#even Lark. do you know how fucked up you have to be to be more tragic than LARK OAK-GARCIA HIMSELF
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something about the fact that Hermie wasn't even supposed to exist, the fact that he only came into being because Beth was fucking around with an anagram generator and he was funny enough to keep around. (something about the fact that Anthony clearly liked him enough to not want him to be a total creep, and retconned an explanation that he was method acting as the Joker.) something about the fact that Paeden didn't mind getting frequently forgotten by the PCs, but Hermie minded a lot, and that was funny, so it became a running gag. something about the fact that all his flirting and messing with Normal was motivated by his single most important desire in life: getting attention, and more specifically, attention from Normal. (something about the fact that he seeks attention more than he seeks love.) something about neither of his dads wanting him, of the party not wanting him (of the cast not wanting him). something about the fact that it was clearly specified that Scam spawned him into existence, meaning he might not even have a soul, meaning he might be gone forever without even the possibility of reunion in the afterlife. something about the fact that he outlived his usefulness, and the only significant or meaningful thing he could do for narrative or characters was to die. (something about "he's basically a free kill that changes nothing in the story.") something about him saying in the stand-up ep that he'd be better off dead. something about the fact that the narrative decided he was right. something about the fact that he was loved enough from his introduction to keep coming back, but not loved enough to be made plot important. not loved enough to be saved. Hermie the Unworthy, everyone.
#anyway. im fine#literally what the fuck yall. worlds most tragic goddamn character#i thought Glenn and Terry and Grant were all pretty damn tragic but if hes permadead then Hermie takes the fucking crown#even Lark. do you know how fucked up you have to be to be more tragic than LARK OAK-GARCIA HIMSELF#please let him be important. please let all of this be a smokescreen for him coming back in a meaningful plot-relevant way#I JUST NEED HIM TO BE OKAY#dndads#dndads s2#dndads spoilers#dndads s2 spoilers#hermie the unworthy
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Friendlocke Violet Gijinkas (Part 1/7)
Since the edited episodes are starting to come out, I figured that bc of that and the fact that I've been keeping this in the back burner for a loooong while now, might as well complete all my friendlocke violet gijinkas!! Some are gonna stay the same while others are gonna have slight/ complete redesigns, so please keep that in mind!
I plan on posting them in order by groups of three, so there's gonna be seven parts in total, all of which I'll be linking here when done vvv
(Part Two) (Part Three) (Part Four) (Part Five) (Part Six) (Part Seven)
!! These will contain personal headcanons I have for the cast, little fun facts, and also spoilers for Friendlocke Violet (for both the edited vids and the streams) !!
@saltydkart-reblogs
And that's pretty much it, designs under the cut!
LARK:
HUGE nerd. spent most of his time during the Uva Academy studying different kinds of pokemon as well as different fighting styles he can utilize once he is able to go out on his own journey with his very own trainer! Too bad that didn't really help in the long run...
His entire wardrobe consists of McDonald's related outfits. It's fucking insane. He even has some from long LONG ago that aren't available anywhere else.
The bubble pattern on his hair is able to move and change. Nobody knows how this is possible, not even Lark himself. All Lark knows is that his hair looks incredibly stylish!
Speaking of bubbles, he has the ability to blow bubbles whenever and wherever he pleases!
Often keeps himself extremely clean and gets upset if even a small speck of dirt gets on him, despite this he somehow smells like McDonald's food and axe body spray. Disgusting. He's so cool!
Even after death he still likes to hang around the other team members as a ghost, often getting to know the newer members as well as reuniting with the old ones. Sometimes they see him, sometimes they don't. It usually depends.
SARA:
Due to being a human in her past life, Sara is able to actually speak with the other humans in the pokemon world. However she usually doesn't due to it being seen as extremely weird and out of place. She did slip up once while talking in the presence of Arven, who thought it was the weed making him hear things.
Oinkologne are usually unable to do much with their hooves but Sara spent nights practicing how to knit with her new hooves and now she's able to do it flawlessly. I don't know how she managed to do that but go queen!
When first joining the team she'd often have the urge to eat her food related companions. It was a strange time for Sara, but she managed to overcome it.
When Peppy gets sick, she usually is the one who nurses him back to health. She was a human once so she often is able to figure out whatever sickness Peppy has and treat it properly. I suppose she's like a second mother to him.
The bag she carries with her is full of thread that she collected from various Tarountula she encountered on the journey, as well as little things she knits together in her spare time.
For the most part, Sara forgives... but NEVER forgets.
Did you guys know that Sara has a new YouTube channel? Check it out!
Pastey:
Before joining the team, Pastey was a nameless wanderer. He's been down every road in Paldea and knows almost the entire region (except for Area Zero) like the back of his hand.
He's gotten hurt pretty badly throughout the run (ie. the Mikey fight, the Atticus fight, and ESPECIALLY the final battle), however, he does not gain any (physical) scars from those fights. This is bc he's basically an axolotl, and axolotls are usually able to heal without scarring.
Pastey's "arms" are, to put it simply, mud prosthetics. More info here vvv
Pastey HAS met Mall Bingo once before the run, however, he doesn't recognize her. The only reason he does not recognize her is bc she wears glasses. (You know how people somehow aren't able to recognize Superman bc he wears glasses in his civilian attire even tho his face remains the same? It's basically like that lmao)
Unlike the lightbulbs he eats, the gasoline he drinks isn't really mandatory to his diet. Gasoline is like alcohol to him and he drinks it like an absolute CHAMP.
He goes fishing when there's nothing else to do or when he can't sleep at night. He doesn't do this bc he thinks it's fun or anything, only bc it's a "good time passer" or so he claims. Other members of the team will often sit with him and vent out anything that's troubling them at the moment, and Pastey is always there to listen to them.
And that's pretty much it. Next is Joe, Hannah Ü, and Mykyie!
#I am a firm believer that Sara can and will beat ass#No i do NOT plan on making gijinka designs for Chatbike and Phil sorry guys#just getting that out of the way i know how much yall love phil /j /lh#Anyways it feels so good to finally start on this like holy moly#also idk when the others will be done... HOWEVER...#The sketches for Joe Hannah and Mikey are already pretty much done I just gotta make em digital#so ideally they'll be out pretty soonish I'd say... I hope#but yeah if anyone has any questions abt them feel free to send them in my askbox and I'll be happy to answer them as best as i can!#<- No anons tho sorry yall#Also I need to be honest here Lark's outfit kinda does look atrocious and I couldve changed it... BUT...#I honestly thought it was WAY funnier if Lark's attire looked weird on purpose so I kept it like that lol#Anyways sorry for the word vomit here are the tags#friendlocke#friendlocke violet#saltydkdan#should my gijinkas have their own tag...? Sure why not#Violet Gijinka Au#cherris canvas
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"Whatcha doing, bard?"
Jaskier startled slightly when Aiden plopped down beside him next to the fire, eyes bright with the beginnings of drunkenness as he offered the wine he was holding. Jaskier took a swig straight from the bottle, choking a little in surprise. After the roughness of the various homebrews and the wines that had been aging in the cellar for possible decades it was sweeter than he expected. Definitely Southern.
"Just thinking. You?"
The Cat let out a dramatic sigh, leaning against Jaskier, "Lambert's ignoring me and it's making me sad."
"Oh, come on. I'm sure he's not."
"Oh?" Aiden cocked an eyebrow before taking a deep inhale, "Hey, Lambert!" He called over to where Lambert was deep in conversation with his brothers (and had been all night). "I'm not wearing any underthings and I fingered myself stupid while thinking of you earlier!"
"Yeah, that's fine Kitten." Lambert answered with a dismissive wave of his hand without even looking over as if Aiden had just told him that he was going to go grab more booze.
Aiden smirked at Jaskier as if to say 'see?', "And from the look on your face you know exactly what I'm talking about, no?"
Now it was Jaskier's turn to fill his lungs, "Oh Geralt!" He singsonged, "I just spilled sweet dessert wine all over my naked body. Want to help me get cleaned up? I'm so sticky and messy!"
Geralt gave one of his classic, non-committal grunts in response.
"Oh, sweet Gods." Jaskier took another angry mouthful before thrusting the bottle into Aiden's chest, ignoring the Witchers chuckle, "I understand he wants to spend time with his brothers but we haven't had any alone time for two weeks! He's either involved in some group activity or we're both too tired after training or chores."
"Hmm."'Aiden hummed in agreement, taking a deep swallow of the wine, "As much as I like Geralt and Eskel and how close they all are, there's certain activities I don't want them involved in." His expression turned devilish, "Want to do something about it?"
"...I'm listening."
Aiden crooked his finger in a beckoning gesture, prompting Jaskier to lean in closer so he could whisper in his ear as if the other Witchers in the room were actually paying attention to them.
"Fucking Hell!"
When he'd decided to call it a night and join Aiden in bed, the last thing Lambert had been expecting was to stumble on his Cat and Geralt's bard locked in a heated kiss at the top of the stairs, Jaskier's hands leisurely roaming over Aiden's back, whimpering when the Witcher moved his attentions from the bard's mouth to his throat. It was only when Geralt's telltale growl reached his ears he lifted his head, languidly turning to look at the two unsuspecting voyuers. Both Wolves looked an entertaining combination of aroused and annoyed. Mostly aroused.
Aiden purred internally. Perfect.
"Well, this is what happens when you forget about us." He said with an exaggerated pout, which Jaskier matched as he wrapped his arms around Aiden's neck, attempting to give Geralt his most pathetic look.
"I've never felt so neglected in my life." He whined, something Geralt knew definitely wasn't true but he decided to play along once he realised neither Jaskier or Aiden smelt even vaguely of arousal, despite their previous position.
"Oh, don't worry Lark." He growled as he stalked forwards, Aiden having the forethought to hurriedly disentangle himself, "I'm about to make sure you're very well taken care of."
Jaskier gave a yelp of surprise which turned into a laugh as Geralt threw him over his shoulder before stalking away towards his room. Jaskier grinned widely as he threw a salute to Aiden before they disappeared around the corner.
Before he realised what was happening, he found himself in Jaskier's previous position. Boxed in against the stone wall with Lambert's chest pressed against his, "That was your idea, wasn't it?"
It wasn't really a question and it was pointless to try and lie, "Yes." Aiden said, meeting Lambert's gaze, gasping in surprise when the Wolf ducked his head and started nuzzling at his neck.
"And you honestly feel the same?"
"...Yes."
Lambert let out a rumble, the meaning of which Aiden couldn't quite discern as he nipped at Aiden's pulse.
"So." Aiden prompted, squirming a little, "You going to make it up to me, or punish me?"
"Depends. How serious were you being about the no underthings?"
#the witcher#the witcher fanfiction#aiden/lambert#aiden x lambert#lambden#lambert/aiden#lambert x aiden#witcher aiden#witcher lambert#lambert#geraskier#geralt/jaskier#geralt x jaskier#jaskier x geralt#jaskier/geralt#witcher jaskier#jaskier#witcher geralt#geralt of rivia#geralt
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Larks and Katydids [dave york]
There's something sweet about you that keeps him coming back to this little diner.
You do not know the dark corners of the world he lives in. But you will.
my masterlist!
pairing: dave york x f!reader
rating: 18+ (mdni)
tags and warnings: dom/sub dynamic, age gap (20s/40s), blood, violence, murder, soft!dave, dom!dave, stalker!dave, but in a cute way, it's for your own good, obsession, oral sex (m and f receiving), unprotected sex (wrapping before tapping etc.), brief orgasm denial, submissive reader, dave is a bamf, protective!dave, possessive!dave, dave is nice but only to you, shirley jackson references, fingering, creampie, daddy kink, sweet girl being a dave york staple, kidnapping, implied innocence kink
word count: ~ 14.7k
a/n: y'know what.. now that i'm looking back it.. this fic kinda gives red light and now i'm wondering if i might need some serious introspection for writing shit like this. anyway ☠️ some of you know may already be aware that my earlier fics were inspired by hozier songs. this one was somewhat of an ode to nfwmb, but that may just be because i listened to it non-stop while writing. anyway, if you haven't already read this one-shot, please enjoy!! xoxo
LARKS AND KATYDIDS
His eyes keep drifting toward the sweet, pretty thing behind the counter.
Dave has instincts. Good ones. For one, he knows that the idiot sitting across from him is not the type of client he wants to make a deal with. Senator Isaiah Berkeley may have the means and motive to kill his cheating wife, but Dave’s instincts prickle up the back of his neck. Berkeley is flighty, nervous, visibly sweating at the brow. He’ll be a liability. Some men are not built for the jagged edges of this life. The man still wears his wedding ring, for fuck’s sake. He’d regret hiring Dave the second he found his wife’s body after a fall down the stairs.
Dave never doubts his instincts. Now, they sink their claws into his eyes until he cannot help but flick them toward your pretty face. Jesus, you’re pretty. This diner is a hole in the wall, a red-and-white and black-checkered-floor retro nightmare that smells vaguely of syrup, and he’s surprised the staff aren’t wearing fucking rollerskates to deliver the food. But the coffee is good, and the food is real, and there’s not another soul here. Except for you.
He likes the simple black shirt and skirt you wear, and he likes the way you roll up your apron to make it fit the curves of your body. He likes the shape of your mouth, the gentle touch to your eyes, the way you beamed at him when they entered the diner. Best seat in the house, you said when you sat them in the corner. Dave tasted honey when he tried your name out loud and took his order: two coffees, black. You smiled, like you could have guessed, and said, Be right up. You don’t carry a notepad. It makes him like you more: you’re clever. You remember things.
You’re standing behind the counter and reading a book, your chin in your palm, and he’s fascinated by the speed of your eyes across the pages. He understands why you’re so quick when a gruff male voice erupts from the kitchen, calling a name that must be yours. “Get back to work,” he snaps.
You scramble to hold your place in the book and scurry around the counter to check up on your only two customers. As if you hadn’t been so good, so attentive. You’re good. He knows it. You should be treated like it. Dave’s fingers twitch, like he can swipe at the faint frown that furrows your brow. Fuck, you’re adorable, even flustered, especially flustered.
“How you folks doing?” you ask, that sweet smile a poison that festers in his blood. “Sure I can’t get you anything else?”
“No,” says Berkeley shortly, not meeting your eye. Could he be any more conspicuous?
Dave, rubbing his fingertips over his bottom lip, doesn’t want to leave it at that. “What are you reading?” he asks.
You blink as if you’ve never heard the question before, but you don’t ask him to repeat himself. He likes that, too. “Oh,” you say, and it sounds like a trembling sigh of excitement. Dave feels himself swell up a little with pride. “It’s called We Have Always Lived in the Castle.”
He hums. “Jackson.”
He likes being the one who dropped that sparkle into your eyes. “You like her?”
“I know her,” he says. Across from him, Berkeley’s fingers are white-knuckling the handle of his coffee mug. He’s staring into the dregs like he expects them to tell him his fortune. “Don’t have a lot of time for reading nowadays. Do you like it?”
You nod eagerly, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining the way you lean toward him slightly, as if frantic to answer his question. “I’m reading it for a literature course I’m taking. I think she’s one of my favourites now. But I really shouldn’t have my nose in a book at work.”
Oh. You’re young. You’re young, still in college, and you’re goddamn smart. The interest stirring in his pants mirrors that in his head.
“Our secret,” says Dave. “I’ll have more coffee, please, honey.”
He certainly does not imagine the way you bite your lip to suppress your grin and hurry off for the coffee pot, a little mouse. You like to please. He doesn’t need more coffee; he and Berkeley are almost done, whether he knows it or not.
“I can’t take your contract, Senator,” says Dave, still watching your perky ass as you walk away. “You’ll have to find somebody else.”
Berkeley’s mouth opens in preparation for what Dave presumes will be a flurry of feeble threats and reassurances that I can pay you well, but Dave slips out of the booth and walks away—not before slapping down a couple bills that will cover the cost of their coffees.
He should go back into town, sleep, and get Kovac to reach out to some more potential clients. But he wants to linger for a bit, hang around, see why his instincts are pushing him toward you, you pretty young thing with a smile that dims all other light. You’re on your way back to their table, holding the coffee pot, and nearly bump into him in your rush. “Oh!”
Dave steadies you with a firm grip around your elbow and doesn’t let go. Your skin is soft, prickled with goosebumps.
You bow your head in instant submission, instant apology, and he tilts his head to the side. He makes you nervous. “Could’ve hurt yourself,” he says softly.
“I’m sorry. Guess I was excited.” Your eyes flicker up toward him, and he forces them to stay there when he lifts your chin with his finger.
“Exceptional customer service,” says Dave. Your laugh is breathless. “I was just leaving. Don’t worry about that second cup, sweetheart.” He drops his hand only to dig out a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and place it in your palm. “Wrong Jackson, I know.”
Your eyes widen at it. “This is way more than your coffee.”
Dave lifts his brow. “You want me to put it in your pocket myself?”
You slowly pocket the bill. “Thank you,” you tell him. It’s strong and clear, and he likes the way it sounds coming from your mouth.
“I was in college once,” he says good-naturedly. “In ancient times. I know the costs.”
Your laugh, your real laugh, is the chimes of dawn. You’re so bright. You’re the sun slowly painting the sky orange as it rises. “I’ll be done in a few months.”
“Yeah?” Dave frowns. “What’ll you do after?”
You shrug one shoulder. Your other arm is still burdened with holding up the coffee pot. “Hopefully, get as far away from here as I can.”
“Your parents suffocating you?” He’s good at digging, at unearthing treasures with only words; he shouldn’t have to be, in this line of work, but he likes to know things. Likes the control that comes with being prepared for anything, everything.
“They’re dead,” you tell him. It’s plain, colourless, and Dave’s curiosity deepens. “I live with my uncle.”
There it is.
Everybody has a trigger. People are like guns. They are predictable, but if you handle them wrong, they’ll jam. He catches the way your eyes shutter at the mention of your uncle, the way your shoulders round slightly, even though that brilliant smile is still on your face. Dave doesn’t like it.
“Does he treat you good?”
Your slow blink is trancelike. “He’s family,” you say simply, and Dave knows that’s the answer you give every time the man doesn’t treat you so good.
He grinds his teeth a little bit, an old habit from his smoking days. “Well, I hope you get the hell out of dodge,” he says.
“Please come again,” you say. “God knows I’ll still be here.”
Oh, he’ll come again. In fact, he decides, he may not even leave.
~
Dave follows you home.
It’s a short drive once you pull your beat-up Cooper off the highway and enter a little courtyard surrounded by dilapidated apartments. He knows the area. And he knows it’s not safe. Dave turns off his headlights and idles in the hazard zone, watching as you exit your car and rush to the front door with your purse clutched to your chest. He shakes his head, clicks his tongue to himself. Scared little bird, too pretty to live in a place like this.
He waits a little longer. Eventually, he sees you—he knows it’s you, even five storeys up, from the length of your hair and the way it moves—shuck the curtains open. It’s a small window of orange glowing light in the darkness, but he can see you. A man—your uncle—approaches the window, too, lifting the pane and blowing a cloud of smoke outside. Dave rolls down his window and strains his ear. It’s useless; he can’t hear a thing. And yet, he waits.
He doesn’t know what he waits for. Maybe he’s expecting him to hit you, to lash out, to do something. Something that would let Dave scratch the itch in his knuckles. Instead, he’s only waiting, until your uncle tosses his cigarette out the window and latches it shut. He is evicted from your world for tonight. But he will not go quietly.
It begins with a phone call. Ari. Need you to track someone down for me.
Your uncle’s name is Jason. He doesn’t share your last name, having been a half-brother to your father, but it’s him. Felony charges: breaking and entering, assault, possession. Run-of-the-mill, except it isn’t, because the fucker lives with you. As far as Dave has been able to dig up, you’ve never reported a word against him, but it seems you like to stay away most of the time, anyway.
Oh, yes. Dave has been digging into you, too.
Senior in college, majoring in Environmental Science at Northeastern. Long-standing and passionate affair with nature. Event Coordinator for SAF (Students for a Future), where you’ve organised speaker panels with renowned climatologists and planted trees in Franklin Park. You write for the association’s newsletter.
All of it makes Dave frown, rubbing at his brow, hunched over his desk under the light of a single lamp. You’re so good. You’re clever and optimistic and ambitious, and you deserve a hell of a lot better than living in that shithole and working such a lacklustre job. He looks at the picture that accompanies your file, pulled from your social media, and adjusts the hard length in his pants. You’re photographed in the sunlight, smiling bright, your hair loose and gently blown about in the breeze, wearing a skimpy little sundress. Dave hisses and squeezes himself at the base of his stiffening cock. Jesus, get it together, he scolds himself. It’s a fucking photograph.
Oh, but he’s thinking about you. He’s remembering the tenderness of you, the kind heart, the way you belong nowhere near him. Your soul is snow-white. He will bloody it.
You've had boyfriends. Of course you have. A young woman who looks like you doesn't go her whole life without boys clumsily tossing themselves at your feet. It doesn't mean Dave refrains from investigating them, too. Two of them were from high school, short-term, and went to different colleges to live different lives. The third—Jack—lasted a year and a half, and you met him in a first-year sciences course. Both of you were from different towns, fish out of water, and gravitated to one another because you had no other friends. None of your friends were surprised when you and Jack began dating, but they were surprised to discover he'd been cheating on you for the last two months of your relationship.
Jack said you got busy and couldn't fulfil his needs. According to Dave’s thorough research, the girl he crawled to was his roommate's girlfriend. Dave grinds his teeth as he examines the kid’s picture. He's a fucking kid. He's clean-cut, a trust fund baby, never planted a tree in Franklin Park despite your attempts to convince him. He's never gotten his hands dirty the way Dave has. He's never bloodied them.
Another sip of whiskey, and his cock won’t rest. Dave grunts, unzipping his pants and whipping his belt off, pulling himself out. “Fuck,” he hisses, eyes fixed on your smiling face as he spits into his hand and begins to stroke himself. “Fuck.”
His head tips back against the headrest of his office chair. You’re kneeling in front of him, your sweet doe’s eyes awaiting his instruction. He takes you through it, step-by-step, because he’s a bad man, but he’d be good to you. Your perfect lips wrap around his head, your tongue lapping up the precum that beads out, greedy but obedient. You take him deeper, choking around his length and his girth, your mascara smearing as he cups your face and encourages you to take me, you can take me, sweet girl. You do—of course you do—making a low, satisfied hum around his cock when you manage to take him down your throat, happily swallowing around him as he begins to pump his cum inside you. That’s it. That’s it, baby.
Dave’s hips jerk as he comes, and splatters his cum across his stomach and his hand. Some of it, though, lands on the picture of you, which he does not remember picking up, clenching in his fist.
Is there a circle of hell darker than the one he’s already destined for?
Dave returns to the diner the next week, and your grin when you see him soaks through his bones. You nearly bruise your hips in your rush to get around the counter to greet him.
“I loved it,” you tell him right away, “the Jackson book. I think I’m gonna write my paper on it.”
He likes that you want to tell him about your life. He likes that you trust him with the small details. He doesn't want you to trust another man like that. It's a dangerous world and being so trusting will burn you. He can't let that happen. Little bird, with your glass bones so breakable.
He unwinds his arm from behind his back and offers his gift to you. Your eyes glimmer when you see it, then slide slowly up to meet his. “You brought me a book,” you gasp, “and I don’t even know your name yet.”
“It’s Dave,” he tells you, placing the book into your hand. “I looked her up. Thought you might be interested in more.”
“Dark Tales,” you read, beaming up at him with the same smile from the picture he’d jerked his cock over. Fucking Christ. He’s going to hell. You step closer to him and, tentatively, as if he might lash out at you, lift up onto your toes and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you, Dave.”
He tries to quell the arousal that’s pumping blood double-time to his cock. He really tries. But he cannot quell the memory of your lips on his skin. Why should he deny himself the heavenly indulgence of your attention?
“I expect a book report,” he says, all stern brows and unwavering eye contact.
You hug the book to your chest and he wants to shove you to your knees, bend you over the counter, bury his face in your needy pussy. You say his name, and it’s a whispering shockwave that trembles all the way down his spine. “After such a thoughtful gift… I’ll do anything you want me to.”
Yes. Yes, he knows.
Dave knows what you need. He is what you need.
You need a man who will treat you right. You need someone to handle you properly, assuredly. You need a man who will hold you like you’re precious, shimmering granules of a crushed diamond. You want to be told what to do. You want to be dominated, protected, fucked. You want to be wrecked, and you want it to put you back together.
You need a man who will treat you right for the first time in your life.
Dave continues to come into the diner once a week. He steals you away for conversation whenever you aren’t attending to your other customers, and he gets a tick in his jaw whenever you’re whisked away. Your very existence evicts reason from his head. He wants to give you all the money you could ever want just to get you away from those wandering eyes and too-close hands. He wants to come in every single night you work just so he can keep an eye out: your silent, deadly protector. He wants to slash all the tires that aren’t his so nobody can come here and invade his private time with you. He knows he cannot do any of this because it’s something close to clinically insane.
Instead, he only talks to you. And really fucking enjoys it.
“And then Kate broke up with Garrett, even though she still loves him, but once she realised it, she realised Emily was totally in love with Garrett, so by the time Kate went back to beg him to take her back, he was already in bed with Emily, and now none of them are talking. And I’m down three club members.”
You speed through all of this while pouring his coffee, and Dave tries to wrap his head around the plot. “So… what did Emily do wrong?”
You click your tongue. “You would fail a test on girl code, Mr. York. We don’t go after one another’s boyfriends, crushes, or exes. We definitely don’t fuck them.”
Dave vaguely shakes his head. “They didn’t teach me that in school, sweet girl.”
“Good thing you’ve got me, then,” you say, and Dave never gets tired of the way your cheeks flush at the nickname. “What did you study?”
“Never went to college. Joined up when I was eighteen.”
“Oh.” You’re flustered right away, opening your mouth to stumble over the words, “Thank you for—”
Dave silences you with a mere flick of his eyes upward. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew the shit I did.”
The quiet lingers heavy and stifling, but it’s you who breaks it. “So,” you try, clearing your throat, “what did you do after?”
“Apparently, I thought serving my country was the only way to go. I was C.I.A.” He notes the way you blink in astonishment, and he feels compelled to make you learn that he isn’t good. “Now, I own a security company.”
“Does that mean you protect people’s homes from break-ins, or people hire you to professionally break in?”
The twist of your lips is wicked and shoots right to his cock. Dave leans over the counter. “Wanna take a guess?”
“Sorry, Mr. York. Anyone that secretive about their job description is up to something shifty.” Your eyes still tease him. “And I don’t want to end up dead in a ditch somewhere. Bills to pay.”
“You know I’d keep you safe, sweet girl.”
You’re cleaning the counter with a rag and he’s sipping his coffee, but both of you are smiling behind your respective tasks. “I know,” you say, your eyes briefly meeting.
Every so often, he follows you to school. It’s nice: friendly, modern with natural touches, good to look at among the fall leaves that crunch underfoot. And there you are, walking down the steps, wearing a Northeastern sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, and sneakers, your hair loose. You're laughing at something your friend said; in fact, you seem to be surrounded by friends. Dave slips his sunglasses further down his nose as he leans back against the Lincoln. His popular butterfly, so happy and brilliant.
He doesn't know how your eyes find him so quickly, but they meet across the courtyard. And a game begins.
You stop in your tracks. Your friend puts a hand on your shoulder (“Are you okay?” he imagines she asks), and you nod, making up some excuse. Dave folds his arms over his chest and watches you continue your walk down the path, departing with all but one of your friends with friendly waves good-bye.
He knows your class schedule, which means he knows you have to walk right by his parking spot to get to the building. You make it to the end of the path and your friend finally spots Dave. Oh my God, he sees her whisper. The rest is unintelligible, but he's smug as a motherfucker when you bite down on your lip to hide the grin that's tugging on your pretty mouth. And then your hand twitches, and something falls to the ground behind you.
Dave smirks. Clever thing. He rushes to pick up the key ring while you and your friend keep walking. “Excuse me, miss,” he calls out.
You turn around, all coy and demure, and he wants to drag you inside his car and sit you right on his cock to straighten out your behaviour. “You dropped your keys,” says Dave, lifting them up with a jingle.
You feign a gasp. “Oh, thank you, sir.” You make sure to brush your fingers along his knuckles as you pluck the key ring from his hand. “You're a hero.”
Dave lifts his brows in acknowledgement, looking at you over his sunglasses. “I've heard those are good,” he says, eyes flicking down toward Dark Tales, bookmarked near the end and tucked under your arm. Behind you, your friend has her thumbnail in her mouth, enraptured in the conversation that's unfolding.
He’ll have to rectify your lip-biting habit. “I got it as a present,” you tell him, your fingers tracing the title on the cover. You know exactly what you're doing, and the thrill of knowing you're attracted to him thrills Dave.
“Very thoughtful,” he muses. “I’m sorry to keep you. You must have somewhere to be.”
“Thank you again.” You look up at him through your lashes and Dave feels his nostrils flare. Your friend tugs on your elbow and he can hear the vague whisper as you both retreat from him: … so hot.
It's been a few months since he met you. He finds himself following you home and sleeping in his car outside your apartment more than in his own home. It irks him that he can't look inside and see that you're okay, knowing with absolute confidence that he hasn't hurt you.
The night something goes wrong, you sense it long before he does.
The diner is occupied by two other customers, one in the corner and the other by the door. Not unusual for this time. Dave approaches the counter and prepares to tease you about your incidental meeting yesterday.
But you just smile politely at him and ask, “What can I get for you tonight?”
Dave frowns. “Sweet girl—”
“Coffee?” You pick up the pot and Dave starts at the way your hand trembles so badly the coffee spills over the rim of the cup. He wants to touch you, reach out and wrap his firm hand around your wrist, steady your nerves. Why are you so frightened? “I’m sorry,” you say shakily, scrambling for the rag under the counter.
Dave’s instincts are never wrong. Something, or someone, has put you out of sorts. His blood reaches a simmer at the thought. His job is to protect you. He's supposed to keep you safe and happy. But your eyes are stricken with fear and your posture is stiff. The rag in your hand won't stop shaking.
It’s the way your apron sits askew, like you've been anxiously twisting it, or it's the way you smile like he's a stranger and hand him something small, “a little something extra,” on the house.
He unfurls his palm and finds a note.
The man in the corner has a gun, it says.
You don’t once stop smiling.
He doesn't recognise the man. He wears a leather jacket and jeans; there's a scar on his cheek and over the bridge of his nose, which is bent from one too many breaks; and he's looking right at Dave with a crooked smile on his face. He lifts a hand and waves. There's a tattoo on his wrist: the sigil of the Lukov Brotherhood. Dave dips his chin in greeting. Cordial. A farce. They both know it.
Dave takes a sip from his cup. “Spill coffee on me,” he says behind the rim, obscuring his mouth from the view of the man in the corner.
You go to top up his drink and overshoot, staining the front of his white dress shirt. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” you squeak.
Dave feigns a mild-mannered annoyance. “Where's your bathroom?” he asks, shucking off his jacket.
You gesture for him to follow you and usher him into the tiny, one-stall bathroom. You slump against the door and put your hands over your face. A shudder racks your whole body.
Dave can't have this. He crowds you, taking your wrists and prying them from your face. “Sweetheart.” He brushes a knuckle over your cheek. “Did he hurt you?”
You swallow thickly. “No. No, he just walked in and asked for a table, but he pointed the gun at me and said he was waiting for the right person. Said I wouldn't get hurt if I didn't get in the way.” Your eyes meet his, frantic. “Oh, God, did I just get in the way?”
Dave pulls you into his chest and lets you rest your cheek on his heart. Your breathing evens out as you listen to it beat, strong and steady. “He's a hired killer. He’s probably here for me.”
“No.” You shake your head, shoving away from him. “No, he can't… He can't do that. Why would he—?”
“I lied to you, sweet girl.” Dave cups the back of your head and bunches your hair in his fist. He needs to make you understand. “The first night we met, a senator was asking me to kill his wife for him.”
“You…” For a moment, you trail off, lingering on the silence. He can't tell whether you want to flee or bury yourself in his chest again. To his shock, a small burst of laughter escapes you, and you slap your hand over your mouth to stay quiet. “I knew you didn't just break into houses. Someone with a car like yours, all those nice suits… God, I’m stupid.”
You're trembling a little from the shock, but Dave needs to take care of the problem and get you out safely. “I need you to work with me,” he tells you. “You listening to me?”
You nod vigorously. “I’m listening, Dave.”
“Good. Good girl.” He squeezes your hip. “You need to get out through the back. I’m going to give you my keys; get in my car and lock the doors. Not your car. Mine.”
“What about you? Dave, what if he hurts you?”
It fills him with a certain courage to know how deeply you care for him. “He's a lackey, sweetheart. Joined a so-called brotherhood just to scratch an itch.” Dave leans in and kisses your forehead. “He's not gonna get me.”
He's certainly not going to get you.
Dave reaches past you to open the door, but you grab his wrist. “Wait.”
He barely opens his mouth before you're standing on your toes and pressing your lips to his. It's a frantic, hurried kiss, but it's enough. It's enough for Dave. He's going to win because he needs to take you home with him.
When you pull away, he pins you with a stern look. “My car, sweet girl. No detours.”
He opens the door and lets you flee, and then Dave is rolling up his sleeves, rolling his head around his neck.
The other customer has left, meaning Dave and the Lukov lackey are alone. “Mr. York,” he greets, toasting his cup of coffee with a grin. He's fucking cocky, thinks Dave, lifting the drink you poured for him. “She's very pretty.”
Yeah, he's going to make this hurt.
“Let's get this over with,” says Dave, approaching the man’s table and sitting across from him in the booth. “Who sent you? Why did they send you? And how many more are coming?”
“You don't even wanna know my name?” He pouts. “Ouch.”
Dave lifts a brow. “Answer my questions. If you're good, I’ll let you die quickly.”
The man leans back in the booth, acting like he doesn't know enough about Dave York’s reputation to give him the respect he's owed. New to the game. “Well, my name is Jonah, and since I’ve got a gun pointed at your precious bits under this table, I’ll skip the questions. If that's okay.”
He could have killed Dave the second he walked through the door tonight, but he wants to tell a good story, move up the ranks. It’s childish. Dave kicks out his leg and jolts Jonah’s arm aside just as the man’s instincts kick in and the shot goes off. It rings in Dave’s ears and the sound of the weapon clattering onto the floor, safety still off, echoes in the little diner, but he’s diving across the table and grabbing Jonah by the collar. He jerks the killer’s head forward so it cracks against the porcelain saucer next to his mug. Dave picks up the cup and tosses the contents directly into Jonah’s face. The man howls, the blood from the new gash in his forehead mingling with steaming coffee, but Dave is already kicking the gun toward himself under the table and weighing it in his own hand.
Dave slides out of the booth and drags Jonah with him, tossing him into a heap on the floor. “I don’t like to repeat myself,” says Dave, aiming the gun between his eyes. “But I guess I will, since you’re clearly new to this. Answer my questions, kid.”
“I’m not answering shi—”
Dave lowers the gun and blows off the man’s left kneecap. The resounding yowl can be heard for miles, no doubt. He frantically grasps for the gory heap of flesh, bone, and blood that soaks through his jeans, seething through his teeth and spattering saliva down his chin. It’s almost pitiful.
“FUCK!” he screams. “It was fucking Berkeley! Isaiah fucking Berkeley hired me. FUCK!”
Dave isn’t surprised. “Better. That’s one down.”
Jonah lifts his hand as if pleading for mercy, his breaths tedious and his face waxy. “Please, please, I—”
Dave fires a shot straight through his begging hand. The bones shatter and the muscles tear, and the blood is a river down the would-be killer’s wrist. He’s a screaming, growling, cursing heap on the blood-soaked floor. “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK! Fucking cunt, fucking son of a bitch, you knew too fucking much, man! He wanted to fucking shut you up, and he wanted me to kill your fucking bitch once I was done with you! FUCK!” Jonah cradles his useless hand to his chest and his face rapidly greying, going ashen with terror and agony and blood loss. “And if I couldn’t do it, he said he’d sent the rest of the fucking Brotherhood to take you both down. Fucking… please, let me fucking go, it fucking hurts.”
Berkeley wants him dead. Not surprising. He took a risk approaching Dave to fulfil his contract; he knew he would get the job done, but only if he said yes. And because he didn’t, Berkeley’s got his reputation on the line if Dave decides to blab about the plot to have his wife killed.
He wanted me to kill your fucking bitch once I was done with you.
How interesting. How very fucking curious.
The third shot tears through the soft flesh of Jonah’s stomach, and he doesn’t even scream this time. He crumples to the floor and stares at the ceiling, every tremulous breath a labour to suck in.
“You won’t live,” says Dave, cool and detached. “You’ve lost too much blood. Do you want me to kill you, kid, or do you want to lie there in pain a bit longer?”
Jonah shakes his head vaguely. His face is white. His saliva is brilliantly red. “Kill… me. Just fucking kill me.”
Dave ejects the remaining three bullets from the clip and kneels next to the man’s body. He places one bullet in the hole where his knee once was, another in the hole where his limp hand once was, and he digs the final one into the weeping wound in his stomach. “I hope, in your next life,” he whispers to Jonah, “you aren’t as stupid.”
He leaves without firing another shot, but he suspects the life has fled the man’s body by the time the bell above the door chimes to signal Dave’s exit.
You’re sitting in the car, your hands folded neatly in your lap. They seemed to have stopped trembling. “Dave,” you whisper as he slides into the driver's seat. “You’re covered in blood.”
“It isn’t mine.” He presses the ignition and reverses out of his spot. He allows himself to look at you, and your eyes are already glued to him. “I’m going to take you to my home, sweet girl. Are you okay with that?”
You nod, and his eyes dip to watch the way your throat hollows when you swallow. “Yes,” you say breathlessly. “You killed him. I saw it.”
His eyes capture yours again. They’re two beacons in the dark, glowing neon red under the light of the diner lights. “Does that scare you?”
It should. And he isn’t surprised to see you tilt your head forward in another nod. “But—” Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips, and Dave has to look away to avoid veering off the road once he merges onto the highway. “But I don’t want to leave you.” It leaves you all in one breath, like your clothes are suffocating you, the closeness of your two bodies in the car, the stifling darkness.
“Why don’t you want to leave me, sweetheart?” It’s a test, and your eyes glimmer with confirmation that yes, you know it is.
Your hand finds his, your fingers threading through his and resting on the console between you and him. “Because you keep me safe.”
He lifts your joined hands and kisses your soft, unmarred knuckles. It goes unspoken: I always will.
~
“Wow. I didn’t know assassins paid so well. Maybe I should take it up as a side gig.”
He’s absolved himself of the blood on his hands and changed into a new shirt, but he still smells faintly of iron and sweat from the scuffle. Dave watches you spin in a circle on the spot, staring up at the crystal chandelier in his foyer, your eyes dancing like they’re full of stars. “Sweet girl. You told me you refused to step on ants when you were little.”
“Insects and people are different.”
Dave steps up behind you and circles an arm around your waist, his fingers splaying over your rib cage and tugging you back against his chest. “You’re right,” he says into your ear. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes find the phantom bloodstain on your apron in the shape of a perfect handprint, nor the way you shiver. “People would point their guns at you and splatter your pretty brains all over the wall. People would hurt you. That man…” Dave’s lips press against the curve of your neck. You smell so sweet: rich like coffee and a bit salty with sweat. “He would have slit your pretty throat. You see how I couldn’t let that happen, right, baby?”
Your head lolls a bit, resting against Dave’s shoulder. “I know,” you say, clear as sunshine in a stream.
“I need you to tell me something, my beautiful girl.” Dave uses his hand on your abdomen to turn you in his grasp. You stare unflinchingly into his eyes. “Has your uncle ever hurt you? Has he ever given you any reason to make you believe he would?”
You blink at the change in subject. “He’s never lifted a finger against me,” you tell him. “But he’s… I don’t know, Dave. It started after my parents died. He comes home late some nights, high on something. He’s despondent most days, but he’s never hurt me. He just…”
“Isn’t there.” You nod your head, and Dave is somewhat glad he doesn’t have a reason to take the life of your only remaining relative. “Would you like me to look into it?”
Your lips twist in a tiny smirk. “Like how you’ve looked into me?”
His clever girl. “You like to play,” he murmurs, twisting a lock of your hair around his finger. “That trick with dropping your keys.”
You tilt your head to the side, brows curving up in that oh-so delicious way, and he wants to shove you onto your knees, right here in his fucking foyer. “I’m not tricky,” you say innocently.
“Reading too many books,” he grunts, his breath hot against your jaw when he leans in close and brings his lips next to your ear.
“Well, when you keep buying me books…” You gasp when he takes your lobe between his teeth.
He huffs into your skin and sucks at the spot beneath your ear. You taste… Fuck, you taste so soft, tangy with sweat, sweet as the syrup you pour. His brain is hazy with how desperately he needs you.
“Dave,” you gasp, your fingers greedily grasping a handful of his hair to keep him close. “I need… please, I need—”
He cuts you off with a teasing slap to your ass. Your yelp is music to his ears. You just clutch onto him, trying to pull him closer.
“You don't know what you need, sweet girl. I know what you need. I say what you need,” he says softly, cupping your chin in his palm. “Understand?”
You're honey in his palm, dripping through his fingers, warm. “Yes, Daddy.”
“That’s right.” Dave cradles the back of your head and watches you melt into the touch, your body like a doll’s in his hands and your pupils eclipsing your irises. His cock is a hard and heavy weight in his pants, twitching at the beast that awakens at the use of your nickname. “You need Daddy to fuck you,” he coos.
He's thrilled and achingly hard, knowing he was right about you, knowing you want him to take the reins away from you and give you what you need. Your eyes are syrupy. “Yeah, I do,” you sigh, pressing your body up against him.
He takes your hand and leads you up the staircase. Your footsteps are eager as you scurry after him to his bedroom. There's a large mirror next to his king-sized bed, neatly made with neutral greys and crisp white bedsheets. “You need a plant or two,” you point out, but he's pressing his body up against yours and your words diminish to a soft moan.
“I’ll let you decorate, sweet girl,” he says, gripping your hips and letting you feel the hard line of his cock against your belly. You grind into him, rasping his name.
Dave chuckles, and you whimper at the way the vibrations rumble through your spine. “So needy.” The stubble on his jaw scratches lightly against your cheek as he continues to kiss his way down your neck, taking his fill of you. “Such a busy girl. Always working, always studying. You must be so tense, under all these clothes…” He nudges his nose against your cheek and reaches around you to tug at the bow that holds your apron in place. “Let me take them off. Hmm?”
“Please,” you whine, letting him manhandle you in front of the mirror and turn you so you’re forced to watch yourself. Dave ducks his head and puts his mouth back on you, drawn to your soft skin and the soft sounds of pleasure he can pull from you. He unties your blood-stained apron in one tug and lifts it over your head, his deft fingers shifting to the zipper that holds up your dress. When he finally finds more of your skin beneath that black fabric, a little impatient in the way he shucks it off your shoulders, Dave eagerly kisses your shoulders, the back of your neck, licking and sucking every new dip and plane he can reach. You tilt your head to give him more access, wherever he wants, moaning his name and begging, begging, “Please, Daddy.”
“Watch yourself,” he says softly, licking up the side of your neck, “in the mirror. I want you to watch yourself. Can you do that for me?”
Your eyes are lidded and your head is being mostly supported by his shoulder, but you keep your eyes on your reflection as he begins to lower himself behind you, taking the dress with him. He’s pressing kisses to each knob of your spine as he exposes you to the cool air, your nipples perking up and your skin erupting with goosebumps. He handles you reverently, on his knees behind you by the time your dress pools around your ankles, his hands reaching up and squeezing your ass. You jump slightly on the spot, and his laugh is rough—like dragging a wet cloth over gravel. “So beautiful,” he says, and it echoes in the cold room. You feel (and watch) two of his fingers slide through your legs until he finds your slit, wet and glistening. He hums, apparently satisfied. “Who did this to you, sweet girl? Who made you so wet and needy?”
You whisper his name, but it’s not good enough for him. Dave bites into the flesh of your left cheek and lands a smack to it at the same time. “You!” you squeal, grateful for the way he holds you, steadies you, before you can fall. You’re so wet it begins to drip down your thighs. “You, Daddy. It’s you.”
“That’s right.” Dave rises to his feet and lifts his two fingers, soaked in your arousal, to your lips. Once you open your mouth, he fixes them against your tongue, forcing your jaw to remain open as you swirl your tongue around his digits. Tasting yourself. His eyes are so dark they’re black in the dim light, and you want to be so good. You want to please him. He’s strong, capable, so gentle with you, and yet you feel yourself cleaving in two under his lightest touch. You’re splitting, wrecked, soft and pliable as velvet in his hands, and this is what you need. You let your mind fade, sinking into the sweet honey of skin and sex and oblivion.
The man with his body pressed up against yours is a wraith, dealing in death and dark corners and the cool grooves of a bullet—its ever-certain path through the air. He is wrath itself. His hands have squeezed out life and carried it home with him. His hands now caress your body, and you can almost call it worship.
You twist your heart from your body and place it gingerly in his palm. He will keep it safe. It thrums like a live current through your chest to his. He wraps his murderous fingers around your throat and squeezes gently, forcing your chin to tilt upward. “I want you to get on your knees,” he says, breathing it into your skin as he kisses along your jaw, making the filthy act of it sound so loving, “and I want you to suck my cock.”
Your core is tight with the arousal that soaks your cunt, and you reach behind you to squeeze his length over his pants. Fuck, he’s big. He’s long and thick and you’re dizzy at thought of him splitting you open on it, fucking your throat. “I want to make you feel good, Dave. Please.”
Dave backs away from you and sits on the regal grey velvet upholstery of the chair in the corner. You turn toward him and begin to follow, bared before him, but he leans one elbow on the armrest, still-wet fingers tracing his mouth, the outline of his cock mouthwatering.
“Don't walk,” he says. “Crawl to me.”
The thrill of the command, clear and uncompromising, sends you to your hands and knees. It should be humiliating, bruising your knees on the hardwood while dripping down your thighs, but the way he’s devouring you with the yawning black of his pupils, thirsty, makes you add a sway to your hips, a prowl to your crawl. When you reach him, you nuzzle your cheek against his thigh, and he tips your chin up with his finger. “My beautiful girl. Take me out. Go on, baby.”
You slide down the zipper of his dress pants and pull his heavy, thick cock from his briefs. It’s weeping precum, twitching in your grasp, and you can’t help but flatten your tongue against the vein on the underside of his shaft. He hisses, “Fuck,” and it’s delicious. He smells like the iron of blood and something wholly him, all man, and your lips meet the tip of his cock in a reverent kiss. He’s being patient, generous in his time with you because he’s finally fucking here: he’s with you, and you’re safe, and you’ve got your lips wrapped gently around the head of his cock. He will not ask you to rush. He will only coax you gently through giving him the pleasure he’s only let himself imagine taking from you.
You let a trail of spit fall from your mouth onto his cock, and it jumps under your teasing touches, the way you lap at him like a kitten at a bowl of milk. You’re so greedy, like he knew you’d be, but he’s so fucking close by the time you tuck your teeth under your lips and slide his cock into your mouth, deep and hot and tight, the girth of him prodding the soft walls of your throat. If you keep this up, he won’t last long enough to do all the things he wants to do with your body.
“Jesus,” groans Dave. His head tips back and his eyes find the ceiling, but that’s not fair, because your eyes are fixed on his. He keeps watching you, the fucking picture of all his fantasies, your pretty eyes wide and smudged with your mascara, your body bare for him. Tears carve paths down your cheeks as you bob your head on his cock, taking him deeper each time, choking and crying.
Dave’s hand finds the crown of your head and rests there. “Fuck, sweetheart. Fuck, you’re good. You suck cock a lot? Hmm?” His fingers curl in your hair, and you moan around him. “Mine’s the only one you really want, though, isn’t it?” he coos. “Mine’s the only cock you need. You’re my good little slut, sweet girl, on your knees for me.”
Your throat chokes him when you swallow him down, his leaking tip prodding the back of your throat, so fucking eager to please, so good for him even though you’re leaking onto the floor. You love being treated like a slut for him. You love being the one who gets to make his chest heave, his breaths laboured with the effort not to come down your throat. Dave wants to paint your tongue and your face with his cum, but Jesus, he needs to be inside your tight little cunt, and he knows it’s what you need, too. He slips out of your throat, even as you chase his cock with your tongue, and holds you back by the hand that still rests on your head.
“I wasn’t finished,” you say, and the little whine that pitches up in your used throat makes him drag you up onto his lap and drag his hand between your bodies, his fingers slapping lightly against your clit. You moan, rolling your hips against him, burying your face in his shoulder.
Dave mocks your pout, yanking your head back so you’ll look him in the eyes. You look positively wrecked, makeup smeared and eyes unfocused with lust. Your cunt leaves a wet patch on his pants. “Poor thing,” he says softly, teasing his fingers through your folds. “You want to come, don’t you?”
“I do,” you say, your throat raspy. “I want to come so badly. Please let me come.”
“Mmm.” Dave acts like he’s pondering it, circling your clit slowly—too slowly—as his mouth explores your throat before he finally makes it back to your lips. He kisses you tenderly, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting himself in your mouth. He slides two fingers inside your soaked cunt and drinks down your gasp. “That what you wanted?” he breathes into your mouth. “My fingers?”
“Any—nnnngh!” you moan, rocking against his palm as his fingers curl up against a spot inside you that makes your thighs tremble. “Anything you’ll give me, Daddy. Oh, fuck, please, make me come.”
“Such a good girl,” he hums, letting you ride his fingers, licking up the sweat that beads down your neck. “Such a needy whore for me, baby. I want to hear my name when you come.”
“Mmmm, Dave,” you mewl, body keen and wanting against him, your nipples rubbing against the fabric of his dress shirt, grinding into his hand as you near your high. Another smack, this time to the side of your thigh, another soothing touch to the welt forming there, and you’re sobbing his name, coming in a sudden trill of lightning down your spine, freezing you on his hand as your eyes roll back in your head.
He likes the way you slump against him, your face once again finding solace in his neck, nipping and sucking at him as you quiver in the aftershocks of your orgasm. He likes you so supple and malleable in his hands as he stands and wraps your legs around his hips, only to deposit you on his bed. “Spread your legs,” he orders. “I want to see the mess you’ve made of yourself.”
His words send new shocks of arousal to your core, and you ease your thighs open for him. You’re fucking soaking. Soaking and ready for him. Too bad he isn’t through with you. Dave briefly tucks his aching cock into his pants and crawls onto the bed, yanking your thighs up around his shoulders and flattening his tongue against your slit.
Still sensitive from your orgasm, you cry out, pushing gently at his head. “Can’t… Dave…”
“Said you wanted to come, sweet girl.” His hand presses down on your belly as his tongue flicks your clit, and your eyes roll back. “Didn’t say how many times. Be good and let me taste you.”
You can only whimper as he begins to lap up your slick and lavish his attention on your clit, keeping your body flush to the sheets even as you writhe and moan. He's fucking good at this, paying the right amount of attention to your clit and knowing when to pull back when it's overwhelming. He keeps his eyes on you as he eats you out, devouring you the way he likes and making you take it. “Fuck, fuck,” you croak, white sparks snapping behind your eyes. “Daddy, I’m gonna—ah, I’m gonna—!”
He keeps his tongue firm against your clit, wiggling slightly as you soak him, coming hard and fast and without mercy. Dave smacks your thigh again, and you can't tell if he wants to send another surge of pleasure through you or if he just needs to take out the frustration of having not come yet.
Dave pulls his cock out of his pants again, so hard it looks painful, and manhandles you until you're on your stomach. He slips a pillow under your hips and kneads your ass like he's getting out stress. You moan like a whore when you feel the tip of his cock tapping at your entrance, back arching. Dave covers your body with his and nips your earlobe. “You gonna be good, honey? Gonna let me fuck you the way you need?”
You're so desperate and dazed with lust that you reach back to grasp his cock, take him inside you—
Dave grabs your wrist and, for good measure, your other one too, pinning them at the small of your back. “That… wasn't good,” he says coolly, biting down on your shoulder. “I say what you need.”
You nod your head in absolute submission, your cheek pressed into the mattress. “I’m your good girl,” you tell him. “I’ll be good for you.”
Dave slides his cock through your wetness and notches it inside your entrance. Your moan is breathy and desperate, your cunt clenching around him, trying to suck him in deeper. He wrenches you open slowly, big thick cock splitting you in two, hot and slick and the thick haze of want. “Take me, baby,” he urges, halfway inside you and pushing deeper. “You can take me.”
“I can, I can.” You're nodding, wiggling your hips to take him inside you to the base, wanting all of him filling you, claiming you. Nobody’s ever come close to the way Dave is making you feel, and he knows it. He fucking basks in it like warm sunshine.
“Look at you,” he grunts, hips meeting the flesh of your ass as he finally sinks in all the way. “So beautiful. All mine.” A short thrust knocks his tip against your cervix, and you cry out with the pain and the pleasure.
“You're so big, Daddy,” you gasp, short of breath despite doing nothing but lie here.
“Yeah?” He pulls out halfway and thrusts back inside, groaning at the same time you do. “You like my big cock? You like me deep, right in your belly?” His hand slips beneath you and settles at your lower abdomen as he establishes a punishing rhythm.
You can't breathe. You can't speak. You can't exist like this, ruined and scattered into tiny pieces, your mind floating somewhere above you in the aether. It's glorious and it's agonising and you can't even remember how words taste.
Dave fucks you. He really fucks you, grinding deep and fast and using your body the way he wants to. You clench around him in your desperate quest to come again, the pleasure all-encompassing, liquid. He drips praise over your body like honey, encouraging your body deeper into that place of blissful nothing. Here, you relinquish control. Here, you feel. He gives you exactly what you need.
His fingers find your clit and you scream his name. He fucks you like an animal as he lowers his body over your again, biting then tonguing the marks on your shoulder, grunting into your ear. “Dave,” you moan weakly.
He bites again, like a punishment, his hips angling his cock deeper, somehow, sliding up against your front wall. “Spoiled,” he mutters into your skin. “Spoiled girl, you’ll want my cock all the time now, won't you?” You choke on your groan, and your core tightens as his fingers work your clit. “Who owns this little cunt? Hmm?”
“You,” comes your wrecked moan. “It's yours, Daddy. Oh, fuck, please… Daddy, please, I’m yours… I’m gonna—gonna come!”
And you do. Christ, you clamp down on his cock, your hips bucking uselessly under him and your eyes squeezing shut as you keep him tucked so deeply inside you with your tightness, milking his cock. It works: Dave pushes your name out of his mouth in a hot breath against your shoulder, hot cum spurting into your needy cunt. You take it the way you take his cock: zealous and whining, his sweet, spoiled thing, your body sucking him in and taking every drop.
“Dave,” you whisper, tears still streaming down your face. “‘M sorry, I got mascara on your bedsheets.”
Dave chuckles, lifting himself off you even as his body protests, seeking your warmth. “You got a lot of things on my bedsheets, sweet girl. It's okay. Take my hand.”
You turn yourself over and stand with his help, thighs quivering. “Oh,” you gasp, “wow. That was good.”
He presses his lips to your cheek. “Adorable,” he laughs. “Need to clean you up. Get your pretty ass in the shower.”
Your giggle is a little wobbly, a little drunk, but your drunken, beaming face is a reward to him. “Yes, sir.”
Dave smacks your ass as he follows you into the bathroom, watching you steady yourself on the glass doors as you step inside. “I've got class tomorrow,” you grumble. “Gonna have to teach myself how to walk again.”
“I don't know,” muses Dave, purposefully sliding his body up against yours as he reaches into the shower and sends the water streaming down over your head, “I like you like this.”
“Of course you do.” You flip your hair back and get it wet under the water while Dave strips out of his clothes. He steps inside with you and gently swipes a washcloth between your thighs, watching you shudder as he cleans the cum and slick from your thighs.
You hold onto his forearm and stare, eyes lidded and ringed with smudged makeup, at his strong, scarred body. “You've been through a war zone,” you mutter.
“A few of them.” Dave wrings out the washcloth and uses the water streaming down your face to wipe away your ruined mascara. You trace a scar on his pec, an old knife wound he barely remembers getting, and your eyes are so full of reverence for his past, his life, that it winds him a little.
“How’d I get so lucky?” you whisper.
Dave shakes his head, squirting shampoo onto his palm and lathering it in your hair. He finds he likes this: the quiet mundanity of it, the ease of being close to you, the thrill of being the one who takes care of you. “I’m not the kind of man who walks away from something he wants,” he tells you.
Your voice is hushed, vulnerable in the wake of all he's done to you. “And you wanted me?”
Dave presses his lips to your forehead. “I still do.”
“They won't stop, will they.” Your fingers finish the job of washing your hair as Dave mirrors your actions, cleansing himself of the blood and grime of the day. “They'll keep trying to… kill you.”
“They will.” There isn't a point in being false. You can take the truth. You deserve it. “That idiot senator wants me dead. He’ll keep sending people after me until he's sure I won't blab to anyone else.”
“Anyone else?” Your throat dips as you swallow down steam and water and the scent of linen. “So he knows… about you and me.”
“He knows that you matter,” says Dave, “and—”
“And that's why he wants me dead, too.”
You're smart. He's known it since the first day. But his vision is a red mist at the thought of some fucking coward putting a target on your back just for knowing him. “He's not going to hurt you,” says Dave, a bit more forcefully than he intended, telling you and himself and the whole world. He softens his voice, smooths it over like icing on cake, kissing you on the mouth for good measure. “He wants me dead because he knows I can fuck his life over in a couple hours. You… you’re…”
You lift your brows knowingly. “Leverage?”
“Good leverage,” he says, his hand resting at the nape of your neck. “If he wants to get to me, you're the best way.”
“I don't like that, Dave.” He wants to eradicate every memory of your frown from his head. “Doesn't it scare you—being hunted like an animal?”
“You know what scares me?” He pulls your body close, your tits pressed up against his chest. His thigh nudges both of yours open. “Someone… some fucking politician… wants to take you away from me. My beautiful, smart girl.” Dave catches the gasp that leaves you when his thigh brushes your sensitive clit and swallows it down with his mouth on yours. “They want to use you. Point their guns at you, the way people do.”
“And insects never do,” you mumble, rolling your hips and sighing at the white-hot pleasure that erupts each time your clit drags along his naked thigh.
The shower walls are thick with condensation and the closeness of your bodies is immeasurable. Dave crowds you until your back smacks wetly against the cold tile wall, and the hunger in his eyes only makes you feel wanted. His cock is stiffening against your hip, his desire cloying and clotting in your brain.
“Daddy…”
It’s soft and pitched high, and it gets lost in the relentless pattering of the hot water against his back, the walls, the floor. Dave grabs your thigh and hauls it over his hip, sliding his cock through your folds with no warning, no abandon. You think you say his name again, but he's pushing into you in one hard thrust, cleaving you in two and baring his teeth against your jaw. And nothing matters but this.
~
You aren't in the diner next week. You aren't at school the next day. Your contact in his phone—something new you both decided to share with one another—yields no new messages. When he calls you, it goes straight to voicemail. He wants to be reasonable. You're sick. Your phone isn't working. No—your phone is brand-new; you just bought it yourself. You were perfectly healthy when you saw him two nights ago, when he made you sit in his lap on his desk chair and fucked you until you were muffling your screams in his neck. He wants to be reasonable, but there's no reason you should be missing.
So, that night, Dave breaks into your apartment.
Your car isn't in your parking space: the first alarm bell. The second: your door is unlocked. The place has been left in a haste, the latch bolt sliding harmlessly against the plate as Dave gives the door a shove. It opens without the turn of a knob. He curses when he sees your purse hanging on the hook just inside.
Dave lifts his flashlight and makes a quick sweep of the room. It’s so small —there’s barely a kitchenette and a single couch, which sits in front of a box-shaped television. He kicks aside a cushion that’s fallen to the floor and investigates the bathroom—he’s horrified to see mould and mildew so blatantly mocking you on the walls—and finds nothing in the bedroom. There’s only one bedroom. Dave opens a drawer and finds men’s boxer briefs, socks, jeans. Nothing of your warm, bright touch linger in this bedroom. What the fuck?
You sleep on the couch every single night.
Underneath the socks in your uncle Jason’s top drawer, Dave hears a faint rattle. He picks up an amber bottle with a white cap. Blood pressure medication, supposedly. He tosses these aside and searches for more. He needs more. He needs to keep this methodical, or he will explode with anger.
Dave slides his hand beneath the mattress. A couple more bottles, indicating his forgotten problems are perhaps not quite behind him, and a number of late-notice bills. It’s nothing. It’s fucking useless, useless…
He wasn’t fast enough. He should never have trusted this man to stay with you. You should be living with Dave. You’ll decorate his home with plants and bright colours and your shampoo will be next to his. His home will smell of you, not just the faint tang of blood that he can’t seem to expel.
“Fuck!” Dave yanks out Jason’s top drawer and tosses it across the room, somewhat vindicated when it smashes into splinters against the wall. It draws his eye toward the desk in the corner. The little black shape underneath it, tucked underneath the carpet.
It’s a cell phone. Dave picks it up and finds one message blinking up at him. The battery is almost dead.
Coordinates.
Dave fumbles to pull out his own phone and take a picture of the screen. Then, he pockets both devices and leaves. He’s lingered too long already.
~
The coordinates take him next to the Charles River, a shipping dock whose workers seem to have left in a haste. He’s surrounded by large wooden shipping crates, rain-soaked and creaking in the lashing mist that lifts out of the river in the rainstorm that’s begun. Tarps flutter around the crates, not quite pinned down. If you’re crying out for help, there’s little chance to distinguish your voice from the rain and the general din of the city.
It’s nearing midnight, and Dave’s cell phone begins to buzz in his back pocket. Your face lights up the screen, bright and smiling and posing extravagantly (he took it in the diner, when the two of you were alone, about to exchange phone numbers; “You’ll need a glamour shot,” you said, and Dave was happy to oblige).
He puts the phone to his ear. “Tell me which crate you’ve put her in, and I’ll make it quick for all of you.”
“I promised I wouldn’t harm her,” says a male voice he doesn’t recognise. Another Brotherhood lackey, he guesses. “She’s being very good for us, Mr. York. Very obedient. Did you break her in for us?”
Dave will not take this bait. “Put her on the phone.”
There’s a faint rustling, and his vision goes blood-red at the sound of your little yelp of pain. “Dave,” comes your trembling voice. “Dave, I’m sorry.”
Dave begins to splash along the rain-slick pavement. Oil runoff stains the water and colours it like a prism. He has a cap on his head and the hood of his jacket is secure atop it. “Shh. None of that, beautiful girl. Are you hurt?”
“N—no, just… No.” It isn’t a satisfying answer for him, but you’re panicking. “Jason… It was Jason. He took me.”
“Why did he take you, baby?” Dave pushes open a shipping crate and finds nobody inside.
Your whimper indicates the man is holding you somehow, likely by the hair. “He… please… He told me he would get the money he needed.”
“Your boss offered to pay him, then?” says Dave, directing his attention briefly to her captor as he moves further east along the waterfront. He’s straining his ear for any indication of nearby voices. “In exchange for his niece?”
“More like in exchange for you. I guess he knew she’s the only way you’d come.” The man seems ecstatic with the power of holding onto such a special piece of leverage. “You’ll behave, won’t you, Dave? I know she will.”
“Dave, west! TURN WEST—”
The sound of a hand striking your cheek makes Dave jerk away from the phone and kick his foot through a nearby crate, his heart thundering with the rage that clogs his chest all the way up to his throat. The crate’s door swings open, empty. “If your girl doesn’t shut up, York, I’m going to stuff her mouth with my dick.”
His ears are ringing, the rain spitting and the wind rattling his brain around his head. This man truly believes he’ll get away with taking Dave York’s woman. It’s almost laughable.
And it’s too late for him. Dave’s already heard your scream from a crate further down the waterfront.
So the man on the phone can see him. Dave looks up to find a security camera fixed to the scaffolding above him, winking a red eye at him through the mist and rain. He waves, as if to an old friend. “You get off on watching me, huh?”
“Fun to see you flail around,” says the man, “like a chicken with his head cut off.”
Dave can’t help but grin. “Keep watching.” He stops in his tracks and raises his gun to eye-level. “Sweetheart? You still there?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’m here.”
“Duck,” he commands, and the shot rings out through the rain.
A little hole perforates the wooden crate, and Dave can hear your scream through the phone. He drops his shoulder to force open the door and finds his victim writhing on the floor. The shot struck him in the shoulder, but Dave puts another between his eyes. It’s merciful and too quick for what he’s done to you, but you’re what matters. And here you are, tied by your wrists and ankles to a chair, your hair matted with rainwater and an angry welt on your cheek. You cry out in relief when you see Dave kneel in front of you and cup your face in his palms. “Oh, sweet girl,” he says. “So smart. You did good, baby.”
You don’t cradle your chafed wrists to your chest or shrink away from him when you’re free, the way you should. Your arms wind up around his neck and you nearly knock him over in your rush to embrace him. “Easy,” he mumbles, burying his face in your hair, breathing in your scent mixed with the saltwater mist. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
“I know,” you whisper. “I knew you’d find me.”
He chuckles. “Your uncle didn’t make it easy for me.”
“That man…” You pull away and gesture toward the dead man on the floor. “He was the one who called Jason. Said he’d be cleared of his charges and given a huge lump of cash if he brought me to him.”
He helps you to your feet. You’re shivering like a leaf in your little dress and apron. Dave almost rips his jacket in his haste to secure it around your shoulders. “There’s going to be more,” he says. “A man as paranoid as Berkeley didn’t just send one asshole to kill me. I need you to run, sweet girl. Do you understand me? Run to the car, near the park, and stay away from the streetlights.”
You dip your chin in a nod, but a flick of your eyes over his shoulder has him stiffening. “Dave, get—!”
He’s pulling you to the ground and covering your body with his before the shot fires. When it does, it cuts clean through two walls of the crate, but another follows in its stead. Dave rolls off you, flipping onto his back, and fires at the man just visible behind the door of the crate. The first strikes his leg, which doubles him over. His brain matter falls in chunks to the wet pavement before his body crumples. Dave stands up as you crawl across the floor and dig around your captor’s dead body, producing his gun. “You know how to shoot that thing, baby?”
“Of course not!” you squeak. “Feel a bit better holding it, though.”
He flicks the safety on. “Good. Stay behind me.”
You’re dutiful in the way you follow him outside, the gun useless in your hands but Dave’s gun pointed and ready in his. The crates make it difficult, but his ears are fine-tuned to the noises of footsteps. He hears them from his left and his right simultaneously, firing one shot at the glimpse of a boot and another at a shoulder. The leftward man collapses, clutching his foot, and Dave puts a bullet in his head. The one to his right makes an almost-impressive shot from around the corner that takes out the bulb of a streetlight behind them. But his skull shatters from the impact of Dave’s flashlight striking him in the head, and he collapses.
You’re stunned by the ease with which he kills. He's meticulous and he's accurate. The muscles in his face are set, determined, a soldier moving before your eyes. He never wavers. He never flinched nor grimaces. You wonder if he would even hear you if you uttered his name. His mission clouds his eyes and wraps cloth around his ears. It's a murderer you watch at work now, a professional one, a wraith whose eyes glimmer like oil slick in the darkness. The gun clutched clumsily in your untrained hands trembles.
How can such a man handle you so lovingly?
He ushers you inside his car once you wind your way back through the maze of crates, but a shout of your name makes you spin around and lift the gun you have no idea how to handle. It's a cold, dead weight, trapped between your fingers.
“Jason,” you warn, “don't come any closer.”
“Kiddo, just let me explain.” Jason lifts his hands, indicating he's unarmed. He's standing by your car, wet hair plaster to his forehead, eyes sunken and cheeks gaunt. Behind you, Dave places a hand on your lower back. He isn't lifting his own weapon. He's letting you decide.
“You can't explain this to me,” you say through your chattering teeth. “You put me there. You traded me for money. I’ve paid everything, I’ve put up with you being high all the time, and I’ve let you sleep in my bed. Because you were family.”
“I wanted to repay you. I wanted to get a fresh start.” He stumbles forward in his haste to reach out to you, and Dave steps in front of you slightly.
Jason scowls. “And you. Are you fucking her? You know my niece is still in college? You know you're old enough to be her father? You're fucking sick.”
Dave’s nostrils flare. “I saved her fucking life. I'm the one keeping her safe while you run around with your mouth glued to a joint. How many times has she bailed you out, huh?”
Jason lurches forward, deliberately this time, aiming a fist at Dave’s face. Dave grabs his arm before it can wind back and twists it around his back. “Stay fucking still,” he sneers into his ear. Something inside you coils tight like a poised serpent, the very depths of you inexplicably wound for need of something you cannot yet name.
You stare into your uncle’s face. “You’re the sick one. I hope you get your money, because you're leaving. Dave, can we please drop him at the police station?”
~
You can't sit still.
Dave’s ordered you to sit on the edge of his bed while he cleans up from his massacre by the river. He hasn't let you leave his sight since last night, which means you've missed two days of school and nobody knows where you are. Your phone shattered when he murdered your captor, but Dave lent you a replacement from his desk. Apparently, he owns twelve cell phones.
“Which one of these do you use to buy drugs?” you asked.
“Guess you’ll find out.” Dave smirked at you and handed you a brand-new model. “If they ask for York, say I’m dead.”
You told your friends that you'd come down with a deathly case of the flu and they bought it, dutifully sending their notes to you in bulk through your group chat. Since you shut off the phone and placed it next to you on the mattress, you haven't been able to stop from squirming, your thighs rubbing together as the itch you've been fighting for hours clambers down the knobs of your spine.
“Dave?”
He emerges from the ensuite, still drying his hands on a bath towel, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and his face freshly shaven. You know and he knows that he’s been purposefully torturing you, and now all you can do is straighten up, not-so subtly pushing out your breasts toward him. A soft whine leaves your lips at the sight of him standing above you, so strong and deadly.
He doesn’t speak for a moment, and you wonder if he’s angry with you. You feel his knuckle brush under your chin until it’s directing your gaze, forcing you to look up at him. “Sweet girl,” he says, thumb caressing your cheekbone. “You’re all trouble. Know that?”
You bite your lip, your desire a pounding, beastly thing, clawing up your throat. “I think you should remind me.”
Dave chuckles, his hand leaving your face only to trail downward, finding the top button of his shirt, which is draped over your own body. “Wearing my clothes,” he says, circling the button with his finger until it pops out. His eyes are black, thrilled by the sight of your collarbones, flexing in and out thanks to your fluttering breaths. “Sitting so still and pretty for me…” He clicks his tongue like he’s disappointed in you. “Would you stay sitting here all night if I asked you to?”
“You know I would, Dave,” comes your shuddering sigh.
“You’d be safe that way,” he muses. Another button comes undone, and the soft skin between your breasts tempts him closer until he’s standing between your thighs. His fingers trace your hard nipples, visible through his dress shirt. “Such a dangerous girl, going missing on me. Do you know how much you scared me?” You go to dip your head in apology, but he grasps a chunk of your hair and pulls it back. “I asked you a question, baby. Answer it.”
“I never meant to scare you,” you tell him, still seeking his touch as you push your tits against his fingers. “I was so scared… thought he would try to…”
Dave shushes you. “I know, sweetheart, I know. Do you know what I would have done to him if he did?”
You shake your head. “Tell me.”
His hand leaves your hair and winds around your throat, his thumb and index finger pressing at your pulse. “I would have cut off his dick. I would have made him watch me do it. I would take off each. Fucking. Finger.” Dave’s other hand, done fondling your tits, ghosts along your arm until it finds your hand, which he lifts to the hard outline of his bulge. “I’d make sure you never remember him touching you.” The hand on your throat squeezes, and your core floods with arousal, another whine slipping out. Dave tips his chin toward you. “You trust me to keep you safe from men like him. Don't you?”
Frantically, you breathe out a yes, your brows curving up in the middle in the delicious way he loves so much. He enjoys the delicate curve of your body against him as it seeks his. Your tits are smushed against his abdomen, your face so close your chin nearly brushes his sternum. You're warm and so soft. Dave is nearly doubled over with the affection you show him and the affection he craves to show you. But he knows what you need—to be shown that you're safe in his arms.
You gently squeeze his length over his pants and Dave hisses, prying your wrist away and pressing your hand to your own breast. “If you’re going to tease,” he says, “tease yourself. Go on, sweet girl. Touch your pretty tits.”
You roll your head back on your shoulders as you squeeze your tits over the fabric of his shirt, pinching your nipples and puffing out soft moans of his name. Dave’s cock twitches in his pants, and he pulls it out swiftly, hard and heavy against his stomach, jerking himself slowly while he watches you.
“So beautiful. Does it feel good?” Your eyes are fixed on his hand working his cock, another needy moan slipping past your lips. “Would you rather be the one touching me, baby? Is that what you need?”
Your tongue darts out to lick up his slit when he squeezes the base of his cock, and Dave grunts, hips lurching forward, momentarily losing control. You eagerly take the tip between your lips, but he pulls away and slaps his cock on your tongue. “Such a bad girl, not listening. Lie back.”
Your eyes are black holes, and Dave presses his palm on your sternum to guide you onto your back when you can’t seem to think through your haze of lust. He drops to his knees and shucks your panties off your legs so roughly they tear, dangling off your ankle. It only fans the flames licking at your core, and he can see the glistening wetness of your cunt, begging to be touched. “If I ask you a question,” says Dave, blowing on your cunt and making your stomach clench, making your moan pitch high, “I expect you to answer me. I know you want me, sweet girl, but you should learn to listen to me. Hmm?”
He yanks your thigh over his shoulder and parts your folds with two fingers. “I’m… oh, I’m sorry, Daddy. Please… please let me feel you. I want to feel you. I’ll be good. I’ll be—fuck!”
You squeal when he licks up your tempting slit, groaning at the taste of your sweet tang, mingled with the scent of body wash and linen and something ineffably you. “And if I want to taste you,” he says, pressing sloppy kisses to your cunt, gripping your thighs so tightly his fingers will leave bruises, “I expect you to lie down and spread your legs for me.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” you gasp at the white-hot pleasure from his warm tongue lavishing attention through your folds. “Yes, Daddy, anything you want, anytime. I’ll do anything—ohhh, fuck, Daddy, please…”
A hand presses firmly against your belly to keep you grounded as he tastes his fill of you the way he wants. This is your punishment, you realise: being at his mercy, spread out like a meal for him, disregarding your pleasure and just feasting on you at his own pace. Always at his own pace. You want to curl your fingers in his hair and keep his face in your pussy, but the idea that he’s between your legs because he wants to just taste you is so delectable that you lift your arms above your head, wrists together, and refrain from urging him anywhere. He’s in charge. He wants to remind you. As if you need reminding.
Dave notices. He sees the curve of your back, your tits straining out of his shirt, your body stretched out for him like a lounging cat. He pulls away from your cunt and bites down on the flesh of your inner thigh. You yelp, the muscles in your legs flexing around his head. “You like this,” he hums, flattening his tongue against your clit. You moan long and low. “Yeah, you do. My good little slut, letting me do what I want with your body.”
“Mmmmoh!” He nips your clit and it makes you tremble, your orgasm clawing at you despite his negligence. “I’m your slut, I’m just a whore for you, your good little whore. Feels so good.”
He and his cock love your babbling. It twitches against his stomach as he laps at you, a cat at his bowl of milk, drinking you down on his tongue. Your moans grow closer together, more frequent, and he knows you’re about to come. So he pulls away from your soaking pussy.
Your hips chase him until your mind catches up, realising he hasn’t given you your orgasm. It isn’t surprising, but it still makes you pout. “Oh, my poor girl,” says Dave, mocking your expression, crawling up onto the bed and over your body, taking your lower lip between his teeth. You try to kiss him, desperate to be touched, but he pulls away again. “You wanted to come, didn’t you?”
“Only…” You swallow thickly, the desire evident in your eyes. “Only if you want me to.”
Dave grins, his fingers sliding down to your clit and slapping it lightly. “So good for me,” he says, ducking his head again and slanting his mouth over yours. You sigh into him. “I can do whatever I want with this pussy. Tell me.”
“You can do whatever you want with my pussy,” you say between inhaling lungfuls of air as he relentlessly devours your mouth. “I’m yours, it’s yours.”
You look so beautiful spread out beneath him, steadfast in putting your trust in him even as he tore an orgasm away from you, that Dave can’t bear to withhold any longer. He guides his cock to your entrance and slides inside you without warning. You gasp, your eyes unwavering from his.
It’s intimate like this, and he’s surprised by how much it chokes him. You’re looking at one another as he establishes a deep, grinding rhythm inside you, your legs wrapping around his waist and his mouth connecting with yours in long, sloppy kisses that leave you both breathless. Dave holds you reverently, the way a follower carries offerings to the altar, his hand around your waist and bowing your back to deepen the angle. His other hand, balanced with his elbow, cradles your head as he keeps his mouth close to yours and refuses to let you look away.
He knows you’re getting close, and he is, too. He takes the opportunity to explore your body, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt and sliding his hand up your ribs, tracing them with fascination for the way you breathe. He feels your rapid pulse under his fingers, circles your nipples with his rough fingers, and basks in the curves of your perfect, smooth body beneath him. You’re perfect. You’re everything he’s been waiting for, his sweet, clever girl.
“You’re mine,” he says, whisper-quiet, his hips sliding against yours, deliciously slow and rubbing up on your clit in just the right way. He won’t deny you this time.
“I’m yours,” you say, your nose nudging against his. He grins. Happy.
You come just before he does, your entire body tightening and quivering, your cunt squeezing him, ironclad around his cock. Your brows lift in pleasure and your eyes droop, your lips parting just enough for a small gasp to escape. He huffs into your hair when he comes, spilling his hot cum deep into you and bucking his hips flush to keep it snug inside.
His body is a canopy over yours, and he finds he doesn’t want to move. You smooth his hair back, your touch so gentle and calming to his erratic heartbeat that he lets out a chest-deep sound that sounds like a purr. “You’re beautiful,” you whisper to him, and there’s so much more awe in your voice than he deserves.
He lifts his chin to capture your mouth. His heart is swelling up into his throat. “Stay with me,” he says.
It’s not an order and it isn’t jagged-edged. It’s him asking, pleading. It’s him opening his palm and offering a key to you. It’s soft as the brush of sunlight over your skin in the earliest hours. “I’ll stay with you,” you tell him, pressing your lips to his. “You need some touches of colour in this place.”
Dave chuckles, rolling you over until you’re lying on top of him. You’re all the colour he gives a fuck about.
~
There’s a skip in your step as you walk to his car and slide inside. Dave traps your jaw between his thumb and forefinger and pulls you toward him for a kiss before you can even tug on your seat belt. “Hi, baby.” He grins into your mouth. “How was class?”
“You know, it’s funny,” you muse, checking your reflection in the visor. “Everyone was talking about it. Apparently, Senator Berkeley was found in his home with a gunshot wound to his head. They said it was suicide.”
Dave makes a noncommittal noise. “Shame. He must’ve been caught up in something he couldn’t deal with.”
You shrug, getting situated as Dave pulls out of the parking lot. “I started reading the book you got me.”
He places his hand, palm-up, on the centre console, and you take the invitation to thread your fingers through his. “You like it?” he asks.
You lift your joined hands to your cheek and rest it there. “I’ll tell you about it on the way home.”
THE END.
#kiwisbell's fics#pedro pascal#dave york#dave york smut#equalizer 2#dave york x f!reader#dave york fanfiction#dave york x you#dave york x reader#dave york x female reader#dave york fic#suburban murder daddy
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i did not break my own heart last night thinking about the missing 1941 scene and have it sat in my brain all of today spinning around like a fucking microwave in order to not make you lot suffer with me. and i somehow feel i may be right about this so buckle up and lets break it down.
so yes, following on from this post, i think that there is going to be a third 1941 scene. twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern. it's been literally set up like that by even bringing back 1941 into s2 in the first place. but we're missing a crucial detail because it does not - at all, really - explain how they went from evading danger from hell and having a cosy candlelit bottle of red to celebrate, to the bastard 1967 scene. we all know this, this is nothing new.
the symbolism of nightingales is probably going to cast a shadow on this. these two excellent analyses look at the meaning of nightingales in the context of R&J, and the relation that the song has to this point in time, respectively. in summary; it's a song that should be around in 1941 courtesy of vera lynn and others, and the nightingale itself carries the meaning of love being hidden and forbidden by way of it singing under the cover of darkness, before being replaced with reality and soberness - represented by the lark. the Dinner of '41 scene is set in the bookshop at night; this would parallel - that they are safe and concealed, and truths can be shared, but the writing is on the wall that stepping outside would be to shatter the illusion, so to speak. it might be that the song itself gets miracled up onto the record player, or a wireless lying about - whatever. note: i don't think they'll dance though, not given crowley in ep5, "you don't dance"... but then again, if there ISNT a kiss in s3-1941, an aborted dance seems like the next best option... the cowardly one, but i'll take it
this would also track with aziraphale having his epiphany after the church in s1-1941; specifically, in my eyes, that he doesn't necessarily just realise he loves crowley, but that crowley by way of saving his books loves him too. this is only supported by the whole of the s2-1941 scene of trusting in each other as the only way to pull off the trick, the subterfuge. this is then, again, also important in the context of what i think happens in s3-1941.
i do think aziraphale is going to bring the books up again, and what crowley did, because it needs to be addressed. the Nazis/furfur confrontation has scared him, regardless of whether he saved them both, more than he realised. its put things into startling perspective. i think he's going to bring up the books, and actually question crowley a little more as to why he did it. the repeated use of, and subsequent weird reaction crowley has to, the use of the term "friend" in s2-1941 would indicate that this is going to be a focal point in s3-1941. are they just friends? is crowley disappointed that aziraphale is still referring to him as that, after what he did? 'saving' aziraphale in the church, and then saving his books? or is aziraphale just saying 'friends' so hesitantly in both instances because he's not completely sure where crowley stands?
we as the audience know the answer to this, but they obviously do not. if one of the crucial themes of s3 is going to be resolving miscommunication, it makes sense for this scene to be the first, and last, time they communicate properly... at least, until they sort out the issues that culminated in the Final Fifteen.
so let's say they start getting into a very roundabout way of discussing what they mean to each other. there will need to be the sobering, ice-water-over-the-head realisation however, as s2-1941 demonstrated, that they cannot belong to each other, because they manifestly belong to heaven and hell respectively. crowley is still being spied on, and it firmly places aziraphale in their line of sight too. it's going to bring up the holy water discussion; why crowley asked for it - to protect himself, whether by taking out demons or taking out himself, as long as it means he - and most importantly, aziraphale - does not get hurt.
they actively confess that they want to be together, in a way that is more than they are now. aziraphale wants to, but says that they can't, because it's too dangerous. crowley suggests that no one ever has to know, they can hide it (there, in the bookshop, whilst the nightingale is singing), and even if they are found out, they can run. "hell won't just be angry; they'll destroy you..." // "no one ever has to know".
aziraphale doesn't want to have to hide it, doesn't want a halfway measure- is still thinking in black and white. crowley however thinks that something is better than nothing - thinking in the grey. but ultimately, as long as they are still shackled, they cannot do what they want, and it puts the other in danger. "surely the great thing about being a demon is that you can do whatever you want" // "you sound jealous, angel...". instead, aziraphale promises that the day that they are no longer tied to heaven or hell, they can be together; crowley scoffs, thinking that that will never happen, so they will never happen, "you're so clever! how can someone as clever as you be so stupid?!"
the reason they can't right now is because they could be caught. they would have to skulk around, be ashamed, feel guilty - and aziraphale is tired of feeling like that. because only having crowley in secret would hurt more. not being able hold his hand, or dance with him, or kiss him, unless it was in the bookshop. if hell were to find out, crowley would be killed, true, but if heaven were to find out, aziraphale could be cast out. and if crowley survived hell long enough to see aziraphale fall - he'd never forgive himself, and in a way, i don't think he'd ever forgive aziraphale either.
it's tearing them to pieces, but they have to stop whatever is happening between them in its tracks. it's acknowledged, but it's not named. this gives them plausible deniability; if they called it 'love', it would be undeniable. so, aziraphale asks for crowley to go; asks him to leave before they do something they can't come back from. crowley doesn't listen - crowds him, gets in close, and aziraphale is powerless to stop it. doesn't want to stop it. he's selfish by nature, a selfless kind of selfishness, but he wants this with all his being. and then - "this is too fast, crowley, please don't..." // "im sorry, angel. please... please, forgive me". aziraphale never gets to answer, to grant him that, because boom - the actual first kiss.
so. now that i've had to make you read that, i'm going in for the kill. let's look at everything that follows - and look at how the above might recontextualise it.
1967: the offer of the picnic, the Ritz? ie. the literal lyrics of berkeley square? aziraphale has caved in the interest of giving crowley a weapon to use if all else fails, to protect him, but that's as far as he's willing to progress. everything else is still too painful; he's on the brink of tears, promising that one day they'll be able to do what they want, to be open about how they feel, but not yet. they can't. crowley tries to push, "ill give you a lift, anywhere you want to go..." (him offering again to run away? a second chance to leg it?), and aziraphale reminding him that they can't, he can't... don't make him go too fast again, it's not fair. it also sets up perfectly that aziraphale and crowley don't speak for the next 40 or so years (as far as we're aware) until armageddon is threatened.
bandstand: mostly this is still centred around the apocalypse contextually, but i think with the above hypothetical scene in mind (the offer to hide, to run away, to be together), aziraphale is sent back to remembering their mutual confession that they've nonverbally agreed not to bring up, because it's not safe, and it's too painful. they've skirted around it, and returned instead to a tentative kind of friendship at the beginning of s1, but they're still not safe to address why seeing each other again, being so close to each other and not being able to touch is so painful. anyway - aziraphale refuses their side, but the above scene would re-view this as 'our side can't exist yet, you know this! you know why it can't!', and crowley leaves, again after pushing a bit more than aziraphale can stand.
alpha centauri: basically a facsimile of the above; same steps, same dance. but this time, crowley harks back to aziraphale's foolish (?) hope that they will be together, without having to run away, when the day comes that they don't have to answer to heaven or hell. and aziraphale smacks him right back, echoing crowley asking for aziraphale's forgiveness in kissing him, "i forgive you." crowley knows exactly what aziraphale is getting at, there - he's answering crowley's whispered plea to forgive him for pushing, for trying to force him, for acting in desperation. but he's also not answering that - he's skirting around that very thing, forgiving him like a knife would, slicing back at crowley for not only insulting aziraphale on something that is likely a genuine insecurity of his, but also putting him back in his place, for their safeties, because them being together just cannot happen. not yet.
and "please forgive me" in 1941 might seem out of character, but idk if it is; crowley knows that doing what he's about to do will hurt aziraphale, aziraphale has (hypothetically) told him as much, but he needs to do it - and seeks not benevolence or forgiveness as crowley-the-demon, but actually seems aziraphale's forgiveness, as crowley-the-person. the echo would certainly match the tone given here, in multiple ways:
the ritz: i mean, what is there to say? yes, their song is literally playing on the piano, and heralds the shift in their being out from heaven and hell, the day has finally come where they can - again, going by this entirely hypothetical scene that ive concocted - actually be together as they want to. and the nightingale literally singing outside, but as @shoemakerobstetrician beautifully pointed out, god remarks that it's covered up by traffic. so actually, if we again refer back to R&J interpretation of the nightingale, the love is still hidden, still somewhat under wraps, but can only just about be heard over the noise of the streets outside. the prohibition of them being together, of loving each other, is dwindling. and one day, it'll stop singing altogether. that day is coming, it will come, and then they can do what they please. so whilst the ritz scene may well be a mark of them starting the next chapter, it's slow to take hold, there's still hesitancy - which absolutely makes sense when we see that they are still very tentative with each other come the beginning of s2.
s2 general: aziraphale realises their freedom first; he gets excited by the dance, and being able to show his love to crowley, completely and without barriers, in the form of the ball - what he has read to be the best way to do so. he touches crowley more. he shares his bookshop with him, gifts it to crowley as being his as well as aziraphale's, this safe space that is so wholly theirs that crowley has the power to grant entry. the same with the bentley - aziraphale sees it as theirs, and crowley silently agrees, granting aziraphale the same power. crowley is comfortable in the bookshop to remove his glasses, has a place for them. the bookshop becomes tidier, more minimalist, to make crowley more comfortable in it (it is more cluttered in s1, im certain of it). it might just be the grading between s1 and s2, and lack of clutter, but the yellow is more prominent - his literal favourite colour. everything just screams that aziraphale is ready to make good on his promise from s3-1941.
crowley... for once, is the one not quite catching up. not realising the little dates here and there are literally poses them as a couple (although yes, the coffee shop one is to prep crowley for the goob jumpscare), that aziraphale has granted him the power to grant entry. aziraphale literally asking, practically begging, crowley to help him hide goob. the mf colour of the walls. the colour of the bentley. it's not until nina outright asks him if they are together that he realises how careless they've been - but wait, is it careless if they have nothing to be careful of? well, arguably crowley does, hell are still hanging around him like a bad smell... but this is what he wanted! this is what he was pushing aziraphale for! so, does he risk it? he's not sure, but he's certainly realising that aziraphale is ready, if nothing else. and by the time the ladies stage their little intervention, crowley finally realises that the confession he started in 1941 now can be fully aired, can come out into the open.
the Feral Domestic: *fingers at temples* i know i have been fairly vocal about my interpretation of this scene, and frankly - until we get this hypothetical s3-1941 scene, i stand by it - but let's say this speculation about the scene is true, and re-examine the key points in the Final Fifteen that would completely turn on their heads in terms of meaning:
literally, harking back full circle to what aziraphale promised in 1967 as what they would do when they could fully acknowledge their love, and what they did as soon as - on paper - they were free at the end of s1. this is however before he's spoken to by nina and maggie, so maybe this is what crowley was planning in terms of confessing fully to aziraphale, but after their meddling he realised that yes, they need to actually talk about it again. he doesn't understand why they're telling him what they are - because he's existed so long in gestures and gifts and not talking, literally dismissed it now as a viable option, that it doesn't even occur to him to try talking again.
which is why he does something brave, and tries to tell aziraphale instead (say it out loud, make it undeniable, put a name to it, "i love you", something that i think was crowley's actual intention before aziraphale interrupts him) when he comes back to the shop... he's so nervous, because it's vulnerable, and because the last time he did, they ended up hiding for 50-ish years.
next up:
now, im reluctant to think that aziraphale lied in the Feral Domestic, because i do think the key thing at work is his paramount need to do the Right Thing (ie. make a difference in heaven). whilst metatron obviously manipulates him, im not entirely convinced that aziraphale wholly sees through it. i don't think he knew that metatron was up to something, i think the shaking off of this naivety is going to be part of his s3 character development. but this sentence - again, especially in context of the hypothetical s3-1941 scene - must on some level frighten him. especially if you take this meta into account, aziraphale must realise at least that they were never safe, even when they were denying what they were and how they felt, it didn't make a bit of difference. now, metatron could have just been talking about the arrangement, not referring to any romantic elements of any kind, but the threat of it? no wonder he pushes for crowley to join him in heaven; he could keep crowley safe there. they could be together, and heaven - in his eyes - would be able to say a word against it.
then:
the fear sets in; crowley was too late in telling him, acknowledging that they could be together, realising what aziraphale was saying to him without words, and now heaven has come for him. plonked them right back where they were in s2-1941, but perversely mirrored; instead of hell coming for crowley with violence, heaven came for aziraphale with kindness. crowley doesn't have a magic trick he can just do on the fly, perform it perfectly when the need for it is greatest, and has to cling to the hope that aziraphale still sees them as the barrier to them, the reason they can't be together. and in true miscommunication fashion, i think aziraphale does see it, but what metatron said lingers, and in addition to being inside the institution, changing it from the inside out, in order to make a difference... he knows that whilst it's exactly the opposite of what they wanted, he needs to make them safe. better to be inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in.
but aziraphale doesn't tell crowley what metatron said, because instead he either deliberately tries to deny the implications of it (cognitive dissonance king behaviour), or he doesn't want to panic crowley and is trying to convey to crowley that he can't speak his concerns, not when the metatron could still be watching, and instead just needs crowley to trust him, take his hand, and join him in heaven where they can be safe. doesn't tell crowley that heaven hasn't captured him in shackles again, but he's willingly held out his wrists because it's the safest thing for him, and them, to do.
so it's one thing to look at what crowley's saying, but aziraphale's reaction? before, i just found it to be out of confusion, him not really understanding what crowley was saying, but tbh i never paid much attention to it (david stole this bit of the scene - not to put down my beloved michael here, but he did). and i know others have remarked here that aziraphale is flitting his eyes to the window and looks scared and stressed, but i don't completely think that its because he's scared that metatron is watching (although, now, i will accept with the rug thing and hypothetical s3-1941 in context it is definitely playing a part), but also because he's just starting to recognise that this is a repeat of the s3-1941 scene, "this sounds familiar, we've been here before... oh, we've definitely been here before... oh shit. i still can't do this, not unless he comes with me. we still can't be together, not in the way crowley wants. the way he's trying again, now, to ask for."
but the issue is: crowley wants to run away together. again. and i totally get why, but once again, going back to 1941: it's exactly the solution that will not work. they cannot run from this. heaven, and hell, will find them. they will come for them. it wasn't an option in 1941, it wasn't an option in 2019, and it isn't an option in 2023. aziraphale begins shaking his head - crowley is confessing, but a) aziraphale doesn't run from things, it isnt in his character, and b) it's just putting them back where they started - something that they have to hide. it defeats the purpose.
and this? yeah, im sure on neither side it was meant the way im about to interpret it, more of an unspoken thing, idk... but if the bookshop is indeed their place of safety, and is where they (as far as crowley sees it) can speak and keep their love, it makes sense that crowley is telling aziraphale he needs to stay. the bookshop can be interpreted so many ways - it represents their relationship, or that crowley means him, himself - but what if we looked at it like crowley is trying now to covet it, because it's protecting them? what if he's saying, "well, if you won't run away with me, we can't be free to have our relationship as we wanted it, not unless we stay here... heaven has come for you, has come for us, and whilst they're here we can't move. so what other option is left remain in this bookshop? to never leave it, and what we have inside it, because there's no other option in which we can be together if you won't run with me."
and what if aziraphale is saying, "no, i have an option, and that's to be together in heaven! they won't be able to do anything, not when im in the position the metatron has offered me, that can be our new bookshop... nothing lasts forever - this bookshop won't last forever, it's compromised, and we can't continue to secret away what we feel inside it, it's time to move forward."
welcome to the line that breaks my heart the most in this whole goddamn scene - and tbh i think is fairly self-explanatory in the hypothetical s3-1941 context. that aziraphale is trying, once again, to tell crowley that he is offering himself, letting them be an 'us', as crowley says shortly after - that before he couldnt do it, and these arent the best of circumstances, but they can finally do it and not have to hide in the bookshop. but crowley reminds him, "hey, i was in your shoes, remember. i wanted us to be together then, and you told me you couldn't, didn't want a halfway measure - well, now i don't either. and this will be a halfway measure, because i don't think us being together in heaven is going to go the way you hope it will. i understand a whole lot better than you do." in any case, it would explain why aziraphale choses this moment to look so devastated. this is what he promised crowley, but now crowley - to his mind, in the things left Unsaid - doesn't want it... him.
and then... back to the nightingales. they're not singing at all, not even under the rumble of traffic, like they were at the Ritz. they're completely absent - day has broken, the things unspoken have now been said, and there's no denying them anymore. from crowley's point of view, there was nothing to stop them this time, but if aziraphale won't run with him, then they have to go separate ways, because there is no other way. aziraphale knows there's the possibility that the only place they could actually be safe is heaven itself, that the bookshop was never as safe as they hoped it had been, but that crowley might actually come to see that. but the fact that crowley is resigned to just... returning to 'reality', to a world that's still turning where they aren't together? despite everything they've just said? "we could've been... us." well, that hurts.
and then... the kiss. now. im still of the mind that the kiss was an Issue. i definitely think it was meant out of love and desperation, and out of possibly being a goodbye. this would echo the hypothetical s3-1941 kiss... but it was hurtful. it was abrupt, and harsh, and not at all romantic (imo). it was possessive, and almost cruel. i do think still it was a last ditch attempt, a temptation, to get aziraphale to change his mind, before crowley leaves the shop and returns to the 'real world'. but it hurts aziraphale in many different ways - but with 1941 put in there, too? crowley is just testing his resolve, trying to push him, come around to giving in. crowley asked him to forgive him the last time he kissed aziraphale, and this time - this time, aziraphale is giving him what he asked for.
#did i just do a whole ass meta based off of a completely hypothetical non-existent hc of the third part of 1941?#yes - yes i did#but the Implications would not leave my brain#make of this what you will if you even got to the end and if you did frankly congratulations#good omens
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Tastes Like Rain
Summary: the faerie king Andy has waited a lifetime for his fated one. Was growing weary and bored with the thousands of years he's been alive. And he was always waiting for you, his bratty little human. Don't worry, in time you will love him as much as he loves you.
Pairings: Fae!Andy Barber X Reader
Rating: mature
Warnings: explicit language, mentions of burn scars, mentions of tattoos, mentions of punishment, 18+ ONLY
Word Count: 4K
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Series Masterlist
*dividers created by @firefly-graphics
“Jasper!” Andy groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. There was noise everywhere. All day long there was noise, and it was grating on his last nerve he had left. The king was tired, and was in the mood to accept his fate. Alone. Destined to rule the faerie kingdom with nobody by his side.
“Jasper!” Andy growls. He stands up and crosses the room to look out the window. What are those silly little faeries doing in the glen? “Jasper if you don’t…oh.”
Andy’s advisor stands in his doorway. The only faerie brave or stupid enough to glare at the high king. Andy was being a whiny baby, and Jasper was growing tired of it. The vines that are embedded into his skin prickle out. Thorns grow from the blackened vines, and Andy purses his lips. Glaring at his best friend.
“You see what you do to me? You stress me out!” He takes a calming breath, looking down at his arms to see his thorns start to sink back into his skin. He hated when Andy did this to him.
“I’m stressed out! What the fuck is that noise? I…”
“It’s summer solstice,” Andy’s brow cocks up and he looks back down at the glen. Collingswood was in an uproar. “It’s the Summer King and his Nymph’s first summer solstice together. You know after the uhh…”
“Ahh! We don’t mention that wench,” Andy tosses his hand behind him, watching the faeries lark about. Even sees some humans that were taking their chances to party in the glade. Idiots. They’ll be drunk off wine before the real party even starts. They wouldn’t remember a damn thing. It’s the way it was.
“Did she really create a nymph from the creek just to fuck him?” Those two always confused him. She clearly was a glutton for punishment while Ari had some serious size issues.
Jasper’s eyes narrow, turning a deeper green then before, and Andy has to look away, “They’re doing more than fucking. But yeah, they fuck. I’m sure it’s still a tight fit, and just the way Ari likes it. But he has taken that tiny Nymph as his Queen. Now if the high king of faeries doesn’t enjoy the revelry and find his own queen…ow,” Jasper dead pans as Andy throws a pillow at him.
“You know you’re quite childish during the summer solstice. I’m sure Jax will be down there feasting off the humans that wander into the glade.”
“Please, don’t mention his name. My brother gives me a headache,” Andy dramatically falls back on his bed, taking a deep breath. It had been years since he went down to the glade to enjoy the summer wines.
“You did have his wings cut off,” Andy slightly lifts up to look at the little man with a smirk.
“And he had his faults to deserve it,” Andy sits up. People always want to mention how he cut Jax’s wings off. It’s his right as high king to do so. Jax shouldn’t have become obsessed with tattooed humans. “What do you suppose I should do?”
“Get laid, and have fun.”
“What’s the difference?” Jasper could see the mischief in Andy’s eyes. He wasn’t particularly fond of the delicate creatures called humans, but he sure did love to toy with them, and see how far they could bend before they broke.
“Exactly!” Jasper screams walking out the door. “I’m going to have some fun with the rest of Collingswood. You should do the same. I’ve heard Jax is already passed out in the thorns!”
“Do you ever miss it?” Jasper turns to look at his best friend, shaking his head no. “You belonged to his court. Evidence of your birth runs all over your skin,” Jasper shrugs as he runs a hand over his twisting vines, the same ones that darken the path to Jax’s kingdom. “There’s no thorns,” his thorns only appearing when provoked.
“You’re not pissing me off right now,” his mouth turns into a devilish grin looking at his king. “Some things we can fight, and some things will always be a part of us. I can fight the darkness, but I can’t fully remove it. Instead of briars I have roses growing there.”
“Roses also have thorns, Jasper.”
“But they’re still beautiful, even if they draw blood. Now, get your menacing self down to the glen, and have at least one bottle of summer wine with those sweet fae that would die for a chance just to touch you. Imagine the immense pleasure you could get. There’s also humans,” Andy cracks his neck with a scoff. He’ll join in the party, but he will not have a human. They always brought out the worst in him.
“Oh, I forgot, the great King Andrew, High King of all fae in Collingswood wouldn’t be caught dead with a human. Even if she cries as you fuck her face. There’s always humiliation.”
“There’s always destroying them,” Jasper’s laugh sounds like a jingle as he walks out of Andy’s room. They were the only two faeries left at the palace, and he was getting tired of entertaining a king who was becoming far too arrogant. A human would do him some good.
“Can’t you keep up?” You glare up at the group of girls in front of you. A stupid fucking ritual. You didn’t even want to be in this sorority, but you were a legacy, and it was your mother’s last dying wish.
“Come on! We’re almost to the glade,” Charity giggles while she pulls at your hand. “You’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like you walk into another world.”
“Legend has it that it is,” Faith. You hated Faith. Full of herself, and by far the most beautiful out of this group of pledges. She oozed the standard perfection, and it bored you to tears.
Perfectly round doe eyes, that glistened an even brighter blue in the sunlight. Freckles that splayed so perfect around her face you would think she put them there on purpose. Maybe she did. And the most beautiful and perfectly placed auburn hair. You despised her, and also appreciated all the attention that always went to her instead of you.
You didn’t know how she did it. How she always said the right things, and if she wasn’t such a bitch when people weren’t looking, you might have liked her the tiniest bit more. No. You didn’t like her at all. Not one bit.
“Stop!” Hope. The leader of the group. She was a fourth generation legacy pledge, and lived locally. She knew the legends of this stupid fucking glade, and was going to be sure to tell you again. It is a bit odd, a curtain of ivy that strug up between a few trees, mushrooms surrounding every bit of those trees.
“This is the faerie ring,” oh bullshit. These are perfectly manicured woods that people thought had magical powers. “When we step through this veil, it’ll be like you're transported into another realm, because we have been.”
Her eyes twitch over towards you when you snort, “Is something funny?”
“It's a bunch of mushrooms and some ivy. I’m sure the groundskeeper fixes this up for the college to play during summer solstice. It’s not that exciting, Hope.”
“No one comes and keeps this up. This is natural. Do you realize we walked three miles through the woods to get here? It never changes. Although, in the winter you can’t get through the veil because it’s not there. The mushrooms have all withered, so if you get trapped behind the veil, make sure you come out before winter. If you stay in there too long the winter fae will keep you for their own. They’re cold, and yet some of the most fiercely handsome of them all.”
She was an idiot. They all were. She holds up her bottle of homemade wine, and the rest of you join in. Yours was a mixed berry wine because why not? You hopped it was enough to get you sloppy drunk, with you passed out on the leaves or moss or whatever the fuck was beyond this ‘veil’. Children. Believing in fairytales.
“Now, if there’s men in here that you don’t recognize, go with the flow. I’ve heard sex with a faerie is the best thing in the world.”
“Here, here,” you pop the lid to your wine, taking a big gulp, “To fucking faeries, am I right?”
“To fucking faerie!” The rest join in with you. This was the oddest initiation into a sorority. Most of the older girls didn’t want to join in. Telling you things weren’t the same once they left. Like it was this high and all they wanted to do was come and party in the glade for months on end, but wouldn’t tell you what had happened. You guess it was because fucking faeries.
Everyone giggles, except you, as you walk through the veil. You ignore the static feeling that runs through you. Just lift up the bottle of wine for a long drink. Making your own summer wines was genius. Now you had every intentions of getting fucked up, and forget this night ever happened.
You’re shocked to see the amount of people that were in the woods, beyond the veil. All dancing and carrying on like they had been doing this all day. Singing, and celebrating some man named Ari, which you had never even heard of, and a tiny woman that stayed on his side. Thinking to yourself that it had to hurt.
With each drink of wine their faces become more and more distorted. Angles that are inhuman. Eyes that glow in the twilight, skin that is a color you couldn’t find at any makeup counter. You look down at your half-drunk bottle of wine, and quickly cork it. Unsure of how much alcohol was truly in this, but it had to be a lot because you are seeing things.
You didn’t believe the legend of the glade, but there was something weird going on. The people that were here before you surely had some machine that was releasing fumes and causing you to hallucinate. Hell, you could see different creautres…people fucking beside the trees, and deeper into the glade. They weren’t hiding anything. They just assume that everyone is too drunk to care about their indiscretions.
You aren’t drunk, you’re fucking fine. Glancing around you spot your fellow pledges in various stages of hookups, but not you. No…no one ever noticed the average girl whose clothes are too baggy, and lines of tattoos peek out of the hemlines of your clothes.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” you groan, stumbling away from the weird music and frolicking people. It is weird here, and the mix of the now disgusting mixed berry wine makes you feel lightheaded.
“You okay?” You don’t even look at the man that is behind you. You are perfectly okay, and didn’t need help. “Miss…”
“I’m fine,” you spin around. Nothing had even left your stomach, you just needed the world to stop spinning, but he isn’t helping. Sinfully attractive. Why were so many of these people topless? Did they just want to have sex quicker? Easier? Who are they? And why were they oddest looking people, and still the most attractive ones you had ever seen?
His mouth quirks up in a grin, and you roll your eyes. Not today. This was a dangerous man. You can feel his darkness roll through your body like the smoke he is exhaling into your face. Fuck this. You didn’t need this.
Going against girl code, you have to get out of here. Alone. You shouldn’t, but this place is haunting you in an odd way. Trying to walk past the ridiculously tall man, he throws out his arm, stopping you. “Back up!”
His answer is sniffing up the tattoo on your body, and you smack at his arm, “What the fuck!”
“You didn’t drink all your wine, little one.”
“Yeah, no shit, asshole. I didn’t drink it all because…” the blonde starts circling your body. Taking deep inhales as he encloses on you like you are his prey. This is bad. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“This ink,” he inhales deeply again, “Why are you covering scars?”
“How did you know that?” You gulp as he comes to stand in front of you. His heavily ringed, and singed looking fingers start to move your collar to the side. Looking at your scarred and tattooed skin closer. It is like your body is frozen, and refusing to move. The perfect predator had caught you in his snares, and was ogling your tattoos like his next meal.
When his fingers touch your skin, you sigh at how soothing it feels. Moving aside your shirt to see what your clothes and tattoos hide. His fingers move slowly over your skin, and your eyes are at half mast. Relaxing with this odd man. Allowing him to get too close when he licks on the tattoo, moaning like he was eating a delicacy.
“Ahh,” your whispered yelp sounds like it is coming from a distance as a sharp, but quick pain pricks at your skin, and you slowly become mush. Sinking into his embrace, and allowing this man to moan at whatever he is doing on your body.
Seconds become minutes, and minutes drag on, but still feel like no time has passed as your eyes slowly start to close, and then but one booming, but far off voice, “Jackson!”
Blackness. Sleeping off into a void of nothingness. But the most beautiful peace you had ever felt washes over you. Sleep. Peaceful sleep. Not visions and nightmares that plagued your mind. Only darkness.
“Why did you bring her here?” Jasper looks confused at Andy. His king was tilting his head from side to side like a questioning puppy. “She’s human.”
“I can tell,” Andy grouses, continuing to stare at your body.
“What happened again?”
Andy takes a deep breath, trying to replay everything that happened that night. “Jax…it was like he was getting a high off her. And I could hear her pulse, and she was dying. You see her tattoos?” Jasper nods at Andy, still refusing to step any closer to your body. “Those by her neck, they’re faded. The further away from the neck you get, they start to get darker. What’s underneath the tattoo?”
“Burn marks,” Jasper whispers. He didn’t need to be right on your body to see that there were scars all over your skin.
“I knew Jax could literally taste the feelings that went into a tattoo, but this,” he pulls back your shirt, running his fingers over the marred skin. “Someone hurt her.”
“Or she was in a house fire,” Jasper shrugs. Andy was always a bit dramatic and went for a more elaborate story.
“No. They’re strategically over her body. Her clothes hide them. You should see what’s under the clothes. She tattooed over them so…hey,” he gives you a smile as your eyes pop open. “You are…”
“Get off me! Get the fuck off me! Oh my god,” taking heaving breaths you look between the two men that were crowding around you. Neither is the man that was doing something to your neck. And both had an otherworldly beauty to them.
There is a shorter one with a mossy green tint to his skin, and the taller one is one of the largest people you’ve ever seen. “I’m dead, aren’t I? He…h-h-he killed me, didn’t he? Oh my god, I’m dead. I lived through all that only to die in the woods fucking faeries.”
Andy and Jasper look at each other quickly, and then back to you. Humans heard the tales, but most were skeptical. They came out for solstice parties only as an excuse to live deliciously, while returning back to their boring lives. But with you…something was off.
“He murdered me, didn’t he? He…goddammit. I’m so stupid. I always do this shit. I trust too fucking early. But this…I didn’t trust him. I knew, but I still let him…can you tell me what he was doing? I felt something. What was that? Where am I? What is happening?”
“Andy, she’s human,” the little one says again, and your tears cloud whatever is happening between them. They are aliens, and they’ve done experiments on you.
“I fucking know she’s human. She wouldn’t have…oh,” he stops to turn and look at you, “We screwed up. Miss,” the tears come out more aggressively, and you don’t even know why. What you know is that man…that beautiful man — no!
“Jasper, I’m about to smack her across the fucking face, make it stop,” you are not the crying type. You are too strong for this. How long have you been here? “Human! Stop!”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” Andy rolls his eyes, before wrapping a hand on your ankle, and jerking you down the bed. Moving his entire body to hover over you, and it isn’t until you feel the wind that you notice his wings. The deepest green, and veining of gold. “Are you an angel?”
“I’m far from being innocent and kind. However, I did save your pathetic life for some reason, and…mother fucker,” he grabs at his chest, and jerks his head to look at the smaller one. “Deal with this before I do.”
Standing up, he stomps out of the room, and you jerk up in the bed. You could take the little one. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll run.”
“Run. We’ll just have the dogs bring you back. You won’t go far. You can’t,” looking down at your arms, you see that they were not bound to anything. Changing tactics to feel all over your body. They put a tracking device in you.
“You won’t be able to leave our realm without him,” he states matter of fact, and it makes you feel on edge. Him? That big man, him?
“What does that even mean? Where am I?”
“Here, drink some more tonic,” you slap the glass out of his hand, and he stares down at the shards on the stone floor. “You’ll regret that you did that. What do you remember?” You shrug, moving a hand to scratch at your neck, and start panicking again. “What?”
“The…my scars. They’re…they’re not really there. I mean they are, but they’re…”
“As faded as your tattoo,” you’ve seen it all. All these ugly scars that you had covered in ink couldn’t have faded. But your fingers knew the divots and bumps of your skin. This spot in particular, gave you an odd comfort.
“We’ve had our suspicions of Jax’s obsession with tattoos. Some people get them to tell a story. Some people get them to cover up pain. You in particular got them to cover up pain and scars. He was devouring you, and your…pain,” is that why you didn’t feel as hard? Why you had become soft and cry uncontrollably?
“In doing so maybe he was healing you.”
“Tell him to suck it all out then.”
“If he removed all your pain and scars would you be you?” You ponder the question for a second. You didn’t like the tears and the panic that ensued earlier. You hadn’t felt that hopeless in years. “I’m Jasper, King Andy’s advisor.”
“King?”
“Not just any king, but The King. The King over all the faeries,” you scoff at him. What a dream. That wine must have been good because you’re losing it. “You saw him hovering over you, and you doubt that fae exists? Hmm, you really are a stupid human. No wonder he’s pissed off.”
“He’s pissed off? Let me leave then!”
“You can’t! You better get used to the palace, because you’ll never cross the veil again. All those legends you stupid giggly sorority girls tell, they’re real. We had too many humans that partook in our wines, and we couldn’t get rid of them. Long story short, we created the legends. The fae gets their feel of human flesh, while you get to cross back over, and pretend this was all a dream,” you had cracked, and so had everyone else. This was all a dream. This was all in your mind, but touching your once there scar tells a different tell.
“I didn’t…” you hadn’t taken a drink of any wine, but your own.
“You were given a tonic. Sorry, my bad,” a glimmer of a smirk flashes on his face, and it pisses you off. He did it on purpose. He’s the reason you’re here. You pick up a vase from the table, and toss it at him. You suck at aiming. “Easy. Yes, I kept you here to become Andy’s pet.”
“Over my fucking body.”
“Oh, when I have it my way, he will be over your fucking body every fucking night. You’ll have pleasure one can only dream of, and I’ll have a king who isn’t sulking. I saw it. I knew the moment he was the one carrying a human body up to his palace. I saw it when he brushed his hands over your face. You two are the ones that can feel it, but you won’t speak of it, but I can see it. Don’t sit and try to deny the way he made you feel. And if grabbing his cold dark heart wasn’t enough, then I don’t know what is. He felt it deep in his blackened soul.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” not really. The man was attractive, you couldn’t help it if you grew a bit woozie looking up at him. But you weren’t fated for anybody. You just wanted to be left the fuck alone.
“Prophecy has stated that the king is fated to be part of a human. I suppose it could be interpreted many ways. It’s the reason Andy hates mortals so much. You’re fragile, weak, and disposable. But he hates the idea that he’s fated to be with one of you for all eternity.”
“I’m not weak,” your voice is laced with so much malic. You feel the pain of your skin searing again. Baring your teeth at this freak show that stood before you. “And I’ll never spend eternity with him.”
He leans into you. Getting his face so close to yours that his pointy nose nearly touches you. His vine tattoos starting to sprout thorns, “You don’t have a choice, my dear. Neither does he. Comply before he takes from you.”
“No man will ever take from me again,” you don’t scream. But your voice growls at him. Had Jasper been a mortal, he might have been afraid.
“Good thing Andy’s no man. Have fun,” he backs out of your room, locking the door behind him, and you wail. Screaming as loud as you can, realizing you are trapped in this room with no windows, only that door.
“Andy, that’s one that will need to be tamed,” Andy, leaning up against the wall outside your door, stands up straight, his eyes rolling up to look at your door. Hearing your screams of anger, and throwing everything in your room to the one exit and entrance. “You’re stuck with her.”
“I’ll have fun with her.”
“No,” he slaps Andy’s arm. “Do not go back to that side of you. She is yours. Have your fun, but not too much. She hurts, then you hurt. You lose her, then you lose yourself. Like it or not pal, that’s your problem now. That human being is nothing more than a petulant child. And Jax has her taste in his mouth. Claim her before either one of you kills her.”
“I haven’t killed humans in centuries. Such puny creatures.”
“She’s yours, Andrew.”
You were his. And if he had to be stuck with you, he was going to have fun with you first. Test your limits. It sounded like you needed some discipline. Needed learn how to act. He would have no problem with reminding you who was the one in charge. He wasn’t an angel, and he was worse than some devil. All the fae were. And soon, little Faelynn, you would know all too well about pain and scars.
Next
Masterlist
Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @sstan-hoe @missusbarnes-rogers @peaches1958 @seitmai @smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989 @theinheriteddutchess @donutloverxo @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @bambamwolf87 @harrysthiccthighss
#tastes like rain#fae#faerie#fae!andy barber#fae!andy barber x reader#andy barber x reader#andy barber x fem!reader#andy barber x y/n#andy barber x you#andy barber fanfiction#andy barber fanfic#andy barber fic#andy barber fics#andy barber smut#defending jacob#chris evans#chris evans character
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Now that we're through season two of Midst and are looking forward to the trailer for season three this week, I thought it'd be fun to return to the season two trailer to take a look at the "questions you may have" after the season one finale that it listed and see how many of them we got answers to and which are questions we still have!
——
Why the fuck did the moon explode?
This is still a question we all have, audience and characters alike.
What's gonna happen to utterly doomed Midst and everybody trapped on it by an incoming wave of reality-devouring fog?
Just as when Saskia was asked this, it is not really possible to answer this one succinctly—but we do get an answer.
Are Lark and Tzila gonna be okay?
Yes! Physically, at least. For the time being.
Are they gonna figure out that Sherman's not dead?
They did. It was harrowing.
What's Phineas gonna do now that he's been abandoned by the Trust, the very institution that raised him and gave him purpose and his sense of self-worth? And like, what is he gonna do?
Go to therapy. I cannot believe, in the best way, that the answer is literally "go to therapy" here. After that, it's go to the Un (!!!) to rescue Sherman. He's always running after one Guthrie or another.
Will Jonas Spahr do the right thing?
He's done a lot of things. Some of it was definitely not the right thing, and some was an attempt at the right thing, and some of it was a failure to commit to the right thing. So, mixed bag at best. It can be said that, ultimately, Jonas Spahr has come to a place where he is trying to do the right thing.
What even is the right thing?
This is highly subjective, both in reference to Spahr and in general, so whether we received an answer to this is up to interpretation. There are few clear and unequivocal answers in this story.
What is Imelda's deal?
Zealotry!
Why did the Trust even bother rescuing Moc Weepe even though he's this weird sleazeball piece of shit who stabbed his closest friends in the back?
That massive ridiculousness of an abacus was more than just an inconvenience, it represented the fact that Weepe has enough Valor to be a member of the Upper Trust! Also, Imelda sees his cunning and ruthlessness as an asset and something that the Trust needs, which should concern everyone.
And what is a mirrorhawk?
This has not gotten clearer, and I suspect never will! They're apparently edible though, given herbed mirrohawk dip was served at an Upper Trust luncheon.
What is a bocular horse?
"You really know what it is. It really barely needs mentioning. You've seen science fiction. Yes, that picture you've got of the bocular horse in your mind right now, that's it."
What is going on with Weepe's voice?
Apparently the same as what's going on with the rest of him, given his voice has gotten more gravelly lately against all odds.
Is Landlord gonna die?
They told us this one in the season two trailer directly: no. He does make a couple of lovely reappearances.
Why did Lark kill Fuze? What is she trying to hide?
Tying up loose ends, trying to prevent him from identifying her as the one who killed Maximilian Loxlee. Why she killed Maximilian, however, is a new question we've got.
Is the nutcracker okay?
It was! Then Saskia threw it out, so...
Will the rapidly depreciating value of Valor ever restabilize, or is the market doomed to implode?
Still waiting on this one, and the Trust is sure trying to stablize the market. It's not looking great though, gonna be honest.
Is the Trust bad?
It's pretty bad over there, to put it mildly.
Did Saskia's dogs really eat the melted corpse of enterprising businessman Atticus Concord?
The answer to this hasn't changed since season one, so it's still at: apparently! Also, we learned the dogs' names: Lloyd and Bartimaeus.
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Finally cleaned this up so here’s my DnDads ultimate ship opinions list. I was waiting until after s2 ended to clean this up in case I had any final opinion changes with the last few episodes. Please don’t bash me for any of these. The DnDads fandom is generally very nice but shipping discourse is something that can get heated no matter the fandom.
Dads
Henry Darryl: very neutral. I understand the ship I just never fully got on the boat
Henry Glenn: absolutely fucking feral about them do not get me started on Glennry
Darryl Glenn: feral in a different way that I don’t know how to describe other than toxic yaoi in the way that they’re damaged but refuse to talk about it so they kiss about it instead
Loveeeeeeee polydads but only as Henry/Glenn/Darryl. Not really a Ron shipper I love him and Samantha too much. Ron and Glenn’s friendship is very important to me though
In terms of Jodie, I don’t really ship him with any of the main dads, ESPECIALLY not Glenn. Even if Jimmy didn’t play Jodie I’d still never ship them. Wish Scamster was real and not completely a scam because they’re literally a crackship become real except it was never a crackship before canon. It’s surprising to me that they weren’t really shipped beforehand
Henry Mercedes: THE T4T OF ALL TIME BABEYYYYY. Absolutely iconic couple, fate was in their favor with how they met they were destined for each other
Darryl Carol: After hearing how Darryl talked about his family in Heaven, I was actually really happy they ended up not getting divorced. They clearly had a rough patch as seen in s1, but they genuinely love each other and I love how devoted to her Darryl is. The little finger puppet he made of her in the time out zone… :,)
Glenn Morgan: GLORGAN!!!!!!!!! Oh my god these two tear me apart. I am feral for Glorgan angst there’s too much to work with. More people need to start calling them Glorgan instead of Morglenn please please please please pretty please indulge me in my silly ship name
Ron Samantha: sobbing. They’re so sweet. The distinction that Samantha is also a little silly is very important to me. They love each other so fucking much
Kiddads
Nicky Sparrow: didn’t realize how much I love them for a good while but when I did oh god I love them so so much. T4T it’s so real to me that they’re both trans
Nicky Lark: used to like it but yall mischaracterize Nicky so much in fics. If yall want toxic yaoi just ship Grant and Lark I’m so serious
Nicky Terry: sobs. They were best friends. I don’t personally ship them but the fact that Terry said he was his best friend… that line rattles around in my brain so often
Nicky Grant: recently learned this might get shipped and has THE coolest ship name. Crossfire I love you but for the ship name alone
Sparrow Terry: I think I’ve seen this shipped a few times but only in the context of Terry/Nicky/Sparrow. Not my personal cup of tea though
Sparrow Grant: I don’t see this shipped too often but they have the worst ship name ever /aff. Wtf is a spant lol. Also I’m too much team transfem Sparrow to feel comfortable shipping this
Lark Terry: do not know the appeal of Gun Control but their ship name is fun
Lark Grant: toxic yaoi central. They both need intense therapy but them both being so fucked up is what makes them interesting not that that’s healthy though
Terry Grant: I see them more in a qpr place than anything romantic. I have one fic of them that’s bookmarked on Safari because I think about a part from it from time to time
Don’t have any poly ships for them
In terms of s2 spouses I so desperately wished we could’ve seen more of them. We barely get to see them
Nicky Cassandra: Telling Taylor his dad was a good man and that she misses him every day makes me think they parted on good terms. But then Nicky disappeared because of FBI shit. In another life maybe they could’ve worked.
Sparrow Rebecca: more ugly sobbing. I’m unsure on my sparroace thoughts if they’d end up getting divorced post-finale but I know they’re not fully separating or breaking up. They really are in love but it’s unconventional and messy.
Terry Veronica: I think the reveal that Terry is infertile is a nice touch to their relationship. It sounds weird to say and I feel like I might word this all weirdly. Him being unable to have bio kids but finding love in someone who wants to raise a kid with him anyways. Veronica finding new love again after a supposedly abusive relationship. Both of those combined is something I really love.
Grant Marco: Canon gays ftw. The Titanic episode was so generous in letting us get to see their dynamic. Obviously Grant still has a long way to go in finding self love but I’m so happy he found someone who can support him and loves him back like this.
Teens
Normal Scary: ugly sobbing over them I love them so much. Cradling my madomagi and tma aus with them as madohomu and jmart
Normal Taylor: yearning for the early s2 days like when they went to Sonic and made some devious plan off screen I wish they had more silly interactions together. Was truly fed with the kareoke intro and them bonding over costume making for a minute. Tayloak could be so interesting if there was more material to work with
Normal Link: Childhood BFFs to Lovers; I wish they could’ve hung out more as kids but all that happened
Normal Hermie: I get the hype but I have personal reasons for feeling neutral on them that I wish I could get over. Good soup though /ref
Scary Taylor: see them too much as a sibling dynamic to ever ship them
Scary Link: respect to all y’all shippers but I do not gothcleats and will leave it at that forever. I can only accept the finale with my transfem Link hc
Scary Hermie: I love Scene Partners. These stupid kids and reflecting each other /aff
Taylor Link: one that I can’t believe I didn’t ship sooner they’re so silly
Link Hermie: I think this one is very funny (/pos) but not my personal vibe
Love love LOVEEEEEEEE Marloakworthy AUGH. A giant triangle of everyone paralleling each other
Polywagon I love you; cannot believe you’re real and genuinely canon. This is just Homestuck again when Hussie said all ships are canon (DnDads never beating the Homestuck allegations from me)
Scary Erica: wish there were more interactions I love Erica so much but alas she’s a guest NPC. “You awaken a lightness in me” sapphic ass Scary I know what you are
#dndads#dungeons and daddies#dndads s1#dndads s2#dndads season 2#there’s no way I can tag everyone and every ship just pretend that I did#I could barely tag everyone when I did the stained glass art
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9. part-time soulmate, full-time problem
Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumbass reader
Warnings: No use of y/n - reader goes by the nickname Trouble instead, cursing, sexual situations - SMUT & idolatry (my usual bullshit), we think we’re ~prank Sinatra~ to disastrous effect i.e. a fake elopement, Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance.
A/N: hey girl, u up? lemme come thru 💦💦💦 🥵🥵🥵 *slaps roof of fic* You can fit so much reverence and smut in this bad boy. Here’s 5.1K of pure filth and debauchery, holy water can’t help me now! Poetry excerpt from Sue Zhao. 18+ mature content (minors dni). Reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated, please let me know what you thought; enjoy & thanks for reading! 💜
series masterlist | playlist - newly updated!
Steve's playlist for Trouble: trouble will find me
previous || next
Now, Spring Break, Joshua Tree, CA ➡️ Las Vegas, NV
“You did what?”
And it’s not a question, not by a long shot.
If Nancy Wheeler wasn’t some 1,800 miles from you, you’d be seeing the patented snarl right now. The one that says ‘you’ll be dead by my hand and my hand alone.’
There’s a very real possibility that you’ve overplayed your hand this time. What started as a prank, a harmless lark, had devolved into one screeching phone call from Steve’s mother for him and a blistering series rapid-fire of texts for you, followed by a phone call during which Nancy was going to rip you a new asshole.
She didn’t appreciate your texts as you’d hoped.
Trouble 👁️👄👁️: so BDE is not *just* an energy with Steve. got it, good to know.
Natty light 💯: She lives! We haven’t heard from you in days. Wtf did you idiots do?
Trouble 👁️👄👁️: nothing to be concerned about! on an unrelated note, before you check insta remember that i am your BESTIE and you would miss me terribly(!!!) if i died, even if it was at your own hand
Natty light 💯: … I’m going to kill you, and resurrect your dessicated corpse so I can strangle you … slowly and painfully
Trouble 👁️👄👁️: pls mother, no, i’m scared
But hey, it’s not like you woke up and decided to potentially fuck up your life today.
So, yeah. Definitely went too far with it this time, but in your defense, it’s not like anyone was there to reign you in. Steve was just as liable to go on with your half-cocked schemes, even more so now that you could sit back on your heels, all pretty smiles and wide, sweet eyes as your hands unbuckle his belt, still supplicated with chin on his knee, “You said anything...”
Folded like a house of cards the second you got your mouth on him. Shudders when you begin with your tongue first before eager lips stretch to fit him, guiding until he’s nestled in your mouth. And then you move, deliberately measured, building a lazy pace, sluicing him up with spit.
“Ah, shit…” Steve’s words are already betraying him. You smile as his cock pops out of your mouth.
“How’s that? Still wanna make that dinner reservation?” Thick lashes framing glittering doe-eyes peer up at him. Purposely coy. “Or do you want to stay here?”
He returns to himself. Dazed, he blinks at the bright lights and the glossy tiled floor. The marble countertop of the sink where he grips like a lifeline.
The restroom down the hall of the restaurant. Turn a corner and twenty people are sitting at tables, drinking cocktails and cajoling. Your mouth back on him wipes the thoughts from his brain.
Squelching when you push him back past your molars, crushing your tongue.
You slide him out, voice hoarse and breathy and it chills him to the bone the way you whisper, “C’mon baby, let’s have some fun.”
The second day in California runs a lot more smoothly, and the third day is as easy as a breeze. Granted, it’s a hot, humid, sticky type of desert breeze as you wipe a hand across your forehead in the heat of the day.
Steve hums a patient tune, leans back on both palms and you watch the sunlight drape his bare chest in a warm flare. Glowing gold and bronze as if it’s transmuted from the hue in his very eyes.
He is hard and hot when your bare skin touches his. Steve lies down on his side to face you, panting slightly as you glide your hand up and down his arm. Oh fuck, it’s been months and the first man you touch is more like something carved by a master sculptor of Renaissance than any other man. It should be illegal for someone to look this good.
Trembling, you touch the hard planes of his torso, the ridges in his abdomen, the swell of his chest taking hard breaths. You shut your eyes and imagine the way he looks right now—breathless and wild. His knee parts your legs easily and one hand descends to feel your center, saturating your underwear.
“Jesus, baby,” Steve sighs into your neck. “You’re makin’ me crazy. This–” He begins to slide his digits up and down, getting the slippery wetness all over his fingers, “Already…”
A shudder rolls through your body upon hearing his words and you arch into his touch, moaning when he rubs your clit in perfect pulsing circles. He moves forward, kissing the tops of your breasts through your bra, nipping at the soft flesh spilling from the cups.
“Steve, you’ll make me come.” You admit, a little shyly even as your hips rock consciously into his hand. You paw at his arms, squeezing the ridges of muscles.
And you’re abruptly startled awake by the sound your own moans. It’s past four in the morning when you rouse from sleep, frustrated to leave behind the pleasant escape the dream provided.
Damn it all to hell.
A creak of the wood door alerts you to his arrival. Steve is quiet when he sits on your bed, one knee pulled up to his chest while the other leg slinks down by your side, thigh brushing yours where your legs kicked off the covers. A sigh rolls through him at the early hour.
There is discomfort. His body retreats with the shift of your atmosphere. Always too itchy in your own skin. Afraid of being seen, noticed, thought about. He’s good at hearing your silence. Good at reading your language.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
He glistens like a god come to drown you in the sweetest of dreams. It makes your heart plummet to its death at the thought of his departure when you shake your head.
“Me neither.”
He lays back on your bed with a tired sigh, close enough to touch. Your own personal wonder.
“C’mere then,” you tug him to your side. Steve presses his lips to your neck, smiles into the wispy hair at the nape, nuzzles your locks aside to reveal more shoulder. Breathing soft and slow with his face against your neck, chest to your chest. He’s folded and tucked against you, all his strength and gravity nestled to your side.
“Honey—” Steve murmurs, more purposefully now, rasps your name, so soft and reverent you almost don’t hear it.
A confused noise, a second of readjustment to a new position, to his touch, and then you stir and purr.
“Hey, you.” Voice like warm fire, even with disrupted sleep from past few days.
A heavy silence falls between you.
Tell me what you’re thinking. If it was a mistake, tell me. If it wasn’t, tell me. You’ve been avoiding me and look—I want your goddamn babies, but c’mon. You gotta throw me a bone, I’m shit at reading signs.
He wants to take you to pieces, eyes roving your sleep-drowsy form, shorts rucked up on your thighs, shirt askew. Would devour you whole if you’d let him, savor your cries and moans at his capable hands. Make a ruin you only to build you right back up, unable to think of anyone else save him.
Steve arches, brushing the tip of his nose against your chin, up to your own nose, mouth hovering but not quite touching, just feeling each other’s atmosphere. You cross the distance and kiss him, grip tighter now like he could collapse right into you and god, you wish he could. Let you keep every last bit of him forever.
“Can we—”
You savor his lips, caressing the line of his cupid’s bow with your own, tongue flicking over the corners of his mouth, punctuating it chastely like a ritual. He moans, hand on the plane of your back moving, fingers scrambling at your spine before he palms your thigh and slots you flush against his torso with one leg hooked around his waist.
“God yes. Lemme just—”
He tugs at the waistband of your sleeping shorts before he changes his mind and his hands slip into the leg opening of the silk instead, keeping you right where you are. He rucks his own sweats down, just enough to spring himself free, shushing your whines, never letting you get too far, slipping upward, finding your heat.
“Eyes on me, baby.”
“Okay, Steve—ah—”
Right. So this is happening. Like, right the fuck now.
Oh god.
You’re both surprised and terrified, blinking at his urgency, and then you start scrambling, too. A beatific grin blooms on your lips before you tip forward and slowly glide yourself down his considerable size, rubbing back and forth, hips moving easily.
Steve stutters breathlessly like he might go into shock. “You’re all fucking— oh fuckin’ hell.”
You only arch into it, holding his chin between your thumb and forefinger, kissing the bristles of his jaw. You’re soft and warm and he’s utterly overcome. Little noises fall from one mouth to another. An awkward shift and your thighs slip off his, head knocking into him, but neither of you are bothered.
A half-hearted cluck of your tongue gives way to a low moan and you shuffle, flush against his chest, bare bodies warm and growing hotter now. Your palm rubs down his chest, savoring the rougher feel of his hairs there, contrasting your own skin, grasping his jutting hipbones, the strong plane of his abdomen.
Eager fingers slip between flesh. Velvet and surprisingly slick and wrapping around his digits like syrupy flower petals. “Baby girl,” Steve hums at the way you sigh. “Pretty girl.”
Shudders. You’re weak and boneless, slack and supple, pliant to his fingers and words. Little sweet-talker, you never knew he had such a clever tongue until he first slid it against yours in that fevered kiss in December. Now he’ll know all your weaknesses, know every lock and how to pick them until you’re all the way opened up for him.
It’s hard to focus when he’s like this. Perfectly warm. Perfectly adoring. Perfectly fitted. So, so bright with the faintest pink bursting over his cheeks.
You whimper with his every stroke. Every plunge. His other hand runs itself up the nape of your neck, fingertips in your scalp and you arch like a cat for more.
“So good,” Steve praises, “Nice and tight, squeezin’ around me. All wet for me, aren’t you?”
“Uh— mhm.” Inarticulate noises. Woozy and wrapped in his affection.
His eyes– pupils blown wide, half-hooded with lust and love– immobilize you, memorizing every inch of your face. He smiles. Christ, a smile that could launch a thousand ships. That could blind the whole world.
You curse quietly, blood pounding in your ears, your chest, your throat where he latches on with his perfect mouth, marking you up with his spit quickly followed by his teeth.
“Keep going—oh, don’t stop–“
“You want it like this, honey?” He sucks on your collar, on your shoulder, taking every whimper and cry as a command to continue.
They flower all over your chest. Red and purple and swollen bright for everyone to see—just like him. And the very thought of him, of you, lost to it takes you over the edge, calling his name like you’re at an altar in supplication.
“That’s it, honey. Be a good girl and come for me.”
With a tremble that vibrates all the way to into Steve’s soul, you obey. Onto his hips and abdomen, gushing a little, and with some embarrassment that it happened all so quickly.
Your lids flutter open and you see as Steve hitches himself deeper, grinding his hips, gripping your thighs, and fills you all the way up until the stars behind your eyes whites out your vision, making you stutter and keen as you continue to fall apart.
Then he stills, pulling you even closer, body slick with dew in the early morning light. The two of you lie in perfect symmetry, trembling in each other’s arms.
And because you’re a sap with too much poetry rattling around your brain, all that pops into your head is:
In my dreams I am kissing your mouth and you’re whispering ‘where have you been?’ I say, ‘I’ve been lost but I’m here now. You’re the only person who has ever been able to find me.’
You allow yourself to sink into the feeling, expecting the tight fit of something new but finding that not to be the case at all. But rather brushing against something well-worn, as if it had been waiting for you all this time.
“God, Steve—” you rasp. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
Steve laughs low, kisses the blooming bruises up and down your neck, makes you whine again, sensitive and aching. His clever tongue wonders sweetly, “How’s staying in bed all day sound?”
You laugh. He’ll learn everything you like. Know all your weaknesses. How can you say no to something like that?
It’s different, almost tender in the afternoon.
His abs clench in time with his fists, wet fingers digging into his palms, bit-back groans barely contained. You keep going, marveling at the way he’s sensitive, kissing his neck, letting him feel good. Steve begins to protest, embarrassed at the way you’re moving, at how he’s powerless against you.
“S-slow—hold on—“
“Let me do it, Stevie.” He’s so hard it hurts. “I wanna learn everything you like.”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Steve holds himself to calm down, other hand steadying your teasing. Nothing’s happened yet, you just started back up again after a late breakfast, having slept soundly through the morning, and he might already blow his whole fucking load.
“Okay—just—will you give me a second–”
Using the position you’re already in, he pushes you up against the mattress and guides you back down, hitching your thighs around his hips, sinking a bit at a time until you’re landing on him with a gasp. He eases into you with what he hopes is restraint, letting you have it slow, feeling you shudder from inside your goddamn bones with every further inch until he takes it away and you shimmy down to the hilt.
Your eyes roll back. And you look perfect.
“Was it good?” He blurts, “With Eddie?”
He doesn’t know why it slips out; he never thinks about it, honest. It was a series of hook ups. A few times over the years—and he’s not jealous like that because you’re all adults, and it’s not like he’s a virgin or an ascetic, either. You freeze, but he really is an idiot because instead of apologizing or rectifying that outburst, he cuts you off.
“I can give it to you better.”
Because Steve wants to. He really does.
He presses onward before you can respond, taking hold of what little courage he has, making you whimper, feeling prouder as he goes. Another one and you’re meeting him with a roll of your own hips. Another one, harder now, and you’re shaking down below him, tipping back into the pillows, grinding recklessly with that exhilaration he adores.
“Baby, you feel amazing.” Tongue-tied like a schoolboy, he’s keening after your words. “Can I have you all the time?” And Jesus wept who knew you could talk so sweet and filthy.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” Steve promises, his jaw hanging open in awe, “I’m yours. You can have me as much as you want— anytime.”
You bite your lip, skin of it pulled taut and snapping back bruised, light-headed and reeling. Glistening across your collarbones with his spit, body trembling like a high note. He feels it— just a little more— god, you look incredible— he’s gotta hold out for this— and then—fuck.
It’s wet and divine when you come. Slick and tight, dragging him under as you ride out your orgasm, pulling him in like he belongs in you forever.
And he knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.
Steve could die happy seeing your face like this every day.
Two weeks prior…
“Eddie…tell me the truth,” You ask slowly, folding clothes (well, that’s a generous term— it’s more haphazardly tossing and bundling laundry into your open suitcase). “It’s good, isn’t it? Shawty, tell me what that thang do!”
You waggle your brows, make a V-shape with your fingers, and lewdly run your tongue up and down between them. Steve thinks he sees you looking at him, but he feels himself flushing at your comment and pretends like he’s enthralled with the most recent episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Half-keeping an eye on you to make sure you actually pack actual pajamas and pants for this trip.
“Dude. Stop it.” Eddie groans, knowing you’re all too familiar with his endowments and prowess from previous experience.
Whomever currently was getting the Eddie Munson midnight special was having a helluva time.
You lob a pair of leggings toward your suitcase, “Kobe!”
You miss.
Eddie cackles, “How’re you gonna disrespect a legend like that, and miss?!”
“Okay!” Steve yells, pushing you off the couch in the living room, “That’s enough of that. I’m going for a run.”
Landing on your shoulder with a grunt, you brush away the rough sting of the carpet and catch the last second of his shadow before he’s gone from the room.
“What?” You call, projecting your voice and hoping he hears, “What’d I do? Steve!”
The scrape of the chair legs signals Eddie standing up, too. A shake of his head and he crosses his arms over his chest.
“You know,” he starts, “For all your insight, you’re pretty dense.”
There’s nothing in your head but sawdust and thoughts about his… activities under the sheets his flavor of the month. You shake it out of your brain before it lingers too long. Eddie points sharply down the hall to where Steve’s shadow has slipped out of view and hearing-distance.
“You know he likes you, right?”
Uh? Your brain is the mac loading wheel, just spinning. “Of course he does? We’re buddies?”
Eddie cuffs you in the back of the head, “Get it together. Like is putting it lightly, too. Love is closer to the truth.”
“Now,” Eddie leans over you, menacing you with his height. “How about you go listen to the record he gave you and think about what you’ve done, hmm?”
Then, he saunters off, shaking his head all the while, leaving you to gape down the hall like a fish. Steve? In love? With you?
Flashes explode in your brain like fireworks. His jacket over your shoulders—not the first time. Sitting underneath your legs— nearly tradition. Morning errand runs even though he hates them. The banter—him, scolding your motor-mouth, you— never stopping. Circles he rubs on your knees— the laughter—damn it, so much laughter.
Steve? In love? With you? It’s more likely than you think.
Back in your bedroom and chastened, you wait until the front door closes signaling Steve’s exit. Turning to the wall dedicated to your impassioned analytical skills, you eye the various colors of yarn showing the various connections that could be drawn from the song choice and order in which they were placed.
Printed out pages of lyrics have been annotated to death, some phrases scrawled more largely than others for importance. You stare at the wall for the better part of an hour, long enough to come to the end of the playlist. Sufjan Stevens rhapsodizes on the mystery of love and fades into Matt Berninger singing how he needs his girl.
A gasp. A choke and a wail somewhere deep inside your chest as you slowly, methodically begin removing the pins and pages from your wall. Realization settling on you heavy with mood.
Clearly, this was not some bush-league bullshit.
Hesitant, but growing in the knowledge that Steve, your best friend whom you annoy to no end, is irrefutably and undeniably in love with you. You’d have seen it sooner if you weren’t such a dumbass, all the signs had been there just lying in wait. The front door opens once more, his voice calling out to Robin in the kitchen about dinner.
“Steve.” You light out of your room, tearing down the hallway. “Stevie! Steve! I’m sorry! Steve oh my god! I’m a fuckup!”
You trip on the corner of the floor runner, as he turns, slightly confused, one hand reaching out to catch you as you careen into his chest with a thunk.
You must look a wreck, hair in disarray and panting hard, him sweat-slick, bearing your weight as he sets you right on your feet.
Steve raises an eyebrow, blinks at the way the front of your shirt slides from your shoulder and takes his ear buds out, looking at you like you’re a first-rate idiot.
And well ... he’s not wrong.
The flight to Vegas is painless, though you are put out at having to leave the love nest that bloomed like a night flower in the Californian desert. A lazy, slow start to the day. Sticky and sweet like biting into a ripe peach, juices flowing down against sun-warmed skin.
His hand pulling at yours, guiding you through the crowds of the airport, looking back to you frequently, as if he can’t bring himself not to. One hour later and viva, Las Vegas!
As it turns out, it’s fairly easy to fake a Vegas elopement. Just a matter of subterfuge and a wedding chapel, which are a plenty in Clark County. Steve in a suit (“You weren’t even wearing a tie, Steven! Who gets married looking like that!?”), rotating the signet of his ring out of sight, the ‘H’ resiting against the underside of his ring finger so just the band was visible.
You in a dress, something white and off the rack from Neiman’s, your ring, courtesy of Steve, moved from your right hand to your left. Sapphire earrings as your something blue, Manolo Blahnik pumps in your favorite color, a gift from Steve, as your something new.
A well-timed call to Jonathan, he was in town for a shoot and just so happened to have a few hours to kill. An appointment at the Graceland Wedding Chapel and 250 dollars later, you have yourself a believable elopement, no marriage certificate required.
Even drove out to the Red Rock Mojave desert outside of town for a photoshoot courtesy of one Jonathan Byers, professional photographer. By the time you’d made it back to your room at the Wynn that night, he’d already done a rough edit of a few photos for you to post to the ‘gram. Piece of cake, really.
It was all well and good. Steve even let you tag him and posted his favorite images himself, miracle of miracles. The man does jack shit with social media, claims he only has the account for the groupchats and memes. Captioned it something like ‘married AF’ because he’s a dork; first photo in the carousel was a shot of your hands, showing off the new bling with the wedding chapel sign in the background.
You opted for the more truthful, ‘ew, boy. you’re, like, obsessed with me’ and selected a photo where your legs wrapped around Steve’s hips after he’d told you to ‘time to giddy-up, yeah?’ with a wink and caught you in his arms before kissing you stupid. You were quite pleased with yourself until the phones began to ring.
“Jus’ ignore it, honey.” His teeth pull against your bottom lip, bringing your attention back to him. You screw your eyes shut, hand falling to cup the nape of his neck as his lips continue their mapping of your skin. Purposefully, he plays with a lock of your hair, tucks it behind your ear, and lets his finger ghost over your neck. “Gonna kiss you now,” you murmurs, “Doin’ some of my best work here and you’re missing it.”
He pouts.
Your throat clenches, bobbing with a thick swallow and Steve thinks if this wasn’t so tender and sweet, he’d be latching onto that pulse instead. “Okay…” Your mouth parts expectantly, eyes fluttering closed, hand coming up to caress his jaw.
It’s sublime. It’s perfect. It’s the biggest relief he’s ever felt when you return his touch—parting your lips to receive the tip of his tongue against yours. Thirst. Desperation. Enthusiastic limbs scrambling to feel more of him. A bucking of your hips against his thigh and he’s soaring up into heaven with the sensation.
Except the damn phone won’t stop ringing.
“Steve,” you pant, hand reaching up to fist his hair and pull him from your the sensitive spot he’s located behind your ear. As you tangle your fingers in his mane of hair, securing your grip with a tug, he breaks contact with your slick skin with a strangled moan.
Oh.
You file that particular reaction away for further investigation and direct his attention to the loudly ringing phone on the nightstand. He rolls off of you with an exasperated noise and answers the call in a sulk. “Hi, Ma.”
His expression changes so quickly you nearly have whiplash; lazy and pouty one moment to shocked silent in the next while his mother lectures him, a mile a minute. Eyes cutting to you, he grabs your phone from the same table and holds it in font of you to unlock it via Face ID. You roll your eyes and bat him away, taking a slug of water from the glass on your bedside table.
“Shit,” Steve mutters, putting himself on mute and his mom on speaker as he scrolls through your phone. “Holy fucking shit, nonono.”
You lean over and take a peek. He’s thumbing through Facebook, pupils blown wide in shock at the sheer number of notifications on his accidental post. Because yes, Steve accidentally cross-posted the photos from Instagram to Facebook as an update, like genius.
“Are you fucking kidding me!?”
He drops your phone on the bed when it starts to ring, like it’s a venomous thing that could take him down in one strike.
Sheepishly, he looks to you and mouths ‘I’m so sorry’ as he returns to his mother’s raging diatribe.
After checking the caller ID, you answer, voice flat. “Hello.”
“You little scamp,” Eddie tuts, “Stole my idea of eloping in Vegas and everything, I hate you.”
In spite of yourself, you crack a smile. “It’s a prank, babe.” A sigh as you pull your hair up and off of your shoulders. “Not legally binding at all. Having Byers on deck really sold the idea though.”
“You are the absolute worst, Trouble.” You warm at his soft laughter, “What’d you do to get Steve to agree? Drop to you knees all nice and pretty?”
A swell of pride accompanies the rush of heat at the thought of your earlier rendezvous. “Y’know Eds, I did exactly that. How perceptive of you.”
He cackles. “It’s tried and true for a reason, babe.” Steve is nodding furiously at whatever his mother is yammering on about, bare back toward you as he sits on the edge of the bed.
A push and a slide across the rumpled sheets and you’ve wrapped around him like a vine. His thumb rubs at your ankle, pulling your leg to envelop his hip. Opposite arm dangling across his chest as you press your face into his neck, revelling in his scent—cypress, vetiver, and something slight musky tinged with salt. All warm and pliable.
“Nance may have called in some reinforcements.” Eddie says carefully. “I told her to fuck off, but she’s beyond reason at this point.”
“Whaddya mean?”
He sighs, “Just be on the lookout for an angry lesbian, alright?”
You snort, drawing Steve’s attention. He twists in your hold, phone discarded on the table finally, fingers trailing tantalizingly up and down your sides. Pushes you back against the bed, chin resting on your sternum as you talk with Eddie, head tilted as he listens.
Begging off the phone call, you say your goodbyes. “Hey,” Eddie says before you go, voice soft and warm, “You happy babe? You sound it.”
“Yeah,” you turn your head and grin at the ridiculousness of your life. Steve follows your lips, his own blazing a trail across your chest and up to meet your shoulder. “I’m really happy, Eds.”
Steve plucks the phone from your hand, “Bye Munson!” He sings before ending the call and unceremoniously dropping your phone on the floor.
And Steve never thought a person was supposed to laugh so hard during sex, or maybe that’s just your own brand of love, but he doesn’t want to find out with anyone else.
It’s the fifth time, and Steve’s dick is about to fall off—how are you still doing this—just a few thrusts in when the banging on the door frightens the both of you into your clothes.
Robin swings it open and Steve is desperately tucking himself into his pants before—please, no.
“It smells like ass in here!” She hollers, “The hell have you two been—oh my god.”
“Shut up, Rob!” You respond from the corner of the room, head ripping through the neck hole of a shirt, legs wiggling into a pair shorts. Steve is still shirtless, hoping he might spontaneously combust.
“Oh my god,” Robin whispers again, “Oh… my god.” She sputters on the verge of either eruption or death.
“You freaky little—” she hisses, before screaming, “Oh fuck no! I’m here picking your asses up. Got on a flight at ass o'clock from Indy— you're butt-ass-naked in here—” She stands ram-rod straight, hands on her hips angrily. “I’m tellin’ on you.”
“Telling on?! What are you, five!? You’re so annoying, Rob!”
“Annoying? What’s annoying is—I’m exhausted! And well— you're exhausted too, huh?”
“I hate you.”
She snickers, high-fiving herself before crossing her arms, “Now get your freaky asses outside so I can go home and drink myself into forgetting I ever saw Harrington’s dick.”
You pat her on the shoulder, “It’s nice, huh?”
Robin dry-heaves, “Uh-uh. That’s enough. Go wash your damn hands.”
A few minutes later, Steve closes the door to the now-silent hotel room, damp with sweat and the lingering aroma of musk. Robin trots on ahead, leading the pair of you through the lobby and out into the dry desert heat.
His hand pulls at yours, reassuring and warm. A small smile blooms across your face and you allow yourself to revel in it for a moment: heading home with Steve, can't even bring yourself to be all that mad at Robin's antics.
Not when he turns back to check on you, all tan skin and that devastating smile. Tugs you closer as Robin flags down the Uber, lays his lips against yours, and kisses you with a sweetness only he could bring.
Oh yeah, you think tangling your free hand in his shirt. This'll do just fine.
#steve harrington fanfiction#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x you#steve harrington smut#reader insert#teacher!steve#the kids aren't alright - rosewaterandivy
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Oh For a Muse of Fire! Part 2
LOL! I love how much you guys are loving this. I took the idea for the names at the bar from a fantasy novel called The Lark and the Wren (I’m pretty sure) by Mercedes Lackey (only in that case it was a brothel).
Also guys: If I have you on my list but you didn’t get the notification for the tag it means one of two things: it’s a side or secondary blog and tumblr doesn’t tag those. Or and this far more likely you have it set that you’re undiscoverable through tumblr. Under settings go to your blog then scroll all the way down to visibility and make sure both are grey. (Or secret third thing that your blog is set to 18+ because tumblr hates porn.)
Part 1
*
Steve was trembling when he got to the apartment he shared with Robin. So badly that he was struggling to put the key in the lock. After the third failed attempt, he let out a sharp cry and sunk to the floor, his back pressed against the door.
He knew that he wasn’t the best person in high school. He did. But he had changed his senior year. Stopped hanging out with Tommy and Carol. Started focusing on his art. Meeting Robin.
Hell, as far as Steve could remember they hadn’t even gone after Eddie and his friends. He would like to say that it was because he had a crush on the guy. But no, it was just they ran in different circles and were just outside their purview.
He held his hands up and while they still shook, they weren’t as bad. He got up and tried again. With some effort he managed to get the key in the lock. He sighed in relief as the tumbler slid and allowed him to open the door.
As badly as Steve wanted to grab the six pack out of the fridge and down the whole thing, wallowing in self-pity. He couldn’t because he actually had work.
He had to train his replacement. He worked at an upscale bar close to campus, bar-tending. It was good money and he was able to work nights and go to school during the day. But if everything went according to plan, at the end of summer Steve would be starting his student teaching position. So the bar needed a new bartender.
He pulled on the black slacks and white button up that his uniform and his white sneakers. He rolled up his sleeves and checked his hair really quick in the mirror.
It would have to do.
He splashed water on his face to wash away the tears and clear his mind of cobwebs. He didn’t have the liberty of fucking up.
Steve grabbed his car keys and jumped into his BMW. The last remnant of his father’s hospitality. He had gotten the car when he was sixteen and the car was nearing its first decade. He kept his fingers crossed that it would last until he got his first full time teaching job.
When he pulled up the bar, he could see her waiting for him by the door. She was pretty blonde with bright eyes and a cheerful expression. She was wearing a short black skirt and high heeled shoes.
Steve shook his head. She was in for a rough time tonight if that’s what she was going to be wearing.
He trotted up to her. “Hey, you must be the new girl.”
“Yeah I’m C–”
Steve held up his hand. “If you’re going to tell me your real name, don’t. The boss doesn’t like us knowing each other’s real names, says it distracts from the ambient feel. I’m Garnet.”
She blushed. “Right, right. He said. I’m Opal.”
Steve nodded. “Or at least at first hopefully by the time I leave you’ll be upgraded to a nicer gem.”
Opal fell instep with him as he led the way through the bar. “Have you always been Garnet, then?”
Steve licked his lips. “Yeah. It’s something of a running joke now. I’m the best bartender this bar has ever had and I’ve never been upgraded to Ruby or whatever.”
She nodded.
“Truth is Diamond respects me, but he sure the hell doesn’t like me,” he explained.
“You think Diamond is his real name?” Opal asked eagerly.
Steve shrugged. “Could be.” He grabbed two aprons from their hooks and tossed one at her. “This will help prevent you going home smelling like the bar.”
She nodded, tying it deftly around her waist.
“Diamond said you’ve done this before?” Steve asked, pulling out two white towels and tossing her one.
Opal nodded. “At my last job. It closed up because the owners retired.”
Steve nodded. “So then this won’t be too difficult. This will just be me showing you were everything is and showing you how to make the house specials.”
“Pretty much,” she said cheerfully.
Steve looked down at her shoes. “Your last place make you wear heels to tend in?”
She looked down at her feet. “Yeah, said I was too short to see over the bar otherwise.”
He cocked his head to side. “But you aren’t that short...”
Opal laughed, clear as a bell. “Oh I know. He was just a misogynist pig. I do have flats with me since I take the bus.”
“Put them on,” Steve instructed. “We move way too fast for you to be in heels. I don’t want you breaking your ankle or have blisters by the end of the night.”
She nodded and pulled out a pair of black flats and slipped them on, shoving the heels back in the purse.
“You’ll want tennis shoes or any other comfortable shoe from now on,” Steve explained. “You’re also allowed to wear slacks if you want. The patrons aren’t going to see below your waist and the apron covers your chest. Your tips will come from you being fast and good.”
Opal saluted. “Aye, aye Captain!”
Steve laughed. “Yeah, I think you’ll fit in just fine.”
“Garnet!” a uncoordinated blur shouted and jumped into his arms. Steve caught her deftly and shook his head.
“Hey, Pearl,” he said with a grin. He set her down. “Say hi to the new girl.”
Pearl turned slowly to see that yes, someone was with Steve.
“Uh, hi,” she said, shyly. “Garnet’s my best friend.”
Steve gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Yes, you are. Pearl, this is Opal. She’s my replacement come August. Opal, this gangly giraffe is one of the best waitresses the Queen’s Crown has to offer.”
Pearl smacked Steve’s arm. “Pay no attention to him.”
Opal laughed. “Kinda hafta because he’s training me.”
“Well besides that,” Pearl said. “He’s just a big dingus with a bigger heart.”
Steve blushed.
“Aww...” Opal said, “you two are cute together.”
Pearl made a fake vomiting noise. “We’re just best friends. Platonic with a capital P.”
Steve shook his head. “Ignore her.”
Opal laughed. “Five minutes in and I’m already ignoring everyone. This must be quite the friendly place.”
Just then a large man came out of the back and threw his arms wide open.
“Opal, my pet!” he boomed. “You made it. These two haven’t been giving you a hard time, have they?”
Opal shook her head. “They’ve been sweet.”
“Good, good,” Diamond said with a grin. “The bar opens in an hour. Garnet will show you everything you need to do to get stared.”
He gave them a wink and lumbered back into office.
Steve cleared his throat. “Right. So everyone pitches into to step and take down everything. Take down will include wiping everything down and sweeping and mopping the floors. Even Diamond comes out and helps wash glasses.”
Opal’s eyes went wide. “Seriously?”
Pearl nodded. “He’s kinda a if you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself kind of guy. Not always, he does trust us to do our jobs, but he’s very hands on.”
“But he doesn’t help set up?” Opal asked,
Steve looked back behind him and then back at her. “He gets the drawers ready for the day. He counts it all before hand and then we count our drawers with him after. He also counts the tip jar in front of everyone and gives everyone their percentages.”
Opal’s jaw dropped and she stared at them in shock. A man came out of the back dressed similarly to Pearl in a black button up and black slacks. While Pearl had black boots, this guy had white sneakers.
“This is Topaz, one of the other waiters,” Pearl said as the guy came up to shake her hand. “This is Opal, Garnet’s replacement.”
The guy lifted an eyebrow. “That’s some pretty big shoes to fill.”
Opal blushed. “I’m just surprised you guys are hiring six months out for that.”
Topaz shook his head. “That’s Diamond being a worry-wart again. If you don’t work out, he wants time to hire someone else.”
“You know,” Opal said, putting her hands on her hips, “for someone who insists everyone go by gem nicknames Diamond is sounding more and more like the perfect boss.”
The other three laughed.
“Pretty much,” Pearl said, “He may be an annoying hipster, but he’s good boss and he’ll take care of you.”
Topaz hip checked Steve. “Unless you’re Garnet, here.”
Steve pushed him playfully. “Shut it, man.”
Topaz laughed. “This idiot accidentally hit on Diamond’s daughter.”
Pearl grinned. “In front of her fiance no less.”
Steve threw his arms in the air. “No one told me who they were. I had been here for like a week. And every signal she was sending me was that she was interested.”
Topaz patted him on the back. “You keep telling yourself that, man.”
Steve shook his head. “Let’s get to work before Diamond comes out and starts yelling at us.”
Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Epilogue
Tag List: @artiststarme @allbymyselfexceptformycactus @spectrum-spectre estrellami-1 @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gregre369 @itsall-taken @m-owo-n @zerokrox-blog @runyousillydetective @grimmfitzz @wonderland-girl143-blog @sapphirecobalt-1@scheodingers-muppet @victor-thee-corvid @apricottree @bookbinderbitch @sleepyboosstuff @biatcgh @pixiefallingupthestairs @grtwdsmwhr @thepainisspicy @carlyv @eboyawstenn @bisexualdisastersworld @bidisastersworld @abstractnaturaldisaster
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Well, I'm on my Stizzy bullshit.
This is steddyhands where Stede and Izzy are both smitten with each other but struggling to communicate it.
They're sleeping together, but only with Ed too and it's all Ed being dominant and Izzy being submissive and Stede kinda just being along for the ride. Anyway, they're figuring it out.
And Izzy loves how rough and possessive Ed gets loves what they do together and that they actually get to do this now.
In fact, that's what sparked his predicament. Because the only reason he and Ed worked their shit out is because Stede called them both out like a prissy little bull in a fancy fuck off China shop and if he hadn't stuck his stupid nose where it didn't belong, Izzy wouldn't have everything he could ever want.
Well, everything he used to want. He was never much for tenderness, if he's honest. Soft things don't survive at sea and he learned that young.
Stede, though. Stede survives at sea. Hell, he even fucking thrives, and he's seen that man make slow, sweet, mind-rendingly gentle love to fucking Blackbeard until Ed is sobbing, and begging, and nearly out of his mind with it.
He got to watch once and it's fucked him up ever since. Because it turns out there is something else Izzy Hands can want for. He can want for soft hands to touch him with love, and with intent. To take pleasure in his pleasure. And he supposes he could ask Ed for it, but he likes the way Ed touches him.
He wants Stede to touch him like that. He wants him to do it because he wants to, not to put on a show for Ed or to prove a point. Izzy wants Stede Bonnet to fucking ruin him with his soft hands and his filthy words, and his ridiculous cock and it's driving him out of his blessed mind.
Because Stede has seen Ed hit, kick, choke, scratch, and fuck Izzy at knife point. He's seen Izzy get his face brutally fucked by the visage of Blackbeard and yes he loves it, craves it even, but maybe, he's finding, he can love more than one kind of thing. More than one kind of person.
He handles it about as well as he handles anything else, which is not really that well at all. It starts to get into his head - why doesn't Stede initiate anything with him? The bastard takes every other damn thing he pleases, but he won't ask to fuck Izzy?
So he draws the logical conclusion; he's here for Ed and Stede and Stede is there for Ed and tolerant of Izzy. He doesn't pine for touch from Izzy, or lay awake a night imagining something as simple as a kiss. And why would he? Stede has Ed, who looks like that, and Izzy's tried to fuck him over so many times. It's not his fault that Izzy's broken, corroded heart tripped headlong into love from loathing when Izzy's given him no reason to reciprocate.
So, he makes a decision to lock those feelings down deep. He kept himself from touching Ed for nearly thirty years and he's pretty sure they don't all have thirty years left considering their line of work, so this should be easy. A piece of fucking cake.
But every time there's soft words and touches between the loves of his life, it hurts something deep in him. It hurts that Stede sees Ed and wants to give him everything and he doesn't feel that way with Izzy.
But Izzy's a selfish bastard, and he wants.
It comes to a head, as many things do, when he gets absolutely pissed on whiskey during shore leave. Ed is off doing fuck knows what, but Stede decided to come to the pub with Izzy and he doesn't know what all to make of that, but they're getting drunker and drunker, and Izzy keeps ordering drink after drink to ignore how good Stede's thigh feels against his and how much he wants those hands on him.
His mood turns sour quickly when his mind starts the whole pining lark again and, after Stede's fifth assertion that Izzy had enough and should come with him back to the ship, Izzy reaches the end of his rope.
"I'm a grown man, fuck off you poncey twat" he growls and he wants to inhale the words back into his stupid drunk mouth because Stede looks stricken, then like he's gathering up pieces of himself to put back away.
"Well then, alright." Stede replies and then gets up and walks out like he isn't taking Izzy's mangled heart with him.
Fuck.
He has a few more drinks because at this point why not? What does he have to lose save for more of his waning dignity. Getting a room and heading back to the Revenge in the morning is a tempting option, but something draws him back to the ship. It might just be that it's a home for him; very possibly the only one he's ever really acknowledged.
He's not nearly as drunk as he expects, but he's got a twisting, roiling feeling in his gut anyway. The walk was supposed to clear his head, but by the time he realizes that it didn't, he's wringing his fucking hands and already standing in front of the Captains cabin. His cabin, some may even call it (Ed and Stede do).
He walks in with a degree of confidence that only truly not giving a fuck and approximately eight whiskeys can buy you, and there's Stede, with a light blue silk robe draped across his shoulders, perfect blonde curls sitting about his shoulders, and a pair of hastily wiped red eyes that Izzy reckons he may have put there himself. He's immediately sober in a way he doesn't expect and he feels the crushing weight of his feelings and this secret he's dug into his chest.
Stede goes to speak, but Izzy's running on regret and adrenaline and just needs him to listen for one fucking second before he loses his nerve. He's sure if he doesn't say this now he never will.
"I want you," he says, and Stede's jaw drops a bit before he inhales like he's about to respond, "no, stop, let me talk." His voice is wildly steady given the shaking of his hands.
"I do, I fucking want you, okay? And I think you're a ponce too, but I see what-" his voice cracks. Fuck. He better get this out quick.
"I want you to fuck me like you fuck Ed and I want what you and Ed have too. But I don't think it'll fucking work because you love him and you don't love me and-"
Whatever he meant to say is taken away from him by Stede's warmth, and seconds later, by one of his gorgeous, soft hands brushing the swallow inked at Izzy's throat, and by the hazel eyes staring down into his and fucking shit, he's seen that tenderness a million times before, but never directed at him.
"Don't love you?", Stede's voice is soft and brimming with emotion, "Of course I love you, how couldn't I?"
And Izzy doesn't even care that it's cheesy or and doesn't want to wonder if it isn't true. He doesn't care that he can think up a thousand reasons that he wouldn't be loved, starting with slicing up Stede's shirt and stealing a hostage, then ending with actual betrayal via British Navy, but again Stede found a way to surprise him.
He's going to say it back, but what comes out is a whine and then soft lips are over his, and soft hands are around his waist and oh fucking hell.
It's good, is the thing. Stede's holding him so gently, but also like he can't imagine letting go. As he slowly licks Izzy's mouth open he's running one hand from his hair, to his jaw, to his waist, then his hip to pull them flush, and then right back up to grip the back of Izzy's head like Stede can't fathom not touching all of Izzy and fuck if Izzy doesn't wholeheartedly agree.
He remembers that he also has hands, and then buries them both in Stede's hair. It's so soft and and this close he can see the whites and grays that Stede hasn't avoided and it makes Izzy feral. This isn't the Stede of his dreams, nor some perfect gentleman from a society that rejected Izzy from childhood, this is the real deal, the mad man, the lunatic, this fucking incredible being, and fuck its doing Izzy's head in.
When Stede breaks the kiss, they both realize that they've moved so that Stede's pressing Izzy into the wall next to the bed. Izzy's panting, barely holding himself up, and he grinds up against Stede, for the friction and to be a little shit, and Stede's eyes darken. He's so lost in them that he barely realizes that Stede's hands have moved before he's being bodily picked fucking up and oh yeah, Stede has actual fucking muscles now, which fuck fuck fuck. He gets why Ed loses his fucking mind for this.
He groans and Stede whispers into his ear, close enough that he can feel his lips, his breath, "Israel, darling, let me take you to bed."
And Izzy's breathing out, "Yes, fuck, finally". He feels safe and wanted and fucking loved and it's sending him floating.
He lets that warmth light him up as Stede lays him down, curls hanging in the space between them, before he kisses Izzy again and they're both lost to the gentle, sweet expression of love and devotion they both deserve.
#ofmd#our flag means death#stede bonnet#my fic#izzy hands#ofmd fic#Stizzy#Steddyhands#edward teach#blackbeard
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you got me. i binged all of midst in two days and it was great, but now i dont have a lot of other podcasts to listen to. do you have other good fiction podcasts you like?
DO I. I am not the Most Podcast Person I know but I definitely follow a lot because I drive a lot and walk a lot and put them on in the background while I do chores. Also, I'm sticking to scripted/plotted fiction here and not actual play but I can provide some actual play podcast recs too, though none are terribly obscure.
Wolf 359 is a completed podcast but a great binge. It also is science fiction and deals with capitalism and corruption and complicated characters and weird space stuff; it regularly makes the "great fiction podcasts" to check out and I think is closest to Midst in that it's also a tightly plotted work that goes to a natural end point.
I frequently talk about and recommend the Silt Verses and the thematic nature is remarkably close to Midst, but the vibe is very different. It has a lot of folk and body horror elements (audio-only, but they are absolutely present). Also covers the "man what if capitalism and religion were working explicitly in tandem" element of Midst with the added dimension of "what if there were many many gods and and they all demanded literal, physical sacrifices". Sister Carpenter is cut from a similar cloth as Lark and I love her dearly. To draw other comparisons would be to spoil it. It's on season 3, which will be its last. It is extremely intense in that when I fell behind I found it tough to binge without taking breaks, but it's really fucking good. (I also recommend this to people who like Candela Obscura, though that's more for eldritch horror vibes).
The Penumbra Podcast is great because it has two separate storylines (it was originally intended to be an anthology, but people fell in love with Juno Steel specifically). I like both, but Juno Steel is the more popular one - it's set in the future, in our solar system but in space, and follows Juno Steel, a private eye. It's extremely weird neo-noir. There is a homme fatale and a fantastic cast of characters, and it's also an interesting ongoing plot. The Second Citadel is more fantasy rather than sf though it's also kind of in that general New Weird bucket and is even harder to describe but I think it's underrated. It's also on its final season but it's been going on a while so it will take a bit for you to catch up.
Within the Wires is also a podcast I've recommended in the past. It's by the people who do Welcome to Nightvale which isn't listed here both because I assume you are aware of it, and because that's an ongoing slice of life sort of thing; there are plots but there's sort of that sitcom-esque "nothing really changes the status quo" element though the earlier era had some more structured stuff. Anyway, Within the Wires is found audio, so each season is different - the first is relaxation cassette tapes, the second museum audio guides, the third voice memos, etc. There are callbacks/connections between seasons at times, and I would recommend listening to at least the first two seasons in full (which are very strong) to get a sense of the world before hopping around later. The reason I recommend it here is because the worldbuilding is spectacularly done in a way that reminds me of the elegance of the worldbuilding in Midst, and because it's found audio, while it's one narrator per season you will get those weird asides and interesting tonal choices.
Tentative rec for Camlann, a roughly modern day post-apocalyptic take on Arthurian legends and the folklore of the British Isles only because it just started and has 3 episodes. I like it, but I don't know what plot it's building to (nor how long it will be; they have funding for one season but aren't sure about future ones.)
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CHAPTER 4, PART 2!
May this brick all of our apps less and stop being a little fucking bitch about the page breaks. It takes me longer just to scroll to copy this section than it does to do my laundry one handed
Ask me how I know.
Tag list, sorry for spam:
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Previous part:
First chapter:
————-/
Frustration prickling across his skin, Damian ducked quickly away from another group of high society women, making for a quiet spot behind a large plant in an urn.
Galas were intolerable at the best of times, and this one was proving to be even worse. Todd’s new acquaintances were deeply suspicious but Drake and Brown already seemed enamoured.
Even Grayson seemed willing to trust them far, far too easily. It was… disappointing.
For all that Damian did trust their words when they said Masters was a danger, that certainly did not make them allies. He did not trust them.
They were all suspicious, from Foley being able to detect his presence to Fenton himself.
No matter what the others said, Damian knew that he hadn’t slipped. He’d not made a sound, not ruffled the tablecloth, and still he knew.
There was something off about all three Amity Parkers, and Fenton’s admitted pit exposure was only the start.
Normal people did not have access to a Lazarus pit. He couldn’t have named a single one not under the League’s control, not even a rumour. Whoever he was, however he had come to be exposed, he was not a civilian.
That he had died did not give him some sort of blanket acceptance. It did not solve the question of how, even if his other siblings did admonish him.
If Fenton had been exposed to the pit, knew its rage enough to help Todd, who’d been burdened with the worst rage Damian had ever witnessed, he was a dangerous threat indeed.
More dangerous because he was personable, and chatty, and friendly. He made them overlook him! It was crystal clear! Being charming to prevent them from growing suspicious.
It would not work on Damian. He had no use for charm or friendly chatter. He would remain focused, remain on guard even as Todd and the others failed.
He may have lost Father for now (intentionally; Damian had no wish to witness his painful flirtations with the Kyle woman), but he would stay focused.
He finally slipped into the solace of the plant’s shadow, and nearly bumped directly into the youngest Manson. He’d had no idea she was there.
Brows drawing down, Damian realized that Todd and Fenton were just a little further beyond, their backs to the wall but still close enough to be unnoticed. Both were watching Todd, who seemed pained by something.
“Were you not to be making a spectacle?” He hissed sharply, making both Amity Parkers jump.
Jason cracked an eye open and glared down at him, then at his two companions. Perhaps he was finally wising up to these new “friends”.
“They’re bothering me about fucking pixie boots. I didn’t want to do it in view of the whole crowd,” he grumbled and Damian’s brows drew further in.
Disappointing. Mere annoyance, not the suspicion they deserved. Whatever these “pixie boots” were, it was inconsequential.
He focused his attention on Manson instead.
“If you wish to antagonize your parents, you will need a much more public scene,” he reminded her, irritated that he needed to.
He may not trust the mission, but at least he could stay focused.
Manson rolled her eyes and waved a hand at him.
“Dude, being caught snuggled in a corner will get their hopes up just fine. He does have a point though,” she added to the other two with a reluctant sigh.
As if there was any doubt.
Todd frowned down at him.
“Why aren’t you with Bruce anyway? Wasn’t that your job?” He asked, when he should have been thanking Damian from distracting the other two from whatever this pixie nonsense was.
Ungrateful. This was why he preferred Grayson.
“He is pursuing Selina Kyle,” Damian explained, not feeling the need to go into detail. He didn’t need to as Todd’s face morphed into immediate understanding.
“Yeah, fair, not something for young eyes,” he agreed with a soft chuckle and Damian nodded curtly. He couldn’t imagine whose eyes or ears would enjoy such a display at any age.
Fenton was grinning again, prodding Todd’s shoulder.
“The voice of experience?” He asked in clear glee, and Todd grimaced.
“Unfortunately. So, Sam, want to hit the refreshments so I can offer you a drink?” He asked, waggling his eyebrows.
Manson rolled her eyes again but offered her hand, her other hand firmly tucked into Fenton’s elbow.
“I feel like I’ve come in half way through a movie and missed all the good bits,” she grumbled, and Damian was surprised to find he sympathized.
There was far too much going on here that he did not understand, and too many secrets. He would have his answers though.
Most importantly of all, the reason Jason was keeping so many secrets and letting strangers so close. But that would wait for another time.
Watching the three move towards the room, he checked his own internal clock.
Fifteen minutes. Father would likely not be done with Kyle yet.
He could stand to observe some more of these strangers. And perhaps their shenanigans.
From a distance, of course.
**
Vlad was having a wonderful evening.
Oh, most of the attendees at this event were simply sheep waiting to be shorn, the wealthy and well connected who liked pretending that meant they mattered.
But he’d already made some promising connections with Mr Wayne before he’d had to hurry away, and he’d given the Mansons a subtle reminder that Daniel was his.
Better that they do remember that, even if their relationship was a little… fractious. Daniel would see the light soon, student loans were an awful thing and Vlad could make them disappear.
It would be… nice.
He’d half expected the impulse to control, to train and raise the boy would end once he’d reached adulthood, but no. Daniel was 21 now, legally a full adult, and Vlad still craved that closeness.
Age was such an immaterial thing, though he was hoping that leaving his teenage years might also dull the boy’s rebellious tendencies. He and Daniel would have the rest of eternity together.
There would be all the time in the world for Vlad to teach his godson everything he knew, prove his value as an advisor.
He had once hoped that Madeline might one day become a ghost herself, but he’d begun to suspect it’d never happen.
Oh, she had the passion, the drive, but she wanted answers too much. She was determined to know what came after death, and when the time came to learn she wouldn’t balk.
She would leave him behind.
One day he may even wish to follow.
But not while her son lived (as much as either of them still lived) and needed guidance. Needed training, even if it did have to be disguised as combat.
Daniel could be something truly special if only he applied himself. Vlad would see himself Fade before he let that potential go to waste.
And ah, there was young Tucker Foley, tucked as usual up to Daniel’s side. Likely filling him in on what had happened with the Mansons.
Smiling to himself, Vlad adjusted his vest and headed over to say hello.
**
Tim was honestly surprised by how much he was enjoying the gala. He’d expected it to be work, spending the time gathering data and assessing Jason’s new boyfriend.
Recon.
It’d beat the usual drudgery on that alone, but he was actually having fun. The most important thing he’d learned about Danny so far was definitely his own connections to the pit, but…
Well, he hadn’t expected to like the guy. To bully Jason about him, obviously, 1000% that was just going to happen, but liking him on his own merits?
Apparently Jason had good taste. Who knew?
Tucker Foley though, Tucker was way more Tim’s speed. He’d come to drop the knowledge that Selina Kyle was floating around and then stuck around, cheerfully chatting tech.
Tim would be much easier to mistake for Danny hanging out with Danny’s friend. It didn’t even need to be said.
And Tucker was just… so easy to talk to. They drifted around the room, chatting and greeting various business partners of Tim’s, talking like they’d known each other for years.
Tim was 1000% checking if they had an internship for Tuck. Hell, if they didn’t? He was the CEO, he could damn well make a space in R&D.
Tucker hadn’t given him the full download on his PDA yet, but he was more than happy to talk about some of his simpler modifications, and Tim already wanted the rest.
The guy might enjoy a retro aesthetic over Tim’s futuristic designs, but who fucking cared? His tech ran on old mods as fast as Tim’s newest of new wrist computer.
And, yeah, maybe they were currently engaged in a hack-the-pentagon race rather than socializing like Bruce always begged them to, but it was fun.
Tim’d come to another gala if he got to bring Tucker. For sure.
As he had the thought, Tucker glanced up from his PDA for a moment and Tim took advantage. He’d been tracking Tuck’s progress (knew Tucker was tracking his, and fuck that was exciting), and delicately tripped the firewall ahead of him.
Tuck’s PDA blanked out and Tim sailed through the last levels of security, grinning broadly in victory. He wouldn’t try and get a worm in, Tucker would notice for sure, but getting him locked out?
Yeah, that was a win.
Tucker barely seemed to notice though, leaning in with a wicked grin.
“Vlad, 5 o’clock, moving in. Ready?” He asked quietly, and only then glanced back at his PDA. His face fell and Tim snickered.
“Totally ready. And in, by the way,” he added, showing the other guy his screen.
Tucker let out a truly heartfelt groan, shoving at his shoulder and Tim swayed with it, laughing.
“Hey, you know the game. You blink, you lose!”
“It’s called spatial awareness,” Tucker shot back, half his attention now focused on bringing the PDA back up. And probably stopping a couple Secret Service alarms.
Tim would have helped, but a deceptively strong hand had just clapped onto his shoulder. It felt possessive even without seeing the expression that came with it, and Tim shivered, grin sharpening.
Oh, yeah. That wasn’t gonna go well for someone.
“Daniel. Imagine my surprise at finding you here,” Masters all but purred behind him.
The urge to twist away from the hand, break the grip, or possibly just throw the asshole were all very strong, but something in that grip made Tim think it wouldn’t be that easy.
And he was here as a civilian.
He marshalled his expression into one of Brucie’s best, cool politeness and greeting, and turned to look over his shoulder.
“Imagine mine at such an informal introduction,” he said with just a hint of teasing, cocking a brow as Vlad snatched his hand back like he’d been burned, “have we met?”
And fuck the guy was tall too, because of course he was. Not quite as tall as Bruce, but… definitely close to Jason’s height if not his size.
And currently glaring at Tucker, who was hiding giggles behind his hand.
“My apologies,” Vlad ground out like he was chewing glass, gaze finally sliding back onto Tim with a calculating curiosity that was more than familiar. “And you are?”
Tim put on his best smile, turning and offering his hand to shake because he was pretty sure that’d annoy the man more than anything else.
“Tim Drake, CEO of Wayne Enterprises. And you are?”
And yeah, he didn’t like the smile that spread across Masters’ face as he took the hand, his grip firm and strong.
“Vladimir Masters,” he all but purred, actually giving a slight bow as he pulled back. Fucking weirdo. “Founder of DALV. CO and mayor of Amity Park.”
Tim blinked, the name suddenly clicking.
“You named your company after your own first name spelled backwards?” He asked, actual amusement sneaking into his voice.
Vlad raised a brow.
“Not an unusual practice, CEO of Wayne Enterprises,” he remarked coolly.
Tim grinned and spread his hands.
“Hey, I didn’t name it. You’re not wrong though, and I guess “Masters” has already been taken several times over,” Tim joked and Vlad’s eyes narrowed just a little.
“It is one of the unfortunate side effects of being a self made man,” he said with a convincing false humility… or at least it would have been convincing if Tucker hadn’t laughed.
Vlad’s eyes shot back around to the younger man like he’d forgotten he was there, narrowed again, and then his face smoothed into a shoddily sincere smile.
“And of course, Tucker Foley. We know each other through my dear godson, Daniel. I was quite surprised to hear that Daniel would be joining us this evening, Mister Foley. I don’t suppose you’d know where he is?”
It was the barest layering of civility and politeness, but since Tucker looked shocked by that, Tim had a couple guesses about their usual relationship. It did not endear Vlad to him.
Tucker didn’t stay off balance for long though, just shrugging and grinning. Tim finally got to see his utterly blatant lies up close and in person.
“Oh, is Danny here? I hadn’t heard. I dunno Vlad, I’m sure if he’s around he’d say hi. He’s really changed a lot though, not sure I’d recognise him.” All the same confidence he’d used to tell Dick his name was Danny.
Tim was maybe just a little bit in love with his sense of humour. Shifting until they were almost arm in arm, he grinned up at Vlad too.
“I do hope you find him, Mr Masters. Though I’m afraid if you think he looks like me, there’s plenty of us floating around. You know how Brucie collects the boys with dark hair and blue eyes.”
Vlad visibly flinched at the jibe, maybe not noticeably to anyone but a bat, but Tim wasn’t Red Robin for nothing. Still, he managed a decent answering smile and another weird little bow.
“Of course. Perhaps we shall speak again later, Mr Drake. There is a lot our companies can do for each other.”
Tim wouldn’t have let the opportunity go for a lifetime supply of espresso.
“Of course, don’t be afraid to reach out if you want to get in touch,” he said innocently, keeping his expression completely open in the face of a sudden and steely glare.
Quite sure he was being made fun of but unable to prove it, Vlad nodded stiffly and turned, walking away.
Tucker and Tim turned back to each other, grins suddenly broad and out of control. They had to suck them down quickly, one of the other boring businessmen approaching to “check if they were okay”, “so shocked someone would dare manhandle him”, blah blah blah.
No one who’d approached when Masters was actually around, of course. Just sucking up and enjoying the chance to smear dirt on someone with a little more wealth.
Tim would be very happy to smear a swamp on Vlad Masters, so he pretended his shoulder had been sorely wounded, rolling it and rubbing carefully.
Tucker actually looked concerned, hurrying him away to the refreshments table to grab him some ice. Tim let him fuss until they were away from direct witnesses, then tipped him a wink.
And the guy caught on fast, Tim had to give him that. They’d carried on to the table a little more loudly, Tucker keeping up a running commentary of “are you sure you’re okay?” While Tim did his very best Civilian Brave Face, But Not Actually Brave.
They even got him some ice, which Tucker held to his shoulder even though it felt fine. Just the visual was going to do a lot of work for them.
**
Distracted on his way to the back rooms, Bruce was alarmed to hear a couple talking about one of his sons being injured at the party.
His mind flashed immediately to Jason, though whether as the cause or the victim didn’t follow. When he heard it was Tim, worry shot through him and he forced himself to breathe.
Jason hadn’t done anything to hurt Tim in two years. He was actually more gentle with him than with any of the others, and Bruce didn’t imagine he’d faked all the regret.
It didn’t mean he couldn’t or wouldn’t slip again, hoodlum stranger monitoring the pit for him or not, but he wouldn’t make the accusation. It would hit too close if incorrect.
Changing course, he made his way across the room to find Tim instead. Best to get the information directly.
Tim looked well enough, though he’d draped his jacket over one arm while a young Black man - Tucker Foley, Jason’s mysterious plus one that he’d implied should be Danny - applied a makeshift ice pack to his shoulder.
Eyes narrowing, Bruce made his way gently closer, drifting through the nearby groups to pick up the local gossip. Though some lips closed when they spotted him, others opened faster.
There’d been some miscommunication between Tim and Vlad Masters, Vlad actually grabbing Tim and apparently mistaking him for someone else.
Their following exchange seemed to have been pleasant enough, but now Tim was “discreetly” seeking medical attention. Just how hard had the man grabbed Tim?
Masters had a firm grip, certainly, but he’d seen Tim slammed face first into concrete and walk away without flinching, broken nose and all.
He wouldn’t fuss about a real injury, not if he didn’t want an immediate assessment in the med bay when they returned home. He had to be faking, and Bruce knew why.
A message, likely to him and his siblings about Masters. Tim didn’t trust him, had found something about the man that warranted suspicion.
Masters had been very complimentary to Jason’s “Danny”, though even he’d admitted the boy had problems with authority. Was Tim telling him it was a lie?
But no, the boy tending Tim was Danny’s best friend, Tucker Foley. Tim could certainly fool a civilian into a fake medical emergency, but why would he involve Tucker if Danny was suspect?
Unless Tucker was potentially dangerous too, and Tim wanted him out of circulation. Away from Danny. Away from Jason.
Jason, who’d been so pleased to see the other young man only an hour ago. Now nowhere to be seen while Tucker tended to Tim’s arm.
Eyes narrowing, Bruce turned and made his way firmly towards the back rooms once more, eyes now sweeping the crowd for Masters.
It was possible Jason was no longer there, but he’d at least pick up the boy’s trail. He had to get Jason away from these people, at least until Tim could give a full report.
As he moved, he caught sight of Vlad Masters now approaching Dick and Cass, and nearly changed course again.
But no, Dick was a solid lad, he could handle himself and Bruce very much doubted a single person in the building could get anything past Cass.
They would be fine, whatever Masters was up to. They weren’t as unreliable vulnerable as Jason.
He had to get to Jason.
He couldn’t be too late again.
**
Cass did not like galas. To be fair, she didn’t know anyone who did.
She usually didn’t have to go; much less than her brothers. Bruce respected her desires for privacy, but she’d volunteered to go once.
It was a rite of passage Dick said, and he was usually right. It had been… well. She was one of Bruce’s later adoptees, long after it had become a running joke.
She had very nearly broken a man’s kneecaps for what he said about her brothers, but Cass was good at keeping quiet. Unobserved. Undetected.
Broken kneecaps were detectable.
Honestly, Cass was also the one who got into the least trouble at galas. She was used to sitting quietly while being verbally abused.
It was probably why no one ever tried to make her go. She’d gotten a little… lost in her own head the first time. It took days to find her words again.
Now if she went to a gala it was because she’d decided to, and someone stayed with her for most of the evening. Both so she didn’t have to talk to people and because that was usually why she chose to go.
Usually one of her siblings had planned something interesting, or needed her help. That was always fun, and they could chat in sign language about the assholes around them.
Today’s gala was double fun, because Tim and Dick had asked for her help with Danny (once they knew she was coming), and because Jason was fucking with Tim and Dick.
Cass didn’t choose sides.
She did like Jason’s new friend Tucker though. He was open and undamaged in a way very few vigilantes were. Perhaps he took a support role.
She’d known what he was since he spotted Damian, and the Amity Parkers even having their own evil billionaire was basically confirmation. Civilians just didn’t have those kinds of problems.
She hadn’t decided about Danny or Sam yet, but she did know that Jason already cared very deeply, which had surprised her. And probably Jason himself.
He needed more friends.
Cass would like more friends. Maybe someone for backup when she went overseas.
She hoped Jason’s new friends would be able to stay. They made him so happy, and tonight so very interesting.
It was easy to ignore the half-whispered comments as she and Dick moved through the crowd. Dick was a great performer, easily turning on the charm and making people smile.
All Cass had to do was smile at appropriate moments and keep an eye out, ready to alert him when it was their turn.
An older lady in a long blue gown was just telling them that Tim had been caught up in a scene when she caught sight of Vlad Masters making his way towards them.
Luckily Dick was already facing the right way, doing all the right expressions of wide eyed fascination. Sliding her hand from his elbow to bare wrist, she tapped out a message in morse code.
‘Behind.’
She didn’t need to look at Dick to know he’d received it as he shifted just a little, hand ready to pull from hers just in case. Apparently Masters already had a bad habit of grabbing.
Cass watched him from the corner of her eye, hidden behind her bangs as he stalked up.
Apparently he’d already learned his lesson; while he looked confident, he was moving more slowly, scanning the group. She let her hand drop from Dick’s before his gaze tracked down, shifting her position to “politely interested stranger”.
Dick gave a rather convincing laugh as their “informant” cut herself off quickly, spreading his hands and shrugging.
“Hey, Amity Park’s an informal scene. Not a big city like Gotham, right?” He said cheerfully, slipping easily into Danny’s tones.
It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t like he had to fool a voice recording. Cass switched to watching the older woman’s eyes widen as Vlad approached, and she held down a smile of her own.
Now if Vlad made a grab for Dick… but no, he’d learned well apparently, stepping in just a little too close to be casual at Dick’s left shoulder.
“Not downplaying our fair city, are we,” he began in a confident drawl, which faltered when Dick turned that wide, friendly smile his way.
“Oh, I’d never! Gotham’s got its troubles but it’s been my home for most of my life, Mister…” he let it trail into an obvious question.
Cass made eye contact with the older woman, whose eyes were still at that “deer in the headlights” strain. Seeing she had Cass’s attention she tried to discretely point with her fan to Masters.
And mouthed “that’s him” so obviously Masters couldn’t have missed it if he tried, her gaze snapping back to Dick. Civilians were so funny.
Eyes narrowed, Masters cleared his throat pointedly and stepped back, extending his hand to shake.
“My apologies… I thought you were my godson. He’s recently joined your university here, and I would hate to think he’s been letting the side down.” He sounded much more formal too, colder than the almost insinuating tones before.
This was a man who liked people to believe he knew everything, all the time. Didn’t like admitting a mistake. But still vain enough to make bold guesses.
Cass gave him a gentle, empty smile as she shifted up alongside Dick, ready to offer support.
Dick, meanwhile, was having fun.
“I know that feeling. Of course I was just a kid when I came here, but Gotham’s just so big and all enveloping. Why, I almost forgot about my home town completely!” He added with a light laugh.
Master’s expression tightened.
“Quite. And you are?” He asked, though he still hadn’t given his name.
Dick fake startled like he hadn’t noticed, catching the man’s hand to shake just after he’d started lowering it.
“Oh, I’m sorry! Dick Grayson, first of old Brucie’s wards. And this is my little sister Cass,” he added, other arm looping around Cass’s shoulder and pulling her in.
She held out her hand too, watching Masters’ eyes as Dick released him and he took hers, shaking like a perfect gentleman.
Not a flinch. Either he hadn’t decided she was lesser yet, or he thought they both were and there wasn’t much difference.
Less likely to underestimate her. Ah well.
She shook back firmly, not her strongest grip but enough that a moment of surprise showed as she released him, giving him her Gala Smile.
A polite, welcoming brick wall with nothing behind it.
Masters held his hand out for just a heartbeat longer after she let go, then tucked both hands behind him and pulled up a smile of his own.
Not real. But not fully forced.
“Ah, of course! I was told quite a few of you have come out to celebrate your dear brother’s return,” Masters said, a glint that Cass definitely didn’t trust in his eyes as he looked from her to Dick. “I am Vlad Masters, I was just speaking to your… guardian?”
“Our dad,” Dick corrected genially, and that was definitely jealousy that shot through Masters’ eyes, there and gone in an instant.
Interesting. He really did want Danny’s acceptance.
And he knew how to keep a public face.
“Of course, my apologies. I suppose you both knew long before we did that poor Jason had been found?” Masters asked, almost sounding sincere for the first time.
Dick clocked it too, his arm tightening around her for a moment before releasing.
“Yes. It was so terrible when we heard that he’d…” his voice trailed off for a moment, putting just enough into the grief to be convincing when he forced himself back a moment later, “but he’s okay after all!”
Masters stepped closer, honing in on perceived weakness like a shark.
“Of course, of course… it must have been such a relief,” he agreed, his voice almost oily as he lowered it, “and I certainly hope it’s not too much to ask, but I had heard that you had even buried him?”
Which, in the spirit of fairness, was a question Cass had been hearing in their periphery for most of the evening. But no one had actually dared say it directly.
Dick’s eyes went comically wide, like the thought had never even occurred to him.
“Oh no, you’re right… I wonder who we put in that coffin,” he gasped with fake horror, stopping just shy of clapping both hands to his cheeks.
Cass pressed her lips closed on a smile. Now no one would.
Even Masters looked surprised, leaning away but not backing down.
“So you know that it wasn’t…” he began, and Dick cut him off with a hearty gasp, swaying like the thought sucked all the strength out of him.
“No, of course not! I saw his grave last week, it was perfectly undisturbed,” Dick said breathily, leaning heavily into Cass and beginning to shake in suppressed sobs.
She pretended to stumble, steadying him and wrapping her arms around him. Masters was beginning to look a little alarmed, but underneath she was sure there was a hint of satisfaction.
Whatever he was pushing for (probably the pit contamination Jason had mentioned), he thought Dick had confirmed it.
Which was… odd. For his body to have been put in the pit, it couldn’t also be in an undisturbed grave? Oh, the grave could have been replaced, but he wouldn’t know that just watching Dick.
He’d have had to look in person, but there was no air of impatience. No hint of an intent to leave, to check something out.
He looked like he had everything that he could possibly want in this moment, except maybe for Dick to be less dramatic.
He took a step closer, directing his focus more to her as she “consoled” her brother.
“I am so sorry to have said anything,” he said quietly, his voice respectful and contrite even if his eyes weren’t, “I can see I’ve caused a great upset. Perhaps we should bring him somewhere to calm down?”
Before Cass could respond, the lady from before (who’d been hovering in abject glee for a second dose of Wayne gossip) butted in.
“Oh, young Cassandra can’t speak, Mr Masters. You know,” she added coyly, doing one of her special discrete fan gestures and whispered “a mute.”
Cass didn’t quite roll her eyes, shifting Dick more across her shoulders and guiding him off to one side. Masters hovered for a moment, clearly still considering assisting, but let the lady draw him into conversation instead.
Never mind that Dick was nearly half a foot taller than her and outweighed her too.
Nothing she couldn’t handle, obviously, or hadn’t handled before, but she couldn’t decide if it was annoying or suspicious.
Annoying from the woman. She was beginning to lean towards suspicious from Masters, though.
He was used to people being stronger than they looked. Or wanted to see if she’d fail. Either way, she added both to her notes on Danny too.
And, frankly, if Masters thought Danny might be Dick’s height when he was a little closer to hers? They hadn’t seen each other in a while.
She’d been sceptical when Tucker suggested the idea and she’d seen it on her brothers too, but apparently he’d still been fooled.
For all that he may want to be close to Danny… For all that he seemed exactly the sort to try and spy and maintain that air of omnipotence… he hadn’t gotten close in a while.
Good.
Danny was too happy to be put under that oppressive thumb. It was why Cass kept putting on her mask, and she’d happily do so again for the boy’s sake.
Nobody should have to see the worst the shadows offered.
**
Danny was having fun being dragged around the room by Sam while Jason flirted with her.
Jay knew just how to toe the line to stay on the “charming” side rather than “obnoxious”, introducing her to people and always listening when she opened her mouth.
Which was usually to reiterate stubbornly that she was here with Danny, or grudgingly answer some question about her life. He’d made her laugh more than once, and Danny figured it was aaaalmost time for them to stop pushing him so hard.
Frankly Danny was mostly just watching them both and enjoying not having to talk himself. Something about Jason turned on the charm sucked most of his snappy retorts right out of him.
Probably cuz he didn’t wanna accidentally hit the nail on the head and upset his new friend. No way to tell what would be a hot button, right?
It definitely wasn’t because watching Jason’s eyes shine when he laughed made Danny think of the stars. It’d been a while since he’d gone up past Gotham’s smog to stargaze.
Besides, he wasn’t the star of this show, so it was fine if he was mostly just exchanged grins with Jason while he and Sam talked.
Sam was having way more fun than she’d ever had at a party too, and Danny reeeeally hoped that her parents knew her well enough to tell.
She’d pull out Manson Party Voice whenever they bumped into another group, but when the three of them were making their way from one spot to the next? That was Sam’s real smile.
It wasn’t as bright and shiny and perfect as the fake one, but honestly, they weren’t comparable. Sam’s real smiles were small and much rarer than her plotting grins, but that made them special.
Val knew too, and Danny made sure he snuck a couple of candids of Sam laughing in her getup just for her. Sam Manson, happy in frills and bows?
Yeah, he also took a couple of her diabolical grins. And a couple of Jason in his suit, which looked waaaay better than Danny’s.
Jason had a lot more to fill it out, and maybe one day Danny would ask about his fitness routine. Fighting ghosts had stopped him from being a stick, but he was still ridiculously wiry.
This just in, fighting for your life with the bare minimum of training and mentorship? Did not make you a beefcake. Well, not if you also had laser eyes.
Danny’s eye muscles were probably better.
At least until he got Jason on his halfa training.
They’d all heard the latest Hot Party Gossip, about the mayor of some little town actually grabbing young Timothy Drake! The scandal!
There’d been another flash of protective rage from Jason at that, but this time Danny was expecting it and ready to soothe with some calm-reassurance-safe.
Seeing Tucker delicately fussing with an ice pack in a “discrete” corner had settled Jason down ironically, and Danny had to wonder how hard Vlad had grabbed him.
Yeah, he’d given Danny bruises plenty of times, but usually mostly after the fighting started. Or when Danny was being a little asshole.
Which, to be fair, was most of the time.
They were just watching Cass drag a sobbing, shuddering Dick past them towards the back rooms (and considering going to help) when Jason stiffened.
About to open his mouth to ask, Danny’s eyes snapped suddenly past the larger man and suddenly he didn’t have to.
Vlad. Behind and between Danny and Jason, looking… ruffled, almost, but very satisfied. Just the look sent a shiver down Danny’s spine before he even opened his mouth.
“Ah, Daniel. And you’ve been making a new friend, I see?“ he asked smugly as Sam and Jason wheeled to face him.
Danny came closer, moving in between them and stepping carefully in front of Jason.
Who growled softly, caught Danny around the shoulders, and stepped in front of him instead, close enough that Vlad had to take a step back or stand chest to chest with him.
And yeah, okay, maybe Danny wasn’t expecting that and it threw him for a loop. What of it.
“Yeah, he has,” Jason said, his voice suddenly cold and menacing in a way Danny had never heard before.
Even Vlad looked surprised, eyebrows rising at the tone.
“And you’ve been teaching him your attitude issues as well, how charming,” he noted to Danny directly, then gave Jason a sly smile. “Vladimir Masters. I assume Danny’s been telling you all sorts of stories?”
“He doesn’t need to dude, your vibes are rancid,” Sam snapped, rolling her eyes when Vlad shot her a glare.
Which, yeah, helped snap Danny out if it and he tried a step to the side to get back into view. And stifled a snicker when Jason moved with him, resting a hand on the taller halfa’s hip.
Calm-breathe-don’t give the game away
It was difficult to keep it local, since he was currently bathing the whole room in his energy. Although, since Vlad had already successfully found him…
Danny winched it back in, letting his aura go from overwhelming back down to conversational, shoulders settling as the pressure dropped.
Felt Jason stiffen for a moment under his hand, then relax, and yeah now Danny felt a little bad about that part of the plan. He hadn’t gone as big as Frostbite, but Jason didn’t react well to big auras.
Maybe it’d help him settle down.
He did at least shift aside enough to let Vlad see him again, and Danny gave him a cheeky wave just to see his face pinch.
“What’s the matter Vlad, worried about what I’d say?” He asked innocently, and enjoyed the way Vlad’s eyes narrowed.
Right up until Jason cleared his throat pointedly and Vlad’s eyes shot to him, widened, and the man stepped back. Which was… wild.
Vlad might be just a little taller, he didn’t have even half of Jason’s bulk but he’d never backed down from Jack Fenton before.
Then again, Jack loved Vlad and would never stare at him with such open threat in his face. Even for a baby halfa, Jason could exude an aura of menace.
Danny was maybe just a tiny huge bit loving it.
Vlad glanced his way again, teeth gritted, and stopped. His expression shifted enough that Danny had to actually look at him again, rather than vaguely watching while enjoying Jason.
Was that… actual conflict? On Vlad “I Know Best I Made The Universe From Scratch” Masters?
And then Vlad gave him a careful, polite smile that he usually saved for cops and adults and that was just too weird.
“Daniel, I understand that we’ve had our differences and I will admit my own part in that. But do I not even deserve a chance to make my own first impressions?” He asked, turning the same smile to Jason.
Who glared back.
“You’ve been running around and accosting my brothers, I think that’s a pretty clear first impression,” he pointed out, muscles flexing as he folded his arms.
Danny wasn’t gonna look. Nope. Focus on Vlad, focus on Vlad, you’d think it wouldn’t be hard with his actual nemesis in front of him but ooooh the fabric of Jason’s jacket was straining in a very interesting way.
Definitely stealing his training routine.
Vlad seemed to have deflated proportionately too, inclining his head in a sharp nod.
“Yes, well. I certainly didn’t intend to be so upsetting. Perhaps we can turn over a new leaf together, Jason? Daniel?” He offered with a slightly more strained smile.
Poor guy never did cope well when one of his plans went wrong. It was Danny’s favourite thing about him.
So he gave Vlad his very best shit eating grin and nodded, leaning against Jason’s side and crossing his legs at the ankles.
“Yeah, why not? We can get all buddy buddy together while I tell Jason all about that camping trip you took me and my mom on,” he said cheerfully, waving a hand. “Maybe I should send you on one some time.”
Vlad’s eyes narrowed, then his expression resolved into a snakelike smile as he pointedly looked at Jason instead.
“Certainly. And perhaps I can also show you some of Daniel’s baby pictures, Jason?” He hummed, voice suddenly silken.
Danny fucking stumbled as he rushed to regain his footing.
“What no fuck you you do not,” he stammered at the same time as Jason raised a mildly interested brow.
“Baby pictures?”
And Vlad had that stupid, annoying, self satisfied asshole smile on his face again. Like he’d fucking won something. He continued to ignore Danny and Sam, smiling up at Jason.
“Oh yes. His parents kept a very clear documentation of his early years, his first tooth, his first Halloween costume, all of it,” he said smugly, entirely confident.
Which just was not fucking fair. What the fuck was Danny supposed to say to that?
“There is no way his parents gave you those photos,” Sam snapped, folding her arms too and glaring.
Hero goth queen.
Vlad gave her a smug smile too.
“And yet I have them. Jack was delighted to bring me through all of the family albums, so I also have stories,” he added, shooting Danny a look that had usually accompanied an ectoblast.
Ectoblasts were better. Ectoblasts only hurt in the moment.
Danny groaned, closing his eyes and scrubbing his hands across his face.
“Alright never mind I liked it better when we were fighting,” he grumbled under his breath, startling a chuckle from Jason.
Vlad finally found a way to beat him.
At least until Danny could call his dad for college stories.
—————
Next:
#danny fenton dead and loving it#dpxdc#dp x dc#danny fenton x jason todd#dead on main shipping#also dead me#why u like this tumblr#why
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here have a sparrow related rant :D (dndads ep 48 spoilers!!)
btw, my entire perception (or all together understanding) of sparrow oak has shifted after this episode-
i think unconsciously i saw the twins as completely different people, like wildly different from eachother, after season 1 and in season 2
but honestly- after we find out that sparrow is the one who enacted code purple, the conversation with henry and mercedes? i still see them as different characters, but i feel like they are actually way more similar than i initially thought
they're just both two guilt ridden idiots, and at first i was really confused why it seemed like sparrow would always group himself with lark when talking about who "ended the world" or whatever (i thought it was probably him saying it in solidarity or whatever, which i think is still partially the reason) but now he also basically did what lark did
i think thats whats heartbreaking to me, because henry immediately forgives lark after he releases the doodler, but sparrow is immediately told he will never be forgiven, and where lark has the motive of wanting to defeat the doodler and become stronger, sparrow has the motive of just wanting to protect his family-
im not saying this is out of character of henry, i definitely think this is how he'd react since he has the knowledge of exactly what code purple will do, and we also know that sparrow tried to lie to him to enact it as well, but its just- fuck
personally i think because of how lark and henrys relationship is in late s1 (and afterwards) henry probably was unconsciously more attentive to lark afterwards, trying to repair that broken relationship- and so his perspective of sparrow is different, sparrow usually goes along with lark and backs him up but he never actually argues with henry or whatever,
so when sparrow does something that he does himself, it seems so off and random to henry, personally i think if he had to think about it that lark would be the twin that what would be most likely to be the one to do it, a lot of it is sparrow acting on his own principle and we really don't see that often, (blah blah, its lark and sparrow not sparrow and lark, blah blah)
basically i think that it was so unexpected of sparrow that henry immediately freaks out and is more aware of the betrayal than he was back when the doodler was released,
im relistening to the mummy issues arc in s1, and was listening to scene of henry and darryl arguing about the pyramid, and i think that's really the thing yk? because henry's moral compass is more pointed towards being selfless, where sparrow seems to be on the opposite side of that in this situation
for example, henry wants to go and get arrested by neverwinter because they had let the pyramid fall instead of trying to save lark and sparrow from the omegadads, which makes sense that he doesn't approve of code purple because it would put faerun in danger, even though it would mean his family would be safe,
and then sparrow, who enacts code purple because even though it would destroy faerun, he and his family would be safe,
ive seen people compare code purple to the trolley problem- and honestly, i agree so much, its similar, where if the same amount of people are on both tracks but one has your friends and family/people you love on one side as well,
really sparrow was put into such a huge position of either way he will end up hurting someone, his 6-year-old son is attacked by a flesh hoard that he can get rid off by flicking a single switch, and of course he's going to do it, even if that means his parents never want to speak to him again and that he dooms another plain of existence to destruction
im just in love with how much this podcast spins morality around, it can be so incredibly philosophical for being a dungeons and dragons podcast about a bunch of stupid dads, it really makes you realize how complicated humans are
#honestly so many fucking thoughts this episode#these twins make me SICK#i said the word enact way too much in this#i hope this makes sense#philosophy is my kink sorry guys#dndads#dndads s2#dndaddies#dungeons and daddies#dungeons & daddies#henry oak garcia#henry oak#sparrow oak swallows garcia#sparrow oak garcia#sparrow oak#lark oak#lark oak garcia#lark and sparrow#the oak family#normally oak swallows garcia#normal oak#mercedes oak garcia#darryl wilson#dndads s1#dndads spoilers#me rambling like hell#🍁#me rambling
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A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons:
Chapter 3
Chapter 2
----------------flashback------------------
You ignored Daemon's question and continued to gather your clothes. You huff a little when you collected your stockings and noticed they were ripped into shreds. You look at your dress and noticed it was slightly torn in the back too.
"You didn't answer my question, Little Lark," the prince speaks again. You huff once more and turn to Daemon in annoyance, "you have any idea how much money I spent on this?" you exasperate, gesturing to your dress. "I'll get you another," Daemon assures. "The fabric that was used to make this was imported from Kovir," you point out, "you plan on going all the way there to bring back more to fix it?"
"Point me in the right direction and I'll be there on my dragon," Daemon shrugs.
"Ugh," you groan, rolling your eyes and got your small clothes on.
Daemon got up, still naked as the day he was born, and approached you.
"What's you hurry? Stay awhile," he insists.
"I can't," you shake your head, getting your dress back on, doing your best not to look below the waistline of the man you fucked, "the princess will be expecting me soon." "The princess can wait," Daemon says, stepping in front of you.
Based on the look on his face, you could tell this man had no shame whatsoever in what he did last night. "I can't stay," you tell him, "I shouldn't be here any longer then I need to. I shouldn't even had done this in the first place." "Why not?" "Well for one, you are a married man," you point out. "Yet, you let that particular detail slip past your mind last night," Daemon says with a smirk.
He was right about that. You felt like a hypocrite, thinking back to the times you've scolded Jaskier for carrying on with married noblewomen back on the Continent. You've seen how many times your half-brother had gotten in trouble for such trysts, and you had sworn you wouldn't put yourself in a similar situation.
So much for that.
"I'm going," you insist, hastily pushing him to the side, "and don't be getting any ideas, prince" you tell him before you leave, "this is not going to happen again anytime soon...ever."
Looking out to make sure the coast was clear, you quietly slip out of Daemon's chambers and sneak your way back to your own.
You slipped out of your torn dress and put on another. You were in the middle of brushing your hair when you hear a knock at the door.
Your heart skipped a beat, hoping it was a summons to see the princess, but thinking it might be Daemon attempting to seduce you for another round. To your relief it was just the servant had come to give you breakfast.
Eggs with bacon and a cup of tea. The tea, you noticed had a unusual taste, but you didn't really think much of it. It was still decent
Just when you thought you could settle down some, you hear another knock at the door and another servant came in, "the Lord Hand, Otto Hightower is here, my Lady," he announces, "he wishes to see you."
You had a look of confusion on your face, "...me?" you frown a bit, "What for?" "He didn't say," the servant answers.
This was perplexing. You didn't know Otto Hightower all that well; in fact, you dare say you've only met him once when he was present at Rhaenyra's nameday feast. You did recall how very unimpressed he was with your songs and ballads that night, but he applauded when the other nobles had, though it seemed to be out of respect more than anything. What could the Hand of the King possibly want with you?
Said Hand didn't seem to wait for your permission as he walked past the door.
You stand up and curtsy lightly as Otto enters your rooms, "Lord Hand," you greet, "to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
"I'm afraid this is no social call, (y/n)," Otto says, looking you up and down with what to be contempt, "there is something I wish to discuss. Some rather...troubling rumors."
"Uh, rumors?" you frown a bit, taking a seat.
"It seems some...certain individuals, servants, have spotted the prince last night," the Hand explains, "romping about in the halls near his private chambers...with a woman. And, you'll have to forgive me, Lady troubadour, for the indelicacy of this situation, but some of them could've sworn that woman was...you."
"Oh," you say, feeling your face turn hot. It struck you as weird though as you didn't recall anyone being present when Daemon took you in that hall last night. And if they were present, why go to the Hand? Wouldn't it have made more sense to talk the king, Daemon's brother?"
Otto raised an eyebrow at that simple answer you made. You were caught in a compromising situation, yet you didn't seem to realize how this could affect your standing with the royal family. Then again you were a foreigner to this realm, he surmised, and therefore not accustomed to the ways proper women, especially highborn women, were supposed to behave in this part of the world.
"I know you are not from this realm," Otto explains, "you hail from this Continent to the East, across the Sea. I understand your sort are not as...restrained when it comes to indulging in certain vices." "MY sort?" you look at the man with a glare. "Women," Otto says matter-of-factually, "you may have been give more reign on the Continent to engage in such indecent acts, but here in Westeros, the women are raised to be proper paragons of virtue. To keep themselves as such until they are married and have bared children for their husbands."
"That must explain why there's so many brothels on the street of Silk," you mutter. "What was that?" "Nothing," you shrug, casually sipping your tea, "is there any particular reason why you're so fixated on my nighttime activities, Lord Hand?"
"You serve the princess Rhaenyra," Otto states, "she is an impressionable young woman who seems to be under the spell of your morbid, and rather vulgar ballads and siren's calls. It is imperative she does not have certain...ideals planted in her head, especially when she's yet to be betrothed and her virtue not yet called into question."
You were then able to put two and two together on what this was really about, "you want to ensure my 'foreign ways' don't corrupt the pure and virtuous princess," you sarcastically surmise, "...along with your daughter the Lady Alicent, the princess's companion."
"So we understand each other then," Otto says, small smile on his face like he'd won some kind of victory, "I do hope you enjoyed your tea. It was specially made for such...awkward situations. But don't expect it to happen again the next time you decide to think with your snatch instead of your head."
You were internally seething at this point; this man practically barged into your chambers (and you could've been naked for all he knew) and had the gall to control you by shaming your sexual choices. And top it all off, he had your tea spiked with contraceptives without your consent; granted, the fact your drank it gave you some peace of mind, but it still didn't change the fact this misogynistic son of a bitch made choices for your body without your knowing.
Daemon may be a rogue and a Lothario, but at least he was straightforward and wasn't one to beat around the bush, unlike this jackass.
Still, you decide to be the bigger person and stand up to face this man, speaking with a sincere voice, "Rest assured Lord Hand, I shall be discrete and will henceforth set an example for the princess and not let my certain non-Westerosi 'lifestyles' influence her in any way."
Satisfied with your answer, Otto nodded in approval and left.
You down the last of your tea, albeit reluctantly as you felt violated but still grateful as even on the Continent, a woman pregnant out of wedlock was generally frowned upon.
Right after another servant came to let you know Rhaenyra had summoned you to play for her.
You nod and grab your lute, "Paragons of virtue my ass," you mutter.
As soon as your time with the princess was over, you quickly walk out, and just as expected Daemon was there waiting for you to run into him again.
"Ah, my Prince," you greet, "Just the man I was looking for." Daemon was surprised, this was not like you to say something like that him, regardless of what he did last night; he expected insults, curses, you insisting that you had no desired to be bedded by him again (maybe some unsavory comments about his manhood while you were at it).
He was not prepared to hear say you were actually glad to see him.
You surprise even more when you pull him in for a kiss, the push him against the wall for another kiss, feeling him up as you did so.
Daemon pulls away for a brief moment, "Not that I'm complaining," he says, "but this cannot possibly be the Little Lark who had made very clear only this morning this would not happen again."
"I had a change of heart," you shrug leaning into him, "you really going to turn me down right now, Prince? I've heard the tales of your exploits on the Street of Silk. You can be quite...insatiable." "What about me being married? You were so adamant to bring that up," Daemon points out. You stop for a bit, but then decided to brush it off; you've already made your bed, you may as well sleep in it.
Sooner rather than later.
And you did drink the contraceptive tea, you may as well make good use of it while you still can.
"I've also heard you don't really like your wife all that much," you attempt to justify, "your Bronze Bitch, that's what you call her right? Besides, marriages like this, even on the Continent, are nothing more than political arrangements. Never stopped anyone from doing what they will."
Smirking, Daemon now pulls you in to kiss him. You moan as he did so, "my prince," you whisper as he moves to kiss your neck. "Call me by my name, Little Lark," you hear him whisper into your ear. "Only if you call me by mine," you say back.
-----------Present Day: Kaer Morhen---------
You were sleeping, something that was really considered a luxury these days since Aemma was born. You found yourself slowly waking though in the middle of the night. This was normally the time your daughter would be fussing about in her crib mostly likely to be fed.
It was quiet right now...too quiet. You feel the bed dipped on the side and look to see Geralt was sitting on the edge, cradling little Aemma to his chest as he did so.
"I didn't hear her fussing," you say, leaning on your elbow and rubbing your eyes.
"I heard her right as she started," Geralt admits, "I thought comforting her would allow you more rest." "I was wondering why I was sleeping so well tonight," you joke, "thanks for that, Geralt. You've really been a big help with Aemma." "No trouble at all," the witcher says, looking at the little bundle in his arms in awe.
Geralt may not be the father, but he seemed to adore the babe. Aemma seemed to feel the same way; Geralt would help out at night when she'd start fussing, and she seemed to settle quicker in his arms then she did in yours.
If anyone had looked and knew Geralt wasn't a witcher, they would almost mistake Aemma as his biological daughter.
It wasn't long though till Aemma started fussing again, nuzzling Geralt's chest.
"Uh, (y/n), I think she might be hungry again," Geralt tells you. "Yeah, babies do get hungry," you say, reaching out so Geralt could hand you your daughter. You give her a kiss on the head and arrange your night shift so you could feed her.
Geralt averted his gaze so as to give you privacy, something that didn't go unnoticed by you, "you're allowed to look Geralt," you chuckle, "we spent many an intimate night together before this, it's nothing you haven't seen before."
"This is different," Geralt insists. He wasn't really embarrassed or anything, but this felt like something of an intrusion; from what little he's heard about babies and mothers, this was their special moment of bonding. The way you'd looked at Aemma during this time felt intimate and private, and it was something Geralt didn't want to disrupt.
You kiss the top of Aemma's head as she stops nursing. You rub her back and rock her till she falls asleep.
"Let me take her," Geralt offers, and you hand her to him. Geralt gets up, carrying Aemma to her crib.
You lay back down admiring the view. For a man with a rough exterior he could be surprisingly gentle; it shouldn't really surprise you, given how well Geralt has been doing raising Ciri. Actually if anything, parenthood really seemed to bring out the witcher's softer side.
Geralt joined you in the bed afterwards. He pulls you in and you give him a kiss, which you return.
Things start to get a little more heated. You feel him up as he hovers over you. He starts to kiss your neck, but he pulls away before things could get any further.
"Geralt?" you speak. "I uh, I didn't want to get carried away," the witcher admits, "I know you're still recovering from your past labors."
You smile a bit. You and the witcher had continued to share a bed since Aemma was born, and though you and him had started to fool around a little more, you hadn't gone all the way with him yet.
"I, uh, I think I want to do this," you tell him. "Are you sure?" Geralt asks. "It's been almost two months, I think I'll be fine," you assure, finding it sweet that Geralt was considering your needs first.
"Alright," Geralt says, placing you on your back, placing a kiss on your forehead, "if this becomes too much, let me know."
You give a sweet smile and place your lips to his again before he works his way down your body.
He lifted your shift slightly and makes ready to spread your legs, however, you stop him. "Are you okay?" Geralt asks, concerned that he may have somehow gone overboard with the stimulation.
"I am," you assured, "but uh...it's just..." "You're not ready?" "No I am," you insists, "it's just...*sigh* things may not be quite the same down there since last you saw it. My body, it hasn't quite been the same since giving birth."
Geralt gives a small smile, leaning down to press a kiss near your thigh, "you're beautiful, (y/n)," he assures, "you're not the first mother to go through this. It's nothing to be ashamed of."
You smile, and you could've sworn you felt a tear escape your eye. Geralt has been nothing but kind to you since you came here. Whatever happened in the past, both with him and the time you've been apart, he accepted you into his home when you were in most need. He went above and beyond to help you out during and after the pregnancy, and he didn't have to. He didn't owe you anything. Aemma wasn't his daughter, yet he was still there for you and for her.
You feel the witcher dive in between your legs, getting you ready for what was to come this night.
----------------flashback----------------------
"Twice in one day and it's not even high noon," Daemon comments in slight laughter as you and him lay in his bed naked and staring at the ceiling. The prince had a content smile on his face as he placed a hand behind his head.
You weren't really listening to him though, you were still reeling from the fact you allowed this man to take you to his bed once again for another tryst.
Why, you wonder. What possessed you to do this again?
It felt good, there was no denying that, but it didn't change the fact this man was still insufferable.
This also may have been a way to get back at Hightower for pissing you off and indirectly slut shaming you, and infantalizing you when he gave you the tea without your informed consent. But since you drank the tea, you made sure it didn't go to waste; it was well put to use.
"What say we make it a third time?" the sliver blonde prince suggests, bringing your attention back to him.
"Uh, I don't think that's a good idea," you tell him, sitting up. "Why not?" Daemon asks, somewhat confused.
"I uh...oh gods, I did it again," you groan, getting out of bed again, "I actually did it again. Why? Why do I keep doing this?" "Because it feels good?" Daemon suggests, "did I not satisfy you?" "No, you did," you assure, "well, you did a lot more then that, it's just...I'm not sure how long that tea is supposed to last."
"Tea?" "Yeah that strange tasting tea that I guess prevents pregnancy, the one Otto Hightower had the servants bring me." "Otto?" Daemon's ears perked up. "Yeah," you nod, "he...some people apparently caught us together last night and...they went and told him." "Oh, that twat," Daemon mutters, getting up to face you, "did he threaten you in any way?" "Only to keep my legs closed lest I somehow corrupt the impressionable princess," you admit, looking down, "the Lord Hand seems to be under the impression us Continental women are fast and loose compared to Westorosi women. I'm not. Yes I've known other men, but I don't just go throwing myself at every single one I chance across. I have standards."
"I know that," Daemon jokes, lifting your chin so you could face him, "Listen, Otto Hightower is a cunt. He's never been fond of me, and he's spent the last ten years or so poisoning my own brother against me with his little network of spies around King's Landing. If you are worried about him causing you harm or threatening your standing with Rhaenyra, I won't let it come to that."
"As for your worries concerning unwanted consequences from our clandestine trysts," the prince continues, "I can have the kitchen servants bring moon tea to your quarters every evening if you wish. They'll be discrete if I command them to be so. That is..if you wish to continue this little arrangement."
"Arrangement?" "You continue to entertain my niece whenever her whims wish so," Daemon explains, "and then you come entertain me afterwards."
You scoff a bit, turning your back on him. "Why deny yourself this?" Daemon leans in to press kisses to your shoulder, wrapping his arms around you, "I think it a fair arrangement. I can give you whatever you wish. You'll be want to for nothing should you accept." "I'm already want for nothing," you say , fighting the urge to moan from his ministrations, "I'm paid well for my services for the princess."
"Ah, but surely the princess doesn't give you this," Daemon smirks into his next kiss, hands starting to roam, caressing your waist and breast. You couldn't help but let out a loud moan, making the prince smirk even more.
"So, what do you say?" he asks.
You sigh a bit, feeling some self-loathing for even considering this offer. But there was no denying that despite how insufferable this man could be, he sure knew what he was doing when it came to pleasuring his partner. You cup his neck and turn to face him. "I shall take some time to consider this offer," you say, tone turning rather seductive, "in the mean time, how about going a third round as you suggested my Prince, I mean...Daemon?"
Smirking, Daemon picks you up, you wrap your legs around him as he carries you back to the bed.
You don't stay on your back for long as soon as he wraps your legs around him, you put your hands on his chest on push him around till you were sitting on top of him.
Chapter 4
Masterlist
#geralt of rivia#geralt#witcher geralt#ciri#triss merigold#daemon targaryen#daemon targeryen x reader#geralt x reader#hotd#the witcher#otto hightower#eskel#lambert#coen#vesemir#kaer morhen#king's landing
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Lark
or
And silently loom the shadows of my past
Summary: Tracy loves to cause mischief - but this time she may have just gone too far
“Tracy!?”
Troy shouted his daughters name in the way all parents did when they suspected – more than that, were most certainly convinced, at least Troy was, that their kid had done something stupid. And as all kids that most certainly had done something stupid, Tracy did not answer her father's call. "God damn it," Troy muttered. Normally, he'd be charmed by Tracy's antics − but not when it put others in danger. And she most certainly had – put someone in danger.
She knew better than that. He had taught her better than that, god damn it. What the fuck had she been thinking?! Ok, no, that wasn’t any use, getting angry at her, he thought, as he ran restless fingers through his hair. First he needed to know exactly what had happened – though he could guess. Could guess that Tracy had dared Tom (Deborah’s son. Deborah, who was still standing right next to him, equal parts annoyed and worried) to do something dangerous. Because Tom hadn’t been seen for hours. By anyone, if Deborah was to be believed.
It wasn’t the first time those two had done stupid things – to everyone’s sorrow they seemed to have deemed this the most interesting game among themselves; daring one another to do dangerous, forbidden things. Troy had a feeling that Tracy had started it. Their whole dynamic reminded him uncomfortably of himself and Mike—
“Russell?!”
Russell, unlike Tracy, was quick to follow Troy’s call. Good man. He still wasn’t sure how he’d been lucky enough to find someone like him, but he was glad to. Russell was Troy’s second in command, his most trusted fighter. And he’d earned that title over and over again. Their friendship ran deep – as it tended to do when you’d saved their life and they’d saved yours, over and over again.
Russell came over, his expression telling Troy he was expecting to receive orders. There was a certain tone Troy used when he went into leader mode.
“Any chance you seen Tom?” Troy asked without much hope and Russell shook slowly his head, his eyes sweeping the area. “No,” he said slowly and then, as Troy expected of him, his mind went where Troy’s was, “Tracy…?”
The question didn’t even need asking in its entirety. Troy nodded swiftly.
“We think so. She’s also nowhere to be found.”
Russell didn’t hesitate, radio-ing the rest of their men, urgently.
“We’ll find him,” Troy assured Deborah. She nodded, though didn’t go without a muttered,
“When that boy gets home…”
Troy took this as a good sign. If she could threaten her son, she wasn’t as worried as he’d feared. He, himself, on the other hand, had a very bad feeling about this. Tracy making herself scarce like this meant she knew this one was bad. Or – she was with Tom. On whatever ill-advised adventure they’d cooked up.
And he didn’t know which one to hope for.
They did end up finding Tracy pretty quickly. And it turned out all his instincts had been right and she had done something very stupid. Troy breathed through the urge to grab and shake her, shout at her until she understood what it was their childish games had ended up.
But by the way she looked at him, head tilted towards the ground, her eyes flicking up just for moments at time, looking pointedly away when he caught her gaze, he knew she knew she’d fucked up.
“Where could he have gone?” he pressed out instead, focused on finding Tom, who she’d dared to go outside the fence.
Alone.
He’d made sure all kids were well-trained – but even so, they were not used to being out on their own. No way to tell they wouldn’t panic or freeze in the face of danger. And though for Troy it was second nature to be outside, he knew it wasn’t for the kids. Even if they’d seen walkers up close, he’d also made sure they knew them, knew how they moved, how to incapacitate them, it was still different when they weren’t chained up. When there weren’t adults around.
“Fucking hell, Trace,” he growled – the only way he allowed himself to show his anger – and she shrank back. “Where do I find him?!”
“I… I don’t know…” she finally whispered her response.
God damn it.
God fucking damn it.
These childish fucking games. He’d known where they led to, he’d fucking known. Why hadn’t he put a stop to it sooner?!
He grimaced, wishing he could hit something. Tracy still looked at him with wide, guilty eyes. If they wouldn’t find Tom in time, it’d be on her conscience. He couldn’t let it.
“Let’s go!” he ground out, turning on his heels and stalking away, expecting both Russell and Tracy to follow.
He went for the dirt bikes. Tom probably didn’t get far, but they still had a lot of area to cover, and most of it wasn’t easily accessible by car – that had been by design. So their camp was well-hid.
“Is… Tom going to die?” his daughter asked, voice timid and almost inaudible. He grit his teeth.
“Not if I’ve got anything to say about it.”
And that was that.
Minutes later they were past the front gates, and they wouldn’t be the only ones, Russell had stayed back to organize a larger search party. But he couldn’t wait around for it, not with such a thing hanging over the conscience of his daughter. They needed to find Tom before something else did.
“Any idea where he could’ve gone?” he shouted over the engine noise over his shoulder. He felt her shake her head against his back. “Think, Trace! Anything you two talked about? Anything he said he was curious about?” He tried to jog her memory – if there even was one – while the world flew past them, his sharp eye sweeping the area, again and again – he wouldn’t want to miss anything.
Then, Tracy’s arms around his middle tightened, and he turned his focus back to her, just before she whispered a hesitant,
“Dad… the stream. I think he went to the stream…”
Troy had already turned the bike around, not waiting for her to finish the question, then relayed the information to Russell. Tracy’s grip on him was still tight, tight.
He started at the closest point to their camp, driving upstream. Tracy was leaning to the side, probably so she could watch their surroundings, too. Could catch sight of Tom, if there was any. Hopefully Tracy was right with her guess. Hopefully Tom hadn’t strayed too far.
“There!” Tracy’s trembling voice rang out – firmer now. Troy had already seen it, too, a little dam made out of stray branches in the stream. Something a kid would do. And a bit further away he could see a fresh path trampled into the undergrowth. He tucked his lips under his teeth, a subconscious gesture of concentration, and sped along that path—only to come to an abrupt stop when he saw two figures – fighting. The smaller one had to be Tom, or at least some other kid, not big enough to be an adult. The other was, though, the one pulling and dragging at Tom, while he tried to kick and bite this unknown figure.
So it wasn’t a walker then. A walker would’ve chomped down already. The unknown figure turned their head, just a quick look backwards, before trying to hurry Tom along even more insistently. And for a second Troy thought he knew that figure. Maybe it was the hair, or the build, or maybe the semblance of her profile…whatever it was, for a second he thought he’d seen a vision of his past. Or a nightmare.
For a second he’d thought this was Madison.
He used to see her in every flash of blonde hair, in every slender figure, in every blue-eyed woman… back then, when he’d barely survived her at the dam. He used to see her everywhere for years. But not for a while now. Not in the last few. Not since… Tracy?
But that couldn’t be. It couldn’t be because she was dead, his mind playing tricks on him again. He must’ve been more apprehensive than he’d thought about Tom vanishing like he had, why else would his mind show him a ghost of his past.
All of that only lasted for a second, a slight hesitation, then the gun was in his hand and a shot rang out.
The figure keeled over and Tom ran. Good boy. Tracy started to run, too, no doubt trying to get to Tom, but Troy caught up with her in long strides, putting a hand on her shoulder.
“Stay,” he hissed, and she nodded with wide eyes, chastised. That was why he didn’t want kids out alone, they weren’t yet able to adhere to all the rules, all those things that would keep them alive. Too easily distracted. He pressed a gun into her hand – no way to know if this woman had been alone and he’d be damned if he left his daughter unprotected. Then he ran towards Tom, towards this woman. Whatever she had planned with Tom, he had to know. Had to know if she’d acted alone. If they were in danger.
Tom ran towards him, too, and seconds later was wrapped around Troy’s legs.
“Go to Tracy,” Troy whispered, tone tense. He had no time to soothe him, though Tom looked like he needed it.
Later. There was time for this, later.
The woman was half-crawling, half-dragging herself away from Troy, leaving a bloody trail behind. He was able to block her path only moments later. That stopped her pitiful attempts to get away and she raised her head. His breath caught in his throat and the blood in his veins turned to ice.
“…Madison?” he whispered in a voice that didn’t sound like his.
“You?!” Her voice very much sounded like her. Angry and ready to fight. Though there was a slight tremor in it, too. And when she’d spoken he’d seen her bloody teeth, the blood welling in her mouth. He’d at least damaged the lungs. It wasn’t likely that she’d make it.
He knelt down, to her eye level.
“What the fuck are you doing, stealing kids?” he asked. She glared at him.
“As if… you haven’t done worse.” Her breathing was labored, and she ended up coughing after that sentence. It wracked her body and it looked like she’d lose her balance, fall. He caught her.
“In fact, I haven’t,” he informed her while his arms steadied her. Kids were off limits. Especially when they weren’t doing anything threatening. He couldn’t imagine that Tom had threatened her.
God, this felt unreal. Of course it did. He’d thought her dead. The nightmare of his past. But here she was, alive.
Dying.
He almost felt like moving to stop the bleeding. It wouldn’t help, though. Not for long.
What was she doing, stealing kids?! Was this the same Madison that had whacked him for… for what, actually? Being a perceived danger to her kids? Out of morality?
“… I thought I killed you.”
Of course she didn’t answer his question. Still playing her games, still trying to have the upper hand. Not this time, though. This time she’d lose. Her shirt was already soaked through.
She knew it, too. It was in her tone, still angry but now, now there was surrender in it, as well.
“Next time you’d best stay to make sure, huh? My ability to survive is unparalleled.”
“I will,” she whispered. He almost didn’t understand her, with how much she was coughing up blood. It wouldn’t take long now.
“Why did you try to take Tom? What do you do with the kids?” That was a guess, that she’d taken more. She hadn’t contradicted him on it before. And she didn’t now, either. Instead some of her fight returned and she hissed,
“Why do you care?!”
Hissed it like she didn’t believe he did, and blamed him for it. His lack of caring. He had no intention of getting drawn into her bullshit.
“Does it matter?” he asked pointedly. She was dying after all. He cared or he didn’t, it would be irrelevant to her in a few short minutes. He couldn’t help himself though and added, “Tell yourself… I’ll save them.”
She laughed, short and ugly and he smirked in return. It didn’t last for long because then she was coughing again. Longer this time. He waited for it to ease.
“What happens to them, Madison?” he asked again, serious now. Commanding. She felt her life drain from her. What would it matter if she told him, indeed. So she did, all the while telling herself he’d save those kids.
He’d saved this one from her, after all, hadn’t he.
-The end-
Or more like, the beginning. Of course Troy now sets his eyes on P.A.D.R.E., mobilizing his entire force to save the kids and their parents. And he gets a neat little compound out of it, too. The people from his past he'd run into doing that (e.g. Luciana, Daniel, ..?) could still be assholes to him, but this time most would get around to seeing he has changed. And/or they operate on the principle of 'better the devil you know'.
#troy otto#tracy otto#madison clark#russell#Mike Trimbol#ftwd#ftwd fanfic#ftwd oneshot#oneshot#fear the walking dead#post s7#pre s8#fix-it#my fic#lark#and silently loom the shadows of my past
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