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astraaa3 · 2 months

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Yandere Lucifer and GN!Reader headCanon

A/N: Thank you for the request Anon. I absolutely loved writing thisss. Kisses and hugs. Feedback is much appreciated. Also, if you want to proofread this degeneracy that I write please feel free to shoot me a dm. Mwah. Now, let's get this bitch on the road.

Yandere!Lucifer X Gn!Reader

Note: The first few ideas/phrases/headcanons whatever you want to call them might not seem like straight-up Yandere behavior, but it will get there. Lucifer doesn't seem like the type to instantly go full "You're mine, you're not allowed to leave". You'll see what I mean by that~ Cw/tw: yandere behavior (obviously), given the first warning possessive and obsessive behavior are a given so keep an eye out for that as well; threats of violence; actual violence;

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Initially, you came to the Hazbin Hotel out of pure curiosity and boredom. You didn't actually think that sinners could get redeemed. After all, everyone here had their chance of leading a righteous life. That said, you ended up staying at the Hotel. Whether it was because of the Princess' puppy eyes that basically begged you to remain, or whether it was because you found yourself actually enjoying the company of the residents, you still didn't know why for sure.

It was a few weeks into your stay at the hotel when you first met Lucifer. It was apparently the first time Charlie saw her father in quite a while as well.

After Lucifer spent some (much-needed) father-daughter time with Charlie, he found himself at the bar right next to you. He was immediately taken aback by your looks. The two of you quickly found yourselves making some small talk. As most talks over a drink go, the topics took a deeper turn after a while, when Lucifer asked you "Do you really believe sinners can be redeemed?"

You smiled looking into your drink as if it could give you the words you couldn't find within yourself. Finishing your drink in one big gulp, you stood up, looking at Lucifer with a small smile: "Not really, no. But I think that if anyone can find a way to do it... it's Charlie" With that you left. Unknowingly leaving behind you a flustered King of Hell.

Since that discussion Lucifer found himself entranced by you. He analyzed everything about you. From the way your nose scrunched up with laughter whenever you were genuinely laughing, to the way you walked (he could already tell how you were feeling based solely on the way you stepped).

He made sure to bring you your favorite drink whenever you felt down, coaxing you into telling him whatever made you upset over a drink (or more than a drink if you didn't feel particularly sharing in regards to what made you upset).

And well, if it was someone that upset you, that person would find themselves on Lucifer's radar. (and if their bodies turned up later on, well, it's not like he would ever let you find out; he didn't want to risk losing your favor)

You found Lucifer's unyielding pursuit of finding everything about you to be quite cute. Yeah, maybe it was a bit over the top and spiraling out of control, but the silly crush you had developed for the King of Hell was jumping up and down with joy whenever you had his attention.

The first time Lucifer's possessive side came out you were arguing with another sinner in the Hotel's lobby. The sinner was some runt who thought he would be able to get his hands on Angel Dust if he stayed in the hotel. Having grown fond of the resident porn star you defended your friend giving the sinner a verbal lashing. Lucifer just watched on amused and annoyed (that your attention was not on him) his love-sick smile turning into an enraged frown when the sinner proposed that the two of you "made love instead of war". HOW FUCKING DARE HE. Not only did he dare look at what belonged to the King of Hell. Not only did he dare to imply defiling your precious innocent body. He dared to utter the word 'love' while looking at you.

Lucifer's patience snapped and with a snap of his fingers, a portal opened beneath the sinner's feet teleporting him high up in the sky on the other side of the Pentagram. You looked shocked at Lucifer. Seeing him angry on your behalf... It was hot.

That night was one of the many the two of you found yourselves falling into bed together, soon after making your relationship official.

As days passed, Lucifer started making more and more odd requests: "My love, could you please tell me whenever you leave the hotel?", "You should leave some of your clothes over at my place, for simplicity's sake." , "Could you please stop talking to (Friend Name)? I... think they may be harboring feelings for you. I think I actually heard them admit to that once. I'm sorry if I'm overreacting but since Lilith left me....", "Darling, I know we haven't dated for long, but I would love it if you were to move in. I know you love the hotel, but I want to make sure you are safe. No? I... alright. We'll talk about it later, it's going to be ok".

The moment that made you realize that Lucifer's obsession was more serious than you thought was after the battle against Adam and the exorcist angels. You got hurt in the chaos of the battle. It was just a stab wound, but when Lucifer saw it, he flipped. With a serious tone, he looked at you, a crazed look in his eyes: "You are going to make a contract with me. You are going to give your soul to me. I will not hear any objections. You clearly can't take care of yourself. So, do we have a deal?"

You reflexively nodded out of fear, having not seen your lover so serious.... so obsessed.... so possessive. This was the first time you looked at Lucifer and saw The King of Hell, the Devil from the Bible. As he gently took your hand shaking it he smiled, the crazed look never leaving his eyes, he cupped your face gently "It's going to be alright, my love, I will take care of everything. I will make sure that you never need for anything. And you will never leave me, after all, you are the apple of my eye."

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Small prompt: After the deal

It has been two months since you moved in with Lucifer. Your lover wouldn't take no for an answer. And well, you couldn't really say no to him anyway.... After the initial apprehension ended, you fell into a domestic routine with Lucifer: he would coax you to wake up with small kisses peppered across your face, kisses which turned into full-blown sleepy make-out sessions the moment you were awake; afterward, he would make breakfast for the two of you (the duck-shaped pancakes being your favorite); then, the two of you would go to the Hotel to check up on everyone or whatever else the two of you felt like doing; at the end of the day you would take a bath with Lucifer as he would make love to you, your body warm and soft from the hot water; you ended the day with a kiss. The next day it was the same routine. And the next. And the next.

Wherever you went, whatever you did, Lucifer was there with you. Initially, you were bothered by it, feeling like your privacy was forcefully taken from you. But as Lucifer whispered sweet nothings into your ear, as he would hug you to his chest proclaiming his love for you, as he would make love to you cradling your face and telling you that you're his... You slowly forgot what it was like to have time alone.

When you first realized how much of your time Lucifer monopolized you tried going on a walk alone. That was the first time since the deal when you saw Lucifer get truly angry. Golden chains wrapped around your body, you were tied to your bed, his smile overly sweet as he caressed your face: "You see how easy it is for someone to just kidnap you? What if someone tried doing something to you, my love? You are so weak and pure, I can't let those dirty sinners touch or even glance at you. Now then, you can play with the duckies while I make sure that no one who saw you today sees the light of day again." with that, he kissed your lips sweetly before leaving you there tied to the bed, with a rubber duck on your chest.

After that, you never tried leaving again, too afraid that maybe your lover's ire will turn to you this time around. But Lucifer would never. He loved you, obsessively so. Maybe... it wasn't that bad letting him lock you away in the gilded cage you called home. After all, did you really need anything else when you already had him?

#lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #x reader #gender neutral reader #lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin hotel headcanon #lucifer morningstar x reader

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dark-fics-4-you · 9 months

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No Way Out ch. 2

Dark!Rafe Cameron x f!Reader

Warnings: noncon, smut, abusive relationship, domestic violence, verbal abuse, drugs, choking

Things escalate in your relationship with Rafe to a boiling point

Blinding rage was the only thing that Rafe could focus on in the small jail cell.

He paced around the cramped space like a caged animal, ready to pounce on anything that walked by the door.

The past day was all too fresh in his mind, replaying like a loop that only fed into his need to get out.

“I’m just worried about how much blow you’ve been doing, Rafe! It’s not good for you.. It just makes you so much more-”

“So much more what?” He snapped back at you and you bit your tongue.

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

“So much more angry,” you timidly replied. “You aren’t yourself when you’re using, baby.”

He rolled his eyes in annoyance, shaking his head with a scoff. “You don’t know what it’s like, Y/N! You don’t get how hard I have to work just for my dad to see what I am capable of. If you had any idea-”

“Oh, if I had any idea how hard it to have a rich dad?” You couldn’t stop the sarcasm from cutting through your voice.

“Watch it,” Rafe growled, a dangerous tone in his voice. You didn’t notice how close he had gotten to you.

“I just don’t think your daddy issues give you an excuse to be doing coke all the fucking ti-” before you could even perceive his movement, you felt a sharp sting blossom across your cheek and you vaguely registered that he had slapped you. Your head whipped to the side, tears springing up immediately.

Completely taken by surprise, you had no time to react before he shoved you to the ground. You fell hard backwards, hitting your elbows and bottom on the floor beneath you. You cried out in pain, cowering away from your boyfriend as he leered above you.

“Talk to me like that one more time and see what fucking happens,” he seethed. He lurched forward and grabbed your wrists with both hands, clenching hard and you let out a sob.

“You should consider yourself lucky!” sneered the blond. “I pay for everything you have! You would be out walking the streets without me.”

His breathing was heavy, but he hadn’t even broken a sweat yet. You shrieked when he yanked you to your feet by your throat, shaking you hard.

Your arms flailed out at his hands, clawing at them and trying to pull him off but it was no use. You gasped for breath, crying out as his fingers dug into your throat.

“P-please-!” Precious air that was running out fueled your pleading. Rafe’s eye twitched, lip curling before he pushed you back to the ground.

Gulping for breath between sobs, you glanced up at the man towering above you in fear. His hand was clenched in a fist, eyebrows furrowed as he shook with rage.

You were terrified by how hard he had choked you, the utter lack of regret in his eyes.

In the early days, fights like these were rare, and on the off occasion that he had laid a hand on you, it was never as intense, and the apology that followed was always 100x longer than the brief fight. Nowadays, you rarely even got an apology.

With a scowl, he examined his arms where you had scratched him and his darkened eyes met yours.

You didn’t fully know why you did what you did next. Or how it unfolded.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe you were out of options, just so afraid that you did what any trapped animal would do.

You ran.

You pushed yourself off the floor in an instant, rushing out of the living room to the bathroom.

Rafe was bigger than you, stronger than you. Faster.

It was dumb luck that his reaction time was just a moment too slow.

You slammed the bathroom door, locking it behind you as fast as you could. Your heart thundered in your chest, thumping so hard you could hear the blood rushing in your ears.

The door behind you rattled as Rafe punched and kicked at it.

“Open the fucking door, Y/N!!” His fists pounded against the wood and you cowered as far from the door as you could.

Your mind was racing and only then you remembered the cell phone in your back pocket.

With shaky hands, you unlocked it, clicking the phone icon before dialing emergency services.

“Let me in! Open the fucking door bitch!!” He bellowed again. You winced every time the door shook, terrified he was going to knock it off it’s hinges. “I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

Quietly, you begged with the operator to send someone, giving your address to the woman on the phone.

“Please! He- He’s trying to break the door down,” you sobbed. “I’m scared he’s going to hurt me o-or worse!”

“Y/N, I swear to god when I get in there, you’re going to be sorry!” Rafe roared from the other side of the door. He cursed when he hit it too hard, apparently injuring his hand.

You couldn’t do anything but hide in the corner, hoping that he wouldn’t be able to get in before the cops arrived.

Sitting there on the floor felt like hours, but it was probably only a few minutes before you heard a pounding on the front door and you nearly passed out with relief.

The activity outside of the bathroom door stopped suddenly as Rafe realized what was happening. He cursed, loud enough for you to hear, but not nearly at the same volume before.

You knew it was safe to step out of the bathroom when you heard him greet the people at the front door. You brushed the tears from your eyes, trying to compose yourself.

“Good evening officers, what can I do for you tonight?” He was trying to act nonchalant, but there was a tense edge to his voice you couldn’t mistake.

You could hear muffled responses growing louder as you approached the door and you knew the officers must have noticed you, because the speaking stopped and Rafe turned to look at you.

Anger that only you could see flashed across his eyes, but even he knew better than to display it in front of cops. The blond stepped to the side to allow you to stand beside him, and he grabbed your hand lovingly as if to say, ‘look officers, everything is okay here.’

“Are you having any problems tonight ma’am?” One of the officers asked you with a concerned look.

Rafe’s grip on your hand tightened, warning you not to say anything. A lump formed in your throat. Did you even have it in you to say something?

With a sniffle, you plastered on a small smile, “N-no. We haven’t had any issues here.”

The officers looked slightly surprised at that, glancing at each other and exchanging a brief, wordless conversation.

“Well, procedure says that we have to interview you both separately.” One of them explained.

“This is just stupid,” Rafe complained. “I think we’d rather talk to you together, isn’t that right baby?”

Hesitantly, you nodded with lowered eyes, “Yeah.”

“Unfortunately, procedure is procedure, and we have to do it this way.” The woman explained, and her male partner nodded in agreement.

“How about I interview you,” she looked at you. “And my partner will interview you,” she said with a pointed look towards Rafe.

“Fine,” he spat out through gritted teeth, flashing you a warning look before he was led away to talk to the other cop.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you were left alone, and the cop gave you another concerned look.

“What’s your name honey?”

You told her.

“What happened tonight, ma’am?” She asked you gently and you almost broke down right there. Tears sprung to your eyes and you took a deep breath to calm yourself.

“I-I was so scared,” you confessed. Her eyes wandered to your neck, able to make out the old bruises and the redness on your cheek that had only started to fade.

“He just gets so angry at me and-” a sob cut you off, voice breaking as you remembered the fight. “H-he was choking me, and.. I didn’t think he was going to stop.”

The tears were flowing more now as you recounted what had happened, and the cop gave you a sympathetic look. Your hands fell in your lap and her attention was drawn to your bare legs which were littered with tiny cuts from when Rafe had pushed you into glass the previous week.

She paused before speaking, “Listen, I don’t know how it’s going with my partner, Michael and your boyfriend, but I would feel comfortable taking your boyfriend down to the station based on what you’ve told me. How does that sound to you?”

Your eyes widened in surprise. You didn’t really know what you had expected when you called. You were just so scared with what he might do, you did the only thing you could think.

And now you were faced with an impossible decision.

Agree with this and let them take Rafe, and he would be let out who knows when. But say no, and you would have to face the wrath of Rafe tonight, and you knew that he was more pissed off than you had ever seen him.

Without even knowing that you had made up your mind, you found your head nodding, tears coming to your eyes.

You would deal with Rafe later. But tonight, you were just happy with the idea of sleeping alone for the first time in months.

~~~~~~~

“And so you’re saying you two had an argument, but it never got physical?”

“No, I would never lay a hand on her! You heard her yourself, we haven’t had any problems tonight.” Rafe smiled, southern charm laid on thick. He had dealt with police many times before, and when they weren’t sticking their noses into shit that he was involved in, he respected them.

But he also knew how to manipulate them.

The cops eyed Rafe’s hand and the scratches on his arm.

“Get into a bar fight?” He questioned.

“Ah no, got into a little motorcycle accident. Nothing too bad, just fell over, you know how it is,” the blond chuckled.

“And you don’t know who made the call?” The officer raised an eyebrow as he questioned the blond.

“No clue. Maybe some kids in the neighborhood made a prank call or something,” he laughed casually, throwing a polite smile at the man across from him.

The officer chuckled, “yeah we do get a lot of those.” He clicked his pen, flipping his notebook shut. “Well, I think I’ve got all I needed from you. Thank you very much sir. And uh, tell your dad I said hi.”

“Will do,” Rafe grinned, extending a hand to shake the officer’s.

“You just sit tight here, I gotta talk with my partner real quick and then I’ll update you on what’s going on.”

He walked away from the taller man. Rafe leaned against a tree in the park at the middle of the sprawling apartment complexes watching him walk back.

Most of what they discussed, he couldn’t make out and the female cop turned to look at him several times.

The only thing he did hear was “Hey, do you know who this guy is? That’s Rafe Cameron. Yeah, that Cameron.”

Eventually they both walked over and Rafe stood up straight as they approached.

“So, are we all good here?” He asked, charming smile ever present.

“Well,” she said, looking over at her partner. “Not quite.”

~~~~~~

You locked the front door, the only door, dutiful to make sure all of the windows were locked as well.

You knew that Rafe was going to be in jail for a few nights at least, but you wanted to be careful anyways.

Last night had been the best you had slept in months. No fears of wandering hands, or unwanted advances that you had no emotional capacity for.

Slipping into your bed and being able to be safe while you slept was all you had dreamed about for so long.

You curled up in the blanket, unaware of the sound of the front door opening softly as you tried to drift off to sleep.

The click of your bedroom door opening had you jolting awake though. And you were shocked to see a familiar figure leering in the doorway.

“H-h-how the fuck did you get in here?” You whispered in a panic, sitting up and alert in bed.

“Oh sweetheart, you didn’t think I had a spare made?” His tone was ice cold and mocking. You could almost feel the rage radiating off of him.

Rafe took a step into the room, closing and locking the door behind him and your stomach dropped.

“How are you here? You got taken away, I- I saw it,” you didn’t believe this was happening, couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Ward pulled a few strings, can’t have a stain on the Cameron name,” he spat out bitterly. Rafe stalked further into the room, nearing your bed, a predatory look in his eyes that almost stopped your heart.

Your eyes whipped to the phone on your bedside table and you lurched toward it at the same time that he did.

“Nuh uh. Not this time, sweetheart.” He wrestled with you, hands grabbing at the phone that he wretched from your grasp.

To your horror, he threw your phone against the wall, and you watched it smash to pieces.

Your only lifeline was gone.

You fought back hard against him, but the victor was inevitable. You both knew it from the minute he stepped into the room.

He threw you onto the bed, roughly grabbing at your thin nightwear. He tore your blouse, hands ripping the material as you hit him, trying desperately to stop his assault.

“Stop- stop fucking fighting!” He roared as he kicked your legs open, fumbling with his shorts and your crying intensified.

His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing hard as he forced himself into you. You let out a strained gasp at the feeling, head falling back against the pillow in shock. Rafe pinned you down against the bed by your throat, cock sliding in and out of you at a torturously fast pace.

“You thought you were gonna get rid of me that easy, Y/N?” Rafe jeered as he snapped his hips against yours. The pressure at your throat increased, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Are you really that stupid?”

You shook your head, tears falling past your lashes. Thoughts jumbled inside your head, the cloud of fear and arousal confused you.

“You got what you wanted. You called the cops, and they aren’t gonna help you,” his lip curled in sadistic pleasure as he belittled you.

His free hand found your wrist, pinning it to the bed as he twisted it painfully. You tried to turn your face away from him when he came close, but he grabbed your chin, holding you in place as his lips smothered yours. His tongue pushed its way into your mouth, lips moving against yours against your will.

A sick feeling was growing in your stomach, the sinful combination of pain and pleasure mixing within you.

Every thrust of his cock had you gasping and moaning against his lips. Your legs shook as he took his anger out on you, plunging deeper and harder than ever before.

The grip at your throat was getting harder, constricting your breathing even more. You gasped when he finally pulled his face away.

“You could have ruined everything,” Rafe seethed. Your teary eyes meant nothing to him. Nauseatingly, you realized that this was a punishment because you had dared to try to leave. Dared to say anything.

“I love you so much, Y/N. You know I do. You know I do. And I’ll be dead in the ground before I let you walk out on me.” He was fucking you frantically now, every thrust a cruel promise of his threats.

When he hit that spot that made you see stars again and again, you came undone. You bit your lip, crying out as your orgasm washed over you. Your legs were shaking uncontrollably, shame burning across your face, conflicted by your body’s reaction.

“Fuuck-” Rafe groaned loudly as you squeezed around his cock, and he came hard, pumping his hot load deep into your sore cunt, before he began to move his hips again.

And when his hungry, piercing eyes met yours again, you knew that the night was far from over.

#rafe cameron #outer banks #dark!rafe cameron #obx #dark rafe cameron #no way out #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron noncon #rafe cameron x reader

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wandering-winchesters · 1 year

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Who Did This To You?

Pairing: Dean x Reader Word Count: 4,077 (Oops) Summary: Sam and the reader are close friends, Dean on the other hand is kept at a distance. The reader has a boyfriend, who turns out to be abusive. What will happen when Dean finds out? Trigger Warnings: Mentions of domestic violence, bruises and brief mention of blood. Requested: No, just something I thought up. A/N: I am really happy with how this turned out, please let me know what you think. <3

Masterlist

I press the accelerator down further, hot tears brimming in my eyes, frantic to get back to the bunker. Back to safety and Sam. I need to talk to Sam, he always knows how to calm me down. My boyfriend, Chris and I had fought tonight and it had been bad, he had gotten in my face and screamed at me over the smallest thing. I put up with it for almost an hour, before I got up and left. What had started out as utter rage had slowly turned to gut wrenching sobs throughout the long drive home. I pull into the driveway for the bunker, parking next to the Impala and quickly making the walk from the car to the door. I unlock it quickly slipping inside, I kick my boots off at the front door and head to the kitchen hoping to find Sam. Much to my dismay, the face looking back at me is indeed not Sam, but the other Winchester, Dean. He looks up at me, his eyes searching my face and his brows drawing together when he notices my expression and the tears on my cheeks. I sniff, quickly wiping them away but it’s too late, he’s already seen them.

“Where’s Sam?” I ask, drawing on every ounce of strength within in me to keep my wits about me for a few more minutes. Dean takes his time to answer, taking a sip from the beer he is holding as he studies me carefully. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, waiting anxiously for his reply.

“He went out for a bit, said he needed to get out of the bunker. Can’t say I blame him.” He says, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth momentarily before taking another sip of his beer. I give Dean a short nod and mutter a thanks before turning on my heel, intent upon heading straight to my room but his voice stops me once again.

“You’ve been crying.” He states, matter-of-factly. I freeze in my tracks, weighing my next options carefully. Why does he care? He’s seen me cry before and it hasn’t exactly made him kinder to me. I square my shoulders and turn around to face him once again, his eyes still locked on me. He looks as if he is carefully analyzing my every move, every breath I take and every word that I speak. He’s leaning against the counter top, one leg bent resting on the cabinet behind him. His arms crossed across his chest, supporting the hand that’s holding his beer.

“Why do you care?” I ask, my voice a bit more volatile than I initially intended. I am too tired to put effort into being nice to him, a sentiment that he rarely ever gives to me. He is slightly taken aback by my words, a fact made obvious by the way he holds his hands up to the side, shrugging his shoulders slightly.

“Just thought you might want to talk about it, since Sam isn’t here.” He replies, his tone soft and gentle, something I’d never received from him before. It wasn’t like we were enemies or anything, but he didn’t particularly care for me and I shared the same sentiment about him. We butted heads over everything, he always tried to hold me back on hunts, making me feel incapable and inferior.

“Ill be fine.” I mutter, moving to walk away once again, and once again he stops me his words cutting through me like a silver knife.

“Did he hurt you?” He asks, his voice unreadable, but his face screams danger, depending on my answer. I look at him, my eyes searching his face for any explanation of where this was coming from, but he’s impassive other than anger. I don’t trust my voice, so I shake my head no. It wasn’t exactly a lie, he hadn’t physically hurt me, he didn’t need to his verbal threats were enough.

“I’m just going to go to bed. Thanks anyways.” I say and he nods slightly but he’s not fooled. I turn and actually walk away this time and make it to my room before my tears start to fall again. I sit down on the edge of my bed pulling my phone out of my pocket, intending to send Sam a text, but I am distracted by the multiple messages flooding the screen. Beginning with anger and threats, before changing to apologies and begging for my forgiveness. I toss my phone onto the floor, too tired to deal with the nonsense tonight. The interaction with Dean replays in my head, his kindness strange and cause for reflection. It isn’t as if he was ever a complete asshole to me, but he was never fond of me. I had always been Sam’s friend and Dean just put up with my presence. Neither one of them ever intended for me to start hunting with them, it was a matter of wrong place wrong time. Sam and I had met in college and I went looking for him when he disappeared from classes, the week I found him happened to be when the yellow eyed demon came calling a few years ago, and I had stuck with them ever since. Intent upon learning everything I could about the supernatural. Sam had welcomed me in with open arms and Dean had been dragged along kicking and screaming, metaphorically speaking. Well, mostly metaphorically, he did a lot of yelling. So the concern Dean had for me tonight, was well concerning. It was throwing me for a bit of a loop, curiosity sparking within me. Did he actually care about me and his disdain for me was just a front? No, surely not. I had been with them for three years and this was an utter first. I brush the thoughts aside and close my eyes, hoping that sleep will over take me. Hours later, it finally does.

I wake to knocking on my door, I yell out a muffled come in, and Sam sticks his head in, his expression apologetic.

“Hey sorry to wake you, I am about to head out but I wanted to check in on you before I do. Dean said you were upset and looking for me last night, you could’ve called me Y/N, I would have come back earlier.” I had sat up in bed to look at him and he had opened my door the rest of the way. I smiled softly at the tall man standing in front of me, his hair messy and the collar on his flannel offset.

“Its okay Sammy, you have a good night out?” I ask and he grins sheepishly, nodding his head in response.

“Yeah, actually, I met a girl at the bar. I am heading back to her place now actually. You doing okay?” He asks me, his smile contagious. I chuckle, shaking my head slightly, but smile back at him.

“Yeah I am good, go get ‘em tiger.” He laughs at my response, and jogs off down the hallway yelling a see you later over his shoulder. He had forgotten to shut my door behind him, I sigh throwing my blankets to the side and standing up beside my bed.

I stretch my body, groaning slightly as the tension in my shoulders works it way out. I throw on the jeans I had worn yesterday, before finding a new shirt to wear, I settle on my favorite green tee, a memento from my college years. I pick my phone up from the floor, scanning the mass of texts and calls all from one person. Before sending him a quick message,

8:33 A.M. I’ll be over shortly, I just woke up.

I take a deep breath and grab my keys from my dresser and head towards the entry to the bunker. Dean is in the kitchen again, this time making himself breakfast. He gives me a slight smile as I walk past him towards the door. I smile back but keep on my path to my boots, still left haphazardly by the door where I had tossed them last night. “Need breakfast?” Dean calls from the behind me, I look back over my shoulder and see him standing in the doorway to the kitchen, skillet in one hand, towel in the other.

“Not hungry, thanks though. I’ll be back later!” I say, beginning to head out the door to the bunker. I hear him call out something along the lines of ‘be careful’ but I don’t stop to question it, our interaction from last night still weirding me out.

In hindsight, I should’ve gone back inside this morning. Had breakfast with Dean and ignored Chris’ frenzy of messages. Going over his place this morning was probably the worst idea I have ever had, it hadn’t gone well, worse than I had ever imagined. His messages to me last night and this morning had me convinced that he would apologize for his actions and yet that is the farthest thing from what happened. By the time I had gotten there, he had switched from apologetic to angry again. Instead of his words, he let his fists do the talking. The first time catching me so off guard it knocked me off my feet successfully splitting my lip, the second time I had dodged his blow, stepping out of his reach and yelling at him to keep his hands off of me and trying to leave. But the third. The third landed square on my jaw, knocking me unconscious.

I had come to from Chris shaking me and crying apologies. His touch sending waves of nausea through me, revolted by the thought of him. Glancing at my reflection in the surface of his coffee table I noticed the rapidly forming bruise. A mark that would serve as a vivid reminder of his actions and my inability of acting like a good, obedient girlfriend. Or so he said, after spending the morning accusing me of cheating on him with Sam. No matter what I said, it wasn’t enough to convince him that we were just friends and he had just lost it on me. I had left in a rush when he went to the bathroom, leaving everything but my phone and my keys behind on his couch. The ache in my body spurring me to move faster out of his place and into the safety of my car. The seconds it took me to get from his living room to the drivers seat, felt like an eternity. I had driven as fast as I dared back to the bunker, checking my rear view mirror constantly watching and waiting for him to appear behind me, but he didn’t. So here I sit, outside the bunker, debating the best way to get into my room without someone noticing the bruises still forming on my face. Not wanting the attention or, more likely the “I told you so’s” from Dean. I grabbed the hat from my passenger seat, tugging it low over my face. I rearrange my hair, framing it around my face in such a way that it covers as much of my jaw as it can. I take a deep breath and exit my vehicle, taking the few steps required into the bunker.

I shut the door as quietly as I can, taking soft steps towards my room. I hope to make it into the safety and silence of my room without anyone noticing, I am not even sure who is home at this time but I don’t want to see either of them. I had nearly reached the safety of my space, but I head Dean’s door swing open behind me.

“Y/N, you’re home sooner than I expected. Sam isn’t back yet.” He says and I freeze in my tracks, praying he doesn’t continue the conversation.

“Okay, thanks!” I say, my voice coming out shrill and unsteady, the opposite of what I was trying to sound like. I hear him move to close his door, but he hesitates and I can feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of my head.

“What happened to your jeans? Why is there blood on them?” He asks, and I internally curse myself out for my stupidity. I had wiped my hand across my thigh after wiping the blood off my busted lip. I must have taken too long to give him an answer, because I hear him moving closer to me and I close my eyes waiting for the moment that I had hoped to avoid. “Y/N, look at me.” He says and I can feel him ever so close to me. I turn around, keeping my eyes trained on the ground and my face angled away from him. He reaches out and gently grabs my chin, pulling it towards him so he can see me. I bite my tongue to keep the slight gasp from slipping past, his touch on my bruised jaw causing a ripple of pain to travel throughout my nerves, but he notices and his touch lightens. The opposite of his face, his expression darkens, eyes traveling over my skin. His other hand comes up and pulls my baseball hat off my head, revealing all of the color spreading through my skin, reds and purples mainly at this point in time.

“Who did this to you?” He growls, not waiting for a response his hand drops to my wrist and tugs me behind him. I follow his lead back towards the kitchen, when we get there he points to the counter muttering one word through his angry stupor, “Sit.” I don’t, but he doesn’t notice immediately, his attention turning to something else. He walks over to the freezer and digs out the ice packs that we kept frozen for any injuries that might surface.

When he turns around, his eyes are trained on me, a scowl engrained in his features. He sets the icepack down, before he turns to me, grabs my waist and lifts me up onto the countertop. I am caught off guard by his actions, a gasp leaving my lips from his sudden movements. His hands on my hips the most amount of physical touch that has ever been shared between the two of us.

I train my eyes to the floor, not daring to meet his gaze. He had stepped away again, digging through the cabinets for what I think is the first aid kit. I begin to let my thoughts wander, the dull ache in my jaw pulling me back to the moment that it happened. The pure evil hidden behind his eyes, the look of absolute enjoyment he had as he watched me struggle, his hands rough and violent against my body. But I am snapped back to reality by Dean’s gentle touch, his fingertips gingerly raising my chin to look at him. Tears are beginning to form in my eyes, adrenaline wearing off and emotion taking back over. I take a deep breath, hating the way my lip quivers, still dreading showing weakness to the older Winchester. He notices, he notices all of it, but he doesn’t say anything. He gently wipes away my tears and brings a cold cloth to my lip, cleaning up the cut from the first punch. I can feel anger radiating off of his skin, even though his touch is displaying the complete opposite.

“Did Chris do this?” He asks, his attention moving from the split in my lip to the gash on my forehead. I hiss as he wipes it clean, an antiseptic wipe pinched between his fingers, he mutters a slight apology, but continues patching me up.

“Yeah, he did. He lost it on me this morning, over nothing. It’s my fault though, I ignored all of his messages after I came home last night, so he was angry.” Dean freezes, his fingers stilling on my skin. I look up at him, confused as to why he stopped and I notice his jaw is clenched so tight that it has to be painful.

“Don’t ever say those words again, you hear me?” He locks his eyes on mine, fury absolutely radiating off of every inch of his body. “None of this, none, is your fault, you got it?” His words are sharp and pointed, his intent clear. I nod in response, he obviously didn’t want to hear anymore, got it. I would keep my mouth shut.

He continues patching me up, before he stills, looking me over from head to toe once more. He hands me the ice-pack he had laid out and instructs me to keep it on my jaw. He turns his back to me and washes his hands in the kitchen sink.

“Where does the fucker live?” He asks, his voice low and so calm that it scares me slightly.

“Why Dean?” This is when he snaps, the anger that has been coursing through him coming out in one big tsunami of a wave, now that he knows I am okay.

“Because I am going to go beat the absolute hell out of him, show him a bit of his own medicine.” He says, each word leaving his lips like a bullet leaving a gun. Dangerous and aimed at one specific target.

I sit quietly, unsure how to respond.

“Why? I didn’t think you’d care this much, figured-“

“Oh for fucks sake!” He interrupts me and I jump from the sheer volume of his voice, he walks back over to me and stands directly in between my knees, he rests his hands on my thighs and his eyes meet my own once again.

“I have always cared about you Y/N, from that day you showed up at our motel. Your search for Sam finally at an end. I have watched you let men into your life that don’t give two shits about you, I have watched how they treated you and I have hated every single one. None of them deserve you, they are all pitiful excuses for boyfriends. I heard you crying to Sam, each time one of them broke your heart and I had to sit back and not do anything about it. You deserve more than anyone can give you, including myself. Which is why I never said anything, I kept you at a distance. I can’t do that anymore, I can’t keep watching you put yourself into these situations. God, if you hadn’t left, he could have killed you. Probably would have killed you, and then I never would have been able to tell you that I-, that I love you.” He says, his voice growing less angry after each word leaves his mouth. My brain is spinning by the end of his speech, his words swirling around my head making me dizzy. He squeezes my leg gently, causing me to snap back to reality once again.

I blink at him, once, twice, three times before his words finally settle over me and I am completely speechless. I never saw this coming, I admit I have feelings for him, but I had pushed them so far away because of his hatred for me.

“Dean, I-I don’t know what to say. I always thought you hated me, so I supressed my feelings for you, I dated other men because I thought you would never want anything to do with me. I’m sorry, that I hurt you. I love you too.” I whisper, my hands coming to rest on top of his. He tugs me towards him, his fingers digging into my hips and sliding me across the counter into his embrace.

“God, Y/N, I am so sorry he did this to you. He will never lay a finger on you again, I promise.” He says, his voice barely registering because of how quiet he is speaking. I can hear how close he is to tears, but don’t mention it to him. I hug him back and relish the way his touch makes me feel. How safe I am in his presence, every fear melting away.

I hear the door to the bunker open and Sam calls out a greeting. Dean pulls away from me slightly, but keeps his hand resting on my thigh.

“In the kitchen Sammy.” He calls out, and gently squeezes my leg in reassurance.

Sam rounds the corner and stops dead in his tracks, his eyes locking on my bruised face and anger quickly replaces the initial shock.

I look away from him, shame creeping over me. I put myself into the situation and this was the outcome, now both of them are aware of what I got myself into and it is crashing down on me in waves. I hear Dean talking to Sam, explaining everything that had happened. By the end of it, both boys were rearing to go track him down and give him a taste of his own medicine, or worse. Little did we all know, they were about to get their chance and they wouldn’t even have to leave the bunker.

A knock sounds at the door and Sam trails off mid sentence, glancing between Dean and myself, an obvious attempting at asking if we were expecting someone. Neither of us were, and suddenly it hit me. He’s here, he had followed me. My heart is in my throat, my breathing is heightened and shallow. My eyes meet Deans and he knows exactly what I am thinking. “Stay here, sweetheart. Sam, let’s go.” He says, giving me one last look before the two of them walk out of the room and towards the source of the incessant knocking. I don’t listen however, I slide down off the counter and hurry after them. Not wanting to be left alone and waiting to find out the outcome of this visit. Dean throws open the door to the bunker, immediately grabbing my now ex-boyfriend by the collar of his shirt and pushing him backwards away from the entrance. Sam is quick to step outside next to Dean, the boys creating a wall between me and Chris. Dean withholds the fury of his fist and issues quite a few colorful threats, instilling a healthy fear into Chris. He pulls him up by his shirt again and shoves him towards his car. They stand, watching him leave before turning and heading back into the bunker. Sam is quick to be by my side, pulling me into a hug. Apologies flying from his lips. I reassure him that I am okay, my eyes remaining locked on Dean. Hoping that the moment that we had shared wasn’t a one time thing, dying to once again be in his arms.

I excuse myself from the two of them, heading to the bathroom to clear my head. I spend a few minutes in there, my hands gripping the edge of the sink. Taking breath, after breath, trying to pull myself together. The whirlwind of a day, completely blindsiding me. I open the door to the bathroom and scan the hallway, empty. I take a chance and cross the hall towards Dean’s room. Knocking on the door and being beckoned in by his voice on the other side of the door.

I open the door and cross the threshold, closing the door quietly behind me. His eyes are on me immediately and I stare back at him, my heart nearly beating out of my chest. Four words hang heavy in my throat, fear of rejection constricting my voice. I clear my throat and finally utter the words I had been thinking.

“Did you mean it?”

“Of course I did, Y/N. I will always mean it.” He whispers, and that is all it takes for me to cross the room and throw my arms around him. He immediately hugs me back, tugging me as close to him as physically possible. His lips press against my forehead, sending shivers down my spine. The warmth his body provides is all consuming and like heaven on earth. A feeling that I had never had before, it was clear that this was where I was meant to be.

“I will always keep you safe Y/N, I promise you that. I love you.” Dean says, his lips brushing against my skin as he speaks. I knew he meant it with all of his heart and that was more than enough for me.

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tarjapearce · 1 month

Text

Chapter 7: Silent Violence is Humbled

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

WARNINGS: Tension, Angst, emotional discomfort, fluff and comfort towards the end, Strained friendships, verbal abuse, character introspection, character study, anger, hurt, family dynamics.

Summary: Karma keeps it's siege, and a new milestone hits the mark.

A/N: So. sorry for the delay, had to make some reports for my internship (I'm almost done and out with it 🥹 yay.)

Leaving the hospital wasn't precisely good. A new debt was added to your already trembling credit and to top it off, you were left with meds, a scheduled appointment with a therapist and a plethora of vitamins and supplements.

Of course you had reported everything but the gruesome details to your immediate boss. Not that she didn't sound convinced, rather shocked you were in the hospital.

You only could hope complications wouldn't be a regular guest in your life and bank account.

"I can hear you thinking from here. You ok?" MJ mumbled as she stirred a couple of eggs into the pan. You stared into the endless and spiralling void. Picking at the hospital's pale blue plastic band around your wrist.

You had spaced out as soon as you got home, the remnants of the perilous encounter with Miguel somehow still remained etched to your skin and mind. Unable to let go completely.

"I think I'll start looking for a better paying job somewhere else."

MJ watched you for a second, "You'll quit Alchemax?"

With a groan, you slouched on the dining table, placing a hand ontop of your head

"I'd love to, but I can't yet. Not until I have something certain anyways. Gotta suck it up for a bit more."

"I'll help you look up on other companies, who knows maybe we find a better thing for you. I don't feel comfortable with you being there with that crazy asshole working in there too. Do you want extra bacon?"

"Pretty please. Thank you, MJ. And yeah, if you're not a scientist in Alchemax, you're basically another exploited worker."

"Stop thanking me. You're my best friend. And I'll help, let me ask Peter if he knows about something somewhere."

She served the breakfast and placed the plate before you. Mayday announced her awakening with a mumble, her tiny hands rubbed her eyes to then look around sleepily, until her blue eyes met MJ.

You couldn't help but stare at the motherly displaying ritual.

Mayday's eyes lit up, shining brighter as MJ approached with a genuine smile that only matched her daughter's.

Your best friend enveloped her little girl in her arms, showering her in affection, earning her a couple of lovely squeals.

"Rested well, sweetheart?"

"Ma ma"

Those syllables alone made your heart leap as a myriad of emotions flooded your brain. The concept you had of it wasn't nothing alike what you were witnessing. There wasn't unnecessary yelling, cussing or physical abuse. All the opposite. A little rush of envy coursed through, but it faded quickly as it came.

It was odd, really. To behold such intimate moment of bonding between the both. It came so natural, full of love and everything you, sometimes at your age still were getting acquainted with. Patience, understanding and caring.

Mayday rested her head on MJ's shoulder and stared at you. Like seizing you for the first time ever, paying attention to your very moves, curious, scrutinizing your soul with her lovely and innocent eyes, leaving no room for disingenuous acts.

You gulped

"Hello" You waved coyly and your heart trembled with something unknown as she giggled your way, approving of your presence. She knew no evil nor judgement. Mayday didn't judge you. Just like her mother. She was pure joy.

"When's the shrink's appointment?"

MJ's voice snapped you out of your mutinied thoughts.

"Uh in a month or two." You mumbled while digging in your breakfast. It tasted like utter love and heaven after having nothing in your stomach for more than a day, and your stomach tolerated it well.

"Are you nervous?" MJ fed Mayday with the bottle, your mind subconsciously took notes of the way she held, fed and talked to her.

"Very. Not a fan of spilling my issues to strangers, even if it's their job."

"I know it might be difficult for you, considering the shitty attention you had before with them. But if the doctor says so, you must do it."

"I know." Your lips sighed, heavy with resignation to then purse into a tiny smile, " I just wanna move on, you know?"

"You will, I know so. You're strong, sweetie. Now eat up and drink your vitamins."

You chuckled, feeling her maternal instinct through the table.

"I think I'm already gaining weight."

MJ chortled as she wiped Mayday's cheek and lips, to then kiss the tip of her nose.

"Wait until you get your feet swollen, the hormone changes. Acne on your back, and the need to jump on-"

"Ok! ok, got it." Your cheeks flushed as the redhead just laughed now at your embarrassment.

"It won't be easy, but you'll get used to some stuff. You'll see."

-----

If there was something that Peter wouldn't openly admit, was the fact he disliked Miguel's sense of disposition of his time.

Sometimes his friend's hubristic demands had him juggling between his own time and his family.

Peter hated when Miguel simply let him know he was on his way. He didn't care if he was busy or was about to be, but also meant one thing. Stress was eating Miguel alive and he, as his best friend, was the only he could rely onto to take away such heavy burden.

With a sigh, Peter prepared mentally for the night. Specially to give his ever patient wife an explanation of a sudden visit. As if the universe made sure MJ and Miguel to never properly meet beyond pleasantries. If they had seen and meet eachother a couple of times was too many.

MJ was either out because of work, leaving him and Mayday alone, or the days and hours Miguel visited were when MJ was already asleep or too busy to sit and socialise with her husband's friends.

Peter has known Miguel for a couple of years by now, and still things didn't change.

He put a couple of beers to cool, then stirred the pasta. Miguel wasn't a picky eater, yet it made Peter stress over the food choice. But MJ wanted pasta and he was none to ignore his wife's whims over his friend's.

How long has it been since he saw Miguel? Months? Half a year? He didn't remember, but hoped that he wouldn't stay too long. Work had chewed, ate and spat him on the floor way too many times to count today.

His shoulders slumped, defeated before hia daughter's sweetness when Mayday gave him a toothy grin, he returned the smile, although tiredly.

"Let's get you some dinner."

He held his daughter in one arm, as he served a bit of noodles in her favorite spider-ham bowl and somw juice in her sippy cup. Peter put her in her chair and placed the food before her just in time as the doorbell rang.

"It's not that I don't like him, you know? I'm just tired today." Peter mumbled to himself and Mayday as he scratched his stubble and walked over the door.

May could only look at him, curious, bur the bright colors of her cup demanded her attention. To his little surprise, the man in question was there, scrolling through his phone in the meantime. Dressed in a casual button shirt, dark jeans and dress shoes, holding a small bag of sweets as a gift.

"Could you please start letting me know when you're coming over from now on? It's not that hard."

Peter's frustration wafted through his words as Miguel chuckled and followed him, the smell of cologne tickled the host's nose, almost a bit too pungent.

"Had to. Needed a distraction. Here"

He handed the paper bag to him, full of artisanal mexican sweets. At least this time, Miguel was thoughtful enough to bring something he knew Peter liked.

But it also meant one thing. A long night ahead.

With a sigh and defeated shoulders, Peter went to the kitchen, rummaging through the simple glassware to fetch a couple of glasses.

"I have... soda, apple juice, can't give you the beer until Mayday's asleep."

Miguel just quirked a brow and went for water. It was kinda bothersome for him how something so trivial as drinking a beer was a forbidden thing among parents whenever their children were around.

Overprotection and alienation from such things would only make them curious if anything. At least that's how it worked for Miguel. Still, it was Peter's home, and he had to play by the unspoken parenting rules his friend followed to a T.

How inconvenient

Miguel's eyes wandered through the table to land on Mayday. As a happy kid she was, the sauce was smeared all over her cheeks and chin, even her hands and forearms. Some noodles hung on her chin.

Even though his logical side appealed towards a scientific fact about babies discovering everything through their hands and mouth, the sole idea of having to deal with it on a daily basis and probably at every hour the kid would be awake and eating, made his eyes to tear away from the child and sigh, relieved he didn't have to cope with that sort of problem.

He had done his part, and against all logic, you had decided to keep the baby.

Pendeja. (Dumbass)

He huffed, annoyed to none but himself.

What would you do? It wasn't his problem anymore. He had more important things to think about than you and your stupid choices. His jaw clenched.

" You're gonna scare Mayday if you keep glaring like that."

Peter spoke as he cleaned up his daughter after feeding her with some bits of sausages. Miguel sighed as his arms untangled from his chest. A habit he subconsciously adopted as he was way too deep in negative thoughts. He gave his body some slack. He had came here in order to relax amd distract himself.

"Wanna tell me what happened or you wanna wait by having some pasta?"

In fact, now that Miguel was here he could take a good look at the scene before him. Peter had changed so much to the point of transforming himself into a completely different persona.

There was no more staying up past one am, lost in beers and talking about whatever thing alcohol made him spill out of his mouth. Reluctantly, good days. And now Peter was serving him some overcooked pasta that somehow tasted good. Even for him.

Hypocrite.

His mind reprimanded himself. He had wanted kids once but now seeing how it changed and rewired the brain chemistry and your fiasco, the thought of them had been shoved to the very back of his priorities. He had a career and money to make, not play house amd happy family with a stranger.

As much as Peter was his only true friend, he didn't want to look awful and perpetually tired because of a kid, like him.

With a sigh he dug on the food while staring at the both. The tangy smell of the sauce induced the little hunger he ate the pasta. A couple of minutes later passed when the key's tinkering echoed from the main door, revealing none other than MJ balancing a couple of paper bags in hands.

Miguel watched as Peter immediately rushed to her side and helped her out, while welcoming her with a kiss.

"Smells good!" MJ chirped and made her way towards the kitchen, Mayday's eyes lit up as soon as she saw her mama. A bubbly squeal received her when MJ ruffled her fiery curls and took her in her arms, rattling Miguel's ears.

"Hello there, precious" MJ kissed her cheek but then focused her gaze on Miguel. He tensed briefly to then give a polite smile.

"Hey."

MJ nodded and gave her respective hello back. Peter came into the dinning table with an awkward smile. He didn't need to explain the presence of his friend to his wife, as she quickly picked up the cue to get Mayday to sleep.

For some reason, the energy in the room was suffocating. As if Miguel was the black hole sucking the life and energy out of everything even without intending. Yet, Peter tried to shoo the negative aura that lurked around ominously by unpacking the groceries as he talked to MJ

"How was your day?"

"Good, a bit tiresome. But definitely better now than I'm home."

"Want extra cheese in your pasta? Oh! Miguel got us some candies."

MJ smiled politely at him, "Thanks for that. I loved the eh... Maz-uhpan?"

"Mazapán." he corrected gently.

"That thing. Peter, dear can you get the tub ready for May?"

It was Peter's cue to meet her in private.

"Excuse me." She took Mayday and Peter followed, leaving Miguel alone for a moment. Giving him a break from unwanted displays of family dynamics.

Once in the bathroom and away from prying eyes and ears, MJ cleared her throat

"Before you get angry, I didn't know he was coming until fourty five minutes ago."

MJ quirked a brow knowingly and huffed.

"I know. Still, the least he could do is to let us know he's coming over, Pete."

Peter nodded while rubbing his face, tiredly.

"I'm sorry, ok? Will make him go away soon. He's not having a good time right now."

MJ rolled her eyes while Peter added some soap to the water.

"Yeah, he only comes for a visit whenever he needs something out of you."

"MJ" Peter grunted the silent plea. 'Not now.'

She chuckled and kissed his cheek, "You know it's true. But, if it works for you, then ok. Just don't stay up past one. You snore too loud whenever you get little sleep."

"Relax, he probably just want to ramble, take a beer and leave."

"Alright, alright. He could tone his perfume a bit though. I can smell him from here. Go have fun."

-----

The beers clinked in the table, their taste numbed briefly Miguel's throat and tongue. It burned good as the sour liquid rolled down his esophagus, while Peter rambled on about the many pictures he showed him of Mayday.

Not that he didn't appreciate Peter's attempt to make him forget whatever problems were pestering his mind. But if honest, he grew tired after the sixth photo.

"You should have another."

That made Peter shut up and he chuckled.

"No no. With her is enough."

"You sound regretful."

Miguel mumbled as he finished his beer, Peter shook his head vehemently.

"At all. I know I look like shit, Mig. Still, would do it all over again. Like, look at this!" Peter got the screen close to his bored face with another picture and Miguel pushed it away softly.

"Yeah, she's a pretty girl. Got it."

"You don't get it. Once a kid shows up, everything changes."

You've got no idea...

His mind replied, as his body tensed once more.

"Have you talked about this with Dana?"

The name only made the urge to down the other beer in a go, but his mind almost slapped some sense into him and reminded him this wasn't his home.

MJ's steps alerted both men briefly as she came for her extra bowl of soggy pasta and wash Mayday's bottles.

"We broke up." He stated simply with a disdainful shrug

"What the fuck?

MJ turned to Peter, a brow quirked at his choice of words but focused again on the bottle.

"Miguel, you texted me, saying you were looking for wedding venues with Dana. And now you're single again?"

MJ's breath hitched.

Dana

Oh God

Dana D'Angelo.

Miguel's fiance. And the one that slapped you.

MJ had been so busy with work and her motherly duties that totally forgot about her husband's companion.

Miguel.

The man that only relied on her husband's company whenever life was too much for him. An acquaintance that she had only seen a couple of times and shared the same roof as her, although briefly in the few times Peter invited him over.

And also, the man that had gotten you pregnant, and had sent you to the hospital in a fit of rage. The very man that was causing you so much pain, had taken a place on her table, with her family and now was talking comfortably with her husband about his failed love, thanks to none other but himself.

Her heart wrenched and beat so fast in between powerful contractions that it made her breath shaky.

A monster was in her home. A terrible man had waltzed into her safe space and was tainting with his rottenness everything he touched, with his pungent and hubristic smell. His cologne and attitude only made her stomach churn.

"It didn't work out."

She turned to see him, unbelieving in her green eyes. So well behaved, ever polite and not an ounce of guiltiness in his judging stare. Entitled even, as if the world owed him just cause he existed. MJ understood now why it was so easy for you to fall into his trap, but the anger that clawed at her brain was greater than anything she had experienced before.

How dared he come into her home and play the victim when he had forsaken you and his child? How dared he disrupt the natural balance in her house with his mere presence?

"She was getting too annoying for me, anyways. Always behaving crazy." Miguel gestured with a terse movement of his hand before slicking his dark brown strands back.

Oh, how dared he. Those last words made her patience thread to stretch impossibly thin, that it broke.

"Well of course she'll act crazy! You fucking cheated on her!." MJ's hands balled tight at her sides, and glared daggers at Miguel.

Both men snapped to look in her way.

Miguel's eyes widened and Peter blinked almost stupidly at his wife and then at his friend that seemed like a deer caught in the headlights. Few little things in life managed to surprise Miguel, and MJ exposing his dirtiest secret to the only person he trusted outside Dana so carelessly and abruptly, had definitely caught him off guard.

"W-What?"

"He cheated on Dana, Peter."

Miguel swallowed thickly, a shaky breath turned into a steady one, anger coursing through his veins, his mahogany eyes narrowed.

Not them too...

He rubbed his face and hair again, trying to remain composed. If Dana had came for him and gave him no truce, MJ went straight to the jugular. Remorselessly for the kill.

How did she know?

A new wave of fury washed over him at the sudden implication his mind was brewing with, his hand clawed at his bouncing knee.

Did she know you?

What a sick, twisted and small world he lived in. Of course she did. Or else he wouldn't be here, trying to come up with a reply to his shocked friend. But he was cut short from everything, even thinking.

"You don't know shit." Miguel couldn't help but hiss, and his words were enough to throw Peter's patience out the window.

"That's my wife you're talking to, pal." Peter scowled, flabbergasted at Miguel's words as he stood with a warning finger waving at his... friend?, "Tone it the fuck down."

"She doesn't know what she's talking about, Pete!"

Miguel felt ridiculous, not only cause the now constant need of explaining himself, but the absurdity of the situation. He was holding his friend's arm, trying to get Peter to believe him, just like he did with Dana.

But Peter was focused into getting MJ calmed down as she kept cussing his way

"Of course I know, asshole!" She spat, "I know enough of you to say how much of a piece of shit you are!"

That definitely earned her a growl "Whatch your fucking tone"

"Or what?! You'll try and hurt me too like you did with (Name)?! My friend has been suffering nonstop because of your pathetic excuses of being a man!"

If the many years prior to marry MJ taught Peter something, was that if she used foul language meant she was beyond pissed, and rightfully so. She wasn't one for cursing, and things surely would end up terribly wrong.

"You cheated your fiancé, got my best friend pregnant and demanded her to get an abortion-"

"Wait... You... you did what?" Peter's eyes widened and hardened, Miguel was cornered as Peter faced him, still containing his wife.

"No, no. That's bullshit!" Miguel's hand gestured as the other anchored to his hip. His poor attempt of bravery did nothing but set the fire ablaze in its full glory, it all had caught him so off guard he barely could think of comebacks to fend for himself.

"God... You're such a fucking liar!" Peter held MJ back as she seethed, trying to get a hold of Miguel, "I was there at the clinic with her! Cause she tried to correct your fucking mess!"

"I tried to fix-"

"You don't get shit fixed by writing her a fucking check and tell her to get rid of your child! Man the fuck up already! She's so under so much pressure now-"

"Because she's so stupid and chose to fucking keep that thing!" roared Miguel. Tired of being cornered without his usual pretense of control. Shoulders heaving with shaky and wrathful breaths, realizing the mistake he just did.

Peter glowered at him. Not only had he dared to yell at his wife but had been lying to him this whole time. And Mayday was crying. The commotion had been too great that woke her up.

Another pillar in his life was crumbling around, shaking the little constants he still remained with, to their very core.

Peter seized with him a look he had never seen before in his apparently dumb face. Disgust. He was about to protest but Peter's question only brought him to a too bright and unwanted spotlight.

"Is that true?" The tinge in Parker's voice held nothing but utter disbelief, not accusing, but skeptical. As if realizing he was being fooled this whole time as well. Peter slapped Miguel's hands away as he tried to reach for him again.

Shit

His aloof act had spreaded way too fast that didn't give it time to properly root and settle on his inner's circle brains ro control later. Peter growled at the stretching and pregnant silence.

"I'm fucking talking to you." The hard push of his hand made him sway softly, "Is that true!?"

Miguel's eyes widened. Peter's bravado and anger was something he didn't know until now. If honest, Miguel thought of him a complete goof that did everything his wife told him to. A complete mandilón.

If MJ told him to bark, he would and even do a flip while at it. But this man before him was different. Confident, authoritative, honorable, pushing his patience to new limits and oh so disgusted at his actions. A true father and man, unlike him.

A reluctant daddy.

Miguel really had a hard time grasping the magnitude of his doings and how they affected others, cause his remorse was absent. Everything he should be feeling at this collective verbal berating was gone. He was more focused in the defensive than offensive, and he failed.

Upon Miguel's silence, Peter just stared at him and sighed. He wasn't worth it.

"You need to leave, Miguel."

Ash soured the aforementioned throat. A thick lump knotted tightly on Miguel's windpipe.

"What? You're believing every word that comes out of her just like that?"

The question itself was stupid, he knew much so. But Peter didn't budge, in fact, he didn't even look at him as MJ went to fetch her daughter.

"You gotta be kidding me, Parker"

"Am I fucking joking? No. Leave." He shimmied away from Miguel's grasping hands with a disgruntled growl

"Look, I know I fucked up, okay-"

"Damn right you did" Peter pushed him away once more

"Can you listen?! " Tanned fingers sunk on Peter's arms forcefully, preventing him from escaping further, but that only earned him a powerful shove that made him nearly fall. Unlike you, that barely moved him an inch .

"Not this time. I talk and you listen. My home, my rules. Don't like it, get the fuck off." Peter hissed, the day's misfortunes and stress had piled up in his brain and Miguel's actions did nothing but set it all on fire.

"You can't just come into my house unannounced, yell at my wife for calling you out and your bullshit and expect me to remain quiet." His hands moved frantically, "You can't go around acting stupid, being a shitty friend, hurting people and believing the world owes you shit, Miguel!"

Peter turned his back on him, breathing deeply, trying to control the rising anger, finally breaking contact. His shoulders slumped with defeat.

"I knew you were an asshole, but c'mon man... Your own child? Really?" His blue eyes felt like an iceberg caressing upon seizing him a over his shoulder.

"Y dale con la misma pendejada... I did what I thought was right, okay?!" Miguel protested, trying to appeal to that good side that definitely lacked right now.

Peter turned again and stepped in a few strides closer to him, fear lacked in his glare, instead a fiery and scorching fury burned within

"Manning up is the right thing." His calm seething only made Miguel gulp, "Owing your mistakes is the right thing to do!" Peter's voice raised an octave louder

"What kind of fucked up logic is to think you can choose to cheat but choose to not face the consequences?!" Peter jabbed with force his index finger at the treacherous man's chest before him as he hissed every word.

"Funny thing is that you always saw me as a clown. Always bragged on how perfect your life was and thought of me a man child." Each word that came out from Peter was like a stone hitting Miguel,

"And look at you now, acting exactly like that!. How ironic that the roles reversed now." Peter's voice trailed off.

Miguel rolled his eyes so hard it hurted "No me jodas, Parker. Don't fuck with me with your shitty morals You didn't want children either, remember?!."

Disappointment and repugnance plastered all over Peter's face as he shook his head.

"People can do something called change, Miguel. Call me whatever you want, but at least I can say I am a man, cause I owe my mistakes. I don't go around screwing people over and then leave them to fend for themselves."

Peter went to the main door and opened it, with nothing else worthy to spill at Miguel, "Get out."

"You're an hypocrite. When you didn't want kids, everything is alright, but when I do I'm a fucking monster?"

He wasn't welcomed comed anymore. And this only added a couple of more weights in his already heavy bag of burdens, igniting his arrogance even further.

"Are you seriously playing the victim right now?" Peter huffed, "Grow a pair, Miguel. You need them. Get out."

Peter was done, all the energy that had been left was sucked out of him and the stranger before his presence was his biggest leech, he awaited for Miguel to leave, which made the exposed man's chest tighten uncomfortably. The friendship had crumbled. There wasn't anything left for him to salvage anyway.

"Fine." He took his jacket with a forceful grab, "Have it your way then." He spat and left the house with a slam that shook the doorframe.

Your eyes raked over the cream colored walls, as your back nested comfortably against the stretcher. Silence reigned with such deliciousness it soothed your underlying nerves.

A month and a half had gone by ever since yiu had that unwilling visit to the hospital, hitting the sixteen weeks of pregnancy. Your meds worked relatively good, and so did the vitamins to the point of getting a bit more strength and color in you.

But today was different. Everything felt different ever since you woke up. The sheets felt divine, the mattress had the right amount of hardness to help with the lumbar area.

The water in the shower felt heavenly on your skin, it was as if the universe was preparing you for a surprise after so many tough times.

Whatever it had planned, you hoped it was good, or at least, digestible enough to not choke you with it.

The doctor, Mrs. Vincent, typed some information in her computer, then stood to whir the machine alive.

"Lift your shirt up, please." Once you did, she smeared a dollop of blue gel on your naked belly, something you barely had the chance to admire, too busy trying to adapt to the emerging changes in your body.

Some clothes had stopped fitting and if they did, they were a chip too tight. The baby bump wasn't enormous like you had thought, but it wasn't small either, after all, Miguel was a big man. It had enough curvature to make your belly poke out from any clothes you had.

I feel like a walking avocado...

MJ was sitting next to you. Although you felt guilty because of the scene Miguel created at her home, she was more than happy to put him in his place, and so her husband. Peter.

Bless him.

You haven't properly known the man but that action alone of standing up for you against his friend of years, made you a bit hopeful.

You weren't looking for a partner, much less a father to the creature growing within, the least you wanted to do was to complicate yourself even more and add another thing in the already long lists of stress you went by.

But in truth, you wished to be there to see his downfall. Not that you were spiteful, but karma surely was a beautiful thing to watch. And the thought of him being this scared and uncomfortable man, the opposite of what you had seen and experienced, made your lips curve into a satisfied smile.

Life had heard your pleas and you were thankful.

Your breath hitched as soon as the machine's accessory made contact with your skin. Cool plastic, like the cold gel all over your skin.

"Let's see", Dr. Vincent mumbled as she adjusted her glasses in her nose bridge. The white light illuminated well the, place, her faint smell of vanilla perfume tickled your nose, it wasn't an offensive perfume, but it made you a little queasy.

It definitely shut down the medicinal smell you had been received with.

Dr. Vincent's gloved hands took the transducer and gently moved it around your belly.

"Does it feels cold?"

You nodded with a nervous smile, "A bit, yeah."

Mayday's giggles echoed behind you, MJ shushed her with some gentle words and her breath hitched when she looked at the screen.

The redhead looked like was experiencing so many things for the first time again, yet she held your hand with excitement thrumming in her skin.

"Look at that, Mama"

The word still made you uncomfortable, but the way the doctor had spilled it felt oddly soothing. The baby was there, etched forever to your womb, growing within your guts each passing day, squirming like a little worm, making it's presence known with a kick.

MJ could only watch as you chuckled. Your features softened the more you stared at the screen. But then your eyes widened at seeing the baby's 3D image.

Resting against one of your womb, comfortably, squeezing it's little hands over and over.

And if honest, curiosity had gotten a vice like grip on you. The way the baby moved and nested within you was equally disturbing and beautiful.

The transducer moved all over as Dr. Vincent looked up the right angle. Breath grew short and caught in your throat at the doctors next words.

"There she is"

MJ gasped, excited and your eyes turned bleary.

A girl. You were having a girl.

"Congrats, Mama." The doctor printed the pictures.

The little bean inside was a girl. There was no longer an it, no longer the creature, or the baby.

Despite the though times you've endured, she was healthy. Perfectly developing, a bit underweight, but healthy.

A myriad of things crossed your mind, panic, admiration, fear and so much confusion. They all swirled inside your jumbled head, fighting over the control of your emotions.

MJ squeezed your hand as soon as she noticed the red-ish hue blooming in your nose and the glossy eyes.

A little sniff was stifled. The doctor smiled at your apparent emotional reaction.

"It's ok to cry. I've gotten too many boys in the week, seeing a girl a was a change of pace. Thank you for that, hun." Dr. Vincent spoke with a sweet voice.

You couldn't help but sob silently. Digesting every second of what had just happened. The nauseas had subsided momentarily, as if sensing you needed your strength for something else.

It didn't help your hormones that Mayday took a hold of your finger, big blue eyes staring at you with pure child like wonder as if demanding your attention. Your lips quivered, and when she cooed your way, you broke.

It's alright.

She'd surely say. MJ held you close, rubbing your back in soothing circles, letting you absorb the news at your own pace.

"You ok?"

You nodded, holding onto her tightly.

"It's a girl, MJ"

Your best friend smiled sympathetically your way, "Indeed. And she's healthy. You've done a fantastic job in keeping her that way, sweetie. I'm proud of you."

Her words did nothing but make you cry harder.

"I'm so scared, MJ"

"I know. But it's alright. I'm here and Mayday too, remember?"

You chuckled in between tears and sighed, while wiping your tears.

"I'm so scared cause... I don't wanna repeat things all over with her."

"Then let's make them differently, ok? I'm here. You're not alone."

You hugged her once more.

"Let's celebrate, yeah?"

"I... I don't know if I should even do that, all things considered."

MJ chided your name gently.

"You deserve it. You've faced so much already, this little girl right here" She placed her hand in your belly, "has stayed healthy and perfect because of you. You've done so much. So let's celebrate that, ok?"

Even if you thought yourself undeserving of such thing, you nodded and followed her.

You wouldn't admit it, but a deep deep part of you bloomed with a little seed of curiosity and excitement.

-----

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#t writes✨#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #Of Flowers and Hummingbirds #miguel ohara fanfiction #miguel ohara angst

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mizading · 9 months

Text

UPPER MOON YANDERE HEADCANONS~ PT.2

Characters: Muzan, Gyutaro, Sekido, Urogi, Karaku, Gyokko, Kaigaku.

A/N: I would like to thank Yoshinohirmet for the request! I thoroughly enjoyed adding to my Yandere Upper Moon series. As for my readers, thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of the love. Take care of yourselves and enjoy <3

Warnings : Verbal abuse, Physical abuse, violence, obsession, Yandere themes, etc.

Muzan ・❥・

Muzan, a man with a twisted secret.

You’re the one chosen to take on the role of the demon's wife.

Muzan's obsession won’t be known.

As far as you know, you’re only here to maintain his facade of a perfect family.

Your only job is to help him live a "normal" life and keep his true identity hidden.

Deep down, a twisted spiral of obsession consumes Muzan slowly but entirely.

Although you serve a purpose that benefits Muzan, it’s merely an appropriate excuse for Muzan to get close to you.

Something about you is as intoxicating as his desire for the blue spider lily.

He himself can’t explain his unhealthy attraction to you.

Each day, he loses more and more control over this dark passion that burns inside.

Muzan needs you entirely. He’ll tell you lies until his last breath, just to keep you dependent.

You need him; you’re merely nothing without Muzan. You serve no purpose other than being his.

Muzan prefers to silently watch and stalk.

Seeing you exist and your movements, untainted by the presence of another, satisfies his desire ever so slightly.

Muzan just loves the way you exist naturally when nobody is around. Everything about you is fascinating. The way your eyebrows furrow while reading, the way you bite your lip when focusing, how your right eye is a bit wider when you smile—he loves it all.

In your eyes, you disgust Muzan. You serve no purpose other than being his "wife". He barely speaks to you, let alone acknowledges your presence.

At least, that is what you believe.

Muzan will slip one day. He can’t keep pretending that his body doesn’t yearn for you. He’s slowly losing control.

Muzan's spiral of hidden obsession will eventually engulf you both.

Gyutaro ・❥・

You’re the only thing that Gyutaro has—the only possession of his that is worth anything.

If Gyutaro doesn’t have you, he has less than nothing.

Nights would be spent with him obsessively touching and admiring you.

Over-the-top praise would be whispered in your ear as his fingers shakily traced your supple skin.

Gyutaro has a meal schedule set in place for you.

He desperately needs to see you in the best condition possible; he knows more than anyone what it’s like to almost die from starvation.

Gyutaro treats you as a trophy to show off, his little pretty lover.

Although he doesn’t take well to other men or women staring at or touching you.

One gaze that lasts too long from another sends Gyutaro into a blinding rage.

Gyutaro has a lingering fear that you'll see someone who meets your unattainable level.

He won’t ever have the only thing that he has in his pathetic life taken from him.

Gyutaro secretly craves your acceptance—just a small reassurance that he isn’t the scum of the earth.

Deep down, he fantasizes about being attractive and finally being able to proudly call himself your lover without utter shame and embarrassment.

Gyutaros strength is the only thing he has an ounce of confidence in.

He may never be able to compare to something as small as your hand when it comes to looks, but he can protect you proudly.

Gyutaro will gladly give up his life for you over and over again.

Sekido ・❥・

Not a soul was safe from Sekido’s wrath, but you were somehow the exception?

You were on a mission with other demon-slayers when you first met him.

Your existence hypnotized Sekido; every movement of yours made his own existence worthless to him.

All that mattered in the moment was you.

Your comrades were killed in no time; as for you? He didn’t lay a single hand on you.

All attempts to hurt Sekido were futile.

Sekido doesn’t want to take you by force, but he will if he has to.

Sekido would take you into hiding. For now, he wants you to himself with nobody to interfere.

Months would be spent with him in the forest.

Days consist of him admiring you, trying to figure out what's so special about you.

Why do you make him feel this way?

Sekido wouldn’t force physical contact until his emotions were too much to bear; he'd hold out for as long as possible.

Once he actually gets his hands on you, it’s hard for him to control himself.

Sekido isn’t exactly gentle with you; he has too much pent-up anger, but he tries.

Disobeying in any form earns you verbal abuse or physical restraint.

Don’t test Sekido; he can’t always control himself.

Urogi ・❥・

You make excitement run its course through Urogi’s body.

Such a beautiful specimen you were through his eyes.

Urogis feathers can’t help but ruffle at the thought of you belonging to him.

His sizable wings would wrap around you tightly, preventing you from leaving as he dragged you to a new location.

Somewhere, the two of you could stay together for as long as you both live.

Seeing the fear in your eyes, hearing your screams, and watching your hopeless attempts to escape makes his fire of excitement burn brighter.

Urogi knows that such a smart and beautiful person as you would soon understand that he is what's best for you.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, could ever come close to his love.

Attempt to escape, and you’re wrapped in his soft but chilling wings again.

"Can’t you see how good I am for you? Keep up this bad behavior; you’re making things much more exciting."

Urogi wouldn’t use any of his abilities on you; he doesn’t need to.

His physical strength alone is enough to keep you his. It’s much more entertaining this way.

The way Urogi scans your body using his blinding yellow eyes with a soft but chilling smile on his face makes you weak in the knees.

He’s expresses nothing but joy and excitement, no matter what you attempt to do.

There is something awfully off about Urogi; he knows this, and you know this.

Karaku ・❥・

Karakus's obsessiveness is only natural; it goes hand in hand with pleasure.

There have been many that Karaku has been fond of, but nobody could dare touch your level.

The way your little face scrunches up with determination while you swing useless slashes at him drives Karaku crazy.

Your hopelessness is so precious to him.

Karaku pays an awful amount of attention to your body; the way you maneuver fascinates him.

Karaku thoroughly enjoys touching you unexpectedly; he simply does it to see the way your body reacts.

You’re basically Karaku's doll, his new porcelain doll wrapped in plastic.

He’ll do anything in his power to make you completely dependent on him and him alone.

Karaku breaking and molding you into his little dependent doll is only a cover-up for how much he needs you.

If you need him, he won’t ever have to worry about the one thing he needs most escaping from his grasp.

It takes much effort to make Karaku the slightest bit unhappy.

Throw a tantrum? He thinks it's cute.

Hurt him? He enjoys pinning you down, Karaku will put up with all of your antics.

The only thing that can manage to set off Karaku is trying to escape.

Attempting to escape his grasp drives him mad; why would you ever try to leave him?

Karaku will hunt you down until the second he takes his last breath.

Gyokko ・❥・

You were the first thing to make Gyokko pause in awe, besides his own vases.

A mere human with beauty that puts one of his vases to shame? Gyokko couldn’t wrap his mind around the phenomenon.

Gyokko spent a couple of weeks stalking you from the shadows.

He needed to capture your beauty somewhere, and that somewhere was on a vase.

Gyokko spends hours studying your features, painting out every little detail of your existence on an empty vase.

Your essence needed to be captured permanently.

Gyokko wants nothing more than to show you his work—just something, anything that’ll impress you.

All he wants is your validation—to make you pause in awe just as much as he did when he first laid eyes on you.

Deep down, Gyokko knows better; he shouldn’t dare show himself.

He has just enough sense left to acknowledge his form, half of his body encapsulated in a vase, and a terrifying face as a cherry on top.

Gyokko only has enough confidence to watch you silently from the depths of the night.

By now, there are at least fifty vases, all in your name.

Gyokko quenches his heart's desire for you by admiring you on his vases; it’s almost as if you’re really there.

Somehow, someday Gyokko will have you posing right before his eyes as he paints every inch of you.

Kaigaku ・❥・

On the outside, Kaigaku is seen as an arrogant narcissist.

What lies inside is someone insecure, who craves your acceptance more than anything.

Kaigaku ingrained your low worth compared to him into your head.

This is the only way he knows how to keep you by his side for as long as you live.

If you continue to stray, Kaigaku will resort to physical violence.

He knows no better; this is the only way in his clouded mind.

There are moments where Kaigaku gets slightly vulnerable.

This typically only happens after a battle.

Kaigaku will spend hours on end begging for your acceptance.

The demon only wants to hear that he still has a purpose, even if it's minor.

His vulnerability is hidden once more the next day.

Kaigaku will return to his verbally abusive ways, denying anything that happened the night before.

Kaigaku's only worry is that you'll see through his facade.

He can’t bear the thought of you seeing him for who he truly is.

Until that day comes, Kaigaku will force you to be by his side.

With him, you are nothing more than his puppet.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #muzan kibutsuji #writing #anime #demon slayer x reader #12 kizuki #sekido #urogi #karaku #gyutaro #gyokko #kaigaku #yandere demon slayer #yandere demon x reader #upper moons #muzan x reader

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on-my-vigilante-sht · 1 year

Text

Capitol Punishment I

Haymitch x Reader

Summary: The Capitol continues to torture it’s victors no matter how long ago they won through punishment, exploitation, and worst of all; their relationships.

A story in which Haymitch’s lover is a plaything for the Capitol.

Warnings: Canon level violence, rape (though never explicit), alcohol, murder, systemic poverty, exploitation, rebellion (?), more reliance on movie than book

Word Count: 3.6k

Prologue II | Masterlist | Part II

You removed your arms from the boy from District 1’s shoulders and chest, allowing him to fall to the ground, his neck bleeding. You hear a cannon fire and the head game maker who you hadn’t bothered to learn the name of come over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the 67th Hunger Games, Y/N L/N!”

You don’t remember much after you were announced the winner. Just flashes of a peacekeeper meeting you in the arena, guiding you onto the ship. You remember sitting in the same seat they brought you to the arena in, District 1’s body laying maybe 10 feet from away. They hadn’t even bothered to give either of you the dignity of respectfully handling his body.

Your memory still consisted of brief flashes until Haymitch. You were laying on the table, medics flitting around you treating cuts, bruises, and a broken rib you had suffered at the hands of District 2’s male tribute. But when Haymitch burst in, you were leaping from the table, pushing away the medics who tried to restrain you, and throwing yourself into your mentor’s arms. You immediately began to sob when you reached him, breaking down in his arms. You truly had no one left but him.

“You’re safe, you’re safe,” he shushed, stroking your still tangled hair. “You’re going to be okay. It’s over.” You now realized those were merely empty comforts he uttered to try to calm you down. You would never feel safe or okay, the Capitol’s games never stopped.

Haymitch eventually convinced you to allow the Capitol people to do what they needed to do but he never left the room. When you were finally alone, you spoke about the games.

“I had no idea you had it in you,” he whispered. “You shocked everyone when you started killing careers close range. Even I didn’t do that.” You only shrugged, not saying anything. Even thought they were the supposed big, bad careers who had trained their whole lives for the arena, they were still just kids that you had killed. Recognizing how you felt, Haymitch spoke. “I know it’s not easy to kill someone, especially living with it but you have no idea how happy I am you’re alive,” he admitted. His baby blue eyes pleading with yours. “It was terrifying watching you in there.”

You weren’t sure what to say, all you knew is that the only person in the world you valued seemed to value you too. Still unable to verbalize your feelings you chose to show him. Scooting over in the surprisingly large hospital bed, Haymitch took the hint and stood from the chair he had pulled up, climbing into bed with you. He wrapped his arms around you as you clung to him like a scared animal. His chin rested on top of your head and he stroked your now smooth hair as he had before. “You’re going to learn some terrible things about being a victor and the thought of you having to learn them breaks my heart. But you have to learn them. The first one is that I care about you and that’s dangerous so don’t piss off Snow.”

Your heart fluttered at his blatant admission of his feelings for you. But you wanted to sob at the thought of how hellish your life will be if you can’t do something as simple as care about someone. “I care about you too,” you mumbled into his chest, still craving any form of gentle intimacy compared to the brutish Capitol.

You were interrupted a couple moments later by your stylist, Vodka. You had once found it hilarious that her parents named her after an alcohol that was mostly drank before Panem. “Ah my Victor!” she cheered, completely disregarding the man in your bed. “We have to get you ready for your ceremony! I’m so excited you finally get to use a Victor design. Everyone told me don’t bother making any Victor dresses until you’ve moved up a couple districts but look at you proving them wrong,” she cheered. You wanted to roll your eyes at her cheer and the fact that she didn’t even recognize the torture you went through. “Now, you,” she pointed at Haymitch as the rest of the stylist team came in, “out.”

“No,” you snapped. “He stays.”

Vodka huffed but didn’t say anything else, just gestured for him to move out of the way which he did. The team got to work on you, waxing and tweezing everything below your neck. They then applied your makeup until you were put in a sheer dress with strategically placed lace, leaving very little to the imagination. Once you realized what they were putting on you, you sent a frantic look to your mentor. “Woah what are you doing?” he demanded, gesturing to your dress. “Victor’s outfits don’t look like that,” he said. While tributes frequently appeared in the pageants in sheer clothing or even nude, Victors were usually crowned in suits and non-see through ball gowns.

“Snow said her sponsors that you,” Vodka said, giving a pointed stare to Haymitch, “secured want to see her. And see her they shall,” she declared, proudly looking at your dress.

You looked at Haymitch, terror likely splashed across your face. ‘What are these sponsors going to do to me?’

Your question was answered after your crowning ceremony. After the cameras were turned off and the citizens of the Capitol had gone home, you were brought to Snow’s office. The office was cold and isolating, making you want to run back to District 12 forever. “Congratulations Y/N,” he greeted with a simultaneously kind and sinister smile. “Your sponsors were very pleased with your performance. They are eager to… see more of you,” he said, eyes raking down your practically nude body.

Your blood ran cold. You had heard of this happening to the beautiful victors of the career districts, but why were you, a random girl from 12 who had nearly descended into savagery, been picked? “What?” was all you managed to get out.

Snow only smiled coyly, and you heard the doors open behind you. In walked an older man, maybe 50, with silver hair and an eccentric suit. You wouldn’t call him handsome or ugly, merely average and unremarkable. “Mr. Phillips here has paid a lot for your virginity.”

Your eyes widened at Snow’s comment. “What?!” you demanded as two peacekeepers grabbed your arms. “How do you-”

“There’s old, largely useless footage from District 12 that let us track your every move since you reached adolescence,” Snow simply explained, not caring that he was selling an 18 year old into sex-slavery. You had no time to respond as the peacekeepers dragged you away, Mr. Phillips following with an eager look on his face.

Haymitch wearily entered President Snow’s office. “Hello, Mr. Abernathy,” he greeted like a supervillain.

“President Snow,” Haymitch greeted, gritting his teeth. He wanted to strangle this man with his bare hands for everything he had done to him simply because of the way he won his games.

“I understand you’ve become close with our victor,” Snow said.

“I don’t-” Haymitch began to lie, ready to protect you. But he was quickly cut off by holographic video of himself in bed with you from earlier that day.

“I’m sure you don’t have to remind you about your family’s deaths,” Snow said in a domineering tone. Haymitch clenched his jaw at the president’s words. “This is Y/N now,” Snow continued, the image changed to a live feed of Y/N with a man on top of her, doing unspeakable things to her. Haymitch saw red as he observed the tears running down her face, the man’s hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her whimpers of pain. “And believe me, if you so much as step a toe out of line, her clients will become much worse.”

“What do you want? Me to stop seeing her? I’ll do it, I’ll go back to the alcoholic who only comes here for the booze and desserts,” Haymitch said. Inside he was begging for any way to stop Y/N’s torture. And while he knew it’d hurt her for him to completely turn his back on her, he had to do it if it meant sparing her from this fate.

“I couldn’t care less about you,” Snow dismissed. “Like you said you’re the drunk no one takes seriously. I don’t care if you have a relationship with her, her fate is sealed whether you break her heart or not. The question is do you care enough about her to spare her from her life getting worse? So by all means, fall in love, have a relationship with her. You, after all, are the only one I’ll allow to protect her.” Haymitch was seething at the audacity of this guy for trading the two victors’ pain for the other. “That’ll be all, I’ll be monitoring the both of you for your decision,” Snow smiled before the peacekeepers led Haymitch out.

You had finally been released by that man after god knows how long. It was like being removed from the arena again. You just remember flashes of a peacekeeper leading you into a car and being led into the tributes’ building. In the lobby sat Haymitch and once again, just like after the games, you threw myself into his arms, sobbing. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

He tried to lead you upstairs but you were immobilized by your grief for your former life and any chance you had at happiness. So he settled on scooping you up bridal style and bringing you up to your room. He sat down on the bed as you nuzzled your face into his neck, sobbing. “I saw, and I’ll kill him, and Snow, for doing this to you,” Haymitch whispered.

“Why me?” you cried. “Why won’t they just let me go?”

“Because you’re beautiful,” Haymitch blurted without thinking.

Both froze, realizing what Haymitch said. Y/N pulled away from his neck. “You think I’m beautiful?” she asked, tears in her eyes.

Haymitch’s blue eyes locked on hers. “Of course you do,” he admitted. “So does everyone else here and in 12.” You felt your heart flutter, no one had ever bothered to call you beautiful before. The boys in school had simply called you hot while Mr. Phillips had moaned that you were sexy. So you pressed your lips to Haymitch’s, tasting the every present alcohol on his lips.

Haymitch responded to the kiss, allowing your lips to mold to his. Inside he was ecstatic and relieved that you had been the one to make the first move.

When they pulled away their gazes were locked on each other until Haymitch spoke. “I promise I will protect you as best you can.”

“I will too,” you promised, kissing him once again.

Once they returned to 12 you were brought to your house in Victor’s Village. It was a beautiful house, much more luxurious than any place you had seen before the games. But it also felt hallow and empty. You felt completely isolated even though Haymitch was right next door.

After being watched and surrounded for god knows how long you wanted to sleep in “your” house alone the first night. You fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow but you were met with the most terrifying moments in both the Capitol and the arena. You were surrounded by dead tributes, blood covering you, bringing you to the realization that you killed them. Snow stepped over their bodies, dragging you towards a group of Capitol men who you knew wanted to do unspeakable things to you.

You were suddenly jolted from your nightmare by Haymitch who you found shaking you, screaming that it wasn’t real. “Hay-Haymitch?” you stuttered. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard you screaming,” he admitted.

You immediately felt mortified, blood rushing to your cheeks realizing you disturbed the peace. “Oh- I’m sorry for waking you, you didn’t-”

“No, it’s okay. I wasn’t asleep anyways,” he soothed.

“Can you stay with me?” you asked, not wanting to be alone in the dark.

You were surprised to find that he looked relieved at your request. “Whatever you want,” he agreed. He climbed into bed with you, wrapping an arm around you, gently pulling you down to lay on his chest. “Have you visited friends yet?” he asked, his chin once again on top of your head as he stroked your hair.

“No, I didn’t really have friends after my dad died,” you mumbled, feeling empty. “Mom died in childbirth, he died in a mine explosion.”

You felt Haymitch sigh. “I’m sorry you’ve known more loss in your life than anyone should.”

You shrugged. “It’s okay, it’s all I know.”

“The good news now is that you can buy anything you want,” he tried to console. You both knew it was a meager consolation prize for the trauma. “You’ll never have to know cold or hunger again.”

You didn’t want to feel hollow or scared anymore so you allowed yourself to divulge in the fantasy Haymitch was trying to create for you. “I’ll buy every cake in the bakery,” you mused. “When I had to buy bread, as I was waiting for it I used to stare at the cakes. I was so jealous of the bakers, the mayor, and the peacekeepers since they were the only ones who could afford it. And you I guess.”

Haymitch chucked at that. “I do like cake,” he agreed.

You eventually fell asleep, the nightmares were far less scary but still there. But rather than being woken up by your screams, you were woken up by birds singing outside your window. Rather, Haymitch was woken up by the birds while you were woken up by peppered kisses on your hairline.

Over the next two weeks Haymitch and you became closer. You had both been alone for so long that it was a breath of fresh air to have real human intimacy. You still couldn’t sleep alone so you spent most nights in either your or Haymitch’s bed.

We spent our mornings together until Haymitch would go to the The Hob to get alcohol. you had tried to get him to try getting sober or at least drink less but you could see he seemed truly terrified of having to deal with the demons that lurked just past his drunken haze so you let it go. He never wantedyou to be seen at the Hob, saying that it was dangerous foryou now. So you stayed at home, tidying up a bit when you heard the door open. “I’m in the kitchen,” you called to Haymitch, already getting out a glass for him.

you heard footsteps coming towards you, now realizing that there were too many and they were too heavy to be Haymitch’s. you turned, greeted by several peacekeepers with their leader standing in front, helmet off. you didn’t recognize the one with his helmet off and their uniforms were all too pristinely white to be from District 12. you took a step backed, fearing what these men would do or say to me. “Ms. L/N, we need you to come with us,” he ordered in a commanding voice.

“Why?” you asked, your voice shaking.

“You’ve been requested by some Capitol citizens,” he explained, his voice gaining an angry edge. “You’ll be brought to the Capitol and returned here once you’ve fulfilled your duties.”

“No,” you uttered in terror, tears coming to your eyes. “No, please I can’t go.”

“President Snow’s orders, Miss,” the peacekeeper dismissed as two of them grabbed you.

“No! Haymitch!” you began to shriek in terror but your screams were quickly cut off with a hand clamping over your mouth and a needle in your neck.

“This’ll just calm you down,” the man explained. “And no one can hear you,” he taunted.

you began to sob as you lost consciousness, slumping against the peacekeepers carrying you out of your home.

When Haymitch returned to Y/N’s house he knew immediately something was wrong. All the footprints on the ground indicated that. He ran into the house, throwing open the door. “Y/N!” he called, searching through the house. When he got to the kitchen he saw a knocked over chair and a shattered glass. Haymitch felt his heart drop, realizing the Capitol got her.

He continued to run around frantically, praying he was wrong and maybe she just had an accident. When he made it to his house, hoping that she went over there for whatever reason, he was greeted by two peacekeepers in the living room. “Where the fuck is she?” he seethed.

The peacekeepers gave no indication that they had heard him except for one stepping up to him, handing Haymitch an envelope before wordlessly leaving, the other one following him out.

The envelope had a Capitol seal, igniting rage and guilt in his chest. He promised Y/N he’d protect her and he failed. Tearing open the note, he read.

Haymitch,

Y/N L/N’s services have been requested in the Capitol. Pending citizens’ satisfaction she will be returned to you in three days. I suggest you take that time to indulge your addiction, it will keep her safe.

President Snow

Haymitch crumpled up the paper angrily. Why did Snow insist on punishing him for his games even 15 years after? He wished he’d died in that arena. Wished he’d never become close with Y/N so she couldn’t be used against him. At that thought he felt incredibly guilty.

Not knowing what else to do and needing an outlet for his rage and fear, he picked up one of the many empty liquor bottles around his home and threw it. It exploded against the wall, raining shards everywhere.

Haymitch continued, drinking and throwing things until he fell to the ground, drunk and exhausted.

When you were able to return home after almost three whole days of being used, they simply left you shaking at Haymitch’s door like an orphaned child. Fortunately you had the sense, through your traumatized haze, to push the doorbell. “Oh my god, Y/N!” Haymitch exclaimed when he opened the door. He had to practically drag you inside but as soon as he did he realized his home wasn’t in a state you could be in.

So with you still in a borderline catatonic state, he scooped you up and brought you next door to your house. He placed you on the sofa before going to light a fire in the fireplace. Once he was done he took in your appearance. Makeup the stylist had no doubt put on you was smudged, he could see lingerie from underneath your sheer “robe” both of which were torn and barely staying on. He could also see bruises and hickies littered your body.

“Oh Y/N…” he began with an empathetic tone, stroking your hair. “I’m so sorry.” Haymitch genuinely felt guilty for not being there for you.

You didn’t say anything for a minute, simply staring down at the floor. “There were so many,” you suddenly said. “They locked me in a dark room and just brought them in one by one. I didn’t think it would ever stop.” Haymitch was once again seeing red but he made no indication of it, not wanting to spook you. He was sure you had seen more than your fair share of violent, angry men in the past couple days. “I met Finnick,” you suddenly said as if you were telling a friend about a vacation you took. “He’s like me, he said that he gets paid in secrets and I can too if I hold my ground before they… y’know.”

Haymitch’s heart not only broke for you, it filled with anger. They made you so powerless and your life so miserable that now you were excited to be paid with gossip while Snow actually got paid and still sold you into sex-slavery.

As the years went on you settled in as best you could into your new life. Snow tried his best to terrorize you and Haymitch, sometimes you were literally ripped from Haymitch’s side and bed in the dead of night. It worked on Haymitch who was terrified to leave you alone, it only hardened you. You allowed yourself to become a sweet, demure, Panem loving Victor to the public but behind closed doors, you became a force to be reckoned with. The other former victors had known you as a ferocious tribute who had killed every career in your arena. But as you met them over the next couple years they realized what was happening to you. Why you’d disappear randomly, coming back with hickies and bruises. And when you weren’t off being sold, everyone knew you were Haymitch’s. He was always near you, an arm usually around your waist if you weren’t in front of Capitol people.

You had initially been eager to befriend other victors but as your torture continued and you watched your kids be slaughtered, you came to only trust Haymitch and Finnick who knew exactly what you were going through. The Capitol also made a show of parading you around, both you and Finnick often eclipsing the tributes.

Prologue II | Masterlist | Part II

#haymitch #haymitch x reader #haymitch abernathy #haymitch abernathy x reader #thg #the hunger games #the hunger games x reader #capitol punishment

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celluloidbroomcloset · 5 months

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I was thinking about monstrosity and how both Stede and Ed believe that they're monsters, in different ways.

Chauncey tells Stede that he's not a human being but a monster and a plague who destroys everything he touches, which catalyzes for Stede everything he's known since childhood. Ed's entire life from the time he kills his father to the present moment has been developing monstrosity as a safeguard while also internalizing the guilt of the murder.

The first time they meet, Stede (without meaning to) reminds Ed of his monstrosity by showing him the picture-book image of Blackbeard. Ed points out how ridiculous it is - he's aware, even then, that the Blackbeard image isn't true to him. Stede himself doesn't recognize Ed as Blackbeard at first because Ed is quite obviously not the image.

Stede's monstrosity is directly tied to his sexuality and how he expresses it - he’s not “masculine” enough. Ed's monstrosity is tied to his inability to escape from the masculine image he’s created to protect himself. Both are targeted by bullies who attempt to destroy the monster they see - Chauncey by rendering Stede a subhuman thing that should be stamped out, Izzy by threatening Ed back into his Blackbeard persona. Both are told they should be dead rather than what they are.

If Ed's monstrosity becomes increasingly externalized, Stede's perceived monstrosity is all internal - what Chauncey says about him congeals into a set of memories and sensations of being "wrong" and "different." It's particularly cruel because Stede himself loves beautiful things so much, and he now believes that he destroys those things simply by existing - and Ed, this man that he finds so beautiful and so lovable, is one of the things he's destroyed. Stede also doesn't think himself worthy of love because there is something wrong about him; he looks like a human being, but he isn't one.

Ed doesn’t know that some of Stede’s offer of friendship in the bathtub scene is a result of empathetic understanding - he knows what it is to be an isolated, frightened child despised by his own father. He knows what it is to harbor a secret and have it eat you from the inside out. He knows what it is to feel monstrous.

That scene with Chauncey is as important as Ed's scene with Izzy and vice versa. Stede is just coming to the realization that he's in love with Ed, and that that love is something he's allowed to feel and something that's reciprocated. He's still uncertain, he's still tentative, and he's still scared, but he's experiencing the spark of who he is. Chauncey shoves him back into the closet by telling him that the happiness he feels is wrong and destructive and he should be dead. I don't think it's a stretch to say that Stede hears that he's corrupted Ed by falling in love with him and by making Ed want him.

Then there is the scene between Ed and Izzy, when Ed has returned to the Revenge. I've seen some posts remarking on how the scenes leading up to this are the most vulnerable and the most openly queer Ed has been. (If anyone knows the posts I'm talking about, please let me know and I'll link them, because I cannot find them right now!) He's walking around in Stede's silk dressing gown, singing terrible but heartfelt songs, and crying in his blanket fort. He hasn't responded with violence; he even goes to Lucius to help him work through the pain he's feeling. Then Izzy confronts him, mocking him for being "a namby-pamby in a silk gown, pining for his boyfriend." Ed tries to defend himself, "I'm still Blackbeard," and Izzy shoves the monstrous image of Blackbeard into his face. Become like this again, he says, or "Edward better watch his step."

Ed cracks. All the feelings he had and didn't have the emotional or verbal language to express or process — never once does either he or Stede utter the word "love" in the beach scene. The closest he can come is "what makes Ed happy is you" — are not just wrong and unmasculine, but dangerous. Ed's sexuality is fine, but how he expresses it and the feelings attached to it are not. Men don't pine for their boyfriends. Men who do that are better off dead. So he kills Lucius, the closest representative of that kind of gentle, queer maleness that Stede brought out in Ed, and transforms himself into the external monster he's been constantly told he was.

Both Chauncey and Izzy present their violence as logical, rational thought - they've considered it and come to a conclusion. Ed and Stede, as they are, should not exist.

What’s tragic at the end of Season 1 is that Ed and Stede really are happy when they’re together. They both begin to discard the posturing of their personas and see the idiosyncrasies of the other as endearing and lovable. They play together and discover things about themselves they didn’t know existed. It's such a simple statement - they make each other happy. But that happiness can’t be allowed to exist in the world of Izzy and Chauncey, the repressed patriarchal world where men don't cry, don't feel, and definitely don't love each other. The big villain of OFMD isn't a single person but the violence of toxic masculinity and how it turns men into monsters.

#ofmd s2 #our flag means death #ofmd season 2 #ofmd meta #stede bonnet #ed teach #izzy hands #chauncey badminton #gif #tw: homophobia #this has definitely been remarked on before #but i had thoughts

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beneathashadytree · 9 months

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FAMILY - JOTARO KUJO X READER

Warnings : semi-nudity, first-time parents, this is set between SDC and DIU, reader is gender-neutral!

Genre : domestic fluff <3

Word count : 0.7K words

Additional notes : Been rewatching JJBA and yearning for a family with this man.

Tip jar if you’d like to buy me a Ko-Fi!

Masterlist

“She’s so small.”

Jotaro’s voice was just as small; quiet enough that they barely heard him through the thin walls separating the bathroom from their bedroom. After having washed up a little in the middle of the night (something they rather enjoyed, amidst all the fuss of waking up at ungodly hours to feed their daughter), they made their way back to their room.

The scene they walked in on was something that must’ve come straight out of their most personal dreams, one that a younger version of them would’ve been pining after every single day and blushing furiously as their imagination ran with them.

There was Jotaro, lying back in bed with his legs crossed as he always was—only this time, his shirt was pulled off and strewn to the side somewhere. Jolyne’s tiny body was nestled against his naked chest, her clean skin a little flushed and all endearing. Her entire fist was curled around just one of her father’s fingers, while his other hand cradling her head was carefully brushing through her dark tufts of hair.

It was that sight alone that sent their heart pounding in their chest and threatening to burst through their ribcage with sheer adoration. “You’re really keen on listening to the nurse’s advice for skin-to-skin contact, huh?”

His response wasn’t verbal; just a nod of his head and a mesmerized look on his face as he watched their daughter coo a little at the soothing motions he did. She seemed to be just as attached as he was, half-asleep and blinking up drowsily at him, while still leaning into his every touch in the way that endearingly clingy babies did.

“Jolyne likes it,” Jotaro simply said, his teal eyes softer than they’d ever seen as he regarded Jolyne with that same rare adoration that he bestowed upon the very few people he adored, undeniably so. He only tore his gaze away from her to look at them as they crawled into bed beside their spouse and daughter. “It’s late, and you’re tired. You should sleep.”

“So should you.” Their hand came to rest on the left side of his chest, palm settling against the warm skin and feeling every reassuring thump of his heart beating. A soft caress only helped his heart to pick up the pace, and a small, almost-imperceptible blush to rise up the tips of his ears. “You’ve been getting up almost every single night, and even feeding her on the days I’m too exhausted. You need rest too, darling.”

Jotaro stilled for a few moments, before turning his attention back to little Jolyne, who seemed to be close to slipping back into her dreamless slumber. He didn’t utter a word for a bit; long enough for them to start doubting he’d say anything at all.

Until, that is, he broke the silence with six little words, softly spoken with all the yearning in the world, and with his eyes looking so tenderly at her; like he was cradling the entire world in his hands, despite being calloused hands that had—for a heart-achingly long time—only ever been used for violence and bloodshed.

“I don’t want to miss anything.”

It dug deep into their heart and nestled there, right with all of the millions of reasons they’d already had and learnt as to why they love him so wholly; that keenness of his that branded him as someone so fiercely devoted to the few he let inside his impossibly high walls. And it was a privilege that they wanted to cherish forever.

“You won’t miss out on anything if you just let yourself relax.” They leaned in to press a soft kiss to his slightly-stubbled cheek. “We’ll still be here in the morning, I promise you. We’re not going anywhere.”

All they got was a grunt to show that he was listening, and nothing more. Jotaro remained fixated on the sight of Jolyne’s chubby cheeks smooshed against his skin, and rosy with the happiness of a good feed.

But they could see how their words seemed to settle into his mind, as the tension unwound between his shoulders, and his body sunk deeper into the pillows he’d nestled against. The small furrow between his thick eyebrows had slowly melted away, and the ever-so-gentle quirk of his lips into a half-smile brought their heart to a near-stop.

He huffed out what sounded like a quiet chuckle. “I’ll hold you to your word, then.”

Taglist: @blondeboyfriend @boorishbrambling @mrsgiovanna

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rreskk · 6 months

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Dear ol' Trev

I'm experimenting with heavier topics, like smut. So if you're sensitive to the subject of "BDSM", don't read! I'll be answering requests soon enough, thank you for being patient :)

Summary: Trevor was untamed and aggressive. There was only one way to force him out of that toxic mentality.

TW: -heavy smut (BDSM) -Violence (Death threats)

Pairings: Dom!Fem reader/ Trevor Philips

Word count: 2971

For the past three days, he has been unrightfully slaughtering every flaw he deceives, and the judgement has been clashed onto you. So for the past three days, you’ve been verbally insulted with every fibre of his body. Reason complied? Unknown. You haven’t recalled doing anything wrong, or anything to cause this spike of anger. Alas, you have been nothing but idle for the past days. He hasn’t made the effort to conversate, fuck, treat you with dignity. Ever since he came home from Los Santos, he’s been ugly and obscene.

You’ve tried to argue against this sudden aggression, challenging his authority, and it would get physical. Right now, he was more than physical. You had lost your temper and called him every name under the sun and he was provoked beyond belief. His face was red, eyes filled with angry tears, fists clenched as his nails would pierce the skin underneath. Trevor stood an arms-length away from you, his eyes burning daggers into yours.

“Say that again.” His voice hoarsely demanded.

“You heard me.”

“You little shit.” Trevor croaked, his vexation becoming hostile.

You raised an eyebrow, “What’s the problem? I don’t see a lie.”

His lips twitched into a snarl and he grabbed the collar of your shirt, threatening to toy you around. His neck and arm veins were pulsing. You wondered if he strained anymore, they may burst.

“Keep your mouth shut. You’re pissing me off, big time.”

“You’ve been pissing me off for the last 72 hours.”

“You don’t say?” He cruelly hissed, “And you repay that by insulting me, [y/n]? You think it’s funny abusing dear ol’ Trev?”

“Cut that creepy shit out. You’re disgusting – “

“Ohhh… Complaints, complaints, complaints. You always FUCKING complain.”

“Maybe you should take the fucking hint and MAN UP!” You shouted in his face, “The moment your revolting scent arrived at my door after a week of no calls or texts, you had the audacity to operate and belittle me? Like what? I was some slave? Oh yeah, what a lovely man dear ol’ Trev is. What a lovely cunt!”

“THE FUCK DID YOU SAY?”

“Just get out, seriously – “

Trevor pushed you back violently as he threw his arm over the dining table, all the plates and clutter falling onto the floor with a big crash. You glared at him after finding your balance. He maintained that deep scowl, eyes not leaving yours as it went silence, only the background noise of glass crunching under his work boots.

“How fucking dare you.” You heaved, the energy you have left slowly running out.

“You gonna complain again, sugar?” Trevor tongued as you saw the strands of his saliva spit with vemon.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

“I know you,” He continued, “You wouldn’t last a week without me.”

“Me? Really? Please! That’s utter bullshit.”

“Yeah… Really.” At this point, Trevor was breathing down on you, his arms locking you against the wall behind. He began to smirk at how trapped you were. He enjoyed seeing you covered in his shadow with that nasty look in your eye.

You tried to lean away, despite his nudges. His hands began leaving achy bruises on your wrists, them cruel fingers spreading his disease while you avoided the discourse of his intoxicating breath. It smelt like death. Your throat numbed at the inhale of his mucky scent, and before you knew it, he lowered his head and began to combatively whisper slander in your ear.

“I ain’t leaving, prick. I am not leaving this place until it’s fuckin’. You hear me?” His hot breath antagonising your neck.

“Get off me, Trevor.”

“No, I think you like it.”

“You fucking pervert!”

His voice rumbled, “Mmm… Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just a burden, a pervert, a creep. Maybe I just wanna bash your fuckin’ head in? What do you think about that, baby? Sounds good?”

You striked his cheek suddenly, his frame falling back at the impact. Trevor held his cheek with a disturbed expression, his eyes wide. Your hand stung with succession as you gave him a gnarly grin.

“I think that’s a great idea, Trevor,” You said, approaching him, “Maybe I should bash your fucking head in,” Your left hand rapidly grasped his jaw before he could fight back, “And you’ll definitely enjoy it.”

“The fuck? –“ He whinged when you grabbed his neck and jaw.

“What’s the matter? It’s not nice being treated like a dog, isn’t it?” Your other hand jolted forwards, hitting his cheek again where a small cry of pain left his lips.

“Fuckin’ stop!”

“You are going to pick up every shard of glass on this very floor. If you don’t, I’m kicking your ass goodbye. You got that?” You shouted in his flushed face.

Trevor threw your hands off, a look of disgust painting his face. He studied you up and down, a sense of uncertainty behind those unstable eyes.

“You’re taking the shitting piss, [y/n]. I’m not doing that.” He mocked.

“You are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Really?” You licked your teeth, “I think you are.”

He sent you a hefty glare, “The fuck are you playing?”

“You want to play?”

“What? – “

“Okay, Trevor. If you really wanna play.” Within a second, Trevor felt his trousers being torn off as he cried out in surprise. His hands automatically covered his bulge but you slapped them away, your fists threatening to interrogate his crotch.

“[y/n], fuck off!” He demanded, fighting against your hands.

“No, I think you like it.” You reflected his words from before, smirking.

“Stop! – “ His voice wobbled with vulnerability. He bellowed forwards and tried to pull his trousers up until his underwear was confiscated as well. Trevor gritted his teeth, seeing you enjoy the struggle he was going through when his cock was on display. He noticed you were grinning at his exposure, feeling fragile and insecure, “C’mon – this ain’t funny. Fuck off!”

“Awh…” You teased and allowed him to scatter, his trousers clumsily being buckled up again. He did not look happy. Trevor’s nostrils flared as he stared at you with raw fury.

“You think this is funny?” He shouted, “You’re a fuckin’ cunt!”

“Easy…”

“EASY? YOU TELLING ME TO BE EASY?”

“You always liked showing yourself off. What’s so bad about it now?” You questioned, smirking up at him.

Trevor stumbled backwards, his feet stomping on the shards of glass that he littered. One piece made a crunching sound from under his foot. He gazed up to see if you had noticed, biting his lip when you stared heavily; watching his every move like a vulture feasting on it’s future prey, the impulsive climax barely containing itself.

His lips snarled when you spoke again, “I heard it – you heard it.”

“I ain’t cleaning.” He responded, crossing his arms.

“Why not?”

“Because I ain’t. You can’t make me.”

“Oh, okay.” You hummed and dismissed the conversation, turning your back.

Trevor smirked when he thought you backed away from the argument. He uncrossed his arms and whistled, singing your name as he placed his foot over a broken frame of you and him. Once he had gained your attention, Trevor licked his lips and pressed down, breaking the picture even more – clearing wanting a strong reaction, as he found it enjoyable.

You felt something stab your gut when he pathetically destroyed the only good picture of you both. And he smiled after it broke. It made you distressed, furious, hated. He stood there carefree, his belt still loose from your stunt beforehand, making him look like a golden stud. A golden stud you wanted to hammer.

“Whoops.” He winked, rotating away from the living room before a hard-hitting hand clenched his shoulder, launching him backwards and onto the rumble of glass. Trevor cried out, his skin scratched and prickled by the mess he made.

You stood over him and stared down; no sign of pleasure nor happiness. He cursed your name as he tried to stand up from the pile of shards but your foot sent him flying down again. It crushed his lower stomach, his breathing becoming unhinged and erratic. Extending weight onto your foot, his hands wrapped around your ankle, begging for you to get off.

“Fuckin’ get off!” He pled repeatedly.

Of course, it didn’t convince you. Your foot dug into his torso until he was threatening to lose his ability to breathe. Waiting for the moment Trevor’s eyes would portray the seconds left of his near-death experience, you released the pressure, and he frantically crawled to his knees, wailing for some air. He mercilessly wailed, believing he was on the road to death by your strangulation.

“Why are you crying?” You degraded, grabbing his hair and forcing his knees to kneel against the glassy carpet.

Trevor panted. His head being forced to look up, staring directly towards your thighs. He didn’t say anything but whined when you’d occasionally tug his hair, trying to pressure some rise out of him.

“C’mon… You’re feeling shameful now, aren’t you?”

He shook his head, still being stubborn.

“You like being on your hands and knees, Trevor?”

He whined again.

“Why don’t you get the fuck up?” You smirked.

“I hate you,” He finally mewled, “I’ll kill you!”

“Get the fuck up then.”

Trevor struggled, trying to use his weak arms but you only pushed him back down with a laugh.

“[y/n]!” He snapped.

“What?”

Your fingers tickled his scalp, falling down his back, reaching the hem of his trousers as he remained on his all fours, having a hard time keeping balance due to the amount of scratches and impaled glass in his skin. Nonetheless, your fingers tickled him. Trevor felt his trousers being pulled down again, and he dropped his head, whispering profound insults that definitely included the words “evil”, “witch”, and “bitch.” But you didn’t care. You waited until his ass was exposed and his cock dangling between his legs. He was shaky, unsure of what you’re about to do. He wanted to stand up, but your grip on him only tightened and his knees were too weak. Did he beg you to stop? No. So you only made it harder for him.

Very hard.

“Fuck… The fuck you doing to me?” Trevor murmured in pain.

“If you wanna ruin my home, you can be ruined with it.” You said before kicking your shoe against his exposed cock, making him jump and cry out in agony.

“FUCK!”

“You like that?” His whole arousal was being beaten with your shoe again, the repetitive kicks destructing Trevor’s last ounce of his aggression.

“FUCK – I HATE YOU! – “ He’d cry, tears oozing down his red cheeks as you kicked him from behind again.

“You deserve so much more hate,” You huffed – his cock and balls being left swollen and bruised, “I’m giving you the bare minimum of it. You should thank me, Trevor.”

It ended with his face crazing against the glass-scattered floor, his cheek embedding deep wounds as he wails from the pain of his genitals being physically abused. He attempted to cover his cock but you slapped his hands away, kicking him one last time before giving him a minor break.

He collapsed, body sprawled out.

The glass was ignored now. You stepped over him, your shadow overcasting the menacing danger of your touch. Trevor, with his eyes closed, felt the shade and spoke through his condition, his voice crackled and fable – like an emotional child begging for some hugs after a traumatic nightmare.

“I’m not thanking… I’m not! Not thanking – you! Kick me again, I fuckin’ dare you! I’m never – FUCK!” You obeyed his request and pressed the soul of your shore against his manhood, crushing until it went numb.

“You never give up, baby…”

He whimpered with is nose stuffed in the carpet floor.

“Wish you’d last this long in bed.” You ended.

Trevor’s head jerked up at the mention of you judging his struggle to hold. He gritted his teeth and aimed to spit, unsuccessfully watching the saliva reach barely half way as you just watched with a frown. A piece of clammy drool fell from his lips, dropping onto the floor, along with his tears.

“And what was that for, huh?”

“Fuck you.”

“Sensitive topic?”

“FUCK YOU!”

You grabbed his waist and forced him to his knees again. Trevor tried to resist but fell into your hands, murmuring complaints about the pain. He winced, trying to face you. But yet again, he failed. And he was beyond angered at his power being taken away.

“This is not FUCKIN’ funny, baby,” He whinged, “I hate you so much sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” You grinned.

“Mm, shut the fuck up…”

“C’mon. Admit it.”

“I said; shut the fuck up!”

“Fucking man up, Trevor. You’re on the floor with your cock fucked and your knees asleep – what are you gonna do? Encourage me to enjoy this more?” You caressed the back of his neck.

“Keep on going…” He whispered, almost quiet enough for you to miss.

“Sorry?”

“Keep going.”

A small smirk twitched and you crouched down, Trevor hesitantly putting his chin on your knee as he looked at you with an angry but lustful stare. He tried to lean closer, wanting a kiss, but he was refused and grunted when you dropped his head onto the floor again. He hit the floor and cursed your name menacingly.

“Fuck you, baby! I want you!”

“You wanted this, Trev?”

“Shut the fuck up and kill me already! Just end my life, make me cry!” He protested with desperation.

“You’re gonna be a man and last long for me?”

He nodded his head, “I wanna last long for you.”

“And you’re going to apologise? – “

“[y/n]! Please, just help me already!” Trevor complained and returned to his knees and hands, his dick burning red.

You laughed and shook your head with a small grin. Now that he was vulnerable and eager for your touch, it made it easier to gain a reaction. Your knee pressed against his backside and you forced him up, his back grinding against your thigh. Trevor closed his eyes as he felt your arms wrap around him, the skin-contact trailing from his stomach, closer to his arousal. He twitched with excitement, his hair mangled and skin tattered with oozing blood.

“So good for me, baby.” You praised and hugged his cock with your cold hands, massaging the tip and roughly mishandling the length to ensure your power is still prominent.

His whole body shook at your touch and he groaned when you demanded him to keep his hands away. It took some courage to follow your authorities, but it was worth it when you began stroking him, caressing his sore skin.

“Yes…” Trevor breathed, “Yes… Yes, that’s right.”

“You wanna be rubbed like the pervert that you are?”

“I’m a fuckin’… God! Yes!”

“Tell me how bad you want it, Trevor.”

He struggled to speak, “I – I… Oh, fuck… M’yeah. C’mon… Fuckin’ faster! Now! – “ Then he paused, dread clogging his throat when you clenched his cock.

“You want to continue being a little fucker?” You hissed in his ear.

“No… No, ma,” Trevor felt it get tighter as he whimpered, “I’m your fucker… I’m your pervert, God!”

“Say my name.”

“[y/n]…”

“Prefer me being in charge, baby?” You giggled, not used to seeing him so submissive.

“I love being treated like a rape toy, mommy!” And he had lost the plot, so emerged in his attraction.

You rubbed him harder and faster, your lips pressing down his neck as he was moaning frantically. From the way he was so stiff and hot, it was clear he had been holding a semi for a long, long time. It made you smirk. Trevor was so pathetic. He made it harder for himself – just so he could feel some pleasure in the end.

“I’m gonna cum – “

“What did I say?” Your lips moved against his skin.

“I – “ Trevor rolled his eyes back and dramatically growled, his hips jerking and cock twitching.

“Don’t cum yet.”

He panted, “Fuck you… Fuck you… Fuck you, I love you!”

“Easy. Concentrate on me, baby.”

“All for you, ma. All for you!”

“You’re so hard, sugar.” You held his body weight so he was forced to deal with you edging him. Even though he was erratic and fierce, you managed to keep him in check and he remained huddled in your arms, his cock being molested by your hands.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ cum!” He sobbed.

“You’re such a slut, Trevor.”

“Ohhh… Fuuuck!” His words mingled for so long that it would crack. Then it went silent before his body spazzed, his dick delivering a huge load of cum that squirted onto the floor that was stained with damp tears, blood, glass.

He had silently cried through the orgasm. You looked at Trevor, his face scrunched and tongue hanging out like a dog. You had overstimulated him too much that climaxing had become a huge revolution, almost as though he transported through time.

“All good, baby?” You asked.

It took a few seconds before he nodded.

“You sore?”

He nodded again, chest heaving in and out.

“Good boy…” You kissed his cheek.

“You’re killing me,” Trevor airily slurred, “You almost killed me.”

“I know.”

“Fuck… Fuck! Fuck you… That was so hot…”

“You gonna clean up now?”

“[y/n]!” He whined tiredly, “You punished me enough, baby…”

You’d smirk, “Fine. You’ve proven how much of a baby you are. I wouldn’t want to cross the line and over exhaust you.”

“Fuck you.”

“And stop insulting me. Who’s house are you in?”

“…Yours.”

“So treat this place with respect, and me.” You warned.

Trevor gave you a playful glare before nodding, “Fuckin’ fine…”

“Now stand up. You reek.”

#grand theft auto 5 #trevor philips #gta v #grand theft 5 #grand theft auto #gta 5 #trevor gta #grand theft auto v #trevor philips/reader #trevor philips x reader #trevor philips fanfiction #trevor philips headcanons #trevor philips/you #trevorphilips #grandtheftauto5 #my fanfic #my fanfic writing #my fanfiction

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cerise-on-top · 4 months

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Graves and Makarov with a taller!reader hcs tyy

Hey! Sorry, I don't write for Makarov, but I did write some HCs for Graves! Hope that suffices!

Graves with a Taller!Reader

I’m gonna be honest with you, Graves is kind of butthurt about you being taller than him. It’s his job to be the big and strong man, therefore he needs to be taller than you! Granted, he’s not the tallest himself, so it actually really isn’t that hard to be taller than him, but it still hurts his ego and, even more so, his pride. He always wanted to have a partner who’s shorter than him, but he couldn’t exactly choose who he fell in love with, so he makes do with what he has.

Although you’re taller than him, he still offers to grab things that are up high for you. He knows that, realistically speaking, you have an easier time grabbing whatever it is, but he subconsciously needs to convince himself that he’s useful still. Yes, he may be the CEO of Shadow Company, and thus quite feared and strong, but still. It’s important to him that you rely on him, that you think of him as a fearsome but kind leader who will prevail, no matter what. That he is a trustworthy southern gentleman who would bend his back for you to make sure you’re safe and sound. He has a reputation to uphold, and by god will he do such.

As mentioned in a previous post, while he is quite touchy, he doesn’t particularly like being the little spoon while cuddling. This holds true even more so when you’re taller than him. While, if you’re shorter than him, he might let you hold him every once in a while, it will absolutely never happen. He hates feeling like the shorter person. Although plenty of his Shadows are taller than him as well, you’re more special to him in a different way. Graves might often joke about shorter people being ankle biters, and he will continue to do so, but he could never suck up his pride and joke about you being a skyscraper. It doesn’t sit right with him, it never will. However, if you crack a joke about him being short, then you can get ready for verbal violence, this guy will absolutely let you know that he can take you in a fight. In all fairness, he could. Despite being average height, at most, he’s still a menace to be dealt with. Even if you’re 2m tall, he’ll suplex you into the concrete if you make too much fun of him. Gives you a stern talking to about how he’s still very capable, but won’t mention your height even once during it all. In fact, he won’t outright mention he’s shorter either, it gives him a bad taste in his mouth.

If you feel like a funnyperson, you can try to pick him up. He’ll wiggle around like a tortoise in absolute distress, cussing you out as he does so. While he will scold you yet again, thinking this to be highly unnecessary, his Shadows will adore you even more if you do. They love seeing their adorable little boss be taken care of, especially by a loved one of his. Eventually, if you don’t put him down, he’ll give up. But that’s if he didn’t just outright take you down in the first place. Everything is fair in love and war, and you making fun of him screams for a battalion. Graves, while he would never be violent towards you, would definitely try to push you away. Laugh a bit at his reaction and he’ll start sulking, leaving the room to spar a bit with his Shadows. He does not feel loved and cherished in this household, therefore he needs to let out his frustration by having his Shadows think of him as the coolest BAMF of them all.

The only time he might come to terms with the fact you’re taller than him is if you’re a complete and utter sweetheart. Using your height to your advantage for easier placement of forehead kisses, letting him rest his head against your shoulder, wrapping him in a blanket and letting him sleep in your bigger bed are what will make his heart flutter a bit. He will feel betrayed if you ever make fun of his height and makes it absolutely everyone else’s problem that day. But as long as you keep being the sweetest little thing for him, he won’t mind as much. He will always, always pull you down when giving you a hug. Your head will be resting on his shoulder, and nothing else. Will always cradle your head to his chest if he can, just so you have to look up at him. Even when you’re a sweetheart extraordinaire, you are not exempt from that. He is the bigger, stronger person out of the two of you, you will feel protected and cherished.

He also used to be the tallest kid in his class in middle school. Until everyone hit a growth spurt and he barely grew again, which is why he’s so sensitive about his height. It’s that leftover pride from middle school he has that keeps him from admitting people can be taller than him and not be malicious.

#cod #cod x reader #phillip graves #phillip graves x reader #today is a Graves sort of day #I'm writing two requests for him today but I will post the other one tomorrow

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jangofctts · 2 years

Text

Feel the Heat (Batman/Bruce Wayne x fem!reader)

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE PART FOUR

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: !!spoilers!!, some fluff!!, twisted the timeline a bit sorry ig, smut, explicit language, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, squirting, jealousy, unashamed lesbian smooching, slight praise kink, mentions of violence/death, (lmk if I missed anything please!!)

a/n: aha thanks for your patience!!!

This is a stupid idea—going back to the Wayne Tower.

What are you even hoping to gain from this?

A stupid apology? An explanation?

You don’t know.

Bruce Wayne will always have his secrets—this you know. Middle school—sitting in the nurse’s office after class—Bruce holding his bleeding nose between his crimson stained hands while you did your history homework on the counter, littered with bloodied tissues and cotton-balls. He told you the other kid swung first—you promised him you wouldn’t tell Alfred. You remember the emergency room—junior prom night—broken collar bone and road rash all up the right side of his body. A piss poor attempt at driving his father’s motorcycle—you ditched your date to come pick Bruce’s ass up. When he tried to unwrap those stale muffin’s they give you as consolation, he burst into silent sobs when he couldn’t do it. His tears weren’t over the broken bone or icky muffin—rather the bike. The paint was scratched to hell. These sorts of things you’re privy too. The rest? You’re not so sure.

Not all of it is intentional. Isolation has a keen way of threading through one’s social life, binding together the art of conversation. He’ll never jump to share unless you jam the rusty pliers between his teeth and wrench his jaw apart. Unravel and sort through the mess of words to find a sensible answer—but that’s more of your mother’s way of things.

It still doesn’t stop you from throwing yourself at all those stupid walls he throws up. They’re flimsy when it comes to you. So, while the request to see you a day later from the whole funeral fiasco is not a surprise, your annoyance certainly is. It’s not really…aimed at Bruce. More of a cumulation of stress that has no outsource other than your morose friend. So when you arrive to the Wayne Tower, snappy and lightly rained on, you’re ready to tear into him.

Too bad you’re too much of a fuckin’ crybaby to follow through.

When those stupid nickel plated elevator doors slide open, you startle—completely throws you off your game. You don’t expect Mr. Bruce Wayne himself to be waiting to greet you.

Disheveled, shoulders drawn inward, hair an utter mess. God, he looks like shit. Why does he always look like shit? It’s the vampiric nature of this penthouse—you know it. Or his complete disregard for eating something other than a singular blueberry.

Bruce fiddles with his fraying sleeve. He attempts to smile but immediately drops the act the second you pointedly quirk a brow. He scowls. “Blue—”

True. You’re a coward when it comes to verbal confrontation, but pettiness? Oh, you can manage that just fine.

You mash the close door button. The metal squeaks on its hinges, shuttering as Bruce shoves his forearm between them. The doors snick back open. “Oops. Wrong floor.”

“Blue,” he protests, stepping to the side as you pout and shove past him. “Blue—wait.”

You wave him away and flee to the dining room. You fling your bag over one of the chairs and stalk towards the little bookshelf tucked away in the corner. Watery light streams through the gothic windows, highlighting the swirling dust motes. Bruce’s bare feet pad over the tile and then the plush rug, lingering behind you as if he were your shadow. You tense when his fingers touch your shoulder—he pulls back.

“I’m sorry I left you,” he murmurs, words mournful and reaching.

Your throat tightens, fingernails biting into the sot flesh of your palms. “You didn’t pick up the phone—I was so worried.”

No answer. You grit you teeth.

“I called almost every hospital, you know.”

Still nothing. Only a hollow exhale and a shuffle of loose fitting clothes.

You roll your bottom lip between your teeth. “Where did you go, Bruce?”

You were left there alone, swept into the crowd and mass panic—and you only wish he was there too. And at the end of it all, you don’t really care where he’s been or where he goes, just that he cares. You willingly outstretch your hand into the burning house, will watch it corrode and blacken all for his sake, but he chooses to sit and let the flames devour him.

This time, he reaches out.

“Carmine Falcone,” he says. You recognize the name from the funeral. A pause. He works his jaw, rubs at his arms, then sighs. “He knew my father."

Oh.

Gives the situation more a basis for understanding—still doesn’t excuse the abrupt depart. You watch him out of the corner of your eye. There’s more to this story—but now’s not the time to pry. Not yet.

Goosebumps rush down your spine as his fingertips meet the base of your neck. When you don’t turn around to bite, he sidles his body up to yours. “I’m sorry, Blue.”

“No,” you sneer, shrugging off his advances. Your feelings are still a bit tender. It doesn’t do much of anything—it’s just a strange dance of avoidance and of weaving limbs attempting to ensnare you. “I’m mad at you.”

Bruce’s hand slides down your forearm and slots around your wrist, pinning your arm across your waist. The other arm soon follows, trapped against your body with Bruce’s own limbs acting as the restraint. It’s a flimsy hold—one push and he’d fall away quicker than grains of sand through a sieve. Yet, as Bruce tucks you against his chest, most of your resistance ebbs. “Blue.”

“Don’t,” you whine, eyes squeezing shut. You’re angry for fuck’s sake—you’ll be damned if you simply give up your grievances just because Bruce is caging you close. You’re not some cheap-ass date nor feeble willed. You grit your teeth and dig your heels in. “Didn’t you hear me?”

Goosebumps rush up your arms as Bruce’s thumbs rub light circles on the delicate outcrop of your wrist bones. You feel his nose press into your hair, his exhale ruffling the strands atop your head. “Hm.”

His little hum is posed more as a question—quiet and lifting in the way questions do in the case of feigning innocence. Bastard. “I said I’m—”

Dry lips and scratchy stubble brush the dip of your shoulder. He mouths your name inaudibly into your skin like a patchwork of saccharine blessings and devotion—so sugary sweet that the roof of your mouth tastes like fuzzy static. Bruce imbeds devout kisses up your throat that curves out for him as offering. “You’re what?” His lips vibrate as the words tumble out, goading you into finishing your fallacy.

His plush lips latch onto the line of your jaw. You swallow and claw at the fleeting strands of your sensibilities and blink away the haze of desire. “I said I’m angry at you.”

You shiver, bitting back a gasp as his tongue trails a slick line up to your earlobe. One arm unlatches itself, fingers moving to sweep your hair off your shoulder. Though as they trace the slope of your shoulder, they hesitate over the the base of your neck. A dull flare of pain radiates out as Bruce curiously kneads the skin. “Did I leave this?”

A stab of panic lacerates your gut. Your first thought is to lie—tell him that yes, the mottled skin matching the teeth of Vengeance belongs to Bruce—but the guilt tastes bitter on the tongue. You clench your teeth. “I’ve uh…there’s someone else.”

The admittance does not deter him. Bruce’s hands find the hem of your shirt and skate up your bare stomach and sensitive sides. “Do I know them?”

“Why would you?” You sigh, smoothing your palm down his forearm. “You don’t have any friends.”

Bruce’s chest rises, intending to disprove the accusation. You beat him to it. “I don’t count.”

He snorts and runs his thumbs over your ribcage, setting the nerves alight. “Do you like him?”

You swear you feel Bruce’s lips upturn into a smirk, but just as you think it, it dissipates. Bruce’s lips touch your cheek as his hands rise higher, brushing the underside of your breasts. A noise of approval rumbles through his chest as you lean more of your weight against him. “Why?”

Bruce shrugs. You inhale sharply through your nose as he pushes one hand under the elastic band of your sports bra, deft fingers curling around the pliant flesh. “Competition,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear.

“Tall, dark and handsome,” you say, eyes fluttering shut. He rolls your nipple between his fingertips, other hand traversing back down the line of your sternum, over your stomach and to your navel. It’s pathetic how easily he’s lit a fire under your skin—hot and pressing, working up your body until it only craves him. “H-hard to beat.”

Bruce toys with the hem of your leggings, waits for your breathy consent, and then wiggles his hand into your pants. He dives past the thin elastic of your underwear and past your curls to touch your clit. Bruce smiles into your neck. “It is.”

Your head tips back against his chest, knees buckling at the raw pleasure that sparks from his fingertips to your body. He cinches closer, the sinew and muscle of his arm flexing to keep you from falling. A ragged gasp tears from your throat as his fingers brush teasingly over your clit, only to delve further between your wet cunt. He spreads the gathering wetness, gliding his fingers through your folds at an achingly slow pace—a prideful show of self satisfaction—how easily you unravel for him. Delicious heat simmers in the pit of your stomach, increasing tenfold as his middle finger experimentally circles your entrance. Your breath stutters as he dips only the first half inch of his fingertip inside of you—you clench around him and whine.

However, the angle is a little too awkward to fully seat his finger inside of you. Instead, he slips his finger up, dragging it back up to your clit. You jolt as he catches the underside of your clit, unprotected and searing. You claw at his forearm circling your front, nails harpooning into his skin. Bruce’s other hand unlatches from your breasts, slides out of your shirt and slots his hand over your jaw. He carefully twists your head, inviting you to look up at him. Dark hair spills over his forehead, irises blown wide and mouth parted. If anything, you’d say he’s the one who’s splitting apart at the seams.

You squint—there’s a smudge of something black under his eye—you hadn’t noticed it before. Like dust, or paint maybe. Before you can wiggle a hand between your bodies to inspect it further, Bruce nudges your nose with his.

“Kiss me,” it comes out in a strained gasp, because desperation is the venomous snake that’s bitten you both. Holding each other on the razorwire and the ivory snake fangs of your bodies—the burning a solid boundary of trouble and hysteria alike. “Blue—”

You neck strains at this angle, but you’ll bear the discomfort. His lips meld to yours, tasting like blueberries and mint tea. His lips are always forgiving, soft and feathery like he can’t quite fathom that you’ve decided to kiss him. You understand—loss decorates his chest like medals of war. Better the aloneness than the hurt—days that feel scripted and arduous. Barely fumbling his way through habits and requirements as if each of his bones were made from concrete. You’d carve him a slice of sunlight if you could, but you can’t. The only thing you can offer are your outstretched fingers and a promise not to leave again.

You cry into his open mouth, hot tongue sliding against yours as you part your lips. Bruce’s fingers don’t stop rocking against your clit, your slick arousal making a mess of your underwear. His fingers split, massaging the swollen nerves between the two digits, breaking away from your mouth to tuck his chin over your shoulder. Your head rolls back as your hand jumps up to bury your fingers into his hair. You’re nearing your end already. “Fuck—Bruce.”

He pants into the crux of your neck. “How many?”

Your hips roll into his hand, confusion blooming. “W-what?”

“How many times,” Bruce says lowly, “did your friend make you cum?”

You keen. What the fuck—what the fuck. You shouldn’t react in the way you do—swallowed by a wicked rush of arousal and heat—your cunt clenches hard and fuck, you’re right on the edge of orgasm. “I-I don’t—don’t know.”

Teeth pinch around your tender flesh, marking the space right above Bats’. Bruce paws at your breast. “How many? Once?”

Tears push at your eyes, squeezed shut as you scramble for an answer. You nearly burst into tears right then and there as his fingers cease their movements—you were so close, but now you’re plummeting down the mountain of ecstasy. You arch against him and yank at his hair—you don’t care that it’s bratty, nor the way the sound of his name filters past your teeth like a petulant princess. “Bruce.”

“Blue,” he mocks. Your fault for forgetting that Bruce is an only child—he gets what he wants.

You wet your lips and nuzzle your nose into his throat. “T-twice…”

Bruce’s lips draw into a grin. “I can do better.”

You hips stutter and jerk as his fingers leap into action. They roll over your clit, tight and fevered circles that shove you off that edge—your body seizes. You cum onto his fingers with a strangled cry, sparks of blurry white alighting behind your eyelids as you twist in his arms—jittery with nowhere to go. Bruce continues to swipe his fingers around your throbbing clit, your nerves burning hotter than wildfire, spreading from your core all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're shaking, and over the roar of your pulse, you hear Bruce murmur his praise. And maybe, if you were a better person, you’d tell him he’s competing with a shadow. You don’t even know his name or what he looks like—but it’s too late now.

Your stomach drops as Bruce’s hand loosely curls around your throat, his fingers over your clit refusing to give you a chance to recover. You don’t scrape the bottom, you’re swept into a wild whirlwind of scraped nerves—too blistering. The discomfort doesn’t last long. Another orgasm bursts through your core, quick and bright as Bruce’s fingers twitch around your throat. It singes your insides and fuck—your vision goes a bit fuzzy.

A broken groan falls from your lips as Bruce mercifully retracts his hand. His fingers are drenched, leaving behind shiny spots of wetness over your tummy as he flattens his palm over it. You’re still twitching, panting and swimming through the clouds of lust. Your throat bobs under Bruce’s hand, and as he slots his hips closer, you feel the bulge of his cock pressing against the base of your spine.

Bruce plants a kiss to your temple, the soft skin cool to your flushed skin. You sniff and clumsily wipe at your watering eyes. Bruce’s laugh is soft—reserved. “You ok?”

“Peachy,” you croak. You tilt your head and dot a quick kiss on the underside of Bruce’s jaw. His grim mouth upturns into the traces of a smile. He boxes you in against the window and slips his hands up your shirt.

“Can I take this off?” He murmurs into your ear. You nod, lifting your arms for him to slide it off. You bra comes next. A appreciate groan rumbles through his chest upon seeing your bare chest. You shudder when Bruce cups your breasts and thumbs over your nipples. His palm skates to your pants. “These too?”

You shuck them off faster than the blink of an eye. There’s a ruffle of fabric behind you and then Bruce is just as bare as you. His hands drift over the dips and swells of your body, his warm chest molding to your back.

He threads his fingers with yours, pinning your hand against the frigid glass. The city is shrouded in fog today, ghostly towers and the brief glimpses of the road down below swimming in and out of view. Raindrops splatter over the glass, the beads rolling down the flat surface until they conjoin into rivulets of water that mimic branches of lightning. A deep rumble of thunder reverberates through the window—typical weather for early November. A soft touch on the swell of your hip, draws you back into the present.

Bruce peppers kisses over your bare shoulders. “I want you.”

“What’s stopping you?” You goad, dipping a hand between your legs to touch his cock, nestled in the apex of your thighs. He hisses between his clenched teeth, fighting the instinct to mindlessly take you without regard. Your fingers roll over the head of his cock and then, inpatient, you guide him inside of you. “Shit—”

Your breath catches in your throat, no time to adjust as Bruce rocks his hips forward, pressing you tight between the cold widow and his body, splitting you open on his thick cock. You’re wet enough to take him with little resistance—soft and searing. Bruce whispers a curse, his lips brush up under your ear, the wet noises your body makes, obscene in the quiet space. Your breath fogs the window and when you catch his blissed out reflection, you clench around him. Bruce throbs, thick and perfect inside your tight, spasming cunt, hands tightening around your hip and hand.

You claw uselessly at the glass as you try to acclimate, sucking in tapered breathes while pleasure seeps through every pore. Bruce’s groan is rougher than gravel, a sound that has you tightening around him like a vice—threatening to cum again. It feels different like this, bent over in a way that his cock reaches a place you’d never be able to get to yourself. Bruce allows you a moment before he starts thrusting into you, sparking a sensation deep inside you with each movement so hard that it becomes sharp—not painful—but fuck, you’re gonna walk with a limp tomorrow. His hips roll into you, setting a rough pace that drags out a punched sigh every time he rocks up—

There’s no easing into it, nor does Bruce dare tease. It’s just there all of a sudden, pleasure and a touch of pain blasting through you all at once, throwing you to the flames.

“Fuck,” Bruce gasps. His grip tightens around your fingers, then falls away to trade in his hold for your breast. You squeak and hook onto his forearm. “Fuck—you’re perfect.”

Bruce drops his head into your neck, his grunts now muffled. Bruce’s fingertips move from your hip to between your legs, seeking out your abused clit. You flinch and press your forehead into the glass, welcoming the bitter chill as distraction until your nerves become used to his touch once more. “Y-you’re—ah—gonna kill me.”

He laves his tongue over your flushed skin, tasting the salt of your perspiration and the sweetness of your perfume. “Little Crybaby Blue—you’re tough.”

You’re not sure why the words pluck at such a visceral part of you. Shredding you apart for the third time without mercy. Your teeth pierce your bottom lip as you cum—everything surging up hot and molten. Bruce peels off your back, fucking you through it, and you can’t distinguish anything in the haze aside from his burning skin under you, in you, on you—the only anchor you have as the euphoria rockets through you. His name comes out garbled as you wail for him, the only warning either of you get before your knees buckle under you.

Your aching cunt weeps at the loss of Bruce’s cock as he catches you before you topple to the floor. Christ—your limbs are a mess—a feeling akin to being drunk. Your back meets the plush rug, the remnants of your orgasm still radiating out through your veins and arteries. Your legs are splayed open, your hip joints winging in protest as Bruce hooks his hands under you knees and pries your thighs further apart. You squeak as he suddenly yanks your legs over his knees, cock pulsing at the seam of your pussy as he folds over you, strong arms posting above you.

Your murmur his name and cup his stubbled cheeks. A lopsided smile graces your face as you push a strand of his hair behind his ear. Your gaze drifts back to that black smudge under his eye—you wipe the oily substance away with your thumb. Huh. “You wearing eyeliner now, Brucey?”

Bruce swallows and drops his chin. His shoulders lift with a shrug. “Something like that,” he says faintly. And then he kisses you. You gasp into his mouth and his tongue sinks deep into yours, devouring and greedy.

Bruce leans his weight onto one arm and breaks the kiss. He doesn’t go far, your lips just barely graze his. His hand finds his cock, flushed and twitching as he drags the blunt tip of himself through your folds. You both gasp as he finds your entrance, seating himself only partially inside of you. What the fuck. You arch and claw at his bicep, begging for all of it. Bruce doesn’t budge.

He quiets you with a kiss and rolls his hips. Your entire leg twitches and jerks over his hip, praying he’ll go deeper or something. “Bruce—please.”

You’re not expecting him to start moving the way he does—oh fuck. It’s a twisted, deep, burning pleasure that sparks through you, diffusing outwards from each calculated thrust. This pace is controlled—slow—but the brutal up and down thrusts that meet that little pleasurable spot inside you dead on, make up for the near-teasing tempo.

Bruce sits up, gripping your hips to counteract your ceaseless wiggling. You grab at him, clutching onto his arm and his bare chest, leaving behind red lines upon his pale flesh. You cry at the overwhelming sensation, straining and babbling for mercy or more. You can’t rightly tell. Your toes start to curl as the feeling overtakes your very soul. God—fuck, this is so fucking unfamiliar. Shoved down your throat and you can’t do anything about it but take it. You face the pleasure heard on, pure fire blurring the seams of your mind, hot and amorphous through your entire body. Fuck—you feel like crying. Are you crying? Probably.

You hiccup. Bruce murmurs gentle praise and yep—you’re crying. Blunt, white hot pressure builds up, tightening like a drawstring pulley against all the muscles below your waist. The strangled cry you make, like some wounded thing, should embarrass you as Bruce pulls out completely—ashamed by how desperately your cunt clamps down around nothing for what seems like an eternity. Bruce doesn’t seat his cock back into you until you stop writhing and clawing at his arms. Fuck him. Fuck this—

Bruce reaches out, cupping your cheek and thumbing the tears that dribble into your hairline. His thumb drops to your lip, toying with the plush skin until your tongue flicks out to taste his skin. Bruce grunts. “You’re so pretty.”

It’s right then that you realize you couldn’t be friends anymore. You’ve fallen into the arch of his fingerprint, the tender loops of his heartstrings. The tiny scars of childhood and the creases in his skin that you’d know numb and blind. You’re no different to him—he knows you—knows all the little ugly bits of yourself and still finds them beautiful. He’s handing you this secret insecurity of displaying desire. Something he is so afraid of—of it being stripped away. You don’t get to bask in the vulnerability—

Bruce shoves back inside of you and everything comes back full force as soon as he starts moving again. You clutch at his wrist and mouth his name, strong hips rolling into with devastating accurate and poise—you’re falling apart. Bruce pulls out again but this time, as your cunt spasms and arches with the loss, wet heat suddenly coats your inner thigh. His voice trips into a ragged moan, threaded in awe. “Shit—you liked that.”

Sparks zap and crackle through you long after his touch is gone. You don’t—fuck, what—

It clicks quite abruptly, what’s happened—a blush that encompasses your whole body burns through you. Christ—you didn’t even know you could.

His slides back inside you and you wail his name. “Do it again,” Bruce breathes, jerking his hips into you hard. You don’t know how he’s doing this to you—does this count as an orgasm? Fuck, you don’t know—you’re on the knife’s edge. All you know is Bruce, his cock spearing into your wet heat and the cloud of ecstasy. You don’t know where Bruce’s burst of confidence came from—it’s unlike him to just take. Almost like targeted vengeance on behalf of all the times he’s let you slip through his fingers, coaxing the molten pleasure out of you. You blink up at him, your vision blurry with tears as he leans down to whisper against your lips.

“Does he make you feel like this?” It’s spoken so delicately in contrast to the force and persistence of his movements, that it’s jarring. Is he really still thinking about that? It doesn’t fucking matter—

Even if you wanted to voice your opinion—you can’t fucking speak. It just tumbles into a realm of beyond worse as Bruce yanks himself out one last time. You can feel your floor muscles automatically flex against the sudden emptiness inside you. Your cheeks burn as he chokes out a broken moan, self satisfied and glued to your thighs that have become wet again. “No,” he answers for you, pushing your shaky legs off his hips. His keen eyes bask in the fruits of his labor, watching you struggle through the aftershocks. You shiver each time his hand rubs at your exposed thigh. “He doesn’t.”

You feel like lead, your limbs don’t work properly, as if you’ve severed the nerves that connects you to them. Fuck—your eyes, still blurry, drift to his tummy…then lower. He’s still hard—glistening in your arousal and flushed an angry red. You spare not a moment nor a thought as you reach out to touch him. He slides easily into palm—Bruce curses and drops his chin to his chest.You pump his cock the best you can at this angle, appreciative of the way he bucks his hips up to help you. Bruce crumples atop you a moment later, leaving just enough space for you to jerk him off, but close enough that you’re both melded together.

He mouths at your jawline, that dark and jealous streak seeping out of his body. His demeanor softens, drawing back into the familiarity of the Bruce you know. Your pussy clenches as Bruce whines into your ear—his hand pawing at any available skin that he finds. You can feel his cock throb—he’s close. You whisper his name and bury your other hand into the hair lining the nape of his neck and tug. His lips curl into a snarl.

“My B-Blue—”

Bruce’s teeth latch over the skin of your collarbone, one more thrust into your fist, and he’s spent. Bruce cums in your hand, over your hip and upper thigh. Fuck—that has no business being that fucking hot—covered in his spend while he shakes and grips you like you’re his only tether.

You let your hand fall lax. Bruce unlatches his teeth over your now mottled skin, and jumps to steal a kiss. You still can’t fucking talk—he’s robbed you of your ability to form words. He peppers kisses over your forehead, down your eyes and over the bridge of your nose. Memorizing each inch of skin with his plush mouth. Your heart aches for him—you hope your hand, threaded through his hair and tenderly massaging his scalp, conveys the message.

You like it here—crushed under his weight and the plush rug under you that’s probably given you rug burn on your ass. You like the way you can feel his heartbeat pound through the ivory makeup of his ribcage and the way his breathing evens out to a gentle puff against your neck.

However, the universe has a funny way of ruining a perfectly good moment, doesn’t it?

Footsteps echo down the hall—Bruce’s head rears, eyes widening as Alfred steps around the corner. There’s no time to give warning nor throw on a shirt or something. “Bruce? Everything—”

Alfred’s eyes drift down to your disorderly selves. Quicker than you can say Wayne, Alfred spins on his heel, throws a hand over his eyes and books it back the way he’s come. “Chrissake,” you hear him announce, carried by the tall ceilings and the echoey nature of the Wayne Tower.

You start giggling—what else is there to do? You’re soaring on endorphins—so much so that everything is bathed in humor.

Bruce blushes. A deep red that stains the hollows of his cheeks, his throat and the tips of his ears. You snicker and sweetly touch his scarlet skin. “Oops.”

Bruce groans and buries his face into your neck, holding you tight to escape the embarrassment. You cradle his head, carding through his hair and running your fingers over each inch of skin you can reach. This feels normal—right.

You wish you knew if he feels the same. But tragedy looms over Bruce like a cloud. You don’t know how to stand between this darkness of his life and the curled, shaking fist around the heart of his past. How to tell him that he has always been loved. But every time he opens up the book of his life, leafing though the thin, opaque paper, it is always the same story about aching. The same rabid hymnal of flight, of fingers breaking and twisted lungs. He’s strangled the light of better things between his fist like the ocean floor, the vacuum of space. You think it’s probably cathartic to him—to suffer the same pain everyday. Bruce could be be loved like an explosion and still be left cold. Whatever is broken inside of him only wants to devour. The love just slips right off from where he can’t feel it, a tiny swirl of mint toothpaste in the sink of his childhood. The little white menthol fingerprints spelling out apologies, guilt—

It’s an uphill battle to love him—but what fault is there in trying?

“I’ll drive you back.”

“What?” You ask, called back to the present.

Bruce kisses your shoulder. “Tonight, when you leave—I’ll drive you back home.”

“Tonight?” You echo, eyes drifting to the window. “It is eleven in the morning.”

Bruce shifts and turns his head to smatter kisses up your cheek. His quiet mhm vibrates over your skin.

“Is this your way of asking me to hang out with you?”

He nods and finds your lips. It’s a languid kiss—sweet and long.

“Fine.”

-=-=-=-=-

Selina knows this depraved club like the back of her hand. The vile happenings and the shameful acts that the upstanding arms of justice in Gotham should avoid at all cost. Yet here they are—greedy hands and lecherous eyes that can’t help themselves. Less of them have been down here as of late—happens when a serial killer is targeted men like them—but again, these stupid fools can’t quit.

And neither can Vengeance.

Selina only agreed to it for Annika—to wear this dumb earpiece and recording lenses so Vengeance could creep on all the unlucky souls here. The DA’s office, cops, social workers—all of it incriminating evidence that could land their asses in jail for life. Selina isn’t sure what exactly Vengeance is looking for. Loose ends maybe—a trail that leads back to this supposed rat that’s got everyone in a twist.

Vengeance is muttering in the earpiece, reading off names and loosely directing Selina to a mark worth sinking her claws into. It all falls to shit the moment Selina’s eyes drift to the bar, illuminated by a rainbow of LED and neon lights. She’s a pretty little thing, hugging the wall as her fingers fidget around the rim of a half empty tumbler. The black, sequined cocktail dress, hugs her frame like a glove, and every other moment or so, she tugs the hem of her dress back down her thighs. There’s plenty of hospitality workers, and though Selina works topside now, she knows or knows of the girls down here. While Vengeance’s sharp inhale that crackles through the earpiece solidifies Selina’s assumptions, the girl on her own, sticks out worse than a crayon in a box of colored pencils.

Selina sidesteps a drunken patron, eyes locked on the girl. “You know her, hun?”

“Talk to her,” Batboy orders sharply. Raw desperation laces his tone. Oh, he really must like her.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Selina sighs. “She’s a looker, huh, Batboy?”

No answer is given. Selina, quickly traverses the space, the bass of the heavy music vibrating through the air. The girl’s eyes flick to Selina, a quick look over to analyze he potential threat she may pose. They double back when Selina flashes her a smile—the girl squirms in her seat, touching one foot to the floor to bolt if she needs. Selina tiptoes he finger over the mahogany bar top, forcing back her snicker as panic wells in the girl’s flighty eyes. When she tries to leave, Selina slides a hand over her forearm. Selina leans in close, lips brushing her ear. She freezes. “Vengeance says hello.”

Blue shifts her weight in her seat. Her eyes, painted in neat eyeliner and glittery eyeshadow, widen. The ends of her mouth quirk into a faint smile. Innocent. Kind. You don’t find much of that in Gotham anymore. Then again, the girl shouldn’t be so trusting of Selina simply because she uttered a name she was familiar with. She settles back in her seat and offers her hand.

Selina eyes the outstretched limb and slips her hand into hers. They’re a little dry compared to the softness of Selina’s skin. They’re warm, though. “Blue.”

“Selina,” she smiles, allowing her hold to linger a little too long to be considered friendly. “Whatcha’ drinking, hun?”

“Selina,” Vengeance warns in her ear. “Careful with her.”

Selina heads him no mind. After all, he’s the one who directed Selina over here.

“Oh, uh—” Blue flounders and tucks a hair behind her ear. It’s a deliberate move—a wire is taped behind her ear—damn kid works for GCPD. Not that the signal will ever reach down here. Falcone and the Penguin have this place safeguarded and jammed. She lets the strands of her hair fall back into place. “Fizzy water and lemonade.”

Selina’s shoulders bounce with a laugh. “Never heard of that before.” Blue ducks her head and shyly offers her glass. “I used to get it as a kid—wasn’t allowed to drink soda.”

Selina takes up her offer and wraps her lips around the straw. Mauve lipstick stains remain on the white plastic. It’s alright—the lemonade is too sweet for Selina’s liking. She places the glass back into Blue’s hand. “Sounds like a boring childhood.”

Blue’s nose scrunches and waves her hand in dismissal.

“Ask her why she’s here.”

Selina inwardly sighs.

“So—what’s a girl like you doin’ in a place like this?” Selina purrs, crossing her legs and leaning closer. She props her chin up with her hand, limiting the chances of someone overhearing their little chat. Maybe, if fortune favors, Blue knows something about Annika.

Blue sips her drink. Her tongue rolls out to collect the excess moisture. “Same as you—and Bats. Looking for familiar faces.”

“It’s not safe here,” Bats harps, “She needs to leave—tell her.”

Selina lays a hand on Blue’s knee. Blue’s eyes drop, brows lifting in mild surprise. She doesn’t pull away. Selina smirks and rubs her thumb over the soft flesh, cooing softly as Blue clears her throat. Oh, she’s a treat to tease. “Hey—why don’t we help each other out? I think I know what you need.”

“Selina.”

Blue twists a strand of hair around her fingers, curiosity piqued. “Yeah? Like what?”

Selina lightly traces her fingernails further up Blue’s leg, the head pounding music and the nodes of her sweet perfume a perfect mix of risk and stupidity. Though just as Selina parts her lips to dangle a tidbit of information for Blue, an unwanted third party blunders through. Blue and Selina jerk apart, startled, hackles raised—

“How much do you—hic—ladies want,” a man, dressed in a disheveled three piece suit, slurs, “for a little—y’know...two on one.”

Selina scowls at the idiot in question who gestures to himself, shit-eating grin plastered across his aging, perspiring face. Blue blinks rapidly, the muscles in her jaw jumping. She recognizes this man—

“Jackson Pollard—DA’s office,” Vengeance supplies. “Get Blue out of there before he notices it’s his boss’ daughter.”

Shit.

Selina grabs Blue’s hand, and slips out of her stool. Blue follows. “Sorry, hun. We gotta run—girl stuff, y’know?”

The man’s lips, covered in a thick, graying mustache, purse. He squints and jabs a meaty finger at Blue. “Wait…don’t I—”

Selina grimaces and wrenches Blue out of the corner and into the fray of dancing girls and suited men. Blue grips Selina’s hand like a lifeline as thy navigate through the club. Vengeance nags in her ear—it’s drowned by the music and the thumping of her heart.

Selina herds Blue into the little side hallway, leading to the dressing rooms. She pins blue against the wall—her eyes shine in the dim lighting, her lips parted in protest. “Listen, baby—you a detective?”

“Crime scene tech,” she specifies. Selina feels her voice vibrate under her hand that presses on her sternum. “Why?”

Selina chews her cheek. “My friend—Annika…she’s missing.”

Blue’s brows dip into a worried furrow. “I-I’m sorry—she’s the Russian girl, right?”

“Yeah, exactly,” Selina nods, hope flickering in her chest. “You gotta help me out—you have access to police records, you can look for her. See if she pops up anywhere.”

“Don’t ask her that—she already risks her job for me.”

Selina’s hope sputters out like a candle as Blue frowns. She looks away, eyes finding the floor to stare morosely at. “I don’t think—”

“Please,” Selina grovels. “I can get you a list of regular patrons—Falcone keeps it as blackmail.”

Her face lights up. Blue contemplates for a moment. She outstretches her hand. “I can’t promise I’ll find anything.”

Selina takes her hand to shake on it. “Deal—wait here. I’ll be back in ten.”

“No—don’t leave her,” Vengeance protests in the earpiece. “Selina—“

Selina smirks. She lifts her hand to cup Blue’s face and runs her thumb along her cheekbone, shimmering with highlighter. “I’ll kiss her goodbye for you, Vengeance.”

-=-=-=-=-

The second you stepped into the underbelly of the Iceberg Lounge, you go radio silent. The wire and the camera tap out instantaneously, becoming a static blur. You suspect that who ever manages this place installed a jammer—weaselly bastards.

You have no choice to navigate blind. Your word is not reliable on its own in the court of law, but you’ll have to make do. You make a game of it—memorizing all the faces, the girls, who’s downing Drops like M&M’s. You recognize some of them. Lawyers that work under your dad—you turn your head to hide you face each time one of them passes by the corner you’ve chosen to occupy. This was a stupid idea.

Yeah, you fit the bill for this kind of undercover work, and the ID you use looks similar to you, but damnit. Gordon should have known you have too many ties in Gotham now. The police, the DA’s office, your mother’s senatorial shit. You just hope the gaudy makeup and your skimpy dress is enough to pass under the radar.

It doesn’t.

But not by who you’d suspect.

Batboy’s colleague. Selina is what she calls herself—if it’s even her actual name. Regardless, it’s your saving grace—plucks you from the jaws of danger and offers you exactly what you’ve come for. A list of names.

Nothing comes without a price—you figure you could poke around for her friend but the chances of finding her are…slim. Everyone knows that you have about 24 hours or less to find the victim alive—it’s been four days. Whatever. It’s worth checking.

The kiss is unexpected—not unpleasant in the slightest, though—a little too short if you were to complain. Her lips are soft and yours taste like lemonade. A thrilling blend of voracious passion and firecrackers that explode in your chest. You wonder what Bat’s will say to you later—it’s kinda funny.

Selina pinches your cheek and promises she’ll be back in ten minutes. So you wait, huddled in that dark hallway and twiddling your thumbs as working girls pass in and out. None of them pay you any mind. Ten minutes pass—then twenty.

You gnaw at your thumbnail—dread making a home inside your head. Selina isn’t coming back.

Left with no other option than to escape or keep digging—you bolt from the hallway and towards the gold-plated doors that lead to freedom. Your heartbeat drums in your chest as you reach security. They glare down at you with indifferent eyes, and just as they crack the door open for you—a hand clamps down over your arm. At first you think it’s Selina—

Wouldn’t that be fuckin’ nice?

Your blood runs ice-cold—panic lacerates through your veins and kicks your pulse into overdrive. You don’t have to know his face to realize who this man is. Dark sunglasses, silver teeth and a sharp suit. His sly grin curls up his withered face as yours crumbles into despair.

Carmine Falcone.

#well yeeha #batman x reader #batman 2022 x reader #bruce wayne x reader #pattinson!batman x reader #pattinson!batman #bruce wayne #batman #selina kyle #selina kyle x reader

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ichijager13 · 3 months

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Teach Me How To Be Loved

Chapter XIV

I've got a burning desire for you

Pairing : Eren Jäger x reader, past relationships: Reiner Braun x reader, Jean kristein x reader

Characters: Eren Jäger, Annie Leonhart, Pieck Finger, Reiner Braun, Jean Kristein, Carla Jäger, Sophie Jäger.

Tags: Unhealthy coping mechanism, unhealthy relationships, childhood trauma, physical and verbal abuse, self-esteem and trust issues, domestic violence, implied/ referenced cheating, and a touch of sweet, lovable, and non fuckboy Eren Jäger

This fic is brought to you by Lana Del Rey’s songs

Masterlist, AO3, Playlists: Reader’s POV, Eren’s POV

A/N: Hey, hey, heeeeeey! Guess who have decided to pick up her fanfic and update it. Yes, this lazy Ichi! I'm really sorry for taking so long to update, I didn't abandon this story, I promise.

Also thank you so much for reading and supporting my works.

Ichi ❤️

“Eren,” you moaned, wrapping your arms around his figure. Just like every time you had him this close, you were on the verge of losing your mind. His scent, his teeth grazing your shoulder, and his warm breath fanning against your skin felt ethereal. It felt like a dream. One, you didn’t want for it to end.

In response to the sultry noises escaping you, he brushed his lips against your pulse point, making the last threads of sanity grow thinner and more tense before they slowly vanished in the air.

Laying on your couch in the middle of your dimly lit living room, you tried to trace back the events of this night. You tried, without success, to figure out how innocent tickling led to him half naked and hovering over your nude body.

Swimming in an endless sea of joy and sensuality, you tried to capture and memorize this moment. The faint ticking of the mechanical, vintage clock sitting on the fireplace, the aroma of your fabric softener, and his heart rate. You were mindlessly indulging in your fantasies when his rich voice brought you back to present time.

“Are you ready, love?” he inquired once again.

His large hand caressed your cheeks ever so gently as you nodded. It took you a while to manage to utter a broken yes.

A genuine smile, the same one that captured your heart and bewitched your soul, broke through his lips as he kicked out his shorts and repositioned himself above you. He slowly guided himself past your wet folds. It stretched, burned, and filled you, and it never failed to make you feel complete. His thumb still traced gentle cercles against your burning cheeks as he praised you and chanted how perfect you were for him. how beautiful, dazzling, and amazing you were.

By the time he was fully inside you, your brain was so fogged that the line separating reality from fantasies blended, making it hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t. His hands were all over your body. His lips were littering soft kisses against your burning skin, reminding you that he wasn’t a product of your imagination. Reminding you that this was real. That what was going on between the two of you was real.

And you believed him. You believed and held on to all the unspoken promises he sealed against your skin.

So, you let your head fall back, eyes screwed shut, and gave in to the pleasure waves idly hitting you. You closed your eyes and let them drift you away from all the terrible thoughts that had haunted you for years. You let him trade the darkness devouring you with beams of sunlight and the twinkles of a million stars.

Eren couldn’t get over how dazzling you looked underneath him. With each thrust, the noises that spilled from your mouth pushed him over the edge. He tried to contain himself and take it easy on you. But your parted, swollen lips made it so hard for him to control the violent hurricane of feelings he was trapped in. And you asking him, in your high-pitched, broken voice, to go faster made thinking straight even harder.

His arms looping around your waist and pressing your writhing body against his gave you a sense of safety. You had no idea why, but whenever you found yourself in his arms, all your worries washed away, and the dark clouds invading your sky disappeared. Whenever he was around, all the sad melodies you spent your life listening to changed into happy ones. Smiling, you made a mental note to share this thought with him. to tell him about all the wonderful things he made you feel. to thank him for loving and accepting you as you were. But the unholy rhythm he was pounding on you made your thoughts dissolve like a spoonful of salt in a bottle of water.

Lost in the blissful mist of the building up pleasure, you didn’t realize that he had changed position until he hit that sweet spot that made you see the stars in the middle of your apartment. That particular angle that never failed to make your soul get lost forever in the abyss of your orgasm.

He continued moving in synch with your heartbeat and your lust-filled thoughts. With every buck and every groan, he was bringing dead parts of you back to life. Parts you completely forgot they ever existed.

By the time he collapsed next to you, your ability to think or form a coherent sentence was inexistent. Craving more of his soothing warmth, you instinctively nestled your face in the crook of his neck. A pair of strong, tattooed arms looped around your shaking body, and it felt like home. With the tip of your finger, you absent-mindedly traced the one climbing up his arm and covering his shoulder blade. Caressing his tattoos was one of the numerous habits you developed after you got together.

You remained like that, in each other’s arms, enjoying the comfortable silence until you fell asleep.

When the sunlight filtering through the beige curtains woke you up the next morning, you found yourself tucked under the soft, satin sheets in your bed.

Eren was nowhere to be seen. Sitting with your back pressed against the headboard, you perked your ears, trying to locate where your boyfriend was. But to your surprise, the apartment was as silent as the city streets on a snowy Sunday morning.

After you left your bed, you fished for a t-shirt and exited your bedroom. Your clothes and his, which were scattered all over the living room, were gone. Assuming it was Eren who picked them up, you put some order in the living room before heading to the bathroom to take a quick shower.

You were in the kitchen making breakfast when you heard the door.

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wandering-winchesters · 1 year

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Never Forgotten

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count:

Summary: The reader left behind a friendship with Sam because of an abusive boyfriend. When they are reunited, will their true feelings for eachother be revealed?

Trigger Warnings: Domestic abuse, violence, injuries, mentions of death.

Requested: Yes, by anon. Not sharing the anon message here, spoilers.

A/N: Please mind the trigger warnings on this one. <3

Masterlist

It was a rare occasion that Sam Winchester was not on my mind, his face, his kind touch and the way he would always listen to me. I miss him, terribly. We had been friends for close to two decades, our fathers were friends long before we even came to be. My father and his had a falling out, but Sam and I remained friends. The time we spent together as children resulted in some of my favorite memories, times that I still look back on fondly. We both left for college, our schools a few hours from each other. We stayed in touch, even when he dropped out. Our communication faltered, until I had cornered him and asked him what he was doing and why he was avoiding me.

This was when I learned about the supernatural world, something I could have gone my entire life not knowing about. I stayed in college, graduating a short time later. I had met my boyfriend in college, that was when everything changed. At first everything seemed normal, he was a jealous guy, but I found it endearing. Slowly, ever so slowly it got worse and he made me cut people out of my life. He would get angry when I would talk to friends, especially other men. So as much as it killed me, I cut Sam off. For a long time, Sam would still reach out. He would call and text me, checking on me, but I would ignore him. Out of all my friends, he tried the longest to get in touch with me.

Then the verbal abuse turned into physical, it started out with him shoving me when we would fight. Then it turned to slaps, slaps turned to fists, fists turned to kicks. It all snowballed, at first the marks he would leave on my skin I could hide with clothing. The first time he gave me a black eye, I had to learn how to cover bruises with makeup. Once he saw that I could cover the injuries, he no longer cared about hiding it. His violence led to my loss of hearing, one ear now completely useless. There was nothing I could do now, everyone had left me and I was stuck. If I tried to leave, he would kill me. I had enough, I was giving up hope on ever leaving. Until tonight, we had come back to Kansas to visit some of my boyfriends friends. He had accused me of flirting with one of them, something I would never do. Once we got back to the motel, he took that as a good enough reason to beat me, my head still throbbing from the last punch he had thrown, a hard blow to my jaw. The second he shut the bathroom door, I had ran. Out the door to the room and down the familiar dark streets. My heart and lungs screaming with every step, but I didn’t care. The chill of the rain, not a concern. My feet knew where I was going before my brain did. I only realized when I turned the corner and was face to face with the bunker. I stop in my tracks, the sight of the run down concrete building and the impala parked outside almost enough to bring me to my knees. I steel my nerves, my chest heaving from exertion and anxiety, the only sound in my ears the rush of my own blood. I cover the distance to the door, my knuckles rapping against the door before I can think twice. I almost lose hope when no one answers, a minute passes and then two. Before the door slowly opens, a crack forming, the barrel of a gun poking through. I wait, unmoving, frozen from fear of the person on the other side of the door not being a Winchester. The door is thrown open, the gun lowered and its, Dean. His face twisted in utter confusion as he says my name, his eyes glancing over my disheveled appearance.

“Sam! Get out here!” He yells, his voice loud enough to make me jump. He steps to the side and gestures for me to come inside. The warmth of the bunker, is barely enough to take the edge off. My clothing is soaked and chills are emanating through my entire body. His eyes don’t leave me for a second, the gun that had been pointed at me moments earlier, tucked safely into the waistband of his pants. My gaze is drawn to the hallway as I hear footsteps approaching and Sam comes into view, but he doesn’t see me right away. His attention focused on his brother.

“Dean, what’s the ma-“ He stops, his eyes finally landing on me. His face is mixture of multiple emotions. Shock, concern, anger and utter confusion.

“Y/N.” My name falls from his lips, a whisper, barely traveling the distance to my ears. I hug my arms to my body, a shiver making its way through once again.

“Hi, Sammy.” I give him a small smile, my voice tiny and shaky. It takes him two full strides to cross the room, his arms coming to wrap tightly around me. I am caught off guard by his actions, fully expecting the third degree before he even acknowledged the past friendship that we shared. It takes me a full five seconds before I hug him back, relief flooding through me. God, how I had missed this man. His embrace bringing back a rush of nostalgia that I had done my best to forget, I never thought I would see him again. He pulls away, holding me at an arms length and looking me over from head to toe. I watch the creases deepen on his forehead when he sees the gash on my cheek and the bruise slowly forming on my jaw. His fingertips brush over the marks, questions forming in his eyes.

“Where have you been? I went looking for you, I tried to find you. I knew something had to be wrong when you stopped responding to me.” He says, his eyes searching my own for any explanation.

“It’s a long story Sam.” I say, my body continuing to punish me for remaining in my drenched clothes. He notices, gesturing for me to take my jacket off. While I do that, he grabs a blanket from the shelf nearby and wraps it around my shoulders. The warmth it provides a slight comfort in this moment.

“I’ll let the two of you catch up, I’ll be in my room if you need me.” Dean says, leaving us alone. Sam takes my hand, pulling me gently behind him. He leads me to the kitchen, my eyes taking in every part of my surroundings. Not much had changed since the last time I was here, everything still in the same place.

“Sit on the counter, I’ll get you cleaned up.” Sam says, his voice gentle but firm all the same. I comply, resting my hands on the counter and lifting myself up onto the cold surface. He is silent as he pulls the first aid kit out of the cabinet, I watch his every movement, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the anger he must be holding at, waiting for the dam to break and his surprise to turn to violence. But that doesn’t happen, his touch is gentle as he gingerly cleans the cut on my cheek. His fingers gently move across my skin, cleaning and then bandaging my face. Only after he is done and satisfied with his work, does he speak.

“Coffee?” He asks, and I nod, eager for any source of warmth. The bone chilling cold still settled deep within me, the blanket helping but not fully relieving it.

“Sam?” I say, watching him move efficiently around the small kitchen, grabbing all of the things he needs to make a coffee. He hums in response, his eyes meeting mine momentarily before focusing on the task before him.

“I owe you an apology, I didn’t want to shut you out. I missed you every single day.” I say, my voice breaking towards the end. I clear it, pushing away the tears that are threatening to form in the corners of my eyes. He is silent, he finishes making my coffee and hands me the mug. I gratefully take the mug from him, holding it up to my face and letting the warm steam wash over me.

“Where were you, Y/N?”

“Tennessee, then Nevada, then Maine. We moved around a lot, avoided too many questions.” I say, taking a sip from the steaming liquid, I am pleasantly surprised when it is made exactly how I like it. He hadn’t forgotten.

“Who is we? What questions?” He asks, his arms coming to rest across his chest. I hesitate, unsure how to explain everything that had happened over the two years since we had spoken last.

“Do you remember the guy you met when you came to visit me last? The one from my Biology lab?” He nods and I continue, “Well we started dating shortly after you met him. I moved in with him, and-“ I hesitate, memories flooding through me from the times before things got bad. I shake my head and glance up at him. He is waiting, his eyes trained on me. Listening, just like he always did. “Well. He wasn’t the guy I thought he was. He would get angry over the smallest things, it started out as really bad arguments. Which turned into him verbally abusing me. He couldn’t stand it when I talked to anyone other than him. So I stopped talking to everyone, I had to. Even that wasn’t enough for him. He moved from berating me, to beating me.” My eyes fall to the floor, shame washing over me as I continue to explain where I had been. I couldn’t hold his gaze, I felt weak reliving all of the moments that I had kept hidden from everyone. He stays silent, letting me get it all out. I can’t bring myself to look at him, so I take another sip of my coffee. Dreading the complete silence that has settled between us. “I could kill him. I should kill him. I thought you were dead, I searched the obituaries for your name every day, for months.” Sam finally says, crossing the room to stand directly in front of me. His hands land on my knees, his thumbs rubbing circles on my skin through the thick fabric of my jeans. I look up at him, his words catching me completely off guard. My lip trembles and before I can stop them, tears are falling quickly. He frowns, and pulls my head into his chest. His arms coming to wrap around me again as I slide down from the counter, allowing myself to be swallowed in his embrace. “I am so sorry, I missed you, Sam. Every day.” I exhale, a sob following shortly behind. He strokes my back, his touch and smell something that I never fully comprehended how much I had missed them.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you now and nothing will change that.” He says, pressing a kiss to the top of my hair.

The few hours are spent together, he gives me dry clothes to change into and leaves me to take a shower. He sits outside the bathroom door, giving me my privacy but he is close enough for me to know he is still there. I take my time in the shower, enjoying the warmth that it brings. After my shower I join him in his room and we spend hours catching up, taking turns listening intently to the other. Even though so much time had passed, it felt like nothing when we started thinking back to our many shared adventures. It had been a long time coming, this reunion I had dreamed of but never thought would happen. That night we share a bed, not the first time it had happened and I’m sure it won’t be the last. We doze off between conversation, exhaustion taking over shortly after the blankets come to rest covering our bodies. Sam is there when I wake, sweat soaked and screaming. He is quick to pull me into his embrace and remind me that I’m safe. His arms are wrapped tightly around me, lips pressed to my forehead as he murmurs comforting words against my skin. The sense of safety lulls me back to sleep and just before I’m swallowed up by the darkness it brings I hear him whisper four words that will change the rest of our lives for the better.

“I love you, Y/N.”

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