to bite through many (human) meats!!

Floyd laughs loudly in his cell. For the first time ever since he got in the death row, he can't wait for his family to free him. Well, they gotta if they want to meet the future Leech family members!

(Just Floyd having sick fantasies, and probably even sicker pregnancy fantasies 😳)

Omg yes!! Floyd is always doodling in his cell, humming to himself as he scribbles on the walls and floor with chalk. He writes out potential names, crossing some out when he thinks you might not like them, always adding new names when they come to mind. He adores the idea of having many children with you. Floyd has definitely told you during one of your interviews how he'd knock you up and in what positions. He likes watching you squirm; it's cute. But what he likes even more is fantasizing about a life with you, with a house full of happy, little shrimpys.

He wants the baby shrimpys to have a mix of his and your best features! Your pretty smile, your lovely eyes, your nose, your face... He could dote on these imaginary children forever, and he certainly does when he's adding new doodles to his cell walls. There is one particular drawing he's made. It's of you and it labels all of your parts as if you're an anatomy example in a biology textbook. He can point out various parts on this crude drawing and ramble about which would be the easiest to sever, to gouge, to stab, to eviscerate. He can list the messiest murder schemes, the cleanest schemes, the schemes that leave a human body so disfigured they almost don't look human anymore.

He has a lot of sick, twisted fantasies. He's thought about fucking you against the interview table so roughly that all the recording device picks up are your sobs and moans. He's thought about choking you with the chain of the handcuffs, yanking your head up to his mouth so he can lick and bite at your neck. He thinks about how hard he could bite down so that you're bleeding nonstop. He's thought about, if he were still free and he'd found you, he'd fuck you with a knife held to your throat or a gun against your temple just to feel you tighten around his cock.

And then there are the pregnancy fantasies, the ones where you're his housewife shrimpy and you're always waiting for him to come home. He'd give you so many massages and he'd help milk you every night. He'd let you ride him until you're crying from overstimulation, and he'd fuck you while you're on your hands and knees, cradling your baby bump and whispering the sweetest promises to you. He used to be an apprentice chef, so you know he can cook some killer (pun intended) meals. Sometimes he dreams of breaking out of prison to find you and make your husband watch as he fucks you so good, much better than your lame husband ever could. He's thought about letting Jade fuck you just so that you can get pregnant and have babies that look like him while he waits for the day when he can escape.

Floyd hates not being able to touch you. He just wants to give you one hug. Just one! He won't hurt you. He likes you. But everyone's trying to get between him and his shrimpy and it's really bothersome. But it will all be worth it in the end once he's finally out and he can come to retrieve his shrimpy.

[lindisworld]

Close || Matt Murdock x Reader

summary: Soulmate Au! In which [Name] has Daredevil as a soulmate and Matt unwillingly wants [Name] in his life. However Fate does its job and always brings them together.

Chapter six.

After Brett took care of Frank, who was passed out in the cemetery, and briefly put Matt in handcuffs. Matt’s only priority was getting to [Name]. It had taken awhile for Brett to let Matt go, almost convinced he was helping the Punisher.

Matt soon rushed towards the direction of [Name]’s coffee shop faster than he had ever before, his thoughts scrambled, he couldn’t focus on anything or anyone no matter how hard he tried. He had let his emotions overtake him causing his senses to become overstimulating. The whole city on blast, why is Hell’s kitchen bustling this time of night?

Time felt like an eternity, each second stretching out into an infinity of its own. Everything around him seemed to move in slow motion, as if the world was operating on a different frequency than he was. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath ragged and labored as he pushed his way through the crowded street. In the moment, nothing mattered, not even when his legs were screaming at him to stop and rest. He just needed to be there with her. He needs her to be safe.

Matt didn’t understand the depth of the soul tie, he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Was life this cruel to give him a soulmate after all he’s been through? Matt’s been over exerting himself for the past few days in hopes he wouldn’t have to think about it.

What felt like forever ago, he reached the coffee shop. He tilted his head slightly, attempting to focus on anything that might be out of the ordinary. He heard a couple of voices that led him to the back of the building, Matt distinguished two heartbeats but none that belonged to [Name].

“The girl isn’t here. She might’ve went home.”

“Notify Finn. Let him know we’re on the way to her apartment.”

“We’re gonna have fun with her.”

Before the guy could call and do anything further, Matt came from behind. “You aren’t going anywhere near her,” he spoke in that deep raspy voice. His hand clenching around his baton, throwing it at the guy’s temple that knocked him out instantly.

“The devil protecting a dumb girl. Stupid choices lead to bad consequences.” The guy snapped at him, drawing out his gun, aiming the weapon at Matt. “I suggest you leave me alone before you die right here.”

Matt shook his head in a dismissive manner and let out a laugh, “Oh. I’m not dying today, but I know you are.” He responded, clarity in his voice that hinted at more than just confidence. Matt knew that second when the man pulled the trigger, immediately getting into a close range, disarming the man within seconds. Matt's movements were a dance of controlled grace, each action calculated yet fluid.

“Son of a bitch.” The man spat out, “i’m gonna kill you, asshole!” He threatened, he leaned forward and aims a punch towards Matt’s face, but Matt’s quick reflexes allowed him to block the shot. Matt returned the attack and punched the male on the cheek.

The air crackled with tension between them, one man wanted to shed blood but the other wanted to get to his soulmate. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing and the low hum of distant traffic. Matt stood his ground, his jaw clenched tightly as he stared down his assailant.

“C’mon man, I’m just trying to get to my lady. I wanna have fun with [Name].” The man casually spoke, a shit eating grin appearing on his face. Only if Matt was able to see, he might’ve broken his moral code of the no deaths while Daredevil. Yet the tone of the guy was enough to send Matt over the top.

“Didn’t your mom teach you not to play with the Devil.” Matt said before closing the distance, his hands that turned to fists colliding with the guy’s face. His knuckles turning white with the force of his emotions. As the fight unfolded, it was evident that Matt's actions were not merely fueled by anger, but also by a sense of protective instinct, a primal urge to shield against the threats about [Name].

—————

Yet meanwhile, [Name] laid uncomfortably in her own bed, her blanket wrapped around her body like a cocoon. Her blanket covering her entire face except for her nose so she can breathe. [Name] felt the stress of knowing who’s behind all the murders that’s been happening throughout Hell’s Kitchen, it definitely made her an accomplice, even if she didn’t partake in it, she still knows about. Now if anyone were to find out, she’d be in deep shit. A part of her denied it because why would a random man who’s named Frank be the Punisher?

She believed they were friends so why would a friend of hers be a murderer? Was she out of her mind for not being scared of him? She honestly thought she should seek some help because a normal person wouldn’t be reacting how she did when Frank admitted it. A rational human would have immediately went to the police and reported it.

[Name] tosses and turns around the bed, her mind clouded. It’s like she couldn’t find a proper position to fall asleep in. Maybe it’s her guilty conscience telling her to do something about the matter. She groaned loudly in frustration, she should’ve banned Frank when he first didn’t pay a coffee, although she did tell him it was on the house. Since then, she refused any money from him, so it definitely was her fault. It’s not like she knew.

All these scenarios going through her head, but there’s no way she can go back in time to fix it. However, if she became friends with the Avengers or more specifically, Tony Stark. She might have a chance to create a time traveling machine, but hey, that’s a long shot. There’s no hurting anyone if she sent a quick dm to Tony on Instagram about her idea.

“No, I can’t do that. Things happen for a reason.” [Name] spoke to no one in particular.

[Name] unraveled herself from her blanket, sitting up with a scowl on her face. She rubs her face harshly, a tired yawn escaping her. She swings her legs to the edge of the bed and began walking towards her kitchen. She rummages through her cabinet and grabs any bowl that was there, reaching over the table to pick up the cereal box.

After setting her bowl of cereal onto the table, she heard a knock from her front door. It was 2 am, who would be knocking this time of night?

[Name] tiptoed where the knives were placed on counter, she reached out and selected the sharpest blade, feeling its chilling edge against her trembling fingers. A sense of dread washed over her as the knocking at the door grew more forceful, sending shivers down her spine.

As she approaches the door closer, she could hear their heavy breath as they muttered something that sounded like her name. [Name] knew deep down that she was incapable of inflicting harm upon another, let alone taking a life. This was her karma for not going to the police about Frank, she thought. Now she got some random person knocking on her door.

“[Name], I know you’re in there.” Wait, the voice sounded a bit too familiar.

“Matt?” [Name]’s voice wavered out of fear.

“No, it’s Daredevil. I need you to open the door. It’s urgent.”

[Name] quickly scurried to the door, knife still in her hand. Even if she knew it was him, she couldn’t take the chance of letting her guard down. She unlocks the doorknob, opening up the door slightly ajar so she could get a clear view of Daredevil.

“I could’ve swore you sounded like an acquaintance of mine,” [Name] laughs nervously, allowing Daredevil to walk in. The voice sounded way too close like Matt’s. However, the idea quickly went down the drain since she’s spoken to Matt quite a few times and her tired mind couldn’t recall his voice at the current moment.

“I can tell you, I’m the one and only, sweetheart.” The stupid smirk of his appeared on his face as he walked through the door as he stood close to [Name]. “There’s no one like me.” Matt cockily added.

“Don’t you think it’s too late to be visiting and for you to be acting like that?”

Matt simply shrugged, his smirk still plastered on his face. “You’re not going to kill me, right?” He asked, his finger pointing to the direction of the knife in her hand.

[Name] closed the door, making sure to securely lock it. She knew it probably seemed she was going to murder the Daredevil, but considering it was 2 am, she rather lock the door than keep it unlocked. Even though she did have Daredevil in her house and needed any protection, she’d just hate if something were to happen in her apartment. [Name] pays a good amount of money to live here and God forbid, a burglary or other serious crime happens in her own home.

“Can’t be too sure, you know?” You replied as you walked over to the kitchen where you left your now soggy cereal on the table. “Considering you made me leave my cereal and it’s soggy now, I might have to commit a crime.” [Name] sighs and throws away her bowl, already lost her appetite from the sudden scare.

“You’d attempt to kill the vigilante that protects Hell’s Kitchen over a bowl of cereal?”

In a quick second his usual smirk went into a serious straight line. [Name] spoke too quick about her apartment as Matt swiftly grabs her out the way. A bullet going through the window that was in direct sight of her from the outside was shattered within seconds.

A/n: Was not proofread, i’ve been slacking on writing 💔 this goes out to @bullseye-devil

[saintsugu]

Fatal Attraction.

contents: explicit sexual content, unestablished relationship, power imbalance (boss -> subordinate), bonten!timeline, gunplay, master kink, degredation, name caling (bitch, slut, and pet), ran’s just really mean, manipulation, sir kink, penetration with no prep

word count: 1.8k

author’s note: this was originally meant for kinktober >:)

Everybody in Bonten—at least those who are willingly there, are ready and expecting to lay their lives down for their superiors at one point or another, but you’re different. You want it— crave it, even. Some call you crazy, obsessed, or any other synonym, but you’re just devoted to your master; mind, body, and soul…

—

“Are you scared?”

There’s a gun to your head. You should be scared—begging for mercy, as all of those who came before you have done. but it excites you. It’s not because you think he wouldn’t hurt you, on the contrary, he already has, but it would be an honor to die by his wonderful hand. 

There's a sick and drunk smile plastered on your face and you have so much admiration in your eyes when you answer, “No, master.”

“Good girl.”

You breathe softly as he drags the gun down your face, applying minimal pressure as he does so. What kind of master would he be if he broke his toy so soon?

Surprisingly, the only reason your breathing isn’t uneven, nor your heart rate abnormal is due to arousal, not fear. 

Beneath him, you kneel on a soft, dark crimson carpet. Stripped down naked, with your hands in your lap and leather handcuffs binding them together. 

You and Ran started this little game a few months ago. He was always aware of your idolization for him. The way you’d follow him like a lost little puppy. One night, after getting quite drunk in his office, you stopped by to deliver the last of your paperwork for the night. 

He beckoned you over, after asking you to close and lock the door, and once you were close enough, everything followed suit. And it was easy—you were easy. He didn’t even have to threaten your job or your life as he did with others. With a wave of his hand, you were on your knees with his cock jammed down your throat, moaning like a whore. 

Things continued like this. He’d drunkenly call you in, trap you against his desk and fuck you like his life depended on it. But one day things changed. One day he realized that you were a depraved, sick, and twisted little girl, so he started fucking you as such. 

But he’s never done this before. 

“Suck.”

One word. 

Who knew one word could have so much power over you?

You look like a slut as your mouth gapes and your tongue lulls out. It tastes cold as he pushes the barrel of the gun onto your tongue. Your eyes widen a bit when he starts to push it down. 

“Want you to suck it like it’s my cock, m’kay? Be a good little slut and do as I say,” he demands, voice coated in a honey-sweet tone. 

You nod fervently as he stops pushing and lets it rest inside your mouth. Immediately, you get to work. You bob your head up and down and try your best to put on a show. 

He’s dressed fully in his lavender pinstripe suit, the only thing even somewhat out of order is his undone tie. He doesn’t feel bad when he forces it further down the tight walls of your throat. How can he when you’re obviously enjoying this just as much as him. 

“Feelin’ needy?” He drawls, a lazy grin on his face as he moves his foot into position. 

Your eyes roll back when his leather loafer bumps against your clit. He nudges your thighs apart and rubs the bud raw. He also knows that you’re smarter than others, you know not to start grinding without permission, less you’d receive a bullet through the skull. 

“Go ahead.”

Two simple words and you’re in a frenzy. Your hips move as you push down and roll against his shoe, moaning around the metal weapon as you do so. 

“You always do so well,” he coos, retracting his foot after you get your moment of pleasure. 

You know better than to whine or voice your disappointment at the lack of stimulation. When he pulls the gun away, you instinctively try to follow it. Your head lifts and you have your tongue out, desperate to get one last lick as if it really were his cock. 

Sadly, this needy behavior earns a sharp strike against your cheek. 

“Good dogs don’t chase,” he chastises. 

Your cheek stings and you want to cry, but you don’t want to upset him. Who cares that it hurts if he’s happy?

“Up,” he orders after discarding his weapon. “I’m tired now. You made me stand for that long,” he sighs dramatically as he sits down at his desk chair, pulling his tie off in one slick movement. 

You stand obediently in front of him, posture spick and span as always. Before, you’d apologize, but now, through trial and error and a lot of punishment, you know that apologies are meaningless to Ran Haitani. 

“Sit,” he demands calmly, tapping his right thigh as he beckons you over. When you do as such, he’s got another demand lined up. “Take my belt off.”

“Yes, Master,” you say, tone mostly even despite the arousal sliding down your thighs and dripping onto his slacks. 

At this point, you want him inside of you more than he does, so you’re quick to comply. With it off, he wraps the leather around your neck and pulls it taut. 

“That’s better,” he chuckles darkly. “Pets are always better when they can’t speak.”

You whine at the degrading words but quickly stop when he gives you a cold glare, instead settling for chewing on your quivering lip. 

“Now my cock.”

The process is the same, but you almost start to drool when you hold his cock in your hand. It’s by far the biggest you’ve taken or even seen, but then again, there’s not much to compare it to. 

When he first met you, you were naive and starry-eyed. You were looking for someone to serve—even if you didn’t realize it at the time, and he was looking for another worshiper. 

“Sit on it,” he says coldly. “You’re already on strike 1, so you don’t get any prep.” Your lip trembles more at his words as you look up at him. ”M’kay,” he hums along, leaning back in the chair. “Get to it.”

Lifting yourself up, you slowly sink onto his cock. Your lips widen and tiny whines escape as he stretches you out thoroughly. But when he hears them, Ran doesn’t take lightly to your whimpers. 

He’s heavy handed as he slaps your ass. ”Strike two. You know the rules. No noise untilI I say so.. One more mess up and I don’t let you cum tonight, got it?” When you nod quickly, he gives you a fake smile and a kiss on the forehead. “Good pet.”

His feigned attitude only lasts for a moment before he’s grabbing your hips and forcing you down. Tears well in your eyes and you have to bite down on your hand in order to stop the moans from flooding out. Your jaw is still shaking as you try to stay silent. 

Once you’ve settled and your plenty stretched, you look at him with shocked, doe eyes and your lips parted, as if you’re soon to cry. 

“Don’t fucking look at me like that,” he snarls, grabbing your jaw harshly. “It looks fucking pathetic. And not a good look on you, bitch.”

“I’m sorry, Master,” you whisper sheepishly. 

It’s absolutely baffling to him how he can do this to you. On the field, you’re strong. You don’t need orders to do the proper thing. You’re intelligent and have your own beliefs. Well, that’s until it comes to him. 

He orchestrates your life both inside and outside of the bedroom. You’re his most valued subordinate, outside of his brother of course, so despite you wanting to help protect him, he makes sure you stay behind the ‘frontlines’. 

Who else would warm his cock?

“Oh I’m sure you are,” he coos. “Why don’t you show me just how sorry you are by fucking yourself on my cock, okay?”

You start to nod, anxious about the idea but desperately needing to please him. 

“Your master has had a long day. You’ll make him feel better, right?” You nod but he pulls on the make-shift leash. “Answer me.”

“O-of course, Sir,” you squeak out before weakly lifting yourself and dropping back down onto his cock.

You bounce slowly on top of him, trying to pace yourself so that you don’t end up cock drunk like usual, but that just won’t do for Ran. 

“I said to make me feel better,” his tone changes, now replaced with a flat sound. “Not to fucking bore me.”

You look up at him in panic, but it’s far too late. 

Two things happen in a blink of an eye and it renders you unable to think properly. 

1: using his leverage on your neck, he pulls you all the way forward onto his chest. 

2: he plants his feet and starts to fuck into you at a pace you forgot was possible. 

“This is how you fuck someone, not whatever you were trying to do,” he rolls his eyes, ignoring the apologies and broken moans that roll off your tongue.

He makes a mental note to punish you for that later in the way of formal spanking, considering you still haven’t bothered to even ask for permission to let out any noise. 

“Do you realize how easy you’d be to replace?” His words make your heart stop, pulling you out of your drunken haze of sex. “Bitches like you are dime a dozen. You think you’re the only one falling to their knees and begging for my cock? Fucking delusional.”

“I’m sorry,” you start to sob and he realizes you’re actually upset. “I didn’t mean to make you mad. I’m sorry, I’ll be better! Please don’t replace me, Master, p-please,” you whimper. 

Gently, he strokes your back and shushes you but when you stop crying as much, he whispers these cruel words that give you a twisted sense of hope. 

“Be a better fucking pet and I won’t have to.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimper the words quietly as you start bouncing again, repeating them over and over. 

Your hand finds its place on his shoulders as your pace picks up. It hurts, a lot more than the run of the mill stretch. You were wet for him, of course, but taking someone of his size without prep will take its toll. 

You feel so mindfucked as you bounce, but it doesn’t matter if it’s for him. The man who gave you everything. 

He gave you money and status. He supplied your physical needs more than you thought was even possible. But more than anything, he gave you love; at least you thought he did. 

But Ran Haitani is a cruel man. One who’s unable to love without exchange. Unfortunately, he won’t let you in on this little secret.  

Because in the end, to you, Ran is your master.  But to him, you’re just a pet.

[whumble-beeee]

Let’s Have A Chat (You’re All Talk)

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 4

Content: brief minor whump in flashbacks, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, flashbacks (ptsd), gun mention, past captivity references, tied up, torture "threats", begging, tazer,

* * * * * * * *

Except from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[In terms of punishing and torturing your hero, 'fear of the unknown' is one of the most powerful tools available in your psychological torture toolkit; The anticipation of what might happen to them is often more torturous than whatever real tortures you have cooked up for them, and is a wonderful addition to any torture scenario!

It’s a very delicate skill, learning how to use a hero’s own fears against them (excluding villains with fear-based powers), but it is absolutely essential in almost all aspects of hero-keeping; whether you want to torture them for information, beat them into submission and servitude, force them to follow your rules or desires, or just have some good old fashioned fun messing with them!]

* * * * * * * *

“No,” Stan grunted. Enough was enough.

“No?” the mercenary’s voice broke into a small, disbelieving laugh, which just served to make Stan double down harder on what he hoped was the right choice.

“No. We’re not ‘chatting’. Not–” the world tilted on its axis, darkness creeping in his periphery again. Stan leaned his head back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. “N-not you and me, not now, not–... ever.”

Deeby just hummed another laugh at the display. “You should probably eat that protein bar, bud. Should help a bit with your head. And your mood, you're being such a little asshole right now.”

Stan rolled his eyes, but brought the protein bar up to his face to properly inspect. Though it was more of an accusation as he looked straight past it and narrowed his eyes at the bounty hunter instead.

The mercenary rolled his eyes in kind. “It’s not poisoned. Look, eat the protein bar and I’ll cut the ropes binding your legs, yeah? That good enough for his lordship?”

More than good enough for his lordship. A welcome trade, in fact. Especially since Stan was planning on eating the protein bar anyway. And especially because Deeby could probably just shove it down Stan’s throat if he wanted.

Stan nodded with a small ‘mhm’ before the bounty hunter could take it back. It took him a moment to maneuver the bar so he could open it with the metal of the handcuffs biting into his wrists every single time he pulled them too far apart, but he eventually found himself holding a successfully unwrapped protein bar with only slightly aching wrists.

“I'm eating this because I think I should,” Stan clarified as he brought the bar up to his mouth. It was cookie dough-flavored. Deeby had good taste in protein bars at least. “Not because you told me to, okay?”

“Uh huh, noted. Feeling less like a little shit now?”

Stan took a moment to make a full show of reluctantly nodding, irritated head tilt and all, before cramming the rest of the bar into his mouth. Before long, the ropes binding his feet were no more (after much restraint not to kick Deeby in the face when he got close with the knife again), and the protein bar was gone all too soon.

“Great!” The mercenary clapped his hands together. “Now we can talk! Ya like jazz?”

Stan grit his teeth. This Deeby guy just doesn't quit, does he? He wasn’t going to budge on this, even if he was slightly more fed and less dizzy now. He couldn’t just forget the total beatdown from earlier, the torturous soreness wracking every part of his body made sure of that.

“I'm not. Talking. With you.”

“Something’s gonna happen one way or another, runt. I’m just trying to give you the easy option considering you’re a little fucked in the head right now. Hard way’s not off the table, never will be.”

“We already talked!” Stan tried. “Remember? I asked you your name, you wouldn’t tell me. Then I asked you why you kidnapped me, you wouldn’t tell me! Who you work for, wouldn't tell me! Then you beat the crap out of me, and now I feel like I’m dying and leashed like a damn dog! That’s just gonna happen all over again! Let’s just skip over that so I can go back to dying on the floor, thanks.”

“Oh!” Deeby lit up like a lighthouse on a dark and stormy night, and Stan, for just a brief moment, almost let himself feel the same relief that a sailor might when they saw that spotlight on from the freezing, rain- and wind-swept deck of their lost ship. That he would actually leave Stan be. But then…

“You wanna hear about my gun?”

He pulled the revolver from his hip holster and held it up like a prized trophy. “It’s an original Smith and Wesson 1957 Model 19 revolver, it's pretty famous for being the first handgun to use magnum cartridges and making that a common thing. It was also standard issue for the border patrol in the ‘70s, which is where it came into my family,” he chuckled. Stan could only stare dumbfounded. He was really just going on a rant, huh? 

“One of mis tíos just fuckin’ swiped it from one of the officers and they were pissed, chased after him, nearly caught him too but he managed to wiggle away, slimy little guy. And then my mom was so mad with him, nearly beat him half to death before their mamá even had the chance to. So anyway, I got it when I was just a kid, it was all broken and kinda shitty when I first got it, but it was a family heirloom and I thought it was the coolest thing in the world, so I started to get into it more, started fixing it up a bit, replacing parts until it worked right and fiddling with it until it worked right, then started making upgrades to it, learned how to shoot it–”

”Holy shit!” Stan yelled, lurching to meet the mercenary’s eyes.  “Are you trying to Stockholm Syndrome me or something?! I don’t want to hear about your gun! I don’t want to talk to you, or hear about you! I don’t like you, I hate you, I don't want to have a nice little conversation with my fucking kidnapper! We aren't talking! Ever!”

A moment of silence. Stan realized he had gone too far again as the mercenary's eyes widened in disbelief. 

But he refused to back down this time. 

So he continued to glare into the mercenary’s dark brown eyes.

But then the bounty hunter let out a barking laugh. “Stock–... Sto-ockholm…?” he said, almost to himself, voice airy and high with disbelief. “Na-ah… Nah, no, no...”

His gaze suddenly shot to Stan, face unnervingly blank. Stan tensed up, instinctively pulling his extremities in to protect himself, to make himself smaller. This was… new. 

The mercenary took a few steps toward him. Then a few more. Until he was right in front of Stan, looking down on him like a god would from the heavens above.

“You ever been… tortured?... Stan?”

The soft, weightless lilt of his voice turned Stan’s blood to ice.

"Never stop fighting back."

"Let GO OF ME!" He hit at an uncaring, unyielding fist. "LET GO!!"

"Just tell us about your powers, it doesn't have to get ugly."

Lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie.

“N-no-o,” he barely managed to squeak out. His vocal cords may as well have been dunked in ice water. Same as his entire body, with the way he was shaking. Why did he always have to press too far?

“All you gotta do is show us your powers, kid.”

He didn’t move, the light of his powers staying tucked deep in his core. They tazed him again. They'd done it so many times now, it barely even mattered now. He was used to it. He'd never break.

“There's no use fighting, we have ways to force it out of you. We just want to give you a chance to cooperate first.”

Deeby hummed, as if it were quaint to him, the thought that someone could have never possibly been acquainted with the hot, unyielding spindles of torture twisting and morphing them into something unrecognizable, something animalistic, something… altered. Someone to never be the same again.

“I've been tortured.” He chuckled, never breaking Stan’s gaze. “More than once, actually. Hazard of the job.”

He glared into his torturer's bright blue eyes, fires of defiance burning brighter in his own.

“Never.”

 He knew what all their eyes looked like. It was the only thing he could glare at, they always wore medical masks and scrubs and lab coats, so it was the only part of them he could see. So professional to do such visceral, horrendous things.

They tazed him again.

Stan didn’t move. Just stared. Then sputtered slightly. He didn’t know what to say to that. 

The bounty hunter didn’t seem to have such reservations, though. He moved forward wordlessly and crouched down in front of his captive. Stan’s breath hitched. He could hear his heartbeat, feel it pounding in his chest, slow, careful, thunderous. All consuming. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t escape. Were the bounty hunter’s eyes always such a dangerously dark scarlet? No escape at all.

Then Deeby grabbed either of Stan’s biceps, wholly wrapping his hands around Stan’s upper arms, and urged him upward to his feet. “Here, Stan, get up, I wanna show you something.”

The sky-blue eyes flashed to a colleague. “This isn't working. Let's just go with Plan A like I wanted to from the beginning.”

The colleague started to voice their protest but was cut quickly off.

“I don't care how old she is, I know! But being gentle doesn't work, it never does, and it never will! It’s time for the big guns.”

A grown-up hand grabbed his upper arm, drugged him up off the floor, and shoved him forward, iron-gripped no matter how much he kicked and screamed and cried out. Inescapable as he hit and tried to tug away. Unyielding.

“Wait–, wait, no, no, no, please! We–!” Stan cried, unsuccessfully trying to stay wrapped in his little ball of safety on the floor as the force pulled him upward, the dull roar of his beatings from earlier turning once more into a raging insistence of constant strain. “We can talk, we can talk! I just– I can’t– can’t– don’t–... please, please!”

Stan hissed as he put weight on his bad leg in his struggles, and had to practically fall into Deeby’s arm to relieve the agony. 

Deeby didn’t pay the struggling human in his clutches any mind and started to step backward, never once taking his eyes off Stan as he dragged him slowly but surely toward the middle of the room, ankle chain jingling as it dragged across the hard cement floor. “Cálmate, chiquito, te estás poniendo tan alterado. Just do as I say and you’ll be fine.”

Tears burned at his eyes as he tried to grasp at Deeby’s arms, the pressure building up in his sinuses making it so he could barely breathe. It was so much harder to struggle to get away when he had to physically lean on his captor. Torturer.

“I don’t–” his voice cracked as it shot up his register, and he grasped in another breath as tears started to fall. “I do-on’t speak S-s-spani-ish… plea-ease–”

They abruptly reached the end of the ankle chain-leash, and Stan pitched forward with a screech, practically into Deeby’s chest before Deeby stiffened his arms and righted him again. Stan tried to make himself so tremendously small, tried to hide even though he was already captured and chained and physically being held by a man who had shown he wasn’t afraid to, and even enjoyed, hurting him.

And now in the center of the torture room, on the very end of his literal chain.

Nowhere to go.

“Of course you don’t, white boy.” Deeby sighed, a hint of that humorous light shining back in his eyes. He gently grabbed his jaw and tipped his gaze upward. Those bits of red in Deeby’s irises seemed to bleed out into the rest of the world, infecting everything with crimson and scarlet and fire and flames.

The world burned around them. Stan tried to pull away, but the bounty hunter’s grasp held firm.

“It means calm down, chiquito,” he said from somewhere miles away. “You’re getting so worked up, making everything worse for yourself. I won’t hurt–”

Stan seized up and grabbed at Deeby’s arms even as they held him in place, clawed at them, pleading, shaking as tears rolled off his chin, down his neck, and soaked into his shirt.

“PLE-E-EASE!” He cried. “I don’t– I don’t want– I can’t be tortured!” He prayed that wouldn’t be taken as a challenge. “Please don’t… torture me. I can’t… Please.” Not again. Not again.

Deeby looked down upon him, carefully peeling Stan’s trembling fingers off his arms. A small, unnerving smile tugged at the sides of his eyes, like a father looking on as his toddler struggled to produce a finger painting that wasn’t just a staining hideous mess for the hundredth time in a row.

“Who said anything about torturing you, bud? Wait here a moment.”

Deeby shoved away from the quivering mess and made his way over to the wall opposite where Stan’s leash-chain was anchored to the floor, and jumped up to grab the end of a previously unseen chain that, when when the bounty hunter grabbed it off the hook and let the length of it fall free, swung down and hung from the ceiling right next to Stan. 

Stan took a single unconscious step backward from the thing in terror, and immediately his buckled buckled in a flurry of strained agony, sending Stan straight down to a kneel. He clutched at the offending knee joint, cursing the mercenary for making him overwork and twist his knee in that failure of an escape attempt and hurting it so much worse in the first place. At least before he could kind of hobble along without a cane or a crutch. It wasn't pretty, or fun, but he could do it. Now he was practically immobile.

And he just had to hope it would heal correctly.

“Didn’t I just tell you not to move?”

Stan whipped around and nearly toppled over again in the process. “I– I jus–!” 

Two hands grabbed under either of his armpits and hoisted him back up to standing before Stan could even stutter out another terrified plea. He was so dizzy that he was almost thankful that the man grabbed him under the arms to keep him from falling again. Even with how the action in itself made him want to scream.

“Deeby, Deeby, we can talk, we can talk, you don’t–! You don’t have to–”

“Did you just call me ‘Deeby’?” He stopped in his maneuvering Stan, a petrified hush falling over the hero as he forced eye contact once again. “Like the name ‘Deeby’, not the letters ‘D’ and B’?”

“Uh--... No, no…” Stan squeaked.

Deeby’s amused smile faltered just slightly. 

“Don’t lie to me runt, that shit’s funny... Deeby, huh?…” he mused, rolling the name around in his mouth. “Not very creative, but you gotta give points for simplicity… Pft, Deeby… ”

Then his attention shot right back to Stan. “Anyway, stop whining and squirming, I’m about 5 seconds away from actually getting pissed. Are you gonna listen to the story, or we gonna do plan B and actually give you something worth screaming about?”

Stan wanted to keep struggling. Yelling, being defiant, begging, pleading, fighting, something. Those thoughts fueled him as he held the bounty hunter’s gaze; he didn’t want to just roll over and let him do as he pleased with him. But the way the hunter held him now, and the way he physically overpowered Stan time and time again just made him feel like a small, hissing cat uselessly fighting against his owner as they held him high into the air as some sort of punishment. And the fear of something worse happening finally managed to overpower the blind panic that fueled his previous fight. The tiredness continually crept through his bones now, the ache of his injuries starting to once again overpower all other senses.

So when the stare of Deeby became unbearable, Stan pursed his lips and squeezed shut, bowing his head in concession with a small, shaky nod.

He just hoped this lost battle wouldn’t become just one in a never-ending sea of them.

The mercenary let out an infuriatingly triumphant huff. “Great. Don't move. I mean it.” 

Then Deeby let Stan go almost too fast, and he had to readjust to fully supporting his entire battered body again.

He had to shift to support his entire weight on his 'good' leg instead of agitating the bad leg further, or god forbid using his cane or a crutch. Or his powers. The good leg would get painfully sore very quick if he had to just keep standing here. Especially since he was already feeling the bruises from earlier starting to bloom.

But this was better than literally all of the alternatives. He just had to let Deeby talk and hopefully, he wouldn’t torture Stan.

Simple.

He was looking forward to it already.

* * * * * * * *

Next

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy | @pirefyrelight | @cakeinthevoid

[rfxiii]

Being in a relationship with the North Yankton Trio-

(TW: for angst, drug use, suggestive themes, alcohol mention, canon typical Trevor grossness)

Michael Townley:

Will be gone for weeks, maybe even a month at a time. And when he comes back he won’t want to talk about what he’s done while he was away. He just wants to hold you and lay on the couch or in bed for the first few hours after he gets home.

It will be impossible to get him out of bed early- Michael loves sleeping in, so don’t expect to go anywhere before around 8:30am. While he doesn’t get much sleep, he doesn’t like waking up early.

Speaking of sleeping, Michael has terrible nightmares. In the North Yankton era, his nightmares aren’t as bad as when he moves to Los Santos, but they’re still bad. Be careful trying to wake him up at night, or trying to jostle him awake from his nightmares- he’d never intentionally hurt you, but he wakes up violently.

Movie dates are a must- you don’t even have to go out to the cinema or anything, he’s just happy with microwave popcorn and a VHS.

Has bad bouts of depression. Some days he’ll lay in bed all day- he won’t shower or eat. And other times, he’ll drag himself out of bed, but something simple like a misplaced shoe or dropping a plate will have him snapping. He drinks a lot more during these times and may even slip into old habits of drug use that he’d tried to leave behind after you guys got together.

Likes going on drives. Sometimes, when the night is slow and you’re both just sitting on the couch, he’ll ask you to go for a ride with him. You can drive for hours sometimes with nothing but his hand on your thigh and soft, classic rock playing through the speakers.

Car sex. Pulling over in a field or off some unused dirt road and messing around- the headlights off and the radio up as you ride him in the backseat.

He’ll bring you home flowers after he’s gone for a while or after he’s had a bad bout of drinking. It’s almost impossible to get him to verbally apologize, but gifts and softer words are his best attempts at showing he does feel bad.

Because of the previous cocaine usage and his current drinking addiction, it’s incredibly difficult for him to get hard. That being said, when he’s not using Mollis or something similar to help him get it up, he’s still extremely generous with his hands and mouth. Not a big fan of toys though as he gets almost jealous and feels like you’d try to replace him with them when his fingers and tongue can do just as well.

All in all, dating Michael is full of ups and downs, but he genuinely tries his best to be a good man and a good partner, despite his flaws.

Trevor Philips:

The sex! Oh my god, the sex! He’s relentless. You don't see each other for weeks or months at a time, so when he gets home you’d better clear any plans you have for at least a week.

Toys, ropes, handcuffs, restraints, knives and guns (unloaded), exhibitionism, and any other thing you can think of (no matter how fucked up)- he’s down.

His mommy kink- it is what it is. You love it or you hate it, but it’s a part of him and there’s nothing you can do to change it, so get ready.

Loves being cuddled. No matter where you’re at- on the couch, in bed, standing in line at the grocery store, he’s gonna come up to you and want you to hold him. He’s super clingy. But with his almost debilitating abandonment issues, it’s understandable.

Getting him to shower is an Olympic event. He stinks like 80% of the time, and his hair is greasy, and clothes go unwashed until you can wrestle them away and clean them yourself. But when you can manage to wash him, he loves taking showers together (shower sex), and likes letting you (just you) touch his mullet and brush it out.

He’s a drug addict, you had to have known it before you settled into a long term relationship. That being said, you have to deal with all of it- his breakdowns that leave him sobbing and snot nosed, his angry explosions where he screams, calls you names, and throws things, or worst of all, when you find him passed out and unsure if he’s OD’ing or dead. It’s painful and turbulent, and you have to constantly remind yourself that you love him and that’s why you stay.

He drools in his sleep, and snores too. He can fall asleep practically anywhere, and when he finally does crash after days of being up, he’s out for hours and hours.

He will occasionally get so high and drunk that he’ll accidentally wet himself or vomit in his sleep. Most of the time he’s on the floor, but sometimes he’ll make it to bed and you’ll have to strip the sheet, and occasionally his clothes, while he’s still asleep because he won’t wake up for anything when he’s that far gone. It’s genuinely almost sad that this happens, and even more worrying.

It’s not all bad though. He’s a lot of fun when he’s not super messed up. He loves taking you out to bars, getting drunk, and dancing/singing together, or going out and climbing up buildings to sit on roofs and watch the stars. Sometimes he likes to park his car out by the local airport and point out different aircrafts to you as they take off.

His mother.. Holy shit. She’ll show up once every few months to a year, after she’s been released from her latest prison stint, or when she needs something. She treats him like scum, and he’s always in tears, having a full breakdown by the time she leaves. But god forbid you say anything bad about her, it would only start an argument. So, the most you can do is hold him and tell him how much you love him and how you promise not to leave.

He’ll get bursts of utter, playful energy at random. He could be laying on the couch while you do dishes, and suddenly, something inside him will compel him to sprint across the room, pick you up, and spin you around. It’s insanely cute.

In the end, dating Trevor is a chaotic roller coaster. But frankly, you probably knew that before getting with him. It takes a special kind of person to keep up with him and keep their head around him, but if you can do it there will definitely be rewarding moments that will make it all worthwhile.

Brad Snider:

Behind Trevor, he’s the clingiest person. Always holding your hand, has his arms wrapped around you from behind, wraps you up in his jacket with him. He’s stuck to you like glue.

Loves to tell you everything he did while he was off pulling a score- even the violent, bloody, messed up stuff. He doesn’t really have a verbal filter, and gets surprised when you're shocked by his stories. If you don’t wanna hear about it, you have to clearly express this beforehand.

Loves getting his hair pet. It stays pretty tangled since he pulls it up in a bun or ponytail immediately after he showers in the morning. But he doesn’t complain when you brush out the knots and run your fingers through it.

Likes when you wear his clothes. They’ll probably all be big on you- but when you wear his jacket, or his necklace, or one of his baggy hoodies, he’s incredibly happy. It’s like it really means you're his.

Soft, slow sex. You in his lap so he can look in your eyes and touch every part of you. He’s clingy, after all. He loves having his hands on you always.

Will sometimes disappear with Trevor for extended amounts of time. His drug habits aren’t nearly as bad as Trevor’s- but after being gone for a few days, he’ll stumble in late at night, strung out on meth or barely able to stand up from the heroin. If you look disappointed or yell at him, he will cry. And he’ll spend the next few days of his comedown begging for you to be close and hold him.

Cries when he gets too drunk. Either about sad shit, about how much he misses you when he’s gone, or because he’s so happy he’s with you and he can’t believe you love him.

When he gets mad and you fight, he forgets to control his mouth. He’d never hit you or try to physically hurt you in any way, but his words are sharper than anything. He can be cruel, and he won’t realize it until you start crying or lock yourself in your room. And he won’t apologize immediately- it takes him hours sometimes to calm down. But once he does, he’ll sit outside the closed bedroom with his back against the door, talking to you through the barrier and apologizing for every hateful word he said. He’ll say it won’t ever happen again, but you know it’s a lie.

Loves holding your hand, or when you sit on his lap, or let him carry you around. He’s tall, and he’s big, and he’s strong- he knows all that, and loves carrying you around, because despite what you weigh, it will still be effortless for him to pick you up.

Doesn’t understand why you worry for him so much when he leaves. He almost takes offense to it- like you don’t think he’s a good enough stick up artist. He just can’t wrap his brain around the fact that it has nothing to do with his skills, and more to do with the fact that he could be shot and killed everytime he goes to pull a score.

Out of the North Yankton Trio, Brad is probably the most “normal” one to be with. He’s calmer than Trevor and not as depressed and pent up as Michael. But he lacks a lot of emotional maturity, and can be cold and callous when he perceives that you’re wrong or that you don't believe he’s “as good as” M and T. But he can be sweet more often than not, and he truly does love you despite the fact that he’s a bit narcissistic and self absorbed.

[atlasshrugd]

something i’ve noticed is that while kinn is the one who likes to initiate conversations and hash things out, porsche is the one who likes to give verbal affirmation once the relationship is established. for example. he would say things like “last night was amazing,” “he is jealous that we are in love,” “you look great,” “smile, that’s when you’re cutest,” “you are really adorable,” “feels so good,” “so kind,” etc. most of these lil comments kinn doesn’t comment back, he usually just agrees or smiles. this is interesting bc porsche seems to put more weight on words of affirmation and acts of service (see: porsche always fixing kinn’s hair, being his bodyguard etc.), while kinn puts more weight on physical touch and quality time (see: kinn kissing him when he says “you never trust me” in ep 10, mutual masturbation scene / staying handcuffed to porsche in the woods etc.) as ways of expressing love/giving reassurance. 

let me elaborate:

kinn often initiates conversations (see: asking porsche if he is okay multiple times, “are we good now?”) to clear the air — because his way of thinking is efficient and organized. porsche often avoids these confrontations and would prefer to forgive and forget (see: kinn apologizing for “that night” multiple times in the woods but porsche not really wanting to talk about it). this is because porsche is not used to talking about his feelings (i.e. not having parents to talk to, not wanting to burden porchay, having to put feelings aside to get things done etc.) or having them be important/listened to. 

so, porsche uses words of affirmation to establish feelings because he was so starved of that for most of his life. mirroring this, kinn is also not used to verbal affirmation from loved ones. so when porsche offers this — he often doesn’t know how to respond, but is pleasantly surprised. 

porsche also uses acts of service to express love, as no one has ever taken care of him. he takes care and protects the people he loves, often sacrificing his own feelings. mirroring this, nobody has sacrificed for kinn, either. he has always been the one making the sacrifices (inheriting the mafia job despite being the middle child, putting aside his love life and freedom to do a job he doesn’t want), and nobody has ever cared for him beyond what he can do for them (his father, his people, tawan). 

so when porsche performs acts of service, (such as taking him out on a date/carefully planning, fixing his hair, coming back to save him, offering to cut off his hand, etc.) — this is completely new to kinn. he is used to people doing things for him out of obligation and duty. but with porsche, he rarely does anything he doesn’t want to do. he does these things for kinn by his own choice.

(see: porsche trying to “seduce” kinn by pretending he’s sick so kinn can look after him. this is an example of what porsche sees as love. taking care of someone.)

in return, kinn performs acts of service for porsche. he lets go of porsche in the woods, takes the bullet for him, gives his lucky gun to him, lets him borrow his phone to call porchay, gives him his own phone, pushes porsche out of the way of a bullet and cleans his wound, etc.

in contrast, kinn uses physical touch to anchor and communicate his feelings because he was touch starved for most of his life. the only touch he got was from callboys, and it wasn’t exactly loving or gentle. because he is so used to the trivialities of words, he often resorts to touch to speak louder. porsche responds to this bc he is equally touch-starved and lacked physical affection all his life.

additionally, kinn also uses quality time as a way to express love. he doesn’t take off the handcuffs because he knows he can only get this time with porsche if they are stuck together away from everything else. “we know each other so much better this way.” kinn decides to make it up to porsche by going over to his house and forcing himself to awkwardly sit with him and his drunk friends for hours. “if i didn’t care about you, why am i sitting here?” (see: kinn not being annoyed with all of porsche’s trivial demands on their date, instead looking fond. bc he doesn’t care how he spends time with porsche. as long as he is with porsche, he is happy.)

back to my original point. kinn likes to initiate conversations and gets straight to the point, especially when checking in on porsche. (e.g. “what now? [about us]” “are you okay with it? [kissing]” “are you okay? [after first time]” “are you good now?” etc.). this could be because he realises words of affirmation are important for porsche’s way of identifying love to himself. but where porsche affirms with compliments and revealing comments, kinn affirms by reassurance (see: “promise you will return to me no matter what” / “i promise.” / “return the gun, and yourself.”) — these reinforcements are short but important, quick and efficient (just like kinn’s mind). 

anyway damn. i just find it interesting how their languages of love differ yet they begin to incorporate and integrate the others’ into them — and how they respond to the other in their own language. this is their mode of communication. perhaps others won’t understand, but they do. and that’s what matters.

[lutawolf]

Episode 10 Notes and Thoughts

A lot of people requested this so I hope you enjoy. To those who read this and disagreeing. Keep it to your fucking self. If you have an ask on this, it better be addressed with respect or it will not be answered.

Okay, let me start from the beginning saying; pay attention to how Vegas talks to everyone.

Vegas is manipulative. I don't think anyone doubted that. My get along cuffs have been ruined. Tainted.

The taking of the hands. Unlike the handcuffs. Breakable.

If you stop at 3:04. Porsche is looking right at Pete, his face is crisp and easy to see. It's full of concern. We then see Vegas but Vegas' face is blurred. Now by this point, we know blurred faces means conflicting feelings.

Okay, so 3:10 pause is pretty interesting. Porsche is in shadows while Vegas is sharply standing out in the light. Also notice that the gun is steady on Porsche. I personally find this interesting because I would see Vegas as the bigger threat. Does he see Porsche as the bigger threat? That doesn't make sense. Pete more than anyone knows how dangerous Vegas is. He also knows Porsche won't kill him. Sooo

Vegas makes a play and Pete immediately reacts. Gun now steady on Vegas. When Vegas backs up Pete goes to turn the gun right back at Porsche. In which fight begins.

In the fight scene, the gun pointing appears to be more attempt at intimidation. I will say, Pete is fighting like he is pissed. Is it at Porsche for trusting Vegas or that he feels obligated to do this?

The gun standoff is like a fucking metaphor for their relationship. Kinn always ready, half-cocked but begging "Porsche" to understand him. Porsche completely open to the hurt Kinn can give him. Once again asking Kinn for trust. He needs trust because he knows how much Kinn values trust. And Kinn gives it to him, despite the concern.

Porsche gives a slight smile to Kinn before taking off. Kinn remains with concern written all over him. On the close up you can see him slightly shaking his head. He is struggling. Not with giving Porsche trust but putting him in danger.

Arm is stressed as fuck. Kinn too.

Big, you recognized Tawan the entire time. You good boy.

Watch.. Kinn is not surprised to see Pete. When Pete says his name, Kinn gets this sad look. He closes his eyes as if bracing himself and nods.

See, I think Pete didn't want Porsche to leave with Vegas because he knew Kinn never mistrusted him. That while Pete has feelings for Vegas he doesn't trust him. They aren't mutually exclusive people. Just ask people with dead beat parents.

Pete feels guilty though and he can't handle it. Remember, he feels loyalty to both Kinn and Porsche. They are together therefore an extention of Kinn. Not to mention his deep friendship with Porsche. Layers people. This show is about layers.

All the questions Pete asks are just to reaffirm what he already knows.

Pete fully aware of what could happen to him. Kinn asking "You want me to send you to die" for all of Kinn's attitude. He cares for his people. But Pete is eaten alive with guilt "I must go because I trust Porsche"

Yes, yes, Vegas is manipulative. I don't think he plans on killing Porsche or Chay at this point.

Kim immediately knowing shit went down at the house.

That bright ass red you guys. It screams, stoooooooop!

Pete, the freaky shit you do and you squirm at a ball gag. Honestly, if Pete is into what I think he is. That's pretty funny.

A hedgehog!! And more s&m. Vegas, we are not surprised.

Vegas is surprised when they hit Porsch's house. This was not part of the plan. He still tries to get Porsche to stick with the plan. They are supposed to find proof of their "innocent" and Porsche isn't supposed to trust Kinn again.

Porsche is a coconut 🥥 In the book Porsche comes in like a bad ass and kicks Tawan's ass. I'm disappointed we didn't get that.

Okay, we are coming to Vegas showing his guilt. Have you guys been paying attention to how Vegas talks to everyone? Good. Watch how he talks to Tawan.

Tawan and Pete both smiling while Vegas' in the middle pissed. He looks at Porsche then turns to Tawan with a smirk before hitting him.

I called it on Ken!! If you go back to my notes you'll see that I started finding Ken suspicious. I thought Big was guilty too until Porsche and Kinn fucking in their room. Ken was thrilled at Porsche getting punished while Big was uncaring.

Look at how Vegas is talking to Tawan. Tawan appears to be very used to it. Even when Vegas is acting like he cares, he does not speak with respect. Then he cusses in English proving my point. Vegas sees himself as superior to Tawan.

Porsche gets made at Vegas. As Vegas' face turns to look at Porsche it blurs. Blurring means conflicting feelings you guys. I need you to understand how multilayered Vegas is or you won't get VegasPete. Vegas knows he now has to kill Porsche and he is conflicted by it. He will do it and enjoy that Kinn is hurt by it. Still he isn't totally unfeeling about it.

Vegas once again cusses Tawan in English. He is pissed. This was honestly not how he wanted it to go down.

Vegas then hits a level where he at least knows he is going to hurt Kinn and he gets excited.

That goes downhill quick when Tawan hugs him from behind. His eyes close and he appears frustrated.

Watch, Vegas looks down at Tawan's hand clutching his and he finally speaks respectfully. "Thanks for putting up with me" his left hand comes up to cup the back of his neck and he presses their heads together. Kisses the forehead. Does anybody remember the parallel to this? Do they remember what it means? It's a Dom's apology to their sub. He is literally apologizing before killing him. By the way, I did go and verify this culturally after I found out it isn't a common way to apology in Britain.

Vegas holds Tawan's eyes the entire time he shoots him in the chest.

Now look at where Vegas is pointing the gun at Porsche, his head. Vegas isn't going to let Porsche suffer, he is keeping the promise he once asked of Porsche. If you look at him as he points the gun, his face is once again blurred.

I want you to notice that Vegas uses his bodyguard as a shield. He doesn't dislike his bodyguards and takes care of them, but he will still use them as a shield. Are you starting to see the layers?

Big rushes straight to Porsche to untie him. He rushed to go save Porsche you guys. He says "I got here first, Mr. Kinn is on his way" the bodyguards view them as an extention.

Damn Big. No hesitation. He says Porsche and jumps in front of him. Big being the one to tell Porsche that Kinn loves him so much, is fucking special. It's gutted me.

That was Kinn that shot, he is literally leading the bodyguards. Rushing in because Porsche is in danger. I just wish that shot hit Tawan in the head.

Note the difference between Vegas and Kinn. Kinn's soft "Big." Sorrow written all over his face. Then immediately checking on Porsche "are you okay"

Notice that neither Kinn or Porsche's face ever blurs when pointing a gun at Tawan.

Porsche antagonizing Tawan into turning and pointing the gun at him.

Notice the conflicting images of Vegas. When he is looking in the mirror, he is seriously. When facing him, he's smirking. When he says "then my father will accept us" the smirk on his face matches the mirror.

When Vages puts the ring on Tawan his normal face is clear but his reflection is blurry. What the fuck does that mean!?

When Tawan said "I love you" Vegas did not respond.

You guys, Tawan is coco for coco puffs. I mean he cray cray. My therapist tells me not to use these words but I call em like I see em.

How the fuck did everyone miss him getting a fucking detonater in his hand?

Kinn was surprised and upset for all of five seconds and then his thoughts are on Porsche.

Them running while holding hands is a gif I want.

Kinn holding Porsche's head and asking if he is okay. Ahhhh. It's everything. Then Porsche checking on Kinn. So fucking cute.

Then we get to Kinn lighting a cigarette. When we've never seen him smoke before. Because he knows that Porsche quit smoking for him and won't do it again unless offered by Kinn. And Porsche really needs a smoke.

Again the difference in Kinn and Vegas. Look at how he is taking responsibility. He cares. He feels guilty.

Chay over there in an ambulance and Kim takes off.

Notice that Kinn and Porsche are the only ones with jackets drapped over the back of them.

I love the "was it true what you said" Kinn's face clearly thinks this is about the trust comment. Nope it's about knowing the whole time.

Kinn letting Porsche know that he was showing his trust.

"Two brothers, same personality" two brothers with same taste in men.

Dungeon! Ahh. This is beautiful. Pause it!! Now, I don't do color analysis because there are people way better at it. That said let's look at these colors. Now green means trouble but it's also Vegas' color. That's what we are looking at here. Green and red lighting. Pete is draped in the red light, like his loyalty to Kinn and Porsche. While it battles with the green light.

Vegas steps out of the green lighting but equally drapped in red. As if signifying the duality. Is it duality of loyalty 🤔 or duality of Vegas still being in Kinn's shadow.

When we get to see Pete's face as he looks at Vegas. It's initially blurry. When it clears we can see several things. Pete still drapped in red but with a peek of green in the corner. Also look at Pete's eyes. Fucking look at his eyes. He is not scared. Not scared at all, in fact he is throwing a challenge.

Now we see Vegas. He is pissed, guys he is livid. He lost to Kinn again, he is caught, and it's fucking Pete who he likes! Who he took merit with to see in him in the next life. His anger is paramount but listen to how he talks to Pete. Do you hear the slightest disrespect? Nope. He is talking to him as an equal.

Pete's smile.. he beat Vegas. What comes doesn't matter. He succeeded.

Pete's laugh, he has Vegas' number you guys. He knows Vegas is going to want to torture him. He's putting himself in a frame of mind. You can take a hell of a lot more pain once you hit that frame of mind. This is not someone new to torture you guys.

Also, let us talk about Vegas' choice in torture. I had to phone in a friend because I didn't know enough about electrokink or electrosex. Then I phoned an electrician because I take this shit way too seriously. I couldn't comprehend Pete getting hit in the balls with fucking power and not dying. I was informed it is doable. The person would have to be an extreme masochist. Also, their body would have to be used to electricity. The person would have had to use made for play toys (normally this type of play is directed on genitals) and they would have had to gotten to the highest voltage. So all those times that Pete was caught without underwear. Balls too sensitive to be touched.

Why did Vegas choose this? How would he know? He isn't wanting to kill Pete. He's wanting to teach a lesson.

As Vegas moves towards Pete he is smirking. Meanwhile Pete is staring him the fuck down. Then Pete's pants go down. As they stare at each other, Pete is panting. That's not fear you guys. He is very stimulated.

Now let's think about this. Pete gets electrocuted and he laughs. If you pause on Vegas when he says "oh, you're still smiling" and he is smiling! Vegas is smiling! He is absolutely not surprised. Why th fuck not?? Why is he not surprised because any other man would be curled up, but Vegas knew Pete wouldn't be. Also please note that Vegas is still speaking softly to Pete, no rudeness to be found.

Vegas does it again, still smiling. Now when Vegas looks seriously at Pete. He is expecting this next one to be the one that gets Pete. Which matches with what I got from my Experts. On the third one we can see a blending of red and green light behind Pete.

Look, that torture was far from what is acceptable for s&m but I wasn't expecting Vegas to not torture Pete. I'm really confused by everyone's fucking reaction. Were you guys expecting some paddling and flogging maybe? Like wtf.

Everyone looks surprised by Ken's head but Korn.

Khun being king.

Korn doesn't believe the evidence but doesn't want issues with his brother.

Kinn established exactly what he thought of his uncle. "You shoot him or should I" he knows his dad won't but he is telling him where he stands.

Korn called his brother weak. Niiiice

Kinn taking a big swallow. He drinks when he is stressed.

Smoking again but again it's in front of Porsche.

Ahh Porsche you walked right into that correction. Bravo Kinn that was beautifully done.

Rooftop kiss. Is this like a thing now?

I'm sorry the little brother you fucking raised and whom you did this shit for will what?? Nah.. he needs to go find some respect.

Lots of credit to @victooooorious and Coconuts Mafia

Hope you guys enjoy 💜💜💜

[set-phasers-to-whump]

broken

prompt: broken (alt no.12)

whumpee: sakari nurmi

fandom: karppi/deadwind

i'll be honest this one is not that good but such is life sometimes. hope you maybe enjoy anyway?

Sakari is being chased through an old office building by a guy who seems just a little bit crazy. He’s fast, but he has absolutely no idea about the layout of the building they’re in. His pursuer, while slower, seems to know exactly where he’s going. He keeps disappearing from behind Sakari and then popping back out of some doorway significantly closer to Sakari than he had been before. 

It’s a matter of time before they come to a confrontation, and Sakari is not entirely confident that he is going to win. 

He can fight, sure, but he doesn’t have his gun and this guy seems really motivated to catch him. 

He does get caught. He skids around a corner and suddenly he’s face to face with his former pursuer. This takes him by surprise, and he’s slow to react. 

The guy drops to the ground, quick as anything, and sweeps Sakari’s feet out from under him. 

He hits the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him, and then there’s a boot pressing into his chest. 

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

Sakari doesn’t say anything. He’s wishing he hadn’t come here, either. 

“Now I’m going to have to teach you a lesson. It’s your own fault, really.”

Sakari tries to get up, to struggle free, but the guy is putting practically his whole weight atop his chest, making it all but impossible - and quite painful besides - to try to move. 

He’ll wait, and maybe he can take his opponent by surprise. 

The guy starts talking about privacy and Sakari thinks about how best to escape and wonders whether anyone might soon be coming to look for him. Sofia and JP do know where he is, after all.

And then, with no warning whatsoever, his captor shifts his weight and Sakari wonders why and then his hand feels like it is on fire. 

The man trapping him has one foot on his chest and one foot on his left hand and Sakari can’t breathe and his lungs are burning and his hand is also burning but in a different way. 

Eventually, the pressure goes away. He lies there, stunned, trying to take deep breaths which are incredibly painful. 

He’s not trapped now, not by the other man’s weight, but he feels like he can’t move. And then his opportunity is gone, anyway. 

He’s pushed over onto his stomach, and then his arms are wrenched behind his back and he yells in pain as a pair of handcuffs is secured around his wrists. 

He kicks his legs to no effect while they’re being tied together with what feels like a thick piece of rope, and then he’s pushed back over, lying face-up with his wrists pinned beneath him, hurting horribly, metal digging into skin, and he’s staring up at his captor. 

“What the fuck,” Sakari wheezes out. 

The man above him just shrugs. And then he kicks Sakari in the ribs. 

He tries to curl his body around the pain but the guy kicks his other side so that there’s really no point. Defeated in this regard, Sakari lies still and tries to ignore the pain. 

He really doesn’t know what this guy wants, except to teach him a lesson, whatever that means. Does he mean to kill him? Or just rough him up a bit, then let him go?

He doesn’t want to stick around to find out that it’s the former. 

“What do you want?” he asks, not really sure whether he’ll get an answer, whether it’ll be something he can believe. 

The guy smiles down at him. It’s unnerving. And then he winds up his foot to deliver another kick, and Sakari can only shut his eyes and try to turn away. 

The man’s boot connects with the side of his head. Pain explodes in his temple for all of a second, and then everything goes black. 

--

He wakes up to shouting. His head is pounding and he can’t quite make out the words, but he knows the voices. Sofia and JP. He lets his eyes slip shut again. They can handle this one without him. 

Someone taps him on the face. He opens his eyes and finds himself looking up at Sofia and JP. 

“Is he…?”

“We’ve got him,” JP reports, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate where. “Handcuffed. He shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Can you…?”

They both understand what he’s asking, even though he doesn’t finish the question. JP grabs his shoulders and helps him sit up. The change in position makes him dizzy and for a second he thinks he’s going to pass out again. 

Sofia is untying the rope around his ankles. JP unlocks the handcuffs. Sakari wonders, briefly, where he’d gotten the key from. 

And then he’s free. He sits up a little more, shrugs off his teammates’ hands. 

His wrists are scraped and bear the indentation from the cuffs, pressed into his skin by his own body weight. His left hand is swollen and with the blood flowing to it again, it throbs in time with his pulse. 

“That looks broken,” JP says, helpfully. Sakari ignores him. Wants to ignore the obvious fact he’d stated. 

“How’s your head?” Sofia asks. 

Sakari shrugs. It hurts. 

“Did he kick you?” JP questions. “You’ve got a mark.”

Sakari unconsciously touches his right hand to his head, as though he’ll be able to feel said mark. He doesn’t answer. He’s pretty sure JP knows, anyway.

“I called an ambulance already,” Sofia tells him. 

“Okay.” He doesn’t particularly want to be poked at, touched, asked a hundred useless questions. But he’s probably concussed and his hand is broken and some of his ribs might be, too. So he knows it’s for the best. 

“Should we go outside?” This is JP. “It’s kind of a maze in here.”

He has a point. And Sakari would really like to get out of this place. 

They all get to their feet. Sakari’s head spins again, and for a second his vision goes black. He starts to stumble, and then there are arms behind his back. 

“Alright?” JP asks. 

Sakari nods, very slightly. 

“Let’s go, then,” says Sofia. 

They keep their arms around him the whole time, preventing him from falling. Their arms stay around his body even when they’re out of the building and standing on the sidewalk. 

He’ll never say it to their faces, but it’s incredibly nice.

thanks for reading! i had to do a presentation today and finish a paper so i am Tired and thus this is not so great. but oh well. hope you liked it regardless?

[richardsphere]

Leverage Log: The Rundown Job

Pig farm. (please dont be a serialkiller feeding his victims to his pigs. Please dont be a serialkiller feeding his victims to his pigs. Please dont be...) Angry farmer calls about rent. Guy stabs him with syringe gun. "know your sacrifice will save millions of lives." Probably not a serialkiller, either a conspiracy theorist, or a government agent part of a conspiracy.

--- Ok we've got a government hearing about a guy (not the same guy) doing "counterterrorism" (read: Murdering innocent civilians in Rome)

Oh no, we're doing one of those "cop who doesnt play by the rules is actually right" copaganda stories arent we? (but like, for US Blackop squads)

i already hate this episode with every fiber of my being. (and I eat a lot of fiber.) --- Oh, nice. The fight-scene in front of the elevator has a shot from below that lets us just see the overhead vent-passage Elliot just dropped behind the guard from. --- Not a fan of the Hardison HUD. It feels like we're stretching his already god-like hacking powers a bit too far. (like he's good dont get me wrong.) --- Parker definitly stole one of the diamonds. Those are way too many diamonds for any orphans to need and she is a legitimate kleptomaniac. (Like remember the 12 step job, she legitimately needs medication y'all.) --- Ok so this is our Elliot episode (already had a Parker one with the Broken Wing) Also this is probably happening simultaniously with the previous episode with the painting. Which means its three episodes in a row with the gang split. (that is... interesting. Either a scheduling thing or foreshadowing the season ending with the gang splitting up as Nate and/or Sophie retires and/or dies) --- "you stole a michelangelo with tinfoil and a chewing gum, Figure it out!" Nice callback to the Davids.

Oh disguise the sniper in a golfbag. Nice idea, unfortunately this means Elliot gets to practice his driverswing. --- They always were illegal, and I do not like that we're going the "US government black-ops are morally right to do their shit" angle on this story. --- "Better or worse, we change together", good line. simple. 9.5/10 Oh right, Parker is a dangerous driver. (i dont like that form of humor) Oh no, we're going for extremely racist bearded middle-eastern terrorist because god forbid the terrorists be anything but an affirmation of Bush era bigotry and propaganda. --- Ok old pre-CDC lab. (the pigs from the cold open are definitly of the Guinnea variety. Expect them to be dead if we ever see them again) Oh, we're dealing with the Spanish Flu. Well this episode definitly didnt age badly with an entire generation of people having suffered Plague-based traumatic experiences in the inbetween. (im not blaming Leverage for not knowing the future im just worried how this episode ends up handling such a now-sensitive topic)

--- 150 million, thats a big number.

Bro-trust moment between Elliot and Hardison. Hardison is so going to steal the "creepy spy truck" isnt he? I will not be satisfied if this episode does NOT relieve the US Government of 1 creepy ass violation of civil liberties and gives us a new Lucille. --- his name is Ahmed, because it couldnt just be Jim or Jordan or anything, had to be the most stereotypically propaganda name for a terrorist ever.

--- Oh thank god its just a white guy using xenophobia as a distraction to hide his real identity. (thank fuck)

Trailer is a trap. --- Ok good, well explained use of the hacking powers. (like the little detail about "always a little power, its how electric locks work") Tiny note: Usually an SOS means you are about to die. (either way it would've worked here. cause Vance could've turned around to find you and abandoned the trailer.)

--- Parker has stopped the train, Subject has cuffed himself to his briefcase (as if handcuffs are gonna stop Parker.)

--- Wow, this nutter actually managed to shoot Elliot. She kept the diamond, (I get its meant to be foreshadowing, but there is no way Parker doesnt regularly carry glasscutting equipment on her anyway. Im fairly certain its one of the first tools we saw her use back in the Nigerian Job)

And Parker with the little torch-thingy. (she is definitly the next Nate) --- Were Elliots eyes always this blue? (also how overlit is this scene? He's got like, no pupil)

But yeah, somehow this guy has been the most dangerous person Elliot ever had to fight. Even the guy they had to blow a Looney-tunes style hole in the ground around with C4 didnt hurt Elliot this much.

---

Ok on to adress the 2 concerns i mentioned with this episode: The plague thing was fine, everything was contained and the thing didnt explode. If anything the real pandemic made this episode age better by giving it an escapist value. The Islamic Terrorism as a fakeout was... insensitive. I didnt like it, felt bad but not as bad as it could have been.

[yanderes-galore]

Ooooh how about a yandere sheriff concept?

Sure! Haven't given the cowboy any love yet.

Yandere! Sheriff Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Manipulation, Obsession, Implied stalking, Delusional behavior, Kidnapping, Murder mention, Threats, Forced relationship, Mentions of marriage, Gun mention.

- Sheriff is the other Madness character that tries flirting, the other being Deimos.

- If he's good or not depends on how easy you fall for cliché flirting.

- I usually mix the main series form of the character with the PROJECT: NEXUS version when I write Madness.

- Meaning my version of the Sheriff is somewhat confident, but still a coward.

- Sheriff would be Flirtatious, Manipulative, Delusional, Obsessive, Eager to impress, and Somewhat domestic

- Sheriff also feels more comfortable with using his goons to do the dirty work rather than himself.

- MERC doesn't get much of a choice, although they should be used to murder and dirty work by now.

- Sheriff is probably flirtatious like your stereotypical cowboy.

- Although he himself also falls for such charms and gets flustered easily.

- He could throw you a flattering compliment and you'd throw him one back, leaving him not only stunned and red, but wanting more....

- His confidence crumbles when you flirt with him and it throws him off guard.

- Just be warned if you do flirt it only convinces him you feel the same for him as he does you.

- His little darling is just so bold....

- You do this to only him, right?

- It doesn't matter how close you are, he'll flirt.

- Sheriff is manipulative and does use threats to get his way at times.

- He has MERC goons to do what he wishes and dual wields revolvers.

- He's a coward but would do a lot more than usual to impress/keep you with him.

- If someone harms you or he feels he needs to do something such as kidnap or murder, he has goons for that.

- They're paid well to make sure not a hair on your head is touched.

- If they fail, they're disposed of.

- Sheriff would have delusional thoughts about the relationship between the two of you.

- He's always daydreaming about you.

- Thinking of all the cute things you two can do.

- There isn't much to do in Nevada, let alone Nexus City, yet he still plans things out.

- You may not even be together or close yet and he's still just planning.

- You're just so cute to him....

- Hearing about you or seeing you makes him so giddy.

- When thinking of you he kicks his legs underneath his desk/hj

- Sheriff gets so obsessed about you once he establishes an attraction to you.

- He thinks of dates, marriage, and a family with you...

- A dream life he wants to make with you, even if you hate his guts or don't know him.

- He's so eager to impress you when he sees you.

- Polishes his guns, makes sure he's wearing the best he can, he wants to be your cowboy.

- Even just sparing him a glance will make him weak in the knees.

- He has very domestic vibes once he finds someone.

- Eager to make you happy with him in the best ways he can.

- He's probably another who'd just go submissive if you took charge.

- He tries to keep up standards and not kidnap.

- Although his goons are sent out to protect you and watch you.

- Something would really have to push him if he were to send his goons out to kidnap you.

- Maybe he gets a little too desperate...

- Neglected by you just enough to make him snap.

- Now you're 'arrested' and brought to him in handcuffs for some imaginary bounty.

- He's grinning at you, ushering you closer.

- He can still make this fantasy of his work, he knows it.

- You'll just need to get used to your new living arrangements with him.

- "No need to have such a harsh gaze, darling. I promise I'll provide for you like I've always dreamed of!"

[whumpdoyoumean]

Whumptober #15

xxx emotional damage

It’s kinda weird, OA thinks as he struggles to catch his breath, how used to this I am.

The bullet had knocked the wind out of him (it always does) and it’ll take him another second or two to get it back. There’s a familiarity as the adrenaline floods his system, and it might almost be comforting if everything didn’t hurt more this time. Still, he waves an unsteady hand in Maggie’s direction.

“Go!” he gasps. “I’m--I’m good! Go! Get him!”

Maggie looks worried, but she nods and chases after the suspect, just as he knew she would. He just lays there a little longer, and breathes. As he does, he notices just how much more it hurts this time. Something’s wrong, something feels…different. More serious, somehow, like the adrenaline is working harder. It takes a minute to put it all together.

He can feel something warm spreading across his right side. 

He blinks a few times, trying to slow his hundred-miles-a-second thoughts. Somehow he commands his fingers, trembling from the adrenaline and from nerves, to feel for holes in his vest. He finds the first bullet near his midline, stuck in the Kevlar. Only one bullet made it through then; that’s something at least. The other had gone through near the middle of his right side below, he thinks, his ribcage.

He allows himself another minute to breathe before he attempts to get to his feet. Every moment elicits a quiet grunt and he has to use the wall for support, but he manages to get upright without yelling or passing out, and really once he’s standing it’s not so bad... 

That’s when he hears a gunshot, and the pain is forgotten as he draws his weapon and he runs, down the hall and up two flights of stairs and he doesn’t see any sign of them so they’ve got to be on the roof so he hurries up those last few stairs and bursts through the door with his gun raised and shouts, “Freeze!” and--

There she is, with her knee in the suspect’s back slapping handcuffs on his wrists. The relief makes his knees weak as he lets out a long exhale. 

“You--you got him?” He’s more out of breath than he normally would be, heart hammering so hard and fast that it’s making his already aching chest ache even more. 

“Yeah, I got him.” Maggie looks over her shoulder with that look she gets when she’s trying to suppress a smug smile, though the expression quickly drops. “Hey, you okay?”

OA just nods, struggling to catch his breath and slow his heart rate. Now that the immediate threat has been neutralized, the adrenaline is fading. He’s grateful when the back-up they’d called for arrives, because it takes the attention off of him for a moment so that he can just breathe. 

“You guys take care of him,” he hears Maggie say, and two agents start leading the suspect away while she works her way over to him. There’s concern etched on her face even as she lifts one corner of her mouth. “He really got you good, didn’t he?”

OA nods again and tries to smile. Tries to think of something clever to say, too, but he’s dizzy and hurting and all he manages to get out is, “Yep.”

And then her expression drops, eyes widening slightly as her brow knits together. “Oh, my god,” she breathes. “OA, you’re bleeding!”

“What?” OA looks down as she closes the space between them. She’s right; the part of his shirt that’s visible between his vest and his pants is red. The blood from the wound must have soaked through. He brushes the fabric with his fingers. It’s still wet, and saturated enough that his fingers come away tinged with scarlet. He’d known he was bleeding, but it didn’t feel this bad. Or, it hadn’t, before the adrenaline started to wear off…

He staggers, and would have fallen if not for Maggie grabbing his arm and putting a steadying hand on his back. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I got you.” She looks up at some of the agents still on the roof and points at one of them. “You! Call an ambulance! Tell them we’ve got a wounded agent! C’mon, OA, let’s get you out of here.”

He leans on her heavily as they make their way across the roof. His legs feel like they’re made of jello, if jello weighed the same as lead, and the effort it takes just to walk has him sweating and panting as if he’d just run a 10k. But he can’t just collapse on Maggie, so he forces himself to keep going, through the door back into the building and on to the elevator. They come to a stop as Maggie pushes the down button (actually, she slams the palm of her hand into it repeatedly while muttering curses at it as if that will somehow make it go faster). 

She glances up at OA and apparently doesn’t like what she sees because her already stressed expression grows more pinched. “We’re almost there.”

OA doesn’t answer, doesn’t even nod this time. The unrelenting pain in his chest and side is only getting worse and he’s got to focus on his noisy, painful breathing. In and out…He’ll never take the usually simple action for granted again. 

The elevator arrives with a ding, and Maggie helps OA crowd into it, jamming the button for the ground floor until the doors shut. Then the elevator lurches into motion, and it’s enough for OA to lose his balance and his heavy-boneless legs fold underneath him.

“OA!” Maggie tries her best to catch him. When she can’t do that, she kneels next to him instead, working quickly to undo the velcro straps on his vest. “Hey, hey. Stay with me.”

“‘m with you,” OA grunts. He’s not sure how long that’ll be true. He feels like he’s been trying to catch his breath for the last twenty minutes and he has yet to do so.

Maggie pulls the top part of his vest away and makes a small sound that gets OA’s attention. He tries to lift his head. 

“What?”

“Lie back, lie back.” Maggie puts a gentle hand to his forehead to keep him from sitting up. “I’m just gonna put pressure on this, okay?”

He doesn’t have time to respond before she’s pressing against the wound and if it hadn’t hurt before, it sure as hell does now. He does his best not to cry out, but he does anyway, eyes squeezing shut. He does it again when the elevator jolts to a stop. 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Maggie says. “Hold on one second...”

The pressure lessens a little as the doors open and she leans over to push the emergency stop button. 

Things are louder down here; the ground floor is milling with agents and local law enforcement, which is just great because an audience is exactly what OA needs right now. 

He doesn’t have the strength to yell when Maggie applies pressure again, just lets out a low groan. He’s getting tired. His breaths are finally slowing, too, but they’re heavy and loud and it doesn’t feel like a good thing. 

“Hang on, OA,” Maggie urges. “Where are we with that ambulance?”

“Five minutes, maybe more with the parade traffic,” someone answers. 

“Shit. Okay. Someone--someone find me a first-aid kit, please! Now!” She takes a deep breath, then turns back to OA and tries to smile. “How we doin’?”

“Um…’ve been better.” It’s as honest an answer as he’s going to give, but Maggie gets the picture and her face falls. 

“I shouldn’t’ve left you,” she says. “I should’ve--I should’ve made sure you were okay.”

“Don’t do that.” OA’s voice is quiet and strained, but he makes sure it doesn’t leave room for argument. “You did…you did ever’thing…right…”

His vision is starting to go fuzzy at the edges, like tv static, his ears ringing, and in spite of his best efforts he can feel his eyelids flutter. The last thing he hears is Maggie begging him to keep breathing.

xxx 

[mysyerious]

CIGARETTES & DIOR 4

PREVIOUS | NEXT

note: for anyone who's read the previous 3 chapters before chapter 4 was released, I'm currently rewriting them so some time this week they'll be updated!

beta read by the darling @raelwrites

—enemies (?) steve harrington X reader, follows along with 'the bathtub'

[#: @fixtionlover + anyone else who'd like to be tagged let me know]

 It only took a handful of minutes for Joyce Byers to show up. Though you’re not surprised. If you found out your child was at the police station, was arrested, you were sure you would be arrested too with how fast you’d drive.

 During those minutes, you stared at Nancy and Jonathan. You couldn’t help but entertain the ideas brewing in your head.

 But what if there was something going on between the pair. I mean, one look at them now and you’d figure they’d been together for months if you didn’t know better.

 Maybe you didn’t know better. If Steve was so panicked he’d come to you, well. But the more you think, the more you realise you’d been around the two most all times they had interacted, to your knowledge at least. If anything was going on, surely, you’d have noticed, right?

 Joyce knocks you out of your head when she arrives. “Hey. Jonathan? Jesus, what… what happened? Why is he wearing handcuffs?”

 “Well, your boy assaulted a police officer. That’s why,” one of the officers answered.

 Joyce wasn’t happy. “Take them off.”

 “I am afraid I cannot do that.”

 Joyce wasn’t happy at all. “Take them off!”

 “You heard her. Take ‘em off.” Hopper backs Joyce. You muffle a laugh. You’re pretty sure you’d find this exact dialogue in a shitty porno.

 “Chief, I get that everyone’s emotional here, but there’s something you need to see.” That doesn’t set you on edge, not at all.

 The box that the officers deposit on the desk 5 minutes later does, however. The rattle of ammo boxes, a gun, a fucking bear trap.

 “What is this?” Joyce questions, disbelief in her voice, as she sifts through the contents.

 “Why don’t you ask your son? We found it in his car.” Hopper replies, walking closer to the desk. You look over at Nancy with a confused furrow to your brow. She looks away.

 “Why are you going through my car?” Jonathan accuses.

Hopper leans over to stare at Jonathan directly. “Is that really the question you should be asking right now?” he moves back. “I wanna see you in my office.”

 “You won’t believe me.”

 “Why don’t you give me a try?”

 It seems, however, the other Hawkins residents had been going through similar frights as you had, because Hopper doesn’t even look that confused when he looks at the super-sized photograph of the monster.

 “You say blood draws this thing?”

 “We don’t know,” Jonathan replies.

 “It’s just a theory, Barb— she cut herself that night, we think she must’ve bled and attracted it,” Nancy continues, and you hadn’t heard about this theory before so you’re definitely missing something.

 Joyce throws Jonathan a look and the pair stand up. You quickly inhabit Jonathan’s abandoned seat next to Nancy.

You don’t even wait for the door to close behind Hopper before you ask, “Right. Fill me in, please? Because what’s up with that box o’ horrors back there?”

“When— when you were with Steve… me and Jonathan, we went into the woods…” she trails off, quiet, and you can feel your stomach twist.

 “Oh my god— are you okay? What happened? You should’ve come found me! or, like, called at least.”

 “Yeah— yeah, I am now… it’s alright. Jonathan took me home, I— sorry, that I didn’t call. Jonathan— we…” When Nancy pauses, your throat tightens. That was when Steve saw them together, wasn’t it?

 “You, you didn’t… like, get with him, did you? You had all night to ring, you know.”

 “What? No! no, no, no…—” Nancy grabs your hands. “I just, well, I— I saw… it, that, that thing— the monster in the photo.” She’s whispering now, voice shaking along with her hands.

 “And— and you’re okay now?”

 “I think so… Jonathan— he, he stayed with me, made sure I was okay. It just— calling you just slipped my mind, I’m sorry.” Your stomach drops a little.

 You pull her into a hug. “It’s okay, ‘m glad you’re ok, at least. It’s okay.” You whisper into her hair.

 If you say it enough, it might even come true.

 Nancy just holds on tighter.

 When Hopper fails to talk you into going home, unable to disagree with the fact that you’d already seen too much to not involve yourself, and when you follow Nancy into the backseat next to Jonathan, you had resigned yourself to the fate of never having a normal life again.

 Between interacting with Steve and coming out the other side unscathed and learning about government conspiracies and monsters in Hawkins, you’re not actually sure which surprises you more.

 “Do you have any idea where he might have gone to?” Hopper throws the question out, but you can barely keep track of where Nancy is these days, much less her kid brother.

 “No, I don’t.” Neither can Nancy, it seems.

 “I need you to think.”

 “I don’t know. We haven’t talked a lot. I mean, lately…”

 Joyce tries this time, attempts to prompt Nancy, “Is there any place that your… your parents don’t know about that he might go?”

 Again, Nancy can’t answer.

 You’re glad that your family isn’t as active in your life as other peoples are. The constant fear that something might happen to your friends is enough to have you on edge. If you had to factor in family? Unimaginable.

 “I might,” Jonathan says, “I don’t know where he is, but I think I know how to ask him.”

 “And how’d you figure that?” you ask.

 “Walkie-talkies. Will had one. I can bet Mike has his with him too, wherever he is.”

 Hopper pulls up to the Byers’ residence and before the car can even come to a full stop, Nancy and Jonathan have already hopped out. You stumble along with them and almost trip over your feet when you walk through the front door.

 Furniture askew, books everywhere, lights hanging like vines.

 “Don’t you think it’s a little early for christmas décor, guys?”

 Nancy elbows you but she looks just as surprised.

 When the group piles into Will’s room, you’re greeted by even more lamps and general disorder. Somehow, Joyce manages to find the walkie-talkie.

Nancy takes it from her instantly, sitting on the bed next to Joyce and turning the walkie on. “Mike, are you there? Mike? Mike, it’s me, Nancy.”

 Static. You hold your breath.

 “Mike, are you there? Answer. Mike, we need you to answer. This is an emergency, Mike. Do you copy? I need you to answer.”

 Static. You gnaw at your lip.

 “We need to know that you’re there, Mike.”

Static. You clench your eyes shut.

 Hopper grabs the walkie from Nance. “Listen, kid, this is the chief. If you’re there, pick up.”

 Static. Your hands shake.

 “We know you’re in trouble and we know about the girl. We can protect you; we can help you, but you gotta pick up. Are you there? Do you copy? Over.”

 Static. Your heart sinks.

 “Yeah, I copy.” The voice of Mike Wheeler cuts through the static. “It’s Mike. I’m here. We’re here.”

  You relax into the wall, boneless in relief.

 “What’s taking so long?” you break the silence. “They should be back by now, right?” your leg bounces. It was night, Hopper had left with the daylight.

 Suddenly, car lights flood the driveway and tires crackle on the gravel.

 The four of you pile outside after a beat, and Nancy jogs to hug her brother. “Mike. Oh, my god. Mike!” he stands, a little perplexed. “I was so worried about you.”

 “Yeah, uh… me, too,” Mike says, though it’s not very convincing.

 “Is that my dress?” When Nancy asks, you take in the remaining faces. Lucas and Dustin, obviously. But the girl you don’t recognise. She must be who everyone kept referring to, then.

 When everyone is seated at the table and introduced to each other, Mike starts to draw on a sheet of paper.

 “Okay, so, in this example, we’re the acrobat. Will and Barbara, and that monster, they’re this flea. And this is the upside down, where will is hiding.” He flips the paper so that everyone can see. “Mr. Clarke said the only way to get there is through a rip of time and space.”

 “A gate.” Dustin elaborates.

 “That we tracked to Hawkins lab.” Lucas continues.

 “With our compasses.” When Dusting is met with blank faces, he explains, “okay, so the gate has a really strong electromagnetic field. And that can change the direction of a compass needle.”

“Is this gate underground?” Hopper asks.

El answers, “Yes.” It’s the first time she’s spoken since arriving.

 “Near a large water tank?”

 “Yes.”

 You look over to Hopper, baffled. “How do you know all that?”

 “He’s seen it,” Mike answers.

 “I—is there any way that you could… that you could reach Will? That you could talk to him in this—” Joyce croaks out, and you can’t begin to imagine how tough it must be. To know Will is alive, but still be unable to reach him.

 “The upside down,” El finished.

 “Down, yeah.”

 El nods.

 “And— and Barb? Barbara, can you find her too?” Nancy asks.

 El smiles.

 The walkie-talkie is placed on the table in front of El.

 Static. You stay silent, watchful.

 The lights flicker.

 El turns looks out at everyone, tears in her eyes. You bow your head.

 “I’m sorry.”

 The chair scrapes obnoxiously when you stand.

 Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

 “W-what’s wrong? What hap— what happened?” Joyce asks.

 “I can’t find them.” El starts to cry, and you can feel your own eyes water.

 “So that’s it then, huh?” You sniffle, “nothing else we can do?” your eyes follow El as she’s shown the bathroom.

 “Uh— well, —” Mike calls your name, draws your attention, “not exactly. Whenever she uses her powers, she gets weak.”

 “The more energy she uses, the more tired she gets,” Dustin continues.

 “Like, she flipped the van earlier,” Lucas says.

 “It was awesome.”

 “But she’s drained,” Mike explains.

 “Like a bad battery,” Lucas adds.

 “Is there no way to recharge that battery?” you ask.

 “No, we just have to wait and try again,” Mike answers.

 “Well, how long?” Nancy asks before you can.

 “I don’t know.”

“The bath,” El says, making both you and Joyce jump at her quiet appearance. “I can find them. In the bath.”

 Sometimes, you were glad for the involvement of police. With the speed that the car was going to reach Hawkins Middle School, you were sure had any cops caught you, you would’ve been pulled over.

 Having Hopper around made breaking laws quite fun.

 You were divided into little groups, each having a different task. Hopper and Jonathan went to get the salt; Mike, and Nancy the hose pipes; Joyce was with El getting her ready, and you were hauling a heavy tied up swimming pool across the floor of the gym with Dustin and Lucas.

 When you had managed to roll the pool to the centre of the court, you went about untying it and spreading it out.

 “Come on. It’s upside down,” Dustin says. You laugh, otherwise you might cry again.

 “No, this way.” Lucas twist and unravels his side of the pool.

 “How does this even work?”

 “Try that side.”

 “Son of a bitch.”

“Hey!” you exclaim, whirling around to face Dustin, “watch the language, teeny bopper. You’re like 10, how do you even know that?”

 “I’m 12!”

 “Try that side.” Lucas interrupts your argument. “Pull it back. Pull it back.”

 “I am!”

 “One, two, three.” At three, you let go of the pool sides and the thing collapses.

 “Shit!” both you and Dusting shout. You say nothing about that.

 “I’m guessing it’ll stay up when filled, right?” you grab on the pool sides once more. “I mean, it’s— it’s gotta. If this doesn’t work…” you trail off, huffing when the pool once again collapses in on itself. “There’s always the actual swimming pool,” you mutter dejectedly.

 You three go back to spreading the pool, lifting the sides, hoping.

 “Aha! We did it— step back, step back,” Dustin calls, and the doors open to Nancy and Mike wheeling in the hose pipes, followed by Hopper and Jonathan with the salt, and Joyce with El.

 You move over to Dustin as Mike drops two ends of hose into the pool, and as water starts pouring in, you clap Dustin on the back lightly. “You’re a genius.”

 “Thanks, —” he says your name, “but without Mr. Clarke, we wouldn’t have known how to do any of this.”

 You grin. “But without your idea we would still be at the Byers’, grasping at straws.”

 Dustin grins back.

 “Colder!” Lucas shouts, holding the thermometer in the steadily rising water. “Warmer!” he shouts again. “Right there!” and the water stops.

 Once the temperature was fixed, Hopper and Jonathan begin to cut open the bags of de-icing salt, pouring them one by one into the pool.

 “How much was it we needed?” you ask Dustin.

 “Hold on,” Dustin says, crouching to open the carton of eggs by his side. When he places one in the water and it sinks, he calls out, “’Till the egg floats.”

 With that, you walk over to the bags and grab one, tearing it open with the knife Hopper passes you over the pool, throwing the empty bag into the pile.

 When you look over at Dusting and see that the egg he placed in the water bobbed on the surface of the pool, you drop the salt bag you had picked up with a sigh of relief.

 The walkie-talkie is set up on the trolley.

 Static.

 El takes her socks off and Joyce hands her duct taped goggles, guiding the girl into the pool when she puts them on.

 Almost the second she lays down and floats, the lights in the hall begin to flicker and then go out.

 Static.

 El’s breathing starts to quicken, and the lights flicker once again.

 “What’s going on?” Nancy whispers, looking around.

 “I don’t know,” Mike answers.

 “Is Barb, okay?” You ask, “is she okay?” you tighten your hold on Dustin’s shoulder, hands shaking.

 “Gone. Gone. Gone.” El repeats. You’re frozen still.

 Static.

 Joyce attempts to comfort her but she continues to repeat ‘gone’. With every agonising repetition of the word, you can feel your face slacken more, shoulders drop, hands quiver.

 “Will?” El asks, and you can only just hear her. Joyce’s words don’t register through the buzzing in your ears.

 “Hurry.” Comes from the walkie-talkie.

 El sits up in a panic. Everyone jumps back, and you quickly remove your grip from Dustin’s shoulder when the boy moves.

 “I’ve got you,” Joyce comforts El, hugging her into her chest. “It’s okay. I got you. I got you. I got you, honey. You did so good.” You sort of feel like you might need a Joyce hug next.

 You don’t get a hug.

 After a moment of reconciliation and sharing of information, you follow Nancy to the far wall. Reclining on the cold bench by the mural, counting the blemishes in the ceiling as you wrap your mind around what you witnessed. Nancy sits by your feet.

 When the door slams, you startle and look over to see Jonathan coming closer. He sits next to Nancy. You look back to the ceiling.

 “We have to go back to the station.” You hear Nancy say. “Your mom and Hopper are just walking in there like bait. That thing is still in there. And we can’t just sit here and let it get them, too. We can’t.”

 “You still wanna try it out?” Jonathan asks.

 “I wanna finish what we started. I want to kill it.”