THIS PAGE Half Dead

Your tone is confused when you speak again, “what the fuck does that mean? direct from the source?”

Mohawk pulls back, eyes meeting yours, his hands moving from your hips to cup at your face, one thumb tracing the line of your jaw, the other smoothing over your eyebrow, “god — forgot how fuckin’ pretty you are,” he’s still looking at you like you’re something to be worshipped, “listen, babe, I’ve got these girls back home who may or may not look like Eve — but I make ‘em smell like you. Make ‘em use your body wash, shampoo, perfume — everything I could find in that bathroom of yours.” His look turns thoughtful, “it’s never the same though.”

You feel insulted, disgusted and despite yourself, pissed off, “oh — you think I’m pretty but you found girls that look like Eve? That’s real fucking smooth, you fucking asshole.” You use the way he startles at your scolding to get away from him, jerking your head free haphazardly, “Jesus Christ — like I needed someone else to step on my fucking self confidence.”

Mohawk looks panicked at your outburst for a second— you feel a gross amount of smugness about that, and then you turn to leave with a roll of your eyes.

“it — it’s not like that, baby.” He’s chasing after you on the ground, “they’re nothing, promise. I just couldn’t do that to you— to her. I wanted to remember you how you were!”

You don’t stop, you stay steady and keep moving away from him. Begrudgingly, you’re making your way back towards your Mark.

Your hands shoot up when you notice he’s looking down at you, “Is your offer to get me out of here still standing? I’m ready to leave! Right now!”

You watch as all the variants turn their gazes towards you — fuck. This was so fucking stupid of you to do.

You’re sure it’s a sight, you trying to wave down Mark fucking Grayson, the real one, who is subsequently fighting off three other versions of him and then there’s another him— the one with the Mohawk— looming over your shoulder. This is fucking ridiculous.

Your Mark doesn’t hesitate, he’s on the ground in front of you before you can blink, hand outstretched, tone relieved, “yes — yeah, of course it is.”

The taste of resentment is bitter in your throat when your fingers brush against Mark’s.

You’re too slow.

Mohawk has his hand around Mark’s wrist, twisting it away from you before you can bring yourself to fully grasp his hand, “you’re not taking her from me, you weak fucking traitor.”

The nerve you lost when you were alone with Mohawk suddenly rears its head, “uh — yes, he fucking is.”

You’re scowling at Mohawk, watching as he smiles, “yeah? you think I’m going to let you go again?” Your gaze flickers to the other versions, landing in a wide circle around the three of you before lingering back on him, “you didn’t let me go, asshole,” you pause for a second, “you let me get killed over some fucking pussy.”

Your Mark winces at your tone, Mohawk licks his lips, eyes turning hot, “so fuckin’ mouthy, aren’t you baby? You’re fucking right, should have just stayed with you— bet you would’ve given me the best pussy I’d ever have.”

You’re almost snarling at him when another voice, still Mark’s but different, cuts through, “That’s enough.”

It’s the one in the full Viltrum uniform, closing the distance between the three of you, “She is permitted to leave if that’s what she wants.”

You aren’t paying attention anymore, you’re too busy looking past them. No — oh god, no. Is that? It is. You’re speaking before you can stop yourself, “Lily?”

Her little head snaps straight towards you, echoing your name back at you like a prayer. She looks terrified of the men surrounding you. You can only imagine what she’s seen. It’s your neighbor.. no, calling her just your neighbor doesn’t feel right— it’s your friend’s sweet little girl, alone and far too close to whatever fighting was just happening.

————

Lily is covered in soot, gripping her favorite little bunny in one fist like it’s the only thing keeping her safe. You’re pushing past all of the variants before you can think, movements quick and terrified, “where’s your mom, honey?”

Her tiny hands are reaching up for you and you don’t hesitate, leaning down and wrapping her up to keep her close to your chest. Lily sniffles in your arms, whimpering against your neck, “she was inside.”

You begin to scan the area. You’d been lucky. You weren’t home when your apartment building collapsed. You want to scream at the implication of what that means for Lily’s mother— your fucking friend, the only friend you’d managed to make and keep after the attack on your life.

Lily begins to cry and with her, so do you.

“Awwwwh — isn’t that sweet?” You stiffen, teary-eyed and furious when you turn to look at the one with the Mohawk, “is this funny to you?” You’re serious when you ask. You want to hear him say it — show you the monster you know has been biting under the surface this whole time.

He doesn’t get the chance, your Mark makes his move the moment you turn and he sees the ugly amount of tears on your face— you’re sniveling like he’s never seen before, sobbing and gasping as you hold the girl you’d called Lily.

There’s something broken there, right beneath the surface of your brave facade, Mark’s strong best friend, the love of his life — but there’s something that shatters in you when when you hear Lily cry harder. You try to stop crying— try to swallow the sobs and Mark feels useless when you suck in deep breaths, determined to stop and do something to get Lily to safety.

He, your Mark, notes the quiver in your hands as you fight against yourself— against the fear he knows you feel to your fucking toes as you’re stared down by four other fucking crazy hims. You’re backing away from them, slowly, like you don’t want to set them off.. and the one in the yellow cape? He’s too close.

Mark won’t let anything happen to you— not again. Your Mark needs you safe, alive— even if you hate him.

With a roar of desperation you don’t think you’ve ever heard from your Mark, he uses his full might to wrench free of Mohawk’s grip, driving a fist into the variant’s face before you can even register it hitting. And then so suddenly you hardly see him move, he’s on the one in the yellow cape, dragging him backwards, away from you.

Mark’s voice echoes loud— desperate and sure, a quivering call of your name followed by, “Go! Right now!”

It’s all you need. Your tears are fully dried up.

You can save her.

You tuck Lily closer and sprint away.

————

You do it again.

You make the same mistake of watching your feet instead of the sky. You hear him before you see him, “You are going to get hurt.” Your head snaps up and you skid to a stop, keeping Lily tucked so she can’t see him, can’t worry about what he might do to the two of you.

It’s the one in the Viltrum uniform and dispite yourself, you’re practically foaming at the mouth with rage at the implication he’s making, “is that a fucking threat?”

He’s stares down at you, stoic and sure, “No.” You stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate, “It is an observation.”

Your lips are curling up at him already, “Fuck you!” You turn and head the opposite direction, thinking quick on your feet about the bank, more specifically, the vault in the bank. It should be close— you bet that if you get Lily there she can hide until rescue teams make their way through.

You know he’s following, you can see his shadow on the ground next to you, “listen, fucker — I already had a stalker, I don’t need another one!”

Viltrum isn’t phased by your name calling or your tone, instead he’s looking around for threats and keeping his pace steady with yours, “I am just making sure you get where you are going safely.” You scowl, but keep moving, breathing a sigh of relief when the bank comes into view. You grin up at the variant, more proud than you should be in the situation, one hand motioning to the bank, “I can handle myself just fine.”

You note the thick difference— the shift in his tone, “I have heard that from you once before… It was not true.”

You blink up at him, suddenly feeling how tired you truly are, but you don’t stop moving— you can’t, “Am I dead where you’re from too?” He doesn’t answer — not with words but you can see the shift in his jaw, the way his hand twitches.

He’s flying away before you can push for an answer.

You step into the bank, working through the rubble until you make it to the far side — the vault, finally. You brush at Lily’s hair to comfort her, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her dusty head, before letting her down and guiding her by the hand deeper, “Go on in, honey.”

She does, squeezing under the table closest to her, “You’ll be safe here, okay? You stay here and you don’t move until you hear me come back.” And Lily, sweet Lily — she’s so brave when she answers, “Okay, I’ll stay here.”

You want to squeeze her, kiss her, stay with her — but you have to keep moving. You have to find your Mark.. and maybe help some other people make it to the safety of the vault on the way.

————

Viltrum hits the ground next to you the moment you step out of the ruins, “This block is secure — no fires or imminent threats. She will be safe.” You nod, mouth dry as you settle against a steady piece of rubble. You just need to rest.

All the walking has made the pain in your bad ankle flare. You promise yourself you’ll rest for just a moment.

He’s still there, close by, closer than he should be— staring at you, but not in the uncomfortable way Mohawk was. He has the lingering look of wanting to worship you but there’s something else, something almost akin to shame.

“Was I killed there too?” You break the heavy silence, fingers rubbing at the scar on the ankle that was once stomped to shatters, the one that still causes you trouble when it’s cold or raining. The one that aches when you lay down every night.

“Yes.” It’s simple enough but you can’t help the curiosity, “You weren’t there?”

Viltrum looks utterly miserable now, like he dreads his answer, stoic expression breaking to show something that’s almost disgust at himself, “I did not make it in time to save you.” Your head tilts, “another woman?” He looks even more disgusted now, “No. Never.”

“What happened then?”

He moves closer, eyes trained on where you’re rubbing at your ankle, like he can’t bare to look you in the eyes when he says it, “Anissa. A Viltrumite.”

You look up at him in confusion, “I thought you said there wasn’t another woman.” His gaze finally levels with yours, “She was not ‘another’ woman. She was nothing but dirt on the bottom of my boot. You were the only woman I ever wanted— and she thought taking you from me before I could confess to you would make me open to fathering a child for her.”

“Did it?”

“No. I killed her. I put my fist through her chest and listened to her gasp and plead for mercy.”

You’re unnerved by how simple Viltrum says it but you don’t show it. You test your ankle and it twinges under your weight. You can’t suppress the wince, the way you grasp for something to grip to steady yourself— and almost instantly, Viltrum is by your side, hands stretched to catch you if you fall, “You are hurt.”

You scowl at him, swatting his hands away as you adjust through the pain, “It’s nothing fresh… When,” you swallow hard, trying to fight through the memory, the very thought of it happening to you, “When I was attacked — he broke my ankle, stomped on it until it was mush, just so I couldn’t run from him again. It took four surgeries and a metal rod, but at least I can walk.”

You don’t want him to see the quiver of fear in your jaw at just the very memory of what happened to you. Instead, you look up— but you know he can tell you’re terrified of that memory by the rush of your blood, the patter of your heart in your chest— the way you’ve closed off from him. You’re trying to hide. From the pain, from the fear and you? You can tell he wants to hold you by the hover of his hands. You don’t— won’t let him. He knows that. He backs away, opting to instead watch the way your eyes move.

You’re scanning the sky, watching for any sign of your Mark. You seem him, distantly. He’s currently being strangled by the one dressed like Omni-Man and you can’t help but to wince at the sight.. despite the sick pleasure in your gut you know you shouldn’t feel.

You remember what hands squeezing around your throat feels like and you know it doesn’t hurt him as much as it did you.. but still. You can’t help the satisfaction.

You turn away quickly, looking to Viltrum, “why’re you guys here anyways?”

He doesn’t— hasn’t, looked away from you, almost like he doesn’t want to look anywhere else out of fear of you not really being there, like you might vanish if he turns away, “To conquer.”

You want to roll your eyes at the simplicity of his answer, but you don’t. Your gaze is drawn to the crumbling roof across the street. The variant with the yellow cape is perched there, statuesque in posture. It’s instant, Viltrium tears his gaze tears away from you, and he moves to shield you from the new, visor covered gaze.

“Sinister,” Viltrum’s tone is clipped. You note the hostility in his tone. He’s on edge. In response, Sinster’s tone is coy and teasing when he speaks, and his grin is nothing but teeth, “I was wondering where you went, soldier boy.”

When Viltrum doesn’t respond, Sinister continues, shifting his weight on the rooftop, “You’re trying to steal the girl?”

Your peer from behind Viltrum, bracing your hand against his back to stand on your tiptoes— you choose to ignore the sharp intake of breath and the tilt of Viltrum’s head to look at you like you’re holy because you’re touching him.

You’re still determined to look, despite the voice in your head telling you not to. You do, you fucking look — and you make what you think is eye contact with him, Sinister. That name fits.

He sends a chill down your spine you can’t explain— a chill that shoots deep into your bones, one that’s gross and heavy and itching under the heaviness of his gaze.

You can’t see his eyes— but you can feel them, observant and cruel.

He reiterates, still speaking to just Viltrum but this time— this time, it’s something less coy, something more vicious, like he’ll kill the variant you’re hiding behind if the answer is incorrect in his mind, “I asked you if you’re trying to steal my girl, Viltrum…?”

Mark had promised to meet you at your childhood home after his meeting with Eve but the footsteps in your living room are too heavy to be Mark’s. Your fingers move to grab your phone, calling Mark again and again and again. He doesn’t answer and soon, your calls are going straight to voicemail.

You never speak to anyone about it because then it would be too real, too painful — but the picture you receive from an unknown number, the picture showing Mark’s head, his hair recognizable, buried deep between someone’s thighs is burned behind your eyelids every time you fucking blink. It likely will be for the rest of your miserable life. If you fucking survive.

Mark isn’t coming for you.

And the man in the living room? He’s there because he loves you, because if he can’t have you, no one can. You recognize him instantly. You’d found him in an alleyway, bloodied and beaten near the college you’d picked to attend. You shouldn’t have touched him, shouldn’t have helped with his wounds. You know that now. Especially when he reiterates, “you should have left me to fucking die.”

You fight for your life and somehow, despite the black bruising around your throat, the uncomfortableness of two black eyes, the cracked ribs and the broken ankle, you’re alive. And the man — the villain who was so obsessed with you he decided he needed to kill you? He’s going to fucking jail. For a long time.

You decide then you don’t need a fucking hero. You don’t need anyone.

It’s the night. The night that changed everything for you. You don’t speak to Mark fucking Grayson again. You block his number. You don’t answer the door when he knocks. You change your curtains to blackout ones so you can’t see out them and no one can see in them.

You still see Debbie, still swing by to visit with Oliver but otherwise you’re a ghost in Mark Grayson’s life. You like it that way.

—

Maybe that’s why you’re so startled. You should watch the news more. You’re surrounded by men that look like Mark.. but aren’t Mark? No, because the real Mark is behind you, hand wrapped tightly around your bicep, begging you to leave with him. It’s not safe here.

It’s the one with the Mohawk that speaks first, “it’s.. it’s you?”

You’re staring dumbly back at him because of course it’s you? What the hell is he talking about? “You’re alive?”

Your mouth opens, suddenly very dry. Is he insinuating you’re dead wherever the hell he’s from, “uh.. yeah. I’m alive.”

They all look startled now, you realize as your gaze flickers over the one in a Viltrum uniform, the one with the yellow cape, the one dressed like Omni-Man. It’s still the one with the Mohawk that speaks, this time pointed towards your Mark, the real one, “you made it in time to save her?”

It’s whispered like he, the other Mark with the Mohawk, doesn’t want to spook you — doesn’t want to remind you of the feeling of hands around your throat, the pain of a fist meeting the bridge of your nose hard enough you blacked out for a second, like he doesn’t want to remind you of screaming your throat raw when your ankle was being stomped to shatters so you couldn’t run.

Something hot and angry rises in your stomach, you jerk away from Mark’s grip, flattening where your clothes were rustled from being grabbed, “no — he fucking didn’t.” If you were looking, really looking, you’d see the way your Mark flinches at the tone, “I saved myself.” Your tone insinuates that you don’t need him. You never did.

You don’t wait. You turn and march further into the destruction. You’re fucking leaving. You hate Mark fucking Grayson. And you would put money in the fact that you’d hate the other hims too.

They all left you to die apparently, likely for the same reason. Another woman.

All those years of friendship, helping with his homework, helping to bandage his knees when he fell trying to fly, laughing in his bedroom at comics, sharing secret kisses before you knew what they were, and the worst one — the sniveling delirious confession from you of loving him so much your ribs fucking ache, and him admitting he loved you back, admitting that he always had— he’s always wanted you. He loves you.

and even then, with all of that? they all left you to fucking die? What a goddamn joke.

You’re so fucking mad you swear it feels like a hive of bees in your stomach. You can’t fucking believe this. You’re trekking further into the ruins of the city, watching your feet as you go when really, you should be paying attention to the sky.

It’s too late when you notice the shadowed figure landing in front of you. It’s him again. The one with the Mohawk. He looks much more tired than your Mark ever has — not that you can attest to that recently.. but there’s something in his eyes that makes your throat dry up, “ ‘m not going to hurt you.” He steps closer, you take a step back.

Eventually you grow tired of the stepping game, opting instead to stand still, arms crossed against your chest with a scowl as he continues a slow approach, like you might run if he moves too fast, “okay? what do you want then?”

Is he? Is he fucking hugging you? Your brain short circuits. He’s pressing his face into the juncture of your throat, “you smell the same.. Jesus, fuck — it’s really you.”

You don’t move to push him off, instead patting at his back in a friendly move, urging him to let you go. He doesn’t. His grip tightens until it almost hurts, fingers digging into the fat of your hips like he can’t believe you’re real, “ ‘s okay now,” he mutters, “I won’t let anything fucking happen to you. Ever. Not again.”

Fury bleeds from your chest, lingering under your skin, “did you tell your me you were leaving to give Eve closure?” His face doesn’t move from your throat, breath hot there when he speaks, “yes.”

“were you lying when you told your me that you loved her?” the grip on your hips tightens even more, hard enough to bruise, mouth lingering at your jugular, “no — I loved her,” his shoulders shudder, “I love you.”

“did your Eve send a picture of you between her thighs to your version of me when she was being fucking strangled to death?” You note the way he stiffens and some sick part of you takes pleasure. Good, he should feel guilty.

He looks at you when he speaks this time, pulling away from the tender flesh of your throat, mouth lingering for just a second longer there, like he wants to kiss — or bite. His eyes flash with reverence, like you’re something holy. It makes you feel disgusting. His lips pull into a wide smile that’s more scary than it is sweet, and then— then he finally answers your last question, “Yes, and I fucking gutted her for it — for you.”

A rush of fear hits you, icing all the anger out of your veins.

You have to get the fuck away from this Mark. From all of them.

so you do get a new partner, someone you don’t really care about and it’s hard for the first few weeks because severing the tie between you and Leon feels impossible (bc it is !!). But you steadily grow to like your new partner, he’s kind to you and he lets you stay at contamination sites as long as you want with no complaint. he also stays late in the office with you, listening to you babble and drone about things that would make other people want to poke their eyes out. The only issue? he sits FAR too close to you for just being partners, which your previous companion picks up on instantaneously. It should be noted Leon S. Kennedy has a BIG gun and he will threaten your new colleague with it if he keeps looking at you like that.

and THEN — its you avoiding Leon like the plague and maybe its your fault when he finally catches you because you forgot he knows where you fucking live ???

anyways, just old man Leon corralling you outside your apartment and asking you why you wanted to switch partners and blah blah blah and THEN old man Leon bullying you down by your hips face first on your couch, fully clothed in that stupid coat that makes your brain go fuzzy, gloved hands gripping tight at the fattest parts of your waist with a sigh that sounds like he’s been waiting to see you like this for years. and it’s him asking you if you really thought he’d let you get away like ????

just LET ME OUT OF MY CAAAGE - Leon rutting against your clothed ass with a deep groan and an ask of, “d’you think about your new partner doing this to you, sweetheart?” and your knees are quivering, threatening to give out at the feeling of one of his hand sliding under the front of your pants to touch the most tender part of your cunt — and they would fail you, if his other big hand wasn’t there, pressing at the underside of your stomach to keep your hips upright, to keep you steady against the strokes of his long fingers and you’re just blubbering and shaking your head because it’s all you can think to do and he says, “I know, baby — he could never be as good to you as I can.”

the first night something doesn’t feel quite right comes with your husband leaving with a quick kiss to your head— hushing the question of where he’s going quickly and firmly. he’ll be back before the morning.

he’s lying— he’ll come home before the sun gets it’s hottest, reeking of booze and cheap perfume.

it never changes.

you’ve perched in your beautiful bay window, large and wide and decorated the exact way you’d imagined it when you were young. it faces the woods off your back porch and provides you with the exact amount of happiness you need to be quiet about why you spend your nights alone.

your own little piece of heaven.

you’ve cracked the middle one, the weather finally changing from that wet heat to something less sweltering, less of a heat that leaves your nape wet when you sit too long. this heat is comforting, wrapping you up like a cozy blanket. you recline, bringing your knees up close. you take a deep breath of fresh air and try to tempt your mind to anything besides where your husband is.

that’s when it starts— so quiet you can’t even make out the words. you must be imagining it.

you’re used to whispers. quiet jabs about how you’re still childless because your womb must be filled with rot. whispers about how you must have never learned how to keep a man happy— that’s why your husband never stays home.

but these whispers feel different, comforting. it’s like a song that flutters in with the breeze. your eyes close, you could fall asleep— it’s the first real time you’ve felt anything but true lonely melancholy since your papa pawned you off like a cheap sow to the first man willing.

something in the woods breaks, likely a stick and your comfort leaves you instantly.

there’s something out there.

you hurry to your feet, pretty nightgown swaying in the breeze, and maybe you’re still just imagining things, but you swear just for a moment— there’s pinpricks, eyes.

and they’re too far from the ground to be an animal.

maybe your husband is right— you shouldn’t sit this close to the woods at night. you never know what beasts are outside.

and in the late morning, when your husband comes home, he asks you how your night was.

you smile as prettily as you can manage, despite feeling an awful pit in your stomach, and answer him with a lie, “ ‘s alright— the woods make me happy.”

————

it takes another three times of you being spooked away from your little piece of heaven before you’ve had enough.

you’re tougher than this. you take all the stares and whispers in town straight to your face— you can handle this woods nonsense all the same.

maybe you shouldn’t have gotten into your husband’s whiskey stash— but hell, he wasn’t here to stop you or the thing watching you from the trees.

your rye soaked brain thinks it’s brilliant— the smartest thing you’d ever thought of. you settle in to your perch right after the sun lowers all the way down, this time with all three windows wide open, and you fucking wait.

the almost there whispering starts first, like it always does. you still find that comforting, even through the haze of liquor in your brain. at the first creak, the first shift of the branches— you become more alert, heart thundering under the low cut of your nightgown.

but you won’t run. you refuse to.

it takes a second, but you see it. the eyes.

“it’s rude to stare y’know.”

you don’t expect a response, in fact, you’re sure whatever it is will scamper away from you, but instead you’re met with a tone matching yours, “not starin’ darlin’ — just passing through.”

you feel braver than you thought you would in the face of probably the most danger you’ve ever been in, “come closer into the light then, jus’ so I can watch you pass through.”

it, he, does.

he’s the epitome of a tall handsome stranger. he breeches the tree line and flanks your back porch, eyes never leaving yours. you should be scared, terrified— but by god— it has to be the whiskey.

he’s fucking gorgeous. short hair, neatly trimmed face, sleeves rolled up high enough you can see nothing but pale skin and delicious forearms. christ— you’re desperate for any interaction.

the light catches his eyes again and pulls you out of whatever trance he’s put you in, “your eyes always shine like that when you’re just passin’ by, mister?”

the sentence rolls off your tongue in the same way his does across his teeth, mouth pulling into a smug little grin, “can’t get nothin’ past you can I, sugar?” the name calling makes you a little fuzzy inside but you persist anyways, despite the voice whispering in your head it’s a terrible idea.

you press your knees to the cushion you usually sit on and lean partly out the window. maybe you’re stupid or maybe you’re fucking lonely, “you must be one of them beasts they say is in these woods then.”

“must be darlin’ — must be.”

“you not gonna come in here in the night and kill me are you?”

“nah— sweetie, can’t get in unless you invite me.”

————

you shouldn’t make friends with the monster in the woods. the smart part of you is aware of that.

but remmick is your only friend. he keeps you better company than your husband. better company that all those heifers in town that look down their nose at you for having a husband that doesn’t want you.

it takes a few nights and before you know it— you’re inside the window and he’s seated on your porch right outside. parallel, so you can see each other’s faces. it would almost be romantic if he wasn’t what he was.

“you the one rippin’ out all those peoples’ throats?”

you try not to seem scared, terrified as you look down at him from your roost.

“beasts get hungry, sugar.” that’s enough of an answer for you but still.. curiosity killed the cat, you in this situation, “just for blood? or for other stuff too?”

“there’s other things that interest me.” you try to pretend you don’t pick up on the pretense, the tone he’s using as he stares at your breasts through your nightgown.

“you’re droolin’ remmick.”

your voice is meek and the sudden urge to run takes over you— he’s a fucking predator and you goddamn know it.

but still, you remain, peering at him from the safety of your house, “do beasts get hungry for flesh, remmick?” this time, you hardly recognize yourself. it’s a tone you’d use in an attempt to get your husband to touch you, feather light and brimming with desire.

“yes.”

you stand, shaky on your own feet, like a baby fawn. if those women in town thought you were heinous now, you could only imagine what they’d think of what you were about to do.

slowly, from the other side of the window, remmick stands too. he’s imposing and you’re positive he can hear how quickly your pulse is thrumming in your throat, based solely off the red glint in his eyes, “show me darlin’ — show it to me.”

you close your eyes, hands inching to the hem of your nighty and with more sureness than you’ve ever had, you pull it over your head in one swift movement.

you keep your eyes tightly shut, fearing the creature outside would find you undesirable in the same way your husband would.

“open your eyes.”

you do, god you do— and you’re petrified. he’s all claws and teeth, all hunger and desire.

“you’re about the prettiest thing I’ve seen in this lifetime, honey.” he’s heaving, almost snarling into the nighttime.

“you won’t hurt me?” your hands relax from fists, standing back to your true height, leveling with him from the inside.

“even if I wanted to— can’t get in, you kno’ that.”

the next words shock even you, “what if I let you come in?”

the growl that comes after your words should send you fleeing, running away from your window but it doesn’t, “nah— still wouldn’t hurt you.”

“remmick— please come inside.”

maybe you should have put your foot down sooner, in fact, you absolutely should have.

you feel pathetic— like you wasted time on him. you shouldn’t worry when he’s out late vigilanteing— but you do. what if she’s there? what if she’s the one he thinks about when it’s late and he’s tired and alone?

you’ve seen slivers of conversation. nights where he can’t be bothered even to speak to you, all followed by you discreetly peeking over his shoulder, just to see her name. you always plan on confronting him, telling him you’re not stupid and you know what he’s doing but then— then you go to bed, and he wraps you up tight in his arms, kisses your shoulders, and you forget.

you should have known better— you should have learned from past mistakes but you chose to believe it isn’t what it is, what you know is true.

you love him, but he doesn’t love you back.

in theory, he does love you— but not the way you love him. not the way your love makes you drop everything, scurrying to place yourself accessible for every single fucking thing he needs, not in the way you turn off your phone— itching to hear him talk, not in the way you cut off anyone that could be a threat to your blooming relationship.

he doesn’t love you the way you love him and you’re okay with that— at least for a little bit. you can take the pain to the face. you allow yourself to feel what you feel— and then you swallow it.

you’ve wished for him for years, loved him for years. and you convince yourself you can live like this.

——

you can recall the exact day, the exact moment that makes you question everything about your relationship.

dick is standing in the kitchen of his apartment, dressed well and smelling like every dream you’ve ever had of him. he’d invited you over after work, saying sweet lines about missing you and wishing to see you.

you peer at him with curious eyes, asking instantly, “i thought you were off today— where have you been?” the breath is sucked from your lungs instantly, “well— kori needed my help with something today so i drove over.”

you pause in the doorway, heart beating loud enough you can’t hear anything but it. you’re hesitant in your next words, “oh— uhm.. you didn’t tell me that you were going to kori’s today..” your voice trails, you’re unsure what to say next— unsure if you should bring up any worries, unsure if you should voice how absolutely uncomfortable the idea of them being alone makes you.

he’s seeing her in the daytime now. using his precious days off to assist her with things she needs. it’s more than just texting— more than just work.

you don’t have the chance to speak your concerns, dick’s million-watt smile pulling you out of any worries you had. he takes your coat and he asks you how your day was— and you forget.

——

the next time— the final time comes on a day that you feel worse for wear.

you feel like you got hit by a fucking trash truck— every bone in your body somehow hurts and you’re tired beyond reason.

you feel bad, like you’re ruining the plans you and dick had made for the day, despite him hushing you softly, promising that he doesn’t mind— promising that he’ll take care of you.

you give in— and you rest on the couch for just a second. a second, that’s all you need, you swear to yourself.

you don’t wake up for hours.

when the first stream of dull light hits your eyes, you’re dazed— confused. the apartment is silent. there’s no tinkering, no TV show playing obnoxiously in the background— there’s no sign of dick anywhere.

your stomach seems to drop impossibly lower— you feel ill, iller than before, and there’s something gnawing— chewing at the back of your brain until you’re sure your right— dick isn’t here because he went to kori’s.

you feel delusional for a second— it can’t be true. he wouldn’t do that to you, would he?— but with each breath, each thought running through your groggy mind, you convince yourself you’re fucking right.

you check your phone with a hesitance you haven’t felt ever in your life.

it seems like your suspicions were correct. a text message from dick is all you see, a text message from over an hour ago— “be back soon— running some errands.”

errands your fucking ass.

——

despite how worn down you feel, utterly heartbroken and impossibly sicker than you felt before your nap— you spend the time packing up things you’ve left in dick’s apartment. clothes, your toothbrush, shampoo and conditioner— miscellaneous nicknacks that you’d brought over with your time spent here, with him.

you’d feel impossibly stupid if he comes home and it was nothing— but you know it isn’t. call it intuition or maybe just fucking crazy but you know it.

it takes just about another hour for him to show face, in fact, you hear him before you see him— soft footsteps on the well of the stairs, the jingle of his keys. you have them memorized and for a moment, just a moment before you tear the future down in front of you, you allow yourself to be excited.

——

he looks happy when he sees you, wide awake and sitting on the couch. he speaks your name in the tone that makes your heart flutter, but he’s stopped short at the site of the bags by your feet.

when you ask this time, there’s no room for argument, “where were you?” there’s something in your tone that makes him avoid eye contact— he’s guilty, and he fucking knows it.

“kori called while you were sleeping— she needed help moving a couch into her new apartment.”

again— the breath gets stolen from your lungs, “and that was your errand?” you don’t even think of mentioning she’s freakishly fucking strong and could put the goddamn couch on her back if she really needed to— it’s irrelevant.

he puts his keys down on the table he keeps next to the door, the noise sending a sharp twinge of irritation up your spine. he nods, mouth instantly opening for whatever bullshit apology you know he will spew.

you cut him off sharply, “i won’t do this.” you take in a deep breath, standing to your full height, “you don’t get to treat me like this.”

your tone is calm, sure— but dick can see it in your eyes, you’re rightfully fucking furious.

“you’re leaving me?” there’s something quiet, something pathetic in his tone when he asks. it throws a wrench in your plan— goddamn him, goddamn dick fucking grayson and his perfect fucking eyes.

you’d spent the hour waiting for him imagining that you’d be tough as nails— sure of yourself. you’d tell him straight that you were leaving and leave it at that.

you don’t feel like that anymore.

“i don’t know.” it’s honest. you mean it when you say it and you can see the sag of relief in his shoulders when you speak it to him.

he shifts, like he wants to touch you, but he seems to restrain himself, “i have to go, bruce called. he needs help in Gotham. please,” he does it again, speaks your name in the tone that makes you melt, makes you think that you could put up with him entertaining kori for the rest of your lives, “please don’t leave— we can talk about this more when i get back.”

you agree to his request.

but— in the end, you lie.

you lug every fucking memory of yourself down the stairs of his apartment— and then, when you make it safely to your home— you block his fucking phone number too.

——

it takes until the morning for dick to realize you’re gone. really gone.

maybe it’s because he’s been out all night— helping bruce, Batman, restrain every criminal that had escaped from Arkham— or maybe it’s because he lingered in Gotham too long, worried about what he’d find when he returned home.

something about you— the look in your eye when you’d confronted him.

you weren’t staying and he fucking knew it— but he left anyways, too scared to watch you walk away, to watch you abandon him.

when he comes home, he hopes to see you cuddled up in his bed, sleeping soundly the way you normally would be on your days off and he’s gone for the night— but instead he finds nothing.

not even an echo of you.

everything you’d ever graced his apartment with is gone.

the air feels heavy with regret, his regret.

dick decides he need to go to bed— he needs sleep.

he will worry about winning you back when he’s back to his normal wits.

——

you’ve changed your phone number.

dick can’t reach out to you even if he’d tried.

it’s been a week— almost two and dick feels like he might crumble. he needs to see you. he needs to speak to you.

he’s so used to you, you and your bright smile— you and the way you show up and liven up any situation. he craves you, the way you rub his shoulders— the way you ease him into relaxing.

but you’re gone and he knows he shouldn’t do it. he knows you’d hate him for even thinking about it— but he can’t fucking help it.

he opens the hidden folder on his phone— the folder full of pictures and videos of you.

full of picture and videos your bare pussy— your whole bare body. videos of you keening for him to touch you, pictures you’ve sent from the safety of your apartment, just for him.

he could just look at the non-lewd pictures of you, of the two of you, but he’s sure he has them memorized by now. he needs something else, something new.

and as he’s looking at them— he can’t help himself. he misses you so much. the way your hair smells, how your body feels against his— the way you taste.

his hands pull at his boxers— just one time, he thinks— and then he touches himself for the first time since you’ve been gone, since you left him.

he touches himself to the sight of you, spitting on his cock when he needs to— to slick himself up, to imagine it’s you, your soft insides he’s sinking into with each desperate thrust of his hips.

he cums with a noise he’s never heard himself make before— calling your name with a sound so pathetic it makes his ribcage hurt.

he deletes the pictures and videos of you, the whole album, the moment he realizes what he’s done.

and then, once he’s settled back into his bed, clean and alone— he cries.

he fucking cries— he misses you so much.

what will he do without the memory of you? he just deleted the last little grip of his sanity.

——

despite his sureness that deleting your photos was the right choice, he feels more empty without them.

the very next night he spends hours— hours, surfing porn sites. he needs someone that resembles you— the way your body looks, the color of your hair, the way you sound.

it takes longer than he anticipated, the sun rising quicker than he thought it would but he finally finds one satisfying enough that he gets the urge to touch himself.

dick grayson thought he was above videos of internet girls. he thought he’d never need to resort back to porn like a teenager but that’s obviously changed now— none of the women willing to fuck him in real life are you.

after an empty orgasm, he pays to save the video.

he doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll watch that video until he’s fucking memorized it.

maybe something along the lines of Benedict being a best friend of your older brother, something along the lines of a staple in your household, someone you have grown far too used to seeing.

he is nigh a few summers your senior but still further progressed enough that they hardly allow you to play.

tragedy strikes on your year of three and ten, taking your mother and father, which leads you and your older brother, who is six and 10, to being sent to the countryside to stay until of age, until you are able to care for yourself.

—

it takes seven full summers for the two of you to make way back to the ton— on the eighth year, in the spring, you return— you make your debut with your brother heading the attempt to find a lawful man for you to wed.

that very same spring, you see Mr. Bridgerton again.. but he is different, as are you.

gone is the girl and in her place is a woman.

you are still bright-eyed, despite the tragedy— still quick witted and kind. but you are also different, ethereal— Benedict never realized how your smile lifts your cheeks, never realized how your brow furrows when you speak— Benedict sees you for the first time in years and it feels like he has really, finally seen you.

and he— he is a man now. taller than you remember, more filled out— stout. with strong hands and forearms you linger on longer than you should— something that proves the artist he is. but he is unchanged in mischief, in the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, in the way he tries to include you in conversation.

it is in the spring, the spring you return, when you realize— you love Benedict Bridgerton.

—

despite your realization, you note that Mr. Bridgerton will never see you as anything but his best friend’s younger sister. you are put out, saddened by it. but it does not stop you. you cannot, will not be your brother’s burden any longer.

it is then your discrete conversation, your inside jokes, and your admiration of Benedict’s art stops. you cannot be so close to a man if you expect to find a good husband, one that will care for you and make sure you are happy.

Benedict, Ben, will never love you and you are fine with that or at least you can pretend.

—

it does not take long for you to find a prospect, Lord Rothschild. he is kind to you— he listens when you speak, he does not treat you like you are lesser. you are content to marry him, happy even.

but it still feels like it is not enough.

his gaze does not burn through you— does not make you alive— it does not make you feel.

but you are fine— you convince yourself. you could be happy. you could learn to love him.

your engagement seems set in stone.

Lord Rothschild has asked your brother for your hand and you agree. your smile does not pull your cheeks in the way Benedict can make it— but the way your lips turn up when he tells you, it is enough for your brother to be content.

—

Benedict, Ben, he calls on you that very night— the very day your brother speaks with Lord Rothschild and there is something about him that seems urgent, terrified.

you speak to him quietly, your maid a shadow behind you, your gown sways in the light spring breeze, “what are you doing here?”

he pauses, hesitating in his answer, “I-I do not know, I do not know.”

you step closer, peering like someone might see you, “we cannot be seen— I am to be married— you cannot be here, Ben.”

he seems awed, struck in the same way he normally is by you, “i cannot tell you.. but i can show you.” you are rightfully confused but nod hesitantly, “alright, Ben. alright.”

“meet me at Bridgerton house in the early morn.”

you agree without question, hastily turning, nightgown ruffling with the movement, motioning your maid towards the door, “Bridgerton house. i will be there.”

—

you hold true and you come to Bridgerton house in the morn— but you do not end up staying there.

in a carriage surrounded by nothing but a stifling silence, you allow Ben to take you into town. your nerves are pooling in your stomach, making you feel ill— but something in his gaze makes you hold out.

when the carriage comes to a stop, Benedict leads you in a direction you are familiar with, and suddenly, he seems nervous to be standing in front of this building— you have seen it before and it does not help with your confusion.

it is his studio— a place you have spent far too much of your time in, wasting moments, talking about your favorite art piece of his, something abstract, something you do not understand but are happy to look at because he touched it.

“Ben.. what are we doing here?”

he swallows thickly, a nervous habit you have picked up on, “you will see.”

it does not quell your nerves.

—

the inside is different than what you have seen before. gone are the abstract arts and in their place is portraits— so many portraits.

you take a turn around, admiring the ones that are full of color, life. you admire the ones drawn hastily with dark lines and desperation. they are all beautifully done. you are awed by his talent, awed by how well done and intricate they seem.

it strikes you suddenly, quickly as you stare into one— those are all your eyes, your nose, your cheeks.

“Ben,” you pause, attempting to find the words, “are— are these all of me?”

you turn, looking at him with a look he has never seen before. Benedict swallows heavily, voice hesitant when he speaks, “yes, they are all of you.”

you turn back, a new admiration in your gaze, “you have painted me?”

you do not turn back when he speaks, “you are so beautiful, it is hard not to.”

you pause again on the one that seems desperate, the line of your brow drawn crudely, like he feared forgetting, “why me?”

there is a quiver in his voice, “even when i am unable to draw— to paint— i can still imagine you. i imagine you in perfect detail, every time. sometimes it’s only you, only you, i don’t even realize i am doing it— not until you, you with that enchanting smile, are looking back at me.”

your chest tightens, “Ben— please— please, explain what this means.”

there is a waver in your voice this time— echoing the same as his.

he answers steadily, a newfound confidence in his tone. Benedict moves, admiring his own art, “i have seen you millions of ways— millions of emotions,” with his next phrasing, he motions to a different art, art made by his hands, “contempt, sadness, anger, happiness..” his voice trails, “i have seen a million emotions in your face,” his lip quivers when he finally turns to face you, deep eyes turning tender, “and i have loved each of them.”

you shudder, emotion overtaking you, but you do not respond to him, instead allowing him to continue to speak, “i have loved each of them and i will continue to love them— each emotion, every passion— i will never, never finish loving them, loving you.”

you can hear nothing but your heartbeat— nothing but the sound of your ribcage rattling, “you— Ben— i cannot… i cannot do this. Lord Rothschild has asked for my hand. i am meant to be wed.. he will propose soon.”

you are rambling, almost trying to deny him— deny what you feel.

Benedict hardens but does not attempt to move closer to you, “you say you are to wed him,” he pauses, turning desperate, “but do you look at him the way you are looking at me?”

you do not recognize that you are looking at him any other way than normal, not until he quivers under your gaze, “stop. do not continue to look at me that way,” his voice drips with hardly there restraint, “do not— or i will ruin you.”

you break under his equal watch, hands going up in desperation, before landing equally at your side, “you, Benedict Bridgerton, have already ruined me. i cannot marry that man,” you cannot stop the absolute noise of desperation that falls from your lips, “i cannot marry that man— and it is because of you!”

he seems aghast at your words, “me? me!” he swaggers closer to you, some part of him sure that this is what you want and you answer by stepping in to his frame, confirming it is, “yes! you! you and your artworks, you and the way you are leering at me— you and just you, Benedict— you have ruined me. i have nothing left for anyone else,” you quiver, but do not deny yourself the satisfaction of finally admitting it, “i love you— i love you.”

it feels like a prayer— like a secret, like something you should not have shared. it is too late to retract— Benedict closes in on you, lips pressing against yours with an anguish you can taste.

—

it takes a moment of his lips pressing against yours before Benedict is pulling away, hands raising above his head, dark hair shaking with the move of his head, “tell me to stop— tell me to back away, please, please.”

you cannot— you will not. you refuse to deny yourself any longer, “no— Ben, Benedict— no.” when he turns away, you follow, making sure he can see you, see the emotion in your face, “you cannot do this— you cannot show me this and expect us to go back to normal.”

he finds himself unable to turn away from you, instead, he cradles you, hands cupping at the sides of your face in a way you can only describe as tender, and he whispers— he whispers in something you can only describe as salvation, “i love you.”

you answer in a kiss, one that makes him back you into a table, one that makes him lift you high, seating you on a table in the very place he paints— he paints you. his hands grip desperately at your skirts— he is temping you, nothing but sin reeking from every pore, “i love you.”

you squeal a noise unknown to you when he disappears under the fabrics, mouthing at the most sensitive parts of you like they are his supper, “wait! wait! what are you—“ you are cut off by a noise so depraved you do not recognize yourself, “oh! oh!”

you gather your own skirts in your hands, trying to take away burden from him but also trying to find something to grab— something to hold. you need it— need to focus on something other than his quick tongue— you need something to ground yourself against the onslaught of his mouth against the place only husbands are supposed to touch.

“Benedict,” you sound hazy, a feeling in your gut pooling in the way you have only felt your own touch make you, “something is happening!”

he hums against you, against your tender most spot, signaling he knows— he knows and it is supposed to feel like this, that it is supposed to happen this way.

you release your skirts, opting to instead grab at the dark hair on his head, pressing him against the part of you that feels the most— the part that tingles from the base of your spine to the tips of your toes, “oh! Ben! oh!”

you do not need to elaborate, he can tell— he knows, knows you are crumbling from his touch.

he pulls away from you, only when your noises turn in to almost discomfort.

he appears from under your skirts, grin happy and face wet. he watches you for only a moment.

Benedict watches the way your brow eases, worries quelled, watches the way your mouth opens in gasps— from him, because of him.

you heave for air, gasping and heaving and he pauses, taking in the way your face changes with each breath.

he’s big— big arms, big shoulders, big chest, big cock and somehow he’s managed to convince you to lay down n take it.

and he starts out real nice n sweet and is murmuring about how soft and pretty you are when he spreads you open on his fingers first but it isn’t enough to make you come— no, it’s just enough to settle your nerves, just enough to make you all slick n pliant, just enough for him to bully the fat head right in.

and it’s just him— big chest n big biceps being all you can see. just him with a smarmy grin as he coos in your face ab how it’s okay, you can take it. “look angel— it’s already halfway in, you’re being so brave.”

and maybe it’s how he looks, eyes flicking between your blown out pupils to how your cunt is choking him out— or maybe it’s how he’s still rubbin’ away at your puffy little clit trying to make it easier to spear you open wide for him.

somehow it isn’t enough— but it also is.

before you can warn him to slow down, you’re tunneling out, chest heaving, tears pricking the corners of your eyes— you’re fucking coming and he’s not even all the way in yet.

and you somehow hear him— you fucking hear him, even with your eyes rolling back into your skull, even with your toes curling— even with your pussy creamin’ around his half seated cock.

He’s fucking laughing at you.

“yeah? you comin’— ah, shit— ‘s that fuckin’ good, huh?”

his tone is nothing but mocking, like he knew he was about to ruin you, like he knew that after this, your pussy would fit him like a glove.

you wish you could say something back— but you can’t. it’s all garbled noises and pathetic whimpers because Toji is laughing at you and also because he’s right— it is that fucking good.

but before you can truly catch up, he’s using the slick, using how you’ve loosened up to shove the rest of his cock in to the fucking root — and even though you’re all gooey inside n opened wide, it still stings.

and Toji is so smug, that same mocking tone in his voice when he hushes you, when he wipes your tears, when he grabs you by the chin to make you look at him when he’s talking, “ ‘s all in now, okay?” there’s a pause, one he uses to tug your thighs over his, one he uses to fold you in fucking half— his big body weighing yours down in a way that burns, “promise I’ll make it good f’ you.”

you nod hazily in agreement— you’re sure he fucking will.

—

- tbh i don’t think shikamaru would have a daddy kink but a sir kink? that’s right up his alley

- girl don’t play, now lay down like???

- not me thinking about staying out too late and coming home to shikamaru lounging in a chair in your shared living room, cigarette hanging between his lips and he doesn’t even have to say anything— you just know this about to be crazyyyy

- he raises one thin eyebrow and you’re about to confess all your sins

- tell me he wouldn’t make you apologize for worrying him

- actually don’t because you can’t convince me otherwise

- give him a little “ ‘m so sorry for not letting you know i was going to be late, sir.”

- and he’s gonna laugh at you because aren’t you just pitiful

- WHO IS YOU LAUGHING AT??? HELLO??

- when your apology doesn’t work you settle with your head on his thigh, hands working at the button on his pants

- and he just, “can you say please?”

- you’re just peering up at him all doe-eyed and pliant, “please, sir— just wanna apologize.”

- how could he ever say no to that??? now stop talking, there’s something better you could be using that mouth for

- you cannot tell me that he doesn’t look like a fucking dream like that— thighs spread wide, posture relaxed with one hand brushing the hair out of your eyes, and the other bringing the end of the cigarette to his lips and he’s just, “go on, sweetheart— do it how i like it.”

- just shikamaru slipping his fingers into your mouth beside his cock to open you wider because, “pretty sad apology sweetheart, now open up— i know you can take more than that.”

- and he’s just smug and mean and making sure you fucking choke

- kakashi would 100% in the beginning of your relationship leave marks where others can see them like don’t play??? you’re his??? BYE

- as time progresses, he’ll find it easier to leave them in places that only the two of you know about but don’t mistake that, one wrong move in your skirt and every one in town will see where he’s sunk his teeth into the meat on your thighs like ??? why is that so sexy???

- the whole close relationship with dogs makes me think of him being able to smell you

- maybe he’s too close and you get a good look at the veins in his forearms and now you’re 5 seconds away from showing your ass in the grocery store and he just knows

- girl don’t play with him, he’s gonna snatch your ass up (why get groceries when he could just eat you? *queue the sharp canines peeking behind his pretty lips*)

- and it’s not even just when he can smell the slick pooling in your underwear, it’s constantly

- he just follows you around and when the wind blows just right he can smell you through the mask, just you and now he’s crowding you against a tree with heavy hands, teeth latching on to the meat of your throat with a determination you can only describe as animalistic

- kakashi is not possessive, but you’re his and if you ever need a reminder all you have to do is pull down the collar of your shirt to peek at the teeth shaped marks all over the skin of chest

- and when he has to leave for a mission he’s nipping at the skin of your throat and hissing about how you better not let any of them fade before he gets back because if you do you’ll regret it (you’ll spend more time in the morning than you want to admit pressing against the marks on your chest and thighs)