#fic: helen

[kiwisbell]

helen ; chapter five

be seeing you

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the choice.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship, sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, tess cameo, childhood/religious trauma, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST, bamf miller bros, smut, fingering, joel is an emotional munch, shower sex, unprotected PIV, handjob, male whimpering, conflicting emotions, orgasms aplenty, Big Angst and Big Sad but also Big Epiphanies, ambiguous ending, i'm getting emotional writing these tags, it feels so final, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 9.3k a/n: hi, friends. i can't believe we're already at the end of the main story, and tbh if i think about it too much i'll probably cry. i want to thank @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter as always and giving me the guidance and support i need. we'll have an epilogue after this chapter, so there's still more to look forward to, but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy and thank you so so much for reading. xoxo prev | next

Her eyes are so sad, you think, stepping back to take in the full scope of the canvas. It’s doused in paint from corner to corner, still wet to the touch, the woman and her lover intertwined so thoroughly that it’s difficult to tell where they both end. It’s in shades of glum blue and flecks of angry red and brown where his eye watches you. But it’s her eyes that cannot lift to meet yours. It’s her lashes that fan across her cheeks as she casts her gaze toward the bottom edge where the canvas is wrapped taut around the wood. 

The sun will soon rise, but you haven’t slept. The contours of the sky are washed in a haze of greys and pale blues and light pink and the air smells warm, heavy—a storm about to roll in. The clouds on the horizon are thick with a blackening rage. You sit in the alcove by the window and put your temple to the cool glass. You yawn. Joel does not come back.

“Do you think it's true,” you asked him one night, your head on his chest, hand on his heart, “that art makes nothing happen?”

Joel, drawing shapes on your back, dozing off in the golden light of the sunrise, frowned. “Someone tell you that?”

“It's something my art teacher used to say,” you told him. “No matter how much it moves people, it doesn't do anything.”

“Your art teacher sounds like a fuckin’ downer.”

You laughed, hiking your thigh up over his hip and playfully biting his jaw. “So it's bullshit?”

“I think,” said Joel, tucking his chin to kiss the top of your head, “that your art makes people feel. It brings ‘em together. It's important because it's yours.”

You propped your head up on his chest and threaded your fingers through his too-long hair, overdue for a trim. A curl draped over his forehead, his beard patchy and soft under the pads of your fingers. “Sometimes I wonder why you chose me,” you said. “I wonder why the universe brought you to me.”

Joel shook his head, guiding his rough, callused fingers up your arm, curling them around your wrist, gently prodding your veins. “Wasn't the universe,” he said quietly. “Wasn’t a choice. I was yours the second I saw you. So, I guess it's your fault.”

You just rolled your eyes and kissed him, mouth to smiling mouth. 

Your paintings may be yours, made with life and energy and colour, but when they are finished, they don’t move. They are stagnant as a heavy rock beneath a cliffside, washed over and over again by the cresting waves, its salt stolen for the water, eternal damnation to a fate of non-movement. And sometimes an artist will walk under the cliff, shove their easel into the fleshy ground the way a man erects his country’s flag in the earth he has stolen, and paint the rock. The artist is moved by the breathtaking colours of the shore and the way the wind flutters through the grass. But the rock does not budge. It never will. 

Your art will never erupt from the boundaries of the canvas and tell you what it means. The lovers in your painting will not tear open their mouths like the seams holding a wound together. They will not tell you what they want, need, crave. They are you, and that is what you hate—because dimpled flesh and lustful fingers and the press of his mouth to her throat cannot tell you what you’re supposed to do. 

You had become complacent in his love for you. You had let him press his worn hands to your body and pull your soul out through his mouth and you had been a wife, while all the time there was a stranger who occupied his heart, a spirit in an abandoned body. All the time, he'd been haunted. And although you had loved him, your love had not been enough to exorcise the guilt and trauma, pecking at him, an eagle at his liver. 

Crossing the room and sitting back down in front of the easel, you press your fingers to the corner of the canvas. The paint is cool to the touch, and you leave behind fingerprints where your signature should be. Pulling your hand back, you examine the accumulation of colour, the blues and reds swirling into the deep purple of a bruise, the bodies on a canvas that may only ever mean something to you, and you wonder, Is this all I am? A cautionary tale, a love lost? A fucking footnote at the end of a clause that reads: “See, for example, the one who never loved deeply enough to make it count”?

You bring your hand to your face to wipe away the tears beneath your eyes and blink hard at the sting, realising you’ve smeared paint across your cheekbones. 

In the bathroom, you scrub furiously, the cloying scent of it clinging to your throat and your tear ducts, washing away the evidence of their entwined bodies, their love, your pain. 

Once, you tried to get Joel to paint. You sat behind him on your bench, your legs bracketing his hips, your paintbrush in his hand. 

“I don’t know where to start,” he said.

Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you spoke. “There’s no rulebook.”

He tried to turn his head and kiss you, but you nipped his ear in reproach. “Remember when you took me out driving at the airstrip because you wanted me to feel the road? Think of this like feeling the canvas. Go on, cowboy. Make nothing happen.”

Joel’s painting still hangs over your shared bed. The intruders never found it, or never cared enough to destroy it. It’s a candle, just a candle, its lines imprecise, the paint unevenly applied in places, the shine of the flame more orange than yellow. But it’s a painting, so the candle always burns. He titled it Love. 

The pain still sits low in your chest, pulling down your heart as if tied to it by a string. But Joel is still out there, fighting his way back to you, the way he always has, always will. You look down at your left hand, clutching the edge of the marble vanity, and decide to clean your wedding ring. 

“I’m sorry, brother,” says Tommy, turning the gun on Joel. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” growls Joel, struggling against his bonds. The clip rattles faintly in his brother’s hand as a tremor courses through him. 

“He’s following my orders,” says Cabrera, clapping his hand down on Tommy’s shoulder. “Fascinating what a man will do when he must consider his family’s well-being.”

Joel sucks on his teeth, his eyes not once leaving his brother. 

“It's my son,” Tommy says through his teeth. “It's Maria. If I don't do this—”

“Yeah? You gonna kill me, Tommy? Is that why your hand’s shakin’?”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” his brother snaps. “You think I want to do this? I gotta save my family, Joel. You know what that's like.”

“All I’ve done for you,” says Joel, his hands curling into fists behind his back, “and you put a bullet in my head?”

“Not just your head, Joel,” says Cabrera. “When we're done with you, we’ll take your pretty girl as payment for my son’s life.”

Joel growls like a dog, blood roaring in his ears. “Kill me yourself, you goddamned coward. Kill me yourself and don’t you mention my wife again, or I swear to Christ—”

“You take His name in vain a lot for a nonbeliever,” says Cabrera, pulling his sleeves through his coat and setting his teeth as he looks toward Tommy once more. “Do it.”

“Yeah, brother,” Joel says darkly, “do it.”

Tommy nods once, planting his foot and pivoting. Five distinct sounds of handguns cocking echo throughout the warehouse as Tommy points the barrel between Manuel Cabrera’s eyes.

“Now that I’ve got a gun to your head,” he says evenly, “you can go ahead and pull that contract.”

Joel at last twists his wrists free of the ropes that bind them and shucks down the sleeves of his jacket to rub the raw skin. Not one soul does a goddamn thing to stop him as he rises to his feet. His chest heaves, his open lungs coarse and wet with a brittle rage, his exposed heart throbbing red, transparent as the stained glass windows of the church.

God does not tolerate anger, said the Sisters, again and again, bringing down the whip across his back. Sinew and bone and skin peeling back to lay bare some tender part of him they sought to rot out. Put your energy into His worship.

Slowly, Cabrera lifts his hands, sneering. “Your wife,” he warns, “and your unborn son—”

“Are family,” says Tommy. “Just like my brother. Now tell your guys to put down their guns and I won't kill you where you stand.”

Joel joins Tommy at his side. “Took you long enough,” he says under his breath. 

“Got held up,” he says. “Your wife’s a good artist.”

“Yeah, whatever. You bring me a gun?”

“I’m sure you can find one yourself.”

“Jesus, Tommy. I’m too old for this.” Joel turns to Cabrera and glares at the same stubborn arrogance that once gleamed in his son’s eye. “You pull the contract, and I’ll leave for good.”

Cabrera’s laugh weans out in the air like rings of smoke. “You think you can really leave, Joel? You think that there won't be consequences for what you've done to my son?”

“Yeah,” says Joel, “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“And you?” Cabrera’s lip curls up at Tommy, whose gun no longer wavers in his grasp. “I promised your wife and child security. You’re willing to throw that away?”

“My wife and child are safe because I don’t take deals from men like you,” says Tommy. “You trusted a Miller to turn on his own blood, Manuel. That was stupid. Now pull the contract.”

“So this is your great suicide mission.” Cabrera smiles, a man who knows he has lost or a man who still expects not to. “A man who has seen Hell does not willingly descend back into its depths—not unless he likes the taste.”

Joel feels the corner of his mouth twitch, a wound on his cheek reopening. “Maybe I do,” he says plainly. “Maybe it’ll taste even better when I take you down with me.”

The gleam in Cabrera’s eye shifts as his gaze flickers behind Tommy. Night has since descended, and yet the predator’s eye glints in anticipation of the hunt. Joel turns and shoves his brother out of the way—just as the shot rings out. 

He hears Tommy’s breath punch out of him as they both hit the concrete hard. Joel tears the handgun from his brother’s grasp and puts a bullet between each of the two men behind them. He rolls behind one of the hulking bodies and holds up his weight as a shield against the incoming bullets. Tommy takes the dead man’s gun and fires at the remaining three assailants. Only one shot misses, but Joel sends his brother a look anyway and finishes the job. 

“Rusty,” grunts Tommy, pushing himself to his feet. 

Joel grimaces as he accepts his brother’s outstretched hand, his wrists bleeding from the relentless rub of the ropes. “He ran,” he says, grinding his teeth. “Goddamn coward. Just like his son.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, by the way,” says Tommy, giving Joel the dead man’s gun and snatching back his own. “Saved your ass.”

“And he got away.” Joel kicks his chair, and the clattering echo of metal reverberates like a choir off the cavernous walls. His hands flex, open, closed, open, closed, until they make tight fists and he can see nothing but red and the silver moon mocking him through the broken windows high above. 

“Joel…”

For a moment, he hears the young boy his brother once was, whispering across their shared bedroom to him in the middle of the night when they were both meant to be asleep. 

Joel… Are we going to be okay?

“I gotta finish it, Tommy,” he says quietly, his hands shaking loose. Parts of him bite and sting, touched by new and old wounds alike, and he wants to come crawling home to you. He wants to curl into your side and wash away the blood in your cleansing pool, daisy and honeysuckle, some faraway field where you are the warden, where he knocks on the door to be let in, to be gathered, covered in white, buried, unearthed. 

“Was he right?” asks Tommy. “Do you… enjoy this?”

Joel casts his eyes toward the ground, his trembling hand, the gleaming band on his ring finger, his skin speckled with blood but the metal pristine. “I don’t know,” he says. 

This is who you are, Cabrera would tell him. The Sisters: Your place is here, under God, under His word. And God Himself, silent as the air, the ringing in his ears only ever quieted by the soft brush of your knuckle across his cheek, the whisper of My Joel in his ear. 

“Think hard on it,” says Tommy, “because you may like it, but you’ve gotta consider if your revenge is worth more than what you’ve already got. And if you choose wrong, Joel, you’re gonna lose no matter what.”

A figure leans stone-still against the wall by the hotel room door, the gleam of a blade in the soft light the only indication that it is not a mere shadow. 

“Hey, kid,” says the apparition. 

Joel nods in greeting. “Tess. Could get in trouble with that knife out in the open.”

“You expect me to keep your girl safe with just my fists?”

“You make it sound like you couldn’t.” Tess snorts, and Joel places fifteen gold coins in her waiting palm. “I appreciate you doing this.”

Tess peels away from the wall. “You and your brother are paying me good money to babysit a door. I think I can live without the thanks.”

“Still,” he says, “you did us a solid.”

Tess, who itches at the prospect of gratitude as much as any other gun-for-hire, shrugs. “Everyone’s saying you’re coming back. That true?”

“Just visiting,” says Joel. “On my way out soon.”

Tess flips one of the coins and turns it over and over across her knuckles, evidence of a restless energy that’s always made Joel’s eye twitch. “One way or another, huh?” she says.

“One way or another.” He shakes her hand and watches her retreat down the hall, still twirling the godforsaken coin, before he turns toward the door. Joel presses his forehead briefly to the cool wood and turns the key to seek the field that awaits him.

A key rustles in the door and Joel steps through, closing it gently behind him. Judging by the quiet click of the lock, he expects you to be asleep, but you jolt upright from your seat in the alcove and cross the room toward him.

He meets you halfway, his right hand flexing at his side. You inspect him: the gash on his cheek, the bruise on his jaw, the blood splattered on his white shirt. He makes no footfalls as he walks but you can hear every stride like thunder between your ears. You feel his hand at the back of your neck, cool from the night air, rough as the underside of a shark’s belly.

The moment coils taut between you as your hand reaches up to grab the lapel of his jacket, and he smells of iron, cologne, Joel, some paint. Maybe that smell is you, stuck underneath your fingernails, embedded in your blood. Maybe this is a mistake, maybe you could never help but fall, maybe it never mattered anyway, and you’re already snipping the final thread, unwinding the spool, and kissing Joel Miller like it’s the first time. 

He let out a small groan, tasting the first drop of water in a drought, steadying you with his arm around your waist, his hand cradling your head. He’s gentle, exploratory, careful not to jostle, to shock you out of it. You feel his heartbeat thud, strong, calm, steady behind his clothing and skin and muscle, and your body caves.

It’s coming home, you realise, your arms snaking around his neck, fingers tousling the messy curls on his head. It's the warm press of his hand to your spine where it begins to curve inward. It's a soft mouth, a plush lower lip, made for slow mornings and black coffee, for the aching release of a thumb pressing deep into a muscle knot, a wound. Old aches soothed in the space where bodies meet, beginning to colour the slate-grey world. 

It’s the exchange of gasping breaths when you pull apart, his mouth still vaguely chasing yours, opposite charge. 

You hold him tighter, swallowing the lump in your throat, your hands squeezing his shoulders. "Are you…"

Joel inclines his head. "Yeah."

"Did he..."

"Yeah."

Need pulses. Supernova. Bright as the moment of obliteration. "Can you—"

He nods vigorously. "Yeah."

Joel’s kisses are like raindrops: velvet-soft to the touch—his hands bringing the hem of your shirt up over your head, his fingertips scorching, branding, grazing the supple swells of your breasts—before the crescendo roars in your ears and he loses himself to the storm. He always does. 

There is nothing reserved about the way he shows his love. Lightning crackles across your skin where he touches you, baring you to him, his lips making a map of you, mouthing at your jaw, your throat. You hear yourself hum at the press of his lips to the spot beneath your ear, detaching from your own body, absconding with the pleasure of being close to him and leaving the fucking world behind. 

Joel staggers forward so he can press you to the wall and begins to sink to his knees. Your breath catches as he pulls down your ratty bottoms, your cotton panties, his mouth burning into your hips and your belly and the ring on your finger. 

“Joel,” you say brokenly as he clutches your fingers. Tears prickle, pressure building behind your nose, and he shakes his head, unfurling your palm like a bud in bloom and kissing its heel. Wordlessly, you watch him, your eyes shuttering, blood singing. 

Don't hurt me again. 

He understands even though the words cannot come alive on your tongue. He squeezes your hips, his thumbs dumpling your flesh, his forehead falling to your belly. 

“I’m yours,” he says. “I’m whatever you want.”

Your legs haven't forgotten the way they part so easily for him, one thigh on his shoulder, opening the core of you to his waiting mouth. His lips part, his tongue wetting them, glistening, and your stomach tightens at the sight of his eyes so black. 

You could easily cower. His hands are stained with blood. His knuckles are split. But your terror has become an arid thing, no kindling to burn, no oil to ignite. Watching him now, as eager to please as he always has been or maybe more so, on his knees like a supplicant, the hairs on your arms do not rise in apprehension. Your body does not squirm in fear. You see a broad horizon, the sun outside spilling its golden blood over the city, and you see all of him in a way you never did before. 

He’s Joel, who grew up in darkness, lashed and beaten for not believing in a false god. He’s a man who has lied and killed and yet he is no liar, no killer. He holds you as he always has, your body liquid in his hands, your mouth proclaiming the word he will follow. You're the truth he's always told. 

It still unsettles you to see the dark eclipse that warm brown, to watch his desire consume the hypnotic shapes in his irises, and wonder if that cavernous black was the last thing so many men saw before he snuffed out their lives. But there's nothing of the death shudder in the way you guide your fingers through his hair and beg him—

“Please.”

He brings his mouth to your core and parts your folds with his thumbs, slowly gliding his warm, wet tongue through your slit. You die a hundred little deaths in the split-second of that first touch, that first agony.

You sigh, your head thudding against the wall as he licks through you, his hands holding your hips in place, keeping you from writhing. Joel flicks his tongue over the sensitive pearl of your clit, the pleasure searing, and you tug at his curls to push him away even as you cry out, More, please, please. God, I need more.

He obeys you as easily as breathing, though you suspect he can barely hear your pleas, opening his mouth and flattening his hot tongue to your clit. You gasp, your core pulling taut, your eyes locking with his as the muscle undulates over, over, and over again. 

“Oh,” you whimper, your hips bucking to meet his face. He groans, his mouth working your clit, closing his lips over it and sucking. You cry out, your leg kicking, the sounds of the world muffled in his stifling closeness. Your thighs begin to ache, tensing and relaxing a hundred times over in the throes of his attention. 

And his fingers are gliding across your hip, seeking the warmth between your legs. You gasp his name, your hips flexing, as he collects your wetness on two fingers. 

“Let me in, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your puffy clit. It relaxes you enough to welcome the press of his fingers inside you, sinking to the knuckle, curling up against the spot he would know in his sleep. 

You whine, your body keening toward him, tugging his face back toward your pussy. He obliges with a quiet moan, and you think he needs this just as badly. 

The obscene squelch of his fingers inside you rings in your ears as he licks and sucks at your clit, his free hand grabbing desperately at your ass to keep you fixed to him. You’re crying, “Yesyesyes, Joel, please—fuck, that's it,” the pleasure stuck in the grooves of your brain. Absentmindedly, you reach for his hand and clasp it tight, your engagement ring digging into his palm. He holds you with the same fervour as he coaxes you higher, his face buried in your pussy. He grunts and groans like it's his own pleasure he seeks, his battered knuckles stinging. 

“Joel… Joel, oh, I’m…”

He knows, of course, from the telltale squeeze of your thighs around his head, the relentless crushing of his fingers in your own, your body tightening for him, cavitating, unwinding—

You come with a shout, your throat raw, writhing in his grasp as he keeps sucking, keeps licking, rubbing, pressing. You're dizzy by the time your head lolls to the side, your muscles twitching, eyes glazed, and Joel is there, pulling his fingers out just to place them on his tongue and swallow you down. 

Your breath rattles through your lungs. Joel presses his lips to your inner thigh, beard soaked in your arousal, moustache glistening. His mouth soothes your sore muscles and your eyes begin to droop. 

“You need a shower,” you say, your tongue like lead in your mouth. You gently pass your thumb over a cut on his cheek and frown. “You're all bloody.”

He nuzzles his face against your thigh, inhaling you. “I know.”

“You were gone so long.” Your voice quivers, pressure prickling behind the bridge of your nose. “I thought…”

Joel rises to his feet, his hands cradling your face. “I’m all right,” he says. “I’m here, and I’m safe, and I’m so goddamn sorry.”

You shake your head, pressing your lips together so the sob will not escape. Tracing his face with your fingers, broken in places, healing in others, you see the echo of a boy who didn't know his place in the world. You see the haunt of days gone by. A ghost still occupies the cage of his ribs. 

“I think you should tell the little boy that still lives here,” you say, putting your hand on his chest. “Tell him he’s alive. Tell him that he made it.”

Joel lowers his head, watching the way your fingers splay over his heart. He puts his hand on yours and pushes, and you feel the strong thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat. 

“He knows.”

You lean forward and put your mouth to his temple. “Shower, Joel,” comes your whisper in his ear. 

He nods, wrapping his arm around your waist and guiding you into the bathroom. The water hits you both true, scalding, the drain circled with red. He’s naked, his back to you as he sets his hair and lets his wounds bleed what they need to. 

You lift your hands and trail them down his broad shoulders, your forehead dropping between his shoulder blades where your name is inked into his back. Joel’s muscles idly flex, his palm flat against the shower wall. His body shudders when you press your lips to the name on his back. 

Wordlessly, you bring your arms around him, caressing his side, careful of the new bruises. Your other hand drops to his steel-hard cock and you begin to slowly stroke him. The noise that wrenches free from his throat is half pleasure, half agony, his hips bucking into your fist. You bump your nose against his back, your years-old sign to Just relax, and Joel hides his face in his bicep as you work your hand over him.

“G—fuck,” he grunts. “Goddamn… honey, I—”

You squeeze him at the base and twist your hand up and down the length of him, the weight warm and heavy, your thumb coaxing out a bead of precum. Your cheek is warm on his back, your arm struggling to reach around the width of him, your chest humming at the sound of his gruff moans. 

“Let me…” He cuts himself off as you speed up your strokes, and you can feel his abdomen tense. “Fuck, let me make you feel good. Shit… let me…”

“Joel,” you say, “for once, stop trying to be my hero.”

His head falls back and you press your lips to his throat, nibbling the sensitive spot behind his ear: the old scar, that tiny circle, that hairless patch. He groans your name, and you’re smiling despite yourself, your mouth curling against his warm, tender skin. 

“Inside me,” you whisper, the pace of your fingers over his length slowing to a crawl. “Remind me how it feels.”

He turns his head to look into your eyes, his lashes dewy, blinking hard to flick away the water, brow furrowed. His moustache bristles as his lips part in a question he does not (or maybe cannot) articulate, and you’re fractured into pieces by the intricate curve of his nose, the freckles on his jaw, the silver strands in his beard. A rough hand cups the back of your neck and another takes you by the waist, and you’re flattened to the wall, your hand braced on the glass next to you as he kisses you deeply. 

Consuming, heady, warm—you give in, your hands avoiding the delicate skin of his wrists where he’s been bound, helpless. Sighing softly into his mouth, you let his kiss humble the part of you that still needs the walls you’ve built from the marrow of your anger. It circles the drain, lead-filled paint, as you remember under his hands how it feels to live.

You reach between your bodies, your leg wrapping around his waist, and slide the head of his cock through your weeping slit. Joel sucks in air through his teeth, the water lashing his back like a whip, and he surges forward, grasping you by the waist and sinking his cock into your tight hole. 

You cry out his name, burying your face in his throat and baring your teeth. Your name leaves his mouth in kind, an apparition, sounds you barely recognise anymore. As you take him inside you, the memory of who you were with him pounds at your ribcage, begging to be let out. And you covet them, selfish as you are now for fucking him this way, needy and impatient, your fingers tugging his wet locks. 

You see no point in scooping out the marrow; there is still sweetness stuck to the bones of your old life with him. Instead, you coat your teeth in this, the slow drag of his cock, the depths he reaches so easily, so knowingly. His fingers prod the bruised flesh of your hurt and yet you still guide him inside. You still pull his hair and kiss his throat where his Adam’s apple bobs and you still let him hold you close enough to splinter. 

He’s grabbing fistfuls of your ass and sucking on your throat, his thrusts sloppy as he tries to hold back, to make you come first, but you tighten, clenching down on him, making his groans pitch up into whines. 

“Joel,” you gasp, your needy fingers prickling his scalp where you pull his hair. His teeth graze your throat and you want him to bite, you want him to sink in deep, you want his jaws to latch onto your skin. You want him never to leave again. 

He comes hard. His hips buck, pushing so deep he disappears into your body, and you see the blues, browns, reds of your painting as he empties all he has left inside you. 

Panting, he drops his head to your breast, his open mouth still scattering weak, worn kisses over your skin. Your lungs expand under his palms, fingers stuck in the grooves between your ribs, his body an offshoot of yours, not the other way around. In the ringing afterlife of your pleasure, you vaguely feel him mouthing words you cannot hear. You run your fingers through his hair and enjoy the battering of the scorching water as it melts you both into one.

Later, in the sticky, humid silence of the bathroom, steam still swirling around your heads, fogging the glass, you trim Joel’s hair.

"Do you ever get scared?" you ask him, the shhhick of the scissors gliding across a chunk of his hair. "Do you ever go out on a job and think to yourself, What if I slip? What if this is it?"

Joel huffs. "It's not so much about myself as making sure the other guy goes down first."

“I think I’d be scared.” You twirl a lock of hair around your finger and let it fall over his forehead. “I don’t think I’d be able to look into someone’s eyes and take their life.”

He casts his eyes to his lap, flicking off some hair from his thigh. “One time, I thought it was over. I wasn’t quite seventeen yet, runnin’ drugs for some gangster. He sent me to El Sauzal to discreetly transport a couple kilos out of the city; someone had snitched and he didn’t want any rival gangs to find his stash. But the people there, they… They didn’t know any better. There were mothers, kids. Innocent people, y’know? Just strays. I decided I’d come back for ‘em.”

Your stomach twists. “What happened?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I was too late. By the time I got back, the whole goddamn city was on fire. The people were either dead in the streets or close to it. They didn’t do anythin’ wrong. They didn’t ask for any of it. But they were weaker, slower. I couldn’t walk ten feet without seein’ some kid wrapped up his mother’s arms, burned to a fucking crisp. So, I came back with weapons, marched into the gang’s territory, and I killed ‘em all.”

Days ago, you’d be afraid of the man whose back warms your belly where you stand just behind him. You would hesitate to reach out and put your hand on his shoulder the way you do now. But you curl your fingers over the muscled curve of his arm and his head falls back against you, spidering open, his gooey molten centre bared for you.

Joel. Just Joel. 

“Did you see the painting?” you ask him quietly. 

“I see everything you do,” he says. “It's beautiful, baby.”

You drop your gaze from his face in the mirror and set down the scissors on the vanity. “I can't pretend to understand what you've been through, Joel, and that makes things even harder. All I've ever wanted is to love you, to take your pain, and all this time there's been so much I never even knew about. And I’m sorry.”

Joel’s hand comes to cover yours, clasping your fingers. They’re warm, rough, but you do not sense the phantom blood. “If I’d told you from the beginning,” he says, “maybe I never would've hurt you in the first place. All those years I thought I was protecting you from myself, I was hurting you—the one thing I swore I would never fuckin’ do.”

“Joel…”

“Baby, don't apologise to me,” he says firmly, putting his lips to your knuckles. “Never apologise to me. And don't you let me off easy.”

“Have I ever?” you say with a halfhearted smile. 

“Yeah,” he says, “the day you let me marry you.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. Wedding planning was hell on earth for you.”

“Just because I didn't like the photographer—”

“You didn't not like the photographer, Joel. You wanted to draw and quarter the photographer.” 

He huffs like an angry dog, frowning at you in the mirror. “He kept puttin’ his goddamn hands on you.”

You laugh, brushing your thumb over the patch in his beard to indicate you're finished. “He was posing us, cowboy.”

Joel rises to his feet and closes the scissors away inside the drawer. “Posin’ you, sure.”

“He was afraid to touch you. Probably thought you’d take off his hand. And the pictures turned out great.”

“Yeah,” he says, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Way the sunlight caught in your hair, your eyes… I don't know. Beautiful.”

He was so shy the first time you kissed him. Cheeks flushed, eyes cast toward the ground, the wind ruffling his curls where it blew over the water. He was made in an artist’s image, you thought that night, the details pored over like paperwork, the sparkle in his eyes something the painter covets. But the portrait has never wilted in the years you've known him. It's grown older, sure, but it is not old. He's still shy sometimes; he still looks down when he smiles, and he still turns his cheek when you tell him he's beautiful. 

“Do you…” He rubs his palms over his thighs, looking up at you through his lashes. “Do you wish you could go back?”

It's your turn to sit. You drop into his chair, your arms curling over the back of the seat, and watch him on his journey to his knees. “I don't know, Joel,” you tell him. “I think about that day and part of me wants the magic of it back. I want the breeze and the sun and the white canopy and I want you sliding this ring on my finger. But knowing what I know now…”

“You wouldn't have married me,” he says like it's the only answer. His eyes are wet and sad and they sparkle so bright in the day. 

“I wish I’d known,” you say plainly, bringing his hand to your cheek and resting it over the cool wedding band. “I wish you would have told me everything. I wish you didn't make me question your love, even for a second. I wish you could have spared me all this anger I have—all this pain.”

He’s stone-still, a figure in a portrait, and you brush your fingers across his cheek. “But killing isn't what you are, Joel. It’s what you do. And I’m so tired of being angry.”

You say it fiercely, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth, your throat tightening. You swipe your thumbs under your eyes and meet your husband’s eye. “I love you more than my anger and my hurt have room for. And if I can love you this hard, if I can feel all this pain and still be that same girl who fell for the guy from the restaurant, then I can let myself get hurt all over again.”

Joel shakes his head, cupping your face in his hands as his eyes brim with tears. “Oh, baby…” 

“I know it's never been an easy marriage,” you say, your voice breaking, “and I’m always travelling, and I know that I can get snippy and we bicker, but I wouldn't go back to that day, Joel, because I wouldn't change anything. Even if I have to feel all of this again, I wouldn't take it all back.”

His inhale shudders through him and your heart lurches out of your chest. “I don’t deserve that,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your cheek, catching a tear that falls. “I’ve hurt you too much to ever be worthy of what you've given me, sweetheart. I ain't a good man, or even a decent one. But fuck, if I can be good for you, I’ll pray to whatever God they want me to. I’ll scrape my knees and put my hands together and fake it ‘til I’m someone you want. I swear it, baby.”

“Joel.” You gently pry his hands away. “The life you've lived, the things you've been through… I can't change any of it. I can't be what you need all the time, and fuck, I want to be. I do, Joel. But this life is something you have to figure out yourself. Nobody should force you to believe in something that's only ever caused you pain.”

He never told you about the tattoo; you had to find it yourself. Shucking the hem of his shirt up over his head, two weeks separating the last time you’d been able to indulge in his body, you trailed your fingers up his back and paused at the sound of him hissing through his teeth. 

“Easy, cowboy,” you cooed. “Are you all right?”

Wordlessly, he turned, taking your hand and lifting it to the reddish skin around the black ink. You gasped, your fingers jolting backward as if struck by a feeler of lightning. 

“Joel,” you said tremulously, “please don't tell me you were drunk and this was an impulse decision.”

“Guys in the Marines would get tattoos that meant somethin’ to them. Easier to carry around with you when you're away.” Joel met your gaze again, your tearful eyes, and brought your knuckles to his mouth. “Tell me you want it gone, and it's gone.”

You shook your head, a laugh snaking past the lump in your throat. “Selfishly, I think it’s very sexy.”

He chuckled, kissing the breath from your lungs. 

The memory is heavy in your stomach. It's something you'll have to roll around in your mouth a thousand times before the taste begins to dissolve. 

“I need time, Joel,” you tell him. “I need to wrap my head around things. I… I can't be the girl you want right now.”

Joel brushes his thumb over your chin. “You have always been the girl I want,” he says. “If you need time, you have it. If you need a warm body, you have it. I’m whoever you want me to be. And if it ain't a husband, then… then that's okay. But I can’t promise you that I won't stop tryin’ to get my wife back. That’s not who I am.”

You sniffle, twirling the ring on his finger. “You’ll get sick of it. The waiting.”

He smiles so softly that you can feel a bud begin to bloom in the core of you, nourished by the way he keeps his hand on your thigh, absently rubbing the sore muscles there.  “I waited my whole life for someone like you to come along—someone who could give me the purpose I’d been lookin’ for. I can wait another lifetime. I can wait a thousand.” 

“You’ll resent me. You’ll start to hate me.” You don't know why it comes pouring out of you, but the gates are brittle wood and they snapped in the torrent. “I’m an angry drunk. I smell like paint half the time. I travel for work.”

Joel just studies your face, some inexplicable calm etching out the agony. “You take your coffee with milk and sugar and you can't stand it black, but you make it that way for me anyway. You sleep until noon when you're jet lagged and I sit up in bed just to watch you dream. You lie in my arms on the couch at home and ask me about my day even when you're noddin’ off. You dreamed about love when you were a little girl, the way it happens in books. You told me in your wedding vows that you'd found it with me. You think I could resent a girl like that?”

He smiles like it hurts and heals all at once, like it's a foregone conclusion, like you were meant to be loved by him. 

“Time doesn't mean a goddamn thing. I know the girl I see in front of me now. Time won't change how much I love her.”

Flipping through the list of potential venues, Joel tucked into your side, you said, “We’ll have an outdoor ceremony. No churches.”

“Baby, I won't burst into flames if I step inside a church.” Joel playfully flicked his tongue over your nipple, obscured by his T-shirt. “Tommy, on the other hand… things he's done…”

You laughed, gently pushing at his head. “No churches,” you said again. “I don't care how much more we’ll have to pay or travel to get around it. You're my husband. You're my comfort, and I want to be what's comfortable for you. Understood?”

He looked up at you, his lips parted as if on the precipice of speech. You beamed, bringing his face to yours and kissing him deeply. 

“But if the wind knocks over the gazebo, you're not getting your dick inside me on our wedding night,” you said against his mouth. Joel shook his head, yanking you on top of him and tearing the shirt from your body. Your binder landed with a flutter of loose pages to the floor. 

“You didn't kill Cabrera.”

Joel lowers his eyes. “No. He got away.”

“So there's still a contract on your head.”

“For now.”

“So,” you say with a sigh, crossing the room and digging through your bag, “you have to go.”

“I have to go,” he echoes, following you like a shadow. “No matter what… I’m finishing it. Tonight.”

You pull the switchblade from your bag, open Joel’s fist, and place the cool wood hilt in his palm. 

“Goddammit, Tommy,” he says under his breath. “He shouldn't have…”

“But he did,” you say. “He said I should be the one to have it. I think it should be yours.”

He curls his fingers over the hilt and flicks open the blade. It's light, but it seems to weigh him down. You rest your hand over his. 

“Do what you need to do.”

He drops his forehead to yours and closes his eyes, soaking in this final breath exchanged between your silent bodies, dipping his fingers in the sanctified waters and coming out unscalded. 

Bill calls Joel not a moment after he steps onto the street outside the Continental. 

“That's a heavy price on your head.”

“Yeah, Bill, I know.” He breathes in the cool air, like cigarette smoke, his nostrils stinging. Trash and a new, fresh breeze carried into the city. Nothing that stays here ever thrives. “Stayed alive so far.”

“So I hear,” grunts the Manager, “and leaving behind a hell of a lot of cleanup.”

“I won't stick you with the check,” says Joel. “It's my business.”

“I don't conduct business inside this hotel,” says Bill, “which is why I won't tell you that a certain helicopter at a certain helipad is refuelling as we speak.”

Joel smirks, flicking out his cuff to check the time. “Any reason why you aren't tellin’ me this?”

“I like you, Joel. Despite myself.” 

Silent, he waits for more. 

“Besides,” Bill continues, “we live and die by honour. And you've saved my ass more than once.”

Joel snorts. “Which time are you thankin’ me for?”

“Just take my goddamn advice and leave this world. For good this time.”

“I will,” says Joel. “One way or another. Thanks, Bill.”

High above the ground, sitting in the alcove by the window, you watch storm clouds gather over the city, darkening the sky, the sun, and your Joel, so far away, slouching calmly toward whatever end he will choose. 

It's raining. 

The first time you kissed him, a downpour suddenly swept up the both of you and you'd scrambled underneath a bridge by the water. You both laughed until your ribs were sore, holding hands as you ran, a soaking wet playbill above each of your heads for cover. 

“At least the show was good,” you shouted over the roar of the rainfall. 

Joel was mesmerised into stillness by the colours of the traffic lights in your eyes, how they shifted over the planes of your face. Starting to think like an artist, you'd tease, and he'd lean into it, a planet circling its sun. 

“It was all right,” he said, taking the playbill from your hand. “You could catch a cold. We should get a cab.”

“Always my hero.” You grinned up at him, your eyes scanning his face in that particular way they did, as if ingesting the sight of him to later put the lines to a canvas. “Did you have a good time, Joel? I mean, really. You won't offend me.”

He grimaced. “I, uh… well, see, I’m not the best judge, and… I guess—”

“Joel.”

There was a gleam in your eyes that could have been amusement or could have been hunger. He doesn't remember. He only saw you tilt your chin and lower your eyes to his mouth, to that one place the Sisters always called vulgar, obscene, a place meant only for His word—

“Can I kiss you, Joel Miller, or will you keep being all heroic?”

It was soft, gentle, exploratory. Your mouth opened his like a wound, setting the scorching blade of your lips to the gash, staunching the blood. You healed and burned him, one hand on his back beneath his jacket, the other cupping his face. It reminded him of the statue that lived in the theatre underneath the church where all the boys and girls trained. An angel cast in white marble, cradling the face of Saint Eustace. The statue was chipped where his eye was meant to be. 

He remembers the way he shuddered when you touched him like that. He remembers the chill that started in his feet and crept up his spine. Something like coming alive, settling back into his own body—no longer a spirit haunting the shell of a home but a man. 

You pulled back, but Joel curled his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you again, deeper, maybe a little too eager, too inexperienced—but you gasped, fingers curling in his hair, your body curving into his. Your noses bumped when you separated, and he remembers laughing. 

The rain is nothing like that night. It's the lash of a whip across his face, seeping colour from the world instead of infusing it with light and movement. The water by the docks slaps against the concrete and boats rock and groan against their mooring. The lights of the city are distant now. 

Joel steps out of the car. 

He marches toward his target, cocking the pistol in his hand, and calls out a name. It gets lost in the roll of thunder across the sky and lodges in his chest. 

Cabrera waits on the landing pad, looking wraithlike in a long black coat and a pair of leather gloves. His pilot fuels the helicopter nearby. Neither of them hear Joel’s voice in the air. The rising sun is what gives him away—or maybe the gunshot, as he lifts his arm and pulls the trigger. 

It does not pierce flesh. It ricochets off one of the rotor blades. He had aimed slightly to the left. 

The pilot scampers off into hiding, but the slash of the bullet through the rainfall is enough to get the attention Joel wants. Cabrera reaches inside the lining of his jacket and fires a single shot. Joel can feel it tear through skin and muscle, but it doesn't hurt. 

“Joel,” greets Cabrera. 

“Manuel.” 

His chest heaves, his jacket soaked through, the cold sinking bone-deep. 

“Let's finish this.”

The glimmer in those depthless black eyes is the panther at the hunt, relentless in its hunger, licking its chops at the sight of a challenge. For all the coward’s blood in his veins, it still pulses at the prospect of winning. 

“Like men,” says Cabrera, tossing his gun aside at the same time Joel does. “With honour. No more guns.”

And it's laughable: the thought that there is any honour left in a world like this. A world where children are beaten and lashed and trained to hold a weapon too big for their hands. A world that burns villages, butchers families, and still claims that without rules, we live with the animals. 

A world as unruly as this cannot be ruled. He never truly considered it until he saw the sad gleam in your eye, felt the empathetic touch of your hand on his face, and began to realise that maybe he should be furious. 

But because he already knows he's going to win, Joel lets his opponent land the first blow. 

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it. 

Cabrera hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, Cabrera stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears. 

Cabrera drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's come to take his life. 

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last. 

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of Cabrera’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, Cabrera drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves Cabrera’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet. 

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

He could. He has done far worse. He has spilled blood for gold coins and superficial alliances and someone else's revenge. He has stalked, stolen, lied, killed, and he could finish this now, so easily, with the flick of a blade. 

But the song of death does not call to him now. 

For so long he had trudged, unmoored, through heavy crimson blood. Like pulling at the seams of velvet, he'd sewn more lives into the sea of red and he never looked behind him to see the souls trying to pull him down at the ankles. He didn't know purpose until he saw the way the candlelight flickered in your eyes, until he tilted his head to the side and realised your smile was a new kind of beautiful from each angle. 

The rain sticks to his lashes and he thinks of an old song of prayer the Sisters used to chant. He remembers curling his fingers around one of the rosaries that hung from the large cross in the cathedral and wincing in anticipation. He thought he would burn—that the metal would leave a red stain on his palm. It never did. 

Maybe that's why he never believed. Surely, if there was a God, Joel Miller would have burned by now. 

He thinks of shopping for furniture and date nights and lazy mornings, tangled in bedsheets. Your mouth, smiling against his, whispering I love you across the breakfast table. Dancing—or swaying, more like—under the kitchen light. Loving easily, never feeling as if he must grab hold of the cross and burn himself upon it just to feel. 

Joel turns the switchblade in his hand, lurches forward, and plunges the knife into Cabrera’s chest. 

There is no noise but a faint gurgle from his mouth, his hand weakly rising to grasp the hilt. Joel drops to his knees and fishes Cabrera’s cell phone from his pocket. 

“The blade is stuck in your aorta,” he says. “If you pull it out, you’ll bleed out and die.” He puts the rain-slick screen in front of Cabrera’s face. “Pull the contract.”

A few feeble taps are all it takes, and Joel Miller is no longer a target. His name glares back at him on the screen, from two million to nothing, not the boogeyman any longer but something akin to a civilian. Joel tosses the phone into the water and turns to leave. 

“See you in hell, Joel,” Cabrera chokes, still grasping the shiny wooden hilt of the blade.

He barely hauls himself into the car, which chokes to a rumbling start. There's blood seeping through his shirt where Cabrera shot him, and his fingers shake as they pull away from the wound, the red so bright, so alive. Joel grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. 

If there’s a God, he thinks, I hope you fucking hear me now. 

Tell me that we don’t get what we deserve. Because there is nothing I deserve in this world if I cannot keep what I’ve found.

His fingers trembling, smearing blood across the screen, he makes a call. 

And your voice on the line, soft, sticky with sleep, whispering his name—just his name: Joel?—is what wrenches the first sob from his throat. 

Joel, you say, like it means something, like it's precious. A jewel pressed from dusty black coal. Come back to me. Come home. 

So he does. 

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou fic #joel miller angst #joel miller au #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fic #john wick au

[sycamorelibrary754]

Merry Christmas

Summary: It’s the most wonderful time of the year. You and Natasha are off to the annual Stark Christmas Party. Little does the team know that a special surprise awaits them.

Genre: Fluff

Pairings: Natasha x reader, Avengers x reader (platonic).

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: None

A/N: This is part 2 to Happy Thanksgiving! I recommend reading it first, but it can be read as a stand-alone story as well. I hope you enjoy!

“Be down in a minute, malyshka!” Natasha called from your bedroom. 

You were standing in the kitchen eating peanut butter out of the jar topped with chocolate sauce. A “homemade Reese’s” you dubbed it. Your first pregnancy craving that had Nat popping down to the corner grocery store at 2 am for the dynamic duo of ingredients. 

“No worries, love!” Already dressed for Tony’s annual Christmas party at the compound. Clad in a green Sequin-Lace Halter Twist-Neck Jumpsuit, your baby bump beginning to show. 

The click of Natasha’s high heels signaled her arrival a few moments later in a sleek long-sleeved red scoop-back midi dress that hugged her in all the right places. 

“Wow, Nat. You look beautiful. Red is most definitely your color.” 

“So you prefer it over the black,” she smirked as she put on her earrings.

“I didn’t say that now, did I,” with a wink.

“The baby enjoying its homemade Reese’s?” grabbing her clutch. 

“Very much! I was thinking,” Putting away the chocolate and peanut butter. “Tomorrow we could make fudge!”

“Ah, because the baby has such a sweet tooth?” 

“Yes,” you giggled.

“Well, whatever the baby wants, I suppose,” wrapping her arms around you in a loving embrace before leaning down and kissing your stomach.

“You ready to drop the baby bombshell tonight?” Patting the top of Nat’s head. 

“Yes, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous,” sighing as she stood up. These are the same people who freaked out when they found out Clint had a family. How are they going to handle this?”

“Like the amazing aunts and uncles they were meant to be,” grabbing Natasha’s hand. “Plus, I think announcing it with the Christmas crackers is a cute idea.”

“I hope so,” placing a soft kiss against your lips. 

“Frankly, I’m more surprised Yelena hasn’t blabbed yet.” 

“Oh, that’s because I warned her if she told anyone I would make her run with me every morning at 5 am until the baby is born.”

“Well played,” high-fiving your wife. 

“Thank you,” she smiled. “Now come on, let’s go get our holiday cheer on.” 

*^~^*

The drive to the compound was even more beautiful during the holidays. A light snow fell as you passed house after house dressed in beautiful Christmas lights. Natasha placed her right hand on the center console. You softly intertwined your fingers with hers and placed a soft kiss to the back of her hand. 

You are greeted by a rush of warm air upon entering the compound lobby. Natasha shook the delicate snowflakes out of your hair and off your coat. You both step onto the elevator and are welcomed by the soothing voice of FRIDAY. 

“Merry Christmas, ladies. Welcome to the annual Stark Christmas party.” 

“Merry Christmas, FRIDAY. How’s the party so far?” You asked as the hum the elevator carried you up to living quarters.

“The party is in full swing. Mr. Stark is currently treating guests to a medley of Christmas carols.

“Of course he is,” you giggled.

“You know, he only plays that baby grand piano when he gets a bit tipsy,” Nat said. “When we got home from our month-long undercover mission in Romania, he celebrated on the jet and then made us all listen to his rendition of Dancing Queen.”

“Aww, and I missed it!” Feigning disappointment.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened to joyous noise and laughter. An abundance of greens, reds, gold, and silver flashing here and there, adding opulence and brightness. Classic poinsettias tied in tradition, and shiny bows and foiled paper glistened under the 12-foot tall Noble Fir Christmas tree, inviting their recipients to sneak one open before the actual day.

“Hey, the Romanoff’s are finally here!” Clint exclaimed as his kids rushed over to both of you.

Nate jumped into your wife’s arms as you hugged Lila and Cooper. It seemed like every time you saw the Barton kids they had grown a bit more. It was thanks to Banner and Cho that you were carrying a child that would be half yours and half Natasha’s. Looking at Clint and Laura’s kids and how they resembled their parents, you couldn’t wait to see what features your little plum would inherit from each of you. 

“How’s my little namesake?” Kissing Nathaniel’s cheek. Have you been practicing the punch and kick combinations I taught you?”

“Practicing the what?” Laura asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, nothing,” Natasha smirked as Nate giggled. 

“You two look great, I love the green and red thing you’ve got going on,” Clint said.

“Thank you. Lovely Christmas sweater by the way. I especially love Rudolph’s glowing nose.” you pointed.

“Hey, the Barton’s are the cream of the crop when it comes to ugly Christmas sweaters.”

“Clearly,” Nat teased.

“I’ll take your coats,” Cooper offered.

“Why, thank you. What a gentleman,” you winked at Laura as you handed him yours and Natasha’s pea coats. 

You scanned the room and noticed Wanda putting the finishing touches on trays of Christmas cookies. You put a hand on Nat’s shoulder and motioned toward the kitchen. She gave you a quick nod as you meandered over to the counter. 

“Wanda, Wanda, Wanda… what do we have here?”

“Y/N! It’s so good to see you,” wrapping you in one of her signature hugs that you loved so much. “This is my parents’ Christmas cookie recipe,” she proudly declared. “I convinced Tony and Pepper to let me handle the desserts this year. So, we’ve got cookies, the Viennese torte is in the fridge and the pumpkin pie is cooling.” 

“Wow, you have been busy,” you smiled. “Anything I can do to help?” 

“Yes, you can take a cookie and go mingle. I’ll be done in a few minutes,” handing you a charming little cookie decorated like Santa. You took a bite and couldn’t believe it. It was the best cookie you had ever tasted.

“Mhmm, Wanda! This is amazing.”

“That is why I will always vouch for homemade over store bought goodies. Now seriously, go mingle,” shooing you away.

You turned back around to see your wife sitting by the fireplace talking to Steve, champagne in hand. As you started to across the room you were intercepted by a festively-dressed Kate and Lucky.

“Y/N! Hey, oh my gosh, I haven’t seen you in so long! How are you?” 

“I’m good! I see you and Lucky are enjoying the party,” petting the Golden Retriever.

“Absolutely, say hello to Santa Paws and Mrs. Claus!” Kate exclaimed. Unfortunately, we’ve lost Yelena. She’s our elf,” glancing around the room.

“Wait, Yelena’s dressed as an elf?” Eyes wide. “Oh, that’s fantastic.”

“Yeah, if you see her will you send her our way? We’re supposed to be taking the photo for our holiday card tonight.”

“Nothing would make me happier,” you smirked with a hand on Kate’s shoulder.

You bid the young archer and pooch farewell and rejoined your wife.

“Hey, deka,” Wrapping her arm around your waste. 

“Y/N, I was just telling your wife that she needs to find her holiday spirit and come Christmas caroling with us next week,” Steve said.

“Natasha singing? I’m not sure that would be good for community morale,” you joked 

“Says the woman who performs one woman tributes to Harry Styles in the shower?” Nat giggled.

“Hey, my rendition of Sign of the Times is highly praised, I’ll have you know.”

Tony and Pepper join your little huddle with Morgan in tow.

“Romanoffs! You have to try this Hot Buttered Rum,” Tony remarked.

“Oh, I love Hot Buttered Rum, but I think I’ll stick with sparkling cider tonight,” you said “Nat would probably love some though, right, love?” 

“Sure,” grabbing the glass from Tony’s hand as Steve looked back at you curiously.

You peered down at Morgan who was sitting on the ottoman next to the fireplace. Ever since you found out you were pregnant you were drawn to children like never before.  

“Hi, sweetheart! You look so pretty tonight,” kneeling down to the little girl’s level.

“Thank you, Aunt Y/N,” she grinned.

“Are you excited for Christmas? You are clearly at the top of Santa’s nice list this year.”

“Really?!” Morgan squealed.

“Oh, absolutely, I have a feeling the man in red is going to be very good to you this year,” you winked. 

“Did you hear that Daddy? Aunt Y/N said that I’m on the top of the nice list!”

“I sure did, squirt. I didn’t realize Aunt Y/N was so tight with St. Nick,” eyeing you coyly.

“Oh yeah, we’re on a first name basis. I’m surprised you’re not?” Smirking at the billionaire. You loved Tony like a brother, but you enjoyed giving him crap.

“Trust me, Mrs. Romanoff, I’m much closer to Santa than you are.”

“Really, do you have a direct line to the North Pole?”

“Are you having milk and cookies flown in from Holland? Because you know those are his favorite,” raising an eyebrow at you.

“Ooookay, that’s enough,” your wife placing hands on your shoulders from behind. “You both know Santa. You both have giant egos. Merry Christmas,” Nat mocked. Come on Tony, let’s go grab some hors d'oeuvrs for our better halves. I’ll be right back, detka,” leading the billionaire toward the kitchen. 

You couldn’t help but admire Natasha as she walked away. Looking back over her shoulder, she smiled at you with all the love in the world. You just about melted right there in front of the fireplace. Snapping out of your love daze, you noticed Pepper grinning at you.

“What?” 

“Oh, nothing. I just can’t help but notice how glowing you look tonight,” as Morgan pulled her away towards Clint’s kids and Steve strolled away to join Bucky in conversation with Rhodes. 

“Pssst… Pssst!” 

You turned around just as a styrofoam snowball was about to hit you in face. You caught it in one swift motion. 

“Nice catch,” a Russian voice said.

“Yelena, where are you?” Glancing around not seeing your sister-in-law.

“Over here,” poking her head out from the behind the seven-foot snowman next to the pool table.

“Oh, now don’t you look adorable as an elf,” you giggled.

“If you weren’t pregnant with my niece or nephew you would be hanging upside down from the rafters right now.” 

“You know Kate and Lucky are looking for you, right?” 

“Why do you think I’m hiding behind the giant snowman? Kate Bishop forced me to dress in this saccharin American Christmas costume and now she wants photographic evidence of it.” 

“Because she loves you, silly,” your arms crossed over your chest.

“Detka, it’s time for dinner. Let’s go—“Natasha stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of her sister. “Oh my God,” she burst into laughter. 

“Tred carefully, sestra,” Yelena threatened. 

“No, I love it. I think this qualifies as new mission suit attire,” poking the bell dangling from her elf hat. “Maybe you can get Stark to upgrade this outfit with Widow Bites.”

“Do you have a death wish?” Yelena sneered.

“Come on you adorable elf, it’s time for dinner,” placing an arm around your best friend’s shoulder.

*^~^*

You took your seat next to your wife at the Astoria Grand Giovani dining table. Natasha quietly squeezed your hand. You looked over with a shy smile and a festive blush on your cheeks. 

Pepper stood up from her seat next to Tony at the head of the table. “Before we enjoy this lovely holiday feast, I just wanted to take a moment to tell you how grateful we are that you’re all here,” grasping Tony’s hand. “Everyone in this room knows how precious life is and we don’t take a moment of it for granted. We love you and Merry Christmas.”

“Here, here!” Thor declared a couple seats down from you as glasses clinked around the table. 

A traditional Christmas dinner soon filled your plate. Roasted turkey with all the trimmings. Home baked bread, mashed potatoes and garden veggies gently roasted, drizzled in balsamic vinegar. The group drank, were merry, and told the most terrible of jokes.

Pregnancy mood swings were becoming commonplace and as the dinner wore on, you suddenly found yourself overwhelmed with emotion at the sight of your extended family enjoying the holiday season together. 

“Y/N, are you okay?” Carol looked at you with concern in her eyes from across the table.

“Oh, yeah” dabbing at the corner of your eyes with your napkin. “I’m fine.”

“The holidays always make her a bit emotional,” Natasha offered laying her head comfortingly on your shoulder.

After dinner you helped Wanda serve the desserts. The Christmas cookies took their place in the center of the table, flanked by the Viennese torte and the pumpkin pie. Coffee and dessert wine circulated around the table. 

The group of full bellies and ever so slightly sleepy eyes then made their way to the living room to relax. Christmas music softly enveloped the room as the kids were discussing what they hoped Santa was going to bring them this year. 

“Okay, Kate Bishop. Let’s get this picture over with. I want to put on my pajamas,” Yelena announced as she stood from the sofa.

“Yay!! Okay, don’t move. Lucky! Here boy,” calling the dog who promptly romped over. “Vision, can you take the picture?”

“Of course Ms. Bishop.” Taking the Canon EOS R-50 from the archer. 

“It is customary to say cheese before a picture, but since it is Christmas time perhaps you should say mistletoe?” 

“Just take the picture,” Yelena deadpanned

“Mistletoe!” Kate yelled. 

“We’re going to get one of these cards right?” Looking at your wife. 

“I had Kate put us down for two,” she smirked.

*^~^*

As night fell, you rested your weary head on Nat’s lap as she ran her fingers through your hair. 

Natasha looked at her watch. “You ready to drop the baby bomb?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be. I’ll get the Christmas crackers,” rising from the sofa.

“Umm, everyone. Y/N and I have a special gift for you all,” your wife announced nervously as you passed out the gold and silver novelties to the team. 

“Christmas crackers? I have to be honest, I was hoping for something a bit more extravagant… Oww!” Tony whined, as Pepper pinching him on the arm. 

You smiled with nervous anticipation as you reached for Natasha. The snap of the festive crackers echoed across the room. Clint was the first to reach inside and remove the tiny gift. A small round ceramic white ornament tied to a red ribbon appeared in his hand. Lila, Cooper, and Nate huddled around their dad to get a glimpse as Clint read the inscription.

“Uncle Clint?” Looking up at Natasha in shock.

“No way!” Sam shouted.

Wanda, Carol, and Kate all screamed at the sight of their own ornaments. Their names adorned with the title of Aunt.

“This is joyous news!” Thor crowed. 

Pepper got up immediately and embraced you in a warm hug as Laura did the same with Natasha. 

“How far along are you?” Wanda asked.

“Almost three months,” Yelena cut in.

“You knew?! Why didn’t you tell me?” Kate shouted; slapping her girlfriend on the arm.

“Because I want to sleep in!”

“I’m so happy for you, Nat,” Steve kissing her on the cheek. 

Bucky wrapped his arms around you with a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“You ready to be Uncle Bucky?” Your eyes meeting his gaze.

“Oh God,” his face like a deer in the headlights.

“You’ll be great, Buck,” you giggled. 

Bruce and Helen embraced Natasha in a tandem hug.

“I’m so relieved everyone knows,” Helen said turning to you. “Now we can openly discuss your pregnancy. Have you been continuing with your prenatal vitamins?”

And remember, you have an appointment on Friday,” Bruce interjected.

“Yes and yes,” you said as Natasha placed a soft kiss to your cheek and then another to your belly. 

Tony walked up to you with that signature smirk on his face. You mentally prepared yourself for a signature Stark one-liner or some stupid joke. Instead, he took you by surprise when he wrapped you in a warm embrace.

“Congratulations, Romanoff. Looks like you do know Santa best.” 

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff and you #black widow #mcu #fluff #the avengers #steve rogers #tony stark #Clint barton #yelena boleva #kate bishop #Sam Wilson #Thor #Carol Danvers #Bruce Banner #Helen Cho #Laura Barton #Pepper Potts #vision #Morgan Stark #james rhodes #Lila Barton #Cooper Barton #nathaniel barton #avengers compound #christmas fic

[ragsforless]

Dune crack!au (1)

Paul: May thy knife chip and shatter-

Feyd: *starts singing* 🎶In another life, I would be your girl🎶

Paul: What?

Feyd: 🎶We keep all our promises, be us against the world🎶

Paul: I’m so confused right now.

Irulan: And I’m recording this.

Feyd: 🎶In another life, I would make you stay🎶

Chani: NGL, he has a great voice.

Stilgar: True.

Irulan: *is still recording* You’re doing great, Feyd!

Paul: Shouldn’t we be fighting-

Chani: Shush, Paul! Let him finish.

Paul: But-

Feyd: 🎶So I don't have to say you were the one that got away, The one that got away🎶

Paul:. . .

Jessica:. . .

Feyd: So how’s my singing?😀

Chani: I approve! You’re going to be our concubine number 2!

Feyd: Nice.

Irulan: Oh, great. A new roommate.

Stilgar: As written.

Paul: What?!

Jessica: I did not see that coming.

Mohiam: I did.

#dune laundry and taxes universe #dune part two #dune 2 #dune #crack post #crack ship #feypaul #feyd x paul #paul x feyd #paul x chani #paul x irulan #paul atreides #feyd rautha #chani kynes #irulan corrino #lady jessica #stilgar #gaius helen mohiam #feyd becomes concubine no. 2 #as written #katy perry #the one that got away #dune incorrect quotes #alternate universe #incorrect quotes #dune memes #crack fic #crack treated seriously #house harkonnen #house atreides

[autisticmight]

i am SO NORMAL about lego bionicle

#so normal #did not get distracted from my fic daydreaming about the turaga and Feral Vakama #helen stfu

[johnwickb1tsch]

FIC:

(most y/n fics are fem gender but [attempted] no real mention of specific appearance, race, body type) The Night Nurse - John x Helen CH 1 │ CH 2 │ CH 3 │ CH 4 │ CH 5 │ CH 6 │ CH 7 │ CH 8 CH 9. CH 10. │ A03

you're the worst thing (i'm addicted to) - John x Helen'sSister!Reader fic │ Part 1 │Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 A03 The Girl Next Door ~ Constantine x Vampire!Reader Fic Part 1 Part 2 (based on below imagine)

Imagines:

John x Helen'sSister!Reader Imagine John Wick x Tarasov'sDaughter!Reader Imagine Constantine x Reader x John Wick Imagine Young!John Wick & Model!Reader Imagine part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 John x Wife!Reader Fix it Imagine

BITTERSWEET Yandere!John x fem!reader coffee shop au (this totally turned into a fic) Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 PART 6 PART 7 PART 8 PART 9. PART 10 PART 11 PART 12 PART 13 PART 14 PART 15 PART 16 PART 17 PART 18 PART 19 PART 20 PART 21 PART 22 PART 23. PART 24 PART 25. PART 26 PART 27 PART 28. PART 29 PART 30 PART 31

OTHER KEANUVERSE CHARACTERS:

Constantine x Vampire!Reader Neighbor Imagine

Donaka Mark x MartialArtist!Reader Imagine

Donaka Mark x Secretary!Reader Imagine

THE DEVILS' TRIANGLE - Tex Johnson x Reader x John Wick (x Constantine) Yandere Collab with the diabolical @treedaddymcpuffpuff & @sweetwolfcupcake *so many dead doves here be warned...* Original Imagine COVER Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5. Part 6 Part 7. Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 WIP

EXCESSIVE FORCE - Tom Ludlow x Nurse!Reader collab w the AMAZING @treedaddymcpuffpuff CH 1 CH2 CH3 CH4 CH5 CH6 CH7 CH8

#john wick #john wick x you #john wick x helen #john wick fic #helen wick #john wick x helen fic #keanu reeves #john wick x reader #john wick x y/n

[therealdistortion]

Me and my comfort rare pairs who have never interacted in canon

#I love them #please I need more content #Helen and Annabelle only have 14 fics on ao3 😭 #doorkeay #gerrymichael #terminal velocity #trapdoor #Gerry Keay x Michael Shelley #Gerry Keay x michael distortion #Oliver banks x mike crew #Helen distortion x annabelle came #gerry keay #michael shelley #michael distortion #oliver banks #mike crew #helen distortion #annabelle cane #rarepair #the magnus archives #tma #magpod

[elialys]

"So…I know it's Saturday evening, and I concede the original deal was Friday…"

THE NEWSREADER | 1.03 | Helen x Dale - Creative Date Part 1

#Anna Torv #Sam Reid #Helen Norville #Dale Jennings #Helen x Dale #the newsreader #helendale #they were just!!!! #SO SOFT #THE SOFTEST #helen is so romantic like 😭 #dale redeemed himself alright #bless that one smutty fic featuring the aftermath that's all im gonna say #michael i need them back let me have them back #at least give dale his soul back #also bless my brand new laptop #took me 1/3 of the time it's always taken me to make a gifset before #gifs*

[sarcasticsciencefictionwriter]

Welcome to the prompt list for platonic and romantic love for February 2024!

18 prompts, 9 regular and 9 dialogue to choose from, open to gen ficcers and shippers alike.

Only rules required is you must properly tag your writing so no one is triggered or misled.

Feel free to reach out if you have questions!

Prompts are also listed below the cut.

Regular Prompts:

1.Flowers

2. Favorite Meal

3. Gentle Touch

4. Trying the other's favorite pastime

5. Outdoor Activity

6. Blanket

7. Silly Memory

8. Handmade gift

9. Forehead kiss

Dialogue Prompts:

"Give me your hand."

2. "We're going to be late!"

3. "You did this for me?"

4. "Can I hug you?"

5. "Just for tonight."

6. "Just come here already."

7. "Please?"

8. "I already told you!"

9. "This was not what I planned on."

Thanks to amphytrionwrites for the lovely graphic! Prompts done by yours truly.

@tinknevertalks I promised I'd tag you, so here you go! 🥰

#prompt list #sanctuary fandom #gen fic #shipping #fanfiction #writing prompts #sanctuary tv show #helen magnus #i don't know how to tag this

[tinknevertalks]

Roll up! Roll up! It's that time of year again: the nights are longer, it's all feeling colder, and the shops are all trying to sell you stuff. But here in the Sanctuary side of fandom, it's the start of the festive fic exchange!

Do you like writing fic?

Do you like reading fic?

Do you like putting unnecessary stress on yourself to make a wonderful gift for someone, just to have half of the fandom turn around and say, "Aaaaaaah, that's exactly what I needed to read right now?"*

Then this is the fic exchange for you! Today's post is the sign up post. Under the cut will be a list of questions. All you have to do is send me either a DM or an ask with your completed questionnaire then wait for your match!

Schedule!

Sign up: 21st Nov - 5th Dec

Matches sent out by 7th Dec

Touching base post: 20th Dec**

Collection open for posting: 26th Dec

Collection reveal: 31st Dec

This is open to anyone in the Sanctuary fandom, regardless of character/shipping preferences. When it comes to fic length, the minimum is 300 words. I don't really wanna give a max (because I know how the muse can get sometimes), but if we cap it around the 2k words mark that should be cool.***

I'll be posting a link to this around the place (and reblogging again this evening for the later crew), and you are more than welcome to message/contact me with any questions, queries or concerns.

Under the cut: the questions!

Username on Tumblr/AO3: (I need a method of contacting you 😊. If you have neither, pop me your email or something? We'll figure it out.)

Things I am comfortable writing: (gen or shippy? Fluff writer or angst? Family feels?)

Things I would not want to write about: (all the things you don't wanna write - characters you dislike, pairings you don't vibe with etc. Also heads up on any triggers you might have - you don't need to explain the whys.)

What I'd like to receive: (go for gold! The more info you can give, the more tailored to you the fic will be.)

What I would not like to receive: (All the things that you do not vibe with, or squick you. Please please please again with any trigger warnings - I don't want a gift to upset you. 😊)

Any other info that doesn't fit in the other questions: (General vibes, could you be a pinch hitter, any thoughts, questions, etc)

--

And that's that. 😊 Thank you for joining in, and see you December 7th with your matches!

*You can answer no to this one - it's just how I am when it comes to these things. XD

**If you find you can't finish, or something comes up that means you have to pull out, please let me know so I can arrange a pinch hitter. I won't be angry or disappointed or anything because this is for fun, and your health (mental and/or physical) is more important.

**Obviously, if you find you go over a bit, don't freak out or anything. This is just for fun, after all.

#sanctuary #fanfiction #fic exchange #sanctuary festive fic exchange #sffe #helen magnus #nikola tesla #henry foss #will zimmerman #teslen #magnitt #john druitt #james watson #sanctuary (syfy) #amanda tapping #gen fic welcome! #shippy fic welcome! #crack ships welcome! #family feels welcome! #i'm on a bus so i was able to write/post this XD

[kiwisbell]

helen ; chapter one

dear joel

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the inciting incident.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, (retired) hitman!joel, husband!joel, graphic violence, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), blood + injuries, murder, cars, joel lifts reader once, reader has hair, oral sex (f receiving - aka munch!joel returns), married fluff, angst, threats of rape/SA, home invasion, disgusting awful men, childhood/religious trauma, the typical alcohol + smoking + profanity, erotic paintings, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 8.2k a/n: so i'm posting this and sprinting away because i'm terrified. that being said, this story means more to me than words can say and i sincerely hope you enjoy what i have to offer. thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!! gigantic thanks to @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter and being generally incredible throughout this whole process. i couldn't have done it without ya baby ❤️ next

PREFACE

“Love is my mover, source of all I say.”

— The Divine Comedy: Inferno, Canto II.

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it. 

Joel Miller grins as the punch rocks his jaw. 

His opponent hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, the man stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears. 

The man drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's about to take his life. 

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last. 

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of the man’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, the man drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves the man’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet. 

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his own broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

Joel staggers backward to pick up the knife, clamping his hand over the curve of his opponent’s shoulder, and drives the blade down into his neck.

“Yeah.”

He leaves him slumped against the railing, choking on his own blood, and limps his way to one of the beaten-up Range Rovers whose front right bumper was totaled in the crash. Joel groans as he settles into the front seat, gnashing his teeth together as he lifts the hem of his dress shirt to inspect the damage. 

The bullet has pierced the soft flesh of his stomach. Blood blossoms bright through the white fabric and spirals outward. Joel blinks away rainwater and pulls his phone from his pocket, the screen smeared with blood. He doesn’t know if it belongs to him.

He grits his teeth and makes a call. 

In the back of his head, Joel vaguely recalls an old song of prayer. He used to watch others sing it while he lingered in the shadows at the back of the cathedral. He would memorise the shape of the words leaving their mouths and wonder how a benevolent God, who had shaped man—perfection—from red clay, could have made him. 

He would lower his head as if swept up in a tide of repentance, examining the bones beneath his hands. The flickering of tendons. The bulge of veins as he delicately folded his fingers into a fist.

Red clay. Blood. The old dance of serpent and man.

He was fourteen when he escaped.

Joel looks down at his bloodied hands. They’ve grown since then. They’re stronger, thicker, scarred. There are no pictures of him as a young boy, but if he saw one, he knows he would not recognise himself. Not his eyes nor his hands nor the set of his jaw. God makes man makes boy. He is destined for Hell.

The call goes to voicemail. 

Joel curls his hand into a fist and whispers a prayer.

Something cool and wet collides with Joel’s forehead as he stalks into the airport. It’s begun to rain. 

His target gate is close, and he's early. The press of bodies begins to crowd him. Prickling body spray and sickly-sweet perfume and sunburned skin from Spring Break return flights. Joel shoves through them, unseen, unnoticed amid the rowdy din of reunions. The collar of his shirt sticks to the nape of his neck. It’s the sensation of being strangled, clammy palms slick against his own skin. He adjusts his jacket and tightens his grip on the black fabric dangling from his hand. 

Joel waits by the gate, his eyes flitting between its apex and the people milling about him, reuniting with partners and parents and children. Nobody seems suspicious, but his fingers still dance upon the blade hidden in the inner lining of his leather jacket. Those performing wide berths around the scowling man try not to make eye contact. Most don't notice his presence at all. 

He waits, flicking his sleeve up every couple minutes to check the time on the inside of his wrist. Every tick of the thin hand registers in the pulse of his heart against his ribs. 

He hears the suitcase before he sees it—and it’s hard to miss. One wheel is wonky, and the case stutters in its path along the polished floor. It’s huge, pink, hideous. 

His hand dropping from the blade in his pocket, Joel makes his move. 

You see him approaching and drop the lopsided suitcase, shrieking as he takes you up in his arms. 

He swings you around twice, holding you firm against him, your fingers grabbing desperately at the locks of his curly, brown-grey hair. Joel nestles his face in your throat and breathes in: vanilla and shampoo and the unmistakable scent of a you he can never shake. Home.

You shudder into him, your feet barely scraping the floor as he holds you around the waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. Joel lets his eyes close. 

Daisies made of diamonds dangle from your wrist, connected by a fine golden chain. He can feel the faux petals dig into the back of his neck, etching their shape into the phantom pain of the ink peeking out from his collar. Sometimes, his skin would pull back with the needle, briefly protruding from his body like a tent made of flesh, as if grasping feebly onto some innocent time before the black hands of Dürer were permanently his. His to remember. His to loathe. 

There is a slight in the way his gift to you, wrapped snugly around your wrist since the first anniversary, kisses the old wound, the tip of the cross, and all he feels is the echo of agony. He holds you tighter.

“Can’t breathe, honey,” you croak, shoulders shaking with laughter. 

Joel mutters an apology, loosening his grip on you just enough to pull away and cup your face in his hands. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, and you beam up at him, smoothing back the hair you’d tousled with your fingers. A curl swoops back down over his forehead.

“Hi,” you say softly. 

“Hi,” says Joel, already on his way to kissing you, his mouth slanting over yours. 

He tastes of mint and smells of his dark cologne, pine, Joel. Your Joel. And you kiss him like it—your hand cupping the nape of his neck, the other sliding up his strong, broad back, your lips meeting in a consuming kiss that knocks you off-kilter. He bends slightly over you, keeping you upright with a large hand on your lower back. 

“Never leave again,” mumbles Joel, grinning against your mouth, his hand sliding down your arm to your left hand, where two glimmering bands rest on your third finger. Your hands intertwine, and he bumps his nose into yours. 

You give him another short kiss. “Get me out of here.”

Joel slides your raincoat over your shoulders and you slip your arms through. He presses his lips to your forehead and closes his eyes, letting himself linger briefly in your space before he scoops up the handle to your affront of a suitcase and escorts you out back to the car. 

He opens the passenger-side door to let you slide into your seat, securing your case in the back, and makes his way around the vehicle. You reach for the collar of his jacket and pull him toward you for a kiss, grasping his jaw between your thumb and forefinger. He grins crookedly when you pull away, bushing the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone. 

“Missed you,” he says.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. “Yeah? How much?”

He reaches across the console and kisses you deeply, making you gasp into him as his hand slips underneath your silky little blouse and fits his fingers in the grooves between your ribs. Your skin prickles with goosebumps under his touch as his exploration migrates to your belly, sliding south, ever lower, his hand playing at the waistband of your panties—

“Okay,” you laugh, smacking his hand away. “Okay. You’re paying for parking, Miller.”

“I’ve got money,” he says plainly, dipping his head to kiss you again, his pupils fattening as he tries to gorge on all of you at once. You place a hand on his chest, enjoying the strong pulse of his heartbeat where you typically rest your head, and gently push him back. 

“Take me home,” you coo, your gaze sweeping fondly over the face that hasn’t changed, that you cannot forget, “and show me how much you missed me.”

His wedding band coolly kisses your cheek as he retracts his hand, reluctantly turning his key in the ignition. “Yes, ma’am.”

He’s always been a meticulous driver, expert in the way he flattens his palm on the wheel, his other on the back of your headrest, turns the car out of the spot, and merges onto the freeway. When he no longer needs his other hand, he gives it to you, and you bring his long-scarred knuckles to your lips. 

His hands are marked by years of use, of abuse, speckled with little white scars, freckles, divots, curves. You already know the lines in his palms, have traced them and painted them and put them under sensitive study with your body. But you turn his hand over nonetheless, your own fingertips careful in their examination, following their contours as if searching for a change. But they’re the same—he’s the same—and so you tuck your fingers between his and bring your palms together in a warm, awaited kiss.

It’s only been a month, but you study his profile as if years have passed. He’s still Joel, still surly, plush lips curved into a permanent pout, the space between his brows marked by a ponderous gash, the vein in his throat fluttering in silence when a driver cuts him off or he spots a car following too closely. He’s a good study, practised in his stoicism. 

His nose is artful. Its convex slope, pronounced, strong, curves deliciously into his upper lip, the soft greying hairs in between a space of waiting. His mouth, soft, learned, often languageless, is what you know best of him. You know it like your own—can trace its shape in the dark, hands behind your back. The strong jawline, the slight wrinkles beside his eyes, ones he never had before you met him, the patches of skin disrupting the fullness of his beard: they’re the picture of the man you married, and there’s always something you’re disappointed in discovering you’ve missed. A something you’ve never noticed, a something you wish you could go back and add to all your canvases. 

When you left him at the airport, it was a freckle just beneath the hollow of his throat. Now, it’s the frayed hairs just behind his ears, crimping in frizzy patterns that don’t match the languorous curls on the rest of his head. They look singed, as if he’d put a match to himself. 

Maybe it’s making up for lost time, for all the days you’d missed being away from your Joel. But there’s a second, smaller something: the little round scar beneath those wild hairs. You lift your hand to it, and before your thumb can make a pass over the white, puckered skin, he speaks. 

“It’s a burn.” Merging off the freeway, he pulls into a gas station. His fuel ticker is tapping gently at the E. “From a cigarette.”

Your heart tips off the edge of a yawning chasm, and your hand pulls back in a wary twitch of your fingers. Throat tightening, you feel a distinct pressure behind the T of your nose and forehead. “From the people who raised you?”

A muscle in his jaw spasms, and he lifts your joined hands to his mouth. “None of that,” he says softly, meeting your eyes that well with unshed tears. 

No tears for me, he once said to you. Not until I’ve earned ‘em.

You sniffle, watching him nuzzle his cheek against the soft flesh of your wrist, his lips finding your vein and following it halfway up your forearm. 

“Tell me about your show.” 

You let him tuck your tears away in the grooves between his joints and smile. “Successful, but lonely. So many people knew my name, and I’m pretty sure I knew about a quarter of theirs. Made me feel like some snobbish pig.”

“Nah, that’s my job,” says Joel. “Everybody loves you, baby.”

You roll your eyes. “Either way, the gallery was a hit. The triptych sold for the highest at the auction.”

Joel smirks. “The nude ones?”

“Yeah, dirtbag. The nude ones.” Your smile is dry, still somehow saccharine. 

“I liked those,” says Joel, fingers playing upon your upper thigh. 

“Perv.”

He playfully smacks your thigh. “Goddamn right.”

“It was good. It was. But I missed you.” Your voice breaks, and Joel squeezes your fingers in response. “Could hardly sleep without you there.”

He nods like he knows. And you know he does; he barely sleeps, even if you’re on top of him. “I know everybody loves you,” he says, “but next time you go away, remember I love you most.”

You blink away the shimmer of tears so you can see him clearly. “Casanova.”

“That's right,” he says, nosing his way into another kiss. “Don't ever leave me again, baby. My heart can't take it.”

You shake your head, laughing into his mouth as your tears slip onto your tongue. “Never again,” you whisper, “unless the hotel food is good.”

He nods. “I’ll make an exception, long as I can go.”

You grin. “You know… if I’m at home all the time…”

“We’re not getting a puppy.”

“Joel—”

“No.”

“Don't you want to make your wife happy?”

He faux-snaps at you like a dog, catching his teeth around your earlobe. “As a goddamn clam.”

You gasp as you feel his mouth suckle gently at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “I… I want… We should at least talk about…”

“Hmm?” 

He’s playing with the hem of your blouse, deft fingers leaving warm imprints on the soft skin of your belly, fingers enveloping your precious heart when he places his hand on your upper back. The organ pounds under his touch, pouring its blood into his palms. 

You haven’t felt his touch in so long.

“I want…”

Joel hums again, prompting, his pinky finger dipping under the strap of your bra and pulling back, snapping it against your skin. 

“What was I talking about?”

He chuckles, bringing his lips back to yours. You grasp for him greedily, trying to fix him to you this time, your fingers bunching the fabric of his T-shirt. But he’s pulling back, his forehead falling against yours. 

“I’ll consider it,” he says, “if you can convince me.”

Giddily, perhaps stupidly, you smile. “I’m very prepared to convince you.”

“Uh-huh. I don't doubt you, baby. How ‘bout you let me fill up the car first?”

The throbbing bass of house music Dopplers as another car approaches the gas station. Three men exit the vehicle, one of them already lighting a cigarette while the other two make for the convenience store. One is wearing a backwards cap and the other a pressed suit. 

Nice move, you think, sinking back in your seat a little as Joel slides out of the car, smoking by a gas pump.

“Nice ride,” says the man at the opposite pump, puffing at his cigarette. 

“Thanks,” says Joel with a polite smile, locking the nozzle in the fuel tank and folding his arms over his chest. He’s hovering by the passenger door, halfway to blocking you from view.

The man surveys the hood, his fingers gently tracing the cool silver. “Boss Mustang 429. She a ‘70?”

“‘69,” says Joel.

“Very nice,” muses the man, drumming his hands on the hood. You feel the crude vibrations in your spine and straighten in your seat. This man—this kid, all his puffing and grinning and loud music—is bad news. Your stomach coils taut when his gaze shifts from Joel to you, staring hard through the windshield. 

“How much?” he asks Joel. 

You notice the minute stiffening of the muscles in Joel’s shoulders. “What?”

“How much for the car?” 

Joel pushes off the car and dislodges the pump, brushing the kid aside on his way back to the driver’s side. “It’s not for sale.”

The kid wanders to the passenger-side door before Joel can turn on the car and roll up the window. He leans his elbows just inside, his face mere inches from yours, and you can smell the sickly, cloying smoke of his cigarette as he blows it in your direction. 

He says something to Joel in Spanish that makes your husband’s hand still on the wheel.

And your Joel, your courteous Joel, your never-the-shit-stirrer Joel, narrows his eyes at the kid and says something in kind, his voice a low scrape that shudders through you.

It’s too fast for you to hear, and you never learned Spanish, and you were under the assumption (until right fucking now) that Joel never did, either. But he starts the car and rolls up the window, and you’re peeling away from the gas station before the kid can reply. 

“That was…” You cast around for the words and instead rest your eyes on Joel, whose jaw looks ready to snap. “Joel, honey, when did you learn Spanish?”

He’s silent for a long while, and you would assume that he didn’t hear you—if you didn't know that he has stellar hearing. When he pulls onto the long stretch of road, signalling your first firm tug away from the stifling noise of civilization, he finally speaks. 

“Picked it up in the Marines.” 

“What did he say to you?”

Joel’s skin is stretched taut over his knuckles. “Somethin’ stupid.”

You hum, letting him linger in silence for the remainder of the trip. Scenery, green and grey sky and the drizzle of rain, swoops by the window, and you're going home. It isn't much different from what you found in Vancouver, but it's familiar. It’s the smell of the air after the rain and the way your shared home comes into view the same way it always has. 

It isn’t a modest home. You and Joel had it built before the wedding, both eager to get away from the city and exist in relative peace when your job allowed it. It sits low and broad, geometric pillars framing the front porch, sleek modern lines in black and white. Your compromise: he assumed responsibility for the exterior, and you took everything within. Joel pulls into the garage, next to your beige SUV, and helps you and your hot-pink luggage out of the car. 

The walls are littered with canvases. Mostly, there are paintings of Joel. The first time you brought him to your studio, a few weeks into the relationship, he’d sat stone-still for hours. You don't recall even a twitch of a finger. He’s in shades of blue, red, green, grey. He’s sitting, standing, lounging, sleeping. His lashes lie in repose over his cheeks, eyes closed, sometimes open, often averted. You’ve captured him in bed, by the pool, in the kitchen, in your studio. Like a spider, you’ve ensnared his shyness, his care, his devotion, weaving it into a tapestry of oil, watercolour, pastel. 

You’ve never sold a single one. This Joel—whose eyes are sometimes closed, sometimes open, often averted—is for your eyes only. 

The curls at the nape of his neck are creeping under the collar of his jacket. Winding your finger around a rich brown lock, you give him a tug. “You haven't been taking good care of yourself.”

Joel brings your hand to his mouth, kissing the rings on your finger that bind you to him. “You told me you liked it long.”

“You told me it itches.” You shrug his jacket off his shoulders and trail your hands up his muscled arms. “It's not about me, honey.”

Joel hums, cradling the crown of your head in his palm and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “When will you learn”—another hand around your hip, tugging you forward by the small of your back—“that everything is about you?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That's a good answer, Mr. Miller.”

He grins crookedly, backing you against the kitchen counter. “Yeah?”

You scratch his scalp and feel his mouth descend on your jaw. “Mhm. You’ve been practising.”

“Didn't have much else to do,” he grumbles, fisting the fabric of your blouse and untucking it from the waistband of the old jeans sitting low on your hips. “My wife was gone.”

“You're getting whiny,” you chide, smacking his hand away from your fly. 

“Is it working?”

“You really wanna make your wife happy?”

“Yeah, baby. Yeah.” He looks down at you like he's close to pleading. 

“Then you'll let me cut your hair,” you purr. 

His pout lasts as long as it takes for you to get his hair soapy and your fingers in his curls, massaging slow and sweet. You take your time ridding him of the excess length, chopping carefully, your hands assured of their strength. You tell him to tilt up and look down and to the side, honey, and he obeys because it's your hands, and your voice, and he's pliable as molten glass. 

You get lost in the musical shhhick of the scissors cutting through hair, humming a tune that does not match, and he's reminded of ballet. Watching you in the mirror is like seeing the dance through a glass he cannot permeate. You may be touching him, but most times he's struggling to grasp you in your entirety. 

He sees an angel in his sleep, reaching out with a hand made of gold to guide him up from hell. 

You tell him more about the gallery. You tell him about whale-watching and being too seasick to take photos for him like he'd requested. Joel wants to shake his head but he stays still and tells you it’s okay, baby, all I wanted was to know you were happy. 

And you tell him I was happy. But it would've been better with you.

And he's joking, telling you I’d be throwin' up on the other side of the boat, but his body feels cold when you set down the scissors and leave his side. 

“How’s Tommy?” you ask, rubbing gel between your palms. This, he knows, is your favourite part: styling him up all pretty like your personal doll. 

It’s his favourite part, too. He holds you around the waist while you work. “He’s panicking.”

“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “He's read every book on the shelves. And your brother doesn't read.”

“Books can't prepare you for the real thing,” says Joel. “‘Least, that's what Maria told him.”

“Maria’s probably right.” You thread your fingers through his locks and watch with a smile as he closes his eyes, his forehead dropping to your belly. “But that doesn't take away from the fact that Tommy will make a great dad.”

Joel hums, pressing a kiss to your belly. “He’s been askin’ after you to paint their nursery. Want me to tell him to fuck off?”

You're beaming, curling one lock of hair around your finger and dangling it teasingly over his forehead. “Tell Tommy I'd be delighted. Maria shouldn't be doing any of that, pregnant as she is. You should smack some sense into your brother.”

“I tried every day when we were little. Didn't take.”

You give his styled hair a finalistic tug and brush it back from his ears. “Such a good model for me,” you coo, dropping into his lap, “just like always.”

“And what do I get?” he says, watching his own hand cup your breast, thumb ghosting over the soft swell, obscured by layers of fabric. 

Your wicked eyes feel heavy on his skin. “What you always get.” 

You take his hand in yours and lead him to the bedroom. You’ve done this a thousand times, it seems, this methodical undressing, made new with every hour spent apart. The dance replenishes in the sunlight, coming alive as spring blossoms, never stale, never withered. There is something new to discover each time. 

Joel kisses you, staggering backward until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. You climb onto his lap without breaking the kiss, your arms winding around his neck as he tucks you into him. His cock is a hard, heavy weight between your thighs, accustomed to the touch of his hand alone in the month you've been apart. 

The revitalising warmth of skin-on-skin strikes him true, blooming like blood from his heart. He clutches you so close that your heartbeat skitters from your chest to his, your mouths exchanging breaths, your bodies sharing heat. He knows nothing but the shape, smell, sound of you. 

He trails his knuckles up and down your spine and wonders if he can make certain that he will die like this. He doesn't want to know an afterlife. It will spoil the memory of his very last moment, when he brings you in close and kisses your soft cheek and lets the darkness gently pull him down. 

The sisters at the orphanage would tell him things. You will never know peace until you know Him. You cannot know a person’s love until you know His. You will never understand, child, what it is to breathe, until every breath you take is in His name. Joel drags his open mouth up the column of your sternum, its golden pillar, his tongue dipping to taste the nectar that pools in the hollow of your throat. He tastes you instead, and he feels he has not cheated God. 

You gasp his name as he licks molten salt from your skin, and he feels the golden hand curl around his heart. His lids grow heavy with every taste. Intoxicated, he seeks more, putting his mouth to the crook of your neck. Your back arches, your chest flush with his own, melting and moulding together. Every second of time spent apart withers and dies. 

You have taken Joel to bed and felt him angry, happy, morose, insatiable—but the Joel you’re feeling now is tired. A drowning man finally cresting the surface, he touches you like he never will again. Your skin bunches and folds under his too-eager hands, rubbing you raw. Your muscles pull taut as you try to accommodate his frantic mouth. He bites you and your lips part in a silent scream. He pulls your hair and you gush, your chest hot, prickling with friction and sweat and heat. 

There is anguish in the way he holds you. It feels deep as a wound, old enough to still ache when it rains, old enough that you were never around to know him when it was cut into his body. You want to rescue him from the wordless pain, the agony that has no name. 

You want to know what has made him this way. Because there are times when you see your husband and it strikes you suddenly that a different person exists in the black of his eyes. Because there are parts he keeps hidden, for your sake or his. Because there is a little boy in his chest who's been hurt and you do not know how to save that sliver of him. 

Leftover hairs from his trim sting as your bodies slide together. Your scalp prickles at the desperate way he holds you at the crown of your head. You whisper his name and he looks up at you in the darkness, and there is water brimming beneath his irises. 

“Tell me what you need,” you say. 

He brings his hand between your thighs and touches the wet, warm place he seeks. You nod, letting him roll you onto your back, his mouth trailing kisses down your navel. When you squirm, he pins you by your belly, his palm flat to your skin. When you mewl his name, your chest heaving, he nods his head in reply, dipping his head and sliding his hot tongue through your slit. 

Joel is the prayer you chant. He kneels at the edge of the bed, bringing your thighs around his ears, closing his lips around your clit. You cry out, your hand flying to his hair, tugging him closer, eliciting a groan from his chest. It rumbles through you, his face buried in your pussy, his hands fastened around your thighs. He places searing kisses between your legs, lighting you ablaze, leaving scorch marks wherever his lips touch you. 

“Tell me you're mine,” he says, and the fractured sound of his voice cuts into your skin. He's watching you, his pupils puffy and seeking, hands squeezing, desperate. “Please.”

You whimper at the sight of the kiss he places on your clit. “I’m yours,” you tell him, reaching for his hand and threading your fingers through his. “I’m your wife, Joel. I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours and I love you.” 

He lowers his head, an apostate seeking redemption, and his tongue slides heavily over your clit. At the suction of his mouth around the slick pearl, you gasp, “Oh, God,” your head thrown back, your spine arching into his palm. The cut of the diamond on your finger is sharp against his skin. 

Joel relishes the cool bite of the gem as he licks through your folds and his saliva mingles with your wetness. He kneels with fervour, presses his mouth to you as if whispering his confessions through the lattice, and makes you his. 

The flat of his tongue is scalding, his palm a brand. He licks and sucks until you’re quivering, suffocating his hand in yours, and he wants to bare the imprint of your sigh forever. He should be the one submitting to you, and here you are, lending him your body to please, if only for another moment. Joel flicks his tongue over your clit, takes it into his mouth, and makes you sob his name. 

I’m yours. 

Yours. 

And it sounds so permanent that, for a second, he believes it himself.

You come with your back curving and your hips grinding and your nails in his skin. Joel doesn’t stop until you’re begging him to, until you push yourself onto your elbows and tell him to come here.

You swing your leg over him and bring your mouth down to his. Joel squeezes his eyes shut and kisses you so deeply that it bruises him somewhere he cannot reach. His hands cupping your face. His cock heavy between your bodies. The sun lowering, casting you in bronze. He loses his grip on the world.

“Now,” you whisper in the growing dark, “it’s your turn to tell me.”

You lift yourself onto his cock and bring yourself down, and Joel’s fist opens against your back. “I’ve been yours since the restaurant,” he rasps. 

You beam at him, and dusk ends.

There is a thumping beyond your bedroom door.

Joel hears it before you. In a flash, he hooks his leg under your knee and rolls you over, pinning you under his body. He reaches for the nightstand on his side, throws open the drawer, and pulls a gun. 

You grasp his shoulders, nails digging into flesh. Eyes meet in the slippery darkness. Wide, careful. Words wordlessly exchanged. 

Your fluttering heartbeat begins to pound in your ears. The noise migrates down the hall. 

Footsteps. 

In the kitchen, glass shatters, and your stomach swoops, down and back up, lodging in your throat. 

“Joel,” you whisper, your own voice trembling out of you. He shakes his head, his finger coming to his lips. Your body begins to tremble. The chill digs a pick into each knob of your spine as it climbs up to your brain stem. 

Your home begins to pound with its very own heartbeat. You can hear its tightly-wound tension in the walls. Nobody breathes except for your husband, slow and steady, hovering over you with a gun in his hand. 

You hadn’t known he owned a gun.

His hips ground you against the bed and his fingers intertwine with yours, bringing your hand to his chest. His heart pounds strongly into your palm, his eyes narrowed, fixed to you. But you know his focus is split down the middle, divided between keeping you safe and listening. 

Your breathing peters out until it’s silent as the breeze outside the window. A man’s voice carries from the kitchen, and another answers. Joel shifts slowly off the bed and brings you with him, handing you his T-shirt and boxers. He tucks himself into his jeans and pulls another shirt over his head while you silently dress. The fabric slips from your hand as your trembling fingers struggle for a purchase. Once you’re dressed, Joel pulls you into him, pressing his lips to your forehead. 

“Under the bed,” he whispers. 

Oh, fuck that.

“You want to go out there and confront them by yourself? Are you fucking crazy?”

He shuts you up by lowering his mouth to yours in a scorching kiss. “Do not fuckin’ argue with me,” he rasps, his teeth scraping against yours. You open your mouth to do exactly that, but another glass shatters, and you flinch away. 

“Under. The. Bed.”

And he’s gone, leaving you alone, helpless, the predatory prowl of his gait something unfamiliar to you. It’s learned, utterly silent, the curve of his elbow guiding your gaze to the gun held behind his back. His head juts out before him, peeking around corners.

There are dust bunnies underneath the bed. You’re a better cleaner than Joel, but he makes an effort. He gets lost in it sometimes, sweeping his way through the house as if there’s a grid on the floor, precise in his methods. He doesn’t attend to the details, like the corners of the trim or the grooves in the floorboards. And yet, your floors are polished. Your plants are watered. He cares for you in quiet ways, when words fail. 

Your heart thuds against the hardwood through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. It smells of rain and him. There are no more noises coming from the kitchen.

You drop your head into your folded arms and will yourself to breathe. The claustrophobic space between the bed frame and the floor edges in on you. The only light disrupting the vignette is the small lamp. You’re alone. 

When you lift your head again, a pair of heavy black boots stares you right in the face. 

You bite down on your scream as your heart swoops down into your stomach, pressed hard against the cold floor. Though you do not breathe, the thrum of your heart echoes in your throat as the sputtering of an engine in the dead of winter. The boots leave scuff marks on your floors, the boards groaning under the weight. The owner is heavyset, likely male from the size of his feet. And he's calling for you. 

“Here, pretty kitty.” He pitches his octave high as he taunts you. “Come on out, sweet girl. Don't make me mad.”

You watch the path of his boots across the floor as he approaches the nightstand, throwing open the drawer and rummaging through your belongings. 

Objects roll under the bed with you as he periodically drops them, careless in his vandalism. Your journal lands next to your head with a thunk, and you hear the low buzz of your vibrator in his hand. “Hmm, kitty likes to play.” And it lands on the floor, rolling to a cool stop in the groove between two boards. 

Petrified, you can only watch him stalk across the room, his heavy footfalls thundering in your ears. He whistles a tune you don't recognise, and you wonder what's taking your husband so fucking long. 

Joel, cries your heart as the man halts in his tracks, lowering himself to the ground, taking a knee. JoelJoelJoelplease—

And there's a spark of recognition when your eyes meet in the dark, like you've been acquainted with their black depths, before you're scrambling out from under the bed and kicking him square in the face with the heel of your foot. 

He grunts, holding his nose, free hand grasping for you like wisps of smoke. You crawl to your feet and begin to run, only for him to wrap one cold hand around your ankle and pull. 

You crumple back down to the floor with him, barely saving your own skull from cracking on the hardwood as you throw your hands in front of your eyes. The impact to your elbows radiates up to your neck, and you scream your throat raw, kicking out at your assailant, your blood roaring, weeping. 

With a firm kick to his throat, you force him to let go, his hand flying instinctively to his windpipe. He wheezes something crude, probably, but you’re running—limping, mostly, slamming the bedroom door behind you with a shattering thud that quakes the frame.

“Joel!” you cry, turning the corner in the hall, feeling the walls as you go as if your own home has become foreign to you. What if he’s dead? What if you’re about to stumble over his body in the dark—the only body you’ve ever been able to know as something more than a vessel for art, for a painstaking study? That body, the body you could trace in the black with fingertips, not brushes, does not make itself known. 

“JOEL—!”

A hand comes to rest on your cheek. It is not Joel’s hand. It is no hand at all, but the edge of a blade, a cool stinging thing that nicks the tender skin beneath your eye. 

Blood from his nose drips down his mouth, staining his teeth red. You feel a small thrill of victory. 

Joel is on the kitchen floor in a heap, vaguely stirring from the impact of a baseball bat to his ribs. The bat which a second intruder now uses to smash the framed pictures on your wall. Glass rains down on him. Shards have cut Joel’s soft belly, shredded the fabric of his shirt. Your captor holds you by the hair.

A third man smokes a cigarette, sitting on your countertop, swinging his feet back and forth, and it strikes you that he’s really only a kid. Twenty-five at most. You know young hands, young eyes. Your pencils and paper know them better. 

“Nice of you to join us,” says the man from the gas station, making shapes of the cigarette smoke. You watch the way it curls around the low-hanging light. 

“Joel,” you whisper, the salt of your tears stinging in the wound on your face. “Baby, please… get up…”

“He’s fine, chiquita,” says the kid. “Don’t waste your energy.”

Joel’s eyes peel open, his hands blindly grasping for something he does not have. He’s curled in on himself to protect himself from the inevitable next swing of the bat. You wonder if he’s been struck in the head, and you can feel pieces of your heart slowly wilting as petals untended.

His gun, you realise, your eyes dropping to the belt of the man who holds you hostage. It’s tucked into his waistband, but you cannot reach it with your arms trapped in front of you. His arm is a heavy band around your chest, glueing you to him, helpless. You’re fucking helpless and you cannot get to him and he will die.

Your Joel will die and he will know pain in the way you want him to know love. 

“Let him go, please. You hurt him.”

The kid sniffs, tossing his cigarette to the floor beside Joel and jumping down from the counter to stomp it out with an expensive sneaker. “He disrespected me,” says the kid, leering down at your half-conscious husband like a speck of dirt on a polished glass. “But he doesn’t matter.”

You choke on your sobs, writhing in your captor’s grasp in a futile effort to feel not-so-suffocated, not-so-stuck. “You can have anything you want. Please, take anything. We have money, we have cars, we have paintings. They’re worth something, I promise you. Just—just look up my name. They’re worth a lot, please, just take them and leave us alone, please—”

The anger explodes through the gash in his face where he’d put the cigarette, that yawning maw eager to swallow blood and pain. “I don’t want your fucking paintings!” he screams, stalking toward you and yanking you free of the other man’s grasp. 

Your stomach swoops as he shoves you, hard, to the floor. This time, your arms do not take the blow. It is your temple that absorbs the impact, striking hard on a floor already flecked with blood. Black seeps through paper. Your eyes darken. A man—you do not know which—is speaking.

“Go on, Emil, have some fun with the bitch,” he says. “We can put her up in the kennel when we’re done with them both.”

You hear the rustling of a belt as the man above you flicks open his fly, laughing all the while. 

You're still blinking hard to clear the fog when you hear a growl rumble in your husband’s chest, the faraway noise of a fist meeting flesh, the scuffle of feet across your freshly-washed floors, the first gunshot. 

Your cheek meets cool hardwood as you succumb, the shape of your Joel’s rage etched into your eyelids. 

There’s a painting on the wall depicting two bodies in orgasm. Curved spines, feverish hands, dimples where fingers meet flesh. There is a hole in the canvas where the woman’s heart should be. A splatter of blood taints the image where the man drags his open palm down her back. 

His face is obscured, but his mouth is on her throat, exposing the cut of his jaw. The scruff of his beard. Careful strokes of oil paint join their bodies in harmony. It’s knocked askew on the wall. 

He’s rusty. 

He can feel it in the taut pull of his shoulder as he brings his arm back for the death blow. The blade comes up against the rough skin beneath the man’s chin, slicing him open just beneath the scruff of his beard. Blood bruises the hardwood floors, and although the man is already dead, Joel grasps him by the hair at the crown of his head and brings him down against the wall. 

His shoulder aches. His finger joints crackle. His knuckles are already bruised, his abdomen sore. He spits out pinkish saliva and turns his attention to his next job. 

His gun now back in his hand and its thief dead, Joel puts a bullet between the eyes of the third man, and another in his chest. The baseball bat clatters to the floor.

He thinks of the first time he wanted to kill for you and couldn’t. 

A man at the bar had groped you while you were out with friends. A little tipsy, you told Joel as he tucked you gently into the passenger’s seat, wrapped in a pretty black dress, and fell promptly asleep. He remembers the cool flutter of your hair from the air vent. He remembers the way your lashes spread like spider legs on your cheeks at every red light, the way the street lamps turned you golden. 

He remembers the man’s name. His face. His address. Some of the little wrinkles in his brain still hold echoes of information he'll never need again. But he keeps it tucked up there anyway. Maybe it reminds him of what he could never do, now that he had you. 

It seems the rules have been bent. 

Glass crunches underfoot behind him. Joel turns just in time to see the retreating figure, the fucking coward, sprinting for the door. He fires a shot that chips a piece of drywall and goes nowhere significant. Cursing himself, Joel hears the roar of his Mustang come to life as the kid leaves with his fucking car. 

Everything has a price, he'd said, blowing smoke in your face. Including your bitch. 

Joel curls his hand around the hilt of the knife. Blood begins to crust along the edge. Some of the blood, he realises, has been stolen from your sacred body. There is a cut on your cheek. 

And does your bitch have a price? Joel had replied, glancing behind the kid at the lackey he'd brought along. He seems to like you. 

You teeter on your way to standing, and Joel rushes to catch you before you can hit the floor. He flicks on the safety and sets his gun aside, cupping your face in his bloodied hands. 

Your eyes, blurred with tears, struggle to meet his. They're fixed to the man in a heap over Joel’s shoulder—the man who'd cut you. 

“Baby,” he says. 

Trancelike, you shake your head. 

“Baby, I gotta see you're still with me. Don't look at him; he ain't important right now. You’re important. Hear me?”

His voice is gentle, guiding, his thumbs hooked just behind your ears, hard eyes flickering between each of yours. 

“You killed them.”

“Yeah,” says Joel as the pad of his thumb traces the soft skin beneath the cut on your cheek. Your fingers curl around his wrists as if you’re trying to strangle him, temper him. 

“You’re hurt.” Your soft cry inverts his ribs, sits heavy and wrong in his chest. When your glassy eyes slide to meet his at last, Joel remembers the second time he wanted to kill someone and couldn’t. 

A man from your past had visited your apartment and told you he wanted to try again. You'd politely escorted him out and laughed it off. Terrible in bed, you’d joked. 

Joel remembers kneeling in the cathedral, surrounded by the lick of a thousand votives coaxing sweat from his glands, as he tried and tried to find faith and only felt the agonising scrape of the floor against his kneecaps. 

He remembers the first time devotion meant something to him. In the name of your second gallery showing. Paintings lined the walls depicting couples in embrace. “Which one is us?” he asked. 

“I don't sell those,” you’d replied. 

“Why not?”

“Because you're only for me,” you told him. “But I’ll tell you a secret.”

He’d ached to hear it. Even leaned in, a co-conspirator. 

“There isn't any devotion in these paintings. They're all hired models.”

“Then why bother at all?” he'd asked. “Why call it that?”

“Because I like showing people that there’s love in the world. And because devotion means something to me now.” You’d looked up at him and tucked your hand in his and he knew what all those nights spent kneeling meant. 

Faith, he thinks now, glaring at the shallow cut on your cheek, is knowing your purpose. 

The wound is his purpose. 

“I’m not hurt, baby girl. We need to pack a bag, okay? I have somewhere for us to stay.”

“Are they—are they coming back?” you ask, your bottom lip wobbling. 

Joel swallows bile and a bit of blood. “No. No, they won't be comin’ back. But we need a safe place while I take care of things.”

“Take care of things.” 

Your echo is ominous in his ears, and when your eyes leave him again to watch the way the blood trickles into the grooves between the floorboards, Joel knows what you will say next. 

“Who are you?”

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #john wick au #joel miller au #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fic

[inlovewithgreta]

Sunkissed — Narcissa Black/Malfoy x Fem!Reader

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Synopsis: A day at the beach gets heated when two minds get the idea of showing affection in a crowded place.

Warnings: Thigh riding, cunnilingus, fingering, semi-public sex, slight spanking, marking, praise, mommy kink, etc…

Word Count: 1.9k

© Do not copy, repost, or modify any of my works.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The sky was a brilliant blue today with barely any clouds to be seen. The air around you was hot and humid as the rays from the sun were helping you and Narcissa get that extra little glow. It was more her than you as you tended to burn to a crisp if you didn't keep reapplying sunscreen since your skin was very delicate.

The sun was hot against your back as you laid on your stomach, flipping through the pages of your novel. You were wearing some skimpy little white colored bikini with your wavy beach hair tucked behind your ears, and huffing when the small gusts of wind would blow it in your face, occasionally obstructing your view.

Narcissa was laid back in her own beach chair, a little black bikini tightly wrapped around her curvy figure, leopard print sunglasses sat on the top of her head, keeping the bangs out of her face while the rest of her hair sat even curlier than yours at her shoulders.

It's been a few hours since you and Narcissa decided to have a spontaneous beach day, wanting to spend the whole day just lounging around with nothing but margaritas, books in your hands, and the steady sounds of the water rushing up and down the shore.

With a sigh you mark the page and close the book, setting it back in the beach bag for later use. You catch sight of your skin turning a light shade of red, completely forgetting about your hourly sunscreen application.

Grabbing the SPF 50 sunscreen you take a peak at your back, noticing the same slight shade of red on your back and you had to somehow get back there as well.

"Cissa, can you help get my back?" You plead, holding the sunscreen out towards her.

"Of course!" She marks her page before setting the book down, grabbing the sunscreen from your hands and pausing to think for a moment. She has a cheeky smirk on her face as she climbs onto your beach chair, her legs on either side of yours as she pops the cap open of the sunscreen and starts lathering it onto your shoulders and back.

"Now let's just get this pesky little thing out of the way—" Narcissa swiftly unties the strings to your top.

"Narcissa!" You gasp as your hands quickly grab hold of your top to hold it in place.

"What?" She asks innocently. "It was in my way."

"Just—" You try to hide your laugh and whip your head around to meet her eyes. "Next time give me a warning, I don't want the whole beach seeing my tits."

"Yes ma'am."

She smirks while her hands were now roaming your entire back, making sure she rubbed it in as best as she could. She didn't want her precious little doll being in any unwanted pain in the morning.

"And make sure to get everywhere, darling. We don't need my ass getting all red from the sun."

At your statement, Narcissa ties your suit back on and her hands traveled lower down your back before landing promptly on your ass. Her hands continue their kneading and giving your cheeks a gentle but firm squeeze every few seconds.

Now she was just toying with you.

"Oooh," Her voice dropping a few octaves before continuing. "We wouldn't want the sun doing that to you, now would we?"

A harsh smack to your ass causes you to bite down on your bottom lip to stop any sound from coming out. The sharp sting spread straight over to your core.

She leans forward, bringing her lips next to your ear. "Only mommy's allowed to make it red."

She admires the newly red handprint forming along your sensitive skin for a moment before you flip yourself over and sit up, coming face to face with her. Hooking your finger under the string between her breasts, you pull her closer to you by a few inches. Your lips just barely hovering in front of hers.

"Car. Now." You let go of her string, causing it to snap back against her skin.

Narcissa just smirks and slides off your legs. She goes to put her sandals on but you're too quick to grab the keys and take hold of her hand, pulling her towards the car.

It was a short walk to the parking lot. Quickly pressing the button to unlock the doors, you practically push Narcissa into the backseat and climbing into the back with her.

After closing the doors, you twist the keys into the ignition and turn the air on, hoping for some kind of air circulation, knowing you're gonna need it.

You make your way to each window, sliding down each window shade, completely blocking out the view from the outside so nobody could see in or out.

Each window had black privacy protectors for impromptu moments like these.

Once each window was securely covered you look back at Narcissa who is laying in the backseat on her side with her head leaning against her hand with an eyebrow raised.

"Are you done yet?" She smirks, playing with the strings to her top.

"You're so impatient." You roll your eyes and crawl on top of her, straddling her waist.

Narcissa's hands instantly find home at your hips, kneading at your soft skin.

"Can you blame me?"

"Guess not." You smirk and bring your lips to hers, first starting off with a quick peck before going back for more.

Her hands leave your hips to pull at the strings of your top and removing it to feel your bare breasts against her hands. Her touch leaving goosebumps in their wake. You reach around to the strings of her top, untying them and sliding it off her, doing the same with her bottoms, leaving her bare beneath you.

As the kiss got heated you find yourself grinding slowly against her thigh, begging for any kind of friction. Narcissa finds the strings to your bottoms, sliding them off as well before her hands go back to your hips, guiding you across her thigh.

"Go on doll, get off on mommy's thigh."

You nod your head, not finding any words forming from your mouth. One of your hands gripping onto the door for support.

Little moans escaped your pretty lips as her nails dug into your skin, sure to leave faint marks afterwards.

"That's my good girl," She cooed. She kisses the center of your chest before moving to one of your breasts, her lips attaching around your nipple.

Your movements were getting frantic and sloppy as you slid across her thigh. "You're close, aren't you my love?" She moves over to your other breast.

Nodding your head frantically, you can feel yourself just on the edge. Her teeth graze your nipple, causing you to whimper. "Use your words, doll. Mommy wants to hear that pretty little voice. Can you do that for me?"

"Mhm—" Your voice cracks. "Yes, I'm close!" Your grip on the door hardened, knuckles turning white.

She gives your breast one last wet kiss before bringing her thumb to your mouth. "Now be a good girl and bite down, we both know how loud you're about to get."

Your immediate response was to gently bite down, wrapping your lips around her thumb to stop your growing moans from escaping. Your release comes at you in a flash, your legs just barely shaking, your thighs squeezing tightly against her as your head gets slightly thrown back.

She barely even winces as your bite gets harder, your muffled moans dragging out as your wetness drips down her leg. She removes her thumb when your movements still, examining the freshly made teeth marks.

"You did such a good job for me, darling." She praises, her dark eyes burning into your E/C ones.

"You deserve a treat. Be my precious little doll and help mommy finish too. Can you do that for me?" Her fingers tracing lazy circles along your skin.

"Mhm," Bringing two fingers to her mouth, you push them past her lips. "Now suck." She does as you say, her tongue wrapping around your slender fingers.

When you're content, you take your fingers out from her mouth and drag them down her chest, past her navel, and stop them when you reach her cunt. Your fingers easily enter her, giving her time to adjust before starting their pace, causing Narcissa to lightly gasp following closely by a soft moan.

Following the same trail your fingers did, you leave sloppy kisses down her body, making sure to give every inch of her body attention before your mouth reaches her clit. Your tongue flicking against the sensitive bud.

Your free hand moves to one of her legs, bringing it over your shoulder as you curl your fingers, hitting the spot she liked the most. Her back arched as her hand moved to your head, fingers brushing the hair out of your face before getting tangled in your curly locks. Her other hand played with her breast, her fingers toying with her nipple.

Breathy moans escaped her lips while her hand pushed down against your head, leaving no room for you to breathe but you didn't care.

"Faster—" Before she could finish speaking you pick up speed, helping her chase her finish. "Good girl," She breathes out, biting her lip to lower the sounds of her moans.

Her thighs attempted closing as she came, her release dripping down your fingers. Her breathing was heavy as you helped her ride out her high, removing your fingers and lapping up her mess, enjoying the taste of her on your tongue.

Sliding yourself back up to her, you pull her in for a sweet kiss, your tongues dancing together in unison. She gives you one last kiss as she tucks a stray hair behind your ear.

"I should tease you more often."

"Why? Because you like what follows it?"

"Who wouldn't?" She teases. "Here I am with teeth marks across my thumb and you have a big red handprint across that pretty little ass of yours."

You gasp as you sit up, going to look in the rear view mirror. "I do not have a handprint—" You cut yourself off as you examine yourself in the mirror, a large handprint was indeed visible on your skin.

"Narcissa!" You run your hand along the mark, your mouth wide open.

"It's okay sweetheart, people will just think you took a spill and fell." She chuckles, reaching around to run her hand softly along your mark. "Besides, I quite like the way it looks on you."

"Yeah, if you like it so much make another handprint on the other cheek while you're at it." You roll your eyes and playfully push her hand away, grabbing your suits and tying them back on.

"Maybe later," She pecks your cheek and reaches across to turn the car off. "But for now, how about we just go for a little swim and have one of those sweet drinks you love with those fancy little umbrellas, how does that sound?"

"Sounds amazing."

"Good, because you really didn't have a choice," She smirks and gives your lips a quick kiss before stepping out of the car.

You laugh lowly as you step out after her, making your way back to the beach. Narcissa follows closely behind you, her eyes only focused on your rear end, admiring her work and just waiting for the night to come so she can do it again.

#helen mccrory #narcissa malfoy #narcissa x reader #narcissa black #fanfic #lesbiansmut #smut #wlw smut #oneshot #praise #semi public sex #mommy k!nk #domme mommy #mommy #no plot whatsoever #pwp fics

[forasecondtherewedwon]

stop-motion poetry

Fandom: Masters of the Air Rating: T Word Count: 1295

Summary: the irony of loneliness / is we all feel it / at the same time - Rupi Kaur (Italicized passages are also Rupi Kaur poems.)

i tried to find it but there was no answer at the end of the last conversation

Everywhere was empty, like a museum. Crosby’s skittish fingers kept tracing around inside his pocket, and he finally realized what he was absent-mindedly feeling for: the snow globe.

In his other pocket, he had the intercepted letter. He was treating those words as Bubbles’ last to him, though… would Bubbles have shown him the letter? Maybe, if Crosby had asked. Maybe, because Bubbles might feel he was coming between Crosby and Jean if he didn’t. He could be funny like that. Whenever Jean came up, Bubbles made Crosby feel like Wendy regarded by the Lost Boys—an adult among children.

Wouldn’t you like to know, Bubbles had shot back when Crosby’d repeated the name of the plane. Suddenly, Crosby was the clueless one, Bubbles with the inside baseball on the mystery of women, high on the promise of She’s Gonna. Now, Crosby wasn’t so sure Bubbles was correct; why should he have liked to know? He had no inclination to know what Bubbles knew. What the sky looked like when all the planes in it were falling. Whether you felt an explosion that happened so close, so fast. How long it took to die from a thing like that. Nope, Crosby wasn’t interested.

He preferred to remember Bubbles the way he remembered the snow globe: a little something to carry with him everywhere he went. When the world slanted, something to be plucked from the tilt and, once held, leveled.

—

i hardened under the last loss. it took something human out of me. i used to be so deeply emotional i’d crumble on demand. but now the water has made its exit. of course i care about the ones around me. i’m just struggling to show it. a wall is getting in the way. i used to dream of being so strong nothing could shake me. now. i am. so strong. that nothing shakes me. and all i dream is to soften.

She recalled that he’d had too much to carry, heavy kit bag slung over his shoulder, but when he’d taken the provisions she’d passed him, he’d managed not to crush the donut against the mug of coffee he’d held in the same hand. Herbert had been gentle, that was what Helen recalled. Forward, yes. Obvious, yes—but gentle.

Some of them hadn’t taken the donut, but just about all of them took the coffee, unless they were very young and shied from the bitterness. There had been others before Herbert. Men who’d crossed a room to talk to her, men who’d announced their name and stuck out their hand. Helen had felt their palms on the small of her back when they’d danced. She’d seen their faces up-close, with the bravado gone, had understood herself an as object of lust or a tap on their watch, reminding them time might be running out. Sometimes, she’d only danced with them through words. Sometimes they hadn’t come back from the mission, and she’d wished she’d been kinder.

It was good though, that she and Herbert hadn’t kissed on the mouth. It meant she couldn’t miss that feeling. Missing the smile he’d given her the morning they flew out was plenty hard. Missing the scent of the oil he’d used in his hair, the rosy smudge of lipstick she’d left on his jaw during their dance.

Ever since Major Rosenthal had told her, since he’d said Lieutenant Nash had gone down, Helen’s chest had been a crater she covered over with smiles like old boards, stiff and creaking, threatening to cave in. She felt guilt, because Herbert had called her “Helen of Troy.” She hadn’t sent them, but she was too smart and too good at punishing herself not to figure that she had, in a way, launched those ships of the air. She represented the innocent, to them. Sisters and sweethearts. To fight for her or something like her, they would all go, go by the hundreds. One less, now.

At the next dance, Helen decided, marooned on the grass by Rosenthal, she would shake her head and stay at the table.

—

yesterday when i woke up the sun fell to the ground and rolled away flowers beheaded themselves all that’s left alive here is me and i barely feel like living

Dawn came. Bucky wasn’t convinced the sun came with it. Through the windscreen and the cigarette smoke trapped in the cockpit, the sky changed colour, definitely paler than night as it arrived before his itchy eyes, but if there was light, he didn’t register it. Like a telephone call in another room, it wasn’t for him.

He wanted to drink himself into the plane. Become so liquid that the seat absorbed him, that a thin trickle of whatever was left of him dribbled into the fuel tank. Then he could be burnt up. Sic transit Major Egan: He was an unpredictable drunk, and a more successful flirt than he’d deserved to be. He’d had a best friend, once. That man—that better man—was gone and nobody was lookin’ for him. Bucky was looking pretty damn hard in the bottom of this flask, but so far, no luck.

The horizon turned blue, which was bullshit. Blue was for eyes. Bucky laughed harshly at nature’s mistake.

“Hey, Curt,” he called over his shoulder, loose grin sliding all over his mouth. “Curt!”

But that had been a different today-is-tomorrow. Bucky blinked more tears back into his eyes, like he’d been doing all night. His smile withered. Too much water. Not enough light.

—

in order to fall asleep i have to imagine your body crooked behind mine spoon ladled into spoon till i can hear your breath i have to recite your name till you answer and we have a conversation only then can my mind drift off to sleep

It was usually that Curt’s body did what his mind would’ve urged him not to if it’d been paying attention. As the plane swept towards the ground and his body, shoved back against the pilot’s seat, couldn’t slow the descent, his mind took the controls and slowed time. He began to be able to separate the breaths in his rapid panting. He could think of stuff that wasn’t this, climb into the top turret of his own brain. He could see that it was a stupid fuckin’ idea to try to land a Fort with a belly full of bombs while his hands distantly and futilely kept trying to pull up and slow the glide. His body knew how it ended: in an orange ball, fire round as a cloud. His mind reached out and tugged up another reality like a blanket.

A blue hour, walking the wing, the air damp and cool, but it didn’t matter because he was warm from drinking, but not so much drinking that he couldn’t strike a taunting Bucky hard and sharp with a clean, swift hook, but not so hard and sharp that Bucky didn’t still smile after it connected, but not such a big smile that Curt was in danger of thinking it was real. The smile. The memory.

The plane battered through the trees.

“Oh god.”

He tugged up another place, another time. Dickie with a whole, smooth face. Buck’s voice coming down the line, callin’ Curt Bucky’s little spoon. Smilin’. Sleeping in a Scottish bed that smelled like wool and the fire that’d burnt down in the hearth. He’d been wound up so tight after the crash-landing, scoring those rows of cabbages from the earth. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to surrender to anyone, ever, including sleep, but sleep had come eventually.

“DICKIE—”

Yes, sleep had come.

#my writing #Masters of the Air #MotA #MotA fic #Harry Crosby #Joseph 'Bubbles' Payne #Helen (Masters of the Air) #Herbert Nash #John 'Bucky' Egan #Gale 'Buck' Cleven #Curtis Biddick

[oliviassunrise]

if you’re feeling like it: hand-holding 30 or 34 for Helen and Dale? :3

Oh, I had fun with this one! I think my heart wants to believe that year between seasons 1 and 2 was a good time for them. Went with 34–holding hands while driving.

Thanks for the prompt!

Touches Ask Game

…

Windows down, music blasting.

That is the way Helen likes their drive to Bendigo for Christmas. Val has a turkey in the oven and has promised clean sheets on the bed in Dale’s old room. As they cruise down the freeway, Helen tips her sunglasses back over her eyes, fighting the hot rays of early summer in Victoria.

Dale is in the driver’s seat, bopping his head along to Helen’s choice of heavy rock. He’s the most relaxed she’s seen him in months. Since he took over the desk last autumn, he’s on edge, constantly trying to prove he belongs where he’s at and isn’t simply a filler for Geoff—a substitute until someone “better” comes along. His change in energy for this holiday is refreshing, and Helen is grateful for a stress-free trip.

This isn’t the first time she’s been to his mother’s, and their little trip back in the winter had been…well, it had been less than desirable. Dale had spent the entire time on the phone, listening to the radio—anything for updates on what he initially believed would become a huge story. He had been convinced they would have to pack up any minute and return straight to Melbourne, and not only had it left Helen unnecessarily antsy, but she’d watched him deflect and miss every single one of his mother’s attempts to enjoy their company.

Helen and Val had reached an understanding and appreciation for one another that weekend.

For this visit, however, they’ve had a talk. Dale is not to think about work. He is not to turn on the telly outside of the usual Christmas specials. And he sure as hell is not allowed control of any radio. Hence, Helen packing a shoebox of cassettes for the ride.

The current tape ends, and she sifts through her box for a new one. It needs rewinding, but the second Pat Benatar blares through the speakers, Dale is on cloud nine.

Helen can only giggle at his antics—at his exaggerated pitch and his enthusiasm as he drums on the steering wheel. He’s lucky they’re on a long stretch of road with few cars, or his swerve might have dire consequences.

“Watch the road, or I’m telling your mother to bust your arse when we get there,” she threatens with a chuckle.

But he keeps going. “We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder!”

He grasps her hand and holds it up victoriously, and she nearly chokes with laughter. “Dale!”

“We belong to the sound of the words we’ve both fallen under!”

He keeps up his dramatic performance, hand still holding hers. “Okay, Dale, really—”

“Weeeeee belong! We belong, we belong together!”

He stops and turns the volume down, both of them in fits of hilarity. And as she sees the smile on his face—a genuine smile for the first time in weeks—she thinks…this can work.

“Ladies and gentleman, that was the musical stylings of Dale Jennings,” Helen narrates, putting on her camera voice. “Tune in next time…if he doesn’t crash the car.”

“I’ll be here all week,” he gives a little bow, planting the hand holding hers back on the steering wheel.

“You know, we should see if Lindsay will let you turn this into a bit. Really put a bug up Geoff’s arsehole.”

“Oh, I’m sure the ratings will soar.”

“It’s what the people want—to be dazzled and entertained, right?”

Dale only laughs and shakes his head. “I bloody love you, you know that?”

Helen reaches for his hand again, offering him a sweet smile. “Yeah, I know.”

#ask kayli #the newsreader #helen x dale #helen norville #dale jennings #the newsreader fanfiction #my fic

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Night Nurse ~ Chapter 10

A John Wick x Helen Fic

Masterlist / Chapter Map

Author's note: It's been a minute since I posted on this fic, I'm so sorry!! I lost a good chunk of this chapter to an untimely computer update (fuck you very much Windows) and I was so frustrated I just had to let it sit for a while. BUT I finally managed to re-write it, so here we are! I hope you enjoy! 💗💗💗 (Oh and the illustrations here are from the turn of the century version of Afanasyev's Russian Fairy Tales, the book John hid his marker in, in JW3...you'll see why.😉)

Times gets tough

Oh, they get tougher

Hold on to me

I got you, darling…

-I’ll be your man, The Black Keys

X.

The walls of his library were lined with built-in bookshelves, filled to the brim with antique and vintage books. A single leather reading chair sat in the corner with a lamp and a small table. A larger table took up the center of the room with a proper book cradle. Helen breathed in, reveling in the magical smell of old books. She realized that this must be where John gets some of that intoxicating scent of his, bottom notes of leather and parchment paper. The chair in the corner looked well-worn, and she imagined him spending hours of his downtime just sitting and reading away the day.

For the umpteenth time, it squeezed her heart to the point of pain.

Throughout the course of the tour, they did not let go of each other once. John didn’t seem to mind handling books with one mitt of a hand, the fingers of his left laced tightly with Helen’s.

“Do you still have your book of Russian fairy tales?”

“Yes.” Gingerly he pulled it from a shelf, resting it in the cradle on the table. 

They perused the book together, Helen leaning against his shoulder. He was warm, and solid as a tree, and for a heady moment it was difficult to concentrate on the antique tome, no matter how beautiful. The illustrations were utterly gorgeous, and she mentally kicked herself into focusing. She thought about a young John toting this beloved book around the world with him like a Lost Boy with his teddy bear, and the thought succeeded in tying her up in inextricable knots. 

John turned to a page of an illustration of a lovely peasant woman in the woods, holding a torch made of a glowing human skull. “Oh, who’s that?” asked Helen.

“That’s Vasilisa the Beautiful,” answered John.

She hovered her finger over the first line of Cyrillic, careful not to touch the paper. “What does it say?”

John read it aloud, his voice low and all for her, and she sighed a little, not understanding a syllable. For some reason hearing him speak another language so easily, and something about the lilting cadence of the language in his deep voice, the soft shh and musical ya sounds of the Russian words inspired a curl of lust in her belly, a small thrill zipping down her spine. She shuddered lightly, and prayed he hadn’t noticed.

He absolutely noticed, his pupils blowing wide with desire. Doggedly, he kept them fixed upon the page below.  

“Is that, ‘Once upon a time’…in Russian?”

“Something like that. This is a Cinderella story about a young woman who outsmarts her wicked stepmother and the Baba Yaga with her determination and the help of her magical doll. It’s one of my favorites.”

He’d seen a bit of himself in Vasilisa as a young man, straining under the yoke of his unforgiving masters. He turned the page to reveal a witchy old woman riding in what looked like an upright log. Helen couldn’t suppress a grin. “Oh look, it’s you, Baba Yaga.”

John snorted at that. “I still don’t know what idiot started that damned nickname,” he groused.

Actually, he suspected it was Marcus, but he’d never found out for certain.

“It sounds fierce, at least.”

His lips twisted in a smirk, and he couldn’t help himself from turning to look at her, then. Their faces were torturously close. “Think I should get some flaming skull torches for out front?”

“Yes, I think the neighbors would love that,” she deadpanned, and more felt than heard John’s responding chuckle.

He turned the page to a new illustration of a strapping knight on a black horse. “Oh hello, handsome. Who’s this guy?”

John narrowly resisted the urge to ask if she had a thing for men in black, even as that telling warmth clouded his brain.

“That’s…Night.”

“The night Knight?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” Her lips twisted in a cheeky smile. “Nice. I like him.”

“You would.”

“I have excellent taste, John.”

He found himself looking at her mouth again, thinking her taste would be excellent. For the umpteenth time, he managed not to kiss her by the skin of his teeth. By the way she was looking at him...maybe he didn't need to be exercising such restraint. But maybe that was the excellent wine talking

Maybe he really was an idiot.

“So...in reward for being clever Baba Yaga gives Vasilisa one of the skull torches. She takes it back to her house, and when she lights the candles her wicked step mother and awful step sisters burn up.” 

“Oooh. And she lives happily ever after?”

“Well...she marries the tsar, for what that's worth.”

Helen wrinkled up her nose, communicating her opinion on that. “Overall, I give it a nine out of ten.”

John couldn’t help it then. He actually grinned, showing teeth. “Glad you liked it.”

“Thanks for sharing with me.”

“My pleasure.”

She was still leaning on his shoulder, and was it him, or had she somehow sidled even closer, her body pressed to his side? Her eyes traveled leisurely from him to the book to the chair in the corner. It was then that she noticed that the bookmarked novel on the side table was a mass-market paperback she recognized quite well.

He’d taken her recommendation on the Codename Villanelle spy thrillers, despite teasing her about her taste in books, what felt like a lifetime ago that fateful night in the subway. The fact that he was on the second one touched her to no end, and she squeezed his arm.

“Aww, you’re reading about Eve and Villanelle,” she purred. “You like them?”

“Yes. You were right, they are fun.”

“Taking notes from Villanelle?” The Russian spy was wickedly clever at finding ways to kill her targets.

“Maybe. That poison hair stick was something. Think I could pull it off?” Helen reached up to curl a lock of his dark hair around her finger with a smile, and John couldn’t stop himself from closing his eyes, overwhelmed by the sensation of her touching his hair.

He was hopeless.

“Oh, definitely. You could so rock the man-bun.”

John rolled his eyes at that, reluctant to admit that he often did when training.

Helen looked back to the book, now with what John was learning to recognize as a sly glint in her eye. “I’m on practically the same spot in that book,” she noted. “Want to read me a chapter?”

John looked at his reading chair, the comfortable old soldier that it was. It was also the only place to sit in the room, and he went a little cross-eyed at the thought of Helen curled up in his lap in it.

There would be zero reading done, of that he was certain. He would debauch her for the first time in that chair, and maybe again on the table for good measure.

A virulent heat licked at his collar as he imagined it. Fuck him, but she was making him blush.

“Sure. Let’s take it to the living room,” he proposed, ignoring her lips pursed in a theatrical pout.

Minx. She knew exactly what she was doing to him—and he was increasingly unsure why he wasn’t just letting her have her way.

He scooped up the paperback book, her hand still firmly clasped in his other while he led them back to the recessed living room. He set the book down on the couch. “Want another glass of wine? I’m going to clear these dishes.”

He needed to clear his head, and he felt Helen look at him with some disappointment that felt a little bit like being stabbed.

“Can I help you?”

“No, this is your night off. Sit, relax. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” She seated herself on the couch with only the book for company.

She watched John practically flee into the kitchen, and wondered if she’d done something wrong.

Regaled by the sound of clinking dishes and the faucet running, Helen looked around at John’s shelves. They were rather bare, though she noticed he had a bit of a CD collection on display. It plucked at her nostalgia for the days before everything could be so easily accessed via the hand-held computers known as phones but so rarely used for actually talking.

Standing, she decided to be nosy and thumb through them. He seemed to favor classics, from classical music, to rock and blues. There was very little on the shelf dating from past the 90s, and that made her smile for some reason.

“See anything you like?”

She turned to find John with two freshly-filled wine glasses in tow. He set them on the coffee table, before joining her at the built-in cd tower.

“Some good stuff here,” she agreed with a Chili Peppers cd in her hand. The fiery pool with the ocean in the background on the cover tickled the nostalgia center in her brain for sure. “Who are these guys?” She pulled out a black and white album with a high contrast photo of a guy with glasses, and a bearded dude.

“Never heard of the Black Keys?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, honey.”

She chuckled. “Ok, do not pull the my taste in music is better than yours card. I will leave.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he defended with a sly close-lipped smile. “I reserve that card only for books.”

She snorted in answer, and found herself gravitating closer to him, even just standing there looking at his music. She just couldn’t help it.

That really was some good wine he served with dinner.

She watched as he popped open the jewel case, feeding the CD into the slot of his player. He hit a couple buttons, and the speakers erupted with a very bluesy distorted guitar riff. It was loud, and John laughed a little as she jumped—conveniently, into his arms.

“Sorry.” He turned down the volume slightly, his arms circling her waist almost of their own volition. It felt so easy, being with her. Maybe from the very moment they’d met, it just felt like she should be in his arms, and acting on it made something loud and uneasy always clamoring in the back of his brain to go quiet. She swayed her head and shoulders a little to the beat; it was impossible not to.

“John?” she asked from beneath his chin, brushing the soft scruff of his beard with her nose. It filled him with a tingling warmth, in the very marrow of his bones, a pleasure in this closeness that just seemed too good to be true. It was like a drug, better than cocaine or heroin or anything else he’d ever tried, and he didn’t know how he would ever let her go.

“Yeah?”

“They made you learn ballet at your…school, but do you like to dance?”

He’d spent so much time in night clubs, hunting, and acting as backup muscle for Tarasov while he closed business deals, but it wasn’t a setting he really enjoyed. He wasn’t sure he really classified the writhing and arm waving one engaged in at the club as dancing. He was familiar with other dance forms, but they didn’t come up often in his life.

 “I feel like you’re actually asking me a different question,” he teased, leaning into her to reach out to skip to a different track.

“I am?”

“You’re asking if I want to dance with you?”

The first metallic notes of Dan Auerbach’s guitar rang out, and John swayed to the beat, a hand on her svelte waist pinning her close. With a smile she moved with him, her other hand finding his.

“Do you?”

He looked down at her with a glint of mischief in those shining dark eyes, and so much warmth that a flood of heat washed through her from her hair follicles all the way to her toes. This man. She really would follow him anywhere. Maybe the wine they’d drank lubricated this thought process, but she knew that didn’t make it any less true.

John knew that his answer to any question that involved an activity with her would be a resounding yes. Groceries? Yes. The dentist? Fine. Just hold his hand. He was broken for her.   

 “Of course I do.” He lifted his arm to guide her in a turn before pulling her close again, and she simply couldn’t help it. The joy in her heart soared.

Then the vocals in the song began, and Helen couldn’t help the fuzzy warmth that spread in her chest. Need a new love? I’m ready. Want my time? I’m willing.

There wasn’t a huge amount of open space in the living room, but John was very good at making do, leading her in steps to the beat, throwing in fun checks and turns and behind-the-back maneuvers that made her giggle. She knew she sounded drunk. It was on him though, far more than the wine. He made her happier than any one had in a very long time. Maybe ever, if she was being honest with herself.

To make things even worse, the chorus of the song rang loud in her ears with the infectious guitar riff: I’ll be your man. Mmm, I’ll be your man. She didn’t know if he picked this song on purpose for the lyrics, or the intoxicating rhythm, but she felt it in her bones, and in her heart, and every cell of her being; she was so attuned to this man.

She almost tripped when he attempted to twist her up like a pretzel in a figure-eight step, but he caught her, laughing with her as he held her close.

“I’m not that good,” she apologized, clinging to him more than she really needed to. He was just…so solid, and if she was being honest all she really wanted to do was climb him like a fucking tree.  

His arm around her waist was like a warm band of iron, and he smiled gently down at her. She felt herself melting like chocolate in the sun, her knees gone weak beneath her.

“That’s ok. I’ve got you.”

She couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped from her throat. Because, she knew it was true, and not just here being silly dancing in his living room. She realized she trusted him not to drop her no matter what they were doing, or what they were facing. That kind of faith in another person, much less a man, was a rare and precious thing.

“John…” she said softly, looking up into his warm dark eyes from so very close. She wasn’t sure if she was asking a question, or if she just needed to cite his name like a prayer, invoke him like a saint in her personal pantheon. Maybe it was madness, but wrapped up in his arms like this, he felt like something to believe in.

Her eyes drifted down to his mouth, those full lips she’d coveted since the moment they’d met, if she was telling the truth.

This was the moment that John’s will to fight it broke at last. He felt it inside, not like a hard snap, but a definite release, like a boat coming unmoored, being swept down a swift stream. There was no more resisting. He was lost to her.

Pulled like a magnet, he finally leaned in that fraction of distance to press his lips to hers. His kiss was like a sunrise in her heart; warm and bursting, soft and sweet. She couldn’t stop herself from standing on tiptoe with a low moan, looping her arms around his neck as she pressed her body against his. It won her something like a deep growl that thrilled her to her toes, and greedily she wanted more.

She teased the seam of his mouth with her tongue, begging entrance he gladly granted. She felt the tremor in his arms as he held her, so tightly that he nearly lifted her from the floor. He kissed her like a starving man offered a life-giving meal, and her fingers fisted in his hair at the back of his head, holding him to her, holding on.

His heartbeat a thundering timpani in his ears, John felt like Helen’s lips on his was the answer to a question his heart had been asking his whole adult life. She was the air he breathed, the sustenance necessary to live, and the desire to drink her down, to eat her up, was a dogged, insistent demand from the darkest depths of his soul.

He never wanted to let her go.

With a ragged breath he pulled back to rest his forehead against hers, his fingers digging into her sides. She might have bruises later.

She didn’t mind.

She wanted his hands, rough or gentle.

She wanted all of him, and if he didn’t return his mouth to hers she was going to scream.

“Helen,” he panted. “I—”

The tinny electronic sound of his phone ringing in his pocket interrupted what might have been a foolish—or a life changing—confession. “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, knowing he had to answer it. That was the deal with the devil he’d signed, when he didn’t really have any better choice. He was on call all the time.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized.

She nodded, but did not extricate herself, leaning on his shoulder while he pulled the device from his pocket. It was Viggo Tarasov, and his heart dropped like a stone. It was rare that the boss Himself called. He absolutely had to answer it, and he had a feeling he wouldn’t like what his pakhan had to say.

With a heavy heart he lifted the phone to his ear, his other arm still wrapped possessively around Helen.

“Da?”

“Good evening, John.”

John fought to keep the impatient snarl out of his tone, but feared he failed royally. “Evening, Viggo.”

“I’ve just heard some interesting things about your latest adventures about town. I think we need to talk.”

That was probably the understatement of the century.

“When?”

“Now.”

Of fucking course.

“I can be there in an hour.”

“Good.”

Viggo hung up, and John clenched the phone in his fist, fighting not to throw it across the room. He knew Helen heard every word for the way she sighed with disappointment, snuggling into the bend of his neck. The sensation of her front molded to his was heaven, and he didn’t know how to let her go.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized with lips to her forehead. “I have to go.”

“I understand.” There was some consolation, in that she sounded as devastated as he was.

“You’ll be ok here? My house is your house. Help yourself to anything you want.”

She made a kittenish little sound that sent all his blood straight to his groin. “What I want is leaving,” she informed him with a pouting lip, tugging on the front of his shirt.

He couldn’t stop himself then from stealing another kiss, a deep and probing thing that left her breathless and starry-eyed.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he told her.

“Promise?”

“Yes.” John wondered what Viggo had in store. If he was in trouble, or if his boss would send him out to teach the Medvedev boys a lesson tonight. He didn’t want to go hunting that night. Everything he truly wanted in the world, he realized, was standing right in front of him, looking up at him with melted toffee eyes. He cupped her cheek, memorizing every detail of her all over again.

He realized with a startling clarity that he could never get enough of her.

The intensity of his stare sent a thrill jetting down her spine. “John…” He worried her a little, when he got like this. She wasn’t afraid of him, exactly—but some little intuition in the back of her brain sang out that something bad might happen.

“It’ll be alright,” he told her, sensing her unease. “I have to change.” He kissed her forehead again, and disappeared up the stairs to his room.

Helen plopped down on the couch with a sigh, crushed with disappointment but knowing this was how it was, and she understood more than ever now that it wasn’t his fault or his choice. She picked up the Villanelle book, No Tomorrow, stroking her thumb over the cover, but not cracking it open.

When John stalked down the stairs he was wearing one of his slim-fit all black suits again, his hair slicked back from his face. He looked beautiful, and predatory, sleek as a panther stalking in the jungle, and fierce attraction warred with dread in Helen’s breast. She had a feeling that someone might die tonight, and it was so strange to think in those terms with such a sense of acceptance.

At least she knew John’s prey would be no one innocent.  

“Don’t forget you owe me a chapter,” she said in a sing song tone as he approached, waving the book, trying to lighten the pall that had fallen upon the room.  

The smile he paid her was filled with melancholy; she felt it like a knife between the ribs. “I won’t,” he assured her, taking her hand to press his lips to her knuckles. He paused, looking down at this beautiful woman seated on his couch, with her legs that went on forever and the warmth in her eyes all for him. There was nothing he wanted more, than to stay there with her. To lay her down and kiss every inch of her perfect flesh. He probably should have told her that, but he just sighed, and let her go.

“I’m going to leave this here, just in case,” he said, all business as he showed her a blocky black automatic pistol. “There’s one in the chamber. All you have to do is pull the trigger. It has a long trigger pull but please do not touch it unless you need it, and be very careful.” He stashed the Glock in a drawer beside the couch. “I’ll leave the alarm on. If it goes off I’ll get an alert on my phone.”

With wide eyes she nodded. “Do you…think the Medvedevs will come here?”

“No, or I wouldn’t leave you here alone.” He honestly thought this was the safest place for her. “But…” One never knows.

“Okay.” He could tell that he managed to scare her a little, and he hated himself for it.

“I’m being paranoid,” he tried to assure her. He dared add, “Because you’re precious to me.” She softened then, and stood to wrap her arms around his neck once more. Embracing her was as intoxicating as kissing her, and again John warred with himself as to how he was going to leave.

“Come back to me,” she demanded softly, kissing the soft scruff of his cheek.

“Always,” he answered without allowing himself to think about it, pressing his lips to hers in a long, gentle kiss filled with all the yearning in his heart.

Reluctantly, he slipped from her grasp, and didn’t look back.

She watched him go, admiring his tall dark form even as he was leaving her.

She heard the roar of the Mustang starting in the garage, and the trail of its growl as it prowled across the driveway, disappearing down the street into the night. She couldn’t help but feel like her heart sped away with it.

#john wick #john wick fic #john wick x helen #helen wick #john wick the night nurse #keanu reeves

[irondadfics]

Please help bc i can’t find this fic anymore

i fear it might be deleted bc I've tried so hard to find this

So it starts sometime after endgame or far from home, happy shows peter tony’s workshop to get anything he needs that was Spider-Man related, he finds a new suit and friday is in that new suit. Peter in anger wants to throw away everything but a bracelet snaps to his wrist. In his new suit he gets transported to a different dimension and falls through a building. Peter wakes up and thinks everyone is an illusion. After finding out its all real we discover that peter snapped in this universe. Suddenly Docter strange comes through a portal and says that peter doesnt belong in this universe. He leaves and comes back after a little bit and tells peter and the avengers that he can make it so that everyone will forget that peter snapped (and died) so that the other universe peter can fit in. Only downside is that everyone will forget that peter was dead and that the “new” peter is from another universe. They follow that plan but the avengers do remember bc peter messed up the spell. In the final few chapters peter gets stabbed and doctor cho and aunt may discover that peter is from another dimension. There is also a bit where the avengers discover that pain meds dont work on peter bc he is more mutated that their peter. They also discover that he never had pain meds in his universe. At the end they scan peters body to take a look at all the bone fractures and see that all bones have been broken in a number of ways. (There was a story peter told about getting his hand stuck in tonys suit after the power went out).

Thats about all i can remember. I would really appreciate it if you found it!

Hello, could this be your fic?

Somewhere You Can Be Safe by sarcasmismyweapon 

Peter's given access to Tony Stark's workshop to collect all the things that Tony might have worked on for his Spider-man suits. He discovers a new suit the man had worked on after the snap, overcome with emotion he breaks a few things. While cleaning up the mess he made, Peter finds a strange device that seems to react to his touch. The next thing he knows the floor is disappearing beneath him and he's falling into a void.  Tony Stark and the Avengers are shocked when Friday alerts them to re-connecting to Peter Parker's Spider-man suit, seeing as the suit's locked up. They're even more shocked when they go to catch the thief of the suit after Friday confirms it's Peter's suit. Nothing could have prepared them for un-masking the thief to see the face of the boy they lost during the final battle.

#found fic #may parker #stephen strange #helen cho #avengers family #angst

[centurieslove]

Three days passed.

Nothing changed. Merlin felt trapped in a nightmare, the motions propelling him through his duties whilst his mind swam, heart clenched tight in his chest. He didn’t feel like he knew how to stop, if he did- he had an awful feeling that everything would crash down around his shoulders, so, naturally he threw himself into every menial task he could get his hands on. Arthur’s chambers had never been cleaner. His hands felt dry and sore, the skin cracking from the constant saturation in soapy water, whilst his nails were collecting little half moons of black from the polish and the dirt. Not just Arthur's armour, but the whole armoury had been seen to, cleaned and reorganised, swords sharped and metal links polished. Bodies of colour flowed past him as he meandered through corridors, between his various chores, blurry, his steps dragging and autonomous. By the third day, he’d started on Gaius’s shelving too, and spent the whole day pottering about the edges of the room, peering over his shoulder at the body laid on the pallet, when he felt like he could stand it no longer. He felt pulled in two; he was consumed with fear whenever he couldn’t watch over Mordred - yet being in the same room was unbearable. His skin felt stretched tight across his forearms, tingling, his stomach heavy each night as he approached Gaius’ chambers. He didn’t sleep the first night. Instead, he sat numbly on his own bed, fists clenched in his lap, blinking his eyes as they stung, staring through the wall at where he knew Mordred lay. Each hour that had passed, with his stomach shrinking in on itself, Merlin’s nerves grew: he felt on a precipice, breath held, waiting for the rustle of movement, the exclamations, the calling for the King, Gaius’s low timbre as he coaxed water down a parched and unused throat.

But Mordred hadn’t woken.

Merlin had spoke to Gaius, the first day. The old man offered his same tired platitudes, stressing that Arthur needed to make his own decisions- but Merlin had turned away. It wouldn’t be so. Not when those decisions would lead directly to his death.

Mordred hadn’t woken the second day, either.

Merlin rolled his shoulders. The midday sun illuminated the corridor before him, and he let his eyes fall out of focus. He’d barely seen Arthur: each dawn, the king already been up and dressed, dismissing him with a list of chores, sending him away seemingly without a thought. Merlin had noticed the pile of papers and scrolls grow on the king’s desk, noticed the empty goblets left on his side tables, noticed the swipe of mauve under Arthur’s eyes. They didn’t speak more than necessary. Merlin didn’t ask. Whilst the rest of his world was smudged, Arthur shone out, the creases on his forehead rendered in such high a quality it almost hurt to gaze upon. But Merlin didn’t look away. The short, curt interactions, Your breakfast, sire, when he sat it on the table; Will that be all?, taking the hot plates from under the sheets; The council is ready, sire, when Arthur was still gazing out the window. Thank you, no, that's fine, you can take this, air that room, you're dismissed, that's all, light a fire, would you, I don't need…send for… Just a few short words between them and Merlin's whole world would sharpen into painful focus: but then Arthur would turn back to the window and it would dissolve again and Merlin would take the laundry away and Arthur would leave for council and Merlin would excuse himself quietly and Arthur would leave for training and Merlin would leave for the kitchens and Arthur would leave and Arthur would leave-

The ache in his arms, his shoulders, deepened, pressing debilitating loneliness even further into his bones. For one impossible moment, Arthur had opened himself up to magic. Merlin hadn't even had to chance to revel in it. With every second he protected the king, he pushed him further away, and his frustration grew; boiling away under his skin at the fates designing it this way. He- he couldn't protect him. He wouldn’t stop trying. He could keep Arthur alive, or he could keep his trust. He was going to have to accept that those were mutually exclusive.

His steps were slow and heavy down the hall, the whole castle seemed on bated breath - but with each corner he took his heart would lurch, in his mind’s eye Mordred came striding confidently towards him.

The castle felt eerily quiet. The halls were empty, cold and unassuming. The dust in the air had even stilled.

Merlin swallowed, his throat had been dry for days. He arrived outside the entrance to Gaius’s chambers, readying himself for another evening wearing a hole in his bedroom floor where he paced. His stomach no longer protested at the lack of food, shrunken and expecting little substance. He regretted not taking the opportunity to smuggle away the abandoned remains of Arthur’s breakfast; of which there was more and more left on his plate, ever since they’d arrived back at the citadel. Maybe he could still-

Merlin stopped short, murmurs of noise greeting him, a varying cadence of voices from behind the physicians door, with one voice in particular rising in crescendo.

"- don't understand it!"

Arthur. He didn't sound calm.

Merlin approached the door with trepidation, swallowed, then pushed it open.

Arthur, deep blue tunic bright amongst the dusty browns of Gaius’s chambers, broad shoulders heaving: he was staring at Gaius, face contorted and pained. Gwen’s features were similarly twisted, wringing her hands as she held them in front of her velvet dress.

“What’s…” he began. All three turned their heads sharply towards him.

Gaius hastened a step towards Merlin. Gwen attempted a smile in greeting, but continued to look grey and stricken. Arthur threw his gaze aside almost immediately. Merlin glanced between them all, eyes falling on to the bed where a body lay motionless, someone pale, young, with dark curls resting just in view.

Merlin felt weak, like he might throw up.

Mordred.

“Gaius,” Arthur said lowly, his voice hoarse. Merlin’s gazed dropped to where Arthur’s fists were clenching white by his sides, Gwen’s hands reaching out to gently touch his forearm. “Are you certain?”

Merlin looked at the old man, watched his face tighten with grim displeasure.

“I’m afraid so, sire.”

Arthur started pacing. Merlin could see the anger rising in his face, screwed up and confused.

“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” he finally blurted out.

Gwen sighed, pulling Arthur round into her arms to stop his restless pace.

Gaius threw Merlin an inscrutable look, then started hesitantly, approaching the topic again like one would a wild beast. “He’s not showing any signs of recovery. His condition has not improved… it is my belief-”

Arthur grunted.

“- my belief, that he will not last the night.”

Merlin, stricken, said not a word.

“It was all for nothing,” Arthur grit out. Merlin stared at him. His eyes were wild with anger, searching for blame as if it was a beast he could slay, whilst Gwen, with endless patience, ran her hand down his arm. He turned, agitated, leant against Gaius’s workbench and hung his head.

“Arthur,” Merlin started.

He glared up at Merlin across the room. As if he’d caused it, as if Merlin had doomed Mordred himself - but, but, he hadn’t. Despite his desperate efforts. This… this was meant to be another failure.

Yet: Mordred was still dying, and Merlin, still failing.

"My lord," Gaius sighed. "You need rest." He stepped towards the king, but Arthur just shook his head resoundingly.

"I don't need rest, I need a damned explanation,” he demanded. "He is supposed to be recovering. He-” Arthur’s voice wavered. “That was the deal.”

He should have woke up. Merlin blinked, gaze desperately turning to Gaius, who’s grim expression gave little away. "It doesn't make any sense." he said, almost a whisper.

Cruel jokes were being played on him. He looked back to the bed. He half expected the young knight to jump up and embrace them all, revealing the entire thing to be but an elaborate charade. Yet, Mordred's lifeless form remained lifeless. Merlin felt anything but glad.

"His wounds were severe," Gwen said slowly, approaching the pallet. Her face was pained, and Merlin wondered who else she saw there lying, pale, on their death bed. "Perhaps they could do no more to save him."

Arthur's face was stricken in grief and despair, shoulders still shaking. Merlin’s head was ringing, his mouth dry and his throat sore from the bile, thoughts rushing fast to keep up with the events unfolding before him.

He thought of the three hooded figures, a misty cave, dark dripping around their shoulders. Releasing this judgement, holding Arthur to a promise that would - ultimately - doom him.

"They could have.”

Arthur glared at Merlin as he spoke up. Merlin blinked, realising he'd said it louder than he meant.

"What?" Arthur spat.

Merlin's eyes glazed over as he stared at the body on the bed then gave a slight shrug of his shoulder. "Triple Goddess," he muttered, as if that explained it. "They could have. Saved him. If they really wanted to."

The room fell silent.

Arthur started suddenly, giving Gwen's hands a firm squeeze and headed towards the door.

He spun round at the last second. “Send word if there is any change.” The King’s face was tight as he addressed his physician, who nodded, then Arthur stormed out of the quarters. Gwen sighed.

“If there is anything I can do—” she began.

“I will let you know, my Lady.” Gaius spoke softly.

Gwen smiled, small but steady. She rubbed Merlin’s arm and gave a small squeeze as she passed him, but Merlin could barely respond to return the smile. He felt his heartbeat follow the footfall until they were unable to be heard. His heavy breath suddenly felt so loud in the absence of Arthur’s rage and the silence left in Gaius’s chambers. He collapsed onto the bench.

“I—”

He couldn't speak.

Gaius slowly walked over and took his seat opposite, where the two of them sat for what seemed like hours.

Finally-

“He should be alive,” Merlin muttered. “He should be alive.”

Gaius crossed his arms.

“You're not happy?”

Merlin looked up in surprise.

“What?”

“Did you not want him to die?” Gaius's face betrayed nothing.

He furrowed his brow. “No. I mean—”

“You refused to heal him.”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, then.” Gaius stated, rising slowly from the bench. “You should be grateful that Arthur failed.”

Merlin grit his teeth. His eyes were burning again. This wasn't it, this wasn't- it wasn't supposed to…he never would have guessed that Arthur would have made that choice.

“Gaius, you don't underst—”

Gaius swung round, snapped at him. “No, Merlin, you're right. I don't understand.” The old man's eyes were alight, fiery as he shouted, but then something grey passed over them like a curtain being drawn and his whole demeanor shrunk back again.

“I'll leave you to celebrate your success,” he said quietly. And walked past Merlin and out the door.

more samples

#heheheh i added more to this scene last night and I just ADORe the pacing of it now. if i do say so myself #i've got 13k now and I'm frothing at the mouth #merlin fic #helen's 5x05 fic #merlin fanfiction #merlin fanfic #the disir #fic