#She’ll like the gore

[somewandomnoobtalks]

hello dungeon meshi fandom

[wanologic]

fortunately, or unfortunately, they only see each other like 3 times a year…

[werebutch]

My sister has started watching hannibal btw bc her friend is also obsessed w it. Yay

[90th1k1k0m0r1]

not a swiftie but i DO believe with all my heart and soul that she’s a lesbian

[daycourtofficial]

I will follow you into the dark

Pairing: Azriel x reader | WC: 3k | warnings: character death, depictions of violence and gore, depressive tendencies shown

Summary: going through the five stages of grief after Azriel’s death is much easier with his shadows’ assistance

Alternate summary: “daycourtofficial stabs everyone in the heart” - @milswrites

Author’s note: this is heartbreaking as hell but I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever written. I legitimately sobbed while typing this. Tagging my pookie @illyrianbitch bc I sent her an early draft and her fic ‘when the heart is still longing’ inspired a scene in this

Cold. Ruthless. Calculated.

Words used to describe who Azriel was for the first five hundred years of his life. He wore a mask of indifference, a cold exterior to the world, letting them believe he was nothing more than the cruel exterior he showed everyone past his beloved family.

Until he met you.

You, whose extraordinary kindness and never ending patience for him helped him through the darkest pits of his soul.

It’s this past self he thinks about as the blade meets his skin, tearing through layers of muscle, blood spilling down his chest as it’s removed.

It’s this past self he reaches out to, begging for one moment to go back. To go back and save himself so much time. He would go back, his wings carrying him across Prythian, his landing harsh as he sprinted through your hometown.

He wouldn’t stop until he knocked on your door, his knuckles aching from how hard he would knock. He’d give anything to go back, even if it was just an extra forty-five minutes. He would run until his lungs burned, his legs barely able to hold himself up. He’d run down the cobbled street the two of you would walk down after a night at Rita’s, leaning against each other for support after a night of drinking.

He’d run past the bakery the two of you would meet at every Thursday morning, splitting pastries between the two of you and gossiping about your friends. He’d run up the stairs to your apartment, running up the steps you two walked thousands of times. He’d stop in front of that green door, the spot you two stood in for your first kiss.

He would knock and knock and knock, his fingers bleeding from how hard his knuckles were hitting the wood. He’d look at you as you opened the door, confused as to who he was and what he was doing there.

“You don’t know me, but in a few days I’m going to run into you at the bookstore. I’ll be with my friend Nesta and she’ll push me into you. She’s never admitted it, but I think she saw how I was staring at you and did it to force me to talk to you.

“You were so pretty, paging through some novel. I owe Nesta everything for pushing me into you, making me fall into the chair you were sitting in. It looked ridiculous - Nesta made sure to let Feyre broadcast it to everyone.

“I never cared. You were everything then, and you’ve been everything to me for over a century. What I wouldn’t give to come back here, to find you earlier, even just forty-five minutes. I’d give anything for more time with you.”

His eyes would peer around the apartment you moved out of decades and decades ago, moving all of your furniture into the house a ten minute walk from here. It would all smell like you, not a trace of him on you yet.

He would beg and plead with any god as to why he deserves just one extra minute of your time.

But he’s not in that apartment that you don’t own anymore, he’s somewhere in the present, he thinks. Azriel’s not sure where he is, but he reaches out towards you, trying to send every ounce of his love down that bridge that connects the two of you. He reaches a hand out, wanting to hold you one last time. He can feel your fear thrumming his chest as your hands frantically apply pressure to his neck, trying desperately to stop the bleeding.

He interrupts your pleas, stroking his fingers on your cheek, smearing his blood across it.

You’re here, he thinks.

He loved making you blush, your own blood changing the color of your cheeks as he flirted with you. Now his own blood was coloring your skin, a last marking of himself on you.

Every word from his mouth caused the blood to gush from his wound, but he didn’t care. He was fighting for every breath, every word. He knew this was the end. He was just grateful to the Mother that the last thing he’d see in this life was you.

He chokes on his blood, coughing exacerbating the wound.

“In every life.”

He pulls himself up, using your shoulders to brace himself. He pulls your lips to his, soft and delicate, as if it’s the first time he’s kissing you all over again. As if you’re back on that cobblestone street, the two of you standing right in front of your door, a mess of limbs and lips.

The blood on his neck is traded for the tie he wore, one that you had complimented him on as you saw him. You had pulled him down to you by his tie, pulling him to your lips.

And now he was pulling himself up to you, a final goodbye.

He pours everything into it, pouring every last bit of himself through the string connecting the two of you, clinging desperately to that connection for every moment.

You kiss him back just as urgently, hands holding his wounds. His mouth is salty as your tears start running into the kiss, your hands sticky and warm with his blood.

Your kisses become more and more urgent as he starts losing energy, your sense of urgency increasing as he starts fading, that golden bridge connecting the two of you not as bright as it was with each passing moment.

You know he stopped kissing you back a moment ago, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. This should be a fairytale and true love’s kiss is enough to bring someone back.

You pull back, moving his face into your neck, unable to let go. You can’t hear anything except the echo of where your bond was, as if it clanged all the way down your body as it disconnected you from him. You feel someone grip your shoulders, desperate to pull you away from your mate. Your sobs are piercing as you tighten your grip on him.

He’s still warm, he can come back. Still warm, he’ll be back. You start rocking with him in your arms, your tears creating tracks in the blood on your face. A body is pressed to your back, large and warm, and large tan hands cover your own on Azriel’s face. You hear slight sounds, you think it might be Cassian, but you’re not sure.

You don’t feel his tears on your neck

All you feel is a deep, gaping hole inside of you where Azriel lives.

Lived.

Your breaths come fast and choppy, and you start jerking in Cassian’s arms, the feeling of him too much, too much. You felt suffocated, your powers boiling within you as his body grows colder.

His shadows slithered over you, several of them still remaining with their master. Their patterns were meant to be soothing, but it wasn’t working. Several of them cloak Azriel in mourning, their usual energetic nature dulled in the aftermath.

The air in the room changes as all the heat is sucked into your body, your skin blazing. It happens so quickly - you feel Cassian pull away from you as someone slides Azriel’s body from yours, somebody else rushing forward and tackling you to the ground. Instead of hitting hard flooring, your head hits grass, your body racing with adrenaline.

You look up to find Rhysand letting go of you before backing up. He has tears down his face, his eyes a muddier shade of violet than before.

“Let it out. Here. Now.”

Your skin is boiling, everything in you desperate for release. All you feel is the tendril of a lone shadow around your ankle as you burn. You can’t hear Rhys’s sobs, only the roaring of the fire as the grass catches the spark.

The next week goes by in a blur. A funeral - one where the town of black wore deep blue to honor your mate’s lifetime of sacrifice. A few shadows remain with you, the only reason you’re able to get through his funeral is with their touch.

“Hey Az.”

The grass is wet with dew, the early morning fog sticking to it. You don’t notice how damp the ground is beneath you as you sit next to him. Your hands grasp the grass next to his grave, the dirt over his grave too fresh for anything to be growing on top of it.

Your fingers thread through the blades, holding tightly, as if you can uproot them and pull him back to the surface, back to you. As if you kept digging you could find that bond nestled within you somewhere.

Your lip wobbles as you try to say something, anything. The various flower arrangements that surround you both speak of how many visitors he’s had.

He would tell you that the bouquet of orange lilies are from Elain, because those are currently in bloom in Day. He would tell you that the arrangement of blue and black came from Rhysand and Feyre, the flowers meaning ‘a great sacrifice’.

You can’t bring yourself to tell him how the world has become duller in his absence, how you hardly eat or bathe, hardly leave your home at all. How Nesta and Feyre take turns visiting you, ensuring you eat and bathe, getting you to move your legs at least once a day.

He’d be disappointed you weren’t taking care of yourself. He’d want you to continue on, despite the unbearable horrors that live in your chest. It felt like your entire ribcage were burst open, your pain and sadness leaking out of every pore for all to see.

Despite the fact that centuries together have led you here, at the end of the road. A road you happily traveled, knowing it would end here eventually.

You’d never regret choosing him, opening yourself up to this inevitable heartache.

You just regret every moment that happens now that he’s gone.

His shadows have followed you to the cemetery, their presence one you’re grateful for. You know they love you, much like Azriel did, and you’ll take any part of him you can cling onto.

You know they’ll leave eventually. No one understood them. Were they sentient beings? Or were they mere whispers of Azriel’s presence, an echo of an echo of his power, disappearing whenever they wish?

You sit, your back leaned against his tombstone, the words “beloved mate” pressing into your back. You moved over, wanting to be as close as possible to him. You don’t much care if the dirt sticks to your skirts. Nuala and Cerridwen won’t say anything to you. They felt his absence too.

You push your hand into the dirt, grasping at it in hopes he’ll grasp your hand back. All you feel are the shadows swarming your fingertips, imitating his soft touch.

-

You lay in your bed, the one that is much too large without your mate. The shadows cloak over you like a blanket, carrying his smell with them.

They missed him too.

You sealed some of Azriel’s clothes away, a magical enchantment that preserved their smell. You were grateful you had the shadows for now, however fleeting their presence may be.

Where Nesta and Feyre helped you bathe, the shadows helped keep your room clean. You stayed in the House of Wind, everyone agreeing you shouldn’t be alone during this time. That was weeks ago, you think.

You’re not really sure.

Time wasn’t moving like it used to anymore. Hours and days pass without your notice, a gray fog hanging over you at all times. You move through the monotony of grief, unaware of your surroundings or how you get anywhere half the time.

You blink and find yourself at his grave.

“It was supposed to be me,” you half yell at the grave marker, your blood getting warmer with your anger.

You hate it. You hate how everything he was, six centuries of a life well-lived, were boiled down to adjectives and monikers.

“Beloved mate.”

“Beloved brother.”

You hated those words, as if that’s all he were. The words don’t tell how he would pick you up when you fell asleep reading and carry you to bed, how he’d help you cheat every time you played cards against Cassian because you laughed so hard whenever he flipped the table, or how his fingers would brush the hair from your face when the two of you cooked dinner every night.

‘Beloved’ is nothing to how your chest felt when he’d come home and see you before he updated Rhysand after being gone so you knew he was okay.

‘Brother’ is not enough to convey how much he loved Rhysand and Cassian, how much love and sacrifice they poured into each other.

“You said I could go first. You promised. And now I’m here, alone, without you. And I don’t- I don’t know how to do it.”

You were yelling, screaming at this slab of granite. You kicked the flowers on the grave, watching them fly through the air as the petals fell.

Yellow for friendship.

“It was supposed to be me! Not you!”

You tug at your hair before you lose all your strength, sinking into the grass covering his grave. Your tears resemble morning dew as they cling to the grass, your knees becoming green with the contact. A few shadows wind through your hair, a few others bring back the bouquet you kicked, placing the flowers back where they were, albeit a bit damaged.

“You’ve never broken a promise before.”

Your voice is weak, the stone in front of you unresponsive to your breakdown.

-

Life moves on. Everyone feels Azriel absence - even Lucien, so full of words is quieter around you. They don’t know how to talk to you anymore, your life becoming more and more hollow as the mating bond in your chest decays, growing into a moldy, decaying thing that turned you rotten.

Why him? Why couldn’t it have been anyone else? Why was it your mate - the one who sacrificed everything all of the time? Why wasn’t it Cassian or Rhysand or any of his spies?

Anyone but him.

You’d do anything.

The days keep moving, the forward progress of time a joke to you. Or perhaps you were the joke to the Mother. You slug through the days, finally able to bathe and dress yourself, but struggling to remember to eat.

Then the voices start.

It’s one soft voice, one you could hear in any lifetime, any world and know who it belonged to. His voice soft as ever delicately telling you to eat, coming and going on the wind around mealtimes.

You listened to it. You could never stay no to him, even if it was just an echo of him living in his shadows.

-

It was well known amongst his family members that Rhysand required his beauty sleep. Eight hours minimum of undisturbed slumber.

Which is why he is tearing through his house on a warpath at whoever is at his door at 2:30 in the morning. He angrily slung on a robe, harshly opening his door, ready to chew out who lay on the other side.

He did not expect to find you, panic stricken, shadows swirling around you.

Your sobs fill his ears, “they won’t stop, Rhys. They keep telling me everything. That Feyre’s asleep, Nyx is asleep and cooing. Cassian’s snoring, Nesta’s awake and brewing tea. They won’t stop.”

You start to collapse, but the shadows hold you up long enough for Rhysand to grab you and bring you in through the threshold.

He places you down on the couch and inspects the shadows swirling around you. He watches them flit about, some moving away, some circling you. He steps on one as it slithers past him, holding it in place.

He looks at you as he grabs the shadow, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, watching it wiggle in his grasp.

“Is this the first time they’ve spoken to you?”

You shake your head no, whispering, “they speak one at a time usually. And not like this.”

His gaze is sympathetic, sitting you on his sofa. “What do they usually say?”

You look down at your shoes, a sense of shyness overcoming you. You pick at your pants, “mostly to eat and take care of myself.”

You hum, remembering, “last week one of them told me Nyx was going to fall, which is how I caught him so quickly.”

Rhys’s eyes are penetrating as he gazes at you, his eyes are a curious shade of violet.

“Can we try something?”

-

Months later, you return home, the black of your clothes hiding the blood soaked within them. You traipse through the foyer, forgetting it was even family game night. Their conversations halt at your appearance. Despite wearing the same colors of the Night Court, the black looks like a deeper shade on you.

Or perhaps the shadows circling you made you look as if you belonged amidst them rather than the fae looking at you.

You nod to Rhys, your only form of communication these days. He nods back, a strained smile on his lips, devastated to watch what you’ve become, grateful he made a pact with Feyre to never continue on without her.

You don’t miss how his hand squeezes her a little too tight.

Your family watches as you step back into the shadows, the darkness consuming you once more. You prefer to stay in them instead of being alone. You linger in their embrace, their consumption of you everything you need, the remnants of Azriel’s scent lingering in this liminal space. You inhale his scent once more, tears stinging your eyes. In the darkness that surrounds you, never knowing where you end or begin, not knowing exactly where in the world you were.

Where nothing and everything existed, floating through your mate’s truest companions, you hear his voice calling to you, the soft tenor of his voice coming from a direction you can’t quite pinpoint.

Or perhaps it was only an echo.

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-smut

Azriel taglist: @brieflyclassymortal @thisiskaylin

Thanks for reading 💕

[jointherebellion215]

His Kiss, The Riot

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x female!reader

Summary: When you and your secret lover make plain to Feyd-Rautha your wishes for a life together, despite the proposed arranged marriage, he surprisingly acquiesces. But he can't let you go so easily, can he? Loosely based on the song from Hadestown.

Word Count: 1.6k

TW: manipulation, Dark!Feyd-Rautha, arranged marriage, NONCON elements, gore, violence, she/her pronouns, female!reader, tragedy, star-crossed lovers, songfic, not quite a happy ending (oops), dark dark dark interpretations of Hadestown and the story of Orpheus and Eurydice.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read If It's True and liked, reblogged, or commented. I appreciate every single one of you. As always, I would love some feedback, likes, comments, and reblogs if you can :)

This is Part Two to my Feydestown trilogy (I'm so sorry for the pun). You can read Part One here.

AO3

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Dune properties, characters, or storylines-- nor do I own anything related to Hadestown. The images used in this are not my own, and any similarities to stories or events other than what are directly referenced are strictly coincidence.

The devil takes this Orpheus

And his belladonna kiss

“So you wanna get married? Take away the woman I just offered my hand to, to whom I all but have legal claim?”

Your beloved’s replied words of affirmation to his words hold the slightest tremor, but like a dog to fresh meat, Feyd-Rautha sniffs this out immediately. Another smile graces his face. Feyd speaks to the crowd now, “Yes, I was promised the Lady’s hand in marriage. But! I am a benevolent figure, so I guess I’ll let the lovebirds go.”

The crowd starts to give polite applause, while your knees grow weak at the news. You can go? Has love really prevailed on this day?

“However,” and with that, your heart drops “I have some conditions for these… nuptials.”

You could sense the air growing thick with tension as the reality of the na-Baron’s ruling twists out of your favor.

“Conditions?” You whispered.

“Of course, my darling! I can’t make this too easy on you, now can I?” Feyd paces back and forth on the steps from which he speaks, making your eyes dart back and forth with each step he takes. Vigilance overtakes your body in case of any rash decisions.

“You two can leave the city, but it won’t be hand in hand. This pair will have to walk in single file, with the boy in the front and my darling Lady at least thirty paces behind. No ships, no speeders, no running. Walking.”

The energy of the room starts to grow more electric as the points of this term seem to set in.

“The Lady cannot speak out or make any indication of her following behind. You’ll be faced forward the whole journey. Once you reach the edge of the city and passed the threshold, you can be together for eternity.”

Your breath hitched. Seems easy enough, right?

“But, if the boy so much as turns his head to check and see if the Lady is following, the deal is off. She’ll return to me, and we will be married.”

Nothing makes a man so bold

As a woman’s smile and a hand to hold

“Is this a trick?” Your beloved asks plainly.

Feyd tilts his head, pacing down the steps to ground level. “Now, what makes you say that? I’m being generous. I’ve set my terms.” He is now nose-to-nose with the man attached to you. 

“Now meet them or face the consequences.”

The hand holding yours is now pooled with sweat. You quickly and subtly jerk the arm of your beloved when he starts to protest, not recognizing a gift when he sees one. You bow, the picture of poise and grace that you were raised to be. There is still time to leave with all of your limbs intact, you could not afford to slip up now.

“We offer our most sincere gratitude, my Lord na-Baron. Thank you for this most auspicious opportunity. We will not squander it.” 

Your beloved gives a clumsy bow to match yours. Feyd’s manic smile grows as he clasps his hands together. The sound echoes through the hall.

“So it shall begin!” 

But all alone his blood runs thin

And doubt—doubt comes in

The pair of you hold hands, side-by-side, at the entrance of the palace gates. A crowd has followed you to the edge, with onlookers from the outside spectating the unexpected appearance of a noble. Occurrences like this did not happen often, if ever.

“You heard the terms. The Lady must walk thirty steps behind. She must not speak to you.” Your hands reluctantly separate, following the orders you were given. You can feel your heart pounding with each step that you take away from each other.

“Some of my guard will accompany you, to ensure that you comply to the letter.” Four Harkonnen warriors step forward and encase you in a square formation, leaving the love of your life alone and vulnerable. He looks back towards you, fear and doubt creeping into his eyes. You nodded at him, believing that you could succeed in your task. That you would prevail.

“You may begin.” Feyd voices, and with that—you start your journey. Step by step, you walk further through the foliage that immediately surrounds the castle gates and into the city square.

Once you and your beloved reach the horizon, Feyd turns to walk past the crowd and back into the corridor.

Your father, the Duke, bows quickly and offers his gratitude, but is ignored as the younger Harkonnen goes to gather his blade and shield. With a yell, he summons his guards to formation. As Feyd checks the integrity of his weapon, one of the Baron’s advisors tentatively steps towards him.

“My Lord, perhaps you should consider letting them go—” In the blink of an eye, the man is silenced with a swift slash to the throat. Blood spills through the advisor’s hands as he struggles to put pressure on the opening. His body flops to the floor and Feyd carelessly steps over the writhing body to march forward.

“Let’s go fetch my bride.”

Dangerous this jack of hearts

It had been almost an hour of walking by this point. There had been almost a dozen times where you wanted to give any audible indication to your lover that you were here. A whisper, a whistle, a stomp of your foot. Anything. But now you could see the edge of the city, you could almost taste it. 

A life with your love was within reach. 

The guards accompanying you shifted inward, almost boxing you in. You were hopeful, but nerves were creeping in.

This was going well. Too well.

The grand arch signifying the edge of the city was above your lover now. The field that you used to meet at in secret lay just beyond it. You’re almost there. Just twenty more steps and you could be together, forever. 

He steps over the threshold, you see his shoulders lift and fall in an exhale. Then, the man you had fallen in love with— who you wholly believe in— slowly turns his head to lock eyes with you. A pale figure steps out from behind a pillar accompanying the arch.

The growing smile on your face immediately falls. You call out his name.

Oh no. 

The na-Baron tsked and shook his head, as if scolding a child. Harkonnen troops flanked the area, giving Feyd-Rautha enough berth to have his fun. The three of you were surrounded, but only one really had the advantage.

“You were so close!”

Your beloved held out a hand, “Wait, wait! I made it over!” He started to back away in fear, unarmed and exhausted from the long walk. Colorful, ripe foliage brushed his legs as he back into your field.

“Ah, but she didn’t. So, face the consequences.”

Then his blade pierced the man you love. 

Your ears started to ring, throat working itself raw as you wailed. Tears blurred your vision, you could hear the gurgles of the blood leaving your fiancé’s mouth and the slosh of his newly disemboweled entrails hitting the lush field before you.

With his kiss, the riot starts

His body made a sick thud on the floor, and your body jumped along with it. 

You ran towards your dead lover, cradling his face and sobbing for the soul that was just ripped away from you. He didn’t deserve such a violent end. His only crime was loving you and being loved in return.

A chuckle sounded from above you, and you turned your tear-stained face to the brutal Harkonnen. He was covered in the blood of your lover, his spoils of war staining his pale skin. Black teeth on full display, his shoulders gave a slight shake as he expressed his humor. His laughter sparked a rage in you like you’d never seen before. It didn’t matter what bonds you may or may not have formed over the conversations you had the last week. He’s a monster. He needs to pay for what he’s done. 

Red flooded your vision.

With a roar, you lunged for the man. His laugh grew more manic as you smacked, punched, kicked, and hit every visible part of him that you could identify. In your grief, every ounce of training that you received flew out the window. He took every blow with a smile, as if he enjoyed the punishment you were attempting to bestow on him.

“There we go, my darling. Show me your pain. Your rage!”

Your mind started to clear with the more hits you landed. With a quick swipe, you had the weapon that killed your beloved against the naBaron’s neck. The Harkonnen soldiers immediately stepped forward, but Feyd stopped them with a wave of his arm.

“Ah ah ah! Leave her be.” His grin almost split his face in half, specks of dried blood making a painting of his face. 

“Do it. Go ahead, come on.”

He pressed his neck forward, purposefully putting pressure on his own blade. Fresh blood started to trickle down his neck, adding to the gallons already spread all over his uniform. 

The shock of his willingness to put his life on the line made you hesitate, which made him cackle in your face. Your anger made you draw the blade back and slice it across his chest. A groan left Feyd’s mouth, 

“Good girl.”

An unexpected thunk to the head made your vision start to spin. Feyd’s arms braced around you, slowly lowering you to your knees and down to a lying position. He cradled your head as if you were a precious commodity, when he leaned forward and captured your limp lips with his. 

As black started swallowing your vision, you heard him say,

“Don’t worry, my darling bride. It’ll all be alright. You won’t feel a thing.”

[saffusthings]

You're Everything I Need (and More)

oscar piastri x personal assistant!reader

summary: the one where they deal with the aftermath word count: 10.6k (…sorry?) warnings: descriptions and talks of abuse, trauma, disassociation, other abuse aftermath, please don't read if any of this stuff is not the vibe, some gore, being threatened by a weapon, whump, poorly edited writing a/n: comments/feedback would be much appreciated! and let me if like it, bc i have some ideas for a mini-series

Part 1

Oscar thinks he must be imagining the way her breathing begins to quicken and she starts to shift, tossing and turning in on the bed. He freezes instantly when he feels her start to squirm beside him- not knowing what to do, whether to move or to pull her closer. 

But then she lets out a small noise that sounds eerily like a whimper, and his entire body jolts with panic. Her eyebrows are pinched together - her face is a picture of distress, her body still squirming and shifting restlessly.

He’s half-concerned she’s in pain, half-thinking she’s having a nightmare, and he’s suddenly desperate to figure out which one it is so he can stop it. 

“Hey,” he calls, trying to make his voice sharp and loud enough to wake her up but gentle enough not to scare her. “Wake up. Wake up, it's just a dream-“

She mutters in her sleep, her breathing picking up. “Please don’t- Stop, stop-”

“Wake up,” he says again, his heart racing, begging her to wake up so she can stop reliving it. “Wake up - you’re dreaming, it’s not real, c’mon-“

Her eyes fly open, wild and frenzied. Her breaths come in short, quick bursts as she relies on her instincts and uses them to put as much distance between her and the voice emanating from the dark abyss. She rapidly shuffles away from him, ignoring the pain that screams at her from various parts of her body as she does everything to get away from her parents’ wrath.

They’re going to kill her.

She flails away from the figure in the dark, moving her limbs rapidly with only survival at the forefront of her mind. Scrambling to get up, she ends up backed up against the wall, wielding the switchblade she always keeps around defensively.

For a split second, Oscar’s completely frozen. 

“Hey,” he tries in the calmest tone he can muster, raising a tentative, open palms slowly. “Hey, hey it’s okay. It’s me, you’re safe, you’re okay-“

“Stop it!” she shouts defensively, pleading. Her chest heaves with each breath. “Jus- Just stop, don’t do this, don’t touch me-“

Oscar freezes again, his face falling in worry. He keeps his hands up, his heart racing as he scans over her. She’s terrified, he thinks, taking in her shaking figure, her hands clutching a knife, her eyes locked onto him like he was a threat. 

“No- no, I won’t touch you,” he assures quickly. “I won’t touch you, I’m not gonna touch you, I promise. Just- just breathe, alright?”

Her eyes look around frantically, trying to make sense of things. He’s starting to panic now - she’s still completely lost in her nightmare, still terrified, and every time she looks at him, he’s sure he can see a flicker of fear in her eyes. 

Fear of him. 

“I’m not gonna touch you,” he says again, his voice still as gentle as he can get it. “Look at me. Just look. It’s me, I’m here, I’m- I’m not gonna hurt you, I swear on my life-“

“Listen to my voice,” he coaxes again, his tone even. “Just listen to me. Concentrate on it. Listen to me, and look at me, and tell me who I am.” 

He knows he has to get her to recognize him. He knows it’s the fastest way to get her grounded, to get her back to reality.

“I…” her brows furrow, her heart beating wildly. “I- W…Oscar?W”

“Okay, that’s good,” he murmurs, taking another step closer to her. “That’s good, you’re doing good, listen to me, alright darling? You’re doing good.”

He’s still afraid that she’s going to flinch away from him - that at any second, she’ll realize that she’s trapped against the wall, and start squirming to get away from him again.

“Look at me,” he demands again, more forcefully this time, desperate to get her to open her eyes, to look at him. “Look at me, darling, please.”

She wrings her body from his touch like it burned. “Don’t touch me-“

Immediately, her knife hand is ready, pointing the small weapon.

“I’m not going to,” he responds instantly, his hands flying up in a gesture of surrender. He was not expecting that. He’d only meant to hold her face - keep her gaze on his - but she’d flinched away and was now pointing a knife at his goddamn chest.

And suddenly, he’s terrified. 

Not for himself - he’s never scared of her, and he knows rationally that she won’t stab him. He’s terrified that she’s gone back to that state of complete panic, and that if he tries to move, she’ll hurt herself.

He keeps his voice soft and quiet, slowly moving his hand towards the one holding the knife. 

“Give me the knife, yeah?” He begins, watching her eyes closely for an indication of her reaction. “Can you do that for me?”

“No, no, no-“ she mumbles, clenching her eyes shut momentarily. “It’s- It’s mine.”

Her arm instinctively moves closer to her, causing her to bend her elbow and weaken her stance. She doesn’t seem to notice, with the perceived threat to the only defense she has.

Tears stream down her face in frustration. She’s so scared, her heart is thudding and she’s only scaring herself more. God, and Oscar is being so patient and collected about this but she can’t seem to fucking calm down-

It breaks his goddamn heart to see her like this. But he has to act quickly, he knows it’s the only way this is going to work. There’s no way she’ll give him the knife - she thinks it’s the only protection against him, against whatever she’s facing. 

Which means he has to overpower her to get her to release the weapon.

God- he hates it. 

He never ever wants to use any kind of force on her. She’s fragile enough as it is without having to use force on her, but she’s not going to put that knife down on her own. She’s terrified and in panic mode, and the only way to get her grounded is to get her to let the damn weapon go.

He’s going to hate himself for this later, even more than he already does, but he has to.

His hands slowly go up in the air again, pretending to surrender. “Okay, okay,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “Okay, I won’t take it. Is that better?”

Face wet with tears, she nods weakly. Her mind is a whirlwind - a messy storm of relief that he won’t take her knife away, and confusion as to why she feels horrible about it.

He feels a small sense of relief at her nod, but she still doesn’t lower the weapon in her hand, still pointing it at him warily. With his hands still held carefully in the air, he begins to move a lot slower and with careful, methodical steps towards her. 

She’s watching him like a hawk, still pointing the knife at him, but her body seems to have lost some of its tension.

He can see her trembling, her eyes glistening with tears, and he mentally curses himself for the hundredth time for not being able to protect her from the hell that she calls home. He slowly advances, his steps measured and deliberate. He’s close enough to her now, close enough to see the tears staining her face. 

With him so close now, Y/N is able to see him better in the darkness of the room.  His hair is still mussed up from sleep, his eyes… still familiar and inviting. 

Oscar has always had the kind of face that makes you feel like you could talk to him about anything, go to him any time and still feel comfortable. He has a kind face, and certainly a personality to match.

It’s this familiarity and coolness that she recognizes in his eyes now.

The hand holding the switchblade drops marginally in the air, her stance less taut.

A breath escapes him when he sees her hand start to drop, her stance loosening. 

It’s working- it’s working. He’s doing something right, thank god. 

He takes one more slow step towards her, close enough now to reach out and touch her.

“Oscar,” she breathes shakily in recognition. His familiar silhouette feels like hope in light of the violent thumping in her chest, the panic that’s been coursing through her veins.

She may be afraid - but Oscar’s here.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, an alarm bell is going off at the fact that Oscar is so close - why is he so close? 

But it’s difficult for her to focus on that when there’s a knife in her hand and there's people that will make sure that she suffers. So the only thing she seems to register at the moment beside her panicked frenzy is that Oscar is here.

He watches her eyes flit between his face and the knife in her hand, her mind clearly struggling with the confusion of it all. He hates having to do this, really and truly hates that he has to be yet another person in her life forcing her to do something she doesn’t want to. 

But it doesn’t change the fact that it has to be done. 

His heart breaks at her words, but he reaches out and grips her wrist, forcing her hand to release the knife before she hurts herself or him.

“Osc-” she yelps in surprise, caught off guard. But before she can finish the word, his hand clamps firmly around her hand holding the switchblade. Fingers wrap themselves around her wrist, forming a circle and applying more and more pressure until the muscles there have no choice but to release the grip she has on the knife.

In an instant, Oscar scoops the fallen knife on the sheets beside them and pockets it for the time being. 

“Look at me,” he says, his voice rough. “Just look at me.”

He’s ready to pin her the wall and hold her there until she calms down so she won’t flail or fight back or-

Instead, he’s completely caught off guard. It’s like a switch flips the second the knife drops out of her hands. 

All the fear that had been hammering against her chest takes the form of a choked out sob. Warm tears roll down her face as every muscle in her body gives out at once - whether in fear or relief or exhaustion, it isn’t clear. Maybe all of the above.

Completely spent and still trembling with sobs, she collapses straight into his arms.

As soon as she collapses, his arms go around her, pulling her tighter against him in a firm and protective embrace. He holds her against him, his hands rubbing soothingly up and down her back, making soft shushing noises to try and soothe her.

“You’re okay,” he mutters, his lips right beside her ear. “You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

She babbles words about how scared she was and how sorry she is over and over again, most of it practically incoherent.

Her body falls against his as she allows herself to be enveloped in the warm embrace of Oscar’s strong arms.

All he can do is hold her tight, listening to her mumbles and trying to decipher which of them are apologies and which ones are something else. He can feel the dampness of her tears against the skin of his neck and the warmth of her body against his bare chest, and he curses himself internally once again for not being able to protect her sooner.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he says quietly, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back in an attempt to soothe her. “You don’t- you don’t have anything to apologize for, okay? None of this is your fault, absolutely none.”

“I’m so sorry, I almost hurt you, M’so sorry, I was just scared,” she mumbles into his chest. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong me, I’m so sorry–”

“Shhh,” he mutters, shaking his head against her hair, his hand still rubbing up and down her back. 

“Don’t worry about it, okay? I’m not hurt. I’m fine, I’m right here.” 

Even though her eyes are red-rimmed and tearstained and the bruise on her collarbone is almost taunting him, she’s still the most beautiful girl in the world. 

He takes a deep breath before asking a question. “Is this something that’s happened before?”

She takes a deep breath before answering. “Well I’ve had nightmares sometimes, I guess,” she explains. They happen often, actually. 

“But this one was…” she struggles to find the right word, so she settles for, “…different.”

His hands reach out, tracing a soothing pattern against the small of her back. “Can you explain it? The nightmare?”

“I…” her voice shakes.

“Hey, hey,” he says softly, holding her tighter against him. “Don’t force it if you’re not ready, okay? I’m pressuring you to answer, I just-“

He stops himself, taking a deep breath. “I’m just trying to understand what happened. That’s all.”

She nods in understanding. Her fingers find him, playing with them to have something to do with her hands as she tries to keep her voice level.

“It’s a memory, really…” she trails off. “Of tonight. When they…”

He’s not sure whether he wants her to keep going. He can already tell whatever she’s about to say isn’t going to be something easy to hear. 

But she’s talking now, and he isn’t about to stop that, not when she needs to actually talk through this kind of stuff. She’s been keeping this bottled up for god knows how long, and now is the time to get the words out.

“When they were… more angry than usual,” she says, wording it as delicately as she can. “They were unhappy with how much I’d been away for work, too busy to be home for them.”

Her voice shakes just a bit when she tells him, “When they didn’t kill me, I guess they tried to beat it out of me.

He can’t help it this time - his grip tightens around her at her words, the muscles in his jaw clenching when he hears them. 

“Y/N,” he says gently, still rubbing her back slowly, still trying to coax out the words, “when you say angry, what do you mean by that? How often do they…?”

He knows the answer already.

She’s quiet for a long while, her eyelashes fluttering rapidly against her cheeks as she tries to keep a new set of tears from falling. Then she starts to talk again, her words a soft mumble against his skin.

“More often than just tonight,” she confesses. It’s the best answer she can really give him.

He knew it. 

He takes a deep breath, doing everything he can to maintain a neutral expression on his face. The last thing she needs right now is him doing something to send her spiraling again. So instead he just holds her tight, listening to her speak and running a hand soothingly through her hair.

He has to fight to keep his voice steady when he asks the next question. “Those other times… was tonight the worst so far?”

“Yeah.”

His grip on her tightens just a fraction, his heart clenching at the one-word answer. 

God, he just wants to protect her. He wants to wrap her up in his arms and never let go - shield her from anyone and everyone trying to hurt her ever again because nobody deserves any of it. And more than that, he hates the fact that there isn’t anything he can do.

“I’m sorry, Oscar,” she hiccups. “I- Fuck… l had a fucking knife pointed at you, god-“

“Don’t be sorry,” he says forcefully. “You were scared, it was a- a defense reaction. Don’t apologize for something like that.”

His fingers reach up, gently tilting her chin up towards him.

“And don’t worry about me. I’m fine, I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.”

She curls in closer against his chest, almost as if eliminating the space between means both of them would fuse into one with sheer force of will. A weak hand comes up, sleeve pulled up and over her knuckles, to gently hold the side of his face, tilting it toward her.

His eyes flutter closed at the gesture, and he can’t help but lean into the touch. She’s touching him, in the softest, gentlest way possible, but she’s touching his face and somehow it feels like home. 

His own hand reaches up to grip her wrist, and he gently presses a kiss against her palm.

“I could never bring myself to hurt you,” she whispers, but the look in her eyes suggests she’s not even aware that she spoke that thought aloud.

“I’d never want to hurt you. You know that, right? I’d never forgive myself if I did.”

The raw sincerity in her voice actually makes his heart ache a little, and he has to take a deep breath so his voice doesn’t break. He leans his forehead against hers, his eyes still closed.

“I know,” he reassures her. “I never thought for a second that you’d hurt me. I know that you’d never hurt me, okay?”

“Do you really believe that?”

He scoffs a little at the question, shaking his head.

“Of course I do,” he affirms. “One-thousand percent. I trust you more than anyone, I promise you. You’re not going to hurt me.”

“You don’t think I’m some kind of… like, monster?” she asks, dubious.

His expression falls, his jaw clenching again.

“No, no, never,” he murmurs. “Of course I don’t think you’re a monster. You’re the farthest from a monster.”

His thumb gently traces a soothing pattern against the outside of her thigh. “Please tell me you don’t believe that.”

She shrugs. “I’m messed up - unstable. I could have really hurt you tonight.”

“You’re not messed up, you’re not unstable, and you can’t use a traumatic experience, that you had absolutely no control over, as any gauge of what you ‘could’ have done to me,” he argues, his voice firm. 

“You didn’t hurt me, you wouldn’t have hurt me,” he tells her with complete conviction. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course.” The words slip out of her mouth before she can even think about it.

He lets out a breath when he hears her answer, his eyes opening and taking a long, quiet minute just to look at her - taking in the bruise on her collarbone and her split lip, along with the cuts and scratches against her arm. 

He gently brushes a hand over the bruise on her collarbone, his touch feather-like and soft.

“Jesus,” he exhales. “They really did a number on you.”

His finger reaches up to gently brush over her split lip.

She doesn’t know what to say to that, so she simply shrugs, content with tracing mindless patterns against his sternum and across his chest.

He falls quiet after that, and for a long while - the only sounds filling the room being their breathing, and distant whir of the ceiling fan. Then he speaks, his voice so soft it’s almost a whisper.  “Let me take care of you, please.”

“Hmm?”

His hands reach out to gently cup the sides of her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

He tilts her chin up, gently forcing her to meet his gaze.

“You’ve had to take care of yourself for god knows how long, and I get it if you think you’re used to doing everything on your own… but you don’t…” he swallows, his eyes searching her face. “You don’t have to do it alone, okay? Let me take care of you, just a little.”

She just looks at him.

She looks at the genuine earnestness in his eyes, the bags under his eyes from not getting enough sleep tonight. She feels his heart thudding in his chest where her head is leaning against it. She breathes and is immediately met with the scent of him. His eyes are dark brown - they’re warm like honey and have flecks of caramel in them that remind her of the way kindness feels.

She wants to believe him.

He watches her look at him, the expression on her face an unreadable mixture of emotions - he can see a hint of fear and a hint of guilt and a hint of confusion and a hint of hope, all swirling around in her gaze. 

She’s just too damn scared to do it. She settles for murmuring, “You already do, Oscar. More than you know.”

He can’t resist the soft smile that immediately emerges at her words. 

He doesn’t say anything - doesn’t tell her how many times he’s seen her favorite tea or candy or snack at a gas station and had a small internal debate over grabbing it, and how many times his hand subconsciously ends up reaching for it anyway.

He doesn’t tell her how many times his brain instantly goes to her when he’s working on something that’s giving him a difficult time to solve because he knows she’ll see something he missed.

He doesn’t tell her that he looks forward to the times she randomly texts him an image of a bird or a duck or some other critter with a “hey look at this” caption because it always makes him smile. 

He doesn’t tell her how much he enjoys taking care of her, how much he’s glad to be able to do it. 

All he does is brush a strand of hair away from her face and murmur a soft yeah in agreement.

She hums softly. “Think we can still catch some sleep tonight?”

He hums, considering the question for a moment. His eyes glance at the clock on the dresser - 4:37am. 

He honestly doubts that he could fall back asleep so quickly after everything that’s happened tonight, and he’d be surprised if she could too. If they’re going to be kept awake anyway, he has other ideas about what they could do that’s more entertaining than staring at the ceiling.

“Osc? Y’there?” she mumbles. 

He immediately snaps back into the moment at the sound of her voice. 

“Y-yeah, I’m here,” he assures her, a hint of guilt present because he didn’t respond right away. “I’m here, I’m here,” he repeats, his arms instinctively pulling her flush against his body.

“Sleep?” she prompts softly, reminding him of her question she was waiting for him to respond to. He hums in agreement - not because he thinks they actually WilloW, but he’s willing to give it a try, at least. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, his hand coming up to brush her hair back. “Yeah, let’s sleep.”

“Could…”

He’s just about to close his eyes when he hears her speak, his eyes snapping open again. He turns his head to look down at her, waiting for her to continue what she was going to say.

“Could I lay my head on your chest?” she asks, except the words are mumbled so fast that they’re barely understandable.

He swallows hard before responding, his heart rate increasing when she makes the request. 

He nods quickly. 

“Yeah-” he affirms. “Yeah, of course-”

He’s in the middle of repositioning himself - so he’s laying on his back - when he realizes that she’s not moving. He pauses, looking down at her still curled against his side, and silently gestures for her to move.

When she still doesn’t move, he gently pulls her up - coaxing her body to move across his and come settle against his chest. 

She hums contentedly once they’re settled in - not unlike the manner in which a cat purrs upon finding a comfortable patch of sunlight to curl up in. He wants to laugh at the comparison because it’s both accurate and hilarious. 

He doesn’t, though - he just smiles and buries his nose into her hair as she gets comfortable, inhaling the scent of her and taking in the feel of her warmth against his chest.

“G’night, Osc,” she manages to mumble, before the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulls her into finally falling asleep.

It takes him a few minutes after she falls asleep to actually relax. 

Oscar finds he can’t stop thinking - about the injuries on her body, about her parents, about the past few hours. He’s too wired to actually sleep, but he also finds that he’s not in a hurry to fall asleep, either. He’s much more invested in the feeling of her head against his chest, of her body in his arms, of her warmth against him.

Sleep isn’t something that comes easily to him when he’s already overstimulated and anxious.  In fact, it’s something he has to work at - even when he’s not feeling anxious - by doing a breathing technique or counting backwards to make his brain stop so he can sleep. But he finds that right now, with her body wrapped around him so perfectly - he feels his eyes drifting closed against his will, and his muscles relaxing like he’d just gotten out of a hot tub. 

He gives in to the feeling, and slowly slips into a peaceful sleep.

When he finally starts to stir awake the next morning, he’s met with the sunlight peeking in from around the curtains, and a lack of a body against his chest. 

He blinks and turns his head to look for the girl, only to find the bed empty and his heart rate immediately picking up in panic. He shoots up - ignoring the brief dizzy spell he gets from moving too quickly - before throwing the covers off of him and rushing toward the bathroom - desperate to confirm for himself that she’s still here.

Instead, he's caught off guard by the smell of coffee brewing. Huh?

The sound of the coffee machine stops his panic momentarily, causing his movements to halt as he listens to the steady stream of liquid rushing into the pot. 

He’s silent for a few seconds before he starts moving again, his legs carrying him out of the bedroom and toward the kitchen. 

He stops in the entryway, leaning against the doorframe when he finally lays eyes on her. She’s standing in the kitchen in front of the coffee machine, her body still clad in that damn hoodie. 

He can’t help the wave of relief that washes over him when he sees her and realizes that she’s fine - she’s here, and she’s okay, and she didn’t leave.

"Good morning," she greets softly once she notices he's there.

He can’t help the small smile that immediately appears on his face. He knows it’s a stupid thing to get happy over - it’s just a regular greeting after all - but he hasn’t heard her voice in a few hours and he’s honestly missed it. 

“Morning,” he greets, his eyes drifting over the counter - which is a scene of organized chaos - trying to see what exactly she’s doing.

"I, um, made coffee," she says, gesturing to the general area of the counter. She's made herself iced coffee using the ice from the fridge, and she's prepared a traveler's cup for him as well - exactly the way he likes. Two years of being the one to pick up his coffee order every time means she has it memorized, probably better than her own.

The idea that she knew exactly how he takes his coffee - down to how much cream and sugar he prefers - makes something stir in his chest, an almost giddy feeling that makes it feel like something erratic is happening to him. 

He pushes the feeling down, though, and his eyes instead focus on the counter - taking in the traveler cup in front of him.

“You didn’t have to,” he mutters, pushing himself off the doorway and stepping further into the kitchen. 

"Figured I gave you enough trouble last night," she mumbles, embarrassed. "S'the least I could do."

He hates when she does that - turns a situation that’s not even remotely her fault and turns it into something that she feels guilty for. 

“You did no such thing,” he says quietly, his voice firm but his eyes gentle, making sure she knows that he genuinely means his words. She chuckles at his answer, before cleaning up the setup she’d used to make the coffees.

“Well, I’m gonna go ahead and figure out what the hell I can wear to work today,” she smiles at him, but it’s tinged with sadness. 

“Because we have… “ she glances at his wall clock. “About an hour before we’re both supposed to be at MTC.”

He opens his mouth to say something - anything - but he’s at a complete loss for what to say. 

Eventually, he just settles for a quiet, “Right.”

“You’re thinking so hard I can practically hear the gears turning,” she deadpans before taking a sip of her iced coffee. Her words cause the corner of his mouth to lift up at the familiarity - the sarcastic sass that’s been such a staple of their relationship for the past two years. 

“Stop being a smartass,” he counters, trying to go for his usual playful banter but ending up at fond instead.

“Only when you stop being a dumbass,” she quips.

This time, she does make him chuckle  - a gentle, low sound that’s filled with fondness. His heart settles when she starts acting like normal again - if her normal self isn’t completely present, her teasing will have to suffice. 

Once he’s finished taking another sip of his coffee, he finally starts to say what he’s been thinking since she sat down, “You know we’ve gotta talk about last night, right?”

She stills. 

“What do you mean?”

He’d been trying to ignore it - and she was acting like her normal sassy self now - but it needs to be addressed. He reaches out and places a careful hand against her arm - his fingertips barely grazing her covered wrist before he stops himself and pulls his hand back.

“Your parents. That needs to be discussed. They need to be reported to the police - you understand that, right?”

“Oscar,” she says, with a tone so cold and final that he’s having a hard time fathoming that it was even coming from her. “Don’t.”

His eyes widen, his mouth opening in disbelief. She can’t possibly be suggesting what he thinks she’s suggesting. He’d thought it was just some kind of weird denial she was living in - not that she was actually going to let her parents get away with hurting her like this. 

He can’t help the anger that’s boiling to the surface, his voice raised as he speaks, his hands clenched into fists. "What? You’re seriously actually suggesting that you don’t want to press charges!? Are you crazy?”

She shoots him a look so sharp that he immediately feels guilty for using the word. He stops himself, his face softening when he realizes just how badly he’s stepped out of line.

He’s being insensitive - not to her but to the situation - and he needs to remember that. His eyes immediately soften, his stance opening as if to let her in.

His words come out quiet, but tinged with desperation nonetheless.

“I can’t just let them do that, okay? You can’t expect me to stand by and watch that happen to you and do nothing about it!”

“You can’t.”

He takes a breath, trying to control the growing frustration he feels. He grits his teeth, letting out a slow breath before trying again. In a calm tone, he says, “I won't, if that's what you want. But can I at least ask you why you don't want to do anything about it?”

Her gaze lowers, looking anywhere but at him. 

“Because I can’t,” she admits quietly.

When her gaze lowers away from him, he feels his heart clenching in his chest again. His fingers reach out for her chin, tilting it up so she'll look at him. His voice is still gentle as he asks, “Why not?”

“They…” she hesitates. “They have something I care about.”

His eyebrows furrow, his head tilting in response to her words. 

What could her parents of all people have that she could care about enough to justify them beating her?

And this is a step - an open door - that he needs to push. 

“What do they have, darling?”

“My brothers.”

His eyes widen again, shocked to hear that her brothers are somehow mixed up in this twisted arrangement. His voice is full of disbelief and confusion when he says, “Your brothers? What could your parents have that that could have possibly caused you-“

He hesitates, trying to find the right words to say what he means.

“I don't understand, Y/N. None of this makes sense. How can they- I just don't get it.”

“They take care of my brothers. If I have them prosecuted, I’d be taking my chances that a court would grant me guardianship over them, instead of them just becoming victims of the foster care system,” she explains quietly. “Even as an assistant at McLaren, I don’t make enough to give them the life they deserve - to pay for 2 more people's clothes, food, education and everything else they need.”

It’s out in the open now. She’s never felt like more of a coward in her life than when she confesses, “I need my parents to take care of them because I can’t.”

God, how is she supposed to look him in the eyes after this?

He can sense the shame radiating off of her in waves, and he hates it. She shouldn't have to be the one bearing the burden for her family, while suffering for it as well. 

She deserves better. 

His face softens, and he gently takes her hands in his, his fingers delicately tracing tiny circles across the inside of her wrist - trying to provide some sort of soothing.

She’s caught off guard by the gesture. She’s not entirely sure what reaction she was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

It hurts him to know that she was expecting a different reaction out of him than kindness and gentle understanding. But he pushes that feeling down, and focuses on being there, and being in this moment with her. He keeps his eyes locked on hers, his thumb tracing gentle circles against the sensitive skin of her wrist.

“Say something,” she pleads softly, daring to look at him.

For a minute, he just looks at her - looks at the emotion in her eyes, looks at the uncertainty, looks at what she’s feeling but can't seem to be able to put into words. 

But he realizes that maybe there isn't anything that needs to be said right now. Not right now, when they're just sitting in this still silence. 

He leans down, and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"We're about to be late for work," she deadpans.

He lets out a short, warm chuckle. There we go.

It was the slightest hint of her normal, genuine smile, but it's a start nonetheless. He shrugs in response to her, reaching over to pick up his coffee with his free hand. 

"The day can wait," he replies, taking a sip of the warm, aromatic liquid.

“Maybe for you, Mr. Formula One star,” she mumbles absentmindedly as she pulls out her phone. She needs to find some place to pick up business casual clothes in the next 10 minutes or before she’s screwed for work today. Her clothes from last have blood in them, and she certainly can’t very well wear the pajamas she’d borrowed from Oscar for sleeping into the office. She pulls her phone out, and immediately, he's got another idea. 

He turns his body to face her, a smirk playing on his lips.

“How do you feel about a little shopping spree, Miss Assistant?” he asks slyly, an eyebrow cocked and his voice teasing. 

He's just got it all mapped out in his head - just a quick trip into town to pick up a few essentials and then getting back to MTC all in time for work.

“Huh?” she says not even looking up from her phone. Now where is the nearest Burlington?

He tries to suppress the laugh that threatens to bubble out of his chest at her words. There's just something so completely normal and casual about the fact that she's so nonchalant about being offered to go on what would likely be a £500- £1500 shopping spree. He raises an eyebrow, looking down at her and realizing he'll have to get her attention before she can even hear what he's saying. "Hello? Earth to Assistant - I'm trying to talk to you over here."

She looks up like she’s been caught. “Sorry, I was just-“

He grins, glad to have her attention, even temporarily. "Trying to google Primark? Or TJ Maxx?" 

He snorts, shaking his head at her, "I think we can do better than that, young padawan."

“What? No, I-“

"What?" he challenges. "Trying to find the cheapest department store in a five mile radius or something?"

She blushes, embarrassed. “No…”

He rolls his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips at seeing her reaction. "I would almost feel insulted if you weren't so damn cute when you're embarrassed." 

He looks her up and down, taking in her outfit - or rather, her lack of an outfit. 

"You need more than my hoodie and a pair of sweatpants to go into work, Y/N. I'll need to get you some jeans and a few tops-"

She immediately shoots down WthatW idea. “Look, I just need to get an outfit to get through today. I don’t exactly have a place to keep them or the budget, so it’d really be a waste of-“

The mention of money has him sighing again, his eyes rolling. She's so hellbent on trying to not let him spend anything on her - it's almost irritating. 

He shakes his head, his eyes boring into hers, his voice serious. "I'm paying, okay? So you can just shove that argument right back up your ass, okay? I've got money, let me spend it. It's not like I have anything else to spend it on anyway."

“Oscar, you can’t - plus, it’s not like I have my own place to keep a bunch of stuff. All I need is the one outfit, really. I’m thinking of checking out one of the spare rooms in Hospitality, and I could probably keep my spare things there.”

He takes a deep sigh at her explanation - her reasoning is just so bloody selfless. 

He knows how the spare rooms in Hospitality work - they're basically just tiny makeshift offices. And she has this thought about moving into them?

He takes another deep breath, trying to calm himself down, but the thought that this is what she's gotten down to is a hard pill to swallow. The anger wells up within him again - at her parents, at the system, at the world for being so un-fucking-fair.

"Look," he says, his voice hard, "I'm not letting you sleep in one of the bloody spare rooms when there's a perfectly good room in my place. You're not doing that bullshit, alright? It's not up for discussion."

"Okay, Oscar. Sure," she says resignedly. She doesn't have the energy to do this right now. She's... tired.

Surely they can go back and forth about this some other time. Right now, she's just trying to make it to work - she can't risk what feels like the only thing she has going for her at the moment.

He hears her agreement, and her tone, and it takes every little ounce of self-control that he has to not get even more frustrated with the situation. He forces himself to take a deep breath, giving her a nod. He can't force her to take him up on his offer - he understands what her pride means - but it's really not going to make life easy for him. 

He leans his elbow against the wall, his eyes meeting hers. 

"Fine. I will get you the essentials today then. That is something we agree on, right?"

He gives her a look that basically demands she agree with him. This is going to be non-negotiable. She's going to have at least five changes of clothes and necessities like razors and toothpaste at his apartment by the end of the day - period.

Whatever, she thinks to herself. She gives him a polite smile, before turning around to go.

"Hey-" his hand shoots out to grab her wrist gently, his touch just enough to stop her from leaving. 

"Hey," he repeats softly, his tone softer with the contact. 

When she finally turns to look at him, his eyes are soft, his thumb gently brushing over the sensitive inside of her wrist. He's going to give her a little bit of space right now - a little time to breathe, and then he'll give her another chance.

“Hey,” she repeats, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

He pulls her in closer to him gently. 

"We... We're okay, right?" he asks quietly. 

Because this isn't how he wants things to be right now. He just wants her to give him a chance - to at least accept that he's trying to help her - that he's trying to make her life just a little bit easier. 

He brings up a hand, gently brushing back the strands of hair that have fallen across her face. His voice is soft when he speaks again. "Right?"

“Of course.”

He wants to ask her more questions. Are you upset? Are you okay? Do you need space?

But he doesn't want to push right now. 

He brings up his other hand to brush across the small bruises adorning her neck. His voice drops even lower when he asks, "Can I have a kiss?"

Maybe if he keeps things normal - maybe if he lets them just be them - she'll start to open up the way he wants her to.

She presses a soft kiss against his cheek, before pulling away. This time, the smile on her face feels the slightest bit more real. This side of Oscar seems to have that effect on her.

He wants to reach out and kiss her again - really kiss her and make her realize the way he feels about her - but he restrains himself from doing it. He's going to let her call the shots for now, let her decide what she wants this to be like. 

But that doesn't mean he can't tease just a little bit. 

He cocks an eyebrow at her gesture, letting out a soft snort. "If you're going to aim that low, I'll have to start bending down," he teases.

She rolls her eyes affectionately, and then glances at the time on the wall. “We should get going, yeah?” she asks softly.

He turns his head to follow her gaze to where she's looking at the wall clock, and finally nods. "Yeah. You're right."

He leans in to press a feather-light kiss to her jaw. "I gotta go change real quick, okay?"

“Of course. I’ll be waiting at the door when you’re ready,” she hums.

He gives her one more look - just to reassure himself that things are still okay- and nods, making his way toward his bedroom. He changes into a blue sweatshirt and a pair of jeans in record time, grabbing his wallet, phone and keys before making his way back downstairs to meet her by the door.

“…Oscar?”

He raises an eyebrow as he pulls his shoes on when he hears her call his name. "Yeah?" he responds, finishing tying his laces before standing up straight, his eyes finding hers.

“You… feelin’ okay?”

He blinks, looking at her oddly for a moment while his brain tries to process the completely out of left field question. 

Finally, a soft chuckle leaves his mouth. 

"Why do you ask?" he teases, cocking an eyebrow. "See something you like?"

“Osc…” she trails off, trying to find the nicest way to say this. “Today is FP1.”

When he blinks at her, she continues, gesturing to his outfit. “You’re supposed to arrive wearing the team kit?” she reminds.

He stares at her blankly for a few seconds - trying to come up with any excuse he can - before ultimately giving up and letting out a long sigh. 

"God-" he grumbles, pulling his shoes off his feet again. "Well, you've been doing things to my brain lately, okay? How do you expect me to remember normal human things?"

“It’s what I’m here for,” she says with a roll of her eyes. Technically, she’s right. “Now go change.”

He takes the reprimand with an exasperated roll of his eyes, turning on his heel and muttering something about her being bossy before heading back upstairs. Not five minutes later, he's heading back downstairs in his team kit, wearing a slightly disgruntled look on his face.

“Okay Grumpy, let’s get this show on the road. You good to go?” she asks, checking in to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything else.

He's never been a morning person - and this morning seems to be the worst of all - so his reaction is more disgruntled than normal. He shoves his wallet in his pockets before raising an eyebrow at her. "What do you think?" he counters sarcastically.

“Ouch,” she remarks, wincing emphatically, lips pressed together into a straight line. “Got it.”

He lets out another sigh, shaking his head. He's a grumpy idiot in the mornings, but he can't help it. God knows he's not a morning person. 

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I'm just tired." 

He reaches out a hand, taking her hand gently. 

"But we've got a day full of work ahead of us. So come on," he says, tugging her toward the door softly. "Let's get going."

He closes the front door softly behind them, locking the door before starting toward the garage - his hand never leaving hers. When they reach the garage, he lets her hand go so he can get behind the wheel. She glances at him, wondering about the missing contact, but by then he’s starting up the car and getting settled into his seat before he looks over at her. 

"Seatbelt?" he asks.

“Always,” she confirms, clicking the buckle into place. “Think we still have time to stop at any of the shops?” she asks, hesitant. She knows he has a million more important things to be doing than chauffeuring her to the market for personal shopping .

He scoffs at the suggestion, his eyebrow twitching at the notion. 

"Seriously?" he asks, giving her an incredulous look. Sure, maybe he does have more important things to do, but there's a really short list of things that are more important to him than her.

"Of course we've got time. And if we don't, we'll make time."

She smiles sweetly at him, a little relieved by his answer. Of course, she knows still has a hectic day ahead and of course, she’s still worried about time - but it’s a weight off her shoulders to at least have one less thing to worry about.

And Jesus, maybe that kind of smile of hers is dangerous, or something, because the second it's on her face, a soft smile of his own pulls at his mouth. 

He figures it’s probably some psychological thing.

He starts up the car - letting out a little noise that's close to a chuckle - his fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter as he tries to hold himself in check. 

He really wants to kiss her right now, but he decides to be good, instead. Be a gentleman, or something. He makes a mental note to be sure to kiss her later, really kiss her. Kiss her until he can't taste words on his tongue, and he can't whisper sweet nothings against their lips, and- 

He has to stop his train of thought before it goes in a direction he can't back away from. 

So instead, he decides to focus on the drive. 

"Let's go."

Once they’re parked in the staff parking at MTC, she turns to him to say, “You can go on in first, yeah? I don’t want them thinking you’re coming in late.”

He can see how much she's putting his needs before her own - and it does something… funny to his ego - a pleasant feeling that makes him smile to himself. He turns to her, reaching over to pull her to him, giving her a sweet kiss.  It's just a peck - soft, warm lips pressed against his cheek for a fraction of a second..

When it's done, he pulls back to look her in the eye, a small smirk on his lips. 

"I think we're both gonna be late," he says quietly.

“I can be five minutes late, “ she smiles kindly. “I am your assistant, after all. Not you.”

He shakes his head, trying to ignore the way something in his chest warms when he glances over to the passenger seat. Too much caffeine, perhaps. He reaches over to touch her face - but at the last second he changes his mind and goes for her hair, running his hand through the soft locks briefly before he pulls back. "Okay, five. Ten tops," he says, before giving her a look that reminds her there will be consequences if she's any later.

"See you inside. And no getting lost," he teases.

“You got it, boss.”

“…Oscar?” He hears Y/N’s voice as she knocks on the door of his driver’s room. Back to work, back to being professional, it seems.

He hears the sound of his door opening and Y/N's voice filtering through his door - and he's reminded with a jolt that yes, there is, in fact, work to do today. He sits up a little straighter, schooling his expression into one of a professional and putting a polite smile on his face. "Yes, Y/N? Come in."

She peeks her head in, hoping he’s decent this time. 

“Here to remind you that you have a meeting with the race engineers before we have the team meeting at 10, followed by FP1 before we round out the first half of the day with lunch at around one.”

His gaze finds hers easily.

She had that look - the one that told him that all the progress they'd made that morning had gone away as soon as she reached work - and he hated it. He'd missed the way she'd looked at him in the car - the way that was so filled with affection that it practically carried its own physical weight.

But that wasn't a look she could wear at work, and he knew that. 

So he nods and smiles at her. "Thanks Y/N. I'll be right there."

She checks the time on her phone. “If I’m not mistaken, you were actually supposed to be there… about 7 minutes ago.”

He winces, closing his eyes and letting out a frustrated sigh. 

The morning had been too distracting - what with the whole "girl he likes spent the night in his bed" thing - he hasn't given much thought to work. He should have been better prepared than this. What the hell is wrong with him?

“Oscar?” she says, waving a hand in front of him to break him out of whatever daydream he’s in. 

They can’t start the strategy analysis meeting without him, obviously, because they’re his race engineers. And yet if Oscar doesn’t show up right about now, the blame is sure to fall on her shoulders since she’s supposed to be his babysitter, apparently.

He takes a breath, giving her a small nod. He's been a complete dumbass today - a distracted, lovesick fool. He needs to get his head in the game. "Yeah, okay, I'm good. Let's go."

“Phone,” she reminds him, as she watches him leave it behind. He turns around, blinking at her before looking down at the desk. 

His phone. 

It was still there - forgotten on the desk because as soon as she'd come into the room, he'd forgotten all about everything except for her. He shoots her an irritated look, but he picks it up. 

He would never admit it in a million years, but the fact that she was being a nag right now was doing something funny to his heart. Must be allergies or something.

“Wallet.”

While it wasn’t needed, Oscar always preferred having it on him instead of leaving it in his room or his locker or his personal car. If he forgot it, he’d just end up having to ask her to go fetch it later. 

His other hand goes to his back pocket, confirming that his wallet was already tucked safely inside of it. "I'm not completely incompetent, Y/N - you realize that, yeah?" he says, the words coming out harsher than he meant for them to.

He didn't want to be so rude with her, but he was already running late, and she was being a bit of a nag.

“Yeah? Is your tablet back there too?” she retorts.

He bites his lip, his brain racing to figure out whether he had his tablet or not. 

Yes, it turned out. It was right where he'd left it on the edge of his desk - completely forgotten until this minute. He snatches it up, sending her a look, "Anything else I need to be aware of?"

“Just that you have a meeting you’re running 10 minutes late for,” she informs him.

“Well that, and you forgot to lock the car this morning.”

He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. He can't decide whether he's the most forgetful person on the planet, or the most distracted. 

Maybe he's not forgetful, maybe he's just not focused.

Yes, that sounds right. Distracted. 

He looks back up at her, a smile playing on his lips, "Anything else I may have forgotten? Like, I don't know, the way to walk to my meeting?"

“Only one way to find out, Sir.”

Fair enough.

"Oh come on, you mean you're not coming with me?" he teases, a smirk on his face as he reaches for the door handle.

“Of course not.” The face she makes suggests that that is obvious. “While you’ve got a meeting here with our race engineers, I’ve got to go meet with Lando and his team.”

He stops and turns back around, his eyes fixed on hers. "Lando? You're going to run off to talk to Lando all day?"

"Well there's a meeting with him and his team plus Zak, and I'd agreed to be your stand-in since you can't be in two places at once, so... yes."

He knows she's just doing her job, and he knows that it's completely irrational to be so jealous of her talking to Lando of all people. 

Lando is a member of the team, and one of his closest friends. 

That didn't stop the thick plasma of jealousy from clawing at his gut - he knows that Lando's got a soft spot for her. He tries his absolute best to play things off so he can seem cool and unaffected by her words, "Right. Got it."

She misunderstands his upset for something else.

She places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Hey, don't worry about missing the meeting with Zak, okay? It'll probably be only like half an hour, and I promise to take good notes for you.”

She gives him a small smile. "Don't beat yourself up about it."

There's a warmth spreading through his body at her reassurance. 

She'd misunderstood him - she thinks that he's upset at missing the meeting with Zak. And she's right in a way - he should be upset because he does need to be at that meeting - but all he can focus on is the way she's smiling at him. 

And the way she's touching his shoulder. And the way her fingers feel against him. 

His eyes lock on hers.

They're interrupted by the sound of one of the race engineer's that Oscar is meant to be in a meeting with calling out to him from one of the meeting rooms.

"Right, right. I should-" he trails off, his tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips. "I'll see you later, okay?"

She says the same thing to him then that she says to him later, right before he heads out for FP1.

"Go make me proud."

He can't help but laugh at that - at the fact that she's treating him like he's a kid or a puppy or something. But here she is, being his assistant, his friend, his something - and her words are somehow the thing that's got him feeling ready to kick ass and take names.

Weird.

Once FP1 is over and done, everyone has worked up an appetite. Chattering voices fill the hallways as racers, assistants and various team members make their way to the main cafeteria. 

Oscar finds himself on the listening end of Lando’s rambles about things he noted about the car during their practice as they find a table to sit at.

He's not really listening to any of the words coming out of Lando's mouth - he can't stop thinking about how she'd wished him luck before he went out to FP1. 

He'd actually had a surprisingly good session. One of his best, even. No one else had tried that risky move in corner 9 that he'd tried - and the engineers seemed really impressed by his times. 

So she'd been right - he had made her proud. He'd made himself proud as well. 

When he finally does take a long enough break to pay attention to Lando's one-sided conversation, he realizes that the topic of conversation has already changed four or five times and he's completely lost. He sighs, trying to catch back up at some point in the monologue about Lando's new apartment in Woking or something. 

"Sorry - uh, what was that?"

“Dude, you there? You looked totally out right then,” Lando chuckles, before putting a forkful of tofu in mouth.

Lando's tofu looks awful. 

He's never going to understand why he's such a health nut. 

"I'm just-" he trails off, trying to find the words. He tries to come up with some excuse, but his mind is blank.

“What? Lookin’ for somethin’?” Lando asks, brows furrowed, and through a mouthful of drab-looking quinoa.

He shrugs, trying to play innocent. "Just… thinking." He's never thought about anyone else as much as he finds himself thinking about her lately - and they're not even really dating or anything. Hell, they'd just made out the night before.

“C’mon, mate. Spit it out already - you look…” he gives Oscar a judgemental once over. “Like your constipated or some shit.”

Meanwhile Oscar is thinking about where she could be. She’s his assistant after all - the three of them tend to have lunch together on race weekends. Plus, everyone else is here - so where the hell is she?

He chuckles - he's had way more embarrassing conversations with Lando before. 

"Constipated?" the Aussie counters, "More like in love. I'm having girl problems."

Lando, as wonderfully attention deficit as he is, seems to take that idea and run with it. He shovels another messy bite into his mouth. “Say, speaking of girls - where’s Y/N? Isn’t she usually here by now?”

Oscar snorts, reaching over to wipe a piece of quinoa from the corner of his teammate’s mouth. 

It's messy. The way Lando eats is gross. 

"No clue. She's not with you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. He's only asking to be polite. If for whatever reason she was with Lando, he'd be pissed.

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head in a way that makes his messy curls fall a little onto his forehead. “Last I saw her was when we left Zak’s office. Think she said summ’in about needing to grab something from her office?”

Oscar tries to fight the urge to get up and look for her. She’s his assistant, not his cat or something. Maybe she just wasn’t in the mood for lunch together today, or she could have an errand to run, or maybe she’s in a meeting that wasn’t in her calendar-

Lando must see the slight concern on his face, because he chuckles. "What, d’you miss her or something? You've been acting all weird since she left."

Oscar shakes his head, trying to play it off. "I'm just- I'm just wondering, y'know? She's supposed to be here, isn't she?" His stomach is tightening. Something feels weird about this. Maybe he should go find her? 

“We could check on her if you want,” Lando offers.

Oscar's eyes brighten at the suggestion. Yeah. That sounds like a good idea. 

"Yeah. I think that would be…" he trails off, trying to think of the word.He nods, trying to pretend that she's not taking up literally all of the space in his brain. 

"Yeah, yeah, let me just throw this in the bin," Lando mutters, getting to throw his trash away. These new biodegradable straws were supposed to be good, something about them turning to compost for the environment. Instead, they decided to become compost-y mush in Lando’s mouth - every time. 

They make their way down the corridor to her office, approaching the open door. It’s empty. He exchanges a look with Lando, Oscar taking a deep breath as he pushes the door open. Lando waits somewhat awkwardly by the entrance to the restroom, unsure if he’s allowed to intrude or if he’s meant to just be moral support.

Oscar peeks his head in, taking a glance around. He sees a row of sinks, and no-one else. 

"Y/N?" he calls out gently.

He hears a faint gurgle in response. It sounds like it’s coming from one of the stalls further back, actually. The sound makes Oscar's stomach drop. It sounds like she's puking, or maybe choking. He runs over to all of the other stalls, his knuckles knocking loudly on them as he tries to get someone's attention. He calls out her name, hoping the sound of her voice will put this all to rest.

“Y/N, come out." he repeats, his voice desperate and worried.

When he knocks on the door to the last stall, the door budges. It isn’t locked.

He hears the sound of her retching coming from within, followed by a long, dry cough. 

Something tells him that this wouldn't be a good moment to go in - that he shouldn't look right now. But he doesn’t even give it a second thought. His mind is consumed with the thought of her - his concern for her, his person. 

He slowly pushes open the bathroom stall door, bracing himself for the sight before him. He finds a hunched over figure leaning against the wall, fatigued. But she tilts her face marginally in his direction, and Oscar’s heart stills in his fucking chest.

Her lips - the same ones that had been pressed against his just hours ago - are smeared with blood. Her teeth are speckled with it. Red splatters and spots of blood marr the front of her blouse. 

All of the air drains from his lungs at once. The air thickens. He can't move. 

What the hell even happened?

He tries to speak, but he can't get a word out. So what does he do?

He does the one thing he can - he moves in to hold her.

“O- Oscar,” she trembles, too busy to be bothered to be professional. 

“I think s- something’s wrong…”

Part 3

a/n: thank you so much for making it this far! i'd love to hear what you thought of it :)

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Blood Ties Chapter 31

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore; parents of a newborn just going through it

gif by @reedusmcbridedaily

You felt like you had just fallen asleep when Birdie began to stir. With a grunt, she made tiny squeaking noises to wind herself up for a mighty wail. You had yet to open your eyes, when you felt the mattress shift. 

“Ssh, quiet lil’ Bird. Give your mama a chance to wake up ‘fore ya start your fussin’.” Everything was bleary from tiredness but when it cleared, Daryl was already on his feet, Birdie on his shoulder with a large hand rubbing her back. “S’alright. She’ll be awake in a minute.” There was a gentle bounce to his steps as he paced back and forth. “Ain’t even tryin’ the diaper thing by myself. Sorry, kid.”

Birdie wiggled and rooted against Daryl’s shoulder, and you heard him chuckle. Watching him with the baby, it just looked so—natural. His head angled so his eyes were on her, a gentle smile curving his lips when she turned her little head to press her mouth against the side of his neck. 

“Alright, alright. Let’s getcha to your mama.” 

When he turned to find you awake, he actually appeared startled, freezing mid-step.

“Hey.” You whispered, sleep still lacing your voice. It was your first full night with the new baby and the first time she had woken the two of you. There was a twinge of guilt finding Daryl up first with the newly named Birdie, especially since he planned on hunting the next morning. That guilt, however, was rivaled by the overwhelming adoration you felt warming your heart when you saw the new father interacting with his daughter. 

“She’s hungry. Prolly needs a diaper too, ‘cordin’ to Carol.” 

The saint of a woman had sat with the two of you for over an hour going over the different cues Birdie would give you for different things; when she was hungry, needed changed, or just wanted to be talked to. She taught you ways to position her for nursing. Rashes to watch for, the correct way to clean her with the wipes. 

“Always front to back.” Carol demonstrated with the next pee soaked diaper. You were front and center, soaking it all in, desperate for all the help you could get. Daryl was still reeling back and away from the scene with discomfort at seeing his daughter’s anatomy, but that had him leaning forward to catch Carol’s eye. 

“She’s got a pref’rence?”

The other woman fastened the diaper and scooped up the baby. “To be so smart, your daddy is so clueless sometimes.” She cooed in baby talk. 

You unbuttoned your flannel and lowered the right side of the bra as Daryl repositioned Birdie to the crook of his arm before he gently deposited her into yours. She was ridiculously eager and latched on right away, making those sweet noises that had you staring at her in awe. 

The mattress dipped on the other side and you found your partner making himself comfortable against the headboard. 

“Why don’t you go sleep with everyone else? You’re going out hunt—”

“No.” He answered around a yawn. 

“Then go back to sleep?” 

He scrubbed a hand over his face with a quiet mm mm. “Gonna need changed. Wanna help.” Crossing his arms, he rested his head against the wood behind him and closed his eyes. “Need the practice.”

“You need the sleep too, Daryl.” After he opened one eye but before he could speak, you moved one of your hands from beneath Birdie, balancing her weight on your arm so that you could hold out your palm in an attempted display of acquiescence. “I know, I know. Her mama, not yours.”

He snorted, closing his eye again. 

The silence—aside from the little suck gulp breath from Birdie—was not uncomfortable. Daryl was dozing. You weren’t concerned about his tired state, even if the only time you’d ever seen him actually do something about it was when he had been so ill. It had been a wild couple of days. You, yourself, could have fallen asleep if not for the task at hand, actually finding that you needed to chew your lip to keep from nodding off. 

With the baby sitting on your thigh, your hand supporting her head with a hold just beneath her chin, you patted her back, just like Carol had shown you. “Can you grab a diaper and the wipes?” 

“Mhm.” You didn’t need to try any harder to rouse him. He was up and moving to grab the bag containing those specific supplies. Birdie let out a quiet hiccup of air while he was still up, making it possible for you to get her situated on the mattress. “M’gonna do it.” 

When your exhaustion-burning eyes trekked upward, Daryl was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot while tapping the diaper against the side of his leg. You smiled affectionately, yet sympathetically. He was still so nervous about seeing that part of her. 

“I’ll be your backup.” Scooting slightly, you kept a hand on Birdie’s belly so as to not allow the shifting of the mattress to jostle her. “Your wingwoman.” He was already curling his lip while situating himself cross-legging. 

“That ain’t helpin’.”

“Sorry. Sorry.” You chuckled. He reached for the zipper on the sleeper and pulled it down to maneuver that baby’s bottom half out of the legs, her little limbs drawing up. His hands were shaking. “You’re her father, Daryl. What you’re doing is okay. You’re just taking care of her.” His attempted scowl was belied by the desperation in his eyes. 

He had never experienced the tenderness he was trying to bestow on his daughter, afraid of every little thing he had to do for her somehow being frowned upon or causing her pain. You were nervous too but the demonstration by Carol had made you feel a bit more comfortable. 

For Daryl, it had done little other than give him the correct methods. He was still battling to understand his role, to feel confident in his ability to show affection to the little one beyond carrying her around. That part, he had down to a science. 

He paused after pulling loose the tabs on the diaper. You thought for a moment that you’d have to take over, yet just as the offer began to form into spoken syllables, he continued. The soiled diaper was removed and the clean one placed beneath her bottom, just in case the unexpected chill in the air resulted in her urinating again. There was a deep breath beside you, a deliberate shifting of his gaze before he schooled himself into actually watching what he was doing. 

The tremble in his hands was sending fine vibrations into Birdie’s legs. You wanted to allow him to do it on his own, but not at the expense of the baby’s comfort. Reaching slowly, you ran your fingers over the top of his hand before taking over with at least keeping her little limbs still and raised so he could clean her. 

Wiping her the way Carol had shown him took longer than it should have, what with him pulling back several times with an uncertainty that made your heart both warm and break. The swipes of the wipe were gentle yet thorough, ensuring she was clean. When it was time, you let him take hold of her legs to draw the fresh diaper up between them and fasten it before he wrestled her flailing feet into the onesie. 

“Quit squirmin’, kid.” The words were spoken softly, not even a command but more of a plea. Job done, you expected to be the one to lift her and get her settled back into sleep, but Daryl beat you to it. Scooping her up under her arms with his long fingers supporting the back of her head, he placed her against his chest and laid back. Birdie was instantly content, stretching before curling back up. Folding one arm behind his head, he placed the other hand on the newborn’s back. 

Lying back, you gingerly turned onto your side to face your little family, your core still aching. Carol had mentioned using ice pads made with aloe vera and witch hazel after Sophia was born but without a freezer, that wasn’t an option for you. Watching Daryl move his hand and run his fingers over Birdie’s soft little cheek, another ghost of a smile on his lips, you couldn’t even remember the discomfort. 

“Get some sleep.” 

You had utterly zoned out, blinking and meeting blue eyes that reflected the exhaustion you were feeling. “You too?” He dipped his chin in a nod and you let your eyes close. 

The next time Birdie woke you up, it wasn’t a gradual process. There was no build up to the squalling. You and Daryl shot upright at the same time, his hands instinctively coming up to secure the little squirming bundle to his chest. 

While you began unbuttoning your flannel, Daryl was moving the baby all over, inspecting her almost frantically. 

“Why’s she cryin’ like that?” Wide eyes looked to you. 

“Hungry, I guess? Carol said she’d wake up a lot and want to nurse.” Bra unhooked, you held out your arms. Daryl winced, one shoulder lifting toward his ear. 

“Kid’s got a set’a lungs.” 

You couldn’t help but mirror his actions, bringing her closer to position her at your breast. Her cries ceased when you accidentally brushed her cheek, her little mouth falling open in search of the nipple. 

Daryl snorted. “Like a lil’ bird.”

You tossed him a brief look and continued to help the baby latch. “Is that why you wanted to call her Birdie?” The little red face was starting to lighten to pink after a few moments of eager nursing. 

He smiled, one-sided, and brushed the back of the baby’s hand with his index finger, her tiny digits rising from where they flexed on your breast to wrap around it. “Nah.” 

You waited, desperate to keep the conversation going lest you fall asleep sitting up. “So, why Birdie then?” Daryl ducked his head, his cheeks flushed. 

“Was, uh—I was by the window yesterday, holdin’ ‘er. She just kept—starin’, like she was tryin’ to figure me out.” He was refusing to unglue his eyes from the baby at your breast. “There was a, uh—a blue jay. Carol said she can’t see much right now but she saw that bird. Won’t never convince me that she didn’t.”

“Like you saw a chupacabra?” He glared at you from beneath his lashes, only succeeding in making the battle not to laugh more difficult.

“Stop.” He drawled. 

“Okay, okay.” You pinched your thumb and forefinger together and drew them across your lips, but he waited, just in case you weren’t finished. 

Satisfied that your jesting had ceased, he sighed. “She watched that bird fly back an’ forth.” Pulling a face, he lowered his head until his chin nearly touched his chest. “Asked if she liked the lil’ birdie an’ she looked at me. Was diff’rent that time. She knew me.” Using his thumb, he pushed the little hand off of his finger. “So—Birdie.” He sniffed. “An’ Jade just kinda—I dunno—fit?”

“That’s—” He looked up, a step shy of wincing, waiting for you to change your mind about the name. “That’s really sweet, Daryl.” It appeared that he almost smiled before scowling. 

“Shuddup.” He slid a hand over his face, feeling the pull of exhaustion that he would never voice to you even though it was as plain as day. He may not have pushed the baby out, but his nerves were shot. 

“Get some sleep. I’ll lie back down when she’s done.” You attempted but were met with what was bound to be a repetitive refusal. 

“Ain’t making ya stay up alone with ‘er.” Pushing himself off the bed, he stalked over to the window and peered out. “Need to stay at least a lil’ alert anyway. Don’t know when we might hafta move on.”

“I’m sure one of the others is on watch. We have everything still in the bags. There’s no reason you can’t lie down and get some real rest.” You were shifting Birdie onto your shoulder to burp her, but watching your partner scan over what he could see outside. Daryl hummed and crossed his arms, laughing with a breath through his nose when Birdie burped, loud and sudden. 

“Maybe we should’a named ‘er after Merle.”

You chuckled and moved the baby back into the bend of your arm, her little hand making its way into her mouth. The sounds of her sucking her fist were deafening in the otherwise silent room. You watched her for a moment, just enjoying the way she cooed and gurgled in between the attempts. 

Daryl’s steps were near silent. In fact, you didn’t even know he was moving until the bed dipped beside you. 

“Don’t she need, uh—well, both’a ‘em?”

“Huh?” His eyes were on your bare breast, still uncovered, your nipple pink and puckered. “Oh.” Daryl’s ears burned red. He was quick to throw his leg off the edge of the mattress and turn his back to you. “You’ve seen them before, Daryl.” He merely grunted so you left it alone. “She seems content, so I guess we can try for some more sleep?” 

“Yeah, uh—” He rubbed at the nape of his neck. “Guess we should.” 

You wrapped Birdie snugly in the blanket and placed her between the two of you. She wasn’t asleep but she seemed quite content with her fist. You’d take what you could get. Daryl laid down at the same time you did, but with his back to the two of you. 

“Are you okay?” You chanced asking. 

“Mhm. Sleep.”

He wasn’t very convincing, but lucky for him, you were too tired to try and coerce the truth out of him. Still, as your eyes closed and sleep began to carry you away, you could have sworn you heard him say your name within a troubled sigh. 

All initial thoughts that Birdie was a quiet baby were gone by the next morning, before the sun had even graced the sky with its presence. She wailed relentlessly several times after only a brief reprieve. Feedings and diaper changes failed to soothe her, as did Daryl walking her around the room. You could see the dark smudges beneath the archer’s eyes and were certain your own would mirror them. 

“Y’all gonna be alright?” He asked, his voice raspy, his feet dragging.  

“Are you?” You countered, yawning and rocking the baby, the motion seeming to soothe her for the moment. Her eyes continued to slip shut until she somehow managed to startle herself awake, wriggling within her blanket before tiring out and repeating the cycle. 

“M’a be fine.” He grunted and placed his bag and crossbow on the foot of the bed, a pause in his actions while you carefully laid down the baby, her little fists swinging outward and pulling back in a sedated motion. “Maybe she’ll sleep for ya now.” 

“Maybe.” You stared at Birdie with the warmest of smiles, simply admiring how perfect she was, features of both you and Daryl already so prominent in her barely two day old face. 

“Hey.”

“Hmm—oh.” You hadn’t even noticed him move, turning to find him standing over you, his hand already beside your face, tucking your hair behind your ear. 

“So fuckin’ beautiful.”

Catching his wrist, you pulled his palm to your lips. “So fuckin’ sleep deprived.” He shrugged a shoulder and turned his hand to grip yours and pull you to your feet, flush against his chest. Dipping his head, he pressed his lips to yours, just as gentle as the hand that now cupped your cheek. 

It didn’t take long for things to grow a little more heated, your fingers tugging at his hair while his gripped your waist, your mouths moving in sync, tongues exploring eagerly. When you felt the first rush of arousal, it burned, eliciting a squeak against his lips, and you pulled back. 

“Ow, ow, ow.” Both hands clutched the crotch of your sweats. 

“Ow? S’wrong?” It was difficult to focus on him reaching toward you—but not touching—when he was so obviously hard beneath the rough fabric of his jeans.

“Six weeks, remember?” You moved slowly to seat yourself on the mattress, your core aching. “I think half of my vagina is still in the van.” 

“Ya gotta be so vulgar?” He ducked his head, face flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. 

You laughed, covering your mouth to quiet yourself, your eyes darting over to the sleeping baby. When you turned back, Daryl was giving you that smirk that might have melted your panties had you not been so sore that you were certain the pain had already finished that job. 

“Hey, pot, I’m kettle.” Lips curved into a smile, you pushed yourself from the bed and wrapped your arms around his middle, head on his chest. “We’ll be fine. You go, so you can get back to us.” 

Daryl pulled back just enough for you to look up, his finger hooking beneath your chin. This kiss was gentle, unhurried, ending before it could once again attempt to transform into something you couldn’t have. 

“I’ll be back soon. Keep ‘er safe.” He stroked the apple of your cheek with his thumb. “You stay safe.”

You nodded. “I will. I promise.” After a moment, he dropped his hand and returned your nod with a jerk of his chin. Watching him grab his gear, you frowned. You didn’t want him to go, but you knew he was right. You needed the meat. You needed to be able to nurse Birdie. Finding formula would be next to impossible, one of those things survivors would have fought, killed, and died to obtain. 

Daryl stopped at the other side of the bed, bending carefully to press his lips to little Birdie’s forehead. “Be good for your mama.” The baby slept on, completely unbothered. When he straightened and adjusted his bag, his attention turned to you. “See ya soon.”

He was halfway out the door when you quietly called his name. “I love you, asshat.” He smiled at you, warm and genuine albeit small, patting the door frame before stepping out. With a sigh, you dropped your eyes to your sleeping daughter. “Just you and me for a bit, Birdie.” Lying down continued to be one of the best reliefs you had ever felt. “And I am going to sleep.” Your eyes had no more than closed when the newborn grunted and began to shift around. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Sunrise came and went, dousing your hopes of any real rest. Exhausted, you wrapped a crying Birdie in her blanket and shuffled out of the room where Carol was tending to some oatmeal over a small fire. “Carol.” You sniffled, lip wobbling. You were just too tired to try and hide it. The woman looked up with a smile that vanished as soon as she saw your state. 

“Oh, honey.” The smile returned, softer and full of understanding. 

“How do I turn her off?” You stood a few feet away, softly rocking and bouncing to no avail. Birdie was determined to call every walker in the vicinity. 

“Here, let me take her.” You turned to find Lori approaching, arms open, and passed your bundle off to her without a second thought. “Come on.” Supporting Birdie on one arm, she was able to take your hand and lead you back to the bedroom. 

“She just—nothing helps. Not even Daryl taking her. I don’t think she likes us.” You gingerly sat down on the bed and observed, Lori bending awkwardly with her rounded belly and your daughter. She grabbed up one of the bags and sat it beside you. 

“She loves you both, sweetheart. She’s just doing what babies do. Can you get a pacifier out for me, please?”

You nodded feebly, wiping at your face before beginning the search. You were pretty sure you knew what a pacifier looked like. You couldn’t rely on packaging. Carol had removed everything that could possibly go in Birdie’s mouth and boiled it. 

“One of these?” You held up a small bag of binkies with a desperately hopeful expression. Lori smiled. 

“That’s them. Good job, mama.”

You passed one to her—green with a little frog on the end—while she shushed and cooed at your disgruntled baby. “Is something—did I do something wrong?”

“Not at all. She may be gassy or—has your milk come in yet?” With a finger gently holding the pacifier in Birdie’s mouth, she watched you. The baby finally accepted it and quieted almost immediately. You sighed in relief. 

“How would I know—about the milk?”

“Well, for starters, if those bra pads aren’t drenched when you’re getting up to feed her, then it likely hasn’t.” 

Your stomach clenched and rolled. You shook your head. “Is she—am I starving her?”

“No, honey.” She sat next to you, patting the baby’s bottom rhythmically as she swayed side to side. “She may not be fully satisfied, but she’s not starving. Maybe we can send the boys out to find some formula to supplement.”

You couldn’t mask the stricken expression, just too damn tired. “When—how long does it take?”

“Stress and nutrition have a lot to do with it, and let’s face it. We’re abundant in one and lacking in the other.” Using her belly to help support Birdie’s weight, she reached out and smoothed a hand over your hair and then cupped your cheek. “Why don’t you lie down? Carol and I can watch the baby and—”

“Birdie.” You smiled fondly. Lori beamed at you. 

“That’s so sweet.”

You nodded, feeling proud of your partner’s choice. “Daryl picked it. Birdie Jade.”

“Well, Carol and I will watch Miss Birdie Jade. I’ll bring her in to nurse and you can get some good sleep in between. How’s that sound?”

“Like you two are fucking angels.”

“You Dixons and your mouths.” She chuckled. You straightened and blinked. You weren’t a Dixon. Is that how they saw your relationship with Daryl? Swallowing hard, you ducked your head, actually being the one to blush. “Don’t think on it too hard.” Lori chuckled with a wink, levering her way upright. “Get some sleep.” 

As intriguing and terrifying as the thoughts she had sparked were, you didn’t need to be told twice. 

“Y/N! Y/N, wake up!” Carol’s voice was frantic, her grip on your shoulder tight and hurried. You shot upright, the fog of sleep clouding your awareness, panic gripping your heart from her tone. 

“What? What’s wrong? Where’s Birdie?” You were clambering off of the bed, Carol steadying you when you staggered, still under the intense clutches of exhaustion. 

“Lori has her. Come on, we have to go.” She shouldered one of the bags and shoved the other toward you. “A herd, we have to move.” She bolted toward the door and out of your sight. 

“Okay, okay!” You stumbled out after her clumsily pulling the bag over your shoulders, looking back to ensure you had everything. The room was so simple, even under the gaze of your bleary eyes. It was the first room you had shared with Daryl and Birdie. Where you had felt like a family. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it did. The farm was a sensible loss to mourn, but this was a room. A simple room in a random house. 

“Y/N!” You heard Carol’s voice ring out from somewhere nearby. 

“Fuck.” You said with genuine sorrow. The moment the little bundle in Lori’s arms came into view, a weight lifted from your chest. “Please.” You held out your arms even as Rick and T-Dog bellowed for everyone to run. Lori passed Birdie to you, barely a glimpse of her little face before you began to run. 

“The truck won’t start!” Glenn was running toward you, taking down two walkers in his path. 

“Damnit! Everyone to the van!” Rick ordered, stopping to usher everyone ahead of himself. 

Birdie jostled against your chest as you ran, thankfully she seemed content with the movement, continuing to sleep. The walkers’ numbers were growing thicker around you. Carol, Maggie, and Glenn were circling you, Lori, Carl, and Beth but it wasn’t enough. 

Daryl. 

Using your forearm and hand, you stabilized Birdie as best you could, drawing your knife. Stabbing the closest walker, you kicked it off your blade and spun for the next, repeating the process. Over and over, you held your ground until you were panting and aching, but they just kept coming, hindering your slow trek to the van. It wasn’t until a cold, dead hand twisted into the baby’s blanket and tugged that you absolutely saw red. Your hold on her was unyielding, the strength of a mother that you didn’t realize you had until that moment. 

Daryl, please. 

Severing the hand at the wrist, you stabbed the walker in the eye, kicking it to the ground. Bowing over your baby, you ran, using your momentum and your body to plow through the undead toward the van, knocking them off balance just enough to allow your continued sprint until you were opening the back hatch and climbing inside, closing it behind you. 

Daryl, we need you. 

You knew that extra second that one of your friends would need to take to open up the van could mean life or death, but your sole focus was on Birdie. You unwrapped her and pulled down the zipper of her sleeper, turning her this way and that to inspect for scratches or bites, finding her skin unmarred. 

“Oh, thank god.” She was wailing by that time but calmed into hiccups on your shoulder, the warmth of your body and her blanket enough to soothe her for the time being. “Good job, baby. You’re okay. Mama’s here. You’re okay.”

 She’s okay, Daryl. 

The hatch opened, your knife in your hand as if walkers had suddenly evolved and could work the handle, but as Carol and the others began to filter inside, you exhaled and sank against the back of the passenger seat. Lori made her way to you with a certain amount of difficulty. 

“Is she okay? Are you?”

You nodded, unable to articulate the relief that was suppressing your ability to form words. 

Both front doors swung open, Rick and T-Dog climbing inside. 

“Roll call!” The former deputy shouted, starting the vehicle just before you heard—and felt—the tires catch on the gravel in search of traction. 

You could already see every face accounted for, but allowed the system, if for nothing more than to ease Rick’s mind. 

“What about Daryl?” You asked quickly, the words tripping over one another as they exited your mouth. 

“We’ll leave him some clues. You know how good he is at tracking. He’ll find us.”

Rick spoke nothing but the truth. Still, the thought of Daryl alone was enough to make your stomach hurt, your heart beat a little faster. He’d be beside himself with worry for his daughter, for you. You didn’t want to imagine that experience. Birdie was safe in your arms, but Daryl wasn’t at your side and you could hardly stand it. 

Birdie stirred, squeaking, her little face growing red. “Ssh.” You soothed, turning your back to everyone, facing the side of the interior and the window. Arranging your shirt and bra, you situated the baby to your breast, her little lips wrapping around the nipple to suckle eagerly. Still, you could sense her unease. She knew as well as you did that her daddy wasn’t close by, a stressor she’d expressed even from within your womb.

“It’s okay, Birdie girl. Daddy will find us.”

Hopefully soon. 

Gazing out the window, you watched the trees fly by in blurred mixtures of brown and green, most of the leaves still missing from the cold weather. You saw Daryl’s face in every gap, heard his voice whisper reassurance. 

Stay safe, love. 

[slasherscream]

Crazy Ass Girls Gang ft. killing the reader’s rapist

warnings: yandere behavior, subject matter is rape/sexual assault, gore warning in some parts - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

TIFFANY VALENTINE:

Tiffany knows something happened to you. Call it woman's intuition. Maybe just call it true love. Or obsession. Whatever it is she can sense a hole in you. A gaping pit of misery that you try and hide. Try and fight against.

Tiffany tries to help, when you let her. Most of the time you don't. Instead of admitting to being so depressed you can’t move or eat, you'll feign physical illness. You pretend you're crying because some part of your body hurts. Tiffany knows better. Knows it’s something in your soul itself. Aching. 

Tiffany let's it go on for as long as she can stomach it. The relationship was still so new. You'd just moved in together. Just finished pulling your separate lives into one. Picking out the throw pillows, what color to paint the walls. Argued playfully over bedding and mattress firmness. Is it too early to push? 

She watches you at the breakfast table, on the really bad days, eating mechanically, no joy in your movement or behind your eyes. She doesn't want there to be anything between you. Any secrets. Any distance. If you're hurting she wants you to lean on her. To need her as much as she needs you. To know she’ll catch you, no matter what it is she’ll catch you. It’s enough to leave her in tears every time you put on that awful fake smile. 

She wakes one night, blinking into the darkness. For a moment, she's not sure what woke her. Moonlight streams in from the window. The sound of the fan whirring across the room. Her eyes begin to drift shut again when she hears a muffled sob come from the bathroom. Her hand falls to your side of the bed, instinctively. She closes her eyes when she realizes how cold your side has gone. How long ago did you wake up? How quickly did you decide to crawl from bed and hide from her again? Always hiding. 

It's too much, now. You crying alone in the bathroom in the middle of the night is too much. She throws open the door and takes you into her arms, cooing softly, own eyes watering at the way you go limp against her so quickly. Here she'd been trying to give you space and what you needed was her affection, her tenderness, the whole time.

"What's wrong, huh, baby-doll? You gonna tell your Tiffany what's wrong now? Please?" She whispers against your hair, kissing the crown of your head.

You haven't said the words out loud in so long but you're tired of fighting the demons, and the nightmares, and the misery, all on your own. You've held it in so tightly since you met her. As if you'd taint her just by saying the words. But you love her, and you just want to stop hiding.

When you tell her she goes still. For just a second. Her arms tighten around you like a vice. She begins to rock you gently, cooing reassurances in your ear. She tells you to let everything out and you do. Now that you know she’ll still love you. That she’ll still be here for the aftermath. You can’t stop yourself.

By the end you feel exorcized. Alive. Softened and made new by the level of tenderness Tiffany had shown you. She gathers you from the floor of the bathroom, wipes both of your tears away and kisses you gently. She tucks you back into bed and asks only one more question: 

“What was their name again, sugar bear?” You don’t hesitate to tell her. It warms her heart the way you curl into her side without anymore hesitation. The space between you gone now. 

You sleep deeply that night. You wake up to an empty bed and are surprised. Usually, no matter how late you sleep in Tiffany is still wrapped around you. Just as much a night owl as you, early mornings are rare.  

You pass by the laundry room, notice that the washer and dryer are both going. You thought you did all the laundry a few days ago. You peek into the washer and notice how red the water is. Tiffany must have been attacked by the creative spirit, gotten messy using some paint. 

You hope she didn’t use acrylics this time, the stains never come out. 

You walk through the house calling for your girlfriend. No answer. You step out onto the back porch and there she is. Bathed in the early afternoon sun. Your whole body relaxes when you see her in the garden, bent over, planting a whole new row of flowers. She’s absolutely covered in dirt. You smile, feeling happier than you have in ages. You rush out to join her in the sunlight and throw your arms around her. 

“I love you, Tiff.” You cover her face in kisses, ignoring the dirt.

“I love you too, baby-doll. I love you more than anything.” Tiffany kisses you back, sweet and passionate. Playfully, she spins you to lay beneath her and revels in the sound of your carefree, shrill laughter. 

She hopes they can hear you, just barely, through the layers of dirt she buried them in. With their last breath she hopes they hear your laughter and realize they didn’t break you. 

JORDAN LI:

You weren’t answering your phone. Not their calls. Not their texts. It was enough to have them shrugging on their jacket and stomping out of their dorm into the cool night air.

They’d had a bad feeling about letting you go out alone tonight. You always partied together. Usually with Jordan’s friends, who had become yours. Jordan hated the old group you used to run with. Disloyal. Stupid. Selfish. Now she wishes you’d at least taken one of those fake groupies. At least then you wouldn’t be alone. 

She walks through the party, a brick wall, shoving people aside as she calls your name. Anxiety prickles the skin at the back of her neck. She jogs up the stairs, taking them two at a time. She throws open door after door, music from the party too loud to even fucking think. 

Jordan’s angrier by the second, wondering if something happened to you. She hopes you just lost your phone. If someone stole it she’ll break their fucking jaw. 

The last door in the hallway, she sees two bodies on the floor, one moving against the other in the dim light. She rolls her eyes about to slam the door shut and go look for you in the kitchen again. As she goes to close the door she stops dead when she hears a whimper from the floor. The tiniest noise of pain, a drowsy “stop”. The scene looks different now.

She steps into the room, forgetting about you for one second, heart pounding in her ears. Jordan pulls the person on top off by their hair, hard enough to hurt. When she sees it’s Rufus she let’s out a laugh of anger and blasts him across the room with her power. Hard enough that he leaves a dent in the wall. 

Jordan turns to the person on the ground, hoping the short distance between them and Rufus will make his fucking pheromone bullshit wear off. 

“Are you-” Her blood stops. It’s you, on the floor. Your outfit torn and ripped. Tears are running down your cheeks but your eyes still have that drugged shimmer that might as well be that walking roofie’s calling card. 

“Jordan?” You mumble from the floor, dazed and confused. 

Rufus makes a sound from across the room, getting to his feet. Jordan stops breathing as she turns. They make eye contact. Fear in one pair. Anger so strong it’s inhuman, in the other.

Jordan’s across the room in an instant. Her fist breaks his jaw with the first blow. Everything after that is a blur. She comes back to herself when she feels a stabbing pain shoot through her fist and she pulls her hand away with a hiss. Bone fragment cutting into her hand. 

The haze of the rage falls away and Jordan realizes how wet she feels.  She looks down at her clothes. Sees how soaked in blood they are. Then her eyes fall to the mess she’s left on the floor. She almost throws up. Shakes her hands and feels brain matter slide off of them.

She thinks, what the fuck did I just do? What the fuck did I just do? 

“Jordan?” You call from across the room, sounding less drugged. 

She looks over at you and tears burn her eyes. Numb, she climbs off the body and rushes to you, looking you over. The tears fall when she sees the bruises, the small cuts. You must’ve fought him, even through the haze of his powers. You’ve always been a fucking fighter. She should have fucking been here. She doesn’t want to touch you with the blood on her hands but you don’t give her a choice, falling into her arms sobbing. She forces back her own. This is her fault. You’re the only one who deserves to cry. 

“I’m so fucking sorry.” Jordan mumbles, hands shaking as they leave bloody smears across your skin. What else can she say?

NANCY DOWNS:  

Secret keeping doesn’t work with Nancy. No matter how small of a secret, or a lie, she can sniff it out. Furthermore she hates when you lie. About anything. You should always tell each other the truth. You're one soul in two separate bodies, as far as Nancy is concerned. 

Even before she did the spell to bind you to one another permanently. 

Because of the magic she can feel what you’re hiding now. She had a suspicion before. But now she knows. Now she fucking knows. She’s furious, and heartbroken, and she knows. 

You still try and hide it, though. As if you can hide anything from the other half of your fucking soul.  

“Enough, Y/N.” She spits at you one night, when you’re trying so hard not to think about it. Not to feel. 

She doesn’t know why you’re blocking her out. Not letting her feel it with you. Whatever you suffered. Whatever harm that befell you it would be avenged times three if you just let her in.

Nancy’s magic has always been stronger. She was being kind before. Hoping you would come to her on your own. She sees now that you need to be encouraged. She’s still gentle, somehow, as she invades the sanctity of your mind. For one instant your consciousness is her consciousness, and you’re both one being, sharing every thought and feeling. 

She sees it. Feels it. Lives what you lived, in that single moment. She pulls herself out of your mind, eyes hauntingly empty. They meet yours, register you, and fill with tears slowly. You reach out, in sync and Nancy pulls you to her. You can’t tell apart the sounds of your voices as you start to scream and sob. 

You pass out, eventually. Either from exhaustion or a spell Nancy placed on you. You wake in your shared bed to her standing over you, covered in blood. A knife in one hand, something meaty and dripping in the other. When your eyes adjust fully to the moonlight you realize it’s a human heart. 

“It’s okay, Y/N. You're safe now. You’ll always be safe, with me. You understand?” Nancy coos, petting your face with the hand holding the knife. It cuts you. You start to cry and you’re not sure if it’s from relief. 

JENNIFER CHECK:

You come home from the party you attended quietly. You open the door without a sound. Kick off your shoes. Put down your bag. You’ve shut yourself into the bathroom before she can even ask how it went. Immediately, her hackles are up. Irritation and concern. You know she hates being ignored. You never ignore her. You didn’t even say hello. 

Jennifer knocks on the bathroom door, trying to keep her voice playful as she asks what your deal is. You don’t respond. The sound of running water is the only thing she can hear. She pounds on the door, getting nervous. 

Then she picks up the smell of prey. You smell like prey. Dried sweat perfumes your skin, the sweetest smelling kind, that only one emotion causes: primal fear. The faintest whiff of blood and tears.

She breaks down the door. You don’t even notice. Don’t even look away from the mirror. You just go on trying to wipe the blood from your face. Your lip is busted. Hair a tangled mess. Scrapes along your cheek and neck, collarbone. Your clothes are a mess too. Rips and tears in fabric that was pristine a few hours ago.

“Baby?” Jennifer says again, feeling sick. Still nothing. 

She reaches out to touch you, gently. You come alive, jolting away from her with a scream. It’s the type of fear she’s heard a thousand times. Right before she rips out an organ or a throat. 

It’s the breaking of a dam and you fall to the ground, sobbing, still trying to wipe away at your skin. Any bit of skin you can reach. Jennifer tries to wrestle the rag from you. You’re being too rough, you're only human. You’re so breakable. You fight against her, sobs getting louder. 

“Baby stop fighting me!” Jennifer begs, uncharacteristically.  Between your sobs she makes out the words of you needing to clean yourself and her eyes fill with tears. She didn’t know she was capable of tears still.

“Stop.” Jennifer commands, voice going inhuman, harmonic. You go still, entranced by the full force of her power. Jennifer feels the tears falling down her cheeks. Watches your own tears cut bloody, miserable lines down your face. 

She takes the rag and gently wipes at your cuts. She peels away your ruined clothes. Starts the bath and places you inside it. Every time her hold on your mind starts to wane, and that animal fear of harm kicks back in, she speaks to you. She doesn’t let the control slip until your body stops secreting that awful smell of terror. 

“Who did this, baby?” She asks quietly, trying not to focus on the haunted look on your face. 

You don’t answer her. She swallows. 

“That’s okay, baby. I’ve got the scent anyways.” She tucks you into bed, orders you into a dreamless sleep that you couldn’t hope to fight off. 

She doesn’t come back home until the morning. The blood beneath her fingernails makes her itch. The smell of the monster she killed is putrid in her nose. She showers under water so hot it singes even her skin. When she crawls into bed beside you, before she falls asleep, she thinks about how hungry she is. She curls her entire body around yours.

She hadn’t been able to stomach even the thought of eating your fucking rapist. 

CARRIE WHITE:

You’d just moved into this house together. It was a nice enough neighborhood. Cozy. Nothing too big or expensive. The dorms at university had been too loud and hectic for Carrie. For this semester you’d decided you needed to build a life together. 

She’d never been happier than she was while painting the walls with you. Picking out lamps, and blankets, and a shoe rack. She remembers the way she’d used telekinesis to haul the heavy couch inside while the two of you held your hands underneath and pretended to carry it. The elderly neighbors all watching from their porches with dropped jaws. When you took one hand away to wave at them Carrie had to rush you both inside before she actually dropped the couch from laughing. 

You went to class together. Cooked and cleaned side by side. Carrie tailoring clothes for money and you tutoring. It was good. Life was good. After years of suffering, you were her heaven on Earth. 

Carrie came home from grocery shopping, humming quietly to herself. She knew you were home but didn’t call out for you. You’d told her you were tutoring someone this afternoon. Some of the subjects required a lot of focus, especially if you were already struggling with the material. She’d brought extra snacks in case they were hungry. 

She set the groceries down in the kitchen and walked into the living room. She froze in her tracks. You were there, and there was your student, on top of you. You locked eyes with Carrie, over their shoulder. They were holding you down. You’d been gagged to keep you from screaming. So the neighbors wouldn’t hear.

They were assaulting you in your own home. In the home you shared with her. Her vision whited out. 

She came to with your hands gently shaking her awake. She screamed when she saw you. You were covered in blood. In gore, and chunks of flesh. The sight alone brought back such horrible memories she turned over and threw up. You held her hair back, as if the blood on your hands was less awful than vomit. 

She tried to look…. To see what she’d done. But you won’t let her look past you. You’re sobbing and still trying to protect her. Even though she hadn’t protected you. Her whole world. Her angel, that God sent her, and she’d let you be defiled. She’d failed you. 

You fall apart in each other’s arms, trying to ignore the headless body a few feet away.

GINGER FITZGERALD:

You’d thought she’d under-reacted, when you told her. ‘She’s being unusually calm’ was your exact thought. But you were so tired, after years of holding in the dark secret. You were just relieved to have her acceptance, without hesitation, without disgust. 

She asked no questions that could leave you wondering about anything. On whether or not she thinks it’s your fault. If she thinks you should’ve fought back harder. If she thinks you’re weak. Tainted. Dirty. She says all the perfect words, everything you’ve ever needed to hear. She held you close and whispered them, and kissed you the same as always. 

She treats you no differently. You let yourself soften in the reality of a devotion that only Ginger can give. 

But you knew she was under-reacting. 

You walk into your living room a week later and see Ginger sitting on the couch, your rapist beaten within an inch of their life, bound and gagged at her feet. Her face lights up when she sees you. She grins like a wolf, canines sharper than usual. 

She stomps on their head as she skips to greet you, grabbing you by the hips. She ignores your gaping mouth when she kisses your cheek affectionately, “Brought you a little gift, baby.” 

“I almost just killed them, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted-”

“Wanted to what, Ging?” You cut her off, breathless, eyes glued to that hauntingly familiar face.

“Wanted the chance to make them suffer, before they die.” Ginger whispers, staring at you so lovingly you almost start to cry.

You tug her into your arms and laugh wetly when she starts to purr. You can see the way her tail wags beneath her skirt. She’s always so eager to please.

“I don’t know if I can do that, Ginger.” You admit into the skin of her neck. 

“Sure you can.” Ginger coos, taking you by the hands and leading you over to the shivering body on the ground. “I’ll show you how.”

She takes off the gag so you can hear the screams better. 

[lorelune]

bathtime

|| blade x reader || M || captive reader x necrobiome blade || wc: 5.1k  || ao3 || previous + next ->

Even the best bath water will find it difficult to cleanse 'sin'.

minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni

notes: well hello :3c welcome to part 3 of the architect-verse :3cc been cooking on this one for awhile 🙏 yandere blade is such a guy and scummy manipulative mommy kafka is so fun to write :3ccc thank you for beloved @ofmermaidstories for doing a read through on this one 🥺♥!! enjoy enjoy enjoy 💓

CW: dark content, yandere blade, captive/pet reader, discussions of noncon, references to past noncon on blade while he was underage and as an adult, references to past noncon on reader, use of the word rape, violence/thoughts of violence, past yingxing/dan feng, toxic blade/kafka

It’s normal for Blade to return to the Stellaron Hunters’ main vessel covered in assorted types of gore. Scraps of rent flesh, smears of blood, bile, scales— tendons and sinew wrapped under his forearms, clinging from the pressure of impact light-years away. The smell of it clings to him, still fresh, just barely beginning to rot. He stews in it during his typical return in small, covert starships. He half-suffocates with the stench of death.  

This is typical. Blade does not carry any opinion about it. If anything, he welcomes the potential of asphyxiation, though it never comes. 

Most routinely, Kafka will greet him as he returns and take him to clean up. Occasionally, when she is indisposed, Silver Wolf will be forced to hose him down in the communal gym shower or Sam will dunk him in the bath by the scruff of his neck. Blade does not... particularly enjoy the latter two options. Though he isn't sure entirely why, and he doesn't tend to dwell on it either. 

When Kafka collects him, it is easier, if nothing else. Less fuss, less grimacing over the smell of burgeoning rot and complaining that Blade should do this prior to arriving home. Blade doesn't care about the other Stellaron Hunters’ complaints, not really, but it does make the ordeal longer than it needs to be. 

(And maybe, maybe, he does not like being drenched in bone-chilling water and soaked clothing. He hates it.) 

Kafka will lead Blade back to her own room, strip him, and give him a warm bath. Frequently, she’ll take off her own clothing and join him. She’ll hold him close, his back to her front. Kafka likes when she is able to cow him into resting against her front, cow him into resting his cheek against her breasts while she scrubs away the worst of the grime. 

Never mind that they share the same, red-tinged bathwater. 

(Occasionally, things escalate. Touch that volleys between innocent and clinical and sexual. Kafka will stroke down the planes of his body, reach for his cock, and bring him to release. It’s— it's nice. He thinks. He can't tell.) 

It's hard to tell anything in the steam of the bath. Though Kafka's presence renders his mara mute, proximity makes it writhe regardless. It is not a soundless beast, though it loses its words. Muddy feelings, rather than anything clear cut. It's a reprieve regardless. 

This is why Blade prefers to be cleaned by Kafka. 

... 

This mission, however, Blade receives a text from Kafka during his return journey that she will be out. Along with Silver Wolf. And that Sam is charging and shouldn't be disturbed.  

However— 

Kafka: 

why don't you see if our little stray is up for a bath, bladie? 

There's a thought. One Blade hadn't considered. 

(There's a whisper of a refusal in the back of his mind. 'No'. Blade is not sure why. It is quiet but sure of itself.) 

Blade: 

When will you be back. 

Kafka: 

tomorrow. don't wait up until then. listen, just ask. 

Kafka's mind weaving does not work over text. But it is, regardless, difficult to resist her command. This is habit. 

Blade idles outside of your room. He has dripped mess across the vessel and left little piles of flesh and muscle in his wake. The quiet sound of blood splattering against the floor (his, maybe, though his regeneration should be almost complete) makes him aware of this. 

It feels uncouth to enter your room like this. 

Blade shakes himself off and leaks scarlet droplets against the metal paneling. methodically, he releases the five locks on your door. Each clicks when fully disarmed, and by the time Blade enters, you're already looking up at the door, eyes wide. 

You're tucked into bed with a soft blanket over your lap. A tablet (a gift from silver wolf at Kafka's behest. For 'good behavior'. Not connected to any internet, but you've told Blade it helps pass the time.) 

The device is promptly forgotten as you push yourself out of bed, "Aeons, Blade, what happened? Are you hurt?" 

You approach him with no caution. It's reckless. It's foolish, especially with this much adrenaline tumbling around between his eyes and in his veins. He has the distinct urge to shove you away and into the floor. Compress you until you break and bleed and bleed and break. 

Blade does not. 

Instead, he lets you flit around him. He lets you draw your own conclusions. 

You are not foolish. You know he is dangerous; he knows you know this. It is your... good nature that creases the surely-soft skin between your brows. It's your kindness that has you frazzled, shaking in your hands as you hover over him. Searching for wounds that are mostly healed. 

"Blade, I said, are you hurt?" You ask, voice strained, bent at the waist while examining a slice in his pants. A lance had torn his calve wide open. It has already healed. 

"I'm fine." 

"Sure." You don't sound convinced, frowning. "You look like shit. Am I really supposed to believe that?" 

"I have already healed. my injuries are no longer a concern." 

"... Really?" 

"I am an abomination of Yaoshi. This is my nature." 

You already know this, yet you look defeated. Your jaw is tight. "Uh-huh. Alright. Fuck, do you feel alright?" 

"I'm fine. I need to be clean." 

"... Alright?" 

"I need to bathe." 

"... I see that... Do you want me to call Kafka?" 

"She's off ship." 

"Oh, fuck." you curse and shake your head. "I-is she going to be back soon?" 

"No. Help me instead." 

"M-me?" Your voice trembles and you take a fearful step back. Ever the skittish thing. something in him— sort of him— vibrates. 

"Yes." 

"Can you— not?" 

"It's cumbersome to wash on my own." 

"I see." You run a hand over your cheeks and adjust the wide collar of your shirt. It’s too big. It’s one of his— probably? A sleep shirt. One that Kafka stole from him to give to you. He knows you own several. "Alright. Okay. Fine. Fuck, I-I can help." 

You shoo him into your bathroom. 

You turn away from him almost immediately, poking around in a cabinet, plucking brightly colored products and muttering under your breath. Kafka mentioned that isolation is getting to you more than you think. She thinks it's cute. 

Blade wordlessly begins to strip. First off is his blood-soaked overcoat, shredded around his ribs and with massive gouges taken out of the back. Then his undershirt. Followed by his pants. One of his belts rings a metallic clink as he undoes it. 

You choose this moment to turn around and your eyes go wide. 

"BLADE!" You cover your eyes, dropping a bottle. "What are you— you can't just do that." 

"Do what?" 

"Get... naked?" 

"You are going to help me bathe. This is necessary." 

"I understand that." You sound exasperated. Your voice is shaky. The tone is pulling something in the back of his mind. The corners of his lips almost want to curl upwards. "But you can't just strip without warning. Aeons, have some manners." 

Blade nearly laughs— good-naturedly. The urge to is something dormant and poisonous. Seldom used. Usually it's a sharp impulse, but it's almost warm now. Tepid and pleasant.  

(All for you.) 

You cover your eyes as you fumble to turn on the tap, "At least go rinse off a little in the shower first, please?" 

Doable, albeit difficult. Blade grunts something akin to an affirmative and finds your shower. He turns the water on (hot or cold doesn't seem... relevant) and steps in. The spray pours down from the ceiling, sending the worst of the gore down the drain. 

Blade does not move for quite some time.  

"Blade?" you ask warily. "You... done in there?" 

It takes him a moment to reply. The cold spray lags him, "Yes." 

"... Can you come out? The bath is ready." 

He idles, thinking about your question. The softness of your voice. The candle that he can smell, lit on the countertop. You yourself, dressed in soft lounge clothes and covered in scars that strangers gave you. He thinks about the way skin and muscle rend under his blade. The way yours could. Under him. Under— 

"Blade." 

You open the glass shower door, worry-eyed. 

He blinks at you. 

Gently, you grab his arm. He flinches with it. Has half a mind to slam you into the tile until you pop like an perfectly ripe fruit— 

But he doesn't. 

"C’mon, bath time," you coax him out, dripping, careful to not look down. It’s a preservation of modesty. It feels useless, Blade thinks, as he pulls away to clamor into the bath. 

... There are bubbles. Fragrant and herbal, with a soft oil shimmering on the top of the water. It is the perfect temperature. It feels... good. He forgets how nice warmth is. He softens. You heave out a sigh and settle next to him, outside the bath. There's a dampened washcloth, already in your hand. 

"Is it okay if I touch you?" You ask. 

"I don't care." 

"Give me a yes or a no,” you press him, glaring a little. You roll up your sleeves and rise to your knees. 

"Yes, then." He does not care. Do you not understand? 

(You probably don't. You definitely don't.) 

Your expression is unreadable as you dunk the rag into the bathwater and begin to wash him. First his right arm, then his left. Gently rubbing him down, taking extra care with his hands. The rag is gentle over his stiff fingers. You check under each of his nails individually. 

You’re meticulous. 

You ask a question or two about how he washes himself, specifically his hair, but Blade can't give you answers. Kafka stocks his bathroom. His bottles are numbered, and he never deviates from their preassigned order. It is easier that way. Even in Kafka’s tub, she tends to use the same order of expensive-looking products that she favors.  

The treatment you’re currently giving him is not routine.  

The ends of your sleeves dip into the water as you stretch over the tub, toward his legs. Your tongue peaks out from your lips, bitten in concentration. (It’s cute.) Blade feels... compelled to assist you. He raises his leg up at the knee. Just as carefully, you scrub him down, and then focus on his other leg.  

The experience fills him with a sense of unease.  

(It’s too tender.) 

(You treat him too delicately. Even Kafka acknowledges the damage he carries, and her touch is only gentle to punctuate a roughness later on. She toys with him— it’s a farce. The way you touch him is too kind. You are too kind for him. It reminds him— makes him feel the ghost of a touch from hands more delicate and powerful than your own. From a different lifetime, blotted by Mara, corrupted and molten in his mind—) 

“Blade—?” Your voice is shaking, shattering. You’re frozen at the side of the tub.  

Blade blinks. 

He has his hand wrapped around your wrist; his grip swallowing the fragile limb. The force of it is bruising. He holds it under the water, forcing you to lean over the tub. You are submerged up to your elbow. Your expression is pinched, afraid. Your pupils pinpricked.  

An animal snared. 

His grip tightens.  

“Let go, please.” You ask, lip wobbling.  

He does not want to let go. He really does not want to let go. Blade cannot trace the feeling, it’s miasmatic. It was a bad idea to have you assist in bathing him. Mara webs itself behind his eyes. His jaw locks and breathes hard through his nose. He wants to sink his teeth into your throat. 

“Please, stop,” You whine— whimper while tugging against his hold. You are half bent over the bath. Your eyes water, all shiny.  

The tone does something to him. Many people plead around him— for their life, mercy, favor. It’s useless. He does not care. He has no reason to care. There are scripts to follow. However— there’s no script here. Just the warm suds, the blood pumping through your veins, and Blade’s tunneling vision. 

With a sharp pull, he drags you into the bath. 

You fall in headfirst. Instantly, you clamor at the side of the tub and his submerged legs to get yourself back above water. You scramble. It’s— cute. Your hair is slicked down around your face and forehead, eyes wide as you pant. His legs bracket your body. He tightens his thighs around you.  

Your thin clothes are soaked and cling to you. Fabric over curves and folds over your flesh. Blade’s half-hard and feels bad about it. 

(He can’t trace why. It’s far from the first time he’s been physically aroused in relation to you. It always makes him feel bad. Not with Mara, but something personal and sour and less mad. He hates it. He’s almost torn out a rib over the feeling.) 

You hover, frozen, between his legs. The only sounds in the bathroom are your panting breaths and the drips rolling off your body, into the bathwater. You swallow, trembling, but remaining otherwise unmoving. It occurs to Blade after a few tense moments that you are waiting for him to strike.  

Always like a little, frightened animal.  

(Something in him writhes.) 

He moves quickly, shooting a hand out to fist into your hair. His grip is unyielding, giving you no slack (though, he doesn’t yank and pull as he could. He could tear out chunks if he wanted. He just doesn’t want you to move.) He wants you closer— maybe. He wants you far away, thrown through one of the ship's thick windows and into the vacuum of space and dead. 

(Though, it wouldn’t be as satisfying for the void of space to kill you. He’d rather do it. He wants to do it, if you’re going to die.) 

You whine and paw at his wrists, babbling something.  

Blade feels disgusting as he drags your body to his, his chest to your back, and he curls over your form. His arms wind around your waist and squeeze. You scratch at him, beg maybe— he can’t tell, his ears are ringing. Your fists that slam into his shoulders and skull feel like swats from a declawed kitten. He doesn’t budge despite your protests.  

You stop fighting when you realize he isn’t hurting you. 

Blade doesn’t... want to hurt you. He thinks. Not really. Not in the way that Mara is screaming at him to. He isn’t content, you’re too warm and too alive to be this close to his body, but it's not bad. Contact both scratches an itch under his skin and aggravates a wound. It’s like a bath with Kafka, but worse— 

(Because part of him wants this.) 

Blade flinches when you go slack against him, chest heaving out breath. Even this little ‘scrap’ has tired you out. You’ve become weakened in your confined state— even if you really wanted to fight him, you don’t have the physical strength to be able to. 

You sniffle, covered in soaked clothes and soap suds. 

“Don’t cry.” Blade says without thinking. His voice is shot, dead-pan.  

Trembling, you shake your head, “I w-won’t.” 

It’s a lie. You’re already shaking in his arms. 

It’s— unfair. You’re most used to him, and less wary of him than Kafka. Part of him, a loud but small part of his mind, thinks that a bath together could be enjoyable— if he wasn’t washing blood and filth from his hair, and you weren’t shivering in your soaked day clothes. 

(‘This could be nice’, it urges.)  

His hands rub over your sides in small circles at the idea. 

You gasp and squirm, looking back at him with wild eyes, “Blade, please—” 

He stops, but his hold around your waist doesn’t waver. You sigh and lean back into his chest, deflating. Your eyes go half-lidded as you look toward the ceiling. They look— dull. Light and life drained. Like how they did when he and Kafka first collected you from that gilded planet. 

Blade knows that look— a dull mind and an active body. Your breath is still a bit too fast. Your heart is the same, running a prey-like rhythm. He assumes that you have left your body, gone elsewhere. 

“Hey.” He shakes you lightly, dragging you back to the cooling bath. “Help with my hair.” 

“... Hair?” You ask, voice soft and dreamy. “... Do you need me to wash it?” 

“Yes.” 

“... Okay.” You nod after a moment and rotate in his lap.  

Your shoulders sag forward as you fumble for shampoo and squirt a generous amount into your palm. Half of it misses and the gel sinks into the bathwater below.  

It’s unfair— part of him says again— he wants to tear it out and shred it between his teeth or under his blade. It screams that it's unfair that you dote on a creature like him. It’s unfair that you must shiver while lathering and rinsing his hair. That your pretty lips tremble with fear.  

The Mara writhes. He has not been human in so long. He does not deserve the gentleness you so often give him. Especially now, when he has dragged you closer, made you filthy with the stench of blood, and forced you so close. He wants to bite out your throat as you tip forward to grab a brightly colored bottle of oil and begin to work through the knots in his air. 

You are frowning. You are crying. 

He wants to eat you. 

Blade reaches for your chest, studying the way that the fabric clings to your skin-gone-gooseflesh. He finds the top button of your soft blouse in his own unsteady hands and undoes it. You freeze when he does, breath catching. 

You don’t breathe as he undoes another button.  

Then another. 

And another.  

You don’t breathe until the garment is nearly off. Just one button secures the fabric. He can see the peak of your breasts under the fabric, nipples pebbled in the cold. You’re so cold.  

(Blade wishes, dead Yingxing wishes, that he were warmer.) 

Your hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist, and in a small voice, you beg, “Please, d-don’t.” 

“You’re cold.” Blade says. He reaches past you, sloshing water, to turn on the spigot for hot water. “You will stay cold if you wear wet clothes.” 

You look at him strangely. At first, it’s wounded. Like you’ve been lanced through with Shard Sword, and now bear the gaping wound. It morphs to one of confusion, then you bite your lip. And grab his hands in your own and stare at them. 

“... That’s all?” You ask. 

“Mostly.” Blade replies. There’s— more. Far more. But nothing that is concrete enough, or important enough, to share with you. It would more than likely aggravate his spitting Mara.  

“Okay.” You reply, looking up from your joined hands. Your eyes are round and watery. “You’re not trying to rape me?” 

He freezes.  

The word ‘rape’ pulls something disgusting and festering up from Blade’s guts. Something he wants to purge. He has the distinct urge to lean over the side of the time and vomit, but he hasn’t eaten in the last forty-eight hours, so there’s nothing to heave up. So instead, he is still.  

It’s like he can feel the rot. He’s not sure why. He knows what the word means, he is pretty sure he has been raped. Probably. Either when he was a young child, a refugee fleeing a massacred world, or maybe when he was the bedmate to a dragon. Maybe, probably, from Kafka, any number of times. Maybe last week. His mind is cloudy.  

What constitutes rape is foggy.  

He knows it would mean that he wants to have sex with you, and you wouldn’t want to have sex with him. 

And Blade— 

(He— He— doesn’t want to have sex with you? Or he does. Maybe. He wants to be close to you, inside you. He wants to curl around you and make you swear to never leave. He wants— he wants so much. Blade is selfish. But—) 

Not like that, he doesn’t think. Others have been, he’s sure— he’s sure.  

Mara pours into his mind, and he remembers then. Pieces of times, fragments of old memories, of rape. Of violation of all kinds.  

(At the hands of borisins holding him down as he screamed and cried, his body too little to do any fighting in the jaws of an Abundance beast.) 

(A tradesman who allowed him to stowaway on a cargo ship, destined for the Luofu. ‘Payment’ — the man had called it. For safe passage and a little sack of rice.) 

(Dan Feng, during one of his draconic ruts. He was the Child of a Cosmic Horror, ultimately. That’s all Aeons are, anyways. Yingxing had been split on his cock so many times, so full, he bled for a day, even with Dan Feng fussing over him with his cloudhymns, lucid-in-mind and torn apart by so much guilt for a wildly proud man.) 

(Kafka, a few days after she first picked him up from the surface of the asteroid Jingliu had been beating him into. Kafka, a few weeks after that— in a hotel that stank of blue emory roses. Kafka, a few weeks ago, draped over his shoulders between missions. There’s more. Memories drenched in the smell of her rich perfume. They tangle in feelings of comfort and revulsion.) 

Blade doesn’t want to do any of that to you. 

(He wants something with you— but—) 

(Not like that. He doesn’t want you to hurt.) 

“I’m not going to rape you.” He tells you. He hardly sounds like himself as the Mara quiets. 

He thumbs over your lips. There’s a scar in the middle of them where they had been split, repeatedly, and then healed over. You’d told him once that one of your old keepers used to deprive you of water if he felt like it. Your breath is hot against his fingertip. 

You say nothing, but your breath is still fast and shaky. Your eyes are wide. A feral, wild animal.  

“I’m not.” Blade tries to reassure you. You flinch with the sound of his voice. “You’re freezing. The bath can be refilled with warm water. Bathe.” 

Tears break over your lower lashes as you stare at him. He stares back. 

(He wonders what you’re thinking. If you have as much trouble thinking as he does— you probably do. You’ve sustained head trauma. Traumas. You’re both torn-up wrecks, maybe. It could provide him with some solace.) 

“... Okay.” You rub your eyes with balled up hands and laugh. “Okay.” 

Blade then helps you peel off your shirt. Then your shorts and underwear. When you’re bare, Blade drains most of the water from the, leaving you both with a layer of clinging bubbles protecting the barest bits of your modesty. You cover your chest and center with your hands, keeping your head down. Hiding your throat. 

He refills the tub with more soap— too much probably. Mountains of bubbles appear as he dumps in a glug of shimmering, emerald-colored oil. It swirls into the water as it rises. You relax as it rises over your chest. Your eyelids droop. You look so tired. 

Blade washes you like you did him.  

You face each other as he does. Your gaze never leaves him, though it goes glassy again. Unfocused. Blade can feel your heartbeat through your skin, slowing more and more with each pass of the warm, soapy rag he is using. He massages products into your hair. He thinks that he may be doing so in the correct order. He hopes he is. 

This close, he can see all of you. Most of you. Feel you too. He feels ridges and bumps of scars. Chunks of flesh that have been torn from you, replaced by cicatrix, uneven and unnatural under his touch. You shudder when he touches you, shivering despite the heat of the room. You’re sensitive. He doesn’t want Kafka to know. 

You feel different like this. Blade is unable to place why. 

When he is through with you, steam and bubbles still rising from the bath, you drag him closer. Your fingers dig into his biceps, latching on and scrambling to get closer. 

“... You really mean it, don’t you?” You ask. Your eyes are still unfocused. “You’re not going to? You’re not fucking with me?” 

“... What are you talking about?”  

An unrestrained smile stretches over your face, “You do mean it. You do. You do.” 

Blade can only guess what you mean. You clearly will not (or cannot) tell him. You shiver against a full body thing against him. It makes him uneasy. He flips you by the hips, so that your back is to his chest, and he can curl over your shoulders. He cast a shadow into the water. 

Indulgently, he presses his nose into your cheek. You smell like fresh soap and skin. He thinks if he licked you, you’d taste like salt. 

He doesn’t. 

When that’s all he does, you laugh.  

It’s a belting thing, the kind of sound that’s punched from your gut with the same force that could break ribs. Blade can imagine the sound and sensation of it obliterating your insides as your laughter bounces around the tile of the bathroom. It’s manic. It’s an unwell sound. You clutch a fist over your chest as you howl.  

You don’t stop for a while. 

It’s clearly too much. Blade can feel it. The sound echoes in his chest. It must be shredding yours.  

His arm wraps around your midsection as you do, and he tries to press you closer— he thinks. He thinks it might help. Your breath starts to shake, each inhale pitching high and sharp. You’re hyperventilating around your laughter. You’re hysterical, but don’t fight his hold. Even as tears drip down your cheeks, splattering into the bathwater. 

Blade says your name— it should come out sharply. He means it to. 

However, it is gentle. His voice is hushed and rough. 

“You’re alright.” He squeezes you until the breath is forced from your lungs, and there’s no fuel for your laughter anymore. “You’re okay.” 

With a choked, quiet sob, you reply, “I know.” 

... 

It’s later— much later. Maybe the next day.  

Your room still doesn’t have any way to keep time other than your little tablet, which has been powered off and charges across the room on top of your dresser, so Blade can only guess. 

He lays beside you in bed, propped up on an elbow. You sleep next time to him, relaxed and soft-jawed. The soft duvet is pulled up to your collarbones, and you curl into Blade. He’s— warmer than the rest of your room. Even if he does run too cold to be properly alive.  

He runs the side of his index finger over your face.  

You had been so tired after leaving the bath, you’d hardly been able to dress yourself— you hadn’t been able to. Blade to pick out sleep clothes and help you get into them. He chose whatever he could find that seemed. Soft. 

(A flowing, soft teal top and white shorts with golden thread sewn in the seams.) 

You fell asleep quickly after that and have been ever since. Blade had only meant to sit on the edge of your mattress.  

That did not happen. 

Instead, he’s tucked next to you. One of your hands fists the front of his shirt, and your body is angled toward him. Seeking. Wanting. 

Blade could take. 

He recognizes that. 

It’s a thought, though, not a temptation. Not after the bath. Not after feeling the ways in which your body has been torn apart and so painstakingly put itself back together. You are not a creature of Abundance, you are not built to live forever and to repair yourself endlessly like he is. Your vitality is finite. Every scar your flesh must restitch takes something from you and it will not be replaced.  

You will end. 

Your bedroom door clicks, five times, then opens with a whoosh of air. Kafka stands in the doorframe. A sickly-sweet smile stains her mouth. Her lipstick is the is freshly applied and glossy. 

“I see you got all cleaned up, Bladie,” her voice is silken and smooth. He could drown in it. “Was our little pup helpful?” 

“... Yes.” 

“Good.” Kafka hums. Her heels click against the floor, and she takes a place next to you. Even as the mattress dips, you don’t stir. “You’re so helpful with training them. Good boy.” 

Blade pauses his petting of you to glare and grunt at Kafka. She looks delighted. 

“I wasn’t aware I was assisting with any sort of training.” 

“It’s all implicit. As long as they’re getting comfortable, that’s what counts. Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything else.” 

Blade doesn’t like that answer.  

“I don’t want to see them hurt,” Blade says. 

“That’s sweet of you.” 

“I mean it, Kafka.” 

“I know, I know.” Kafka laughs. She sighs and falls into the bed, over the cushy duvet. She spoons you, flattening herself to your back and winding her arms around your waist. Your brow wrinkles and a little whimper scratches from your throat. “I’d like to see our new puppy kept in one piece too, Bladie. I’ve grown quite fond of them. However, we are both beholden to Destiny. If one of Elio’s scripts—” 

“I know.” Blade snaps. 

He does not want to think about it. 

His hand that had been petting you winds tightly into your hair and your face scrunches up.  

“Listen, Bladie, everything’s alright. You’re okay.” Kafka soothes, dropping a kiss onto your cheek. It leaves a smear. Kafka works Blade’s hand out of your hair. “Be good and keep them company while I give Elio a mission report.” 

“That’s what I have been doing.” 

“Then, keep it up.” 

Kafka rolls out of bed with a sigh, not a hair out of place. She leaves the room almost soundlessly, the door clicking as it relocks. Five times. 

Blade does as Kafka says. He keeps you company, sinking down into the mattress beside you. He wipes away the lipstick left over your cheek and presses a kiss to the spot. He lingers there.  

Kafka can have— a lot of him. But, perhaps, he will covet you, all for himself.  

(If the Mara in his mind had not been suppressed, perhaps he would have heard: 

(FOOL FOOL FOOL! DO YOU NOT REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU COVET AND CLING? DO NOT FORGET YOUR SINS! DO NOT FORGET HIS SINS—!) 

Instead, his mind is quiet. He pulls you closer and sleeps. Space is dead around him, and you are dead to the world in his undying arms. 

Blade thinks he likes when you bathe with him.  

[t4tsnowstormjrwi]

Honey, do you need a hot meal?

Troy is hungry. Lint is the meal.

trigger warnings for cannibalism and gore

hey guys..... i wrote this little thing in one day..... btw.... llintroller save meee... title is from Your body, My Temple by Will Wood

Troy and Lint are standing in In the middle of the living room. Lint has just told her that he wanted him to eat them. Not even that he could, but that he wanted her to.

And Troy can't deny, the idea is appealing. She thought maybe this was just some sick joke, Lint can be a little strange at times, but no. Lint is entirely serious. And Troy wants to eat.

Lint must be a genius, Troy thinks to herself. She doesn’t know what he wants to say in this moment, but she knows more than anything what he wants to do. What he needs to do.

“Dude, are you sure? Cause like, you could die, man…” Troy’s desire doesn’t mean he won’t hesitate. This is his best friend, after all.

“Your dad turns people into clocks, doesn’t he?”

She lunges towards them, straight for his cheek. He bites down and tears a bit of flesh away, and it’s even better than she could have imagined. She can’t even describe it. It’s just the kind of taste that you savor for as long as you can, especially when it’s someone as important to you as Lint is to Troy.

Troy sees Lint’s face before going in for another bite, this time the flesh of their neck. He looks shocked, maybe he expected her to say something before going in for a taste, but that doesn’t stop a small grin from appearing on their face.

And Troy just continues to tear away from Lint, bit by bit, piece by piece. He feels like an animal, but can she really help it? This is Lint. This is her best friend and he tastes so good.

This might just be the best thing he’s ever tasted. Lint isn’t just good, he’s perfect. The blood in Troy’s mouth is warm and the metallic taste makes him want more. He can’t stop, and surely Lint won’t survive much more of this. Troy knows that.

And yet, his tongue begs for more of that wonderful flavor. He can’t stop.

She loves Lint. In this moment, right now, she loves Lint more than ever before. Maybe it’s because Lint is all there is right now, or maybe he just likes the way they taste as she rips chunks of flesh away from their body. Either way, he loves Lint so very much. And they say actions speak louder than words, don’t they?

She barely even gives herself time to chew, he just keeps on taking more and more, relishing in it. The texture, the flavor, it’s all perfect to Troy. There isn’t a world where Lint isn’t perfect. Not in Troy’s eyes.

Tears fall down Lint’s face, he feels his life fading away from them, but this is Troy and this is all they’d ever dreamed of. They can’t think of a better way to go out. He wonders if Troy even notices that they’re dying, or if she’s too busy tearing him apart.

Eventually, Troy finishes his meal, but Lint is long gone by then. She doesn’t know when it happened. It’s hard for her to think about anything else, part of him wants more, but he knows it’s time to put them away. Maybe next time she’ll try a bit of cooking.

Should Troy feel bad? He just ate her best friend, after all. But no, Troy doesn’t feel anything but love for them. The consequences of her actions haven’t hit him yet, so why should it matter?

Lint, what’s left of them, barely fits in the freezer. Troy needs to go out and buy a bigger one. And some ice. She figures she should clean up first, though. He washes the blood from her hair and skin, gets a different outfit, wonders if the stains will ever leave that shirt, and he’d be on his way if he didn’t hear a quiet voice behind her. It has that bug-like quality to it, like someone Troy knows; knew. Lint.

“Did I taste good?”

--

ERM!!! END NOTES I GUESS??????

i have never ever written anything like this and MAN it was fun.

lint is a freaking ghost now by the way because i have so many Thoughts about ghost lint and clockwork lint......... may write more in the future too. just like about ghost lint/clockwork lint sometimes and troy shenanigans

i hope you had fun reading this. hope it was a hit for the lintroller nation

[b3ach-bunn7]

PLEASEEEE WRITE MORE FOR TOUYA 🙏🏼🙏🏼

Ur wish is my command 🛵

LEATHER COATS AND PIZZA

Never a dull moment when you hang out with Dabi and the rest of your friends

No quirks au, pining, LOV as high schoolers

part 2

—————————————————————————

“Move up.”

You shuffle to the left as Dabi plops down next to you. You’re currently all shoved onto Shigarakis couch, half watching the movie on his Tv and half chattering about whatever. You’re squeezed between Dabi, whose eyes are looking at the TV but not really watching, and Toga, who’s flicking through a Teen Girl magazine, absentmindedly filling out the questionnaires on the back. Shigaraki is sprawled on a loveseat, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he plays some game on his switch. Twice is leaning on the arm of the chair next to him and giving very unnecessary tips that Shigaraki does not need. Spinner is lying down on the floor. You think he’s exhausted after his football training, but he’s usually sleeping any time you guys hang out, so you’re not too concerned.

You don’t really look like you fit in with this friendship group. They’re weird enough as is. Spinner has this weird obsession with amphibians and bright clothes. Shigraki always has gloves on because of his bad eczema and he’s always scowling, and Toga’s cute aesthetic completely opposes her love of all things gore and violence that she’ll tell to anyone who’ll listen. And Dabi, whose face was more metal than skin from all the piercings he has. That, and the mystery that surrounds the burn scars that litter his skin.

All in all, it was a pretty rag tag group. You were glaringly normal compared to them. No weird habits or affinities, but none of you cared. You can’t even remember how you joined their group but you know you don’t regret it. Some of their activities weren’t exactly your forte. You do walk away whenever they decide that spending money on stuff is too much effort, or when they’d rather stay in an abandoned parking lot half the night then get in bed for school. But despite all of that, you always meet them halfway. Shigaraki’s parents are never really home and so you always find yourselves lounging around his house every other day. You watch movies, order pizzas, finish your homework. Whatever you feel up for.

Today, your eyes are trying their hardest not to flit to your right. Dabi is so close to you right now. His thigh is pressed into yours and it’s so warm. You’ve learnt that that is always the case. You remember one night after a party he’d walked you home. Even through the layers of your coat and dress, your arm gripping his had heated you up against the cold autumn air.

You adjust your position and he glances at you, but he doesn’t move. If anything he gets closer, bringing his arm up behind the couch to rest behind your head.

“Guys, would you say I like my men edgy but fun, or preppy but unique?” Toga hums, biting the end of her pencil.

“Don’t care.” Shigaraki mumbles.

“Rude. I think edgy but fun.” You say.

Twice frowns, shaking his head. “No, don’t you remember that Deku guy you liked? He was definitely preppy but unique.”

“No, he was more like. I don’t know. A nice guy.” Spinner ponders from the floor.

“He was a pussy.”

“Dabi, don’t be mean, he was nice!” Toga whines.

Dabi just rolls his eyes and you giggle. You lean forward to read the page she’s on. Apparently, Toga is about to find the ‘guys she’s totally in tune with’. You point to one of the teenage boys imprinted on the page, all fake smiles and box dye hair.

“He looks like he could be totally in tune with you.” You wiggle your eyebrows.

Dabi leans forward over you to get a better look. You can smell that woodsy and smokey smell that always follows him.

“He’s too emo.”

“You’re one to talk.” Toga mutters, and Dabi smacks the back of her head.

Toga sighs and abandons the page and keeps flicking through the magazine. You yawn. It’s only seven pm but you’re tired. You’d stayed up all last night with Dabi on the phone. It was sort of a tradition the two of you had. You’d watch a movie together, the two of you counting down to sync up your Netflix on whatever movie you were watching. Somehow, you’d stayed up talking all last night. It wasn’t unusual for that to happen but after a long day at school it’s all adding up. You lean your head against the back of the couch on Dabi’s arm.

“The movie not catching your fancy?” He asks.

You smile slightly. It’s something stupid and full of violence, the kind of stuff both of you hate. “No. It’s awful.”

“Of course it is, Shiggy picked it.” Dabi rolls his eyes.

You go to grab the remote and Dabi does too. Your fingers touch, only for a second, but the heat blooms in your hands. You both apologise, clumsily, but Dabi picks it up regardless and starts flipping through channels.

“Hey, they have a truth or dare page! Let’s play!”

It’s a testament to how bored you all are that that catches your attention. Toga slides down on the floor and spinner and twice join her. Shigraki looks unbothered but he still turns his switch off and sits up. You and Dabi stay on the couch. Funnily enough, despite the extra room, the two of you don’t move, legs still pressed up against each other.

“Truth or dare? A bit childish, no?” You whisper quietly enough that nobody but Dabi can hear you.

“What, you scared?”

“Shut up. I’m scared of nothing.” You flex your arms and Dabi smirks.

“It’s been ages since I’ve played. Isn’t there meant to be a forfeit if you don’t do the truth or dare?”

Dabi nods. “Yeah, usually.”

“What’s ours?”

“You have to kiss me.”

You turn your head away so he doesn’t seen the flush on your cheeks. Flirting is nothing you’re not used to with Dabi. Any woman he speaks to is unfortunately a victim of it. Despite his whole punk ‘don’t talk to me’ look, Dabi is undeniably attractive. There’s something so obvious about it. Like if you look at him for just a second more than you’d think to, it would all jump at you; his soft hair, the bright blue eyes, and that boyish grin. So you’re not really fussed by all his flirting. You’ve been there, done that. It’s Dabi at the end of the day. Nothing means anything with him.

“You wish.” You push him away as he pouts his lips at you.

Toga claps her hands. “Okay! Who’s going first?”

“Me!” Twice springs up from his seat, excited. “I pick dare.”

“Daring choice! Okay, so. Go onto instagram and like every highlight of the first person that you see.”

Twice was not happy about that, considering the girl that popped up on his page was apparently ‘someone he was interested in’. But his mood lights up quickly once Toga passes him the magazine so he can ask a question.

And you carry on like that, getting through the group. Shigaraki reluctantly plays a ‘Kiss, marry, kill’ with some of the less attractive teachers at UA, Spinner eats a spoonful of sriracha.

“Dabi. Your, fuck, it’s your turn.” Spinner fans his face while Toga giggles at him.

“Truth.”

Dabi waves off the boos from the rest of your group. Spinner hushes them and reads the first truth on the page. “If you had to marry one person in this room, who would it be?”

“Y/N.”

He doesn’t hesitate in the slightest. Your name slips off his tongue like he didn’t even mean it to. His face looks surprised for a split second before he glances around the room.

“Uh, okay. Your turn to ask a question.” Spinner hands him the magazine.

You’re still slightly dumbfounded. So is Toga, because she is narrowing her eyes at Dabi very suspiciously. He notices her out of the corner of his eye and raises a brow.

“What?”

She says your name questioningly. You look down at your lap because the loose thread on your jeans is suddenly very interesting.

“Do I need to explain myself or something?”

Toga sighs, propping her knees up and leaning her head on them. “No, you’re okay. It’s your turn.” She leans her head up and it thumps against your leg. You run your fingers through her bangs and she smiles.

“Truth or dare?”

“Hm. Dare.”

Dabi grins. “Daring choice.” Toga sticks her tongue out at the horrible impression of her voice. “Wait, which one do I pick?” His eyes flit over the page of options.

“Uh, we’ve just been going down the list. I think we’re on number four?” Twice says.

Dabi nods. He opens his mouth to speak, but then he stops. Clears his throat, and tries again.

“Kiss the most attractive person in the room.”

You groan as the others start cheering.

“Finally, this is getting interesting.” Shigaraki laughs.

“Don’t get too excited, she’s not kissing you, Shiggy.” Dabi scoffs.

“Fuck off.”

You huff. “Why do I get the creepy one?”

“Hey, I’d gladly kiss someone than eat what I had to.” Spinner grumbles, still nursing a bottle of water.

“Okay. Okay I’ll do it.”

They’re all looking at you expectantly. You know who it’s going to be. Of course it’s going to be Dabi. You’re sure they all know it too, because the others are just looking at the two of you on the couch, giving no other signs of being ready for a kiss. You swallow once. Turn to your side and he’s already looking at you so intensely. The corner of his mouth lifts up slightly.

“Let’s get this over with.”

“Aw, don’t act like you don’t love this, baby.”

You decide that instead of telling him to shut up you’ll do it instead. You grab the scratchy materia of his stupid band tee he always insists on wearing. It almost hurts when your mouths meet, and his hand immediately cups your cheek, warm palm almost covering your whole face. You’re sure the kiss isn’t meant to last this long, but you feel his teeth bite your bottom lip and you have to push away before you start moaning in front of your friends.

You break apart, breathless. Dabi’s lips are red and look freshly kissed and you guess you must look the same. You feel your face heat and you turn to look at the others who are all looking with different degrees of shock and smugness (the last one being Toga).

“Right.” You grab the magazine from his hands. “It’s Toga’s turn?”

The rest of the night goes by quite quickly. You all soon grow bored of truth or dare, which doesn’t get any more exciting after your kiss. Which you can’t seem to stop thinking about. You and Dabi immediately fall back into normalcy but something niggles in the back of your mind. It was just a kiss, but. Does Dabi kiss everyone like that? It must explain why he gets around so much. If a man kissed you like that you can only imagine how he can do everything else to you.

But you try to ignore that. Focus on the fact you’re braiding Toga’s hair or maybe listen to the story Twice is telling you about someone at his work. Someone orders a pizza and you bug Dabi until he passes you a slice. He gets the cheesiest one in the box, like he knows you love, and you grin your thanks.

The night ends swiftly after that. You all help Shigaraki clean because that’s the only condition he sets if you all use his house as a hangout spot. Toga catches a lift with Twice and Spinner leaves on his bike. Which just leaves you and Dabi. You stand on Shigaraki’s driveway, your foot kicking a rock on the floor.

“You walked here?” Dabi asks, shrugging his coat on.

“Yeah. Regretting it now.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“Thanks.”

He just makes a noise, gesturing for you to start walking. The night air is cool. You wish you’d worn something warmer. You can’t complain though. You love autumn. The leaves crunch beneath your feet, streetlights illuminating the path. The sun is just about set, and the sky is orange, pink, purple.

It's moments like these that you’ll know you’ll remember forever. It’s weird. You remember random things like an old lady you saw on the bus home one day, the slice of red velvet cake you’d bought at some random cafe. Little, irrelevant things that you can’t help but store. But moments like these, where the setting sun catches on Dabi’s skin, and your hands brush close to each other that they almost touch, you don’t think you could ever forget.

“You going to Hawks’s party next week?” He asks suddenly.

“Uh. I guess so.” You say.

Dabi quirks a brow. “Don’t sound too excited.”

“It’s not that, it’s just.” A breeze blows over and you rub your arms. Curse short-sleeved shirts. “His parties get too crazy for me. But I haven’t seen him in ages so I’ll probably go. I miss him.”

“Mhm.” He says, suddenly standoffish.

“Are you going?”

“I guess. I just miss Hawks ever so much.” He raises his voice so it’s all high pitched. You glare at him.

“I do not sound like that, you weirdo. And I do miss him. He’s so busy now that he started playing on the school team.” You shiver slightly.

Suddenly, you feel something warm envelop you. Dabi places his jacket across your shoulders. The warm leather immediately warms you.

“Aw. You’re such a cutie.” You grin, slipping your arms into the sleeves.

“Fuck off. I’ll take it back.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He doesn’t respond to that so you know you’re right. The sleeves fall over your hands and you flap them in the air. You always forget how much bigger Dabi is than you. Even now, he’s almost two heads taller, even with his horrible posture.

“You look stupid with that on.” He says.

“I’m warm, though. Sacrifices have to be made.”

Soon enough you reach your door. He watches as you fumble for your house key before brandishing them out your bag. You go to take the jacket off and he waves you away.

“S’fine, just give it to me tomorrow.”

“If you’re sure. It’s kinda cold out.”

“I’ll be alright.”

You both stand there then. Just looking at each other. Part of you thinks that maybe you should bring up the kiss. Is it worth bringing up? Did it even mean anything? You decide against it, only because that soft look on his face is so rare that you don’t want to do anything to ruin it.

“Thanks for walking me home, Dabi.”

“Touya.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Who?”

He smiles slightly. “It’s my name.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

“You can- You don’t have to call me Dabi. You can- if you want. I don’t really care.”

You think he does care. Very evident by his stammering, something you don’t think you’ve ever seen him do. It’s cute. You don’t look into why he’s given you this privilege. You’ve heard Shigaraki and maybe Toga call him Touya before, but some part of you always knew it was a line you shouldn’t cross. Not anymore, though.

“No, I want to. Touya.”

He breathes heavily. He’s looking at you the way he was before he kissed you on that couch. Your eyes dart to his lips, and you know he saw, because he does the exact same.

“I- I should go. Goodnight, Touya.”

He nods. “Night.”

You lock the door behind you, hang up your keys. You’re not ready to ruin your friendship because of a look. A truth or dare kiss that probably means nothing.

The leather of his coat feels sticky on your skin as you walk yourself to bed.

—————————————————————————-

God I’m such a sucker for dabi in everyday normal setting…… teenager Dabi…..

Part two is posted !

[burnednotburied]

Chapter 6: A Dagger In One Hand

AO3 Link | Masterlist

Pairing: Abby Anderson x fem!reader

Fic Synopsis: Abby goes looking for Owen and ends up on the wrong end of your knife.

Tags/CWs: angst; slowburn; mutual pining; enemies to friends to lovers; talks of purity culture/ideals and “sin”; internalized homophobia and some comp-het feelings (they’re both so gay but so dumb about it); animosity between WLF and Seraphites; blood/gore; descriptions of being hanged; religious/cult-like ideas

Note: I'm really sorry for how long it took for me to write this chapter. Life's been a bitch lately. Keeps kicking me while I'm down, so to speak.

Someone asked about a taglist, so I'm starting one! Please comment if you want to be added :)

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

Abby fell asleep surrounded by Scars but woke up alone.

She sat up, blinking away the stubborn remnants of her dreams. Images of her father, alive, and simpler times.

Sunlight shone in from nearby windows, indicating that it was probably already late morning, if not early afternoon, meaning that she’d slept much later than she’d meant to. Much later than she normally would.

But the last couple of days had been anything but normal.

The sound of voices in the hallway brought Abby to her feet and out the door.

Lev and Yara stood just down that hall, arguing, their voices low and insistent.

“Even if you make it, she’s not going to come with you,” Yara said.

“I can convince her.”

“We broke the rules, Lev! That’s all she’ll care about!”

Abby didn’t know who or what they were talking about, and she wasn’t nearly awake enough to begin to decipher it. Behind her, a door opened, across the hall from the room she’d come from.

“Abby?”

Your voice was quiet. Almost surprised. Like you hadn’t expected to see her standing there.

She shivered, as if you’d touched her.

She wished you would touch her.

Jesus. She really needed to get her thoughts in check.

She turned to face you.

You smiled, a stark contrast to the tense words being exchanged just around the corner. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Abby might have just woken up, but she could’ve sworn there was a halo of light surrounding you.

Maybe she was still dreaming.

Her too-recently-conscious eyes could only take in one thing at a time. First, your eyes. She was stuck there for a while. Probably much longer than what was socially acceptable. You had beautiful eyes.

Then, your mouth. Lips still slightly upturned in a warm smile. She wanted to know if you greeted everyone like this. If that smile was a common sight to those around you or if it was just for her. She couldn’t imagine she’d done anything to deserve special treatment from you, but looking at you smiling at her felt like a gift. One that she couldn’t possibly have earned.

It was at that moment that Abby remembered that she was looking at the Seraphite Prophet.

Isaac had warned her about you just over forty-eight hours ago. He’d said that the greatest threat you posed was in your ability to win people over, earning their loyalty even at the cost of their own morals. Their life-long allegiances. Their people. 

She understood now why you had been chosen to be the new Prophet. There was something about you that drew people in – had them letting their guard down – with or without all of the Seraphite brainwashing. 

Hell, Abby met you two days ago and she was already prepared to leave the certainty and security of the Washington Liberation Front to follow you wherever you wanted to go.

There was something magic about you. You must have a similar effect on everybody.

Abby was momentarily relieved, feeling like she’d solved an equation. She wasn’t losing her mind. (At least not any more than anyone else around you was.) This wasn’t her fault. It was yours.

Even as she thought it, it sounded stupid to her. But the only alternative was that these thoughts and feelings were uniquely, inherently her own. And that could only lead to the hope that you might feel the same way about her. 

She finally managed to pull her eyes away from your face and noticed that you were carrying a small, neatly folded pile of clothes. 

“Mel gave these to me,” you said, following her gaze. “She said that they don’t really fit her anymore.” Abby only blinked at you incredulously, not understanding. If she hadn’t just woken up, she would’ve known what you meant. “You know. Because of the–” You trailed off, using your hand to make an arching motion over your own stomach, as if to represent a pregnant belly. “–the baby.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Abby looked away, running a hand absently over her braided hair. “Makes sense. That was… nice of her.”

You nodded, falling quiet as Lev and Yara’s voices grew louder just around the corner, the two of them still arguing.

“I can’t believe she’s on her feet already,” Abby said after a minute.

Your worried look gave way to another small smile. “Yes, well, Yara’s always been tough.” 

There was so much that Abby didn’t know about you. And Yara and Lev. And about your history together. She’d been picking up on bits and pieces of it, especially yesterday with Lev. It had taken some time, but he definitely started opening up to her as they traveled to and from the hospital.

He had even turned things around on Abby and asked what was going on between you and her. And he seemed to find it funny when she got flustered and dodged the question entirely. 

But you had not been such an open book. And Abby wanted to know more. She wanted to know everything. 

She just didn’t know where to start.

“What are they fighting about?” she asked instead. 

“Lev is worried about their mother,” you explained, just loud enough for Abby to hear. “About what’ll happen to her because of them.”

“Should he be worried?” she asked.

“He needs to focus on his own safety right now.” 

“What could happen to her?” If she had to guess based on what she knew about the Seraphites, it couldn’t be good.

You looked away. “Sometimes parents are held responsible for their children’s sins. But their mom is so devout that she’ll probably be fine.”

“Are there options? For helping her?”

You frowned. “Lev wants to go back to the island to get her. But he would never be able to convince her to leave. I’m not even sure that I could, and I’m–”

“The Prophet?” Abby finished.

You moved on without acknowledging that truth. “Yara and I are more worried about what she might do to him.” Before she could think of a response to any of that, you looked back at her, shaking your head like you were shaking those thoughts away. “They’ll work it out. Lev’s not unreasonable.”

“He’s a kid,” she said frankly. “I’m not an expert, but aren’t kids supposed to be hard to reason with, especially when they’re emotional?”

“He’s a Seraphite,” you corrected her. “Seraphites are never really kids.”

Again, Abby felt the urge to ask you to explain, to tell her more about what you meant by that. 

“I could use your help with something–” you said, hesitant, “–if you wouldn’t mind. I would ask Yara, but she’s occupied. And she’s also down one arm.”

“Yeah,” Abby said, sincere and probably far too eager. “Of course. What do you need?”

You smiled gratefully and gestured for her to go back into the room where you had all slept. She followed without question, shutting the door behind her. 

“It’s kind of embarrassing.” The look on your face told her that you wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t have to. “It’s this dress,” you said. “It isn’t meant for me to be able to take it off myself. One or two of my attendants would always have to help.” And then you turned, just enough to draw Abby’s attention to the back of the dress, where there was an admittedly overly complicated looking corset thing going on. It looked cool, but yeah, she could see how it would be difficult, if not impossible, for you to undo it by yourself.

“They might as well have sewn me into it,” you added, doing your best to look at it over your shoulder. Then you turned back to face her. 

She took a beat before she found her voice. “You have attendants? Like maids?”

You shot her an exasperated look. “I had attendants. But they are on the island and I am here, and it’d be really great if someone would help me get out of this thing once and for all.”

“Yeah yeah, I got it,” Abby said, smiling now. “Turn back around.”

You sighed but did as you were told, tossing the pile of clean clothes on the couch for the sole purpose of being able to cross your arms over your chest. Abby chuckled, surprised but amused by your sudden attitude. 

She stepped up behind you, taking a closer look at the fabric contraption that had you trapped in this dress. It suddenly occurred to her that, in order to help you with this problem, she would have to get very close to you… And that she’d have to touch you… And that this would inevitably end with you taking off your clothes. Hell, she was (technically speaking) the one who would be undressing you.

She cleared her throat and tried – not for the first time that day and probably not for the last – to get her thoughts under control. You weren’t coming on to her. You just needed help. You probably would’ve been just as likely to ask Mel to do this. 

Abby shifted on her feet behind you, lifting her hands to start what was sure to be a very long untangling process, but she paused before actually touching the fabric that hugged your back. “Can I…?” she asked. It felt important to have your permission before she touched you. 

“Hmm?” you hummed, glancing over your shoulder before you realized what she meant. “Oh. Yes. Please.”

A thrill shot through her at the sound of you responding to her request to touch you with please.

God, there had to be something wrong with her.

No one – genuinely not one single other person in her whole life – had ever had this effect on her. 

She got to work on the dress, trying to convince her stupid, horny mind that the ribbons and fabrics beneath her fingers were not, in fact, attached to your body. She was unsuccessful.

“Jesus, they really did not want you getting out of this thing,” she huffed. “What? Was trapping you in your clothes their way of keeping you chaste?”

Since when did she say shit like chaste? It did sound like some bullshit the Seraphites would do though.

To her surprise, you laughed. “I think the idea was more likely to keep me dependent on others. Trapped both physically and mentally, you know? … It’s a dress, Abby. You don’t exactly have to take it off to have sex.”

Abby’s fingers stilled, her eyes went wide, and her face warmed. And she was glad you were facing the other way so you didn’t see any of it.

She changed the subject before she did anything stupid, like ask you literally anything else about that subject. “So… have you always worn this dress?”

It was a stupid question, but it’s the first thing she could come up with under these conditions.

“This exact dress, no,” you said. She could tell from your voice that you were smiling, and she couldn’t be sure but she thought you might be teasing her. “But some version of it, yes. Since the day I turned twelve. New ones were made for me as I grew and if they tore or got dirty, but it was always something like this.” You paused for a few seconds before going on. “It’s strange. I haven’t worn pants in eight years. I’m kind of excited.”

Abby couldn’t imagine being excited to wear Mel’s hand-me-down pants. But she also hadn’t been forced to wear the same virtually inescapable dress for nearly a decade. The thought alone made her chest feel tight. 

She had made a small amount of progress with the dress, but not as much as she would have wanted, and she was getting frustrated with the whole thing. She yanked on something that she thought would loosen it, but ended up making it much tighter. You let out a sharp hiss.

“Sorry,” Abby said quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do tha–”

“Do you want to just cut it off of me?” you asked, spinning around to face her again, clearly even more eager and annoyed than she was. 

“Umm.” Abby thought her brain might be shutting down entirely. “Yeah. I can do that. If you’re sure you’re not gonna want to wear it again.”

“I’m not going to want to wear it again,” you confirmed.

Neither of you had taken a step back when you turned around, which left very little space between you. Something that Abby was painfully aware of.

“Okay,” she said, voice low. “Then I guess I’m cutting you out of the dress.” But she didn’t move from where she stood, just a breath away from you.

You were the first to move, walking over to where you had all dropped your stuff yesterday and returning with your dagger. 

“Here.” Face unreadable, you offered the deadly blade to Abby handle-first. She took it as you spun back around.

She gripped the dagger’s hilt in her hand tightly. The trust that you must’ve had in her, to hand over your weapon and willingly turn your back to her… It made her feel brave.

Or maybe she had bravery and stupidity mixed up.

Abby began carefully cutting through the same ribbons that she’d previously been attempting to untie.

“Are there rules,” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant, “about abstaining from sex? I’ve read about a few Old World religions that were strict about that.” 

You were entirely unfazed by the question. “Seraphites have rules for everything. Some of them always made sense to me. But most of them are ridiculous. Meant only to ensure that our Elders are able to maintain complete control.” 

The top of the dress loosened and began to sag as Abby continued to slice through the offending constraints, until it was only held up by the straps. She had done enough for you to be able to easily get out of it. If you were to let those straps fall from your shoulders, the whole thing would fall to the floor, gathering at your feet. 

She looked away from the smooth expanse of skin in front of her and tried to force that image out of her mind. 

“Should be able to get it off now,” she said, deciding that it would actually be better for her to take several steps away. 

An earnest ‘thank you’ came from your lips as you grabbed the new clothes from the couch. You didn’t ask her to turn around, but she did anyway. And she was decidedly not thinking about what was going on behind her.

“To answer your question from before,” you began as you got dressed. “Yes, there are rules about that, but they’re wildly unimaginative. We are not permitted to be alone with someone of the opposite sex – outside of our family members – until a spouse is chosen for us. At which point, that person becomes a family member. So technically, we’re never allowed to be alone with someone of the opposite sex.”

“That sucks,” she threw out, not knowing what else to say as she stared at a random stain on the wall and forced herself to wonder how it might’ve gotten there.

“Probably. For most people. But I never really had a problem with it.” Your voice was much closer now, just behind her.

“Why not?” Abby’s question of if it was safe to turn around yet was answered with the light touch of your fingers against her wrist, trailing down to meet the dagger still grasped in her palm. She relinquished the knife to you, letting her hand linger against yours as she turned to face you, taking it all in.

You were, indeed, wearing pants. And also a shirt. And they both fit you pretty well.

And you were beautiful. There was always that.

You passed the dagger from your right hand to your left, and the look of determination on your face was nearly the same as it was moments after she first saw you. When Abby was hanging by her throat and you were going to kill her. Only this time the feeling coursing through her body wasn’t fear. It was anticipation. 

Whatever you were planning to do next, she wanted it. 

“Why not?” Abby had asked a minute ago.

“Because I’ve never had any interest in the opposite sex,” you answered as your right hand found its place against her jaw.

Time slowed as you stood there for a moment, holding a dagger in one hand and Abby’s face in the other. 

She thought you might kiss her. She was hoping you’d kiss her.

And then the door flung open and your hand fell to your side.

Yara was crying or yelling or both, and it took Abby way too long to process the words she was saying.

“Lev’s gone! He took a boat! He’s going back to the island!”

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

Note: This chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but it felt good to end it here for now. Also, I want you to know that I'm dedicated to finishing this fic, and I know exactly where I want to go with it, so expect more updates soon!

Taglist: @h0meb0dyi @lmaoo-spiderman @quinnsadilla @rew1nds @sapphicontherun

[ilguna]

☼ lovestruck, lovesick, lovelorn pt2 (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; Finnick has a hard time keeping up his façade, especially since you know that what he told you was a bunch of bullshit. he's not able to confirm it until weeks later, when you've healed from the capitol abuse.

warnings; swearing, death mention, death, gore for sure, blood, weapon usage, mention of prostitution, needle mention, strangulation, abuse.

wc; 6.5k

part one.

--

“Sponsor gift.” Johanna interrupts the silence.

You look over from where you’re standing the water, finding the silver parachute slowly making its way down to the beach. It seems that Katniss has finally woken up, as well. She’s leaning forward on her crossed legs, rubbing one of her eyes.

Johanna catches the gift in her palms, the parachute falls away to reveal that there’s another pyramid of rolls. It looks identical to the batch you’d received last night, which is confirmed by Finnick after he meticulously counts each one, and tells them that there’s twenty-four of them.

They begin to divide the bread, you turn away, not wanting to be included. You would eat, if it meant that you didn’t have to sit in a group with them. Namely Finnick, who’s kept a close eye on you since last night. Especially since you refused to lay down with the others, choosing to pace the treeline.

You would’ve offered to take Peeta’s spot behind Finnick to take watch, but you’re not really interested in being in close proximity with Finnick. It’s partly the embarrassment, and there’s also the fact that he was lying to you. You saw the look on his face, you heard it in his voice. He fed you bullshit. 

And now he must be waiting for you to make your escape. It’s not going to happen, though. You made a commitment, you have a plan, and you have the full intention to execute it tonight. After all, it’s the third day. All you have to do is make it fourteen more hours, and you’ll be free of this arena.

“(Y/n), do you want your bread?” Johanna asks.

“No, I’m fine.” You tell her without moving.

They spend the next few minutes eating, before Katniss takes Peeta into the water to teach him how to swim. You back away, heading to lurk along the treeline of the jungle again. It’s close to where Johanna and Finnick are, as they try to stay occupied. Johanna’s keeping her eyes on the two in the water to ensure that they’re not getting up to no good, while Finnick begins to weave himself another net.

“You said you had a plan last night.” Johanna says, looking over her shoulder at you. “Are you ever going to let us in on it?”

“The Careers are probably watching our every move, waiting for the right moment to attack.” You tell them, a conclusion they’ve likely already come to, themselves. “They won’t do it until we’ve split up.”

Finnicks hands have paused, waiting for you to suggest that you should go off alone to attack them. 

“They’re outnumbered if we stay together.” Johanna says.

“Right.” You say, “We all know Katniss, though. She’s not going to want to be in this alliance much longer. She’ll probably stay until the Careers are dead, because that just leaves us.”

Johanna’s nodding, following along.

“I say that we kill them tonight, at midnight.” You stab the sword into the grass, leaving it there when it sticks. You move to stand in front of them in the sand, hands on your hips. “And we do it Beetee-style. We can electrocute them on the beach, assuming that they come out here to refresh when we go into the jungle for the night.”

“How?” Finnick asks, you look him over.

“The sun goes down, making it slightly cooler. The wave will hit at ten, making the beach wet. All we’ll have to do is wrap the wire around the lightning tree, and get two people to walk the wire down to the beach to bury the spool before the lightning hits.” You hold up two fingers, “This causes the group to split two to three, and by then, Enobaria and Brutus will be on us like flies to honey. And that’s when I’ll split away to kill them before they can do any real damage.”

“So, really, whoever has the wire will act as bait?” Johanna asks, face twisted. “And what makes you think you can take out two Careers?”

You half-shrug, “Because I’ve done it before. If you got any better ideas, I’m all ears.”

She shakes her head, “I don’t. It sounds like it’ll work out fine.”

When you both turn your attention to Finnick, you find that he’s nodding, eyes on the sand. 

“Well, if we’re in agreement, then we can tell those two,” You jerk your head towards the water, “Later. We can’t do anything until the wave hits, anyway.”

When neither of them say anything else, you go back to where your sword is, pulling it out of the mushy dirt. There’s a deep slice from where you’d stabbed it. As you’re about to wander away, Johanna says something about her going back to sleep in the meantime, since she didn’t get much sleep last night.

Finnick continues weaving his net out of the jungle vines. You watch his progress between glances each time you turn to move the other way. You could probably just stand here, staring into the jungle, but you said so yourself last night—the Careers aren’t going to attack until nightfall, when they’ve got cover.

However, there’s always a chance that you’re wrong, and they decide that they’d rather take the five of you head-on. This is why you refuse to rest. If they get the jump on you, you won’t be able to keep yourself together any longer. You’ll chase after them, and they’ll end up dead before midnight.

“Hey, Finnick, come on in!” Katniss suddenly calls. You pause long enough to see her waving. “We figured out how to make you pretty again!”

Finnick ties off the net, which looks like it’s pretty much done, anyway. He leaves his trident behind, going over to see what they mean. From what you can tell, they’re taking handfuls of wet sand to rub against the scabs that are peeling from their skin. You would need to do the same, if you hadn’t been picking at them all last night.

When they’re done, they come out of the water to apply another round of ointment. Katniss offers the tube to you, which you take gratefully. After a small squeeze on your hand, you rub it along the places where you’ve been affected. For the most part, you were able to say ahead of the fog, even when you were helping Finnick carry Peeta.

“I’ve come up with a plan.” You tell Katniss and Peeta once they’ve settled in the sand. “I already told Finnick and Johanna about it while you were in the water.”

Katniss places the bow in her lap, fingers pinching the string. “And they liked it?”

“Enough.” You say. “There’s only two threats left in the arena, and that’s Enobaria and Brutus. So, we need to take them out. Except, we can’t hunt them down because they could be anywhere, and it’d take all day.”

“Do you think they’ve figured out the clock?” Katniss asks.

“If they haven’t, they will soon.” Finnick says.

“I want to set a trap tonight.” You dig the toes of your left shoe into the sand. “Enobaria and Brutus won’t attack again until it’s dark out and they have cover, that’s a fact. Which means they’re not going to come out here, onto the beach, until they’re sure we’re done.”

“You want to stay in the jungle tonight?” Peeta asks, “That’s dangerous, how will we know what sections we’re in?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” You shake your head. “What I want to do is kill them when they step foot on the beach. And the only way to do that is with this wire.” You point at it.

Katniss’s face twists. 

“The wave hits at ten, making the surrounding beach damp. If we connect this wire to the lightning tree and bring it all the way down to the beach—or even into the water—that first strike will electrocute anything in contact with the sand. It’ll kill them.”

It’s quiet between the four of you, as they mull this over. You can see that Finnick is looking at you, but you keep your eyes on the Twelve tributes. They need to agree to this plan, in order for you to move on and worry about greater things. Like how you’re going to take down Enobaria and Brutus at the same time. Or if you’ll be able to split them up, too.

Peeta’s mouth pops when he opens it to speak. “How do we know that the wire won’t just burn up when the electricity passes through it.”

“It likely will.” You say, “We probably only have one shot at this.”

“So there’s a possibility that we won’t even get them?”

Finnick sighs, “Yeah.”

“But all the seafood will be cooked.” Peeta says.

You nod, “It will, but we found other things in the jungle.”

“Nuts and rats.” Katniss says, you think you’ve got her on board. “And we have sponsors.”

“It’ll be a pain if we fail.” You tell them, “There’s always other options, after this.”

Katniss meets your eyes. “Why not? If it does fail, there’s no harm done. If it works, there’s a decent chance we’ll kill them. And even if we don’t and just kill the seafood, Brutus and Enobaria lose it as a food source, too.”

“I say we try it.” Peeta agrees.

When you’ve lost the attention of the Twelve tributes, you look at Finnick, giving him a smug look. You told him that you’d figure out a plan, and it’s not half-bad either. You’re sure Beetee would’ve said the exact same thing, just with more technical nonsense. You make a pretty good filler, if you say so yourself.

“What should we do until then?” Peeta asks.

“We could take a hike up to the tree to get a look at it.” You suggest, but you’re thinking about surveying the area on the way up. The better you know the jungle, the more you’ll be able to sneak around in it.

“I’ll get Johanna up.” Finnick says.

You back off, Katniss and Peeta gather their belongings, getting on their feet. Finnick catches Johanna up to speed, telling her that the plan is on, and you want to go take a look at the tree. She sighs, getting up from where she was laying.

You pick the wire out of the sand, throwing it over your shoulder to hold while you walk. You move over a couple sections, and Johanna makes the way into the jungle first. You follow after her, not wanting to have a debate with Finnick on whether or not you’re allowed to be behind them. 

The air is thicker in the jungle than it is on the beach. It must have something to do with the vegetation, or possibly a hidden water source, making it humid. Between the incline and the heat, you’re sweating in a matter of minutes. Even though all you’re wearing is the undershirt and shorts that were provided with the wetsuit that you abandoned yesterday.

You focus on your breathing, and the steps you’re taking to keep from tripping. Not the fact that Finnick is close enough for you to hear his breathing. You wish he would stay a few steps back, so you can pretend that he’s not there entirely. 

As if he’s reading your thoughts, he says, “Can you walk faster?”

“Maybe you should be in front of me if you don’t like my pace.” You snap.

“That’s not happening.”

“Then shut up and deal with it. And stop walking so close, while you’re at it.”

He makes a noise, “There’s three feet between us, that’s plenty.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you think so.” You mutter.

He must hear you, because he doesn’t walk for a couple of seconds, letting the distance grow. You laugh, unbelievable. This is why you don’t believe what he said to you last night. He can deny what you said as much as he wants, but a part of it has to be true.

However, the more he denies it, the more you feel yourself slipping. Why do you like him in the first place?

“Katniss should take the lead, Johanna. She can hear the forcefield.” Finnick calls from behind you.

Johanna pauses, turning around for you to see her. There’s a bead of sweat running down the side of her face. “Hear it?”

“Only with the ear the Capitol reconstructed.” Katniss says below.

“Go ahead, then. I’d rather you get electrocuted to death than me.” She motions.

Katniss passes the line, taking the front. When you glance behind you to see who’s taking up the rear, you see that Finnick and Peeta have switched places. Which makes sense, but you still shake your head. 

Katniss brings you to the towering lightning tree, making you wait a few feet back while she gathers nuts to throw ahead to see how far away the forcefield is. She tosses a few of them, and you know when she’s found the field when it sizzles on impact, jumping at her.

“Just stay below the lightning tree.” Katniss tells you.

With it being only nine—almost ten—it’s quickly decided that you’ll stay here for the next hour or so. They divide responsibilities between each other, leaving you out so you can figure out the tree and how the plan will work. Naturally, they stick Finnick with you, while Johanna taps for water, Peeta gathers nuts and Katniss goes hunting for the tree rats.

You go back and forth, looking at the tree, guessing how far around it is, and then looking at the wire, thinking about how much you’ll have to use. There’s easily miles of the wire wrapped around the base, so you’re not worried about running out of it. It’s how thick you need to make it on the tree.

You make a noise, biting the inside of your cheek. This is where Betee would come in handy. You can make a plan, but executing it correctly is a different subject. Either way, you need to make this work.

“You can’t figure it out.” Finnick says, it’s not a question.

“I’m thinking about how much wire I need to use.” You eye him, “It’s figured out.”

And if it isn’t, it will be by tonight, you think.

The ground begins to shake beneath you, as the sound of the wave crashing through trees fills the momentary silence. You have an hour and a half before you need to get back down to the beach in order not to get caught here in a lightning storm.

Katniss comes crunching out of the trees, holding three of the rats in one hand, the bow in the other. She stops next to Peeta, dropping the animals next to him, and then draws a line in the dirt a few feet away from the forcefield.

She cleans the kills, cubing the meat, and roasting them by tossing them at the forcefield. She catches each one in a free basket that was made by Finnick yesterday. Peeta follows her movements with the nuts, dropping it in the same bowl as her.

“Figure it out?” Johanna asks you, setting the water on the ground behind Katniss. She holds the spile out between her fingers in Katniss’s direction.

Katniss reaches up to take it, and secures it on the vine attached to her belt.

“Pretty much.”

By the time Katniss and Peeta are done, the next hour is up. You know this when the clicking in the section over rises. You heard some of it last night, but it wasn’t very loud because you were on the beach. Here, it sounds so close.

“I think it’s an insect.” Katniss says. “Maybe beetles.”

“Something with pincers.” Finnick adds.

The sound swells in reaction to their voices. 

“We should get out of here, anyway.” Johanna says. “There’s less than an hour before the lightning starts.”

At that, the food and water are gathered, as well as weapons. You don’t go very far, only to the rain wedge next door. The food and water is placed on the ground, where you squat around the bowls to pick out what you want. This is when you finally eat, because it looks fairly appetizing. Still, you don’t take much from the pool, only enough to be full.

When you’re done, you make your way back down to the beach until nightfall. The sand is smooth from the water, sinking under your weight, leaving footprints behind. 

Johanna offers to take watch to allow the rest of you to sleep if you want to. They take her up on the offer, but you sit up, fingers laced in front of you. None of them nap for very long, because they’d gotten a fair amount of sleep last night. The only person it would benefit at this point is you, except you haven’t been tired since yesterday afternoon.

Well, that’s what you think until Finnick switches off with her. He lowers himself next to you, back to the water, eyes on the jungle. He’s less than a foot away from you, off to your left. For someone that doesn’t like you, he really sticks close, doesn’t he?

“I’m going to sleep.” You mutter, getting to your feet.

You find a nice place in the sand that’s covered by a tree in the jungle. It’s not easy settling in, you think that you’d rather fight with a rock-hard bed, but you don’t really have a choice. You close your eyes, forcing yourself to take even breaths to relax, feeling the drowsiness creep up on you.

–

The heel of your shoe is kicked, jolting you awake. You grab the knife that you’d placed next to you, rolling over to see who it is. It’s Finnick, he’s holding his trident in one of his hands.

“We’re about to clean the seafood, come join us.”

You squint at him, wondering if you should strangle him for waking you up like this. It wouldn’t be that hard to, and you’d likely get over him quicker. And you would probably do it, too, if it weren’t for your allies a few feet over, talking.

“Sure.” You say, he walks away, going to resume his place in the circle. You sit up, heels of your hands massaging your temples. You should’ve just stayed awake, now all you are is tired and irritated.

You scoot over, finding a place between Johanna and Finnick. You look over all of what they’ve collected, which is fish, shellfish and oysters. You sigh through your nose, reaching forward to grab a fish, as you begin to slice into it with your knife. It takes you about two minutes to successfully clean it, tossing it in the next basket.

Peeta pries open an oyster, laughing slightly. “Hey, look at this!” He exclaims. You look up from your next fish to see that he’s holding up a pearl. “You know, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Finnick says. Katniss laughs.

Peeta rinses the pearl off in the water, handing it to her. “For you.”

“Thanks.” She says, closing her hand. 

You toss another fish in the basket, Johanna gives you a look. “No wonder why Finnick woke you up, you’re faster than he is.”

Finnick gives Johanna a glare, “That’s not true.”

“I don’t want to make this a competition.” You tell both of them. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I can see that.” Johanna says, “Bad dreams?”

“I just want to get the fuck out of here.” You make a clean cut through the fish, looking at her. 

She sighs, “Don’t we all?”

“The locket didn’t work, did it?” Peeta asks. “Katniss?”

“It worked.” She says.

“But not the way I wanted.” He says, looking away from her. That’s the last thing you hear from him for the next fifteen minutes.

With your help, they finish preparing the food pretty quickly. They give the seafood a final wash to get rid of any of the sand, and right as you’re about to eat, a parachute comes down from the sky, landing next to Finnick. The first one is a pot of red sauce, the second one being another set of District Three rolls. When counted, the number turns out to be the same as it’s been the last couple of times.

You take a strip of the fish, dipping it into the red sauce, and then dropping it into your mouth. The moment your tongue realizes that it’s tasting more than just raw fish, your mouth begins to water. It’s spicy, and so good. You hum, giving the others an approving nod.

The five of you begin to eat, actually enjoying the meal. While they gorge themselves, you take it slow, not wanting to be too full for when you fight the Careers. It’ll slow you down. When they’re done, there’s still a lot of leftovers, but you’re not able to keep them. They toss the food back into the water, so that when you leave, the Careers won’t be able to have it.

Katniss and Peeta go to sit by the water together, holding hands. You, Finnick and Johanna stay where you are, passing around the water shell. There’s still a couple of hours until the wave, you could probably an hour or so in, but if you try to get any more sleep today, you won’t get up the next time they try to wake you.

The anthem plays, no faces show up in the sky. The sun has officially set, and you can’t sit still any longer. You get to your feet, sword in your hand while you go back to pacing the treeline. 

When Katniss and Finnick agree that it’s about nine, you move on from the beach, taking only what’s necessary. Katniss leads the way this time, Peeta in front of you, with Finnick and Johanna at the very end. This time, Finnick leaves a safe distance between the two of you, learning from his mistake.

When you get to the tree, Finnick is assigned to help you. And before you can object and ask for Johanna, they’re already walking away to find their places to watch the trees. You stick your sword in the ground, and then crouch down to begin unrolling the wire. You set several yards aside, making Finnick wrap some of it around a broken tree branch, which you leave aside.

After that, you and Finnick stand on opposite sides of the lightning tree, passing the spool back and forth. You form an X, watching as it grows thicker, before you begin to wrap it around the middle. This goes on for about an hour, until you hear the wave begin. You wait for a while longer, and decide to stop once it’s thick enough.

When Finnick hands the wire back to you, you clear your throat. “The wire needs to be brought back down to the water.” The three taking watch turn to look at you, waiting. “Katniss and Johanna will do it.”

“I want to go with them as a guard.” Peeta says immediately.

“You don’t move fast enough.” You tell him. “Which is a result of you hitting the forcefield and your prosthetic leg. You’ll stay here with me and Finnick. Katniss can guard, because she’s got her bow.” Peeta’s shaking his head. “We don’t have time to argue, they need to leave, now.”

“It’s okay.” Katniss says after a moment. “We’ll just drop the coil and come straight back up.”

“Not here, we’ll meet you two in the next section over.” You remind her.

She cups Peeta’s face. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you at midnight.” She kisses him, you avert your eyes, and land on Finnick, who’s staring. You squint at him. Katniss moves away, “Ready?”

“Why not?” Johanna shrugs, coming over to take the wire from you. “You guard, I’ll unwind. We can trade off later.”

Katniss walks off first, with Johanna following. You keep a careful eye on the sliver of wire that hangs through the air as they go down. If you try to pass through that area, you need to be mindful that it’s there.

You grab your sword out of the ground, while Finnick divides the area into three sections for you to stand in. You’ll give it about fifteen minutes before you take off with some sort of excuse, because there’s not a single doubt in your mind that the Careers are out here right now.

Over the fifteen minute period, you shift your weight from foot to foot, trying to make it seem like you have to use the bathroom, restlessly moving around. You let out a loud sigh, “I’m sorry, I have to pee. I’ll be right back.”

“That’s not a good idea.” Peeta tells you, “Finnick should go with.”

“He’s not standing over me while I pee, and you’re not either. I’ll stay within earshot.” You say, looking at Finnick. You raise your eyebrows, Finnick gives you a slight nod. He better keep Peeta distracted enough to the point where he doesn’t realize how long you’ve been gone. 

You duck under the wire, heading into the trees with your sword. You walk a few feet, occasionally glancing behind you to make sure that neither of them are looking, before you make your escape. The wire is close enough for you to see it, still suspended in the air. 

You move quickly down the slope without having to wait on anyone, searching the area ahead for anyone. Katniss and Johanna have got to be more than halfway down by now, it’s going to take you a minute to catch up with them. But if Enobaria and Brutus are smart, they won’t stick that close, because Katniss is paranoid.

The sound of rocks rolling on one another makes you stop behind the tree you’re passing by. It came from the left, from the other side. You lower yourself to the ground, peering around the trunk and through bush leaves to see if it’s them.

You find Enobaria creeping out of her hiding place, knife in hand, blade glinting in the moonlight. With a swift motion, she cuts the wire, sending both ends in different directions. She chases after the end going down to Katniss and Johanna, and that’s when you can see Brutus, following after her.

He’s limping. This will be easy.

You stalk them, trying to be quiet. The wire is gone, completely out of sight. It’s probably already bunched up at the bottom. Which means that they know that something—someone—has come between them and the lightning tree. And vice versa for the top of the hill, where Peeta and Finnick are going to realize that the girls are in some danger.

You were wrong about how far down Katniss and Johanna were, because you come across the coil of wire a minute later. Katniss is laying on the ground, eyes shut, forearm cut where the tracker should be. 

“She’s as good as dead! Come on, Enobaria!” You hear someone shout.

Your head whips in the direction, forgetting about Katniss. She’ll pick herself up soon, and if she doesn’t, someone will come for her. You pick up the pace to follow after the heavy footsteps. They have to be targeting Johanna, because she’s nowhere to be seen in the area. She’s drawing them away, taking the focus off of the girl who scored a twelve.

You see Brutus moving through the trees, trying to keep up. You switch the sword into your non-dominant hand, grabbing out a knife. You draw your arm back, and with every ounce of strength you have, you send the knife flying at Brutus.

It hits the back of his head, a cannon blasts immediately, his body falling into the greenery. If it wasn’t a frenzy before, it will be now that someone has died. 

Enobaria, who was a few feet ahead of him, stops in her tracks, turning to look at you. You walk toward her, a smile spreading over your face. “Hi.”

“You’ll regret that.” She snarls, throwing a knife at you.

You see this coming, twisting just in time for it to miss you. She charges forward, you switch the sword into your dominant hand, swinging at her. She blocks, blade clashing against yours, the sound of metal sliding on itself fills the air.

“Stupid plan you made.” She says between breaths, baring her teeth.

“You fell for it.” You grin, sweeping her legs.

She falls, you stab down at her, she rolls out of the way. She doesn’t have time to stand up, you’re swinging at her, getting closer each time.

“(Y/n)!” A voice calls, you halt, just for a second, eyebrows twitching in.

Finnick.

“Playing house?” Enobaria sneers, right before she swings at your hand.

You drop the sword, but still get cut across the back of your hand, up to your wrist. The blood begins to leak out, making your skin slippery. You hiss, reaching for your knife when Enobaria gets to her feet, coming for you.

She gets you several times across your body, you’re off beat by a second. You’re not thinking about the fight anymore. Your mind is on Finnick, who’s supposed to be watching Peeta at the lightning tree, but instead he’s out here, looking for you.

He knew the plan, he knew you’d go after the Careers, that was the whole point of splitting up. The sooner you get rid of them, the better. There won’t be a threat in the arena anymore. You’ll be able to cut out the trackers in your arm freely and wait for the rebels to get you. You could even let Katniss and Peeta in on it, because by then it’ll be too late for the Capitol to intervene.

Enobaria steps too close, snapping you out of your thoughts. You grab her shoulder, holding her in place while you slam the knife upward, into her stomach. You stare at her, watching as her mouth drops open, struggling to take a breath in.

“How the mighty fall.” You murmur.

Her eyes meet yours, “Go fuck yourself.” She wheezes. “You’re next.”

“We’ll see about that.” You tell her, pushing her back.

She stumbles a few steps, you drop low to pick your sword out of the grass. She’s shaking her head, a plea forming on her lips, when she jerks forward, and she falls to her knees.

Johanna stands on the other side, her axe now embedded in the back of Enobaria’s skull. She gives you a little smile, “You killed Brutus?”

“It was easy.” You tell her. “We should get back to the tree. The lightnings going to strike any minute now, the beetles are getting quieter.”

Johanna nods, you begin to lead the way, climbing as fast as you can. It’s difficult with the cuts that Enobaria managed to land. They’re in the most inconvenient places, as if she was doing it on purpose. Maybe she thought you’d run, and this way she’d slow you down.

“Katniss!” You hear a voice call, it sounds like Peeta. He’s not supposed to be out here, Finnick should’ve had him on a leash. “Katniss!”

“Is Chaff still alive?” You pant, “There’s only been two cannons, right?”

“Yeah, he should be.” Johanna says.

You’re just nearing the top, the clicking is practically nonexistent, until it suddenly swells. Your eyes pan down, afraid that you’ve stepped into the wrong territory, but there’s nothing on the ground. That’s when a scream erupts from your left, drawing out for a minute.

And then a cannon goes off, there goes Chaff.

You turn, wanting to make sure that Johanna’s still following. She’s leaned over her knees, breathing deeply. 

“Katniss!” Peeta’s voice is close. You look up, and barely find him through the trees. He must see you, too, because he starts to come down. His eyes are bouncing between you and Johanna. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know.” You shake your head. “Is she at the tree? And where’s Finnick?”

“Johanna?” Peeta insists, ignoring you.

“The Careers split us up.” She lies, “I had to draw them away.”

“Is that who died?” He asks.

“Brutus, Enobaria and Chaff were the cannons.” You tell him. “Let’s get back to the tree to regroup.”

He nods, Johanna stands up. The three of you are beginning up the slope once more, when the dome of the arena bursts into a blue light. You watch as the first fiery explosion breaks it, throwing bits of debris into the air. 

“Shit.” You say, “That’s not good.”

The hike up the jungle is torturous enough in the heat that’s provided by the Gamemakers. It grows worse when the trees surrounding you are suddenly set afire by the bits that land on the ground, causing small earthquakes. Several times, you have to hang on to a tree to keep from falling over, as the dome falls apart.

You keep an eye on the growing hole, and the sky beyond it, waiting. You watch as the hovercraft materializes out of thin air, above the lightning tree. A second later, the claw is being dropped to retrieve those who are by it. You’re hoping it’s Katniss, because that was the whole goal of this plan. Anyone else was just an added bonus.

It secures around someone, and pulls them out of the trees. You’re not that far, you might even be able to make it. The claw drops a second time, for one more person, pulling them up. It’s hard to see the hovercraft through the thick branches and leaves. 

You’ve about five yards from the lightning tree when the hovercraft disappears in the air. Your pace slows, as you let out a breath. When you look at Johanna, you find her shaking her head.

“There goes being saved.”

“What?” Peeta asks, looking between you two.

“I’m sorry, Peeta.” You say, locking your fingers and placing your hands on the top of your head. “The good news is that you got what you wanted.”

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“She’s safe.” Is all you say.

You don’t bother telling him that the three of you are screwed. While Katniss and presumably Finnick, get to go to District Thirteen, where they’ll be safe. You’re going to be taken by the Capitol, and there’s not a doubt in your mind that they’ll try to tear you apart to get information about the rebels.

This is where the real test of strength begins. 

—

A knock on the window makes you look up from where you’re staring at the IV in your arm. Your eyes land on Finnick, who’s not standing at his full height, playing with a small piece of rope in his hand. There’s a slight frown in his lips, eyes tired. He’s been visiting you these last couple of days, and you’ve been doing your best to avoid him.

Usually, you have a visitor in here, which makes it easy to cast him out, but you’re alone tonight. Johanna’s finally grown tired of bothering you for hours on end, talking your ear off. It’s been a one-sided conversation these past couple of weeks while your throat healed.

Recently, the doctor cleared you.

You stare at Finnick, really not wanting to let him in. He’s no doubt heard the news, too. Which means that he’s looking to actually talk to you. You take a small breath in, chest aching. You rub the area over where the pain is, lifting your other hand to motion Finnick in.

He opens the door slowly, closing it behind him. He doesn’t say anything as he grabs the chair from the corner of the room, dragging it next to your hospital bed. You watch him sit down, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor. 

You thought that since Katniss and Finnick were saved by the rebels, they’d be in better condition than you, Johanna and Peeta are. It seems to be the other way around, though. Despite Snow having you strangled and deprived of oxygen for as long as humanly possible without doing major brain damage, and Johanna being repeatedly electrocuted in water, the two of you are relatively normal. You wish you could say the same for Peeta, but he’s up in the air right now. They won’t even let you see him, although you’re not sure what that would do exactly.

Finnick has been torn apart, like being in District Thirteen is a form of torture, in of itself. The light in his eyes is gone, voice quiet, “Mags told me about the ultimatum that Snow gave you.”

“Huh?” You let out.

Finnick looks up from the tile. “After the jabberjays, you asked me what changed.” He reaches over, placing his hand on top of yours. He’s warm. “It was before that. When Mags told me that you’d agreed…” He trails off, “You’d agreed to be a prostitute if it meant my family lived.”

You try to shake his hand off. “Whatever.”

He grabs on with both hands, squeezing your fingers. “She told me that you would volunteer to take some of my nights in the Capitol, because you saw how tired I was.”

“Get off me.” You murmur.

“My family was in the Capitol and you protected them,” His voice wavers, you get sent back to that night in the jungle. When he denied the fact that he had feelings for you. “Again. You protected them again. You let Snow do this to you.”

“It was the right thing to do.” You shake your head. 

“I heard you talking the day of the reaping.” He breathes. “How you told Mags that you wouldn’t let her volunteer because you know how much she means to me. You said that you’d rather risk your life and go back in the arena than put her in danger.”

“Anyone would’ve done that.” You tell him, impatient.

“Annie couldn’t. Librae wasn’t going to. I was sure you weren’t, either.”

You sigh, “Will you just leave me alone?”

“I was wrong about several things.” Finnick stands from the chair, letting go of your hands to reach for your face. His thumbs running over the skin beneath your eyes. “I do care about you.”

“No, you don’t.” You push his arms.

“Listen to me.” Finnick says, his face is so close to yours. You can feel the warmth of his breath tickling your nose. “I was looking for you during the jabberjays, I was looking for you the night the dome went down, and I haven’t been able to breathe since you were taken.” He closes his eyes. “I care.”

“I know.” You breathe, “I know you do.”

[horrortember]

Calling all lovers of darkfic, grimdarks, creepypastas, and scary stories! I had yet to see a monthly writing event themed around horror, so I made one! The event will occur in September, so you have plenty of time to get ready.

If you feel like participating, tag your fills with #horrortember2024, and I'll reblog as many as I can! Fanfic is strongly encouraged, but original fiction is accepted as well. And, depending on how many people join, I'll post a list of completionists or participants at the end of the month!

A written list of prompts is under the cut:

1. AND THIS HAS ALWAYS BEEN WHAT I DESERVE, FOR MY TEETH TO JUST FALL OUT: body horror, parasite, gore

2. BUT THEY SAW SOMETHING THAT’S REAL: pretending to be human, identical, visceral

3. WHO’S AFRAID OF THE BIG BAD WOLF: vampires, zombies, werewolves

4. IT’S ALWAYS BEST WHEN THE LIGHTS ARE OFF: music, silence, echoes

5. BURIED ABOVE THE GROUND: dust, overgrown, forgotten

6. WHAT HAVE I DONE: losing memories, possession, cursed

7. DREAMLESS SLEEP: sick, survivor, injury

8. NOW ONLY DOGS WILL FOLLOW ME: cannibalism, eaten alive, maggots

9. HAVE YOU HEARD THE STORY OF THE RABBIT IN THE MOON: meta, cosmic horror, forbidden knowledge

10. WE DIDN’T GO IN THERE ALONE: hunted, solitary, darkness

11. YOU CAN’T RUN FROM ME FOREVER: obsession, yandere, overpowering emotions

12. I WEEP AND SAY GOODNIGHT, LOVE, AS MY ORGANS PACK IT IN: doomsday, apocalypse, certain death

13. WHAT DO YOU KNOW: nightmare, prophecy, inevitable

14. I CAN MAKE THE WORLD SEEM SLOW: polaroid, motel, record player

15. DON’T KNOW WHO I AM ANYMORE: doll, reflection, facet

16. NEVER SHALL WE DIE: immortality, decay, cyclical

17. WHAT DID YOU BURY BEFORE THOSE HANDS PULLED ME FROM THE EARTH: oops, self-made monster, playing god

18. SHE’LL SAY SHE LOVES YOU, EVEN THOUGH SHE ONLY WANTS TO STEAL YOUR SOUL: haunting the narrative, inseparable, devotion

19. ARE YOU ALIVE, AM I AWAKE: chills, hallucinations, paranoia

20. IN THE RED, YOU’RE BETTER OFF DEAD: hunger, craving, unconventional needs

21. HOW DO I BREAK YOU BEFORE YOU BREAK ME: unreliable narrator, serial killer, manipulation

22. THERE IS NO END: help isn’t coming, final girl, trauma

23. LIFE CAN BE LIKE A DREAM: gone wrong, descent into madness, distrust

24. HEAR THEM LAUGHING UNDERNEATH: hollow, below the surface, remnants

25. I’LL SAY GOODBYE SOON: timeloop, lesson learned, consequence

26. NO CURE IS COMING NEAR: animals, rabies, primal fears

27. WHY DON’T YOU LET ME BE FREE: hanahaki, soulmates, trope inversion

28. AND THEN HE STARTED LAUGHING UNTIL HE CRACKED HIS JAW: butterflies, roses, sunshine

29. WHERE LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL ALL THE TIME: man-made, perfection, out of place

30. YOU ARE CALLED TO THE TREES: climb, descend, mass migration

[lookforsomeoneelse]

sahsrau and the ways in which the game’s story changes pt. 1: Sigonia-IV

aventurine’s story made me sad. maybe this is my way of coping. got aventurine’s sister’s name from someone who talked about her on this app. also i’m making a lot of assumptions about how it went down, but there were roughly 10,000 avgins that were involved. also apparently the avgins are based on romani culture and I have no idea about that either soooooooooo cw for blood and severed limbs. and maybe gore. and definitely mentions of death. and probably my ignorance too.

Ecclesiastes 4:1-3

Again I looked and saw all the oppression that was taking place under the sun: I saw the tears of the oppressed-- and they have no comforter; power was on the side of their oppressors-- and they have no comforter. And I declared that the dead, who had already died, are happier than the living, who are still alive. But better than both is he who has not yet been, who has not seen the evil that is done under the sun.

Kezia knew she was going to die. It wasn’t the greatest way to go down at the hands of the bloodthirsty Katicans, but what was honorable about it was that she would meet her end in the rain.

“Kakavasha must have escaped by now,” she thought to herself, “and he will survive.” Kezia held faith in her brother and in the Mother Goddess, Gaiathra Triclops, the one whom she served.

It was now time for the festival- and so she tossed her Knot into the bonfire as a sort of goodbye to this cruel life she had lived in, and lamented on her brother’s fate- he will go through many hardships and sufferings, but she knows that the blessing of Fenge Biyos will remain with him all throughout his journey.

It was a shame she’ll never get to see him again.

She regrets not saying more before their departure.

She had heard that some of the other bastard clans had made a deal with the Interastral Peace Corporation- the people who had promised to protect them on this very day- to make sure that they were all wiped out.

She held her makeshift club in her shaky hands. She didn’t want to die. Not like this. She had wanted to get married and have a family of her own.

And, for the first time in her life, her faith cracked like a shattered mirror.

The Mother Goddess had always let her down-

When Dad fell into the quicksand,

When Mother was caught and slaughtered like an animal,

And now, while she was facing down death.

She remembers one of the workers that came during that first day- praising the Aeon of Guidance and all their works-

And so, under her breath, unsure of how to do it, she prayed for her safety, she prayed for her survival, and most of all, she prayed for the opportunity to see her dearest brother once again.

As the sky wept for the fate of her people, the Katicans arrived, howling laughter emerging from within the storm.

do not worry child

Finding the sudden strength within her, she let out a roar.

i shall be forever with you

Her club slammed into the skull of a Katican, pulverizing it into a bloody mess.

i shall give you strength

Another near her tried to avenge his fallen comrade, and she cratered their face, producing a sickening squelch.

and when you are trapped in the darkness

She didn’t count. How many had fallen at her hands? 100? 500? 1,000? 5,000? All she knew was that the sky wept blood.

i shall bring you into the light

All around her there were the corpses of Katicans, Not a drop of her blood was shed, and nothing to threaten her in her vicinity. She looked down at her hands. Red. Her hands were red, stained with the crimson of those who had tried to end her life.

Kezia wept tears of joy.

“The Avgin always return back their blood debts,” she had remembered saying to her little brother.

It looks like they had a new debt to pay.

(A/N: I have no idea what the hell I just made. I have no beta reader, so there’s that I guess. I don’t have a structure either. I just made stuff up and used the wiki for reference.)