#FOLLOWED BY STABBING FABRIC AND HISSING

[mocacheezy]

Having sensory issues that you haven't quite registered as proper, real and VALID issues yet can be real interesting. For example;

Me, overwhelmed and fuming with rage and anxiety: How can I fuckity fuck make this better?

*remembers that sunlight and seeing what's outside can make people feel less claustrophobic ergo lowering anxiety*

*forgets that bright lights and colors are a sensory FUCK NO when overwhelmed*

*partially opens the window shutters*

*closes the window shutters*

[marvelfilth]

Off the deep end 4 (18+)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Pairing: ghostface!Sam Carpenter x f!reader

Warnings: smut, fingering, strap on sex, praise, r gets tied up, pet names, spanking (like once), canon typical violence, blood, stabbing

Summary: "Take off my mask"

A/n: ...I'm sorry

Masterlist

Ghostface sits on the loveseat, her legs crossed and her posture entirely relaxed as she playfully taps her knife against the glass of your coffee table.

You take a second to gather your courage and lunge.

She's too gobsmacked to react, and in less than a second you have her pinned against the back of the loveseat, a knife pressing against her neck.

"The bodega. Was it you? Because if it was, I'll gut you myself," you growl.

You feel her shaky exhale before she drops her knife to the floor, turning you around in a split second and pinning you down with her weight. Your knife is still dangerously close to her neck, but you don't think she cares, with the way she grabs your waist possessively.

"Fuck," she breathes out, caressing your waist.

"Let me go," you hiss, pushing against her chest with your other hand.

She uses this moment to push your hand away from her throat, clutching it in her strong grip, your knife dangling uselessly between your fingertips.

"There's no way I'm letting you go, baby. No fucking way." She's breathless, her chest heaving heavily as she pushes you deeper into the cushions.

"I'm not your baby," you growl, trying to push her away. "You think you can just show up here after almost killing my friends? I don't care what kind of vigilante bullshit you've got going on, they're off limits." You buckle against her, growing red in the face when she doesn't move an inch.

She tilts her head, seemingly taking you in. She stays silent way too long for your liking, just breathing heavily and observing you, shifting her grip on your wrist. The action reminds you that your other hand is still around her shoulder, clutching it hard enough to leave half moons on her skin even through multiple layers of fabric.

"Go ahead," she whispers, "try."

You wonder how the fuck does she know what you're about to do.

Still, your hand moves slowly, and you don't dare look away from the black hollow eyes of the mask, swallowing when you finally come in contact with the heated skin of her neck. You don't waste another moment and grip, cutting off her airway. She expected it, clearly, but she still lets you send both of you tumbling to the floor. She lands with a huff, your thighs straddling her hips, and now that your roles are reversed you feel a sense of power over her, no matter how fleeting it might be.

Her pulse is erratic against your fingers, but she stays still, not moving an inch, and speaks up, "I came here to punish you, you know? I told you to stay home. Our home." You freeze, gaping at her. "I thought you learned your lesson that first time, but no, you decide to play hero and go off on your own in the middle of the fucking night," she growls, easily throwing you off her body. You sit on the floor, not daring to move as she removes her voice changer.

There's no need for that - you already know who's behind the mask.

"Take off my mask," Sam orders and you tremble at the commanding tone, hesitantly reaching up to remove the plastic.

There's no color in her eyes, only black of her pupils. She's panting, her expression pure lust. She looks you up and down slowly, gaze lingering on the knife between your fingers. You let it fall on the floor with a dull thump and she smiles dangerously, lifting her eyes. "Now take off your clothes."

You whimper, clumsily following the order as she drinks you up with her eyes, kneeled on the floor. When you're left naked she rummages in the pockets off her robe, pulling something out before carelessly shrugging it off and throwing it to the side.

"Come here," she pats her lap, leaning back against the foot of the couch. You do so quickly, stifling a whimper when your core brushes against her leg. She pulls you into a bruising kiss, all teeth and bite as your hips start rocking on her thigh, chasing pleasure. You grip the cushions behind her back, arching in her hold before you feel her push your hands away and lead them behind your back. She tries them up with something silky and smooth, probably a scarf, tugging to check if it's tight enough.

"So you don't jump me again," she chuckles and you grow embarrassingly wet, stifling a whimper at her degrading tone. "I only wanted to scare you that night when I visited you for the first time. Wanted to make sure you listen to me next time, but there you were, in a fucking towel. I wanted you for so long and you were right there, ready for me to take." She pushes on your hips, and you throw your head back, letting out a loud moan when you feel a bulge in her pants. "But this time… you pinned me down, put a knife to my throat. Remember what you said?" She husks, cupping the back of your head and forcing you to look at her. You nod dazedly, nails dig into your palms, trying to keep in your pathetic whimpers. She plants her hands on your cheeks. "Say it again."

You close your eyes and arch into her body, your breasts practically in her face. "I said I'd gut you- not you, I- I'd kill the person who tried to hurt you and Tara."

She lets out a deep breath that sounds like a moan and reaches behind you. "You'd kill for me?" She pants.

You nod against her lips. "Yes."

She growls, a sound so deep and primal it makes you shudder, and shows you the mask. "Then I think you should put this on, don't you?" You don't dare move an inch, watching as she puts the mask on your face with hunger in her eyes. Her thigh pushes between your legs, making you whimper. "Sam- please…"

"Perfect." She chuckles, trailing a hand trailing over your breasts, slowly, teasingly. "You love it, don't you? That's why you never said anything. I killed everyone who tried to hurt you and you fucking love it."

"Yes. Fuck, yes, Sam," you gasp grinding on her thigh. You can't take your eyes off her. Sweat drips down the valleys between her breasts, disappearing behind her thin tank top, pulling your attention to her perky nipples. You'd kill for a chance to taste them.

"My dirty girl, fucking perfect for me." She leans down and places long kisses down your neck, savoring the taste of your skin. Your breasts brush and you arch into her, chasing the feeling, but she merely chuckles before forcing your legs open and plunging two fingers inside with no warning. Your hands jerk and you hiss when the movement makes the scarf tighten, hurting your wrists. Sam chuckles into your neck before biting down, leaving a deep purple mark as you struggle to hold back a moan. "Don't," she hisses, "don't you dare hold back." She thrusts into you mercilessly, tugging your nipple between her teeth.

You want to throw your arms around her shoulders and hide your face in her hair, pulling her incredibly close, but your hands lay limp behind your back and the mask on your face makes it impossible to feel the softness of her hair. You look at her through the dark hollows, gasping for breath when she adds a third finger, almost falling back on the floor, trying to ride her, moving your hips up and down.

You feel pressure building in your lower belly and you tell Sam you're close, moaning her name as she fastens her pace before she abruptly pulls out, leaving you to whine uselessly.

She gets up from the floor with you in her arms and throws you over her shoulder, heading to your bedroom. Her palm settles on your ass, squeezing possessively as she shoulders your door before carelessly throwing you on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress. There's shuffling of fabric before she quickly unties your wrists. You sigh, flexing the strained muscles, and then you're rolled on your back, moaning when you see her fully naked. You let out a heavy breath, looking at Sam towering over you, her abs clenched as her fingers wrap around her strap. You unconsciously spread your legs, shuffling higher to settle on the pillows.

"Hands on the headboard," she orders, picking up the scarf from the floor. You put your hands over your head and she makes quick work of tying them up again, giving your nipple a painful squeeze as her hand slides down your torso to your dripping pussy.

"Please, Sam," you plead, grinding on her palm.

She hums and straddles your thigh, her sex flush against the muscle, smearing wetness. She grinds on you messily, losing herself in pleasure, and you're left to marvel at the sight. Her abs clench each time her pussy slides over your flesh, chest rising rapidly. She closes her eyes and throws her head back, moaning loudly. You whimper, trying to find friction against her thigh. She looks down at you in ecstasy, breathing through her open mouth as she messily humps your leg.

"Fuck, you look so good," you whimper, thinking you could come just from watching her. She chuckles lowly, coating you in her arousal and her strap bumps against your clit, making your hips jerk.

"You want it?" She taunts, halting her movements and positioning herself between your parted thighs. Your legs wrap around her waist, pulling her flush against you before you answer. "I want you," you whimper, feeling the tip of her cock nudge against your entrance.

"You have me, baby," she says, before snapping her hips forward, burying the thick length in your wet heat. "How does that feel, hm?"

You moan, hips buckling in her hold. "So good, Sam, you feel so good."

She hums and starts thrusting slowly, placing fleeting kisses over your chest before she leans back, her fingers wrapping around your ankles to throw them over her shoulders. "Keep them open for me," she says and returns her hands to your hips, pressing you into the bed, picking up the pace.

She mercilessly pounds into your pussy, the wet slapping sound echoing through your room. You moan, throwing your head back, making the mask skew a little before it's ripped off your face. "Want to see your pretty face when you come," she breathes, pressing on the bulge on your lower belly. "You're taking my cock so well, princess. Such a good girl." Her praises reach your ears, but you barely make them out amidst mind-blowing pleasure.

"S-sam! Fuck, I'm close," you moan, helplessly tugging on the restraints. Sam starts rubbing your clit and you feel your orgasm build up, making you arch your back off the bed.

"You're gonna scream for me, baby," she pants, fastening her pace, her strap burying in your tight cunt to the hilt, her thumb playing with your swollen nub of nerves.

You come with a loud cry of her name, your walls clenching around the silicone cock as she continues pounding into you at an animalistic pace, drilling you into the bed. Your bed shakes, the headboard steadily smashing against the wall as she makes it her mission to lead you to another orgasm. Your tears roll down your cheeks, blurring the sight of her lust filled eyes, looking down at you like she's about to consume you whole.

"Such a good pussy, all mine to use," she purrs, throwing your legs off her shoulders and rolling you onto your side, the changing of the angle making her strap reach deeper into you. Her hand settles over your thigh, gripping possessively before she lets go to land a slap on your ass, her other hand pressing down on the side of your head.

"Yours, a-all yours ah-," you cry out, feeling your climax approach, each thrust bringing you closer to the edge.

She leans over your body to whisper in your ear. "You're mine. Say it."

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as she buries her strap in you again and again, hitting your sensitive spot. "Yours, I'm yours."

She bites down on the curve of your shoulder to hide her moan as she reaches her high, taking you over the edge with her. Your vision goes white, your cunt clenching around her cock, your wetness coating the sheets under you.

She slumps beside you, lazily untying the scarf and massaging your arms before slowly pulling out and pushing you to lay on top of her. "We're not done yet, baby," she whispers into your hair and pulls you into a deep kiss.

×××

A piercing ringing sound wakes you up, making you roll out of Sam's warm embrace and fall on the floor in a heap of sheets with a dull thump. You groan, sending her a finger when she snorts and finally picks up her phone. Your carpeted floor feels too fluffy to get up and move back to bed, your eyes falling shut as Sam speaks with her sister. You slowly drift off, teetering on the edge of consciousness when Sam picks you up and gently lowers you back on the bed, pressing a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth before disappearing behind the bathroom door. You burrow into her pillow, the sound of running water lulling you back to sleep.

Next time you wake up to gentle caresses, smiling, not fully awake yet, but not asleep either. You feel her lips stretch in a smile when she starts kissing the side of your neck, her breath tickling, making you giggle.

You finally open your eyes when she calls out your name, coaxing you to get up. You pout and try to tug her back to bed, but she narrowly escapes your grip, chuckling when you frown.

"It's past noon, time to get up. Tara's been worried out of her mind," she says and checks her phone when it dings, groaning as she reads the text. "They're all waiting back home. I hate these kids sometimes."

You snort, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. "I bet Mindy made everyone come cause she has some theory to share."

She laughs quietly as she types a response, and looks back at you. "Breakfast is almost ready and you better be dressed when I come back. And don't even try covering these up." She gestures to your neck with her forefinger and you instinctively reach up to touch your sore skin.

She's out of the door before you could complain, leaving you to stew in now cold sheets. You don't test your luck though, and rush to take a shower and dress when you hear her in the kitchen.

You get ready in record time, walking into the kitchen right when she starts putting plates on the table. Your mouth waters when a delicious smell hits your nose, and when she pulls out a chair for you, you rush to her side to press a kiss on her cheek. "Thank you," you whisper.

She hums, pushing your hair to one side when you sit and presses a kiss to your neck. "My girlfriend deserves the best," she breathes, making you shudder.

You find the strength to object. "You didn't even ask if I want to be your girlfriend."

She pauses, frowning. "You don't?"

You bite back a smile at her confused expression, pulling her down for a proper kiss. "It doesn't hurt to ask."

She huffs, and walks around the table to take a seat, looking you right in the eye as she replies. "Do you want to be my girlfriend?"

"Yes," you mumble, growing embarrassingly red, and dive in the food, biting back a moan at the taste. She hums in approval, swiping some sauce for the corner of your mouth. "Good girl."

×××

You ask the question that's been nagging at your mind for the past few days when you're getting ready to leave. "So… there are at least two, right?"

"Hm?"

"Ghostface. One called and the other one attacked you at the bodega."

She shrugs, "I guess."

You frown, noting her lack of reaction. "When I got the call they said they knew your secret."

She walks up to you and puts her hands around your waist. "It doesn't matter. They still haven't told anyone and that means they want to deal with me themselves."

You nod. It makes sense, but you're still worried. The possibility of her dying or going behind bars makes your skin crawl.

"Hey," she caresses your cheek, "it'll be okay, I promise, just… you're with me, right?"

Your lips press against her palm. "Always."

You enter the building an hour later, darting inside quickly, Sam checking every corner before she lets you pass. You walk quietly, heading for the elevators when a man stops in your way, smiling at Sam. You expect her to ignore him or maybe even push him out of the way, but she rolls her eyes good-naturally and greets him with a hug, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

"Who's this?" You ask, eyes darting between Sam and the man, and you decide you don't like him at all.

He looks… adequate, tall and obviously muscular, his eyes bright blue. He also looks dangerous, like a guy you'd avoid at parties. But then again Sam looks dangerous too, so you probably shouldn't judge him too quickly.

"Danny. Our neighbor," she introduces you and he smiles, extending his hand.

You take it, his fingers wrapping around yours with gentle, but firm squeeze. You mutter your name, looking him up and down. You've never seen him before and you've spent weeks at Sam's place by now.

"I don't think I've ever seen you before."

He chuckles and rubs the back of his head. "I'm not surprised. I work at night, sleep through the day."

You nod, feeling Sam's eyes on you. "Yeah, that must be it," you mumble.

She nudges you to the elevators, bidding Danny goodbye. You follow her, chewing on your lip.

No, you decide, you definitely don't like him.

"What was that?" Sam asks with a teasing glint in her eyes. "Jealous?"

You scoff. "You wish."

She hums in agreement, but sports a smug smile all the way to her front door. Tara greets you both with a hug the second you step inside the apartment, eyeing you worriedly. Sam shrugs her off with a calming smile, urging her into the kitchen. You bite back a smile when Tara begrudgingly follows, muttering something about Sam and her stress cooking.

Mindy and Anika are cuddled up on the couch, too busy gossiping about their new professor to notice you. Chad gives you a small wave, scooting to give you space to sit. The hug he gives you is warm and reassuring and you place a chaste kiss on his cheek, noting the absence of Quinn and Ethan.

"Quinn's in her room and Ethan has Econ," he mumbles, noticing your questioning look. You nod, and relax against his shoulder, allowing yourself to bask in the moment.

Sam and Tara chatter as they cook something, judging by the smell it's Sam's famous grilled cheese. Your mouth waters even though you ate not that long ago, remembering the taste. You sneak a glance in their direction and see them laughing. The shorter girl shoves Sam hard, but your girlfriend doesn't budge, eyes rolling at the sisters' antics.

You wish you could stay like this forever.

Mindy finally looks away from her girlfriend, eyebrows jumping up when she sees you. "Where have you been?"

You groan, feeling the way Chad's shoulders shake with laughter. "She won't let it go, just roll with it," he whispers.

"She was with me, Mindy, don't even start," Sam shouts from the kitchen, twirling a knife between her fingers. The sight makes something inside of you catch on fire.

"Gross," Mindy grumbles and whines when Anika leaves her, choosing to sit on your other side.

You share a laugh, your friend molding against your side. They put on a movie, not a slasher, thank god, and you settle deeper into the cushions as you watch, putting your hand around Anika's shoulders and sending Mindy a smug look. She rolls her eyes, huffing, and crosses her arms, turning to look at the screen with her lips jutted out. Sam and Tara join you when they're finally done, your girlfriend sending Chad and Anika a glare before she settles on the floor with a pout, a mirror image of Mindy. You bite on your lower lip, suppressing a smile. Screen flashes brightly and you dive into the story unfolding, forgetting about the real world for a few hours.

You nod off when you're almost halfway through the sequel, now flat against Sam's front as you both sit on some cushions on the floor, Mindy having thrown you away from her girlfriend when she came back with more snacks. Sam's arms find home around your waist, keeping you trapped between her legs as she presses soft kisses all over the side of your face. She shushes everyone and lowers the volume once she finally notices you've fallen asleep, snatching Mindy's blanket to cover your feet.

When you open your eyes some time later, expecting to see credits rolling or another movie playing, you see a murder report, sirens in the background wailing loudly, a likely cause of your abrupt awakening. You frown, struggling to make out words with your mind still half asleep, but when you hear your girlfriend's name your focus becomes laser like. Everyone in the room listens with rapt attention to every word falling from the reporter's mouth, Sam nudging you away and stomping to the kitchen once murder acquisitions are made known.

You swallow, looking at Sam's hunched figure, your throat suddenly dry. Tara elbows you and throws her chin in Sam's direction, eyes widening in an attempt at silent communication. You nod and follow her, both of you taking a seat on either side of the dejected woman.

"Sam?" Tara hesitantly speaks up. "None of what they said matters. We'll get that motherfucker and people will know the truth. They'll see you how we see you." She places her hand on top of Sam's, squeezing.

You bite on your lower lip when Sam's face crumbles at her sister's words, a single tear sliding down her cheek. "And what if they're right?" She croaks, turning to look at her sister. "What if they see me for what I really am and you're the one who's wrong?"

Tara opens her mouth, fire in her eyes, but you beat her to it. "She's right," you state, Sam snapping back to look at you. "You did what you had to do before. They'll never understand it, but we do. You're good, Sam, everyone in this room knows it."

Mindy and Chad take a seat across the table, worriedly eyeing your girlfriend, but her eyes are on you, latching onto every word that leaves your lips.

"Do you really think so?" She whispers and you can see the hidden insecurity behind her irises. This feels like a conversation you should be having in private, away from Mindy's piercing eyes and Tara's attentiveness.

Your lips press against hers before you whisper quietly, only for her to hear. "I know so. You saved me, remember?"

Tension seeps away as she pulls you into another kiss, lips moving gently against your own, tongue sliding across your bottom lip before Mindy forces you apart by fake gagging.

Tara pulls her into a hug, somehow fitting her older sister in the slope of her neck. "Shut it, Mindy." She glares at the girl.

Mindy throws her arms up in mock surrender and Chad takes this moment to say, "That's right. We're the core four, we've been through worse."

Sam loudly snorts into Tara's shoulder, making the girl grimace. "The core what?" Mindy's side eye burns through him.

"The core four. You know, cause we've been through a lot. Plus, it sounds cool."

"It really doesn't," you chuckle.

"And there's five of us, dingus, six if we count Anika," the twin sister points out.

"Yeah, but Y/n isn't Woodsboro and neither is Anika..." he trails off, looking to the side. "Core four and a half? Core four and plus ones?"

Mindy rolls her eyes so hard you're afraid they might stick to the back of her head. "Just shut up."

You get up to get a glass of water for Sam after making sure she's fine, dropping your phone on the table and heading to the kitchen. Your eyes roll to the back of your head when you hear Quinn and her latest boy toy going at it again, and open the fridge, scanning for a bottle of water.

Suddenly, the apartment grows quiet before chaos takes over.

"Y/n!" Sam shouts loudly, and you run back, her fingers immediately latching onto your wrist with a tight grip. She shows you a message on her phone, a photo of Ghostface holding Quinn by the throat in her room.

You freeze with a baited breath, eyes pinned to the door. Pained wails from behind the wall make you dart to the door, throwing Sam's hand away from yours. You open the door before she pushes you behind her back, obscuring the view, but you still catch a glimpse of Quinn's limp body being thrown at Anika.

Your friends scream and scutter around the apartment, Ghostface hot on your heels. Sam's hand finds yours again, pulling you behind Chad and Tara, Mindy and Anika following close by, but Ghostface is faster, rounding you up, Sam's hand slipping from your grasp as he shuts the front door right in your face, cutting you away from Sam, Tara and Chad. The door starts shaking from the force of Sam's efforts, but you know it's useless - she made sure nothing could get through that door when they moved in. You duck when the robed figure slashes at you, nipping your shoulder. Mindy shouts something about knives from the kitchen and runs up to clock Ghostface with a knife holder, throwing him off his feet. Anika tugs you back into Quinn's room and you stumble on her body, almost falling into a puddle of blood, but Mindy is right there on your other side, shoving you behind the door and quickly locking it.

The three of you lean on the door, feet planted firmly on the floor as Ghostface tries to knock it down. The hinges squeak from the force, dust falling on your shoulders as you pant heavily, thinking of a way out. You look around the room, trying to find some sort of weapon, but the only thing somewhat fitting your requirements is a bedside lamp, glowing mockingly with a pinkish hue. The rattling stops, and your panic increases tenfold. Your eyes land on Mindy's, her face growing pale as she looks at something over your shoulder before she forces you back and throws herself at the bathroom door with a scream.

The dark figure easily throws the door open, slicing her bicep to the bone. The girl falls to the floor, clutching the deep cut, unaware of the hand raised over her head, ready to land the final blow. Anika launches herself at the killer, kicking and screaming, as you dart for the fucking lamp, clutching it in your sweaty palm, ready to knock the hooded person unconscious. You turn around just in time to see your friend's stomach being sliced open, a guttural scream ripping from her throat.

She falls to the ground and you swing the lamp as hard as you can, sending Ghostface back to the bathroom and snapping the door shut right in his face. You sit, propped against the door, frantically looking around for something to block it with. Mindy presses down on Anika's stomach, there's so much blood it's going to make you sick.

You turn away, blinking back tears, your eyes landing on the dresser.

"Mindy," you croak, "Mindy we need to prop it against the door." She looks at you, then at the dresser and back to Anika, who nods, schooling her features.

You move in tandem, you still holding the door, with Ghostface now trying to knock it down, and her pushing the dresser firmly against the door. You sag once it's in place, picking up on distant shouts.

"Y/n!" Sam calls from the window across, a leader clutched between her and Danny. You let out a relieved laugh, securing the ladder on the windowsill. "That's it, baby, now come here," she urges, a desperate look in her eyes.

You shake your head, looking back at Mindy and Anika, and at the shaking door. "They're injured, Sam. They'll go first." She looks like she wants to protest, but relents once she sees the look in your eyes.

"Just one at a time," Danny speaks up.

You nod before turning back and taking a place on the floor, gently pressing down on Anika's wound, your hands turning red mere seconds later. You fight the urge to gag, looking at your friends through the tears. "You first, Mindy."

Mindy looks up, scandalized. "I'm not leaving her," she gritts.

"M-Mindy," Anika whimpers, clutching your wrists.

"No."

"You'll get there quick and I'll be right behind you, o-okay?" The girl stutters, pleading with her eyes.

"Then you go first," Mindy sniffles, "I'll hold it steady and wait till you get across."

You close your eyes, your whole body jostling from the force of Ghostfaces efforts. Your friend is losing more and more blood, coating the floor and your clothes, making you shudder. Sam starts shouting again, screaming for one of you to finally go. You look at Mindy, whispering, "You have to go."

"I'll just s-slow you down. Just go, please, just g-go." Anika begs, tears rolling down her face. Mindy nods resolutely and you look away, giving them some resemblance of privacy as they share a heartfelt kiss.

Mindy grabs your collar, forcing you to look at her when they're done. "You get her out, understand?"

You nod, watching as she looks at her girlfriend one last time and hurries to the ladder, hesitantly climbing on.

"You'll go next," Anika whispers, closing her eyes.

Your head whips back, eyes wide as you look at your friend's pale face. "I'm not fucking leaving you, An. We stick together, remember?"

She chuckles humorlessly, the sound turning into a wheeze. "I don't want you d-dying with me."

You swallow back a sob, knowing that the open wound is looking worse with each passing second, her fingers so weak she can barely hold onto your hand, let alone a ladder.

She looks like she knows what you're thinking about, smiling gently. "I'll h-hold him off. I still have some fight in me."

You shake your head, blinking back tears, and look out the window to see Mindy's almost halfway to the other side. You think and think and think, because there has to be something, there must be a way. There's probably some sort of weapon in Sam's room, but you're not sure if you'll make it back in time or if you'll be able to fight off Ghostface. You can feel the door almost give out, crossing out the options of just staying there and waiting for the police to arrive.

Anika pushes your hands away and you blink back at her. "Go," she whispers, fighting back tears. "We b-both know I won't make it across that ladder."

You shake your head, realization dawning on you. "The front door," you mutter, "An, it's locked from the inside! And that fucker won't even hear you through all that noise. You can make it to the elevators. You can!"

She freezes, eyes darting between the door and the window, you can see a glimpse of hope appear. "I can," she nods, "but what about you?"

You swallow. "I'll hold him off and go for the ladder when he breaks down the door. I promise, I'll get out."

She looks like she wants to argue, but Mindy's triumphant shout as she finally lands on the floor makes her nod quietly. You don't have time to argue, you both know it.

"Anika!" Mindy urges and you can hear Sam cursing loudly.

The wounded girl nods solemnly and pads to the door that leads to the hallway, unlocking it quietly.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Mindy yells.

Sam doesn't say anything and shoves Mindy out of the way, ready to climb the goddamn ladder, Danny holding her back by her shoulders.

"No!" You shout, looking back to see Anika already in the hallway. "Anika's going and I'm next. Trust me, please."

Sam looks at you, a silent question in her eyes, you shake your head, hoping she'll listen. She sags. "Okay."

You exhale in relief, turning to watch Anika as she trudges through the living room, back aching from continuing shoves.

Minutes tickle by, Mindy disappears from view to go to the living room, watching her girlfriend through the window. You hold on, heels of your feet firmly on the floor, but you can already feel your strength starting to slip.

Anika is nowhere to see, so you turn to Sam, a question on your tongue.

"You can go now," she nods. "C'mon, babe, hurry." She stretches one arm out, the other holding the ladder tightly. Danny is by her side, pushing all of his weight to their end of the ladder.

You get up and run for the window, the dresser now pushed against the wall, the door wide open. Your foot slips on the windowsill, but you manage to hold on, all of your body now on the ladder, looking down at the street below. You start trembling violently, now understanding why Mindy took so long to get across. Sam's eyes are on you the whole time and when you finally look up she offers an encouraging nod, jaw clenched in concentration as she watches your every move.

Her eyes land on something behind you and you freeze, hair on the back of your neck standing up. You don't have to look back to know Ghostface is standing there, but you still do, ignoring Sam's yelling and the tremble in your arms. He stands there, motionless, head tilted in silent curiosity. The ladder squeaks, and your sweaty palms make your grip slip, but you hold on, looking at the killer.

There's a dull sound just outside the apartment that makes him look back at the door and then at you again. His head tilts to the other side as he puts on a show of counting each of you, five fingers up, curling them one by one after he points at you, then Sam, Danny and finally Mindy. He looks at the only finger left, his pinky, and shakes his head in mock disappointment.

"No," you breath out, already climbing back.

He raises a hand, waving you goodbye playfully, gloved fingers wiggling around the sharp knife.

"Get here right now!" Sam shouts, halfway out of the window, but you're out of her grasp. "What the fuck are you doing?!"

You shake your head again, stumbling back inside Quinn's room as the ladder falls down to the street below, Sam's screams filling your ears as you run after Ghostface.

"Anika!" You shout when the elevator is finally in sight, Anika holding on to the railing and Ghostface slipping inside.

You run at full speed, but you still don't make it in time, doors sliding closed as he buries the knife deep into her chest, making you run flat into the metal, Anika's screams echoing through the apartment building. You wipe away your tears and turn for the stairs, jumping five at a time as you make it down to the first floor. You see the back door fall shut after a figure runs out, panic overtaking as you finally face the elevator.

You've never seen that much blood in your life. The walls are covered in splashes of red, the floor just a puddle of dark liquid. Anika wheezes, choking on her blood. You fall to your knees beside her, afraid to touch her fragile body, cuts and stabs littering her torso. Your vision blurs. You don't even know which wound to press on, all of them gushing with blood. In the end you press your palms to the deep cut on her chest, sobbing when more blood starts spilling from other gashes.

She gathers the last of her strength and grips the hem of your shirt. "T-thank you," she wheezes, more blood trailing down her chin.

"What?" You breathe out, choking. "It's my fault. I should've made you climb that fucking ladder."

"I- I would've f-fell." She takes a shallow breath. "Brains a-all over the s-street." She grimaces, gripping you tighter. "This way I get to be with my f-friend for the… for the last time." She smiles, eyes growing hazy and unfocused before they fall shut, her chest no longer rising with ragged breaths.

You wail, desperately shaking her body, begging her to open her eyes. You center your hands on her chest and start pressing to the beat of fucking Stayin' Alive. You follow the steps that have been drilled into your brain on one of the courses you took, pinching Anika's nose and breathing into her mouth, waiting to see the rise of her chest. You repeat it again and again and again, hitting her chest with full force in a hopeless attempt at bringing her back to life.

Arms circle around your shoulders, your body immobilized by a person behind you. You try to throw them off, pushing with your elbows, Anika's unmoving chest the only thing you see.

"Stop," Sam croaks, pulling you against her chest.

"Get off me!" You scream. "I need to- I need-" you sob, uselessly falling back into her arms. She drags you away from the elevator, EMTs immediately rushing in. You turn in her hold, staining her with Anika's blood as she holds you close, blinking back her tears and whispering reassurances into your ear.

[lostbookmark]

MDNI 18+

WHISPERED SECRETS Masterlist

Summary: After four years your sister's ex-boyfriend comes back into your life. Can you keep your entanglement a secret? Will the guilt eat you alive? 

Pairing:  Sisters ex Yoongi x Insecure F. Reader. 

Genre: SMUT, angst, hurt - comfort, romance. 

Warning: Explicit sex, fingering, Possessive Yoongi, swearing, reader is insecure, jealousy, punishment, unprotected sex, drinking, dirty talk, praising, degradation, spanking, spanking as punishment, teasing, hair pulling, arguments. Overuse of the name, baby.

A/N: Updating a day early. I almost have the story completed.

One more week before another smutty chapter. This is just pure plot again. 

Is ginger haired Yoongi his own warning?

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦ ✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

He lied. He promised that he would call you every day and he lied. You spent the two days leading up to him leaving, together.  You found out just how good of a cook he was and how bad you were compared to him. He tried explaining the art of producing and writing a song. You'll admit that one went over your head, but he seemed excited to talk to you about it. You jokingly asked him to write a song for you. He smirked, and with a kiss, he said he would. The first day he was gone, he did call like he said he would. The second day was a couple of texts. Third day, he left you on read, then the fourth…delivered. It's been two weeks now. Not one week but two. Fourteen days, a fortnight. 

“Jimin says that when they work, sometimes they stay up for days at a time. He probably crashed at the hotel to catch up on sleep,” Lisa tried to reason. 

“You really think he would ignore you?” Jisoo asks you as she pays for her coffee. You don't know how to answer that.  You wanted to be able to say, of course, he wouldn't, but you can't. You honestly can't. 

“You know he wouldn….” Lisa trails off as you three leave the coffee shop. You follow her line of sight to see who she is staring at. You squint your eyes a little harder. “Is that him?” She asks, pointing her finger at a couple on the sidewalk.

“Is his hair…red?” Jisoo questioned. “Orange?” 

The three of you move a bit closer but stay hidden behind some cars to get a closer look.  It was, she was right. Yoongi was here and he was right across the street. He was home and he didn't tell you. You watch him across the street talking to someone. A woman, a pretty blonde woman with long hair. She was taller than you, about his height. He wouldn't need to bend as much to her like he does with you. You can't hear them but whatever she said has him laughing. His gummy smile is on display, full and bright. She reaches up and gently rubs his arm over his green jacket and he doesn't push her away, he is familiar with her. He looks at her fondly as he nods his head at whatever she's saying. Is that how he looked at you? You watch as he opens a door to the building they stood in front of and they walk inside together. You can feel your heart shatter as if someone stabbed it with a sharp knife. You can actually feel it crack into a million pieces and fall to your stomach. Sharp pieces like glass shards, obliterating your insides. Your eyes don't leave the door they went through.  You can't see through the intricate stained glass windows no matter how much you tried.

“I'm sure it's not what it seems,” Jisoo tells you. 

“Bull fucking shit,” Lisa exclaims. “I'm going to beat his ass.”

“Lisa,” Jisoo hisses.

“What?” Lisa exclaims. “He left her hanging for over a week, and he's literally right there. She should have been his first stop.” 

“No,” you hiccup. Dammit you're crying. You wipe your eyes on your sweater. The fabric is itchy and makes the wet skin of your cheeks feel irritated. Your eyes still don't stray from the door. You hope and pray with everything you have that he walks back out. Please walk back out, you beg. You hold your breath…please?  He doesn't.  “I'm just going to go.” 

“Let us come with you,” Jisoo suggests. You just shake your head. She sighs and opens her arms for you.“I'll keep her in line,” she whispered as she pulled you into a hug.

       

You ran to your car, slamming the door as you got in. You had let the tears flow freely then. You try to hide your face from the people that pass by as you rest your head on the steering wheel. How dare he. After everything he put you through with Kai. Kai didn't even touch you. You were barely a participant in the conversion. You shouldn't have gone home with him that night. You should have kept it as a one-time thing. Let it be a lapse in judgment, a meaningless fling. You could have blamed the drinking. No one would have to know you were stone cold sober. Yoongi made your expectations high. He made you feel warm and see colors for the first time in a long time outside of your friends.  He broke you. 

When you got home, you threw on an oversized shirt and got into bed. Cocooning yourself in your plush blankets, you try to seek comfort and warmth. It wasn't helping.  It was only 5 pm, and you had nothing to do and no one to distract you. Time on your hands leads to overthinking. Overthinking can lead you to bad decisions.  You don't want to think right now.You looked at the messages you had sent him. Delivered. He never opened them. You sent them days ago, but he still hasn't opened them. You were so stupid. He fooled you. Were you a pawn in a game for him to get back at your sister?  Your phone chimed, and your heart stopped. Please, please , you whisper into the still, quiet room. It's not him. It's Lisa. 

“Did you make it home? I didn't do anything, I swear. I won't tell Jimin . Promise.”

“I made it, thank you.” 

Your chest hurts. A heavy weight just sitting there where your heart used to be. It's suffocating, holding you down. It's wanting to drown you, and you can't make it back to the surface. You place your hands where the weight is. Thump, thump thump, it's still beating….your heart. It's still there, and it's pumping. Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes. You concentrate on the rhythmic beating. Maybe your sister was right. Maybe Yoongi was a loser. He promised you…promised! He said he would take care of everything, and now he just broke it all apart. He ripped it all up into tiny red shreds and dropped them off the highest cliff he could find. He was probably laughing as he did it. Your tears start leaking out of your eyes again. Focus, focus on the rhythm. You close your eyes. Thump, thump, thump.  Your phone chimes again. 

Jimin said that the guys got in last night. I swear I brought it up casually. I didn't mention what we saw. Lisa tells you, and you choke on sob. This makes you feel worse. That means he had all day that he could have talked to you.  

Thanks. Let Jisoo know I'm turning my phone off for a while.

I will. I love you, sweets.

Me, too, you reply and power down your phone. 

He didn't want to see you. He has made that clear. All you needed was one call, one message. You just needed him to tell you that he had arrived. If he needed time alone, that was fine. He should have just told you. He's such a hypocrite. Telling you how you needed to talk to him and he's straight up ignores you too.  The thing is, you never lied. Yes, you may run and shut down, but you never lied. Screw this, you think, and you turn your phone back on after a few minutes. You immediately open your messages. 

“I know your home. I hope you're having fun with her.” 

You let out a loud breath. You delete the message and get out of bed. Padding to the living room, you try to lie down there.  The weight is still in your chest. It's so quiet, and the thoughts are so loud in your head. You want him here eating your favorite chicken, and you'll make sure there's extra rolls. You'll even let him pick a movie to watch even if you don't like it.  You stare up at your clock. The second hand seems to be moving extra slow today. It hardly makes any noise, though. A small, quiet ticking noise reminiscent of his metronome.  You don't want to hear it. Your memories make the agony hurt more. 

“Did you stay the night with her?” You stare at it for a minute. “Did she go on your trip with you?”  Delete. “Are you sleeping with her? That's fine, I'm with Kai right now.”  You press delete. “I miss you.” Delete. 

You should eat. Your stomach growls, angry with hunger. Your kitchen seems so far away, and you know there’s not much in there. You don't want to eat anyway. Getting up from the couch, you make your way back to your bedroom. Turning on your TV, you leave it on the first thing that comes on. You don't know what it is, but it makes the deafening silence better. You close your eyes, and you're still drowning. Waves of sadness and hurt lapping against your soul.  Your body starts to relax. You give in and let the waves take you away. 

Your eyes pop open. Immediately, they land on your alarm clock. The red glare is blurry, and you can't quite make out the numbers. Blinking away your sleep, you see it reads 8:30 pm. You had been out for about three hours. Your head swivels to your hallway when you hear a sound. There's a knocking at your door. Who the hell would come to your place this late? Picking your phone up, you see 6 missed texts and 4 calls from Yoongi. You refuse to open them. Absolutely not. You will not give him the satisfaction. Your phone chimes. You look down at your lock screen. Are you....was the only thing you could read from the push notification. Am I what? You ask yourself. Angry? Yes. Sad? Yes. Scared? Yes. The knocking seems to have stopped. You know it was him, but yet you didn't win anything for making him reach out to you first. Your phone chimes. I'm sorry. You laugh to yourself….sure. 

The next morning was quiet, and you were tired.  Lisa didn't come to work today. She had texted that Jimin had surprised her with a day trip. A couples spa thing. You were happy that she finally found someone who liked the same things she did and actually took care of her.  She called in with the flu, and after that, you decided to turn your phone off. You look at Seungkwan, and he looks happy that he gets to work in peace for once. Everynow and then you can hear him sing to himself. It makes you smile. He has a nice voice.  You actually managed to get a lot of work done, and Seungkwan seemed more than happy to help you when you needed it. You were wrong about him. He always seemed intimidating, but he's sweet. Admittedly,  you knew that Lisa being gone helped. She didn't distract you with office gossip or the retelling of her dates. You didn't have to talk about Yoongi. You feel bad, but you almost want to say you like it this way.  

5 o'clock on the dot you clock out. You wrap your sweater around you tight and throw your bag over your shoulder. It's colder and the daylight shorter. You can almost smell winter coming in the air. The crisp, clean smell of cold air and snow isn't too far now.  It will probably come early. You should probably grab a warmer jacket tomorrow. Stepping out of the building you stop dead in your tracks. Yoongi is standing there, waiting for you. The new orange…ginger hair on display. He's wearing the same green jacket from yesterday, you bet it smells like her.  He smiles when you see him. A true honest,  smile lights up his face. You…you  just stare. A blank stare that held no emotion. His smile drops a little before he quickly recovers and approaches you. 

“I went over to your place last night,” he said. So, it was him. “Were you asleep? You didn't answer my messages. I was getting worried.”  You visibly scoffed at that and your eyes flicker back to his hair.  “Yeah,” he said, reaching up and running his hand through it.  “Joon, he talked me into it. Do you like it?” 

“You ignored my messages,” you said quietly, not answering  his question. He sighs and tries to take your hand, but you pull away and shake your head. You don't want him to touch you, not after her.  Did she make him happy? Did he come over to your place right after leaving hers? “Two weeks?” You question.

“Baby, can we talk about this privately. Let's go to my place,” he suggests, but you shake your head no.   You'll give in there, you know it. “Can we at least sit in my car? Baby, you’re shivering.” You nod in agreement after a moment of hesitation and walk to his car. You rub your hands together as the wind bites at them. Yoongi tries to reach for you to warm them up for you. You don't let him. Instead, you jam them into your thin sweater, although it didn't do any good.  Getting in the car, he turns the heat up and points all the vents to you. “I know I said a week when I left, but the group we had a meeting with. They needed an album quickly. There were lawsuits involved and everything. I didn't even have time to eat or sleep. Namjoon took my phone away at one point. I couldn't make him mad.”

You don't know what to say to that. You feel him stare at you and he's fidgeting in his seat. His hands keep checking the air blowing out of the vents. Making sure it's warm enough for you. He's probably just nervous and needs something to do. 

“Did Namjoon sign them?” you asked. 

“Yeah, he did,” Yoongi confirms and you nod your head silently. “There's a lot of lawyers and paperwork involved but yeah, he did.” 

You look out the windshield. The trees that lined the street have long lost their green leaves. The leaves now have fallen to the ground as they turn into their beautiful fall hues of yellow and orange, crunching when people walk on them through town holding their warm coffees and other pumpkin spiced drinks. You watch as they swirl off the ground as the breeze picks them up, and they dance along the road as they pass by. You sigh. The sun is already starting to set. 

“Baby?” he asks, trying to get you to look at him. “Y/N?”

“I saw you.” you tell him. You surprise yourself with the lack of emotion in your voice.

“Where? What are you talking about?” he inquires. 

“Yesterday,” you answer, as a singular leaf twirls across the window. “We were getting coffee. We saw you with some woman. She was pretty. You looked happy.  Lisa told me you guys landed the day before that.” 

“That was…” he started but you didn't let him finish. 

“No, you waited…what 24 hours after being home to get a hold of me?” you asked. “Seeing those messages not even opened. Then seeing you with her,” you shook your head. You are tired, so very tired. “I get it.” 

“Will you let me explain?” he begs. You want to, you really do, but you're still too hurt. The wound is still raw and gaping.  You're still trying to make it to the surface.  Did he cheat on your sister, too? 

“My bus will be here soon. I need to go,” you tell him and you put your hand on the door handle. He throws himself over you to stop you from opening the door. “Yoongi!” 

“Let me take you home. I won't say anything. I won't try to come in. Baby, please just let me take you home?” you see something in his eyes that you can't decipher.  Is he scared? Is he scared like you were? Good. You nod your head silently. 

You lay awake in your bed. You couldn't sleep and you have been trying for hours. Tossing and turning, you kept getting tangled up in your blankets. Yoongi stuck to his word and just dropped you off. He didn't say anything on the drive home. He just kept stealing glances at you and you…you kept your eyes as straight as possible. It looked like he wanted to say something to you but you bolted from the car before he could put it fully into park. You regret it now. You wish you would have let him explain who she was. It's messing with your mind. All the scenarios you can think of that could have happened are driving you crazy. You look at the clock. 11:30pm. You're going to take a chance. You need to have a clear mind. You pick up your phone and call Yoongi. Thankfully, he picks up.

“Baby, is something wrong? Are you okay?” he asked. His voice is worried. Perfect. 

“Can you come over?” you ask. 

“On my way,” he says and hangs up.

Getting out of bed, your hair is a mess. You try to finger comb it, but you have to give up as the knotting gets worse and throw it up on the top of your head. Little pieces are standing up everywhere…oh well. You think about changing your clothes as you look through your closet  but honestly, you think that would seem desperate. You are, though …desperate. Wanting his answers, hugs, kisses. You wanted him to hold you so you could sleep. Hell, he didn't even need to hold you. He just needed to be next to you. You go to sit down on your couch to wait for him. No sooner did your butt meet the cushion. There was a knock at the door.  Taking a deep breath, you get up and walk to the door. Opening the door, Yoongi smiles at you, an unsure, nervous smile. You move to the side without a word to let him pass through the doorway. It's then you notice that he has two large bags with him.   

“I'm happy you called,” he said softly. You gesture him into the living room, and you sit across from each other. You on the old pea colored couch with frayed threads, him on the oversized chair. He looks so small sitting there alone. You studied him sitting there. Really studied him. Yoongi looked just as tired as you felt.  

“I…I'm ready for you to explain,” you tell him. You rub the palms of your hands on your knees nervously. You take a deep breath and brace yourself for the worse.  

“She's an old friend from college. She dated my friend Jooheon,” he explains. “She’s an art dealer that travels all over the place. I texted her about art supplies. If she knew what the best ones were. She said she did and she could probably get anything I wanted. I was supposed to meet her Saturday but after I showered and changed…I fell asleep so we met on Sunday instead. I tried calling you but you didn’t answer. So, I ended up coming over….I,” he sighed and looked at his hands. “I just wanted to surprise you.”

He wasn't a liar or a cheat. You study his face, and he looks defeated, like his world is about to crumble. You know how that feels. Your hands cover your face as you break out in sobs. You were a fool for believing the worst in him. The couch dips, and Yoongi takes you in his arms. His movement seems cautious.  He pulls you as close as he can get you. It only makes you cry harder. That feeling of drowning, the weight in your chest, it was because of you and not him. It was because you couldn't trust him enough. You feel like an awful person, sister, and partner.

“I'm sorry,” you cry. Yoongi grabs your face and makes you look at him. His hands were warm, and it was a welcoming feeling on your skin. “I'm so sorry, Yoongi.” Tears were streaming down your face.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. You had every right to think what you did.” he tells you, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. “I should have told you when I was coming home. I’m so sorry for not calling you. I fucking missed you,”  he says then captures your lips in a kiss. He has a sturdy hold on the back of your head. He doesn't want you to pull away and you don't. You're done fighting him. Yoongi pulls away and gives you a real smile. Letting you go, he gets up and grabs the bags he brought. He placess them by your feet and motions to them with his hands,“Go ahead.” 

You open the bag, and you want to cry again. He was telling you the truth. He got you art supplies and not the generic, big box store brands either. Graphite pencils of different grades, pastels, erasers, blending sticks, blow-bulbs, a portfolio, rulers, paper, and even a finishing spray. You can't even begin to think how much he spent on this. You run your hands over the black portfolio you sat on your lap. You never had access to these items before. You were lucky you had lined paper and a number 2 pencil back in the day. It's perfect, more than perfect. 

“Drawing used to make you so happy,” he says quietly. “Just how music makes me happy. I want you to have that back.” 

“Thank you,” you say as you throw yourself into his lap, hugging him. He holds you to him, both of you silent, relieved, tired.  Pulling back, you run a hand through his hair.  “I really like your hair.” Yoongi laughs heartily. 

“Good,” he responds, pulling you down for another kiss.

That night, as you laid in your bedroom, it wasn't filled with deafening silence like the night before. It wasn't filled with the sounds of passionate sex. It was filled with his quiet snores and both your heartbeats. 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦ ✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Tagged Readers:

@unicornbabyloverylover

@marimarvelfan

[astarion-approves]

Astarion resting in the evening with a reader with chronic pain/disability pain??

Literally your writing makes me so giddy ❤️✨✨ kudos to you OP for being fantastic as descriptions and dialogue!!!!

Astarion x GN! Tav with chronic pain

Safe for work, chronic pain, gender natural reader, 3rd person, 900+ words, SPOILERS ACT ONE, short and sweet, slightly OOC Astarion, no beta, (I DON'T have chronic pain so my apologies if this is way off the mark, I hope you enjoy it.)

Read below or on AO3

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

Another fireball hits your shoulder, nearly knocking you to the ground from the force of it. The other party members glance in your direction, just making sure you haven’t fallen from the attack. The Hag’s wicked laugh rings in your ears as she continues her fight, gusts of wind and more flames flying towards you. 

Your body aches, the meat of your muscles shaking, each movement like a million blades being stabbed into your skin. It takes all of your effort to keep standing, each attack from Auntie Ethel bringing you closer to your knees. 

Shadowheart defends against her, casting a quick healing spell in your direction – just enough to keep you on your feet. 

For now. 

As Gale and Shadowheart chase after the Hag you will your body to move, to follow along with them and take her down. Your breath is unsteady, pain shooting up your limbs and to every joint in your body. 

“No,” you mumble, stumbling forward but managing to keep yourself standing. “Not now. Please, not now!” A flare up, the never ending pain that curses you each and every day. Something that even the tadpole can’t remove from you. Fire licks up your spin, the pain spreading and moving to control you. You fall to your knees, reaching out towards Gale and Shadowheart as they land blow after blow onto the powerful Hag. 

And you can do nothing but watch. 

You clench your jaw to keep yourself from screaming out in agony, to keep yourself from cursing the God’s that gave you this cruel fate. For what kind of God would ever deliver upon you the work of a Devil? You’ve made no sinful deals, no murder of the innocent, earned no curse from the evil that wanders in this world. 

No–

You are simply doomed with pain that you can never evade. Pain that will chase you and consume you for the rest of your days. 

“Tav,” Astarion is next to you, his hand on your back, sweeping up and down your spine with as much gentleness as he can muster. “Are you alright?” 

You shake your head, the battle carrying on just in front of you. Shadowheart cries out as she’s hit in the stomach, Gale jumping to help her off the ground just as another ball of fire is cast in their direction. 

“Astarion–” you gasp as the pain takes over, finally pulling you into the ground. 

Astarion shushes you, his hand leaving your back and instead carefully lifting you from the ground and into his arms. He rushes from the battlefield, placing you down behind a thick tree truck, a soft smile across his lips. “Now, you just stay right here. I will be right back after we’ve taken down this nasty little Hag. Rest.” 

And then he’s gone, the twang of his bow being shot over and over lulling you into a deep sleep. 

—-----------------------

You wake with a groan, blinking your eyes as you stare up into a deep red fabric that hangs above you. Slowly, you sit up, hissing at your body stings all over. You look around you, books thrown about and a large assortment of pillows all over the ground. 

Astarion’s tent. Then that means– 

“Ah, no, stay right where you are,” Astarion said as he waltzed into the tent, carrying a bundle of fabric in his arms. “Lie back down, darling; before I make you.” 

“The battle–”

“Is over, and we all survived. Goodie.” 

“Mayrina-”

“Alive and well. Now, hush,” Astarion said and gently pushed on your shoulder, forcing you to lie back down. He sat down beside you, opening the fabric he held before and revealing a large pile of ice. Astarion hummed as he laid a blanket over you and then began placing piece after piece of ice on top of you. 

“Ice?” you asked. 

“Hm, yes. What is the point of having a Wizard in our camp if he can’t conjure some ice for us?” 

“Why are you doing this?” 

Astarion raised a single brow at you, as if the answer were obvious. “You’re in pain, are you not?” 

“Well, yes–” 

“And while that Hag was a powerful creature, I know a fireball like that wouldn’t be enough to put you on your ass. Not normally, that is.”

“But–” 

“But, nothing.” Astarion sighed and poured the rest of the ice over your legs. “Honestly, Tav. Why didn’t you tell me you were in pain sooner? I could tell that morning, you know. The way you hardly spoke as we made our way into the swamp, how you grunted just going up the steps of that gross little house, and you sighed when we walked through the mud.” 

You looked away from him, ashamed. This pain, it was a weakness, one that you didn’t want the others to see… And now they all know. The fear of them leaving you behind was festering in the back of your mind. 

“I care for you,” Astarion began, grabbing your attention and forcing you to stare at him with wide eyes. “Probably… more than I should… since you’re keeping secrets from me.” He sighed and reached over, flicking you in the forehead. “So, the next time you’re in pain, just tell me. Please? I’ll carry you on my back if I have to.” 

You snorted. “I can’t ask you to do that.” 

“Nonsense,” he replied and waved you off. “Besides, it would just be another excuse to have you close.” 

“... So, you care about me?” 

Astarion laughed. “Of course I do, but don’t make me confess to you while you’re here lying in agony.” 

You pouted. “Astarion–” 

“Another time,” he whispered and leaned down, giving you a little kiss on your forehead. “I promise.” 

“Fine.” 

“Now that that’s settled,” Astarion held his hands up, wiggling his fingers. “Which foot should I begin my massage on?” 

[yiiyiiwrites]

➰| Hiraeth | Prologue |

[Part one here]

Summary: Half fae, half Illyrian Keres has been moving between the shadows of the Hewn city. Her plan of escaping the cruel court doesn't go as planned though as she comes face to face with her younger half brother Azriel.

Azriel grew bored of the Hewn city, their inhabitants grating on what ever patience remained. He didn't know how Rhys could navigate their complaints and return their backhanded compliments to them without them realising it. Most of them spineless, quick to flip the knife and stab the person they considered a friend.

The only advantage, his shadows thrived in the court of darkness. One place they could roam freely and not arouse suspicion. A day in there and he'd gathered enough intel to discuss with Mor the potential rebellion.

Keir stood at the bottom the steps leading to the throne, "you'll be glad to know that we have identified the thing wreaking havoc in the depths of the city," he said glaring to Azriel and his dark companions. "They are just outside those doors."

The depths were the slums of the city, a decaying place full of ruthless fae willing to do anything in order to survive. Azriel was the first to be under scrutiny when the darkness increased in the area, but his absence in the court helped prove his innocence.

Four guards guided a women into the room, the darkbringers living up to their name as they brought the very thing in. They left as quick as they arrived, Keir following behind them leaving her in the middle of the throne room.

She looked like she'd been forged by darkness, black silhouette moving like the shadows weaving in and out of the sheer fabric hanging from her waist, hem reaching the ankle of her polished boots. Silver clasps snapped over her leather vest, billowing long sleeves as light as the grey mist twisting around her arms in a frenzy.

As she walked closer to them, the smoke fell away from her face and Azriel swore that what he saw was an illusion, a trick of the light. She might not remember him, but he would never forget her.

Bronze skin dull as if she'd become one with the shadows, the warmth in her amber eyes no longer glowing. Inky hair plaited and laid over her shoulder, he stilled as he realised her wings were gone.

No it can't be, he thought. Centuries of longing for something that wasn't gone forever, now stood in front of him.

"Azriel," Rhys snapped, repeating his name for a second time.

He couldn't look away from her, her narrowed eyes flitting to his gloved hands. As if she had just pieced everything together.

"I suppose congratulations are in order," she scoffed, "you became exactly like the bastards you hated." Her shadows trembled with her body, laugh sending a shiver down his spine.

"Keres," Azriel said, descending the stairs. Black wisps hissed at him to stay back, like the same venom in her own voice.

She shook her head, "do not." Fingers tracing the empty holster at her hip as he stalked closer to her.

"I thought you dead.” He ignored her silent warnings and stopped in front of her.

"If I ever see you again," she leant in, shadows merging with his. "I will rip those wings off your back myself," she whispered, smile stretching her thin lips.

Keres stepped back into the shadows, shifting through the planes of darkness. Azriel nearly missed his step, but he followed after her, each move hurried as he tried to keep up with her. His fingers clutched onto her sleeve, she twisted in his hold and slipped through another gap in the depths of obscurity.

Wrote this little fic stuck in traffic today (I wasn't driving) maybe I'll do some more. :)

[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 15: All The Hands At Dawn

Content warning: blood, wounds.

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

Digital Bath - Deftones Heartbeat - Gazelle Twins

* * * * *

Chapter 14 | Chapter 16

* * * * *

Fragmented sensations, distant moments—almost too faint to grasp—fade in and out.

You feel the cold, hard floor give way. Four arms press you against a wall of heat. Weightlessness. You hear the heavy thud of footsteps on polished wood—the rustling of fabric. Smell the sharp scent of copper clinging everywhere.

Nearby, a door slides open. You sway, boneless, to the sound of crackling.

Two voices murmur in the distance—one deep, the other calm. “She’s dead.” The deeper voice, a vibration, a warm exhale against your cheek. 

A door slides shut.

You’re placed on something soft. Four hands move, gently mapping every sore, every hurt on your aching body. Light, gentle touches—barely there.

Something pleasant.

You must be dreaming, or perhaps you’re dead. Either way, you could stay like this—floating in nothingness, comfortable, safe, protected—feelings you’ve rarely known.

It’s nice.

Until it wasn’t.

Fingertips press into the bruised tenderness of your throat, shifting broken cartilage. The pain is sharp and bright. Sharp like a blade—a blade shining in the darkness.

All at once, you remember. 

Midnight. Sayuri. The knife. Stabbing. Bleeding. Ren.

Something glows behind your eyelids—a dull white light, followed by a horrible pressure sinking into your neck.

Someone screams—a jagged, painful sound that hits your ears. Then it fades, replaced by a searing heat pouring down your throat, like swallowing fire.

Burning. Someone is burning you.

Eyes snapping open, you come to, thrashing wildly.

And then, you realize the person screaming is you.

“Stop!” Sukuna barks from behind—no, above you. He’s hovering over you.

Confused, you try to rise, desperate to escape the fire that’s consuming you. But as soon as you move, a keening wail rips from your throat—every wound on your body pinching, pulling apart.

Four hands force you down to your stomach, holding you still—one on your hip, two gripping your wrists, the last curled around your throat, keeping your head steady.

I can’t move. I need to move.

Panic cracks open your mind as a memory flickers: Sayuri trapping you in the dark, her body pinning you down as she stabs into you, hurts you, makes you bleed.

You squirm, frantic, on—what? A futon?

Where am I?

The world narrows to the silk cushions under your face. The edge of a folded sheet lies nearby. Yes, you’re on a futon, and it’s massive. Your body sinks into layers of soft padding, indulgent and thick. With a sweeping glance, you see you’re in an unfamiliar room, lit softly by a lantern just out of sight. You trail your eyes downward. The sheets beneath you are soaked. Flaring your nostrils, you catch the scent of sweat and—

Blood.

Heart hammering, you wheeze, sucking in as much air through your mouth. Breathing hurts, the sound ragged, crunching and crackling—like your windpipe had under Sayuri’s hand when she crushed it.

Mouth opening wider, you gasp for more air, but it’s useless. That’s when you realize—the collapsed passage of your throat is obstructing your breath.

Air. You need air.

Dizziness numbs your head, panic setting in. You lash out, fighting against Sukuna’s grip, chest heaving, nostrils flaring.

“I can’t—I can’t breathe.” 

His four hands tighten, pressing you deeper into the futon.

His touch. 

The sensation overwhelms you. There were already too many fucking hands on you tonight. Too many.

You try to rise again, and he shifts his weight.

“Stop. Moving,” he hisses, “do you want to make this worse?”

You dig your feet into the futon, searching for traction, for stability—for anything.

“Let go—” you choke out. You need air, to get up, to help Ren. “Please. I can’t—”

The hand at your hip shifts, bracing the small of your back. He applies careful pressure, keeping you still while avoiding the fresh wounds decorating your body.

“Stop!” His voice lowers, breath skittering across the back of your neck. You can’t see him, but you know he’s kneeling beside you, his body curving over your back. “You’re not helping yourself by writhing.”

His hands adjust their grip, uncurling and curling again as if anticipating your next attempt to escape. You flinch, struggling once more, clawing at the sheets beneath you until the wounds on your palms bite with pain.

“My Lo—”

“Stop!” His head dips, voice dropping right beside your ear. Despite the harshness of the command, there’s a softness to it. The hand on your lower back slides to your hip, and his body leans closer. “Stop …” His voice grows quieter, trailing into something strangely gentle. “…stop fighting me.”

As if toppling from a great height, your body stills, and impossibly, you soften beneath him. Your throat's thorny breath quiets as you surrender, melting into the damp sheets.

Sukuna breathes a tight exhale. His grip loosens, but it doesn’t fall away.

A calm settles over the room, broken only by the soft crackle of the lantern's flame.

Warm fingers tilt your head, keeping it elevated. Sukuna’s face swims into view.

The dim, shadowed light picks out his tense expression—brow creased, mouth set into a thin line, red eyes studying you with a searching, troubled look.

“I’m going to heal you now,” he murmurs, brow furrowing more deeply. “You need to remain still.”

All you can manage is a faint incline of your chin.

Hands clutching you tightly, he shifts closer, and the futon dips beneath his weight, pulling the two of you nearer, his knees brushing against your forearm.

“This will be painful.” With that warning—and to your relief—he turns your head away, positioning it forward.

He had healed you once before, and that had hurt. You don’t want him to see your face when the pain comes. Because you knew this time, it would be tenfold.

Sukuna’s fingers adjust, tracing the contours of your throat, splaying out as if gathering all the shattered pieces of what had been broken—like holding tiny, fragile seashells in his palm. Then, just below your chin, and out of sight, a soft white glow begins to diffuse.

The heat builds gradually, crawling from the hollow of your neck and up. And as before, it burns hotter and hotter.

You wet your lips, breathing heavily through your nose. Sweat collects on your forehead as the fire encroaches, filling your lungs and throat. A grimace tugs at your mouth, pulling and cracking painfully at Sayuri’s blood still crusted to your face.

Beneath Sukuna’s fingertips, the delicate rings of your throat shift, rearrange, draw together, and break apart. 

It becomes unbearable, and you can’t help but whimper as bile threatens to rise from your stomach.

“Don’t,” he mutters, his three hands gripping your body, likely sensing your urge to pull away.

A coarse, grinding sound fills your ears as the passage of your windpipe finally knits itself back together, muscles aligning painfully. Then, a wave of numbness washes over you, easing the torment.

The soft glow fades from his fingers, and you inhale. The jagged sensation, like glass shards scraping inside your throat, is gone.

Sukuna lowers your head to the futon, turning it so your cheek rests against the cushions.

He doesn’t stop there.

With his lower hands, he reaches for his haori, which you’d forgotten you were still wearing, and carefully begins sliding it off your body.

He’s silent as he maneuvers you, lifting the fabric from under your torso and freeing your arms from the cavernous sleeves, his expression unreadable. Yet, there’s a horrible tenderness in each movement. Every lift, every pull, gentle. It’s as though he understands how fragile you are, and despite everything, he’s careful not to break you further.

It doesn’t make sense.

This should be nothing more than a formality, a simple transaction, this union between the two of you.

And still.

When he finally slips the garment off and tosses it aside like an afterthought, only to refocus on you, something deep inside your chest shatters. The vulnerability becomes too much.

“Ren,” you sob, the name spilling from you before you can stop it. 

Tears gather at the corners of your eyes, and you try to fight them back.

His gaze flickers to your face.

Don’t cry. Do not cry in front of him.

You manage to hold most of them at bay, but one slips free.

Sukuna watches intently, his four eyes following the tear as it rolls down the swell of your cheek and lands on the cushion beneath you. His eyes narrow as though he’s never seen anyone cry before. He must be no stranger to it—he’s likely seen hundreds cry, beg, and scream for mercy before killing them. But the look he gives you now is different, more complex. He seems both confounded and confused.

But that doesn’t matter, for what you’re about to say would make you cry a thousand more tears if needed.

“Please,” you whisper, voice breaking. “Sayuri, she—” Another droplet slips free, and his gaze hardens. “She stabbed Ren. She stabbed her, and she’s in my chambers… please—” Your bottom lip quivers as his nostrils flare. “You have to help her. You have to heal her.”

He doesn’t respond; he simply watches as a third tear falls, tracing the length of your nose, curving, and sinking into the dip of your mouth. As it settles, he reaches toward your face, his thumb extending as if he wants to wipe it away.

For a moment, a shameful part of you wants to lean into him. His sexual desires you can handle, but this—this tenderness—you can’t. Allowing it would tarnish the way you see him, and that would be a mistake.

Before his hand can reach your skin, you flinch, brow furrowing. He stiffens, the veins in his neck standing out, and he pulls back.

A beat of silence follows.

Then, two more.

“Your back needs to be healed,” he mutters, the distance between you two once again set in place. His four eyes sweep over the bloodied yukata covering your torn skin. “I need access to the wounds.”

Understanding his intent, you swallow, steadying yourself.

“That’s fine,” you whisper.

Leaning down, Sukuna clasps the blood-stained fabric with his lower hands but releases it when a sliding door opens. He turns his head toward the sound and slips off the futon.

With his body now out of your line of vision, you try to make sense of the room, but it’s too dark. You do, however, see Uraume’s stark white kimono as they press into the dim light.

“Master Sukuna,” their soft voice precedes their light footsteps as they enter further. “Ren is settled in her chambers. She’s resting for now.”

Your heart nearly stops.

“Ren?” Your voice cracks. You try to sit up, but Sukuna’s glare keeps you in place. “She’s… she’s alive?”

The pounding of blood in your ears drowns out everything else.

Uraume steps closer, their eyes sweeping over your body.

“Yes, my Lady,” they confirm quietly, bowing their head. “Her wounds were severe, but Master Sukuna healed her before you.”

You glance at the King of Curses, and a strangled sob breaks free from some deep, raw place inside you.

“Thank you.” You know he didn’t do this for you, but the words are choked and unexpected.

His broad nose scrunches slightly, his top lip curling back just enough to show a hint of teeth.

Before you can read his reaction further, you quickly turn away, burying your face in the cushions.

Ren…

You blink hard, relief dragging the remaining tears down your cheeks.

Behind you, Sukuna and Uraume exchange a few quiet words before his subordinates’ footsteps fade, and the door, once again, slides shut.

Heavy footsteps approach. The futon dips as Sukuna returns. You shift slightly, turning to watch him from the corner of your eye.

He picks up where he left off, gathering your yukata into his hands. He pauses for a heartbeat, considering it, then he begins to tear it. The fabric rends apart easily, exposing your back from shoulder blades to tailbone. You cringe as the cool air nips at the incisions.

One of his hands moves. Coming down to trace the small of your back, then up, fingertips dipping along your spine and stopping just shy of the damage inflicted. The wound, so close to his touch, throbs, its edges pulsing with heat.

Sukuna exhales deeply, the sound betraying perhaps more than he intends.

“Healing this will hurt far worse than your throat.” Thick anger creeps into his voice.

The words have your gazes finding each other.

Guard yourself.

You nod, taking in his warning. Then, you whisper your response. It’s simple, mirroring what exists between you two.

Which is nothing.

“Okay.”

* * * * *

Birds chattering.

The sound circles around you—warbling, fading, then pulling you awake.

Slowly, slowly, you open your heavy eyelids. Wooden beams of an unfamiliar ceiling greet you.

You squint at them, confused.

You don’t remember falling asleep on your back. Then again, there’s much you don’t recall—only a few vivid details: Sayuri is dead, Ren is alive, and Sukuna spent most of the night mending your broken body. By the time he finished, you had collapsed onto your stomach in exhaustion. Given the early morning birdsong, that must have been only a few hours ago.

Lifting your hands, palms up, you search for any signs of the attack—raised skin, marks, anything—but there are none. It’s like it never happened. But you know better. The internal scars are there, buried deep alongside so many others.

You tilt your chin down, ignoring the dull ache that follows.

A thick, inky blue quilt, dark as a river at night, weighs heavily across your body. Strange. It’s another detail you don’t remember. You run your fingers over the fabric, feeling the richness of its texture before pulling it aside.

Underneath, your yukata clings to you. The gaping hole Sukuna tore in the back to access your wounds, along with splotches of blood and sweat, serves as your physical memento of the attack.

Pushing yourself to sit on the futon, you feel something beneath you—a massive kosode spread like a makeshift sheet. Your fingers trace its carefully arranged folds, forming a barrier between you and the soiled bedding below. It’s so small a thing, and yet oddly comforting.

More birdsong draws your attention, and you lift your head.

You’re still unsure where you are, but judging by the sheer size of the futon you’re lying on—which is raised off the floor—you have a feeling you know whose chambers these are.

The only time you caught a glimpse inside Sukuna’s room was on your wedding night—and even then, it was brief.

You lift your gaze more.

The room is large—much larger than the others in the shrine. Every surface, from the walls to the floor, is dark wood. It swallows the light and gives the space a cavelike, oppressive feel—much like the private dining room. But despite its somberness, it feels lived-in.

Stretching across the dark walls is a mural depicting the changing seasons. The colours have dimmed over time, parts faded, and once-bright gold accents are muted and dull. Still, it remains hauntingly beautiful—a place where time has slowed, allowing only traces of its former grandeur to remain.

To your right, wooden furnishings occupy the space: a desk, a low table, a few cushions, and shelves lined with items of varying sizes. Though you can’t discern what they are, you’re not about to sift through the King of Curses' personal belongings.

A cool breeze draws your gaze to the left.

A garden door stands slightly ajar, allowing the first bit of light to bathe the room in a hue of softening blues. It feels as though a lifetime has passed since midnight, since the chaos was unleashed. Now, only a grounding calm remains—a deceptive calm.

You scan the room once more.

And there.

To one side, tucked into a corner, two enormous feet, ankles circled with black ink, peek out from the waning shadows.

You hadn’t expected him to still be here, but Sukuna sits sprawled in a low chair, legs extended. Three hands are clenched into tight fists, resting against his bare chest, while the fourth curls near his face. He only wears his umanori hakama, which means the kosode you’ve been sleeping on… you glance down at it, then back at him.

He doesn’t move. He’s so unnervingly still that you’re unsure if he’s even breathing.

However, as you sit up a little more, you catch the faint rise and fall of his shoulders, the expanding tattoos on his chest, and the soft rhythm of his breathing.

He’s… asleep and so vulnerable.

Your body is already moving.

Edging closer to the side of the futon, you feel the torn fabric of your yukata hanging open, swaying with each movement. As you place your feet on the floor, you accidentally nudge a basin of muddy water beside it. It sloshes, and you quickly bend down to steady it, careful not to wake the monst—

Your eyes fall on a pink, blood-tinged cloth draped over the basin’s rim.

Removing your hand, you look down at yourself and realize you’ve been cleaned. A quick touch to your face confirms that it, too, has been wiped free of blood.

Someone has tended to you, cared for you, wiped away every trace of where your wounds once were.

Your gaze drifts back to Sukuna, his four eyes closed.

Stepping across the room, you notice his hair is tousled. It’s messy, as if he’s been running his hands through it over and over.

Moving closer still, you see that the fingers of the hand resting against his face are stained a ruddy pink, with a smudge of dried blood clinging to them.

He’s the one who cleaned you. He could have had Uraume or any other attendant do it, but he did…

You tilt your head.

Why? Why are you still here?

You step closer, coming to stand at the edge of his feet. The broad span of his chest seems to glow in the pale dawn filtering through the garden door.

For the first time, you glimpse something in him beyond his terrifying nature—a quietude that makes you pause, wondering if this side of him exists anywhere but in these fragile, fleeting moments of sleep.

Impossible.

And then you feel it—the familiar prickling in your fingertips—a reminder of what must be done.

You raise a hand and place a foot between his extended legs.

What murder attempt is this? The third? Fourth?

You exhale quietly, leaning in a little closer, all the while debating whether to aim for his head again or try something different—like touching the spot where his heart might be.

But as your eyes drift between his face and hand—the hand he used to care for, clean, and heal you, you pause.

This should be simple. You can kill him right now.

Take it.

You sense a change in the room immediately—a subtle pressure tightening around the back of your neck growing… harder.

By now, you recognize this awareness all too well and know there’s not enough time to react. Because it’s clear, even in his peaceful slumber, his true self is always awake, even if only partially.

Sukuna's fiery crimson gaze snaps open and cuts through the morning haze.

Your heart dips, outstretched hand dropping to your side.

His eyes find yours, and you stare at each other—husband and wife, yet worlds apart.

Eventually, you shift on your feet.

“I’m sorry, my Lord. If I woke you, it wasn’t my intention.” You offer quietly, growing uncomfortable as he has yet to blink.

Saying nothing, all his hands uncurl from their clenched confines, and he stands in one smooth motion. You step back, almost forgetting how tall he is, how completely crushing he is.

He steps forward.

You step back, retreating until your calves hit the edge of the raised futon.

One, two, three steps. He closes the distance until he stands right before you. Tilting his head, he looks down at you.

You swallow.

“About healing me, I wanted to—​​”

Before you can finish, his hands move. The bottom pair slips to your waist, while the upper pair slides through the tear in your yukata, pressing against your back. You tremble at the contact, feeling how your newly healed skin moulds into his palms, the space between you shrinking.

Your blood drums in your ears as he lifts you gently, placing you back on the futon, laying you down on his kosode as if you were the most delicate creature he’s ever touched.

Fuck…

As you lie back, his massive body follows, four powerful arms caging you in. Worse yet, he leans in, the tip of his nose brushing against your hair, nudging the top of your skull.

“Rest,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin. Your heart wrenches, pulling in a direction you can’t allow.

Slowly, he pulls back.

When your eyes meet, tension builds in him again.

Backing away from the futon, he strides toward the door.

“Wait, my Lord.” You fight the urge to call him by name.

He glances over his shoulder, the brief crack in his façade now sealed.

“What?” His voice is flat, emotionless.

“Sayuri...” You swallow. “She mentioned someone else trying to kill me. Do you know anything about this?”

Sukuna tilts his head toward the ceiling, and the muscles in his back tighten.

“No.” He takes another step, then slides open the door. He doesn’t turn around as he adds lowly. “No one else will harm you here.”

With nothing more said, he leaves, disappearing from the room, and you’re left alone.

* * * * *

🔗 Chapter 16

[okasuka]

Damian wayne x Reader - this was just a secondary version of my last post,

A/N : i finished this on the toilet….

Part 1: The Mission Aftermath

The Batcave was eerily quiet when Damian and Bruce returned from patrol. Y/N, sitting at the main console, was focused on tracking a new lead Oracle had sent over. She’d stayed behind that night, acting as backup, coordinating their intel and providing support from the cave.

The hiss of the Batmobile brought her attention to the duo stepping out. Damian strode in first, his movements stiff but controlled, his cape flowing behind him like a second shadow. His uniform was torn at the side, revealing a deep cut across his toned torso. Bruce followed, his gaze impassive as always, though the sight of Damian’s injury had clearly left a mark of concern in his furrowed brow.

“Y/N,” Bruce called, his baritone voice snapping her out of her thoughts. “Damian needs stitches.”

Y/N sighed, standing up and grabbing the first-aid kit from the desk. “Of course he does.”

“I’m fine,” Damian snapped, brushing off his father’s attempt to place a hand on his shoulder.

“Fine?” Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You’re bleeding through your suit.”

Y/N approached, her short wavy hair bouncing slightly as she walked. The red streak glinted under the Batcave’s harsh lighting. She crossed her arms, fixing Damian with a pointed look. “Take off the top half of your suit. I can’t exactly stitch through Kevlar.”

Damian glared at her, his green eyes sharp. “I don’t need—”

“Now, Damian,” Bruce interjected before Damian could argue further. “You’re not going out again until it’s treated.”

Damian huffed, rolling his eyes dramatically as he unhooked his cape and began removing the top half of his suit. He winced slightly as he pulled it over his head, exposing the jagged cut across his torso. His skin was flushed from exertion, his muscles taut as he crossed his arms, glaring at nothing in particular.

Y/N grabbed a pair of scissors and approached, carefully cutting away the fabric around the wound. “Hold still,” she ordered, her tone firm.

“I’m perfectly still,” Damian shot back.

“You’re tense,” Y/N countered, pressing lightly near the wound to inspect it. Damian flinched, his jaw tightening as he instinctively moved away.

“Stop squirming, Damian!” she said, exasperated.

“I’m not squirming,” Damian retorted, though his shoulders were practically glued to his ears in discomfort.

Bruce sighed, shaking his head. “Good luck,” he muttered before retreating toward the Batcomputer.

Part 2: The Stitching Struggle

Y/N crouched beside Damian, her gloved hands working quickly to clean the wound. The proximity made Damian visibly uncomfortable. His fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh, and his jaw clenched whenever she moved too close.

“Damian,” Y/N warned, looking up at him. “If you keep moving, this is going to take twice as long.”

“I’m not moving,” he muttered, though his fidgeting hands said otherwise.

“You are literally twitching right now,” she said, gesturing to his restless fingers. “Do you want me to mess up and leave you with a scar? Because I will.”

He scowled, his cheeks slightly pink. “You’re incapable of messing up, so don’t patronize me.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Then hold still and stop being so annoying.”

“I’m not—” Damian began, but the sharp sting of antiseptic cut him off. He hissed, his hand shooting out to grip the edge of the med table.

“Oh, suck it up,” Y/N said, unamused. “You get stabbed all the time, and this is what makes you flinch?”

Damian glared at her. “Tt. You’re insufferable.”

“Funny, I was about to say the same about you.” She smirked, grabbing the needle and thread. “Okay, this is the fun part. Try not to squirm.”

Damian shot her a look that could curdle milk. “I said I’m not squirming.”

Y/N leaned closer, her focus narrowing on the wound as she carefully began stitching. The closeness was unavoidable, and she was acutely aware of Damian’s quickened breathing.

“Y/N, can you—”

“What?” she asked distractedly, pulling the thread taut.

“Nothing,” Damian muttered, his gaze darting anywhere but her face. The faint pink in his cheeks deepened, though he tried to mask it with a scowl.

Part 3: Disaster Strikes

After a few more stitches, Damian shifted again, his muscles tightening as she worked.

“Damian,” Y/N said through gritted teeth, “if you don’t stop moving, I swear—”

“I’m not—” Damian moved once more, causing Y/N to lose her balance. She slipped forward, her knees landing awkwardly between his legs as she caught herself on his chest. Her face was inches from his, their eyes locking in shared shock.

“Uh…” Y/N started, her voice faint.

Damian’s eyes widened, his cheeks now a vivid crimson. “Get off of me!” he snapped, though his hands instinctively caught her waist to steady her.

“I am!” she shot back, struggling to push herself upright. Before she could, the sound of footsteps made both of them freeze.

“Damian—” Bruce’s voice cut through the air as he rounded the corner. He stopped abruptly, taking in the scene: Y/N practically sprawled across Damian, their faces far too close for comfort.

“What…” Bruce’s brow furrowed deeply, and he crossed his arms. “Am I interrupting something?”

“It’s not what it looks like!” Y/N blurted, scrambling to her feet.

“Clearly,” Damian added, his tone sharp as he stood as well, brushing imaginary dirt from his pants.

For a moment, Bruce stared at them, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, rubbing his temple. “Just… finish treating the wound. And try to stay professional.”

Damian opened his mouth to argue, but Bruce was already walking away, muttering something about “teenagers” under his breath.

Part 4: The Teasing Begins

The awkward silence between Damian and Y/N didn’t last long. As soon as Bruce disappeared, the unmistakable sound of stifled laughter echoed through the Batcave. Y/N groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Don’t,” Damian said sharply, glaring toward the source of the laughter.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dick said, walking into view with his hands raised in mock surrender, though his grin betrayed him. “I just… That was priceless.”

“What are you even doing here, Grayson?” Damian snapped, still visibly flustered.

“Making sure you’re not dying,” Dick replied. “And, apparently, catching some quality entertainment while I’m at it.”

“Shut up,” Damian growled, his fists clenching at his sides.

“Wait—what happened?” Tim’s voice carried through the air as he jogged into the Batcave, Jason following closely behind. “Why is everyone—oh. Oh.”

Tim’s eyes landed on Y/N and Damian, and a slow grin spread across his face. “Did I miss something? Please tell me I didn’t miss something.”

Jason, who was leaning against a nearby wall, raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Damian did something stupid again.”

“Not this time,” Dick said, clapping Jason on the back. “Y/N fell on him.”

“And Bruce walked in,” Tim added, his grin widening.

Y/N threw her hands in the air. “It wasn’t like that!”

“Oh, but it looked like that,” Dick teased, waggling his eyebrows. “The proximity. The awkward tension. The panic. Chef’s kiss.”

“Grayson, leave,” Damian barked, his face practically glowing red now.

“But I’m having so much fun!” Dick protested, flopping onto a chair. “Besides, I’m not the only one enjoying this.”

“Obviously,” Tim said, pulling out his phone. “This moment needs documentation.”

“No pictures,” Damian snapped, lunging toward Tim.

Tim dodged easily, laughing as he darted behind Jason for cover. “Relax, Dami. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Since when?” Damian countered, his voice low and threatening.

Jason snorted. “You two are such children. At least Y/N is staying out of this.”

“I’m really not,” Y/N muttered, glaring at the group. “You’re all the worst.”

“Aw, c’mon, Y/N,” Dick said, grinning at her. “Admit it—you’re having fun.”

“Not even a little,” Y/N replied flatly, though the faint blush on her cheeks suggested otherwise.

Part 5: Stephanie Joins the Party

As if things couldn’t get worse, Stephanie appeared at the top of the stairs, leaning over the railing. “What’s going on down here? Why is Tim giggling like a maniac?”

Tim waved her down enthusiastically. “You’re just in time. Damian and Y/N had a moment.”

Stephanie’s eyes lit up with mischief as she descended the stairs. “A moment, huh? Do tell.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Damian growled, his tone icy.

“Except that Y/N fell on him,” Dick said, unable to resist fanning the flames. “And Bruce walked in at the worst possible time.”

Stephanie gasped dramatically, clapping her hands together. “No way! This is perfect.”

“It’s not perfect,” Damian shot back, his voice rising. “It’s none of your business!”

“Correction,” Jason said, smirking. “When it happens in the Batcave, it’s everyone’s business.”

Y/N groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Can we all just move on?”

“Nope,” Stephanie said, plopping onto a nearby stool. “This is too good. I mean, when else are we going to see Damian this flustered?”

“I’m not flustered!” Damian insisted, though the redness in his face betrayed him.

“Sure, you’re not,” Stephanie said, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, I think this calls for a celebration.”

“Don’t,” Y/N warned, narrowing her eyes.

Stephanie ignored her. “We should totally tell Alfred. He’ll love this.”

“Stephanie!” Damian and Y/N shouted in unison, their voices laced with panic.

Jason barked out a laugh. “I’d pay good money to see Alfred’s reaction.”

“Why do you all insist on tormenting me?” Damian growled, his hands balling into fists.

“Because it’s fun,” Tim said simply.

Part 6: The Kitchen Incident

After what felt like an eternity of teasing, the group finally dispersed—though not without a fair amount of snickering and side comments. Damian and Y/N were left in the Batcave, the tension still thick between them.

“Are you okay?” Y/N asked after a moment, her voice soft.

Damian glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because your brothers are… well, them,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the direction they’d gone.

“Tt. I can handle them,” Damian said, though his tone lacked its usual edge.

Y/N smiled faintly. “Good. Because they’re not going to let this go anytime soon.”

“Unfortunately,” Damian muttered, running a hand through his hair.

The rest of the evening passed without incident—until the group reconvened for dinner. Y/N found herself in the kitchen, helping Alfred clean up while the others lounged around the dining room. Damian, ever the perfectionist, joined her, claiming he couldn’t stand the sight of Dick’s lazy posture.

“Pass me that towel,” Y/N said, motioning to the counter.

Damian handed it to her without a word, his movements stiff and precise. Y/N couldn’t help but notice the faint tension in his shoulders—a sign he was still on edge from earlier.

“Relax, Damian,” she said lightly. “It’s just dishes.”

“I am relaxed,” he replied, his tone defensive.

“Right,” Y/N said, smirking as she turned back to the sink.

That’s when Tim walked in, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Need any help in here?”

“No,” Damian said immediately.

Tim ignored him, sauntering over to the sink. “You’re doing a great job, Y/N. Very thorough.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Y/N replied, raising an eyebrow.

Tim leaned casually against the counter, a little too close to Damian. “You know, Dami, you should learn a thing or two about teamwork. Maybe take some notes from Y/N.”

Damian scowled. “Tt. I don’t need advice from you, Drake.”

“Suit yourself,” Tim said with a shrug. Then, with calculated precision, he nudged Damian’s shoulder—just enough to throw him off balance.

Damian stumbled, colliding with Y/N, who was leaning over the sink. The sudden impact sent her forward, water splashing everywhere as Damian’s hands landed on her waist to Part 7: The Kitchen Chaos

Damian’s hands instinctively gripped Y/N’s waist to steady her, but the proximity was, once again, way too close for comfort. Y/N froze, her hands braced against the edge of the sink as Damian practically loomed over her back.

“Damian!” she snapped, whipping her head around to glare at him. “What the hell?”

“I didn’t mean—” Damian started, his voice flustered and defensive. “Drake shoved me!”

“Tim!” Y/N exclaimed, glaring past Damian. “Seriously?”

Tim burst out laughing, nearly doubling over as he pointed at the two of them. “Oh my God, this is perfect! You guys are like magnets for awkward moments.”

Damian released Y/N as if her skin burned him, his jaw tightening in irritation. “I’ll give you a five-second head start, Drake.”

Tim, unfazed, held up his hands. “Relax, Dami. It’s just a joke.” He smirked and added, “Though Bruce might not think so if he walks in right now.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Damian growled, taking a step forward.

But before Damian could lunge, a voice cut through the room. “Do I even want to know what’s going on here?”

Bruce stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. Behind him, Dick and Jason peered in with barely contained grins. Stephanie had joined them, and she was already laughing.

Y/N groaned, covering her face with one hand. “This is not what it looks like.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed, his gaze flicking between Damian and Y/N, who were both still slightly damp from the sink mishap. “It never is,” he said dryly. “But I keep walking into these situations.”

“I’m being sabotaged,” Damian muttered, glaring at Tim.

“Oh, come on,” Dick chimed in, stepping into the kitchen. “This is hilarious. You two are like a sitcom.”

Jason leaned casually against the doorframe, his smirk growing. “I mean, if you guys wanted some alone time, you could’ve just said so. No need to involve the dishes.”

“Enough,” Damian barked, his patience clearly at its limit. “You’re all insufferable.”

“I think it’s adorable,” Stephanie said, grinning at Y/N. “You guys have such great chemistry.”

“There is no chemistry!” Y/N snapped, her face heating up. She turned to Bruce, desperate for an ally. “Can you please make them stop?”

Bruce stared at her for a moment, then at Damian. Finally, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve given up trying to control them.”

“That’s because he secretly enjoys it,” Dick whispered loudly, earning a sharp look from Bruce.

“I heard that, Richard,” Bruce said.

Part 8: The Aftermath

After much bickering, Alfred finally appeared to restore order. “Master Tim,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Perhaps you’d like to assist me in organizing the pantry instead of causing chaos?”

Tim groaned. “Fine. But I stand by my art.”

“Art?” Damian repeated, his tone incredulous. “You’re ridiculous.”

As Alfred ushered Tim away, Dick and Jason decided to follow, leaving Damian and Y/N alone in the kitchen. The silence that settled was heavy and awkward, the tension from earlier still lingering.

Y/N sighed, grabbing a towel to dry her damp hands. “You okay?”

Damian scowled, his gaze fixed on the counter. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because your brothers are maniacs,” Y/N said, leaning against the sink. “And they seem to enjoy making your life miserable.”

Damian’s lips twitched into something that might’ve been a smirk. “Tt. I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Yeah, but you’re also a terrible patient,” she teased, her tone light. “You make everything harder than it needs to be.”

“Maybe you’re just bad at your job,” Damian retorted, though the faint pink in his cheeks betrayed his usual bravado.

Y/N rolled her eyes, tossing the towel onto the counter. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Of course I do,” Damian said, his smirk growing slightly.

Part 9: The ension Breaks

For a moment, Y/N considered throwing the towel at Damian’s smug face, but instead, she exhaled and gave him a tired smile. “At least you’re self-aware.”

Damian crossed his arms, leaning back slightly. “I don’t see how that’s a flaw.”

“Of course you don’t,” Y/N muttered, turning back toward the sink to finish cleaning. “You’re too stubborn to see anything as a flaw.”

“I prefer ‘confident,’” Damian corrected.

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh softly. “You really are impossible.”

The sound of her laugh made Damian pause. For a split second, the tension in his posture eased, and he tilted his head slightly, studying her. “Why do you even bother?” he asked suddenly, his tone quieter.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Bother with what?”

“Helping me,” Damian said, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain. “Dealing with my—” He hesitated, clearly reluctant to admit any sort of fault. “—attitude.”

Y/N turned to face him fully, her expression softening. “Because I care,” she said simply. “And because someone has to.”

Damian’s eyes widened slightly, the faintest hint of vulnerability flashing across his face. He quickly masked it with a scoff, looking away. “Tt. You’re too sentimental.”

“And you’re too proud,” Y/N shot back, smiling faintly. “Guess we balance each other out.”

Before Damian could respond, a loud crash from the dining room interrupted the moment.

Part 10: The Final Push

“What now?” Y/N muttered, already moving toward the source of the noise.

When she and Damian entered the dining room, they were greeted by the sight of Dick sprawled on the floor, laughing uncontrollably. Jason stood nearby, holding a chair that had clearly been knocked over in the commotion. Tim and Stephanie were perched on the table, grinning like mischievous children.

“What happened?” Y/N asked, her hands on her hips.

“Teamwork,” Jason said simply, gesturing toward Dick. “He thought he was sneaky, but I caught him.”

“Caught him doing what?” Damian asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Trying to rig the kitchen door to lock,” Jason explained, smirking. “Probably planning to trap you two in there. Again.”

Damian’s glare turned murderous. “Grayson…”

Part 11: The Plan Backfires

“What?” Dick said, holding up his hands defensively as he climbed to his feet. “I thought you two needed some quality time to sort out… all this tension.”

“What tension?” Y/N snapped, her face heating up as her gaze flicked between Dick and Damian.

Dick gave her an exaggerated look, one eyebrow arched. “The tension, Y/N. It’s practically its own entity at this point.”

“There is no tension!” Damian growled, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Right,” Tim said, grinning. “That’s why you look like you’re two seconds away from throwing Dick into the Batmobile.”

“Not a bad idea,” Jason muttered, smirking.

Y/N groaned and pressed her palms to her temples. “Can we all just act like normal human beings for five minutes?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Stephanie chimed in, swinging her legs off the table. “Besides, this is way more entertaining than a quiet night.”

“You’re all ridiculous,” Y/N said, crossing her arms.

“And yet you love us,” Dick quipped, winking at her.

“Speak for yourself,” Damian muttered under his breath.

Dick ignored him, turning his attention back to the group. “All I’m saying is, maybe we’re just trying to help. You know, give you two a little push in the right direction.”

Damian’s glare darkened. “You’re pushing too hard, Grayson.”

“Am I?” Dick replied, feigning innocence. “Or are you just afraid to admit that I’m right?”

“Keep testing me, and you’ll find out exactly what I’m capable of,” Damian warned, his tone low and menacing.

Jason snorted. “Careful, Dick. He looks like he’s about to blow a gasket.”

Part 12: The Fall

As the bickering escalated, Y/N decided she’d had enough. She turned to head back to the kitchen, only for her foot to catch on the edge of the carpet. She stumbled forward, her arms flailing for balance—just as Damian instinctively stepped toward her to help.

Unfortunately, Damian misjudged his footing in the rush, and the two of them collided, tumbling to the floor in a heap. Y/N landed on top of Damian, her hands braced against his chest to steady herself.

The room fell into a stunned silence for a moment before Jason let out a bark of laughter. “Well, this just keeps getting better.”

Y/N’s face turned bright red as she scrambled to get off Damian. “I—I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Damian muttered, though his cheeks were tinged pink as he avoided her gaze.

“Aw, that was adorable,” Stephanie said, clutching her hands over her heart dramatically. “You two are like a rom-com waiting to happen.”

“Shut up, Brown,” Damian growled, his voice dripping with irritation.

“Relax, Dami,” Tim said, smirking. “It’s not like we’re judging you. Much.”

Damian sat up, his glare cutting through the group. “I swear, if any of you say one more word—”

“—you’ll what? Brood harder?” Jason teased, earning a few snickers from the others.

Part 13: The Kiss

Y/N groaned, rubbing her temples. “You guys are impossible.”

“Right back at you,” Dick said, his grin widening. “But, hey, I think you owe Damian a thank you for breaking your fall.”

Y/N turned to Damian, her embarrassment still written all over her face. “Uh… thanks, I guess.”

“Tt,” Damian replied, standing up and brushing himself off. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing?” Jason echoed, leaning against the wall. “Looked like something to me.”

“Maybe we should give them some privacy,” Stephanie suggested, grinning.

Before Damian could respond, Y/N let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. You all want a show? Here.”

And then, without thinking, she turned to Damian, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him into a kiss.

The room erupted into chaos.

“Whoa!” Dick shouted, his eyes wide with shock.

“Holy—” Jason started, but his words were drowned out by Stephanie’s excited squeal.

“Finally!” Tim yelled, throwing his hands in the air.

Damian froze for a moment, completely caught off guard. But as the initial shock wore off, he found himself leaning into the kiss, his hands tentatively resting on Y/N’s waist.

When Y/N pulled back, her face was bright red, and Damian looked like he was struggling to process what had just happened.

“There,” Y/N said, her voice a little breathless. “Happy now?”

The room was silent for a beat before Dick burst out laughing. “Oh, we are definitely happy now.”

Part 14: The Aftermath

Damian turned on his brothers and Stephanie, his expression a mix of embarrassment and fury. “If any of you say another word—”

“What? You’ll kiss us next?” Jason teased, dodging Damian’s attempted punch.

“I hate all of you,” Damian growled, though the redness in his cheeks undercut his usual menace.

“Aw, don’t be like that, Dami,” Stephanie said, grinning. “You’ve got a girlfriend now! You should be happy.”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” Y/N said quickly, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Not yet,” Tim muttered, earning a sharp glare from both Damian and Y/N.

Bruce walked in at that exact moment, taking in the scene with a raised eyebrow. “Do I even want to know?”

“No,” Damian and Y/N said in unison.

Bruce sighed, shaking his head. “I’m too old for this.”

“Join the club,” Y/N muttered under her breath.

Part 15: The Endless Teasing

The chaos didn’t end with Bruce’s weary departure. If anything, his brief interruption seemed to embolden everyone else. Dick, Jason, Tim, and Stephanie all huddled together, whispering conspiratorially and shooting sly glances toward Damian and Y/N.

Y/N, still standing uncomfortably close to Damian after the kiss, could feel the weight of their teasing looks. She crossed her arms, trying to mask her growing discomfort. “Okay, you’ve had your fun. Can we move on now?”

“No way,” Dick said, grinning from ear to ear. “This is the best thing that’s happened all week.”

“Best thing all month,” Stephanie corrected, leaning against the table. “Do you know how rare it is to see Damian look this flustered?”

Damian bristled, his fists clenching. “I am not flustered.”

“You totally are,” Tim said, smirking. “And honestly? It’s adorable.”

Jason chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall. “Dami’s growing up so fast. Next thing you know, he’ll be writing sonnets about Y/N and picking flowers.”

“Would you all shut up?” Damian snapped, his voice dangerously low. “Or I swear—”

“What? You’ll throw another tantrum?” Jason interrupted, his smirk widening. “Careful, baby bird. That’ll just make this even better for us.”

“Jason,” Y/N said, stepping forward with a glare. “You’re not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to,” Jason replied with a shrug. “But thanks for noticing.”

Y/N groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is ridiculous.”

Part 16: Stephanie’s Master Plan

“Ridiculous, yes. Hilarious, also yes,” Stephanie said, pulling out her phone. “We should really commemorate this moment. Group photo, anyone?”

“No,” Damian said immediately, his voice sharp.

“Oh, come on!” Stephanie pouted. “Just one picture. It’ll be cute.”

“Stephanie,” Y/N warned, her tone low. “Don’t you dare.”

Ignoring her, Stephanie raised her phone and aimed it at Damian and Y/N. Before she could snap the picture, Damian lunged forward, snatching the phone from her hands.

“Hey!” Stephanie protested, trying to grab it back. “That’s not fair!”

Damian held the phone high out of her reach, his expression a mix of irritation and smug satisfaction. “Consider it a lesson in boundaries.”

“Ugh, you’re the worst,” Stephanie muttered, crossing her arms.

“And yet, I’m still smarter than you,” Damian replied, tossing the phone back to her.

Part 17: Peace Negotiations

Before Stephanie could launch into another round of teasing, Dick stepped forward, clapping his hands together. “Alright, alright. Let’s call a truce before Damian actually murders one of us.”

“Tempting,” Damian muttered under his breath, shooting Jason and Stephanie a warning glare.

“Look,” Y/N said, raising her hands in exasperation. “I know you guys live for chaos, but can we please move on? This whole thing has already gone too far.”

“Too far?” Tim repeated with mock surprise. “We’re just getting started!”

“Tim,” Y/N said, her tone sharp. “Don’t.”

Tim smirked but wisely backed off, retreating behind Jason.

Jason, however, wasn’t so easily deterred. “Fine, fine. We’ll drop it—for now. But I’m keeping tabs on you two. Never thought I’d see the day Damian Wayne became a certified softie.”

Damian took a menacing step forward, but Y/N put a hand on his chest to stop him. “Jason, enough,” she said firmly.

Jason raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, nurse. Whatever you say.”

Damian glanced down at Y/N’s hand on his chest, his expression softening for a split second before he caught himself and stepped back. “Let’s leave before I lose my patience entirely.”

“Good idea,” Y/N muttered, already turning toward the door.

“Wait!” Dick called after them. “At least let me get—”

The sound of the kitchen door slamming shut cut him off.

Part 18: A Quiet Moment

Once safely out of the dining room, Damian and Y/N stopped in the hallway. The muffled sound of laughter still echoed behind them, but at least they were alone.

Y/N sighed, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms. “Your family is insane.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Damian said, his tone dry. “They’ve been unbearable for years.”

Y/N chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Still, they mean well. In their own, chaotic way.”

Damian’s expression softened, and he leaned against the opposite wall, studying her carefully. “You handled them better than most.”

“I’ve had practice,” Y/N replied with a faint smile. “Besides, someone had to keep you from losing it in there.”

“I didn’t lose it,” Damian said defensively.

“Not yet,” Y/N teased, her smile widening.

Part 19: Unspoken Understanding

Damian crossed his arms, his brow furrowed slightly as he looked at Y/N. “You really don’t have to deal with all of this, you know. My family… they’re relentless. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to avoid it altogether.”

Y/N tilted her head, her expression softening. “And leave you to face them alone? Not a chance.”

Damian’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. “You’re persistent.”

“Someone has to be,” she replied lightly. “Besides, they’re not all bad. They’re just… enthusiastic.”

“Tt,” Damian scoffed, though his tone lacked its usual edge. “That’s one word for it.”

Y/N straightened, stepping closer to him. “Look, I know they like to push your buttons, but I think they do it because they care. They just have a weird way of showing it.”

Damian hesitated, his gaze dropping for a moment. “They’re insufferable.”

“Maybe,” Y/N said with a small shrug. “But they’re your family. And honestly, you’re kind of insufferable too.”

Damian’s eyes snapped back to hers, narrowing slightly. “Excuse me?”

Y/N grinned. “You heard me. But that’s okay. I guess I’m starting to get used to it.”

“Starting?” he asked, his tone laced with mock offense. “You’ve had plenty of time to adjust.”

“True,” she admitted. “But you’re a lot of work.”

Damian huffed, though there was no real anger behind it. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“No,” Y/N said softly, her smile fading slightly. “But you need it.”

Part 20: A Subtle Shift

For a moment, the air between them grew heavy, charged with something unspoken. Damian held her gaze, his usual confidence replaced with a flicker of uncertainty. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Y/N said quietly. “You don’t have to do everything on your own, Damian. No matter how much you think you should.”

Damian swallowed hard, the vulnerability in her words hitting him in a way he wasn’t prepared for. “I don’t… trust people easily.”

“I know,” Y/N said. “And I don’t expect you to change overnight. But I’m here, okay? Whether you like it or not.”

Damian was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. “Thank you.”

Y/N smiled, the sincerity in his voice enough to warm her heart. “You’re welcome.”

Part 21: The Return to Chaos

The moment was short-lived, however. Before either of them could say anything more, the kitchen door swung open, and Dick poked his head out, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“There you are!” he said, his tone overly cheerful. “We were just about to come find you. Thought maybe you’d snuck off to—”

“Finish that sentence,” Damian interrupted, his voice icy, “and you’ll regret it.”

Dick held up his hands, feigning innocence. “Relax, little bro. Just wanted to say that Alfred made cookies, and we thought you two might want to join us.”

Part 22: Back to the Bat-Family Circus

“Why do I feel like this is a trap?” Damian asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at Dick.

Dick’s grin widened. “Oh, come on, Dami. Do you really think I’d set you up again after all this? I’m offended.”

Jason’s voice called from behind Dick. “You absolutely would.”

“Not helping, Jason,” Dick muttered before turning back to Damian and Y/N. “Look, cookies. Good vibes. No teasing—probably. Just come on.”

Y/N sighed, exchanging a glance with Damian. “It’s not like we’re going to get any peace out here anyway.”

“Tt. Fine,” Damian said begrudgingly, though his sharp gaze remained fixed on Dick. “But the first person to make a comment is going to regret it.”

“Noted,” Dick said with a salute. “No comments. Scout’s honor.”

Part 23: Cookies and Chaos

When Y/N and Damian entered the living room, Alfred was already setting out a tray of freshly baked cookies and tea. Jason was lounging on the couch, Tim and Stephanie were locked in a fierce battle over the last cushion, and Bruce sat in his armchair, reading a thick dossier as if none of this chaos was happening around him.

“Ah, Master Damian, Miss Y/N,” Alfred said warmly, gesturing to the tray. “You’re just in time. I saved a plate for you.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Y/N said, smiling as she took a cookie. “At least someone here knows how to be civilized.”

“You wound me,” Jason quipped, grabbing a cookie from the tray. “I’m always civilized.”

“That’s debatable,” Tim muttered, earning himself a glare from Jason.

As Y/N sat down on the edge of the couch, Damian stood awkwardly for a moment before settling into the seat next to her. The teasing eyes of his siblings immediately turned toward them, but a single sharp look from Damian kept them quiet—mostly.

“So,” Stephanie began innocently, “how’s everyone enjoying their evening?”

“Don’t,” Damian said warningly.

“What?” Stephanie asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “I’m just making conversation.”

Bruce lowered his dossier, glancing between them briefly. “I’m assuming this is related to whatever it was I walked in on earlier?”

“Oh, definitely,” Jason said with a smirk, earning a sharp kick from Y/N under the coffee table. “Ow! Violent much?”

“I said drop it,” Y/N said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Bruce sighed, closing the file. “I don’t need to know the details. But whatever this is,” he said, gesturing vaguely between Damian and Y/N, “just make sure it doesn’t distract from training. Or missions.”

Y/N and Damian both turned bright red, speaking at the same time.

“There’s nothing going on—”

“This isn’t a distraction—”

The overlapping denials only made the others laugh harder.

Part 24: A Moment of Calm

Eventually, Alfred’s cookies distracted the group long enough for the teasing to settle down. Y/N leaned back on the couch, exhaustion evident in her expression. “Your family is exhausting,” she muttered to Damian under her breath.

“I tried to warn you,” Damian replied, though there was a faint smirk on his lips.

“Yeah, well, I guess I can handle it,” Y/N said, taking another bite of her cookie. “But you owe me for this.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “Owe you?”

“For putting up with all of this,” she said, gesturing toward his bickering siblings. “And for not letting me know what I was getting into when I started hanging out with you.”

“You should’ve known better,” Damian said, though there was an unusual softness in his voice.

Y/N glanced at him, her teasing smile fading slightly. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Maybe I should’ve.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything, the noise of the Bat-family fading into the background. Then Damian leaned slightly closer, his voice barely above a whisper.

Part 25: Nightfall and an Unlikely Arrangement

As the evening stretched on, Alfred appeared in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically apologetic. “Miss Y/N, I regret to inform you that the construction in your room will not be finished tonight. It appears the repairs were more extensive than anticipated.”

Y/N frowned, setting her teacup down. “Oh. That’s okay, Alfred. I can just crash on the couch.”

“Nonsense,” Bruce said, not looking up from his reading. “You’ll stay in one of the guest rooms.”

“Unfortunately, Master Bruce,” Alfred interjected, “the guest rooms are also undergoing renovations.”

Jason let out a low whistle. “What a shame. Guess you’re stuck with us, Y/N.”

“Don’t even think about it, Todd,” Damian snapped, his eyes narrowing.

“What, you’re volunteering to host?” Jason smirked, leaning back with a wicked grin. “That’s very generous of you, baby bird.”

Damian glared at him but didn’t respond. Y/N, sensing an argument brewing, sighed. “I’ll just sleep on the floor or something. It’s no big deal.”

“No,” Damian said abruptly. Everyone turned to look at him, surprised. Clearing his throat, he added more evenly, “You can stay in my room.”

The room went silent for a beat, and then Jason burst out laughing. “Oh, this is too good.”

“Quiet,” Damian snapped, his face slightly red. “There’s no need to make this a spectacle.”

Y/N hesitated, her own cheeks warming. “Are you sure? I don’t want to—”

“It’s fine,” Damian said firmly, standing and gesturing for her to follow. “Let’s go before they make this even more unbearable.”

Part 26: Sharing the Space

Damian’s room was surprisingly neat, the decor minimal but tasteful. A large bed with a black-and-green comforter dominated the space, and a few books and weapons were arranged meticulously on the shelves. Y/N glanced around, feeling slightly out of place.

“Your room is… very you,” she said, offering a small smile.

Damian shrugged, pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair. “I prefer order.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Y/N teased, sitting on the edge of the bed. “So… where am I sleeping?”

Damian frowned, as if the question hadn’t occurred to him. “The bed, obviously.”

“And you?” Y/N asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The bed,” Damian said, crossing his arms. When Y/N gave him a skeptical look, he sighed. “It’s large enough for both of us. We’ll stay on opposite sides.”

“Alright,” Y/N said, kicking off her shoes and climbing under the covers. “But if you hog the blanket, I’m kicking you.”

“Tt. As if I would need to,” Damian muttered, sliding in on the other side of the bed.

The two lay in awkward silence for a while, the only sound the soft rustle of blankets. Y/N stared at the ceiling, her mind racing. Sharing a bed with Damian Wayne was not something she had ever anticipated. She glanced over at him, noticing how tense he seemed, his back rigid and his hands clasped over his stomach.

“Damian,” she said softly, breaking the silence.

“What?” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

“Relax,” she said, smiling faintly. “I’m not going to bite.”

“Tt. That’s not what I’m concerned about,” he muttered.

“What are you concerned about?” Y/N asked, propping herself up on one elbow to look at him.

Damian turned his head slightly, his emerald eyes meeting hers. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and Y/N wondered if she’d pushed too far. Then, he sighed, his usual guarded expression softening.

Part 27: The Confession

“I’ve been avoiding this,” Damian admitted, his voice unusually vulnerable. “Because I don’t know how to say it.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. “Say what?”

Damian sat up slightly, leaning against the headboard. His hands fidgeted with the edge of the blanket—an uncharacteristic sign of nervousness. “You’re important to me,” he said quietly. “More important than I thought anyone could be.”

Y/N blinked, her breath catching. “Damian…”

“I know I’m not the easiest person to deal with,” he continued, his gaze dropping to the blanket. “I’m stubborn , and I push people away because I’m afraid of letting them get too close. But with you… I don’t feel that way. I can’t push you away. I don’t want to.”

Y/N’s heart raced, and for a moment, she couldn’t find the words. Damian Wayne—stoic, guarded Damian—was opening up to her in a way she hadn’t expected. His vulnerability was both shocking and endearing. Slowly, she moved closer, her hand reaching for his, instinctively seeking connection.

“You don’t have to push me away,” she whispered, her voice soft but certain. “I’m not going anywhere, Damian. You don’t have to be afraid of that.”

Damian looked up at her, his eyes searching hers, a mix of longing and uncertainty swirling in them. “I’m not good with this,” he admitted, his voice low. “With… feelings. But I want you to know how much you mean to me. More than I’ve ever let anyone else in.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She reached up, gently cupping his face in her hands. The moment felt so intimate, so raw, that everything else in the world seemed to fade away. There were no distractions, no jokes from his siblings, no teasing from the others—just the two of them in this quiet space, holding each other in a way that was more meaningful than either of them had imagined.

“I care about you, Damian,” Y/N said, her voice barely above a whisper. “More than you know.”

Damian’s expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing as he leaned into her touch. For a brief, fleeting moment, it was as if the world had paused, leaving only the two of them in this fragile, perfect moment. Without another word, he leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek.

And then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he kissed her.

The kiss was tentative at first, both of them unsure, testing the waters, but as the seconds stretched on, it deepened. Damian’s hand gently cupped her neck, pulling her closer, and Y/N responded instinctively, her fingers threading through his hair. There was no rush, no urgency—just a quiet, intimate connection that felt like it had been building for longer than either of them realized.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads resting against each other, neither of them spoke. The kiss had said everything that needed to be said. Damian, usually so careful with his emotions, had laid himself bare, and Y/N had met him halfway, offering him the one thing he feared most: acceptance.

“I don’t know what happens next,” Damian said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Neither do I,” Y/N replied, her voice equally soft, “but I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time, Damian allowed himself to believe that.

A/N - whooo!! that was a long one. i may or may not have been constipated writing this….

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Five times the Witchers learnt just how cat-like Aiden actually is

Biscuit making - Lambert

Lambert stared down at his friend, eyebrows raised in silent question as Aiden dozed lightly, plastered to Lambert so they were snuggled chest to chest in the small inn bed. He'd gotten used to Aiden purring in his sleep when the Cat witcher felt safe (and Lambert tried not to linger too long on how that made him feel) long ago but this…this was new.

The hands resting on Lambert's chest were rhythmically gripping and releasing the material of his shirt in tandem, the pinprick scratch of long, tougher than average fingernails just enough to feel through the fabric. It wasn't uncomfortable as such, in fact once he got used to it, when paired with the soft, barely audible purr it was actually quite relaxing.

Soon enough, Lambert found himself being pulled into sleep, either not caring or not realising that he himself had started letting out a steady stream of content rumbling of his own in response.

"Question for you, Cat."

Aiden didn't pause in lacing up his boots, "Ask away, Wolf."

"You know you were-" he clenched his fingers in imitation of the gesture, "I don't know - kneading - me last night?"

At that, Aiden did pause and Lambert had the feeling if he could blush he'd be bright red.

"I..shit. Sorry, I didn't even realise. I usually only do that around my siblings. I'll try to control it better."

"Didn't say it was a bad thing. " Lambert bumped his shoulder lightly against Aiden's, "I was just curious is all. I don't give a shit what you do, short of stabbing me."

Lambert tried to ignore the warmth blooming in his chest as Aiden let out a tiny purr.

Jumpscare - Eskel

Eskel hummed to himself as he bought in the last of the vegetables from the greenhouses for pickling. Glad to see that Aiden was already in the kitchen setting everything up and was currently busy with a keg of brine. Things had been a bit tense to start with when his little brother had rolled up with a Cat of all people but Aiden had made it very hard to not like him. If nothing else, he was always more than willing to lend a hand with chores - always a bonus when your home was in a near constant state of disrepair.

"Alright." Eskel said, dumping one of the sacks out onto the stone countertop, "That's the last of this year's crop. If we work quickly we should be done by-"

He was interrupted by a yowl next to him and if Aiden was an actual cat, Eskel would be inclined to think somebody had just stepped on his tail. Whirling around he saw no sign of the other Witcher. Until he looked up just in time to see Aiden hauling himself up to fully perch on one of the rafters, glaring at Eskel's haul.

"Eh...Aiden?"

"Get those things away from me." The Cat hissed pointing accusingly.

Now Eskel was even more confused, all that was there was a perfectly innocent pile of….

"You mean these?" He held up one of the cucumbers, causing Aiden to growl low in his throat in response. Eskel hastily dropped it again, "Ok, ok. I'll put these away for now and we can work on the beetroot instead. Ok?"

Aiden nodded but still refused to leave his perch until the offending items had been shoved back into the sack and into a cupboard.

Soundlessly, he grabbed a knife and began to peel and chop the beetroot.

"Cat thing?"

"Cat thing."

Zoomies - Geralt

Geralt couldn't sleep. Again. He was nowhere near desperate enough to go down the Djinn route again but by the Gods it was starting to get annoying. He just wanted one night where his mind wouldn't keep throwing up scenarios where he failed his responsibilities to Ciri, Yen, Jaskier, his brothers…he was just one man for fucks sake.

He decided to go check on the animals, Eskel had mentioned that the fence on one of the goat pens could do with repairs but it was already getting dark by the time he'd noticed. It was on the list for the following morning but his brother would be heartbroken if any of them had gotten loose and hurt in the meantime.

Turns out Geralt wasn't the only one feeling restless. As he entered the courtyard he caught sight of a figure seemingly in the middle of running laps along the wall. Too lithe to be Eskel or Lambert, too tall to be Ciri, it had to be Aiden. Geralt stopped for a second, unsure why until he realised. Aiden was moving fast.. too fast to be running it safely in the dark and frost. Even for a Witcher, that could be a broken leg or concussion at least if he fell.

As if the Gods had been reading his thoughts, Aiden lost his footing and soundlessly tumbled down onto the cobbles of the courtyard, landing in a heap. Only to bounce back up immediately as if nothing had happened and continue running laps at ground level instead.

Geralt felt his brow furrow as he continued watching, what the fuck?

"Couldn't sleep either?"

Aiden had come to a stop in front of him, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and eyes darting around ceaselessly as he almost seemed to be vibrating in his own skin and using all of his self control to stay still and talk.

Geralt hummed in response before gesturing to the wall "You do that often?"

Aiden looked slightly sheepish as if he expected to be reprimanded, "Only a couple of times since I've been here. The mutagens. Sometimes I feel like I'm going to combust there and then if I don't move , for some reason it's worse at night. I think there was something meant to make us nocturnal, at least partially anyway. If I were on the path I'd go hunting or just go run pell mell in the woods for a bit. Doing that on an unfamiliar mountain didn't seem like the smartest thing though. I'm reckless, not suicidal."

Geralt huffed a laugh, "Well, don't let me stop you. Just don't make us find you lying out here with your skull cracked open in the morning."

Aiden gave a mock salute before going to mount the wall again, "Remind me to tell you about Cat Trials. Trust me, a fall from this is nothing. You could always run a couple of laps with me if you want? It's just, you look as if you could use something to tire you out too."

Geralt shrugged. At this point, why the fuck not?

Chirp - Jaskier

"Melitele's tits, it's cold. I mean, it. Is. COLD." Jaskier proclaimed as the two of them closed the door on the snow storm they'd just left, moving to hang his cloak and hood by the fire in the great hall, "I swear, if you and Lambert ever decide you're heading South for the winter I'm coming with you. Geralt can freeze his tits off up here alone, he'll survive. Unlike me. "

Aiden said nothing, although the bard had been around enough Witchers by now to know his companion was probably silently laughing at him as he removed his own cloak. Jaskier tsk'd at the snow clinging to Aiden's hair and moved to brush it out without thinking. The Cat let out a small but clearly audible "mrrrp" and momentarily pushed into the hand before he caught himself. He turned to face Jaskier, who was grinning at him like both Yule and his birthday had come early.

"Oh, well. That is just precious! " He exclaimed, clapping his hands together excitedly like a small child who's just been shown a magic trick, "Oh my dear, if all Cat Witchers make such adorable noises I may have a new favourite school. Do you all do that or is it just some of you? Purring's a given, every Witcher I've met purrs to some degree or other."

Aiden caught Coen's eye, the other Witcher flashing him a smirk which said 'You're on your own'

"That's it, I've decided! I'm making it my mission this winter to find out just how cat-like you are!"

"Do that and I'll hide your lute up in the rafters." Aiden said with no real heat, the Bard trailing after him asking questions about tables and glassware, distracted (for now) from the coldness of the Keep.

If I fits… - Vesemir

Vesemir basked in the quiet. There were perks to being one of the first ones to wake in the mornings. As much as he loved having his boys back safe and sound for the winter, after months alone the constant noise could become a little overwhelming at times, making these moments of quiet solitude all the more precious.

He made his way to the laundry room with an armful of bedding he'd found which probably hadn't been washed since the previous winter if the stale smell was anything to go by. No matter.

He quirked an eyebrow at the closed laundry hamper. He was certain he'd opened the lid earlier unless old age and senility were finally starting to get to him. Dumping the dirty sheets on the ground to free his hands he lifted the lid again.

And was greeted by Aiden blinking sleepily up at him, disturbed by the sudden brightness. Vesemir briefly took a moment to try and figure out what manner of contortion he'd used to cram himself into a space the boys had struggled to fit in even as adolescents before catching Aiden's eye. The two held eye contact as Aiden tilted his head in silent question, still half asleep. Vesemir wordlessly lowered the lid again in response before walking away shaking his head. It was too early for his boy's antics.

[jasmines-library]

Just forget about it.

WHUMPTOBER 2023: Prompt: ‘conditioning’

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: As part of the winter soldier program, all you’ve know is how to kill. After years of being left in cyrofreeze, you are finally let out and are given a mission; to protect. You follow it to the t. Until a certain familiar face shows up to get you out of there. (I suck at summaries ok?)

Warnings: Torture, mind control, fighting.

Word count: 2.8k

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

The room was cold, and you couldn’t see anything besides the white fog that rose slowly in front of your face as your mind snapped back online. It hurt too, as your brain began to receive signals again from your pain receptors, your body lit up like it was being stabbed over and over again by a thousand tiny needles. They dug into every inch of your body,  burning in your veins. Everything seemed too loud; your thoughts which raced at a thousand miles an hour, the harsh tones of the men surrounding you, the loud clunking of the machines. It made you miss the blissful silence you had been engulfed in for who knows how long.

When the door to the chamber hissed open, and the cold clouds of ice dissipated away, you squinted at the bright light which flooded in. When your eyes adapted, you stared grimly at the man before you. He was all too familiar, though he looked significantly older. It was the face of the man who had tortured you and shaped you into what you were; an unstoppable weapon. He smiled darkly at you as you tried to move away, though you were still restrained by the metal cuffs that pulled you tight against the back of the chamber. You had been in this position before, but something was different this time. This time you remembered. You remembered the feeling of the harsh grip on your arm as you were dragged back into where you would be put back into a deep, meaningless sleep. You remembered the cold and then pain- tenfold to what you were feeling now. But you also remembered a face. One with hard features; long dark hair and firm blue eyes, but often with gentle intent. Something nagged at you that you shouldn’t be able to remember that.

The man stepped towards you, the shit eating grin still plastered on his face. “Hello my lotus.” He spoke to you, his Russian thick and unmissable. “Oh how I have missed you very much. It was such a shame when we had to put you back in cryofreeze. I have missed your pretty face very much, but not to worry. I have a job for you, my lotus.” He lowered his voice. “Let’s just hope we don’t have another little mishap. Hmm?”

He leaned down towards you and you took it as a chance to spit in his face. “You fuck yourself.”

He blinked, wiping away the spit from his face before turning back to you. “You are going to regret that, soldat.” 

There were more hands on you then, freeing you from the restraints and dragging you through the room. With what little energy you had, you squirmed but that only resulted in a kick to the ribs to settle you down. 

They brought you to an open room, industrial looking of sorts. It was large with machines for all sorts pressed against the walls. In the centre of the room, raised on a circular platform stood a chair. The fabric of the chair was torn and frayed beneath the harsh light above it. You writhed as the men dragged you towards it. You kicked and screamed like a child as you struggled to get away. The chair held too many unwanted, painful memories. When you were forced onto the old leather and bound once again by metal cuffs on your forearms, the familiar man stepped before you and grinned, trailing his hand along your jaw. 

“Let’s hope you learn to obey this time, soldat.”

With that, he turned to slam the heavy doors to the room. You heard the locks whirr as they clicked into place, as he moved away into some part of the room that you couldn’t see from where you were sitting, leaving you with another man whom you didn’t recognise. He stepped forwards, ensuring that you were secure. 

“Begin.” You heard from behind you. 

There was a shuffling across the room, followed by a whirring of the machinery you were strapped to as it started up. Then you were consumed by a blinding pain. You let out a blood curdling scream, which ricocheted off of the tiled walls. Thrashing and writhing, you tugged on the metal cuffs. They dug into your skin and you tried to escape the pain that radiated in your head and raced through your body. It was a thousand agonies at once. When you thought you couldn’t take any more, the pain amped up. Your head pounded and your eyes burned against the light. Your fingernails scraped along the leather as your back arched. Blood dripped from your nose and your ears. You could taste its copperness as it spilled over your chapped lips and into your mouth. 

Then, it all stopped. 

Your body slumped back against the chair with what little energy you had left. Your limp body heaved for air. You swallowed thickly; your throat was raw. 

The man slunk forwards from wherever he had retreated to in the room. Your body froze when the string of russian words began to slip from his mouth. 

“Purify.”

You tensed, eyes wide as you looked around the room.”

“Brass. Hang. Illustrate.”

You thrashed, trying to cover your ears with your hands, but to no avail. 

“Noiseless, twelve, evanescent.”

“NO! No..” You cried. These words would be your undoing. Once they had been uttered there was no going back. You couldn’t go back. 

“Illustrate, beserk.”

“NO! STOP IT!... Please.”

“Connection.”

Your mind went black. No feelings, just the urge to follow orders. Thoughts, but no control or freedom over what they were. Your bloodied body relaxing in the chair. Thousands of memories of your training and your experimentation flooded your head. You raised your head to look up at the grey haired man. “Ready to comply.”

“Good. We have a mission for you, Soldat.”

~~~

Shoot, kill, protect. Shoot, kill, protect. 

That was all that went through your mind and you slunk around the corners of the base. It had been infiltrated by a group of highly-trained superheroes. They were hardly subtle, despite how much they tried to be. Your enhanced hearing allowed you to hear their footsteps echoing across the halls. Pressing yourself up against the wall, you waited until they had rounded the corner. You were lingering only a few feet away from where Zola had locked himself away to prepare for his escape. You were not only guarding him, but also the files that he possessed. Little did you know that that was not all that the Avengers were hoping to find. 

When the footsteps rounded the corner, you were greeted with a redhead woman. Before she could move any further, you had your hand wrapped tightly around her throat, pinning her against the wall. You narrowed your eyes, pressing your gun to her abdomen. She delivered a harsh blow to your stomach, which despite your strength sent you keeling backwards. 

“I’ve got eyes.” She muttered something else into her comms, making an advance towards the room, but you grabbed her leg and pulled her to the ground. Her head hit the floor.

Scrabbling for your gun, you were up on your feet in seconds before another two pairs of footsteps reached the end of the corridor. This time, it was two men that rounded the corner. Bucky’s heart almost stopped in his chest when his eyes landed on you. He felt as though he was going to be sick. Mechanically, you readied yourself into a fighting stance. Racing towards you, they both advanced towards you. You ducked under the arm of the taller one before using the wall to propel yourself towards the other. The small hallway became a blue of bullets and limbs as the three of you fought. The movement of one of them was well placed. He seemed to know all of the counters to your moves. It was the red star on his silver arm that caught your attention. And that small distraction was all it took for the man to knock you down and plaster you to the floor. 

As you kicked, trying to get a good hit in on the man, he studied your face. It flashed with recognition. Your piercing eyes would never leave Bucky’s memories.

“Y/n?”

You flinched at the small mention of your name, but your programming was too strong. Shoot, kill, protect. Your fingers reached for your gun which he had knocked out of your hands. Your fingers inched along the floor, but then there was a firm grip on your wrist keeping it still. You squirmed.

Bucky tried again. He couldn’t quite believe that you were in front of him. Your face hadn’t changed much since the last time he saw you but you looked older, more tired. “Doll?”

You stiffened. The name cuts through your programming like a knife in butter. His face came flooding back to you, some memories good, some bad. He was there when you were at your lowest, you were there when he was at his. The two of you had been together through thick and thin, supporting each other through what little good and what masses of pain you had experienced. You furrowed his brow, scanning his face. His blue eyes were still the same, but he looked different. Kinder. Calmer. 

“Bucky?”

“Yes!” The super soldier nearly cried. “Yes doll. It’s me. It’s Bucky.”

He eased his touch a little as you melted against him. His touch became tender like you remembered it to be as he cupped your face with his non metal arm. 

There was a commotion behind you. The sound of bullets filled the air and your programing shifted to the front of your mind again. With Bucky’s loosened grip on you, you managed to wiggle out from under him and scramble towards the open door. The other man had managed to slip away and infiltrate the room where Zola had barred himself in. You raced in, your finger poised on the trigger. You raised it, aiming at the offender in the room. Though something was stopping you from pulling the trigger as you so normally would under the soldier programing. 

Zola frowned angrily. “Kill him.” He spat.

Your hand shook as your mind fought itself. One part of you screamed at you to just pull the trigger. The other, more sane part of you told you otherwise. 

A pair of hands wrapped themselves around your waist, pulling you away from the scene. You tried to fight against them, but also enhanced by the serum, Bucky’s strength was on par with yours. 

“Get off of me.” You growled. 

His grip was firm as it moved to your shoulders.

“Hey, Hey calm down.” 

You tried to kick at him, but it was pointless. 

“You’re ok doll. It’s me.”

You stilled, relaxing in his arms again.

“I’m gonna get you out of here Doll. I promise.”

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<- DAY EIGHT ⛤ DAY TEN ->

🏷️ Taglist:

@senjoritanana

@deans-spinster-witch

@amaryllis23

[viktorslver]

Back to the old house.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ Parinings: platonic!twd x Grimes!reader (Rick's little sister)

˗ˏˋ ꒰ warnings: reader's death, death, the line up [SPOILERS], gore, knifes, guns, blood, scars. Please let me know if I missed any!

summary: Negan, rotting away in prison has a curious visitor. This is a snippet from my own twd fanfic I've been making, so please enjoyy <3

Scars.

Everyone had them, whether it was a scrape on your knee or a stab wound to your back--which unfortunately since the world went sideways was a lot more common.

Negan's skin adored a few, despite the fact he used to be almost untouchable; he still used to run around as a child.

One that caught young Judith's eye in particular was the long, sunken scar across his right cheek.

After a few visits to the man behind bars she finally asked about it.

"How did you get that scar?" She asked flicking her gaze up from her hands in her lap, staring at Negan as he looked over her work.

He paused meeting her eyes, "what; you mean this one?" he asked tapping the pen against his cheek.

"Yeah, that one." He sighed at her response, looking down almost in a shameful manner.

—

It was cold.

But you weren't.

Your skin felt tacky and hot, sweat building on it as you held Maggie to you letting her lean against you with your arm around her shoulder.

It almost hurt how your knees dug into the dirt small rocks and bit of wood digging into your skin.

Your hand resting idle by your shoe—your fingers slipping into the side of your hightops to drag your blade out and into your sleeve. You were scared.

He swung his bat about, laughing and grinning like an idiot at your group. He drank in their fear as if it was what kept him alive, the soft shaky breaths, the tears welling up, the shaky lip quivers.

You needed to be fast, you thought, his senseless childish rhymes ringing in your ears--when he comes back over. When he comes back over. When he comes-- You couldn't ever forget the sound, the bursting of his head, the crunch of the bat. You were too slow. You couldn't look your gaze drawn to the dirt as blood creeped towards you through it. Then you could smell it, the metallic scent of blood. "What's wrong, sweetheart? What-- was he your frie--" Negan didn't even get the words out before he felt a deep stinging drag across his cheek. His head spun to face the splatter of blood from his face, following the blade. The knife barely grazed the fabric of his shirt before a bang rang out. You hissed at the bullet in your shoulder, stumbling back before a chorus of yells broke out. The bat came into contact with your side, and as you crumbled your head.

"It's from your uh 'aunt? Ricks lil' sister." Judith looked upset, frowning at him "why'd she do that? Michonne said she was nice, would'a loved me." When he met her gaze, he had the flash of the watery eyes of Maggie. The look of anger and fear of the group before him, on their knees, at his mercy.

"She probably would have. I didn't get the chance to know her well," He shrugged hanging her the work back. "Go try the first three again." He waved her off, trying to ignore the shame that crept up on him.

[studentinpursuitofclouds]

"Don't say those words again, okay?"

Another little SVE one-shot! With Isaac and gn!Farmer as a couple 💕

_________________________________________

"Open up! We can't get through the barrier! Somebody open up!" Farmer had just about torn their voice away, trying to shout over the howling of the Crimson Baldlans sandstorm and the roar of its not-so-hospitable inhabitants in the distance, so eager to come back for them and the badly wounded Isaac to finish them off.

"No use." The bloody sand prevented Isaac from opening his eyes properly. "Alesia won't hear us, and without the amulet, the barrier won't open." He gritted his teeth and hissed, trying to pull the bone arrow out of his punctured thigh. It was bleeding fast, but luckily the remnants of the life elixir at least helped stop the bleeding. Too bad it wasn't enough to heal him completely.

Farmer was relatively fine, just a couple of minor wounds. That was more important to Isaac than his injuries.

"I don't have the return scepter with me. No totems. All the elixirs are out. Crap..." Isaac's partner grumbled to themselves in exhaustion and anger. The monsters were about to come back for them, especially Isaac, as the smell of fresh blood attracted them as much as monster musk.

"Any idea, Isaac?"

The adventurer struggled to get up from the sand scarlet with his own blood and used his sword as a walking stick to keep from falling down again.

"There is a plan. You're heading back towards the exit without looking behind for anything, and I'll hold them off as long as I can." Farmer turned around and looked at Isaac with shock and disbelief.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not going to leave you here-"

"You're coming home, do you hear me!" Isaac bellowed and immediately regretted it as he bent over slightly from the aching pain on his stomach. Fucking serpent with their spikes and fangs...

"I won't let them kill you, and since we don't have much of an option..." The adventurer unbuckled his ragged brown cloak with one hand. The fabric was swept away by the sandy wind. "I'll stay here. You must run." A truly wolfish grin appeared on his face, letting Farmer know he was willing to fight for them to the end.

Oh no, you don't, my dear...

"I have a better plan." If anyone could outdo Isaac in terms of stubbornness and determination, it was the most chaotic farmer in all of Stardew Valley, his friend and lover, who definitely wouldn't agree to put up with Isaac preparing to die.

Farmer came close to the barrier and touched the surface with the palm of their hand. In a moment their whole body was bathed in radiance, and tongues of blue flame danced in the air. Like a bear digging into its prey with its long claws, Farmer stuck their fingers into the barrier. Growling, they continued to stab their fingers in until a small hole was formed in place of the barrier. Not enough to shatter the very magical defences of Castle Village, but enough for Farmer to grab the stunned Isaac by the collar and throw them into the resulting passage.

Quickly leaping to follow Isaac, it was literally an instant before the small window in the barrier slammed shut again. The sullen adventurer was unable to keep his feet from such sudden movements and fell again, but now instead of sand, he felt cold black bricks beneath his body. Farmer fell beside him, exhausted from the depletion of mana.

They were both safe now, and Isaac could breathe a sigh of relief.

"Next time - warn me about it. Now how the fuck I'm going to get my cloak back..." The dark-haired man grumbled, but the Farmer couldn't hear a note of bitterness or annoyance in his voice. He was grumbling simply, for the sake of appearances.

"It was time to get rid of that rag. More holes in it than cheese...." Farmer scooted a little closer to Isaac and kissed him on the temple.

"Don't say those words again, okay?" Farmer's voice was quiet and soft, but their eyes reflected all seriousness. Isaac didn't answer anything, only smiled softly at them, a rare occurrence that only Farmer could catch. One minute felt like an eternity as they both lay down and rested from the hard fight.

True to form, the silence was interrupted by a stomping sound not far from the main entrance of the Castle Village:

"Intruders! Intruders!"

"The barrier has been breached!"

"All at arms, prepare for battle!"

"Alesia! Someone call Alesia!"

"Who it could be? Spies of the Gotoro Empire?"

"Get really, folks! We have a guests!"

"How did they get through Camilla's barrier?! It's impossible!"

Farmer and Isaac looked at each other and sighed in sync, realising that the rest of the day would be a headache with interrogations and explanations for the Ministry of Magic and the Order of the Knights of Pythagoras.

[niki-phoria]

(header by @/gagalacrax on twitter)

‧₊˚✩ chishiya, arisu, and kuina reaction to their s/o getting hurt

warnings: blood, stitches, reader gets shot, reader gets stabbed, reader breaks a bone, kuina's isn't super canon compliant, kinda ooc chishiya

gn! reader

‧₊˚✩ chishiya

(word count 441)

you hold your shoulder, ignoring the blood seeping through your shirt as you duck further behind the car. shots continue to ring out around you as you watch arisu and usagi run with the crowd, hiding underneath another car. you force yourself to stand, waiting for the king to be distracted before taking your chance, running over to where they’re hiding. kuina and chishiya lean against a car next to them. 

“y/n!” kuina calls. you flinch as more shots are fired towards the cars you hide behind. 

“we need to move!” arisu yells. the roar of an engine cuts through the gunshots before the door swings open. 

“get in!” ann yells. usagi is the first one in the car, followed by arisu and kuina. chishiya rushes to your side before something lands on the ground before you. 

“that’s not good,” he mumbles. he grabs onto your arm, pulling you back. “get going!” 

“run, chishiya! y/n!” kuina yells from the car. he pulls you behind a broken piece of building, protecting you with his body from the blast of the grenade. your breathing is heavy as you watch the king jump onto the roof of another car. chishiya grabs onto your hand as he pulls you away from the area, running with you until you find an empty convenience store. 

you lean against the wall, catching your breath. chishiya looks around the room, pulling cabinets open until he finds a first-aid kit inside one of them. he pulls it out of it’s place before setting it on the ground, urging you to sit down. “take your shirt off,” he orders. you stare at him in shock for a few seconds before you comply, pulling off the blood-stained fabric. chishiya moves so he’s sitting behind you, checking your shoulder over. “there’s no exit wound. that’s good.” 

“you know how to give stitches?” 

“yes. hold this,” he says, pressing gauze against your shoulder. you do your best to keep pressure against it as he prepares the needle for stitches. “try to relax. it’ll hurt more if you’re tense.” you nod, taking a deep breath as he begins. tears sting your eyes with each stitch, threatening to overflow. after a few minutes chishiya presses a bandage against your arm. “i’m done.” you wipe your eyes, careful not to move too much as you shift to lean back against the wall. 

“thank you.” chishiya sets the first-aid kit aside, leaning back against the wall with you,  reaching over to grab your hand. 

“you did great.” you nod, leaning against his shoulder. he leans over to press a kiss against your forehead, squeezing your hand.

‧₊˚✩ arisu

(word count 557) got a little carried away with this one oops

“ah!” the pain in your side is sudden and sharp. it burns against your skin as you hit the ground hard. you gasp for breath, barely able to make out the sound of arisu yelling your name before he rushes to your side. he presses his hand against your ribs, leaning over you. 

“y/n?” your breath hitches as he pushes harder, making you wince. “it’s okay, you’re gonna be okay.” 

you grunt, hands shaking. “arisu,” you whisper. 

“we need to get back to the beach,” he says. you nod, letting him help you up. you hiss as you stand on shaky knees, hand pressed against your wound. arisu is quick to wrap his arm around your waist, urging yours over his shoulder. “you’re gonna be okay,” he repeats. you nod, gritting your teeth as you limp out of the building and back towards the beach.

“y/n!” usagi rushes to your other side as soon as she sees you. “what happened?” 

“they were stabbed in a game,” arisu says, tightening his grip around you. 

“what?” usagi nervously looks around before another man rushes over in front of you. he’s wearing a blue cap and a light blue shirt. you recognize him from tag. 

“do they need help?” 

“yes, please, can you do anything?” arisu pleads. the man looks behind him before turning back to you and nodding. 

“come with me.” 

he leads you underneath the beach, down a flight of stairs into a metal room. there, ann is doing an autopsy on a body, digging around for something. the man bursts through the door, leading you behind him. “ann, please, he needs help!” 

she glares at him before shifting her attention to you. your vision is blurry from blood loss as you stand in the doorway. “over there,” she says, gesturing to a metal table. she pulls her gloves off as arisu and usagi help you over to lay down on it. 

you stare up at the ceiling as arisu’s hands are replaced with ann’s. she leans over you, grabbing a variety of medical instruments. “don’t scream.” you nod, preparing yourself for the pain. arisu leans over, grabbing your right hand into his.

you wince when ann begins, desperately trying to catch your breath through the blood in your mouth and the pain from your side. your breathing is heavy as she continues. shortly after, the world goes black.

when you wake up you’re no longer on a cold metal table but on top of pristine white sheets. you recognize your surroundings as one of the rooms in the beach’s hotel. your side aches, screaming at you as you force yourself to sit up, leaning back against the headboard. 

it’s silent for a few minutes until the door swings open and arisu enters. he gasps when he sees you, dropping the water bottles he’s holding and rushing to your side. “y/n!” you chuckle, wrapping your arms around him. he pulls back, holding your face in his hands. “are you okay?” 

“i’m fine.” arisu sighs, sitting down in a chair set up next to the side of the bed. 

“you really scared me, you know,” he says, reaching over to grab your hand in his. “don’t ever do that again.” 

you squeeze his hand gently, rubbing your thumb against his soft skin. “i won’t. i promise.” 

‧₊˚✩ kuina

(word count 480) i don’t care that chishiya probably wouldn’t help, in my head he and kuina are besties 

you let out a relieved sigh as you lean back against the wall. kuina leans back with you, panting. your wrist aches from where you hit it earlier, decorated in a string of dark purples and red. “are you alright?” you ask. 

kuina nods, opening her eyes. “i’ve been worse.” 

you let the cool concrete against your back calm you down. your hand shakes a little as you push off of it, forcing yourself to stand up properly. “come on, let’s get back.” kuina stands, eyebrows furrowing a little. she gently pulls your wrist into the light to see it better before gasping. 

“you’re hurt.” 

“it’s not that bad.” 

“yes, it is! your hand is all bruised! this could be a fracture, or a break! what if you’ve broken your arm! i don’t know how to cast things!” 

“kuina,” you say. “if we get back to the beach we can find something. i’m sure chishiya will know what to do.” she looks up from your wrist momentarily before dejectedly sighing. 

her hand is gentle on your arm as she holds onto you, refusing to let go. “okay.” 

your wrist hurts even more by the time you get back to the beach. kuina pulls you down to the basement immediately, desperately in search of chishiya. you do your best to keep your jacket over your hand. the party continues to rage on around you. drunk make-outs, shots of alcohol, and hard drugs surround you as kuina guides you through the crowd. 

you make your way into the hotel and through one of it’s many corridors- places you didn’t even know existed. the tunnel is dark as you walk through it until you arrive at a small, dark room. a table makes up the majority of the space, complete with a few stray candles and other miscellaneous things. you notice a few bandages and a knife spread across the table. 

chishiya is already there, silently watching as kuina pulls you inside before shutting the door behind you. she wraps her arm around you. “they’re hurt.” 

“where?” you pull your jacket off, revealing your arm. it looks even worse in the light. the red splotches have turned into various shades of dark purple and green. kuina tenses beside you. chishiya gently pulls your hand closer, flipping your arm to examine it. you wince when he gently presses against the bone. “it’s a fracture. we have enough here to cast it.” 

“thank you.” you watch as he pulls out a variety of medical supplies, wrapping a bandage around your arm multiple times. kuina sits beside you, holding your hand the whole time. she occasionally presses little kisses against your shoulder until chishiya finishes. 

“be careful for the next few weeks.” you nod. 

kuina wraps her arms around your waist, leaning against your shoulder. “i’m glad you’re okay,” she whispers. 

“i’m glad you’re okay too.”

[ruinationz]

i'm on life support after wgriting htis good god that was horrendous. 5,500+ words. finding frankie fic. we're not normal. inspired by the mountain goats song of the same name, thank you @yoursminehourss for being an inspo i love you my friend. read all of his shit NOW. ok fic under the cut. vomits

"But stars don't just leave after a season, do they...?"

They stood dead center in the middle of a darkened room, the only source of light coming from the television across. The air was thick with a sour, nauseating scent; Most likely due to the amount of dead contestants littering the floor.

Their eyes followed the tips of the red and green lines, snaking up the right edge of the television as profits and viewership skyrocketed like never before.

Green light flooded their vision as bolded letters materialize on the screen, confetti raining down from the top: "Renewed for another season".

They looked over their shoulder, rotten flesh covered in fabric crushed underfoot.

A pair of beady eyes, glistening in the shadows, met theirs.

It's only up from here.

turn the volume up real high,

all of that money, look at it fly,

and you smoking like a chimney

Henry could tell he truly was brought to life again from the dull, throbbing sensation of a headache creeping back into his head once he came to.

Oh, wasn't he just the luckiest guy in the world?

Maybe he owed some sick, twisted form of gratitude to that "lucky contestant"; They had brought the Palace back into the light, after all, getting the game show approved for a brand-new season to boot.

Alongside that, what they had in store for him in particular was downright merciful. If it were up to the higher-ups, Henry would probably have been punished beyond belief for the kind of things he'd mouthed off to a participant about. Maybe he'd be replaced entirely as a mascot! (And if they really wanted to make him suffer, they'd switch him out with those wretched red things that only scream and explode, not too different from what they did to-)

But that contestant? Well, they did the exact opposite of that.

...

...To be fair, the contestant didn't really do anything to Henry, positively or negatively. He only saw them once he regained consciousness in the storage room (presumably they were working to assist in his repairation), and otherwise they spent most of their time doing god-knows-what somewhere far, far away from all the other mascots.

What was it that made them avoid everyone, exactly? Was it fear? (He had chased them down at least twice, after all; Though he thought they might have liked him a bit better when he returned Deputy, albeit mangled, to them...) Or...

Was it a sense of superiority?

The thought made Henry's (fake) blood boil a bit. Were they truly self-centered enough to be that easy to persuade? He'd taken the less-fortunate contestants to be nothing but idiotic before, but the winner? Anyone with half a brain would've taken the money and ran far from the Parkour Palace, not be gullible enough to agree to being the big "star of the show", thinking they're hot shit and letting themselves get used by-

BRRRRRRRINGGGGG!

Henry hissed at the shrill sound stabbing through his nonexistent ears, gripping the sides of his head immediately as the rattling of the incoming call reverberated through his neck.

If that blind fool was going to bring him back for another season, they could've at least made this idiotic fully-functionable telephone a little less physically unbearable to have for a cranium. He wrapped his fingers around the headset, seizing it from the switch-hook and pressing it closer to his face.

"...Hello?" He rasped out, making an attempt to mask the strain in his voice as much as possible.

"Yes, hello? Is this a Mr. 'Henry Hotline' speaking?"

His heart sank at the all-too familiar voice coming from the receiver. "Speak of the devil and he shall appear," I suppose, he thought to himself, muttering a curse under his breath.

The Other laughed on his end. "It's been a hot minute, my call-up companion! I do hope I'm not interrupting anything you're doing, hmm?"

What Henry wanted to say was "Yes, I'm busy trying to have a moment of peace for once in my life after the higher-ups decided to blow my brains up, so why don't you go and buzz off you buck-toothed bastard," but he was forced to hold back; If he hadn't received a punishment now, that would certainly be the final straw to grant him one.

"I'll assume that's a 'no' on your part," Perhaps the phone paused to find a more appropriate response a bit too long, prompting the Other's voice to buzz through the speaker once more.

"...I...Is there anything you need, sir?" He twisted the cord around his fingers, a nervous subconscious motion, as he spoke.

"Oh, anything I 'need', you say?" A pause.

"Well, I may or may not need you in my offices at the moment. If, of course, it's not much trouble!"

Henry would have expressed his disdain at those words if he wasn't aware of the constant surveillance cameras lurking in every corner. He knew the Other's little empty gestures far too well: He'd give you an option to do something, when in reality you never had a choice to begin with.

It was better to go along with the game he wanted to play.

The phone balled up his free hand, pulling on the cord and adding a further strain to the cable attaching his dangling head to his body. "Y-Yes, sir, I'll... I'll be right there."

"FANTASTIC!" Henry flinched as the Other's voice reached a completely-innappropriate-for-inside level. "Let me fetch you an elevator to the utilidors, and you'll be there in a jiffy. See you soon!"

"But- But wait, what exactly do you-"

The line went dead with a quiet beep beep beep before Henry could finish speaking. Sluggishly, he hung up the receiver as he made his way into the elevator that had opened up somewhere in his peripheral vision.

Whatever that rabbit wanted with him now, it better have been worthwhile.

So much for being there in a "jiffy".

Thank goodness that he hadn't ended up across the railings, but Henry wished that the elevators at least landed on the same level as the Intercom; A few sets of stairs would have been easy for anyone else to ascend without a head that felt like it weighed 2 tons on their shoulders.

Knees still crying out in pain from all of the effort, he trudged down the corridor and turned the corner, swinging his head into the doorway of the room where the Other resided.

The rabbit was sitting in one of the many plastic chairs they had lying around somewhere in the storages, knees raised high and body hunched over in an attempt to sit at the level of the piece of furniture; A laughable sight, but granted, these chairs were meant to be used by a small child and not a massive mechanical lagomorph.

His attention was focused on a CRT television before him, removed from its initial location on the wall of security footage and placed in the center of the desk instead. Shifting colors illuminated the rabbit's face in the dimmed room, the pearly-white sheen of plastic teeth reflected in the light.

The Other must have eventually noticed Henry in the doorway, neck of metal coils swiveling with a creak to meet his gaze. An equally springy arm raised, the remote in its grip pausing the TV with a click.

A minute of deafening silence, perhaps two or three, passed between them.

It was an odd quirk the Other had, staring someone down like that; Was it because of how small his eyes were, or was it simply for the dramatics? Henry assumed the latter, though the former didn't seem so unlikely.

...

"HENRY HOTLINE!" The rabbit finally exclaimed, voice booming through the small room as he clapped his gloved hands together in what Henry took to be joy. "What an absolute delight it is to see you! I've been-"

"Could you get to the point, please?"

A pause. The Other's everlasting grin seemed to falter a bit, and Henry mentally berated himself for even speaking out at all. But the former didn't seem to pay much mind, perking up as he broke through the silence once more.

"Ah, yes!" He chirped, turning his attention to the television in front of him.

"Well, I thought it'd be pleasant for the both of us if we had a bit of...'downtime', if you could call it that! After all, I'm sure you and Frankie are just tuckered out from all the preparation for our brand-new season!"

The Other reached a coiled arm back, taking a hold of a plastic chair similar to that of the one he was sitting upon and slowly dragged it to his side, placing it upright and clasping his hands around the remote on his lap.

...Seriously?

What was he even doing? If that freak wanted to watch television together, he could've just said so, instead of building it up like it was some kind of suspenseful, mysterious thing.

...

The Other patted the seat next to him with an oversized hand, a hint of insistence in the motion.

...Well, it's not like Henry had anything else to do.

Or that he could say "no", for that matter.

The robotic rabbit's ears raised a bit as Henry made his way toward the chair, the childish piece of furniture creaking under his weight as he slowly sat himself down. A cover to something in the corner of his eye caught the phone's attention-

...Ah, it was one of those.

The company behind them all, of course, did other things besides running a gore-y abomination of a game show; Toys, movies, cartoons and god knows what else were promoted nearly everywhere around the Parkour Palace. They gloated often, signage everywhere always claiming how successful they were as the "World's Largest" in practically everything.

If that truly was the case, why were they struggling with bankruptcy to the point of livestreamed murder?

Another click of the remote brought Henry back to the present. He rested his hands on his head and peered closer at the TV, making an attempt in adjusting his vision—long-used to the dark of his areas—to the program before him.

Eye-straining technicolor hues lit up the room around the two: Frankie's cartoon show, one season out of the many that they'd produced when a Mr. "Stan Ellie" still had a hold of the brand—Or so he heard, from hushed conversations behind closed doors.

From what the phone could gather within the episode displayed before them, the cartoon counterparts of him and Frankie had an argument over who was the superior entertainer out of the two, and the rest of the episode's plot mainly consisted of the duo attempting to out-do each other in every way possible; A shallow and silly conflict, created to be entertaining yet simple enough for a child's mind to comprehend.

A minute dribbled away, maybe more, as the cartoonish antics played out before him...

"This is one of my favorite parts that's coming up."

Henry realized he'd been nodding off for most of the episode's duration when the Other leaned in close to his head to whisper to him, forcing his attention back to the television.

"Oh Frankie, what a fool I've been!"

Now both of the animated mascots were together on a stage, in complete shambles thanks to what Henry assumed to be one comical competition too many.

"I'm terribly sorry, Frankie. I spent all my time trying to upstage you, and now BOTH of our shows are ruined! Could you ever forgive me for this?"

The cartoon phone looked downright ashamed, but Frankie didn't appear to pay much mind.

"Aw, Henry, of COURSE I'd forgive you! In fact, I should probably be the one asking you the same."

"...Really?"

"Well, of course! I shouldn't have been hot-headed enough to bet on eachother in the first place. Our friendship is way more important than some silly competition!"

No one as stubborn as these characters had been prior would ever admit they were at fault in real-life, but the conflict needed to be forgotten by the next episode to keep the show interesting.

But somehow, in some way, Henry found himself more drawn to the television than ever as the animated rabbit continued.

"So, what d'ya say, Henry? Let bygones be bygones and still be friends?"

The animated rabbit looked at the phone expectantly with open arms. Silence, until the latter broke into a grin.

"...Well, I don't see why I'd say otherwise."

The two characters hugged each-other, a simple resolution made to warm the heart and make way for another episode, where it would be completely forgotten in favor for another set of antics.

Henry leaned closer to the television. His eyes locked in, onto the rabbit nuzzling himself into his cartoon counterpart's chest with a smile. Onto that sickeningly sweet display, before it blinked to darkness and back to the credits sequence.

The thump-thump-thumping cadence against his chest synched with that of the throbbing in his head.

He shot up out of his seat, despite the protesting of his legs, already sore from earlier.

"I-I—" Henry's words caught in his throat as he attempted to suppress his shaking, only worsened by how the Other slowly turned to look him in the eye.

"—I need to excuse myself for a moment, please."

Perhaps the Other was saying something to the phone when he stumbled through the doorway, but it was drowned out by his footsteps echoing through the hallway as he took himself far, far, far away from the Utilidors.

"Ah! Henry, you'll miss..."

The Other found himself trailing off, hearing Henry's stomping grow fainter and fainter down the halls.

Silence.

He sighed, pausing the television and drawing his attention to the security footage before him, then to the microphone of the intercom.

Seemed like it was time to trade out shifts for the night.

Eventually, his body couldn't take the strain of travel any longer. Henry found himself falling to a carpeted floor, chest heaving with uneven breath.

As he dragged himself toward a wall, scrubbed clean of the mural he'd scrawled on in oxidized blood before, he looked up at the cartoon visage of himself printed across every inch of the room.

He was surrounded by a reflection of something- No, someone he was meant to be before all of this. The ideal of someone who was happier than him. Someone who still had everything he wanted and deserved in life.

Someone who still had his best friend.

Tucking his knees to his chest, Henry put his head in his hands.

And for the first time, in what seemed like ages, he cried.

Alone.

shadows crawled across the living room's length,

i held on to you with a desperate strength,

with everything, with everything in me

It wasn't supposed to go this way.

When the licks of the incinerator's flames dissolved into an eerie ice-cold numbness, when the power began to surge through every circuit in his body again, when his senses returned, vision locking itself onto the visage of the fleshy face of a contestant, that was the first thing that Frankie had concluded to himself.

And he hated it.

Ever since the show started broadcasting, a simple set of rules was enforced, always playing out at Frankie's advantage: If the contestants ever got cocky and decided to try and cheat, he would come in and make sure they were put in their place. It was just routine.

And Frankie? He loved routine.

That was the only thing he could genuinely like in the Parkour Palace.

Doing what he did, of course, would always result in a death or two—But who really cared? He'd show up, make a scene, cause some scares and shed some blood. Maybe get a snack out of it, too. That's what he was made for. That's how it was supposed to go.

Frankie was the villain. The poster-boy. The big bad.

The star of the show.

...

And then, after 57 long (short was a better word for them) seasons, someone won for once.

And his little routine was torn to shreds right in front of his eyes.

Suddenly, he wasn't allowed to catch and kill that "Lucky Contestant", when it was perfectly fine to hunt them down before they won. Suddenly, they were with the big-bosses at the forefront of hush-hush conversations about "funding" and "budget" and how they would be working in the next season.

Suddenly, that cheater was the star now.

It wasn't fair.

Not at all.

It was called Frankie's Parkour Palace. It was Frankie's cereal, Frankie's this, Frankie's that, Frankie's EVERYTHING! Everything in that place was all his! He was in charge, not them!

But here he was, slouching on the seat of some stupid couch while the Lucky Contestant sat across from him.

Frankie forgot why he was even here, or what room this was supposed to be in the first place. It was probably some crappy fancy-schmancy lounge, for the higher-ups to hang out in and supervise everything. The only thing he did know was that it reeked of cigar smoke, emanating from that of one in the Contestant's hand.

Little Lucky Contestant, their shining star, their golden goose, all dressed up in the same suit as before. Though of course they had to be as decorated as possible, wearing some kind of magician's outfit instead of the regular garb. Probably the big-bosses' idea.

He watched them tuck the cigar under their mask, taking it away as a smoke ring crept from underneath with a light exhale before it dissipated mid-air.

"...So, did you catch all that?"

Oh right, they were actually saying something before.

"Alright, I guess not? Wouldn't hurt to repeat it, I suppose."

Smartass.

Frankie grumbled and sank further into his seat, the Contestant pulling up some kind of display on a newly-repaired Deputy Duck. Red and green lines, a bunch of numbers he didn't know or care about. They went on about some kind of 'game plan' for this year's season, stupid limitations he already knew about, technical terms he didn't want to bother with.

"—Now, I've been watching you guys for a while, and I know this is a lot different than what the show usually does. But, hear me out on this. Me and Frankie—"

Frankie's head shot up at his name. He savored the Contestant's discomfort—Apparent, despite their face still being concealed by a mask, just lifted out enough at the bottom for them to speak and smoke.

"...Oh, right. I meant the, um...the other Frankie."

A pause. Their head shifted from side to side. "...The real Frankie."

The sneer on the rabbit's face faded immediately. All joy that he felt from the situation had dissolved, leaving a new sensation in its wake.

Anger.

The real Frankie? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Of COURSE he was real! Was that little cheater trying to imply he was some fake?

Bullshit. If anyone around here was fake, it was that freak wearing his own face.

The Other.

The Other was supposed to be just that: Lesser than, an "other", a byproduct. The creep wasn't even supposed to do or mean anything; All he existed for was to just be some announcer for the show, a narrator for the contestants' ultimate demises. Last-minute they slapped a nasty old suit on him, shoved him in the Utilidors and said he was 'another' of him just to get more attention and drag their show out of bankruptcy.

But out of the blue, that smiling bastard—someone who was supposed to be cut out entirely after the last season, at least from what he'd heard—had the audacity to think he was superior? The audacity to talk like he was one of the higher-ups? To talk to the player, drag them into this show and ruin everything Frankie had?

The audacity, to make himself out like he was the "real" one?

That wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. This wasn't how the rules were supposed to go, not at all, he hated them all and how they came in and changed everything and ruined everything he had and they messed up his game show messed everything up and he was just so FUCKING ANGRY-

And everything boiled over.

In one swift motion, Frankie struck the Contestant in mid-smoke with his hand, the cigar and Deputy clattering onto the floor. He flipped the table over, the contents of the ashtray scattering everywhere like acrid-smelling snow. Then he kicked the objects to the wall. Stomped them a bit for good measure, but the stupid duck barely got scratched. Great, they poured money into upgrades for that thing too.

Now the rabbit's head swiveled around and he was cursing at them, screaming over the sound of their coughs. He didn't care if his words were coherent or not, voice broken and not used to speaking, as long as it got the point across to that cheater. He wanted to spite them, get them mad, spill his guts and show them how badly they screwed his life over.

Did that fraud really think they were all high and mighty just because they won? Yeah, right. When the higher-ups had another star in their clutches they'd throw them right back to the side, just like they did to him. They were just as fucked as everyone else was.

Frankie hated the Contestant, and he sure as hell hoped they hated him back as he turned his back to them, slamming the door open and stomping away.

The higher-ups are probably going to get after me for breaking their rules.

So, what? Who cared what the higher-ups thought? If they were gonna get so mad at Frankie for playing by the "brute" role, maybe they shouldn't have given it to him in the first place.

They always had something to complain about with him. It was always something, like "Oooooh, Frankie, don't dooooo that, that's not in the scriiiiiiptttt," or some other excuse to limit what he did. That, or they thought he was too dumb to listen to anything.

Well, if the bosses thought Frankie was dumb, he was gonna think they were dumb right back. He didn't need them anyway. All a bunch of morons, never taking him seriously and never letting him—

The rabbit's thoughts were cut short as he slammed face-first into the grate of a vent, unceremoniously tumbling out and falling onto a carpeted floor.

...

As Frankie sat himself up and slowly began to untangle the metal coils making up his limbs, the fire coursing through his core started to fizzle out, a chilling sensation arriving in its wake.

He knew what that meant all too well, and he despised it. The rage in his gut was going to be replaced with a cold hard lump, all the strength would fade from his body and leave him feeling crushed, and he'd start having second thoughts and second glances, and—

—No, he wasn't about to let that happen. He needed to hold onto what he had now. He needed to think something, do something to keep the fire going. Light it up. Pour some gas on. Let the flames spread farther and farther, so by the time it's all over he won't feel anything at all. Not like he wasn't used to it after-

And ears perking up, a sound caught his attention.

Looks like he wasn't alone.

The rabbit tugged himself up from the ground. Maybe it was one of those "Noob Noobs". He sure could use one of those as a chew-toy, he needed something to sink his teeth into. They were pretty much an infestation at this point, so what would one less in the Parkour Palace hurt?

And the farther and farther that he stomped away from the vents to the source of all the noise...

...

...The more and more it began to sound like static in his head, a familiar tone of voice.

Huh, so that's what it was.

Frankie rarely saw anyone crying in the Parkour Palace. Maybe he did, at least a few times during the season's run; Typically it was one of the contestants, hopeless and afraid, hunched over in some corner somewhere completely vulnerable and ripe for the picking. But aside from that, he'd never really seen anyone doing it after-hours.

Let alone when it was one of the other mascots.

Frankie didn't exactly know what Henry's role was supposed to be in the game show. He did know he was popular—definitely not as popular as the rabbit was, but enough for him to be an audience favorite and keep himself on for another season.

Maybe it was his mascot counterpart that made him so well-liked; All the artwork around the Palace showed him as a charming, charismatic character, constantly smirking or smiling for the chat to lose its mind.

But Henry wasn't smiling now.

The humanoid phone was leaned on the wall across from Frankie, legs tucked to his chest and head in his hands as his shoulders shook with each sob.

The rabbit felt his body step forward on its own accord. Despite their ability to add blood to the mascots, the higher-ups hadn't installed any fake tears for them; That explained how dry Henry's face was, when he looked up at the sound of Frankie's foot coming in contact with the carpet.

"F-FRANKIE!" He exclaimed, stumbling up from the ground and backing further into the wall.

"I-I'm...I really am sorry! I was just... um..."

...

Frankie blinked, observing the phone as he shrank beneath his presence, his stammering devolving into nonsense before trailing off.

The silence was deafening.

Henry must have concluded that Frankie wasn't doing anything to him—not like he could in the first place, it felt like he was standing in quicksand—as he slumped forward, re-assuming his position on the wall as he curled into himself again.

Slowly, one foot in front of the other, Frankie crept towards Henry's side, sitting down on the carpet to meet his level. He silently observed him, ears twitching as he heard the phone's whimpers resume.

The one thing that Frankie genuinely liked was routine.

But there was something else that he liked, too—and it was a confusing thing, rattled his body down to its very core with an unfamiliar warmth. It was something that twisted in his chest, flashing an idea in the back of his mind.

...No, he couldn't do that.

Why did he feel so conflicted about this? Why was he so drawn towards the situation? That wasn't in-character for him. That wasn't how it was supposed to go. But then again: he was the one who was mad at the higher-ups, so why did he have to stop himself to comply with their rules?

Frankie flexed his claws, mind racing with his mental debate with himself, until he finally let out a low, heavy sigh.

He'd made up his mind.

It took Henry a moment to register it all.

Somehow, Frankie had made the decision to rest his head on top of his, coiled arms wrapping themselves around his center. The metal was ice-cold to the touch, but in an... almost grounding sense.

...But why?

Why would Frankie do this at all? He could have chosen to do anything else with Henry, maybe drag him back to the Other for what he'd done. He could have left him.

So why would he decide to stay with him instead?

Henry just didn't know how to react. All he could do was cry harder, gripping onto the springs draped around his body with all he could as the rabbit pressed further into him.

Whatever reason that Frankie had to stay, he just hoped it would let him do it for just a moment longer.

and i handed you a drink of the lovely little thing

on which our survival depends

people say friends don't destroy one another;

what do they know about friends?

Lounging around on a couch was certainly different when it wasn't in the Contestant's old dingy apartment.

Everything was a lot more different, really, at least to them; Like smoking, but now they were doing it with some fancy cigars hailing from Cuba instead of cheap, crappy packs of cigarettes from the gas station that they'd burn through.

Said cigar was currently on the floor along with the table, as well as Deputy, who was currently kicking his legs and squawking as he struggled to get himself right-side up.

The Contestant sighed, grabbing Deputy from the floor and brushing the residue from the ashtray off of his screen. He gave a small qua-quack in what they took as gratitude. They didn't speak duck, after all.

Maybe I struck some kind of chord with that other Frankie, they thought, putting a hand to their throat that still stung with the bitter aftertaste of tobacco.

Before the Contestant could contemplate further the intercoms above buzzed to life, sending a jolt of shock through their body as a voice cut through the fizzling static.

"LUCKY CONTESTANT!"

Oh. It was just Frankie. They relaxed their shoulders, tilting their focus to the speakers above as the voice continued on.

It was a routine they were well-adjusted to by this point. To try and even up the workload of preparing for the new season, them and Frankie would split up their workload through shifts. He'd do surveillance around the Parkour Palace, the Contestant would do some of the financial stuff around it, and vice-versa when the time came to trade things out.

In this case, it was the latter's turn to watch over the cameras for the night. Deputy Duck tilted his head to look up at them as they made their way to the elevators that had already opened up nearby, the door closing behind the two.

"There you are, my Lucky Contestant!"

Frankie had reached a gloved hand out to pat the Contestant on the head in greeting. They readjusted their mask once he'd finally let go, straightening their posture as they stood before him.

"Good to see you too, Frank."

The rest continued like it always did. Frankie slipped through the doorway with a "Good luck, and good night!", leaving the Contestant to their own devices in the Intercom Room. They scooted a plastic chair (was there always two of them in there?) towards the CCTV footage, placing Deputy on the desk beside them as they watched through the cameras.

"Back to the old night shift. Right, Deputy?" They mumbled, petting the duck on his plastic head.

Quack.

"Yeah, me too."

The only thing they had to worry about was eyestrain, given they did this whole gig for hours on end. Then again, it wasn't too hard to pass the time; they were pretty used to keeping themselves awake for a long while. Sucked that things were uneventful for the most part, though, but at least it was an easy job.

...

...And then, they saw something out of the corner of their eye. They leaned closer into one of the screens, trying to track whatever movement they picked up on...

Huh, you don't see that every day.

One of the only interactions that the Contestant had seen between Henry and 'Frankie' had given the idea that the two weren't on the best of terms. So naturally, the last thing they expected to be seeing on the security cameras were the two holding onto one another, leaned on one of the walls in Connections.

They broke away from each other, Henry's head bobbing slightly as he supposedly spoke to the robotic rabbit. Was he laughing a bit? Given the lack of audio from the televisions, it was impossible to tell anything that was going on.

The Contestant watched Henry get up and walk away from the wall, Frankie dragging himself behind him and out of the camera's view.

They leaned back in their seat, tilting their head up to look at the ceiling above them.

The sound of white noise emanating from the televisions felt a bit louder in their head than it did before.

thunder clouds forming, cream white moon

everything's gonna be okay soon

maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day

And the Other made his way through the Utilidors, the memory of every prior event replaced by a plan for the next day's preparation for the season somewhere in his mind,

carried you up the stairs that night

all this could be yours if the price is right

i heard cars headed down to oblivion up on the expressway

And Frankie and Henry both went their separate ways for the night, silently wondering if the other would remember what had happened by the time morning came,

your drunken kiss is as light as the air

maybe everything that falls down eventually rises

And Deputy tilted his head to the side as he watched the Contestant with confusion, wishing he had the voice to ask what exactly they had seen,

our house sinking into disrepair

And, deep down, it began to dawn on the Contestant that maybe they hadn't earned anything at all—

ah, but look at this showroom, filled with fabulous prizes

[baby-dragons-art]

Consequences

Short story.

{What happens when you openly defy the dark lord in his own home}

Sauron x OC

《 From the tale of Sauron and the Haradrim Rejha》

She knew it was only a matter of time before her luck had run out. Before the leash yanked back a new. She had gotten close, so close as to reach the platform to the lower levels.... to fresh air. The very thought of fresh air giving her confidence and strength to push onward, to find a way. She had been so close.

Read more below

It was only when she found the platform that she was caught. It must have been strange seeing her there, un accompanied and wide-eyed. Of course, she was caught. A skulking Uruk, rousing from its stupor, snorted aloud and emerged from the alcove overlooking the platform. She had been careless.

Any fight she had left in her was all but spent on her defense against the stinking thing. Not her whit or blade spared her. Though she was not starved, she was little match against the creature and earned a sporting cut on her jaw as a reward. A favorable price to pay compared to what was to come.

She had been caught. This time, there would be no excuses. No forgiveness. If only she had been more careful.

With in little time, Rejha was standing in a familiar, circular parlor, a single man like guard not far behind. Jagged rock of cut, black caged around the room, framing lamp lit walls of deeper black. Only some flash of color graced her eyes. Red. A flicker of gold. She stared downward harshly. Her face reflected in the polished black, offering little comfort in the soft red hues of the oil lamps hanging above.

She could hear her heart racing in her ears, her knuckles white as they gripped her sleeves, persperarion glittered across her forehead despite the bitting cold.

At last, the sound of the adjacent doors opening stabbed her ears, flinching, she bit the inside of her cheek.

Soft foot fall and the gentle hiss of heavy fabrics slithered toward her at a steady pace, not a word spoken. She need not look up to know the individual. In the cold, the heat that enveloped from his presence was enough. He was a forges fire even from a distance. As the footsteps came before her, Rejha pursed her lips and lowered her head all the more.

Black folds of void like fabric pooled before her muddied boots like a tar pit. Though the sight made her knees tremble, she dare not close her eyes. She dare not raise her head.

Finally, the dreaded words were uttered. Her stomach dropping like a stone.

"You disobeyed." Came the voice. Like fingers over silk and blades to flesh. Rejha cringed at the sound. The silence following his words a relief.

She breathed out cautiously and uttered as firmly as she could.

"I did not leave the tower." She spoke bravely. "I did not go beyond your sight. I remained in Barad-dur as-."

She was cut off by a hiss of air above her. A sound that silenced her immediately.

"You think me so plain that your words would hide your true intent?" Under her jaw, Rejha felt a leathered hand take her chin and raise her gaze. The heat from his touch, nearly scalding. Now, looking upward, Rajha faced the full breadth and horror of her host. Black was all she could see, save for two piercing eyes that shone down brightly beneath a low hanging veil. The eyes of Sauron. Even veiled the sight wearied her to the bone.

"After my generosity, I had hoped you would show some respect as gratitude."

His thumb stroked over the cut she had received from the Uruk, the folds of the veil tilting ever so.

"I swear..." Rejha breathed carefully, her lungs feeling shallow. "I was not trying to leave... I just wanted to see the sky. Breath real air again. I am owed that."

The dark lords stature adjusted to full height and released her face. His hand disappeared under the veil, a soft suckling heard, and soon, the blood was gone from his thumb.

"You have shifted along the edge of my patience, Harad. You are owed what I see fit to give you."

The heat of his gaze was suffocating as she held eye contact with him. It was not out of feilty or foolishness that she did so. But the fear that if she looked away, he would strike her down, like a wild animal cornered.

"Yet as it stands, you have done little to earn such favor."

Rejha clenched her jaw, trying to compose herself despite his words. She must tread carefully. His voice was as honey, but his viperous words were meant to rile. To push her on to do something foolish.

Her hand ghosted the blade at her side. Her arm aching to seize the hilt and cut through her way to freedom. But such were foolish fantasies. How long would she stand against him in a fight? A second? A few seconds, if he were gracious. She would not last long. Nevertheless, her desire to draw her blade ever present.

"You can't keep me prisoner here when I have done no crime." She spoke evenly, slowly, as best she could. "My people expect me to return, I am needed home. What more could I serve to you if I am kept here, purposeless?"

Sauron's head perked. Whether he was taken aback, insulted, or intrigued by her was unknown. Though the heat of his gaze did not relent in the slightest. It intensified.

"Who is to say what your purpose is to me?" He lulled, now leisurely walking about her as though admiring something she did not see. "Is that for you to determine?" His hand gestured toward her in strict fashion. Displaying, slender, leather clad fingers, only his ring finger was missing from his hand. Rehja's stomach turned, averting her eyes she would rather stare into his gaze than look at his hand.

The hand that was cut....

"If it is my will, if my word commanded you, who are you to question it? Is it not my wisdom and power that leads your people to victory? Am I not your sire?"

Gritting her teeth, Rejha flinched as his hand retracted into the void of his garments. She felt as though she were tettering on the edge of a cliff, desperate to stand upright.

"A thousand times you are, my lord. I can not comprehend your grand designs, but nor can I serve you cut from my purpose. I am dust with out my garrison. Let me return to my people. Let me serve you as I am born to, with your armies. I can be of greater use as a scout, archer or emissary. Please, lord. See that I am perishing, be merciful."

At this, a huff of amusement rattled her ears as a sickening chuckle wandered from his chest. From the moment she had first opened her mouth infront of him there had been little hesitation or fear. True the woman had been terrified in his presence but spoke her mind regardless. He could see the expressions in the eyes of her garrison. Horrified at her imputence. But how refreshing it was.

"Your tongue does you credit in only that it amuses me." He hummed. "Your betters would grovel at my word, yet you quarell with me." His slender, towering form circled about her till he stood behind her, leaning down over her shoulder. "Were I in a less savory mood-." He cooed, his fingers stroking the intricate bangles of her head piece resting on her temple. "I would have you on your knees, humble you till you begged for my pardon."

Rehja's face took on heat and redness. She turned her head from his touch, scowling to repress the intent of his words.

A gesite that did not go unknoticed. Sauron removed his touch and spoke further.

"As you amuse me, I shall be merciful, aleviate you of your woes by putting them to rest. Your garrison is not coming back for you, Rejha. They have been commanded out of Mordor to continue their orders. Therefore, any attempt to leave Barad-dur would be as pointless as it would be deadly to you. Your people have gone."

A shallow gasp escaped Rejha's lips as the silken words of Sauron hissed into her ear. The very idea of such a betrayal cutting into her very chest. It could not be true. They would never leave her behind, they were family. Her brothers and sisters in battle.

And yet there she was. Still in with in the dark lord's tower, standing alone with in the very center of his evil. Alone.

Her garrison had gone.... she had been left behind. The devastation of reality gripped her as though her heart had been squeezed till it burst.

"Given this." Sauron continued. "It is pleasing to me that you are to remain in Barad-dur as long as I require it. To serve me as I deem you should."

Tears welled in Rejha's eyes, her vision blurred from fatigue and grief. She could not help it. After waiting so long, desperate to see her garrison again, to finally go home, the news of their departure was more than she could bare.

A pained breath escaped her lips as she turned back and stared into the blackened void behind her. His two eyes watching intently.

"You ordered this...?!" She gaped, tears falling from her grey eyes. Sauron's head tilted downward, eyes fixed on hers. He did not hide his hand in this.

Rehja turned her gaze from his, lowering her eyes to harshly wipe her tears away. Her greif was crushing, nit only has she lost her freedom but any hopes of seeing Harad again. What could she do against what has been done? How was she to overcome the walls that had been closed in on her?

No answers were given. Only frantic panic and greif as she held her face.

With her face oscured, darkness enveloped her. She felt his hands on her shoulders.... the left one missing the ring finger. A heavyness like waves of thick fabric settled about her.

His breath was at her ear. His grip held her steady yet seemed dire in some way as she tried to console herself.

"Harad is your past." Came his voice, a lull that was sickeningly sweet to her ears. She almost fell into him from their honied tone. "You belong here now. With me."

Gasping, her heart racing, the cage she was trapped in shrinking, Rejha cried out. She could see only darkness. Feel only the heat closing around her. The dessert, her people, her home vanishing before her eyes into the jaws of fire.

Rehja pushed her arms outward, casting Sauron back in desperation. It was only far enough for her to reach her for blade and draw it. "No!" She yelled, tears streaming down her face as she raised her arm to strike him. If she was left behind, never to see her homeland again, then death was her only solace. Her only honor left.

Cursing in her own language, she made a swipe to create some distance between them. She managed one cut to his garment that was utterly harmless and swiftly found her wrist caught in his grasp.

Firmly, her arm was pulled to the side as she fought against him. A brave but fruitless endeavor. For no sooner had she cursed his name than he uttered one word that seased her movements entirely.

The word was harsh. In a language she did not know. Evil. Poison. It turned her stomach and left her without breath. She felt the vibrations of the word tremble about her, ringing in her ears and flushing her mind of all thought.

Rehja felt all strength with in her vanish, her mind became a haze and her will failed her at last.

The blade in her hand fell from her grasp and clattered to the floor loudly. A hand was secured about her lower back keeping her upright as she hung limp.

Staring upward into the veil, she was able to see the shadowed chin of the dark lord beneath. The skin was cold, pale, scarred and unpleasant to behold. Some devistation had befallen him, so much so that his body had been mangled, a horror to behold.

Despite her state and beholding a glimlse of the evil before her, her heart rate slowed. Her breath evened. Her eyes watched him calmly but intently as tears slid down her face. All care had left her.

His gloved hand returned to the cut on her cheek, apprasing it attentively. She felt her body being lifted and pressed against his as her face was brought to the hem of the veil. The the sensation of warmth suckled the cut of all blood.

When that well had run dry, his lips pulled back, a soft sigh following. The gaze under the veil lowered to her exposed neck, finding it unguarded.

Even as his lips were pressed upon her throat, Rejha did not cry out. She found peace, even contentment, despite the horror of reality.

Was she perhapse, even so bold, to find the warmth pleasant? The sensation of lips on her skin welcoming? Was it beyond her to enjoy what was happening? Was this not her purpose to serve the Lord of Mordor?

In a moment, piercing pain like a dagger punctured her throat and sent a jolt through her body that caused her to yelp aloud. Rejha held her mouth agape as an explosion of burning heat blossomed at her neck, spilling down her throat.

Fangs buried into her, lips drinking deeply as though her host were dying of thirst.

Sauron was wholly occupied in her blood as his nostrils flared. A low toned growl purred in his throat and his grip, held tight about her waist. His indulgence into this precious desert spring was a long desired thirst he would not now deny.

She could hear each gulp as blood was stolen from her body. Every suckle loud in her ear. Yet not a care could be had. Her vision blurred. Her breath weakened as each drop of crimson was hoarded, she faded more away into dimness.

"Don't kill me...." Her thoughts begged, while in her minds eye, she wandered from dimness to visions of Harad. Vast dessert of swooping, golden dunes that stretched across a pale blue horizon. She could see it even with her eyes open. Could almost feel it. Smell the air.

"Death is not for you." A voice spoke in her mind. And there in the dunes stood a man in stark white, she was nearly blinded by the sight. Even from a distance, she could see him, a fair elf like being that struck her with his beauty.

But the eyes... they were that of Sauron.... he smiled cockily at her as sandied winds kicked up his garments and disturbed the red, strawberry gold hair.

"I would not be so foolish to deprive myself of my only oasis."

In the cold reality, Rejha's eyes closed fully, a labored breath escaping her lips. She hung limp in darkness, defenseless against the moster at her throat and left alone in a strange land far from her people. Yet despite this, she remained at peace and dreamed of fresh air, dessert sands, and a of a fair stranger with blazing eyes.

[acecasinova]

21 for Lazarus? I’m not super picky about character, it just seems like a fun prompt given all the recent Whump Posting 👀

Micro fic prompts - 21. Collapse

Fuck.

Fucking stupid ass- shit-!

The gutter creaked, then jerked away from the building, sending the rat unlucky enough to be running along it tumbling into the alley below. Rats, generally, have a stunning talent for surviving falls. This rat hit the lid of a dumpster, bounced, and a distinctly humanoid form hit the wet pavement and rolled.

Fuck that hurt.

Hot, stabbing pain radiated from Lazarus' shoulder as he dragged himself up to a sitting position against the alley wall. It mingled with the now dulled throbbing from his side in an unpleasant I-had-more-blood-BEFORE-this-hunt sensation that made him feel cold and sluggish. Just what he needed after that shitshow of a fight. A hiss bubbled up out of his throat, turning into a snarl of frustration thinking about how fast it had gone south.

Idiot! Fucking WATCH where you hunt!

But how was he supposed to know the punk he'd followed would waltz onto the turf of a vampire infested gang? Or that the fuckin pigs who responded would be too? Damn spawn. Territorial as hell AND they're all on the same team. All bending the knee to the same stupid guy. Lazarus had, to his credit as a wiry bastard, held his own fine until he bit one of em. It didn't taste good, but it felt good. Stealing the blood they'd stolen first.

Then he got shot.

Voices behind him shouted. (Maybe if he hadn't been caught up in the fight, he might have realized most vampires don't bite other vampires.) He felt another bullet clip his leg. Shit-! Lazarus had let go of the throat he'd been clamped onto with a yelp, pushing the now more corpse-y corpse away. The cop cruiser's lights threw the building's shadows into sharp contrast, and he dove for one, slipping a block away before they could catch his scent. Adrenaline pounded in his ears as Laz stepped out of the last shadow, not breaking his stride from darkness to pavement. It felt like the roar of the wind between buildings on a particularly stormy day as he pulled himself up- onto a trash can, a dumpster, up the wall of the building and onto the roof. Stupid guns. Stupid spawn.

That's when he'd turned into a rat.

And now he was a boy again. Bleeding on the ground again. But at least he'd put some distance behind him. Hopefully.

Lazarus dug his claws into the wall, dragging himself up to standing- or he tried to. He got about halfway up before a wave of heat slammed into him. His knees buckled, suddenly feeling heavy. Shit. Shit, shit, shit- he didn't want to hide back at the shed (Eurydice didn't need more trouble. Not from him.) But was he out of their turf?

He pushed off the wall, took a step, and crashed into the dumpster with a flurry of curses. So.... maybe it didn't matter if he was or not. He wasn't out of this alley until at least the gunshots closed.

It took more effort than the vampire wanted to admit to pull himself towards and then behind the dumpster. It was cramped, but it was a shelter, and the trash and walls would hide him well enough. Better that way... He thought, pulling a dank, stained blanket up over himself. The smell of trash and mold would blend with his own... musk- maybe dampen the smell of blood, and the thick fabric would keep him from being toasted if the sun touched the alley.

Lazarus shuddered. The feverish heat and adrenaline had both left, leaving him bone tired and cold as he nursed his hurt pride. Undead regeneration or no, he was not going anywhere else tonight.

[rat-typewriter]

Hello! Just read your Clumsy fic with Leon x Reader. It was very good and very true to my daily life😅

I was wondering if you do any angst? Like severely injured and the other person(in this case Leon or the Reader) is extremely worried and trying to save them. Ultimately you can choose if they die or not, but I just love the comfort when the other is dying or bleeding out.

Keep up the amazing work! And also may I draw a scene if you end up writing it? Please and thank you🥰🥰😚

Live to see another day - Leon Kennedy x fem!Reader

notes: ok so remember when RE4 was still relevant like two months ago and I said "hey guys, I've got this fic that'll be finished by friday!" and now its july???? Im so sorry and tysm for the request aussie,,, I loved writing this sm!!!!!!

Summary: You get shot, but Leon is trained in first aid by Saint John's Ambulance (I will write a summary when I'm less tired <3)

warnings: descriptions of injury, blood, guns - nothing too bad, all just average RE stuff, mentions of alcohol

This was not the kind of Thursday you had expected. Pulling a bandage from your kit you tried to remember your first aid training, but cold seemed to make your mind sluggish. The snow fell heavier; the clouds overhead and fields blending into a grey-white mass. 

This was supposed to be a simple mission; a quick in-and-out job. You and Leon had been sent to talk to some locals in a remote mountain town - just gather some information about the hiker disappearances. They had all been friendly and happy to share what they knew; it was odd talking to people who genuinely had no interest in hurting you, but you welcomed the surprise. Yet - as always seemed to be the way - not everyone was friendly. Especially not the man who shot you. Yeah, he wasn’t very nice at all actually.

Apply pressure

Yeah, alright. Apply pressure - okay.

Inhaling deeply, you surveyed the damage on your leg. Your black trousers were soaked in - what you could only imagine to be - blood and clung to your leg. From where you sat you could now see back the way you came. Your stomach dropped. A trail of blood - your blood - cut through pristine white snow. You glanced back down at your leg again; the fabric sticking to your skin. Shakily, you lifted your hands onto the wound. This was going to hurt. 

You pressed down on the gaping wound in your leg. A hiss escaped your mouth, followed by a string of curses. Blinking quickly you tried to focus on breathing steadily as stars danced before your eyes. 

Fucking hell, ouch. Fuck.

Leon, where are you?

Squeezing your eyes shut you remembered the young blonde-haired Leon's boyish grin. He used to be so naïeve and keen. The day he'd asked you out he had practically skipped away afterwards - turning back twice to smile at you and awkwardly offering a little wave before he finally turned the corner.

He had grown a lot since then; you both had. Even so, he never lost his playful nature - something you were glad for. It wasn’t quite the same - since as Leon grew more confident, he also realised how nervous he could make you - which meant that he now knew exactly how to tease you and make you blush. His newfound cockiness just attracted you to him all the more.

Flurries of snow had begun to settle in your hair. It was really cold. Your feet hurt from the cold; your face stung.

I need to get up.

I can't stay here.

With a surge or determination you hauled yourself up into a crouch - then a stand. Pain clawed up your thigh as your muscles cramped and sent you reeling into a nearby tree. Setting your jaw you huffed out a breath.

I'm not fucking dying here.

You took one step, pausing to let the agony rising in your chest settle again - still half-leaning on the tree. Setting off, you made it a few more steps before you faltered. Feeling a stab of pain through your leg, you sucked in the freezing air. As you tried to hobble onwards, one misstep became two and then became five, before you lost your balance entirely. Veering towards the ground, you shot out your hands. At the cost of grazing your hands across the jagged rocks, you were just able to catch yourself. Pausing for a moment, you let the shock of the impact with the hard surface pass, taking deep breaths.

The skin on your hands was raw. It stung in the frigid air. Despite the cold that seemed to overcome the rest of your body, your leg had this burning ache - as if someone was driving a hot poker straight into your bone.  

Something about the eerie silence and monochrome surroundings seemed to undermine time. The signal on your radio had gone dead long ago - something strange about this remote mountain village frying the circuits. To your numb body, struggling through the pain of walking didn’t seem worthwhile. Instead you lay, curled up - as best you could with the state of your leg - in the snow. 

I’m going to die, aren’t I?

I don’t want to die.

I’m so cold.

Then there came a far off sound. The crunching of footfall in the snow.

"Y/N?"

You froze. 

"Y/N?" His voice came again, this time sharper; louder. 

"Leon?" You said, your voice small and hoarse, you tried to push yourself up off the ground, which was not a good idea as it dragged your leg across the gravel. A string of curses leapt from your mouth. 

“Woah, woah-” He knelt at your side, pulling you up into a sitting position with a hand under each of your arms.  "Shit, what happened? You're freezing."

Leaning into his side, you struggled to form words - instead fisting your hands in his coat as you tried to think. The sudden brightness of the white snow made your head buzz, a dull ache running through it.

"I dunno." You grumbled. "Got shot, I guess."

"You guess?" Leon echoed. Although his tone was snarky, you knew he was just trying to keep you calm and focused. He fumbled with his radio in his free hand. "Hunnigan? We're going to need that helicopter after all." 

The sharp pain now spanned the whole of your leg - as though it were resonating up and down the bone. In a single, swift motion, Leon reached over, pressing his palm down onto the wound. You gasped, unintentionally jerking your leg.

“Easy,” He spoke softly, as though to a small, frightened animal - which you supposed was appropriate. “Easy there, deep breaths,”

Remaining firm, he kept his hand in place; you couldn’t help but admire his unwavering confidence. Any kind of hesitation or mistake would have just caused you more pain, 

You grit your teeth, inhaling as he said. Out of the corner of your eye you could see his grimace; the way his nose wrinkled up at the sight of your leg. You couldn’t blame him, the dried blood gave off a sickening metallic smell. You gagged.

“Hey, Y/N?” His tone was playful - maybe a little more upbeat than he intended - an overcompensation to hide the anxious undertone. 

“Hm?” You replied - not necessarily disinterested, but more focused on breathing normally.

"Do you remember when we met?"

You furrowed your brow. Inhale, exhale. "What?" 

"Don't you remember? That time at the party? I vomited in your car."

The memory flooded back. 

The base was loud enough that you felt it buzzing in your feet more than you could hear it clearly. The twenty - maybe thirty? - people throughout the darkened apartment didn’t really seem to care. Or notice, for that matter. 

Despite being a party consisting almost entirely of trainee officers - there was an awful lot of “drunk and disorderly” going on. Not to mention a fair amount of “Indecent exposure” and without a doubt “possession” of some substances. But, hey, you weren’t going to ruin their vibe. 

This definitely wasn’t really your scene. 

You hovered in beside the doorway to the kitchen - unsure of what to do with yourself. It felt wrong to leave so early, but your friends had long since abandoned you and it wasn’t as though they’d miss you anyway. A girl you knew stumbled past you - her blonde hair recognisable anywhere - and for a moment you thought about saying hi. Then you noticed the boy she had in tow, who seemed to be getting awfully handsy.  

Yeah, I’ll just leave them to it.

Abandoning your cup of - let’s be real - who-knows-what, you awkwardly squeezed through the crowd towards the front door. A few boys whistled at you as you tried to slip past them and out into the bleakly lit hallway. Although it was slightly easier to ignore as they were all drunk out their minds - it still made you wrinkle up your nose in disgust.

The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the noise of the party. Letting out a sigh, you stared blankly down the corridor, allowing your eyes to adjust to the brightness.

“Those guys are dicks.” 

You whipped your head around comically fast, confused as to who had spoken. 

“Down here,” He added and you turned, seeing him sat neatly beside the door, just at your feet. He didn’t look at you, instead staring at the wall across from him. Even if you hadn’t been able to smell the beer, you could tell from the way he loosely gripped the bottle that he was smashed.

“Oh - uh, yeah.” you replied. 

“I don’t even like parties.” He said, looking up at you. “I have no idea why I’m here.”

As you held his gaze, shrugging sympathetically - you suddenly were able to place his face. He sat next to you in one of your lectures - it must have been a dull one, because you also remembered (making your face heat up a little) that you had spent a considerable amount of time thinking how cute he was. 

What was his name?

Somehow he looked completely different here - instead of being so tightly strung and nervous that he looked as though he might just collapse if anyone so much as looked at him, he seemed freer; calmer. His hair was messier too, you noticed, as he pushed it back out of his eyes - setting off butterflies in your stomach.

Leon. That was it.

“If it helps, it’s not really my scene either. I’m headed home,” you offered with a small smile. 

"I don't know if you've noticed," He said, matter-of-factly. "But I'm quite drunk, actually."

You stifled a giggle - he was much more fun to talk to like this, rather than his up-tight one word responses. If you were honest, you stopped trying with him within the first few classes, as he never seemed that interested in what you had to say and the moment class ended he suddenly became some kind of record sprinter to leave the lecture theatre.

"I could tell," 

He raised his eyebrows, nodding seriously. "Smart girl,"

For a slightly too long moment he paused and you watched as he searched for his words. It was unbearably cute to see the blonde-haired boy furrowing his brow, clearly thinking as hard as his intoxicated mind would allow. 

"I'd like to go home, but I can’t drive,” He said and then suddenly looked deeply dejected, as though the weight of his words just hit him. He let out a huff and ran his hand through his hair again. “I hate parties.” 

On any other occasion, you would have left the strange drunk guy in the corridor, where he belonged - no matter how cute he was.

Yet here you were, at two am with a very smashed Leon Kennedy in the passenger seat. It was lucky that you hadn’t touched your cup of mysterious liquid at the party, because driving with a passenger who has just vomited into a plastic bag four (maybe five?) times was surprisingly difficult. He was weirdly apologetic about the whole thing, groaning and holding his head.

“I promise I’m not normally this bad.” He gagged again. “God, I’m sorry.”

You tried to sound reassuring as you spoke, but the vile smell was enough to make you gag as well. Although driving quickly would have gotten you out of the rancid car sooner, every time you turned a corner or hit a pothole - the poor boy beside you grew paler.

“It’s ok!” you said, perhaps sounding a little too reassuring, your voice rising several octaves. Although it was possible that he wasn’t used to drinking - you thought, glancing over at Leon, whose knuckles had gone white holding the plastic bag - this was more likely to be something worse. “Not much further now,”

It was lucky the road was empty - as it neared twelve fifty - because you braked much more suddenly than you meant to, lurching both of you forwards slightly. Leon swore and threw a hand over his mouth. You swallowed, trying your best to ignore the retching coming from the seat beside you.

“Wow,” Leon said, his voice raspy. “This is a great way to impress girls.”

That made you laugh. Though you felt a little mean thinking it, you really got the idea that this guy didn’t get around as much as you first thought. He was attractive, sure, in a sort of pretty way - but he gave this overwhelming feeling of lameness; he was constantly sheepish. 

Exactly my type. 

“Oh, yeah - I bet all the ladies love this.” you grinned. “Remind me to arrange our second date once I’ve gotten the smell of sick out of my car.”

He actually laughed, sounding considerably more sober than when he got in. Although you wouldn’t want to admit it, the sound made your heart skip a beat. 

“Wait, so in this hypothetical scenario - I convinced you to come on a date with me?” he said. You could feel him looking at you. “Hypothetical me must be a real charmer.”

Okay, so he definitely was not as sober as you had thought. Heat rushed into your face as you desperately tried to remind yourself that he was drunk. He probably just flirts with everyone when he’s drunk. 

He continued. "Y'know, when I see you in class, I'm normally too scared to even talk to you."

You risked a glance over at him, finding him now staring out of the window into the dark. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, you're like," He paused. "Way out of my league"

Leon was clearly not sober, but spoke with such openness that it was difficult to not take what he said seriously. You focused on the road ahead of you, stopping at a red light - even though the junction was empty. The quiet in the car was by no means uncomfortable, perhaps the knowledge that he wasn’t going to remember this took most of the pressure away. His presence was so unobtrusive - calming, even - that it felt as though you had been friends for years. Although he may not have noticed it, you felt a distinct shift in the air between you. He'd started something; laid the groundwork for something to be built between the two of you. He’d given you a glimpse of who the two of you could be. And once he was sober again, in your next 09.00 AM lecture - he would feel the shift too.

Within a few minutes you pulled up outside his flat - this time doing your best to roll to a stop gradually. He thanked you, a little awkwardly, and apologised for the vomit smell. You smiled and insisted it was no problem. And that was it; he waited outside the door, speaking into the intercom and then disappeared into the flat a moment later.

It was a strange memory. Somehow, with only a few words, he had caught your attention. The whole way home you had thought about him; waiting anxiously for your next lecture. 

Leon adjusted his grip on your leg, which left you hissing in pain - grabbing onto his upper arm. Each breath of icy air stung at your lungs, leaving your head spinning even more violently. 

“Yeah, I remember.” You said. “What about it?”

Leon tipped his head in place of a shrug - avoiding putting you in any more pain - and grinned. “I have absolutely no clue what happened that night.”

That was new. You felt sure you’d heard him talk about it before: to friends - or even family, occasionally - when they asked how you met. As you considered it, he did tend to stay quiet, letting you tell the story - only chipping in with the odd comment. After all, he was practically off his head that night.

Letting out a breathy laugh, you half-grinned; half-grimaced. “I never knew that.” You tilted your head to look up at him, continuing with eager curiosity. “So - wait - did you just think that I just randomly started to talk to you, after like a year of us mutually sitting in silence?”

He laughed. “Something like that.”

Mildly bemused, you snorted. “Oh my God, Leon - if you told me that back then I would have just about died.” 

It was true. Even though, as you got older, your self confidence seemed to grow - back then you were no more than a gangly twenty year-old, who would have crumpled at the first sign of rejection. Embarrassed may as well have been your middle name, since you spent so much time convinced that everyone else thought you were an idiot.

“Hey, I wasn’t complaining,” He said. “When the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen starts chatting to you like you’ve been friends forever - you don’t question it!”

Even after nearly a decade - he still made you blush. 

“Prettiest?”

“Mhm.”

As you struggled to find an answer that wouldn’t make you sound like either a disgustingly soppy romantic or socially inept teenage girl, your attention came back to your surroundings. With Leon there and the shock subsiding, you felt substantially warmer; your pulse was no longer thundering in your ears and while the pain was still by no means bearable, Leon had successfully kept your mind off of it. 

“D’you know how long until someone will get here?” You asked after a moment.

“Not long now, " he said, glancing off into the sky, perhaps waiting to hear the hum of a helicopter in the thick cloud. “It’ll be fine, Y/N.”

And after another seven minutes, you would see that he was right; it would be fine. You’d be operated on by one of the best doctors that the government could muster up and - without too much more hassle, you lived to see another day.

AN: how do you finish fics?????? I just run out of plot and end it like a terrible sitcom?????