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loveindefinitely · 5 months

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༊*·˚ NEW JOBS AND DEATH THREATS — cod x reader

CRAVE YOU — call of duty x reader CHAPTER ONE

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + alejandro vargas + rodolfo 'rudy' parra + könig + keegan p. russ

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, prison au, serial killer au, reverse harem, therapist/patient, medical inaccuracies, graphic violence, depictions of murder, everyone's unhinged, poly tf141, minor ships, threesomes, foursomes, gangbangs, this is not medical advice!!

series masterlist. read on ao3.

Life was hard. That was a fact.

Bills and groceries didn’t pay for themselves. That was also a fact.

Adding these two factors together, the final product will be a high-risk job in one of the highest-risk places on Earth. That’s… not a fact.

And yet, here you are, standing at the visitor entrance of Las Almas Prison, sporting a disgruntled grimace and a new pair of black slacks that you’d splurged on. They, at least, made your ass look good, although that was truly the least of your worries.

No. Your current list of worries looked something like this;

Getting Murdered

Getting Attacked

Vomiting Within The First Five Minutes Of Your New Job?

…Yeah. Something like that.

The early morning sun is blinding where it sits, just off to the side of the giant concrete building that was the main offices and Visitor Centre. The fact that you were standing in front of what was only a small part of the overall prison grounds was… alarming.

You were well aware that this was the largest prison in your country, housing the most lethal and awful of criminals. Some you’d seen either on the news, or heard of in passing conversations.

This was the real deal. And, somehow, you’d managed to find yourself being hired to work here. You. Work with serial killers. The worst of the worst.

With the stress on your bank account, and the endless struggle that was trying to find a stable career in the current job market, you simply had no other choice but to accept the offer. It paid extremely well, had great benefits, and your safety was… fairly considered.

The amount of NDAs, liability clauses and agreements, however?

Not the best at calming your nerves, to say the least.

The biting chill of the winter wind has you wrapping your arms around yourself, leather bag slung over your shoulder as you finally step through the automatic sliding door.

You’re not surprised to find that the chill only deepens inside the concrete walls of the building, with no heaters or air conditioning from what you can see. There is, however, bright white overhead lights that do nothing except aid the throbbing in the side of your head – probably due to the restless sleep you’d had the night before, anticipation and anxiety warring inside of your thoughts.

There’s an office in front of you as you step in, with only a few decades-old couches to your right, in front of a dingy TV that’s turned off. Saving their budget for more important things, you suppose.

The walls are a pale, grimy yellow, with sparse photos hung about, framing newspaper articles that are surely from the last century, and black and white pictures of the prison’s opening.

It’s an unsettling place, that much you’ve already gathered.

You haven’t even actually been inside the prison, you remind yourself, your stomach churning where it now lays at your feet.

Without a second thought, you continue with hurried steps to the front desk, where scratched plastic encases the sole woman inside, sitting behind a monitor. There’s a circle of holes that allow for sound to pass through, but other than that, there’s no way of entering from this room. With a quick study of your surroundings, you see a steel door to the left of where the desk sits, with a small square window covered in iron bars.

…Jesus christ.

“Can I help you?” The woman drawls, sliding her glasses further up her nose. Her voice is nasally, and the words come out in a slow drawl as she looks you up and down, unimpressed.

You give her your best smile, although even you can tell that it’s an uneasy one. “Yes! This is my first day, I think I’m supposed to be meeting Kate Laswell?” You ask, nerves betraying your voice with unsteady breaths.

The woman snaps her gum.

You stand there.

She blows it again.

You continue to stand there.

Her gaze is bored and completely void of any thought, before she nods slowly. “Laswell… I’ll call her.”

Really, you couldn’t be more shocked if you tried. What the fuck was happening? How could one lack so much… professionalism?

“Hi, Kate. Yes, it’s Jenny. I have a new hire who apparently wants to see you…” Her voice remains that unbearably slow, sloth-like delivery, before her eyes unhurriedly meet yours again. “What’s your name…?”

You give it to her, tone only the slightest bit impatient as you roll back on the heels of your feet. You can only hope that your black boots are appropriate; you’d figured that they were safe, closed-toe and still somewhat professional.

Time would tell. Jenny was giving you the impression that they were more than acceptable, because at least they got you to do your job in a timely manner.

Jenny says a few more words to who can only pray is Laswell on the other end of the phone, before she places it back in its holder.

“Laswell will be here any…” She pops her gum once more, and maybe, just maybe, you can understand the urge to murder. “Moment.”

You give her a tight, painful smile. “Thank you, Jenny.”

She doesn’t respond, and you decide to just stand back and wait. You certainly weren’t complaining – any more conversation with her would’ve ended with a severe lack of hair on your head.

A minute passes, before a buzz in the pocket of your slacks has your throat tightening.

Pulling out your phone, your next exhale comes out shaky as you read the text.

Charlie: get milk otw home used it all

No ‘good luck’. No… ounce of care for you, or the absolute stress that comes with a new job, let alone one like this.

When you’d told him about the offer, all he’d said was, “It might make you worth something for a change.” Didn’t even question, not for a minute, the risks that came with a job like this. He simply couldn’t give less of a fuck.

“Doctor?” The sound of a door opening, and the kind, almost motherly tone of the voice has you shoving your phone into your pocket once more as you turn to the source of the sound.

It’s a woman, her hair pulled back into a slick bun, one hand holding what seems to be a clipboard. Her other hand rests in the pocket of a white coat, not unlike one a scientist would be fashioning in a lab. Her smile is warm, the corner of her eyes crinkling as you direct a smile of your own her way.

“Kate Laswell?” You ask, extending your hand for her to shake. Taking her hand out of her pocket, she accepts it gracefully, nodding her head.

“The one and only,” she says, before gesturing to the steel door she’d entered through. “Now, today we’ll get you set up with a keycard, general rules, and I’ll have you meet two of your patients.”

You nod, following her as she swipes a card in a black reader, before the red light buzzes green, and she pulls the door open. Right behind her, you take an unstable deep breath as you take in the greyed, jagged walls, a complete contrast to the painted ones of the entrance room.

“We really are so glad to welcome you to our team,” she continues, her black work shoes clicking against the smooth concrete flooring. She doesn’t turn to you as she speaks, but her voice carries around the echoey hallway. “You’ll make a great addition. A necessary one, also. We’ve needed an innovative, young therapist for a while. Most of our… previous hires have held out-dated beliefs, and a lack of humanity for their clientele.”

That makes your brows furrow in confusion. “That’s… odd,” you murmur, before pausing your steps as Laswell stops, swiping her keycard, before entering another room.

As you step into the newly revealed space, your eyes go wide as you take it in.

It’s a wide, large space, with several floors. Metal staircases sit at either end of the vast space, allowing access to every floor. Guards sit at every level, some walking around the space where you and Laswell stand.

It’s a lot, all at once. You’d never even stepped foot into a prison – not before now.

“Most inmates are at the mess for breakfast,” Laswell supplies, turning to you with a neutral expression. She gestures for you to follow her back out of the space, and you do with hurried steps. “The ones you’ll be dealing with, however… they usually eat by themselves.”

You don’t decide to push that statement, not now, as you continue to follow her down the hallway.

“You won’t be seeing much of the prison,” she admits. “There’s heavily guarded spaces on the top floor for your sessions, both for your protection and for the safety of our staff and other low-risk inmates.”

You nod, humming a sound of affirmation as the two of you start heading up the cleaner steps at the end of the hallway. The staff staircase, you suppose.

“Today, you’ll be meeting two of our more… understanding ambers.”

You raise a brow. “Ambers? What does that mean?”

She turns her head over her shoulder, just enough to shoot you a knowing look. “Ambers are our highest-risk inmates. We house ten of them, and you’ll be dealing with eight as per your contract.”

Your stomach falls. You’d known, of course, that the risks were high when applying for this role. But… this was more than you’d imagined, in a way. Ambers. Huh.

Silence falls over the two of you as you make your way up the never-ending steps, no windows in sight. It’s unnerving, in a creepy, strange way. When you finally reach the top, you try and hide how out of breath you are from that small exertion.

Fucking christ.

Laswell, for her part, looks completely fine in an effortless way. You can’t eve find it in yourself to be envious. The feeling’s closer to admiration.

“Here’s the files on them both. You’ll be seeing Kyle Garrick first,” she hands you the clipboard she’d been carrying, and you accept it with only a slight tremble. She doesn’t comment on it, and you find yourself warming up to her already. “They’ll be restrained, and there is heavy security, so you needn’t worry about that side of things.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” you say earnestly, flipping through the files without reading much of anything, not yet.

She waves you off with a soft chuckle. “None of that. Kate’s more than fine,” she insists, and you give her a bright smile in return. Maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad – a boss like this was much better than a creepy middle-aged man any day of the week.

You don’t realise you’ve made it to a small room until she stops walking, scanning her keycard and pushing the door open, gesturing you in. “While you have your first two sessions, I’ll sort your keycard and the rest of the processes out. I wish you luck.”

With that, the door shuts behind you, and you’re alone in a small room.

It matches the rest of the hallways you’ve seen – grey concrete walls, grey concrete floors. The only furniture, however, is one metal table drilled into the floor in the centre, one chair on either side.

…It’s depressing. Not at all like you’d prefer, not for a fucking therapy session, but then again, you hadn’t met your clients yet.

Ambers. High-risk.

With a deep breath, you take a seat at the chair closest to you, finally reading through the top file on the clipboard.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick.

You skim over the height, weight, sex – immediately reading the comments made and his sentence.

Mass murderer. Motivated attacks.

Your eyes go wide, almost comically so, as you bite at your lip, folding one leg over the other as you continue to read.

Of course, you’d prepared, been made aware that you’d be dealing with murderers. But having it in black and white, right in front of you, is a whole other thing entirely.

Apparently, they were motivated attacks. Targets being large CEOs, specifically those with reported claims of misuse of power, and those against green laws. Anti-environment types.

The motive is… you’re aware killing is bad. You hadn’t spent years studying for a degree in Psychology to think otherwise. But it wasn’t as simple as some made it out to be. You’d done papers suggesting that certain motives implied healthier patterns, healthier outlets.

If you had to choose between him killing pregnant women, and CEOs with broken moral compasses?

It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out your answer.

You’re about to flip the page when there’s a knock on the door on the other side of the room, before it opens.

There’s two guards that walk in, before a man in an olive green jumpsuit follows, hands cuffed tightly together in front of him, head down. Another guard from behind shoves him in, too rough for your liking. You sit up straighter, eyes assessing as you take in the man in the jumpsuit.

He’s forced into the chair opposite you, before one of the guards grabs his cuffed wrists and chains them to a rig in the middle of the table. You’re grateful for the precautions, but there’s a part of you that feels guilty watching the manhandling of the seemingly calm man.

“Half an hour,” the most brutish guard of them all grits out, beer belly spilling out over his belted jeans. He jostles the chain attaching his wrists to the table unnecessarily, and your eyes narrow.

He goes to leave, along with another guard, but one stands to stay in position inside, beside the door.

Your brows furrow, and you speak up before you can stop yourself. “Sorry, sir, but my sessions will need confidentiality, as for the best results. I’m sure that I’ll be safe with his restraints.”

The guard stares you down, seemingly mulling your words over, before shrugging and leaving the room, door shutting behind him.

…Huh. Alright.

You find your posture relaxing, just slightly, which is odd, considering you’re now only a metre or two away from a convicted murderer.

His gaze is trained to the table, left foot tapping incessantly against the concrete floor.

“It’s nice to meet you, Gaz,” you say with a soft tone and a gentle smile. You figure that his nickname is the best bet, not wanting to stir up any possible traumas with his given name during your first session with the man. “I’ll be your new psychiatric evaluator.”

His eyes flick up, meeting yours, and he nods slowly, as if awaiting a punchline.

“Is it okay for me to call you Gaz?” You ask, tilting your head to the side and flipping to an empty page to take notes on. You’d need to grab a notebook from home, you decide.

He relaxes, only the smallest of movements, and he nods. “Gaz, yeah.”

Your smile widens at the small victory. Any step towards progress was a huge one, in your eyes. You’d be facing a lot of them in the coming days.

“Do you have any advice for this place?” You push, trying to form a bond of trust with the dark-haired man. “I’m gonna be honest, you’re my first patient, and I’ve only met Laswell and… Jenny?”

His mouth quirks at that, a dimple showing to the left of his mouth as he looks back up at you. “Jenny’s a character, ain’t she?”

You laugh, a genuine one, and nod. “She certainly is. You’ve met her?”

He shrugs, shoulders relaxing slightly. “Few times, yeah. She drives me up the fuckin’ wall.” His accent is only minimally apparent, but his voice is of a somewhat humorous tone.

Small victories.

“Well,” he exhales, settling into his chair a bit as he seems to ponder. “Do ya know who else you’re assigned to?”

You’d been sure to thoroughly go over your contract, and you were allowed to disclose your other patients between your others. They’d find out within the day, anyways, so there was no point in being discreet.

“It’s only you and a… John Price? Today. I’m sure I’ll find out the other six over the next few days,” you say, appreciating that he’s starting conversations. It’s more than you’d allowed yourself to hope for.

Gaz’s eyes light up, and even if you hadn’t been incessant in watching him, it’d be an obvious shift in emotions. “Price?”

You nod, quickly making a note on your clipboard, before folding your hands in your lap as you gesture for him to continue with a quick inclination of your head.

“He’s the best. Man’s a legend,” he enthuses. “Love ‘im.”

There’s… a hidden truth to that statement, that you make a mental note to unpack during a later session. Your smile is a natural one as you say, “He’s an amber, correct? Laswell told me I’d been assigned eight out of ten ambers… you’re one of them, right?”

Gaz seems to fold into himself, and you kick yourself for going back to square one. He answers, however.

“...Yeah. Only Ghost ‘nd Valeria are aggressive, though. We’re just… misunderstood,” he murmurs, and in the back of your brain, you find yourself believing his words.

“Thank you,” you smile, and he responds with a sharp one of his own. Maybe you’d covered more ground than you’d expected. “I think it’d been mentioned that I was only assigned men, due to the nature of the job, or something like that.”

Seeming to mull over your words, he starts to slowly nod. “Sounds ‘bout right. As long as you don’t get Graves, you’ll be alright. The others are… fuckin’ weird, but they’re good men. Mostly.”

That’s a lot of information at once, and quite frankly, it takes a moment for you to process.

“‘Good men’. What do you think it takes to be a good man?” You ask, curiosity laced into your tone. Getting to ask such questions of a convicted murderer, it’s a thrilling, exhilarating task.

His eyes don’t shift as he replies. “Good men do the acts others are too scared to do. They see the evil in the world, and rid of it with their own bare hands. You can be an ethical murderer, Doc.”

Those words, they’re – they’re authentic, and conviction aches in their structure.

You swallow around a dry mouth.

“You think you’re a good man?” You ask.

His smile would be seen as warm to any who weren’t aware of his acts, but to you – it’s chilling. Haunting in a way you’ve never experienced.

It remains as he answers.

“I think that I’m a man who people wish they had the bravery to be.”

a/n. okay so im really nervous about posting this, cause ITS EIGHT FUKCING LOVE INTERESTS and also im a humanities girl not a science one!! sociology all the way not psych!! so forgive me for all the inaccuracies and legality issues please. im just a girl. hopefully u guys will like this one? i mean, obsessed serial killers cod is smth i need so here we are. all comments and feedback mean so muchhh ty ily mwah mwah mwah

taglist comment/msg to be added. [nothing to see here.]

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sweetercalypso · 7 months

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New Gods ✩ Abby Anderson

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: The first time Abby meets seraphite!reader, she shows her mercy. The second time they meet, reader repays her kindness

Notes: minors dni; fingering and oral (Abby rec.), semi-public sex, afab reader, dom!Abby, mean!Abby, mentions of guns, brief violence, religious references, enemies to lovers

When Abby hears that she’s being put on a patrol headed for the abandoned side of town, she thinks it’s a joke.

Surely this was some form of punishment, or a test of her loyalty to Isaac’s command. Two weeks in an unoccupied base with a batch of new recruits – it has to be a mistake.

It’s not until the transport truck pulls away from the stadium that Abby accepts the reality of the situation, groaning into her hands to hide her indignation.

The only good thing about this patrol, she thinks, is that absolutely nothing can go wrong.

Abby and her entourage of WLF recruits arrive at their assigned base late in the evening, the sun already sinking low behind Seattle’s derelict skyline.

The city is silent beyond the hum of the armored truck rolling to a stop in front of an old office building. Years ago, the area had been a thriving hub of WLF activity, but the threat of Seraphite armies had shifted attention elsewhere, leaving the bases to sit empty and collecting dust.

Abby swallows her complaints as the truck’s engine shuts off, leaving a jarring silence that prompts her fellow gunmen to turn their collective attention towards her.

Her expertise is better suited to combat than to training, and the thought of being in charge of four wide-eyed rookies makes her question the sanity of whoever put this team together.

She briefly explains the patrol assignment before dolling out tasks to each of the recruits, leaving herself the duty of surveying the perimeter.

Early WLF soldiers had cleared most of the infected while the area was still active, and with the lack of excitement in the streets, Abby returns to the base with the verdict that this patrol will be entirely uneventful.

While the others are setting up camp on the second floor – five cots lined against a wall with a radio station by the windows and supply crates littered around the room – Abby keeps herself busy with watching the thick, heavy clouds rolling in the distance.

She imagines what she might be doing if she had been placed on a different patrol and she crosses her arms over her chest with a bitter sigh.

Anything has to be more exciting than this.

–

Abby awakens while the sky is still dark, the remaining light of dusk swallowed by the inky black threat of storm clouds overhead.

Thunder cracks viciously in the air, rumbling the dusty room and promising to crumble the building’s frame already bowing under years of neglect.

The sound of her distress is barely audible over the harsh rain beating against the windows and, for a moment, Abby can’t remember where she is.

Her mouth feels dry, and it takes an effort to slow her labored breaths. She runs a hand over her face, wiping away her momentary confusion before checking that the other patrollers are still asleep, slipping off her cot and stumbling blindly through the darkened room.

Her weapons and her pack are still resting against a nearby crate, exactly where she’d left them. She slips the strap of her backpack between her fingers, hoping that the familiar worn canvas will distract from the deafening thunder crackling in her ears.

She holds her breath and counts the seconds between the streaks of lightning and claps of thunder – a trick her dad had taught her when she was young.

Somewhere between flash and bang, the sound of footsteps overhead catches Abby’s attention. Her head jerks up towards the source of the noise and she quickly forgets about the looming urgency of bad weather.

The door to the stairwell is propped open, and although Abby knows it was left ajar to air out the stuffy office space, she can’t help but imagine something sinister looming beyond the doorway.

She grabs the closest gun and makes her way to the stairs, listening for the sounds of movement overhead.

All the floors had been checked for infected and all the windows had been secured, but Abby still couldn’t shake the thought of someone invading their base in the dead of night.

She treads up the stairs and pushes the door open, only to be met with the sight of a lonely silhouette moving through the darkness. Abby jumps into action just as she’d been taught, heart thumping wildly as she raises her weapon and aims.

“Get on the ground – now!”

She spits out the stern command, harsh but still quiet enough that it barely fills the room. Despite the anger twisting in her chest, she’s rational enough to know better than to alert the other patrollers sleeping downstairs.

From the looks of it, the intruder was here alone, unarmed. It seemed better to deal with the situation on her own than to cause unwarranted panic the first night in to a new assignment.

The sound of her voice must’ve caught you by surprise because you stop dead in your tracks, not even moving to lunge for cover from the stranger gunning you down.

Illuminated by only the sharp flashes of lightning cutting through the shadows, it takes a moment for Abby to piece together the scene before her.

You’re soaked to the bone, cloaked in brown cloth and shivering from the rain clinging to your skin.

At first, she thought you might’ve been a soldier from another patrol, separated from your group and seeking shelter in an expectedly empty outpost. Or maybe you could’ve been a straggler roaming the city in search of supplies left behind by its former inhabitants.

But when a crack of lightning catches your features at the right angle, Abby recognizes the mark stretching across your cheek, and realization washes over her.

“Fucking Scars.”

She keeps her gun steady, though her fingers flex against the heavy, steel grip.

With eyes trained diligently on your figure, she closes the distance between the two of you in a few short steps, scowling when she’s close enough to discern the look of confusion on your face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, shoving the muzzle of her gun roughly into your shoulder and spitting out a sharp “answer me”.

Her boot hits the back of your leg and you crumble into the floor with swallowed discontent.

“I’m not- I didn’t know you would be here.” You scramble to explain yourself, chancing a look at Abby standing behind you. She pushes her gun further into your shoulder, silently instructing your gaze back to the floor.

“This building’s supposed to be empty. It says so on the map.”

“You’re spying on our bases?” Her voice rises with every word, no longer concerned with who might hear. “Planning a fucking ambush?”

“No! Nothing like that. I’m not a soldier, I was supposed to collect supplies from the city, but I got caught in the rain.”

She laughs and rolls her shoulders reflexively.

“I don’t care why you’re here – Scars don’t get second chances.”

Thunder rattles the thin-paned windows lining the room. Abby’s heartbeat fills her ears. Prayer tumbles from your lips like the nervous chatter of teeth – uneasy, repetitive, instinctive.

Abby had never given much thought to prayer before, especially not that of a Scar. It’s always the same routine pleading that’ll never be answered. But it doesn’t sound like you’re begging for salvation, it sounds like you’re making peace.

Something about the situation doesn’t seem fair. You’re completely helpless, caught in a trap you couldn’t see laid out in front of you. Your people must’ve known something like this could happen, yet they sent you into the wolves’ den, anyway – a sacrificial lamb led to the slaughter.

A foreign pang of uncertainty resonates through Abby’s chest, and she lowers her gun with a shake of her head.

“Just- just go.”

A beat passes before you look back at Abby in disbelief. You gape blankly at her for a moment before mouthing a small “what?”.

She huffs impatiently and grabs you by the arm, hauling you up from your position on the floor. If anyone came in and found the two of you standing this close, you’d both be dead before you could part.

“Leave. Now. If the others find you here, they won’t be so nice.”

Her eyes flit over your face, searching for confirmation that she was doing the right thing. She expected to find fear etched into your features, maybe gratefulness, or even shock. But she’s met with only curiosity in your wide, unblinking eyes.

She pushes you away and turns to leave before she can change her mind, shutting the door behind her with a soft thud.

Abby knows what the other patrollers would’ve done if they had found you first. She knows what she would’ve done if the circumstances had been different.

You should be dead – or worse. It hadn’t been that long since she’d assisted in the interrogations that happened to Scars who’d been captured and strung up in cells for the rest of their days.

When Abby thinks about those people now, only one face stares back at her.

–

The next morning, Abby is forced to bite her tongue when someone finds the upstairs window open, raindrops clinging to the wood frame serving as the only evidence of your intrusion.

She blames it on one of the other patrollers, suggesting that they didn’t do a thorough enough sweep the night before, but not everyone is convinced.

They search the building anyway but come up empty-handed, and the situation is defused and entirely forgotten by midday.

For the remainder of their two-week patrol, Abby wonders if you had really been there at all, or if you were a product of some underlying guilt she had stored in the back of her mind. She would stay up through night and listen for the sound of footsteps, not sure if she should feel relief or disappointment when the mornings arrived without any sign of you.

When the familiar rumble of the armored truck rolls in to collect Abby and the recruits, she returns to the stadium and does her best to keep you off her mind.

She volunteers for extra shifts; she monitors the communications radio; she listens to stories of other patrollers and wonders if they’re describing you in their encounters with unnamed and faceless Scars.

When she hears about another group headed for the abandoned side of the city, she jumps at the opportunity to join their patrol. Anything for some peace of mind, she tells herself.

They’re dropped off in front of a different building, a couple blocks west of where her last patrol had been located. Abby’s chest deflates when she realizes the absurdity of her desire to find you again.

It’d been weeks since she’d let you go, and surely you’d learned your lesson about venturing near WLF bases alone. Maybe you hadn’t, and someone else had found you before Abby had the chance.

She shivers at the thought and moves to catch up with the rest of her team, abandoning her concern for something more practical.

She offers to check the upper floors while the others bring in supplies, and no one objects to avoiding the endless flights of stairs and dusty rooms waiting for her.

Four floors up, Abby stops to inspect a window that had been broken some time ago. Shards of glass and a handful of dead leaves lay at her feet, and when stoops down to look for anything out of the ordinary, the door to the stairwell creaks shut behind her.

“It’s you.”

Her head whips around at the sound of your voice, familiar but different now that you’re no longer at her will.

From where she stands, Abby can see the way your chest rises and falls with anticipation, the way your hands twist at your sides. She waits for you to speak again, but the room falls silent.

“What’re you doing here?” she hisses, praying that the others were too busy to come check on her progress.

“I heard the truck – I knew you were coming.”

Abby frowns and moves a step closer. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Do you know how many of those soldiers downstairs would like to get their hands on you?”

You cock your head to the side, as if you didn’t understand.

“You saved my life once already. I wouldn’t have come if I thought I’d be in danger.”

She scoffs at the presumption that she would betray her people again, but a small voice reminds her that’s exactly what she’d planned to do.

She moves past you to leave but you stop her with a hand laid over her arm. Abby’s jaw tenses at the contact, but when her resentful gaze flickers up to meet yours, she’s met with the same unabashed interest you’d worn before.

“I owe you, wolf. The Prophet commands us to repay those who show mercy.”

You pause before continuing. “Anything you want, it’s yours.”

Abby takes a moment to consider. What does she want?

She wants your leader’s head at her feet; she wants to make her friends proud; she wants to understand why she had let you go that night in the storm.

Her eyes trail down to your lips, to the mottled scar etched into your cheek. She wonders what you’d look like without its crooked ridges marring your skin. She wonders how it would feel under her hands.

It catches you both off guard when her parted lips press against yours, teeth clacking together from the fervency of her kiss.

Her hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, though she’s not sure if she wants to pull you closer or push you away. She grunts into your mouth and slides her other hand around your waist. An unfamiliar heat licks at the base of your spine.

“I want you to thank me for letting you go,” she declares.

Seraphite leaders had spoken on end about the corrupt morals of ‘new world’ adherents, but this was not the danger you’d learned to fear. Abby was unique, addicting, and you wanted more.

You fall to your knees at her feet, almost a mirror image of the night you’d met. This time, however, you’re the one in control.

She hums and rubs the pad of her thumb over her swollen bottom lip, still wet with your spit. “That’s a good start.”

Nimble fingers work open the button of her jeans, shimmying the dark denim down her toned, freckled thighs. Her black boxers follow suit, revealing a smattering of blonde hair trailing down from her naval.

Your hands smooth over her heated skin, palming at her hips in an attempt to pull her closer. She concedes and shuffles forward until her cunt presses to your awaiting mouth and your tongue dips out to taste her.

It’s like nothing either of you have experienced – the guilt of betraying your own people, the trust that comes from such inconceivable circumstances. It’s all too much to comprehend, so you choose to ignore it for the time being.

Abby’s head tips back with a sigh, little breaths and chirps of pleasure pushed from her lungs as your tongue flattens over her clit.

It almost looks like you’re praying, Abby decides. Kneeling in front of your altar, eyes screwed shut, searching for a sign from some divine being. She cards her fingers through your hair and tugs at the roots, pulling you impossibly closer.

It’s messy, greedy, downright sinful the way you press your mouth to her. Slick coats your chin and your cheeks, glistening in the dim light streaming through the windows.

You’re spurred on by the way she tilts her hips, the wet squelch of her cunt against your mouth. Her thighs flex against the sides of your face, smothering your cheeks in her arousal.

“Ah- just like that.”

In addition to your tongue roaming everywhere you can reach, your thumb comes up to rub firm circles against her clit. After a moment, you switch positions, dragging your fingers through her slick and dipping two digits inside her.

She gasps at the intrusion and bucks her hips harshly, urging you to move faster. Your fingers curl inside her, driving into that gummy spot at the top of her walls while you suction her clit into your mouth.

“Fuck,” she pants, grinding down on your mouth. “M’gonna come.”

It’s not long before she’s shuddering through her release, choking back a poorly suppressed moan while she fights to keep her eyes open. You continue to work over her mound until she releases your hair from her grip and takes half a step back on shaky legs.

Remembering her earlier request for gratitude, you lean back on your heels and lick the remnants of her slick from your lips.

“Thank you, wolf.”

She looks down as if she’d only just remembered you were there and her eyes sparkle with renewed interest. A lazy smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth.

“You gonna stay so I can return the favor?”

#abby anderson #the last of us #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #abby anderson x you #abby anderson x y/n #abby x reader #abby tlou #the last of us smut #the last of us x reader #tlou #enemies to lovers #wlw smut

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denim-mixtapes · 1 year

Text

Showstopper

And I know it's just a phase, you're not in love with me, but if you wanna piss off your parents, baby, that's alright with me.

Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!Reader Word Count: Just over 15k Summary: Dreading going home to strict parents over Thanksgiving break, your good friend Eddie Munson offers to tag along and pretend to be your boyfriend to get under their skin and take their focus off of you. Over tense dinners and pointed conversation, you seek comfort in his closeness, blurring the lines between fact and fiction. (Based on the song 18 by Anarbor) Warnings: NSFW 18+ SMUT, Minors DNI or I'll stub all your toes. Tense family dynamics, strict/overbearing parents, idiot friends to fuck buddies, teasing, fingering, oral (both f & m receiving), squirting, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, forced orgasm if you blink, unprotected sex (DON'T DO THAT, STUPID), an stupid amount of pet names (baby, sweetheart, princess, sweet thing) instead of Y/N. I think that's it but lemme know if I missed anything!

[Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] <- Coming Soon! [AO3]

a/n: I meant to post this on Thanksgiving, but it...got away from me as you can tell from the word count. Sorry for the delay and for the long lead up before the actual smut but I hope yall enjoy!!

The first time you met Eddie Munson, you threatened him with pepper spray.

Okay so maybe it was actually hair spray, but the threat was there.

He had walked into your dorm room unannounced, and in a moment of panic you completely forgot you had a roommate that could potentially have visitors. All you knew was that you were alone in your dorm, and then without any preamble or warning, there was a mysterious man with long hair, dark features, and wrapped in leather letting himself in.

And he believed you at first, he really did, held his hands up in defense and stepped back out into the threshold with wide eyes and an apologetic ramble. Until he noticed that your trembling hand was not clutching a can of mace, but a travel sized bottle of Aqua Net, shaking just as much as you were.

He couldn’t help but laugh.

He still stayed back, knowing that you were not his intended target and surely you must be nerrvous, but dropped his hands to lean on the door frame, his whole body shaking with laughter. Despite your initial fear, his humor was contagious. The once intimidating man who stood tall and broad was hunched with laughter, his eyes wrinkling around the edges when his smile widened. You couldn’t help but soften and lower your arm, chuckling a little (albeit nervously) along with him.

“Yeah, killer,” he laughed, voice low and smooth, “put that thing down before you hurt someone. Or worse, make ‘em crispy.”

“I– panicked,” you admitted, defeated. Then, standing taller again, trying to keep your defenses strong, “but what are you doing walking into random girls' dorms?”

“Uh, Buckley,” the stranger pointed to your roommate’s side of the room. “Robin Buckley? She lives here, right?” You nodded. “We’re friends, I’m meeting her for dinner and she told me to come on up when I got here. She said you’d be in class.”

Huh. You’d have to talk to her about warning you before she let just anyone walk on in unannounced.

“Canceled,” you mumbled in explanation, then gestured to Robin’s bed. “Uh I guess I won’t make you sit out in the hall. You can wait for her here.”

A wide, toothy grin spread over his features and he approached you with big, thankful eyes shining under the fluorescent overhead lighting. A hand outstretched, he replied, “appreciated. ‘M Eddie.”

And so began a blossoming friendship. Over the rest of your freshman year, Robin introduced you to more of her friends. You didn’t have trouble making your own friends, per se, you had a few classmates who you would grab lunch with between classes and a couple study groups, but the people your roommate introduced you to just clicked with you. You heard all about her girlfriend Nancy, though she was off in Boston at Emerson, so you only ever spoke to her when Robin had her on speaker phone. Everyone else just kind of came along naturally. You were attending school far from home, but within reasonable distance from Robin’s hometown of Hawkins, so even though Eddie and her best friend Steve weren’t attending college anywhere, they often found themselves on your campus to bug your roommate (and by proxy, you).

By the end of your first year at school, you were confident you were part of their crew, and you were happily signing up to room with Robin once again the following year.

Which is what brought you here.

You’re laying in bed, feet thrown up against the cinder block walls and your head hanging over the edge, Robin mirroring you on her own bed. Steve has long since gotten dizzy and sat upright next to Robin, and Eddie called you all ridiculous from the get go and chose to lay on your bean bag chair between the three of you.

“What the fuck am I gonna do,” you moan, scrubbing your hands down your face in defeat.

“I’m sure it’ll be okay, babe,” Robin assures, though you know she is just blindly trying to comfort you.

“Okay,” Steve leans forward, elbows on his knees and squints at you. The effects of Eddie’s special cookies are hitting all four of you hard, all of you lazy and sluggish and a little less cohesive than your usual state. “Explain to me again what the problem is? It sounds like your mom just wants you home for Thanksgiving.”

Sitting up slowly and trying to ignore the head rush you get from being upright once again, you gripe, “that is the problem. I went to school across the country from home for a reason. I’m already going back next month for winter break and I want to be there…as little as possible. So I was hoping I could work through Thanksgiving break like last year.”

“No dice?” Eddie asks from his spot on the floor, even though you swear you’ve gone over this with all of them three times by now.

“No,” you grumble, “last year I worked in the caf, so it was no problem, they were open all break for students staying on campus This year–”

“The library closes over break.” Robin cut you off to supply.

You only nod pitifully, slumping back into your stack of pillows with a hmph. You’re aware that you’re being dramatic, but you’ve grown accustomed to your life away from home. Away from watchful eyes and curfews at 19 years old and sharp comments about your wardrobe that honestly, could be much, much worse. The last thing you want to do is return home and be treated like a child again.

Eddie’s fingers wrap around your ankle comfortingly, but he hits a ticklish spot and you kick at his hand lightly, laughing all the while.

“Home is really that miserable, huh?” He asks quietly. Not prying, not judging, just pondering.

“I have a dad who still treats me like I’m seven and a mom who keeps trying to set me up with members of her church in hopes that they’ll ‘lead me back down the right path’…what do you think?”

Your three friends mumble a series of one word replies all at once. “Yikes.” “Barf.” “Christ.”

The conversation moves on after that. Robin and Steve arguing about Back to the Future, something they always seem to go back to when they’re high. She told you once that they saw it in theaters the first time they smoked together, but the way that neither of them could keep a straight face told you there was more to the story. You half listen, grumbling to yourself and counting the browning ceiling tiles above you.

Your mattress dips and you look up to see Eddie grinning at you behind a curtain of hair, sitting cross legged on the spot next to you.

“What?” You ask through a laugh, eyeing him briefly before going back to the task at hand, the ceiling tiles.

He nudges you with his knee, trying to get your attention. “You know what you should do?” Your response is no more than a hum adorned with a question mark, but it prompts him to continue. There’s a gleam in his eye when he goes on, “somethin’ wild. Show up at home with a tattoo or bright purple hair. Or a tongue ring! Something to push their buttons and shock ‘em a little.”

Eddie Munson always has a way of turning your mood around. His joy is infectious. If he’s laughing, you’re not too far behind him, and it’s always been that way. Likewise, he’s quick to follow when you dissolve into giggle fits, his demeanor and pose always mimics yours, just like now when he ends up on his back beside you, legs dangling sideways off the edge.

You end up passing ideas back and forth for a few minutes.

“Teardrop tattoo,” he says, snorting.

“A pentagram.”

“You could shave one side of your head.”

“Or my eyebrows.”

“Get tattoos where your eyebrows used to be. Something classy like…hail Satan.”

“Or Daddy’s girl,” you sputter, unable to hold back the raucous laughter any longer.

Eddie joins you, practically cackling with how sudden it is. “I think that’s it. That’s the one.”

And then it hits you. Something still just as shocking as showing up with a tattoo, but much less permanent. It’s right in front of you, it has been the whole time. You sit up suddenly enough to get Steve and Robin’s attention and grin wildly down at Eddie.

It’s his turn to mumble out a soft, “what?” enraptured by your sudden intensity.

“I think I’ve got something better. Something that won’t cost me hundreds of dollars or my future chances at employment.”

“Go on,” he urges.

“You come home with me.”

From the other half of your room, Robin and Steve shout their confusion in unison, but Eddie just sits up to mirror you, mischief etched in his smile. “How bold of you, sweetheart. You know, I’m surprised it took you this long to ask.”

“No- shut up,” you laugh, shoving at his shoulder lightly. “I’m serious. You just told us earlier your uncle has to work on Thanksgiving. Come back to my parents with me. You’ll get a home cooked meal, all the fixings, really, my mom goes crazy. I mean this with all the love in my heart but if I bring home a guy like you?” You giggle, “my dad’ll lose his shit.”

“You flatter me,” he chuckles. Then, smirking, “you askin’ me to be your fake boyfriend, sweetheart?”

“I– yeah.”

“Hell yeah,” he nods, “I’m in. When are we leaving?”

Robin throws a pillow at you, missing terribly but still getting your attention. “What the fuck just happened?”

—

As promised, as soon as your last class on Tuesday let out, you loaded up your car and headed to Hawkins to pick up your boyfriend-for-the-week. He’s waiting for you outside his trailer, leaning heavily against the stairway railing, ankles crossed, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t have much by way of luggage, just a tattered olive green backpack hanging off of one shoulder that he throws in the back seat alongside your prim camel colored leather duffel bag.

When he slides into the passenger seat he leans into your personal space, drawing out his greeting with a smug smile. “Hi, darling.”

“Hey,” you greet, palming his face and lightly shoving it away. “You ready?”

Eddie Munson practically pouts at you. “What, no hello kiss?”

“Can it, Munson,” you chide before shifting your car in gear. “You’re not on the clock yet. We still have a four hour drive before you’re officially the boyfriend.”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, “it’ll be a hell of a lot more believable if we have a little practice beforehand. I mean- we’re going to have to put on a show, right? A good actor doesn’t go in blind. They run lines. Rehearse. Don’t want you freezing up in shock when I plant one on you in front of dear ol’ Dad for the first time, do we?”

He’s leaning into you again, speaking with a kind of intensity only Eddie can, and it makes you shake your head.

“Okay, well, I’m kinda busy driving at the moment. I’ll get back to you at the next rest stop.”

The first stretch on the open road is spent concocting a story. How you met, how long you’ve been together, things that might come up in conversation. Something not far from the truth, so that you could keep your stories straight, but embellished a little where you needed to. He supplies the story for your first date, dinner at a diner and live music somewhere on campus. You raise him dinner at a dive bar and listening to cassettes in the back of his van. He calls you diabolical.

At your first stop, about an hour in for gas and snacks, he offers to drive until the next stop and you pass him the keys with a soft smile and a hurried kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s fleeting, over before it’s even started because it stuns him, and you skip away to the passenger side feeling way more smug than you have any right being.

“Who were we worried about freezing up, again?” You asked over the roof of the car, ducking at the last second when he throws a balled up napkin at you.

For this portion of the drive, you take the opportunity to get to know one another. Favorites and firsts, pet peeves and guilty pleasures. Some things you knew already after a year of friendship, the little things like favorite bands and movies, but you knew you needed more than that to be a believable couple. You learn that he loves the smell after it rains and that even though he hates raisins, he loves cinnamon raisin bagels because they remind him of his Uncle Wayne. He learns that your favorite color changes with your mood, about your irrational fear of revolving doors, and the exact number of blankets you absolutely need in order to fall asleep (though he had his suspicions, he’s seen you make your bed before).

Over your game of twenty questions, his hand wanders from the wheel to the gear shift, the movement subtle because he’s always talking with his hands, and eventually it lands hesitantly on your thigh. You pretend not to notice, but bite back a smile and catch yourself flushing in the reflection of the window nonetheless.

After another hour or so of driving you make him pull over for a bathroom break and offer to take the wheel again when you’re done. You make to take the keys from him, but he’s quick to hold them over his head, just out of reach.

“Hey!” You complain, now your turn to invade his personal space to try and steal the keys back. “It’s my car. Let me take over!”

You’re suddenly hyper aware of how close your faces are when a slow smirk spreads over his lips. “Now, baby, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I made you drive when I’m right here, fully capable?”

“Damn, Munson.” You snark, “we’ve been together all of two hours and you’re already trying to turn me into a passenger princess?”

“Maybe I am.” His free hand wraps around your waist, landing at the small of your back to pull you just a little bit closer, closing the gap between you. You let out a small yelp of surprise that Eddie quickly swallows, his lips landing on yours harder and more insistent than the last kiss you shared. Your shock wears off quickly, leaving you leaning into his embrace with a happy hum in the back of your throat. Just as he swipes his tongue over your bottom lip, you’re made aware of your surroundings when a passerby clears their throat. When you pull away and catch a glimpse of his face, you’re certain you’re going to have to get used to that damn smirk. It seems to be his natural resting face since you asked him to do this, and god if it doesn’t suit him. “I kinda like that term,” he mumbles, emphasizing the new pet name as he ushers you around to the passenger seat, repeating it back into your ear with a hushed breath, “princess.”

You’ll have to get used to all the blushing too.

With a lead foot and a hand absent-mindedly tapping along to the radio on your thigh, Eddie manages to shave a half an hour off the rest of the drive, and before you know it and without another rest stop, you’re directing him off the highway and through the cozy streets of your small hometown. You managed to give him a run down on all of the relatives he could possibly meet this weekend. Who to watch out for and who to actually play nice with (really, it’s just your parents to look out for), names and how they’re related to you as if there would be a quiz at the end of Thanksgiving dinner. Hell, knowing how overprotective your parents are there very well could be.

It’s silent when he pulls into your parents driveway and cuts the engine, so quiet you fear he might hear your heart beating rapidly against your ribcage. Staring down the house, the walkway seems to stretch out longer than you remember. Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Hey.” Squeezing at your knee where his hand is still resting, Eddie’s voice is sincere. When you turn to look at him, his eyes are soft, encouraging. He lets his head rest back against the seat with a thump and smiles. “I know I’m here to piss off your parents, but I’m still your friend, too. I’ll be right by your side all weekend, if it ever gets too much, just say the word and I’ve got you, okay?”

You’re not sure where this burst of sentiment came from, but you’re grateful for it. His words wrap around your heart and squeeze, and you blink back the tears they bring. Though you’ve had fun planning to torment your family, there was still a weight on your chest every time you thought about going home and Eddie, ever observant, could tell.

“Kay,” you say softly, mouthing an even quieter thank you. Then, leaning across the center console, you brighten up. “Run lines one more time before the big scene?”

It’s a bold request, a little selfish, partly because you want to stall a little longer but frankly, you just want to kiss him again in the safety and comfort of your car. Where it can be just that, a kiss. You want another moment all to yourself without the watchful eye of your family, and without the obligation of having to prove something.

He kisses you lazy this time, hands framing your face, lips dragging slowly against yours like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s stretching out this moment so you don’t have to face the next one. Your eyes flutter shut and you reach for him clumsily over the console, clutching onto the lapel of his leather jacket like he was going to float away if you didn’t.

You don’t want to admit it, but you could get used to kissing Eddie Munson, charade or not.

When you part ways and reluctantly make your way inside, Eddie insists on carrying both your bag and his own. You try to argue but he has none of it. You let yourself in the front door and call out a greeting.

Christmas music filters in from the back of the house alongside the smell of your mom’s famous baked spaghetti. “In the den!” Her voice calls out from the same direction as the music. Toeing off your shoes, you gesture for Eddie to follow you through the halls and into the den. It’s the picture of your childhood, exactly as you remember. Your dad is hidden behind the newspaper, houseshoes propped up on the coffee table. In her armchair facing away from the door, your mom is curled up with a book, reading glasses perched on the end of her slender nose. She feels your presence and greets you without looking up. “Hi honey! Give me just a second to finish this paragraph and I’ll get up, give you a big hug.”

Eddie’s presence is solid against you, warm, and his firm hand at the small of your back is a constant reminder that he’s there within reach. You try to speak up, to introduce him, but your throat goes dry, and soon enough your mother is tossing her book on the coffee table and standing to greet you.

“Sorry honey, I – oh, hello!” She’s shocked, clearly, but still keeps a polite, tight smile. “Who’s this?”

Prompted by her comment, your dad folds down one corner of the newspaper to glance up at you. His poker face isn’t as great. You can see the glare flash across his features before he folds the paper and stands. When he says hello to you, it's with a bright smile and a tight hug, but the second he addresses Eddie, his demeanor chills again.

“Guys this is Eddie,” you introduce, reaching behind you to take his hand. The words feel clumsy on your tongue, but you manage to play off the stutter as nerves. “My boy– my boyfriend.”

You could hear a pin drop.

In the silence that follows, you begin to rethink this entire plan. You suddenly feel so small, back in your childhood home and under the intense stare of your parents (though your dad’s eyes are definitely more trained on Eddie’s every move than your own). But you didn’t come all this way and drag your friend all this way to back down now, so you take their stunned silence as an opportunity to turn in Eddie’s hold and grin at him eagerly, mouthing the word showtime.

He takes his cue, cupping your cheek in a warm palm and dragging you toward him to close the little distance between you. It feels different this time, like he has something to prove. He’s insistent, leaning into you hungrily and nipping at your lips with a wicked chuckle under his breath as he retreats. He stands at full height again to finally address your parents.

“Thanks for having me, sir,” he quips, and he salutes, actually fucking salutes, much to your father’s outrage. Then he turns a charming smile on your mother, “ma’am.”

His kill-them-with-kindness attitude and sickeningly sweet fake politeness has you biting back a laugh, but nobody in this room is paying an ounce of attention to you.

Thank God.

The rage in your father’s voice is unmistakable, the heat of it pours from him in waves when he responds. “I would say it’s my pleasure but I don’t remember inviting you, son.” You’re afraid to look too closely, but you’re almost certain the vein on his forehead is fit to burst already and you’ve only just arrived.

“Honey,” your mother pipes up, putting a calming hand on her husband’s arm, though you can hear the strain in her voice as well. “When you called and said you were bringing a friend who had nowhere to go for the holiday I…well I thought it was going to be Robin.”

“Oh, no,” your lips press into a line, and without thinking, you reach out for Eddie’s hand for support, breath hitching at the bite of cold metal from the various rings he’s always sporting. “Her family is big on holidays. Never miss one. But…” Giving Eddie’s hand a tug to pull him closer to you, your other hand comes up to rest on his shoulder, giving it a gentle pat for good measure. You ham it up, laying your head on his shoulder with a dreamy smile as you continue. “Eddie’s only family is his Uncle Wayne, and he’s going to be workin’ a double on Thursday. I couldn’t just leave him behind with a frozen TV dinner for Thanksgiving of all days.”

Though strict, you know your mom isn’t made of stone. She can’t resist a sob story and she’s a sucker for any holiday, so despite the concern in her eyes and a husband fit to start screaming any moment, she smiles and nods.

“Of course, honey,” Her voice softens, though her guard is still up. She turns her pointed smile on Eddie and gestures to the door, “the guest room is already made up for you, and it would be a shame to spend the holiday alone, so we’re happy to have you, Eddie.”

The sound you make is somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Mom! That’s hardly necessary. I’m an adult, I’m perfectly capable of sharing a bed with my boyfriend.”

Eddie quirks an interested brow at you but you roll your eyes in dismissal.

It’s not that you want to share a room with Eddie. If you’re being honest, you haven’t really put much thought to the sleeping situation. It only makes sense that he would take the guest room…but you also know that if the goal is to get under your parents’ skin, this is the way to do it, so you give a petulant whine and a huff for good measure.

It’s your father who speaks up this time, pushing forward and deliberately between you and Eddie to break your embrace as he makes his way toward the stairs. “Absolutely not,” he doesn’t look at you as he speaks, only stops near the door to pick up both of your bags and continue up the stairs. “You are nineteen, just barely. That may make you an adult on paper but you are still my child and a guest in this house so you’ll do as I say.” Passing your childhood bedroom, he drops your duffel at the door with a scowl and moves two doors down to the guest room where he throws Eddie’s knapsack even harder onto the bed. “And we don’t know this punk from Adam. You’re lucky we’re letting him stay at all, so be grateful for what you have, which is only two doors separating you.”

Ever the peacemaker, your mom steps in and clears her throat. “What your father means is that we would just both be more…comfortable if – for this trip – Eddie stayed in here. Right, Dear?”

Your father sighs, “yes, yes, that’s exactly it.”

“Anyway,” she tries to move past it, like she always has, sweeping his anger under the rug and trying to move on before there can be any more unpleasantries. It’s one of the things you hated most about being home, the fact that she so clearly agreed with most of his conservative and overprotective views but tried so hard to make it seem like she was on your side. She moves in to give you another tight hug. “We’re so happy you’re here, honey. Dinner will be ready soon, why don’t you two get settled in and then meet us in the dining room?”

You thank her softly and a little insincerely, and the pair of them retreat back down the stairs, allowing you to let out the breath you’ve been holding.

“Jesus Christ, I get what you mean.” Eddie Mumbles, and you only groan in agreement, falling gracelessly onto the edge of the bed with your head in your hands. The bed dips as he joins you, and soon enough you’re both laughing softly at the absurdity of the situation. “Hey,” he nudges your shoulder with his own, “you’re killing it.”

“Hardly,” you snort, “I feel like I’m a kid again. It just…this all sounded fun in theory but I forgot how small they make me feel.”

“All the more reason to keep on keepin’ on. C’mon, I want to see how many more times we can make that vein in his forehead pop.” A reassuring arm wraps around your shoulder and shakes you lightly until you let out a soft laugh. “There she is! Nice touch demanding that I stay in your room, by the way. Really! If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you actually wanted me to.”

“You’re an idiot,” you giggle, standing up and stretching out your tired limbs. “Come on, let’s go eat.”

The rest of the night goes rather uneventfully. It’s tense, for sure, but the initial shock has worn off and by the way your parents are acting, you’re certain they managed to sneak in a drink each while you were upstairs. The conversation over dinner is mostly focused on you, how your semester is going and how much you like your job. You ask them about their careers, about family members you haven’t seen in a while. Eventually your mother’s need to be seen as polite prompts her to include Eddie in her questioning, but she keeps it mild for now, asking how he liked the drive to your hometown and if the food was to his taste.

After dinner your mom offers coffee and a movie, but the long drive and your early alarm for school this morning are an easy enough excuse to retire early and get a good long night’s sleep before the rest of your family arrives tomorrow.

When you part ways in the hall at the top of the stairs, he stops you with a hand on your wrist and a mischievous grin.

“What?” You laugh, looking down the stairs, “You want a goodnight kiss now, too? They’re not watching.”

“Here,” he replies, reaching for the back collar of his tattered Black Sabbath t-shirt and pulling it over his head effortlessly. He hands the shirt over to you and gives it a little shake, “wear it down to breakfast in the morning, yeah? It’ll drive them crazy.”

You thank him as you take the shirt from his hand and smile, trying your best not to let your eyes linger on his exposed skin, pale and littered with tattoos, some you’re just now seeing for the first time. With a blush and a shake of your head, you bid him goodnight and retreat to your bedroom.

—

The morning of Thanksgiving brings another early wake up call, but it’s hardly a surprise. Holidays have always been this way, up at the crack of dawn and helping in the kitchen all day since you were old enough to snap green beans. It’s not all bad, some of your best memories are with your mother and aunt in the kitchen. Cooking together almost made you forget how unbearable it was to be home.

It goes as it always does, the two of you still in your pajamas, getting the more annoying and time consuming prep out of the way before anyone else wakes up. When your dad joins you in the kitchen, already fully dressed and sporting a tired scowl, you make the coffee while your mom pauses to throw the breakfast casserole she’d prepared the night before into the oven. You’re like a well oiled machine, and you work together so well that she almost doesn’t notice your choice in sleepwear.

Almost.

“Honey, why don’t you go upstairs and change into something a little more appropriate?” She suggests coolly. “I can hold down the fort until Aunt Ellen gets here.”

“Aw,” you pout softly, pouring your own cup of coffee. You know why she’s urging you to change, and it makes you want to push the issue even further. “But we always stay in our pajamas until Grandma’s on her way! Even Aunt Ellen brings her comfies to cook in and a change of clothes for dinner.”

“You and I both know that is hardly your typical sleepwear, dear.” Your father grunts from behind the morning paper.

Although she bristles at his blunt choice of words, your mom looks at you with concern, clearly agreeing with him.

You only huff, watching the creamer swirl as you pour it into the darkness of the mug. You’re about to respond when a pair of warm hands wrap around your waist from behind, making you jump.

“I think you look killer,” Eddie chuckles at your surprise, his head nestling into the crook of your neck to press a kiss just behind your ear. “Y’wear that thing better than I do, Sweetheart.”

Head bowed, you roll your eyes at his theatrics but hug his arms closer around your stomach, turning in place to wrinkle your nose at him, a hint of jest in your tone when you greet him. “Good morning, baby.”

His eyes flick past your shoulder to your parents to be confident they’re looking (of course they are), then with another dark laugh drops his head to greet you with a feverish kiss. It’s too much for a simple good morning, utterly indecent the way his tongue slips past your lips without permission, and his hands drop to your hips to turn you further into his embrace, until one of your parents – you couldn’t care less which one – clears their throat and startles you apart.

Your face is hot when Eddie smiles brightly, hitting you with a wink and a cheerful, “mornin’.” He mumbles a soft, “gonna go for a smoke, be right back,” into your ear, and then louder, calling over his shoulder as he walks toward the front door, cigarette dangling from his lips, “smells delicious already, ladies, I can’t wait!”

You’re feeling quite smug at their stunned silence, until the door slams behind him and takes the breath from your lungs with it. You grip the mug so tightly your knuckles turn white, and the quiet from behind you turns deafening.

It’s your mom that breaks it first, talking in a hushed tone that she must think you can’t hear, despite only being a few feet away.

“He smokes?”

“Are you surprised?” Your dad quips, “look at the kid. I’m surprised you can’t smell it on him.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be cruel. I’m just as unhappy about this as you are but there’s no reason to be rude.”

That’s when you jump in, the scoff on your lips is almost as natural as your breath. “You guys know I’m right here, right? You are being rude, both of you.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.” Her voice is more patronizing than remorseful. “But truly, what is it that you see in that boy? He seems nice enough I suppose, but he’s not what I would have hoped for you at all…and he’s so crude.”

That’s exactly what I see in him, you think, the ability to get under your skin.

“And what would you have hoped for me? Hm?” You press, arms crossed over your chest and hip cocked against the counter. “Some ivy league robot who only cares about your approval? Who I have nothing in common with? Why does it matter?”

“Oh, well, I–”

The phone on the wall wails, cutting her off, and a glance at the clock tells you that it must be your aunt calling to say she’s on her way.

“Saved by the bell,” you mumble as she goes to answer the phone, then spit, “I’ll go change so I don’t embarrass you.”

Back in your room, you decide there’s no point in changing twice, so you pull out the outfit you’d packed for dinner. It’s rather mundane, just a corduroy skirt and an oversized sweater, something you’d normally wear to a family gathering, but the skirt is quite a bit shorter than you’re used to wearing, and instead of the modest tights you would usually pair with this kind of outfit, you opted for some plush over the knee knit socks.

You take your time getting ready, feeling slightly guilty for leaving Eddie to his own devices downstairs, but he’s a big boy, he can handle himself. You need a few extra moments to cool down and collect yourself before more family shows up.

There’s a soft rap at your door as you’re finishing up your makeup with a thin layer of lip gloss and you sigh.

“I’ll be down to help in a minute!”

Except it isn’t your mom on the other side as you’d expected. Eddie’s voice is gentle when he calls, “It’s me.”

You let him in with a soft, apologetic smile. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he smiles, looking appreciatively up and down your form. “I take back what I said earlier. This look is killer, you look great.”

You brighten, flushing at his praise and taking in his own change of outfit. Nothing fancy by any means, just like you suggested when he asked about dinner attire. The same torn black jeans he wears often, a threadbare and bleach stained Metallica baseball tee, and his signature battle vest overtop. Hair clearly adp purposefully untamed, he’s decked out in his usual accessories. Thick, heavy rings on his fingers and a black bandana stuffed in his pocket, he’s even gone the extra mile and smudged a little eyeliner on his water line. You’d be lying if you said he didn’t pull it off.

“Thanks,” you breathe, playing with the cuffs of your sweater absent-mindedly. “You look…disheveled.”

He laughs at your choice of words, but takes it in stride, doing a quick spin and taking a dramatic bow as you laugh along with him. “Thank you, thank you, I’m only following your expert direction.”

The neck of your sweater scoops low when you sit on your vanity stool to zip up your boots, slipping off of one shoulder delicately, and Eddie’s gaze burns as it follows the movement. He doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s staring as he perches himself on the edge of your bed, his lopsided smile only growing when you giggle out a soft, “what?”

“I have an idea,” he beckons you toward him with a jut of his chin, “come here.” Though you furrow your brow in confusion, you cross the room to stand in front of him. Instantly, his hands reach out to take yours and hold your arms out wide so that he can take another good look at you. You pretend not to notice that his gaze lingers at the bare skin of your thighs on display, then pauses again at your exposed shoulder. He tugs on your hands until you’re even closer, standing between his legs with a curious look in your eye. Hands dropping to your hips, he noses at your neck, breath tickling your delicate skin as he continues, “you know what might make this outfit even better?”

“Better?” You question, reaching to tangle your hands in his hair, knowing exactly what he had in mind. “Or just more scandalous?”

Eddie’s lips ghost against your skin as he says, “darling, who said it can’t be both?”

It's cruel, you think, as latches onto the soft skin just over your pulse, nipping lightly and then soothing the sting immediately with his tongue. Cruel that this is all an act, that your friend Eddie Munson wouldn’t be adorning you with love bites if it weren’t for this stupid plan to piss off your parents. Cruel that you can’t separate fact from fiction as he sucks a deep bruise into the flesh just above your collarbone and your grip on his hair tightens, an involuntary whimper caught in your throat.

He pulls back to admire his work, pursing his plush lips with an appreciative hum. One hand leaves your hip to rest on your neck, thumb pressing into one of the fresh bruises there, pride shining on his face when the action makes you shudder.

There’s no way he doesn’t notice how red you’ve gone but he doesn’t mention it, only smiles brightly and ushers you toward the door with an encouraging, “break a leg down there, kid.”

Only then do you realize the commotion downstairs. The boisterous voice of your Aunt Ellen as she helps your mom in the kitchen, the sound of thundering footsteps as her kids play tag in the halls they definitely shouldn’t be running in.

Eddie keeps a tight hold on your hand behind you as he follows you down the stairs, but you’re squeezing his right back, suddenly even more nervous now that some of your extended family has arrived.

Your heart pounds through greetings, through quick hugs and happy hellos and nervous introductions. It hammers in your chest even harder when Eddie’s hand slips down to rest on your ass as he politely chit-chats with your uncle. This is the plan. This is what you wanted. So why are you so nervous? It doesn’t calm down until some time later, when your cousins convince Eddie to join them outside for a makeshift game of hockey in the iced over driveway. Your dad and uncle sit in the dining room chatting over scotch, while the rest of you return to cooking.

“So Eddie seems nice,” Aunt Ellen says with a smile while you peel potatoes with her at the kitchen island. There’s no sarcasm in her tone, no ulterior motives. It seems as though she means what she says, and it's a comforting contrast to the harsh words and sideways glances you’ve been getting from your parents. “You two kids meet at school?”

Outside the window, the hockey game has dissolved into a snowball fight, your younger cousins ganging up on a solo Eddie. You realize you’re staring, zoned out as he easily picks up the youngest to use him as a human shield, unable to stop yourself from smiling as your cousin giggles and brings Eddie down with a smashed snowball right to the face. You can practically hear his dramatics through the window as he mimes a wounded heart and dramatic battlefield death.

“Kinda,” you hum, shaking yourself from your daydream and smiling back at her softly. “He went to highschool with my roommate, Robin. Their hometown is a lot closer to school than here, so I got to know a lot of her friends pretty early on.”

You try not to elaborate too much, but your blush betrays you.

“You had it bad, huh?” She teases.

“I…might have developed a big dumb crush pretty quickly.” Not entirely a lie.

“Well it must have worked out well for you, huh? Seeing as he’s here and all.”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “Mom and Dad aren’t too thrilled about it.”

She shrugs, wrinkling her nose at you and leaning in to whisper, “to be honest, this could be good for them. They need to loosen up a little, maybe this’ll push ‘em in the right direction.”

You snort, “you’re telling me.”

“You could make it a little easier on them though,” she chuckles, gesturing to her own neck not-so-subtly, “maybe show them his good side before you try to intentionally rile them up.”

Rolling your eyes, you throw a potato peel at her and shake your head. You had the feeling going into this that if anyone was going to find you out, it would be your aunt. Though much to your relief, she seems to still believe you’re actually together, so maybe you can keep the act going through the rest of the weekend.

She gets pulled away when her cell phone rings, most likely your Grandma calling to ask your parents address despite the fact that they’ve been hosting thanksgiving here since you were born, and in the blink of an eye her seat is taken by your mom. Her arms are folded on the table in front of her, ignoring the pile of potatoes that still need to be done and eyeballing your own paring knife pointedly until you slow to a hesitant, confused stop.

“Honestly, young woman, I don’t know what’s gotten into you.” She scolds, voice hushed but harsh as ever.

With a roll of your eyes, you answer, “if I didn’t think you’d kill me I would say you know exactly what’s gotten into me.”

“Enough!” She looks over her shoulder to ensure that her outburst wasn’t heard and that your aunt is still occupied. God forbid anyone realize she’s experiencing any emotion that’s less than pleasant. “I don’t care how much you care for that boy or how you act at school but right now you are back under our roof and you’ll carry yourself with grace.”

“But-”

“No buts.” She hushes to a whisper as your aunt approaches again, “now go put on some makeup or a turtleneck before Grandma gets here or your father notices, because I assure you he would not be nearly as kind as I.”

“Yeah,” your chair makes an awful screeching sound as it scrapes against the floor as you stand. “Because you’ve been so peachy keen.”

—

Halfway through Thanksgiving dinner, things are going swimmingly. Eddie seems to get on great with the rest of your family, which somehow only seems to upset your parents even more. He talks music with your uncle when he comments on his tee shirt, and compliments you and your mom on the cooking no less than five times, thanking her profusely for the meal, and chats excitedly with your cousins about DnD when they ask about the tattoo of a D20 on his forearm. They’re all eating up his attention, but your parents only sit in silence, observing.

It isn’t until your grandma asks him about school that you finally get a reaction out of them. She had unknowingly uncovered the ace up your sleeve without either you or Eddie having to bring it up and you’re downright thrilled to see where this goes.

You’ll have to thank her later.

“Oh, uh, no ma’am.” Eddie chuckles. Confidence puffs his chest as he grins knowingly, stealing a peek at your mirrored expression from the corner of his eye. “Wouldn’t you believe it, I’m shit at school?” He pauses for everyone to balk at his bold wording. “Who would’a known, right? I’m the picture of a 4.0. Anyway, to answer your question, I just graduated in June, so I’m taking some time to focus on my band.”

His age had already come up in conversation, so it was only right for your uncle to assume, “oh, well, well school isn’t for everyone. What’s important is that you made it through. What was your degree in?”

You clear your throat uncomfortably, ducking your head to hide the smile threatening to break out.

“High school, actually,” Eddie snickers, “took me three senior years, but I did it!”

Silence takes over the room once again, even shocking your extended family. You could hear a pin drop, and you do hear your dad choke on his turkey.

Acting oblivious to their shock, you prompt, “tell them about your band, baby.” Giddy smile plastered on your face, you reach out for his hand and address your family again, “they just booked a consistent gig! How exciting is that?”

“I’d hardly call Tuesday nights at the Hideout exciting, but you gotta start somewhere, right? Plus,” he drops your hand in lieu of resting his on your thigh, his grip warm and familiar. Turning another wily smirk on you he adds, “we’ve got at least one fan who won’t miss a Corroded Coffin show. That’s what counts, right?”

Leaning across the table to pester you more quietly, your mother hisses, “I thought you had study group on Tuesdays.”

“I do!” You defend, “we just…meet at the Hideout.”

In reality you’ve only been to one of Eddie’s shows, the first one at the Hideout that they played as a tryout, and you had a damn good time. But you do have a study group that meets on Tuesdays, regrettably not at the Hideout but in the common area of your dorm building and even more unfortunately, right when Corroded Coffin is about to go on.

You can’t stop yourself from smiling at their shock. Every little thing he or you say to surprise them makes it a little more amusing.

Last night their anger felt overbearing, casting a shadow over you, made you feel small. But the more you catch them off guard, the less they say, and the more you want to laugh at the surprise and disgust in their eyes.

Dessert brings pumpkin pie, coffee cake, another round of drinks, and more inquiry from your aunt. She even managed to slip Eddie one of her husband’s beers, much to the disapproving glare of your father.

“Eddie,” she hums, grinning at him over the rim of her wine glass. “Were your ears ringing earlier? We were gossiping about you.”

“Oh yeah?” He asks, a sly smirk and a raised brow pointed your way. He leans back in his chair, right hand reaching out to rest once more on your thigh under the table. He tilts his head even further toward you, “all bad things, I hope?”

“Aunt Ellen was asking how we met,” you smile sweetly, licking away the remnants of cool whip on your dessert fork.

His eyes darken as they follow the motion and his hand creeps higher, pinky finger stroking at the hem of your skirt absent-mindedly as he speaks. You fight to keep your breath from getting caught in your throat at the cold bite of his rings against your flushed skin. “Oh I see,” he hums, then, his attention snapping back across the table, cutting through the tension you both just created, “did she tell you how she tried to hairspray me to death?”

“She didn’t,” your grandma exclaims, “please do tell!”

“So I’m planning on meeting my good friend Robin for a nice meal, right? Sounds like a nice evening! Except…”

You try to stay engaged in the conversation, to tell your side of the story, you really do– but the weight of his hand high up on your thigh is distracting. It’s hard to focus on much else, especially when he kneads gently in time with his elaborate storytelling, his thumb caressing the rolled hem of your thigh-high socks and stroking the skin just above it.

Why, you can’t help but think. You’re the only ones seated on this side of the table, and sheltered from view by the tablecloth. There should be no reason for him to be touching you like this when there’s nobody to see it happening. You wonder if he knows there’s no point, but then his hand creeps even higher and his fingertips slip under the edge of your skirt and into the crease where your thighs press together. This time you can’t stop the stutter in your breath and he notices, smiling at you wickedly, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He knows it’s affecting you, and even worse he’s trying to get a reaction out of you.

But he just keeps on talking, stealing the show.

The story of how you met melts easily into the previously fabricated story of your first date, and so on. The stories just keep flowing. That’s the thing about Eddie, he could be reading you the instruction manual for a toaster, but the way that he tells stories is captivating. The way he speaks of your first date, and then of your first anniversary (something you hadn’t discussed on the drive, but damn it if he wasn’t quick on the draw with it) has your family on the edge of their seats. Your aunt listens with glee, but your parents are horrified at the thought of him taking you to a dive bar for dinner or staying overnight in your dorm. Whether they like it or not, he knows how to command a room.

When things start winding down, after goodbyes are said to your Grandma, you’re rescued from having to do the dishes when your cousins talk you into a game of Monopoly. Eddie picks your favorite piece, but relents quickly when you send him a pout and opts for the thimble instead.

“So what are you, a $100 on Free Parking family, all taxes on Free Parking family, or a boring family?” Eddie asks, digging out the loose bills in disarray at the bottom of the box.

“Better,” you hum, “you boys know where the stash is, d’you mind?”

Your cousins laugh, the eldest pulling a bag of halloween candy out from under the coffee table you sit around. “Already on it, cuz.”

Watching as he dumps a few pieces into the middle of the board, you grin. “Perfect.”

—

After a rousing game (where Eddie absolutely made fun of your candy pot right up until he landed on Free Parking and won it), your extended family starts to pack up to make the hour’s drive home. You say your goodbyes, Aunt Ellen whispering a reminder to go easy on your parents into your ear when she hugs you tightly. Eddie high fives your cousins as they pass, and shoots them a devil horn gesture as they make their way to the car. You swear you hear your dad mumble under his breath about him corrupting them, but bite your tongue.

You barely made it back to the den to start cleaning up the board game when the knock comes at the door – their car won’t start. It’s cold and it’s dark and without hesitation your mom offers them shelter for the night.

“The boys will have to sleep on the pull out in the den,” she muses quietly, thinking out loud. “It’s not much but they’ll be comfy there. Ellen, you guys can take the guest room.” You crack a smile as she keeps talking, mentions that your dad and uncle can take a look at the car when they’ve had a good night’s sleep and the sun is up, and Eddie catches your eye with a mirroring grin.

“I’d be happy to look,” he offers, drawing both your parents’ attention. They’d forgotten about him in their plan. “I’m no professional, but my uncle and I have lifted parts from enough junkers to know my way around an engine.”

Your mom looks between you and the boy next to you, brow drawn together in concern. “Oh, I’m not sure that’s the best–”

Cutting her off, you rest your hand on Eddie’s elbow and smile saccharine, “that’s so kind of you, Eds, thank you.”

He knocks your hand from his arm in favor of wrapping it around your shoulders, curling your body into his side and kissing your temple with a loud smack! His grin is downright smug when he says, “looks like I’ll be bunking with you after all, huh, Princess?”

“Lucky me,” you mumble, turning away quickly to hide the rapidly forming flush in your cheeks. “Um, hey, can you help my dad with the pullout? It sticks. I’ll go change the sheets in the guest room.”

“You got it, baby,” he smiles good-naturedly. “Where can I help, Dad?”

As you walk away, you can hear the exasperation in your father’s voice as he informs the boy that it would be in his best interest to call him Mr. or Sir, and you can’t help but giggle at the stuttering response Eddie gives.

You’ve tossed Eddie’s bags into your own room and stripped the sheets from the guest bed by the time your mom meets you in the guest room with fresh sheets. You quietly make the bed together until she speaks up.

“I’m sure you find yourself so lucky to have gotten what you want,” she muses, tucking in the top sheet on her side of the bed a little more harshly than necessary. “But under no circumstances does this mean you can take advantage of my kindness. I was not about to let our family go without a place to stay for the night so you may have found yourself sharing a room but I expect no funny business.” So casual in her cruelty, she emphasizes where she needs to but otherwise her voice is calm.

“Right,” you snort, “because the mood is so perfect with my parents down the hall and aunt and uncle in the next room.”

“I’m only saying, that boy is changing you. You’re acting so differently since you brought him ‘round and I-”

You cut her off, throwing the pillow you just put a new sham on back onto the bed violently. “I care about that boy,” throwing air quotes when you repeat her words, “and if I’ve changed, it’s only because he showed me what it’s like to be cared for in return!” The words flow from you freely, without much thought. You’re reacting with what you know will hurt right back, but you’re also speaking from the heart. Even just being friends with not only Eddie, but Robin and Steve as well, has built your confidence and taught you plenty about love and support, even if it was just platonic.

Her voice drips with condescension when she replies, “Honey. Do you truly think a boy like that has good intentions with a girl like you? He drinks, he smokes, he’s skipping college and doesn’t have a job because he’s in a rock band for Pete’s sake. I’m just worried about you. Guys like that only want one thing.”

With your back to the door you don’t notice Eddie approaching, and he hovers just outside the door and out of your mom’s view. He doesn’t want to eavesdrop, but he could hear your shouting match from downstairs, and he wanted to be close by if you needed a comforting word or pep talk.

“What’s that, Mom?” You argue, arms crossed tightly over your chest. “Sex? Who’s to say we haven’t gone there already? And what could you do to stop us from fucking all night tonight? We’re both adults. We could go at it for hours, under your roof, right down the hall from you and technically all you can do about it is kick us out. Oh well!! We’ve got a car and a couple hundred bucks between the two of us, we could swing a motel for the night. The point is, it could happen anywhere, so wouldn’t you rather know that I’m safe at home and not sharing a wall with drug addicts and prostitutes down at the Motel 6?”

She’s silent for a long moment, both of you unmoving and staring angrily at each other.

“...You’re not actually going to have–”

“OF COURSE I’M NOT, Mother,” you groan, “and do you think I would tell you if I was!? God, I knew bringing him here was a mistake. Don’t worry, we’ll be out of your hair first thing in the morning. I’m not going to bother staying the rest of the weekend in a house that makes me and my boyfriend feel unwelcome.”

Suddenly very reminiscent of your high school days, you stomp away with an exasperated groan, brushing past Eddie in a fury and you couldn’t even begin to care in the moment to ask how much he’d overheard. You were hot in more than one sense of the word, livid at your mother’s attack, blood boiling at the fact that even she – who has always been more lenient and quick to defend against your father – could think so lowly of Eddie without even giving him a chance. You know that’s the point. You know you brought him here specifically to get a rise out of them, but God, this was so much worse than the stunned silence and speechless stuttering you were expecting.

With every step closer to your room, the need to get out of this damn outfit gets stronger. Despite your aggravation, every brush of your skirt against your thighs brings your mind back to dinner and Eddie’s curious touch, the gentle squeeze as his fingertips brushed at the crease of your crossed legs, the casual nonchalance as he kept talking even though he knew exactly what he was doing.

It's annoying, really, how easily he infiltrates your thoughts and without even trying distracts you from your rage. Only, now he’s all you can think of as you slam the bedroom door and rifle through your suitcase. By the time you start the shower, you’ve moved past wondering why he was touching you like that when it didn’t benefit the plan, and when you strip down and step under the steaming spray you’re more than curious how far he’s willing to take this. You have to admit after shouting about how much sex you were going to have with him tonight, you’re starting to wonder how much of a possibility it could be.

Would he actually touch you? Let you touch him? He was eager to paint your skin with possessive marks earlier. Was he just that committed to the bit, or did he really just want to?

Would it be so bad if he did?

As much as you want to draw this shower out, slow, careful caresses of your skin as you touch yourself the way you imagine a certain guitarist might, you decide it’s not the best idea with a houseful of family. Soon enough you’re toweling off and feeling less angry than before, though no less frustrated.

When you make it back to your room, there’s an open copy of Advanced Dungeons and Dragons and a weathered journal laid out on your bed, suggesting that Eddie had been hiding out there, however he’s nowhere to be found. You manage to get your hair most of the way dried by the time he comes back in, the faint scent of smoke and fresh snow billowing behind in his wake. The stick of a lollipop he won in your game of Monopoly earlier juts out from between his lips.

Smiling softly in greeting, you expect him to beeline back to his notes, but to your surprise he turns your way and leans one hand on your vanity. The other comes to rest under your chin, urging you to look up at him. He smiles back, bigger, encouraging. His lips are tinted pink from the candy and he even nods a little when your own smile grows, as if he could tell that your first wasn’t that genuine.

“Y’okay?” He murmurs, thumb stroking absently at the sharp of your jawline. “It’s been fun messing with them, but that screaming match must’ve been a lot.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, “I’ll get over it, but are you okay? You were the one she was insulting.”

He waves off your comment casually, a wrinkle in his nose and the hint of a laugh in his voice. “I’ve been called worse, and in her defense, we are trying to make me look bad.”

“I guess, but I still didn’t like hearing her speak about you like that,” you chuckle and stand, scooting the stool back in order to wrap him in a hug. After a brief pause, you mumble into his neck, “... and thank you. For checking in.”

Eddie’s hands squeeze where he holds your hips fondly, and he pulls away from your embrace just enough to get a good look at your face. His eyes shine beneath his furrowed brow, impossibly deep brown in the low light of your room, they search your face for any hint of distress, and when he’s confident you’re telling the truth, only then does his gaze land on your lips. You swallow thickly, blink slowly, try to convince yourself you’re making this up. He pulls the lollipop from his mouth, slurping obscenely as he does. There’s nobody around! He has nothing to prove! So then why is he leaning in? Why do you let him, and lean up onto your toes to close the gap?

Quiet takes over the room as Eddie’s eyes fall shut, followed quickly by your own. You gasp gently, but lean into his kiss eagerly, the hand around his shoulder reaching up to tangle in the mess of curls at the base of his neck. His lips meld with yours, working you over in a deep and tender kiss that makes your stomach flip. It’s soft. Familiar in a way you wouldn’t expect.

It might be your favorite one yet.

He tastes distinctly of cherry and leftover tobacco, lips sticky with sugar and oh, so delicious.

When he breaks the kiss he doesn’t go far, lips traveling to press sweetly at your temple for a fleeting moment.

“What was that for?” You ask, breathless. “There’s nobody else around?”

Eddie hums, “maybe I just felt like it.” Taking in your choice of pajamas, he grins even wider, “kinda like you just felt like wearing my Sabbath shirt again, I’m sure. Did you mean what you said back there?”

Stalling, you pluck the candy from between his fingers and take a moment to savor it. Sure, it’s a little bit of a tease, the way your tongue darts out to lick it salaciously before taking the whole thing in your mouth with a soft hum, but it’s payback for both times he’d gotten you worked up earlier today. By the look on his face, payback is a bitch.

“How much did you overhear?”

“Oh, you know…” his hand trails up the length of your forearm, enveloping your own, only to take the sucker back from you and toss it into the bin, forgotten already. “Just the part about us going at it for hours.” Hands on either side of your face, he crouches until he’s fully in your space, lips just a hair away from your own. “How it was going to happen no matter what.” You feel his smirk more than you actually see it, and your breath gets caught in your throat. His hair curtains around you, tickling at your neck and shoulders.This can’t actually be happening – right? His thumb drags lightly at your bottom lip, “that we were gonna fuck all night?”

“I– I didn’t know you were there.” You stutter out, afraid to admit anything more than that.

“...Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

You don’t. Instead, you find yourself falling forward, colliding once more in a clumsy kiss. You stand slowly so that he doesn’t have to crouch, never once letting your lips leave his. It’s an intoxicating contrast to the last kiss, all bruising pressure and teeth and tongue and desperation. He licks into your mouth without asking permission, though you would have given it freely anyway, and his hands creep downward on your body, caressing your waist and falling to rest on the swell of your hips, squeezing gently. When you surge up onto your tiptoes to kiss him deeper, he notices the wobble in your legs and shifts, hooking his hands on the backs of your thighs and lifting you to rest on the edge of your vanity. You gasp in surprise at his boldness, at the strength you didn’t know he possessed, and break the kiss in the process.

“You know, I was hoping you weren’t all talk,” he beams with pride, taking in the sight of your bite swollen lips and chest heaving with ragged breath. Placing a hand on either side of your hips, his head drops to mouth hungrily at your neck, giving the same attention to the opposite side he had earlier, pulling at the neck of your stolen tee-shirt to suck another bruise into your collarbone. In between passes of his tongue and nips at your sensitive skin, he keeps talking. Eddie Munson does not know when to shut up, not even now. “Been wanting to get my hands on you since we met,” he mumbles into the hollow of your throat, you can feel another smile pressed to the skin there, “somethin’ about being threatened by a sweet little thing like you…” working his way back up to find your lips, he basks in the small noises coming from the back of your throat. “...really does it for a guy.”

“Oh yeah?” You tease, hooking a finger in the collar of his shirt and tugging, but before you can continue the thought, the vanity beneath you gives an awful creaking sound under your combined weight. Giggling, near mortified, you bite your lip and shift your eyes toward the bed, “you wanna…?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he jokes in return, helping you down from your perch and crossing the room. He shuffles up toward the headboard, pulling an old teddy bear from under him when he leans up against it and raises his brow at you.

Taking the stuffie from his hands to throw it across the room with a soft glare, you settle into his lap comfortably, one knee on either side of his hips. His hands land on your own hips and pull you closer to him roughly with a soft, amused huff. He kisses you like it's his last chance, hands firm on your hips holding you in place where you can feel his cock, half hard with interest pressing against you.

You kiss him for what seems like hours. For all you’re concerned it could have been. Eddie consumes you, the scent of smoke and leather engulfing you and invading your senses. It’s a scent so perfectly Eddie, with a little sweetness and a little bit of something dark, just like how he kisses. Sweet pecks and soft caresses of his lips against your jawline immediately followed by lewd, wet passes of his tongue and sharp, stinging bites. He kisses hard and messy, unabashed, fingers squeezing at the meat of your ass and pulling your hips harder into his.

This time when he kisses down your neck, he doesn’t stop at your neckline. He pulls at the shirt collar, carelessly stretching it past the point of no return in favor of uncovering more and more of your unexplored skin. Cold fingers prod at the skin of your lower back, making you squeal and grind harder against him, heat pooling in your center.

Your position is making you hyper aware of just how wet you are, your panties sticking to your lower lips with it as you rut against his clothed length. Your hand stays firm on the back of his neck, nervous and unsure how far to take this, but Eddie clearly knows what he wants, his own hands exploring. Not an inch of your body goes unnoticed as he caresses you, light fleeting touches here and there followed by rough, possessive hands, kneading at your curves hungrily. He’s taking his time learning what makes you tick. Thumbs brush featherlight over pebbled nipples through the worn material of your shirt, drawing another breathy moan from your lips. Though he grins in satisfaction, looking up at you with a mix of admiration and provocation.

“Careful,” he murmurs, gaze falling on your chest as he seeks out the hardened buds again and pinching, cocky smile only growing at the responding whine you let out. “Don’t want anyone to hear you, pretty thing. Or did you forget where we were?”

Not one to go without a fight, you grip his jaw and turn his face back up toward yours, “shut up and put your mouth to good use, baby.”

He smirks at the pet name, capturing your lips once more and turning you both until you’re laying back against the mattress. Eddie hovers over you, staring, eyes raking over you briefly before he makes his way down your body, stopping at the waist of your sleep pants with a happy hum. He traces the elastic teasingly before hooking in and pulling them down, tossing them out of the way carelessly. You press your thighs together when he does, and he tuts disapprovingly, thumb caressing the crease between your thigh and hip.

“Aw, sweetheart, you’re not gettin’ shy on me now, are you?” He teases, gently coaxing your legs back open, chilled air hitting the damp cotton and making you shudder. Lowering himself so that he’s eye level with your clothed cunt, he smirks, “that’s what I thought.”

You expect him to rid you of that layer as well, but he doesn’t, not yet. Instead, he noses at the growing wet spot, inhaling deeply and giving a dramatic, gleeful sigh. He’s not so cruel to keep teasing you though, quickly mouthing at your pussy through the thin material of your panties. The added friction is unbearable, pleasure settling low in your belly as he licks broadly at the wet spot with a low groan, pointed tongue finding your clit surprisingly quickly. Pulling back briefly, he admires the way that the material clings to you, now wet with your slick and his saliva, the soaked cotton hides nothing. He murmurs something about “isn’t this a pretty picture?” and reaches out to touch you, fingers stroking over your clothed cunt in a rough drag, but the way your blood is rushing in your ears you barely hear him.

When he finally peels the ruined panties off of you, you prop yourself up on your elbows to get a good look at him between your legs. His hair’s a mess, disheveled by your hands running through it, bangs pushed back from his forehead from his efforts. His lips are kiss swollen and red from the cherry candy, pulled back tight over an eager grin. He licks his lips, eyes glittering as he stares down at you, utterly enraptured. He looks at you as though you were his last meal, like you were the most delectable treat, and it makes your stomach flip.

He dives back in, tongue gliding between your lips easily and circling your clit once, teasingly, before retreating back down to your entrance. With a huff and a repressed squeal, you drop back onto the bed, hand flying to tangle in his hair as he tongues at your hole eagerly. Nose bumping your clit with his efforts, he laps at your juices until you’re whining for it, a weak little “please,” falling from your lips. Any other day he would tease you. A quipped please what, what do you need? But he senses your desperation and relents.

“So wet, sweet thing,” he chides, reaching out to drag two fingers through your dripping folds and pushing them into you without warning, forcing the air from your lungs. You bite your lip in an effort to keep quiet, only letting out the softest whimper when his thumb joins in, rubbing at your clit lazily. “Tell me, are you always this eager?”

“When some asshole’s been teasing me since dinner, yeah,” you quip, throwing an arm over your eyes to hide your embarrassment.

“Oh, I’m an asshole?” Eddie asks, scissoring his fingers and leaning down to lap at your nub, suckling lightly until your thighs tremble and your pussy clenches down on his fingers. “Do you even know what you were doing to me at dinner?” His pace quickens, fingers drawing obscene, wet sounds from your cunt as he pumps them faster. Resting his head on your thigh to watch as his fingers disappear in and out of your dripping entrance, he continues, “The way you were lickin’ that fork clean after dessert should be illegal. Had me wonderin’ what else you could do with that tongue, I just had to level the playing field.”

He strokes at that spot deep inside you right as his lips wrap around your clit once more and you swallow a groan.

“Fuck, Eddie,” you whimper, hips moving on their own accord, canting down to meet his eager ministrations. “Right there.”

He almost sounds pitiful as he coos, “I know, baby, I know.”

He continues to work at your g-spot, languid, repetitive strokes that bring you closer and closer to the edge each time. Pressure builds in your pelvis, an unmistakable ache in your limbs as you tense up. He can tell you’re close, the fluttering of your walls around him and thighs caging his head in firmly. If he minds, he doesn’t let on, only doubling his efforts and adding a third finger as he thrusts back in. You’re getting close, but words are hard to find when he’s smiling so pretty at you and those long, thick fingers stroking deep within you with a come-hither motion.

“Eddie, I’m– fuck, you gotta–”

“That's it, Princess,” he encourages, leaning back on his heels to get a good look at you. Your whole body flushed, his tee shirt rucked up on your chest, your fingers curled in the bedspread beneath you. With his fingers still buried inside you, he reaches out with the other hand to abuse your clit, quick, messy back and forth motions that are absolutely maddening, just on the edge of too much. “C’mon, sweet thing, come for me.”

There’s nothing you can do to stop your body from obliging, bearing down as your orgasm rips through you, your release coming from you in waves, splashing over his hands and the bedsheets between you. Your fingers go numb as you white-knuckle the bedspread, toes curling and mouth hanging open in a silent scream as he works you through your orgasm.

Though he gives your oversensitive clit a much needed break, to your dismay, he doesn’t let up on fucking his fingers into you, gazing down at the mess you made in awe, a lopsided grin on his face. “You didn’t tell me you're a super soaker, sweetheart. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I–” you try to interject but gasp at his unrelenting fingers. “I’m not usually.”

“Oh?”

You’re too embarrassed to admit it again, so you only shake your head, flushing even deeper under his scrutinizing stare. It’s all too much, you’re oversensitive and spent already but god that doesn’t mean you don’t want more.

“Please,” you start, reaching for his wrist to still his motions. You aren’t above pouting when you say, “let me return the favor.”

“Uh-uh, sweetheart,” his grin is downright evil, “not yet…I wanna see you do that again.”

You weren’t sure that was possible. Hell, until a few moments ago you didn’t even know you could squirt at all, let alone twice in a row. But he’s determined, and he’s already kept you teetering on the edge since your first orgasm, so it doesn’t take much. He speeds up again, hand curling to cup your cunt with his efforts, and the slick slip-slide of your previous release gives him the perfect traction to continue the onslaught of attention to your overstimulated clit. Your hips can't decide whether they want to twitch away from the attention or grind down into it, ultimately going with the latter, much to Eddie’s satisfaction.

Ducking his head, he sinks his teeth into the swell of your inner thigh, relishing in the way the pain makes you clench around him yet again.

“You got another one in you,” he encourages, “I know it.”

And he’s right.

The coil in your belly has been threatening to snap as soon as the last orgasm dissipated, his constant attention on your g-spot enough to send you over the edge again, but it’s not until his lips latch onto your clit one more time, the delicious drag of stubble against your inner thighs a whole new sensation, that you let loose. Gripping onto fistfuls of his curls again, you take note of the wild growl the action draws from him as you spill onto his tongue, your release puddling under you and soaking into the sheets.

“Shit, Eddie, stop, I–” You pull at his hair lightly to get his attention, “s’too sensitive.”

Despite your complaint, he grins happily and crawls back up your body, taking the hem of your shirt with him and pulling your last bit of clothing off of your body before capturing your lips in a deep, languid kiss. The distinct taste of Eddie, of tobacco and sugar and your own release is intoxicating, and you sloppily make out with him until you can no longer taste yourself on his tongue. You can’t help but giggle as you pull away.

“You still with me?” He asks gently, damp fingers brushing through your hair, though you have no energy to care about the mess.

“Yeah,” you mumble, “just needed a second.” Reaching down to palm at the achingly hard bulge in his pants, savoring the moan he swallows, you tease, “I feel a little underdressed, here.”

“By all means,” he hums, turning to fall on his back beside you, a cocky smile dancing on his features, “be my guest.”

You follow suit, sitting up to straddle his lap again, lifting the hem of his shirt up and over his head. Peppering his skin with the same attention he showed you, you take your time nipping and sucking and adoring his newly exposed skin, appreciating your favorite mark (an angry looking, deep purple bruise forming just above his demon head tattoo) with a bitten lip and smug smile. He looks ruined and you haven’t even touched him yet, not really, and you take pride in the way his head lolls against the headboard, eyes heavy-lidded and crinkled from his smile, pupils blown as he watches your every move. As you rake your nails down his chest (an act that pulls yet another deep growl from within his chest), you cant your hips down against his. The drag of denim against your bare pussy is almost too much, on the brink of both pleasure and pain in your overstimulation, and the way that it makes you shudder has his cock twitching with interest.

Scooting down his legs, you lay between them lazily, twirling your finger around the button of his pants and savoring the impatient noises he’s clearly trying to hold back. You decide he’s been too kind to you already to deserve anymore teasing, so you make quick work of unzipping his jeans and freeing his aching member. He helps you shuffle them, along with his underwear, down his legs and as soon as you get a good look, your mouth starts to water. Flushed at the tip and weeping, it’s the most enticing thing you’ve ever seen.

Leaning in to catch the bead of precum on your tongue, you moan at the earthy taste and let your eyes fall shut. Eddie swears above you and that only eggs you on, reaching out to take his length in one hand, you give it a long, broad lick from base to tip and around the head before taking it into your mouth, reminiscent of the way you’d enjoyed his lollipop earlier. (If you’re being honest, you much prefer this to candy).

“Shit, sweetheart,” he groans, leaning up on one elbow to get a good look at you and burying his free hand in your hair. “Just like that–look so perfect like this.”

He babbles as you suck him off, an incoherent string of desperate phrases that all circle back to one common theme – how good you look with his dick in your mouth. His praise goes straight to your throbbing core, more slick dribbling from you with every word. You find yourself clenching down on nothing, feeling suddenly empty without Eddie’s thick fingers there.

You pull off of him with a satisfying pop, beaming with pride as your hand works him over in your absence.

“Do you ever shut up?” You tease, cupping his balls lightly with your free hand before ducking to take one into your mouth.

He chokes out his response, “not often,” sighing as you take him back into your mouth, your tongue running over the thick vein that runs up the underside of his shaft. “But you’re gettin’ close… Get up here.”

Pulling you off of him by the hair, he urges you back up the length of the bed. Propped up against your mess of pillows at your headboard, he pulls you back to hover over his lap and drags the head of his cock through your wet folds teasingly. Capturing your lips again, he licks hot into your mouth, positioning your hips square over his waiting member, but leaving it up to you to seal the deal.

You sink down onto him slowly, inch by thick, delicious inch, savoring the stretch and the slight burn that comes with it. Even with proper preparation, he’s big, and fills you to the brim when you finally settle into his lap, his cock fully sheathed inside you.

Drawing a shaky breath, you wrap your arms around his neck and press your forehead to his, all sweaty bangs and shared breaths. He gives you a moment, pressing a gentle kiss high on your cheekbone and lingering there until you thread your fingers into his hair again and give an experimental roll of your hips. Both of you share a groan, breathing each other in as you slowly start to move.

It's like a dance; you push, he pulls, moving together like you’ve rehearsed this a million times. You feel impossibly full as you bounce on his cock, lewd, wet sounds coming from where you’re joined, and the pressure builds in your stomach once again.

Eddie’s hands fly to your hips, guiding your movements and holding you in place to fuck up into you without restriction. Unable to hold back, an involuntary moan tumbles from your lips and you fall forward, biting into the crook of his neck to stop yourself from making any more noise. He hisses at the sting and his hips stutter, but if he’s more affected than that he doesn’t show it. His hips continue to piston up into you, his cock forcing tiny little hiccuping noises from your throat as you clamp your eyes shut.

“Yeah baby,” he encourages, pulling your hips down for a particularly harsh drag, the wiry hair at the base of his cock tickling at your clit from the force of it. “Y’can’t stay quiet, can you? Even now?” Reaching between you, he circles your still sensitive nub with his middle finger, kissing you to swallow the sounds you make as he spreads two fingers over your puffy lips, prodding at the taut, stretched hole where he thrusts up into you. “Christ, if you sound this fuckin’ pretty when you’re trying to keep quiet I can’t wait to hear you when you aren’t holding back.” He speaks low in your ear, his voice impossibly deep and his words go straight to your core, zapping like static over your skin. “You’d like that, huh?” He prompts, tugging at your earlobe with his teeth, “wanna make you scream my name.”

You lift your head to kiss him, if only to shut him up, and whimper into his mouth, eyes screwed shut, but give him what he wants with a soft whine of “Eddie,” against his full lips.

“I guess whining will do for now. Look at you, messy thing,” he’s unrelenting on your clit now, swift, circular motions made jagged by his stuttering thrusts. He’s just as close as you are, if his jerking motions and labored breathing tell you anything. “You gonna come on my cock? C’mon sweet thing, I wanna feel you.”

“I don’t– I can’t, ‘s too much,” you babble, lost in the way his cock drags over your inner walls and the insistent swiping of his fingers at your clit. It’s so good but it’s all too much, and you’re certain if you have another orgasm, it’ll be the end of you.

The hand that isn’t buried in your cunt comes up to hold your chin, forcing you to look at him as he says, “sure you can, baby, c’mon,” then after a surprisingly tender kiss pressed into your lips, he demands through lidded eyes, “come for me, princess.”

Even if you didn’t want to, your body obeys, the pleasure licking up from your core and spreading through your limbs like fire. Your skin burns, your cunt spasming with the force of it, and when you force your eyes shut, forehead pressed against Eddie’s in exhaustion, you swear a tear leaks out.

He groans, the fluttering of your walls triggering his own release, pulling you into a hard, toothy kiss to dampen the sound he makes. He pulls out just in time, splattering your stomach with his seed and already you’re mourning the loss, feeling impossibly empty but sated nonetheless.

Your mouths hang open against one another, sharing damp, hot breaths for a few moments as you come down from your high.

“Fuck,” you sigh, rolling off of his lap to lay beside him, a delighted little chuckle falling from your lips.

“My sentiments exactly,” he muses, turning on his side to brush the mess of your hair behind your ear. With a kiss to your temple and a soft, “wait here,” he rolls away, pulling on the first pair of pants he can find (which just so happens to be your pink snowflake pajama pants) and looks both ways before stepping out of your room and toward the bathroom.

As you wait for him to return, you can’t help but return to your thoughts from earlier.

Would he touch you?

Yes.

Would you really mind if he wanted to?

Fuck no.

What does this mean for your friendship?

Fuck off, don’t worry about that right now. Enjoy the moment.

Soon he’s back with a warm washcloth that he uses to gently clean you up, taking care around your sore, red center, and then mops up his spend with a surprisingly delicate touch. In the other hand he has another fresh set of sheets, which he holds up with a snarky smile.

“When your legs work again we can change these out,” he teases, “seeing as you ruined the ones on there now.”

Running a hand down your face, you blush. Even after everything, you blush at his remarks. “Shut up.” Giggling, you hop down from the bed and pull on his discarded boxers and the now stretched out Black Sabbath shirt before helping him change the sheets.

In the end, you decide that it’s not worth it to finish out the weekend at home and set an alarm to get up before any of your family. It’s far too early for either of your liking, but it’s a necessary evil.

When the car is loaded up and you drop into the passenger seat, it feels natural when Eddie’s large hand lands on your thigh. The sun is just starting to rise in the rear view mirror, and you’re eager to get a move on, but not before properly thanking him.

Leaning over the center console, you press a kiss to his cheek, then again to his lips when he turns to meet your affection. You sigh, a dumb smile plastered on your face as you breathe your first full breath all weekend. “Thank you, Eds.”

“Hey,” he chuckles, squeezing your thigh happily, “I’ll help you piss off your parents any day.” One more longing kiss, his lips sliding against yours without urgency, without anything to prove, just an exchange of affection between two maybe-more-than-friends who don’t have any roles to play anymore. He bites your lip as he pulls away, winking, and throwing the car into drive. As he drives away he laughs again, fixing you with an adoring stare. “My little showstopper.”

#eddie munson/reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson/you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #fem!reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #stranger things reader insert #stranger things fic #eddie munson reader insert #eddie munson fic

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solarmorrigan · 9 months

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The crack of thunder is loud enough to jolt Steve awake, and for a moment his sleep-clouded eyes search the room wildly for the threat, for whatever woke him, before another peal of thunder seems to roll the tension right out of him.

“Shit,” he sighs, relaxing back into the mattress. “Big one.”

“Yep,” Eddie says tightly from where he’s sitting up against the headboard beside him.

Steve squints up at Eddie in the dim light of the bedside lamp (which Eddie has no plans to turn off, despite the fact it’s gone past two AM). He’s clearly not quite awake, but something in Eddie’s tone has pinged in his brain, and he’s trying to work it out.

Another crash of thunder rattles the house and Eddie can’t help it – he jumps.

It’s small—maybe more like a twitch—but Steve catches it. He always does.

Frowning, Steve reaches out and soothes a hand up the top of Eddie’s thigh, stopping at the bend of his hip and rubbing circles with this thumb.

“Hey,” he says softly, half muffled by the pillow. “Okay?”

Eddie shrugs, hunching over the book in his lap that had been an adequate distraction until the storm had rolled right overhead.

“Not a fan of thunderstorms, I guess,” he admits, lowly, because he’s kind of embarrassed, but willingly, because he knows Steve won’t give him shit – not for something that really upsets him.

“No?” Steve asks, still looking up at Eddie through his lashes, still not entirely awake and an invitingly soft distraction from the rain spattering the window like bullets.

“Nah.” Eddie shrugs again.

Steve hums—a short, distracted sound—and leans in to press a kiss to Eddie’s hip. Then he’s sitting up and stretching with a sharp intake of breath before draping himself over Eddie’s side, kissing his shoulder and looking up at him with expectant eyes.

I’m awake now, he’s saying. You can talk to me.

And Eddie knows he can – and Eddie would, except he’s never really had to put into words why he—Eddie Munson, champion of chaos and discord—has never liked thunderstorms. He’s never had to articulate how the trailer walls had never felt thinner when he was a kid than when a storm was furiously beating at them, or how all the noise and destruction had been something totally out of his control.

Wayne is the only one who really knows, and Wayne had just gotten it. He’d started playing music for Eddie when those Midwestern spring storms started rolling in – and maybe Eddie didn’t love thunder and lightning, but that had been how he’d fallen in love with the idea of making music.

There, at last, had been a form of noise and chaos that Eddie could control and wield for himself.

But it’s late, and Eddie is strung out and wrung out and it doesn’t feel like he has the energy for that conversation.

“Never really liked them when I was a kid,” he says instead. “And then after all the shit with the Upside Down, I think it was the final nail in the coffin.”

Steve makes a little wounded noise, maybe at Eddie’s phrasing, maybe just in sympathy, and he turns his head to press a kiss to the side of Eddie’s throat.

“Anyway, it’s stupid, and I can deal with it. You can go back to sleep,” Eddie says, very much aware that he’s clutching one of Steve’s hands as he does so.

“Not stupid,” Steve says. “I’ll go back to sleep if you lay down with me.”

Eddie sighs. “Steve…”

“I’m serious. Hit the light and lay down with me.” Steve kisses Eddie’s neck again, twice, three times, trailing up to the hinge of his jaw, where he murmurs, “Trust me.”

And Steve is a bastard, because Eddie can’t say no to that, so with another (greatly put-upon) sigh, Eddie leans over to put his book on the nightstand and then, after just a moment of hesitation, he turns out the light.

The storm wastes no time in reilluminating the room with flickering lightning, followed by another crash of thunder.

But Steve’s hands are on Eddie, warm and sure, and he’s telling him come here and then pulling him nearer like he can’t wait.

Eddie lets himself be rearranged without complaint and finds himself lying face to face with Steve, legs tangled, arms caught between them, their foreheads brushing. He can feel Steve’s breath against his lips when he begins to speak.

“When I was a kid, I loved thunderstorms,” Steve says, voice soft.

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, the word feeling small in the scant space between them.

“Yep,” Steve says. He takes one of Eddie’s hands and pulls it to his chest, pressing it flat there where Eddie can feel the beat of his heart, calm and steady. “My favorites were the ones just like this. Loud and strong, in the middle of the night.”

Frankly, Eddie can’t imagine a worse type of thunderstorm, listening to the deluge falling on the roof of the tiny house he and Steve share, his body practically rattling along with the windows when thunder booms overhead.

Still, he dutifully asks, “Why?”

Steve is quiet for a moment, still collecting his words.

“The world didn’t feel as empty, when there was a storm outside,” he finally says. “If there was noise, it didn’t feel like I was alone.”

It’s a much more thoughtful admission than Eddie was expecting, much more somber, and he’s not quite sure what to say. He presses a little closer to Steve, nudging their foreheads together.

Another rumble of thunder passes over them, still so loud that Eddie can feel it in his bones, and Steve sighs like he’s perfectly content.

“I liked that, too,” he says. “When you could feel the thunder in your chest like a second heartbeat. Like there was someone there with me.”

Eddie finds Steve’s free hand with his own and squeezes.

“I think I just forgot after a while. Or maybe it wasn’t enough. When I got older, I went out and surrounded myself with people instead. The noise at a really big party felt like a storm sometimes.” Steve gives a subdued little laugh. “But when I was a kid… just this was enough.”

“What about now?” Eddie asks, practically whispering, just loud enough to be heard over the percussion of the rain.

Steve tilts his head forward until their lips meet, sweet and certain.

“This will always be enough,” he says when they part.

He doesn’t go far; their foreheads are still pressed together, their noses are still brushing, hands and arms and legs are still tangled like Steve wants to pull Eddie inside of himself so he can feel the storm the way Steve does.

So Eddie closes his eyes and he tries.

He and Steve lay there quietly, listening as the storm finally begins to pass from over their heads. It isn’t great—it’s loud, it’s violent, it’s nerve-wracking—but Eddie never has to check to know that Steve is still awake, still with him, keeping Eddie’s hand pressed to his steady heartbeat.

Eddie doesn’t start to magically enjoy the storm. He’s not sure he ever will. But – for the way Steve loves them, for the way they had given him comfort for so many years, Eddie thinks he might just be able to make his peace with them.

[Prompt: Touching foreheads]

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #eddiesteve #can you believe I used to say that I didn't like romance?#what a fucking liar #I mean look at this shit. soft as hell. valentine's day heart confetti for your brain #solar wrote

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alovesongtheywrote · 1 year

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Cranberry Juice | Eddie Munson x Reader

♥ Summary: Getting kidnapped from a grocery store wasn't exactly on your to-do list, but neither was having sex with your blood-drunk vampire boyfriend on the dead bodies of your captors, so... [Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader]

♥ Warnings: 18+, minors and ageless blogs dni. Violence, gore, kidnapping, gun related violence & violence against women, drinking blood, drinking blood in a sexual nature, biting, minor character death, derogatory terms used for the reader by someone other than eddie, unprotected sex, p in v sex, breeding kink, very brief dubcon, monster fucking, angst, fluff.

♥ A/N: holy fuck, i haven't written a fem/afab reader in years. i've also never written smut before, so this is new.

♥ Word count: 15945

♥♥♥

You would think that in the two years following the murder of Chrissy Cunningham and the supposed death of Eddie Munson, Hawkins, Indiana would have calmed down a little bit. You would at least assume that they would put down their pitchforks and torches and give Eddie’s friends and loved ones some room to breathe- after all, Eddie’s name had been cleared of any and all crimes, and he was, as far as they knew, literally dead.

But nope!

Nope! No! No way! You still couldn’t leave your house without receiving a thousand angry glares from a thousand angry hicks. Really, you didn’t feel comfortable leaving the house alone anymore, and no one could blame you for that. Between the threats you’d received, the shit you’d seen, and the way the town banded together to hunt down your boyfriend in 1986, you were more than justified in feeling unsafe.

This drove Eddie up the fucking wall.

You were his partner, the love of his undead life, and he couldn’t protect you from the same town that initially drove him into hiding- the town that he had died saving. He couldn’t protect Wayne, either, or the Hellfire Club kids for that matter. He couldn’t shield any of you, or stick by your side throughout the day- the wings and claws that Vecna had so graciously given him upon his return to the living made hiding a little more than necessary. And hey, if those new features weren’t bad enough on their own, Hawkins still wanted Eddie’s head on a pike. If any Hawkins citizen saw him like this, in a new and monstrous form, that would be more than enough of an excuse to murder him then and there.

In short, Eddie was helpless. His new features, the claws and fangs which were meant to maim and kill were useless when it came to defending his loved ones. He was entirely unable to take care of the people he loved most, and he hated it.

Anger and resentment festered inside of him. He worried about you whenever you left the house. Even when you were safe with him, a dark corner of his mind still spiraled through all the horrible possibilities. He wanted to keep you safe, to keep you unharmed and alive, and the idea that he wouldn’t be able to do that gave him a sense of dread like no other.

And then his fears were realized.

It started out as a simple shopping trip. You needed to pick up a few things, so you went out to get them. That’s how most people go about grocery shopping. It was normal. Painfully average considering everything else going on in your life, and honestly, you kind of liked that.

You didn’t go out alone. Max also needed to pick up a few things, so you brought her with you. You were smart about it. You both kept your guards up and your keys between your fingers. You were safe. Or you were until you fell for the faux sense of safety provided by the fluorescent lights and the bland music playing overhead- a sense of safety that would be brutally fucking shattered.

Before that, though, you were just looking at juice.

The grocery store shelves in front of you were filled with bottles and bottles of beverages. For a moment, you pondered just how many forms of cranberry juice a company could make. The answer was a lot, apparently.

At your side, Max was fidgeting, impatiently tapping her cane against the ground. You couldn’t blame her, you’d been staring at juice for like, five minutes.

“Hey,” her voice was quiet, “If it’s cool with you, I’m gonna go grab the-”

“Yeah, yeah,” you snapped out of your juice-induced haze, “Go for it, I’ll be here.”

Letting her go was your first mistake.

She nodded at you and left the aisle, ignoring the pointed glare served to her by a middle-aged woman who occupied the aisle with you. As soon as Max was gone, the woman’s glare found its true target. The killer’s girlfriend. The Munson boy’s accomplice. You.

Unfortunately for the woman, your attention was already back on the juice.

Apple. Blackberry. Blueberry. Cranberry. Cran-apple. Cran-pineapple. Cran-mango. Cran-cherry. Cran-pomegranate. There really were a lot of cranberry juices. In all seriousness, you didn’t actually care about juice that much. It was just a nice distraction from the oncoming-

“Devil’s whore.”

Oh, yep, there it was.

You said nothing as the woman swore at you. You tuned out her whispered rant about your audacity- the nerve you had to go out in public after dating that ‘child-murdering monster.’ You were used to this treatment. Not everyone in Hawkins was this intense. Some were worse, and some were better, but there were enough angry citizens kicking around for you to grow numb to the insults. As long as they weren’t threatening your life, you couldn’t find it within yourself to care. You just focused on the juice and let her voice fade out.

That was your second mistake.

You tuned back in to the sound of a click- the sound of a gun’s safety turning off. Panic filled your body as you returned to your surroundings. The woman was gone. Where she had vanished to was a mystery, but you didn’t really care. Not when, in her place, a man stood, aiming a gun right at your stomach.

After noting the gun, the first things you noticed were the man’s eyes- ice blue, cold, and cruel. He wore a sweatshirt beneath a white and green varsity jacket, the hood of which he had pulled up and over his blond hair. It was a clear attempt to provide your attacker with some anonymity- of course, that was instantly cancelled out by the print on the sleeve that read, “Hawkins High, ‘84.” He was your age- and when you looked closer, you realized that you knew him.

Kurt Robertson. He had been a classmate of yours, a jock who had treated “freaks” like you and Eddie rather poorly. Clearly, he had continued his athletic pursuits given his muscular frame. Fear pooled in your stomach as you realized that you were no match for him. You wouldn’t have been a match for him even if he didn’t have a gun.

You put your hands up slowly, “Hi, Kurt. It’s nice to see you, too.”

“Don’t even try it, bitch. Come with me,” he grabbed you by your shoulder, pushing the gun into your hip.

“Uh, maybe,” you were playing with fire, “Can I ask what this is about?”

“You know full well what this is about. That freak boyfriend of yours murdered Chrissy- he murdered Jason, too. They were good kids, and there’s no justice for them.”

“So you decided to find some at the grocery store?”

“Shut up, bitch, I’m talking,” he slammed you into the shelving unit. You yelped like a wounded animal. Two bottles of cranberry juice fell to the floor, cracking open as they met the ground. Red spilled across the tiles.

“I’m here, we’re here,” he gestured to the store’s exit. The implication of backup made you shiver, “To do good by Jason. And Chrissy. Munson took their lives- we figured we’d return the favour. Send his slut to hell for him.”

A crooked smile spread across Kurt’s face as he let you go, pulling back from the shelves. He gestured to the glass doors again, “Now, let’s get a move on, shall we?”

“What, you’re taking me to a secondary location? Too afraid to kill me where everyone can see it?” It was an attempt to escape- to convince this guy to let you go. If you could get him to fuck off, you might be able to slip out the backdoor and get to Eddie. If you got to Eddie, you would be safe.

“No,” Kurt pressed the gun back against your stomach, “I just respect this fine establishment too much to get your fucking guts all over it.”

“This is a grocery store.”

“Hey!” your head jerked to the side to see who had spoken. Kurt did the same. Max was standing at the end of the aisle, her groceries in one hand and her cane in the other. She looked angry, murderous- you were proud of her for that glare alone.

“Is there a problem here?” she scowled at the man in front of you. You felt the gun turn. Its side pressed against you, hiding from view in the fabric of your shirt. The barrel was aimed at Max. Shit.

You turned back to face Kurt. He wouldn’t look at you. His eyes were fixed on the red-haired girl- his new target. You had to protect her. She’d probably be pissed at you for having that thought, but you had to protect her.

“There’s no problem,” you said, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice, “I just ran into a former classmate.”

Max looked like she didn’t believe you in the slightest, not that you could blame her for that. Everything from Kurt’s proximity to you to the juice on the floor spelled out trouble. You blinked.

“Actually, do you think you’re good to find your own way home? I think I’m gonna be a while. Just catching up, y’know?”

You blinked again- three short blinks. Three long blinks. Three short ones. You hoped she noticed.

She stared at you for a minute, looking deep into your eyes before nodding. She coughed out a quick, “Yeah, it’s fine. See you around,” and with that, Max was gone. You could only hope that your message had been received.

Kurt waited for a moment. The doors opened and closed. Max had left. Now, it was just you, a man with a gun, and a dozen shoppers who didn’t give a shit about whether or not Eddie Munson’s whore girlfriend got shot in the middle of the juice aisle.

“Kurt,” you tried, watching as he took in your surroundings and fixed his eyes on the door, “Chrissy was a good kid, and I’m so sorry that she’s gone. She didn’t deserve to die, but I promise, Eddie didn’t have anything to do with it-”

He took your arm in a grip that would surely leave bruises- if you lived long enough for them to form. You winced but continued on, trying again to free yourself diplomatically, “And Jason- Jason was extreme, you have to admit, but I’m sorry about him, too. He did some awful things, but he wasn’t evil-”

“Yeah, you’d know a lot about evil, wouldn’t you?” Kurt sneered, pulling you out of the store and into the alleyway behind it. A pickup truck was parked there, waiting for you. Diplomacy had failed. You had to try something else.

The first thing you did was grab the gun and shove it away from you. Kurt’s arm went with it, and he stumbled slightly. You stumbled, too, but your balance came back to you faster than his did. You used your brief advantage to punch your assailant in the face. Your fist connected with his jaw, sending Kurt right to the ground.

You shook out your hand and took a step away, momentarily stunned by your pain and your power. The doors of the pickup began to open. You ran. You were being chased by former jocks. You didn’t get far.

Two arms wrapped around you- one around your chest, and one around your neck. You tilted your head down and bit as hard as you possibly could. The guy screamed, letting go of you just as another pair of arms took hold.

You struggled, turning around in the man’s hold and scratching at his eyes. Someone ran behind you and grabbed at your arms, trying to stop you. You thrashed, hissing and fighting like an angry animal. It was futile.

You were pushed to the ground and a gun was pointed at your face. Kurt glared down at you, his eyes full of hate and his lip gushing blood. The rest of the boys backed off for the moment, standing on the sidelines, watching their leader.

“I should kill you. I should kill you right now you fucking bitch. Send you to hell with your Satanic fucking boyfriend.”

“Then do it,” you barked, adrenaline and impulse speaking for you more than anything else, “Kill me. Unless you’re scared to do it you quivering pussy-”

Kurt slammed the gun into the side of your head. Your vision went black. Your hearing faded to a soft buzz. Blood dripped down the length of your face. You didn’t feel it. You couldn’t feel anything. You didn’t hear the panicked whispers of the jocks, nor the quietly exclaimed, “Holy shit, dude! You fucking killed her!” or the, “She’s not dead, just knocked out, calm the fuck down,” that followed it.

For the moment, you were out of the game.

The boys loaded you into the truck as fast as they could. Their arms held you down, their hold on you tight, as if your unconscious body would spring up and perform a series of badass jiu-jitsu moves on them. That didn’t happen, but they wanted to be prepared.

The pickup sped out of the alleyway, putting the grocery store in its rearview mirror with law-breaking speed. If any of the jocks had bothered to look in said rearview mirror, they would have noticed a red-headed girl using the payphone that stood near the grocery store parking lot.

“Eddie? It’s Max. We have a problem.”

You woke to the stench of rotting wood and decomposing hay. Beneath you, a filthy concrete floor provided a cold embrace. Small stones and various pieces of dirt and debris dug into your soft flesh. In this position, your leg was twisted under your weight at an awkward angle.

Damning the discomfort, you kept still. Every part of you was tense, ready, waiting for some sign or sound of your abductors. Nothing happened. The only sound was the faint scurrying of mice, and the wind blowing through the trees outside. Still hesitant, you opened your eyes.

Most of the structure around you was made of decaying wood. Planks and beams extended across a vast room, stretching up to a high ceiling to meet with crumbling rafters. In some places, red and white paint had been applied to cover up some of the damage, but after years of neglect, the attempted solution had faded and chipped away.

Beams of golden sunlight streamed into the barn through dirty glass windows, and through a large square hole in the wall that had once housed a door. Far above your head, shitty old lights buzzed harshly, illuminating all of the grime that the sun couldn’t reach.

Outside, you could see a weed-filled field running off to a line of trees in the distance. Brambles twisted up near the barn’s entrance. Wildflowers bloomed among nettles and thorns. Vines tangled with the faulty wood of the walls. Even inside the barn, little sprouts popped up through cracks in the concrete. Dandelions puffed near rusted old farming equipment and piles of wasted hay.

This place was oddly beautiful- and clearly abandoned. You were far from help, and from the sound of it, you were completely alone.

Cautiously, you got to your feet. The spot of concrete that had served as your pillow was stained red. You didn’t want to think about that too hard. Putting it out of your mind, you took a few shaky steps, stumbling your way toward the exit. Your bruised body screamed in protest. The sound of your footfalls echoed through the barn. You kept going. It wasn’t like you had much of a choice.

A rusty pitchfork lay against the wall a few feet from the hole in the wall. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t have touched the thing for fear of tetanus. Unfortunately, these were not normal circumstances. You armed yourself quickly and continued on, inching forward until the concrete turned to gravel underfoot.

You didn’t make it far.

The sound your movements made alerted your captors to the fact that you were awake. You could hear something drop around the side of the barn- something heavy. Male voices swore loudly. The sound of curses and other exclamations rang through the field, polluting the otherwise beautiful golden hour.

You looked around, desperately searching for a place to hide. You found nothing. There was no hiding place among the weeds and brambles, no space for nature to pull you in and protect you. Your fists tightened around the pitchfork as you realized that this would come down to a fight.

Unfortunately, you were right.

Jocks ran out from behind the barn like ants swarming from a hill. Someone cried out, “Skin only! Don’t kill her yet!”

You vaguely recognized some of the faces before you- the first one was Andy, one of the jocks who had been after Eddie in ‘86. You were able to push him back with your makeshift weapon. The next jock, unfortunately, got much closer. The smell of weed assaulted you, which was quickly followed by an actual assault. A fist met your cheek, and you staggered back, keeping yourself up with the handle of the pitchfork.

The jock didn’t let up. Another punch came your way, but you managed to step back and avoid it. The guy kicked at you weakly, but you easily dodged that, too. In retaliation, you raised the pitchfork and brought it down flat over the guy’s head, knocking him to the ground.

Alas, you were still surrounded. Five more jocks were perfectly ready for a fight, and you were quickly running out of strength and luck. Panic and pain surged through you as another hit connected with your jaw. A fist collided with your stomach. You fell to your knees. Another hand met your face. A ring broke the skin of your lips. Your chosen weapon fell to the ground as blow after blow fell upon you.

You did your best to shelter yourself from the attack. Sharp aches echoed through your limbs with every blow. You tried to separate yourself from the moment, mentally and physically. Curling into a ball on the ground and disassociating didn’t exactly make you feel brave or heroic, but it kept you from taking too much damage. Still, you knew you wouldn’t be able to walk the next day- if you lasted that long.

You barely noticed when the kicks and punches stopped coming. You only snapped out of it fully when someone grabbed your arm. You winced. It was the first reaction they’d gotten from you since the attack began.

“Good,” Kurt grinned, “We didn’t break you.”

You said nothing, biting back several sarcastic remarks. None of them seemed appropriate for the situation. Instead, you slid your tongue over your lip, collecting the blood that pooled there. The next time Kurt opened his mouth to speak, you spit in his face.

“You fucking bitch!” Kurt shrieked, wiping frantically at his face, “Tie her up and get her back in the barn. We’re gonna take this slow, got it? She doesn’t get a quick death.”

Kurt’s lackeys obeyed. Someone bound your wrists together in front of you with duct tape. Rough hands pulled you up from the ground and shoved you back toward the barn. Fear began to take anger’s place as they threw you to the concrete. Blood dripped from your lip to the floor. You watched as it bleed between rocks and cracks below you. How much blood would you lose tonight?

Your heart raced. Breath escaped your battered lungs, but you couldn’t seem to pull any air in. Kurt glared down at you, his form outlined by the light of the setting sun. He looked at you like you were some sort of vermin he had to dispose of. You were sure that in his eyes, that was the truth.

The gun was in his hand.

“Remind me, Andy. How did they find Jason’s girl again?”

“I dunno. They didn’t even let her parents see her face. But Patrick,” Andy knelt down in front of you and grabbed your chin with two fingers, forcing you to look at him, “I got to see Patrick. All of his bones were shattered. Some kind of freak ritual, I guess.”

“Well, we don’t have a freak ritual, but,” Kurt aimed the gun at your leg, “We can always improvise. Answer me this, boys- will a bone break apart if you hit it with a bullet?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

His finger wrapped around the trigger.

A deafening bang echoed off the barn’s walls.

The sound didn’t come from the gun. Something had crashed into the roof. Dust reigned down on you and the boys as you all looked up, peering at the ceiling. Above you, the old lights began to flicker. The air seemed to chill by a few degrees.

The jocks staggered slightly, their eyes off of you and fixed on the ceiling. They all jumped as the horrendous screech of tearing metal met their ears. Whatever had landed on the roof, it was now clawing its way off. The boys turned to face the door, gripping their weapons and putting up their fists.

An inhuman sound split the calm twilight. You knew it well- that unnerving, predatory growl. You’d heard it a few times before, while running for your life in the Upside Down. While you watched the bats tear your lover apart. You fell back, crawling deeper into the barn.

The lights flicked off.

When they came back on, Eddie was standing in the would-be doorway of the barn, wings spread and fangs bared.

“Is that-?” one of the jocks whispered.

“Munson,” Andy spat. Kurt raised his gun, aiming the barrel at its new target.

He didn’t get the chance to shoot.

Eddie attacked first. He flew forward, seizing the face of the nearest man in his claws. In seconds, the man’s head was nothing more than a bloody mess. Screams filled the air as the first jock fell to the ground. Eddie fell with him, teeth to the man’s neck as blood pooled around them, a blood-red mirror on the concrete floor.

Your attackers stood stunned as Eddie moved on, leaving a body behind. Garnet drops flew to the floor as Eddie tore the next attacker into tiny little pieces. You were almost hypnotized by the way Eddie’s teeth sunk into the guy’s neck, by the way Eddie’s claws tore through his flesh. You could practically hear the sound of blood draining from his veins. When he pulled back, Eddie’s sweet brown eyes were blood red.

He was quick to jump at his next victim, claws and fangs tearing, and slashing, and biting until the man stopped moving.

It was only after that third man’s body was drained that your attackers shook themselves from their reverie and began to retaliate. They’d been aching for a chance to hurt Eddie for years. Now, they had even more of an excuse to kill him- if Eddie was a freak before, then what was he with wings and fangs? To them, he was a monster. He always had been, and he always would be.

They attacked.

It wasn’t too effective, all things considered. A fist flew at Eddie, and in response, he grabbed the offending hand, pulled the man close to him, and put his claws through the man’s chest. You almost felt sick at the sight of it- your boyfriend’s hand, rings and all, coming through the back of a man who beat you minutes before.

You knew Eddie was stronger now, inhumanly so, but you had never seen him use that strength like this- not on a person, at least. You were never afraid of Eddie. You knew that he would rather die than hurt you. But watching what he could do to a human- it filled you with unease, and with some other emotion that you refused to name.

That nameless emotion screamed in your ears as Eddie pulled the man towards him using the hand still in his chest. Eddie brought his fangs to the man’s throat and drank.

The sound of wood splintering filled the air as Eddie blocked a blow from a bat with his claws. He pulled his mouth away from his latest victim’s neck so that he could handle the weapon. He discarded the bat quickly, throwing it clear across the barn. He threw the wielder next, impaling him on some old farming equipment. The dandelions that lived beneath the aged machine were showered in a gush of ruby and wine.

Andy was next. He came at Eddie with a crowbar, and your stomach turned as you realized that all the jocks’ weapons- the bats, the crowbars, and the gun- were meant for you. You winced as Andy managed to land a hit, striking Eddie in the shoulder with enough strength to down a regular man. Fortunately, Eddie was not a regular man. He seized the crowbar and bent it, letting it fall to the floor.

“You- you killed Chrissy! And Patrick, and Jason-!”

Eddie’s eyes bore into Andy’s, speaking untold volumes, simmering with rage. Eddie wiped the blood from his mouth and took a step toward the jock.

“I didn’t kill any of them. I didn’t touch any of them. But you? You made my girl bleed. You’re gonna pay for that.”

In seconds, Andy was on the ground, unconscious or dead, you couldn’t tell. Blood dripped from his nose and mouth. Eddie didn’t bother drinking from him.

For a moment, then, the world fell silent. Eddie’s eyes met yours across the barn, across the sea of blood that he had spilled to protect you. Despite the gore, despite the blood that stained Eddie’s hands and the space under his nails, you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him. He was here. You were safe now.

But thinking that was your third mistake.

Eddie smiled back, and as he did, another ear-piercing bang echoed through the barn. There was nothing on the roof. There was nothing clawing down to the barn. There was nothing but you and Eddie, Kurt and his gun.

Eddie brought his hand to his side. When he moved it away, his skin was stained with both his blood and the blood of those he’d slain. You screamed. Eddie fell to his knees. Kurt took aim again. He levelled the gun at Eddie’s head.

You leapt at Kurt, using your bound fists as a weapon. You caught the man by surprise, knocking him right to the ground. The gun slid across the floor, away from both of you. Kurt quickly took the advantage, rolling over and pinning your hips to the ground with his. He raised his fist and brought it down on your face, once, then twice.

He didn’t land a third punch. Eddie tackled him off of you, hurling Kurt’s body away from yours. He stayed in front of you, protecting you from Kurt, blocking him from view. He was your shield, keeping you safe and out of the other man’s reach. Eddie snarled like an animal- a predator. It was a warning to Kurt. A message telling him, on no uncertain terms, to stay put.

Kurt did no such thing. He jumped at Eddie. Thick fingers dug deep into the bloody mark on Eddie’s side. He cried out in agony- the sound was something akin to a roar.

“You’re a monster,” Kurt yelled, his hands now covered in the dark cranberry shades of Eddie’s blood, “You’re a FUCKING MONSTER!”

Eddie stumbled backwards, a pained gasp leaving his lips. Your attacker showed no mercy. He advanced, landing a hit on Eddie’s jaw. Eddie fell to his knees.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for a long time,” Kurt reached for the gun. He couldn’t find it.

Another shot rang out.

The sound echoed around the barn.

Blood spilled out from the brand-new bullet wound in Kurt’s chest. He fell to the ground with a dull thud. His blood pooled beneath him, like cranberry juice on the floor of a grocery store. Another blood-red mirror to reflect another lifeless corpse. Another red stain on the concrete.

You stood behind him, gun held tightly in your bound hands.

Silence followed. You could hear Eddie’s panting, and the sound of your heartbeat rushing in your ears. The busted farm lights buzzed overhead. Outside, in the twilight, cicadas sang, serenading you both. Each breath you took was tainted by the iron scent of blood. A chill danced up your skin. The barn was still cold- so fucking cold.

Eddie was struggling. New blood coursed through his system, making every inch of him feel warm. Something beneath his skin started to itch. He wanted to move. He wanted to hunt. He wanted you. He wanted to see you spread out before him, breathless and quivering, completely drunk on his cock. He wanted the taste of your blood to stain his tongue. He could feel an unending pulsation spread through him, driving him forward, almost controlling him in a way. His eyes met yours for just a moment before he forced himself to look away. A growl left his lips.

Across the room, you watched Eddie’s silent crisis, completely unaware of the feral desires harboured behind his big doe eyes. His claws curled at the concrete. You could hear them scratching against it- almost carving through it entirely. His breath seemed to come faster and faster, his chest rapidly rising and falling with every second that passed. You panicked, slightly, taking a small step towards him as your fear for his safety overtook your brain.

You lowered the gun.

“Eddie?” You called out, shattering the quiet with your desperation. Your voice was weak, shaking. You sounded broken.

In an instant, Eddie was on his knees before you. His cold clawed hands ran up your thighs and over your hips, slender fingers checking for hidden injuries, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His movements were gentle, though they edged on desperate, almost animalistic. Your heart twinged with guilt as sparks flew from each place he touched. Despite the situation, you wanted more of this- more of him.

You got just that when his lips joined his hands. He painted each part of you with kisses, brushing his mouth over your knees, your thighs, your hips. He paused over the faint purple of a forming bruise on your leg, his touch hovering over it slightly as passionate concern tore a growl from deep within his chest. You could feel his breath against your skin, hard and fast, nothing short of panicked. His fear for you melted your heart. You whispered his name. It came out as a plea- a blasphemous prayer in a God-fearing town.

“I’m here,” he replied, his voice low, “I’m right here, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Are you alright?”

You nodded, trying to breathe again as you adjusted to the safety of his presence. His hands slid up your body as he leaned in, pressing his lips and then his teeth against the soft skin of your thigh. He bit down, enough to mark you but not enough to make you bleed, “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you. I promise.”

You whimpered, taking his chin between your fingers, urging him to meet your eyes. His face was pale, and his normally messy hair was wild and slightly damp from sweat. Blood spilled from his bottom lip. You couldn’t tell if it was his. Gently, you brushed the blood away with your thumb. He leaned into your touch, shutting his eyes for a moment, letting himself be there with you. When he opened his eyes again, there was something dark contained in the sweet brown of his irises- a grim determination.

“Baby,” he groaned, raising a hand to your wrists, “I’m gonna untie you, and then-” he paused, taking a deep breath.

“And then?”

“And then I need you to run.”

“What? Why? What’s wrong-?” a fresh wave of panic shot through you at Eddie’s warning.

Eddie paused for a moment. When he spoke again, he almost sounded afraid, “It’s nothing. Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart. I just- I need you to run from me.”

“Eddie, what do you mean?”

He didn’t answer.

“Eddie- Eddie, please-”

He dug his fingers into your thighs, pulling you down and knocking you onto your back. A small cry escaped you. Your heart began to pound in your chest as one of his massive hands curled in the dust beside you. In the time it took to blink, he was leaning over you, caging you in with his body. One of his legs found its home between yours. The way he stared down at you was a new kind of desperate- he looked hungry. Empty. Starving.

“I’ve had too much blood tonight, baby,” he leaned in, nipping at your throat, all teeth, no fangs. He made a point not to bite, “And it did something to me.”

“S-something?”

He slipped his hands into yours, pinning your arms above your head by your still-bound wrists. He pulled back to look at you, ravenous devotion clouding his eyes, “Something, baby. I don’t know what, but I-”

He cut himself off, looking away from your face and shutting his eyes tightly as if he could somehow fend off what he was feeling by pretending to be somewhere else. His grip on you tightened, and you fought off the urge to whimper. Again, you whispered his name.

“I want to taste you,” Eddie sounded horrified at his own words, but he didn’t stop, “I wanna feel you succumb beneath my hands. I want to feel your heart race for me, but I can’t tell whether it’s your blood I want on my tongue, or you. And I- I can’t hurt you, so I need you to run, okay?”

His eyes were still closed. He still refused to look at you. He seemed so deeply ashamed- and yet, heat pooled inside you, flowing down to your core. You drew in a breath, your chest rising sharply. Blood rushed to your cheeks, heating your face until everything beneath your skin felt like fire. Your eyes widened. Your thighs shook slightly. Any sense of self-preservation you had was throwing itself out the window in the wake of the fire that Eddie had unknowingly set inside of you- a fire that you had no intention of putting out.

Eddie’s eyebrows furrowed at your physical response. He leaned down, lips brushing against your ear, “Are you afraid?”

“Afraid? Of you?” your voice shook, and your body trembled beneath him, but a small smile took over your features at the thought, “Never.”

Eddie pressed his forehead against your shoulder. A small grin crossed his features, though there was no joy in it. There was something tragic in every movement he made. A desperate longing drove every action- a want for something he could not have.

“Goddamnit, I love you,” he whispered. His words were almost a whine, “But I need you to get out of here, okay? I need you to get somewhere safe, somewhere away from me, and I need you to stay there.”

He pressed his lips back to your neck, sucking your skin in between his teeth with enough pressure to bruise, but not to break. His claws bit into the tape, beginning to tear it.

“Eddie-” you spoke fast, panicking at the thought of leaving him like this, “Eddie, I’m not going anywhere. Not when you’re hurt. Look, I know you’re afraid to hurt me, and I know that you think you’re a monster, but you’re not,” you flushed as your voice broke, “You’re not a monster, Eds. You- you make me feel safe. I want to stay.”

He stopped tearing at the tape.

“Eddie,” you sounded more sure, “I’m here. I’m staying, and you won’t hurt me, you won’t lose control-”

“You don’t know that,” he hissed, his voice filled with so much self-loathing that the sound of it broke your heart.

“But I do. Eddie, everything you did tonight, you did to save me. To protect me. You aren’t gonna hurt me. You’re not-”

His hand was on your throat. He didn’t squeeze. There was no pressure, but his claws pricked in against your fragile skin. You should have been afraid of him, or at the very least you should have feared for your life. Eddie was dangerous. You knew he wouldn’t hurt you, but you’d just witnessed him murder several people with the claws that were now against your throat. But in fear’s place, that deep longing still burned inside of you.

”Baby,” Eddie warned, “I need you to understand. There is so very little inside of me that wants to be nice, and there is so much of me that wants to-”

A sharp sting spread out from your neck as his claws drew the tiniest drops of blood. He leaned closer to you, to your neck, “I don’t want to show mercy or kindness. I want to fuck you until my cum is spilling out of you, until you can’t move, and then I wanna keep going. I want to use you until you know that that pretty little slit between your legs belongs to me. I want to claim you. To own you. To ruin you for everyone else. I want you to bleed for me, and that is terrifying.”

He paused, releasing your throat from his hold and bringing his lips to your neck. He lapped at the drops of blood that spilled from the pinprick-like wounds he’d made. The second his tongue was on you, he took his other hand off your wrists and moved his touch down your body. He stopped at the hem of your shirt, his fingers biting into the material, almost tearing it like they had torn your skin just moments before.

“Sweet girl, I wanna fuck you until it hurts- fuck you while we’re surrounded by the bodies of our enemies- and then I want to drain you. I am a monster. And I want you the way a monster would. Do you understand?”

Again, you should have been afraid. You should’ve let him free your wrists, and then you should have run away. You should have screamed.

Instead, you moaned.

You couldn’t help it. It just sort of slipped out of you- his words, the intensity of his gaze, the sweet sting at your neck- it all poured gasoline on the already raging fire burning inside your core. Your legs fell apart for him, thighs spreading wide as arousal pooled between them. Eddie looked a little surprised.

“Did you- did you just fucking moan?”

You grumbled, desperate to hide your face in shame. Your humiliation doubled when you realized that with Eddie’s heightened senses, he could probably tell that you wanted him. He could undoubtedly hear the racing of your heart and smell the want between your legs.

“You fucking heard me,” you sighed, looking away in defeat, “But you- you can’t just say shit like that. You have to know that I want you.”

“You want me? To what, to kill you? Because-”

You cut him off, sighing again at your boyfriend’s dramatics, “Oh my god, Eddie, I want you inside of me.”

He froze for a second, stunned into silence. You took that as a cue to carry on, “I want you to fuck me. To claim me. I want you to use me, to ruin me, whatever, I just want to be yours.”

Eddie remained quiet, though his features had softened slightly. You turned back to face him, shoving your shame out of your mind. You sat up in his hold, letting him wrap his arms around your waist as you encircled your still-bound arms around his neck. His eyes were still wide with shock, but there was an undeniable sense of adoration within them. In turn, Eddie saw no fear in your gaze- just determination. And arousal.

“I want you to take me,” you begged, twisting your fingers in his hair, “Right here, and right now, and if you have to do that ‘like a monster,’ then do it. I don’t care. I just want you.”

Another growl ripped itself from Eddie’s throat as he pushed you back to the ground, keeping your arms around him, “Do you understand what you’re getting yourself into?”

You nodded, leaning up and pressing your lips to his in a quick and surprisingly chaste kiss. He smiled against your skin- a genuine smile, this time. You’d convinced him. He sighed, reaching up to gently cup your face. He traced over your cheek as he spoke, “Use your words for me, sweet girl.”

You turned your head to press a kiss to his palm, “I know. Do you understand that I don’t care what I’m getting myself into?”

He raised an eyebrow. You continued, a devious smirk on your face.

“You could do whatever you want to me because I want this. I want you. And, hey if you don’t fuck me at this point, maybe I’ll do it myself and make you watch.”

On the last word, you parted your lips and bit Eddie’s hand. He choked. A blush covered his face, painting his features pink up to the tips of his ears. You smiled, satisfaction with your work sinking in as you leaned up to press a kiss to Eddie’s cheek. His skin was warm, far warmer than the palm he had on your face just moments before.

Eddie shook his head, snapping out of his flustered state. His eyes darkened as want crept back into his gaze. He took your arms from around his neck, pressing a kiss to your hands before he pressed them into the ground above your head. You were pinned.

“Even now, you’re such a fuckin’ brat,” Eddie purred, “Y’know, it might be a little tough for you to get yourself off seeing as you’re, y’know, at my mercy, but I’d like to see you try. I can’t complain about a show like that.”

You gave a defiant wiggle, stretching your hands as much as you could with your wrists still pinned and bound, “I know. That’s why I-”

A moan swallowed your words as he pressed a kiss to the column of your throat. The sound heightened in pitch, becoming a cry as his teeth bit into your soft flesh. Eddie smiled against your neck as he released his hold on your wrists. His hands moved down your body, his actions slow, fingers weighed down by intent. His touch lingered by your breasts for a second, giving your tits a harsh squeeze before he reached further. A sharp gasp left you as you felt his cold digits press against the bare skin beneath the hem of your shirt.

His grip tightened on the fabric, claws piercing through it before he tore it from you entirely, leaving your upper body exposed to the chill of the barn. Goosebumps rose on your skin. Beneath your bra, your nipples pebbled from both the cold and your arousal. Eddie made short work of that garment, too, not bothering with the clasp. In less than a second, your bra was in pieces on the floor beside your poor, poor shirt.

Eddie paused, taking in the sight of your chest. His hands slipped up and over your waist, stopping just beneath your breasts, “Holy shit,” his voice was rough, gravely- and it had you arching up into his hold, “You’re so fucking beautiful. So fucking perfect.”

He leaned in, wrapping his lips around one of your nipples, nipping at your flesh ever so slightly. His fangs threatened to pierce your skin, and you knew you wouldn’t mind if they did. You meant what you said. Eddie could have his way with you however he liked. He could cut you, bleed you, break you, and you would let him. You would lie there for him and just let him take everything he wanted. (Of course, you knew he wouldn’t. He loved you far too much to ever cause you real harm.)

You let out a whine, running your hands into Eddie’s hair. It was a little difficult- your wrists were still bound- but you did your best. He moaned, lips still against your skin, and you found yourself writhing at the sensation. Your body begged for more, for him to do more than touch and bite- you wanted to be fucked.

“Eddie, please- please,” the attempt was sweet, but your pleas went ignored. Eddie pulled his mouth away from your nipple, moving just slightly to mark up the rest of your chest. You tilted your head back, panting as his hands descended to the hem of your shorts, squeezing and scratching your sides as he went.

“Eds, please-”

“That’s it, good girl,” Eddie purred, teeth still against your chest, “Beg for me.”

You whined, bucking your hips up, trying to get some friction. Eddie laughed a little as you tried desperately to squeeze your thighs together. The leg he kept between yours prevented it, and you groaned, tugging on his hair in retaliation.

Eddie moaned, leaning back until you could see his eyes shut in pleasure, “So pretty. And such a fucking brat-”

He sunk his fangs deep into your chest. You cried out, digging your nails into his scalp. You keened weakly as he drank from you. He didn’t take much- he was already enduring what could be considered a blood overdose- but he did take enough to shut you up, to make you hurt.

When he pulled away, you were a mewling mess beneath him. Your whines only got louder when he dragged his tongue over the bite wound. A sharp grin exposed his fangs, now stained with your blood. He leaned in, kissing you deeply, sliding his tongue passed your lips. You could taste the copper tang of your life in his mouth.

He pulled away, breathless, and in seconds he was back on your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your arm, biting at your wrist and drawing blood before he moved back to your chest. He pulled your other nipple between his teeth, nipping and biting, making you whine. You moved your body against the thigh he kept between your legs, grinding on it. You were desperate and Eddie knew it.

He kissed down your stomach, biting at your hip as his grip tightened on the fabric of your shorts. You yelped at the sting of his teeth, the sharp piercing of his fangs in your flesh. Eddie’s tongue laved over your hip, lapping up the blood that dripped down your side. He tore your shorts to pieces before the blood could stain them, ripping your panties off with them.

A loud gasp escaped you, and you let out a whine as the cold barn air met with your dripping cunt. Eddie’s smile was almost shark-like. Lots of teeth.

“So pretty,” Eddie whispered, “And so wet for me, baby.”

He pressed a kiss to the new bite mark hip before he continued, “Y’know, watching you fuck yourself for me- I’d only last so long before I just took you for myself.”

Two fingers moved up your slit, gathering your arousal before meeting with your clit. His skin was rough, callused from fighting and from his guitar. His touch was electric, sending shockwaves through your spine. You couldn’t hold back your moan, nor could you control your hips as they bucked up into his hand.

“S-so,” you tried to speak as his fingers moved in tight circles over your sensitive nub, “You’d still fuck me, then?”

“I’d clean your fingers off first, but yes.”

“Oh, good. So either way, I get what I want.”

He paused his ministrations and pulled his fingers away entirely, digging them into your sides. You made a noise of protest, but Eddie remained still. For a second, he just stared at you, half squinting. In the time it took to blink, his teeth were on your chest again. He didn’t break the skin, but he got so dangerously close to it that you couldn’t help but shiver as want dripped down your thighs.

Eddie’s grip tightened on you, and you wondered what the bruises his ring-clad fingers left on your hips would look like later on. An especially sharp bite pulled you back to the present. You mewled, whining as Eddie nipped at the soft skin over your heart. You could almost feel your blood pumping faster through your veins, sending that same fire through each one of your nerves.

Slowly, though, Eddie’s fangs distanced themselves from you. It was just his lips on your skin. The pressure was still bruising to be sure, but something had changed.

“I’ll give you whatever you want. Whatever,” you could feel Eddie speaking against you, his breath warm on your chest, “Whatever you want, just stay with me.”

A few short moments ago, he’d been begging you to run away from him. Now, he wanted you to stay. A quick kiss to your bloodied temple told you why.

‘I will,” you pulled his forehead to yours, locking eyes with him, “I promise I will.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, wrapping your arms around his neck as your nails gently scratched at his scalp. He melted into your touch before leaning in, pressing his soft lips against yours. The kiss was so gentle, so different from the harsh bites and scratches he’d delivered so far. Your body overflowed with want, a broken fountain pouring desire onto the floor.

“You,” you muttered against him, “Are everything I want.”

He looked down at you for a second, eyes wide and wanting. You leaned up, capturing his lips with yours. One of his hands came up, cupping your face gently, holding you like you were something precious. Your lips fit against his perfectly. The fire inside you was threatening to take down the goddamn barn.

You paused. Wrapping a strand of Eddie’s hair around your fingers, you gave a slight tug. You met his gaze with a small smile, removing your arms from around his neck and bringing them in front of you.

“Also, I would like to be untied, please.”

He laughed and did as you asked, freeing you with a swipe of his claw. Instantly, your hands were on his face, your fingers running over his cheekbones, sweeping under his eyes. With your new freedom, you were able to run your hands up and through his hair properly. Above you, Eddie seemed to purr.

Eddie lowered himself, kissing and biting down your breasts and stomach, leaving bruises as he went. His movements were the same as before, but there was a new passion to them. You brushed your fingers over his shoulders, scratching at him slightly. He gripped onto the soft skin of your inner thighs, threatening to tear into it. You arched your hips up towards him. He grabbed them, grip tight and claws digging in. You cried out quietly as he pushed them back to the ground. Your back stung slightly, but the pain was quickly put out of your mind.

“Stay put for me, will you, sweetheart?”

You barely had a moment to register his words. His lips met with your heat, and you cried out at the sensation. His tongue moved up and down, teasing your entrance before his lips closed around your clit. You couldn't keep your thighs from closing around his head when you felt the harsh edges of his teeth. He didn’t seem to mind. More than that, he moaned against you. You had to fight to keep still beneath him.

Eddie kissed and bit you, eating you out like a man starved, like an animal that hadn’t been fed in an eternity or longer. The pleasure he brought you was almost violent in nature. You let out a string of incomprehensible words, moaning and whimpering as he drank your arousal.

“You taste so good, baby,” he pressed his lips to your clit, “So sweet. You’re perfect.”

One of his hands slid back up your body, leaving goosebumps behind. He stopped between your breasts, strong fingers pressed against your sternum ever so slightly, holding you still. Over the next few moments, as his teeth and tongue teased you relentlessly, dragging you to the edge at a rapid pace, your hand slipped into his. His claws bit into your skin. Your nails bit into his.

“Fuck- fuck, Eddie-”

“Gettin’ close, sweetheart? Gonna cum for me?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but your words fell to nothing as you cried out his name, shaking as you came for him. Your voice echoed off the walls, and Eddie didn’t think he’d ever heard a sweeter sound. He could feel your heart racing under his hand, your pulse racing through your wrist. The way your fingers squeezed around his- like you wanted him, like you needed him- made him feel weak.

It took you a minute to come back to earth. You could barely hear Eddie shrugging off his shirt and jacket over the sound of your own panting. The metallic clink of his belt buckle meeting the floor as he removed it got your attention.

You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch him. Your eyes traced up his slender waist, over scarred and tattooed skin. His wings cast sharp shadows over his body. He freed his cock from his pants, and you tried to keep yourself from drooling as it sprang up against his stomach.

Eddie had always been gifted. He had always been big, thick- the sight of him was always enough to make your mouth water. Even before the Upside Down had so kindly bestowed him with new shit, you thought he was perfect. But after?

You weren’t sure why Vecna had decided to give your boyfriend’s cock ridges and a few extra inches, but you weren’t about to look a gift dick in the mouth. You would never get used to the sight- it would always make you shiver with want, make you drip with need. Perhaps a rational person would be intimidated by the sheer size of him, by the ridges that now covered his length, but you? Never. You didn’t care about anything. You didn’t fear anything. You just wanted him.

Your eyes caught his- honey shining in the twilight, warm, wanting, and slightly hesitant. His pupils were blown out, dark voids drinking in the sight of you. He wanted to give you a moment to catch your breath. He wanted to take a second to kiss you and to hold you close. Eddie wanted to be gentle, but something deep inside him- specifically all the blood he’d drained from you and your attackers- demanded that he get his cock inside you as fast as he fucking could.

“Baby, are you- are you sure you want this? I’m not- I’m not gonna be nice.”

“I don’t care, I don’t-” you sat up, grabbing Eddie’s shoulders and pulling him down on top of you, “I want you, Eds. I don’t care about anything else.”

“Okay. Okay, just- promise me you’ll stop me. If I hurt you, or if it’s too much, promise you’ll stop me.”

“I will,” you could barely hear yourself over the pounding of your heart, “Whatever you need, I promise.”

He took a deep breath before taking his cock in his hand, stroking it twice. He lined himself up with your entrance, pressing against you ever so slightly. He kissed up your jaw, pressing his lips against your ear before he whispered, “I love you. And I’m sorry.”

In one swift movement, he was inside you, buried to the hilt. You were wet and ready for him, but the sudden stretch- the sudden ache of his length pressing against your walls was still a lot for your already sore body to take. Tears sprang to your eyes. A scream tore itself from your throat before you could block it, mingling in the air with the sound of Eddie’s moans.

You could see the guilt in his eyes, but he didn’t slow his pace. His thrusts were fast and deep, almost violent in their intensity. The drag of his cock inside your needy cunt- the feeling of his veins and ridges against your walls- had your eyes rolling back, had you moaning like some mindless slut.

Eddie wasn’t doing much better. He quickly lost himself in the feeling of your body writhing under his, squeezing his dick every time moved. He brushed against a spot inside you that made you see stars. Your muscles clenched as his cock brushed it over and over again. Pain and pleasure shot through you, sparking through your veins and making you dig your nails into his back. He barely felt it.

Eddie took your hips into his hands, his grip bruising, his claws digging in. You could feel your blood pooling beneath his claws, staining his nails red. His lips were against your chest again, his teeth biting and scratching your skin. You barely noticed. You were too focused on him, on his cock forcing its way deeper and deeper inside, finding places that only he could reach.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” His voice was raspy, rough around the edges as he tried to catch breath that he didn’t technically need.

“Still with you,” your voice was just as breathless as his, “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. The sound of his hips slamming into yours cut through the silence of the night. Your fingers moved over Eddie’s back, scratching white lines into his skin. Your hands danced over the bones and flesh of his wings, darting over every sensitive spot. You knew his body well, and in seconds he was melting into you. Maybe it was a dirty move- you pulling out all of the stops on him- but you were sure he didn’t mind if his moans were anything to go by. His cock twitched inside your walls, and you moaned at the sensation. You were weak and wanting, and he was much the same.

“That’s it, baby,” he purred, “That’s my girl. So fucking good for me, so tight.”

His words slurred together, morphing into a low growl as he fucked into you. The smell of sex filled the barn, overtaking the stench of blood and decay. The barn itself seemed to fade further and further from view with every stroke, leaving only Eddie behind. For the moment, it was just the two of you. There were no threats to your life, no disgusted old ladies in grocery stores, and no jocks that wanted you dead. It was just you and the boy you loved.

One of his hands left your hip, moving back downwards to press his fingers against your clit. You could feel him trying to set a pace while also trying to keep his claws from scratching your delicate skin. As his fingers traced those familiar tight circles, you spiralled under him, walls clenching down around him as you drowned in the feeling of his skin on yours.

You could faintly hear him whispering filthy things in your ear- descriptions of all the depraved things he would do to you spoken over the deafening roar of your beating heart and the sound of skin on skin. Between words, his lips pressed kisses to every part of you that he could reach. Tears rolled down your cheeks as you neared overstimulation. Eddie kissed them away.

Mindlessly, one of your hands slipped away from his wings and over his side. Your fingers brushed something wet, a gouge in Eddie’s skin. The bullet wound. Immediately he flinched, clenching his jaw tightly to keep from crying out. You pulled back with near-inhuman speed, but the damage had been done. In your panic, you didn’t notice Eddie’s pained gasp turning into a laugh. You didn’t feel his cock pulsing inside you. As apologies spilled from your mouth, he took your now-bloodied hand in his free one.

“Damn,” he spoke over you, his voice rough and low, “I guess I deserved that, huh?”

You stared up at him, stunned into silence. Your face burned under his gaze. Even if you knew how to respond to that, you didn’t get the chance. Eddie brought your fingers to and past his lips, stealing your breath from your lungs in the process. His tongue moved around your fingers with a certain grace as he licked the cranberry colour of his blood off of your skin. The sight of it- of his lips around your fingers, drawing you in- was enough to take you to the edge. A little added pressure on your clit was enough to send you over, into a white-hot abyss.

You cried out as your walls clenched down around him. Tears stained your cheeks as your orgasm overtook you. Eddie pulled back, groaning slightly. Transparent strings connected his lips to your now damp fingers. A devilish grin overtook his features, “You liked that, huh? You came hard for me, sweet thing.”

You let out an embarrassingly loud whine in agreement, your body shaking as it came down from its high. Eddie let out a groan that matched your volume as he moved his hips against yours at a harsh and unforgiving pace.

He panted, “I’m- I’m gonna need you to use your words, baby. Need you to- fuck- need you to tell me. You can do that for me, right?”

You let out another whimper before you let out a broken confession, “I- I liked that,” he leaned in to kiss you, but you cut him off again, “But you didn’t deserve it. You don’t deserve to be hurt- unless y’know, it’s kinky.”

Eddie froze for a second. Your words had caught him off guard. As he stilled inside you, his smile changed. Everything about him became less devilish and more genuine. He broke eye contact. You could just see a pink flush spread over the pale skin of his neck and cheeks as he buried his face in your shoulder. When he spoke again, his words were muffled by your flesh against his mouth.

“You’re too good to me.”

His thrusts picked back up again, the same as they were before. He slowly placed your hand back where he found it, “Far too good.”

A sharp sting spread through your body as his teeth pierced your flesh. A fresh round of tears pooled in your eyes at the new ache. Blood dripped down your shoulder and over your chest, painting red lines down your tits. Ruby-red droplets jumped slightly with each snap of his hips. You felt him twitch at the sight of it. His grip tightened, and he made a sound somewhere between a growl and a purr.

“You’re- fuck,” his voice edged on wicked, desperation seeping in as he reached up to wipe your tears away, “You’re mine. I’m gonna make sure everyone knows who you belong to. Gonna make sure they know- make sure no one ever hurts you again.”

“Please, Eds. I want you- I want you to claim me. Want you to show them that I’m just your slut-”

Eddie felt a twinge in his chest, guilt taking arousal’s usual place. Degradation was usually fun to some degree, but he knew what people in this town called you. He knew what they thought you were and he knew the danger it put you in; and with the events that had led you here, his fear was raw. Worry burned through his head, turning brain cells into exposed wires. His lips quickly pressed his lips to yours bringing your pleas to a brief halt. When he pulled away, he whispered, “You know you’re more than that, right?”

“I know,” you leaned up to kiss him, recognizing the emotion in his eyes, “A thing can be two things. I’m a person, and I’m yours, body and soul. Just yours.”

He shut his eyes, chasing down your lips and kissing you breathless. It was sweet, not gentle, but kind- and you wanted to change that. You wrapped your teeth over his lower lip and bit down. You didn’t draw blood. You weren’t sure that you could, but you sure as hell tried. Eddie growled, but before he could say anything, you were whispering into him again.

“You’re mine, too. Remember that.”

The smile that crossed his face was blinding. Desire consumed him again as his hips moved against yours. His thrusts came faster, deeper, and impossibly harder. His eyes clouded over with lust, and you were pretty sure that if you had a mirror, you would see the same thing reflected in your own face. The want. The need. Your body melted beneath Eddie’s as he fucked into you the way he said he would- like a fucking animal.

Your body craved his- you wanted him to keep his word, to take you, claim you, protect you. You wondered, briefly, what it said about you- that you wanted your partner to commit acts of violence in your name. You brushed those thoughts away as a familiar tension began to build in your core.

As your edge grew nearer, Eddie could feel his monstrous instincts overtake him. He knew that his grip on your body was just a bit too firm, that he was leaving dark bruises and deep bite marks all over you. If he wasn’t careful, he would hurt you, but careful seemed to be the last thing you wanted. You kept begging him for more, arching your body into his, digging your nails into him. Soft, depraved pleas escaped your lips, morphing into cries as you came undone beneath him.

Eddie wasn’t sure what happened next. He blinked, eyes falling shut, and when he opened them, he was using your body with a level of violence he had always tried to keep you from.

A broken scream ripped its way out of your throat as the head of Eddie’s cock rammed against your cervix with bruising force. A blinding agony spread through you, crawling through your nerves and making you gasp for air. You could barely feel Eddie’s claws digging into your sides, barely feel it as he thrust back into you. Your thighs slammed shut around his hips. A whimper escaped your lips as your nails scratched down his back, desperately searching for purchase.

Eddie paused for a split second, looking down at you with wide, panicked eyes. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He hated himself for it. You took a deep breath as he kept moving, as he kept thrusting deep within your walls. You tried to relax, to let the pain fade. You failed. You felt the head of his cock hit your cervix a second time, and you bit down on your lip, drawing blood. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you held back a scream- you couldn’t hold back your pleas for mercy.

“Eddie-” your voice broke, “Eddie, stop. Please, please, stop- I can’t-”

All pleasure had left your voice, leaving only pain and fear behind. Again, he didn’t stop. He wanted to stop- he desperately wanted to stop. He needed to stop, and he knew that. He was hurting you, and that killed him, but some shameful part of his blood-drunk mind was excited by your pain. It wanted to keep going, even if he didn’t.

In a panic-fueled attempt to end your agony, your hands pressed against Eddie’s shoulders, pushing him back. It was enough to snap him out of it and make him stop- and it made him notice the blood dripping over your lip and down your chin.

The first word to pass his lips was, “No.”

There was a deep, disbelieving horror in his voice, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, what he had done to you. He reached for you, slowly and cautiously, giving you plenty of time to stop him. When you didn’t, he wiped the blood off your face with his thumb, cradling your jaw with the rest of his fingers.

“Shit- shit, shit, shit,” his other hand came up to hover near your face. Tears filled his eyes. If you didn’t see it, you would’ve heard it in his voice. Your boy sounded so broken, “I’m sorry, baby, fuck, I’m sorry. I wasn’t careful enough. I didn’t mean to hurt you-”

“I know, baby. I know.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, “You know.”

Eddie wrapped his hands around yours and pinned your arms to the concrete above your head. He kept your fingers intertwined. As much as he hated himself for it, he didn’t want to let go. A whimper escaped you, and you watched Eddie’s face as he shut his eyes and hissed. For a moment, you thought he was hurt.

“Eddie-”

“You know that the man you love is a monster. You know that every time I touch you, I risk hurting you. You know I could kill you, the same way I killed those men tonight. The same way they tried to kill you, I could just-”

His hands squeezed yours. He wouldn’t look you in the eye. He looked anywhere else, just not into your eyes.

“Eddie,” your voice was softer, reassuring.

“Sweetheart, when I fuck you, you are being violated by a monster. If I claim you, it means that you’re owned by a monster. If we-if I got you pregnant, if you had my kids… they’d be like me. A monster just like their dad.”

He shifted slightly, preparing to pull away from you as he began to sink into that familiar pit of self-loathing. Eddie had barely moved an inch when you latched onto him further, clinging to him, wrapping your legs around his hips to make him stay.

“You think this is a violation? Eddie, I asked for this. Do you not want-?”

“Oh god. Baby, I want this. I want you, more than I should, but I hurt you. I didn’t stop when you needed me to, and that- it terrifies me. This was a mistake, I never should’ve-”

“I don’t think this was a mistake. Any of it,” you sat up a bit, just enough to press your forehead against his, “You stopped. I’m okay. And, uh… I kind of liked what you were saying. But-”

“But?”

“You really think our kids would be monsters?” you asked, “With you as their father? No way. Menaces, maybe, but not monsters.”

He said nothing, but a small smile crossed his face. He didn’t pull any further away. He just stared at you with those sweet doe eyes of his, so warm, so enamoured with you, and still so full of guilt.

It wasn’t a surprise that his mind had gone to such a place- he had killed a bunch of people moments before, fucked you on top of their bodies, and now, he had hurt you. It was an accident, you both knew that, but the guilt would eat him alive if he let it. You weren’t willing to let that happen. You hadn’t let those dark thoughts get to him in the past, and you sure as shit weren’t going to start now.

“Eddie. Everything you did tonight, you did to save me. Everything you do is to protect the people you love and care about. Tonight, two years ago, and even further back. You love with everything you have. You- are so brave, and so deeply kind, even if you pretend not to be, and if that makes you a monster, then I hope our children are monsters, too. And I hope they have your eyes.”

He remained still for a moment. His expression betrayed both his shock at your statement and his want. In the next second, his lips were on yours. He let go of your wrists, bringing his hands back to your face.

“I love you,” he whispered into the kiss, “I love you, I love you.”

You leaned up and into him, kissing him back as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, “I love you too. So much. And I want you to remember, I also killed a man tonight. If you’re a monster, then…”

He let out a quiet laugh, lips moving down your neck, feathering kisses over your skin all the way to your collarbone, “We’re monsters together, then.”

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer, “Exactly,” you purred. You paused for a second, becoming violently aware of the weight of his cock inside of you. You taped your fingers against his spine before you thrust your hips down against his, “You can, uh… you can start again now. I think I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

You leaned closer, whispering against his lips, “I am.”

He pressed his lips to yours, tongue slipping between your lips as he began to thrust into you again. His pace was quick, but not painful, and not quite so unforgiving. Your fingers reached up to wrap around the messy strands of his hair, tugging gently. He moaned into the kiss, sounding hungry and desperate once again.

As you drew nearer to your edge, your thoughts began to race. His words spilled through your mind, drowning your psyche with every sentiment he’d put forward. He loves you deeply. He’s terrified of hurting you. He’s desperate to keep you safe. You mean something to him. He’s thought about having kids with you, and you wanted him to think about that- fuck.

Your walls tightened around him. His cock twitched inside of you as he neared his own edge.

You whimpered out Eddie’s name, tugging on his hair until he pulled away from you. His brows furrowed in concern as he took in the sight of you, but you didn’t look like you were in pain. Your eyes were wide, filled with lust, and your chest heaved with every breath you took. You were covered in blood and sweat, and you were the most beautiful thing Eddie had ever seen. He felt your hands move to his face, and his gaze focused on your lips as you spoke.

“Eddie,” your voice was soft, “I need you to cum inside me.”

You watched as his eyes widened, as his lips parted in shock and a faint blush covered his cheeks. You were kind of proud that even in a moment this intimate, you could still get him to flush like that.

“You- you want me to-?”

You nodded, cutting him off and pulling him closer, “I want you to fill me up. Breed me, please.”

He shivered, a current of electricity running through him at your words. His body and his instincts screamed at him to do exactly as you’d said.

“You,” he whispered, “You’re perfect.”

His mouth slipped downwards, lips pressing against the space between your throat and your shoulder. His teeth sunk into your shoulder. Pain spread through your skin, white-hot as your blood dripped over your chest. Your muscles spasmed around him as the coil snapped. Your grip tightened on his hair. You could faintly hear him cry out in your own haze. His claws dug into you as he fell over that all-consuming edge.

Eddie bit down harder on your throat as he came, drinking just enough from you to make you see stars. His cock throbbed against your walls as his seed spread inside you, thick, and hot, and perfect. You clung to him, your breath stuttering as your muscles clenched, milking him for more.

As he finished, the monstrous need to fuck and breed you faded away to nothing. He was left with the more human parts of him after that- the parts of him that knew what aftercare was and that you would need it, the parts of him that knew he had to get you somewhere safe, somewhere away from the bodies of your attackers. Your body was limp beneath Eddie’s. Your eyes were closed, and your lips slightly parted. You were fucked out, completely cock drunk, and utterly perfect.

Eddie brushed your hair off your face. You could hear him repeating your name softly as you came back to earth. When you opened your eyes, he was hovering above you, looking at you with more affection than you could put into words.

“Hi,” he said, voice low and slightly shaky.

“Hi,” you let one of your hands move up to his face, brushing your fingers over his cheek.

“You okay, pretty girl?”

“‘M more than okay.”

He smiled, taking your hand from his cheek and pressing his lips to it, “Thank god, I don’t know what I would do if you weren’t.”

“You’d probably lose your mind.”

“Oh, I’d definitely lose my mind.”

You finally caught your breath as he kissed each of your knuckles and your wrist before he brushed his lips down your arm and to your shoulder. He let his cheek rest against your chest, listening to your heartbeat as it finally slowed down to something resembling normal.

Once it had, he lifted his head back up to look you in the eye, “We should probably get out of here, though. Get you home.”

“God, I would like that so much.”

He pulled himself up until he was kneeling, fixing his pants and passing his shirt to you. You pulled it over your head, watching as he got to his feet. He held out his hands to you and you took them, letting him help you to stand. You shook slightly, weak in the knees from both the attack and from everything Eddie had done to you. You buried your face in his chest as his cum dripped down from your abused cunt onto your thigh.

“Ah,” you hissed, “I have no pants.”

Eddie left a hand on your arm, supporting you as he stooped down to collect your torn clothes, “I guess there’s no saving these?”

You shook your head, smiling slightly as he winced.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it baby,” you leaned up and kissed his cheek, “It was more than worth it.”

His grin showed you his teeth. He picked up his jacket off the ground and wrapped it around your shoulders. You still had no pants, but it would be enough for now. You pressed a kiss to his bare collarbone as thanks. He tilted your chin up with two fingers and kissed you properly.

“Come on,” he whispered, “Let’s go home.”

You pulled away from him for a second, looking around at the abandoned barn. It looked like a scene straight out of a horror movie. Blood covered the floor and stained the walls. Seven bodies laid out on the concrete, mutilated in various ways. You felt Eddie’s fingers on your jaw, gently bringing your gaze back to him.

His eyes were wide- something in them was almost scared. He didn’t want you to fear him- to hate him. He didn’t want you to think that he was a monster, but the bodies in the room only led to one conclusion- and you didn’t mind it. Monster or otherwise, Eddie was yours.

“Yeah,” you brushed your lips against his, “Let’s go home.”

A grin crossed his face, and the fear faded from his eyes as he bent down and scooped you up, pulling you into his arms. Maybe two years ago, when he was still human, he wouldn’t have been able to carry you home, but his vampiric strength was at present, a gift.

You let your head rest against his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck as he stepped through the blood, out of the barn, and into the night.

You fell asleep on the way home. You shut your eyes outside the barn, with the moon shining above you like a pearl in an inky black ocean, and opened them in the safety of the home you shared with Eddie- Hopper’s old cabin.

It had been in a bit of a state when Hopper had given it to you, but it was more than worth the hours you’d spent fixing it. It was a safe place for Eddie to stay- secret, isolated. It was the only place you could stay without the fear of capture and torture hanging over your heads.

At least, it had been. But that fear had come too close, breaking down your door and ripping its way into your life. You had been saved this time, but the experience followed you home. You weren’t sure what would come next.

You turned your focus away from the nebulous future and towards the present. Beneath you, your couch was soft. The living room was warmly lit by a lamp on the end side table next to you. You couldn’t see Eddie, but you could hear the sound of the tap running in the bathroom. From your spot, you could see grocery bags neatly folded on your kitchen table. With them sat a bottle of cranberry juice. You didn’t know whether you wanted to laugh or cry at the sight of it.

You sat up and immediately, you had regrets. Every inch of your body ached. Your face stung from the blows you’d taken, and the space between your legs burned and throbbed. The bite marks that marred your skin stung, and you somehow managed to hit every bruise you had in the small act of sitting up.

Despite that pain, you forced yourself to try and stand. You failed miserably. Your knees buckled beneath you, and before you could do anything to maintain your balance, you were back on the couch. The door to the bathroom swung open, and Eddie burst out with a wet cloth in hand.

“Shit! You’re up, hi!”

You couldn’t help but smile at him as he sped towards the couch. He was still shirtless, wearing the same pants he’d worn while saving you. His missing shirt still covered your body and your legs were still bare. His jacket was thrown over the back of the couch beside you.

“Hi,” you reached out for him as he got to the couch. He took your hand in his, kissing it before he placed another kiss on your lips.

“Hey, hi,” he pulled back from you, giving your hand a squeeze, “Sorry, pretty thing, I was just- I was trying to get you cleaned up.”

“Oh! Well,” you reached for the hem of your shirt, “That should be a little easier now that I’m up, right?”

He flushed as you pulled your shirt over your head. It didn’t seem to matter that his cock had been inside you maybe an hour earlier, he still went red at the sight of your boobs. You smirked at him, reaching out and running a hand through his hair.

“You are far too cute, Eddie Munson.”

“And you,” he pushed you back onto the couch, throwing himself down next to you and pulling your legs over his lap, “Are far too beautiful, sweetheart.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your knee.

“So, do you uh- are you okay with this?” he raised the wet washcloth in his hand, “Or do you wanna shower, or?”

“Well, I would get up, but when I tried I fell, so,” you grimaced.

“I could help you,” he gave your leg a squeeze, “Could hold you, up if you want.”

You sat up, pressing kisses to his jaw, “I would like that.”

With a smile, he wrapped your arms around his neck and picked you back up. The trip to the bathroom was a short one. It took even less time for Eddie to remove his clothes and get both of you into the shower.

You kept your arms around him, leaning into his chest as warm water flowed over your back. You could feel your muscles begin to relax, knots unravelling the longer you stood there. Slowly, he started to move. His touch was heartbreakingly gentle as he cleaned every bite mark and every bruise.

In turn, you washed the sweat and blood that came with the fight off of him. Your fingers grazed his side, and you were pleased to find that the gunshot wound he’d taken had almost healed completely. Your hand remained there for a second, your touch feather-light and shaking slightly. You didn’t want to hurt him.

“Hey,” you whispered, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He laughed a little, though the sound was void of joy, “Yeah? I’m glad that you’re alive.”

Eddie pressed a kiss to your shoulder before asking you to hang onto him. Your hands clutched onto him as he knelt before you, washing off your thighs. You took a deep breath as his hands neared your cunt. He looked up at you with wide eyes, a question held within them.

He quickly put it into words, “You down for round two?”

You grinned as he pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, “Yes, please.”

His mouth was on you in an instant. He hooked your knees over his shoulders, pressing you up against the shower wall, keeping you steady with his hands. You tilted your head back at the feeling of his tongue lapping at your arousal. You found yourself biting down on your bottom lip as his lips wrapped around your clit. Your hands moved over your chest, pinching lightly at your nipples. In minutes, you were coming undone against him. Both of you were breathless as he pulled himself away from you.

When he kissed you, you could taste yourself on his lips. You wondered if he could taste himself in you. He cradled your face in his hands

“How’re you feeling?”

“Stupid good,” you murmured, brushing strands of Eddie’s dripping hair out of his eyes.

“That’s what I wanna hear,” he pulled you closer to him, wrapping an arm around your waist as he kissed you a thousand more times. You let out a content hum, smiling into him as you lost yourself in him.

As the two of you climbed out of the shower, you caught sight of your body in the mirror. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the reflection of your bruised and battered body. Bitemarks littered your skin. Splotches of red and purple covered your skin.

You felt heat build within you at the sight of everything Eddie had done- and you felt your stomach twist at the sight of the things he hadn’t. The marks he hadn’t left would leave scars on your mind. You hoped they wouldn’t stain your body longer than they had to.

Eddie noticed your gaze, your eyes riveted to the mirror. He stood from where he’d been drying off your legs and moved to stand behind you. He took your arms in his hands, running them down until your fingers intertwined with his over your stomach. He pressed a kiss to the side of your head, just under the bloodied spot where Kurt’s gun had struck you so much earlier.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered, gently rocking you from side to side.

“Hey, don’t apologize. You aren’t the one who kidnapped me at gunpoint and threatened to break my bones by way of gun,” you shook your head at the ridiculous nature of your captors’ plans, but Eddie had a different reaction.

He buried his face in your shoulder, letting out a whine, “Jesus Christ.”

His hands started to shake against your skin. His breath sped up as his arms tightened around you.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. That never should’ve happened, they never should’ve gotten to you.”

“Hey,” you broke eye contact with your reflection in the mirror and turned around in Eddie’s hold, “There was nothing you could have done. If you had been with me, they would have tried to hurt you. Maybe they would’ve succeeded. And we needed groceries, so-”

“Then I should’ve sent Steve with you. Or Nancy, just someone-”

“I had Max. She’s arguably scarier than Steve and- oh shit, Max,” you pushed away from Eddie, stumbling as you took a step back, “Max, is she okay!? Did someone get her?”

Eddie kept your forearms in his hands, helping to keep you steady, “Deep breaths, sweetheart, deep breaths. Max is alright. As soon as she called me I had Steve go and get her, ironically enough.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” you let out a tired breath as you collapsed against Eddie’s chest, “I guess we have them to thank for the grocery bags on the table?”

Eddie pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “That we do.”

“God, I’m gonna have to call them. To say thank you. And sorry, my God,” you rubbed at your eyes with one hand, “I can’t believe I put Max through that, holy shit.”

“Hey, hey, you didn’t put Max through anything. You got her out of there. That was the best thing you could do, you kept her safe. Besides,” he moved back to look you in the eye, “Red’s a tough kid. She’s dealt with worse than this.”

“I know,” your voice was half a groan, “I still feel bad, though.”

“Well, yeah,” Eddie gently grabbed a hold of you, turning you around to face yourself in the mirror. His hands slipped back into yours, and he brought them back to the expanse of your stomach, “You’ve had, what some would call, a long day, sweetheart.”

You leaned into him, letting out a soft whine when he pressed his lips to your shoulder. You squeezed his hands, “Yeah, you could say that.”

Eddie squeezed back, “Let’s get you to bed, huh?”

“Fuck. Yes, please.”

He picked you up again, pulling you into his arms and letting your head rest against his chest. You felt a bit ridiculous having him carry you around your small home, but it wasn’t like you had much of a choice. Your legs were tired, too weak to carry you. Fortunately, Eddie was more than strong enough.

He laid you on the bed gently, planting a kiss over your new bitemarks before he crawled into bed with you. He started at your side, but within minutes, he was on top of you, his head resting between your breasts. He took your hands in his, intertwining your fingers before kissing them gently.

The two of you lay in silence for a few moments. You ran a hand through his still-damp hair, listening to the sound of your breathing and his. For perhaps the first time today, you were both breathing evenly, completely calm.

On top of you, Eddie was listening to the sound of your heartbeat, sure and steady beneath him. He had spent so much of the day afraid that he would never hear that sound again. He had been terrified that he was going to lose you- that the town that had taken so much from him would take you, too.

But it hadn’t. It had tried, the jocks had tried, but he had stopped them. You were safe now. Safe, and protected, and Eddie seriously didn’t plan on letting you out of his sight for a few days.

“Hey,” you whispered, “How did you- how did you know where I was? Max saw me get kidnapped, but she didn’t know where they took me after.”

His fingers brushed over your temple, “I could smell your blood. Almost killed me when I noticed it. The stronger it got… the more I wanted to end them.”

You leaned into his touch, placing your hand over his.

“I wouldn’t take back what I did,” he continued, “I don’t regret it. I could never regret it. But I’m- I’m afraid that all I am is a weapon. That all I’ll ever be is a weapon. The things Vecna made me do…” he faded off into silence, pulling away and rubbing his hands over his eyes.

You sat up with him, reaching out to trace his strong, scarred arms. You could do nothing but watch as a war raged inside the man you loved. Guilt slipped beneath your skin, thrumming beneath muscle and bone. Eddie had protected you- he killed for you without remorse, and you were excited by that violence. You wondered again what that said about you.

Leaning forward, you pressed your forehead to Eddie’s. He relaxed against you, calmed by your touch.

“Hey, you know you’re more than that, right?” You echoed his words from earlier, “You’re not a weapon, you’re not his puppet, you’re-”

“I’m your man,” he said, a small grin crossing his face, “Your protector. Your slut.”

You giggled, shocked and pleased, and Eddie looked so proud to be the cause of the smile on your face. When his laughter subsided, you crawled into his hold, straddling his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands moved to your waist. You sat there for a moment, taking in his lack of a heartbeat as he listened to the steady rhythm of yours.

“You know this goes both ways, right?” You whispered, running your fingers over the spot where his wings met his back, “You protect me, I protect you? And we protect… whatever comes along. I might not have the claws or the fangs, but I’ve been told I can be a bit of a bitch when I want to be, so there’s that.”

Eddie pulled you closer to him, pinning your chest to his and holding you there as he laid back on the mattress. One of his hands brushed through your hair while the other traced intricate patterns over your back. You shut your eyes and let yourself bury your face in the space between his neck and his shoulder.

“I know,” he tilted his face to press a kiss to your head, “I couldn’t have asked for a better bodyguard.”

You smiled against his throat, “Neither could I.”

You hummed contentedly as he pulled a blanket over your bodies. The mindless motions of his calloused hands on your back pulled the tension from your muscles, making you relax. Your eyelids grew heavy as you breathed him in- the faint scents of blood and cigarette smoke overtaken by the smell of your body wash. You were so calm, unafraid, and bizarrely happy for a woman who had spent most of her day trying not to die at the hands of her kidnappers.

Maybe having sex on the corpses of your enemies was just a natural mood booster. Maybe it was the man you were having sex with.

“You make me feel safe,” you murmured, words slurred with sleep, “Always have.”

“Good,” his voice was quiet, but he sounded like he was wide awake. You focused on the feeling of his hand running through your hair, of his skin, ice cold beneath your lips.

“Keep doing it?”

“I always will, sweetheart. I won’t let anything hurt you. I won’t lose you.”

“Promise?”

He nodded, and you smiled against his neck, “Good. Protect me.”

Without waiting for a response, you pulled his skin between your teeth and bit down; hard enough to bruise, but not hard enough to draw the sweet cranberry-coloured wine that ran through his veins. His soft moan was music to your ears. With your lips on his throat, and his hands in your hair, you fell into a dreamless sleep. Eddie stayed awake through the night, keeping watch over you until the sun began to rise.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader #x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson angst #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x female reader

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throneofsapphics · 6 months

Text

the ebb and flow of fate part 3

(part one) (part two) (part four) (part five) (epilogue)

Cazriel x f!Reader

Summary: Then they looked at each other, some sort of silent communication passing before their expressions shifted back to neutral as they turned to examine the surrounding area. As they turned their backs on her, right when she wanted them most. A tear finally dripped down her cheek.

Warnings: injuries, blood, poison, references to past sa, death, angst

Word Count: ~5.2k

A/N: sorry this took so long!

She paced back and forth in her bedroom, wearing a track in the wood. Overreacting.

How does she fix this?

Wait. She paused. This isn’t her job to fix it. If they’re going to act like misogynistic, overbearing males and blame her for her sexual assault, she’s not going to give them the time of day. If they’re going to blame her for that, they don’t deserve her friendship..

Tears filled her eyes, as she turned to gaze at the mirror. Her hair was dull, skin pale, eyes almost … haunted. This wouldn’t do. A few deep breaths later, and she came up with a plan to get her life back.

You can explain it, a soft feminine voice whispered in her ear. It might have been Azriel who said the words, but she knew Cassian believed them as well. They betrayed her in their own way, and she wouldn’t run to them pleading.

If they really cared, they’d ask. She replied silently. The voice hummed.

Her mind came back to Azriel’s threat. Don’t leave Velaris. She could play by his rules for now. Maybe even take a bit of revenge in her own way.

She went out to Rita’s that night, reconnecting with a few of her friends. Lights flashed overhead as they danced, matching each other shot for shot. Thank the mother she has good tolerance.

That night, she took out a piece of paper and tried to focus her blurred eyes. Play by the rules.

One male looked at my ass for a secmpd.

A female tolded me i’m preeeety.

Is that a danermeous situatomn? According two you it isss.

She frowned down at the sheet. The words were barely legible, but he’d understand them. Play by the rules. A laugh left her as she folded the paper into fours, filled with messy creases.

She stumbled out of her room, kicking her heels off before she left, still wearing the short and tight dress from earlier in the night. Her feet carried her down the hallway, the world swaying as she walked.

She heard him, and slid the paper under the door, making her way back to her room as quickly as possible.

Azriel opened the door, spotting a drunk y/n trailing down the hallway, holding onto the wall. He knew she’d gone out, but how much had she drunk? He crouched and picked up the messily folded paper. Her scent combined with alcohol flooded through him. This couldn’t be good.

He closed his eyes after he read over the words. This is how she’s going to play. He should’ve known. A male looking at her ass. A female telling her she’s pretty. No threats, the bargain mark didn’t prick at him, but she was doing this to make a point.

“Fucking brat.” He cursed under his breath.

“Who?” Cassian asked from across the room, crossing to meet him at the door. He wordlessly passed the paper.

Something between frustration and amusement crossed the other male’s face. “We should frame this.”

“We’re not exactly on speaking terms with her.” They’d ignored each other for weeks now, and he knew Cassian was aching to speak to her - to clear the air and get back to their tentative friendship. But, she didn’t seem to give a damn. Going out of her way to avoid them, even training with Mor. If she wanted to play that game, he’d gladly participate.

She’s the one who all but broke their bargain. He doesn’t owe her any apologies.

Why didn’t you leave? His own words echoed, the broken look in her eyes took over his mind. She knows him well enough to know he didn’t mean that. He wouldn’t need to actually explain that, right? It could open up conversations none of them are ready for.

Weeks passed, a few more notes - none of which got any kind of reaction from his bargain tattoo. The male had only sent one letter - in response to a strongly worded one sent by Rhysand. A half-assed apology he didn’t let her see. It wasn’t genuine, and maybe she was better off leaving this in the past. Part of him questioned if he should be making those decisions for her, but he was busy enough with work he could push that down.

Two months had passed since the … incident, and she made her way down the hall. It was a day off for her, and she’d spend it out in the city, going through the various markets. Some fresh air would do her good - sun on her skin, and time away from the confines of the library. Her hair had some of its shine returned, her skin not quite as pale as before, and a bit of new life breathed into her eyes. She felt more like herself than she had in months.

Of course, she still missed the two Illyrians. But - they made zero effort to approach her, and she returned in kind.

She paused outside of the doorway to her cousin’s office. Three heartbeats. A new shield she’d experimented with hid her sound and presence completely, and their voices escaped into the hallway, clear as day.

“Why are you avoiding her?” Rhys asked. She should leave, right now. Eavesdropping couldn’t lead to anything good.

“Avoiding who?” Cassian hedged.

An exasperated sigh came from Rhys. “Y/n.”

“We don’t owe her anything. She’s nothing to us.”

Rhys snarled, she felt his power even from here.

“Azriel,” Cassian said in a warning tone.

Nothing. She left now. The damage was done. At least she knows exactly where she stands with them.

In her distraction, the shield dropped and her heavy footsteps echoed as she broke into a run.

Cassian whirled as he heard the footsteps. How had he not detected her approach earlier? Rhys’s power was still rumbling through the room.

“I didn’t mean that.” Azriel said quietly. But, she was too far gone to hear that.

“We need to find her.” Cassian fought to ignore the pure dominance rumbling from Rhys - the overwhelming power threatening to bring him to his knees. It abated, slowly.

“I don’t think she’ll want to see us.” Azriel countered.

“Tell me what the fuck happened between you.” Rhys all but ordered.

They exchanged a glance. “You know about the letters.” Rhys nodded. They’d only shown him what she’d hidden and he could put the rest of the pieces together.

“We … said things we regret.” At least he does, he can’t speak for Azriel. He’d seen her in the kitchen that day, and turned his back on her. There was more that happened Azriel hadn’t told him about. As much as he pushed, he was a stone wall - revealing nothing.

“Why haven’t you fixed it?” Rhys carefully watched both of them. His brother’s eyes were almost black, and he saw the tentative leash on his power, threatening to break free and destroy anything posing a threat to his family - even if it’s them.

“She hasn’t made an effort either.” The words came from Cassian. Suddenly, he felt … childish. Holding onto a grudge like this, foregoing friendship and something else that had built. He should’ve been the better person, to go to her and try and get both sides of the story - to let go of a stupid grudge costing him so much. Azriel was still quiet next to him. Rhys didn’t say a word, only studying the two of them.

“Fix it.” It wasn’t quite an order. “Before it’s past the point of return.”

Were they already there?

Alarm crossed Rhys’s face, eyes glazing slightly. His hand reached for the knife at his hip. He knew that expression - danger.

“She left Velaris.” Rhys stood, shoving his chair back. “Find her.” That was an order.

It had been months since the last threatening letter arrived - but immortals could be patient. A trap could be laying in wait for her, anywhere. Azriel was still trying to sniff out how they had eyes on her movements outside of Velaris.

“Any idea where?” Cassian asked.

“I’m locked out.”

He cursed under his breath.

“I have an idea.” Azriel sighed, as if the situation was a mere annoyance - a fly fluttering around his head. Cassian fought the urge to snarl.

“Be quick.” The worry in Rhys’s tone set him on edge. Azriel tensed as well, but grabbed on to his arm and winnowed them, traveling through the world through his shadows.

The sleeping mountains. She’d told them they’d been used for healing in the past, and explored them before as part of her research, he and Azriel in tow occasionally. A pit settled in his stomach. A sense, tugged against his consciousness. One he’d never heard before, a soft and feminine voice pleading; find her.

Clear mountain air filled her lungs as she winnowed to the first place she’d pictured.

A sparkling, turquoise lake lay before her - dipped beneath two peaks. A lake for healing. One of the few places she could find complete peace. Where her thoughts seemed to float away, worries became insignificant, silence became healing. She settled herself on the edge of the lake, watching the water ripple across, tossing stones once in a while. The dew from the moss soaked into her dress, coating her legs as she kicked them out, resting back on her elbows. The midday sun was a warm glow on her skin, pleasantly heating her body.

She tilted her chin up towards the sky, breathing in the fresh, clean, nearly untouched air. She let her mind drift, let the sounds of nature around her float in, acknowledged any thoughts - and let them go.

The temporary peace was bliss, weights lifted off her shoulders - she felt her body calm for the first time in weeks, maybe months. Almost like a drug, she was high on the absence of how her mind went quiet for once. No memories beating against her mind, rattling and tightening her throat.

Like everything, it was temporary as she heard the beat of wings. Loud in the way he was announcing her presence. The familiar scent hit her a second later, and her jaw clenched. Rhys had set up some way of notifying as she left the city. Boundaries, she needed to set some fucking boundaries.

He spotted her, propped up on her forearms - legs stretched out in front of her, the sheath of one knife. One. outlined under her dress. The midday sun set an ethereal glow around her, as if the light itself was drawn to her. Beautiful. She was beautiful, magnetic, and he hated how it drew him in. That wasn’t quite enough to abate his anger as he landed a few feet behind her, the slope set him a few feet above - towering over her prone form.

“I didn’t know you were this stupid.” Cassian seethed. Any earlier thoughts of mending bridges disappeared. Her fists clenched as she stood, slowly turning to face him, but she didn’t meet his gaze - her eyes moved behind and a ring of white shown around them. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. In the split second, before he could react, a familiar wave of magic, her magic, shoved him to the ground.

He was rolling, back on his feet - moving. He spotted Azriel landed ahead of him, no doubt his shadows whispering to him. It passed in minutes. Flashes. And it was over. They needed to leave now, the carnage and prisoners tied in front of them could be dealt with later. The archer, now dead, had come from the trees nearly one hundred paces away.

It took a few seconds for him to realize her magic hadn’t joined the fray.

A pained cry came from behind him and he swirled to see her, the tail of an arrow sticking out of her thigh as she fell to her knees. An arrow meant for his head. A string in his chest tightened, tugged, and his face went slack.

Look, a voice had whispered. Beyond. Not at Cassian, she knew that. Her eyes scanned the horizon, magic starting to curl under her skin, reacting to a danger she couldn’t see. Treeline - the leaves shifted in the opposite direction of the wind, a small zing - her magic acted on its own, shoving him to the ground as a blur shot through the air. There was no question about it, no chance she could let that happen to him. Not only because he came after her, but she physically couldn’t let harm come to him.

The ash arrow that would’ve gone through his head, lodged in her thigh. Magic left her at once, an empty stillness left behind. Azriel had landed as well, him and Cassian moving into action faster than she could think. Don’t look don’t look don’t look she chanted to herself, and palmed the knife sheathed on her thigh, a pained noise left her - it had gone right through the fabric and as she moved it she could feel it. Not lodged, directly through her leg.

A pained and pathetic noise left her as she fell to her knees. The wood was slick, not like blood - something thicker. Hands shaking, she reached her opposite arm across to try and grab the knife - cut the arrow and get whatever the hell it was out. Wrong wrong wrong, her body seemed to scream.

A hand gripped her wrist, Cassian’s face pale and raw. “Out,” she screamed, “I need it out.”

“Hang on a second,” he murmured, examining it. Her body was barely holding her up, but if she fell backwards it would only push it further into her - push whatever was coating it around into her bloodstream. Azriel was there as well, shadows swirled around her wound, examining. Two shields had surrounded her, tinted blue and red.

Magic ripped shredded through them like paper. She knew exactly who that was, it sung to her like a familiar sound - echoing the magic she normally could reach.

Her sister shoved Cassian out of the way, falling to her knees in front of her.

She bit the inside of her cheek harshly enough she tasted blood.

Azriel’s hazel eyes met hers as he stood behind her sister. Something like grief, pain, and a hint of anger flooded through them. The normal cold mask had disappeared, replaced by raw emotion she’d rarely seen from him. He staggered a step back - his eyes going wide, pupils blowing. His expression mirrored Cassian’s from before. Then they looked at each other, some sort of silent communication passing before their expressions shifted back to neutral as they turned to examine the surrounding area. As they turned their backs on her, right when she wanted them most.

A tear finally dripped down her cheek. .

They turned their backs, again. That pain was more than the physical. That pain struck deep into her soul. He’d meant his words. If a friend was so easily discarded, were they friends in the first place? She was nothing to them, just as he’d said. At least she knows exactly where she stands with them now. The air is cleared.

Mor’s frown followed her gaze - right at the two Illyrians, undoubtedly seeing the tears filling her eyes. She turned to her sister and saw the questioning look on the blonde’s face. She shook her head. Not here, not now, not ever. The last few months proved she didn’t need them. Want is different than need, and want she can overcome. As soon as she was well, she’d drag her sister back in the training ring. Luck or fate had him there in the nick of time, but she couldn’t rely on that.

Mor had cut through part of the arrow with her magic - her hand now reaching to slide the arrow out, instinct guided her and she snatched Mor’s wrist.

“Don’t touch it,” she snarled.

“It needs to come out,” She replied, expression cautious. Gods, she wants it out … but a sense, something tickling at the back of her neck, tells her it’s a bad idea.

“Pois-” she tried to force air into her lungs, tried to override the panic, but her sister's eyes had widened in understanding. Had the arrow been intended for her? Or designed to down whoever was in her path?

“Just nod or shake your head,” Mor said softly. “Can you feel your magic?”

A shake of her head. Mor’s mouth tightened and a small shield surrounded the wound - even as her sister’s magic seemed to recoil against it.

Cassian had to turn away from her, had to dig up every semblance of self control he could muster. The bond snapped for him and Azriel at the same moment - but he could see it in her eyes, it hadn’t for her. If he didn’t turn away right then, he would’ve done something abnormally stupid. Maybe Mor knew, because a shield had thrown up around the two of them, blocking out all sound and access. It’s likely Rhys was the only person who could break that down, or tear it away. Sometimes he forgot just how much power Mor has, of what the female was capable of.

Rhys winnowed in, with a few quiet words he’d explained what he saw. Azriel stood next to them, one eye on the males still unconscious and bound a few paces away. They turned back in time to feel Mor’s shield drop. She met their eyes - and he could read the panic as clear as day. Her brown eyes glazed for a moment, before she winnowed out.

“What?” He demanded. Rhys paused. Azriel had gone stiff next to him.

“Some kind of poison.” He said under his breath and winnowed. Take care of this. House of Wind he spoke into their minds. Another clear order.

She awoke to her sister pacing at the foot of the bed, burning a hole in her carpet. Y/n was laid on her side, arrow still poking from her thigh.

“Don’t touch it.” Mor said, spotting her hand reaching for it. She withdrew it quickly, tucking her hand up into her chest.

Normally, her sister's anxiety would increase her panic, but this time she calmed, like she needed to be the strong one now. Rhys came back with Madja, and she forced herself, promised herself she would keep her mind steady and centered. The lack of magic felt like a missing limb.

The healer hovered over her, magic running different diagnostics as she asked questions she could barely answer. Mor explained what she could, still moving back and forth.

“Good call.” Madja said to y/n, “keeping it in place.” She smiled weakly at the praise.

“Getting the poison,” Rhys flinched at the word. Madja hadn’t explained exactly what it was yet, and probably for good reason, “is going to hurt.” Like hell. Her eyes had a silent question, do you want them here? She gave a slight shake of her head.

Madja turned to them. “Both of you out. Keep a shield around here. Do not enter until I say so.” Their faces tightened, but they didn’t dare question her, only shooting a nervous glance to y/n. She nodded at them, looking more confident than she felt.

“I can’t use any pain relief,” Madja talked her through it. She had spent hours watching the healer before. “I don’t know how it will interact.”

“Do you know what it is?” her voice was hoarse and each word hurt like hell. Madja’s silence was an answer enough. She handed her a piece of leather. Y/n steeled herself, and dug her teeth into it.

Her voice was hoarse from screaming by the end - like whatever it was was fighting to stay inside and she felt each droplet leaving, but the healer said she could only get what was clinging to the arrow, what was still clenched to her muscle. Anything in the bloodstream would have to come out the natural way. She’d moved quickly to get it inside a vial - out of the air and before it could make contact with anything. Because of that, it had to go slowly, in all it took around an hour.

“Now the easy part,” she gave her a reassuring smile and yanked the arrow out before she could protest. Her teeth clenched, but soothing magic ran through the wound, stitching it back together. After what felt like an eternity, she helped her move to sit. Rhys must’ve asked her mind-to-mind, because the door swung back open the second she was situated.

Then - more diagnostics, more notes scribbled in between. Madja’s face was too neutral.

“What was it?” Mor asked.

“Bloodbane.” The two winced, although she knew they suspected it. She did, for certain, given she couldn’t feel her magic still.

“How long?” Y/n asked.

Madja clicked her tongue. “One week at least. It was a heavy dose,” she shot her a tight glance. “Once it wears off, you’ll need to be cautious. Your magic will come back in a flood.”

“We’ll take necessary precautions.” Rhys assured her.

She winced as pain echoed up her thigh, radiating through her body, and waited for the other shoe to drop. Madja clocked her movement, and slowly added, “there was a small trace of modified hemlock.”

Silence filled the room, and she could’ve sworn the temperature dropped. Modified? Madja, if she was unnerved, didn’t show it. Hemlock could kill in the right amount. “With the dose and the alterations, you can expect to feel sharp pains, perhaps just in your leg or body. Luckily it wasn’t a full dose.” Luckily. She supposed Madja was right - compared to the normal symptoms of that particular poison, she’d be grateful if that’s all she experienced.

“What can you give her, for it?” Mor asked.

From the brief studying she’d done on healing, and the books she’d read - y/n already knew the answer. “Nothing.”

Madja sent her an approving nod. “We won’t risk any interactions. Nothing for the pain, no drugs, no alcohol.” Maybe this was the Mother’s way of scolding her - of calling her a dumbass.

Madja clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Try to keep activity to a minimum. Drink plenty of water, let it run its course. I’ll come by twice a day for the first week.”

She grimaced. If Madja’s insisting on coming twice a day. She’d be lucky if any of them let her leave the bed.

The healer gathered her supplies and began to take her leave, Rhys walking her out.

Azriel had escorted the leftover soldiers to Hewn City as he flew back to Velaris. Flying faster than he ever had, he realized - like the winds were adapting around him, encouraging him to move faster - faster.

He landed on the balcony, Az a second behind him. “She didn’t …” his words trailed off, seeking confirmation. He shook his head. Maybe it was the ash arrow, blocking her magic and keeping her from realizing.

“No.” He responded quietly. “She didn’t.”

“Do we tell her?” Gods he’d thought about finding his mate before, thought about it a lot over the decades - they all had. He supposed it was some primal instinct in him, always searching for that connection. As soon as she’d taken the arrow for him, her magic working instinctively, he confirmed his suspicion. But, suspecting and feeling it snap were two very different things.

“Not now.”

Madja and Rhys’s conversation drifted through the open doors.

“Keep a close eye on her,” she was telling Rhys, intending for the two of them to overhear. He noticed Azriel’s shadows swirling around him. “The Fae Bane,” he shuddered, “is significant. One week is the minimum.” She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I don’t know exactly how they modified the hemlock.” His fists clenched, some of that deadly rage returning. “But the intention is pain without permanent physical damage. Expect sharp pains, depression, nightmares, and possibly hallucinations.”

“We won’t leave her alone.” Rhys promised her.

She gave a nod. “No alcohol, drugs of any kind, tonics, or pain relief of any kind. Even if she begs for it.”

Begs? Would she be in that much misery? His chest tightened. As mad as he might still be at her, the thought of her in agony is worse.

“Understood.” He replied, as if he’d heard this before. Maybe Madja was sharing it for their knowledge too.

“I’ll keep looking into it. I’ll be back in the morning” Her careful eyes fixed on them, nostrils flaring. “I need a word with these two.” She fixed a look at Rhys, who gave a quick bow and strode back inside, not bothering to look at them.

“I’ll keep your secret,” Madja murmured quietly as they approached her. She’d scented the bond - on them? Or y/n as well? Nothing flew past her. “I’ll trust you two to take care of her. She won’t be herself.” Her words felt like a warning and a plea.

“We will.” Azriel answered, in that cool and voice of his. Cassian was nearly trembling with built up anger and those protective instincts - ready to tear apart the entire house, kill any threat - perceived or real. “Tell me everything, please.” Azriel said mildly.

Madja, of course, picked up on it too - and gave them all of the details she could; in layman’s terms. Depression, nightmares, pain. He picked up on those three - the ones she put the most emphasis on. And instructed them to hide anything that might slow down the healing process. Although, he got the distinct sense the house might do some of that work for them.

She left them with one final word of caution; “I cannot guarantee how much she will remember - if anything.”

Rhys, as if sensing the end of the conversation, strode back through the doors. “I’ll take you back,” he said to the healer.

Minutes later, Rhys returned looking drained. “I’m sure Madja explained everything to you.” In more detail than he could know. “I’m not going to force you to babysit her, but your assistance would be appreciated.”

“She doesn’t need a babysitter.” Cassian countered. Azriel noticed with a hint of amusement that he’d bristled and come to y/n’s defense.

Rhys only raised his brow, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. Azriel, so far, had refused to process just how close they came to losing her. That’s something he could think about later. “For the next week or so, she does. We can’t leave her alone.” Azriel read through that; he’s terrified of what might happen if they do.

“I’ll keep eyes on her,” Azriel said with a soft menace. Like hell he’d let anything hurt his … his and Cassian’s mate. Even herself. Even if he still was pissed at her. He kept the neutral mask firmly in place, but part of him felt a bit ashamed at the relief in Rhys’s eyes. He’d harbored some doubt they would help.

“We’ll work things out.” A rotation, he figured. They all still had jobs to do, duties they had to keep. Rhys or Mor would tell the priestesses she would be off for the next few weeks. Perhaps she could bring some work for her to do here, if she had any moments of lucidity.

Gods, he had no idea what to expect - and that put him on edge more that he’d let on. Azriel worked on knowing everything, that was his nature.

“Can anyone else help?” Cassian asked, but he could sense the doubt in his voice.

“I don’t trust anyone else. Except Amren.” Something pricked the back of Azriel’s neck. He knew Amren wouldn’t harm her, but something about her always made him uneasy.

Madja hadn’t oversold the side effects. Not at all. When they entered the room, minutes after their conversation with Rhys. Mor was already wiping a wet cloth against y/n’s forehead.

Pale and wan skin, fists clenched and eyes squeezed as her leg seized. The scar was red and angry. A contrast against the rest of her skin, marring the otherwise untouched flesh. Reflexively, he looked at his own hands. Cassian, putting on a much better show than him, sauntered up to Mor and snatched the cloth from her, nudging the female out of the way. Her eyes dug into his back, but she promised y/n she’d be back later, shooting each of them a warning glance.

They had the gods-damned audacity to show up, acting like everything is perfectly normal. Like they hadn’t torn her soul in half this morning. The day had been too much. So much happening in such a short amount of time, maybe two hours if that. Words, words were too difficult as she clenched her eyes shut - a pain, one she wasn’t sure was phantom or real - ripping through her thigh.

A gentle hand ran a wet cloth over her forehead, she hadn’t realized she was panting. The bed dipped, and she blinked her eyes open to see Cassian sitting next to her. Worry radiated through his features. Where she could usually feel his or Azriel’s emotions … nothing. Maybe a side effect of her magic disappearing.

“Talking can wait until you’re feeling better.” He offered. An olive branch. She didn’t want it, so she turned her head away from him. One finger gently pressed against her cheek, dragging her attention back to him - frowning. “If you’d rather talk now, we can.”

She slapped his hand away, gritting her teeth through the pain to cross her arms over her chest. “Why bother?” Her voice was bitter. “I’m nothing to you.”

Did they both say it in Rhys’s office? She couldn’t remember clearly. Everything was blending together, memories blurring in and out.

He blinked twice. “That’s not true.” Her eyes slid to Azriel, and he gave a short nod. There was some sort of emotion in his eyes, one she couldn’t read. That pissed her off more.

“It doesn’t matter.” She muttered. Not now, she told herself. It’s not something she can talk about now. There’s too much to process. What happened earlier …

“You’re not in your right mind.” Azriel cut in. Her jaw dropped and her eyes rolled. “Why did you go off on your own?” His voice almost sounded pained. Cassian cut him a sharp look, hissing in warning.

“I’m a free female.”

“Nearly a dead one. If we hadn’t been there - the arrow still would’ve hit you, and you’d be gone.” Maybe he learned something from the soldiers already. Did he forget she saved Cassian? Well, he wouldn’t have needed saving if she hadn’t left. Her head shook, those thoughts were useless.

“Not the time Az,” Cassian snarled, standing abruptly and shoving him towards the door. Azriel’s shoulders tightened, and he strode out the door, shutting it softly behind him. Uncomfortable silence filled the room.

“You should sleep.” He finally said.

“Then leave.”

He let out a low edged chuckle. “I wish, but you’re stuck with me princess.” I wish. The words had the effect he wanted and she willed the tears away as she turned on her side, facing away from him. This might be the most miserable week of her life.

taglist: @infinitely-kate @foreverrandomwritings @anuttellaa @morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @justasillylittlegoofyguy @starswholistenanddreamsanswered

#cazriel x y/n #cazriel x reader #cassian x azriel x reader #cassian x azriel x y/n #acotar fic #acotar x reader #cassian x reader x azriel #azriel x cassian x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x reader #cassian x y/n #cassian x reader

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 7 months

Note

i’ve never requested anything from anyone so i’m a lil nervy butttt…

i’d love a relationship arc with the one and only soap! i love him and his lil mohawk! like he’s stationed wherever and he meets then falls in love with a native citizen who works closely with the military and their relationship from when they first meet to first date to first kid to marriage (100% doesn’t need to be in that order btw)

everything you come up with is 🤌 so i know it’ll be good!🤍🤍

—Life Snaps By In Flashes

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [A collection of memories from the second he laid eyes on you. All flashing past in the soft buzzing of the overhead lights.] ❞

It was by some dumb luck that he’d locked eyes with you that day, decades ago now, but he carries that memory with him like a dog with a bone. Stuck under the glow of the overhead lights, Soap calls them all forward—the good, the bad, the moments of peaceful nothing.

It had been on an OP, out in the field on surveillance for another threat. You had served him a coffee at a cafe, given that kind smile, and he had been gone far before he had been called to move in. Johnny was surprised at how fast it had happened, but he had always been easy to gather affection from, truthfully.

And when he had found out that you were an informant? Beautiful, smart, and reliable? He had half stuttered his way through a fake confident question for your number, and you had happily agreed with a smirk. You told him it was because of his honesty—the intentions clear on his face from the moment you’d walked through the door of the military base, written intel under your left arm and a recorder in your right palm.

He thought you were perfect from only one glance, and he had never thought otherwise.

Of course, there were fights, and disagreements about the job and the safety of each other. That was fair—it was natural. That was life, and what would the purpose be unless to prove that the two of you loved with all of your souls?

The first date was common, nothing fancy—a nice, casual supper at a restaurant that would be frequented far into your older years. Everyone there would end up knowing your names, the owner himself being invited to your wedding.

Oh, the wedding. Johnny can call that forward as easily as air. Or, at least, as easily as air used to come to him.

You, in that dress, staring at him and walking down that aisle. Everything else had blurred that day, and all he could care about was how you looked at him—standing just ahead with your hands in his shaky ones; his lips quivering as he pushed out a shocked laugh.

“You look…amazing, Bonnie. Lord, you’re just perfect.” You had laughed at his hushed whisper above the muttering of the officiant, eyes glassy. Johnny had tried to stifle his hoarse inhales as you called him handsome right back.

From then came the next journey—kids. Many of them. Johnny had as big of a family as he and you had always wanted; adventures and hardships. Football games and music shows, painting exhibits, and movie nights where everyone was snuggled together. His blue eyes staring at you over the heads of your brood.

Every night he would thank you for it. Every night.

The years drew and drew, retirement and the kids going off to Uni—leaving and getting married themselves. Wrinkles. Graying hair.

Until here.

Until muscles broke down and you needed a wheelchair, Johnny a cane. Until the kids had thought it better to make his office into an at-home care room for the two of you—a live-in nurse down the hall.

The kids had visited yesterday with their own little ones. The older ones had known, of course, just by looking. Smart devils, Johnny had called them when they were just tiny things. And they were.

You and him had raised some damn smart little devils.

Johnny had snuck into your room tonight, his heart hurting him and his mind understanding. He slipped into your bed and you both shared it one last time as you weakly kissed his pale cheek, him nuzzling his head into yours and muttering a low ‘I love you’.

You had passed not three minutes ago.

As he always had been, Johnny was loathed to leave you waiting for him. So here, with those overhead lights, he lets his eyes dip closed, and he swears that a soft hand brushes his cheek, calling him home.

Outside, the crickets creek, and the stars blink. The wind slips through the curtains of the open window, swaying them in a dance only they know.

Johnny does as he always did before he fell asleep, and it came as easy as letting that final breath go.

“...Thank you.”

538 notes · View notes

macfrog · 8 months

Text

ghost

when i wrote jet, she was always a two-parter to me. two characters, two horses, two stories. equal and distinct. you guys loved the first part so much that i figured i'd leave it as it was, but recently i hit 2k and thought this could be a cool way to mark it. think of this as jet's sister story. walks right alongside her; same universe, same joel - but still very much a standalone. she can be read with or without her predecessor. thank you a million times over for all the love y'all show me on the daily. writing for you guys is so much fun. love you all the most. 🤎🖤 dedicated to @hellishjoel whose love for this pair inspires me daily

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: your loyalty to joel - and your ability in yourself - are tested in st. louis. the reward might just be worth the risk

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) post-outbreak!joel, graphic violence, moderate threat, a horse is shot and killed (though i don't think i made this too graphic, more gutwrenching), reader and joel are separated, badass stealthy reader, near-SA (more intended than attempted), very protective & very violent joel, unprotected piv sex, like...bloodplay i guess? lil bit of consensual choking and spitting, creampie, possessive!joel, dom!joel but also softdom!joel, big fluff at the end, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), strong language. this fic is not sponsored by nike. lol.

word count: 10.1k

main masterlist

It’s been weeks. Weeks of just the two of you, shoulders brushing together, hips moving in stride. Horses parallel to one another, heads nodding in unison. The time you’ve spent without Joel since leaving the QZ amounts to a grand total of about ten minutes. What if something goes wrong? If he doesn’t cover himself properly? If you clear the building, come back, and you’re not only a horse down, but a partner, too? You’re standing by the hole in the wall, trying to convince yourself to duck under the bare brick when Joel’s urgent voice does it for you. “Go now. Now!” And you do.

St. Louis is quiet, still, but fruitless.

It’s been two long days of wandering around and you’ve found one building safe enough to camp in. One. The rest have either been inaccessible – boarded up, broken down, or otherwise already inhabited by infected – or Joel’s deemed them too close to the middle of town, too open, not safe enough.

Not safe enough in a world overrun by a brain-rotting fungal infection? you’d asked.

He shut you up with a sharp expression which you understood simply as: Enough.

It meant that you were wasting days, though. The night you arrived, Joel quickly combed the area surrounding the barber shop you were holed up in for supplies, and found none. He woke you at the crack of dawn next morning to set off, saying he didn’t like the fact nothing was around here. Meant someone had been through before you guys and taken it all.

Meant company, is what he was saying.

So you’d ridden around for – what, maybe three hours? You and Jet, following Joel and Ghost down cracked roads, under rusted street signs. Listening to the wind circle the buildings overhead, nudging traffic lights gently until they sang in distorted, off-key creaks to you. Always keeping your eye on the Gateway Arch between buildings, using it as some kind of north star – not for any reason other than you’d never seen it before up close, but when you mentioned this to Joel, his brows furrowed and he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Which meant that no, you wouldn’t be paying it a visit anytime soon.

It was mid-afternoon when Joel pulled on Ghost’s reins, brought her to a halt, and held his hand out to you. Jet huffed to a stop, and you swear you felt her cock her hip angrily at him.

“Turn back,” he muttered.

“What?”

“I said, turn back. Ain’t nothin’ out this way.”

“Turn back ‘n go where?”

He jerked his head back in the direction you’d come, swerved the reins sideways and then clicked to the black-coated horse to set off. She nodded obediently, like she knew what he was thinking and she figured he was right, and began the long walk back to the barbers.

You muttered an expletive and Joel coughed a Ha, hearing you loud and clear. So you turned to silently praying for a rainstorm, for a horde of infected, for anything you could sling an I told you so in and whip it at Joel.

You followed him, though, deliberately a good few paces behind, knowing he’d keep twisting around to check on you, and letting him fucking do it. Asshole.

When you finally arrived back at your spot, the red sun low behind the buildings and bleeding skyward into twilight, you slept with your back to him.

He didn’t seem to mind. He never seems to mind when you’re distant. You wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t even notice. He knows you’ll come back when you need something from him – want his words in your ear, want his body on yours, want…him.

The splintered sunlight through the boarded-up windows of the shop stirs you from your sleep. It wasn’t much of a sleep, despite Joel’s promise late last night that he’d let you lie for a little longer; knew you had a long day ahead if you were to get out of St. Louis, and he’d already drained your energy with the travelling yesterday.

You’d woven in and out of unconsciousness all night, dreaming of creaky farmhouses with clicking children inside, their skin torn and swollen and sprouting in swirls of pale white, singed with raw red and rotten green. And you dreamt of Joel’s shotgun blowing their moldy maws apart, blood and bone splattering across the floral wallpaper behind them.

You’re lying on your stomach, flat out on the floor with nothing but a worn comforter separating your fatigued body from the dusty tile. Joel’s out front feeding the horses on the street. You push yourself up, stretching your back, and a red-hot pain licks around your wrists.

“Motherf–”

You wince, falling onto your elbows, and your fingers link lightly around the red skin. The marks from Joel’s belt two nights ago still haven’t eased, haven’t cooled down so much as a degree. They’re still glowing, still burning, still painful.

Joel’s rugged face appears through a busted window. “Y’alright?”

“’m fine,” you mumble, turning over and examining the sores in the sunlight. The sting as your fingertips trace over the skin draws sharp tears to your eyes.

He feeds Jet the last handful of the hay you’d stocked up on and steps in from the golden morning to the dim light of the shop, dusting his hands on his jeans.

“You want more water on ‘em? Cold flannel?” he asks, avoiding the sight of your pained hands.

You shake your head. “Don’t think it’s helping.”

Eyebrows close, crease between them deep, he lowers himself with an achy groan and says, “We’ll find somewhere. You ready to go?”

You nod, tight lips blocking any words you think you’d probably regret later.

Joel helps you up, hands you a bag of beef jerky from his back pocket, and tells you to go get settled on Jet. He’ll pack up.

As you walk by him, he runs a hand from the crown of your head down to the nape of your neck. Gentle as air. And you almost fucking turn back. Almost catch his hand as it leaves your hair, almost wind your body into his. Almost.

Almost.

You follow at Ghost’s tail for another two hours, this time west instead of north. Joel turns to check on you more than he did yesterday; asks a couple times if you need more water, if you want any food. Even asks once if you need a break.

Each time, you reply with a flat, No. It seems to come from your throat more than your lips, more a grunt than an actual rounded word. Teeth locked tight around it, barely separating to let the sound through.

And each time, Joel turns back wordlessly. A mutual understanding; an unspoken agreement – as most of them are – to not talk any more than absolutely fucking necessary.

You spend most of the ride hunched over, your palms pushing heavily against the horn of Jet’s saddle. The sleeves of your jacket rolled up to stop them from brushing against your wrists.

The horse whinnies softly, and you reply to her as though she’s actually speaking. As though you can understand her thoughts, your forehead pressed lightly to the crest of her neck. You tell her you’re fine; tell her she’s doing a great job. You notice Joel’s jaw turn whenever you speak to her.

And then he whispers, “Hey,” and you lift your head, following the flick of his head to a tiny, lone pharmacy up ahead. You could fall off Jet’s back in equal parts shock and relief.

Joel winds Ghost along the road towards the building, stops by the curb outside it.

Its windows are smashed, broken glass decorating the sidewalk in front. There’s dried blood painting the white stone exterior, and empty shell casings dotted along the paved ground. You draw your eyes from the sight to look at Joel, and he’s already noticed them. He’s staring around the street, eyes darting from building to building, looking them all up and down.

The back wall inside the pharmacy is blocked, rubble and rafters hanging loose from a huge hole in the ceiling. Dusty insulation hangs between beams, and through the tears in the candy floss material, you can see the metal grate of the dispensing area. Joel sees it, too; notes it with a grumble and a click of his teeth.

“You stay here,” he tells you, dismounting Ghost.

“’n what if you get stuck in there?”

“Stuck in front of the collapsed ceiling? I ain’t gettin’ anywhere close to bein’ stuck. Stay put.”

You slide to the side, rubber-toed sneaker angling toward the ground to jump off of Jet. Joel swings back around and shoots you a look like fire on your skin.

“You got a death wish, or som’?”

“You just said you won’t get stuck. The hell’s gonna kill me in there?”

“Me, if you don’t listen to my damn instructions. Get back on the horse.”

“I ain’t off it,” you snap, a little louder than you intended. Sure, you want him to comfort you sometimes, but fuck, he pisses you off.

Joel stalks off without another word, head low between his shoulders. You hook your foot back into the stirrup and shake your head, averting your gaze to the other side of the street where the sight of an ill-tempered man-child won’t piss you off more.

The street is lined with stores and cafes, a bar on the corner with torn-up leather seats spilling out of the door like someone’s barricaded it. Your eye travels further down, where faded, moldy bunting ruffles in the wind, hooked around a traffic light.

There’s a red-brick building directly across from you, a truck with green tarpaulin parked out front. The doors to the building creak as they swing back and forth in the wind. The windows are still intact – surprising for this deep in the city. Other than that, the place looks pretty damn abandoned.

Ghost shakes her head, ears flicking. A heavy, shuddered breath jolts from her flared nostrils in the form of two white clouds, lit golden in the sunlight. She moves from foot to foot. You pat Jet gently, distracting yourself with the feel of her long, ginger mane.

You hum quietly, filling an eerie silence. Something to the beat of your heart, quickening with each second. Trying to calm the horses, calm yourself. Joel’s still wandering around inside.

You read an article once before the outbreak that said horses can smell fear on humans. It was for a school project. Said it affected their nervous system, like, made their heartrate pick up, though they never concluded whether it made the horses more afraid themselves or not.

Feeling Jet’s body weight shift from side to side as you swerve around atop her, analyzing every movement, every sound, every change in direction of the wind on this street, you figure you know the answer now.

Yeah. She feels edgy.

The wind picks up, carrying leaves across the broken road, fluttering by burnt-out cars. There’s a scuff from the store and your head shoots back to find Joel emerging from the shadows.

“Nothin’,” he mumbles, giving the street a sideways look as he walks back over to Ghost.

“Nothing I need, or nothing at all?”

He lifts his hands to take hold of her. “Nothin’ at all. Place is ransacked. Whole damn city’s –”

It all happens in the blink of an eye. One minute you’re looking at Joel, watching his lips form the words, his fingertips coming to land on the leather strap of Ghost’s bridle, and barely a heartbeat later, there’s a deafening crack from across the street.

Ghost’s body falls to the earth like she’s nothing but an inanimate sack. Her front legs buckle first, her chest crashes down towards the smooth stone, and then she’s rolling onto her left side. She’s dead before she hits the ground.

Dust and dirt are thrown skyward as she slams down, head falling heavy and still on the sidewalk.

“Ghost!” you shriek, and then you feel Joel’s hands on the sleeve of your jacket – rough. Painfully squeezing, canvas burning against your wrists.

He’s gripping the material, hauling you down to him, only you won’t let go of Jet’s reins. You’re being tossed to-and-fro atop the now-panicking horse. Ghost is bleeding from her head; thick, dark blood spilling out like tar and dripping down the curb.

You scream at Joel, fighting his grip off, eyes never leaving the black horse. But then another shot fires, ricocheting off of the ground by the pharmacy window, missing his head by less than a foot, and you fall limp.

You let him drag you off of Jet’s back and hurl you inside the pharmacy, shoving you out of view and into the dingy shadows. When you turn, you realize she’s still out there, a chestnut-colored blur as she rears and spins, fleeing from the noise. You scream her name but Joel whips around and plants his palm flat against your mouth, smothering your cry into a muffled whimper against the curve of his calloused skin.

“Shut up,” he whispers, free hand reaching into his holster for his own gun.

You drag his hand from your face, dropping it. “Jet’s still out –”

“They ain’t aimin’ for Jet,” he replies, switching the handgun into his right. “They’re aimin’ for us, and they’re gonna be down here soon. I need you to listen to me.”

“But Ghost –”

“Baby,” he says, laced with frustration and desperation and panic. Your sentence falls flat on your tongue. “Listen – to – me. Now.”

You nod, tears forming in your eyes. The horse is still lying out front; you can see her past Joel’s shoulder. You think back to your agreement: Do as you say. He’s shaking you by the shoulders, forcing you to look him in the eye, repeating those words to you. Listen to him. Focus on him. Stay alive. You don’t survive this if you don’t wake the fuck up right now.

And then he has his hands either side of your face, shaking you back to reality. “Hear me?”

“What? No, I didn’t hear. I didn’t fucking hear!”

He wastes no time chastising you. Just says it again. Calm, clear. Every word its own sharpened shape.

“I need you to move, need you to get out of here. They’re across the street, in that red building. There’s probably a gang of ‘em, right? So we gotta take ‘em out.”

“Take ‘em out? We gotta fuckin’ run, Joel! We don’t even know how many –”

“You,” his voice sounds like he’s about to break, “are gonna head out of there.”

He points past you, behind an upturned shelving unit, where there’s a small hole blown in the side of the pharmacy. Unnoticeable from outside, though if the perps across the street have ransacked this place, they’ll know it exists.

“You’re gonna make your way around the street, head low, quiet, ‘n get in the back of that building. You got it?”

“What the fuck are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna distract ‘em. I’ll cover you, alright? Just do it.”

Just do it. Just fucking do it. I tell you what to do, and you just do it, because it’s me. Because you trust me, because we’ve kept each other alive this long.

Just do it. Because right now, what the fuck else are you going to do?

Your head’s still spinning. Pulse throbbing in your ears. Lungs hammering against your chest wall for breath. You can barely think straight.

“What do I do once I’m in?”

He’s kneeling down, swinging his backpack off of his shoulders. “Take – them – out. You’ve done it before, you know what you’re doin’.”

“Real noble of you, Joel,” you hiss, taking the spare gun he offers and slipping it under the back of your jeans, “sendin’ me in alone to kill who the hell knows how many fuckin’ guys.”

You pull the switchblade he picked up from that farm in Nebraska and flick it once, letting it glint fiercely in the light from out front, then close it and place it back in your pocket, ready to hand if – and when – you need it.

Joel’s loading his rifle, unable to meet your eye. He sniffs. “Do it quiet, you hear me? Sneak up on ‘em.”

You shake your head in disbelief, feet starting to carry you over to the side of the room. Powered by adrenaline only, letting go of any emotion that might keep you inside this stupid pharmacy. Forgetting anything in you that might convince you to stay glued to Joel’s side.

Yeah, you can fucking do it. You’re not a kid. You’ve been doing this long enough.

This was life before the QZ. You were in a group then, a collective of survivors whose only interest was staying alive. At all costs. And you got good at it. You’ve told Joel about it before – you were the first wave. Whenever you came across another group – no matter if it was hunters, smugglers, fucking FEDRA – they’d send you in, alongside Mila. The two of you lightest on your feet, best with a knife in your hands.

You started to find it fun, after a while. Thrill of the chase and all that. Creeping up behind them, dragging the blade along their throat, dropping them to their knees as they choked and gargled and bled out. The two of you could clear an entire building in ten minutes, not a single bullet fired.

Mila preferred puncturing them. She’d lift her arm and bring the knife down with the weight of her entire body, sinking it into their necks, under their jaws, sometimes through their fucking temples. You’d seen that girl do some pretty fucked-up stuff.

You’d seen yourself do some pretty fucked-up stuff. Stuff that’d have you avoiding mirrors for weeks.

And none of it scared Joel away. None of it made him think twice about setting off with you.

Certainly never made him think twice about sending you on what can only be described as a suicide mission, just to rid St. Louis of a few bandits.

Doing it isn’t the problem, though, is it? You haven’t had to do it in a while, sure. Joel takes care of you well enough that you barely have to look twice at a threat before there’s a bullet, a blade, or an arrow through it. And you’re not scared, either. Not of those guys across the street.

No. You’re scared of leaving him. Parting with him.

You’re standing by the hole in the wall, trying to convince yourself to duck under the bare brick when Joel’s urgent voice does it for you.

“Go now. Now!”

And you do.

You emerge into an alleyway, concealed from the street by a rusty blue dumpster. Overgrown weeds at your feet, you stay crouched and still until you’re sure there are no eyes on you from the windows overhead.

I mean, you’d be dead by now if there were. So that’s hopeful.

You slink around the jagged metal, slow, silent. More gunshots sound from across the street, and you know Joel’s tossed them a bone. Maybe he’s shown himself – a flash of his jacket or scuff of his heel as he settles to fire back. Maybe they’ve already killed him. Who fucking knows?

At the end of the alleyway sits a black gate, bent and contorted into an archway which separates you from the street. Still covered by knee-high weeds, you kneel down onto your stomach and peer between the wiry green plant to get your first scope of the street ahead.

There’s a long-abandoned nail bar on the right, a few doors down from that bunting you spotted earlier. And right outside it, cast in shadow from the awning: a chestnut horse, saddle hanging lopsided on her back. Waiting, patiently, watching the shootout before her.

You breathe a sigh of relief. Stay there. Stay right there.

Joel’s on his knees outside the pharmacy, crouched behind a Jersey barrier. He lifts his head every thirty seconds, fires one heavy shot at the windows on the top floor of the red-bricked building, and then ducks for cover when they send a burst of erratic bullets back down to him, pelting against the concrete.

You watch for a minute, studying the pattern, and then slip back between the weeds like a lion hiding in the bushes. When Joel fires at the window, you push yourself up and make a swift run for it.

There’s a truck in the middle of the street. Black paint scraped, shot, and sun-burnt off. You take three good strides, kneeling once you’re at the tailgate. You peer around the rear of the truck, huge tires flat and melted into the broken tarmac. You spot your opening.

A gray fence faded by the sun, a few slats missing from the bottom half, guarding an overgrown yard, and, sitting wide open: the backdoor to the building.

Bingo.

It’s an easy enough route. Looks almost like someone’s laid it out for you this way, a perfect path. You wait for your signal – Joel’s gunfire – and sprint over to the fence, back flush against the rotting wood.

You pull the revolver from your jeans and open the chamber. Five bullets. Not bad. You snap it back and adjust your grip on it, finger ghosting the trigger. And then you hear them.

“The girl’s still inside,” a voice grunts from over the fence. Your blood runs cold.

“He’s gotta run out sometime. What the fuck’s Nico doing wasting bullets?”

“How often do strays come through? Let him have his fun.”

Strays. Like a little pet name. Like it’s sport for them. It pisses you off, your adrenaline channeling into rage, white hot across the nape of your neck, growing into determination to put your knife through every single one of them.

So, you return the gun, favoring your switchblade.

Old dog, new tricks. Yadda yadda.

You bend down, peering through the gap like a dog searching for scraps.

It’s just the two of them. One, standing by the door; looks about six feet tall by six feet wide, buzzcut atop a puffy face, tattooed arms hanging loose by his side. The other, pacing around the yard; when his worn jeans pass the opening in the fence, you scan up the tall figure and notice dirty blond hair, scraped back from a gaunt face into a greasy ponytail.

“And if anything hears him? Runners? Fuckin’…we ain’t ready for that.”

Neither of them seem to have a gun. Scrawny doesn’t, anyway, and if Buzzcut does, it’s not in his hands. Which gives you a few seconds’ advantage.

Once Scrawny turns away, you slip through and hook your arm around his neck, holding your knife to the spongey skin under the ridge of his jaw. Buzzcut steps forward, hands reach into his waistband. Fuck.

“Make a sound, I’ll cut him.”

It’s not hard for your voice to fall back to that pitch, that same old tone. Muscle memory. Hushed, so no one inside hears; serious, flat, not a hint of fear. Even though this guy can probably feel your heart hammering into his back.

There’s still shooting on the street. Buzzcut steps forward, pistol between his fingers, silver reflecting the sun into your eyes. He’s unsure if he should lift it or not. Unsure if he should do anything or not. There’s panic painted across his face the color of crimson. He’s not built for this stuff, and he knows it. His free hand comes up, palm forward. Half of a surrender.

Not good enough.

“Put the gun down.”

“Fucking bitch,” Scrawny mutters, wrestling around, long legs bent awkwardly as he leans into your smaller frame.

Fucking idiot, you think. He doesn’t know that this is the fun part. This is why you chose the knife, and not the gun. Blade over bullets. It’d be too easy to rip his brain apart with the squeeze of a trigger. Too quick. Nah, you want to hear him. Want to feel him writhe against you.

You let the blade sink into his whiskered neck. Ever so slightly. He hisses and settles.

“Put – the fucking gun – down.”

“Patrick,” your hostage spits, “just do it.”

Just do it.

Patrick glances down briefly and then nods, eyes flitting back to you. Your eyes stay locked on him, your grip tightens around the knife, but you deafen to the heaving of the chest under your elbow.

Just do it.

Where’s Joel? Is he alive? His voice is ringing in your ears.

Just do it.

There’s a pause between the bullets across the street. Have they hit him?

Just do it.

Patrick’s gun hits the ground with a blunt thud.

Just do it.

And then you feel it.

Searing pain, hot as fire in your upper thigh. A sharp scratch just below your hip, teeth cutting through denim and flesh, then a rutting feeling, twisting and digging and fucking burning as the knife is pushed further and further. You let an angry groan pass your lips and dig your own blade deep into his throat.

His skin bursts open like a bag of water. You pull on him, letting him sink to his knees flush against your chest. Before he’s even on the ground, you’re lurching forward, retrieving the pistol and swiping your knife at Patrick’s outstretched hand. He gasps, clutching his split palm, and then backs away a couple steps.

This time, he lifts both hands. That’s better, fucker.

“Don’t – don’t gotta –”

“Shut the fuck up,” you cut back, staring him down while his buddy writhes at your feet, taking his last few gulps of air. Fresh, warm blood seeps into the grass. Your thigh is on fire.

You edge closer to Patrick, and Patrick edges further away. Until his back is pressed against the wall, his knuckles scratching against the brick; his own blood streaming down his wrist.

“How many are in there?” you ask, head nodding to the doorway, barrel of the gun pressed into his cheek.

He gulps.

“How many?”

“Th-three. Please.”

“Where?”

“One in the h-hall. Two upstairs. Please,” he says again, and you drop the gun, leaving a white ring in his skin.

Mila would sink it in deep, right into his neck. The trapezius. Her favorite spot. She’d just plunge the knife in, push until he collapsed, and then leave him to bleed out. But this is a big guy. He’s gonna need more than that to floor him.

“Alright,” you concede, stepping forward. “Since you asked so nicely.”

You pull your arm down to your hip, knuckles white around the handle and take a fistful of his shirt with the other. Draw him in real close, and angle the blade to the sky, shoving it up under his chin. Nice ‘n snug.

It glides through his skin like it’s butter, and you catch the butt of the knife in your palm, pushing further up. You watch as his eyes widen, his pupils focus on yours long enough to take the memory of your face with him – and then they relax, roll back to check out the metal intrusion behind them.

Patrick gargles, chokes on blood and blade, then gasps as you haul it back out, bright red gushing down his front.

His body folds, both hands come up to cup his torn jaw, and with one kick which cracks into his knees, he’s flat on his face, breathing in dirt and grass and…the blood of his buddy.

“You’re welcome, Patrick,” you breathe, limping over him to enter the building.

Shots are firing again upstairs. It’s dark, your eyes take a few seconds to adjust, but you’re in a derelict store. Place is empty, probably looted by these assholes.

Patrick told you there was one guy in the hall, which you assume is through the door sat ajar on your left. Patrick, however, was most likely a liar. And even if he was telling the truth, you don’t know what this place looks like. You have no idea when or where you’ll come across this one guy.

The only things you have on you are your gun and your knife. So you open the revolver again, your trembling fingers fish one bullet out, and you toss it, aiming for the sliver of light between the door and its frame.

It rattles through, rolling over the solid floor.

“Patrick?” a voice calls, and footsteps begin to approach. “Tucker?”

You duck behind a battered, empty shelf.

A third guy, long brown hair tangled across his shoulders, thick beard patchy with white and gray, pushes the door open and sidles in.

“Pat–”

You’re on him before he can finish his pal’s name, same way you jumped Scrawny – now Tucker, out there. Your blade glides across his throat and he buckles, much quicker than his predecessor outside did. You settle him face down on the tile floor, nodding to him as some twisted form of a thank-you, and slip out of the room, swinging down to collect your bullet as you go.

Patrick, as it turns out, was not a liar. The bottom floor of the house is empty. You’re in a long, narrow hallway. A bloodstained runner at your feet. There are muffled voices upstairs – roaring, cursing. The sunlight streaming in through the arch-shaped window on the front door draws you nearer.

Your breathing is labored, with stress, exhaustion, and pain. Your thigh throbs under your jeans, pain shooting like lightning from the wound anytime you put weight on it. You drag yourself to the bottom of the stairs.

More shots. You swear they’ve only been coming from this building for the last five minutes. Where the fuck is Joel?

You lift your foot hesitantly, hovering over the first step. Don’t fuck this up now. You line it up, applying your weight bit by bit until you’re pushing up off the floor with a whimper, balancing on one leg, bracing for the inevitable creak of the wood.

Nothing.

You’re about to step onto the second, when the door behind you bursts open. Light screams into the hallway, shining on you like a spotlight, and three huge figures stumble in the doorway.

“Wh–? That’s the bitch on the horse!”

You throw yourself up the stairs desperately, taking them two – three at a time, but a pair of fists are in your hair, dragging you back down to the man they belong to. You cry out, swinging around, and catch him square on the nose with your elbow. He swears, retreating only momentarily, before looking you dead in the eye, blood pouring down his lips.

“Fucking – cunt,” he seethes, arms darting out to reach up for you.

His attempt is short-lived, for a number of reasons.

First: you kick his chest before he can grab you, sending him hurtling back down where he came from.

Second: one of the two Patrick said would be up here is at the top of the stairs now, taking you by the shoulders and hauling you up.

And third: Joel just opened fire downstairs.

The bullets pelt around the hallway, coming from the side you just snuck in through. He must’ve followed you across the street.

The last thing you see as you’re dragged off into another room is the three of them ducking for cover, and then you’re being flung onto a cold, dusty floor, knocking the wind out of your lungs and the revolver from your waistband. You roll over and groan, staring up at two men standing over you.

One of them – the one whose vice grip dragged you in here – is big and bulky. Like a brick wall. You realize you’ve no chance of getting by him. His fists are clenched, face reddened, black beady eyes boring into yours. Then he lurches forward, steals the gun from the floor beside you, and points it at you. The safety’s still fucking on.

The other looks younger, but still built. Toned. His shoulders swell in the green canvas jacket he’s wearing, patches on the sleeves. Short, black hair, face sculpted and smooth, chin hairless. Lips pursed as he surveys you, tosses over what to do.

“Cute little game you were playin’, down there,” he muses. “Took out half my guys.”

“Wasn’t that hard,” you pant in reply, “you’re all fucking idiots.”

You can hear Joel fighting off the rest of them, grunts and growls of pain echoing up the stairs. You don’t know which are him and which are them, and it sends fleets of panic through your chest, tightening your breath.

“Sounds like your man’s losing.”

You laugh, masking your fear with a roll of your eyes, head leaning back. “I don’t think so.”

The two men look at each other. The black-haired one nods down to you, then turns on his heel. “Do what you want to her,” he tells Brick Wall, bored, and begins walking away.

A repulsive smile pulls on the man’s lips as he glares down at you. Putrid pink cheeks swell, eyes disappear. Your heels dig against the floorboards, beginning to push yourself in a dizzy haze backwards as his huge, beefy hand reaches down for your waistband.

Something of a scream, warped by the way your body so quickly jumps away from him, escapes your throat, but it only makes him laugh. Your hand slips up inside your sleeve, fingers clutch the cold metal handle of your blade. It flicks open under the fabric, and, just as the noise draws the attention of the man now fumbling with the button of your jeans, you take one good swipe and cut through his forearm. One clean slice, separating skin and soaking the tip of your knife in his blood.

He hisses, stumbles backwards two steps, clutching his arm. You throw yourself to your feet, backing into the corner opposite.

“Nico!” Brick Wall cries out, and the canvas jacket spins to face you.

You clutch your knife, hunched, panting. The room slowly tilts, resetting every time you blink, then begins rotating again.

Nico laughs, pulling a gun of his own and aiming it straight at your face. It’s a nightmare – two on one, both of them armed. But it’s better than what was about to fucking happen.

“Fucking – bitch,” Nico snarls.

“Y’all keep saying that,” you utter, eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun, “I don’t get it. I’m goin’ easy on you here.”

“You’re gonna fuckin’ get it,” Nico spits, apparently not paying enough attention.

The building’s silent. The fighting’s stopped downstairs. And there are no loud footsteps making their way up here, which means one thing.

There’s a quieter, deadlier threat on his way up.

A brutal shot fires from the hallway, taking your breath with it, and Brick Wall’s body flops to the floor. Bullet hole in his temple. Spray of blood across the wall. Only three beating hearts left in the building.

Nico seems to gasp, whether from fright or the way he lunges toward you, wrapping a tight, choking arm around your neck and holding the gun to your temple, both of you waiting for Joel to materialize for two very different reasons.

His figure creeps around the doorway, footsteps slow and soft. His eyes flit over yours, shoulders hunched, rifle aimed ahead. Your breath lets go in one huge, shaky gasp, feeling your muscles relax.

“I’ll do it,” Nico hisses, panic strung through his voice tighter than the bow of a violin. “One wrong move and she’s dead, asshole.”

Joel shrugs. “Do it.”

Nico doesn’t move. He shakes your body, pushes the gun harder into your skin.

Joel looks you dead in the eye. “Do – it.”

Your fingers run over the handle of your knife, lowering it until you have a good enough grip to lock your fist and tilt the blade, lifting your right arm and hammering it backwards, stabbing deep into Nico’s side.

Your head leans to the right as he screams out; he falls to the left. And Joel takes his shot.

Nico’s hand bursts open, blood spraying everywhere. The revolver is thrown from his grip, rattling against the floor as your fist takes one good swing across his jaw and then you fall apart from one another – you, rocking into the steady weight of Joel’s body, and Nico, collapsing against a desk.

Joel catches you in his arms and straightens you up, shifting you to aim his gun back at the threat – though there’s not much about him that warrants such a name anymore. He’s slumped against the dark wood, dark stain seeping through his shirt, head rolled back and groaning. One hand cupping what’s left of the other, blood snaking through his fingers and down his hand like vines on a tree trunk. He looks…pathetic.

Joel fires another shot at him without fucking looking; it lands in Nico’s thigh, and he screams. Mouth full of blood and loose teeth, it’s a gargled, drowned howl of pain.

“They try somethin’?” the fierce drawl asks you, brows low, eyes dark. You know what he’s talking about. The button of your jeans is undone.

You want to say, It’s fine, I’m fine. You want to tell Joel to leave Nico to bleed out. He’s the last one, he’ll be dead inside of ten minutes. You want to go, want to climb onto Jet’s back and let her carry your weak, limp body as far from here as her legs will gallop, and then, once she’s rested, further.

But Joel won’t hear any of that, you know it. Won’t leave this little son of a bitch to slip into a half-conscious drowse, the dripping of his own blood ticking down the seconds he has left while the sound of Jet’s hooves fading into the distance lulls him to hell.

He knows you. Joel. He can read lies on your lips like they’re words scrawled into your skin, so that’s a waste of time, too.

You nod. Joel’s jaw locks. And his eyes flood black like ink.

He hands you the rifle, pulls his arms out of his backpack, and paces over to Nico. The bloody, injured figure begins to back up, push himself further away from Joel, who’s reaching down for something.

“Look, man,” Nico heaves, “you gotta see it from our point of v-view. You guys came walkin’ into our territory, you – you…”

There’s the sound of metal dragging across the bare floorboards, vibration strong enough that it rattles your entire body. You turn away, figuring you don’t need to see him pummel a man to death with a broken pipe.

You hear it, though. Every grunt from Joel, every cry from his victim. Every time the pipe bludgeons into him, the wet squelch of warm flesh and blood meeting cold, rusting metal. You wander off to the other side of the room, closing your eyes.

It’s like a pattern – like the shooting from earlier. Joel sucks in breath as he lifts the pipe above his head, groans as he hurtles it down. There’s the blunt sound, a ding almost of the metal whacking against Nico’s skull, the splatter of blood bursting. And repeat. Deep breath as the pipe winds back – groan as it uppercuts through the dusty air, crack of bone breaking when it makes contact.

Finally, he stops. Takes three deep breaths. Drops his weapon. You turn.

The limp body lies at his feet, a dent the size of Texas in the globe of his skull. Olive skin now splattered red, face unrecognizable. Blood pouring out of somewhere – everywhere in his head, circling his body in a thin, fast-moving pool.

Joel’s staring at you when your eyes lift. Sweat glistening on his forehead, lips apart. Shoulders tight. You’re standing face to face, both of your breathing heavy and labored. Exhausted. And yet…you fucking need him.

You take one step forward and suddenly Joel’s advancing, too, hands out to meet you when you collide into him. Your fingers scram for his collar, ripping his jacket from his shoulders while he messily tears apart the waist of your jeans.

His weight bears down on top of you and he pushes you to the floor, following you down. The floorboards are dirty, coated in a thick layer of dust disturbed by the scuffle you just had, and glazed by the blood of those who lost. You sit up only long enough to remove your jacket before Joel’s pinning you down, unbuckling his own jeans and taking a grip of yours.

You flinch when he tugs on the waistband, and he pauses. Looks up, watches your expression twist. Then follows your eyeline, down to your thigh, where the fresh stab wound oozes thick, dark blood.

Joel slowly peels your jeans down your legs and over the gash. When they pool loose around your knees, you bend them, angling your broken skin in the sunlight. It’s swollen, the cut, reddened and raw. Flesh dragged back and forth, torn and ripped around the edges. You can’t even feel the pain of it anymore, only a prickling heat leading up to the ridges of your broken skin.

And so, when Joel’s fingers run through the air directly above it, and he mutters something about cleanin’ you up, you grunt. Straighten your legs. Pull him by the shoulders back down to you. Reply with a rushed whisper, a Hurry the fuck up.

And he listens; he unbuckles his own jeans, sags them low on his hips, and bends your knees at his shoulders. His cock is already stiff, bead of precum at his wide tip, which he dips between your folds to collect your slick, and then fists himself slowly.

Hurryhurryhurry “– the fuck up,” you groan, watching your wet glisten off the smooth skin of his shaft.

He smirks, then pushes straight in.

Your head hits the floor, eyes rolling with it as he fills you up. His face buries between your breasts, voice muffled by the material of the fabric when he lets out an open-mouthed moan. You both adjust to the feeling – the stretch and the tightness – and then, with a couple more shallow thrusts, Joel begins really fucking you.

He drags his forehead up to yours, sweat mixing where your skin touches. Your jaw clenched; you’re hissing every time he hits that sweet spot inside of you. Holding onto him by the shoulders as he rocks his hips forward, pushing you closer and closer to your first release.

Joel lifts his hand, placing it flat on the floor above your head to steady himself. Then, he quickly glances up at it, an unusual look on his face. You crane your neck and follow his eyeline to find his hand gleaming wet with blood. Bright red. Fresh.

It’s the guy he shot. Bullet wound peering out from the other side of the desk you’re lying next to; his blood has travelled across the uneven flooring.

Joel studies his palm intently, thrusts slowing down some. His face looks…puzzled? As if he’s never had to physically encounter the result of him and his bullets. As if he doesn’t know where to put his hand, now that it’s covered in that result.

You do, though. You know exactly where you want him to put it.

You take his wrist in both hands and draw his gaze down to you. The blood drips from his almost trembling palm down your fingers.

His expression changes – softens, when he sees you looking up at him, watching him from under hooded lids. And then it darkens, when you pull his palm flat against your neck, and the red fluid stains your throat.

You can feel the warm wet between Joel’s skin and yours – the same warmth on the back of your head, creeping through your hair as it seeps further across the floorboards. You’re both covered in blood and dirt, anyway. Joel seems to consider the same, and his grip tightens.

His thumb and forefinger pinch, cutting into your windpipe. Your vision falters for a second, Joel blinks out of focus, and a tiny wave of euphoria crashes over your body. A sick grin pulls across your lips, mirrored in Joel’s.

He releases you and you gasp, oxygen surging through your throat like a burst of water in a dried-up pipe. You let go of his wrists to run your blood-soaked fingers across his face, through his hair. He’s still fucking you hard, and you need something to ground you as white-hot heat pools rapidly between your legs, and a knot begins to tighten.

“You like that?” Joel grunts, driving his hips harder.

“Mhm,” you reply, mouth falling open in a silent gasp when his tip punches into your cervix. The edges of the world start to whiten.

“You’re mine, you hear?” he says through gritted teeth. “Belong to me.”

You’re nodding, throat tossing out an, Uhuh.

“Ain’t no one gets this but me, h-uh?”

Joel’s hand is back around your neck, this time taking either side of your jaw between his fingers, keeping your eyes trained on his. Whatever the fuck makes you do it – the look in his eye, silently commanding, or maybe your own fucking desperation – you’re not sure. But you open your mouth wider, rest your tongue on your bottom lip, and plead with your eyes for him to do it.

So, he does.

His jaw slackens and a bead of spit falls from his mouth into yours. He watches as it lands on your tongue and you run it along your lips, coating yourself in him, before swallowing it.

Joel groans, lets a staggered, “F-fuck, baby,” pass his lips.

You smile in return, filthy, but needy, and beginning to crash hard as your orgasm bursts through you.

He fucks you through it, pace never faltering, still stringing wet saliva between your lips as he kisses you. You pull away when it becomes too much, burying your head in his shoulder and biting down on his shirt.

“Yeah,” he coaxes you, “that’s it. Fuck. Nice ‘n tight, baby.”

As soon as the room starts to return to your vision, the feeling back in your body, you’re rolling him over. Ignoring the burn of the wound in your thigh, you push him back down and straddle him, his cock still deep inside.

You roll your hips lazily, fingers coming down to toy with your clit as Joel stretches you even more from this angle. He groans, hands finding home tight on your hips, head rolling back. He bucks his hips and your free hand steadies yourself on his chest.

“Faster, baby,” he says, trying to move you with his hands.

“No,” you hum, “we go slow. I want to go slow.”

He grunts, pissed off. Good. Keep him that way.

You begin to slowly bounce, pads of your fingers drawing circles over your swollen clit, almost hurting with overstimulation.

“Tell me what you did downstairs,” you whisper, eyes falling shut.

“Downstairs?” Joel asks in a broken voice.

“Mhm. What did you do to ‘em?”

He catches on. “Shot one of ‘em under the jaw.”

You shake your head. “Next.”

“Ch-choked one of them out.”

“No. Not him.”

You want blood. You want Joel’s fists wrapped around someone’s vital organs. You want the sound of your screams in his ears, whether they were really there or not, driving him to commit acts so heinous he won’t look you in the eye when he confesses them.

That’s what you want: him to confess them.

“One of ‘em had a Bowie…” he breathes, knowing what you’re looking for.

You fall forward with a deep moan. “That’s it. Him.”

“…hangin’ from his belt. Shot his leg, right above his knee –”

You moan again, sighing as you sink down on his cock and that feeling creeps over you again.

“– then took the knife.”

“He on the floor?”

“He got up. He – fuck – he stood up, ‘n I put it between his shoulders.”

“Fuck, yeah?”

“Yeah. Ripped ‘im apart, baby.”

You cry out in pleasure, bouncing up and down faster and faster the more the image replays in your head. You’re leaning forward, hovering over Joel as your skin slaps against his every time his hard length fills you. Fucking him to the thought of him slaughtering anyone who posed any threat to you. Those guys didn’t make it upstairs, you’re not even sure they got a good look at you before you were hauled away. But Joel tore them limb from limb at just the possibility.

“Did he – did he scream?”

“Yeah, he fuckin’ screamed.”

Your head drops between your shoulders, hands splayed on either side of Joel’s head, and his fingers knot in your hair. He pulls your forehead against his again, whispering into your mouth.

“Begged me not to do it,” he hums, and you’re thrown over the edge for the second time.

Your hips stop moving to allow space for your high; a second blinding, screaming orgasm ripples through you. You’re gasping now, fingers clutching for Joel, but he’s already moving again.

He slips out from underneath you and lets you down gently on your front, taking your hips and pulling them up to him as he positions himself behind you. And then, without a second’s hesitation, he’s back inside you, chasing his own high. Your back arches as he fucks you, chest flat against the floor.

There’s blood fucking everywhere. On your clothes, in your hair, on the floor beneath you, streaming down your thigh. The entire room smells of it – that suffocating, sickly sweet bite of iron. The bitterness so thick that it coats your lungs with every desperate pant of breath.

And finally, fucking – finally, all the adrenaline and momentum is brought to a climax when Joel releases deep inside you, and you feel yourself contract around him as a third orgasm pulses through you. Your cunt swollen, aching, you almost don’t feel it, but for the way your legs give as soon as he stills inside you.

He’s groaning, borderline fucking whining, before he draws out of you and slumps down beside you on the floor. You’re both staring at one another, almost afraid to touch each other – as if you’re made of glass. Fragile. Breakable.

Yeah. You’re his. And he fucks you like you’re his, like your only purpose is to relieve his stress, tire out his anger, but then…then he looks at you like this, the sunlight twinkling in his warm eyes, dust falling over him like snow. Then he shifts the hair from your face so he can take a proper look at you, study every detail on your face – the cracks in your lips, the curve of your nose. And you know you’re so much more than that to him.

Always have been. Always will be.

You lean over and run your fingers across his cheek, dried blood the color of wine all over your hands. Joel lies still, places a soft kiss to the pad of your thumb when it touches his lips. Your nails sift through his beard. His eyes close over, laying in the comfortable stillness as you trace his face, delicately drawing from his dark brows down to the patches of skin between the graying hair on his jawline.

He doesn’t move when you push yourself up and roll over onto his chest. Doesn’t flinch when you press your mouth to his neck, running from the bottom of his ear up to the tip of his chin.

And when you bring your lips up to meet his, he kisses you back.

His hand sneaks through your hair to the crown of your head and he sits up, rolling you onto your back and caging you underneath him, teeth grazing along your bottom lip, asking it to part. His tongue slips inside, wet and warm and comforting against yours. Your fingers lace at the back of his head, your own cradled in his hands on the hardwood.

It’s like he’s starving. Like he’s been holding off on doing this, for whatever reason. And now that you’ve been the one to open the floodgates – fucking, destroy them – everything comes rushing to the surface. Every time he wanted to, and didn’t. Every time he was buried inside you, and purposefully held his jaw apart from yours. Every minute he’s spent since he met you, without his lips on yours. It all comes rocketing up.

And before it gets too heated, before he begins winding that coil again, he’s pulling away. Lips leaving yours, noses bumping together as they part. You smile, and Joel breathes a laugh for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey.”

You glance down at his flannel: stained with dirt, with sweat, with blood. It brings you down a little from your sun-kissed, golden-rayed eutopia. You suck in a deep breath, and his finger hooks under your chin to lift your face to his.

“Should get that leg covered.”

You nod, and he pulls up off of you, letting you sit up. He wanders around the room, checking the backpacks of Nico and his guys, and pulls some gauze and a bottle of alcohol from a side pocket.

He kneels slowly by your side, offers you the white pad. You shake your head. He has to do it. You don’t know why, don’t know what’s stopping you from wrapping your own wound – something you’ve done hundreds of times by now. But it has to be Joel.

He tips the bottle over the dressing, dousing it in alcohol, and settles it carefully on the floor by your hip. You look at one another, a Ready? and a No, but do it anyway pass across your gaze.

The clear fluid seeps from the pad down his hands, thinning the bloodstains and dragging them in light orange streaks down to his wrist. And when your eyes are distracted, watching the stream of blood and alcohol, he presses the gauze to your thigh.

“Fuck – you,” you stammer, eyes screwing tight enough that you see stars.

“I know,” Joel breathes, and pushes the gauze down harder. Firmer. It shoots heat up your leg, flashes the image of that plank of wood named Tucker who stabbed you across your mind. Your teeth grit, the tendons in your neck leap.

Still holding the pad to your skin, Joel winds a dressing around your thigh. He knots it, gives it a little tug, and then sits back on his heels.

“Okay?”

You tilt your head, lift your eyebrows in form of a Yeah. A half-truth – it feels better to have it covered, but fuck is it stinging. You lift a roll of spare bandage and wrap your wrists.

Joel nods, and then passes you your jeans.

“We should go,” he tells you. Then, softer, kinder, “Gotta go back to the pharmacy. Still supplies in the…”

You push yourself to your feet, unable to listen to the end of his sentence. Ghost was carrying most of your food. The map is still in her saddlebag. Ammo, too. The thought of seeing her again turns your stomach, and Joel seems to figure.

“Why don’t you head out back, go get Jet? I’ll grab everything.”

You stare down at him. Your head shakes before words filter through it. You don’t want to be apart from him again. Not today, at least.

He seems to figure that, too. He nods once, then stands with a low grunt. He fixes his jeans, shrugs his jacket back over his shoulders, and his hand finds the nape of your neck again. He pulls you nearer him, your lips brush against the shoulder of his jacket, and then you split, grabbing your supplies and searching the room for any that these assholes might’ve left to you.

When your pockets are full, you limp at Joel’s heels down the stairs and outside, glancing down the street. The silhouette of a horse slowly meanders back over to you, head bobbing, hooves clicking across the asphalt. Show’s over.

Joel stops and waits for her to approach, lets you bury your face into her strong body when she reaches you.

You squeeze your eyes shut against her muzzle, your forehead between her glossy eyes, and hope the message finds a way through flesh and bone – strong enough and sincere enough to push its way through your skull to hers. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Joel’s hand leaves your back and he walks slowly over to the pharmacy.

Your hands run over Jet’s soft mane, combing her gently, reassuring her as if she’s the one covered in blood, bruised and pained. You hook a finger around her bridle and follow Joel.

As you slowly approach, he’s emerging from the shadows of the pharmacy, a backpack in each hand. He reaches the same curb you were stood on less than an hour ago, and looks up to check on you. Your stomach lurches, glancing down to his boots.

There she is. Black coat shining, chest not moving. Legs splayed out on the road. Pool of blood around her velvety soft ears. She seemed so lean, so fit and graceful when she was on all fours. Now, lying in a heap in the shade of some barren street, she looks huge and clumsy. It makes your eyes swell with tears.

You shift with Jet, turning her to avert her gaze. It’s stupid; she’s a horse. How would she know what’s going on? But then, the way she’s breathing – soft, quiet. It’s like – it’s like she fucking knows.

Joel does it gently – kneels beside Ghost, searches in each pocket for your belongings. He knows your eyes are on him. He pulls a box of bullets and the folded-up map from the bag, slips them into his jacket pocket. Collects the tins of soup and canned fruit in one hand, standing to roll them into Jet’s bag.

He turns to you. “You got your switchblade?”

You nod, and he holds his hand out. You drop the heavy knife into his palm, and he bends back down to Ghost’s side.

He uses your blade to cut the bridle by the corner of her mouth, slicing through the leather running from the bit up to the headpiece. Then pulls it apart, a single strap with a tiny buckle still attached, a silver hoop at one end.

He reaches for your backpack, drags it across the rough ground, and knots one of the canvas ties through the silver hoop of Ghost’s bridle. Triple knots it, to make sure it won’t budge. And then he leans back, surveys his handiwork, and turns to gain your approval.

You can’t do much more than nod, tears dappling down your raw cheeks.

When he’s sure he’s got everything, Joel passes you your backpack, slings his on, and then kneels by her side one last time. He places a gentle palm on her head, runs his hand down her muzzle. Sniffs.

A thank-you, you think. A Farewell, brave girl.

He stands again, turns back to you. Waits for you to decide it’s time to move on.

“I can’t do it…” you whisper, and Joel nods, taking a step closer. “I don’t want to leave her.”

And then you’re sobbing, and he’s taking hold of your shoulders and pulling you into his arms, and your cries are muffled by the soft fabric of his shirt. You wrap yourself close around him, bury deeper into his chest, and Joel tightens his grip. The steady beat of his heart pulls you back down, grounds you. You match your breathing with his and pull away.

You approach Ghost shakily, then crouch, fix her mane out of her eyes, scratch her silky ears one last time, and let her go.

Joel’s face is tight when you turn back. Eyebrows low. You bite the inside of your cheek as you pass him, and then hoist yourself up onto the brown horse’s back.

He pulls himself up in front and leans back into you, head cocked to wait for your signal. You snake your arms around his waist and feel a delicate hand rest on top of yours, interlaced on his belt buckle. His thumb traces your knuckles, and when you lean your ear between his shoulder blades, he clicks to Jet.

The horse swerves off, beginning your long journey out of the city.

----------

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ilguna · 7 months

Text

☼ between life and death (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; Finnick saves your life on the first day of the games, asking you to be his ally because he wants to keep his eye on the biggest threat in the arena.

warnings; swearing, fighting, blood mention, death, death mention, gore.

wc; 8.9k

–

The platform moves slowly to bring you to the surface of the arena.

You tilt your head back, squinting through the darkness as your eyes adjust to the sudden light. You find large trees hanging overhead, blocking the sun. The further you come out of the ground, the more you’re able to see.

A strong breeze pushes the hair out of your face for you. The golden Cornucopia sits tall in the middle of this small meadow. You don’t think you’ve ever seen the Gamemakers put the tributes so close together before. This must’ve been their only option.

You shuffle on your metal plate to look behind you, being careful to not set off the explosive connected to it. You’re met with a thick forest, a smile creeps at the corner of your lips. You couldn’t have asked for anything better, this is exactly what you were hoping for.

This is less about the placement of the Cornucopia, and more about what surrounds it. In a forest like this, so tightly packed, it’ll be easy to lose someone in them. The bushes and tall grass clumped together at the base of the trees offer concealment for prying eyes. And with how small the meadow is, it makes for an easy escape for an intruder.

Like you, for example.

You would be with the Careers, only they didn’t want you in the alliance. It has something to do with your young age. You promised them that you’d be useful, but they were more worried about your maturity. They didn’t care about your score, they were focused on your ability to shut up and do what you’re told.

You aren’t interested in being bossed around. You’re not their errand girl. You tried to appeal to them by making your tribute partner tell them about your ranking back home in the academy, that you are the top of your class, all the way up to the seventeen year-olds. When they weren’t interested, you didn’t push your luck.

You don’t care that much about being with them. You’re pretty confident that you can win this by yourself. They’ll just have to watch their back. If you wanted, you could attack them one night. It doesn’t have to be today, it probably won’t even be in the next week, but when you’re ready, you could strike like a python, and be gone in the weeds.

They could get lost in these trees trying to find out. It can’t be that hard to get turned around.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games begin!”

With the announcement, you turn back to the Cornucopia. You have sixty seconds to figure out what you’re going to grab, and which direction you’re going to run in, after.

In the meadow, hidden in the flourishing grass and the bright flowers, are a number of items that could help you win. The further away from the mouth, the worse it is. Which means they don’t have any weapons out here. If you want them, you have to get in close, risk the danger of running across other tributes.

If you were anyone else, with a low rank in the academy and an even worse training score, you wouldn’t consider it. Your age alone is a death certificate here. However, you are neither weak nor unskilled. That’s why you’ll be joining them in the bloodbath.

What you want is a backpack, and a weapon you can actually use, at the very least. Swords are usually too heavy for you to use, but something similar, like a machete, will work. It’s not as thick, the Capitol doesn’t make them out of pure metal. Just the blade, and the handle.

The tributes that surround you, are what you’d consider nobodies. It’s further down the line, do the faces become vaguely important. The four other Careers are spread healthily apart, two of them being behind the Cornucopia all together. This means you only have two to worry about fighting.

If you’re quick enough, you won’t have to do that entirely.

You bounce on your toes slightly, moving side to side as you watch the time tick down. In ten seconds, the gong will sound and it’ll be a free for all. You have to remember that your goal is to get in and out with what you want. You’re not worried about getting kills under your belt, that can be done later on.

You can feel your heart like a drum on the inside of your chest, as you take deep breaths to prepare yourself, leaning forward. You’ve got this. There’s no question about it. This is what you were trained for.

The exact second the gong sounds, you’re the first off of the platform. You sprint for the green backpack that’s leaned up against a box on the right. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see two other people that have the same idea as you.

Unfortunately for them, you make it there first. In one fluid motion, you get your arm through the strap and fling it onto your back. You jump over the box, heading a few steps further in, swiping a knife and a machete. When you turn around to make your escape, you’re met face to face with your tribute partner.

You intentionally slam your shoulder into his stomach, a new tactic you learned to get taller people away from you. It works for those who aren’t expecting it, but he’s seen you do the trick a hundred times in the mock Games back home. He wrestles you to the ground, already pulling at the backpack.

“Damn it, Hunter!” You shout, “Get off!”

“I told you not to come here.” He tells you, as if you’re some child. “I told you we’d kill you.”

“You’re not doing anything.” You draw your knee up to put between you two, slashing at him with the knife. He dodges it, giving you more room to swing your leg up and kick him back.

You scramble to your feet, almost tripping in the process. You take a step to run, and he grabs the only foot on the ground, yanking it. You fall flat on your stomach, face screwing angrily.

That’s it.

You can hear him behind you, you squeeze the knife in your hand. You didn’t want to kill him, but if this is what he wants, then you insist. You push up to your knees, twisting around, blade out to make a wide cutting motion. He grabs your wrist, you spring up, swinging your arm under his armpit and behind his neck.

Once again, this takes you down to the grass. He manages to get the knife out of your hand in the process. You fall on top of him, hand in a fist, barreling down at his throat, never minding his face. He tries to catch you, but he misses. You land the punch, feeling the area cave.

He chokes, eyes wide. You jerk forward, grabbing the knife only a foot away. You pin his wrist down with your foot, drawing the knife back, and slamming it into his neck. Before you’ve even removed the blade, blood begins to pool in the area. You yank it out, search for your machete, which is closer than you thought it would be.

You retrieve it, glancing behind you to see that the other tributes are caught up in their own struggles to pay attention to what you’ve just done. With that, you turn to the forest behind the Cornucopia, running into the trees.

The entirety of District Two just watched you murder the one person that’s supposed to be on your side. As well as every sponsor that had their bets placed on your older counterpart. And not to mention the academy, where you were trained and specifically told not to harm your tribute partner because it makes you seem aggressive and greedy.

There’s nothing you can do about it now.

When you think you’ve cleared the first mile, you set a slower pace for yourself to run, wanting to put as much distance as possible between you and the Cornucopia. When the bloodbath is done, the Careers will take an hour to collect themselves, and then they’ll set out to find whoever they can.

Or maybe they won’t, they’re down to three. If they had four, you’re sure they’d be more comfortable. With Hunter being dead, and them outcasting you and the boy from Four because of your ages, their abilities are limited. They’re not as big of a threat as they could be.

It might mean that they’d be willing to recruit new members. You’ve seen them do it in the past. You’re not sure they’d come crawling to your feet exactly, but you’d be an option because of your training. However, if they saw what you did to Hunter, you’re a different sort-of target.

They have so many people to worry about in here, that it could be days before they finally come after you.

That’s one of the perks of being fourteen, you suppose.

It’s hours later when the first cannon comes through, signaling the deaths from the bloodbath. It’s always baffled you how long the fights drag on there. It felt like you were there for only a couple minutes, and yet, it could’ve been up to thirty. Just you and Hunter wrestling on the ground.

You come to a stop, the muscles in your legs aching. You breathe deeply in through your nose, and out through your mouth. The cannons fire one at a time, with enough space in between for you to think. This year, it goes on until it reaches ten. One of those deaths is by your hands.

You swing the bag off of your shoulder, sliding behind a tree to crouch and dig through your goodies. You pull it out one at a time: a pack of crackers, a bag of dried meat, a small bottle of iodine, a firestarter, a plastic bottle with a cap for water, a decent amount of rope, and a thin sleeping bag.

You rest your elbows on your knees, biting your cheek while you stare at your new belongings. This is a very good start, almost too good to be true. You carefully place everything back into the bag, as well as the knife, because you have your machete to use if need be.

You zip it up, pulling it onto your bag.

With miles put between you and the Careers, you feel comfortable enough to walk for the rest of the day. You continue straight, keeping an eye out for any other tributes that might have traveled in the same direction. It’s a waste of energy, though. These trees are placed tightly together, anyone could be hiding out here and you wouldn’t know until you’re practically on top of them.

You were hoping that the forest would thin out the further you go. You should’ve known better. When you get what you ask for, there’s always a catch that comes with it. You can’t complain, you’ll take whatever you can get.

You hum an upbeat tune from home, usually used to taunt others. Last night, when you were talking to Hunter about a possible secret alliance with him, he shot you down. He tried to tell you that you would die in here, and he wouldn’t be surprised if you were one of the first to go.

It’s funny how karma works, isn’t it? He’s the one that had to be airlifted out of the arena, not the girl that should’ve lost the fight. He’s the one getting his throat stitched to make him presentable for his family at home. He’s the one that’ll be lowered into the ground in a box in a couple days.

While that happens, you’ll still be kicking and fighting every second of the day.

The ground begins to slope upwards. At the bottom, you look up the hill, and see that the top isn’t that far away. It’ll give you a good vantage point, maybe you’ll be able to see over the trees you’ve been in for the past four hours.

You wipe the sweat from your forehead, watching it glisten on the side of your hand before rubbing it on the side of your pants. The hill becomes steep and irritating—the dirt is loose and you slip several times—but it’s worth it once you’ve reached the top.

Well, you had the right idea for the most part. Except, the way you just came is completely hidden by branches and leaves. You can’t even make out where the Cornucopia is, which is practically unheard of. No matter where a tribute is in the arena, the golden horn is almost always visible, or easy to find.

You’re not heartbroken over the Cornucopia, in fact, you forget about it the second you turn around and see the other side of the hill. There’s more trees, of course, but these woods aren’t densely populated, you can actually see what’s over here. And your eyes lock on the river that runs on the far side of the arena.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, squinting at the water. It’s far, if you had to guess, it’s somewhere around fifteen miles away. It’s going to be a long walk, one that you’re not entirely sure you can make today. If you ran, it could probably take less time, but you’ve got tonight to worry about, and all of tomorrow.

If you tire yourself out today, you’ll be screwed. You shade your eyes, looking up to find where the sun is positioned. There’s a good six hours until sunset, you can spend half that time going in the direction of the river, and the other half finding a safe spot to sleep. That way, by the time the Fallen plays, you’ll be someplace safe.

With that plan in place, you begin down the hill, still humming to yourself. It’s lively on this side, it’s not nearly as quiet. The birds chirp to one another above you. The bushes will rustle each time a rabbit darts in and out. You won’t have to worry about hunting animals, at least. They’re keeping relatively close to the water source, which is good news.

The problem is that the other tributes, especially the Careers, will pick up on this. You weren’t planning on setting up a permanent camp anyway, but it’s definitely out of the question now. Once you get in close tomorrow, you’ll spend the rest of the day finding an area that looks boring enough to skip over searching.

It’s during this part of the walk, do you really begin to feel hot. You swing the bag off of your shoulder, unzipping your jacket and stuffing it into your bag. The relief is immediate, the breeze is able to properly caress your skin, cooling you down. The sunlight is still relentless. With these trees being further apart, shadows aren’t consistent. You walk in the shade as much as you can, and cross your fingers you won’t end up with a nasty sunburn.

The next two hours are easier, when you aren’t thinking about how you could go for a cold glass of water. One of the many treats that you were sure to appreciate in the tunnel before they brought you to the surface. She asked you what you wanted, it could be any food you could think of, and you asked for a glass of water.

Mostly for hydration, knowing that you’d be sweating it out in an hour, but also because it’s a habit of yours. No matter how hot or cold, indoors or outdoors, while you’re training, when your skin feels like it’s on fire, water is the one thing you ask above all.

You hope the stream is cold for you to enjoy. You’ll have to collect it, put the iodine in and wait. In that time, it could become warm, unless you let it rest in the river while it sanitizes. It won’t be perfectly cold. Beggars can’t be choosers, though. You know this.

By the third hour, you’re more than happy to start the journey of finding a place to sleep tonight. There’s a sufficient amount of sun to cover you while you wander, eyes searching the trees and nearby hills for any hiding spot to explore. You’re hoping for more than what the eye can see.

You come up with nothing.

So, you continue in the direction of the river, knowing that there’s another couple hours of daylight. If you can’t find anything in that time, that means you’ll be out here with the animals and the Careers, which is basically the same thing. If they find you, they’re not going to hesitate when it comes to tearing you apart. Regardless if they know you killed Hunter or not.

The trees get thicker, but you don’t stop and consider them. They need to be able to hold your bodyweight, and the branches aren’t ready for that. Besides, it would take one look up, and they’d be able to spot you. They need more foliage.

You stop humming when the sun sets, your cheery mood beginning to dampen. The light is gone, the night creatures are coming to life. You grip the machete in your hand a little tighter, telling yourself that you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re prepared.

It isn’t until the Capitol anthem plays, do you stop to listen and watch the death recap. The Capitol seal is bright in the sky, you want to be able to see who’s dead, yet this opportunity to see is too good to pass up. You start walking again, stealing glances at the sky.

The first face to appear in the sky is Hunter, now every tribute knows that they’re down a Career member. It’s not normal for them to lose someone on the first day, this will tank their credit and plant seeds of doubt in people’s minds. They’ll be underestimated, just not enough for tributes to start attacking them.

If tributes have been paying attention, then they’d also realize that they’ve been a small group since the beginning. They casted you out almost immediately, you were left to study and show off on your own. It was a pain, but it worked out in the end, you managed to score a nine.

The next face to show up in the sky is the girl from Five, meaning that districts Three and Four survived. At home, you’d be able to see exactly how the tributes died, as well as what they placed because of it. The next morning, you’d have training at the academy, where they’d go over each death and you’d have to come up with a way to survive, and then reenact it with another student.

As morbid as it sounds, it works.

Both of the tributes from Six are dead, Seven made it out. The boy from Eight, both from Nine, neither from Ten, both from Eleven and just the boy from Twelve. It’s a pretty average group, you’re not all that surprised. The Capitol seal appears again, with a musical flourish, and then it’s gone and you’re plunged back into darkness.

You sigh.

However, you’ve traveled faster than you thought, because it’s less than an hour later, do you hear the sound of rushing water. Your pace picks up, you break through the trees, finding a small path along the bank of the river. You can’t help the laugh that erupts from you.

This wasn’t the plan by any means, you can’t bring yourself to care, though. You pull the bag off of your shoulder, going to unzip it to grab the empty plastic bottle, when something slams into you. The machete is gone, landing a few feet away.

You twist, swinging your fist before you’ve even seen who it is that’s taken you down. They catch your wrist, pinning it down at a painful angle, leaning over you. It’s a girl, her dark hair creates a curtain around the two of you. There’s a sickening grin on her face.

“Where’s your friends?” She asks.

She isn’t very perceptive, is she?

As much as you’d like to pretend they’re around, if you called for help, it could alert anyone in the area that you’re here. If she does end up injuring you, the last thing you’d want is for someone to come around and finish you off. You’ve got to do this quietly.

“Around.” You smile when you say the word. “What about you? Do you even have any?”

This isn’t the girl from Twelve, she’s skinnier, you could flip her over in a second, same thing goes for Three. And the girl from Eight is blonde, which stuck out for you because they’re usually dark haired. This is the girl from Seven, it explains the strength she has to pin you down and the body mass. She’s not fat, it’s muscle.

Maybe taunting her isn’t the brightest idea, but you really can’t help it.

“Around.” She mocks you.

You bite your tongue, wanting to say a number of nasty things to her. “Oh really, why isn’t he with you? It’s safer to pair together when you’ve scored so low.”

She ignores the job, “Why aren’t they with you?”

You narrow your eyes, is she really going to mock you? “Because we’re scouting the area. We all agreed to meet back at the river, it’s only a matter of time before they come around.”

“Right,” She says. “They’d let the little girl go off by herself? How old are you? Thirteen?”

“You don’t believe me?” You ask her, “Fine.”

You draw in a deep breath, opening your mouth to scream for help, when she clamps a hand around your throat, squeezing. It’s painful, but you can’t help the smirk on your face, fingers grazing the machete above you.

“Shut up.” She snarls.

You grasp the handle, and you’re about to swing it at her neck, when a splash of hot liquid hits your face. Her hand loosens, as she leans back, looking down. You follow her gaze, and find the head of a spear sticking out of her stomach.

Blood. It was blood that got on your face.

You shove her off, now that you have company, you need to work quickly. You get to your feet, hand sweeping the backpack off the ground, and tossing it out if the way. When you turn around, you’re met with the other outcasted Career.

The boy from Four.

He comes out of the darkness, heading right for the girl from Seven. You take a couple steps back, fixing the machete in your hand. He keeps his eyes on you as he reaches forward, grabbing the handle of the spear, and yanking it out of the girls back.

Like you said, you weren’t the only one to get pushed out of the elite circle. The two of you are the same age, both being too young to be invited. Although, it won’t put him as far behind as it has you; he’s got everyone wrapped around his finger. Whether or not he’s done it intentionally is a mystery that you don’t care to solve.

From the moment he was reaped, the Capitol has been buzzing over him. Half of the tributes wanted him as an ally, too. The issue is, the ones that matter don’t want him. The older Careers want to win, and they can’t do that if they have the potential of being dragged down.

You don’t think he cared very much, though. He didn’t pursue them in the same way that you did. Once his partner told him to get lost, he went his own way to train for the Games. He scored a nine, the same as you. He is far from being innocent.

“I think we should be allies.” He says, taking his eyes off of you long enough to stab Seven. A cannon booms.

“And why’s that?” You ask.

“You’re a threat,” He tilts his head with a smile. “How is it that you managed to score so high without showing anything useful? I want to keep my eyes on you.”

His reasoning is flawed. If you were him, you’d want yourself dead. It’s the only way to ensure that you stay alive. A tribute down means one more tribute that you don’t have to worry about later on down the line.

You can’t help but believe him. Why else would he go out of his way to save you? If he wanted, he could’ve killed you in the middle of this interaction at any time, and you wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.

The idea isn’t bad, either. You both have scored well, you won’t have to worry about carrying a bulk of the burdens, or protecting him against any tributes you run across. And he does have a lot of sponsors backing him up, which is a factor that you chose to ignore during training. You hate taking people for who they are at the surface or what they have on their side. You want to see their worth.

And this boy may be worth more than you think.

“Fine.” You tell him, his smile widens. “We aren’t friends.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He dips the spear into the river. “My name is Finnick.”

“(Y/n).” You tell him, lowering the machete, taking a few steps away to grab the backpack.

“I found a cave.” He tells you, motioning up the stream, “A little ways from here. I was going to grab water, but I don’t have anything to carry it in.”

“I do.” You unzip the bag, tossing the plastic bottle at him. “Is the cave concealed?”

He catches it, “Yes, they won’t be finding us in there.”

This might work out.

—

“Let’s go over the plan one more time.” You say, tying your shoes.

“Sure.” Finnick says, he’s standing by the entrance of the cave, weapon in hand.

The spear lays discarded on the far side of the cave, no longer useful to him. He told you that you could have it, but you turned it down, preferring the machete. He upgraded from it sometime last week, when a sponsor sent him the trident he’s holding in his hand now.

You almost screamed when you saw it, because you’ve never seen a gift so expensive get sent into the Games. You’ve seen sponsors actively keep up with the tributes they have bets on, up until it’s too expensive. They always send small things, nothing that could ever add up to something as large as a trident.

What threw you more was how unaffected Finnick was by it. He didn’t seem to care, he even said something about the spear working just fine. You had to take a few deep breaths to calm yourself down, because you would’ve killed to get something half as good from a sponsor. And you were going to strangle him for being so ungrateful.

Yours have been sending food, which was greatly appreciated the first few times, but you’ve moved on from that. Hunting here isn’t nearly as big of a pain as you thought it would be.

“We’re going to leave for the Cornucopia in an hour,” You begin, “When we get there, we’ll light a fire that they’ll be able to see. They’ll come after us, and we’ll split them. You want both of the tributes from One, and I’m supposed to take your district partner.”

“Yes.” Finnick says, “And when they’re dead, we’ll meet back at the Cornucopia to regroup, gather, and come back here.”

“You’re sure you can take two tributes at once?” You ask. “They’re older than us.”

“I’m going to net the boy and fight the girl. I told you, I’ve got this. Just worry about fighting Amaryllis.”

You make a face, “Is she really that bad? She doesn’t look like much and she scored an eight.”

“It was on purpose, remember?” Finnick sighs. “She doesn’t care about sponsors. If it were up to her, she would’ve scored lower. It’s part of her plan if she ever got reaped.”

You hum, letting him know that you’re listening. You’ve tried a couple times to get him to switch with you. You’d rather be the one to take the One tributes, even if that’ll be the most difficult task, but Finnick can’t stomach the idea of killing Amaryllis. It’s something about knowing her younger sister, and not wanting to cause problems.

When you told him that you were the one to kill Hunter, and it’s not that big of a deal, he shut you down. He told you that there’s a difference. You want to win at all costs, if that means tearing down everyone in your way, then so be it. For him, he’d rather die than lay a finger on her.

In a way, he called you heartless. He doesn’t realize that you didn’t go out of your way to kill Hunter. It was the only option you had. You weren’t going to try to escape the Cornucopia again, because you knew that Hunter would pursue you. You killed him because it had to be done. He would do the same if Amaryllis was the only thing standing between his life and his death.

“Right.” You say.

Since agreeing to be his ally, you’ve come to learn a lot about Finnick. Some of it being out of your own curiosity, or maybe because he told you during a vulnerable moment. Other times, it’s because of the behavior you’ve picked up on.

You’ve started to trust Finnick’s judgement regarding situations, because of it. He pays close attention, finds details that you never would have thought about. A few nights ago, you two had hunted down the boy from Seven, because he’d been stomping around the area.

Finnick saw the cuts on his hands and arms, the way he’d been limping. Once you killed the boy, Finnick led you to a cliffside, one that you could only pass if you climbed it. You were sure that no one would be stupid enough, but Finnick was convinced. And he was right. For the first few feet up the cliff, it was normal. The further you look, there was dried blood smeared across the sharpest rocks.

You thought that would be the end of it, knowing where he’d come from, how he’d managed to hit his hands and arms. You’d assumed that Seven hurt his ankle from falling or jumping down. Either way, the area was safe again, and you wanted to go back to the cave.

This is when you found out that Finnick has little to no regard for his life. Despite seeing the injuries that Seven had gotten from this cliffside, he wanted to see if there was anything at the top that you two could have. You tried to tell him that it was a bad idea, and before you could stop him, he was starting up the wall.

In his defense, it wasn’t that bad of an idea. Seven had a sponsor gift or two, which Finnick tossed down to you at the bottom. It wasn’t the first time he’d pulled a stunt like that, you were surprised that he kept doing it, though.

Him wanting to take on both Career tributes from One makes sense, when you think about that. It’s more dangerous to take two tributes that genuinely scored ten, versus Amaryllis, who’s just by herself. You have to give him some credit too, he has the tools to be able to do it without batting an eye.

That net that he has is made out of the rope you’d gotten in your backpack from the Cornucopia. When you gave it to him, his face lit up, and the first thing he did was weave it. It’s proved useful so far, it’s how he was able to kill the boy from Ten and the girl from Three.

So, as much as you’d like to make Finnick switch with you, you can’t do it. You understand his feelings towards Amaryllis to a certain extent. And since he’ll be able to take out the One tributes the easiest, you have to let it go. After all, you do trust his judgement.

When the sun has finally set outside, you and Finnick gather your belongings and leave the cave. It’s well-hidden, no one seems to be interested in venturing this far away from the center, wanting to be able to raid the Cornucopia each time the Careers leave.

As for you and Finnick, you haven’t gone back since the first day, and it’s been almost three weeks. There hasn’t been a need to, you both have the weapons you could ask for, and you have an endless supply of food coming from your sponsors. The only reason why you’re going now, is because the pool of tributes have narrowed.

The Careers are going to split up any day now, and it’ll be harder to keep track of where they are that way. This is why you started brainstorming ideas on how to kill them. You’ve gone through a lot of plans, many of which you never ended up telling Finnick, because they were dramatic and stupid. You want something straight-forward that’ll progress the Games without the Gamemakers interfering.

There’s eight tributes left in the arena. You and Finnick waited long enough to let the Capitol do their family interviews, because it’s a favored tradition. If everything goes according to plan, you’ll kill the rest of the Careers, leaving five. You and Finnick, and three nobodies that shouldn’t be too hard to find out.

You’re assuming that the two of you are either going to hunt down or wait for them to die on their own, but it’s never been discussed. Actually, neither of you have even talked about what happens when it comes down to the final few. You two are going to have to split eventually, and that means having to kill each other.

In fairness, you haven’t thought about it much, yourself. You’ve decided to focus on the present, getting over the hurdles before thinking about how it will end. It was a good choice to ally with Finnick, the problem is that you’ve come to like him a lot more than you intended to. You were supposed to strictly be allies, you weren’t supposed to end up making a friend out of him.

As bad as this sounds, that will not stop you. Finnick is not enough for you to give up your life. You have your family back home to take care of. Your reasons mean something, too.

Still, if you end up winning this, you’ll never forget about him.

The hill doesn’t take that long to reach. At the top, the two of you take a breather, you’ve got a long couple hours ahead of you. The Cornucopia isn’t visible in the daytime, but especially not now with how dark it is.

You point in the general direction you’d come from the first day, which is slightly diagonal to the right. “It’s about three hours that way, I believe. What way did you say you took?”

Finnick motions to the left. “That way. I ran right into the woods for a while, and then I went left and kept in that direction. There’s a valley between the cliff and the hill, led me a mile or two from the river.”

You nod. “Let’s just go straight from here, the Cornucopia will be on our right side.”

Finnick leads the way down the hill, he offers his hand to you to help you down the first steep steps. When he lets go, you follow behind him wordlessly. From what you’ve discovered, Finnick was on the left side of the mouth of the Cornucopia, while you were directly facing it. There’s a good chance he saw you fighting Hunter, but you think he might’ve mentioned it if that were the case.

When you told him that you killed Hunter, it was a couple days later. He was asking you if you were upset from losing him, because you hadn’t said much since agreeing to be his ally. That’s when you said that you were the one that ended his life, and no, you weren’t upset over his death.

He was surprised, you thought it was because of the news you delivered. Now that you’re thinking about it, you think he might’ve meant if it was because you killed him, not the other way around.

There’s obviously been some miscommunication, you wonder if that changed the way he thought of you or not.

The night wears on you, the longer you walk for. You can’t help yawning, wiping underneath your eyes, trying to wake yourself up. You knew you’d regret suggesting to do this in the middle of the night. You can’t back out now, though. Even if you did stop to sleep and wait for tomorrow night, you wouldn’t be comfortable. You’re too close to the Careers for your liking.

You push through, and make it there an hour and a half later. You manage to spot the top of the golden horn through a patch in the trees. You and Finnick stop walking, realizing how close you’d gotten by accident.

“We’ll set a fire over there.” You tell him, looking to the left.

You follow his steps, and once you’ve walked five minutes away, the two of you begin to snap branches and place them in a pile. When you’ve got a good amount started, you dig through your bag to find the firestarter. You thought it’d be useless, considering you never felt safe to use it. It’s coming in handy now.

You crouch down, looking up at Finnick. “I’ll try to take Amaryllis back to the Cornucopia.”

“And I’ll take them further this way.” He nods. “We’ve got this.”

“I hope so.” You say.

In a quick motion, you scrape the flint rod against the flat piece, watching as sparks jump off, straight at the wood. It takes you two more times before a flame has started. You blow gently, watching as it grows, eating away. You reach into your bag, pulling out your knife, and tightening the backpack on your shoulders.

Finnick offered to take it, you didn’t want to risk his life like that. Besides, you’ve grown attached to the bag, and it’s carrying valuables. He’ll end up ripping it while fighting. You’re just going to throw the damn thing out of reach to make it easier.

You get back to your feet, backing away from Finnick. He’s going to be the main bait, standing where the Careers can see them. You’ll throw the knife at Amaryllis, and she’ll turn her attention to you. You and Finnick will split, kill them, and then go back to the cave.

This is going to be easy.

The flame grows higher with each passing minute, until it reaches its peak. It’s right around the same time you hear the running, the sound of multiple people coming in your direction. You prop the machete up against the tree, fixing the knife in your hand.

Sure enough, they come through the trees wildly, not caring if they were to scare away the rogue tribute. They’ll just chase them down. The first person to bound out is the boy from One, holding a very long sword, deathly sharp. His counterpart follows, with Amaryllis coming out last, slowing down.

Finnick’s on the other side of the flame, net in one hand, trident in the other. From where you’re hidden, it looks like he holds all the power here. His age doesn’t matter. He’s the one that set the fire, he’s the one with the expensive weapon, he’s the one that will be taking them down. They mean nothing.

“What are you, stupid?” The boy sputters, sharing a laugh with the girl next to him. Amaryllis doesn’t find the humor, shaking her head. “This is why we didn’t let you join, you would’ve killed us.”

“I’m going to kill you, anyway.” Finnick says, expressionless.

“Oh—” The girl starts, Finnick turns sharply on his heel, taking off into the darkness.

They jerk forward to chase after him. You draw your arm back and whip it forward, letting go of the knife. It slams into Amaryllis’ back right shoulder, she shouts, hand reaching for it as she turns.

You smile, swiping the machete at your side, and beginning to run to the Cornucopia. From what you could see, she didn’t have a weapon with her. An odd choice, maybe she left it by accident.

She chases you, that’s all that matters. She’s fast, too. You thought that the tributes from Four were supposed to be excellent swimmers, not runners, too. You manage to stay ahead of her, breaking through the trees and bushes as you reach the meadow.

Just like you said you would, you swing the bag off of your body, throwing it out of the way, turning to face Amaryllis. She continues to barrel at you, disregarding the weapon in your hand. You swing upwards at her, she barely moves her body in time to avoid the blade.

You try for her stomach, but she pulls a knife out of her belt. Your blade clashes with her small one, and the momentum is enough to send your machete into the air. You let it go, punching her in the face with your left hand. The pain in your knuckles is immediate, her head snaps to the side.

You grab her wrist, wanting to get the knife. Her free hand locks around yours, you place your other hand on the back handle of the knife. The tip of your boot hooks around the back of her foot, and with one sudden pull on that foot, she falls back, pulling you on top of her.

The knife—which you were hoping would stab her on the landing—misses, sticking into the dirt, all the way down to the hilt. Amaryllis throws you off, you land on your back. As you’re getting back to your feet, you see the machete. You reach to grab it, and a slicing pain goes through your palm.

“Fuck!” You scream.

The knife is now lodged in your hand. You grip your wrist, squeezing tightly, teeth grit. What do you do? Do you take it out? You can’t just leave it in, can you? You look to Amaryllis, and find that she’s run off to go inside of the Cornucopia. Likely to find more weapons to puncture you with.

You can’t leave it. You’ll start bleeding, but you can’t let it slice your hand up entirely. You take a few quick breaths, and pull the knife out of your hand. It’s a blinding white pain, you fall back onto one of your knees, leaned over, tears forming in your eyes. When you look at the wound, you can see the dirt and grass sticking out of it.

You’re going to be sick.

The sound of wind whistling makes you hit the ground without thinking first. The sound fades, you look over your shoulder to see Amaryllis with a spear, tilting her head at you. You throw the knife back at her, sweeping up the machete in your left hand to head into the Cornucopia before she can retaliate.

“How old are you again?” She asks.

“I’m going to kill you.” You tell her.

“You must be Finnick’s age, if he trusts you so much.” She says. “He couldn’t kill me himself?”

“Shut up.” You tell her, swinging at the spear. She tries to block, you yank it from her hands, slashing at her side. You get her pretty nastily, it’s deep.

The two of you go back and forth, with her switching weapons frequently, and you trying to take her down with the machete. She gets you a few more times with the knives she can get her hands on, but her aim isn’t perfect. She misses most of the throws, and it has something to do with the fact that you got her good shoulder.

At home, they teach you to fight with both hands. District Four must not think it’s important.

You get her cornered in the back, and instead of saying anything to her, you simply swing at her throat. She must’ve anticipated this, because she charges forward, not caring about dodging. For a second, you think that she and Finnick must come from the same family tree with the blatant disregard for their lives.

And then the hidden knife in her hand slams into your stomach, right as you stab her through the throat. She pulls up on the weapon slightly, blood dripping out of the corner of her lip. You stumble back. She can’t move, the other end of your blade is stuck in the golden Cornucopia, still soft from the day’s heat.

You reach to touch the wound with your good hand needles jabbing into your abdomen when you move the knife by accident. You cry, face twisting in pain. You sit on a box. You shouldn’t take it out, but Finnick will be here soon to regroup, he can stitch you then.

There were two cannons during your fight with Amaryllis, and they were far apart enough for you to think that it had to be the One tributes. He killed the girl, made it back to the male tribute almost ten minutes later, and then killed him, too.

Removing this knife sets your body on fire. The black spots eat away at the corner of your vision, the knife slipping from your hand. You try to catch yourself on the wall, but your knees are jelly. The dizziness wins.

You wake up on the ground, somehow holding yourself up with your good hand. A cannon blasts, you glance over your shoulder to look at Amaryllis, and the bloody mess that you made. Her entire front half is soaked in blood. Her eyes are on you.

“(Y/n)!”

It’s Finnick, he’s close. You try to get up, and then fall back to your knees. You can’t let him see Amaryllis. It’ll be awful for his mentality. It’ll be better if you lie, and you think you might do that about the wound on your hand.

You rock forward, using a box to get to your feet. On the way out of the Cornucopia, you grab a new machete. You have your bad hand on your stomach, taking shallow breaths to keep it from hurting too bad. Your hand is throbbing. You aren’t going to be able to hide it from him.

When you get to your backpack, you unzip, bringing out your jacket to wear. While you’re zipping it up, Finnick comes out of the trees, trident in hand. He looks worried for a moment, but he slows down.

“(Y/n)! Did you do it?”

“Yeah.” You force a smile. “It’s done. What about you?”

“Both of them are dead. I left the net because I couldn’t untangle his body.”

“We’ll make a new one.” You wave him off, “Let’s get going.”

“Where’s her body?” He asks.

You press your lips together. “It’s inside of the Cornucopia. I don’t think you want to see it, Finnick. I tried to keep it clean but I couldn’t.”

He nods, “Okay.” he jerks his head to the side.

“You lead the way.” You tell him.

And with that, no question as to why you’ve got a hand beneath your jacket, or why it’s darkening in color, the two of you start back to the hill. For the first hour, you think that you can handle the pain, it hurts but as soon as you get to the cave, he can wash it out and properly assess it. You think you’ll even be able to use the healing cream that the sponsors sent him when he got hurt from the cliffside.

It grows increasingly obvious that you will not make the six hour walk. Finnick asks about your hand, and he stops to use some of the drinking water to rinse it out. You make up an excuse about getting cut, that’s why you decided to put the jacket on. He doesn’t seem to care.

Once you reach the hill, you try to ask him if you can go through the valley instead, not wanting to go up the hill because of the pain. He gives you a look, not taking you seriously. You follow behind him, taking your time because you think you can ignore the pain and push through.

At the top, you’re hit with a headrush.

You shudder on the ground, fingers squishing around in the bloody wound on your stomach. When you look down, you see that it’s begun to spread onto your pants, staining them the same maroon color.

“(Y/n)?” Finnick asks, “What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing, I just gotta—” A sharp pain hits the area, you grunt, biting into your lip, hard.

“Let me see.” He tells you. You try to dodge his hands, but he’s serious. He grabs the zipper, yanking it down.

With the help of the moonlight, Finnick gets an eyeful of the wound you’ve hidden for the past three hours. Like a vampire, it’s taken over a liter of blood. At the sight of it all, the lightheadedness gets worse. You struggle not to vomit.

“Oh my god,” He looks at your face. “You told me it was a cut.”

You force a smile.

“(Y/n), this isn’t funny. Why didn’t you say anything at the Cornucopia?”

“I thought it’d be fine.”

He looks behind him, in the direction you came. You’re sitting right in the middle of the six hours. No matter what way he goes, it’ll take him a while to get there.

“You thought this would be fine?” He asks you, shaking his head. “Are you kidding?”

“Does it look like I’m kidding?” You shoot back, a spasm of pain makes you take in a sharp breath, closing your eyes. “Just go, Finnick. Now’s the time.”

“The time for what? I’m not going anywhere.”

“We’re down to five.” You look at him. “We can split up. Or better, you can kill me.” You reach out, grabbing his arm, smearing blood on his tanned skin.

His face twists. “You want me to kill you?”

“This is what you wanted. This is the whole reason why you became my ally.”

Finnick’s shaking his head dramatically, “That’s not true. I lied to you, I thought you knew that.”

You close your eyes, trying to remember the conversation you had with him. It’s not coming to you. You can’t focus. “Whatever.”

“(Y/n), you were the only one in that gymnasium that ignored me. You didn’t care about my sponsors or how I looked.” He tells you.

“Then leave me.” You squeeze his arm. “If you can’t kill me, then go.”

“I can’t do that.”

You sigh.

“Can’t you see? You’re the only one I trust here.” Finnick tells you. “You had plenty of opportunities to kill me. And you stayed with me instead. I can’t do this without you.”

He’s not going to listen. You swallow thickly, “Fine.”

“Okay,” He tries to pull away, but you don’t let go. “Let go so I can get you on your feet.”

“I can’t make that walk, and you’re not going to be able to carry me.” You say. “So, go get some water and the healing cream. I’ll stay here.”

Finnick’s eyebrows draw in. “That’s not happening.”

“What’s your big plan, then?” You snap, “Listen to me, I can’t move. Just go, I’ll stay here. We have no one to worry about.”

He stares at you, thinking about it himself. “I’ll leave you my shirt and jacket, and you can put it over the area. That’ll help slow the blood, right?”

“Right.” You agree.

He takes off the jacket and his shirt, coming to place them beneath yours. You place a hand on top of the lump of clothing.

“I’m going to be quick.” He tells you. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be here.” You murmur. “Thank you, Finnick.”

“Don’t thank me, not yet.” He grabs his trident. “Just hold on, okay?”

You can’t say anything else, because he’s already started running down the hill. You close your eyes, resting the back of your head on the backpack. He didn’t grab the plastic bottle for water. He probably won’t even notice.

You reach up your shirt, pulling the clothes out, letting them fall next to you. In the academy, they teach you many things, including when to come to terms with the fact that you’re not going to make it out of the arena alive. In special occasions like this, where you’ve escaped a fight or accidentally severely injured yourself, you can have hope at the beginning, but too much can kill you.

This is why you don’t hold on to your life.

You let it get taken from you, one aspect at a time. The idea of winning the Games, seeing your family again, becoming an infamous victor. The hardest one to let go is Finnick, who’s running for his life to make it to that cave in time before you drift away.

You hold onto one idea, which comforts you during your last breaths.

Your actions tonight will be the reason why Finnick wins the Hunger Games.

479 notes · View notes

astroboots · 1 year

Text

RED FLAGS ║ PART 13 | FINALE

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: The end is the beginning is the end. Or alternatively: You finally get to have Marc's beautiful face buried between your thighs.

Content: will cause unrealistic sex expectations.

Word count; 17k (guys I'm so sorry)

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[PREVIOUS]

Your face, small and pinched and dirty, looks back at you from the tiny mirror in Steven’s loo. The unflattering fluorescent lights aren’t doing you any favours. Eyes wide and strung out. A burst bottom lip. You look dreadful.

Your clothes are soggy and cold underneath Marc’s somewhat drier jacket, mucky with grime and mud (and god knows what else), clinging wetly to your skin.

You look like something the cat dragged in.

You shiver. The idiom feels a little too on the nose, considering you were dragged across East London’s dirty concrete not even an hour ago. Just… not by a cat. You shiver again, harder this time, trying not to think about it.

A shower. Marc sent you in here to take a shower. “Go get clean,” he’d said, “Warm up.”

Right now you feel like you’ll never be warm again.

Marc’s jacket comes off first, and you hang it carefully on a hook, running two fingers over the cuff. You stare at it for a moment, fighting the urge to clutch it to your chest and bury your face in it. On autopilot, you reach out to undo your wristwatch instead, fingers running over the bare skin for a moment, searching, before you stare down at your wrist in confusion.

Right. Your watch is gone.

Or… not gone. Probably still out there in the alleyway, lying face up, cracked glass and all, on the concrete in the rain… next to the carcass of some invisible monster. You shake your head, pushing away the image. It’s as good as gone, then, isn’t it? You’re certainly not going back out to search for it at this point. You’re bloody well never going down that alleyway again if you can help it. Hell, even going outside ever again might be off the table.

Pulling the shower curtain aside, you start the shower and peel off your ruined clothing, letting everything plop in a solid, sodden mass on the corner of the bathroom floor.

The muscles in your arms and shoulders are stiffening up and threatening to cramp up as the last bit of adrenaline abandons your system, leaving bruises and all-encompassing exhaustion in its wake. Your knees throb with the leftover pain. The water stings your scraped shin when you step under the spray.

At least it’s warm.

The heat of the water feels like a balm on your aching limbs, and you close your eyes, tilting your head back under the spray, trying to let the comforting warmth relax you.

In the darkness behind your eyelids, the shower sounds like rain. Your nakedness feels like vulnerability. Like maybe you never made it back. Maybe you’re still out there, in the narrowness of the alley, under threat from an otherworldly creature that you cannot see, let alone fight.

Your chest squeezes painfully sharp, and your eyes fly open, half expecting to see the hazy moonlit sky overhead. But no, there’s nothing but the expanse of the blank white ceiling.

You’re still here in Steven’s shower. Safe, or as safe as it gets right now.

Dropping your gaze, you watch the blood and muck sluice down your legs and onto the tiled floor in rusty red-tinted waves to pool on the tile floor. The dirty water leaves lines of fine grit behind as the rest is sucked down the drain.

You feel strangely numb. Like some part of your brain (probably an amenable survival mechanism) is trying to block out what happened so you don’t go mad. But maybe it’s too late for that. After all, you were a hair's width away from meeting your maker tonight at the claws of an invisible blob monster.

It’s impossible to not think about. An irritated half-healed scab itching to be scratched. You turn it over in your mind, trying to process the fact that the supernatural is real—or those creatures were, at any rate. And apparently Marc dons a mummy costume and goes out into the night to battle them like he’s magical girl Sailor Moon.

God. All of this is right proper insane, isn’t it? You want to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness.

You almost died; your understanding of the world as you know it has fundamentally changed; yet none of it feels real. The world itself doesn’t feel real.

The water by your feet is running clear now. The dirt and grime finally washed off, but the film of exhaustion still clings to your limbs. Turning off the tap, you step out, grabbing the towel Marc left for you in the corner by the door. Your eyes linger on the set of clean clothes waiting for you underneath, folded into a neat square.

You can't reconcile the man who does this for you with the same man that pummelled a supernatural monster into a whimpering pulp without hesitation. Didn’t recognise the Marc you thought you knew in the man in the alleyway standing over the creature and curb-stomping it into the ground with cold and blank disdain in his eyes. Couldn’t see that man in the Marc who escorted you home and gently bullied you into the shower.

Reaching for the clothes, you quickly dress and pull aside the accordion door only to find the very man you were thinking of right outside the door, arms crossed and back plastered to the closest wall as he stands guard.

You barely cross the threshold before he's already pushing away from the wall and moving in to guide you gently but firmly towards the kitchen like a particularly insistent herding dog.

There’s a fairly extensive first aid kit laid out on the counter, well used by the look of it, and you try not to think too hard about why that might be.

"Up," Marc commands, curt as ever, swatting a hand down on the surface of the countertop, and you feel like a lamb being rounded back into the pen.

A ‘please’ wouldn’t have hurt him, but you let it go with just a glare as you shuffle over, too drained to put up a fight over something so small. You lift your arms to brace against the countertop, getting ready to hop up, and flinch a little as your shoulders twinge and ache.

Marc is in front of you in a heartbeat, watching you with worried eyes and a furrowed brow. His hands hover, like he wants to help but doesn't dare to touch, and any testiness in you fizzles out at the sight of him.

You give him a small nod, barely able to complete the motion before his hands come down on your waist, lifting you. Even though you’re expecting it, the loss of ground beneath your feet feels sudden, unbalancing you, and you gasp, hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.

Part of you expects him to drop you, but he doesn’t. Marc’s warm and solid under your palms, strong muscles bunching as he perches you on the counter.

Blood rushes to your head with furious speed. It must be from the sudden change in altitude. That’s what you tell yourself no matter how doubtful that is considering the standard kitchen counter height is not even three feet above the floor. You're not exactly climbing the Himalayan mountains. But you don’t want to think of the more probable reasons right now.

You're still reeling from lightheadedness when he lets you go in favour of busying himself with the large tin box on the counter, rifling through the arsenal of medical supplies, and sets down what he needs next to you. Then he's dragging a nearby chair to position himself in front of you. Sitting so close he's practically nestled between your legs.

It does nothing to help with your newly discovered vertigo symptoms.

"I’m going to check you over for injuries now,” he says perfunctory, pulling you from your thoughts, “Left leg.”

You stretch out your leg into the air, glancing down at him, unsure of where to rest it. There’s no space on the tiny kitchen stool. Do you just… put it down in his lap? On his crotch?!?! Or–

Marc's hand wraps around your ankle, and his executive decision-making ends your flailing, as he gently guides your foot to rest against his thigh. Then his head ducks down, and he starts to inspect the patch of scraped skin on your knee, dabbing gently at the scattered dots of blood with a square of clean gauze.

With how tender and swollen everything feels, you expect it to hurt. That at the slightest pressure on your skin, it is bound to sting and snag and tear. But it doesn't. Marc is gentle, barely pressing down and showing such minute care as he tends to you that you barely feel the brush of the cloth at all.

It's such an impossible contrast. The tenderness of his touch as he fusses over you, placing a plaster on your knee, compared to the brutality you’ve now seen him capable of.

You still can't make sense of it. What happened, or what that invisible monster in the rain was. Why Marc was out there. Or what he meant by that being "what he does."

"Marc," you start tentatively as you lean forward to get his attention, "What happened toni--"

“Wiggle your toes,” he interrupts.

His odd demand cuts off your line of thought. “What?”

“Try to wiggle your toes for me”, he repeats, without looking up. “Want to make sure you didn’t get any nerve damage.”

You frown, you’re not blind to the fact that his request conveniently just cut you off from asking a question that undoubtedly Marc doesn’t want to answer. Still, you comply, angling your foot upwards and wiggle your toes for his inspection.

Whether you passed his ad hoc medical examination, Marc’s expression isn’t giving you any clues. His face is as stoic as ever as he sets down your foot. He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over to your right side to draw your other foot into his lap.

Marred with bruises, looking like something that got mangled in a bear trap. Your right foot does not make for a pretty sight. It’s swollen and bleeding sluggishly from long gashes where the blob monster’s claw-like grip must have broken through skin.

It's a gruesome picture, but miraculously, the injury doesn’t seem to be too serious. It stings more than it actually hurts, and it’s not even bleeding much anymore. Not even worth a trip to A&E really, as you doubt it’s deep enough to need stitches.

At least that’s the assessment based on your own limited medical knowledge. If you based the severity on Marc’s reaction, you’d think it needed amputation.

The line of his shoulder is pulled taut and reminds you of a live wire. Mouth set in a grim tortured line. He has the expression of a doctor about to give the nearest kin some heartbreaking news as he’s staring down at your foot with haunted guilt in his eyes.

"I'm all right. I’m sure it just looks a lot worse than it is," you tell him.

He doesn't meet your eyes or reply for that matter. Instead, he begins to gently tend the wound. Mouth pressing down so tightly his lips go pale white from it. He dabs away the oozing blood, carefully applying antibiotic ointment to the worst of the broken skin, and covering them with large squares of gauze that he tapes in place. It’s all quite professional, really, the practised ease that only comes with repetition.

You wonder how many times he has done this before. You wonder how much harder it must be for him to suture his own gashes and gaping wounds. Wonder how long he’s been doing this by himself, fighting these hellish creatures. These things that you still have no bloody fucking idea as to what they are.

"Marc,” you start tentatively, “what was--" A ticklish sensation rushes through you. In panic, you think a centipede is crawling down the sole of your foot. You instinctively jerk your leg up and away, nearly kneeing Marc in the face before you realise what’s happened.

Your eyes fly downwards to Marc who is entirely unfazed by the close call as you stare at him in shock. His index finger rests on the arch of your heel and you blink up at him in a dumb stupor, not believing your eyes.

Did he just– did he just fucking tickle you?!

There’s no hint of wrongdoing in his expression. No grin, or crack in his stony facade. He is unflappable as always as he continues cleaning your wound with a straight face.

"Needed to check if you still had sensation in that foot," he offers up as an explanation as if he thinks that tickling was a perfectly reasonable thing for him to do in the circumstances.

You frown, biting down the tart comment bubbling in your throat. You want to call him out on it, that you know what he’s up to and he’s acting like a child. But you know that the moment you do, the conversation will derail into an argument and in the flare of your temper, you’ll lose track of your questions. You’re pretty sure Marc knows you well enough that that’s exactly what he is aiming for.

Gathering a deep calming breath into your chest, you steady yourself before you take a second shot.

"What was that thing in the rain?" you ask again.

He acts like he doesn't hear you. "Roll your ankles side to side," he requests instead.

Irritation prickles your face. This bastard is still trying to evade your questions.

"Marc," you start again, "what was--"

"Press down your weight on my hand with your foot."

"Marc!" you bark.

He finally drags his eyes upwards to meet yours without bothering to lift his chin, seemingly as detached and reposed as ever. But there's something else in there too. A tiny flicker as you hold his gaze, and he has to look away.

He looks… scared.

Scared of what you don't know. The man practically single-handedly beat three monsters straight out of a Lovecraftian horror story with his bare fists tonight. With strength like that, you don't think anything should ever be capable of scaring him.

"Can we talk about what happened tonight?" you ask again, trying to keep your voice even.

His head ducks back down again, and he busies himself by rechecking the bandaids on your injured ankle.

“There's nothing to talk about,” he murmurs offhandedly, but his hands betray him.

There's no mistaking it. Even though his shoulders are obscuring your line of sight, you don’t need to see it in order to feel how unsteady his hands are. How his fingers stutter against your skin as they trail over your ankle.

He’s not letting go, as if he’s afraid that if he wasn’t holding onto you, you’d get up and walk away.

Gazing down on him from your vantage point of the counter, Marc doesn’t look as imposing as when you were looking up at him from the rainy concrete in the alley. From up here, he looks small and scared even.

Even though there is nothing in this flat that should intimidate him. No invisible monsters lurking in the dark shadows behind Steven’s piles and piles of books. The scariest thing in Steven’s flat is dust mites.

No, the only thing Marc is scared of, you realise, is this conversation.

That’s what Steven told you, wasn’t it? That 'there are things that Marc hasn't told you.' That 'once you know everything,’ Marc thinks ‘you'll walk away'.

It’s the final puzzle piece, slotted into its rightful place, and you can finally see the picture that was blurred out before, crystallising in startling detail.

This is it. This is the big secret. The thing that Marc hasn't told you.

You get it now. Why he has avoided you all this time. Why he stayed away even after you told him you love him.

Because how on earth would anyone even begin to explain what happened tonight to someone who wasn’t there?

How could he possibly have explained any of this to you before now? How would he possibly convince you those things out there (whatever they are) were real without dragging you into danger, head first, to see it with your own eyes?

Didn't you struggle with the very same thought when you’d first tried to tell Marc what you’d seen in the alley on your own before all hell broke loose? The fear that he wouldn't believe you. That he'd think you were insane.

Even if he had managed to explain and get you to believe him– what then?

You can understand it. Why he was convinced that you would leave not just him but Steven as well, causing further collateral damage, if he told you everything. You can see from where he was standing, why he’d worry.

But this is where Marc is wrong. You still want this. Him. Them.

"What happened tonight, it doesn't change how I feel about you," you start, and his hand on your foot spasms, grip tightening. It’s how you know your guess was right on the button, so you press on. "What I told you on the phone, I still mean it. I–" you hesitate on the word.

The last thing you want is to spook him away again by repeating it. It might be too much too soon. Instead, you settle for second best.

"I want you to come back. Steven and I both do."

Marc lets go of your foot. You can see his hand shaking despite Marc’s attempt to make it stop. His fingers flex and curl in agitation until he gives up and reaches up to drag it through his matted curls in frustration.

“You don’t want this,” he says quietly, and his face is still turned downwards, staring at the floor refusing to look up at you.

Knowing Marc, you know that he could very well mean the situation or himself. After everything that’s happened tonight, the part that upsets you the most is that he still feels this way about himself.

"I do," you counter, saying the words with the whole of your chest. “I. Want. You. I want all of this.”

In the face of your certainty, he flinches, face pinched as if telling him you want him is a physical slap that pains him. It takes him a second to recover, to shake his head in refusal as he stares down at the floor like it committed a great wrong against him.

"You want a normal life. Steven can give you that if it’s just the two of you. I can't,” he tells you. His voice, low in that weary and tired tone you overheard in the bathroom.

"I don't need you to give me a normal life. What does that even mean? ‘Normal,’” you say derisively. “I don't need or want normal if it means you're not there Marc. That's not the life I want.”

He's still not looking at you, biting the insides of his cheek, and you can almost see the walls closing in around him before your very eyes.

"You said you wanted me safe”, you say, ducking your head to try to catch his gaze, and you manage to see his eyes peer up at you from his lashes, as you continue. “And happy. I'm telling you now, I'm not going to be happy if you're not here."

Marc’s eyes widen with alarm. “You were awake?”

"I–" you start, but he cuts you off before you finish.

“You were pretending to be asleep?”

"No, I thought I was dreaming, I–"

“What else did you hear,” he asks. There’s panic in his voice, and he’s already rising from his seat in preparation to flee the room.

Fuck, how are you fucking this up this badly this fast? Seeing his distress almost makes you want to backtrack, to fold it up and call it a night, try again tomorrow maybe. Because you know in his mind Marc is already bolting for that door, ready to leg it and put as much distance as he can between you and him.

But… your mind flashes to the weight of his gentle touch on your shoulder. To his fingers brushing away the hair on your forehead. To his quiet voice as he whispered, 'I love you too'. You know what you heard in the dark: a testament of Marc’s feelings for you, and it emboldens you.

“Marc.” You lean forward, reaching out to take his hand in yours. He stiffens with a jolt as your fingertips brush up against his knuckles, and you can almost see the line of his shoulder vibrate. But he doesn't make any moves to pull away at your touch.

“I want you. Do you want me?” you ask.

He stills. Marc looks at you for a long unflinching moment. It’s the same conflicted set in his jaw when you were standing next to him in front of Gus’ tank. The same hesitation written over his face when you were watching him through the back window of the taxi as it pulled away from him in the night. That same pained look when your eyes met in your office before he fled from you.

His mouth parts with hesitation, but then he bites down and grinds his jaw hard enough that you think you can hear his molars grate from where you sit. “What I want doesn’t matter,” he answers you stubbornly.

It's enough to make you want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him back and forth and scream into his face.

“It does!” you say, almost half-shouting. “Of course it matters. You matter.”

"Don't. Don't do that.” Marc shakes his head, and he moves his free hand over yours, gently prying it off of him. “Save that for Steven. He deserves it. Deserves… you. I… I don't.”

“And what about what I deserve,” you demand, fed up to the gills with his tendency for self-sacrifice, “What I want? Don’t I deserve to decide for myself?”

That seems to catch him off guard. For once he doesn’t have a ready response, just glares at you, his jaw still set at that impossibly stubborn angle, but his eyes are full of so much pain that it hurts you to see it. You reach out again and cup his cheek.

"Remember that night Gus died? You came to me for help. You said I was the only one you could think of to ask, and it made me so happy that you did. I want you to ask me for things.”

There’s another moment of indecision in his eyes. The upper half of his body tilts in your direction, almost like he’s reaching for you, even if he won’t let his hands do so.

"I just want to be with you,” you continue, “I want to be your person. The person you come to when you need something. Can’t that be enough?"

His eyes are glued on you, mouth gaping open. For a moment you think you've succeeded, managed to stun him into silence and maybe even convinced him.

It doesn’t last.

He closes his parted mouth and clamps it shut until it’s compressed into a thin determined line. Then before you can react, he’s abruptly pulling away, turning with wordless efficiency, and walking away from you.

"Marc?" you call after him, but his determined stride doesn’t even falter, "Marc!"

Oh goddamnit!

You hop off the counter, your sore ankle twinging when you land on it, but you ignore the dull ache as you run after him.

“You don’t have to do this, Marc!" you shout. Slinging your arm out, you only just manage to catch him by the back of his shirt. Your fingers grip onto the fabric for dear life to stop him from getting further away, "You don’t have to do everything on your own. You don’t have to be alone. Steven and I are here. Stop running away from us! We want to support you. Please! You can lean on us.”

He stops, turning about sharply, fire and brimstone in his eyes. The fuse of his already short temper burnt to a crisp.

“You and Steven were never supposed to know about me or get caught up in any of this,” he snaps. “I’ve– My life is dangerous. It’s not safe.”

“Yeah, I noticed the red flags already, you dunce. I still care about you regardless!”

“I don’t want you to care!” Marc roars, and it hits you with the force of a punch to the chest.

You suck in a sharp pained breath, and he must see the hurt in your face because his eyes soften slightly, but his voice is no less emphatic, “You can’t go poking around in my life. Running out after me in the middle of the night. It's dangerous! You got hurt tonight. You could’ve been killed!"

And that does it. The pain of his implied rejection, the scolding tone, the way it feels like he’s blaming you for getting yourself hurt. It all rubs you the wrong way. All of the patience you had in you up until now evaporates, replaced by a fiery heat burning up your chest until it comes to a boiling point.

“Me?” you bite back indignantly. “What about you? Running around in a bloody Halloween costume in the middle of the night. Fighting invisible monsters? What if you got hurt? What on earth were you doing out there?”

“This is exactly why you needed to stay away from me. You do not want or need my fucking mess, okay!?"

“Yes, I bloody well do! I'll take your fucking mess, Marc—every speck of it—as long as I get to have you too.”

His gaze bores into yours, eyes dark like spilt ink and brimming with anger so stark it practically sparks.

“You really want to know what I do? Why I was out there tonight?” he asks, voice quieter, but the anger is still there, simmering just below the surface waiting to erupt.

The sudden change feels like a gauntlet being thrown down, challenging you to a metaphorical game of chicken, daring you to back away and run for the hills while you still can.

You stand your ground, heels digging into the floor as you nod, swallowing the anxiety you feel pressed up against your throat like an acidic heartburn.

“I serve Khonshu. I’m his avatar,” he says matter-of-factly as if it’s the most sensible thing in the world. As if any of this is supposed to make sense to you.

It doesn’t. It makes no fucking sense at all.

Your mind scrambles to connect the dots. Khonshu? Avatar? What the hell is he on about? Avatar as in James Cameron’s Pocahontas in space? And Khonshu? What even… You can’t even begin to think of what that is supposed to mean. Don’t recognise it save for a passing familiarity that it’s a word that Steven has used when passionately serenading you with facts on Ancient Egypt. The connection between the two is lost to you.

“What is… ‘Khonshu?'” you ask, and this time, you don’t have to drag the answer out of Marc.

He answers you willingly and as plainly without varnish as before. “Khonshu’s the ancient Egyptian god of the moon. Years ago, I was stabbed and left for dead. He saved my life and in return, I work for him now.”

There’s no hint of emotion as he says it. He’s not pleading for you to believe him despite how fantastical it sounds. Not trying to convince you of anything. Marc is leaving it to you whether or not you believe him, almost like he wishes you wouldn’t. Like this bizarre rambling will hopefully finally send you packing and out of his life. And that’s… how you know he’s not lying to you.

“Work for him… how?” you ask.

His eyes flick upwards, grinding his teeth as if he’s biting down on a curse, before his gaze settles back on you.

“I swore to protect travellers of the night.”

And once again, that tells you absolutely nothing. What does that even mean, ‘Travellers of the night’? As in prostitutes?!

Marc’s obfuscation and frankly dodgy-as-fuck explanations have your blood boiling. You’re almost positive he’s doing this on purpose to get you hacked off, and he’s succeeding.

“Can you speak in plain English?”

“I take care of bad guys so they don’t harm good people. Protect civilians who can’t protect themselves.”

“So you’re… what? Like a supernatural police officer? A monster hunter? A guardian of the night?”

He grits his teeth.

“Something like that.” The answer is dismissive, and so is his attitude. He folds his arms across his chest, trying to distance himself from you, casting a glance at the door. “Satisfied? We done here?”

“No! No, we’re not ‘done here.’ We are the furthest thing from done. I already told you, Marc. Nothing that’s happened tonight changes how I feel about you.”

He shakes his head, jaw set mulishly, before tearing his eyes away and turning towards the front door.

And that just won’t do. If you let Marc walk out now, you know he’ll do everything in his power to avoid you for the rest of his life.

Moving quickly, you dart around Marc and slide between him and the door. In your single-minded hurriedness, you bump into the small table by the door, sending several things clattering over and probably adding yet another bruise to your already abused body, but you don’t care. You cannot let him leave. Plastering your back to the door, you stand tall and raise your chin, prepared to act as a physical barrier if you have to.

Marc’s eyes narrow into slits, a snarl of pure exasperation erupting from the back of his throat.

“Move,” he orders, taking a step closer to you, but there is no real threat behind it. He doesn’t reach out to touch you; doesn’t grab you or shove you out of the way

He just looks at you like you are an actual obstacle he cannot surpass. But you know that he could move you by force if he wanted to. It’d be easy for him to force his way out of the flat with little effort.

Between the two of you, physically he’s the stronger one. You’ve witnessed him take out supernatural monsters tonight. If he wanted to, he could shove his way straight through you. Carry you into another room and lock you in. Could easily snap every bone in your wrist in the blink of an eye.

But he won't. After all this time, if there is one thing you’ve learnt about Marc, it is that harm is only ever his last resort.

The man is squirmish at the prospect of physically harming a goldfish. Would rather visit all the pet shops in all of London in the middle of the night to find a mythical one-finned fish to avoid that outcome. At the core of him, he wants to shield and protect, not break.

And towards you? He would never use brute strength on you. Would never hurt you. Would give his very life to make sure you’re safe and unharmed. Happy.

In front of you, Marc takes another step forward, closing the distance. His commanding presence crowds you in against the doorframe until there’s barely any space between you anymore.

Marc is angry. Jaw tense, shoulders tied up in a tangled knot, nose flaring like an angry bull emitting a bright and blaring warning signal for you to move. But you stay put because if he’s a bull, then that must make you a matador, practically waving a red cape at him to come charge you.

He’s staring down at you again. That look in his eyes, like he knows what is best for you. That same stern gaze when he swore you to secrecy, deciding what was best for Steven. The determination there that tells you that this is not up for discussion.

It’s a recurring pattern with Marc. He decides what he thinks is best for everyone else, with no consideration of what the person in question actually wants.

“Last chance,” he warns, through gritted teeth, “I won’t ask again.”

Marc probably thinks this is a threat. But it’s only because he can’t see himself, the pain-filled eyes that look back down at you. Nothing is menacing about it.

“I’m not moving,” you tell him.

It’s only a fraction of a second, but you catch his eyes flickering to your lips. A near-growling sound tears out of his throat, and then he’s moving forward further into your space.

What is he–?

His hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you to him, and then his lips are on yours.

Oh.

Marc Spector is kissing you.

It’s hard and demanding, his lips crushed to yours, clearly driven by the frustration and anger that seems to vibrate just under his skin. But it doesn’t matter. You have dreamed of kissing this man for so long. Even with the harshness, you can’t help but respond to him, meeting the brutal press of his lips with your own more eager one. Mouth parting in invitation for him.

Something shifts.

All the fight goes out of him, leaking away like hot air out of a punctured balloon, whatever anger was there fizzles out of him, and you feel him melt against your lips. The kiss slips into something softer, sweeter. Something that steals every ounce of oxygen from your lungs.

You don’t know how long it lasts, the only thing you know is that it doesn’t last long enough. If you could have the choice, you’d want it to last forever.

It doesn’t of course. Marc retreats from you with an unsteady step. His eyes are etched with shock as you take him in, brows pinched and pupils wide, and you already want to kiss him again.

The two of you have been here before. Staring at each other from so close a distance that your foreheads are inches from touching. Except this time it’s not in front of a fish tank with an imposter goldfish between you. A stray curl falls into his eyes and tickles your nose. It’s the hint of clean linen, the note of coffee you brew for him every night that he will unfailingly drink because you made it for him. It’s the smell you wake up to embedded in Steven’s sheets.

You want this man, all of him, to be yours.

Your face tilts up to him. So close, his lips ghost over yours.

“Marc,” you whisper, and his eyes flicker over your face. “Stop running.”

Part of you expects him to stop you again. That he will pull back, eyeing you like you’re something dangerous, the way he did that night in front of the fish tank.

He doesn’t.

You tip your face forward even further, your nose dragging along the bridge of his.

“I love you.”

You can hear the sharp inhale just like last time you said it over the phone when you did not know if he was on the other end or not. When you didn't know if the sound was imaginary or real. Now you know.

You couldn’t see his face then, but this time you get to. The pinched furrow between his brow, that look in his eyes that makes your heart seize in your chest. There’s no doubt about it now.

"And you love me,” you say.

His lips part, and you brace yourself for another protest or denial, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his head does the slightest tilt forward. A nod, you realise.

“Yeah.” He whispers it so quietly you nearly miss it at first.

You smile. Happiness surges through your insides, weaving through your ribs until you think that your chest might burst.

Marc Spector loves you.

You swallow in relief, smiling even as you feel a sting prickle the corner of your eyes. Then Marc leans down and closes that infinitesimal space between you, bringing down the final barrier of separation that he has maintained since you met him.

It’s a soft press of his lips to yours. So soft, it’s scarcely there, but it feels perfect all the same, a fluttering warmth that you can feel down to the curl of your toes.

It’s an admittance. An invitation. A sign of trust.

Marc kisses you again and again with lingering kisses that he deepens with each gentle press of his mouth to yours. His hand moves to cup your face in his palm, cradling your cheek like you're the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

You feel like you ought to be surprised by how gentle he is, but you’re not. Not at all, because of course he’s gentle.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? Marc’s hardness is all smoke and mirrors, hiding the vulnerable softness that lies under the hardened skin. Beneath it all, Marc is protective and caring, kind even.

And now, you finally get to have him in all his confounding complexities. This stubborn, kind, impossible idiot, right here in your arms.

You pull him closer, even as you keep kissing him, fingers twisting into the brushed cotton of his shirt, and he lets you. Head leaning down as he adjusts his angle so he can slant his mouth fully over yours. He’s pressed up against every single inch of you, from his knees to his chest, your lips fused and somehow it’s still not even close to enough for you. You tug his collar, encouraging him to come even closer and he does, obedient, in a way that you’ve never known him to be before.

Stepping forward, he follows your lead, inching closer, until the solidness of his chest presses you flush to the door. His arm comes to brace the side of your head, hand cupping behind the back of your neck, and you realise only belatedly it’s the reason why your head isn’t colliding with the hard wood behind you.

Not that it would matter if you did. You don’t even think you’d notice if your head went through the wall right now. Too focused on the softness of his lips. Too lost in the quiet, near-silent humming sound he makes as he kisses you that sets your nerves alight.

God, he’s perfect. His closeness is heady. There’s a growing hunger in your stomach that makes your limbs shake and tremble. After all the time he's been away, hiding from you, you feel starved for this. For him. You want to bite his neck, lick along the protruding line of his collarbone and swallow every inch of him down to the marrow if he’d let you.

For all the gentleness that Marc is showing you, you have no intention of returning the favour. Your teeth sink in, biting down on his bottom lip, and he lets out a quiet involuntary gasp into your mouth. Your veins burn at the sound. Fuck, you want him to make that noise again, that careless pitch of pleasure that sounds so unguarded coming from him. You want to bite and nibble and scratch and claw and have him make every noise known and unknown to mankind.

You drag your teeth along the swell of his lip, and he shivers, eyes squeezed firmly shut like he’s teetering on the very edge of his self-control. Then you nip down again.

His hips stutter forward involuntarily, and he curses, the sound breathless and raw, like you tore it out of him before he was prepared. It’s all you want. To hear that sound again and again and again. You want to hear his tiny moans in your ear, the involuntary muffled growl as he buries his face into your neck trying to keep quiet, hear him gasp ‘fuck’ in barely audible decibels. You want everything.

Hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, you haul him closer as if he wasn’t already pressed alongside your body. Thighs nestled between yours, the coarseness of denim scraping against your bare legs. You can feel the hardening bulge trapped between you, and you want him to grind against you, to rut into you mindlessly until you can feel his cock twitch against the softness of your belly.

But Marc isn’t showing any signs of obliging you in that department, and you’re not willing to stop kissing him in order to give him directions. Instead, you arch your back away from the wall, tilting your pelvis until you rub up against his crotch. He jolts hard at the contact, the line of his body wracked in shivers with a gorgeous groan that is cut off too soon.

"Shit!”

His hand leaves your neck. Then he’s pulling back and away from you in retreat. You immediately miss the warmth of his body, reaching up to try to chase after the loveliness of his lips, but he stops you. A gentle but firm hand comes down on your shoulder, pinning you against the wall.

You stare up at him, and you’re not sure you’re breathing anymore at the sight of him. You should be used to how preposterously beautiful this man is by now. But you never are. Each time feels novel and so much worse–no, better than the last time. The collar of his shirt is stretched and askew. Curls a mess against his forehead. Lips, slick and kiss-swollen as his mouth hangs open, chest heaving as he pants.

As stunningly pretty as Steven is when you’ve succeeded in making a mess out of him, to do it to Marc is something else entirely. This orderly, neat freak of a man who makes it his life mission to repress his emotions and jam them shut inside of himself with a tight lid. You did this. You’ve made a mess of him. It’s electric, your veins buzz with the thrill, and your brain is screaming for more.

Your hand reaches up, fingers carding through his hair as you reel him in by the back of his neck. Your mouth finds his, kissing him hard before he has time to overthink it or, god forbid, change his mind and try to bolt again. His mouth parts, and you swallow the soft oomph of surprise that escapes his throat and lean in, licking desperately into his mouth. If this is all you get, you want to try to savour him.

Marc doesn’t stop you this time. Instead, his hands settle on your waist, fingers digging into your hips as he’s pulling you closer. It has the whole of your back from the base of your spine to the tip of your nose tingling.

This time he’s the one grinding into you, the hard outline of his cock pressed tight between you. Even through the thick layer of denim, you can feel how hard he is, and you shiver pleasantly.

You moan into the kiss, rising on your tiptoes to meet him. There’s not an inch of space between your bodies, and you swear you can feel his cock twitch against your hip.

And fuck, fuck– that’s–

You need to get him in bed now before you hitch your legs and clamber onto his thighs to climb him like the trunk of a tree. Why the fuck did the architect place the bedroom section at the opposite end of the flat.

Stepping one foot sideways, you tug at the neck of Marc’s shirt to steer him towards the bed. There’s no resistance. He shows you the same obedience as before, easily letting himself be pulled by you as you start walking blindly backwards, navigating the two of you through the junkyard of Steven’s mess.

Any second now you’re expecting to trip over the damn ottoman, except this is Steven's flat, not yours. And this isn’t Steven; it’s Marc in your arms. Steady and composed in his every step, with none of the charming incoordination of Steven. No, Marc steers you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Arms bracketing your side to make sure your hips don’t bump into any hard-edged furniture, preemptively pushing back a teetering book from the shelf before it even has the time to leap off the ledge.

Marc—beautiful, stubborn Marc, who is as immovable as a rock in his decisions—is letting you pull and tug him in whatever direction you’re choosing to go. Kissing you with each unbalanced step backwards, like you’re the only air he ever needs to breathe.

There’s a flicker of light as you pass Gus’ tank, and it dims when you move past Steven’s desk and the telly. God. It’s a journey of fewer than 20 feet that should take you less than ten seconds and not the eternity that it seems to take.

When you finally feel the fine, gritty sand beneath the sole of your foot, it feels like victory. The soft brush of the sheets pressing up against your calves is the rope of the finish line that you’d never imagined you’d reach.

You want to memorialise this moment somehow. Etch it into your memory so you’ll never forget. Carve it into the wooden beam structures of this very flat so it’ll outlast you both.

Marc’s hands on your hips guide you gently to a stop, and you realise with a rush of giddiness that you’ve finally reached your destination. You break the kiss long enough to sit down on the edge of the bed, and you don’t even need to tug at the corner of his sleeve for Marc to dutifully follow you down. He helps you lay back and leans in after you, the firm weight of his body settling over you, pressing you down into the mattress.

The weight of Marc feels perfect, as his head tips down to your face, kissing over the curve of your jaw to your neck. He’s pressing open-mouthed kisses down the line of your throat and the swell of your chest. It’s tender. Reverent almost.

Marc is unbothered by the cotton layer of clothing that separates his mouth from your bare skin as he goes. His mouth grazes your knuckles, kissing the inside of your wrist. He’s soft yet insistent. Hungry but slow. God, he’s slow, infuriatingly so, to the point where you wonder if he’s taking the mick out of you.

His lips trail a row of devoted kisses against the bare skin of your stomach where your shirt has ridden up, barely lifting the hem up and letting it ride up against your ribs as he puts his mouth there too. If it didn’t feel so good to have his mouth on you, you’d consider it torture with the pace that he’s going. You’re aching, everything inside is pulled so taught and tight you might burst out of your skin.

Those cotton soft curls tickle against your thighs on his way down, and you spread them for him in a not-so-subtle invitation. But Marc doesn’t pay you any mind, that earlier obedience that had endeared him to you is nowhere to be found now. He continues down, knees sinking into the sand lining the perimeter of the bed until he’s kneeling down in front of you on the bed.

Then he stops.

You hold your breath waiting for him to continue. But nothing happens, and your first instinct is that he’s changed his mind again. You’re almost lunging after him. Fully prepared to tackle him down with a wrestling move you’ve seen on the telly and pin him against the sand and wooden floor.

But he’s not moving away from you.

Opening your eyes to peek, you lift yourself on one arm, tilting down your head to find yourself staring back at those pitch-dark eyes.

You’re not prepared for the sight of him. Of Marc on his knees, peering up at you through his lashes, like you’re a solemn prayer that he’s clinging onto by his fingertips. The vision of him flattens your lungs, taking any oxygen away with it. He’s looking at you like you’re something to be protected and cared for. As if you’re all he’s ever wanted and would never allow himself to have.

Marc’s bending down again, lips brushing your skinned knee as his warm breath ghosts over the raw skin. He goes over every scrape and scratch with his mouth. It’s his way of atoning for ever letting you get hurt.

And as good as that feels, as much as you never want him to stop. You need more. More than this torturous, drawn-out pace that he’s giving you, or you think you’ll tear your hair out by the roots and go mad with it.

“Marc.” You’re trying to say it with urgency, maybe even hint at your annoyance, but it comes out as a high-pitched, delirious plea, “Marc please, I need–”

He doesn’t answer you with any words. Instead, his hands come to the side of your hips, fingers slipping into your sleep shorts, hooking the hem of your knickers with them as he pulls them down.

“Lift,” he commands, in the same brusque way he had before when ordering you to sit on the kitchen counter. But this time you’re only too eager to comply.

You’re so excited you nearly deal a high kick to his face, miraculously missing him by only a couple of inches.

From the corner of your eye, you swear you catch an amused half-smile quirking the corners of his lips. But before you can take a better look to confirm it, he ducks his head back down, even though you think you can see the line of his shoulders shake from what might very well be laughter.

But your mind doesn't get to linger on it for long. His hand curls over your thigh, and he settles your leg on his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the inner side that his mouth can reach. Then he hooks your leg over his back, and sharp heat settles deep in your stomach.

His warm breath fans against the bare skin raising goosebumps in its wake. He continues to lick over the softness of your belly. Nipping at your hip and the insides of your legs, covering every inch of you he can reach with his mouth. Purposefully avoiding the slick ache between your legs where you need his mouth and tongue most.

Fuck, you could kill him for that.

“Marc.” His name is a whine between your lips. It sounds pathetic to your ears, but you don’t care. You’re not above begging. Not if there’s a chance it will get you more of this, of him.

“Please, Marc, just– I need you to–”

“Baby,” he murmurs, cutting off your pleas. It’s almost reproachful, but it doesn’t matter because that’s not what your mind is focused on. This is the first endearment Marc has ever used for you and it sounds so sweet on his lips. Makes you feel loved and cared for despite the admonishing tone.

“Be patient,” he scolds, but there’s so much fondness in his voice for you, it makes you lightheaded. “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

There’s only a brief second as you catch a peek of the pink tip of his tongue, glistening against his lips. His eyes flutter closed as he dips down. Heat crackles throughout your limbs, and your lungs pull tight in anticipation. The air around you thins, and for a moment as you try to desperately swallow down the air in your throat, the room seems to tilt.

Then he gives you his mouth, and as cliche as it sounds, it’s heaven. A long, controlled press of his tongue through your wet and slick folds. Endorphins rush through you to the top of your head, and you can’t help how your body reacts, arching up against his mouth with a gasp that is punched out of your lungs.

Then he does it again, and somehow, though you can’t even fathom how it’s not defying the laws of science and time as you know it, he goes even slower. The velvet softness of his tongue drags with an unhurried press across the seam of your pussy until he reaches the apex and licks with a silken glide on your wet clit. You nearly swallow your tongue to tamper the whine trapped in your throat.

This is not the pace you were expecting. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on your part, but you thought he’d be impatient. Almost anticipated that his movements would be sparse and efficient like every other aspect of his life, pushing you to a high-speed climax like a carcrash.

This is not that. This is Marc taking his own sweet time. His tongue is a slow decadent drag against your clit, and you feel his warm breath ghost over you, inhaling the scent of you as he takes you in.

Sweet heady pleasure climbs up the back of your thighs, filling your stomach with it. It’s so much, you don’t know if you can fit it all within, all the emotions that are welling up in your chest to spill out of you. Your fingers grip his solid shoulders to anchor yourself. You roll your hips against his mouth in an attempt to urge him on, but he refuses to take the hint. His tongue makes a slow, thorough exploration, interrupted only by the open-mouthed kisses that he presses against your mound, your hip, your cunt.

You can feel the tension in his shoulder under your thigh. Can hear it in the quick rasp of his breath, but still, his pace remains slow and measured. Steadily kindling the smouldering heat beneath your skin, lick by torturous lick.

It’s perfect. Hot as sin and twice as glorious, but you could scream with how agonisingly glacial the build-up is. A strange, high-pitched sound escapes you. An unflattering blend between a moan and a sob. It sounds like you’re in pain when all you feel is pleasure, and then you hear Marc shushing you again. This time softer, comforting even.

“It's alright. You're alright. You can take it for me,” he says into your skin, mouth pressed against your clit with a warm hum that rumbles through your flesh. Your veins drip with something sweet and honeyed at his tone.

Marc is so exacting, not at all like Steven’s wild hunger. His tongue laves at you, warm and wet, with an unceasing gentle pressure, gliding over and around your clit. Decadently slow, but never stopping. The feeling is intense and unrelenting. Somehow dragging you closer and closer to the edge but never quite enough to push you over.

Digging your heels into his back, you tilt your hips as far as the strain in your muscles will allow you to get closer. You rock yourself against his mouth, and Marc groans, a pleased, encouraging sound, even as his hands grip the flesh of your waist and hold you firm against the pillowy softness of the bed to make sure you don’t try to ride out your own pleasure against his face at a faster pace than he has set for you.

You could scream with frustration. If the left hemisphere of your brain responsible for speech wasn’t so severely compromised by Marc, you would be screeching until your throat goes raw with it. Instead, you hiccup a broken sob, his name quiet and cracked on your lips.

"That's right. You're alright," he soothes, as he presses his forehead against your stomach. If you didn’t know better, his voice almost sounds a bit shaky, slurring on the last word as he bends back down and puts his mouth back between your thighs, onto your sensitive flesh and gently sucks.

Those unruly curls tickle against the soft skin. You only meant to brush his hair away, but as soon as your fingers curl into the soft heat of them, you can’t help but grip tighter at the silky touch. Carding your hand through the curly locks.

You don’t mean to tug, but the careful drag of his teeth against your clit sends a sharp electric jolt up your spine, short-circuiting your lungs and sending you clawing at his curls for dear life. It should not feel this good, and yet you find yourself chasing the sensation, nearly buckling over, as your heel digs into the firm muscles of his back to anchor yourself.

You can’t even look anymore. Why torture yourself with the sight of him buried between your legs. Cheeks dusted crimson, and those breathtakingly expressive eyes burning into yours as if he’s trying to memorise every minute detail of your expression. You can see his jaw working on your pussy. Can feel him as his tongue keeps sliding hot and insistent without reprieve against your overstimulated clit.

It’s so much. Too much. All your senses feel overloaded. Your vision goes blurry. You’re not sure if it’s tears that are stinging behind your eyelids or if they cross at the back of your head as everything dims and darkens, like a fuse box blowing out. It’s all too much, and you’re being dragged under and drowning in the sensations. You need to pull up above the surface to breathe again or you’re sure you’re going to die.

You grab at Marc’s hand like he’s your life preserver, and he weaves his fingers between yours. It’s surprisingly intimate, as he squeezes your hand back, pressing your intwined hands to your hip bone, reassuring you he’s right there and—fuck, it’s… It’s so much, too much.

It’s chaos. A mayhem between your violently beating heart and burning lungs. You think there must be something wrong with you. Can’t possibly contain the pleasure that keeps pouring and pouring into you. For a fraction of a second, as your mind is torn apart by the sensations, and you are convinced that you must be having a heart attack. What other explanation could there possibly be?

“Ma–Marc, I–I’m– Fuck, oh god, oh fuck."

Marc eases back, “It’s okay.” He presses his mouth to your clit and kisses it, and the slick sound his mouth makes have you trembling and shaking so hard you’re convulsing against the sheets. “You’re okay,” he soothes. “Let go. I’ve got you. Come for me.”

Warmth floods your veins touching every part of your body, humming through every nerve and cell as your orgasm washes over you. It’s hard and unforgiving. Your body is trying to claim revenge on you for allowing it to take so long as it did. Everything else around you disappears, pulling you under with a vengeance that blots out your vision and all sounds with it.

But it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters to you anymore is how everything in you tingles pleasantly. It lingers long after it’s over, and you can still feel it from the tip of your fingers to the curl of your toes as you come down on Marc’s tongue.

His face is still buried between your thighs. His tongue curled against your entrance as he laps every drop of slick out of you. Drinking you down and swallowing every trace of your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for long moments until finally he’s satisfied and drags his head up your body.

“Did so good,” he praises, voice raspy and raw as his tongue trails a long affectionate line down your femur.

He presses his mouth to your knee with the same gentle care he did when he’d applied plasters. It’s intimate. Sweet.

Part of you feels silly to feel this affected by such a simple affectionate gesture considering what preceded it, but your heartbeat flutters at the touch.

It doesn’t matter that you’ve barely just come down from your orgasm or that you’re still throbbing and sensitive between your legs. Limbs so wrung out, they’re tingling and numb. You’re already craving the closeness of him all over again.

“Marc,” you call out for him, arm outstretched in an invitation for him to join you on the bed.

He doesn’t move, and it takes you a few moments, your mind fuzzy around the edges with the afterwaves of your orgasm to register that something's wrong. Everything is blurry and obscured by a warm haze, and you have to blink through the watery periphery of your vision before you can see him a bit more clearly.

Still on his knees, Marc’s mouth parts slightly open, like he maybe wants to say something but he doesn’t know how. There’s hesitation there in the tenseness of his jaw as his eyes flick away from your gaze, as if there’s still some invisible barrier that he won’t let himself cross.

It is a little bit ridiculous. After all, what barriers between you are there possibly left to cross? You and him nearly died together tonight. You love him, and he loves you too. Bloody hell, he’s just spent the better half of this night with his head buried between your thighs. There’s no stone left unturned.

But you know it’s not that simple. There’s a deeply embedded seed in Marc, buried under his skin and flesh and left to sprout for decades, long before you came along. Making him doubt himself and his place with you. It doesn’t matter how far you two come. He might always struggle with letting himself have what he wants guilt-free. Because he still doesn’t think he has a right to, that he doesn’t deserve it.

You plant an elbow on the mattress to raise yourself. But your arms have turned into boneless gelatine, wobbling under your weight, and you nearly topple over. Marc moves so fast, you only register a blur of movement, before he’s by your side. Steadying you with his hands on your shoulders.

“Easy. Lie back,” he says, eyes narrowed and worried, as he’s ushering you back down. The man’s got a protective streak a mile wide.

“Marc, please—” you start, but you don’t have to finish.

He breaks with your plea, and his knee dips into the bed, fully climbing in. His arms brace your sides as he lowers himself onto the bed.

“What, baby? What do you need? Tell me.” He says it like you only have to speak the words, and then your every wish will be his command.

There’s no fight left in his tone anymore. Voice gone soft. Any internal doubts have melted out of him. The look in his eyes as he gazes down on you tells you that Marc would give you anything you ask for. This man would insist on throwing himself under a double-decker bus if he thought it would make the ride a tiny bit smoother for you.

And oh… You get it now.

It’s taken you far too long, but you might have finally solved the puzzle that is Marc Spector. For all his aversion to let himself have even a morsel of happiness, there’s always been one overriding drive. There’s one thing that towers above the shame and guilt. One thing that’s more important to him than everything else. It’s in the way he’s always trying to meet the needs of those he cares for. Their happiness. Steven’s. Yours.

All you need to do is ask for him.

“You. I need you. Want you. Please.”

You can see it in real time as it happens. How the last traces of hesitation in him crumble, replaced by a determination that carves into those rich brown eyes. He drops forward, then he's sealing his mouth over yours like he’s signing on the dotted line, giving himself over to you.

It's everything.

Marc leans back again, fingers hooking into the hem of his t-shirt and dragging it off over his head in a single fluid motion. There’s no tangling of fabric, and it doesn’t get snagged as he tugs it over his head. There’s none of the clumsy adorableness of his alter. Marc undresses with practised ease like it was choreographed for the sole purpose of making your heart race faster.

Good fucking grief, you might’ve already seen this man before you naked on more occasions than you can count. But as he towers above you, skin golden in the dim light, the sight of his bare chest feels novel in a way that has your heart dropping to your lungs that must be entirely medically unsafe. You can’t help but stare shamelessly.

Chiselled and hard from the top of his head to his toes. You remember being surprised by how fit Steven was the first time, but somehow on Marc, it seems right. His physique reminds you of mythic Greek heroes memorialised in marble, and you're taken aback at how soft and warm he is under your hands. That he's human, made out of flesh and bone, and that he shivers as you drag your palms across the bare skin of his chest and stomach.

The anticipation crackles in your thighs, burning with a searing intensity at the thought of undressing him, gingerly unwrap him like a decadent present. But you’re greedy and have none of Marc’s patience. You wrench at his belt with little to no finesse, reaching down and wedging your fingers along the hem of his jeans to shove them down forcefully against the generous curve of his ass. You tug hard enough that you hear Marc choke out a wheezed breath, but you’re not even paying it any attention.

His hardened cock slaps against his stomach with a heavy thud and everything in you roars to attention at how thick and swollen he is for you. You feel heavy with need at the sight of it, and your brain is on autopilot, acting without conscious thought as you’re already reaching forward. Your knuckles skim down over his stomach before greedily wrapping your hand around his cock.

A deep groan tears out of his chest, and his hand snaps up to grab your wrist, holding you still. He clamps his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, inhaling heavily through his nostrils, breathing in and out with great struggle.

As much as you enjoy getting a rise out of him, you’re not trying to make things difficult for Marc on purpose. At least you don’t think you are. But you can’t look away from his cock. You can feel it straining and twitching in your hold, can see the trickle of glistening precome welling up from the flushed tip.

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, practically salivating as your thumb gently drags over the slick wetness there. The touch has his hips bucking, stuttering into your hands with a sound that sounds suspiciously close to a whimper. Your cheeks burn and tingle, your whole body flashing hot.

“Fuck,” he snarls and knocks your hand away, “You fucking ruin me, you know that?”

You want to retort that he’s the one to talk. Point out that he’s left you a dripping slick mess that’s soaked into the bedsheets and mattress and made them unsalvageable; that your thighs are an aching mess and you’re still swollen and sensitive from his mouth. But all vocabulary flies out of your head at the sight of him, as he replaces your hand with his own, wrapping one large hand around his cock.

Your heart stutters somewhere in your chest, and the breath in your lungs still with anticipation as he drops down to settle himself into place between your legs, knees nudging against your thighs to spread you wider for him as he notches the fat tip against your slick entrance.

His eyes lock on yours, the tip of his nose brushing alongside yours. He leans down to kiss you again, mouth warm and slick. You can still taste yourself on him, tart and almost sweet. Then he pushes inside of you, and your mind goes numb.

The first slide of him inside you is perfect. A sweet filling stretch that threatens to blot out everything else into nothingness.

Even though it’s your first time with Marc, your body already knows him. Craves every inch of him, and he’s willing to give that to you now, inch by slow maddening inch as he eases inside. Large hands clutching your sides, as his hips press forward and he works himself inside you. His cock pushes deep until he’s buried to the hilt. Then he stills, shuddering.

“Shit—,” he groans, dipping his head to press his face into your shoulder. “You gotta be kidding me.” His voice sounds shaky and strained. You’re not entirely sure what he means or what he finds so implausible. If he can’t believe he’s finally inside you after all this time or how good it feels. You just know you can’t believe it either.

It's flawed logic, but you’re not exactly coherent at this moment. Lungs squeezing tight in your diaphragm, you’re only capable of sobbing nonsensically at the consuming sensation of him filling you. Can barely focus on the warm tingle on your spine that settles over you. Your mind has been filled with cotton, soft and hazy as he’s completely sheathed inside, as deep as he can physically be.

Marc holds there for a long moment, his breath hot on your skin where he pants against your collarbone. He doesn’t move. Hips pressed flush against yours, taking his time to let your body adjust to the girth of him.

His mouth is on your bare skin, pressing kisses to your lips and then the apples of your cheek, before he drags himself downwards to mouth at the side of your neck, and under your jaw. Hands roaming along your ribs and hips like he cannot stop touching you. It’s devoted, loving even, the gentleness to his touch. It makes everything all the more overwhelming for you. He’s ruining you, with every caress on your flesh, and kiss to your skin, and he has barely even moved yet.

And god, you need him to.

"Marc."

He doesn't seem to hear you, mouth continuing to dot lazy kisses across your clavicle.

"Please.” You arch your back towards him, but you don’t get very far with his weight flattening you down against the bed.

“Marc, need you to move," you try again, voice high-pitched and needy, but you could be pleading to a stone wall for all the good it seems to do. His hips don't move from his position, immovable like a boulder. Instead, his palms fan out against your ribs, fingerprints permanently searing into your skin with the heat of his touch.

You can’t take it anymore, everything inside you is screaming, bursting at the seams for more and you wrap your legs around his waist in an attempt to force him deeper. To move.

Your heels dig into the rounded curve of his ass, and he jerks and gasps. You can feel his cock twitching inside you, as those stupendously gorgeous eyes flutter open. He’s looking at you again, stirred from the spell and the soft expression on his face hardens with determination.

"Yeah, baby. I got you," he says, and he finally complies. His hand comes to rest on the small of your lower back, tilting you up to him as he moves again. The hard drag of his cock slides out of you until only the blunt tip rests inside, and then he thrusts back, unhurried and deliberate.

Slow simmering pleasure bubbles up in your veins and you have to swallow it down with a hiccup of a sob. It's still the same ruthlessly slow and thorough pace. The one that tells you he won't be rushed, won't be hurried, even as he's giving you exactly what you asked him for.

Stubborn. Unreasonable. Maddening. You won't survive him.

The next thrust is demanding. It strikes heat along your spine and squeezes the air out of your lungs, until there's none of it left so you can fit more of him inside. A strange squeaky noise punches out of your throat, and in panic you clamber onto him.

He does it again. Hips dragging back as he pulls himself away, altering the angle of your hips with a small adjustment as he cants your hips upwards again. This time he lifts you further up than before and he pushes his way in with an almost testing stroke. His eyes narrow as he gazes down on you, brows furrowed in concentration and you realise what he’s doing.

Marc is slow and exacting, studying your every reaction, learning the best way to intricately pull you apart.

Staring up at him like this feels like you’re witnessing your own demise as it unfurls. Those unwavering eyes are focused on you, watching your every expression. He’s tilting the angle of his thrusts until he drives the pleasure deeper inside you with devastating precision until there is nothing left of you. Until tears are stinging in the corner of your eyes because you’re sure that you can’t fit more within you — the pleasure and him— and then he does somehow.

He catches your leg, hitching them higher so that he can slide a few inches deeper. The angle shifts, striking against something raw and overwhelming. You think you go blind with it and you swear you see stars collapsing behind the darkness of your eyelids.

"Yeah, there we go." His voice in your ear is calm, but he also sounds proud and pleased, and you're not sure if it's with himself or you. It’s all you can hear, and then he’s moving again.

A rich pleasure fills you at the slow glide of his cock dragging out of you, and then he pushes inside again, deep and determined, until his cock is kissing that deep perfect spot that robs you of your ability to breathe.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Can feel–” he groans, rolling his hips into yours, and it’s fucking devastating.

Your mind goes blank. A clean slate with no thought left in you except how good it feels. All you can do is moan and whimper, hands clutching desperately to his shoulders. "Oh– Oh, god. Marc, I– oh!"

He groans, slanting his mouth over yours and swallows the words down, cradling your head with his fingers. Soft doting presses of his lips to yours.

"Fuck, you feel so–" His sentence is cut off, and you never get to hear the rest of what he was going to say.

His mouth is on yours again and it’s nothing like the starved and overwhelmingly eager kisses you’re used to from these lips when it’s Steven who’s kissing you. This is slow and measured. Patient and deliberate as he takes his time with you. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to tell you a secret. Like he’s entrusting you with something important, to protect and to keep for him.

His finger rubs small circles under your ear, his hips slow and consuming as he fucks his cock into you. His arms never leave your side. Mouth never lifting from yours. His whole body pressed as deeply into you as he physically can.

It feels like a confession.

The ‘I love you’ that he can’t bring himself to say in front of you and can only admit to in the dead of night when he thought you were asleep.

His kiss is a soft and devoted touch. A complete contrast to the rest of him, as he continues to thrust into you, fucking his cock deeper inside you and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up.

It’s pleasure. It’s aggravation. It’s love and a defeat and a million other contradictory emotions between you and Marc that may never be resolved.

And you’re not going to try to. You’re happy to take him as he is, cracks and all. You accept it, his lips pressed against yours. Accept his demanding rhythm as he drives himself into you deeper and deeper. Accept the insistent heat that curls at the base of your spine, until it is a searing and smouldering burn and sparks like ember, numbing your legs with it. It is threatening to consume your very being and burn you into ashes as it flares bright in your lungs and you can no longer breathe as the pleasure of it is ready to overspill, and—

“Baby, you close again?”

And fuck, that’s—that’s— Your stomach tenses up again. The warmth spreads, twining and branches out along every single vein flooding it with blinding bliss until you’re dizzy with it.

You’re trying to say yes, trying to nod, but your body isn’t responding to your will anymore. It has a mind of its own, and all it wants is to be closer to Marc, to grab onto him and never let go. Your limbs are wrapped all around him, legs locked around his waist, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders so hard you know you’re breaking skin. The only thing you’re still in control of is to helplessly squeeze down tight on his cock as it slides thick and heavy in you.

“Oh fuck, that’s–” his voice sounds pitched and almost vulnerable, the arm curled around your leg, squeezing tighter.

Pleasure builds in you like the tide, rising slow and steady but inexorable, filling you until there's no room for oxygen or thoughts or anything else except the consuming push of Marc’s cock inside of you.

And then it breaks, ecstasy streaking out along your every nerve, overwhelming and inescapable, threatening to wash you away with it, except that you’re pinned, held safe by the grounding weight of Marc’s body and the reassuring press of his forehead against yours as you come on his cock.

You open your eyes to find yourself staring up at him, still bleary-eyed and drunk on bliss. You can only make out the colour of his eyes, the dark ink of his hair. But blurry as he is, you’re intimately aware of how he can see all of you. The glazed look that you must be holding in your half-open eyes as wrought out with pleasure as you are. The hair plastered to your forehead. The absolute mess of a state he’s left you in, and how debauched you must look in front of him. Face to face, all of you bare and uncovered, there in its unembellished form for him to see.

But that means you can see Marc too. As your vision clears, you can pick out every small detail of his expression. The subtle tic of the muscle in his jaw. The furrow in his brow. How his mouth is slack with pleasure. Those rich eyes of his are blown wide open until they’re left exposed. You can see it clearly now, how he’s clearly trying and struggling to hold back. The vulnerability that he’s been trying to hide from the world the entire time you’ve known him.

Not for the first time, as he holds himself above you, you find yourself marvelling at how beautiful he is. Identical to Steven, yet worlds apart.

Steven is hope and light and the curve of a gentle smile. Marc is sharp lines and dark shadows and heat behind his pained eyes. Jagged edges to Steven’s soft curves. Jaded cynicism to Steven's cheerful enthusiasm. Dark secrets and carefully hidden skeletons lurking in closets to Steven's forthright honesty.

And god help you, you love them both beyond measure.

The weight of his body is pressing down against you now. Every inch of the smooth golden skin pinned against yours, warm and flushed against your heated flesh. He grinds himself against you, needy, and desperate. There’s no longer any rhythm or logic to it. Just an instinctual primal need to get closer. You spread your legs as wide as you can to welcome him deeper, to take all of him as much as you can even as your thighs ache in protest from overexertion.

His mouth moves against yours, stuttering and trembling, and it takes you far too long to register the words that are coming from him.

“Fuck, baby, fuck I’m–” he chokes out brokenly against your lips, his hands on your hips holding on tighter.

He stills, and you think maybe this is it, that he’s about to come. Anticipation rises in your chest, and you hold him tighter, body clenching down in preparation.

But he doesn’t come. Just holds himself there, shuddering against you, his forehead against your chin, panting breaths, hot and humid, against the base of your neck. His cock is pulsing where it’s buried thickly inside you. Thighs quivering and barely able to keep them upright where they’re pressed between yours. You know that he wants to come. Needs to come. You just don’t understand why he’s refusing to give in.

“It’s okay, Marc. You can let go. Come for me,” the words are a struggle to get out. Your voice hoarse and scraped raw in your throat.

There’s a long moment of stillness, then he heaves a sigh so weary it makes your heart clench, as he starts shaking his head.

“No,” he grits out, voice low and determined as it so often is. His head comes up, dark, fuck-drunk eyes meeting yours, jaw set at that stubborn angle you’ve come to know so well, and he says it again.

“No. I– I’m not–“ He cuts off, shaking his head again. “Not yet,” he says. Then he rallies through, lifting his body away from yours and drives himself deep inside you with a shudder. “Not ready for this to end.”

It sounds like a plea, and you’re not sure who he’s pleading with, you or himself, and there is a pang of pain in your chest for him. Because this idiot still doesn’t get it.

It’s like he’s never known softness. Hardness forged from a lifetime of a man who’s always had to hold himself up without respite. There’s a loneliness in it, of being the one who always has to take care of everyone else with nowhere to put down his burdens.

Fondness swells up in you and there is nowhere to direct it except for the object of your affection. You wrap your arms tighter around him, smoothing one palm over the sweat-slick, heaving muscles of his back, and whisper reassurances into the hair above his ear.

“Marc,” you breathe out and at the sound of you calling his name, his eyes snap up to yours. “Nothing’s ending.”

His arms buckle and he lets out a small choked sound that almost sounds like a whimper. He looks like he can barely hold himself up anymore.

“You have me,” you murmur, pressing your mouth to his. You kiss the arch of his jaw and mouth at the column of his neck. “Have had me for a long time.”

He tenses at your words, whole body trembling above you. But he still refuses to let go.

How many times will you have to keep reaching out to this impossibly stubborn man before he starts believing that you mean it?

Your hands come to the sharp edge of his cheekbones, cradling this face that you have fallen in love with twice over. Not just because it is Steven’s face. Not just because he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. But because it’s Marc too.

“I love you.”

At your words, those determined eyes pitched with dark concentration blanks into a stupefied daze.

His head tilts slightly, a movement so small it doesn’t register at first that he’s nodding. Then his face drops closer, pressing his lips to yours. The line of his shoulder softens under your locked arms, lowering himself down onto you. His hips sink into you, his cock dragging thickly inside you as deep as it goes.

You watch in awe as his mouth falls open, eyes rolling back, and you can feel it as he comes inside you. Pulse after devastating pulse.

And god, he’s so beautiful like this; unruly curls wild and ruined, cut cheeks a faint crimson, skin slick with glistening sweat in the dim light. So perfectly undone and at peace. The pulse of his cock inside you as he spills himself deep inside you is almost secondary.

You bask in it. The warmth of his arms caging you in, his forehead pressing down firm against yours. The feeling of him so deep inside you, you’ll happily drown in the feeling of this man after waiting for him so long. His body slumps, dropping his weight on yours, completely depleted.

His cock is still hard, arms still trembling when Marc shifts on top of you, trying to raise himself on one elbow. It's too soon for him to move, you don't want him to move, want him to lie on top of you forever.

Logically, you know it’s out of consideration. He’s probably worried that he’s squishing you, but an irrational fear swoops low in your stomach at the idea that he’s going to leave again. Your fingers dig into his forearm, dragging him back towards you.

He lands on top of you with a quiet and tired grunt in your ear, but there’s no other protest from him. Marc lets you, shifting ever so slightly to make sure that his elbow doesn’t jab into your ribs as he settles on top of you. Then he stays, and you get to listen to the slow steadying of his breath, as the erratic rise and fall of his chest ease into something more even.

The two of you stay this way for a long time, staring up at each other, with half-lidded eyes worn from exhaustion without speaking, and you catalogue his face as it cycles through a series of micro-expression with each second that ticks by.

If this was when you’d first known Marc, at first glance, each expression would have looked the same to you. But you know him well enough now that you can tell that the tiny pinch of his brow means something is troubling him. That the narrowing slant of his eyes means he can’t find the right words to express it. That him biting the inside of his cheeks means he’s hesitating on whether he would be offloading on you. Every detail says just as much as Steven’s openly variable animated expressions.

His eyes blink in quick succession, and Marc takes a deep heaving breath as if bracing himself. Then he’s lifting himself up and away from you by his forearms, slipping out of you to a sharp pained hiss as you whine in response at how empty you feel at the loss.

He rolls to the side of the bed next to you and settles there, and you feel a bit nervous about what’s going to happen next, because you don't know what is going to come.

“Is this still what you want?” Marc asks.

He’s looking at you as he says it, but somehow you feel like he’s looking through you, eyes not quite meeting yours. His voice sounds impassive, and if you haven’t spent so much time with him by now, it could easily be mistaken for disinterest or even boredom, instead of the defence mechanism that you know it is.

“Yes, of course, it is,” you say without hesitation.

There’s no response from Marc, he’s lying so still next to you. So quiet you can’t even hear him breathing anymore. If it turned out that he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open you wouldn’t be surprised.

You turn onto your side so that you can scoot even closer to him as you watch him. One sole stray curl is draped across his forehead, and it’s fallen into the line of his big gorgeous brown eyes. So ridiculously pretty, this one.

Yeah. This is definitely what you want. Him. Steven. Both. All of them.

“You’re– okay with all this?” he asks hesitantly, and he looks genuinely puzzled as to why you would be. “With... what happened earlier too?”

A breathless huff pushes its way up your chest. “I don’t know if ‘okay’ is the right word here, Marc. I’m not sure how to deal with the revelation that gods and monsters are real, and there’s a very high chance I’ll freak out about it tomorrow or next week. But…”

You press a kiss to the side of his cheek as you draw your eyes up and meet those rich expressive eyes of his. There’s no mistaking it, you feel it, in the same way that you do for Steven. Even if it’s different… there’s no doubt in you, haven’t been for a long time about this.

“What I’m sure of is that I want to be with you. You and Steven. No matter what. I’m not going anywhere. I meant what I said. I want to be your person as well as his. And– and I hope you can be mine.”

Marc tentatively draws his hand towards you, fingertips searching across the length of your arm until he finds your fingers and weaves them with his.

The palm of his hand is warm and sturdy, sending a pleasant buzzing sensation across the back of your neck. It’s your favourite thing in the world, whenever Steven does this, and you’re pretty sure it’s going to be your shared favourite when Marc does it too.

“Yeah”, he finally says after a long moment, “I’d like that.” His voice is soft and quiet, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies swoops your stomach at his warm tone filled with affection.

Tilting your head upwards, you close the distance between you, pressing your lips to his. It’s sweet and tender as his hand cups your cheeks protectively, like a promise that he’s not going to run anymore and it makes your toes curl into the sheet until you’re giddy.

You clutch at him, hands cupping the back of his neck and lace your fingers into those ridiculously soft curls of his. Marc shivers against you, and you smile like a loon as he ducks his head and buries his face into the crook of your neck contentedly, and exhale deeply.

Who would have guessed that post-sex, the man would be the world's most grumpy cat turned soft and cuddly, asking to be petted. You comb through the matted locks and the blunt tip of his nose nuzzles into your damp skin. He makes a quiet, content little sound somewhere from the back of his throat like he doesn’t want you to stop and who are you to deny him?

Your fingertips trail his scalp, from the nape of his neck to the crown of his head, when it occurs to you that you should probably be more careful with his head.

He was flung several feet in the air and landed head-first into a concrete wall with a bone-cracking sound that still makes you sick to your stomach. You continue to card through his hair, mapping him out in search of any signs of injuries, but you can’t find any and your fingers still.

It doesn’t make sense. You weren’t put through the ringer in any way near what Marc was tonight and you’ve still ended up with your fair share of scrapes and bruises. But there’s nothing on Marc.

No swelling, no bumps. No wounds.

On top of it all you’ve spent the better part of this evening, pulling and tearing at his hair. Your nails had been digging so deep into his shoulders you might as well have been excavating for gold and he hasn’t so much as hissed or flinched in pain even once.

There’s a faint muffled sound of complaint from Marc as he lies on top of you. It’s so distorted that it takes you a few moments to appreciate that they’re words.

“What's wrong?” Marc asks.

“You don’t have any injuries. You were hurt.”

“I was wearing the suit,” he answers in his typical deadpan manner. No background information, no context, no painting out a scene for you. To Marc, the limited information he’s given you should make perfect sense to you.

You grimace, and you’re just about to have a moan at him, when Marc seems to realise how confusing that explanation must be. He lifts his head from your neck as he continues. “Khonshu’s ceremonial armour. It protects me. Heals me when I need it.”

An image of the swirl of bandages wrapping itself around Marc’s body to form an otherworldly magical suit plays out behind your mind, and you can’t resist teasing him.

“So you transform like Sailor Moon and then fight evil at night?”

Marc lifts his eyebrow inquisitively, with a completely blank expression. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Really? Sailor–” you sputter, shocked he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. “Steven would know that reference.”

“Steven has too much free time,” he sighs, but the fondness hiding under his gruff tone is unmistakable.

The playful jab at Steven brings a small smile to your face. The levity of it is a nice change of pace from the whirlwind of seismic events and paradigm shifts tonight, because there’s been a lot to take in. Much of which, you’re pretty sure you haven’t fully taken in… Don’t even know how to start to process it.

Ancient Egyptian gods are real, and your boyfriend—(boyfriends? Just exactly how involved is Steven?)—is some kind of indentured fighter priest who battles invisible monsters—also real—for one of them.

What is the correct reaction to a revelation like that? How does one even begin to mentally process that?

“Any other questions? Now’s your chance,” Marc says.

There is no hostility like before and this time you don’t have to drag it out of him with the persistence of a detective in an interrogation room interviewing a suspect as you ordinarily have to.

You’re not entirely sure how you feel about that, except that you’re a little bit stunned and you realise that something has shifted between you and Marc.

He’s… opening up to you.

You look up at him, and he meets your eyes steadily. There are a million things you still want to ask: What’s the deal with his and Steven’s mum? What did he and Steven go through while they were away? How did he almost die, and how on bloody earth did he manage to just stumble upon an ancient Egyptian God to end up in his service?

Marc hasn’t moved from the spot as he observes you. Still seemingly expressionless, except…

There’s a tension to the set of his shoulders, isn’t there? And he’s too still—even for Marc… It hits you all at once he’s holding his breath, the line of his lips set in a thin nerve-biting straight line.

He’s waiting for you.

Regardless of how hard Marc tries to hide it, trying to school his expressions, there’s only so much his body language can repress. The ring of his eyes is dilated and vulnerable.

He’s nervous.

Marc’s jaw tightens in anticipation and maybe something a little like fear, and it makes your chest ache with an overwhelming need to protect him. Those other questions can wait. You have all the time in the world together. Right now you want to make him feel as safe and cared for as you do. You want to make him smile.

"So..." you begin, and you see him stiffen, watching as he braces himself like he’s expecting a blow. It’s how you know you’re making the right decision. "Do you actually like my coffee?"

His eyes widen and he sputters out "You– Your–" then barks out a laugh.

Even in the dark, you can see it, a soft smile on his face that illuminates the darkness of the room with it. A gentle curve, as the dimple of his cheeks carve a deep dent into those hollowed cheeks, the soft crinkle of lines around his eyes. It’s like nothing you have ever seen before. It’s bright and uninhibited. An electrical socket has been plugged in and every nerve in you is flicked alight with excitement.

It stuns you and takes your breath away, and for the longest moment, you forget about everything else.

Because god, he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life.

It takes you several seconds, maybe even a full minute to compose yourself enough to ask him again.

"Well...?" you prompt, and you’re gifted with the pleasure of watching him try and fail to hide that perfect smile.

"It's… a little more complicated than that," he says, and you narrow your eyes at him, trying to look playfully peeved while tampering your own smile that’s twitching at your lips and failing.

"I like that you make it for me," he tries.

"That wasn't the question, though."

Marc shifts in the bed, scooting closer to you until he’s brushing up against your knees. That small but near-magical smile is still on his face.

"Tell you what,” Marc murmurs, as he tightens his grip around you, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat-slicked curls tickling your nose. “Tomorrow, let's make it together."

His voice is so assured, it feels like he’s promising you a certainty, and you trust him with every inch of you.

A warmth spreads in your chest, and you can feel the dopey grin pulling at your lips until your cheeks almost hurt, but you can’t stop yourself and you don’t think you want to either.

There is so much that is still unresolved, so many more things you need answers to, but it’s a good start and that’s good enough for tonight. After all, as Steven would tell you: you have all the time in the world.

“That sounds perfect,” you tell him.

When you wake, the morning light is filtering in through the large windows. The sun is blinding and makes it difficult to see anything at all.

Reaching out your hand, the spot next to you is cold and empty, any residual heat long gone from the sheets. You’re alone in bed again.

Marc has really got to stop fucking doing that.

“Marc?” you call out, but there’s no response. You hesitate for a second before adding, “Steven?”

“Here.”

Then you hear familiar noises coming from the kitchen, and the tension in your chest melts away at the sound of porcelain clinking together. There are no folded clothes by your side, but to your surprise, your watch sits on the nightstand, cracked face turned up, waiting for you.

A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and your stomach warms at the sight. Marc must have gone back to retrieve it while you were asleep.

You sit up on the bed, bending over to grab a discarded shirt from the floor as well as your knickers from last night, and pull them on, smiling to yourself as you start to make your way across the flat to join him in the kitchen.

The familiar sweet, bread-like smell wafts out to greet you, and you falter.

Pancakes? That isn’t right. Today’s not Sunday.

In the bright morning sun, you see him standing, with his back turned against you over the kitchen stove. Wearing only his jeans, bare from the waist above, the carved muscles of his back flexing as he flips the frying pan with a dramatic flair. Even before he speaks, you already know what’s happened.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he greets you. He's turning his head just enough to throw you a quick glance, and a one-sided crooked smile.

You stop in your tracks. The cadence is alien, the smile off, but you recognize it immediately.

Not Marc. Not Steven. But you have met this man before.

That first night at Steven’s; the man you woke up to who looked at you like you were a stranger; the man who followed you to the lift to return your watch; the same man who towered over the invisible creature with nothing but cold contempt in his eyes as he snuffed out its time on earth with precision and brutality.

All this time, you thought that the first night you’d spent with Steven was also your first encounter with Marc.

But Marc doesn’t call you sweetheart. Marc doesn’t flirt. Marc doesn’t smirk like he’s trying to imitate something he’s seen on the telly.

This is detached and impersonal, like he’s not really smiling at all. When Marc smiles it’s snow thawing in the spring.

It’s funny how you didn’t see it until now. Marc was never the wolf.

You cross your arms against your chest, planting your feet firmly on the floor, standing up straight and tall as you confront the man before you.

“You’re not Marc, and you’re not Steven,” you say and you shift on your legs, puffing out your chest in a display of put-on courage. “Don’t you think it's time you introduced yourself, seeing that you’re in my boyfriends’ flat?”

The man huffs out a laugh, and his accent is different when he speaks again. A New York accent, you think, but almost cartoonishly so, like he’s watched one too many Martin Scorcese movies. It’s oozing out of every word as he speaks with a slow and nasal hum.

“Nothing gets past you, does it, sweetheart?”

He sets down the frying pan on the stove, turning it off before he wipes off his hand on a flower-patterned tea towel and extends it towards you, a polite invitation to shake.

“Name’s Jake Lockley.”

You take a step towards him, and maybe you should be nervous—afraid of this stranger wearing your boyfriends’ face—but the panic and fear from that first night you met him is absent. That painful pounding in your chest is no longer there.

You accept his hand, looking up into this man’s familiar eyes that are staring down at you in an entirely unfamiliar way. Not Steven’s wide and adoring gaze. Not Marc’s protective and gentle attention. No love resides in those eyes for you at this moment, just curiosity.

But you’re not scared this time.

Because come what may, you already know the most important part. Whatever happens next, whoever this Jake turns out to be, it’s not going to change your mind about Steven or Marc.

You’ll take them as they are. Red flags and all.

THE END.

Author's notes

This is the end. I wish I was more coherent to write a meaningful and heartwarming message about what this story has meant to me. How grateful I am to everyone reading it, but I do not think I have any words that can do it justice.

The only thing I can say is thank you. Thank you for reading this, whether you've read this from the first chapter, or whether you only read the first chapter or you've only read bits and pieces. Whether you've commented or liked or reblogged or simply just lurked-read, from the bottom of my heart thank you for giving this story your time, I'm really grateful to you all.

A big thank you to my friends who have listened to me whine and bitch and moan and generally emotionally terrorised them with this story, and especially thank you to my cowriter: thirstworldproblemss who has been put through the ringer with this story and suffered alongside with me. I love you the moooooooooooooooooooosetest

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

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ollieink · 6 months

Text

𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐃!

childe x fem!reader ( wc 4.8k)

inspired by 'pretty poison' written by the very talented vent1k1n on ao3, literally so good. never thought strip russian roulette could be so smeggsy wtf.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 | dead dove: do not eat, non-con, rough sex, size difference, bit of gunplay, spitting, forced orgasm, corruption, yandere undertones, threats of murder, childe is a menace, reader has a petite body, dash of angst, russian roulette, mafia alternate universe, betrayal, please don't read if you're not comfy with these themes.

"Tartaglia is heartless."

That's what papa's soldiers said after he asked for your hand in marriage. It was a way for both ruling families to finally come to terms. Some were against it, others hopeful. And you had to admit, Tartaglia was hypnotizing. You saw him from afar one time, two times, a couple of times—from across the bridge that separated papa’s territory from his. He was the ocean come alive, all the good and all the bad. When he crossed that bridge to meet you, everything people warned you about him burnt to the ground.

Your chest fluttered on the wedding night, but it wasn't what you thought or hoped it would be. Tartaglia merely wished you a good rest before departing to his room. Of course, this wasn't a marriage of love ( you'd gotten carried away in your fantasies ), but rather a strategic move on both mafia families. Even then, the painful sprout of thorns in your chest didn't go unnoticed. Maybe it did for him. Or perhaps he did notice and just didn't care.

Papa didn't want you seeing all the bad things he did, so violence was a thing that happened from a distance. It was the same with Tartaglia. He'd tell you to go to your room when his men came in for a meeting, reassure you everything was okay—that you didn't need to worry your pretty head off. Perhaps he truly cared about you ( even if it wasn't the starstruck love you hoped it to be ), and that fleeting period in your life was the happiest. That is until you peeked into the basement of his manor, and a pair of dead blue eyes looked back.

You’re not supposed to cry over a stupid boy.

The sky has given way for a thunderous storm. Loud cracks of thunder light up the city, matching your heart's ferocious churning as you think over and over again: why, why, why? It pours rain as you pound on various doors for refuge, but everyone knows better than to open them at this hour. Crossing the bridge is a death sentence; Tartaglia’s men are stationed there, and they'd surely capture you on sight.

Afraid that he’ll catch up, you run into the city’s emptiest corner—an unsuspecting alleyway where the city lights can't reach. There’s nothing but rubbish here: overflowing dumpsters, shattered alcohol bottles someone must've thrown in a drunk daze, vulgar graffiti on the walls. Buildings tower overhead, placed so close together only a few people can walk through at the same time. The path winds 'round and 'round. You aren't sure where you're going, as long as you get away from here.

More lightning cuts through the pouring sky, and amidst it, a sweet voice calls out for you.

“Darling~”

All the hairs on your body stand, and you run faster than ever before. He's still using that sickening term, as if you really do hold a special place in his heart. Even if it wasn't real, you were content being something he felt obligated to take care of—because you couldn't help the way your heart fluttered when his hand tightened over yours, how he looked standing bare feet in the ocean shoreline. And you were happy being just an afterthought to him. But this is too cruel for you.

"Come back to me, darling. I'm sorry if I scared you."

His footsteps are getting closer and closer.

The alley takes a quick turn, and what you see next crushes all hope of getting away. A wall.

No, no no no no.

There must be another way out, but everywhere you look is a dead end. When the heavy footsteps finally stop a few meters away, you turn around. With a violent crackle of thunder, light briefly fills the alley; it barely makes a dent in Ajax's dark blue eyes. The electric crashes through the sky reflect off the taut muscles—wet with rain—on his arms. His black shirt, soaked all the way through, clings tightly to indents of hard flesh on his torso. And a smile haunts his face, kind like you remember.

"Why are you running away from me?" Ajax takes a step closer and reaches out a tempting hand. It's his left one, and the two rings on it are evidence of your weak union. "Let's go home, my love." He beckons in that familiar, gentle tone he only used with you. It made you feel special, but now you know it's just a trick.

“Bastard!” You scream with all the broken pieces of your heart. “You were just using me! I saw what you did to my father’s men in your basement, what you said about killing me! It’s a low move, you know—to murder someone in their sleep.”

Your words stir a devilish grin from him, and all traces of sweet, sweet Ajax disappear in an instant. "Ah, so you heard that too." He steps closer again, and the cobblestone wall hits your back. "It's a shame, ya know. If you weren't so nosy, I would've let you alive for a bit longer. Maybe we could've had our first kiss on the lips too, hmm? Bet you would've liked that. I know I would—you were always so kind to me. A bit too kind."

"Get away from me! If papa finds out about this, he'll kill you!" you scowl, hoping to get some leverage over this situation. But Tartgalia is a proud man. He simply laughs, as if you're a child throwing a silly tantrum.

"Well, he isn't here right now is he? It's just you and me." As his hand lifts, a flash of lightning exposes a revolver nestled against his palm.

"Ajax. . . ?"

Even his name sounds unfamiliar. The remaining bits and pieces of your heart break, not instantly, but in a way that hurts much more—slow and agonizing, holding onto hope that you know doesn't exist.

Blue eyes sweep up your body, savoring your disheveled appearance under this stormy night. Your plush thighs look so squeezable, and oh, that teeny tiny waist that's just begging to be held down.

“Let’s play a little game. It'll be fun."

Despite his voice sounding playful, the cold smile twisting his mouth wrecks shivers through you. He opens the gun to reveal six bullets settled ominously inside. “Each piece of clothing you take off, I’ll get rid one bullet. You have ten minutes before I pull the trigger, darling. Let's see if you're alive then. And if you are, I'll let you go. Promise." He chuckles at the way your eyes widen fearfully; it’s just too adorable. “Go on, I’m waiting.”

There's no way you're going to listen to him. He already messed with you enough—from the wedding vows, the delicate cheek kisses, and late-night strolls along the beach. All of it was just a pretend game for him, and the thought boils your blood just as much as it hurts.

“That game's stupid. I’m not doing anything for you."

“So, you’re gonna play tough, eh?” Tartaglia hums, unbothered by your disobliging attitude. In fact, the smirk on his face gives you the impression that he enjoys it. He points the revolver aside, and with a spark, fires it. A shrill noise reverberates through the cramped alleyway, and you jolt as the bullet whizzes past your cheek. “I won’t miss next time.”

Angry tears sting the corner of your eyes. “You’re fucking disgusting."

"You have ten minutes, sweetie. Or would you rather just let me end it all for you right now? I promise it won't hurt." There's a slight pause, then Childe's grin widens even more. "Or perhaps you want to spend your last moments as husband and wife? I know we never got the chance to be really intimate."

He'll shoot you if you try to run. For a split second, you consider trying to reason with him. Maybe he really did feel something—even if it was the most empty-minded feeling that ever crossed his cold heart. But that hopeful thought quickly vanishes. Ajax doesn't exist. He never did.

Finally, with a long exhale, you hesitatingly begin to slip off one heel.

“Mmm, good girl.” He takes out one bullet, letting it clang against the floor and roll by your feet. His gaze feels sharp along, glued to every movement, every nook and cranny of your exposed skin. When you get the other heel off, Childe hums cheerfully and drops another bullet. Papa always told you to be brave, but you’re shaking uncontrollably under this heavy aura of death. Your fingers tremble as they loosen your dress, and when the ribbons slowly but surely come undone, all the silk cascades into a bundle of light pink. A slight sigh comes from Childe the moment your adorable, white undergarments are revealed—so untouched, so innocent. Your skin suddenly feels too uncomfortably tight under his heavily inspecting eyes.

Childe chuckles as you hug yourself ( to cover up and protect yourself from the stormy weather ). Seeing you like that—all vulnerable and small—it's just too cute. He lets go of another bullet, and it lands with a sharp ting.

"Come on, take it all off," he playfully orders.

It's a decision between pride or life—an easy option for most, but difficult when it ends up in your hands. "Go fuck yourself." When you make no effort to strip any more, merely scowling at him with dewy eyes, the blue-eyed man breaks into wild laughter.

“You’d rather die than let me see you naked? Ah, how cute, but. . .” He closes the metal cartridge, spins it, then lifts the gun back up to you. “I’d think twice if I were you.”

"If you lay a finger on me, papa won't let you get away!" you glare at him, but all it does is stir a snicker. Suddenly, Childe steps forward and kicks your knee out. You hit the floor coarse with wet dirt. “Hey—!” Tartaglia wastes no time listening to your protest. He carelessly turns you over with his shoe, then presses the underside of it onto your stomach—a sharp contrast to the way he always treated you like glass. It was that side of him you learned to love, not the heartless man everyone viewed him as. Perhaps if you'd been smarter, you would've seen right through him. How love is but a fool's game to him. And how it was always his plan to use you.

A flash of thunder lights up the sky behind him, and the rain falls harder.

Your face contorts with rage. “Fuck you!"

“Quite the dirty mouth for such a sweet girl," Childe coos, kneeling down to harshly grab your chin. "Haha, you look so cute when your cheeks are all pushed up like that."

He leans in, and suddenly, a pair of lips capture yours—sweet and creamy as if he just finished a glass of honey. His tongue breaks into the wet cavern of your mouth, exploring the darkest corners. You feel the metal of his piercing, how it presses against your tongue. Each groan he makes resonates deep within your chest. Determined to resist in any way you can, you bite down hard enough to split open his bottom lip.

Tartaglia jerks back with surprised laughter, dragging his pierced tongue over the blood. "I always expected you'd like it rough, darling. But it's fine—I like it too." As if taking your defiance as a challenge, he curls his hand into the back of your hair, and with a harsh tug, smashes your lips together in a desperate frenzy.

"Mmph!" The sheer force of his kiss muffles your voice. He forcefully pushes down your jaw, giving him enough room to shove his slithering tongue inside again. Saliva trickles down into your throat, and his mouth hums against yours; it urges you to amuse him more. You refuse at first, but as his disgusting saliva builds up from just how sloppy the kiss is, you're forced to take tiny gulps, and those gulps soon turn into hesitant swallows.

After a long moment, he finally pulls back. “That’s right. Drink it up, filthy little thing.” In a fit of rage, you spit on his face, and he recoils to wipe it off his cheek. Instead of seeing anger on his face, there's nothing but the flushed look of unhinged amusement. He suddenly jams his gun into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat, and you gag at the sudden intrusion. He hovers a finger over the trigger with a smirk on his face. “Wanna try that again?”

Tears blur your vision, but they're quickly blinked away. You won't let him win. You won't let this bastard get the better of you.

"That's what I thought." Childe moves the gun to the side of your head, showing exactly who's in charge. His other hand settles upon your pelvis; it nearly folds across the entire width. "So tiny. . ." You flinch as his touch moves lower, caressing all the subtle curves and dips of your flesh. "Ever been this intimate with anyone, darling?" He plays with the band of your panties, letting it smack against your hip after every tug. The ginger coos, as if your reaction was somehow an answer—the way you tremble, the way you glare at him with such lovely flushed cheeks. "Mmm, guess not. But that makes it more exciting, right?"

He suddenly turns you around, easily jerking your limbs until you're sitting on his lap. His hand falls from your neck, between the valley of your breasts, then to your sensitive bundle of nerves. Thorns sprout from the pit of your stomach. It's tingly, prickly, threatening to swallow you whole from the inside out.

"Don't touch there!"

Tartaglia lets out a low chuckle, pushing the barrel of the gun carelessly against your jaw. "Stupid girl, don't you see what position you're in? I'll show you what a man can do to someone so weak." The pads of his fingers are rough, so embarrassingly intimate as one traces your slit. "First, I'm gonna put my cock in here." He slips a gloved finger inside, and you keen at the unfamiliar disturbance. Tiny hands grip onto him tighter, desperately searching for purchase with each scarlet mark it leaves on his skin. You want to scream at him until your throat bled, but all you can muster are pathetic little whimpers.

His voice dips lower, husky with sweet poison. "Then, I'm gonna fuck you like this." His finger slowly drags in, out, in, and out. Each movement is earth-shattering, something you've never experienced before. It renders you completely useless. And despite how much you try to fight it off,fs you're losing yourself to him—body squirming, hips bucking disgracefully against his gloved hand.

"Think you can handle the real thing, sweetheart?" Childe's teasing remark reduces you to a mess of shame and boiling hot anger. You want to tell him to shut up, but your teeth are gritting together to prevent any more noises from coming out ( you don't want to feed his bloated ego any more than this ). However, as he curls his finger and hits a sensitive wall of flesh inside you, an embarrassing mewl chimes from your throat. "Heh, this wet already with just one of my fingers. Didn't realize my wife was so slutty."

"Ah!" You pitifully claw against his shirt, squeezing your legs together to make the electrifying feeling stop. But Childe doesn't give you time to rest. He holsters his gun and forcefully spreads your thighs—smeared with wet dirt, gravel, and slick—before shoving in another finger. The added friction makes you kick your feet in protest. "Nghhh! No, st-sthawp, Ajax!"

Childe's ears perk up at how his name sounds along your pretty tongue. It was something he shared with you after a night of heavy drinking. He never planned to reveal it, but the alcohol influenced him more than he thought. And perhaps it was also because of the way you looked while basked in silver moonlight.

"I hate you!" With an infuriated shriek, you pound against his chest, but that only seems to rile him up even more. His fingers hit even harder, deeper, faster. "Agh! Mmmf, n-no. . . I hate, nghh, h-hate you!"

Tartaglia lets out a snicker. "But you look like you're loving what I'm doing to you. It's not good to lie, you know that, right?" The repulsive, sopping noises of him toying with your cunt mortifies you. There's some pain, pleasure, and an exhausting sense of weakness as you're unable to do anything but lay there. "If you come on my hand, I'm gonna have to punish you for lying~"

Your stomach coils up into a wad of throbbing nerves. The lack of control is terrifying, but you still try to be defiant. "I'm not, ah, going to—!" After a harsh thrust of his fingers, with a loud cry, your body releases all that tension onto his glove. Everything goes blank for a second as your chest heaves up and down. It's so dizzy, the world is spinning.

"Mmm, looks like you need to be taught a lesson on how to be a good girl." His fingers pull out with a squelch, going to unbuckle his belt. There's a very noticeable bulge in his pants. And when he wrenches the restrictive garment down, releasing his hard, massive, swollen cock, new profound terror seeps into your guts. He's planning to put that disgusting thing in you; the thought is horrifying. You try to scurry away, only for his toned arms to push you back down. "Don't run from me." With a smirk, Childe turns your little body around to face him. His weight presses against you, slowly until you're both on the ground. The rain hits his back, droplets rolling down his sharp jaw and onto your face. "This might be a bit rough on your tiny body."

Before you can comprehend his warning, he pulls your soaking wet panties to the side and snaps his hips forward. The painful disturbance makes you wail, your cramped insides trying to resist Childe's member with all its might. It burns. White hot, like a metal rod dipped in lava. For a second, your body shuts down, vision blacking out before startling back awake.

"N-No, hurts. . . 'Jax!"

He jerks his hips, forcing his big cock deeper.

You're gonna die. He's going to kill you.

"Tight—" he hisses, then sucks in a breath that shifts into laughter. He's enjoying it; the cold sweat dripping down your face, how you kick, whimper, your sensitive insides gripping him so intensely. "Hahaha! I can't fuck you stupid if you're gonna keep clenching down me like that." He's smiling, like this is all some kind of joke. However, when you suddenly squeeze even tighter around him, that attitude breaks a little. Teeth gritting hard, Childe buries his head into the shallow dip of your shoulder. He's holding you so close with shivering arms—you can almost confuse it with love. The tender kind you prayed for, something that consumes you whole as if passing through a cloud heavy with rain.

After composing himself, he finally lifts himself back up to look you in the eyes. His face is contorted into a look of pleasure: red cheeks, eyes sharp with wicked amusement. "Ghh. . . W-What did I just say?"

You squeak as he rolls his hips, slipping in a few more inches you didn't realize existed ( it already feels so full ). When he makes a small pump to adjust to the wet heat, your eyes squeeze shut at the throbbing pain. It's too big—the tip feels like it's going to tear through your cervix. But just as you think it's pushed all the way to the hilt, your eyes go wide as he forces in a few more inches inside.

"Ahhh!" You glance down, horror flooding your veins at the sight of there being more to take in. His cock stretches past your limits, making your stomach protrude a little with its shape. The filthy sight burns hot shame throughout you. He's really inside. Not wanting to look at it anymore, your eyes wander elsewhere, but Childe isn't merciful enough to give you that salvation. He takes your chin and forces it forward.

"Look at me."

It's cold enough to see his heavy breaths come out as wisps.

The ginger flutters his eyes, taking a moment to savor the feeling before he fucks you loose. “Such a needy hole for me. So tight, and so fucking warm." When his member draws out slightly, the glossy sheen covering his hard, veiny skin makes you dizzy.

“Let go of me!” you command him, holding back the hot tears brewing in your eyes. In an attempt to relieve the pain, you lift your hips off the hideous thing, but a strong hand grips your waist and jerks you back onto it.

“Mm, now what did I say about not running away?”

Childe pulls himself out to the tip.

Knowing what's coming next, you shout, "W-Wait!" A screech claws out of your chest as he slams back inside with a heavy, wet squelch. Searing pain unfurls inside your weak body, the excruciating thrust of his thick cock too much to handle. You tremble as he withdraws again, agonizingly slow as if to see what other cute reactions you're capable of making. "No, stop—!" He doesn't listen, chuckling as you scratch the muscular jut of his shoulder blades.

“Haah, fffuckk, that’s good,” he admits, thrusting hard back inside with a grunt—so brutally you think for a moment that something split inside you. It’s his massive girth that stretches your insides uncomfortably, the way he’s so much bigger, how he didn’t bother being gentle. The tears you’ve been trying to hold back spill out, and you scream as he sets an unforgiving pace. His body is much bigger, stronger than yours. He easily rocks you back and forth—like you're just some fuckdoll for him to use whenever and however he pleased. All your cries and the way you slam your fists against him are ignored. “Aww, are you crying?” His voice drips with mockery.

You hate it. You hate it so much.

Your hands push against his chiseled stomach. "Get out of me!"

Tartaglia laughs in a way that makes your cheeks burn helplessly. "You're still fighting? Don't you see it's useless, stupid girl." He squeezes your wrists together and pins them above you. There's no way he can possibly hold you down with just one hand, so you struggle, and struggle, and struggle. But nothing budges him at all. His lips are back on yours: kissing hungrily, teeth biting, tongue not wasting any drop. The hot and slimy kisses trail to your collarbone, leaving thick trails of drool. It's like he's salivating at the thought, the feeling, the everything about you.

"I'm not your toy!" you scream at him.

The blue-eyed man lets out a stuttering breath, followed by a snicker. "But you're my wife, which means we're bonded together for the rest of eternity. Remember our vows? Until death do us part." He groans, shifting his weight back a little to get a full view of your adorable face—all red and tear-streaked. “Haaah, you’re so cute when you make that stupid face. That kind of expression would drive any man wild, so don't go showing anyone else." Childe lowers himself to whisper in your ear. "Or I'll get really mad.” He grabs the plush of your thigh, jerking it onto his shoulder to better fuck you into the concrete.

"Ah! Stop, Ajax!"

"That's right, say name name just like that. Go on, cry it all out," he grunts. The shameful wet noises of his hips pounding into your cunt—over and over—fill up the alley. You want to block it out and only listen to the crackles of thunder, the rain as it swallows you up in a bitter cold. But each thrust of his dick breaks your resolve little by little. You’re afraid of someone stumbling down this path and seeing you like this, but you also yearn to be saved.

"H-He. . . lp." It hurts to say anything; your throat is hoarse from all the screaming and pleas for him to stop. "Papa, help me. . ."

The moment you call out for your father, Childe's grip tightens into steel. A punishing thrust rips a cry from you, trembles wrecking through your lithe figure. "Pay attention to me." His voice comes out a low growl. Your vision that was starting to black out returns abruptly. "Who's fucking you right now? Who's making you their bitch? That's right, me. So just forget about everything else and only look. at. me."

There's something so harsh about his words and it confuses you. You've never him like this before—the way he's looking at you with those terrifying eyes.

He glances at the slick gathered between your hips. "We're making such a mess. Finally consummating our marriage after all this time, hm?" Childe takes your left hand, and in a surprising gesture of intimacy, kisses the rings on it. You watch in disbelief as he lifts your hand to his cheek, nuzzling against it—like your warmth is his only flame in the middle of a freezing winter. A strange look dawns his face; you can't pinpoint it no matter how hard you try.

You flinch from his touch despite how gentle it is. "N-No, stop. . . I can't do it anymore. I'm gonna die."

Something flickers across his face, but it's quickly covered up with a smirk.

"Mmmf, you're tightening up again," he heaves out. There's no smile on his face anymore, a concentrated expression taking its place. You feel every bit of his sweat on you, as well as the way your ribcage rattles with how resonating, deep and full his moans are. "I s-should've been, agh, doing this more often while I—ghh!—had the chance." Suddenly, his eyes narrow, cock quivering. "S-Shit, 'mm close. Gonna fill you up nice and good. You'd like that, yeah?"

When you shake your head frantically, he takes out the revolver again and aims it between your eyes, hand trembling slightly from the intense pressure wrapped around his cock. “I’ll blow your, nghhh, p-pretty brains out after I fill you up.” That dark promise widens your eyes in fear; the adorable reaction makes him bursts into wild laughter. But from the way he bites his lips soon after, eyes filled with desire, it's clear that he's struggling to keep himself composed. “Ah, that look on your face; it’s too good! There's still two bullets inside. I’ll do it, darling. I’ll really kill you.”

"Ajax," you plead with a cracking voice. The look on your face must've been priceless ( maybe it was the despair, the defeat, the betrayal, who knows ). His body suddenly shakes with hearty laughter.

"Ha, hahahah! You can be so, so, so cute when you want to be." Childe lets out a low groan. With one last violent thrust, he releases all his cum—in hot, sticky spurts that leave you shivering—deep deep into your womb.

Everything goes numb, the loud thunder and pouring sky becoming white noise.

You stare up at Childe as he spins the revolver's cylinder one more time. The bullets in their cartridge rotate with a clinking noise, metal on metal, beckoning death from its slumber. There's a chance you'll die, and a chance you may walk out of here alive. But your heart is broken, and no one can survive without a functioning heart.

Childe smiles; it isn't playful but rather weak. "Ha, don't look at me like that. It makes me feel kind of bad. But don't worry! If you survive this, I'll let you go like I promised earlier."

He presses the nozzle against your forehead slowly—perhaps to prolong your despair, or maybe it's because of something else. You think you see something change in his blue gaze, but those eyes are still dark—as heavy and cold as a thousand seas. Even then, you find yourself clinging to that tiny spark of light.

"I love you."

The words spill out from your mouth.

Tartaglia sucks in a sharp breath. His eyes widen, filling with some strange emotion you've never seen in them before. After a bit, he squeezes them shut, as if your words seared his flesh. "Don't say things like that either." He finally looks at you with an unclear expression, one that surely isn't warm but not cold either. "It makes me feel like I'm gonna do something I regret."

His finger moves to the trigger.

And you wait for what's to come.

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## 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐘 | thank you for reading! got sick and tired of proofreading, so you'll probably find grammatical errors or clunky sentences. but wow i actually managed to write something kek.

#( general ; ollie's writing )#childe x reader #yandere childe #yandere #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #smut #childe smut #yanderecore #yancore

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kairiscorner · 9 months

Note

A request! Miguel x FemReader but reader has the ability to turn into a literal spider and it scared Miguel shitless 💀

HBCIEBCIBIFRBIORVBIOVGRB after watching nimona, this has given me an idea >:)) fuck, i love that movie sm, this idea came from one of the coolest scenes in the movie (imo) RGHHHHH AND I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS !!!

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

promise me you won't freak out. – miguel o'hara x spider woman!reader

the thudding of cabinet files being turned over and the clanging of overhead lights were heard as an anomaly had rampaged throughout the halls of the spider society. a handful of spider people came to the scene and tried to subdue the anomaly, but many were thrown and flung across the halls and were getting battered and injured as the anomaly kept wreaking havoc, trying to escape the facility.

miguel had arrived on the scene, attempting to contain the anomaly to send it back to its home dimension for its respective spider person to deal with it. he sighed as he jumped at the anomaly, trying to quell its urge to thrash about and do more harm to anybody else; but like all the others, miguel was taken down by the anomaly. the fiend grabbed his neck and slobbered all over his masked face, with miguel grunting, trying to resist its grasp and retaliate against it, but it was futile, he was too weak to fight against it.

though not all hope was lost, for rapid footsteps were heard–and out of the anomaly's blind spot and bashed it over its head, causing it to cry out in pain and let go of miguel to soothe itself from the pain you inflicted upon it. it directed its rage towards you and began to rush at you, but miguel grabbed the anomaly and wrapped its neck around his glowing red webbing. miguel grunted as he dug his heels into the ground in an attempt to pull the fiend back, but it cried out as it resisted miguel's grasp, slowly breaking free of its restraints, about to cause more chaos.

you had to do something, you couldn't stand by and watch this anomaly break miguel into two or dig him into the ground–you had to do it, you had to transform. you never transformed unless it was absolutely necessary, your spider form was humongous and could cause severe damage to the surroundings and crush a lot of innocent people if you weren't careful, but this anomaly had already done just that in the few minutes it was unrestrained.

turning to miguel with hesitance filling your eyes, he shouted at you to do something, anything, just to help him stop this anomaly. he didn't know yet what kind of power you had lying in wait for him to discover, and you feared that if he knew... his view of you would change to that of the other anomalies he had encountered: a terrifying threat that'd need to be contained.

you heaved and panted, asking him that if you'll do what you have to... he promises he won't panic. "you promise you won't freak out?" you asked him as he tried keeping the anomaly tied down, but was inevitably being tossed around by it. "just shut your shocking mouth up and do what you have to!" he yelled back at you as you took in a deep breath and nodded. "okay, to hell with what you think of me, then." you muttered to yourself as you began your transformation–a cloud of smoke filling the room, causing the anomaly to wail and for miguel's vision to blur as the smoke thickened.

it soon thinned out, and out of the cloud of smoke appeared a gigantic, hairy-legged and bodied spider mutant. it had eight eyes and sharp fangs protruding out of its mouth. it directly every single beady eye of it towards the anomaly, and at a terrifying speed, ran after it and lunged towards it with a hiss. it got on the anomaly and clawed at it, and when it found a vulnerable part of the anomaly's body, its fangs lengthened and shone against the dimness of the room by the few remaining lights on the ceiling.

the spider sunk its fangs into the anomaly and made it shriek in pain–similar to miguel, the spider had venom reserved in its fangs, however this spider's venom was more lethal and could kill its prey in a matter of seconds. the spider held back and immediately pulled its fangs out as it poisoned the anomaly, causing it to become unconscious in a few seconds.

the anomaly's body fell with a thud and miguel looked up at the gargantuan spider before him. it resembled someone he knew though it appeared more animalistic and feral, the color of its eyes were akin to the color of your own eyes, its hairs covering it all over had the same color as your own hair. "don't tell me..." miguel whispered to himself as the spider slowly approached him and knelt down, purring a little as miguel held his hand out to it, gradually placing his palm on its head. as he pet it, the spider purred and hummed as miguel softly pat it, feeling a little strange about what, or who, exactly this spider is.

after the spider had been calmed down, a cloud of smoke enveloped miguel and permeated throughout the whole, thrashed about room–and out of that smoke, you emerged out of the clearing. miguel's eyes widened as you looked at him and smiled nervously. "surprise..." you told him in an awkward voice as you gave a shy chuckle. miguel fell to the ground, having fainted from what he just witnessed and the fatigue he got from having wrestled with that anomaly.

"you promised you wouldn't freak out..." you reminded him in a grumble as you effortlessly lifted miguel and hoisted him up on your shoulder and dragged the unconscious anomaly away to be sent home. no wonder you were way too strong and keen on your senses, but really... miguel kind of found your spider form beautiful, he admired how strong you were and how you tried not to cause any more damage to the building. he... felt a kind of connection to your spider form, in a way that he couldn't describe. he thought you were just so amazing, but he just couldn't find the voice to speak it out.

tags !! @miguelswifey04 @binibinileonara @fiannee @luvstarrstruck @popeheywardssecretgf @meeom @arachnoia @melovetitties @ophanimgold

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderman 2099 #atsv #atsv miguel #atsv fluff #atsv imagines #atsv x reader #atsv x you #atsv x y/n #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse x reader #spiderman across the spiderverse fluff #spiderverse #across the spiderverse

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starks-hero · 1 year

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Avert Your Eyes from Your Demise, Though Lovely It May Be

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x human!Reader

Summary: In which giant spiders aren't the only threat Mirkwood has to offer.

Word Count: 4.0k

Warnings: they're high on Mirkwood mist the whole time. Do with that what you will.

Translations: Siúlóirí portaigh - bog walkers (Irish) , amrâlimê - my love (Khuzdul) , lansel - love of all loves (Khuzdul)

a/n: I know movie Thorin is described as 5'2ish but I write him as 4'8 - 4'10 because it's more book accurate and because we should embrace this short king. Anyway, I call this 'the intimacy of going insane with your crush.'

You couldn't shake the unease. Even now, as you sat at the edge of a clearance, bark biting harshly into your back, you could almost feel the forest closing in on you. Shadows scurried above you and the air itself was stale.

Your company of fifteen had quickly fallen to a number of just two, with only yourself and Thorin making it through the mist-clouded trails together. Neither of you were certain what had become of the others and given the eeriness of your surroundings, you didn't want to give it too much thought.

A sudden gust of wind rushed through the clearing and the limbs of the trees creaked inward. It was as if the forest was breathing.

“We have to find the others,” you said. Your voice sounded foreign and far off.

Thorin was pacing in front of you, twisting the hilt of his sword in his hand. “They would know well enough not to linger in these woods. We keep heading East.”

“Which way is East?”

“We follow the river.” You didn't miss the beat of uncertainty before Thorin's answer.

You shook your head. “We don't know where it leads.”

“It will lead us away from here which is good enough.”

Almost to emphasize Thorin's point, the surrounding trees creaked and groaned and another shadow scurried overhead. Caution steered your hand to the hilt of your sword and following Thorin's order, you moved on swiftly.

The forest felt too small and too large all at once. Branches knabbed and tore at your clothes and skin, the twisted limbs of rotting trees giving you no option but to duck or crawl beneath their roots. A glance skyward reminded you that this place, in all its foulness, was unending, the tree canopy stretching miles above your head and blackening out the sun's light.

That was if the sun was still up. You'd lost track of the time what seemed like hours ago.

You came to a sudden, harsh stop as your front rather unceremoniously met Thorin's back. With a quiet grunt, you found the reason for stopping was a tangled thicket of twisted branches that now stood before you. The tree, in all its obscure glory, seemed to consume the path entirely, its limbs too thick to cut and trunk too tall to climb. Too tired to think of a solution, you found yourself uncharacteristically willing to give up. Until Thorin shrugged off his furs.

You watched as the grey fabric rolled off his broadened shoulders and revealed his shirt, knotted pattern running up the arms.

“I'll go first,” he took the liberty of explaining as he bunched the furs together and placed them in his pack. “It will be easier for me to get out should I need to.”

You would have liked to argue but Thorin, a regularly stubborn fool, was surprisingly right. He was shorter, his limbs less likely to snag. His dwarven frame would move through the thicket much easier than your own.

He disappeared into the grove, swallowed by bark and darkness and you already found yourself questioning why you let him go alone.

You kicked at the dirt beneath your feet as you waited. Eyes set on the trees, you felt increasingly uneasy. You picked at the leather of your sword sheath. Thorin was a capable warrior and you didn't doubt his ability to defend himself. But something wasn't right, you could feel it, crawling on your skin and putting your hairs on end.

Giving in to impulsiveness, you followed after Thorin.

The branches clawed at your skin and snagged your clothes. You pushed aside what you could, rotting wood giving way easily beneath your palm, but as the many limbs began to swell into trunks, it became increasingly difficult to move. Your chest was pressed uncomfortably against the rough bark. You were never one to fear tight spaces but the sudden inability to take a deep breath came as an unwelcome shock. Just as panic had you reaching for your sword, relief found you in the form of the dwarrow prince.

With renewed determination, you mustered a final push and freed yourself from where you were wedged.

Thorin stood with his back to you, stance stiff. You called his name and he hushed you quickly.

His eyes were set on the tree line ahead of you. His gaze was hard, analytic and you didn't fail to notice how his fingers grazed the hilt of his weapon. He turned to you.

“Do you not hear it?”

“Hear what?”

As if the bugle of battle had been sounded, Thorin's stance shifted and in one swift, fluid movement, he drew his sword. His free hand guided you further behind him. Then, he shot forward, swinging his sword at an invisible target. His expression was one of determination as well as unmistakable fear. Another aimless swing and he turned to you.

“Can you not see it?!” He barked, frustrated at your unwillingness to help.

You raised your head and all but willed yourself to see anything but the winding trails of the forest. But despite how hard you employed your imagination, you saw nothing. Somewhere in the treeline, a bird took flight.

An uncomfortable recollection settled in the forefront of your mind. A shiver ran up your back.

"Thorin," Your hand cautiously fell against his shoulder. He turned to you with fire in his eyes but your expression made him pause. “Gandalf said a dark magic lay over this forest.”

At your words, his defensive stance melted away and defeat took its place. The elvish blade fell from where it was held at his side as he looked around and the fear in his eyes slowly shifted to confusion, then realisation.

“It's toying with our minds?”

You swallowed. The thought made your skin crawl; the idea of the forest as its own conscious entity was a horrifying one. That its magic could sink its claws into your mind and deprive you of your senses, keeping you walking in circles till your feet gave in. The entirety of Mirkwood was one giant spider's web and you hated to think what that made you and Thorin.

“We just need to keep our wits about us and our feet moving forward,” you managed eventually, casting weary glances towards the trees. "Now that we know what's happening we have the upper hand, we stay together, stay vigilant and keep our minds clear."

Thorin felt the sudden need to commend you for your calm demeanor and sudden leadership. But he'd also just attempted to fight a non-existent enemy so he decided saying anything at all was against his better judgment and settled for a curt nod instead.

Your plan fell apart comedically fast. You tried to remain optimistic but as you passed the same tree stump for what must have been the fourth time, you felt as though the forest was laughing at you. Your feet ached as though they'd been walking for days. You could hear each of your breaths echo as they came and the thud of your boots against the earth shook your bones.

The child-like laughter had started not short of an hour ago. Thorin couldn't seem to hear it.

When the rough terrain of rock and dirt softened into the cold, squelching mud of a bog, you both silently agreed that a break was needed. You sat at the end of the wetland, where the moss and reeds sprouted up between damp rocks. The water was gloomy, tinged grey and dark green with a sinister mist resting upon its surface.

The dreariness of the place seemed to seep into your bones.

Thorin sat an arm's length from you, hands braced against his knees as he looked out over the bog with a sullen stare.

“What do you see?” You asked.

“Fire." He said no more and you didn't pry.

In an attempt to ease the aches that had set deep in each of your muscles, you pulled your water canteen from where it hung against your pack. A cool drink of fresh water would be a small but welcome relief that you wouldn't take for granted.

But the liquid was thick and warm as it touched your lips and when you pulled it away it was coloured red. You tossed the canteen away with a grunt of disgust. It unceremoniously met the surface of the water before sinking into the mud.

“We need to leave this place,” you said, hands threading through your hair and pulling at the roots. Thorin didn't argue.

You walked until you felt the leather of your boots threatening to give way. You thought one of the trees you had passed seemed familiar, distinctive enough from the rest of the foliage that it stood out.

“We've been here before,” you said. “We're going round in circles.” You turned to on your heel and found no sign of the dwarf.

“Thorin?”

The eerie silence of the forest echoed back to you.

“Thorin?!”

The feeling of unease returned tenfolds. Shadows crawled above you and the wind quivered through the trees. The mist had worsened, hiding your feet beneath its thickening grey clouds.

But then, like a lifeline being tossed to a drowned sailor at sea, you heard your name. Far off and faint, but your name all the same. Spoken in a voice that flooded you with relief. Calling after him, you followed the resonating sound of his calls until they led you to the point where the water met the soil.

Logic quickly took a back seat as your desperation to find Thorin had you stepping off the path. You sunk immediately, the bog swallowing you up to your knees. You pushed through the thick, sluggish mud, ignoring the burn it caused in the back of your legs. The voice became clearer until his form finally appeared, carved out from the mist.

"Thorin," you greeted him with a smile. But Thorin's expression did not mirror your own. His brows were drawn together and every ounce of air vanished from your lungs when an unsteady hand reached out to cup your cheek.

“I was so worried." Your name fell brokenly from his lips. "I feared I'd lost you.” His hands, shaking and trembling, ran down your arms then back to the swell of your shoulders. His breathing was labored and you could only imagine what Thorin must have witnessed to put the usually stoic king in such a state.

“You're alright? You're not harmed?"

You shook your head and gently grasped Thorin's wrists and he smiled, softer and more sincere than you had ever seen him. The sight made you feel at ease for the first time since stepping foot in the forsaken forest.

"I am glad, Amrâlimê.”

You were not well versed in the culture of dwarves but you were no fool either. You had heard the word spoken among the dwarrow people you'd crossed paths with in the Blue Mountains, noticed the tenderness and sincerity that always encompassed the word, how it was never said with any amount of offhandedness. The word was a confession itself, a confession of the highest kind.

And Thorin had just spoken it to you. As if it were the simplest thing on Earth.

Your confusion must have been evident as Thorin smiled again, the corners of his eyes creasing in amusement.

“You must not look so surprised, my love,” his thumb grazed your jaw. “That I should wish to call you by such a name.”

“What–” You managed in a clumsy attempt to make it known to the dwarf in front of you that you had no idea what was going on. “Thorin.”

The king didn't answer. Rather he kept his eyes fixed on you, coarse fingers working their way from your jaw up to your temple, then brushing just beneath your eye. He touched you as if you were made of something more precious than all the metals held in the great halls of Erebor. And despite the nagging feeling in the back of your mind, in that moment you would have been content to stay there.

In the bogs of a cursed forest with your friends lost and your mind bewitched, all so that the king would keep looking at you as he was now.

But your better judgment, (or more likely, the uncomfortable feeling of mud and bog water dampening your clothes,) brought you back to reality. You moved to speak again but Thorin stopped you.

“It's alright, we're safe here, you and I,” he promised. “You needn't think of anything else.”

You tried to ignore how believable his words sounded as you took a step back. Hurt flashed in the dwarf's eyes.

“No, no we need to find the others. The company–”

“–will find their own way,” he calmed you, hand reaching out again to touch your shoulder. It sent a jolt of warmth through you. “You carry so much, endlessly worrying for the well-being of others. But you needn't burden yourself any longer, lansel. You know what it is you desire, what you deserve. So take it.”

You closed your eyes at his words. His hand found the back of your neck and you allowed him to draw you in closer.

“Let it be just us. Stay with me, Amrâlimê. That's all I ask.”

You had never felt such temptation in all your years. Would it truly be so wrong of you? To allow yourself to have this after all you'd persevered. You had long given up trying to convince yourself that you felt something for the dwarven king. That his bravery, stoicism, and unbridled loyalty to his people didn't fascinate you. You had wanted Thorin since not long after the journey's beginning. And now he wanted you too. There was no reason to keep this from yourself, no reason you shouldn't have it.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, was the persistent reminder that something was wrong. A reminder that resurfaced in the form of Bombur's cooking and Bofur's songs and Balin's stories and Bilbo's immeasurable trust in you. Your friends were still lost and that proved enough to bring you back to rationality.

“Thorin,” you started sternly.

“Forget them,” he said, as if he already knew what you were going to say. “Forget everything else. It is just us now. All is as it should be.”

You felt a tinge of discomfort at his words and you took another step back. Thorin would never forsake his kin, not if he was in his right mind. He traced your cheek again and this time you grasped his arm in a strong enough hold to pull it away.

You caught sight of his hand out of the corner of your eye and what you saw made you feel ill. The skin was rotting, bones threatening to tear through their paper-thin bonds. The fabric of Thorin's clothes had vanished and your nails had sunk into the rotting flesh which had begun to fall way in your grip.

You yanked your hand back in disgust, tripping and falling backward into the water at the sight of the creature. A gaping hole sat in the center of its face where you imagined its nose should be and a rigid crack served as its mouth. Green threads of damp mossy hair sprouted from its head and hung in front of the hollow cavities of its eyes.

An Siúlóir Portaigh. A creature you hadn't crossed paths with since you'd last traveled East of Gondor.

A bony hand reached out for you and you shot yourself backward, scrambling to your feet. Thorin's deep voice had been replaced with a low rasping gurgle, the sound growing louder as the creature lunged for you.

You turned and ran.

Thorin's voice had grown hoarse from calling your name.

He had turned away for one moment and you were gone and now as he searched, he feared to think what may have become of you.

His feet sunk into the ground beneath him, water reaching his ankles and soaking through his boots. Reeds sprouted up from the water, the smallest brushing his knees and the tallest towering a foot above his head. With a grunt, he pushed on.

The wind howled as it passed through the hollow chamber of the reeds and Thorin felt the hair on his neck stand up. Then, a shadow passed in front of him. He instinctively reached for his blade. It pushed through the long grass as it approached him but the glint of familiar armor has him dropping his sword.

“Thorin!” You beamed as you reached him. “You're alright. I lost sight of you in the fog.” You grabbed hold of his arms and Thorin was taken back by your sudden brashness. “I'm so glad I found you.”

He watched you for a moment, his joy at finding you unharmed outweighing the odd tinge of suspicion he felt. He cleared his throat and tilted his head forward in a curt nod.

“We must get back to the others.”

He turned to walk on but your arms held him in place.

“You needn't worry, they'll be alright,” you said casually. “As will we.”

Thorin offered a baffled look that doubled as a warning. He was uncertain what had caused your uncharacteristic forwardness and in all honesty, wasn't quite sure what to do about it.

You raised your head skyward and smiled again. With no shortage of confusion, Thorin followed your gaze

The sun had come back up and its light was seeping through the leaves above his head. The forest's canopy turned golden, as if set alight by dragon fire. Thorin's expression softened.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Your hand found his own. “We could stay here, Thorin. You and I. Imagine it.”

Thorin blinked. He could stay here, with you. He could tell you everything he'd been longing to say since the escape from the goblin tunnels and the orc ambush on the cliffside. After all, why shouldn't he? Did he not deserve this after so many hardships? You could truly be together, you could offer him a new start, a new home– Thorin blinked again.

“And what of Erebor?”

You seemed amused by his question. You brushed his braid away from where it hung against his jaw and Thorin surprisingly let it happen.

“Erebor lies half a world away, a buried kingdom of dust and despair in the clutches of a dragon. Is it truly worth so much? Worth so many lives lost,” you asked. “We have everything we need here.”

And Thorin could only think about how right you were; your hands in his, the feel of your fingers brushing his hair, the rising sun and golden leaves– he could want for nothing else.

“Do you not want for this?”

“I–” he tried.

“You have done honorably by your people, Thorin, but you have been selfless for far too long.” He closed his eyes as you spoke. “Choose not what is right by them but by you. No more pain, no more fear.” He could feel your breath against his cheek. “Just us. Stay with me, my love.”

And Thorin decided in that moment that he would.

Your legs ached and your lungs burned.

The bog was becoming harder and harder to navigate but you were yet to find Thorin and you did not plan on stopping till you were certain he was safe.

The water grew shallower and you took it as a blessing. With your lower half free of the mud, you drew your sword. You rounded the trunk of a decaying tree and were met with a horrific sight.

Thorin, with decaying hands grasped round his neck and a deformed maw nearing his face. Thorin stood in a trance, eyes glossed over and body stiff. The siúlóir's mouth widened, rotting skin tearing as it did. Its nails dug into the side of Thorin's neck, harsh enough to draw blood. Still, he didn't move.

You acted on impulse. With a quick lunge forward, you drove your sword through the creatures back, twisting it twice before pushing it deeper.

Its screech was inhumane. It grasped at its wounds, its guttural yowls putting your hairs on end. You ran it through again. The siúlóir went quiet and Thorin screamed out.

“No!” His voice was distraught, his hands grasping at the creature as it slumped to the ground. “No–!”

“Thorin!” You grabbed his shoulder and roughly yanked him back. He raised his head and looked at you as though he'd seen a ghost. “It's alright– it's alright, it's me.”

His gaze fell back to the creature at your feet and given the twist of horror and disgust in his expression you figured he was now seeing it in its true form.

“Siúlóirí portaigh,” you muttered under your breath. “Bog walkers.”

Thorin blinked before taking in his surroundings with frantic eyes. He regarded you with a cautionary look. He said your name and when you nodded, you saw his stance relax slightly. His fear turned to confusion. “What–”

“They were going to drown us,” you answered plainly. You nudged the creature's shoulder with your heel and watched it sink a few inches into the water. “We need to go, this place will be crawling with them.”

Thorin wanted to question how you knew so much about such monsters but given how desperately you wanted to leave their hunting ground, he prioritized.

He offered one last glance at the creature, body now mostly submerged in the sullen water. He shuddered at how well the creature had worn your face, how much its voice had mimicked your own. How easily fooled he'd been.

He silently followed after you.

You walked until the mud on your clothes had hardened and the silk webs coating the trees had all but vanished. The leaf canopy above you had thinned out and the surrounding forest was now warm with the sun's light. The moment you heard a nearby bird song, you knew the dangers of Mirkwood had passed.

Thorin rested against the trunk of a sapling. His gaze was focused on something over your shoulder but given the blankness of his stare, you knew he wasn't looking at anything at all. You took a seat at his side and began to tend to his wound.

A nasty gash ran from the back of his neck to just below his throat. You worked silently. Thorin didn't even seem to notice until you applied a fraction too much pressure and with a sharp intake of breath, he turned to you.

“Sorry.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Thorin spoke.

“What did you see?” he asked you. “That creature, it toyed with my mind, showed me things I longed for that I hadn't even admitted to myself. So what did it show you?”

“Nothing.” The lie came easy. “Nothing of worth. I've dealt with siúlóirí before, they feed you lies, draw you in and then drown you before you even realise you're in danger. Whatever you seen, I wouldn't linger on it.”

Thorin seemed almost saddened by your answer. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, he gently brushed your hand away and got to his feet.

“We keep heading East.” The usual stoicism had returned to his voice. “Dwalin would know to do the same. If we do not regroup with the company in a day's time we head back the way we came and search.”

You nodded and got to your feet like a soldier following orders.

And as you fell into step beside the dwarf you thought maybe it would be best to take your own advice. To pass what you'd seen off as baseless lies not worth thinking about. But the feel of Thorin's shoulders brushing your arm reminded you that would be no easy task.

You entered Mirkwood wondering if what you felt for the dwarven king was more than just fondness. Now you were certain.

quick authors note: I invented the siúlóirí an portaigh for this fic and the name translates to ‘bog walkers/walkers of the bog’ in Irish. It was pretty fun combining two of my interests, writing and folklore, to create my own mythological creature :)

#I like to imagine that reader is dúnedain #and that Siúlóirí Portaigh inhabit the dead marshes po #because i love adding unnecessary lore to my fics 😌#thorin oakenshield x reader #thorin x reader #thorin oakenshield #thorin oakenshield x you #thorin x you #thorin x y/n #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit fic #lotr fic #lotr imagine #the hobbit imagine #the hobbit

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kechiwrites · 6 months

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kerberos

touya, natsuo, and shoto todoroki x f!reader kinktober countdown day four, (foursomes)

synopsis: "...the air is sucked out of the room, and you’re frozen in place as they move above you, forming a beast overhead, one with a sneering maw, frigid hands and a piercing gaze."

wc: 4k

cw: a dabi-less au, but touya is still a lil fucked up, fem + afab!reader, drunk sex, threats of violence/harm, anal play, fingering, dubcon, foursomes, creampie, oral (m + f receiving), praise, pet names (honey, baby), hair pulling, light choking, degradation, finger-sucking, a little bit of powerplay / dom sub undertones, mdni.

author's note: a fic that didn't make it in time for kinktober last year, finally finished. this originally started as a natsuo fic, but the other boys wanted to play too. (everyone is 20+)

It sounds like someone’s humming, jovially, quietly, when you stir to consciousness, the alcohol in your system thrumming through your veins, loosening your limbs, making it near impossible to guess the hour. The curtains are drawn in the room, the lights low, leaving the room just bright enough to make out the figure above you. Then, the figure seems to split in three.

“I can't believe you got me to do this with you, and I can't believe you dragged Shouto into it too."

A derisive sounding scoff bounces off the walls, and the bed you're lying on sinks with the weight of someone sitting on it. The voice speaking is so familiar. You know you could place it if the world would just stop spinning so quickly.

“C’mon, you saw the way she flirted with us. She’ll love it. I promise.” Another voice stage whispers. A hand brushes your cheek and you follow it, nestling your face into the calloused palm, opening your mouth when a finger presses against your lips, letting the digit settle on your tongue.

“Cute.” The first voice sighs, and it’s too far away to be whoever is touching you, the person who pushes their thumb (you’re sure of it now) deeper into your mouth.

“Good morning sunshine.” Touya Todoroki smiles down at you, all big hands and white teeth and cerulean eyes that meet yours when you finally rouse from half-consciousness. Your face warms in embarrassment, and you draw back, Touya’s thumb withdrawing from your mouth and leaving it woefully, humiliatingly empty.

Your voice is high and tight in your throat when you finally speak, after your eyes have adjusted to the low light of the room. "Ah. Good morning?" You respond, apprehensive and more than a little startled. When you realize exactly who else is in the room with you, the last few hours of the night flood your mind in an instant.

Arriving at the Todoroki Estate for Shouto’s birthday party, drinking a ridiculous amount of tequila with Mina and Momo, grinding against Bakugo until he had to excuse himself to the bathroom, sidling up to Natsuo and Touya in their little “older brother corner”, pressing your hand to each of their abdomens and giggling before prattling on and on about the “family resemblance” and mumbling something about wanting to see if all Todoroki men had “super huge feet”.

You distinctly remember Touya’s knife-sharp smirk when he grabbed you by the chin and murmured to you, “Ask what you really want to ask, honey.”

You also remember whimpering before blacking out right in front of them, crumpling to the floor.

Jesus, that’s embarrassing. Pretty quickly you reason that they must’ve carried you upstairs, and you couldn’t have been out that long, because you can still hear the party raging on downstairs. Your friends are most likely getting drunk in your absence, assured of your safety stashed away.

“I didn’t mean to pass out like that. I just…” You drift off, peeking at the eldest Todoroki through your eyelashes.

“It's fiiiiine." Touya stretches out the word like a seedy car salesman, giving your eyes time to skip from him to Natsuo by his side, to Shouto, who's leaning against the far bedroom wall. "You know Natsuo wanted to keep you all for himself, wanted to lock you up and knock you up.” Touya laughs at his own joke, elbowing Natsuo in the side and receiving a scowl for his troubles.

"But I convinced him it’s only right to share, after all, he wasn't the one who saw you first."

You hear Natsuo mumble something that sounds suspiciously like "neither did you" before he crowds into your vision too. His face up close is a marvel. Steel gray eyes, clear skin and perfect white teeth.

"Is your head alright?" His fingers lightly graze the back of your head and it takes everything within you to not shiver at his proximity.

"Haven't had any complaints." You hiccup your response without missing a beat.

You are definitely still intoxicated.

Natsuo looks concerned while Touya laughs at your expense. Shouto stays blissfully quiet. And though it’s one of your favourite traits of his, it seems it’s short lived. He pushes off the wall and stands at the foot of bed, bringing all three men into your field of vision for the first time.

“Maybe we should wait. At least until we’re sure she doesn’t have a concussion.” the youngest Todoroki looks you over in concern, his face still typically placid.

You sit at attention, head swimming at the sudden shift in your position.

“Wait for what?”

“For us to give you what you asked for.” Touya intones, brows almost reaching his hairline.

Your palms sweat and your heart thumps in your chest, so loud you worry it can be heard over the pounding bass downstairs.

“I don’t wanna wait.” You mumble it so low you can almost convince yourself you didn’t say it. Like the words appeared out of nowhere, spoken by a stupid, reckless, horny spectre.

Four words.

But apparently, that’s all it takes. The air is sucked out of the room, and you’re frozen in place as they move above you, forming a beast overhead, one with a sneering maw, frigid hands and a piercing gaze.

Natsuo is the first to kiss you, and his skin is so cool, you're surprised you can't see your own breath when you pant a sigh against his lips. His kiss is slow and building, constant, consistent pressure that only stops when he pulls back to stare at your dazed expression. Touya is next, shouldering Natsuo out of the way, his hard on is urgent and searing against your stomach when he plasters himself to your front. Touya crushes his mouth against yours, impatient and searching. If Natsuo is a glacier then Touya is a goddamn wildfire, hot and fast and vicious, all teeth and branding tongue.

Your dress was pretty much non-existent to begin with, strappy black fabric and gold buckles. Natsuo and Touya's hands make quick work of the cloth, stripping you down to your underwear, clothing tossed haphazardly to the ground, discarded, unneeded.

"Are you just going to stand there, Shouto? Because if you wanna watch, that's fine. I just figure our girl here needs as much attention as she can get.” Touya calls over his shoulder, pulling your underwear down your legs. He drops the panties at his brother’s feet while Natsuo circles around you, situating himself behind you so you're reclined between his spread legs, your back resting against his chest instead of the headboard. His fingertips graze a trail in-between your shoulder blades, unhooking your bra, clasp by clasp, pressing a barely there kiss into the middle of your back. You smile at the tenderness of the action even as your brain struggles to catch up with what’s happening.

The moment doesn’t escape Touya’s attention.

There’s an indent between his eyebrows, betraying his irritation.

“Y’know,” He simpers, settling on the bed in front of you, leering, “I feel like my handprint would look so good,” The eldest brother places his open palm over one of your hips, “right here, permanently. It’d only hurt for a minute” You choke on your answer, but it’s not really a question to begin with. His palm heats on your skin and you scramble back further into Natsuo’s chest, letting him wrap his arms around you,

“Touya, don’t be an asshole.” Natsuo bites, his tone acidic, “You’re scaring her.”

“Then why don't you take charge for a bit, little brother?” Over your head, Touya meets his brother’s eyes, his challenge clear.

You can feel Natsuo bristle behind you, his hackles rising at Touya's goading.

"Fine. Touya, why don't you shut the fuck up and tongue her tits for a while?”

The corner of Touya’s lips curl up, before he descends on you as ordered, mouth nibbling, sucking and kissing at the skin of your chest. The piercings decorating the shell of his ears glint back the light from the lone illuminated lamp in the room, blinding you momentarily before Natsuo angles your head upwards, covering your mouth with his own.

He traces the seam of your lips with his tongue, groaning when you open up for him, the cool surface of his palm tightening around your throat. Your nipples pebble under Touya’s attention, he uses his teeth more than anything else, biting and scraping and only soothing the pain when you cry out when it gets to be too much.

“Fuck,” and Natsuo’s voice is already so wrung out despite you barely having done anything, “you like when he hurts you?” He whispers, rubbing his thumb over your cheek repeatedly, a perfect contrast to Touya’s canines on your skin. You nod frantically, letting the second oldest sink his teeth into your bottom lip, then soothe the pain with the tip of his tongue.

Shouto crouches at the foot of the bed, watching his brothers touch you with hooded eyes. “I would’ve done this months ago. If you’d just asked me. But you’re greedy aren't you? I wouldn’t have been enough. You wanted them to fuck you too. Didn’t you?” His eyes never stray from your cunt, his voice is pitched low and so, so quiet, it’s almost as if he’s speaking to himself. You stare at Shouto, jaw dropped in shock at the filth pouring from his mouth, and when he finally drags his eyes from your pussy, it takes only a second for him to shove Touya out of the way and kneel between your thighs.

“I-I.” You stumble over your words, the lingering haze of alcohol weighing your tongue down in your mouth, making you clumsy, needy. You give up on speaking coherently, deciding to just shift lower, spread your thighs further, so Shouto can situate himself in between. He places a hand over your thigh, digging his thumb into the underside, crowding so close you can feel the puff of his breaths against your pussy.

“I won’t touch you until you tell me the truth.” He mutters, and you aren’t sure if he’s telling you or reminding himself. Even with Natsuo behind you, away from view, you know they’re all staring at you, you know they’re all waiting.

And it’s mortifying.

You bob your head in the affirmative, hoping it’ll be enough.

“Say it.” Touya urges, his hand on Shouto’s shoulder, finger digging into the fabric of his brother’s shirt.

The words stick in your throat at first, like your tongue is sitting in your mouth wrong, blocking the admission. “I-I wanted all of you.” Touya whistles saucily, Natsuo smiles into the crown of your head, and Shouto sighs, then he gives in.

“What a slut.” There’s so much blood rushing in your ears you almost miss Touya saying it. Instead, you opt to focus on Natsuo sinking his fingers into your mouth, covering your tongue with the rough, cold surface of his digits.

“Our slut.” Shouto corrects immediately and his tone is so insanely earnest you hiccup a laugh, even with your lips stretched around two of Natsuo’s fingers.

Shouto makes good on his promise immediately, his hand sliding between your legs, palm covering your pussy gently before his calloused fingertips move in a silky slide down your wet folds. Your body breaks out in goosebumps, all while Shouto eases two fingers in and out of you, deceptively quiet, letting the room fill with the sounds of you creaming against his hand. Your breath flees as his fingers thrust just inside your slick heat, teasing you with soft friction. You try so hard to stop yourself from holding your breath, periodically remembering how to inhale.

Your thigh is almost uncomfortably warm where Touya’s head lies, cheek pressed to bare skin. He groans happily as he watches his youngest brother’s fingers disappear into the dripping, tight clutch of your cunt.

“Right.” He murmurs, sinking his teeth into the plush flesh below him. “Ours.”

Shouto drops his head to lave at your clit in sweet, probing circles, making your toes curl and your hips twitch. It’s all you can do to not rip his hair from his head when your hands fist in his red and white locks. Natsuo tugs at the tips of your chest, rolling your already hypersensitive nipples between his fingers. It’s mind altering, how badly you want to come from this, your skin is covered in a fine layer of sweat and you jerk and buck against Touya keeping you held down. It feels as though Shouto is doing everything in his power to keep you lingering right on the edge, balancing the rapidly tying knot in your stomach with your desire to have this go on forever.

“As fun as this is to watch, I’m getting a little impatient here.” You watch as Touya palms himself through his jeans, undoing the fly when he realizes he has your attention again.

“We agreed I’d go first.” Natsuo grunts from behind you and Touya's eyes turn flinty in response but his stare never leaves yours, even as he talks down to his brother.

“Well I’m the oldest, dipshit.”

Natsuo continues groping at your chest until you break eye contact with the eldest Todoroki. Your head hangs down, getting an eyeful of Shouto pulling away, licking the taste of you from his lips. You open your mouth, to thank him? To cuss him out for stopping? You just don’t know and ultimately it doesn't even matter because before you can say anything, Natsuo sinks his teeth into the nape of your neck, biting down so hard he almost breaks skin.

“Fine.” He concedes, and Shouto wordlessly pulls away from you, eyes downcast and disappointed, like he can’t bear to part his mouth from your cunt. You bear down around nothing while Touya replaces Shouto, tapping the already hard tip of his dick against the puffy lips of your pussy. You buck your hips, silently begging him to get on with it, hoping to provoke Touya into action.

“Should I hold her open, little brother? I wouldn’t want either of you to miss me breaking her in.” He slides his thumbs up the lips of your entrance, keeping you exposed while Natsuo grinds the hard column of his cock against the small of your back. The shine in the eldest’s eyes is borderline scary, his gaze strips all artifice, any blustering confidence. Under Touya’s stare it’s not just your body that’s naked, it’s your fucking soul.

God, you’re really drunk.

Touya fists the root of his dick, slipping the angry red tip over your clit, once, twice, teasing you until you tilt your hips, wordlessly pleading with him again to push inside you. Finally, Touya concedes, shoving himself deep all at once, letting the girth of his cock spread you open. You cunt drips its contentment all over his pelvis, the sound of your hips colliding with his almost drowning out your fevered, breathless pleas.

He presses both hands to your shoulders, pushing you impossibly closer to Natsuo, making it absurdly difficult for you to squirm away.

The way Touya fucks you takes you by surprise. He’s slow, maliciously so. The heavy weight of his dick carves into you inch by inch, like he wants you to go insane. It isn't until he’s halfway in that you realize Touya has a piercing, several actually, concealed by the angle he’d had from above. What feels like six stainless steel orbs bracket the underside of his cock, three on each side. They’re not massive, thank god, so the sensation is barely perceptible at first, but once he’s finally all the way in, his hips flush with yours, the metal nudges and presses against the spongy spot inside you that makes you see stars. You dig your fingernails into his shoulder and when he smirks at you, you struggle to not bite the motherfucker. It’s clear he takes pride in the overwhelmed and impatient expression on your face, keeping his predatory glare on you while he grinds in deeper, not stopping until your eyes turn skyward.

He barely thrusts in and out, opting instead to pick and prod at your already pathetic mental fortitude by crushing his front to yours, bullying your insides with the head of his cock while you shriek and hum and sob with the overwhelming pleasure he brings you. He presses a flat palm to your abdomen, pushing down hard and greedily rubbing his pelvis against yours; “Fuck, you really are something. Natsu, pull on her tits again, bet she gets so goddamn tight.” Natsuo follows the instruction, tugging mercilessly, coercing you into arching your back. Touya takes advantage and slides his free hand under your ass before you can bring your hips back down again. Two fingers rub boldly at the entrance below your pussy, and you flinch violently when Touya pushes against you. You shake your head, hissing from the beginning aches of a forced intrusion and Natsuo and Shouto bite in unison; “Knock it off!”

Touya, to his credit, merely rolls his eyes and moves his hand lower, rubbing at your perineum in slow purposeful circles that occasionally allow the pad of his fingers to catch the rim of your asshole. You squirm beneath him until he starts fucking into you again, piercings, now warmed by your body heat, brushing what feels like every nerve ending you’ve ever had. Touya watches you bounce on his cock, all while you lay in his brother’s arms, thrashing when the feeling gets to be too much. Your cunt pulses around him, milking an orgasm out of him before he can warn you.

Not that you think he would to begin with.

“Fuck. Fuck. That’s it, squeeze down on me, baby.” He jolts forward, and the sound of his pelvis hitting yours is punctuated by the long drawn out groan of Touya being spent. You kick your leg out in frustration when he pulls out, whining low and watery in your throat at not getting to come again. All Touya does in response is lay a quick open-palm slap at your thigh, wink at you and smile, pleased, you assume, to have gotten a nut off before anyone else.

Mission accomplished you guess.

Shouto shoves his brother aside, and you could cry to God with how happy you are to see him between your thighs again. When the youngest brother seals his mouth around one of your nipples, sucking in long, desperate pulls, it feels almost vindictive. Like he’s punishing you for enjoying yourself, for enjoying how his brothers touch you, fuck you. Occasionally, his tongue flicks against it, pressing the peak against the ridge of his teeth, all while he grazes his rough fingertips against your inner thighs. His cheeks are flushed and he’s panting, honest to god out of breath at the sight of you, pussy puffy and used, hazy eyes heavily lidded, mouth slick and parted around gentle, quiet sighs in the shape of his name. He thumbs at the lips of your cunt, pulling you open, spreading you so he can see everything, watching you clench around nothing, watching you leak Touya’s come onto the bed sheets. “So needy.” he mumbles, and you both hang there, just for a second, while Shouto stares, consumes.

And then...he’s on you.

He isn't as big as Touya, but dear god does he make up for it in enthusiasm. So unlike the teasing, drawn out grinding and half strokes of his older brother, Shouto ruts against you like your pussy is the only thing keeping him alive.

The black t-shirt Shouto wears makes his shoulders seem even broader than before, his frame looms above you, arms heaving up and pushing back the weight of your thighs, until Natsuo helps by holding them up too, until you're very nearly bent in half for them. your toes are curled and bounce with every thrust he completes against you. The slow, thick drip of his brother’s cum leaks from your cunt, where the greedy pace of his thrusts disturbs it, sliding down the plush curve of your ass before dripping down into an obscene puddle below you.

The easy glide is perfect, nudging over and over at the rough spot deep within you. The tip of his cock knocks repeatedly against your insides and the sensation disables any and all coherent thought.

You choke on your spit as he fucks into you, gripping the bedsheets so hard you swear you can hear them tear in protest. Your core protests at the strain but you manage it, keeping your legs steady while they bracket the youngest Todoroki’s ears. Shouto tugs you further down the mattress, forcing you to slide down Natsuo’s front, and when your cheek makes contact with the middle brother’s hard-on, you place wet, open mouth kisses on his fly. Natsuo takes a fistful of your hair and tugs, separating you from his cock, brutally. You keen in pain, but Shouto’s dick distracts you from the worst of it, tunnelling inside you and striking that spongy spot that makes your vision go blinding white. Natsuo fishes his cock out frantically, as though he’s been waiting for your go-ahead, which is...sweet. Rather, it would be if he hadn’t agreed to debase you with his brothers while you were still heavily intoxicated. The younger, white haired brother releases you only when he’s completely free of the confines of his jeans, and smacks the length of his cock against your mouth, rubbing the shaft over your tongue when you present it to him for use. Natsuo is thick, thicker than both his brothers. His dick is mouthwatering, straining and red and threaded with angry looking veins you are desperate to taste. He won’t let you take it all though, will only let you kiss and mouth at it while he jerks himself off. Guides you to suck on his balls and stare into his eyes while Shouto fucks you harder, bringing his thumb to the hood of your clit and rubbing with intention. He must’ve been at his limit, because of the three of you, Natsuo comes first with a pleasured grunt, jerking his hips and covering his hand and the side of your face with his come. And though you know logically that it’s impossible, you had kind of expected his nut to be...cold.

Hands trembling, the middle brother returns his attention to your chest, smearing his spend over your nipples, pinching at them in time with the swipes of Shouto’s thumb.

You finally get to come, waves of it hitting you and dragging you undertow, smacking into your body so hard you give yourself a burgeoning headache from clenching your jaw. Your body spasms, over and over and Shouto fucks you through it all, eventually adding his own seed to the mess between your thighs.

At least you think he did. It’s hard to distinguish what happens around the time you pass out from the fucked up cocktail of exhaustion, intoxication and the sedating power of the best dick you’ve ever had.

When you surface some time later, Touya is gone. “Fucked off somewhere,” Natsuo provides when you ask and...well you aren’t sure if it’s a relief or a disappointment.

Best not to think about it.

Shouto is there though, gliding a warm, damp towel over your heated skin, while Natsuo, who it seems, hasn’t moved from behind you, presses soft kisses to the crown of your head, your cheeks, your throat. He plays with the gold hoop earrings you're still wearing, rubbing your earlobes, and tugging on the jewellery every so often.

“How was it?” Natsuo asks, his voice quiet and soothing, and despite having just woken up, you could see yourself succumbing to its gentle tone and slipping into sleep once again.

“Good,” you respond, murmuring quietly. Shouto finishes cleaning you off, tossing the towel into a nearby hamper. “Really good.”

Natsuo chuckles, and his breath huffs over your ear.

“Good.” He tightens his arms around your middle.

“Good.” Shouto nods, sitting at the foot of the bed.

“Good.” You repeat.

and so, i make my glorious return to bnha. support city girls who would do anything, including kill, for one night with soft yet firm dom natsuo. reblog what you like.

find the rest of the masterlist here.

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