#Human Trafficking cw

[coquettesinclair]

by the way if you keep comparing stupid shit to human trafficking i hate you. i genuinely hate you. i hope you get hit by a bus covered in bombs that explode into a bunch of busses

[sokkastyles]

I guess they blocked you, but here it is.

"Currently listening to a podcast episode that addresses trafficking and now I have another reason to be horrified by takes that emphasize isolating and controlling Azula and calling it accountability or “for her own good.”

Because holy shit she hits almost every single thing groomers look for in their victims."

This reminds me of that post saying Azula is a more realistic abuse victim than Zuko because OP said their abuser made them feel like Azula.

What these people don't get is that abusers groom their victims by convincing them they are at fault for the abuse. That's the similarity they are seeing. Azula actually is responsible for her crimes, while abuse victims are made to feel responsible for the abuser's crimes. An abuse victim might identify with Azula in that way, because their abuser made them feel like they were the abuser, and Azula actually is an abuser.

And Zuko actually went through the same thing, only he realized that he was groomed and that he isn't the one at fault and that he didn't have to be complicit in Ozai's crimes anymore and atoned for his part in it.

The difference, though, is that Azula actually did do the things she is being held accountable for. That's why these comparisons are garbage and don't do anything to protect victims.

I actually feel sorry for these people if they genuinely feel this way, and hope that one day they will discover that they aren't Azula, and that their abuser was wrong to make them feel that way.

[ofgentleresolve]

verse: a knight is but a gentleman with a sword ( 3/??? )

reposted from my old blog on april 18th, 2022.

cw for human trafficking.

ANACHRON

n. a terrorist organization that under the guise of pushing humanity forward in the name of science and progress kidnaps scientists for a. their research and b. for manpower and brainpower to fuel their own projects.

Operating in the shadows, ANACHRON first set its eyes upon Shin Seonghun after he became a well-known figure within the time-traveling field. Initially posing as a potential benefactor for his research, ANACHRON quickly turned to their usual harsher means when Seonghun refused the offer to work for them.

Out of fear for the safety of their two sons, Myungsuk and Myungdae, Seonghun and his wife, Shin Chaeryeong moved the family to a remote part of Bristol, Great Britain. However, they wouldn’t remain hidden for long, for after a few years of peace, ANACHRON found them and kidnapped Seonghun and Chaeryeong, leaving the children to fend for themselves.

In the grasp of ANACHRON, Seonghun was forced to work on their projects and though he loathed the organization and feared for the safety of his wife ( and when ANACHRON took him, Myungsuk ), he found ANACHRON’s resources and help on time travel to be rather fruitful, much more than any other progress he had done before. However, much like the other scientists, he longed to be freed and had his wife and his child used to keep him in line. However, because he turned out to be one of their most competent scientists and needed him, Chaeyeong realized that ANACHRON couldn’t ever hurt either her or Myungsuk.

Knowing she had at least some kind of immunity, Chaeryeong sowed the seeds of rebellion and discord amongst the other captives. Under Seonghun’s nose, she and the other captives planned an uprising, one that would not only set them free but also bring ANACHRON to the light. However, during the uprising, a gas leak spilled, and in a sacrifice to save the others, Chaeryeong stopped the spill but also succumbed to an illness triggered by the gas leak. Several of the captives managed to escape, including Myungsuk, but ultimately, ANACHRON remained in tact.

Seonghun was devastated by not just Chaeryeong’s death, but also the disappearance of Myungsuk and at his most vulnerable, gave into the grief. He turned to his work to cope and from the kidnappee, he became the kidnapper. Leaning further into his work, he worked his way up the ranks in ANACHRON until he was the leader. With the organization in the palm of his hand, Seonghun repurposed its main goal ANACHRON to time travel.

ANACHRON still operates in the shadows, but thanks to Seonghun’s skillful maneuvering, they’ve also become a benefactor of sorts for many businesses and even non-profits. Many of these businesses are involved with white-collar crime, but many dips into crimes of other kinds as well. In exchange for money and resources, ANACHRON grants its partners legal immunity via connections with the courts, the police, and the government. Known for bribery of all kinds.

As a part of their philanthropist label, ANACHRON pours a lot of money in scientific research of any kind...they support scientists ( and professors too ) in their research via funding.

Still kidnapping whomever they think they’ll need for their work along with the kidnappee's families....ANACHRON has found that kidnapping more is better...specifically for the scientists, threatening to sell their loved ones into organ trafficking really makes them eager to work.

The businesses and non-profits ANACHRON supports also supply these victims. Either that or if the debt is not paid or an order is not followed, ANACHRON can and will start taking employees too....:/

[oculusxcaro]

🍉 - What is something they have done that they feel the most guilt over? How do they handle this guilt?  Does the guilt ever get resolved?

Random Headcanons

One of if not the biggest thing Khare feels like utter shit about even to this very day? Not helping the other people unfortunate to get locked up and experimented on alongside her. Not while escaping, not going straight to the authorities and telling them about the place the moment she walked free, Khare did absolutely nothing, focusing purely on saving her own hide and the guilt eats away at her every single day. It wasn't as though they were friends but she watched for months as others were subjected to countless experiments and injections like her with many of them dying, if they hadn't been grossly mutated beyond recognition or driven mad as a result. Some of them were like her, young people snatched from the streets by chance. Some were older with families of their own, wondering if they'll ever see their loved ones again. Many were barely teenagers, runaways or problem children who wouldn't be missed. It was a horrible time for them all, wondering who would be next to go, be it in a body bag or on the autopsy table as their captors investigaged their findings more thoroughly. As soon as the opportunity to escape presented itself, Khare grabbed the chance, snatching the keycard and running off into the wilderness where the facility had been hidden deep in the mountains, away from prying eyes. It took a while to find civilisation and when she did... Khare said nothing to anybody, focusing purely on making her way down south, to put as much distance between herself and her captors, in case they were still pursuing her. Where the facility actually was, Khare is unable to recall and not a day goes by where she doesn't think of those left behind, still being tortured and warped beyond recognition as their tormentors focus on their sick goal of creating their own metahumans, of finding out how to bestow powers onto ordinary human beings. Could she have grabbed a few survivors? Could she have unlocked their cells and led a rebellion against their captors? Or could it have all failed and she'd be yet another corpse for them to study, making them one step closer to their plans?

The what-if's and could-be's keep her up most days, and it's a relief when she finally goes into torpor if only to stop thinking for a while.

[sun-marie]

The amount of detail given to random, easily missable NPCs in this game on the off-chance that the player we'll Scrutinize them is so impressive

[coeursetcolores]

Primrose, the Dancer: Chapter 2

WARNING! Spoilers ahead for Chapter 2 of Primrose’s story in Octopath Traveler!

...

...

...Every time I do one of Primrose’s chapters, I lose a little more faith in humanity.

Well, we made it to Stillsnow. One of the Crow Men is here.

And Primrose has a knife ready for him.

And knowing there’s a murderous criminal here raises your suspicion about the town in general. For good reason. This place, like plenty of idyllic towns a little far out, has a secret. Honestly, not as big of a secret as I would think, but still pretty messed up.

Normally a snowy town like Stillsnow would look cozy, but it’s more ominous. Maybe it’s mostly the story, but the stronger uses of dark blue and black with less yellow to bring warmth compared to other snow town levels I’ve seen make this place feel more like the Overlook than a Christmas park. It amazes me how you can use snow to make a heartwarming winter scene or a time of isolation and the fear your body will be hidden in it if you’re not careful. The cave to get into the Obsidian Parlor is pretty basic...

...Okay, I’m just gonna say it: WHY IS THERE A CAVE THAT LEADS DIRECTLY INTO A MANSION?! What use is that?! It’s already out in the middle of nowhere and barely anyone knows it exists, WHY DO YOU HAVE THIS?!

The reveal was pretty obvious, but no less devastating. Nothing against sex workers, but it is pretty sad to see Arianna having been forced to resort to selling herself just to stay alive. It’s not even her fault she’s in this position, but when you take down a head, the rest of the body falls too.

I get the feeling that besides vengeance, the mistreatment of women is another theme in Primrose’s story. Honestly, it’s done a bit more tastefully here than in other stories I’ve seen. And does fit in with the setting rather well.

For the utter darkness of this chapter though, it has one of the funniest moments in the game so far: sorry Prim, not every man is subject to your feminine wiles. And Arianna trying to make her feel better is just the cherry on top.

Though the bartender gets me thinking; just how many people know about the brothel? Arianna said everyone just turns a blind eye, but does the whole town know? 

The flashback with Primrose and her father really shows how he influenced her and how she developed into the person she is now. He preaches to stay determined and follow what you believe is right; not what society or morality says, what you believe in. It’s easy to see how she became so focused on revenge, because it’s what she thinks is right. There’s no use in letting anyone try to talk her out of it.

The added history of her family really helped paint a picture of how she became so unwavering too, as well as giving the audience a reason to understand why her father was killed. Because the family refused to have any doubts about their more dubious acts, it’s easy to see why the other houses grew frustrated with them, especially after murdering their liegelord. Perhaps enough to order a hit.

The fact that the women who work here get sold I didn’t see coming. Honestly, what is this Crow organization about? I thought they were just assassins, but I’m thinking it might be something deeper...But how does it involve House Azelhart?

And I KNEW there was corruption in the church! That’s one of the sacred rules of JRPGs! Ugghhh...I needed a shower after this chapter.

Rufus...is a slimy villain. That’s all there really is to him. But he had a point: if you don’t consider how hated you are and never try to make others understand, you will make enemies. Ones that will take an opportunity given to take you down. Conviction is good, but self-assessment is also important. Maybe we’re getting some foreshadowing for how this story will play out? Even when he dies, he seems to have something over Primrose.

And it’s truly sad, at the end. Primrose sees absolutely no other reason to live than for vengeance. Even with all her ability and experiences, she stays focused on this one thing instead of trying to move on. At some point, is it unhealthy to be this determined?

How do the others feel about this darker side of the world?

Ophilia: This one was sweet. Even with her vengeance at hand, Prim can still see other people and acknowledge their feelings. I’m glad she and Ophilia can find comfort in each other after all the tragedy they’ve been through respectively.

Alfyn: Kind of a tonal shift. We were just being upset about Arianna being in a brothel, now we’re teasing Alfyn about wanting to go to one? I guess if it’s with someone okay with being there it’s different?  ¯_ (ツ)_/¯

Tressa: Okay. Seriously? She cannot be this naive. Come on game, she wasn’t that sheltered. She’s 18, not 10. 

Cyrus: Aww, she’s giving him dance lessons! That’s nice.

Olberic: Olberic probably would have been the best knight she could have asked for if she could have had his service. Maybe that could have been his life if House Azelhart still stood. But at least they can fight together.

Therion: Okay, encouragement. And worry? Is someone developing empathy for his companions?

H’aanit: This was bittersweet. The people who love you may be gone, but they’ll always be a part of you. You’ll always have them, no matter how short of a time they were in your life.

What truth is there in Noblecourt?

And why is it something Primrose might not be able to handle?

Is it something we want to find out?

Let’s all hope our faith will be our shield.

[quarterlifekitty]

The aforementioned dark circus!AU

cw: slavery/human trafficking

Price is the ringmaster, and co-owner of the show. He’s the man who bought you from the auction block, because he saw something in you. He’s the man that holds your freedom in his hands.

Who are you? You’re the costumer for the circus. You spend endless hours in a cramped fitting room, fixing rips and tears, sewing sequins onto bodysuits— fighting with performers over what would suit them.

Ghost is a clown and an illusionist. He makes it a point to get on your good side— he needs your handiwork to make his act. Secret pockets, flaps, and panels on his costume are an integral part of it all. He bought his freedom years ago, but remains loyal to Price for reasons unknown to you.

Gaz is a trapeze artist. You receive a lot of gifts from him— apologies for how often his tight costume is prone to ripping, and what a pain it is to replace the embellishments in a way that’ll hold up through the whole show. He’s graceful in the air, and an incorrigible flirt on the ground.

Soap is the daredevil. He sustained a brain injury a long time ago, and it’s dulled his sense of pain immensely. You spend as little time on his costumes as possible— knowing most of them are one-time uses before they’re rendered into scraps with scorch marks. He’s constantly getting kicked out of your little workroom— if he’s got no costume to discuss, he’s got no business with you, you’ve tried to explain.

König is the Goliath, the strong man, able to lift other performers with ease as well as a whole host of other things. His height staggers the crowds, emphasized further by some cleverly integrated platforms in his shoes. His size makes it nearly impossible to make him things unless it’s entirely from scratch— something he apologizes for profusely.

Nikolai is a beast master. A natural command over tigers, elephants, and any other caged creature he happens upon. And he looks at you like you’re about to be a part of his menagerie.

Rudy is a roustabout— he works the set pieces and props, suspends the tent— and has to wrap it all back up with. It’s time to move on. It makes little time or reason for him to speak to you, but he always makes a point to visit you and bid you goodnight when he can manage it.

Graves is a fire-spitter. Often spotted without a shirt and holding a bottle of liquor by the neck, he was acquired when Price’s circus took over another. He’s got marks of disobedience— whipped when he tried to run away— scars still plain to see as they web across his back. He’s always asking you to run away with him— and you’d can’t for the life of you figure out how serious he’s intending to be.

You? You want to keep your head down and earn enough to buy your freedom in a few years. Then? You’ll say goodbye forever, and if you ever smell sawdust again it’ll be too soon.

Your hopes are dashed when Price comes to check on you late into the night. He hears you singing the way you do when no one is around, sees you weaving a needle in and out to the rhythm, looking ethereal even under the lamplight that flickers every few minutes or so.

Now he’s looking to make you the jewel of the entire circus— taking center stage with your costume and voice for all to enjoy. Something that will surely keep you chained to the circus indefinitely— Price isn’t known for letting star attractions walk away.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Stood Too Close to a Devil

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!UC!reader

Summary: While investigating a human trafficking ring, you get in too deep. You're abducted and meet a group of women you can't leave behind. After months of fighting, you find your way home to the one safety they couldn't take from you.

Warnings: recommended 16+, human trafficking, child abduction and trafficking, allusions to SA, physical/emotional abuse, imprisonment, r is harmed numerous times, drugging, discussion of scars, depiction of corrupt politicians, comfort and early healing at the end

Word Count: 7.3k+ words

A/N: I used one of @nevereclipse 's fantastic ideas for this! The length clearly got away from me, but I love the idea of Tim being home and providing safety for someone that really needs it. Hopefully this is along of the lines of the original post and please feel free to let me know what you think!🫶🏼

You walk up the metal stairs of the cheap motel, feeling your shirt rise up on your waist with each step. The bag in your hands prevents you from pulling the worn fabric down, but it’s okay. Anything that draws attention is appreciated right now. You knock on the door with one hip pushed out to hold the bag.

“Hey, handsome,” you greet when the door opens. “I got everything you asked for.”

Stepping into the room, you set the overfilled bag on the bed and wait for the door to close. Your shoulders droop as you exhale heavily and pull your shirt down to your hips. “Twenty.”

Nyla’s eyes widen as she repeats, “Twenty? Two-zero?”

Nodding, you push your forefinger and your thumb against your eyebrows. “I know. This is way bigger than I thought.”

“It’s bigger than any of us thought,” the chief of Major Crimes agrees. “How’s your cover?”

Tim interrupts your answer and asks, “How are you?”

Licking your lips, you consider lying. “It’s rough,” you admit. “But I can do it. My cover is intact, no one suspects anything, and I’ve gotten more attention the last three nights.”

“What kind of attention?” Nyla inquires.

“Rich has been watching me while I’m working, and the guy at the front desk of the motel asks me about work every day.”

“They’re prying,” Major Crimes Chief Rodriguez says. “Trying to decide if you’re in a position to be asked.”

“Am I?”

“Not yet,” Nyla answers. “People with steady jobs and the income to stay in a long-term motel aren’t usually desperate enough to traffic.”

“Which we aren’t doing,” Tim reminds you. “We need proof, not for you to get sucked in.”

You nod, chewing the inside of your cheek. “Doesn’t make it easier to watch the twenty women they do choose get trafficked.”

“We’re doing everything we can to recover them,” Rodriguez promises. “Keep your eyes open, head down, get information, and we’ll go from there.”

“Rich got violent last night,” you tell them. “I didn’t see the knife but I heard he had one. Got up in a girl’s face because she asked if he was paying.”

“For?” Nyla asks.

“A dance.”

Tim crosses his arms tightly against his chest. He’d been against the idea of your cover job being in a sleazy bar, but there was no better option. You’re close enough to see what you need to see, yet separated just enough to not be easily pulled into it.

“Any idea when they’re planning to act next?” Rodriguez asks as he jots notes on a small black pad.

“I heard someone say something about ‘payday Friday,’ but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re pulling someone new in,” you reply.

“And it’s still too early for a hotel sting,” Tim complains.

“I’ll ask around with some of the girls, see what I can find out,” you offer. “Anything else?”

“Do you think you could get someone to take you to ‘payday Friday’?” Nyla asks. “I know it’s dangerous, but it they trust you enough, it could help.”

You nod and agree to try, though you know Tim is concerned about it. Tim wraps his hand around your arm as you pick up the emptied bag and prepare to leave. His touch is gentle and warm, and you wish you could melt into it and leave this undercover operation in the past. But you need to infiltrate this organization before they traffic even more innocent women.

“Be careful,” Tim urges you quietly. “This is way bigger than anyone knew, so if you need to get out, pull the ripcord.”

“I will,” you assure. “Thank you. You’ll be close?”

“Always.”

You leave the motel room with the promise that Tim is with you, and though it doesn’t make what you’re about to see any better, it makes your practiced confidence come a bit easier.

The black SUV waiting one block away is probably your backup. Tim’s metro team can’t be far, but as you walk deeper into an alley, following three armed men and their dates, your chest tightens. One of these women may be the target, or they could be compliant witnesses to the cruelty these men get pleasure and monetary gain from daily.

“You’ve met, right?” Rich, a regular at your cover job, asks as he gestures between you and his date.

“I don’t think so,” you answer with a smile. “I’m Jewel.”

“Do you speak Spanish, Jewel?” Rich inquires.

“A little bit.”

“Renata here doesn’t speak any English, but she’s very nice.”

You smile and introduce yourself in Spanish.

“No conozco a estos hombres,” Renata says. Her voice is strained, but her smile remains as she confides in you that she doesn’t know these men.

“What’d she say?” Rich's best friend Kol demands.

With an airy laugh, you answer, “She said she doesn’t know where to meet friends here.” Turning to her, you promise, “Te ayudaré. I told her I’d help her.”

Rich and Kol look at one another, then smile.

“I’m sure she’ll really appreciate your help,” Kol says.

His date snickers as she takes the other woman’s hand. So, they do know, you realize. And I just promised to help a woman who’s probably going to be trafficked while I stand here and watch.

“Hey, is Jewel your real name or just, you know, something you go by?” Rich wonders.

“It’s my real name,” you say, staying close to Renata.

“Sounds like a stripper,” one of the women whispers.

“Do you mind if I ask Renata for her phone number? I’d like to introduce her to some of my friends if she’s free sometime.”

Rich nods before he turns to converse privately with Kol and their dates. You raise your phone and text ‘Landlord,’ who is Tim, that something is about to go down and a woman is in immediate danger. You delete the text from your phone after it says it was delivered.

“¿Tienes un número de teléfono?” you ask Renata.

“Me dijo que la diera a la gente siete números. Me dará un teléfono antes de ayudarme a contactar a mi familia en Venezuela,” she answers quickly.

That’s not good. Rich told her to give seven random numbers and promised to get her a phone after she starts working for him to support her family in Venezuela. You know, like most cops, that if a trafficker thinks someone is willing to work to help their family in another country, they are prime targets.

Given that Rich and Kol are proven traffickers – in addition to committing other crimes – you know that you have to get Renata out of here before it is too late. She’s clearly scared, and if they catch onto her fear or realize that you’re not talking to her about meeting friends, this will go bad quickly. Tim hasn’t answered, and no police have descended on the alley, so you have to think fast. A truck approaches from the southern end of the alley, less than a quarter mile from the freeway. The men are still talking, and you take a deep breath.

“Huir,” you demand under your breath. Run away.

Renata looks at you, then takes off. Kol moves to chase her, but you step out to block his path. You’re too deep, and it will be too late to get out if Tim doesn’t bring Metro in now. But you had to help Renata. Her blood would have been on your hands if you hadn’t. Now, you’re risking your life to let her run to safety.

Rich steps forward and smiles as Kol asks what to do.

“Way I see it?” Rich answers. “We came down here to get another girl. I’m looking at one.”

“I’m not going with you,” you say, stepping back.

Kol pulls a gun from his waistband and replies, “Yeah, you are.”

You prepare to run, hoping that Tim will come around the corner. You’re still undercover, you remind yourself, and whatever happens now could save another life. Your arms are pulled tightly behind you, and you’re pushed into the back of a large white truck.

After the door closes and the truck lurches into motion, someone lights a match, and you see three women huddled in the corner, shaking and scared.

“¿Hablas ingles?” you ask.

“Yes,” one of them answers.

“I’m a police officer, okay? I’m going to do everything I can to help you and get you out of here. Are you hurt?”

“Ilsa is,” the woman with the match says. “They hit her with a metal belt.”

You move deeper into the truck and introduce yourself.

“I’m Maria, and this is my cousin Becca.”

You glance at Becca as you lift the back of Ilsa’s shirt. “How old is Becca?” you whisper.

“Fifteen, she just had her quinceañera," Maria answers.

Exhaling sharply, you examine the swollen red strip spanning Ilsa’s back. As you pull a miniature first aid kit from inside your boot, you say, “We’re going to have to work together, especially to keep Becca safe.”

“Of course,” Maria answers.

“They’re monsters,” Ilsa says. You notice immediately that her accent sounds Russian. “I’ll do anything I can to protect her. She’s only a child.”

“You’ve done more than enough.”

Looking away from Ilsa’s back, you face Maria, who says, “The man with the belt was trying to keep Becca from crying.”

“Least I could do,” Ilsa murmurs before hissing in pain when you swipe an antibiotic wipe across her wound.

“It’s more than that,” you say. “I won’t lie, I’m not supposed to be here, so this is going to get worse before it gets better. Do either of you have any idea where we’re going?”

“Tijuana,” they answer together.

Your eyes widen at the information that they’re moving you across state lines, country borders, and right out of your jurisdiction. The tracker sewn into the seam of your underwear only works for a few miles, so you’re completely disconnected from your station and the people who could help. Worse, you realize as you fall back, is that you have been trafficked. You’re no longer an investigator. You’re a victim.

As the truck shakes while you head south, you remove the jacket tied around your waist and hold it to your chest as you think. It still smells like Tim’s cologne, and you breathe it in as if it will disappear at any moment. Racking your brain for an idea of what to do, you try to think like Tim and Nyla. Every thought you have of trying to stop these men ends with you dead and the women beside you living in fear in a place where they’ll likely never be found.

“Do you need anything?” you ask them.

They shake their heads, and Ilsa’s chin drops as if she’s asleep.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Maria whispers. “You’re the angel we prayed for.”

She closes her eyes as the match burns out, and you tip your head back to look at the dark ceiling above you. I’m not an angel. I just stood too close to the devil.

The truck door rolls open loudly before a blindingly bright light greets you.

“Bienvenidos a Mexico,” Rich greets. “Send the little one, we’ve got someone here who wants to meet our newest helper.”

“Take me instead,” you reply, moving toward your abductors. “I’m new, too.”

“Not exactly what I meant.”

You jump from the truck and move to stand mere inches from Rich. “You just shoved that girl in the back of a truck and drove her to another country, you’re going to have to take it easier with her. She doesn’t know what you’ve done yet.”

“She’ll have to learn,” he seethes. “And we don’t have much time for teaching.”

Leveling your gaze on his, you wait for him to give. Kol mumbles something behind him, and Rich says, “Okay. Let’s go.”

Hours later, your face feels tight from all the dried tears on it when you are shoved into a damp room lined with cots. Ilsa recites a story to Becca while Maria braids her hair, but they look up at you when the door slams and locks.

“Have you seen any other women?” you ask.

“Two more. They came in for a few minutes, then the ugly man came and took them back out,” Ilsa answers.

“They didn’t speak,” Maria adds quietly. “Do you think their spirits are gone?”

You tug the roots of your hair and answer, “For their sakes, I’m beginning to hope so.”

“Are you okay?” Becca whispers.

It’s the first time she’s spoken to you, the first you’ve heard of her voice, and you smile at her. “I’m okay, and you’re going to be okay, too.”

“What is this place?”

“It’s a bad place, and they’re going to try to let bad people do bad things to us, but I’m not going to let them,” you promise.

“You can’t,” Ilsa argues.

“I took an oath to serve and protect, and that didn’t end at the border. They’re not going to do anything to you as long as I can help it.”

“Did…” Maria begins.

“No,” you answer. “He.. No, I’m okay.”

“Knock, knock,” Kol calls obnoxiously. He sets food on the nearest cot and asks, “How’s the little princess?”

Ilsa says something in Russian as Maria moves to sit in front of Becca.

“What do you want, Kol?” you demand.

“It’s a question,” he snaps. “I want an answer.”

“You want to know how she is? She’d be better if you weren’t around.”

Kol looks over his shoulder, then demands, “Come with me.”

“No.”

“Come. With. Me. Or I’ll come in there and get you.”

You clench your jaw as you stand and follow him. The moment the soundproof door is closed, he shoves you against the concrete wall and presses his weight against your back.

“I don’t like people that talk back to me,” he seethes in your ear.

“And I don’t like people who traffic humans,” you argue, pushing back against him.

Kol raises one hand to your head, pulling it back enough to slam your nose into the wall. You can feel it break, but you’re out of tears, and he doesn’t deserve them anyway.

“Beat me, sell me all day everyday, do whatever you want, but I’m not letting you put one more finger on that little girl,” you say though the blood running over your lips.

“Sounds like a challenge!” Rich exclaims. He comes to your side and adds, “I love challenges.”

“Who are you working for?” you ask. “You two morons are barely smart enough to drive, so there’s no way you’re the masterminds.”

“What does it matter to you?”

“When someone smarter than you comes along and gets free, I want to make sure she knows who the police should be looking for.”

“They’ll never find the Vaquero.”

“Doubtful you could find him either,” you reply, attempting to kick free of Kol.

He slams his foot against the back of your ankle, and you buckle forward at the pain.

“You want to work more? I’ll get right on it,” he says before pushing you back into your prison.

In a heap on the floor, you barely manage to tell Maria to back away from you before you puke. Sitting up, you see that Becca is asleep. Ilsa watches you lean against the concrete wall, and you point to the bucket of clothes beside her. There isn’t much in it, but a bra at the bottom catches your attention. It’s wireless, of course, because these people are smart enough to avoid giving scared women anything that could be used as a weapon. You fold it so the cups are together, making it thicker, then place it between your teeth. It holds your tongue down and catches your scream as you use the sides of your palms to straighten your broken nose.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Maria chides as she looks for something to stop your bleeding.

“Hand me the jacket?” you ask.

She passes you Tim’s jacket, and you watch a tear fall onto it before you hold it against your face. “I’m sorry,” you whisper into it.

“Will he come for you?” Ilsa inquires, walking toward you.

“I don’t think I left him enough clues,” you admit, though it’s muffled.

“You’re smart, I’m sure you did.”

Looking at Maria, you say, “If I get killed, don’t let it be for nothing.”

“We’ll protect each other,” she counters.

“No matter what,” Ilsa adds.

The following day, no one enters the room. There’s water in the corner and Becca snacks on the food from the night before, but nothing changes. Tim’s jacket still holds the scent of his cologne on the end of the sleeves, and you keep it beside you as you attempt to rest. It dries your tears and holds your blood, but it’s nothing like being near Tim. It’s a reminder that you can get home, and that’s all you need it to be.

“There’s a first aid kit,” Becca says, standing from the corner. “It looks new.”

You extend your hands, and she places the metal box in your hold. Opening it, you sigh at the sight.

“It is new,” you announce. “Ilsa, let me see your back again?”

She lifts her shirt, and you begin treating the stripe. “It looks better. Hopefully this will help more.”

“I can’t feel it,” she says.

“That’s not good,” you reply immediately.

“I should say, I choose not to. We have more important things.”

“Your health is important.”

“And yours isn’t?”

After a month of preventing Ilsa, Maria, and Becca from being removed from the room, you are exhausted. Rich has taken pleasure in coming to retrieve you every time, and when he opens the door for the eighth time in five days, you stumble as you stand.

“If you’re too tired,” he taunts.

“I’m fine,” you answer. “Get out.”

“We have guests coming tomorrow,” he says with a smile. “You’re going to have to get along with me, or they’ll show you a different kind of punishment.”

“It can’t get much worse.”

Rich walks toward you, and you notice a rope in his hand. “Trust me, it can. Now, let’s go.”

“What are you doing?” Ilsa demands.

“Leashing the dog,” he answers darkly. He steps behind you, his breath warm and too close to your skin. “Walk.”

You exit the room and decide not to fight back as he secures your wrists and up to your elbows with the rope. It’s uncomfortable and pulls your shoulders into a dangerous position, but talking too much will only feed his ego and endanger every woman in this bunker.

“Open your mouth,” he says as he walks before you. “Now.”

After you lick your lips, he pries your mouth open and pours something inside. He taps your neck, forcing you to swallow, and you feel your muscles weaken as he leads you toward the exit. You urge yourself to remember the route to reach the door where the sunlight shines beneath it, but each step is heavier than the last and requires concentration.

Rich uses your restraints to pull you to a stop. You tip back and can’t catch yourself with your hands, so you fall to your butt and groan. To stay upright, you cross your legs and wait.

“I said I wanted someone who could look the part of a cop,” someone with a familiar voice complains. “She can barely stand.”

“When the drug wears off, she’ll be fine,” Rich explains. “Did you bring it?”

“You induced myopathy to walk her to the door? What is she, a fighter?”

“She’s an annoyance. Remind her that we’re here alone with her friends. She’ll do whatever you want.”

You can hear the man's smile as he repeats, “Whatever I want.”

However, he doesn’t have to remind you of anything because you do what he asks. There’s a feeling in the air like something big is happening, and you want to be out of your cell for it. You can only hope that Ilsa, Becca, and Maria are safe while you’re gone, but believing they are makes it even more important to obey and keep them safe.

“Put this on,” the man – tall, older, and clearly not Mexican – demands as he tosses a small costume package to you.

You catch it, fully recovered from the drug’s effects, and look at the skimpy black fabric within. As you remove it from the package, you realize who the man is and why he sounded familiar in the bunker. Councilman Brek has been demanding in every interview he’s done, and it’s been rumored he has the city and government employees in Los Angeles in his wallet to stay in office so long.

“You’re Vaquero?” you guess.

“Maybe I am, which means you do precisely what I say. I don’t trust you, so you’re going to have to change here and now,” he instructs slowly.

Nodding, you begin to change as quickly as possible. The so-called police uniform is little more than a too-small vest and a tube-style skirt with a light badge hanging from it.

“Perfect,” the man applauds, blatantly looking at your body rather than your face. “Let me introduce you to the girls. Ladies!”

You follow him into another room where seven women are dressed in similar outfits, in different colors, and bearing agency badges.

“Tonight, you will be known as your badges. So, we’ve got DEA, NSA, CIA, FBI, LAPD, NYPD, ICE, and CSI, how needs some glasses.”

You look at each woman as he speaks and wonder where they’re from. You can't guess if they’re working for him legitimately or if they’re all like you. For all anyone knows, they could be undercover, too, though the pleased smile on CSI’s face after she receives glasses makes you think otherwise.

“Finish your shift without incident and we’ll talk. Anything happens, tell my assistant Mark and he’ll handle it. The rules are simple: You work, they pay. If someone tries to do anything without paying, Mark is your first contact. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” you reply with the other women.

The clock on the wall says four a.m. when you consider calling for Brek's assistant Mark, but remember Rodriguez’s advice: keep your head down. If you can get through tonight without causing any problems, maybe Rich and Kol will trust you enough to give you more freedom. It’s unlikely, but lives are at stake, including your own.

“Come to papa, LAPD!”

You turn and smile at the short Latino man beckoning you closer. Extending your hand, you wait for him to pay you with one hand on your hip.

“I said come here,” he repeats.

Rubbing your fingers together, you remind him, “I’m supposed to receive payment first.”

He twists his head to crack his neck and then extends his arms. His hands grip your barely covered hips before he pulls you into his lap.

“Let go,” you demand under your breath, looking around for Mark and wishing it was Tim coming to help you.

If you were undercover in LA, Tim would have already had this guy off of you, and tears prick your eyes when you remember how long it has been since you saw him and worked with him.

“Stop fighting,” the man says.

His demand is punctuated by the telltale sound of a switchblade. NYPD slows as she walks behind you, and when the man shifts his hand to squeeze your thigh instead, she screams Mark’s name.

Before he reaches you, you press your hands against the man’s shoulders and shove yourself away from him. You realize then that the knife was closer than you thought. Mark hauls the man out of his chair and disappears. NYPD and DEA escort you back to the room where you got dressed and encourage you to sit.

“Is this yours?” DEA asks, raising Tim’s jacket.

“Yeah,” you answer.

She presses it against your bleeding inner thigh, and you dig your fingers into the chair beneath you.

“This needs stitches,” NYPD says. She looks around before whispering, “Are you working here?”

You shake your head in a small motion, and she chews her bottom lip.

“We have a sewing kit,” DEA whispers. “But I don’t know if that would work.”

“I do,” you interject. “Bring it to me?”

She hesitates but does as you ask. NYPD threads the needle after DEA sterilizes it over a nearby burning candle. You remove Tim’s jacket and put the end of the sleeve in your mouth to bite down on. Each stitch burns worse than the last, and your fight to stay conscious makes your hands shake.

NYPD takes the needle, tugs the jacket sleeve free, and says, “Breathe, LAPD.”

You mumble your name, and she smiles as she says, “I’m Jessica. I’ve been watching, so I can try to finish them if you want.”

“Please.”

“You’ll scar her!” DEA argues.

“It’s going to scar no matter what,” you say. “I’m not that good. Please just help me.”

NYPD nods as you let your eyes close momentarily.

Tim could have kept it from scarring you think just before Mark enters the room to escort you back to work.

Kol doesn’t see the wound when he arrives to take you back to the bunker. Not that you think he’d care, but you covered it just in case he’d make you stop taking the “jobs” intended for Becca, Maria, and Ilsa.

Lowering carefully onto your cot, you let the pain in again and acknowledge it with a groan.

“What happened?” Ilsa asks, rushing to your side.

“I need the first aid kit, please.”

Maria turns away to distract Becca when she sees your patched-together stitches, but Ilsa kneels beside you to help.

“It’s gonna be a long night,” she murmurs.

“It’s been a long month,” you correct her.

She chuckles wetly, and you smile as she wraps bandages around your thigh. The bloody jacket is clutched to your chest, and you once again wish that it was Tim holding you, and not you desperately gripping the idea of him.

“It’s been months without a word, Tim,” Nyla says. “Rodriguez has other cases, but that doesn’t mean he’s giving up on her.”

“He closed the case!” Tim yells. “It has been weeks since he looked at anything related to the traffickers, and suddenly it’s time? She’s still out there, Nyla!”

“I understand, Bradford, I do, but until we can pick up their trail again, there is nothing we can do.”

“So, you expect me to just go back to work while one of our own is being trafficked?”

“I expect you to do what you need to do to make Rodriguez think you’re not undermining him,” Nyla says quietly. “I’ve been looking too. We’re not going to let her disappear.”

“And if she’s already gone?”

“We find the people who took her and make them pay with everything they have left.”

“Everybody pack up and drink up,” Rich demands as he kicks the door open.

“Drink what?” Maria asks, leaning up to look at the clear glasses on his tray.

“You’re going home.”

“What?” you, Ilsa, and Maria exclaim together.

“The Vaquero bailed you out. The drink is a celebration.”

“We’re going home?” Becca asks Maria, gripping her hand tightly.

“Three of you.” Rich looks at you, and you nod. Their freedom is your hush money, and it will work... for now. You'll stay quiet about Councilman Brek being Vaquero if it gets these women home.

“No,” Ilsa says. “I’m not drinking that if she’s not going with us.”

“Yes, you are,” you tell her. “You’re going home because that was always the goal.”

“What about the other women?!” she exclaims.

“I’ll work to free them next.”

“You’d die before you did that,” Rich says. “It took you over five months to free these three. You think we don’t have replacements for them already on the way?”

“You got what you wanted, Rich,” you say. “Ladies, pack and drink. I’ll cheers with you.”

You wrap Tim’s jacket around your waist, tap your glass against theirs, drink, set the glass down, and fall into darkness.

“Where are the tracking records?” Angela asks.

“From the underwear tracker?” Nyla clarifies as she leans over Tim’s table.

“That’s where her tracker was?” Tim asks, furrowing his brows.

“I guess Rodriguez didn’t put them in the file,” Nyla says, frowning. “Or they’re digital and he couldn’t figure out control-P. Let me check.”

Tim looks at surveillance pictures of you as Nyla clicks through the laptop before her.

“Printer is full if you need to use it,” he murmurs.

“Thanks.”

Angela stands to retrieve the papers as Nyla lifts your undercover phone from the charger.

“Tim,” Angela calls, looking at the top page. “Did you get a text from her the day she was abducted?”

“No,” he answers, raising his head.

“She deleted it, but the metadata is still there.”

Nyla extends her hand and reads the information on the page before looking up at Tim. “It says it delivered.”

Tim takes his phone from his pocket and checks, but there are no messages from you. Angela checks the other undercover phone, but there are no messages there either.

“Where did it deliver, then?” Nyla wonders. “It says she sent it to ‘Landlord.’”

“Landlord?” Tim asks. “On the last day she was here?”

“Right.”

“Rodriguez changed our covers the morning before. He told me he let her know. Landlord texts went to Rodriguez.”

Nyla purses her lips before she asks, “Which city council member endorsed Rodriguez for chief?”

“Brek,” Angela answers. “It fueled the pay-off rumors.”

“There’s something else going on here,” Nyla says. “And Rodriguez knows about it.”

“I’ll call-“ Tim begins.

“We don’t know who we can trust,” Angela interrupts.

“Wade,” he finishes. He pauses and looks up rather than making the call.

“Call him,” Angela and Nyla say together.

You blink your eyes open, realize you don't recognize the room around you, and sit up quickly.

“I gave you a very thorough description,” Councilman Brek complains. “She looks nothing like what I asked for. If I’m paying for you to bring them up to LA, I expect to get what I pay for.”

“Sir, we don’t have anyone fitting that description,” Rich explains. “And you liked her before.”

“But this isn’t before, is it? She's cost me enough money without this screw up.”

“Excuse me?” you interrupt. “I- I’m from LA, and I know a lot of women willing to do anything for money. Maybe I can help you get what you want.”

You bite your tongue after you speak to keep your stomach from flipping. You’re offering to traffic someone else, and even though it’s a cover to get these men in custody, it still feels wrong.

“I’m not sure I feel comfortable divulging that information to you,” Councilman Brek replies.

“Who is she gonna tell?” Kol points out. "She's been quiet about everything else."

Brek sighs, then says, “I want a dark woman with natural hair, shorter than me, relatively small, and mouthy.”

You manage to keep your eyes from widening at his precise desire and somewhat racist description. “Yeah, I know someone like that.”

“You do?” Brek and Kol ask together.

“I only know her first name,” you reply. “It’s Crystal. I know where she lives, like geographically, not the address.”

“I want Crystal,” Brek decides, turning toward Rich. “Take LAPD here to fetch Crystal and bring them both back.”

“Yes, sir,” Rich and Kol answer together.

You walk out to the car with them and slide into the passenger seat. They brought your clothes with you during the overnight transport back to LA. Now, Tim’s jacket hangs off one shoulder as you give Rich directions to an undercover residence. He parks, and you’re surprised when he and Kol unbuckle their seatbelts. Your hand moves to release yours, and Rich backhands you. His ring draws blood on your cheek.

“You didn’t really think I’d let you waltz up there, did you?” Rich asks.

“Just surprised you wear seatbelts,” you answer meekly.

He locks the doors behind him, trapping you in the car, and you watch as they walk to the door you pointed out and ask for Crystal. A nearby Metro team that was likely on standby ambushes them nearly immediately after hearing Detective Harper's previous undercover name. Without time to react, they’re cuffed and placed in patrol cars before they even realize what’s happening.

When more officers arrive to keep up appearances, you know you must get out of here. With Tim’s jacket protecting your skin, you break the passenger side window, climb out, and run through the night.

When you finally reach the door you’ve dreamed of walking through for nearly half a year, it is dark, and the city is as asleep as it gets. You haven’t had a home in too long, and thinking of going to the station to answer questions about every little thing you saw and did makes you nauseous. So, you linger outside the one place you can think to go. Raising your hand, you grip your stained jacket sleeve in your fist and knock.

The door opens harshly as if the person is grumpy from being woken or unimpressed by such a late visit. You forget to breathe when you see the man at the door and the first breath you force yourself to take causes a tear to roll over your cheek. Tim steps toward you, his shoulders dropping as his eyes widen and his gaze softens. He sees the blood on your cheek but doesn’t try to touch you.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you admit quietly.

Tim nods and pushes the door open wider for you. With the sleeves of his old jacket grasped between your hands, you step into his home and wait.

“I… What do you need?” he asks.

You look down, unsure about where to start answering that question. “A shower would be nice,” you reply.

Tim leads you through his house and into his bedroom. He tells you where all of his clothes are, where the fresh towels are under the sink, and invites you to use whatever you want.

“I’ll be close, if you need anything,” he says before closing the door behind him. “You can lock the door,” he adds through the wood.

You lay your hand on the doorknob, then let your fingers slip off without locking it. Navigating carefully and quietly through Tim's room, you take a few pieces of his clothing into the bathroom. The warm shower feels good, but you hate that you can’t hear well over the falling water, so you cut your time in the cleansing stream short. Dressed in Tim’s clothes, you walk through his bedroom and open the door. Tim stands from his position on the floor, where he’d been waiting down the hall in case you called for him.

“I’m not going to ask if you’re okay,” he says. “Do you know what you want to do?”

“Can I just…” You trail off and gesture weakly in an around motion.

“Yeah, of course,” Tim answers. “I’ll be on the couch.”

He listens as you pace through his hallway and into his bedroom. You’re not the woman he knew before, and he understands that, but his worry about you and concerns about what you’ve been through threaten to overwhelm him.

Ten minutes later, you enter the living room and sit on the other end of the couch. You pinch Tim’s sweatpants between your fingers and avoid looking at him, but you’ve never been happier to be in his presence, to be sitting beside him.

“I’m here,” Tim says. “I don’t want to push anything on you, but whatever you need, whatever I can do – or not do – to help you, I am here.”

“Thank you,” you say, looking up to see him. “I missed you.”

“You had my jacket.” Tim’s eyes drop momentarily like he’s trying to place what else is different about you.

“I couldn’t look in the mirror,” you confide. “Is my nose crooked? Or crookeder than before?”

Tim hesitates before he answers. Not because your nose is crooked and he’s preparing to lie, but because he’s wondering what happened to your nose and who caused it.

“It looks perfect,” he says. “Like before.”

You place your hand gently over your nose and say, “Kol broke it.”

“I’m sorry,” Tim whispers.

You drop your hand and nod at him. Moving closer, you close some of the distance between you. “I want to feel like me again.”

“You will,” he promises. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

“I might’ve used all that strength.”

“Then you’ll use ours. Everyone around you is ready to help you.”

“Until they find out what I did and have to hear my word against his,” you murmur.

Tim wants to know more about what that means, but your head drops against his shoulder, and suddenly, you are the only thing in the world that matters.

“How’d it go?” Tim asks as you exit the locker room a week later.

“Okay,” you answer carefully. “I don’t think the DA completely believed me about Councilman Brek, but everyone else in the room did. Hopefully Rich and Kol are cowardly enough to take a plea deal and testify against him.”

Someone calls your name as you enter the station’s lobby with Tim.

“Ilsa?!” you exclaim, rushing to hug her. “Are you okay? What are you doing here?”

“My father hired a PI after my return, and the man found more women. We are here to talk to the detective.”

“Which detective?” you inquire, hoping it isn’t Rodriguez.

“That would be me,” Nyla says. “Major crimes was stretched a little thin, and when I saw your name in Ms. Alekseev’s report, Lopez and I jumped on it.”

“Thank you. Ilsa, here’s my number,” you say, handing her a card.

She hugs you again and turns around just before she reaches the door. “Thank you for saving our lives. Maria and Becca went to the embassy when we returned. They’re with their family.”

Nyla mouths safehouse and you nod in understanding.

“You’re brave, Ilsa. Thanks for keeping me safe.”

“I don’t think one bandage makes us even.”

“We’re survivors, that makes us even.”

She waves and follows Nyla into the station as you and Tim exit. He leads you to his truck and opens the passenger door for you, repeating one bandage over and over in his mind. Realistically, he knew you had to have received injuries, but other than the broken nose, he doesn’t know exactly what you went through. Only that Councilman Brek was involved.

“Want me to order dinner?” you ask as Tim backs out of the parking space.

“Whatever you want,” he answers, meaning it in more ways than dinner.

An hour after you wish Tim goodnight and retreat to his extra bedroom, you knock on his partially open door. He invites you in, and you don’t hesitate to enter and tuck one leg under you as you sit on his bed.

“Can we talk?” you ask.

“Of course,” he answers, turning to focus completely on you.

“First, thank you for letting me stay here. I’m working on finding a new place, but I really didn’t want to be alone.” Tim nods, so you continue, “The day they took me, I texted who I thought was you, as you know, but when they put me in the truck, there were three women inside.”

“Ilsa?” Tim guesses.

“Yeah, and she had just been injured. And then Becca and Maria. Becca- She’s 15, Tim. I couldn’t leave them in there, defenseless.”

“Wait,” Tim murmurs, laying his hand over yours. “No one blames you for getting trapped. You were abducted, that’s not something anyone is going to be mad about.”

“I probably could’ve fought and gotten out. I couldn’t leave them.” Tim nods, so you tell him about your first few nights in Mexico, about the bunker and Rich and Kol, and about how you kept Becca as far from everything as possible.

“And Brek bought their freedom to keep me quiet about him being Vaquero,” you finish, leaving out the worst of your experiences. “I think about it a lot, but the worst memories come when I’m trying to sleep.”

“I get it,” Tim assures you. “I’ve got a past that plagues me too. It gets better, and you’re not alone.”

“I feel safe with you,” you admit, dropping your eyes to where Tim’s hand rests on yours. “When I convinced them to let me lead them to Crystal, I was scared I’d never find who I was before.”

“And now?”

“I know I can,” you say. “With you.”

“Can I ask something?” Tim requests. “You can say no, and you don’t have to answer.”

“Of course.”

“There was dried blood on your clothes when you showed up. Was it all yours?”

You nod and unconsciously shift closer to Tim.

“Some of it was from the broken nose. Tim, your jacket kept me alive. It held a lot of blood and tears, but it reminded me of home, of you, and it helped me fight when I thought I had nothing left.”

Tim swallows, and his eyes drop. You follow his gaze, then lay your hands over the jagged scar on your thigh.

“You’re safe,” you repeat. “I can be me again with you. And I can never thank you enough for that.”

Tim slowly raises his hand to your face to catch the escaping tear with his thumb. You lean into his touch, and Tim promises to stay close.

“Brek has some illegal strip club or bar, I don’t know exactly what it is, down there,” you begin. “I was there for a night, dressed – which is a generous term for the uniform – like a cop, and some guy didn’t like the order of how things happened.”

“You’re okay,” Tim promises.

You lean into him, resting against his chest as he shifts his arms to hold you. With your shoulder tucked beneath his, your face on his chest, and your legs pulled over his, Tim holds you like he never wants to let you go. You’re a cop and are far from naïve about the dangers and the evil of the world, but right here, you feel completely safe and more at home than anywhere else. Tim’s finger drags lightly over the scar as he kisses your forehead.

“We’re going to get him, and get all of those women home,” you say. “Nyla told me that you didn’t give up on me, even when Rodriguez tried to sweep everything.”

“Of course not. I knew you’d be fighting even harder to get home.”

After a moment, Tim asks, “Did you get a tetanus shot?”

You laugh. For the first time since returning home, you truly, joyfully laugh. “Yes, I did,” you answer with a smile. “Thank you for seeing me through the scars.”

Tim smiles, gently tracing your cheekbone and jaw, and silently promises to make every single person involved pay for what they did. He'll start with the man who assaulted you with a knife and work down the list.

“Tim,” you say. It draws his attention back to this moment. “Do things have to go back to exactly how they were before?”

Tim looks down your body, then raises his brows. Clearly, your position says no, but you want confirmation from Tim that you’re more than you were before.

“Can I show you?” he asks.

“I’d love that.”

Tim flattens his palm against your cheek and drops his chin to kiss you. It’s slow, and though his hands are on you, it’s different than before. You’re not scared of touch, you realize, leaning into his hands. Tim Bradford is home, he’s safe, and you love him. Despite the scars, the trauma, and the unforgettable horrors you’ve seen and experienced, he loves you too.

“Does that answer your question?” he whispers against your lips.

His hand drops to your leg once more, and when he doesn’t hesitate to brush it over your scar, you smile and say, “Maybe repeat it? Make sure I got everything?”

Smiling, Tim says, “If anything ever feels wrong, or brings up something you don’t like, promise to tell me?”

You offer your pinky to promise, and Tim takes your wrist gently in his hand. The scars circling your wrists and forearms have lightened, but the deep rope burn carved into them will never disappear entirely. After Tim kisses a darker scar, he hooks his pinky in yours.

[stellar-solar-flare]

For your event!!!

Steve + Mob AU + ”Would you really do that for me?” + nefarious

Thank you ☺️❤️

Thank you for sending in a prompt to my event, Siri! This took a bit of a turn in my head but I hope you still enjoy it. I had a lot of fun writing it.

Malogranatum | S. R.

soft dark!Avenger!Steve Rogers x mob boss!Reader | 2,417 words.

Explicit - 18+ only. Dark romance with themes of obsessive love. AU - canon divergence & mob themes.

Story Content Warnings: Explicit sexual fantasies, obsessive/unhealthy dynamics, cold-blooded violence, murder, organized crime, discussions of human trafficking / modern slavery, references to mythology including biblical mythology, soft dark Steve Rogers, soft dark Reader.

Read the tags and warnings and do not proceed if anything about them upsets you. Your media consumption is your responsibility.

Reader is female, no description of appearance beyond a mention of her wearing heels, dress, and makeup. No use of Y/N. I imagine she's somewhere in her late twenties, early thirties, about the same age as Steve - but it isn't mentioned in the text.

Notes: There is something about the dark side of canon Steve that continues to enchant me, and my take on the prompt I got was born out of that curiosity. I enjoyed playing with a darker Reader character and the themes of a more obsessive, unhealthier love that is still born out of shared views of the world. I hope you enjoy, and of course, I am always excited to hear from you so please leave a comment if you can spare the time and energy.

Malogranatum is one of the Latin forms of the word 'pomegranate'

I do not own anything Marvel related. This is an unofficial fan work. No copyright infringement intended. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

No one except you could look so perfectly nonchalant when stepping over a dead body while wearing five-inch designer heels.

A woman like you didn’t belong in a dump like this — it had hardly been a three-star hotel when it had been in business use, and what was left now had been deemed unsafe years ago. Now, the lobby was musty and covered in dust and grime, and now, thanks to Steve himself, blood.

As always, you were immaculate; no smudge on your blood-red lipstick, no stray hairs sticking out of your hairdo. A trench coat was draped over your shoulders, revealing a well-tailored dress underneath as you walked towards Steve. You could’ve as well been on your way to attend some upper-crust cocktail party.

“I should’ve known you’d come,” Steve said through gritted teeth.

Your security detail — a colossal blond man whom Steve had never heard utter a word, dressed in a sharp suit that seemed to only highlight his bruteness — stopped behind the body you’d just stepped over. The body was resting with his face down, and the man turned it over with his foot.

Steve looked away. His vision was still flashing in red, wine, maroon. Behind the shield that was fastened onto his button-down-covered arm, he clenched his fist tighter. He, too, was in civilian clothes — it hadn’t been intended to come down to an ambush at all, let alone with just him with no backup. It had been supposed to be a simple stakeout, a covert operation that’d determine if he would come back with reinforcements.

It hadn’t been intended to come down to a dead body and another at the brink of it.  

“I keep tabs on my enemies,” you said, glancing at the still-living man on the floor — now reduced to a whimpering mess curled up in a fetal position on the filthy rug.

“Me included?” Steve scoffed.

“Are we enemies, Captain Rogers?” you said as you stepped closer to him. “I see no reason why we should be.”

“I could have you dragged into the Tower just for the fact that you are here.”

A half-smile curved your lip up. The expensive, intoxicating note of your perfume drifted up Steve’s nose as you reached him. He inhaled it; it covered the thick iron stench of blood.

Blood that still dripped from the edge of the shield that he’d strapped back onto his arm.

“Again? If not even Romanoff can find anything to incriminate me… I’m starting to think you have a crush on me, to be so eager to lock me into an interrogation room and get up, close, and personal.”

It certainly wasn’t a crush, whatever it was that kept him up at night ever since he had started running into you.

“What about this situation is funny to you?”

“In my line of work, you develop quite the sense of humor,” you chuckled.

“Work, you call it?” Steve said, and you gave him a smile full of secrets.

“Pays the bills,” you said, shrugging as you craned your neck to examine the still-breathing man on the ground.

His whimpers had turned into gargled sobs, his shoulders shaking as if he was having some sort of seizure. Steve still didn’t know how hard he had hit him — he had caught the sight of him, standing here and laughing with his henchman, and everything had gone blind, scorching white, a supernova burning down everything from its path.

“What are you here for? I imagine a businesswoman such as you is much too busy to simply be here to chitchat. Did you come to gloat?”

“And why would I do that, when you have solved a pesky problem for me,” you said. “Have been trying to figure out a way to take him out of the game without a risk for collateral damage.”

“To you?” he replied, even as he knew what you were talking about by the tension of your jaw.

“To them,” you said, nudging your head up towards the ceiling.

He wasn’t sure if the people had heard the commotion downstairs — but even if they had, they wouldn’t have dared to ask questions. Steve wasn’t sure how many had been lured in in total, how many had already been sold to the highest bidder, and the thought summoned a newfound cloud of red mist into his head.

“Well aren’t you the beacon of morality, defender of the innocents,” Steve scoffed. “I know how red your hands are. I may not be able to prove it but I know.”

In reply, you rested your eyes on the bloodied shield and the bruises, already healing, on Steve’s knuckles, and he gritted his teeth hard enough to bite through iron.

“What are you doing here?” he continued, grasping for some edge into his voice.

He stepped closer to you, leaning into your personal space, and he heard your security detail shift before you held out a hand, signaling the bodyguard to stand down.

You looked at Steve, your eyes bright, your mouth slightly parted, and Steve remembered the Sunday school stories about the beauty of fallen angels, of the temptation of sin, of the redness of that cursed apple.

How sweet would the first bite of damnation taste on his tongue?

“I’m here to propose a deal,” you said, as if Steve’s presence or the violence that brimmed in his body, threatening to spill over, was having no effect on you at all.

“A deal?” Steve raised his brow. “Let me take a wild guess. You make this go away, and I become your little puppet.”

“I am simply offering to take out your trash,” you said, a smirk dancing on your lips. “No strings attached.”

“What do you get out of it?” he said, and you raised your brow in turn.

“You get to keep doing what you’re doing. He’s not the only one with similar ambitions; there is yet bigger fish in the sea. And I cannot… devote all my attention to this matter, as I do have my business to run.”

“And conveniently, less hands grasping whatever cake it is you’re splitting among yourselves in the shadows means a bigger slice for you. I’m supposed to believe you’re some sort of a Robin Hood, huh?”

The words had a bite to them, but he had poured over your case enough times to know that while you were no moral beacon, no Robin Hood, you did have a code of ethics. It certainly didn’t align with the moral of the law, but the compass that guided you was there. If the intel was right on you, you were good at avoiding what you had called collateral damage.

A sudden chill overtook your features.

“You know there are lines I do not cross,” you said.

Breathtaking. Beautiful, and treacherous, like the night itself. Steve swallowed past his dry throat. He shouldn’t be entertaining any of this, and whatever it was that had gotten him so tangled with you, he should nip it in the bud.

Too late for that.

“He should get a fair trial just like anyone else,” Steve said to bring his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “Regardless of if he’s a rabid animal or not.”

You tilted your head, quirking your brow. Steve forced his eyes to stay away from the tendons of your neck, forced himself not to wonder if the column of your throat held places that’d make you moan if he feathered them with his lips.

“Oh no, Rogers. He is quite human. No other species on earth is capable of such calculated cruelty.”

You huffed as if the thought amused you, and Steve knew that you were right. Perhaps that was what today had been. His cup finally spilling over, and all the lava that had gathered over the decades taking down everything that laid on its path.

“And I will face whatever consequences that come for me, too,” Steve continued to avoid acknowledging your words.

He tried to push the sound of breaking bone out of his head, tried to pretend there hadn’t been a part of him that had cherished every punch, gloried in the righteous violence. The SHIELD had been on these bastards for months on end, and he remembered every disgusting detail of their deeds. And when he had finally been given a chance to strike, alone, he had found himself desiring not for justice but for revenge.

“They’ll toss you onto the Raft,” you said. “And what for? For dishing this scum a small portion of what he’s been serving to others.”

Steve jolted; victory flashed in your eyes as he did.

“How do you —”

“I told you, Rogers, I keep tabs on my enemies,” you replied.

“I thought you said we are not enemies.”

“I wasn’t talking about you,” you said, and for a moment, your face grew entirely serious. “There is something fishy going on at SHIELD. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s there.”

Steve drew a breath at that. The warning… He didn’t want to admit it but something about it seemed to hum in tune with some instinctual thought in the back of his head.

“You have people on the inside.”

“You say that like you’re surprised,” you said, and the smile was back.

“I am not,” he said, the words delivered with the smallest hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth.

You took a step closer, almost close enough for your chest to brush against his. You tilted your head softly to the side, as you spoke quietly almost into his lips, and something just as all-consuming as the rage he had felt earlier shot through his veins. He could barely stop himself from leaning closer, reaching for your mouth with his, as your perfume wrapped around him.

“Our interests align, Rogers,” you breathed. “I would hate seeing my plans fall apart just because of something like him. An unfortunate incident; a little slip-up; an occupational hazard, almost. They might give him a fair trial but you will never get one. Is he really worth throwing away all the good deeds you could do, all the lives you are yet to save so you can rot on the Raft in martyrdom?”

An ice-cold current in Steve recognized the logic; agreed with it. The man that he struck down would never give someone else anything resembling fair — why should he himself get anything better?

“Would you really do that for me?” he asked.

“You look good with blood on your face,” you whispered as if it explained everything, and maybe it did.

Your hand rose slowly up, your warm fingertips gently brushing along the line of Steve’s jaw. A fresh whiff of your perfume reached his nose — musk, dark flowery notes, pomegranates — and it was the part of him that had walked through the battlefields of the Second World War and lived that made the decision.

He nodded, and your eyes sparkled with dark light.

The crisp taste of apple filled his mouth, and he wanted nothing more than he wanted it — to grab the wrist of the hand that was touching him and pull you into a crushing kiss. He yearned for all the ways he could make you sing his name, make you drip and beg and cry out for him — to make you burn in the raging turmoil of lust that had consumed him these past months. He wanted to keep you on the knife-sharp edge between desperation and bliss, he wanted you to ride him with a blade pressed against his throat, he wanted to be deemed worthy of your bed and worthy of sinking himself all the way to the hilt inside you.

Oh, how sweet it would be to fall from grace just to have a taste of you.

“Give me twenty minutes and call in the cavalry,” you said, and maybe you knew where his thoughts were, but nothing about your voice or your expression was betraying it.

“I got an anonymous tip,” he said, and he was still not moving away from you even as the thoughts were forming.

“I’ll have someone call your work number; untraceable, of course,” you continued. “And when you got here…”

“No trace of them; just signs of struggle and bloodstains.”

He didn’t want to feel the smile that was spreading onto his lips; he knew it didn’t reach his eyes, and he didn’t want it to. It was not a true smile — it was how a predator showed their teeth.

He should not have, and yet he didn’t find it in him to feel regret.

You took a step back and turned towards your security detail, who nodded, understanding some wordless message, and gave the whimpering man on the floor a sharp kick in the ribs. The impact was enough to turn him over — he had no strength for anything other than a pathetic gurgle — and Steve saw your brows rise just a millimeter when you looked at the bloody mess. Another one of those tiny smiles tugged your lips, and then it was gone as you reached inside your coat.

A picture of cold wrath; a goddess of destruction.

The gun you drew was a black pistol with a silencer screwed onto it; an elegant weapon, looking almost sophisticated, and yet deadly like a viper. You extended your arm with the ease of practiced routine, aiming straight between the man’s eyes, and pulled the trigger. Every movement had come with the indifference of inevitability.

You put the gun back where it had come from while your bodyguard threw the body over his shoulder and grabbed the other by the lapels of its coat — as if he was doing a task no different than dragging out two heavy bags of potatoes. He started making his way towards the door, and you turned to Steve.

There was a sleek white business card in your hand, and you slipped it into the chest pocket of Steve’s shirt. Even through the fabric, he could feel the warmth of your hand.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Captain Rogers,” you said, granting him one last smile of a seductress before you followed your security detail out of the door.

Steve stood there for a few minutes, staring at the new stain in the musty carpet. Then took the business card out of his pocket, bringing it up to his nose and inhaling deeply.

It smelled like you.

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[jamesrb4th]

Momo: Hey Aira can you come over and help me with something

Aira: Momo, I haven't seen you in five years. I have college, I have a job, I have a girlfriend, I live practically on the other side of Japan. I can't just drop everything to help you with some...

Momo: I tracked down the human trafficking ring that kidnapped Acro Silky's daughter and I'm going to avenge their deaths

Aira, parkouring over rooftops with her powers: I'll be there in 5 minutes

[txttletale]

Okay so I agree calling cops on people doing drugs is extremely fucked but what should we do about domestic abuse or human trafficking or people doing generally fucked highly illegal shit like, obligatory cops probably won't help but genuinely what should I or anyone else do in these situations because I'm not like batman

And while obviously obligatory communism fixes most of my concerns here but like, what can I do as an individual seeing these individual problems ? Not to say society wide analysis wouldn't be helpful here but again the point of the question is what can I do if I see people doing fucked up shit

Thank you and I hope I didn't sound aggressive!!!!!! Ur rlly bright!

i mean the answer is that if you witness domestic abuse or 'human trafficking' (a term i dislike because it is mostly used to position illegal immigration as equivalent to sexual slavery)--calling the cops will make things worse in 99% of cases.

if you involve law enforcement in a case where someone is being "trafficked" the most likely option (after, nothing happens because law enforcement are fundamentally incompetent at their alleged role)--is that the person who was forced into this circumstance by desperation will get deported back to the country they were desperate to leave in the first place. people who are forced into overseas slavery (sexual or otherwise) are in fact often kept in line by the people coercing them using the threat of immigration police.

similarly, calling law enforcement on a domestic abuse situation is basically unilaterally a bad idea unless the victim has specifically asked you to. the police will often harass victims and side with abusers. i cannot emphasize enough do not call the cops on a domestic violence situation. even in the best case scenario where the cops are theoretically willing to help--abuse victims very often, for various reasons, will lie to protect their abuser & then be the victim of retaliation from that abusers.

in either of those situations the best thing you as an individual can do is directly offer (offer, and do not expect that this offer will be taken up!) financial assistance, a place to crash overnight, or just (as is more likely within most people's capabilities) make it clear that you're a person who can be confided in who can keep their mouth shut.

but yes, obviously, more broadly the answer is--as you have in fact identified--that these are problems that you need to let go of the idea that you as an individual need to be intervening in or solving. like. the real best thing you can do is go start or join a mutual aid or community action group working to protect abuse/trafficking victims. another pair of hands at a women's shelter is infinitely more useful than anything you could do for anyone on your own.

[ofgentleresolve]

verse: a knight is but a gentleman with a sword ( 4/??? )

cw for mentions of fire, torture, literary gore, human trafficking and p*tsd. please proceed with caution.

reposted and rewritten from my old blog on april 15, 2022.

what you need to know about Myungdae is that he has really really bad undiagnosed p*tsd ( and most likely? will not seek treatment until AFTER this entire ordeal is put to rest :/ ) and as such it affects pretty much every part of his life, not only when he is the black knight but also when he’s in civilian mode.

he managed to avoid anachron for almost two years and in that time, he was pursued for what he knew ( and he’s GOOD at research….he amassed A LOT of dirt on ANACHRON & its victims in those five years )

he learned the hard way not to sleep, stay vigilant no matter what.

there were also instances where people who housed him also got tortured/killed for helping him…either that or they got bribed to give him up- basically he also learned he’s not allowed to trust anyone.

and then, some time in the middle of the second year, he was finally caught and taken back to ANACHRON's base.

if you read the first hc post in this series , then you know that myungdae has a gap in his memory- four months prior to being taken in ARGOS. those four months was the time where he was in ANACHRON's captivity, where he was learned that ANACHRON was involved with organ trafficking….and lived under the threat of being harvested as well.

the conditions were NOT good. the 'cattle' as ANACHRON referred to victims of the trafficking ring as, were kept in cages that were too short to stand up in and too cramped to lie down in. the air was always moist, the floors concrete, and there was no light coming in. the victims were always given the bare minimum in food and water.

there was always the smell of sulfuric acid too...the harvesting room was right next to the 'cattle' cells and often screaming could be heard- often they wouldnt completely harvest the 'cattle'. sometimes they would only take, say a cornea one day and then another organ of the same person in the next week.

that and there was always a loud ticking clock that could be heard...it drove many of the victims into despair, being forced to count down the seconds before they were harvested.

overall, that experience was so bad to myungdae, that his brain blocked it out in order to protect himself...too bad the reprecussions still remain 🙃

but what myungdae does remember about that time is the interrogation that happened at the end of his captivity. they threw him in the 'cattle cell' in order to break his spirit- they didn't specify if they would take a body part of his in that time.

his interrogator was called the 'horologist' since he liked to dissect his victims like watches. very detail oriented and methodical. he's the reason myungdae has a bad right leg and he broke myungdae's fingers too ( thankfully healed ).

at the end of the interrogation, he dunked myungdae in oil and set him on fire, saying 'as long as the internal parts remain in tact, you won't need the rest of your body' 🙃

that's the last thing myungdae remembers before he was rescued by ARGOS.

when he joined ARGOS you’d think that the hard part would be over….well…🙃

u know someone has to do the dirty work in getting the essential information on anachron/other baddies….and since patrick’s good at survival, why not use him instead?? make him earn his keep aka send him on life-threatening missions that basically recreate the previous two years of his life he’s already quite fragmented-

okay so how does that affect his life as a civilian?

myungdae has severe pyrophobia. he also gets triggered by the smell of rotting/burning flesh, strong chemicals, and ticking clocks ( think of second hands on analog clocks ). the last one makes absolutely no sense to him as a trigger.

he does have flashbacks, they can come randomly but flames seem to be the main trigger…it’s not so much for seeing but rather strong and harsh smells like fire-generated smoke ( which is different from the smoke his s*moke b*ombs use ) or chemicals is more likely to trigger that.

doesn’t sleep. the paranoia keeps him up, but when he does try to, he gets nightmares…thrashing and crying when that happens. May turn violent too if woken up by another person considering that he always has his sword near by…

he’s very careful about when he goes to sleep as a result bc he doesn’t want to hurt either elise or hiro….but if he has to, he has an alarm to wake him up before they start…he’s lucky he’s a very light sleeper to begin with. ( also learns to lock the door too so he doesn’t hurt anyone )

has lower back pain a lot too. sometimes there’s neck pain as well :/

also just? he doesn’t really do a lot of the things he used to enjoy?

Like reading for example, he can’t bring himself to read for fun anymore ( even though he MISSES doing that ) bc he’s too busy being vigilant even tho he KNOWS he doesn’t have to be…and when he tries he just doesn’t find any joy in it…the only reason he reads nowadays is because of the books he assigns for his classes ( he’ll only assign short stories…and maybe one or two books )

The rubik’s cubes also don’t feel that much fun anymore either, but that’s a coping mechanism.

a lot of his free time if he’s not training or grading or hanging out with his kids/cool jacket squad is spent with him going into a daze…can sit for hours on end staring off into space.

if it’s not ANACHRON/black knight related, he has shit memory and not to mention terrible concentration…it’s part of the reason he doesn’t read much anymore. A lot of his grading tends to come a week or two late much to his students’ displeasure….he has a planner and sticky notes to counter the problem of forgetfulness ( although things do fall through the cracks ) ESPECIALLY when it comes to meetings.

And bc he learned to always have an escape plan, it affects how he interacts with space. He doesn’t like enclosed spaces with only one way in and out….he’ll always position his seat so he has sight of at least two ways of getting out; he doesn’t like crowded spaces much either ( alfred’s coffeehouse being the exception of where he stays tho ).

Basically those five years really broke apart a good portion of his identity….it’s a major reason he avoids most things related to his old life whether that’s ppl, habits, and places.

Why else would he choose to settle in seoul instead of london?

Also he tends to pick more casual clothing as well since that’s what he got used to in the last five years….his semi-formal clothing making him feel antsy….not really the gentleman anymore…. being the black knight is an exception bc it’s a costume.

it’s also why he avoids his loved ones, especially hyuk. because he knows he’s not the person they loved five years ago anymore, so he has this sense of shame that comes with just…surviving and coming out not feeling like a complete person 😭

[artemis-pendragon]

More Logan being a slightly problematic but well-meaning girl dad in chapter 8 because I love him and his three feral mutant daughters so much

AO3 link here: SYNERGY AND ENTROPY

[thelunarsystemwrites]

do you know who Killer and Dust are, Sans?

do you realize how merciful Muffet is to have enslaved you?

you should be.

You should be fortunate it was her who got to you first.

Textbox: ..Yeah. could be worse.. Still, wish it wasn't happening at all.

my silly little depressed man... reblog to give him some love 🥺

[weaseltube]