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heleneplays · 2 years

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I have run this far (still I find you)

GOD am CRYING SO HARD WITH WHAT I WROTE EARLIER I NEEDED TO MAKE A COMPANION PIECE, to a hypothetical situation not even released yet.

My María x Helene brainrot is real and I need someone to cradle my heart and piece it together with glue, RIGHT NOW 😭😭😭

listen to Sunrise by Ben&Ben as you readddddd i s2g you should LISTEN

---

You wake with a gasp, pain pain pain a constant scream in your conciousness.

You don't register where you are, aside the fact that you're alive?/awake?/existing?

(Except it doesn't feel right.)

(It doesn't make sense. You died— you know that much.)

(María is still there, holding your bruised/broken/battered body, shaking in grief.)

You feel yourself coalesce into being, but it feels wrong. Like you're just a mind without a body, a conciousness drifting in the primordial soup of the universe.

Then you percieve.

(Your human mind wouldn't have been able to comprehend the situation in front of you. But you're not exactly human right now, are you?)

(Dying with the last embers of Carxite running in your body, even if the powers have fizzled into nothingness— it leaves a mark, a stain deep in your very soul.)

(The stone is them. The stone is us. The stone may have originated and propagated through the universe by the Most High, but it's secrets weren't all unlocked, even by their high priests.)

(You have an inkling that you are the one unlocking said secrets right now.)

It is your entire space. The focal point that brought you into its embrace.

"Helene."

The words come from nowhere and everywhere, and you feel struck.

It's timeless. It's ancient. Powerful, and primordial. It has no name, is no being. But it makes you suffocate with it's existence, full and heady and so, so, alive.

(If you believed in Gods, you'd say this was one. The True one.)

(But you don't, not anymore. And you cling into that belief with all your heart, because it's mere presence threatens to drown you. And you won't— won't drown, won't forget; even in death, even when all the stars in this universe and the next blinks out.)

And it looks at you. Through you. Looking in intangible concepts that elude you. But you remain steadfast, pain pain pain dying in the back of your mind, as you face this eldritch, cosmic horror.

It judges you, and has found you wanting.

(If this is the Power behind the universe, then you shall be Will, incarnate.)

The moment shatters. With no hesitation, You reach/run/take and it thrashes/convulses/fights.

You don't know what you are doing until you feel it flowing inside you, a kernel lodging in your center.

You were a God. But you were also human, and that superceded any other claims, even as you explored the heritage left to you by the Most High. Unimaginable power flowed through you, powers that your enemies coveted to bend/break/remake the world to their liking, for a fraction of a moment, to save the world, and you were left a husk of an empty man.

You are a God. You have shed your body, just a soul and a piece conciousness of fleeting moments and an iron will. Unimaginable power flows through you, powers that would allow you to bend/break/remake the universe to your liking, one that the Most High would have and did have wept/prayed/killed to unlock after all this time, and you are left aching.

(The voices inside the stone are silent, silenced by you, because they are nothing but echoes, coveted by the stone to give the words from the power it holds. They seek purpose/justice/absolution, but they are dead/broken/gone because the universe demanded—)

(—and for the first time, the universe will be the one to answer for it.)

You ache, in the very fiber of your being, in the very strands that govern your life; your soul, having eaten the forbidden fruit and ascended to a position of absolute power, quakes, and once again you feel the enormity that passes.

But you, you are achingly human, and humanity is your answer, because humanity is emotion, and emotion is love, and love is family, and family is the net that makes you unique— and vice versa.

(The faces of those you love come unbidden to you, and you can almost reach out to see their faces. Sam, Cleo, Esme, Zhu, Rémy, Dominique; Stevo, Miles, your coworkers both old and new, the ones whom you've met at some point or another in your life; Abdul, David, Stephanie—)

You have killed and lied and hurt and stained yourself a thousand million times over, because you believed, because you felt, because you sought— but most importantly, because you loved, and love is the answer.

(María.)

And because you are God; because you have taken part once more in the endless ocean of power; because your will and humanity and love was always going to be the more powerful answer—

You bend/break/remake.

Not the universe, but yourself.

---

It's been hours since the final battle. Reinforcements have finally reached to clean-up the post-battle, off to take care of the horde of broken/bleeding/dying soldiers that they've defeated. Sam and Dominique huddle on the side, patching each other up. Cleo and Esme are in the other room, Rémy bringing along Zhu and Miles with several things in their arms. People are milling around, inside, outside; bruised, bloodied, but alive.

(Everyone else important to her is alive.)

(Why couldn't she?)

You, however, are by the walls by the window, looking out at everywhere and nowhere, trying your best to contain the hurt, the agony of your heart beating in your chest, because once again you've lost; you've lost and gone the one important thing you said you'd never left yourself feel for once more.

(But you are a liar, a cheat and a thief, a muderer with a ledger dripping with red—)

(—And maybe this is your karma haunting you, to love and to continually lose, experiencing so many forms of heartbreak even when you've thought to have steeled yourself against it.)

"You are weak." You once told her. Instead of being angry, like you expect her to be, she smiles, and replies with a joking tone: "For you? Yeah, I definitely am."

"I love you, Helene." You finally tell her, in quiet of the hour, voice all but a whisper, and tears spring in her eyes. And then she smiles so beautifully, flushed with happiness and radiance no one else had ever been able to show and direct towards you except her. And she kisses you, all her love/relief/understanding behind it, and you swallow it whole, because you are greedy and selfish and you want her, and only ever her.

(And because you love her, you don't let go of her until they pry her away ever so gently, respect/admiration/grief/understanding for you, and her, and her sacrifice.)

"I love you." You say, as she closes her eyes and breathes her last, as you commit every second to your memory, because you love her, and death and agony will not stop you. Because you had time, you have time, and you should have had time, free from everything, to be together, and it is sad and painful that you won't get that, not anymore.

Not anymore.

(My dearest, my darling, dead.)

And because you are a liar, you stare at your hands, the golden wedding band of your not-so-legal wedding with your beloved glinting as you turn it over, and over— willing that you are just waiting, on something—

And you look downwards, on the couch where they laid her body, because she may be dead, but everyone agreed that it doesn't matter, that it won't matter, not until everything left to be settled here is done, and you all have to face organizing the funeral of the one person who made this victory possible—

And she looks asleep, her dark hair fanned out, trademark ribbon keeping it up stretched taut and wrapped against your wrist, because it's the one thing you got her back then; and her face is scrubbed clean, blood carefully scrubbed away by your own hands, because you know she'd do it if it was you; And her own golden ring glints, as the sun starts to break through the horizon, and you can't help but go to her and reach out to take her hand, even if you know that it'll be cold, clammy, and everything that marks her dead—

Because you can't accept it, not yet, not again; because Helene had faced worse odds, nearly killed a couple of times, and studied the goddamned stone which still had secrets that Helene never shared, but you know she revived the near-dead, was able to control people, shot out laser-like beams out of her palms; and you want to believe this isn't the end of your story, so you slipped a piece of it to her hand, the last piece she never used, the size of a pebble, really, before they settled her body—

Because God can't be so cruel to give her a gift, then take it away for the last time so soon, because some part of her believes that Helene, her wife, would've chosen otherwise, if she could—

(And her hand, it's warm, she thinks as she holds it, and María's brow furrows, perplexed; but then looks at her wife, then her chest, which was flat and still just a few seconds ago, starting to rise once more.)

---

Warmth.

That's the first thing you feel as you feel yourself slip back.

---

María wants to go, to scream, to believe—

---

(And by God, she pleads. Please, please come back. Live.)

And then Helene opens her eyes, and meets María's.

"I love you."

---

Then:

"You promise?"

"Yeah. I think i'll love you forever."

"Helene." She says.

---

Now:

"María." She replies.

They say each other's names like a prayer, answered. Their hands are intertwined, like a promise, of the future, of forever.

María lowers her head to Helene's.

Other things can wait. Right now, they bask in the simplicity of having each other, once again.

Sunrise finally breaks in the horizon.

---

"I love you."

Until the stars go dark, you both think.

And even after that.

Neither of you say it—don’t even think it—but the universe should know that by now.

(And if it doesn't, well.)

(Helene would gladly shake it to it's core once more, with María next to her.)

#relics of the lost age #relics series #relics series my beloved #relics mc #helene spillane #maría garcía pérez #maría garcía pérez my beloved #maría x helene #fanfic #my fic #lee writes #lee writes stuff #lee makes stuff #helene said i love you i love you and because i love you i will change the world to fit it all #LOVING SOMEONE SO HARD YOU CHANGE THE NARRATIVE #price? what price. it's free real estate #maría being a sap BC I BRAINWORMS SAID VULNERABILITY. AS A TREAT.

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jaybren · 2 years

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Me going back in time like:

Odysseus: we all agree to fight to defend the marriage to the guy of Helen's choice

Everybody: yeah, sure...I guess if we have to

Me: AND HER RIGHT TO KILL HIM IF SHE WANTS!

Odysseus: ლ(ಠ_ಠლ)

Everybody: ... (☉_☉) (☉_☉) (☉_☉) ...

The Gods: *already planning Troy* (ﾉ °益°)ﾉ彡 ┻━┻

Helen: ( •̀ᴗ•́ )و ̑̑

#yes I am a little shit #the entire plan started as a way to save Patroclus and Achilles #but then I thought about Helen #she deserved better #Penelope deserved better too #I would also throw so much shade at Odysseus about him being a cheating dick head #and being the mastermind behind the reason his crew got punished but he gets to make it home alive?#absolute bullshit #I would throw massive shade on the 'right' answer being Hestia #With second answer being Persephone just to high five Hades and throw a wrench in the Underworld/Olympus machinery #because no way Hades was going to punish someone who said Persephone was the most beautiful goddess #Also I would spread rumors that I wasn't human and the only way to kill me was to get me to fall in love #Then it would be like 'psych' I'm aromantic #no one would be particularly shocked about what I said about the gods #they just would be shocked that I was still standing having aired so much dirty laundry #and with the river styx bonus -- they couldn't stop me either #river styx bonus #now where is my time machine #patrochilles #achilles x patroclus

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killmebythebeach · 1 year

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Just finished tma. I have to go to fucking school tomorrow. How do I FUCKING BE A PERSON AFTER THAT?!?!

I'll probably reblog with more tags later (cuz 30 just isn't enough) but !!!

#you know the drill tma spoilers in the tags dont read tags unless youve watcged the whole series. statement begins #i never really cry over fiction and that held true but FUCK did i get close when jon said 'that ones for sasha'#ill get to the lamenting but let me talk about my fucking !!! first. helen my beloathed i was so fucking happy when you died #i enjoyed her character imensly but GOD was it satisfying to hear jon say 'helen... was that a lie?' and !!! shes a gaslight girlboss #hearing jude and notsasha get smited was also so good. hmmmm i love how slimy jude sounds and how corparate notsasha sounds too #love the moment when all the acatars jon kills realises theyve fucked up (careful who you bully in middleschool)#and daisy and basira :( never liked those two too much but it was still sad :( basira confuses me from a worldbuilding standpoint #i love it though. shes the only person in daisys domain and i think thats metal as fuck. but seeing trevor and breekon alone made me sad #and annabelle!!! stunning. love her. would die for her. shed let it happen.#that being said i want to punch her so fucking bad. shes the tape recorders?#i saw this post where it was like 'what kind of kid was jon that the web thought hed bring the apocolypse?' and i thought itwas exagerating #georgie and melanie! georgie was a favorite from s3 so im glad we get to see her a bit more! even if shes a... cult leader?#oh :( when jon leaves them to get martin from annabelle and when he comes back the other seven survivors are gone :(#i hate all the arguing though :( i have the nuance of an oreo so seeing my blorbos argue just makes me sad :(#anyway. night night my beloved. recollections my beloved. wonderland my beloved. checking out my beloved. gah!#and the rosie and elias statements!!! ive always wondered about rosie and now i wish i never found out!#and hearing jonah and jon work together on the elias statement sounded SO COOL!!!#with jonah being like the voices of all the people hes inhabited. and all the archivists wandering london like zombies!#i was sort of disapointed jonah wasnt like super hard to defeat but holy shiiiiiiiiiit #i. LOVE. the 200 statement. its like 10 minutes long but i just might have to make an animatic of it.#oh its so fucking cool. i always imagined the web and eye as the smart entity power duo but no.#the web was playing the eye like a cheap whistle the entire time. i guess the eye does need avatars to actually do much #like lonely your alone. end you die. desolation is your fault. spiral is all you. but eye needs people to do stuff with its information #martin and jon. Martin and Jon. MARTIN AND JON.#those fucking idiots. hearing martin enter the room and both him and the listeners realizing what happened felt like ORPHEUS turning around #dude. martin stabbing jon always gets joked about. i thought itd be a light hearted moment or some shit #and hearing the three girls at the end. basiras 'good luck'. gah. just hearing the birds chirping was enough #but i also get to know simon was probably mauled to death by a crowd wich i find hilarious.#jonahs 'good luck' as well. like sir. jonah fucking magnus does not have the right to choke me up.#the magnus archives

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myheartissetinmotion · 2 years

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thinking about how, in the midst of a color-saturated, reference-filled, slightly-cringey-yet-delightful, so-hollywood-it-hurts film adaptation that doesn’t get talked about much, lily and finn pulled off the most stunningly nuanced portrayal of delena’s relationship i’ve seen yet

#subject to change bc i’m watching the globe one with ncuti in a week or so and i think that one’s gonna tie it #GOOOOOOOOOOOOOD WHEN AM I GONNA GET TO PLAY THIS ROLE AGAIN OPPOSITE SOMEONE WHO *GETS IT*#this movie makes Choices and not all of them are good but dem being under at the start and back to himself by the end makes up for all of it #the ‘o helen’ moment is generally just played for comedy bc it’s indeed hilarious #but finn lets it be soft and awestruck-this gives helen a reason to believe it’s real before realizing it’s not #and hoo BOY is that the most heartbreaking and heartbroken ‘o spite’ of them all #and don’t even get me STARTED on their ‘precious…celestial’#it gives the idea that he used to call her that. and he’s just staring at her this whole time. and he says the last word with her #and she wants SO BADLY to give in but can tell that something’s off bc she knows him so well!!!!!#AND THE ENDING. HOLY SHIT THE ENDING #the framing of this adaptation allows dem to deliver his last monologue entirely to helen w/o any other eyes #and that lends it a whole new power #i only wish they’d let him say the whole damn thing #his delivery of ‘wish it love it long for it and will forevermore be true to it’ would have destroyed me #and she’s shaking her head-she’s finally recognized her own worth-it’ll take genuine reassurance for her to take him back #and the tears in her eyes and that kiss and AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #THEY REALLY SAID ‘we’re gonna take this famously dysfunctional relationship and make it something beautiful’ AND THEY DID #and the way they hold each other during the whole last sequence. everyone shut up i’m yearning #GAH. SHAKESPEARE.#a midsummer night's dream #a midsummer night’s dream 2017 #a midsummer night’s dream 2018 #(different websites say different things)#shakespeare #lily rabe #finn wittrock #my faves #my loves #hopeless romantic #movies tag

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michaelgaveysnotebook · 3 months

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I got covid ❤️ BUT short michael fic from this poll tonight 🤞

#✧ helen #do not be immunocompromised you just keep getting hit with any and all illnesses #have fun but please wear masks if you're sick #also said fic was meant to be a new years fic and its now #the 15th so....#you could say i'm a little behind #i'm just building my ao3 author esque lore ok #its for the plot #i do feel somewhat bad being sick all the time and not getting the fics i talk about out to you guys #but also i have been disabled for a long time & shouldn't feel guilty about what i can't control #god i'm sorry to anyone who actually reads these PLUS the tags lol #love you guys ❤️

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aficionadoenthusiast · 5 months

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yes yes annabeth has abandonment issues and she loves percy because he's the only one who stayed, but have you considered: she loves him because he has no ambition

(i'm tempted to just leave it at that, but i'm guessing most people will not get what i mean, and i like doing this stuff so let's go)

think about it. for her dad, it was the dream of having a normal family and a nice normal job where he could work on his projects without distractions. it was the desire to make helen happy because she could give him that life even if it hurt his daughter.

for thalia, it was the dream of not being the child of the prophecy. it was finding a family with the hunters, no strings attached. it was maybe even the desire of keeping annabeth and luke alive by sacrificing herself, at least a little bit.

for luke, it was the dream of being a hero. it was the dream of saving the demigods. it was the utter belief that he knew what was best and could achieve that goal, damn the consequences. it wasn't even pride. it was just good intentions marred by ambition and bad influences.

for grover, it was the dream finding pan.

the one thing all of these dreams have in common: they took annabeth's family away from her.

that's not to say percy didn't have desires or dreams or goals or anything, but the difference is that everything he wanted had her in it, and none of it was particularly ambitious.

he didn't want to be a hero. he just did what he had to do til his job was done. even his ambitions now have annabeth written all over them: going to college with her in new rome, trying to live as normal a life as possible, growing old with her, etc. there's nothing he wants that doesn't involve her, and you know what? they deserve that so much, that open-hearted devotion.

which introduces some fun irony: where percy's fatal flaw is loyalty, annabeth's fatal flaw is hubris, and one of the first real things she ever said about herself is that she wants to build something permanent. that is hardcore ambition right there, but it ties right back into her abandonment issues. she wants to build something that won't leave and disappoint her.

in that regard, percy's lack of ambition fulfills her excess ambition because his loyalty gave her something permanent. they love each other so much that they fill in the gaps of each other's fatal flaws, and their ambitions fit like puzzle pieces. they never have to doubt each other because there is nothing to doubt.

she loves him because he has no ambition.

#percabeth #percy jackson #annabeth chase #percy and annabeth #annabeth and percy #annabeth pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #pjo hoo toa #pjo fandom #pjo analysis #luke castellan #thalia grace #grover underwood #annabeth percy jackson #annabeth x percy #percy x annabeth

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woso-dreamzzz · 27 days

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Torn III

Kewis x Child!Reader

Summary: You're still sick

Mommy doesn't get you dressed properly the next day.

She lets you stay in your pyjamas because you're sick. She's sick too but not as sick as you.

Mom, of course, still has her hurt knee but she's the only one not sick in the entire house.

Your head pounds and your nose remains stuffy even as you play with your dinosaur toys, making them attack each other because they're in a war and that's what things do in a war. They fight.

"Open," Mommy says and you firmly clamp your teeth together," Chook, I'm not joking. Open."

She's got a syringe full of medicine in her hands and you refuse to open your mouth.

You've never had good tasting medicine before and you refuse to believe that Mommy's gone out and bought some.

You keep your mouth shut.

"Chook," She says sternly," This will make you feel better."

You sniff, wiping your nose on your shirt and shake your head. You know if you talk, Mommy's going to dose you up so you settle on just glaring, puffing out your cheeks to show her that you're wise to her tricks.

"Chook," She says again," We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either way, you're taking your medicine."

"Chook," Mom says from the sofa," Come here."

Warily, you skirt around Mommy and run over to Mom, who lifts you up to sit next to her. Immediately, she attacks your sides with tickles and you can't keep your mouth closed anymore, opening it to let out peals of giggles.

Mommy squirts the medicine down your throat and Mom's ticklish hands disappear.

You glare, eyebrows drawing together in outrage. "That was mean!" You say," You cheated!"

Mommy laughs, ruffling your hair. "It was sneaky," She says," Not cheating. You'll feel better soon."

You huff but know she's right, shuffling off the sofa to return to your toys.

Helen joins you, curling up next to your side. Her ear flicks a few times as you continue your dino war. You have to blow your nose a few times because it gets clogged but Mommy is right because the churning of your stomach settles and your head no longer feels like it does when you bang it on a wall by accident.

"What do you want to watch?" Sam asks, channel surfing as she keeps one eye on you playing with Helen.

Kristie sighs. She doesn't look as bad as you did but it's still clear she's sick. She's got a bit of a fever and the end of her nose is all red. "Something that requires me to not think," She groans, massaging her temples to stem off the headache. She's only recently taken her own painkillers so she has a bit of wait until they kick in.

"So trash reality tv?" Sam teases and Kristie whacks her with a pillow.

You're playing nicely on the rug with Helen and your dinosaurs despite how ill you are.

Maybe eating all that dirt gave you a stronger immune system than Kristie thought.

"There's Love Island," Sam offers and you whip your head around.

"No!" You say," That's mine and Auntie Millie's show! You can't watch it! It'll spoil it!"

You sound adamant and Kristie manages to get out a laugh that could have been a cough.

"It's not a new episode, Chook," Sam assures you with her own laugh," It's last season. It's not going to spoil anything."

Your brow furrows for a moment before you're up on your feet. You've got two dinosaurs clutched in your hands as you wiggle yourself between your mothers.

They're sitting close enough that their legs are touching so you make sure to force them apart so you can be comfortable.

"Last season was okay," You tell Kristie very seriously," I will watch with you so you know what's going to happen. Mom, you need to put on Love Island."

Sam keeps laughing. "Oh? I need to, do I Chook?"

"Yes. That's what I just said. You need to, Mom."

With the other options being Deal or No Deal and Flog It, Sam's pretty sure that Love Island was truly her only option and changes the channel.

Clearly, the medicine has perked you up a bit because Kristie doesn't get a moment of respite the entire episode as you narrate what's going on during every single little moment.

Somehow, you manage to put yourself to sleep during it until you're lying draped over Sam and Kristie's laps.

"And we just let Millie watch this show with her?" Kristie asks, dumbstruck and Sam chuckles nervously.

"I didn't think she actually absorbed this much of it," Sam replies," It's like she studied it or something."

You shift a little in your sleep, death gripping your plastic dinosaurs so hard that Kristie can't pry them from your hands.

"Well," Kristie says," At least she's taking her nap without arguing."

"You mean, at least you can take your nap without her interrupting," Sam teases and Kristie rolls her eyes.

She lifts your limp body easily into her arms as she stands up. "Well, just for that. I don't think you can join us for naptime."

"Hey...Kristie! Kristie, wait! I'm sorry! Wait for me!"

Kristie doesn't wait for Sam though as she makes her way to their bedroom.

She settles you in the very middle of the bed but slipping in next to you.

You wiggle a little bit as Kristie tugs you closer, laying a protective hand over your belly just as Sam hobbles in, taking her own place in bed on your other side.

Helen joins in too, leaping up onto the bed and curling herself up around your feet.

"You have to get her to take medicine when we wake up," Kristie says, already half asleep.

"No fair! She's wise to my tricks now!"

"Not my problem, Sam."

#woso x reader #kewis x reader #kristie mewis x reader #kristie mewis #sam kerr x reader #sam kerr #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso

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kiwisbell · 2 months

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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

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roosterforme · 9 months

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The Younger Kind Part 21 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: You were clearly terrified. Bradley promised he will take care of you, and he is determined not to let you down again. And maybe this will be his only opportunity for you to hear him out.

Warnings: Angst, swearing, excessive drinking, and age gap (18+)

Length: 4300 words

Pairing: Single dad!Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x babysitter!female reader

Check out my masterlist for more!

"Please come get me."

Your voice sounded so helpless. Bradley was already reaching for his jeans as he said, "I'm coming. Where are you, Princess?"

"I don't know," you sobbed. "At a party. At a frat house. I don't know!"

Fucking hell. You sounded like you were wasted. "Do you think you can share your location with me?" He was trying his best to keep his voice calm.

"Yeah," you told him so softly, he barely heard you. "They ripped my dress. They kept touching me, and Ollie ripped my dress. And I'm so scared, and Greyson thinks it's funny."

Bradley's blood ran cold. He didn't know who Ollie was, but he sure as hell knew about Greyson. And you sounded more than scared. You were clearly terrified. "Who was touching you?" he demanded, grabbing a sweatshirt and his wallet.

"Ryan. And Ollie kissed me. It wasn't even rum. And I can't find Lexi."

You were sobbing harder, sniffing as your voice shook. Bradley was going to dismantle every fraternity house in San Diego before he let anything happen to you. Before he let anyone else touch you. "Can you lock yourself in a room? Maybe a bathroom?" he asked frantically.

"Bradley, please come get me! I don't want you to be sick of my shit," you moaned. "I want you to want me still."

"Baby, I do still want you. Can you send me your location?" He needed you to focus on that much, and he could take care of the rest. As soon as he knew where to find you, he'd make sure he did.

"Yeah," you told him again. "I think."

"I need you to send me your location, okay? Can you do that now?" he asked as calmly as he could.

"Okay," you whispered. Bradley tied his shoes and ran to Noah's room to scoop him up out of bed. After he nearly dropped his phone, he heard it ping with your location.

"Good girl," he told you, and you whimpered. "Now where exactly are you in the house? Are you alone?"

Bradley carried Noah out to the Bronco and buckled him in his car seat as quickly as he could.

"I'm in a closet."

He figured that was better than you being openly intoxicated in front of the frat boys who sounded like they wanted to take advantage of you. "I'm on my way, okay? I'm coming to get you." He could just picture you crying inside a closet, too scared to figure out what to do. And the thought killed him.

You whimpered again as you said, "I miss you."

Bradley's heart was aching with need. "I miss you too, Princess. I'll come get you, okay? Then we'll be together."

"Yeah," you sighed. "And I can color dinosaurs with Noah."

"You know he loves that, Baby. Noah loves you." He was fighting to keep the panic out of his voice, not wanting you to be more upset than you already were.

But now you were sobbing again, and Bradley drove faster. He ran a red light. He nearly hit a curb. He drove as quickly as he could toward Penny's house.

And then you whispered, "My phone's dying. Please come get me!"

"Hang up, Princess. I'm on my way, I promise you. Keep texting me and telling me you're okay until your phone dies. And stay in that closet."

After you promised him you'd stay exactly where you were, you ended the call, and Bradley called Penny. He was sure he woke her up, but it didn't matter.

"I need you to take Noah. Right now. I'm almost at your house."

When he pulled up, Penny was in her robe on the front porch. "What's going on?" she asked, clearly alarmed as Bradley carried Noah to her. He kissed Noah's curls as his sleepy son climbed into Penny's arms.

"You owe me after Helen!" he told her, and he knew she still felt guilty. "I need to take care of something!"

She just nodded and turned toward her front door with Noah. Bradley was back on the road toward the address you sent him immediately. His phone lit up with a text from you, letting him know you were okay.

He was five minutes away, cutting around double parked cars and laying on his horn. He got another text from you a minute later, but then the texts stopped. He called you, but you didn't answer. When he tried calling again, he got your voicemail immediately.

"Fuck!" he shouted. This was all his fault. You shouldn't even have been messed up with his bullshit in the first place. He'd never forgive himself if something happened to you tonight. You deserved to be worshipped, not dragged through this kind of shit.

Then he found the house, and it was an absolutely raging party with loud music and people spilling out onto the front yard. And Bradley thought for a second that if you were no longer alone, nobody else would be able to hear you crying for help.

He was out of the Bronco before he could think about that any further. You were inside, and he was going to find you and deal with these guys accordingly. He ran up through the students hanging out on the porch, shoving bodies out of his way as he entered the house. The floor was sticky. There was a topless girl dancing in the corner. And it was dark enough that Bradley's eyes needed to adjust so he could see. There were so many people in the living room, he wouldn't even be able to find a closet.

As he scanned the room, his eyes settled on Greyson's lanky form and blond hair, and his fists clenched involuntarily. Bradley bodily moved people out of his way to get to Greyson, and when he was close, Greyson looked up at him, his eyes flashing with recognition.

"Where is she?" Bradley demanded, inhaling and exhaling each ragged breath as Greyson just looked at him. "Tell me, or I'll fucking level you right now."

"I don't know, man," Greyson mumbled. He looked and sounded drunk, and Bradley took him by the front of his shirt and slammed him hard against the wall. Finally his eyes were more alert as he looked up at Bradley in shock.

"Do you remember now?" Bradley asked, pushing against his throat with one big hand.

"She was with Ryan and Ollie," Greyson gasped.

"Well then were the fuck are they?"

"Upstairs."

He let go, and Greyson slid down the wall, but Bradley was already heading for the stairs and taking them two at a time. There was a line of people waiting for the bathroom, and some guys were smoking a joint. He called out your name once and then again even louder. A few people turned to look at him, and the guys smoking the joint started laughing.

"Everyone's looking to get in on the action," said the smaller one with a laugh that made Bradley see red.

"Where is she?" Bradley growled, voice shaking as he stormed toward them.

"Man, if I knew where she was, I'd be all over it," he replied lazily. Bradley smacked the joint out of his hand and stomped on it.

He shoved the smaller, talkative one against the wall and kept an eye on the bigger one. "Are you the one who touched her?"

The bigger one laughed and said, "Not as much as I was hoping to."

Bradley released his friend and punched the big one right in the gut and watched him sink to the floor, coughing.

"Did you drug her?" Bradley asked, stepping down right on his hand until he was nearly screaming.

"No! And we stopped touching her! I swear!"

Bradley removed his foot, and he grabbed at his hand. "Holy shit," he groaned as Bradley rounded on the smaller one again.

"Where is she?" Bradley shouted.

"Sorry, man," he mumbled to Bradley, eyes wide as he held up his hands. "That bitch ran away. Or she's hiding somewhere. We didn't do anything."

If you were still hiding, Bradley would find you. He shoved past the guys and opened the first door he came to. There was a girl making out on the bed with some guy, and at first glance, Bradley thought it might be you.

"What the fuck?" the guy shouted, but Bradley went right for the bedroom closet, nearly ripping the door off the hinges. He pushed the clothing aside and tossed some boxes out onto the bedroom floor. You weren't there.

He found another bedroom, but this one was empty, and when he opened the closet, there was nothing inside except for crates of bottles of alcohol. He called your name a few times as he opened a hallway closet and tore it apart.

"Princess!" he yelled, opening the door at the end of the hallway. He was going to lose his mind if he couldn't find you. Your phone battery was probably dead. Who knows if you were still alone. Anybody could have found you by now. It had been too long since he heard your voice.

He tore into the room. It was lit by soft lamp light, and the closet door was on the adjacent wall. Bradley threw it open, letting the door shudder against the wall. The space was dimly lit, but he saw your shoes right away.

"Princess," he gasped, sinking down to his knees and moving the cardboard boxes that you were hiding behind. Your knee was cut open, sticky blood drying on your shins. The top of your dress was shredded on one side, your breasts exposed as you lay curled up tight. "Oh my god," Bradley whispered, reaching for you to see if you were unconscious.

He pulled you close to him, and your eyes fluttered open slightly. "No," you whined, trying to crawl away on your bloody knee. "Leave me alone." He could hear the tears in your voice as you kept shaking your head.

"Princess. It's me, Baby."

"Bradley?" you asked quietly. Your face softened as you took a deep breath and opened your eyes fully. Then you were scrambling into his arms, and your face was buried against his neck as you sniffed and sobbed.

"I'm right here," he promised in a steady whisper. "It's okay. You're safe." For the first time in the last thirty minutes, Bradley sighed in relief and let his pulse start to calm down. "I have you."

"I'm sorry," you gasped, your voice breaking on the words. "I didn't know who else to call."

He kissed your forehead and examined your face, cupping your chin with his hand. "You call me. You always call me, okay? I will always come for you."

You nodded at him, and he kissed your cheek. Fear and relief were written all over your pretty face. You couldn't keep your eyes open, and every time they closed, your head started to lull to the side. He tried to move you to sit on the floor, but you just squeezed him tighter and started to panic.

"Take me home," you begged, and Bradley kissed your forehead again.

As he rubbed your back, he very gently asked you, "Did those boys come up here? After you ran away to the closet? Did anyone else touch you?"

"No," you replied, kissing his neck and calming a bit. "I just hid. Please, take me home."

"Yeah," he promised. "I'm going to take you home. But let me put my shirt on you first."

He took his UVA sweatshirt off and had to hold you up and thread your arms through the sleeves while you cried, but at least you were covered up now. Then he gently took your hands and wrapped them around his neck, and your cheek came to rest on his shoulder. Then he picked up your little purse and tucked it between your body and his.

"I wish I could be with you," you told him, your lips brushing against his neck as he stood up with you clinging to the front of him. "With you and Noah." His heart was going to shatter, because that was the only thing he wanted. Just you and his son in his life. Permanently.

He wrapped his left arm around your back and grabbed your thigh with his right hand. "I'm going to take you home. Take care of you," he promised, holding you tight and kissing your cheek softly as he carried you out into the hallway.

It smelled like someone had lit up another joint, and the music was much louder out here. But there was no sign of the two idiots as you held onto Bradley's neck and whimpered. "Please, take me home."

He carried you down the stairs and out the front door, not bothering to stop before he had you in the Bronco. He set you on the seat and pulled your dress down over your thighs before buckling you in. The back of your head met the seat softly, and your eyes closed. You slept while Bradley drove you to his house, stealing glances at you every few seconds. Your face was serene now, but the evidence of your tears was painted on your cheeks, and he could still hear your frantic voice.

"I love you," he whispered when he was parked in his driveway. You started to stir when he leaned across the console and kissed the top of your head. "I'll take you inside."

Once he had you scooped up in his arms, he carried you to the front porch. He had to set you down so he could unlock the door, and you immediately clung to the side of his body as you swayed on your feet.

"You're okay, Princess," he promised, guiding you inside with his arm wrapped firmly around your waist. His sweatshirt was baggy on you, and Bradley couldn't keep himself from kissing the top of your head over and over.

"Where's Noah?" you asked when he led you down the hallway. "Bradley, where's Noah?" You sounded scared and concerned, and he took your face in his hands again. God, you were perfect, always concerned about Noah.

"He's with Penny, Baby. He's okay."

"Okay," you agreed, turning and going into the bathroom. Bradley closed the door for you to have some privacy, and then he went to get the first aid kit out of the kitchen. When he carried it back to the bathroom, you were just opening the door.

"Have a seat," he whispered, closing the toilet so you could sit down. He got a washcloth wet with some warm water. Your eyes were slightly out of focus as he knelt in front of you and started to clean up the blood. "Did you fall, Princess?" he asked, reaching for your hand and kissing your fingers. All he could picture was the asshole frat guys chasing you around and making you trip.

"I don't know. I think so," you told him softly, your eyes closing again, eyelashes brushing your cheeks. He watched you bite down on your lip when he cleaned your knee with cotton and some antiseptic. Then he put a large bandage over your cut and kissed you there.

"Princess," he whispered as his lips met your thigh.

You whimpered softly and threaded your fingers through his hair, and he melted into your touch. Then you lurched up off of the toilet, nearly knocking him over as you opened the lid and emptied the contents of your stomach. He held you in his lap and rubbed your back while you got sick over and over again. At least this would probably help you sober up and start feeling better.

"I'm sorry," you whispered after a few minutes. "I'll clean it up." You were wiping your face with some toilet paper and trying to catch your breath, and when you flushed the toilet you turned to look at him over your shoulder.

"I'll take care of everything," he promised, and you started crying again.

"I don't even want you to look at me right now," you whispered as you tried to squirm out of his lap. "Oh my god, did I interrupt your date?"

Bradley closed the toilet again and made you sit there, the look of mortification on your face had him rubbing circles along your calves with his thumbs.

"No. There's nobody except you, Princess. It's been that way for a long time."

But you just shook your head and buried your face in your hands. Bradley sighed and stood, digging around in one of the drawers to find a brand new toothbrush that you could use. He filled a disposable cup with some water and opened up the Sesame Street toothbrush.

"Come here," he whispered, coaxing you to stand as you looked up at him in embarrassment. You were perfect, and he loved you, and he was trying not to fuck this up. He squeezed some toothpaste onto the toothbrush and handed it to you. "I'll go get you a glass of water and some Advil. You can sleep in my bed."

A few minutes later, Bradley had you in his room, and he was helping you out of his sweatshirt. You just looked up at him like you were surprised he was there as he pulled your ruined dress over your head. The sight of you in front of him, perfect in nothing but your pink lace underwear was the only thing keeping him sane right now. Because once again he wanted to drive back to that frat house and beat the shit out of everyone.

"Daddy?" you asked softly, and Bradley's entire body heated up. Your lips parted and your eyes went wide at his guttural groan. Quickly he slipped his sweatshirt back over your head and helped you with the sleeves.

"You can sleep in here," he whispered, kissing you just below your ear as he pulled back his bedding for you to climb in. He watched as you wiggled your way to the middle of the bed and sank back against the pillows.

He turned to leave when you called his name. "Bradley. Where are you going?"

"I'll sleep on the couch," he told you, running his hand along the back of his neck. But you peeled back the covers, and the sight of you in his sweatshirt and your little pink panties had him weak.

"Stay with me," you whispered, your eyes wide and uncertain. He nodded, helpless to tell you no. He took off his undershirt and unzipped his jeans, and you watched his every move as he pulled them off, one leg at a time. When you held out your hand, he took it and climbed into bed next to you.

He pulled you close to his body and inhaled the sweet wildflower scent that still clung to your hair. And almost instantly, you were asleep in his arms.

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

Your head was pounding, and for some reason your knee hurt. But you were warm and comfortable, and everything smelled nice. You swallowed against the dry feeling in your throat and tried to open your eyes. Where were you? What happened last night?

Your body tensed up, sending your head into a state of throbbing pain, because you felt an arm tighten around your waist. Something was brushing against the back of your neck. You weren't wearing your own clothing. When you opened your eyes and didn't immediately recognize where you were, you panicked.

"No," you whispered, scooting away from the arm as tears sprang to your eyes. You got completely wasted. You were trashed last night. Ollie and Ryan. The party. Your dress. They touched you. Ollie kissed you. "On no. Oh god."

Tears were sliding down your cheeks as you turned to see that you were with neither Ollie nor Ryan.

"Bradley!" you gasped as he stretched and licked his lips. After a few seconds, his eyes went wide, and he sat up.

"Baby, are you okay? Do you need the bathroom?"

You sat on the edge of the bed, half turned toward him, completely stunned. You had called him. From inside the closet. After you tripped and gashed your knee open. You looked down at the tidy bandage and found yourself wearing his soft sweatshirt and your underwear.

When you looked back at Bradley, still stunned that you were at his house, let alone in his bed with him, he must have noticed your tears. "Hey, it's okay, Princess," he muttered, sitting up all the way and reaching for you.

Before he could touch your body, you blurted out, "You picked me up from the party? Did we have sex last night? Where's Noah? Is he with Helen? What's going on?"

Bradley's eyebrows shot up. "Noah's with Penny. I found you in a bedroom closet at the party, and I brought you home. And no, we did not have sex."

You took a deep breath and nodded, your eyes catching on your purple crown where it seemed to have taken up permanent residence on Bradley's bedpost. "I can barely remember what happened," you whispered, studying the crown. "Were you out last night when I called you?"

"No," he replied easily. "I was right here. Alone in my bed. Thinking about you. Hoping you'd give me a chance to explain what happened."

You looked at him. "You were thinking about me when I called you?"

Bradley nodded, his big, brown eyes studying your face. "I'm usually thinking about you, Princess. You and Noah, all day long."

When you whimpered, you saw Bradley's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. His hand was resting palm up on his bed, patiently waiting for you to take it. But you couldn't. You just honestly could not.

"You wanna talk?" he asked you softly. When you nodded, you watched him climb out of bed and pick his undershirt up off of the floor and put it on. You were still teetering on the opposite side of the bed, unsure about what you even wanted to say to him. But he eased himself back against the headboard and never pressured you to move.

"Where's Helen?" you asked softly, turning to face him.

"I have no idea," he replied, his gaze fixed on you. "I haven't seen her since she left my living room about five minutes after you did on Thursday night. And I'm not dating her. I'm not dating anyone. I'm not going on dates. You are the only one, Princess. And I promise you, there would be a title attached to us right now if I were allowed to have what I want." He inhaled and exhaled slowly before he added, "I think you need some sort of reassurance here. Right?"

You nodded again as he ran his fingers through his hair. He leaned a little closer to you, and you weren't sure you could take much more. You felt tired, confused, wrung out. Half of you wanted to ask him to take you home, the other half wanted to pull him close and never leave.

But then he simply said, "I love you."

His words hung in the air between you both, like something physical he wanted you to hold. You looked down at his hand, still resting on the bed and then you looked back at his gorgeous face. "What?" you whispered so softly, you weren't sure you really said anything.

"I love you, Princess," he promised in his deep, steady voice that made you feel so comfortable. "And I should have been honest with you from the first time you watched Noah. Because I've been falling in love with you since then. I didn't need to go on any of the app dates. I didn't need to waste my time or yours. Jake was right about you. I should have made things official ages ago. Should have had you on display for everyone to see how much I love you."

When you said nothing in response and just gaped at him, he started to pull his hand away from you. Oh how badly you wanted to reach for him!

"Nothing is going on with Helen. I barely know her. She works for Penny. And I guess," he started, shaking his head and looking down at his hands, "she's been interested in me. She got Penny to set up a date on Thursday night. Penny lied to me when she told me she and Mav wanted to meet me for dinner."

"What?" you asked, eyes going wide. That didn't sound like Penny at all.

"Don't worry, Penny and I already had it out over the phone. I know she worries about Noah and I being lonely, but she's never going to pull something like that again." He looked at you and shook his head, brow creased like his words physically hurt him. "I just hate that you think you can't trust me now. I promise you can."

Your lip was shaking as more tears filled your eyes. You brushed them away before they could fall, and then you crawled across the bed as he opened his arms for you. Bradley wrapped you up tight against his warm body and you settled on his lap like this was where you belonged. He kissed your forehead softly and rubbed your back through his sweatshirt.

"You feel like telling me why you went to that shitty party last night?" he asked in his Daddy voice, sending shivers through your body.

Your face was buried against his scarred neck, and your voice sounded tiny as you admitted, "I was trying to forget about you."

"I don't like the sound of that," he said, his voice getting a little gruff while his hands remained soft. "You promised me no more college boys, remember?"

"Never again," you swore. Then you kissed him once on his jaw. "You saved me. You came when I called you."

His arms tightened around you as he whispered, "I always will."

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

Princess, forgive Daddy! Hope you enjoy your fic, @beyondthesefourwalls And thank you @mak-32 !

PART 22

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6lostgirl6 · 1 year

Note

yandere john wick with “I would never hurt you. You know that, right?” he just gives off such over protective/possessive energyyy 🤭

Your Protector

Pairing: Yandere!John Wick x Fem!Reader

TW: Yandere themes, toxic themes, mentioned stalking, kidnapping, possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, pet names, dubious kissing (at first), slightly suggestive. Reblogs are highly appreciated!!

It was infatuation and obsession that drove him to take such drastic measures. Ever since he saw you, he was absolutely convinced that you were meant for him. His second chance at happiness and love since the passing of his wife, Helen.

It was also fear, fear that if he didn't kidnap you, you would be somehow hurt or even killed. John has spent many nights without sleep, worried over your safety. He knew that if he didn't take action, something was bound to happen.

You never met him before, never spoke with him, and it was a shock when he finally kidnapped you. A complete stranger. The last thing you could remember was walking home from another late-night shift and being grabbed from behind. In a millisecond, your mouth was covered by a cloth and your vision went black.

When you finally came to, you realized you did not recognize your surroundings. You were resting in a lavish guest room and you were still trying to wrap your brain around what was happening. While you were gathering your bearings, a man appeared. He was standing over you by the side of the bed.

"Good morning, sweetheart." The man said with a smile, greeting you in an affectionate tone. "I hope you slept well."

At first glance, he was a very attractive man and of great wealth. His towering stature, long black hair and wearing a seemingly expensive black tailored suit.

“Who are you?” You asked in fright, staring at him with wide eyes.

“W-What’s going on?” You scooted back against the headboard, trying to maintain some distance between you and the man. “What do you want?” You continued to stare at him, fearful of what he might do.

His gaze held a disturbing mixture of kindness and menace as he looked down at you. "Don't be afraid, I'm not going to hurt you." He paused for a moment, as if weighing his next words carefully. "I just want to make sure that we're together. Forever."

“Who are you?” You were confused, having not ever met this strange man before in your entire life. You thought that this man was clearly delusional, could be mistaking you for someone else. He wanted the two of you to be together, but you could not understand the reasoning behind it. You needed to figure out who he is and hopefully find means of escaping.

"I'm John Wick," he says simply, leaning over you. He has this strange, almost otherworldly quality about him that's difficult to explain. A sense of danger, but not necessarily violence. He's calm and collected, but you also feel the threat of his presence. It's like looking into the eyes of a predator, one who's just been waiting for the right moment to strike. It's terrifying, yet compelling at the same time.

Noticing your fear, he slowly moved to sit on the edge of the bed, bringing himself a little more to your level of height. However, he still continued to tower over you. With slight hesitation, he reached out and placed his hand on your cheek, his thumb brushing gently against your cheekbone. It's a gesture of familiarity and affection, yet there's a sense of darkness and danger to it.

"Don't be afraid, sweetheart." He said with a small smile, his intense dark-brown eyes locking onto yours. It was almost hypnotic, the way he was looking at you. Almost as if he truly knew you and for quite some time too. It left you feeling conflicted, complicated emotions infiltrating your heart.

His touch that was so gentle against your cheek, prompted your cheeks to grow a little warm. His affection was breaking down your resolve and leaving you quite nervous. Not nervous as if you were fearing for your life for feeling anxious, but rather the form of butterflies forming in your stomach and your heart in your throat.

The warmth creeping onto your face seems to embolden John, and he leans in closer to you, his hand still resting on your cheek as the other trails its way down your thigh. He stared at you, his dark eyes taking in every detail of your appearance.

"You're so beautiful.” He whispers, his warm breath fanning across your face. There's an intensity to him that's almost frightening. He appeared like a wild animal, one that could snap at any moment. It was undeniable that there was something primal about him, something you can't help but be attracted to.

You couldn’t reply, unable to form any coherent sentences from the intensity and electrifying touch of his hand on your thigh. Slowly, you were feeling less uncomfortable but rather shy from his affectionate touches. However, your walls were starting to return when you remembered that you didn't even know this man.

“John…why are you doing this? You don’t even know me.”

"Because you're mine." He replied, his gaze was intense and there was undeniable heat in his voice. It was more than enough to make you feel a little dizzy. Almost as if you were falling into some dark abyss. There's no question that this man is dangerous, but you can't help feeling drawn to him. He exudes a primal, dangerous energy that is almost addictive, and you find yourself craving more of his attention and touch.”And I do know you, I know everything about you, (Y/N).”

You glanced towards the door, noticing that it was left open. Your logical side was screaming for you to wake up and understand that you were involved with something, someone, extremely dangerous. In that second, you were broken out of your spell.

You hesitate before launching yourself from the bed in an attempt to escape.

John's smile fades as you attempt to flee, his expression turning dark and deadly. Without even seeming to move, he blocks the door, his body looming over you like a shadow of death.

"Don't." He says, his voice low and dangerous. “You'll only make this harder for yourself, sweetheart." His eyes are cold and calculating, but there's also a strange desire behind them.

One that's both terrifying and alluring.

With wide eyes, you backed away, feeling small in comparison to his looming figure and his predatory stance. The size difference between you two was incredible. You continued to keep your distance, placing yourself between furniture.

With slow and deliberate steps, he follows you around the room, seemingly getting closer with each passing moment. He had the patience of an animal on the verge of a hunt. You can feel his eyes on you, tracking your every move. When he speaks again, his voice is calm, but there's something dangerous hidden beneath the surface. He's like a calm sea hiding the storm underneath.

"You can't get away from me, sweetheart." He begins to move closer again, this time grabbing your wrist and holding it tight, his grasp like iron. "You belong to me."

“Yeah, right!” You struggled, trying to rip your wrist away from his grasp, he could only stare at you in slight amusement and anger. “I don’t belong to you or anyone! Nothing you will ever do will make me think otherwise!”

He raises an eyebrow and smirks at you, before he replies.

"Alright then."

Without warning, he pulls you towards him, kissing you passionately. His body is firm and strong, holding you tightly in his arms. His kiss is passionate and intense, like he's pouring all of his feelings and desires into it. The kiss was passionate and borderline possessive, trying to make you submit and accept him as your lover and protector. His grip around your wrist and waist is tight, becoming a little painful. You’re completely at his mercy and helpless in his arms.

You gasp from the sudden kiss, feeling intense emotions swirling within you and making your heart skip a beat. After a small moment, you began to return the kiss, thoughts of escaping melting from your mind. He also seemed to relax more into the kiss, it turning softer and loving, feeling that you were slowly but surely returning his affections. He pulls away after a moment, staring at you with a hungry and passionate gaze.

"Are you convinced?" He asks, his voice low and husky, his gaze very heated and full of immense desire. He's still holding you tightly in his arms, not letting you go anywhere. He simply couldn't get enough of you. It's adamant that this animal has a lot of pent-up desire and passion. Now, he was looking forward to releasing it all onto you.

"Y-Yes..." You muttered, your brain currently in a state of mush. You simply looked up at him with wide eyes, your cheeks warm from the intensity of his affections.

Slowly, he released your wrist, bringing his hand up to caress your cheek, his thumb brushing just underneath your eye. His touch was gentle and even a little soothing. He looked into your eyes, his heated stare now full of softness towards you. “I would never hurt you. You know that, right?” His voice, similar to his touch, was also full of softness.

“Y-Yes…” Your resolve was completely demolished, he has successfully twisted your feelings around and made your heart scream out for more of his attention. Thoughts of finding a way to escape barely crossed your mind, your logical side slipping further away from your grasp.

You simply didn’t care.

"Good." He whispers, his voice was husky once more, full of want and desire for you.

With another powerful pull, he brings you into another kiss, one that is even more passionate than the first one. Knowing that you finally submitted left him with an animalistic excitement. He's hungry for you, almost starving for your touch and affection, and you can barely keep up with his ravenous desires. His excitement continued to grow, his grip on you tightening as he held you in his arms.

"You're mine now, my love." He continues, his eyes glistening with desire.