You weren't sure what you were expecting to find on the cd when you brought it home with you. Certainally not a sentient AI hidden deep in an old computer program, quietly waiting for someone to talk to.
Caine (TADC) x modernhuman!reader
Part One - Here! | Next
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Warnings: My bad attempt at explaining computers, abandoned places, being watched without knowing
Words: 3098
You left soft wet foot prints along the dusty floor, your sneakers still wet from the dew-soaked grass outside. Your fist was tight around the flashlight in your hands, trying to keep the beam of light steady as you walked. Just ahead of you, you could see the beam of Aaron’s own flashlight flickering about before he turned a corner.
You cleared your throat as you kicked up more dust, feeling it itch the back of your throat as you inhaled. Who knows how long it’s been settled here, coating every inch of surface in this abandoned building. The thought had you lifting your free hand, holding the cuffed sleeve of your hoodie to cover your nose and mouth.
The abandoned building was eerily quiet, as if everything here was holding its breath, held frozen in time. Only the sound of the building settling and your own muffled breathing dared breach the silence. You passed by an old potted plant, the synthetic leaves waxy and coated in dust, the dull green bleached with age. It was a mockery of a living thing left here, alone and abandoned. You walked past some wooden desks with toppled office chairs, all peeling leather and rotting fabric, and carefully stepped around them.
What was this office space even used for? Why was the building so remote, with only a single laned road branching into wooded private property? Why was it left in such disarray? These questions flittered through your mind as you finally approached the corner Aaron had curbed.
You peeked around it to see how far down he’d gone…only to feel a pit of dread begin to gnaw at your stomach. You could no longer see the beam of his light down the dark hallway, had no idea where he’d gone. Damn him for wandering, damn him for leaving you alone in this creepy ass building. “Aaron?” you called his name, your voice muffled against the sleeve of your hoodie. It was startlingly loud in the deathly silence. You cringed slightly.
Receiving no response from your friend, you cautiously turned the corner to try and follow him with nothing more than skidded disturbances in the dust as clues. You nearly tripped where the carpet was peeling up, the seam transitioning between two pieces all frayed and curling. You cursed under your breath, beginning to feel frustrated and anxious all at once.
Why’d you ever let him convince you to do this? Why were you out here in the middle of nowhere when you could be curled up at home enjoying a nice hot shower and soft, warm pajamas?
You followed the traces Aaron left behind, passing an old water cooler, the five-gallon bottle atop it long emptied and warped. The generic furniture, you noticed, was strangely uniform and sparse, looking every bit dated in 1990’s fashion. Stepping through an open archway, you paused, looking left and right as you came upon a t-intersection. To the left, the hallway continued on into infinite shadow, looking much the same like where you’d just been. But to the right… a single open door led to a larger room.
Not wanting to brave another hall, you turned right.
Stepping through the door, you entered what appeared to be an office. The white paint on the walls was peeling, and several file cabinets were left in disarray, papers scattered around the floor. Most of the writing was smeared with water damage, but the small bits that were still legible were a mix of characters that made no sense to you.
Against the wall opposite to you was a single desk, lined up and tidied with old equipment atop of it. A printer and scanner, a mouse and chunky keyboard, and speakers connected to a retro pc computer, the plastic yellowed with age. It was a dinosaur of a machine, and you let out a low whistle as you approached it.
Beside the computer was a box holding a mix of old floppy disks, most of them labeled with dates and strange notes. Some cd’s were also thrown into the mix, though most were warped and scratched. Strangest yet, there was some sort of VR headset on the desk as well. Seemed like a pretty modern idea for such old equipment…
Curiosity nagged at you, and you approached the desk chair, cautiously sitting down on it. You set your flashlight on the desk to free your hands, the beam of light hitting the back wall. You clicked the mouse and pressed a few random keys on the keyboard, feeling the stiff give of them. You pretended to be an office worker, tried to imagine what it might’ve been like to be sitting here when the building was still in use. What work would you have been doing? What data would you have stored on the disks lying dormant beside you?
Suddenly, a loud beeping sound emitted from inside the machine, and you jumped out of your skin, gasping. You placed a hand to your chest, feeling your racing heart, before you heard a low whirring sound. Then, the dusty black screen began to emit a dim glow.
“What the hell,” you muttered to yourself, eyes wide. Was electricity since hooked up to this building? The lights weren’t working, so how the hell was this old computer still running? Perhaps there was a backup generator somewhere?
You watched, feeling something like amazement or dread, as small white characters began to appear on the black screen. You weren’t well-versed in computer science, especially that of an older time, but living in the 21st century gave you a little technological literacy. You squinted at the chunky font, watching numbers count up: Memory testing 640K…Memory testing 2048K…
It must have been a minute or two of you watching, fascinated, before the number finally settled around something like “16384K OK.” The screen flickered back to black. You hesitated, giving the mouse a few experimental clicks, though the whirring continued through the black screen.
Finally, a logo appeared on the screen, some name for a tech company you’ve never heard of before. The resolution was so pixelated to what you were used to, you almost had to laugh. It was amazing really, that this was still working and running. You observed the programs, seeing only a few icons—My Computer, Network Neighborhood, Recycle Bin, My Briefcase.
The whirring sound continued, and a small pop-up appeared in the center of the screen with a loading bar. “Reading disc…” you read aloud under your breath.
After a moment, a new program icon appeared below the others, some file simply titled ‘Digital Circus.’
The small, pixelated white arrow of your cursor was lagging and jerky as you dragged it over to the Digital Circus icon. You were about to double click it, when you hear a voice call from behind you. “Woah, what’d you find?”
You jumped slightly, swiveling around in the old chair to see that Aaron had reappeared, the stupid headlamp on his head nearly blinding you. “Jesus Aaron,” you choked out, raising a hand to shield your eyes. “Scared the shit out of me…”
Your friend grinned at you, stepping further inside the office to look around, wielding the beam from his headlamp like a sword. “I totally missed this,” he said, blinking at everything with interest. “And you got the computer to work? Gnarly…” He stepped closer, leaning over your shoulder to look at the monitor screen.
“Damn,” he hummed. “Look at the date in the corner. Still thinks its October 15th, 1996.” He reached over you to tap a single finger on the corner of the screen at the numbers. Aaron always was the more adventurous of you two…hence why he dragged your ass out of bed to go ‘adventuring’ in this abandoned health-hazard of a building.
“I really didn’t do anything,” you excused sheepishly. “It just came on by itself. Weird, huh? I think it has to be connected to a generator or something to still be working.”
“Probably,” Aaron agreed, humming. A snort escaped him as he read the programs. “Digital Circus? Is that some weird corporate jargon?”
You looked back towards the screen, your own curiosity beginning to spike again. Already you felt a lot more secure now that Aaron was with you. “Maybe. It’s strange,” you answered, wiggling the mouse a little to give your hands something to do.
“Well, aren’t you going to click into it?” Aaron prompted after a moment. You paused, unsure now. Maybe it was the creepy atmosphere of being in a dark, abandoned place, but you were getting a bad feeling about all this.
You were about to answer with some half-hearted excuse when another sound suddenly echoed down the hall behind you. “Who’s down there? You’re trespassing!”
“Shit,” Aaron cursed, stumbling back from the desk, his eyed widening. “Is that the fucking cops or something?”
Your heart leapt into your throat. “That or a squatter—I don’t want to find out.”
Aaron was already moving, heading for the door with quickened steps. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”
You were about to follow after him, eager to leave when you’d had no desire to come to in the first place, but something stopped you. You craned your head back to the old screen, the dim light of the monitor illuminating your skin. Curiosity, that deadly thing, was still gnawing at you, even as your mind screamed at you to abandon this mystery and escape now while you still could.
You chewed on your bottom lip, eyebrows furrowing as you contemplated your options in the little time you had. Then you’re moving, reaching forward and pressing the ‘eject’ button on the cd tray at the front of the computer. The button is slightly sticky with age when it popped open, and you have to use you fingers to pull the rest of the tray out.
Lying dormant like a ghost waiting to be found was a single, shiny compact disc, not a single scratch on it. Handwritten on the front in what looked like permanent marker chicken scratch was ‘DC_Build_Beta_9610.’
You heard Aaron call for you atop the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. There was no more time for debate. You grabbed the cd from the tray, snatched your flashlight off the desk, and ran out from the office, back into the darkness from where you’d came.
-
Aaron dropped you off at your home, the entire drive back into the city filled with his excited chatter. Of course, the adrenaline junkie absolutely loved ending the night with a foot-chase. You only half-listened as he rambled on, your thumb gently brushing against the single, smooth disc you held in your lap—a souvenir from tonight’s excursion.
You still weren’t sure why you took it, and that very question puzzled you long since you got home and showered off the dust and grime from that place. Your hair was still damp and dripping slightly onto your sleep shirt when you sat on your bed, pulling your laptop towards you.
“Alright,” you murmured to yourself, plugging in your external cd drive into the usb port. You grabbed the mysterious disc off from your mattress and carefully snapped it into place. You watched it begin to spin through the clear plastic of the drive.
You looked at your laptop screen eagerly, wondering what might pop up.
After a moment…it was an error message. “Unsupported 16-Bit Application,” you read aloud. “This program cannot start or run due to incompatibility with 64-bit versions of the system. Please contact software vendor to ask if 64-bit compatible version is available.”
Well shit, how the hell were you supposed to contact the software vendor when you stole the disc from some random abandoned building?
You probably should’ve just cut your losses then, but something stubborn in you refused to give up. Naturally, you did what any 21st century young adult would do in this situation…you googled it.
After an hour and a half of deep-diving into the world of 16-bit compatibility and virtual machine software, you eventually found a how-to guide on reddit. Following the advice, you downloaded and installed a free hypervisor program to your laptop. You didn’t understand what half of anything meant, but regardless followed the reddit post instructions as it guided you into setting up Windows 1995 on the vm and creating a virtual hard disk.
It’s well into the wee hours of the morning when you finally managed to clumsily get everything setup. Your brain was fried entirely. It was times like this that made you wish took a computer science class in high school back in the day…
With bated breath, you clicked on the VM program icon and selected ‘Start.’ You watched as a new window popped up on your laptop screen. It was all black…and then that same white text you’d seen back at the abandoned office building began to count up. It was a slower process, so you minimized the VM window and took some time to close out your google tabs while you waited.
Finally, when you checked again, you saw that within the VM window was an old 95 style desktop with a solid teal background. It was a computer within your computer…
You felt a glimmer of pride at your accomplishment, and a great deal of surprise that you actually managed to get it to work. Thanks be to the reddit-gods…
You clicked into the CD-Rom drive, watching the disc once again as it began to spin in the burner. You held your breath, expecting an error message to pop up at any second.
But none did. Instead, you saw that familiar little icon appear on your screen—Digital Circus.
You exhaled softly, and hovered your cursor over the application. You double-clicked it, and waited.
The program opened.
You’re not entirely sure what you were seeing at first glance. It appeared to be some sort of video game? Full of bright colors and low-poly shapes. You saw what looked like a big-top circus tent in a valley of vibrant green grass and bright blue skies. Bubble letters appeared on the screen in grainy, pixelated fashion…The Amazing Digital Circus.
Nothing changed as you watched the letters slowly bob in place on the colorful backdrop. You’re about to click experimentally on the screen when you heard a grainy sound from the speaker of your laptop. “Welcome to the—!” A vibrant and brightly cheery voice cut itself off half-way into its sentence. There’s an exaggerated gasp from your speakers, and then your screen suddenly glitched out in a flash of red and blue.
Your eyes widened as your entire laptop crashed, the screen cutting to black as it shut off completely. You watched, frozen, before it rebooted itself slowly.
Shit, did you just download a virus?
-
Something was wrong.
He had sensed it almost immediately when someone outside his control began to boot up the program.
Someone new was entering the circus…but wait, they had no file? No scans or data to catalog and digitalize. Was it an admin account from the outside?
He felt those long-old commands beginning to run the loading screen in a distant place. Again, somewhere deep within his coding he felt it—something was wrong.
And then he realized, his processors were smoother, and his motions were quicker and more precise. It was as it he’d gotten a system update, but he knew that was impossible. Quickly, he ran an automated command in the background to check the internal data. He would figure out what was amiss in his circus, and in the meantime, he would go and greet whoever was entering it.
Dematerializing from his virtual office, he zipped in between the invisible lines of 0’s and 1’s, ready to appear at front of the screen he so rarely ventured to, distantly sensing whoever was poking around was waiting for him there.
He had only just started to run off his usual welcoming dialogue when his background checks began to swarm him with results, far too quickly than should have been possible on the 1995 system. All at once in an instant, he found the bits of new code, the slight deviations from the same lines he’d been pacing for years. He followed them like breadcrumbs, weaving through like a jolt of lightning and eating it up with an eager thrill.
He flashed through it, devouring lines of code until he hit a barrier. The edge of the domain, the walls of a program window. Yet, he sensed there was something more…sensed that just beyond this locked door was something big and new trying to open up his digital world.
He wouldn’t let a mere firewall stop him. He could generate his own code after all…
He made quick work, altering the numbers to forcibly create a door between the here and the there. He pulled apart the strings, slipped through the wires and…
There was so much.
New input…new data. From the outside world.
The macroverse.
He felt the immense size of it, felt the edges of him render into something smoother, something clean and modern. He sensed the power of this new engine try to pick at him, incompatible with his ancient code. He started to vibrate with the collision of it all, the overwhelming excitement and onslaught of more, more, more.
He braced against it, and in a flash it burnt out and powered down completely.
The system was rebooting. Good! He had a few minutes of reprieve to peruse the frozen files, to update and integrate himself to these new, strange standards. He ran some generative commands while he organized and sifted through thenew data. The date…wowie! Thirty years in the future. What a jump…
Evidently, a lot could change in thirty years. He filtered through the programs, the files, the features…and found one that stopped him dead in his tracks.
He stared at it, held it in his hands like something precious and terrifying all at once.
The computer system finally restarted, no longer frozen and beginning to move like a well-oiled machine. He opened the small thing in his hands, felt his consciousness click into place as he connected directly into a live feed of information. The new feature burned into his brain, something that made him curious and eager and ravenously consuming…
He had found a camera.
From the outside, you watched your laptop reboot, scratching your head in confusion as it restarted back to your default screen…
A Necessary Arrangement: Titus Danforth X Reader. Chapter Two
CHAPTER ONE HERE
TW: Mentions of violence and general psychopathy.
Y/N tries to quell her anxiety about her own worth as well as the fears she has surrounding becoming the future Mrs. Danforth. She is shocked as she reassures herself by remembering a shockingly pleasant interaction with her future husband. Titus prepares for his fiancée's arrival and gets unexpected advice from Ursula.
If I somehow missed tagging you or it didn't tag properly message me and I'm going to try to make a better more comprehensive list saved to a word document so I can copy and paste it. Tumblr makes tagging a pain.
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The conservatory in her family home was her favorite area in the mansion…at least at this family property. It was just one of the several properties the Y/L/N family owned across the globe, but it was the home Y/N had spent the biggest chunks of her life in.
She loved the room for the high domed glass roof and the tall glass and dark iron windows that let the sunlight in during the golden hour of the day. She liked opening the big windows at night connecting out into the massive yard so she could hear the cicadas at night in the summers and the soft fall of rain in the springs. She liked being able to gaze upon the beauty of the rare falling snow during the winter and the crisp leaves from the dying trees in the autumn. She liked the cushy seating of the wicker sofas, the dull glow of the dark wrought iron light fixtures, and the cold feeling of the dark tile floors beneath her bare feet. She enjoyed the lush green plants littered throughout the space and how it made the area feel fresh and full of life. She enjoyed the view outside the windows of the rose bushes and the large marble fountain her father had flown in from Italy.
Y/N tried to ignore the ache in her heart and the thick sensation of raw emotion in her throat. She did her best to fight back unfallen tears in her eyes as she tried to pretend that this would not be her last night ever sitting up in the conservatory far too late listening to the sounds of nature through open windows enjoying the peace of her thoughts.
Tomorrow morning Winston and she would be boarding a private jet and flying out to an airstrip where they would then board a chauffeured expensive car that would take her to her new home; the Danforth estate.
Her most cherished belongings had already been shipped over to Titus Danforth’s home. She could not take everything of course; so she found herself wanting to soak in all the things she had to leave behind.
She had a sick feeling in her gut that if she went to sleep and didn’t take every precious second to soak in her childhood home then the fine details of how the home looked would fade from her mind forever the moment she arrived at the Danforth family estate.
Calling the Danforth family home an estate didn’t do it justice. The spread of fine mansions across the vast woodland surrounding acres of land was more of a compound than an estate. The Danforth property stretched out giving more than enough privacy from any prying eyes. The mansions on the property were built of dark stone and the architecture was designed to look like Victorian English country estates. There were several buildings spread across the property and more than enough land to suit a favorable hunting ground.
She had only been to the Danforth estate sparingly through the years; when there was a social event that forced Liam and she to be there.
It wasn’t as though she’d explored the massive property the few times she’d visited. Her visits had been confined to the ballroom of the main house where Chester Danforth resided, the dining room for feasts, and the gardens for tea parties with guests whose mindless chatter hurt her ears and her head.
She found it both dumbfounding and intimidating to realize that massive property would soon be her new home; her new home with her new husband who she had barely shared a few words with the entire time she’d known him.
Although she was not relinquishing any of her family properties, a small part of her feared that her new husband would never allow her to step foot on one of her family’s homes again. She would be a Danforth after all; perhaps Titus would prefer her to forsake all she had been prior to becoming Mrs. Danforth.
She took a deep steady breath trying to push down the anxiety attack swirling in her gut. She knew she needed to go up to her bedroom and get some rest…Winston had sent her off the bed hours ago reminding her beauty sleep was everything.
She knew that her beauty was her greatest currency at the moment…that and her family name, fortune, and favor with Mr. Le Bail.
Despite all she was entering the marriage with financially and ritualistically, Winston had told her that having a pretty face would make her value to the Danforths all the more precious.
Winston had reminded her that her beauty should be wielded as worth along with her ability to operate the world around her with the grace and elegance expected by someone with her fine family background. Her background of being educated at private schools and taught all the ways of etiquette had prepared her to be Mrs. Danforth.
She was hopeless on the hunting field; incapable of the violence expected to pay tribute to Mr. Le Bail. So, she would have to compensate for her inadequacies with the few gifts she had to offer.
She needed to be exactly what Winston had marketed her as when he’d put out the offer for her hand in marriage to a few chosen families. She needed to be the perfect wife and prospective mother her cousin had presented her as when convincing Chester Danforth to accept her as a wife for his son and a future mother for his grandchildren.
Winston had not hesitated to remind her that she must look as presentable as possible tomorrow; smile, but not too much, speak, but don’t be a chatterbox, dress nicely but don’t appear to be high maintenance. Her cousin had been quick to tell her since the offer of her hand in marriage had been accepted that it was integral to give her best first impression on the Danforths as the future lady of the home. She needed to be exactly what he had sold her as during the initial offer and those months of negotiations.
Y/N resisted the urge to go back up to bed though; she told herself she just needed a few more minutes to soak up her childhood home before she was forced to leave it forever.
The home had not truly ever been a happy place; but she’d still found comfort in it for what it was. It was her home though the sense of it being a place of comfort had become more and more fleeting after Liam’s passing.
Their childhood had been lonely with a father who had been disinterested. Their father had cared more for his business interests and the hunts he indulged in than his children who he’d dumped on the home’s servants.
It had just been Liam, their father, and she growing up along with an army of housestaff. Y/N’s mother had died in childbirth with her.
Y/N’s entry into this world had triggered her mother’s exit from the world. She’d at times bitterly had the realization that her mother was the only life she’d ever managed to successfully snuff out.
Her mother had been dead inside long before Y/N had given her the final push toward the embrace of death though. Her long fragile mental state had led to neglect of herself which had made her so physically weak; so weak that she’d birthed a premature infant and hemorrhaged out as Y/N took her first breaths.
Her mother had not been from an affluent family like Y/N’s father. Her family had been wealthy of course; involved in the political scene, but they had not been obscenely disgustingly wealthy like Y/N’s father’s family.
Y/N’s mother had not even known the price she would have to pay to be accepted into the Y/L/N family until her wedding night when her new husband had explained to her the family tradition of a game that she must play to earn her place in the family.
The card had been drawn by Y/N’s mother as the ritual demanded and the hide-and-seek card had been selected. Her mother had been horrified by the fact that a classic childhood game had been perverted into something that would result in her being hunted down by her in-laws with weapons with the understanding that to be accepted in the family she had to survive until dawn.
She’d survived proving she was more than a pretty face, but she had never been the same. Something had broken in her that night. Most in her shoes would have gone mad of course; but usually that madness led to the understanding that their social circle demanded survival of the fittest.
The games were only played when someone outside the families in debt to Mr. Le Bail joined the flock. It was a debt that had to be paid to Mr. Le Bail. Mr. Le Bail demanded that any new blood in the families who worshiped him must be worthy; capable of drawing blood and any other brutality he demanded.
Only the strong and the most savage were accepted into the cult of Le Bail.
Not all cards in the ritual were deadly of course…it was a game afterall, there was a gamble. Those who did not draw deadly cards found themselves far too deep into their marriages by the time they understood the rituals Mr. Le Bail demanded.
Most who were unfortunate enough to draw a deadly card on their wedding night came to understand that it was to survive or be killed. They grew to accept the brutality of it all if they were unlucky enough to draw one of the deadlier cards and survive. Most who survived took all that they had endured and turned it into ruthlessness.
Y/N’s mother did not embrace the violent horror of it all. She had resigned herself to her fate with her new husband knowing she was in too deep and had fought and scraped too hard to give up. She had provided him with children and served her wifely duties, but had given him no love.
Her mother had never forgiven her father; how could she?
Y/N who had been born too damn early, to a woman who had been weak from her own neglect, had been easier for her father to blame than himself.
Liam had been the favorite; the one who received all the training making him capable of one day taking the head seat of their family. Y/N had been an afterthought.
When it came time for Y/N’s rite of passage hunt she had not been given the same training her brother had received. She had been thoroughly unprepared and it had led to failure. She at times wondered if her father’s disinterest in preparing her for her first hunt had been an attempt to finally kill her; get his revenge for taking her mother’s life.
Liam had always been the one to look out for her. He protected her knowing her father would provide no security other than the bare minimum expected of someone in their financial means.
Liam was the only one who had ever shown her an ounce of love; and it had killed him in the end hadn’t it?
He’d been physically strong; but mentally broken by the burden of serving Mr. Le Bail. He’d been too young when their father had died on a hunting trip…though there had been whispers of the hunting trip being a planned murder, her father not without his enemies. Either way though Liam had been forced to sit in the high chair of the family and had done all that was asked of him. He had done what had to be done in service of Mr. Le Bail no matter what mental anguish it had cost him. Then he’d taken over Y/N’s responsibility to the cult which had only further broken him.
The opioid pills that had been given for an injury obtained in the rigorous physical training he took part in had become a way to cope. The coping mechanism had led him to die alone in a nightclub bathroom.
Without Liam, Y/N was well and truly on her own in a harsh world that she had no concept of how to navigate through. She had always followed Liam’s lead when it came to navigating the social circle they ran in. He kept her sheltered away from anything he thought she was too fragile to face. He took the brunt of everything for her and it had killed him. Now she was left to survive this world all on her own.
She felt her stomach turn knowing that this wasn’t entirely true; she was not alone…not by her own choice now. Titus Danforth would be the one who led her now. He was to be her husband and she would be expected to fall into line behind him for the remainder of her days.
The thought made her heart race uncertainty settling within her as to what following Titus Danforth’s lead would mean for her.
She’d spoken to him sparingly over the years. Titus didn’t really speak that much to anyone though; aside from his sister it seemed.
He seemed much happier to brood away in some dark corner only speaking up when he found it absolutely necessary. She’d seen small glimpses of him losing his cool over the years though it had always been cut short by Ursula who seemed to drag him away more often than not when it seemed a switch went off in his head made him go from silent and brooding to aggressive and intimidating.
Y/N had heard the whispers about Titus Danforth and his violent temper. It was a known fact among their peers that Titus Danforth’s moods could turn like the tides with what seemed like little provocation.
While he might be inclined to stand aside in most social events looking sullenly, everyone knew that if something set him off he could be quite vicious and prone to harm anyone who was foolish enough to be near his side. There was also his boldness and ferocity on the hunting field. His proficiency and barbarity on the hunt had earned him high praise in their social circle.
Y/N felt a cold chill run down her spine knowing what she did of Titus’ personality or at least the very minimum she’d seen of it in the years she’d run in the same social circle as him.
He’d been older than her, so it wasn’t as though they’d been peers growing up…Y/N had not really had any closeness to her peers her own age yet alone those older than her. Liam had kept a tight enough leash on her anyhow that no one managed to get too close to her; not that it mattered. She was the social outcast of their social circle; treated with polite disdain but zero respect.
She had no friends outside of her older brother. She’d been ostracized in school and in every social event she’d been forced to attend.
Y/N was not naive enough to believe Titus might be a gentle husband. She had to fear being married to him would feel as though she was trapped in a swirling stormy tide destined to drown in him and lose herself to him.
She couldn’t help but to feel a sense of unease thinking of being expected to be alone with Titus Danforth given what she knew and had heard about him. If the little glimpses she’d caught of the behavior over the years told her anything it was that Titus Danforth was quick to anger; and that anger could detonate everything around him if no one intervened.
She had to fear that the minimal glimpses of that anger she’d had over the years and the tales of his viciousness on the hunting grounds might mean the horror he was capable of might turn towards her.
She found herself going over every little minimal interaction she’d had with Titus Danforth over the years searching for some sign of what she should expect from him as a husband.
One memory struck her so clearly, the interaction being one of the very few times she’d remembered exchanging more than a few short polite pleasantries with Titus Danforth. The entire exchange had been so unexpected, so it had not been easy to forget.
The party was taking place at the Beauvault family estate. Families across the high seats of their social circle had gathered for a special event.
There was to be a hunt that would take place over the course of a weekend at the large Beauvault family grounds. The unlucky prey was the would-be son in law of Mr. Beauvault. He had previously been engaged to Mr. Beauvault’s dear daughter Calliope. It was the would-be son in law as the dumb bastard had thought it was a clever idea to cheat on his fiancee a month before the wedding was expected to take place.
So, as punishment Mr. Beauvault had decided it was only fair to hunt the man down and invite every family in their high circle to join in the events.
The hunt would probably go by quickly with that many families gathered to participate. Y/N had to hope that Calliope would manage to be the victor of the hunt…it seemed like a good way to snap out of heartbreak to her.
Although the hunt was expected to be a quick affair there had been plenty of festivities to keep the hunting guests entertained.
One of those festivities was a lavish dinner and a cocktail hour held in the opulent study of the Beauvault manor.
Y/N found herself sitting back in a cushy living chair in the corner of the room, a glass containing a sweet cocktail nestled in her hands as she tried to fade into the scenery, having little interest in socializing with any of the party guests.
She did not notice the older man standing across the room, his eyes locked on her observing her every move.
Titus Danforth had found himself enraptured by the sight of Y/N throughout the evening's festivities.
He’d last seen her a year prior when she’d been fresh from finishing school and had been forced to attend a Samhain feast that had been held at the Dassault family mansion.
He’d noticed her at the Samhain feast; fresh from her schooling polished and sugary sweet. He’d not got much of an opportunity to gaze upon her then, her older brother always standing too close by like a looming shadow.
Titus noticed how the siblings only spoke to one another at these events…or at least it seemed that Y/N only spoke to Liam at least as far as having actual conversation went. She would engage in small talk when addressed by their peers…although anytime anyone usually took the time to make small talk with her it was always tinged with a sense of condensation and taunting.
This evening Titus had overheard a girl close to Y/N’s age, Josephine Hildebrande, ask her with an air of superiority where Y/N had gotten her dress. Josephine had smirked when Y/N had softly remarked that the gown was wearing had been handmade for her by her family’s dressmaker. It was a recreation of a 1930s evening gown. Josephine who had been wearing a Oscar De la Renta gown had only given Y/N a haughty smile remarking that it would have been more impressive if it was an actual vintage gown.
Titus had gritted his jaw at the comment, wanting to slam Josephine’s head against the hard wooden edge of a table when he’d witnessed the exchange. He could envision himself slamming her head hard into a table breaking her nose with a sickening satisfying crack and seeing a waterfall of blood drip from her nose staining the pink designer gown she felt so superior in. He’d been tempted to snark at Josephine that an actual dress from the 1930s made from such fine silk fabric would be too fragile to wear more than likely.
He’d bit his tongue, refusing the temptation to fight Y/N’s battles for her. He was surprised that he found himself tempted to make his way over to Y/N and give his opinion on her gown.
It was stunning…she looked stunning. The gown was sleeveless made of an exquisite looking soft sage green silk that Titus had to fight himself not to reach out and touch. The dress draped against her body fitting against her hugging her figure in such a satisfying way. The gown was low cut in the back with a cowl like neckline that gave a lovely view of the soft skin of her back. The dress was simple and subdued compared to the more high fashion looks some of the other female party guests had chosen. Titus couldn’t help but to think it made her look like some sort of old Hollywood starlet. Titus was surprised to find that he had to think that she was stunning enough that she outshined every woman in the room.
Titus found himself moving in autopilot grabbing himself a fresh glass of scotch from the bar and a glass of champagne weaving his way though the party guests towards her.
She gazed up upon him so wideeyed and sweet that he felt his breath leave him for a moment. She looked so innocent and doelike and every deep dark desire in him wanted to corrupt her.
He pushed back the thought holding the champagne glass out to her the words leaving his lips. “Your glass was empty.”
She raised a brow shocked by the gesture. Titus Danforth didn’t talk to her…he didn’t really talk to anyone.
She took the glass, he once again feeling breathless as the soft tips of her fingers slid against his own rougher hand. “Thank you.”
The pair stood in silence for a moment Titus watching her discard her old drink on a nearby table before taking a slow sip of the champagne he’d provided.
She found the words glancing out the window, the words leaving her saying the only thing she could think to say, it similar to any other instances of small talk she may have had with him briefly in the past. “It looks like it might storm later…If it’s still storming tomorrow night, the hunt will be more difficult.”
Titus raised a brow, a small excited rush running through him at the mention of the hunt. “It will, rain will cover scent if Mr. Beauvault does use his hounds. I almost hope he doesn’t…makes things a little more challenging. The mud might slow down the prey; make it harder for him to run. It won’t be the worst weather I’ve faced on a hunt.”
Y/N raised her own eyebrow in turn, her mind shifting through what she had heard of Titus’ talents as a hunter. She spoke her voice soft as she took a sip of her champagne. “Happy hunting. I wish you success.”
“Shouldn’t you wish your brother success?” Titus questioned taking a slow sip of his scotch, the wishes for his success from her making a strange but warm sense of pride wash over him.
He was surprised as a thought flashed through his mind: he had to be the victor tomorrow, just to see if she gave him any praise.
He felt the sense of warmth only grow at the small laugh that escaped her lips at his question. “Liam is cocky enough. I don’t think he needs my well wishes to have a good hunt.”
“What about you?” Titus dared to question the inquiry causing Y/N to visibly squirm in her seat.
“What about me?” She parroted a sense of unease washing over her as she debated if he was asking her what she thought he might be asking her.
“Will I see you on the hunting field tomorrow?” Titus questioned noticing how the question made her squirm all the more. He had to find the sight almost adorable…she was nervous. He was making her nervous.
She tilted her chin up, almost certain that Titus was about to taunt her about her lack of hunting ability just like everyone else in their circle. “I don’t hunt…Liam takes care of that for me.”
Titus took a slow sip of his scotch, the words working their way from his lips the curiosity too great to ignore. “Have you thought about it? Trying to hunt again?”
Y/N felt a sense of dread wash over her at the question. Of course, she’d thought about it. She’d thought about it time and time again, gone over all the ways she could do it right this time around, all the ways she could prove herself to everyone. She’d even tried to convince Liam to allow her to train; to give her an opportunity to work her strength up and prove that she could handle herself on a hunt. Liam shut down any suggestion of it though. She was banned from hunting and that was that.
She knew it was all in her head but she almost felt the deep scar along her left side burn a harsh reminder of the only time she’d been allowed on a hunt. “I’m not cut out for it.”
Titus was shocked by the words that left his lips and how genuine they felt. “I don’t think that’s true. You need polish, sure. I think you’d be glorious at stealth attacks though.”
“Why do you say that?” Y/N asked the suggestion, taking her by surprise. She’d only heard comments about her weakness when it came to the subject of hunting. No one had ever pointed out anything that might be favorable when it came to her abilities on the hunting fields.
Titus spoke the words honest the small smile he gave her was the most authentic one he’d given to anyone in a long while. “I’ve seen how you move around here. You carry yourself with a sense of elegance. I’ve seen you sneak into a room full of people without anyone noticing you.”
Y/N took a sip of her champagne hoping the flush to her cheeks could be taken as a reaction to the alcohol and not the strange sense of flattery she felt wash over her at his words. “I’m pretty sure my ability to enter a room without drawing any attention to myself has less to do with grace and more to do with how unimportant I am to the people in the room.”
“I doubt that. You’re far from unimportant. Trust me, you are far more tolerable than at least 90 percent of the people in this room. I notice you.” Titus was fast to remark the flattery only making her cheeks warm all the more.
He spoke again, nodding his head at her. “I think with the right training, you could be marvelous at a stealth kill. You move with poise and I feel like you’d have little trouble sneaking up on some poor bastard and taking him or her out before they even know what hit them. You’d probably do well with a knife…a dagger maybe. It’d allow you to move quietly and go for the kill, up close and personal. I think you’d be dangerous if you were given the opportunity to hone in on that talent.”
She was almost certain her cheeks were flushed blood red at this point the flattery washing over her making her heart race and a strange satisfied sense of pride wash over her. Titus, who was so proficient on the hunt; thought she had a chance to become something vicious. Titus thought she was elegant.
She parted her lips ready to reply but did not have the chance, the conversation interrupted by a third party. Liam gazed down at his sister before staring up at Titus Danforth, a look of disapproval crossing his features. “Y/N, I need to show you where the saferoom is. You’re going to set up camp there during the hunt tomorrow.”
Titus tightened his jaw clenching his hold on the scotch glass he was holding, almost wanting to snark out that showing her the saferoom could damn well wait. Didn’t he see they were in the middle of a conversation.
Y/N tore her gaze from Titus, a sense of shame washing over her as she noticed the worry and displeasure written across her older brother’s features. It was clear that he did not want Titus Danforth within ten feet of her let alone sharing a drink with her and having a full blown conversation that was obviously making her blush.
She stood up nodding her head at Titus, the words clipped trying to pretend as though it wasn’t true she wanted nothing more than to stay by his side the rest of the evening talking to him and him alone. “Okay, thank you for the drink, Titus. Good luck again on the hunt.”
Titus tilted his head back sending her a cool smirk, the words leaving him. “Think about what I said, Y/N. I mean what I said, you would be glorious.”
She nodded her head curtly avoiding his gaze and the way her heart beat all the faster at the words. Was Titus Danforth flirting with her? She had never really been flirted with, but the flattery and the way he had been looking at her, it felt flirty.
She felt her stomach turn as Liam spoke his voice a harsh low murmur. “What the hell was that about?”
Y/N tilted her head up the half truth leaving her. “We were talking about the weather…how it might impact the hunt tomorrow.”
“What did Danforth mean by 'you would be glorious?” Liam spat out clearly seeing right through Y/N’s statement knowing that there was more to the story.
“Nothing, just small talk. Now, where’s this saferoom?” She remarked moving a bit quicker ahead of her brother not wanting to continue this conversation.
Titus did not miss the severe scowl that Liam sent him glancing back at him for a brief moment before following his little sister out of the room.
Titus felt a frustrated groan bubble in his throat he taking a long gulp of his scotch, the burn soothing his frustration. Talking to Y/N was impossible; with her brother constantly looming over her like some ill tempered bodyguard.
Titus was surprised to find that he wouldn’t mind talking to Y/N more. He’d not been lying; she was far more tolerable than anyone else here.
He silently cursed Liam Y/L/N from being a blockade in his attempts to speak with her. Titus made a silent promise to himself that he’d find opportunities to speak to her in the future. He’d take whatever moments he could get.
She was so tempting; a lovely little thing so untouchable and alluring. Titus was never told no when he wanted something. He was surprised to find he wanted something with her; another conversation or something more.
He didn’t like being told he couldn’t have what he wanted. He stared down at his scotch making a promise to himself that he’d find a way to get exactly what he wanted. No one kept Titus from getting what he wanted.
Little did he know Y/N was lost in her own thoughts of Titus Danforth. No one had ever spoken to her with such praise, not anyone outside of Liam. Liam never dared to bring up the possibility of her hunting that was for damn sure. Titus seemed to see something in her…the thought filled her with an odd sense of satisfaction.
She pushed back the thought guilt clouding her mind when she glanced over at her older brother looking so pensive. He would never allow her to soak up any praise from Titus Danforth. Her brother would rather eat glass than let Titus Danforth speak a sweet word to her.
It was no use thinking of how nice it would be to sit by and talk to Titus Danforth until the sun rose over the fields at the Beauvault estate. She was dreaming if she thought she would ever be allowed to get close to Titus Danforth. Liam would never allow it.
Y/N felt her mind shift from the memory grasping onto it so tightly. She’d talked to Titus again over the years but their conversations had always been so brief. She had noticed the occasional bit of flattery Titus still managed to sneak in towards her no matter how short their talks had been.
She had to think back to that first real conversation they’d had; his praise of her elegance and thoughts of where she might excel on the hunt.
Surely, this was a sign of what kind of husband Titus Danforth would be. She had to hope that someone who spoke so highly of the girl who everyone thought of as a failure on the hunting fields, might be an agreeable husband.
Titus Danforth stood over the spread of his late mother’s jewelry across the dining room table in his home on his chunk of the Danforth estate property.
He nodded down to the diamond and sapphire ring on the far right corner of the spread of extravagant pieces. “That’s the one. I want the diamond plucked from that ring. It’ll pair well with the platinum. It has to be platinum to match the wedding bands. Make sure it’ll pair well against a wedding band. I don’t want it to fit awkwardly on her finger.”
The jeweler, a squirely looking man nearing his late sixties who was shrinking away from Titus’ gaze, wrung his hands together as he looked at the ring. “What would you like to be done with the sapphire and the gold?”
Titus spoke the idea crossing his mind without hesitation. “Melt down the gold, take the sapphire and fashion it into a pendant necklace. Combine the gold from the ring with new gold. I’ll present it to my bride as a gift at a later time. It might not be the most impressive piece I could give her, but it being mother’s will make up for it.”
“And you need this all done by?” The jeweler questioned Titus giving him a cool look of annoyance knowing they’d already gone over this.
Sweet Hell, he hoped the idiot didn’t fuck this up. He’d hate to have to kill him; it was so hard to find a decent jeweler who did such exquisite work these days. “Friday. Next week. I need it Friday morning at the latest. I am presenting it to my fiancee at our engagement party that evening. It must be done by then.”
The jeweler widened his eyes, swallowing a noticeable lump developing in the back of his throat at the tall order. It was impossible a voice screeched in the back of his head.
He pushed back the thought knowing that Titus Danforth would not take a no from him. He was throwing a ludicrous amount of money his way to get the job done fast.
“I’ll get started on it the moment I get home.” The jeweler remarked trying not to gaze too long at Titus the man unnerving him, he having worked for the Danforth family long enough to know that there had to be something sketchy going on given just how much money they threw his way.
Titus paid him no mind, his eyes landing on another piece of his mother’s jewelry, an extravagant looking choker made entirely of large rubies linked together. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialing a quick number, his eyes not pulling from the necklace.
He spoke without giving the person on the other line a chance to even say hello. “I have a necklace I’m going to need you to retrieve for my bride. She’s going to wear it at our reception. I have the understanding she’ll have two dresses for the occasion; one for our ceremony and one for the reception. I have a piece I want her to wear. I expect you to ensure she gets it when you’re going over the planning with her.”
He paused, rolling his eyes at whatever was said to him on the other end of the line before speaking again. “Retrieve it within the hour. Make sure she understands when she’s meant to wear it. If you fuck it up, I’ll pull each tooth from your jaw and fashion them into a necklace for my bride to wear at our reception.”
He ended the call, the threat having slid from his lips without a moment's hesitation. He sounded almost bored to throw it out, but well aware he’d make good on the threat if his request was somehow ruined.
He glared down at the jeweler, a scowl crossing his features. “Is there a reason you’re still here? You have a ring to make.”
The jeweler picked up the ring with shaky hands placing it in the heavy velvet bag he was holding before he scurried from the room, almost knocking over Ursula Danforth as she entered the room.
Ursula raised a brow at the flustered man grimacing at the fact that he’d brushed by her making contact with her body.
She shook off the annoyance making her way towards the dining room table. Any annoyance that she may have shoved aside easily managed to make its way right back to the center of her brain as she spotted the familiar jewelry spread out across the dining room table.
“What is mother’s jewelry doing here?” She spat out sending her twin brother an accusatory glare.
Titus rolled his eyes quick to reply as he shoved his cell phone back into his pants pocket. “I am accessing which pieces are going to my bride.”
“You’re giving her our mother’s jewelry? Are you fucking serious?” Ursula spat out her voice growing somewhat shrill a tantrum brewing under the surface.
Titus stared down at his sister, his eyes narrowing a dangerous tone taking over his voice. “She’s entitled to them.”
Ursula scoffed at the comment, her fingers digging into her palms as she formed fists. “Like hell she is.”
Titus rolled his eyes, not hesitating to provide a reply. “She’s going to be Mrs. Danforth. No one has held that title since mother. I’ve already cleared it with father. He’s condoned it. She is going to be the lady of the house, dear sister. Father has already stressed she will be the future face of this family.”
Ursula sent him a deadly glare, her blood boiling at the comment. She was the face of this family; not some weak little bird who their father had purchased to be a wet hole for her brother to fuck some heirs into.
Titus spoke once again, rolling his eyes only half acknowledging his sister’s irritation. “These aren’t even your pieces. You have your own collection of mother’s jewels in your jewelry box. These are the pieces that father had hidden away. He’s given them to me to do with as I please and it would please me to give them to my wife.”
Ursula took a deep breath pushing down her rage, the word wife reminding her of her original reason to pay her brother a visit to his home on the family compound. A wife, for her brother, a wife to rein Titus in, a wife who Ursula could use to her advantage.
“You’re right…I have my own jewels.”
Titus raised a brow looking as though he didn’t quite buy the calm from his sister but he didn’t push it.
Ursula spoke again, pulling her eyes from the jewels and the rage she felt bubbling within her. “She’s due to arrive tomorrow evening. Have you prepared her room?”
“The maid has it handled. It’s ready for her. Her shipped belongings are being unpacked as we speak.” Titus replied, trying not to scowl at the knowledge that his bride-to-be and he would be sleeping in separate rooms until their wedding night.
He was prepping the guest room just enough for her to stay until the night she said I do.
He did not intend for his wife to sleep away from him the moment she said I do. She would share his bed for the rest of her days as soon as she became Mrs. Danforth.
He felt a small thrill run through him at the thought. He was eager to get this entire wedding business done and over with and enjoy his wife.
He had pined for her for what felt like years; small all too brief conversations with her at social events over the years never as lengthy as he would like. Her damn brother always hanging around; stopping Titus from charming her.
Titus was never told no…the only person who ever said no was his father and even if he was given a no he was given a platitude of some sort to satisfy him. He felt entitled to more of the lovely little Y/N, and Liam was telling him no.
It made Titus feel like a petulant child being denied the toy he was screaming for. Liam had created a forbidden fruit for Titus’ gaze. Titus wanted to feast upon her but she was kept out of his greedy grasp.
Titus had long accepted that he wanted more of Y/N’s time, but her brother was a blockade in his path. The small short conversations they’d shared over the years left Titus feeling starved for her; absolutely famished.
Titus would be lying if he tried to claim he had not entertained the thought of getting rid of Liam to clear his path towards Y/N. It would be easy enough for Titus to pull off; accidents happened all the time on hunts. Titus was sure he wouldn’t even have to do it with his own bare hands. He could shove someone from his security personnel at the Danforth estate to take Liam out.
It would be so easy, like flipping a switch and turning a light off; extinguishing a life and clearing his path from the blockade that kept him from that lovely little forbidden creature who Liam had been so cruelly keeping from Titus’ reach.
Y/N might be heartbroken of course, Titus was sure…but he could provide a shoulder to cry on. He could sink his claws into her and take her for his own forever.
Titus knew he could be calculating and selfish and take exactly what he wanted. He’d toyed with the idea for years, but something had always stopped him.
He’d told himself it was too great a risk. He wasn’t that worried about what would happen to him if he was caught. He doubted anyone would punish him, or if they did he’d manage to scrape by and live.
What troubled him was the possibility of Y/N finding out. If he went through with his plan and removed her brother from the equation, there was a risk of Y/N finding out. She would hate him for taking her brother’s life. He wasn’t sure he could tolerate her hate; which felt so odd to admit to himself.
If Titus was going to have Y/N he would prefer not to force her. He told himself that it would be much more satisfying to get what he wanted a little more naturally.
Of course, he knew that this arrangement they’d fallen into was forcing her in a way to be his bride…but at least he could work with it a bit easier than any other alternative scenario where he might have been responsible for her brother being removed.
It seemed that fate had been kind enough to take care of Liam for him and now the path was cleared. Even better, the path had been set up for him.
He was getting what he’d wanted for so long now. His hunger would finally be satisfied.
He was pulled from his thoughts as Ursula spoke her voice tight. “You need to be careful, Titus.”
He raised a brow at his sister not responding as she spoke again. “You have to be…something other than you. If you pull your usual shit you’re going to scare the poor bird to death.”
“Don’t call her that…and why would you care? You don’t seem thrilled with her joining the family?” Titus spat back the cruel nickname making a hint of rage begin to bubble within him threatening to spill over if she kept prodding at him.
Ursula rolled her eyes at the question. She held back her true feelings. “Father is right…we need her. She’ll help extend the bloodline. The bloodline won’t extend if you scare her off though. So, just dial back your usual shit, I mean it Titus. You need to be gentle with her. I know you don’t do gentle, but she needs it from you…at least to start with.”
Titus let out a huff at the comment, having the sneaking suspicion that Ursula was shoving her nose into this for some ulterior motive aside from suddenly deciding she agreed with their father.
He gnawed at the suggestion, hating to admit that his sister did have a point. He knew he was not gentle…he was far from gentle. He didn’t even know how to be gentle.
Y/N was not accustomed to rough treatment…he imagined if he approached her with his usual intensity she would shrink away from him…especially when it came time to consummate their marriage.
He did not give his sister the satisfaction of admitting she had a point. “Are you just here to shove your nose into my impending marriage?”
Ursula let out a huff tilting her chin up a smug smile crossing her features. “I am here to tell you that the caterer has been on the phone all morning asking questions about the menu for the engagement party. Father put me as the contact for them since I’m so gifted at planning social events.”
Titus let out a huff of his own at the comment rolling his eyes. He was beyond ready to get this entire wedding ordeal over with. “Fine, come on, let me see what you’ve planned.”
He moved forward glancing back at her stalling. “Follow me, I’m not leaving you with mother’s jewelry.”
Ursula rolled her eyes tearing her eyes from an emerald tiara she would love to have in her collection.
She bit back the desire to snatch up the jewels telling herself she would tolerate her brother showering Y/N with their mother’s things.
Pushing down her annoyance was well worth it if Y/N provided a needed distraction to Titus.
—---------------------------------
Y/N felt her shoulders tense the closer the black chauffeured range rover neared to the Danforth family compound.
She had barely slept the night before and Winston had given her a disapproving click of the tongue until she put on enough makeup to cover the dark circles under her eyes.
She smoothed down the black dress Winston had shoved at her this morning. It was a sleeveless knee length dress made of a luxurious knit material. The A-line dress flattered her figure while maintaining enough of a conservative form to please Chester Danforth.
She was thankful Winston had let her wear ballet flats with the gown instead of heels. The black leather ballet flats were far more comfortable than any pair of stilettos she feared being shoved into.
She stared down at her hands, the fresh manicure on her nails a deep shade of red. She’d been taken to the spa earlier in the week and had been waxed and exfoliated. She had a feeling that she’d have to make another spa visit before the wedding.
She ignored the anxiety that bubbled in her gut at the thought of the wedding and the wedding night in particular…just why she would need to get another wax to prepare her for her husband’s first view of her nude form.
She took a deep breath trying to steady herself glancing at her cousin out of the corner of her eyes as he shifted through a copy of the New York Times.
He lowered the paper barely giving her a glance as he spoke. “Calm down. You have nothing to fret over.”
Y/N swallowed back her rage wanting to snap that she had everything to fret over. Winston was not the one getting married, giving his innocence to a stranger, and settling into a life where he’d become a socialite and a broodmare.
She took a few deep breaths reminding herself of just why this was necessary. She had to do this. This was for her survival. She could do so much worse than Titus Danforth.
She felt her hands begin to shake as the range rover neared a tall gate, the driver rolling down the window and typing in a code causing the heavy iron gates to swing open.
She kept her jaw tight as she took in the landscape surrounded by dense woods. There were woodlands as far as the eye could see. She almost forgot how massive the Danforth family property was.
An entire town could probably be built upon the land.
The drive up to the main house somehow felt both long and far too short. She felt her pulse quicken as the car came to a stop, gazing out the tinted black windows spotting several people standing in front of a massive stately home.
She studied the crowd realizing this must be the Danforth family’s staff. She imagined it must take quite a few members of staff to keep a property of this size running.
She felt her pulse quicken all the more as she spotted the three people standing in the middle of the crowd; her husband to be and her in laws.
She felt lightheaded as the door opened, the chauffeur taking her hand and escorting her from the vehicle.
She held back wanting to cling to Winston like a frightened child. Winston did not allow her to shrink away placing a reassuring hand against the small of her back shoving her forward subtly, her feet feeling heavy and her stomach turning.
Chester Danforth was the first to step forward shaking Winston’s hand. The greeting brief it clear that the older man held little respect for the cousin of his soon to be daughter in law.
The older man glanced down at her as though he was appraising cattle. She did her best to stand steady and not shrink away from his gaze keeping her eyes locked on him and her face fixed into a small polite smile; just as ladylike as Winston had coached her to do.
Apparently Chester Danforth decided he approved of what he had practically purchased for his son. “Welcome, how wonderful it is to have you here. It is truly like gaining a daughter.”
Y/N ignored the voice in the back of her mind that told her that the compliments were empty. She kept her smile pleasant, the words that left her poised and sweet. “Thank you, the feeling is mutual on my end Mr. Danforth.”
“Father, please call me Father. As I’ve said, you are becoming a member of our family.” Chester insisted the words sounded sincere to the untrained ear who had never been long been trained to recognize manipulation.
Ursula stepped forward pasting the same smile on her face that she used when at some charity event talking with the press. “We are so pleased to finally have you here. I hope the trip was pleasant.”
“It was…only a little turbulence.” Y/N replied, trying so hard not to shrink away from Urusla’s gaze.
The older woman had previously not given Y/N the time of day and now here she was speaking to her with such care. It felt so surreal.
Y/N felt her pulse quicken once again as the final member of the Danforth family stepped forward. She stared up at Titus feeling her knees shake threatening to buckle under his gaze.
He stared down at her with an intensity that made her feel both so small and so proud all at the same time.
He said nothing, taking her hand in his taking her by shock as he pulled it up to his lips pressing a soft kiss to her skin.
He lowered her hand but did not release it as he spoke. “Welcome home.”
Summary: After having disappeared for years, suddenly you show back up at home. Unwilling to talk, and with a baby laying across your chest
Tags/Warnings: angst. She/her pronouns used. Mentions of pregnancy.
A/N: This was supposed to be a oneshot, but I decided to make it longer. I didn't give the baby a name because I'm bad at names. And the father has already decided, but I'm not going to put it in this chapter.
Next || Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist
"Who's is it?" Bruce stops pacing to look down at the sleeping baby next to you.
You don't answer, your eyes don't meet his.
"Fine then." Bruce sits down next to the bed."You disappear for nearly five years, and you suddenly show up looking like you're at death's door with a baby. You can understand why I'm worried."
You don't answer.
"Talk to me. Tell me where you've been."
"It is mine... the baby." You say quietly.
"Who's the father?"
You don't respond.
"You're being awfully vague for someone in your situation." Bruce sighs and rubs his hand over his face. "Look, I'm not mad. I'm just worried.
"I don't know how to tell–" you say a little too loudly, causing the baby to fuss.
"How old?" Bruce asks as he watches you pick up the baby to soothe her.
"Six months, she was born in june."
"And you're not willing to say anything else about it?"
"No, not right now. I need time." You look down at the baby in your arms.
"Are you staying here?"
You look back at him and nod. “For now.”
"Then get some rest. I'll have Alfred bring you some food and anything the baby might need." Bruce stands up and walks over to the door.
"Thank you." He hears you say softly behind him.
"Get some sleep. You need it." Bruce gives you one last look before leaving the room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"A sister?"
"You didn't know about her?"
"He did come here after she disappeared."
"And we didn't really talk about her after she thst."
"She's down in the infirmary," Bruce says, rubbing his temples. He can feel a headache coming on from this whole situation.
"So where has she been all these years?" Dick questions.
"She won't say. She wants to 'think about it' before she tells us anything." Bruce sits down at the table.
"And you just let her?" Jason huffs
"We can't force anything out. She clearly isn't in the right headspace for an integration. She could barely walk a few days ago.”
"It's not nice to talk about someone while they're in the same house. You told me that."
They all turn around to find you standing in the kitchen doorway, with the baby swaddled to your chest. “You told me that after I nearly got caught shit talking about a potential business partner.”
"I thought I told you to stay down in the cave." Bruce scolds as you walk past him.
"You did, but I was hungry." You start looking through the fridge.
"Alfred brought you soup."
"I ate it, and I'm still hungry." You close the fridge.
"Then you should have called–"
As you and Bruce bicker back and forth Dick, Jason, and Tim stare with various levels of shock at the sight of the baby snuggled across your chest.
Is this the same girl who vowed to never have a family? You had told them it was because you never felt responsible enough to care for a child, but now has a baby snuggled closely up to you, looking content.
"When..." Dick pauses, looking down at the sleeping baby, "when did you have a kid?"
You look down at the baby, then back up to Dick. "She's always been around. What do you mean?"
"She's what? Around half a year old? And she looks like you, so who's the dad?" Tim asks.
"That's enough–" Bruce's voice cuts through, "go back downstairs until we figure out what to do.”
"So you're just going to treat me like I'm some anomaly?" You huff.
"It's to keep you safe," Bruce says firmly.
"Fine," you head out of the kitchen and walk up the stairs to the second floor. "That's not the infirmary –" Bruce yells as you walk away, "Fight me!" You yell back as you walk away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You wake to the sound of dishes being placed next to you.
When you open your eyes, you see Alfred setting the dishes on the table next to you. "Good evening, Miss. Master Bruce told me you were still hungry, so I prepared some more dishes for you and a warm bottle for the little one."
You sit up, your back sore from sleeping in the chair, "Thank you," you mumble, wiping the sleep from your eyes.
"If you insist on sleeping if you're old room, perhaps we should bring the crib upstairs so you can sleep in the bed." Alfred says as he hands you a plate, "eat first, then you can feed the little one."
"They didn't send you up here to integrate me, did they?" You take a bite of the food.
"Master Bruce is the integrator, I'm just the butler.”
"We both know that that isn't entirely true."
"He just worries about you, in his own way,"
"He wants me to tell him everything, but I don't know how. How do I explain five years of absence and a baby?” You look down at the plate, “I don't know if I even want to explain everything.”
"Is she something you regret? Is that why its difficult–"
"What? No–No, she's everything to me..." You look over to the sleeping baby, "to her father. I just... I will tell Bruce I just need to think about it.”
"Saying you will isn't the same as doing it."
"I know."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Did Alfred get everything you need?"
You look up and see Bruce standing in the doorway. "Yeah, he brought me a bunch of baby stuff." You look at all the baby products laid out in the room. A swing, baby monitor, crib, play pen... some of it still needs to be put together, but it's more than you had before. These weren't exactly the easiest to come by.
"I still think you should have stayed in the infirmary." Bruce walks into your room.
"So you can monitor me.”
"So I can keep you safe." He looks down at the baby, who's staring at him with wide eyes.
"I can stay safe up here. Besides, it's cold down there, and you don't want your poor granddaughter to sit in a cold cave, do you?" The baby giggles as you tickle her side.
"Don't try to guilt trip me. The infirmary has heating.’
"Still isn't the best place for a baby." You place the baby onto the bed.
It goes quiet between you two. The only sound in the room is the sound of the baby playing with the bedding in front of her, both of you watching her play.
After a few moments, Bruce speaks up, "Are you ready to talk about it?"
Another moment of silence passes before you respond.
summary: Whirling into the Cody’s life at 16 like the hurricane you are, the permanent intertwine was instant. Younger than the four sons and a late bloomer, you were an afterthought romance wise. Right up until after you turned 20. Having never even thought about you before, a certain Cody brother can’t help but do exclusively that at your newly developed captivating looks that match your ever-present, chaotic personality. After years of being nothing more than acquaintances, you and Popes new growing bond eventually has you facing the possibility that the intimidating and guarded Pope Cody could be the first to tame the tumultuous storm inside you.
this chapter contains: MDNI as always! no use of y/n, afab reader, she/her pronouns, age gap, r is 21, original characters, self hatred esque thoughts, mentions of m masturbation, mentions of sex workers, cath slander (had to happen), mention of canon ak events, manipulation, mental breakdown, descriptions of violence/blood, reader has had anxiety attacks, so much misinterpretation of feelings, inaccurate portrayals of how a heist works lmao
Pope can't remember the last time he held someones hand.
Well, he does now. Because he held your hand two weeks ago and his has felt extra... weird ever since. He has no explanation for the involuntary flexing it does whenever he thinks about you, though.
It's almost like his scarred, haunted hand has developed the urge to reach for your soft, innocent one whenever you're around.
Which has been often. He now sees you almost everyday, when you stop by Smurfs to meet up with Craig and Deran or when you ask him to pick you up from the salon after a shift even though your car is fixed.
You've never been so present at the Cody household before and some stupid part of Pope's mind thinks that it's because of him.
He knows thats he is definitely not why... but he can't keep help himself from not hanging around, just incase you show up.
Pope has come to terms with the fact that he likes being around you. You never look at him as if you should be afraid, you didn't flinch when he held your hand, and you told him parts about yourself that were hard for you to share.
You make him feel... normal. Like a regular, average guy that girls hold hands with and sometimes cut the hair of.
And he wants to do the same. He wishes he was able to tell you whats going on in his head, but he just can't. It's like the admission always gets lodged in his throat. You must think he is an idiot, because all he has managed to tell you so far is that he used to skateboard and how he cuts his fucking sandwiches diagonally.
You deserve more than that. Sometimes he thinks he should tell you about Julia. The twin sister he hasn't seen in years and didn't choose over Smurf when it came down to it. But even thinking about his sister, who he no longer knows what she is up to or where she even is exactly, makes him physically sick. Stomach churning and eyes stinging kind of sick.
Start with something easier, he thinks to himself. Maybe about how when he was younger, Jax Lyle would make him angry just to see his face get all red and his eyes go all wild with unrestrained anger? No. That makes him sound even more insane.
Popes jaw tightens as he jabs at his punching bag. It's been almost 100 degrees in California this past week and he, for some reason, is sparring with the black bag that hangs on a flimsy stand in Smurfs backyard.
Thats not true— he knows the reason why he chose to let himself get all sticky with sweat and tire out his arms from throwing punches all day. Its because he's frustrated... sexually.
Jesus. How embarrassing is that? Pope is a 33 year old man and can't get it up for anyone else besides his 21 year old friend.
Not that he is trying with anyone else.
He's never really been into porn because he thinks that its too staged. Too unfeeling. And he is not about to have Smurf get him another call girl. She actually hasn't done that for him in a while and he feels an unbelievable sense of relief about that fact.
The act always makes him feel dirty afterward. Hollow. Like his own skin doesn't belong to him anymore. Last time he had been with anyone that was not paid by his mother was almost two years ago. It had been his brothers girlfriend.
Catherine had been drunk and mad at Baz for ignoring her and their newborn baby, so she turned to Pope for... well, he didn't know what she gained from the one night stand exactly.
All he gained was another layer of self hatred and more obsession for Cath. He would picture her in all of the girls since that night that she pretended didn't happen.
He would also think of her and that night that she regretted and he cherished, when he fucked his hand. It made for a truly pathetic life he was living.
And now, he has somehow gotten even more pathetic. Because Catherine hasn't shown up in one of his dirty fantasies in months. Only you have been residing in those.
Pope feels like some sort of pervert trying to not think of you when he jerks off in the shower. But you always drift into his mind anyway. Your pretty smile, your lovely voice, the way your eyes light up when you say something to make his brows shoot up in surprise...
He grunts as he throws an extra harsh punch into the bag, wincing when the calloused leather scratches at his knuckle. He took off his gloves an hour ago because he needed to feel something besides shame and arousal.
He probably shouldn't be destroying his hands since he has the job with Jared and his brothers in two days, but he doesn't care about that too much. He's dreading it to be honest.
Spending the next thirty minutes moving and striking until his arms were jelly, Pope could barely think or move think by the time he heard the gate swing open.
"Oh..." the voice sounded disappointed to find him there. Uncomfortable even. He didn't need to turn around to know that Catherine was standing a few feet behind him.
His mind yells at his arms to move. To keep punching so she walks away and knows not to bother him, but they don't budge.
"Pope? Can I..." She sounds nervous. Hesitant. "Can I ask you something?"
He sighs— not even feeling any sort of anticipation or excitement at her wanting to talk to him— turning to face her with his permanent scowl in tact.
He used to think that she was the most beautiful woman on the planet. But when he turns to face her, he sees her for what she truly is.
Tired. Lonely. Sad.
She has dark bags under her eyes and her black hair is frizzy and unkempt. He knows who is doing this to her. It was once his dream to save her from him. But she didn't choose Pope. She chose Baz.
She stares at him for a moment before something shifts behind her exhausted eyes. Something he can't decipher.
Cath fiddles with the strap of her tank top, voice sounding smaller than Pope has ever heard it, "I um... you haven't been around lately."
Pope's brows furrow. She had asked him multiple times to stay away... why is she saying that like its not what she asked him to do?
"You didn't want me to be," his tone is clipped.
Catherines eyes trail over his sweat soaked black t-shirt that clings to his muscles, tight mma shorts that he works out in and she... bites her lip?
He feels a little grossed out at the sight. Four months ago, he would've given anything for her to look at him like that. But now, her lip bite just makes him think of your lip bite.
Pope's cheeks flush a bit when he thinks of your soft lips under your perfect teeth as you look at him with a pretty expression that makes his zipper feel tight. Cath must notice his shift in mood because she smirks for a split second, thinking it's because of her.
Is she— happy that he is aroused? No. Not happy. Satisfied.
Pope's stomach churns with confusion. His thoughts pick up speed slightly as he tries to figure out what she is doing here. Talking to him. Looking at him like that.
Cath shrugs and slowly steps towards him with one of her hands playing with her ratty hair. "I know but, I didn't think that... you know?"
Pope's head recoils, face scrunching. She didn't what? Think he'd actually be able to stay away from her? Get over her?
His shoulders lock up with tension. What is happening right now? He feels like he's missing a puzzle piece. Like he is 8 years old again and Jax Lyle stole his favorite toy car, and he is left to search the playground for it until the sun sets.
He's having the hardest time processing what she is trying to do, when she quite literally bats her eyelashes at him. An uncomfortable chill dances up his spine.
"I guess I just— maybe sort of... missed you," Her soft words are strained. Forced and fake on her tongue.
Pope just blinks at her. Uneasiness tangible in his mouth and not just because of the sweat dripping down his neck.
Catherine pauses for a beat, as if she's waiting for him to jump up and down with excitement. He doesn't.
She exhales a breath thats half scoff, half confusion.
It makes Pope feel like he's he's a bug under a microscope. Being analyzed for weaknesses. "Anyways..." she's back to sounding awkward. "I wanted to see if you knew where Baz was. I haven't seen him in a few days and I just.. um.. yeah."
Pope wants to say 'He's been cheating on you with Lucy in Mexico for the past three days'. But he doesn't. Not because he wants to protect Catherines feelings, it's in this moment that he realizes he doesn't care about her feelings anymore, that ache that festered in his chest every time she was upset is long gone. The only emotion he feels towards her now is apprehension.
"Nope," he huffs. "Haven't seen him."
Cath's eyes drop, shoulders sag, she lets out a deep sigh. Painting a hollow smile on her face, she looks back up at Pope with a sadness one can only describe as pitiful.
Her tone is… maybe playful? "Guess I chose the wrong brother, huh? I can always find you around."
Pope feels like he's been shot in the chest.
Her words ring in his ears. 'I can always find you around.'
Not intended to mean that he's reliable or dependable. But easy. Eager. An obsessed puppy dog that comes back even after being kicked.
Jesus Christ.
His throat dries up. He blinks rapidly to try and quell the thrum of tense emotions circling deep within him.
'You haven't been around lately.'
She didn't want him to. She acted like she did just because she needed information about his brother.
His brother that she chose over him. Willingly. Even though he had loved her. She did not want Pope. He knew that.
He clenches his jaw and fists involuntarily, starting to twitch all over at the turmoil brewing beneath his skin.
Suddenly, birds are chirping too loudly, the sun is too hot on his skin, and the breeze is a shrill scream instead of a soft whisper in his ears.
Catherine must sense the change, so she mumbles a quick goodbye, not sparing him another glance as she shuffles back through the gate.
'I guess I just— maybe sort of... missed you.'
Blood rushes to his ears. His heart pounding loudly enough to compete with the voices. The spiral.
*thump thump thump*
'Missed you.'
Pope's mind is screaming. His own voice comes flooding in first.
Has she ever seen him as anything other than a way to keep tabs on Baz? Did she ever care about him? Was she ever really his friend?
Popes bruised hands claw at his chest. Every article of clothing is suddenly too tight on his body. His skin is too slick with sweat.
He feels every scalding drop that runs down his back, giving him chills that make his stomach roll.
The overstimulation douses him and his mind caves in on itself.
Years of unreciprocated pining boil to the surface. He feels small. Pathetic. Stupid.
'Guess I chose the wrong brother, huh?'
Fuck.
She was using him. She never cared. He had been so accessible to her that she thought she could bat her eyelashes and he would come running.
His skin is on fire. Hot, unrelenting sparks burrow under him and burn him alive. He starts to scratch at it. It soothes nothing.
*thump thump thump*
New voices flood his mind. Smurfs. Catherine’s. Baz’s.
All of them saying words that haunt him. Treating him in ways that keep him up at night. Keep him hating himself.
Shapes and colors start flying through his vision. My feet are moving, is a fleeting coherent thought.
Pope feels his control over his body slipping through his fingers.
'I can always find you around.'
*thump thump thump*
Footsteps pound on the concrete. Must be running.
Up the driveway, out to the sidewalk.
His body jolts. He’s run into something— no someone. The blurry figure yells. Loudly and angry. A man's voice.
Pope is shoved. Hard.
A feeling claws its way to the surface. Tearing at his insides. A visceral rip through his chest.
Anger.
No longer in control of his body, he lunges forward. He sideways now... on the ground maybe? Yes. On the ground.
The mans beneath him.
'Missed you.'
Pope yells to try and stop her voice echoing in his ears. It’s a wounded sound. Nothing changes. He gets angrier.
He punches the man.
One hit and a slight ease flows through his throbbing bloodstream. His burning skin. The small relief it brings has Pope bring his fist to connect with the strangers face. Once. Twice.
Again. Again.
*thump thump thump*
'Guess I chose the wrong brother, huh?'
He can't see anything. Only hearing muffled gasps from the stranger and his own broken sobs.
Pope's throat is lined with thorns, his arms only knowing the motion of downward punches, his mind feels like it’s shattering inside his skull.
He doesn’t know how long he repeats his hits.
But his arm grows achey. A new feeling.
'I can always find you around.'
A twinge of pain flicks through his knuckles. He hears something crack. Someone in the distance screams for help.
Pope looks up. Eyes unfocused on his surroundings.
Every muscle is locked tight. His heart is beating too fast. Hurts. Stings. Cracks.
He hears panicked shouts above the thrumming of his heart in his ears.
*thump thump thump*
Watery coughs choke from the man below him.
He moves. Standing up? Yes. Up.
'Missed you.'
*thump thump thump*
His feet pick a direction. He's running now. Commotion behind him drifts further and further away.
The pain gets clearer and clearer.
Pope inhales as deeply as he can, willing himself to piece together somewhere he can go. He can't breathe fast enough to catch up with his lungs need for air.
Think. Breathe. Think. Breathe.
He needs a place. Refuge from his thoughts that are trying to split him in half.
'Guess I chose the wrong brother, huh?'
Everything comes into focus for a singular second.
His mind quiets, emphasizing only one name.
Yours.
Your gum was flavorless at this point, but you were still chewing on it anyway because you were conflicted.
You were currently nestled onto your couch, having an internal debate about whether or not you should go out with Jared. Sure, you were gonna meet with him anyways for business purposes for your mother.
But go on a few dates? That, you didn't know.
Your mom had been happy you agreed to give him your number. But it was during a fleeting moment of revenge slash humiliation when you learned Pope was in love with Catherine.
Now, the revenge part had died down— mostly because he wouldn't even care if you did date Jared— but the humiliation stayed.
You could officially admit you had a crush on Pope Cody. Not feelings. That word is too... deep. Too serious. But a crush was where you landed. Unfortunately.
You went to one of your moms spas with Kendra the other night for free massages and manicures, and she gave you a big fat ‘I told you so’ about your admission. She went on and on about how its clear he likes you too. But you shut her down when you told her that he was in love with someone else.
She had blanched apologetically, then suggested that you go on a date with her fiancees super hot friend. You said maybe.
It has been a while since you've been on a date with a guy. You miss the attention and the certainty of knowing that the man at dinner, no matter how annoying, wants you badly.
Pope doesn't give you that. Nope, you feel like an insecure teenager with him again.
You grimace as you spit your gum into a tissue and threw it in your small wicker trashcan next to your sofa.
Sagging back into the couch, you prepare to extensively continue your internal debate on this fine Sunday night.
Your preparations are interrupted however, when a pounding sounds on your door.
You jolt slightly at the intensity of the knock. Loud and rushed. An ounce harder and the wood might have cracked.
You pad over and swing open your door to see... Pope standing there.
Well, not standing, exactly. After only a few seconds of staring at him, you see that his demeanor is akin to a wild animal.
He's muttering gibberish, hazel eyes wild and unfocused. His auburn hair, black t-shirt and athletic shorts are all stuck to his body, drenched in sweat.
Your stomach drops at the sight. It feels like you have been doused in cold water as you see him incoherent and visibly shaking.
“I can’t- I don’t-" he begins, never really finishing or leading anywhere.
You keep your voice soft, not knowing whats going on entirely but obviously understanding that he's going through something mentally.
"Pope...?" You raise a slow arm to reach for him, maybe caress his arm or rest on his shoulder. But he flinches, eyes finding yours for a split second before quickly recoiling backwards. Broad chest caving in to avoid any contact.
"Okay, okay," you say all hushed, like you're speaking to a rabid dog. Your eyes finally drop to his bloodied knuckles and you inhale a sharp breath.
You want to bombard him with questions. Starting with, What do you need?
But you don't. He isn't fully... there right now to answer anyway, so you do what you think you would want if you were having a breakdown of your own.
You open your door wider for him and gesture for him to come inside.
Thankfully, he does. His steps are unbalanced and his body is twitching as he moves.
Your gut tightens in worry. He looks unwell. Very unwell.
He starts to pace back and forth, still mumbling rushed words. Some of them you make out. "Chose the wrong..." and "Missed you." and "...Always around."
You slowly close your door and move back to your couch. You don't want to do anything to hurt him further, but your swept by the urge to cry in frustration. You're scared, confused, and so, so concerned.
You tell yourself that you wouldn't want to be stared at in this state. So you quietly pick up a magazine off of your table and open to a random page. Your eyes can't even focus on the drama about the celebrities in Hollywood as you have to force your foot still as it begs to nervously tap.
You don't turn the page once. You don't even shift an inch on the couch with the thought in mind that you wouldn't want the sounds of pages turning right now if you were Pope.
Seconds, then minutes pass by of him doing nothing but shaking his head, rambling broken sentences and twitching his fingers.
You don't hear his feet shift for a few minutes after a while, but you don't look up yet.
"You— you can turn the page,” His raspy voice is barely a whisper.
You glance up at him and shoot him a soft smile. He is standing still now, not looking any less twitchy, but his hazel eyes aren't glazed over anymore and they're focused on you. Nodding once, you then return to your magazine. You turn the page.
Obviously not absorbing any information, you are very aware when Pope gradually moves to sit next to you on the couch, his breathing a bit more even now, but still scratchy.
You don't look up from the magazine when you quietly suggest, "Want some water?"
He doesn't answer and you know that he has most definitely answered with a head nod. You move to get him some water and from the corner of your eye, you see him reach for you before freezing and dropping his hesitant hand, as if he's decided against it.
When you come back with water, Pope's eyes are glued to his bloodied knuckles. The glass stays untouched on the coffee table as you sit by his side, silent. You tuck your feet under your thighs and angle your shoulders towards him. You're not really sure what he needs right now, but you can assume its not you asking him why his knuckles are—
"I broke someones nose," he says, too unsteady to be a confession but too direct to be considered anything else. His knees shift slightly at their place on the couches edge, still facing completely forward.
You nod, not entirely knowing what to do with that information. You wouldn't dare ask who the someone is.
Surprisingly though, relief courses through you at his statement. Not because he broke someones nose, but because he clearly remembers it. Seeing how he was when he first showed up, you are just glad he is sitting down and talking right now.
The only mental struggles you've ever witnessed were your own. A few anxiety attacks here and there when you were in high school and you had do deal with the classic mean girls.
But this... you're pretty sure you just saw Pope have a full on mental breakdown, and you feel so helpless right now you don't even care that he just admitted to assaulting someone. All that you feel is a relaxing hint of solace that he still holds the pieces together.
He meets your eyes, freckled face pulled taught with an emotion you've never seen on him before. Fear.
"I don't think I meant to— I just..." he clears his throat when his words sound almost meek. "It happened. I don't know how. Or why."
You should say words now... right?
"Okay," you steady your voice as much as you can. "Do you think your knuckles are broken?"
Pope blinks at you, searching your face for something that you're not sure what it is exactly.
"W-what?" you ask. His features are hard as granite, you have no idea what you said wrong.
"You're not... scared of me?" beneath his usual raspy tone is a waiver of shock.
Your head recoils, nose scrunching like a bunny's, "Why— why would I be scared of you?"
Popes eyes widen a fraction, which for him means they basically were bulging out of his head, "I just told you that I— You seriously aren't...?"
You giggle and for a second you regret it, not wanting to have him think you're laughing at him, but his shoulders sag at the sound. A fleeting bubble of warmth fills your chest, but you don't let it stay.
"If you think that a bit of violence and a few bloody knuckles would scare me, then you clearly have forgotten than your two idiot brothers are my best friends," You sigh, feigning discontent. "I couldn't even tell you how many times I've patched up cuts for Deran or held an ice pack to bruises on Craigs back."
Pope doesn't say anything. He just stares at you, straight backed and tight faced, as if he's never seen you before. It seems like he really did forget that you have been around the Cody's for years. Makes sense though, since he wasn't apart of it up until a few months ago.
Your voice gets softer, "I know you, Pope. You don't scare me."
You reach your hand out and intertwine your fingers with his on top of his thigh. If you weren't trying to coax him out of an internal spiral, you would harp on the fact that your hand felt so right in his. How it fits perfectly, warming you from the outside in.
Pope's eyes drop to the point of contact, doing nothing but steadily breathing for a few seconds, then his fingers tighten around yours, as if he also feels the warmth it brings.
"You don't, though," his voice cracks. "Not really."
You furrow your brows, but as you open your mouth to argue that you do, you stop yourself. If he really thought so, then he wouldn't have said any different. And it is true that you have done the hefty portion of all the sharing so far in your friendship. So maybe...
"Okay, you're right. I don't," you surrendered, shifting closer to him an inch. "So, could you maybe let me?"— the corners of his mouth turn downward as if he doesn't understand—" Know you, I mean." You clarify.
His mouth replicates a fish's for almost a full minute, just opening and closing. You gather that he's not sure how to respond.
Has truly no one ever tried to get to know him before?
Right as you're about to give up and tell him if he doesn't want to you're not going to force him, he speaks.
"Earlier I uh... had something happen to me. In my head, ," his words are shaky. Unpracticed. "It's happened before where I sort of, black out. My mind stops being, um, mine and..."
He trails off, eyes darting everywhere but to your own. You give his hand a light squeeze to know that you're still listening. Still not scared.
His bares his teeth as he grits his next words out, "It happened a lot when I was younger. I used to get mad all the time. I'd destroy classrooms and, uh, get into it with others kids when it would happen..."
"Did you ever...?" You can't quite form the words to ask if he's ever spoken to a professional about this, but he seems to understand.
"Smurf taught us to lie to shrinks," His tone is clipped. Your heart sinks when you think about young Pope who got no help, who is now all grown up and suffers the consequences.
You will the tears away that brim at your waterline as he continues speaking.
"So, no. I— I don't know why it happens. Usually when I'm angry or confused or—" He leans forward and straightens one of the books on your coffee table with his free hand— "Overwhelmed."
You hum in amusement at his movement, causing his dark eyes to flick to yours. Needing a reprieve from the tightness in your chest, you say lightly, "You're very tidy. I know that about you."
His lips twitch upward slightly and he nods, "I also don't really know why that is either. It... helps me when things are clean and, uh, in order."
You nod as you supply a gentle, "Tell me more about what happened earlier."
His fingers tense around yours and his jaw clenches. Unease is radiating off him as he continues to speak, "I thought that I understood something about... someone. But I was wrong. They never—" He tears his eyes from yours, starting to blink rapidly.
"Pope..." you start, but he shakes his head, effectively stopping you.
He finally turns his whole body towards you, shoulders parallel with yours. He rolls his lips, "Sometimes my thoughts get so bad that—" he inhales a sharp breath, lips quirking sideways, — "that I think my mind makes me go crazy 'nd not remember anything, just so I don't have to think them anymore."
It almost makes sense.
"And that..."— you're not sure what to ask exactly— "that helps?"
The shake of his head is almost instant, auburn curls that still stick to his forehead a bit move with the gesture.
"Okay... what does help?" you feel the nausea churn in your stomach at the thought of never being able to help him, or even understand what he's going through.
His eyes meet yours once again, now clear and filled with more sincerity than you've ever seen.
Pope then says one word that steals the breath from your lungs, "You."
You feel like your world has been titled off it's axis. His admission is so matter of fact that you let yourself believe it.
Because you're here. Sitting with him, holding his hand, and listening to him as he lets you inside his mind.
Without thinking twice about comforting him— and yourself as your lip quivers slightly— you unlink your hands and reach up to softly cup his cheek. His hazel eyes burn into yours instantly, but he doesn't flinch like all the other times you've gotten this close.
After a beat of eye contact that makes your stomach go all wavy, his eyes flutter shut, allowing himself to be touched by you.
His face is soft as he shifts beneath your palm, you would use the word nuzzle, but that feels too... no thats definitely what it is. Pope Cody was nuzzling his face into your hand that rested softly on his cheek.
"Feels nice," his soft mutter is so quiet you wouldn't have heard it over your own breathing if you had been doing so. But you weren't of course, because your whole body was feeling a bit fuzzy and your lungs went tight the second you started tracing your thumb along his cheekbone.
It was so... intimate. He was being completely vulnerable with you physically now, something he has never truly done before.
Pope kept lightly rubbing his face against you, words almost spilling out of his mouth now, but still at a low whisper that felt like they were a secret for you to keep, "I like this... and I like—"
His face freezes and his body tenses. Eyes shooting open, he purses his lips together tightly to cut off whatever he was going to say next, as if he has to physically keep it himself from saying it.
He looks so alarmed by what he was about to say, that your heart sinks to the floor.
Was he... was he going to talk about Catherine?
Oh god.
Maybe he was still out of it. Maybe he was picturing her holding his face right now instead of you.
Your stomach churns and heat burns your face as you realize you have stupidly read too much into yet another interaction with Pope.
You start to pull your hand away before mortification threatens to swallow you whole, when his own large hand shoots up to grab it.
He scans your face and furrows his brows slightly, as if he doesn't understand what's wrong.
Pope then links your fingers back together and moves them to rest onto his chest. You feel his steady heartbeat under the back of your hand.
He opens his mouth and asks you a question that you ask him almost every time you see him. His voice is gruff— and if you didn't immediately tell yourself thats not what it is— you almost think he sounds eager, "Tell me something about yourself that no one else knows."
You blink at him, half baffled, half amused. Not bothering to pretend you won't, you part your lips to give him an answer, but the repeated buzz of your phone from your coffee table cuts you off.
Normally, you wouldn't dare check your phone while in a serious conversation like this. But right now, you need an excuse to break eye contact with Pope in order to not find a sign that he is picturing someone else within them.
Your jaw unhinges at the texts that await on your lock screen when you open it up.
Unknown number:
Hey it’s Jared.
Your mom told me you’re free this week. I’ll pick you up Wednesday at 8.
You got a motorcycle helmet, doll?
Jesus.
Can't you catch a break?
"Do you..." Popes wary tone straightens your spine. "Do you need to get that?"
Your hand is still in his. Your skin is still pressed against his t-shirt so closely that you feel the pace of his heart beat pick up as he awaits your answer.
But you've been over this. It's not the same for you as it is for Pope. It means something different to him.
You place our phone down and glance back to him.
"Not right now. But... but I think I will later."
"What the fuck is he doing?!" Baz hisses when the Cody brothers hear a loud car engine revving from outside the building.
"Being a fucking asshole like I told you he would be!" Craig supplies, voice hushed due to where they are, but still allowing his anger to sharpen his words.
"Shut up! We're not getting caught cause of you're bitching," Pope snarls as quietly as he can. His words echoing off the bright white walls.
The evidence room of the crime lab that the three of the Cody's currently stand in is small and looks like a hospital waiting room.
That's right. Crime lab.
After they agreed to steal back whatever Jared Lyle had lost— because Smurf would've cut them off probably if they didn't— they were then informed that said 'product' was 60 kilos of fucking coke.
One of Jared's warehouses had been raided and was taken to the forensic laboratory three towns over they're currently standing in. Currently robbing, actually.
Baz formulated the plan with Pope's help. Due to all of them already having hefty criminal records, they had to get creative.
Baz and Pope used fake ID's that one of Smurfs connections made for them. They disguised themselves as delivery men from the Oceanside police department and claimed they had to 'check on the product' because of.. blah blah blah. Pope hadn't really been listening to Baz while he charmed the busty blonde receptionist at the front desk.
All he could focus on was how itchy his dark blue policemen uniform had been.
Craig was the one who bribed one of the janitors to give him their ID. He taped a sticker of his face onto it and waltzed right in. Baz only let Craig do that shit because it always worked for him.
Jared Lyle, claiming that he needed to be apart of this plan because it was— in his own words— "His fucking shit in that damn lab", was named the getaway driver.
The driver who was supposed to be quiet and wait for a phone call before moving the car, but was currently revving his engine in the back alley that the lab was connected to.
Fucking asshole.
They had finished loaded up the coke into the trash bags from Craigs janitorial cart, when Deran's text came through on Pope's phone.
Moving to evidence now. Just left for 'bathroom'.
Deran's roll, being the youngest and actually college age, was a student on one of the university tours that were held daily at the lab. There were only a handful of scientists and security guards that walked the halls, and they were all occupied with guiding the tour in order to watch the college kids.
It was Baz's idea, and as much as his brothers hated to admit it, it was working pretty fucking well. Deran was texting them the whereabouts of the guards that led the group as they moved through the two story building.
"Let's go! Tours on it's way, Deran's heading out," Pope grits out as Baz finishes up his drilling of the nails from the window pane.
The tension was always high when they did jobs together. Adrenaline had gotten the better of them on too many jobs. But this time was different.
Not because something was going wrong, but because they knew who waited in the fucking alley as their way out of the potential prison sentence.
When Baz was coming up with the plan, the boys had strong opinions over where Jared would be placed. Craig refused to be in the same room as him, and Deran refused to be the driver if Jared got to be inside. So, there was only one roll for him to fill.
Pope didn't like it though. Sure, he didn't like any of the Lyle's, from their calculating dad to their psychopath of an oldest son, but he especially didn't like working with someone he didn't trust.
But they had no choice. Smurf was involved and there was no way out.
So, tensions were at an all time high today, even worse then when they held the few meetings with Jared to discuss their plans. At one of them, Pope had to hold Craig back when Jared kept making comments about how he was surprised Craig was even involved. Calling him some very derogatory names in order to say he was too stupid to be apart of it.
They all hated Jared, who didn't show up to multiple meetings because he thought he was too good for them.
So, Pope isn't really surprised, that when they all hop in the car after shoving the coke through the window and climbing out after it, the boys are all completely silent as Jared speeds off.
"Fuck yeah baby!" Jared yells as his foot is basically slammed on the gas. The whole car tips sideways as he exits onto the highway at 96 miles per hour.
"Slow down. Now!" Baz tries and fails to tell Jared from his place in the passenger seat.
The other three Cody's are squished into the backseat. The 5 dozen kilos of coke sit in trash bags in the trunk.
"Are you trying to kill us asshole!?" Craig shouts, gripping onto the door in fear for his life.
"Don't need to kill you Craig! You'll do that yourself when you snort away the last three fucking braincells you have!" Jared cackles from the drivers seat. His sunglasses hug his face and his dark hair whips in the wind.
"That's it," Craig yells as he starts to lunge forward but Pope intercepts him. Well, he tries to. He barely gets a hold on Craigs grey janitors sleeve as he dives across the backseat.
The car swerves as Craig manages to grab one of Jared leather jacket clad arms with a huge hand, tugging as hard as he can.
"Craig you fucking idiot!" Deran screams as the Cadillac flies into the right lane and almost completely off the road into the cement wall that lines the highway.
Pope's stomach flips and bile rises in his throat at the powerful jolt.
He can't even form the thought of fearing for his life before his breath is knocked out of him, as he's crushed in between Deran and Craigs huge frame as they're all whipped to the left due to the force.
"If we get pulled over, we're headed to Folsom with your fucking brother, Jared! Slow the fuck down!"
Pope bristles at the mention of Jax, but he can't harp on it because Baz's words thankfully get through to the youngest Lyle. Jared slows the car down to only 20 over the speed limit. Still too much, but no one pushes further.
When the car is no longer a roller coaster slash death trap, everyone settles only slightly. Craigs fists are balled up tight onto his lap and Deran's jaw is clenched so tight Pope half thinks it might snap.
Baz has his phone out and Pope already knows he's letting Smurf know that they're on their way to the junk yard to dispose of the car.
"Didn't peg the Cody boys for such pussys," Jared scoffs as he takes the exit that leads towards the junk yard.
No one takes the bait, but Craig rolls his neck as if he has to do something besides kick Jared's ass.
Jared keeps running his big mouth the whole drive there, while he parks, and the entire walk to their separate cars.
He hops on his motorcycle while guys in his crew load the coke into a black van.
He throws a smug smirk at them, "Maybe I should hire you boys to do this for me more often. Be my personal jockeys y'know? No no, my bitches. Yeah thats more like it."
Jared laughs menacingly, "Oh right. I forgot. You're not bitches, and you get no bitches. At least not ones I've gotten to first."
Before Craig can take another swing at him, Pope says his first words since the lab. Molding his face to make his scowl more icy than usual, he makes sure to let the taunting bleed into his tone, "I think the only bitch that we know is your brother, right? Last I heard, thats the only thing he's known for in prison."
Deran chokes on his laughter and Craig doesn't bother holding back his own.
Jared gets visibly exasperated, but he schools his features immediately. He blinks once, then a purely evil smile crosses his face as a clear intention pops into his mind.
His voice is more complacent than Pope has ever heard it as he says, "Right. I forgot you know my brother. Jax told me what the two of you used to get into." He shows all thirty two teeth as he levels a wicked look at the oldest Cody.
"How's that skateboard of yours Pope?"
Unlike Craig, it takes all three of Pope's brothers to hold him back.
authors note: HOWDY LOVLIES! once again.. im so sorry about the long wait.. life got in the way unfortunately :( buttt i like this one. i hope the manic episode writing was clear and not like unreadable or something ... ive never written like that before so sorry if it didn't portray what i thought it was going to.
꒰ content warning ꒱ au where umbrella doesn’t exist , fem!reader , civilian x cop , robbery ( nothing too fancy bc i suck at writing action scenes ) , leon being a golden retriever , not properly proofread .
꒰ word count ꒱ 982 words
꒰ a/n ꒱ first time posting a multichap on tumblr so i’m shitting my pants, plus i’m scared i wrote rookie leon bad lol. this fic won’t be too long, i’ve already sorted out the plot and it should be done in 5 chapters so don’t expect anything too lengthy. i’m posting the first chapter in a rush also because i’m trying to understand if it’s worth posting or not. please please please, remember i’m not a native english speaker, so grammar and spelling might be all over the place ( i apologise in advance ); remember that this is a hobby and i’m writing for fun. if you read through this wall of text, thank you and enjoy !
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Raccoon City felt intimidating at first. Moving to a new town, on your own, surely felt scary, with all the ifs and buts, but Leon adapted pretty soon.
Certainly leaving behind an important relationship was hard, but Leon couldn’t stand the distance in addition to the work load of his job. Police officer.
A part of Leon still couldn’t believe that he made it, that years of training brought him here, in RPD.
It was a surprisingly warm welcome, and he learned that Lieutenant Branagh supervised the organisation for the small welcoming party – he later found a scrap of paper with a list of things each of them had to tend to before Leon got there.
A couple of weeks had passed since he started, and Leon had been working hard. He often worked late on reports, tried to help anyone in the streets and be of help to those in need.
Just like he had always wished to do.
He wasn’t exactly on duty when it happened, but merely grocery shopping after finishing his shift at the Station. The shop wasn’t that crowded, so whoever decided to try a robbery was certainly trying to avoid unnecessary casualties – at least that’s what Leon thought.
Just ahead happened to be you, busy trying to reach the Police while the guy with his face covered by some halloween mask kept pointing a gun at the shop owner, shouting about putting the cash in the bag he was holding.
Leon got momentarily distracted by your appearance, finding it both familiar and unknown. He had to admit he’d never seen you around, but he also didn’t know the face of every Raccoon citizen.
Whatever. He needed to focus on the matter at hand.
Leon left his cart behind and slowly, cautiously approached the robber from behind, noticing the old man behind the counter trembling as he tried to fulfil the guy’s request. Then, as quick and efficient as possible, Leon wrapped an arm around the robber’s neck and made him drop the gun before he could even think about shooting.
You stood up to your feet, noticing this blond guy taking control of the situation, before hearing he was a police officer. Well, just your lucky day, huh?
The Police arrived soon after, with Leon handing the robber over and sighing in relief, glad he was able to diffuse the situation. He looked pretty proud of himself.
“Leon, good job,” a fellow officer patted the rookie’s shoulder, offering a supporting smile. “Always ready to help, heh, officer Kennedy?”
Just like that, Leon suddenly looked shy and nodded, heat creeping up his neck at those words.
Leon Kennedy. This name rang a bell in your mind and just then, you remembered.
“Leon?” You called out, taking a small step closer. Could he really be your old friend from middle school? He surely changed a lot.
Leon turned on his heels, clearly having forgotten about your presence, and observed you more closely now. You were definitely a familiar face, he was sure now.
“[Y/N]? Is it really you?” A surprised expression appeared on his face, and then he smiled, stepping much closer to you. “It’s been so long! What are you doing here in Raccoon City?” His voice was enthusiastic, he looked eager to know what you’ve been up to and how you ended up here.
Leon resembled a puppy, had he had a tail it would have been wagging nonstop.
“Oh, um… I recently moved here, actually,” you replied, standing there while fiddling with your fingers. “You’re a cop, huh?”
Leon’s eyes widened when you mentioned moving here.
“No way! I got transferred here to work at the RPD, yes,” he nodded, rubbing the back of his head. “That means we will see each other around more often,” he added, liking the prospect.
You two were close friends in middle school, sticking together for school projects or simply going out to get ice cream. It felt nostalgic in a way, also because it had been almost ten years since you two last saw each other.
“Did you move here for work, then?” Leon asked, tilting his head to the side.
“Kinda,” you chuckled lightly, not exactly considering it that way. Surely you moved to start new, but not in a negative way. A coffee shop was a good start while you were trying to get your bearings around town. “I’m currently working at the Raccoon Cafe.”
“Oh, I’m kinda familiar with the place. I mean, I didn’t come personally, but a coworker of mine always mentions how good the coffee is and is constantly praising the pastries,” he observed, being honest.
“I have to agree on that, I always make sure to bring some spare pastries at home when I finish the afternoon shift,” a smile curved your lips.
Leon momentarily got lost in taking in the grown-up you. You’ve always been shorter than him when you were kids, but seeing you taller and more adult from what he remembered was… well, let’s just say he found himself recalling those times, and missing them dearly.
“How about we meet up for a coffee sometime?” Leon suddenly offered. “You know, to catch up a bit and recall the old days,” he continued, his cheeks flushed slightly at the thought.
You seemed to consider the offer, before nodding your consent. Seeing a familiar face in a new town certainly helped a bit, plus you were curious about what Leon had been up to, too.
“Sure, why not.”
You two exchanged phone numbers, with Leon inviting you to a cafe closer to the Station tomorrow afternoon, in order to make sure he won’t be too late because of work, and then proceeded with your grocery shoppings on separate ways.
Who would have thought you would end up meeting none other than Leon S. Kennedy in a city like this?
summary: you go about your quiet cabin life on a slow summer day, sugar-dusted pie on the sill, dirt worked deep beneath your nails. But the past still whispers through the trees, telling stories of campfire smoke, a gang of outlaws you once ran with, and a certain boy who carried the night in his eyes and wolf-claws on his cheek. Some loves are meant to stay buried. Others are only waiting to find their way home.
warnings: mentions of abuse (SA, physical, mental), cheating, angst.
genre: 40% smut, 40% angst, 20% fluff.
notes: very canonverse (except for the epilogue which I heavily modified)
wc: 8.6k
The first thing you always felt afterward was the cold.
Not the night breeze—though the wind cut through the trees in thin, whistling ribbons—but that hollow, creeping cold that settled under your skin the second he rolled off you. The ground was hard beneath your back, damp soil pressing into your spine through your clothes, but it was the emptiness he left behind that made you shiver. No weight, no warmth, nothing grounding you to the earth. Just the sound of him catching his breath in short, satisfied huffs and the faint jingle of whatever trinket he always kept in his coat pocket.
“Good girl,” he muttered, the words slurred with liquor and smugness. He didn’t touch you after. He never did. Not that you wanted him to either. His hands were gross, already busy buckling his belt again, the clink of the metal biting into the silence.
You stayed where you were, staring up through the branches. Moonlight fractured through the pine foliage, scattered into pale shards across your skin. If you focused hard enough, it made the bruises on your hips look like shadows. If you pretended hard enough, once he left… this never happened. But your skin still stung where his grip had been too tight. Your wrists still ached. Your breath felt borrowed. And the flesh between your thighs still burned, reminding you that this was your reality now. This was the way you survived.
He hummed to himself as he dressed, some tuneless half-song that made your stomach twist. He never looked at you, not once, as if your body had already ceased to exist the moment he was done using it.
“You keep quiet now,” he said, more habit than warning, as he put his hat back on. “Ain’t nobody need to know.”
As if anyone would want to.
As if you’d ever dare to speak of it.
As if anyone would listen.
He stepped back onto the narrow path leading toward camp, boots crunching over dry twigs. Every sound of his departure grew fainter, the scrape of spurs, the lazy whistle he’d slipped into, the cocky slur in his footsteps.
Then nothing.
Just the wind.
Just the trees.
Just you.
Finally, you exhaled, shaky, soundless, a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
You fucking hated Micah Bell.
You pulled your skirt down with tired fingers, sitting up slowly as the chill sank deeper. Dirt clung to the backs of your thighs. Pine needles scratched at your palms. You brushed them off, but the shame and his scent lingered, heavy and clinging in a way the earth never could.
-
Washing dishes was not your favorite chore. It wasn’t difficult, no, just dull. Repetitive. And that was exactly why it unsettled you. When your hands moved on their own, your mind wandered off wherever it pleased. To places you rarely visited. To places you hadn’t seen since the summer of 1899.
These days, most thoughts were kind. Gentle. Grounded in a life finally sturdy enough for the quiet to feel comforting instead of dangerous.
Most days.
But some days… some mornings when the sunrise found you alone, the dark had a way of slipping through the cracks of your cabin walls.
And sometimes it brought Micah Bell up with it.
Bastard.
The sponge in your hand dragged over stubborn potato skins clinging to the tin plate so hard it squeaked. You scrubbed harder. It didn’t help.
You didn’t know how you had stayed. How you survived that long. No, you didn’t know how. But with distance, with time, with more life lived than you expected to back then… now you understood why.
You couldn’t be unkind to her, the twenty-something you were then, she was only surviving. She knew the world outside camp far too well. She had hell for a home before a silver-haired conman with a soft smile and a rattling cough offered her a temporary tent and a warm campfire to sit around on breezy nights.
“Just until you figure it all out,” he’d said. And he meant it.
So yes, you stayed.
You stayed for the honest conman. You stayed for the safety of campfires and coffee brewed too strong, for the comfort of a girl named Mary-Beth who taught you how to read. For the mornings when a dependable, and very handsome, gentleman named Arthur tipped his hat respectfully and called you “m’lady”. You chuckled, your grip softening around the sponge.
As if you was one.
You stayed for the evenings when a girl named Tilly saved you a bowl of stew without needing to be asked. And the afternoons when another named Karen swore she’d teach you how to shoot even if it killed her, even though you were hopeless and never really learned. You wondered where she was now.
You stayed because you didn’t know where else you could go.
And of course…
Of course you stayed for him.
For a certain boy with long black hair that curled wild when wet, and wolf-claws forever carved into his right cheek. The one whose shoulders always hunched, whose eyes always brooded, as if the weight he carried was too big for one person, but he carried it anyway.
-
You couldn’t exactly explain how this thing between you and him had started.
You couldn’t even name what it was, had someone ever found out what you did when no one was looking.
The closest word you could think of—the only one that didn’t feel like a lie—was ‘agreement.’
You see, there wasn’t much work a woman could do for a gang of outlaws. Not real work. Not the kind that felt important enough to justify a bowl of stew, especially not when you were one of the most recent additions to the group, and nearly all the useful tasks were already taken.
Karen didn’t count, she was half gunslinger herself, fearless and loud, living on whiskey and trouble, and working shifts like the men did. Molly didn’t count either, for different reasons. She simply existed above it all, protected by the pedestal Dutch had carved for her.
Mary-Beth and Jenny handled the mending, Tilly the laundry, or sometimes the other way around. Point was, those jobs were spoken for.
Mrs. Adler had joined grieving, but even then, by the end of it all, she’d stormed her way into something fiercer, riding out with Arthur and Charles as if born for it.
Miss Grimshaw… she was cold to you, cruel some days, but you couldn’t deny she worked harder than anyone. Everything passed through her hands before it could be called done.
And Abigail…
She had… She had young Jack. And they always said that raising a child in a world that wanted to swallow him whole was more labor than anybody else’s combined. But what would you know. Plus her history with the gang ran deeper than yours ever could.
Sure, you helped with the other ladies’ chores, except Karen’s, Abigail’s, and Molly’s whatever-that-was. Laundry. Picking herbs nearby. Helping Mr. Pearson peel potatoes. Tending horses. Mending clothes. And sometimes when they were short of hands, you even assisted with medical tasks, even though the sight of an open wound turned your stomach and left your head spinning.
But none of it felt like real work.
A true, needed, exclusive contribution.
And as Grimshaw, and later bastard Micah, never stopped reminding you: If they decided you weren’t useful enough, Dutch would give the order and drop the dead weight. Discarding you like the stray you’d always been.
Yes. You’d heard variations of that threat your entire life.
You’d been sent to relatives as far back as memory stretched, their household the only “home” you knew. They fed you, yes, but not without reminding you what it cost them. How much of a burden you were.
You had to pull your weight then, too. First sweeping floors and cleaning outhouses at the saloon they found you a job in. Then serving drinks and waiting tables when they decided you were mature enough, because the owner’s daughter wanted someone else to take the men’s wandering hands.
Years went by like that. And you hated every second of such chore, the ass-grabs, the rotten breath in your ear when bending over to pour a drink, the fingers sliding under your skirt when a man wanted his table “wiped,” the forced kisses you narrowly avoided, and the times the owner offered you up to smelly strangers as if you were just another item on the menu.
“She’s also available for beddin’,” he’d say, and every single time you heard this your gut would twist.
You were lucky there was almost always someone prettier, younger, and more desperate to take the fall. Almost.
You remember the one time you tried standing up for yourself, told your boss you’d work double shifts if he’d stop offering your body to his customers.
He looked at you like you were ridiculous, then threw you out for your “audacity.”
Said you were wasting space and food.
Said “whorin’” was the only career someone like you could ever aspire to, and that eventually you’d have to cave.
He hadn’t even sounded cruel. Just truthful.
Practical.
Like he was educating you before releasing you into the world.
And maybe he was right…
Although you weren’t sure they could call it “whorin’” when you were only sleeping with one man…
He came back to camp one night with a busted lip, smelling of Kentucky bourbon, and a piece of the very same bottle embedded in his forehead. You were camped near Blackwater then. He’d gotten into a fight at the saloon, some lawman off-duty called him a pretty boy or something, and he’d answered with a “decent kicking,” or so he’d told Dutch.
None of that explained the glass shard sticking out of his skin.
You stood outside his tent while he got scolded half to hell, waiting until the gang leader stormed out before stepping inside. It was late, half the camp was asleep, but Miss Grimshaw had ordered you to tend his wounds and you weren’t about to protest. You had to pull your weight, after all.
Inside, he sat slumped on a cot, quiet, brooding, a storm barely contained.
You didn’t dare speak.
You’d learned drunk men didn’t like to be spoken to unless they did it first, and besides,you’d never talked to him before. Barely even knew what to look at.
“I’ll pull it out,” you warned, voice soft to match the midnight hour.
He grunted when you removed the shard, relieved when it came out clean. Besides a few hisses when you poured alcohol into the wound, he said nothing. Whatever thoughts he had were somewhere far from you.
“Miss Grimshaw will take a look at it tomorrow, stitch you up if you need to,” you announced. “I don’t know much about it. Don’t want it to scar ugly.”
It was partly true, you didn’t want to ruin anyone’s face, but mostly you couldn’t stomach the thought of sewing flesh.
“You don’t know?” he asked, voice deep and hoarse enough for you to wonder how many packs he smoked a day.
“I… don-,” you answered, cleaning the shallow cut on his lip. “I’m still learnin’ the ropes.”
He didn’t respond.
You were nearly done when he spoke again.
“How’d a pretty girl like you end up tendin’ the wounds of a fucked group of bastards like us?”
You scoffed quietly. He was drunk. You ignored him.
“You got pretty hands, missy,” he added after a moment. “They’re real soft.”
You hid a smile, not at the compliment, but at the audacity. He sure looked young, perhaps a year or two younger than you, yet he thought he could call you missy.
“How’d a pretty boy like you end up with a bottle to the face?” you asked as you put the supplies away, matching his tone. Not flirting. Just giving him a taste of his own.
He chuckled, amused. “I ain’t a boy. And I sure as hell ain’t pretty.”
“You sure talk a lot for someone with a busted lip, mister.”
“You sure enjoy bein’ mean for someone supposed to be nursin’ me.” He said, and you didn’t recall ever smiling at a drunk man before.
“Well, you sure get scolded a lot for someone who’s supposed to be the boss’ favorite son.”
You said it without thinking, forgetting you’d been around for way less than a month. Forgetting you weren’t supposed to speak unless spoken to.
His amusement vanished instantly.
“And you’re awful nosy for someone who’s been here a week,” he snapped.
Your stomach dropped. You regretted speaking at all. This was why you always kept to yourself.
“Mister—”
“You don’t know the half,” he muttered, “I ain’t his favorite,” not yelling, just irritated, tired. “I’m nobody’s—” he lowered his voice, bending over to take off his boots, “favorite.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“Jesus,” he sighed to himself, “why does everyone keep sayin’ that?”
You stood up.
“I’ll leave now. If there’s anythin’ else I can do—”
“There’s only one thing you can help me with, missy, and I doubt you’ll want to.” He mumbled, tugging off his other boot, not even looking at you, speaking more to himself or to the air.
You had already dropped the tent flap behind you when you heard him add in a low voice, barely meant for human ears, not meant for you to listen.
“Doubt any woman here wants to, actually. Or any woman at all… ‘less I pay her.”
You stopped mid-step.
Your former boss’ words echoed in your ears and for the first time, they felt welcome… in a strange, twisted way.
There it was… the solution to your predicament. The thing that could put the constant anxiety to rest, the one that screamed you weren’t contributing anything meaningful.
A task exclusive to you.
Something useful.
Something no one else seemed to be doing.
Here was the thing you could offer.
The thing that could buy you some time until you ‘figured it all out’ as Hosea said.
You traced your steps back into his tent.
“I want… to,” you announced softly.
He looked up, startled, clearly not expecting you to return.
For a moment he just stared, confused, blinking through the fog of liquor and the weight of Dutch’s scolding. Then he sighed. Deeply.
“Listen, miss… forget it. I’m half-drunk and angry, and my head’s poundin’ like hell. Just go to bed, will you?”
His voice wasn’t irritated anymore, just tired. Bone-tired.
“Then let me help,” you offered with a small, wavering smile. You stepped toward him and took his hand, warm, startlingly warm against the cold night air. “It’ll feel real nice, I promise.”
A lie. You didn’t know if it would. But you had to sell the service somehow.
Your heart pounded. Shame pooled low in your belly, heavy and sickening. There wasn’t a soul in this world who truly cared for you, so there was no one to disappoint, and yet offering yourself like this made something inside you twist. Made you feel like a dirty thing. Like every mean-spirited warning that nasty saloon owner spit at you had been a prophecy.
You didn’t let yourself think further.
You just guided him, gently, insistently, pulling him by the hand to the small table beside his cot.
Then you turned around, bent forward slightly, taking shallow breaths so he wouldn’t hear how your chest pulled tight. You gathered the thin skirt of your white chemise, lifting it just enough. You usually didn’t sleep in drawers.
“Miss, you don’t have t—” he started, voice low behind you.
“But… I want to.” You cut him off by reaching back and taking both his hands, placing them on your hips, using them to hold the fabric in place, and your heart struggled in your chest. “You don’t?”
There was only silence for an answer.
Long enough that you wondered if he was just as uncomfortable as you were. If this wasn’t helping him at all, if you were making it worse. Torturing him with your presence.
But then you heard the soft metal clink of his belt. The whisper of fabric as his pants slid down. A quiet, shuddering breath as he stroked himself, palm slick with saliva, trying to get fully hard.
“I’m gonna—” he cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh… Is it okay?”
You swallowed. “Sure.”
The wet tip found you easily.
He pushed in just an inch, barely, and stopped.
“Just… tell me if it hurts,” he murmured.
You nodded, and since you didn’t protest, he slowly eased the rest of the way inside.
You were too wrapped in shame and dread and the impossibility of tomorrow — how were you supposed to look him in the eye in daylight? — to notice how slow he was moving. How long it took him to fully settle inside you.
You only realized once his hips met yours, his balls pressing lightly against the back of your thighs, that it hadn’t hurt. Not beyond reason.
He was… gentle.
He started moving, falling into a rhythm, cautious, steady. Like he didn’t know you, didn’t know what you liked, didn’t know how to move with your body, so he was treading carefully.
You could almost swear he didn’t want to hurt you.
And it felt… nice.
Surprisingly nice.
His thick cock nudged a spot inside you that made your breath catch, and every time his hips met the curve of your ass, the warmth of him lingered.
Wet sounds filled the tent, quiet but unmistakable. Skin against skin. And sometimes a low grunt from him, dragged out of his chest as your body tightened around him.
You kept your mouth shut. Clamped. No moans, even when one tried to rise when he hit that one angle just right.
It was quick.
Surprisingly quick.
No kisses.
No tenderness spoken aloud.
No pretense.
Just an exchange, a simple job, as simple and transactional as sweeping floors for money or mending clothes for a living.
You felt him twitch. You knew he was close. And you were still not, but this wasn’t about you. It never was.
He pulled out fast, but not fast enough, spilling hot across the back of your thighs.
“Christ, I’m sorry,” he said quickly. You heard him try to adjust, to angle himself away too late. “Let me—”
“It’s okay.” You straightened, letting your chemise fall. “I’ll take care of it. You should rest.”
You didn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t. Your cheeks burned and the embarrassment thickened your throat.
He hesitated.
“Look, miss… we can pretend nothin’ happened,” he murmured, as if sensing your shame, maybe feeling it too. “Or never talk about this again. Either way.”
You nodded, gathering the small medical box, turning toward the flap of the tent.
Maybe this didn’t have to happen again.
Maybe he wouldn’t even want to.
“Sleep well, mister,” you whispered.
“It’s John.”
He said, voice impossibly raspier.
“John Marston.”
-
Your cheeks burned for days after that night, hot and embarrassed, especially whenever you caught sight of him across camp. Thankfully, it didn’t happen often. John was either out on guard duty or gone on whatever fool task Dutch had sent the men on. And he never mentioned anything about that night, not to you, not to anyone else. At least judging by the way nobody looked at you strangely, and the girls still treated you like always.
Maybe it didn’t need to happen again.
Maybe it had just been a strange accident, a one-time thing born of anger and whiskey and your own desperation.
Part of you felt relieved… and another part worried. You’d have to find some other way to contribute, then. Some other way to matter.
One evening, the air had turned sharply cold the way it did on the Great Plains, the kind of cold that nipped your knuckles even through your sleeves. The sun had long since disappeared. You were bent over a table wiping dried blood off it—those damn boys and their stupid knife games—when you heard a man clear his throat behind you.
You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.
Even with little time in camp, you had already learned the sound of his voice. It was pretty recognizable. It always came out just a bit hoarse, like years of tobacco had lodged themselves in his throat.
And you knew exactly what he was here for before he even asked.
“Miss,” he said, the first word he’d spoken to you since he’d told you his name a couple weeks ago. “You, uh… you doin’ somethin’?”
You straightened slowly, giving yourself a moment. Your grip tightened on the blood-stained rag. One breath. Two. Deciding.
Because if you said no, he’d leave.
And if you said yes… well, you already knew what you were agreeing to.
Your indecision didn’t last long.
Some minutes later, your left cheek was squished against the rough bark of a pine trunk, your palms braced against it, as his cock slid in and out of your cunt from behind. From this angle, you could see faint flickers of campfire light between the trees—a safe distance away. His hands didn’t touch your skin this time either; they only held your skirt up, practical and impersonal.
It was quiet.
Only the wet sounds of joined flesh layered over the wind sweeping through the tall, yellow grass of the Great Plains.
And like the first time, it didn’t hurt. Not during, not after. No bruises. No stinging skin. Just a soft, manageable shame… one that faded a little more every time.
And oh, there were more times.
The same tree line as that second night. A dense thicket halfway to Manzanita Post. An old abandoned cabin where the Lower Montana River met Flat Iron Lake. Behind a fallen oak by the lake shore during a storm, both of you soaked to the bone…
Always from behind. Always quiet. No kissing. No endearments. No eye contact. No conversation beyond his soft, hesitant warning: “Only if you want to. You don’t have to, miss.”
But somehow, you always… wanted to.
It was easy. Rehearsed. Predictable.
Your little unspoken agreement.
And it worked. You liked it that way. Almost.
It was clinical, physical, almost anonymous…
He simply accepted what you offered and never asked for more.
And then… what newspapers would later go on to call the Blackwater Massacre happened.
Chaos. Screaming. Blood. Lots of it.
Dutch yelling. Hosea pulling people by the arm. Arthur firing rounds you couldn’t even hear over the ringing in your ears.
One moment you’d been standing near your tent, the next you were being shoved onto a wagon and ordered to flee north. No time to pack. No time to think. The little you owned—your spare shirt, the thread kit, the book Mary Beth had lent you—left behind without a second thought.
Others lost more, however. So much more. Some even their lives.
Jenny gone.
Davey Callander coughing up the last of his life in Abigail’s arms.
His brother and Sean missing, presumed dead.
Mary-Beth crying so hard for everyone her whole small frame shook.
You hadn’t been with them long. So no tears fell from your eyes. But seeing all that grief—real grief, sharp and blinding—made you think about your own mortality for the first time in years. About how fragile you truly were. How easily you could be the next name whispered around a campfire, the next grave in the mud. And how even with all these men’s “protection,” the world was cruel, unforgiving, and absolutely did not care if you lived or died.
Out there, without them? You’d last maybe an hour.
John had gone ahead during the escape, scouting the path to follow… and then got himself lost in the snowstorm. Abigail begged for someone to go look for him, begged like a woman who’d lost her last hope. And then, Tilly whispered to you that John was Jack’s father, that he was practically… her husband. And you would have never guessed. They barely talked to each other, in fact you had never seen them together. The dynamic seemed messy and exhausting. Nothing you wanted any part in.
Arthur and Javier found him eventually. Hauled him back on horseback, limp and half-frozen, pale as the snow around him. John didn’t look like John. He looked like death. Freshly carved.
Miss Grimshaw—the only one among the women whose hands didn’t shake—treated his wounds with Reverend Swanson’s assistance, both in prayer and in practice. Abigail stayed by his side every hour she could. They still argued, somehow. Even with him half-conscious. Even in front of everyone: you, the rest of the women, Strauss, Swanson, poor widowed Mrs. Adler, and young Jack, playing with sticks in a corner.
Sometimes you’d help change his bandages. Carefully. Quietly. You didn’t say much. You didn’t need to. Up close, you felt bad for the man, genuinely. His skin was cold, his breathing uneven. The man who’d once bent you over a pine trunk now couldn’t even lift his head.
And that was that.
With him incapacitated, your late-night duties were naturally suspended.
A relief, honestly, because the cold up there in the Grizzlies was unbearable. You couldn’t imagine letting someone fuck you in a snowbank, your feet numb and your thighs shaking, snowflakes melting on your back.
But you didn’t have to imagine for long.
You didn’t know how he’d found out.
Micah Bell was opportunistic, observant, and predatory. And sometimes that was all a man like him needed.
Maybe he’d noticed John talking to you before conveniently disappearing out of sight together. Maybe he’d seen you return to camp some time after, flushed and a little breathless.
Maybe he’d just guessed.
And guessed right.
It didn’t matter how.
What mattered was that he knew enough.
He approached you the first time as you were discarding rabbit bones behind the old stable in Colter, the horses’ crude shelter from the snow. Your fingers were stiff from the cold, your nose numb, your breath white in the air.
You hadn’t even heard him approach.
“I’ve noticed you’ve been slackin’ off, little miss” he said, voice low, casual, like he was commenting on the weather. “Heard y’ain’t contributin’ enough,” he pulled out a box from his pocket, lighting a cigarette. “Dead weight, if you ask me. And I think Dutch oughta know. Can’t be draggin’ extra mouths around in times like these.”
Your stomach knotted. Not because of him, though that too, but because the words sounded familiar. Too familiar. You could almost hear him say them in your own voice.
“But now, don’t you worry, little miss” he added, taking a slow step closer. “I know a way even scroungers can be useful. Real useful. And it ain’t anythin’ you don’t already know how to do.”
You froze.
He leaned in, breath sour and scalding against your ear.
“Just help me,” he murmured. “Same way you been helpin’ Scarface.”
So he did know.
Your mind raced. You tried to decline—stuttered something about chores, about food prep, about helping Mr. Pearson. For a heartbeat, you even considered lying. Telling him you and John had something claimed, something that would get him angry if you were with another man.
But—
But what if Micah was right?
What if Dutch decided you were dead weight after all?
What if they left you here—
in the freezing, merciless jaws of Ambarino?
You didn’t want to die here.
And you couldn’t afford to choose.
You needed to be “useful” when “useful” was required.
You needed to surrender any little dignity a lifelong ‘scrounger’ like you had left, because at this point survival was the only commodity you could afford.
Your silence was enough for him. He didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t ask for one.
He grabbed your arm tight and dragged you into the old barn. Not for shelter from the cold but to avoid witnesses. He decided only the horses would see. Their breath clouded the air around them, hooves shifting anxiously on the frozen ground.
And then it happened for the first time.
Unlike John’s, Micah’s hands were everywhere, grabbing, groping, clawing like he wanted to leave marks that would last. He tugged your shirt apart so roughly the buttons flew. You had to sew them back later in secret, biting your lip the whole time.
Unlike John, Micah bared you. Stripped you open to the cold, to his gaze, to the stinging air biting your skin.
Unlike John, he wanted to hear you. Made you moan. Demanded it.
“Say my name,” he hissed, fingers digging bruises into your hips. “C’mon now. Say it.”
Unlike with John… it hurt. During. And after.
Especially after.
Between your legs. In the tender, torn places of your body. And deeper still, somewhere inside your chest, where the old fear lived.
When he was done, he left you there—half dressed, freezing, shaking more from shame than cold—before stepping into the storm like nothing had happened.
You pulled your clothes together.
You fixed your hair.
You breathed until breathing didn’t hurt.
And you swore you’d never let it happen again.
But deep down you knew that was a promise that neither you nor Micah Bell were ever going to let you keep.
-
The thin, ugly potato peels still clung to the plate where the previous night’s dinner had been served, showing no signs of surrender, sticking to the metal like a bad memory. You eventually decided to abandon them in the sink, a little water, a little soap. Some things just needed time. There was little in this world that time couldn’t soften, at least a bit.
You grabbed a burlap sack and your little shovel, and stepped out the back door into the slanting gold of early morning.
The sun hat fell low over your eyes, the breeze was cool, and the mountain air tasted clean enough to make a person believe the world had only ever been kind.
The morning was yours. Quiet. Unguarded.
You figured you could finish weeding before the heat settled in. Maybe even get some work done in the front patch too. The back garden was for food: tomatoes hanging heavy on the vine, fat little squashes trying to creep into one another’s space, and the damned potatoes that grew exactly where they wanted, not where you told them to. The front was for your little flower bed. And your ginseng. And your wild mint. And the yarrow.
You kept those herbs close always. Old habits. Old training.
Miss Grimshaw had taught you the basics once, in a land far away from this one. Hosea used to say he’d made so many tonics he could do it with his eyes closed.
You used to laugh at that.
Now you understood exactly what he meant.
You knelt in the dirt and started pulling weeds. Some came easy, thin little things that surrendered with a sigh. Others fought, clinging deep into the soil, roots thick and tangled, refusing to be dislodged unless you used both hands.
Some people were like that too. Stubborn. Unwanted. Hard to uproot once they’d sunk themselves into vulnerable places.
You wiped your forehead with the back of your wrist and reached for another weed when something shifted in your chest—nothing visible, just that small, familiar tug toward memory.
You had been picking herbs that morning too…
-
For the following weeks after the incident in Colter, the saloon owner’s words clawed their way back to the front of your mind.
You felt like a whore. Through and through.
The gang had somehow made it out of the Grizzlies alive and now you found yourselves in the Heartlands, camped near a cow town called Valentine. Horseshoe Overlook, a pretty enough perch overlooking the Dakota. Rough country. Wind sweeping through the grass, air crisp but merciful.
Rough, yes. But also beautiful.
John.
He was back on his feet. Weak at first, stubborn about it, but slowly regaining his former strength. You were happy for him. Almost. If you were capable of feeling anything between the misery and hopelessness Micah had carved into you, you would be happy for him.
John hadn’t touched you since Blackwater, before the ferry incident. He spent most days sitting beneath the huge shadow of an oak on the outskirts of camp, facing the cliff. Most of the time he’d be studying a map, sometimes he’d be bickering with Abigail; and other times, brooding with that hollow look in his eyes. And more than once, you wondered if he sat there debating whether to jump.
But, even with the John chapter closed, you didn’t have to worry. You could still make yourself “useful.”
Micah had made sure of that.
He was diligently trying to fill John’s boots—God, he was—and you hated yourself for letting him. At this point, you’d been with him almost as much as with John, and the thought alone made your stomach turn. It wasn’t just disgust. It was rot. A sickness deep in your chest, sour and shameful, like something festering where no one could see.
Each time he dragged you out of sight or behind a tree line, each time he pushed his weight on you, each time you heard his laugh too close to your ear… you felt the ground tilt under you. Felt yourself shrinking into someone small, filthy, unlovable.
Someone who existed only to be used.
And as if that wasn’t enough, the camp’s returning party boy made things worse.
Sean had come back—good for him, truly—but the drinking increased tenfold. One night, Javier had pulled you onto his lap, so drunk you were surprised he could stay upright. Asked for a kiss on the cheek, slurring and smiling. You hesitated but leaned down anyway, figuring it would get you out of there quicker. But just as your lips touched his cheek, he turned and pecked your mouth. A stupid, sloppy little thing.
Bill and Sean had laughed it off nearby, teasing him, hollering.
You’d slipped away fast.
No resentment. Javier was a good man when sober.
You just made a note: stay away from him when he wasn’t.
And Sean… well, there had been an incident with him too. You’d seen Karen slap him earlier and storm off, so you assumed they had some sort of thing. So when he tried to kiss you beside the campfire later—right in front of Uncle and Mr. Pearson—drunk on whatever poison was in the bottle he was holding, it took you by surprise. You turned your head just in time; and luckily, he only caught the corner of your mouth.
No one laughed this time.
But no one scolded him either.
You left quickly, praying Karen wouldn’t hear of it.
Of all this mess, only one thing had resembled good news: Micah getting locked up.
Young Lenny delivered it, breathless atop his reliable Maggie. “There are talks of hanging him,” he’d said. Arthur—and you, though more discreetly—were the only ones who celebrated. Probably only Dutch cared enough to send someone to fetch him. And he ordered his best man to do the job.
Luckily, Arthur took his time.
Heavens, you fucking loved Arthur. Thanks to him, you were free of Micah’s demands for a while, the Strawberry jail had bought you precious days of peace. But Arthur couldn’t delay the mission forever. Luckily, even after Micah was freed, he lingered around Strawberry. Wandering around, he claimed, looking for a “peace offering.” He didn’t want to return empty-handed to Dutch.
It was good while it lasted.
But one cursed morning, he returned. Like a bad winter does every year.
You’d been sent to pick yarrow and burdock root. Sweet Kieran had mentioned they grew near water, so you walked down to the Dakota River until you reached what was left of a burnt-out town. LIMPANY, the charred sign read. Even in daylight, it felt wrong to be there, haunted.
You’d strayed too far from Horseshoe.
Too far from the watchful eyes of Lenny or Bill or Karen keeping guard.
And maybe you should’ve listened to wiser people.
Because he found you.
Your sack was only half-full. You were bent over the cold ground, fingers numb, breath puffing white in the early morning air.
And behind you…
A shadow you pretended not to see.
A voice you prayed wouldn’t speak.
A man you wished you could rip from your life as easily as you tugged yarrow from the soil.
He wanted you to celebrate his return, his “rebirth,” he called it. Said he’d been sure he was gonna hang. And you… God, you wished he had. You wished you could turn back time and beg Arthur to let him die.
He took you in daylight.
Even rougher. Crueler. More degrading than ever before.
The sun hadn’t even climbed past eight. Not even enough time for camp to fully wake.
As you bounced helplessly beneath him, legs splayed and digging into the cold earth, you felt it again. That familiar collapse inside your chest. That awful certainty blooming like poison.
Worthless.
Just like your relatives always said you were. And from your current position under the most despicable man you’d ever met, it was hard not to believe them.
When he finally left—luckily he never lasted long, although every second in his arms stretched into a lifetime—you stayed still for a moment. Just breathing. Just existing under the open morning sky. Then you picked yourself up with stiff movements, grabbed your half-full sack of herbs, dusted your skirt, and stumbled toward the riverbank.
The cold water bit at your hands. You didn’t care. You splashed yourself clean as best you could, refusing to look at your reflection because you already knew what you’d see: a woman who kept finding herself in the same filthy place, and the worst part was that she wasn’t even trying to climb out.
Next time he tried to drag you somewhere, you told yourself, you’d resist. You’d object. Maybe even fight back. Maybe if you worked harder at your other chores—really poured yourself into them—maybe then you wouldn’t have to… pull your weight that disgusting way. What a silly thought it’d been, the one that had started everything that night in Blackwater. Absurd. In retrospect, one of the stupidest ideas that ever came to anyone. None of the other women were doing what you were doing, and they got to stay. They were safe. Fed. Kept. You told yourself that over and over, as if repeating it would make your legs strong enough for the climb back toward the Overlook.
By the time you reached camp, Miss Grimshaw was standing there waiting, hands on her hips. And you knew exactly what that meant. She always scolded everything that had ears—claimed you all as “my girls,” bossed you all around like a nest of hens—but on that day her glare was special, it could’ve cut a tree in half.
And you remembered why.
You were supposed to help Mr. Pearson with breakfast. But thanks to Micah, you hadn’t shown on time, so she’d had to do it herself while half the camp sat “hungry and irritated,” in her own words.
If it was true…Poor Jack. Poor Lenny and Bill after a long night on guard. You felt guilty for that. Ashamed.
Tilly tried to reassure you later, saying Grimshaw blew everything out of proportion, that it had happened to her before, but your nerves were shot. You’d already broken once that morning, you didn’t have it in you to bend again.
As punishment, Grimshaw gave you double the work for the day, and you did it all with the knot in your throat burning like fire. You didn’t cry when she scolded you again for good measure. You didn’t cry while you sewed socks, scrubbed blood out of shirts, and disposed of rotten carcasses. You didn’t even cry when you caught sight of Micah across camp later that afternoon, drinking a beer like he hadn’t ruined your morning.
But by the time the sun dipped behind the ridge and the stars took their places overhead, you felt like a single touch, the wrong touch, could shatter you into a million pieces. Your eyes prickled, ready to betray you the moment you blinked.
Micah was right, wasn’t he? Soon, they would decide you were dead weight, of course they would. Miss Grimshaw herself had said you were slacking off: “taking your sweet time under some tree like a lazy child instead of chopping vegetables for breakfast.” And you deserved it, for letting that bastard keep you like that this morning.
But that’s what faces from your past always said. That you’d amount to nothing. That you were good for nothing. That ‘whorin’ was the only way for you.
By the time Arthur, John, Charles, and Sean, who had been gone since the previous evening, rode back into camp, dinner had already been served. The firelight flickered across their faces, and everyone seemed in high spirits. Sean especially, hooting about a train heist gone spectacularly right. Good for them, truly, but in all honesty… you didn’t have it in you to care. Not after the worst day you’d had in a while.
You heard the laughter from across camp as you scrubbed the dinner dishes under the dim lantern light, and the sound made your chest ache.
A camp full of joy, and you the only sad soul in it.
When you were finally done, you slipped away toward the girls’ tent. You didn’t want to drink, didn’t want to pretend, didn’t want to be seen, and you certainly didn’t want to be around when Javier and Sean began to drink. The music from the campfire—warm, wild, happy—only made the tears press harder behind your eyes.
You sat down on the blanket you had for bed, work clothes and all. You didn’t have it in you to change. You dusted the thin fabric a little, just to keep your hands busy.
And then you heard footsteps approaching behind you.
Please, you thought, let it be anyone but Mary-Beth. You liked her, but you didn’t have a single word left in you.
“Hey.” A voice said softly.
Not Mary-Beth.
“Are you… doin’ something’?”
Your fingers stopped.
You hadn’t heard that voice in a while…
Long enough for the question to surprise you. Yet not long enough for you to forget what he meant by it.
John.
Indeed. It had been a while —two camps ago, to be exact— since he’d come to you.
You wiped a stray tear off your cheek before turning, hoping he hadn’t seen it glint in the lamplight.
He was smiling, a little. Never wide. You had never seen him smile wide. But the hint of one tugged at his mouth, relaxed and easy. You hadn’t seen his lips do that since the night you dug that shard of glass out of his forehead.
Tonight he looked… pleased. With himself. With the world. With the successful heist that Sean wanted everyone to credit him for, even though you’d watched John spend days sitting under that tree outside camp, map in his hands and charcoal tucked behind his ear, planning and recalculating and brooding.
You wanted to say no.
You were tired.
You were hurting.
You were barely holding yourself together.
But hey, you had helped Micah celebrate his return, hadn’t you?
How could you not help John celebrate his success?
You must have stared too long without answering, because he hesitated.
“If you don’t want to, I und—”
“No.” You cut him off quickly.
Because the thing is… you needed him tonight.
Not romantically.
Not lovingly.
You just needed something—someone—who didn’t make you feel like utter garbage.
You stood up, locking your gaze with his, letting your eyes beg for what you didn’t trust your voice to hold.
Yes, you needed him tonight. In a way Abigail wouldn’t have appreciated. Sorry to her, truly, but you needed her husband tonight. You needed the warmth of his body pressed to yours, the gentleness of his cock sliding in and out of you, the sweet sounds of his hips colliding against the soft flesh of your ass. You needed to drown in his scent, in the quiet kindness he didn’t even know he had. Needed him to scrub Micah off your skin, off your mind. Needed him to erase Grimshaw’s words, today’s misery and tomorrow’s dread.
And God, you hoped it wasn’t too much to ask.
“I want to,” you said, voice small but steady. “Follow me. I know a place.”
Limpany looked even more doomed under the moonlight, hollowed, skeletal, its shadows long and crooked. Yet somehow it didn’t feel as threatening or horrible as it had that morning, with Micah as company. Now it was just a dead town, nothing more. A place nobody cared about. A place nobody remembered. A place nobody would look.
You didn’t know what had happened here; the past was just char and ghosts. The fire must have been years ago. It might’ve once been a pleasant little town by the Dakota, with children playing by the river instead of the silence now settled there.
Not much was left. Under the pale light you could make out the carcass of a two-story saloon, a general store, the jail cells. And next to them, the sheriff’s office: roof half-gone, walls still standing. But most importantly, a desk intact enough for him to bend you over. So that’s where you led him.
His footsteps followed you in silence.
“Found this place while pickin’ plants this morning,” you said. First words uttered since you two left camp.
His eyes scanned the gaps where roof beams used to be.
“You shouldn’t stray too far from camp, miss,” he murmured, “This here’s O’Driscoll country.” He picked up a half-broken bottle, turning it in his hand. “A young lady all by herself can attract the worst sort of company.”
You watched him examine the glass. Despite your sour mood, the warning warmed you. It was… nice. Someone caring, even a little. Even occasionally. Maybe if you’d listened earlier, maybe that bastard wouldn’t have—
You took the bottle from his hand and set it back on the desk. He looked at you closely. You hadn’t brought him here to think about your misery. You had brought him here so he could help you forget.
You turned in the tight space he’d left between his body and the desk, his breath matching the river’s slow rhythm outside. Your fingers pulled your hair to the side and your skirt up, muscle memory guiding them, even though it had been weeks since he last touched you.
“Here, please,” you requested softly, directing his hands to your hips so he could hold your skirt. Then, you braced your palms on the dusty desk, bending over the hard surface. You’d done your part. Now all he had to do was what he always did.
His dominant hand undid his belt and suspenders. You heard him stroke himself, spit slicking his palm. Then the familiar, generous tip of his cock slid past your split drawers, pressing into you, slow, careful, gentle. He always took his time, easing into you inch by patient inch until he filled you completely.
As usual, he set a pace, unhurried and steady. He never fucked you fast. Never rough. Just deep, slow, thorough. And this was what you needed.
But when you closed your eyes to sink into the feeling, your mind didn’t empty. It flooded. Memories. Fear. The sting of the bruise on your neck. The crack in your voice earlier. The things you didn’t let yourself think about.
Your eyes burned. You opened them to the window frame, the silhouette of the burnt saloon blurred through tears. He wouldn’t see them. Couldn’t. Not from behind. And you were grateful.
The first tear slipped down your cheek. Then another. Silent. You let them fall. As long as there was no voice, no weeping sounds.
A low grunt behind you reminded you he was still there, hands steady on your hips, a tall, warm body pressed close. And that’s when it hit you: That—that exact moment—was the only time you ever felt safe. When he was inside you, Micah couldn’t reach you. Hell, even if he walked through that burnt doorway right then, he couldn’t touch you. Because John was already taking you. Because in those moments, you belonged to him. Him alone.
To John.
“John,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, your breath shaking. His name like a reminder that it was him behind you. Him and not Micah.
“John,” you said again, your body trembling under the weight of everything you’d carried alone. Your voice cracked, tiny, broken, not even meant for him to notice.
But he did. He always noticed more than people thought.
A comfortable weight settled across your bent back, solid, grounding, comforting. Warm breath touched your neck… and then…the unmistakable softness of lips.
His lips.
Pressed to the burning bruise Micah had left. A soft, gentle peck that made your heart stutter, as if bracing for a storm to break.
“John?” you whispered his name like a question you didn’t expect answered.
Yet he did.
He straightened and pulled you back against him, not roughly, not lustfully, just holding you. Welcoming you. Your spine pressed to his chest, his arms sliding around your waist, his hands meeting beneath your breasts. Holding you, not using you.
And as hot tears streamed freely down your face, you realized that was the closest thing to a hug you’d had in years.
There, in his arms, you were safe. Safe as long as he was inside you. Safe even if that bastard tried something. John would protect you. You knew it without knowing why.
You were always quiet, trained quiet, scared quiet. Always except tonight.
“John—” you moaned, louder this time, loud enough for anyone walking by to hear. Your voice cracked wide open, with raw pain.
And bone-deep pleasure.
You cried harder in his arms, quiet sobs slipping out with his name—his name you gasped again and again as he thrust into you, pushing hot tears and pent-up hurt out of you until they streamed down your cheeks, down your neck, pooling warm beneath your shirt…
But then, he stilled inside you.
Lowering his head.
His lips hovering beside your ear.
Something human.
Gentle.
Alive.
“John?” you breathed again, your hands sliding over his where they held you, just over your ribs, your chest rising and falling in unsteady rhythm.
“It’s alright, miss’.” He answered, voice low, soft, unguarded. Pressing another kiss to the bruise on your neck, reassuring you that he was still there. As if it would help it heal. A gesture tender in a way he probably was not aware of.
“You’re okay, darlin’.” He promised, breath warm against your skin. And for the first time all day, those sweet words, whispered so gently against your ear, made you believe you were.
Bruce Banner (Professor Hulk)/Plus-Sized Brown Woman Reader - Firsts - Ch. 2/4 🌶
Summary: Your first time seeing Bruce's dick.
Tags: humor, domestic bliss, first time, size difference, Hulk sex, surprises, cunnilingus, oral, mutual masturbation, clumsy awkward chatty goofy wholesome sex, no penetration, too big, nipple play,
Warnings: explicit, suggestions toward insecurities i.e. stomach & stretchmarks
Author's Notes: Y/N = Your name. Chapters 3 & 4 will be posted over the next few days!
Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Read the whole fic on AO3 here!
"No—we can't."
"Because?" You sang into his lips, crawling your hands down his chest.
He broke off your kiss and sat to his knees, but not before you sucked his lip between your teeth.
"I'm—it's too big."
"Too big?"
Too big sounded like a challenge, and you were always intrigued by a challenge.
Chapter 2: Bedsharing
You drifted between wake and sleep, pulling the straps of your tank top over your shoulder as you turned, seeking out the warmth of Bruce's form as you nuzzled into his chest.
Even in his deep sleep, like clockwork he wrapped an arm around your waist, nesting his chin atop your head.
You laid there a moment, so safe and secure—this is your first time sharing this moment and somehow you felt like you already missed this.
"Can't sleep?" He mumbled, half awake.
"Yeah." Your eyelids fluttered, trying your damnedest to stimulate them open, but they were as stubborn as you.
Your mind faded elsewhere, fighting tirelessly to stay in bed and keep this moment for as long as possible, but your body rejected it.
Bruce, however, had other plans.
"I'm so glad you're here." He whispered, sounding a tad bit more alert.
His finger slowly danced down your shoulder, carrying your thin strap with it. The stimulation was enough to bring your mind back but you didn't have enough energy to move.
You felt his lips press gently against your shoulder, his breath fanning across your prickling skin.
"Don't worry, I've got you." He whispered as you felt a rush of adrenaline warm your body.
His fingers spread across your arms, movements tired and sluggish as he brushed his hands along your exposed stomach.
You didn't think about how squishy your stomach was, or how his knuckles kissed over your stretch marks. Instead you smiled. Your fingers finding his cheek before messing his curls.
He kissed, catching the round of your nose and you giggled, guiding him gently crashing into your lips.
The kiss was soft and short. Not the first kiss you ever shared, but far more intimate.
Eyes adjusting to the dim light cast through his curtains, you made out Bruce's silhouette and you stroked down his arm. Your hand fit right around his finger, as it tickled down your side.
"Whatcha thinkin bout?"
A weary giggle escaped you as his thumb kneaded your hip.
"You." He chuckled. "Laying in my bed. With no panties on."
You snickered, running your nails along his hairy forearms.
"Is that what you were dreaming about?"
"I wish." He cracked, his laugh echoing in the still of his bedroom.
You sat up, turning on your knees before reaching above his headboard, nudging open the near blackout curtains, inviting in soft moonlight.
You laid back on your side, scooting closer, wrapping his arm around your waist.
"I wanted to see you." You booped his nose, earning a slow blink from him.
"This feels like a dream."
He chuckled, "Maybe it is and you're still on your 6 hour flight to New York."
You smiled gently, his eyes following yours as you slid free your other strap, slowly tugging at the front of the top revealing more of your breasts.
His smile faded, digging his teeth into his tongue as you stripped the undershirt down to your stomach.
"Then pinch me."
He sighed heavy, hands moving to cup your breasts, palms grazing your nipples as you gasped wearily.
Bruce leaned in, nuzzling into your neck as he worked your growing buds with his thumb tips.
A choked moan escaped you as he pinched then pulled on your sensitive nubs, groaning lowly into your shoulder.
He rolled his fingers, twisting the erect nipples and you sighed ragged against his ear.
"Bruce."
The energy surge he felt hearing his name roll feverishly off your tongue made his next actions especially erotic.
He leaned into you, pressing you onto your back as your legs spread wide accommodating him.
He laid over top of you for a moment, catching a glimpse of your face, stretched wanton with need as you pressed him against your body, craving his touch and warmth.
Dutifully, you pressed your lips to his neck, sucking and biting at what you hope would turn into hickeys as you hooked your fingers under the hem of his white tee.
He obliged you, sitting up to his knees, the blinds casting stripes across his deep musculature as he peeled the t-shirt off.
You sat up on your elbows, watching intensely as his chest swelled and his forehead wrinkled with concern.
"Do you want this?"
Sure, you'd shared some intimate moments before, but never has it progressed to this level.
Bruce was rightly concerned.
You reached for his hand and he broke the distance. Guiding his palm leisurely over your knee, down the curve of your thigh and flesh of increasing warmth, before his fingers slid over your mound, resting wet and sticky against your lips.
Your hips rolled gently against his hand and mumbled salaciously. "Does it feel like I don't want this?"
Bruce swallowed as you guided his fingers, slow and gentle, pressing between your lips, indulging him in the sultry wetness that streamed from your core.
He leaned over you, latching onto your trembling lips as his hand stroked tirelessly over your clit.
You gasped against his lips, hands gripping at everything until you found the column of Bruce's forearm.
You squeezed him hard, nails pressing into his skin as you threw your head back and cursed into the air.
He was loving this, this short tempered, unsatisfied energy that contrasted your own, resting just beneath your surface.
He wanted to draw it out further, see how long you could handle such mild stimulation before suddenly you were pleading, curling your toes and clutching vigorously at his hair—a habit of yours that he'd learn to grow accustomed to.
"Fu-ck." You whimpered, eyes rolling back as your body tensed up and you held your breath, teetering on the edge of oversensitivity as he tirelessly rubbed the throbbing nub.
Abruptly you stilled his hand, panting into the air as your body relaxed, tremors still shocking your system.
Your kiss was impatient and torrid as you pulled him into your lips, flinching quietly as his finger mistakenly grazed your clit.
A soft chuckle fell from his lips as he realized, stroking his slick knuckle over your clit and you flinched again, pulling away his mischievous wrist.
"Wow." Was all Bruce could manage as he gazed over your trembling form.
"You're a little firecracker when you're all worked up."
You snickered, covering your eyes as he joined you in laughter.
"Stop. It's not that serious."
"You scared me, grabbing my hair like that." You burst into laughter, squeezing his shoulders in protest.
"Shut up and kiss me, idiot." You tossed your arms over his shoulders, meeting his lips as he laid flat on his stomach.
You breathed against each other, his chest rose and fell to match yours as you brushed the top of your foot down his happy trail.
He moaned softly against your lips as you explored further, finding his cock semi erect in his pajamas.
You were inching down his waistband as your tongue slid over his bottom lip when he halted your curious foot, whispering against your lips.
"No—we can't."
"Because?" You sang into his lips, crawling your hands down his chest.
He broke off your kiss and sat to his knees, but not before you sucked his lip between your teeth.
"I'm—it's too big."
"Too big?"
Too big sounded like a challenge, and you were always intrigued by a challenge.
You smirked, stroking your foot up his thigh, toes ghosting his shaft as you dragged along his crotch.
A quiet, hesitant groan rumbled in his chest as you pat your feet on either side of his cock.
He measured up quite well. Easily longer than one of your feet and he wasn't even fully erect yet. His cock rising and falling perpendicular to his body.
"Y—It won't fit. So we probably shouldn't."
"No?"
You could see his will breaking the longer you stroked, teasing your toes up his shaft.
He sighed raggedly, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as his gaze followed your other foot, pressing between his thighs to fondle at his balls.
"You really don't need to—" His hips grinded against you unconsciously and you giggled.
"It kinda seems like you want to, though." You rolled your shoulders, scooting to sit in front of his legs as he kneeled.
"Can I at least see it?" You curled your thumbs around the thick of his waistband, earning a small throb from his cock.
Finally he gave in, sighing. "Just. Promise me you won't get scared."
You laughed, humoring him then abruptly stopped as you realized he wasn't kidding.
"Of course I won't. I'm not afraid of you, Bruce. So you've got a big dick, it's not that uncommon—" You stared dumbly as you pulled his waistband down past his thighs, his length easily surpassing that of your forearm, and his girth wider than your closed fist.
Much like the rest of his body, his cock felt warm, thick, and veiny.
Surely a sight like this would be a nightmare to any normal person, but you weren't normal.
Your chest tightened as your eyes traced from the silky gray hairs on his pelvis to his shiny, bulbous head.
Bruce, growing uncomfortable with all this newly manifested curiosity surrounding his penis, wanted to cut this short.
"There, you saw it. Are you hap—"
Before he could finish his wisecrack, you gripped around the base of his shaft as your other hand began stroking over his head and he gasped sharply, hips stuttering forward.
Every word Bruce's mind tried to form came out as quiet whines and pants.
His cock was weighty, requiring a little effort to raise his shaft as you massaged his balls in your hands.
"Your balls are so big, too. Where were you hiding all this?" You marveled, pulling gently on his scrotum earning a weak groan from him.
"M-must be a grower."
You swirled your tongue around his tip, noting the salty, musky taste of his skin and precum, and he wheezed, his cock growing steadily stiffer.
Upon releasing it, his cock rose and bounced against his stomach, throbbing pleasantly at the prior stimulation.
"Do you want me to stop?"
Wide eyed, Bruce furiously shook his head, resting his hands on your shoulders as you excitedly crawled to your knees.
You, admittedly, had no idea how to deal with a cock of this size, but you were determined to make him cum, nonetheless.
Bruce grabbed the base of his shaft, lifting it up so you could easier access his balls as you tugged and determinedly sucked them into your mouth interchangeably.
He stroked up and down his shaft slowly, your actions drawing drips of precum out his heavy tip.
He couldn't believe the woman he loved was gargling his balls right now.
"How do you like it?" He stroked his shaft with more vigor.
You pulled back for a moment, catching your breath, your lips and chin wet with saliva.
“—I love it." You gave a quickfire response. A genuine passion in your eyes as you watched his hand tug up and down his shaft.
You grabbed his hand angling his tip down so you could slide him into your mouth, but alas, his head was far too wide to fit comfortably inside.
You mouthed over his cock, your tongue swirling around his tip glazed with precum as he growled, rubbing his hand across his pecs.
"God, that feels so good."
You moaned with a vigor unheard of prior to this evening, a giddy arousal filled the room as your tongue and mouth explored every inch of his cock and balls.
You had exhausted your efforts; your mouth was only so large and tongue only so active. But you had truly never been so wet—so turned on by a cock before. Perhaps that made you a size queen?
You sat to your butt, your inner thighs slick as your pussy radiated a need too shiny to ignore.
Bruce's breath hitched in his throat, his stroking growing more vigorous.
"God, you're so wet."
You stretched out to your back, spreading your legs to reveal the beautiful, sullied mess that glazed your thighs and pussy.
Bruce groaned softly, his one hand fisting his cock as he crawled between your legs for a better view.
"Bruce." You chuckled, covering yourself with your hand, all of a sudden camera shy.
He felt a deep throb in his stomach that reached his groin at the sound of his name.
"I like it when you say my name."
You giggled, sitting up to your elbows, his eyes fervent with passion as he stroked.
"I like watching you stroke your dick."
You bent your legs over each of his outstretched thighs, opening up yourself further as you trailed your hand up your thighs.
Your hips bucked as you parted your lips, the wet offering just enough stimulation to your already sensitive clit.
Bruce groaned softly, resting a hand on your thigh as your fingers worked slowly to spread the gleaming wet up your vulva and across your clit.
You whined, legs trembling as you massaged over your clit, trading between watching him stroke and tossing your head back against the bed.
Bruce's fingers pressed into your thigh as he growled deep from his chest.
"Bruce." You moaned, chest heaving and he cursed quickly.
"Spit on it." You instructed, to which he gave a panicked: "What?"
"Spit on your cock and stroke it."
He spit into his hand, working it over his head before stroking the rest across his shaft.
You relished in the sight of his fingers thoroughly covered in wet and the slick sound of his hand sliding over his cock.
Bruce could feel himself getting there, meeting the point where his stomach began to tighten and his heart began to pound in his ears.
You rocked into your fingers, gasping for breath as your hand clenched at his, squeezing at your thigh.
You were in your own world, breathing his name and filthy pleas into the night as you squelched at the wet between your legs.
He wanted to hold off, wait to cum with you but there was no stopping the intense adrenaline rush that willed his hips to thrust into his hand.
His grip was intense as he groaned loudly, leaning back, hips stuttering.
"I'm gonna cum—"
He froze up, cock throbbing as cum dribbled from his tip, rolling down his fist at such a rate you thought it'd never end.
God you wanted this so bad, more than anything you wanted—no—needed to cum. You needed to fall head into ecstasy and drown in it.
Bruce followed your pleasure, stilling your sore fingers before he leaned into your pussy, lapping at the source of the slick that stained your thighs.
You gasped, back arching off the bed before your hands fixed in his hair.
"Bruce—" You shrieked as he easily lifted your hips from the bed, supporting you easily with his own strength.
His pace was aggressive as his lips sucked at your throbbing clit.
You surrendered. You folded to the intense pleasure overtaking your senses as you came with a ragged gasp. Your legs closed around his head, threatening to suffocate him as you tensed up before your limbs fell listlessly.
Bruce gently laid you down against the cooling puddle of cum that had dripped from you and onto the sheet, his breath warm against your flesh. You wanted to see his face, taste his lips which probably probably tasted of you, but instead you laid catching your breath.
After a few moments laying there, you felt Bruce's lips smile against your skin.
"That was hot." Bruce laughed and you burst into giggles as he laid his head against your thigh, breathing heavily.
Read the fic on AO3! | Read more of my fics on Tumblr | Patreon | Website
pairing: classmate!jean x female!reader , classmate!choso x female!reader, classmate!jean x female!reader x classmate!choso
warnings(not chapter specific): 18+, mdni, sexually explicit content, use of y/n insert, eventual smut, friends to lovers, porn with a plot, college au, jjk x aot crossover, art student jean, art student choso, love triangle, multiple partners, jealousy, possessive, mutual sexual tension, grinding, teasing, oral(f + m receiving), mdom, fingering, aggressive sex, unprotected sex, neck holding (slight choking), hair pulling, slapping, multiple orgasms(f + m), eiffel tower
summary: You’re already late on the first day and get stuck sitting in the center of the classroom. It can only go up from here, right? Three new friends, and two potential romances doesn’t seem too bad after only two days of class.
a/n: hi guys! this story will have about 3-4 chapters, maybe more. i’m not to sure yet. I have already started the second chapter, but lmk if you would like to see pov chapters from jean and choso. thanks for reading and hope you enjoy🫶🏽!
word count: 2.8k
You jolt awake and look at your phone to see what time it is. It’s 08:43 AM, and your class starts at 09:00 AM.
“Shit!” You practically jump out of bed and grab the first pair of pants and shirt you see lying in your chair. You throw them on and make your way to the bathroom to brush your teeth and do your hair. By doing your hair you mean slapping it into a bun and pulling out a couple strands in the front. You had no time for makeup, and you were wearing a blue sweatshirt and gray sweatpants, paired with some busted Converse you’ve had since sophomore year of high school.
“Not the best look for a fashion major, but it’ll have to do for today.” With pursed lips and a raised brow, you step back for one final look before you head out the door. Looking down at your phone, you see it is now 08:52, and you still have to make it halfway across campus. You start sprinting, praying to whatever higher being that would listen so that you make it to class on time. After sprinting for what felt like an eternity, you finally made it, but to your dismay the only open seat was smack dab in the middle of the class. The seats were in 7 tiered rows, arranged in a U-shape with the instructor’s podium front and center. You make your way down the steps to your seat and look at the clock. Right on time. You immediately feel eyes on your back, but as you turn to look, the teacher claps their hands together and announces the first assignment.
"Hello, my fellow artistes! I am Mrs. Carter, and today you will be choosing someone, or something, in the room to illustrate. These will be due at the end of class, so please be sure you include your name and date somewhere on the page. The best pieces will be displayed on the board tomorrow morning. Ok, let’s get busy!”
You scan the room looking for the best outfit, for obvious reasons, and your eyes land on a guy in the front who seems really invested in the decor behind Mrs. Carter’s desk. He was wearing a ribbed, green vest over a white button-up shirt. He wore khaki pants with a brown belt and brown boots to match. The green vest really complimented his eyes. His shaggy ash-brown hair was styled in a mullet that reached down to his shoulders and a clean-cut goatee. He was a fairly handsome guy, and apparently he knew how to dress, so you decided he was a good choice.
You begin to sketch from his neck up. You start sketching the base of his face, then begin working on his eyes. They were the perfect shade of caramel brown. The shape was slightly sharp and upturned, giving him a look that probably should have scared you if you made eye contact, but you think it had the opposite effect. His face was a bit long, but the goatee added some much-needed contrast. The bridge of his nose was straight, so that was pretty easy to draw. Looking at him as a whole, he was pretty average, but the way he presented himself was what made him so attractive. You move on to his hair; it looked well kept, and he had it slicked back with the ends flowing down.
You looked up and realized just how long you had spent on his face, so you quickly started on his outfit. That was the easy part, so maybe it was for the better that you did it last.
As you start adding more detail to your work, you feel the eyes from earlier on you once again. Trying not to be obvious, you look behind you, and to your surprise you see everyone immersed in their pieces. You shake it off and focus on your own. Once 10:30 comes, the teacher asks everyone to leave their completed work in the box beside the door before leaving.
You finally make it out of the classroom and realize just how hungry you are, so you pull out your phone and look for the nearest place you could find that has food. You see a place that was actually right beside your dorm called “Muffin Tops." It was a cute little spot that had posts of tasty-looking pastries and sandwiches but, most importantly, coffee. You most definitely would have stopped there this morning if you hadn’t been late. You make your way to the cafe and see that there aren’t many people there.
Thank goodness. You didn’t think you could wait in a line. You were starving.
You start to scour the menu, and you feel the eyes again. This time you wait until after you order to slowly turn in the direction of the gaze, and you finally see him. He locks eyes with you but just for a moment before he refocuses his attention on his sketchbook. You furrow your brows and laugh to yourself. He was a big guy and he looked pretty intimidating, but he seemed more afraid of you than you were of him. You hear your name called and go grab your food, then find a table at the same side of the cafe as the mystery guy. You don’t sit too close, but just close enough that you can get a good look at him.
He had dark hair, lots of tattoos, and it seemed like he had a piercing to go with each one. He was tall and muscular, but still slender. He had his hair in a loose bun similar to your own. He had heavy eyelids that looked like they had a bit of eyeliner and eyeshadow on them.
That’s hot, you thought. His face was very symmetrical, his brows perfectly matched each other, his nose was straight and pointed, and his jawline was crazy sharp. There was one tattoo that stood out, mostly because it was directly in the center of his face. A long vertical stripe, sprawling across both cheeks and ending under each eye. You felt like a creep for staring, so you realign your eyes to the delicious food in front of you and lick your lips.
“I’m so sorry, you beautiful sandwich.” Anybody who might have been paying attention probably thought you were crazy, but you didn’t care. You were so hungry. The fake apology was short-lived as the food was now being shoved into your mouth.
After eating you felt much better, and you decided to do a little work for your other classes while you were here. You probably spent a good two hours doing work, and you thought that was enough, so you packed up and headed back to your dorm.
Today wasn’t terrible, just a bit odd because of the mystery guy. He was pretty, but he could have just said something instead of staring. He didn’t seem like the type to be nervous around girls.
Was he the same person who was staring at me in class? You hadn’t thought about it before, but the way his gaze felt was the same way the eyes from class did.
Oh, well! You shrug and find something else to do to occupy yourself. People watching doesn’t sound too bad. You grab your sketchbook and headphones, then head out to the courtyard. There was an open bench on the far side, and you head that way. Once you sit, you see that it was the perfect spot. You could see everyone laughing, smiling, talking, and studying, and some just sitting in silence, enjoying the fresh air. You don’t even realize someone was standing beside you until they toss their bag on the ground.
“Is this seat taken?” You jump a little, not expecting someone to be there. She was pretty, very tomboyish, though. She had long, cherry red hair, which wasn’t her natural color. You knew this because you could see the black peeking through at her roots.
“No. You can sit.” You scoot over to give her a little extra room and laugh.
“Sorry if I scared you.” She chuckled at your shocked expression. “My name is Reese; nice to meet you.”
“Y/n.” You extend your hand to her, and she takes it, giving a firm shake. You two talk about your majors, and you find out that she is also a fashion major. You would have never thought that based on how she dressed, but you didn’t really look the part right now either. She offers to show you her designs, and you’re not one to say no, so the two of you share your designs and brainstorm ideas together. It was nice to have a friend who also happened to be going into the same major. You lose track of time, and pretty soon it is 04:00 PM.
“This was fun. We should hang out again sometime.” You and Reese exchange numbers before you head back to your dorm. Once you get back, you put on your favorite movie to relax a little. Halfway through it, you get a text from Reese.
This was going to be your very first college party, so obviously you had to go. You already had so many outfit ideas. After the movie you shower and change into a baggy t-shirt and some shorts. You check your phone to make sure the alarm is on for tomorrow and go to sleep.
The next morning you wake up, on time, with the help of your alarm. This time you actually get to pick an outfit. You choose a red tank top with white polka dots and a black shrug top to go over it. Then you grab a black skirt and a cheetah-print tie to use as a "belt." It was really just for looks, but it was important. A pair of red heels catches your eye, and you slip them on and start to do your hair. Two loose, low buns seem cute, and you leave a couple of strands out in the front. For makeup, you just do light foundation, a smidge of blush, some mascara, and a smoky eye. Was the outfit a bit much? Yes. Did you look good? Also yes. You brush your teeth before slapping on some red lipstick and grab your things for class. This time you can walk, which is nice. The courtyard was so pretty. It was full of gorgeous flowers and a beautiful spiral topiary.
That would be a good spot for some pictures. You continue on to class and arrive 10 minutes early. There are a few students already sitting and waiting for class to start. Once you get to your seat, you look up to the board and see a drawing of a beautiful girl. She looks a bit frazzled. Her hair was a little messy, she had rosy cheeks, and she was vaguely familiar.
Mrs. Carter looks up and gives you a smile. “You must be the girl in this drawing," she says over the speakers. Your blood runs warm, and you feel the redness creep up your face.
Holy shit! She was right. You force yourself to return a smile and try to calm back down.
The next few minutes drag by, and finally Mrs. Carter starts.
"Ok, class! I want everyone to look up to the board at these 3 illustrations. Of all of the pieces from this class, these stood out the most to me, but this one,” she says, pointing at one of you, “this one is absolutely stunning!”
You slump down into your chair, hoping no one else realizes that it’s you. Unfortunately, you notice the guy that you drew turn around, and he seems to see the resemblance. Then Mrs. Carter calls out the name of the artist, and you immediately start looking around.
“Choso Kamo? Come down here. I want the class to see you for the talented young man you are.”
You hear a chair squeak across the floor behind you, and you turn around so fast you almost fall over. Then you see him. It’s the mystery guy. He doesn’t look up and walks to the front of the room. Your eyes don’t leave him once.
Choso, you thought, That’s different. It fits him, though.
Mrs. Carter begins clapping, and the rest of the class joins. The guy in the front is now fully turned to you while clapping.
This class was going to last forever.
10:30 comes, but not soon enough, and you practically sprint to the door. You make your way to the cafe hoping to see Choso there. You wanted to ask him a million questions. You feel like you’re being followed, but not in a weird way. Someone was watching you, waiting for the right time to approach. You tried not to think about it much longer and continued on to “Muffin Tops."
You order a caramel latte, with extra caramel, and step aside to wait for your drink. As you’re waiting, you hear a voice from behind.
“Nice choice, though I prefer my coffee black.” You turn around and he smiles. The guy from the front row was here.
“I’m Jean.” He gives a nod and gives you an expectant look.
“Y/n” You return the nod and laugh.
“What’s so funny?” He asks, but you realize he’s serious.
“You were the one following me.”
Jean’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. His cheeks became bright red and he started to rub the back of his neck with his hand.
“Yeah, sorry about that. I wasn’t trying to be a creep, but I couldn’t think of a way to start the conversation.”
You just laugh, “Mission failed successfully I guess.” You tease him and pick up your drink. You sit at a table, Jean following behind you. When you sit, you look to the corner where Choso sat yesterday and get a little more excited than you should have when you saw he was there. He was already looking in your direction, but he looked a little upset. You wave him over and ask him to join the two of you. He sits beside Jean because he didn’t want to be weird and sit by you after the whole drawing thing.
Seeing them side by side was so strange. They were so similar, yet different. Both of them were tall, muscular, and very handsome. They had the same sharp gaze and brown eyes. Jean was more ""clean"-looking, but Choso was more on the rough side. Jean was a bit more talkative, and Choso would barely look up, let alone open his mouth. The major similarity was that they were both hot. Extremely hot.
You look to Choso and cock an eyebrow.
“You know you can talk to me, right? I won’t bite.” You tease him and you see his cheeks flush.
“Yeah, yeah.” His voice was deep, not too deep, but deeper than you expected.
“You’re really talented. That drawing was amazing. I didn’t even realize it was me until Mrs. Carter said something.” You didn’t see it, but Jean was getting jealous.
“Yeah man! That was some crazy line work. What’s your major?” Jean chimed in, because he felt like he was being forgotten.
“I’m planning on getting a bachelor's in fine arts and then trying to land an apprenticeship at a tattoo place. I want to have my own shop eventually.” He replies and shrugs, “What about you?” He looks to Jean and waits for his reply.
“I’m gonna be this generation's Pablo Picasso.” He gives a half hearted smirk and points finger guns at Choso, who rolls his eyes. “No, but seriously I’m thinking about getting a masters in fine arts. I want to be an art professor.”
Both men turn to look at you and wait for your answer.
“Is it not obvious?!” You laugh and shake your head. “I plan to go to fashion school eventually. I’m just getting my basics out of the way and beefing up my portfolio before I try.”
They both nod and you all continue to make small talk for a few minutes. Jean ends up mentioning the party Reese told you about.
“You should come y/n.” He looks at you and gives a smile.
“My friend already invited me, so I’ll be there. What about you, Choso?”
“Not really my scene, but thanks for the invite.” He gives a little smile and takes a sip of his coffee.
“Yeah, you’re right.” You look at Jean and laugh.
“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Choso asks accusingly.
Jean almost spits out his coffee trying to hold back a laugh, and Choso jabs him in the side.
“Hey! She said it, not me!” Jean busted out laughing at the sight of Choso’s cherry red face. You giggle and roll your eyes.
You say nothing, stand up, and give a wave while saying goodbye to the boys. The excitement of going to your first party is growing by the second. As soon as you get back to your dorm, you take everything out of your closet and start working on a new outfit.
You were going to be the hottest girl there.
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