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lethalchiralium · 10 months ago

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High Water | Happiness Series

a/n: okay guys, I have ONE MONTH left of school for the semester, THEN I WILL HAVE TIME FOR THIS I PROMISE. a lot has happened since I last updated, this was all written over a six month period and of course finished three weeks after my major breakup w my bestie of 7 years LOL ENJOY

a/n 2: and thank you always to @as-is-above-so-below for not killing me over taking forever to update and for letting me fall down her stairs and (separate incident) get a splinter from her floor LOL

warnings: military talk. TW: TORTURE

summary: Price has to make a difficult decision.

PREVIOUS << | >> NEXT | SERIES MASTERLIST

Night vision, gloved finger tensed on the trigger of his rifle. The back alley was secured, Soap kept two feet behind him at all times as Price unlocked the side door of the “abandoned” factory warehouse.

Four pairs of boots were muted against the cracked concrete, rifles pointed upwards and watching for any hostiles in their way. The mission was to collect intel and neutralize any threats - hopefully this would deliver them to the target. A man who was a ghost just like Simon Riley, but just… tied up in debts that span decades. Expendable men were set in the center of the warehouse, a table set up with chairs, chips and cards strewn about the wooden surface. Silence was a friend to the Russian men’s killers, but not to them. A small radio lowly played some sot of music, it was melancholy and heavy on the sax. Blues, Simon reflected, fitting.

One Russian - wearing a white shirt and black pants, a deep purple bruise on his fair face - pulled a chair from the table, setting down a laptop on a handful of worn cards.

“Boss has two targets with him, they’re to be sold by the end of the week.”

The man with a green jacket shrugged, as he sat down too; kicking his feet onto the table. “Not sure if there’s a big enough market for screaming babies, друг.”

“We’ll be getting a big payout if we get them to auction before their family finds out.”

Simon’s stomach clenched, he almost shot them both right there if it wasn’t for Gaz grabbing his arm and squeezing it. He couldn’t imagine it being you and the girls, it wouldn’t be anyway. Calm down. He focused on slinging his rifle silently over his shoulder, taking hold of the corner of sturdy boxes, wrapped up in plastic film. He hauled himself up, keeping his balance and grip focused on climbing up since the crate was the height of his shoulders. He placed his right foot on the top, pushing himself up before repeating the action with the next and final crate. It was routine the way he retrieved his rifle from his back, laying prone on the hefty crate with his finger parallel to the trigger and his eye in the scope. He was swift, it was second nature; his breath didn’t falter when Gaz settled on his torso beside him with his tact scope in his grasp.

“Bravo 0-7, do you have sight on the target?”

Ghost’s eye closed, the other focusing through the scope of his rifle.

“Affirmative.”

There was a loud screech of the door Gaz was watching, Ghost’s chest clenched with anticipation as he watched the intel walk in - wearing joggers and a long sleeve shirt, talking loudly on his phone in Russian.

“Soap, detain the target as soon as he is within range. Gaz, Ghost, drop ‘em as soon as Soap is clear.”

There wasn’t a beat of silence after that, as everyone launched into action. Johnny was quick to tackle the man, the other two dropped dead within milliseconds. His gloved hand seemed to cover the man’s whole jaw, fingertips pressed uncomfortably into the man’s skin. Ghost had dropped from his position in seconds and across the room in a few strides.

“Where is yer boss?”

Gaz slid a chair behind the man, Soap shoved him into it. Struggling hands were strapped to it, the man with dark blond hair and joggers spat out vicious words towards the skull balaclava. He barely caught Price snatching the open laptop from the table before he looked back to Soap and the hostage, the Sergeant dug his nails into the Russian’s face. The Lieutenant pulled a rag from his vest, watching them intently. The 141 was a well oiled machine, oiled with the saccharine taste of blood.

“Where the fuck is yer boss?”

“You’ll never find him-“ Ghost shoved the cloth into the man’s mouth before in a flash, his knife found its new home in the hostage’s knee. The screams muffled, he leaned closer. The words spoken were low, but enough to elicit a snarl from the hostage before another scream.

Price only gazed at Ghost for a moment before looking back at the laptop, checking through folders for measly information. Gaz was stood by the door, watching for any intruders - hand on his rifle, ignoring the muffled screams of the last threat alive in the room. But he wouldn’t be alive much longer with Ghost’s knives sticking out of his body like decorations. Don’t ask for mercy, my hounds won’t give you any, he remarked.

He looked down at the dashboard, seeing a browser left open. He clicked on it, seeing an encrypted chat log with the target and his right hand man - the man screaming for his life in the chair.

Don’t be late

The damn baby is losing it

If I have to hear another word from this girl I’m going to kill her

Price is a stoic man, one hardened by war - barely scared of anything; yet, Price wasn’t prepared when he scrolled up. His heart shot straight into his throat, eyes widened by a fraction, his hand gripping the table could’ve broken it in half. He blindly grabbed his phone, taking a picture of the screen before slamming the laptop closed. It was secured between his arm and chest in three seconds, tapping a number on the screen of his phone before he walked past Gaz and out of the room. The building was secured, he knew that - yet, he felt the fear that he may be watched. The secure line droned on for only a moment before there was an answer.

“John?”

“Laswell. What the fuck happened?”

There’s crying in the background, he could recognize Winnie’s voice anywhere. They’ve been gone for three days. Nothing was supposed to get to Simon’s second chance, John thought he was sure of it. No, he was sure of it. He cased the house himself, did all the work to make sure one of their strongest and toughest allies would stay and protect them. What the fuck happened?

There’s a breath. “König’s been shot. Someone took Mellie and Y/N.”

“And the other one?”

John’s stomach settled like concrete, weighing him down and making him sick.

“She’s okay. She’s with us at the hospital. We took her to the park like her mother asked and when we came back, the door was kicked in, König was unconscious and bleeding out, and Mellie and Y/N weren’t there.” There was a pause. “There was a fight down here. König killed seven of them before going down.”

Okay. At least they could ID the bodies, link them to the mob - or at least, former associates of the mob. Any lead he could get.

If he could run his hand through his beard, he would’ve. It was a comfort, especially now that he has never felt this stressed in his life. Simon cannot know. Simon will destroy everything we’ve worked for to save them.

“It has to do with the target.”

John’s eyebrows furrowed. “Their intel is here. I am holding their intel.”

“John, these men are Russian. They are escaped convicts in the mob, known associates of the target.” There’s a pause, a short yell from Winnie, and Laswell sighing. “König left one unconscious. Roach is interrogating him now on base.”

“How long ago were they attacked?”

“Yesterday.” Another pause, soft words from Laswell to who he assumed was Winnie. “Listen, I’m working on this, but I need you. We need Ghost to run the rest of the operation, and we can’t do that if you tell him about this.”

There’s shouting behind the door, screaming from the victim that Ghost was torturing. John looked down the empty corridor, knowing he has to go to keep his friend safe.

“Because if they came after the girls, that means they’re coming after him. And they need him alive.”

His hand could have snapped that laptop in half. “He needs them alive.”

“I know, John.”

There’s more shouting in Russian, a loud thud and more incessant screaming.

“Keep this on the down low. I only need you. Make sure Ghost knows how to proceed.”

“With caution and safety off.” John murmured, muscles clenching in his chest. This is not going to end well.

“Get back to Manchester immediately. I’ll call if we’ve found something.” The line goes dead, Captain Price slipped the phone into his pocket before taking a deep breath.

He opened the door back to the room, being submersed in the victim’s screaming as Ghost’s black blade dragged into the muscles of his leg. Price shut the door, standing tall with worry on his mind. Gaz nodded to him, hands out for the laptop - John shook his head.

“Lieutenant.”

The skull mask didn’t look away from his target, the one screaming Russian that he didn’t know anything, stop, you’re hurting me, go to fucking Hell- Soap took the man by his throat, forcing his head back before spitting some choice words at his face. Eyebrows furrowed, Price tried again.

“Mactavish, take over for the Lieutenant.”

The Scot nodded, hand ripping Ghost’s knife out of the man’s thigh - all that filled the room were screams. Ghost finally looked to Price, an enraged look in his eye as he stood and walked towards him.

“What the fuck-”

“I’ve been reassigned.” The Captain spoke with an even tone. Nothing is wrong. Believe me, Simon, believe me. “You will be running this operation until I get this assignment under control.”

It seemed that anger swelled throughout the Lieutenant like a poison, invading every space of the menacing man. “What the fuck did you get reassigned for?”

“Diplomat’s wife and daughter have been kidnapped.” The lie slid off of the tongue like butter, smooth as easy to go down for some people. For others… it’s unsettling. Price was a good liar, it came easy, but his lieutenant was always able to tell. Not always immediately, but he will know sooner or later. “I have to run this. Are you okay doing this assignment-“

Ghost patted his Captain’s shoulder. “Got it under control.”

Price smiled, strained. “Knew I could count on you.” He glanced to the man in the chair; blood poured down his face. He then looked back to his Lieutenant, his right hand man with as straight of face he could muster. “We need to hurry this up. Only 10 minutes remaining.”

“Rog.”

•••

The front door was covered in a tarp, the front porch light on and curtains drawn. John Price felt the cold sickle of Death slide down his spine as he could see blood splatter on a home he once considered sacred. Simon’s home, your home, was under red tape, unknown to anyone the military who wasn’t close to Ghost. Simon created a home from nothing for his child, then opened it for you, then his new little one - God, was John proud of him. Creating a life more than worth living, in a quaint house that should have never been found - even when it was hidden in plain sight. Even the most holy grounds have had blood shed upon them.

Kate knew he was walking up the steps, she always knew, so she opened the door enough for him to slip through. Instantly, he’s met with the remnants of the carnage of your entrance way. Bullet holes and stains of blood decorated the walls and floors, even when they had been mopped and wiped clean. Dents in the walls, the floor - John imagined the beast that was König wrestling some of those fucks to the ground, snapping their necks with the twitch of his wrist. He couldn’t imagine your screams, couldn’t think of little Mellie wailing in terror.

Did you scream? Did they drug you? Hurt you? Did they dare to touch the baby? God, Simon is going to burn the world.

He looked to Kate, there’s a hardened glint in her eye. He handed her the laptop, which hadn’t been scanned yet - it would take too much time, they both knew that. She took it without a word, turning back into the front room. John strode forwards, stepping over the baby gate that was recently put there. He assumed it was to keep Winnie out of the carnage that was the front entrance, he continued on to the living room where he could see Alex sitting on the couch. A little head peered over the side of the couch and as soon as her eyes saw John, she stood at full height with tears instantly pouring down her face.

“Unc’John!”

His heart felt bruised then, the beat of it aching with every stride he took to her. He instantly plucked her from the couch, holding her to his chest as she loudly cried. “Winnie, sweetheart, it’s alright.”

“Where-Where’s Mummy and Mellie?”

John could only bear to mutter a soft, “We’re finding them, sweetheart.” He couldn’t bring himself to say that the bad guys got them, that her daddy couldn’t be the hero she knows she wants him to be because of John’s decision. He was quick to bring her to the kitchen - which seemed untouched compared to the adjacent entryway - and settled her on the countertop, right beside the sink. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet to the right, filling it with water before handing it to Winnie. The five year old took greedy sips, breathing through her nose as tears raced down her face. “Put the water down, love, you need to take some deep breaths.”

He took the glass back, only for her to reach for his hand - he took it, giving it a small squeeze. God, he can’t even remember the last time he had seen his niece cry, let alone sob. Had it been that long since she had gone without you?

“Are you hungry? Tired?” He set the glass on the counter, seeing her hiccup as she tried to catch her breath. He squeezed her hand again, all Winnie could do was let more tears fall down her face.

“Where’s Mummy?” She begged, John’s tongue felt dry. He hated lying to her, he hated not knowing anything, he hated seeing her bawl her eyes out. She didn’t witness anything, thank God, but going without you after not having to for years is terrifying to a little girl. “N’Daddy? Why-Why isn’t Daddy home?” Her hand squeezed back, much harder than she did before. “M’scared.”

“I know, Winnie.” His throat began to itch, he wanted to desperately tell her that everything would be alright - that today was just a bad dream she’ll wake up from tomorrow, that her parents will be here in the morning with her baby sister. He also wanted to scream at God and tell him that it was fucked forcing him into sacrificing Simon’s family for a stupid fucking lead, even if it did lead back to you and Mellie. He didn’t want to have the possibility of telling his niece that neither of her parents were coming home, instead of the off chance of one; he hated delivering condolences, but he wasn’t sure he could do it to a five year old girl who he has watched grow up. “I think we need to go sit down again.” A little nod and she was scooped up into his arms again, held tight as he walked back into the couch; Alex nowhere to be seen, which was fine with John. He took his normal seat at the end of the couch, resting little Winnie on his chest and pulling the blanket from the back of the couch to lay on her. He tucked it in around her stomach, making sure to cover her socked feet before gently petting her hair.

His eyes wandered to the TV, to the stupid blue dog show that she seemed to love - yet she held no interest right now. His eyes darted across the floor, seeing little firetrucks and airplanes and dolls scattered across the floor; then to the little mesh play pen that sat underneath the window, the blinds pulled up enough to where Mellie couldn’t reach, the strings tied up even higher. Soft toys and colorful blocks scattered inside of it, not to mention a few blankets and a pillow or two. Winnie’s been sleeping down here. She’s petrified.

His gaze moved to the ceiling, hand gently patting her head with a calm rhythm. He’d lay here all night, way past when his back would get sore, way past when his legs would cramp, just to give Winnie some sort of stability. He refused to think about the possibility that he may have to follow through with his promise of being her godfather - he just never imagined that it might possibly be just Winnie, not Winnie and Mellie. The thought stirred nausea in his stomach, more than any whiplash, concussion, or shitty helicopter ride could give him. He had already made the silent promise to find you and Mellie, but just for tonight, his whole goal was to make sure Winnie isn’t more scared out of her mind than she already is.

“Unc’John.”

He hummed at that, looking back down her. “Yes, sweetheart.”

Her little chin swiveled to rest on his chest to look up at him, her sweet brown eyes full of tears as she whispered, “I don’t wanna visit my Mummy at-at the cemetery like Mum G-Grace.”

I don’t want to visit my Mummy at the cemetery like Mum Grace.

The words that leave his mouth are soft, spoken like a twisted prayer. “This isn’t like your Mum Grace.” His eyebrows furrowed, petting her hair back with a gentle touch. “I swear it.”

The five year old’s lip quivered, “Promise?”

John doesn’t promise anything, he never makes a promise he wouldn’t be able to keep. He never dared enter the realm of uncertainty, knowing he could fail and hurt someone he cared about. Hell, he rarely makes promises on equipment orders for his men. He doesn’t even promise his mother anything, not since he promised he wouldn’t go into the military and did it anyway. But as he watched his friend’s daughter, his niece and goddaughter, sob quietly on his chest, he felt he had no choice but to nod. “Promise.”

At that, Winnie’s head finally fell to rest on John’s chest, he watched her eyes close as it was evident she had only held out to hear his promise. She had stayed awake to see and hear someone she trusted and knew well, she waited to close her eyes until she knew he would find you, even if she didn’t directly ask him to.

John felt obligated to keep Simon’s family alive since he knew just how much the deaths of his mother, brother, sister-in-law, and nephew nearly killed him, how the death of Grace and embracing fatherhood almost drowned him, and just how much his daughters and wife saved him from saying “Fuck it.” and stepping into enemy fire. Not only that, he felt obligated to you - to find you and Mellie, bring you home, keep Winnie safe too. You had many years left with Simon, John could see it. You couldn’t possibly leave Simon now, not when he needs you the most.

John’s eyes blinked slowly, looking down to the dozing Winnie on his chest and holding her closer, reminiscent of when she was a small toddler sleeping on his chest when he babysat. Fatigue was catching up to him, the hours in the early morning were spent combing through data for the prisoner the 141 now in had in possession, and now - your kidnapping. Simon is a dear friend, John knew him too well to say otherwise. And he also knew that you, Winnie, and Mellie were his whole world - the monster Simon was, the one John had nurtured and cared for to create a weapon, was sitting dormant in the man’s ribcage because of the unconditional love he had received. John could never argue that Simon had “gone soft” because of it, Simon had weeping and infected wounds healed by the soft touch of his wife. The Captain’s previously abused and petrified weapon was now perfect, he was the epitome of the perfect soldier. But with the knowledge of his wife and child’s safety at risk, John knew what the military didn’t.

“Captain.”

There’s a reason your husband wasn’t alerted of your abduction. John Price knew the second he said that you and Melody were missing, Simon would rip his ribcage from his chest with the force of a thousand men to expose the monster underneath. The one you only hear about in movies, the one that is passed down through tongues to generations, the one you fear will come from the shadows to eat you alive. Simon Riley is what the Captain likes to call, the Monster Under Your Bed.

“Captain.”

He grunted a little, looking over his shoulder to a stoic Alex Keller. “She’s almost asleep, Alex-“

“We might have a location.”

taglist: @idkwtftitbh @blingblong55 @local-spidey @sanfransolomitatm @frazie99 @Awilan @cosmoscoffeee @khadeejarh @babygirl-riley @emi-flaces @marini03 @jeannieboys @koshehehe @tutuwuworld @froggy-anon @cxltblood @egdeverauxx @freyjasfenrir @lexi-zsy09 @Hosshihusshi @Isopaine @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @domaniquessidehoe2 @iaur @starsinyoureyes @graciereads @urfavoritepookie @ghost-with-a-teacup @moris666 @ghostwifeyy @ziggy0stardust @live-love-be-unique @magoopi @coririley @lunyyx @sterlizx

#lethalchiralium #lethal chiralium #happiness series #happiness #simon ghost riley #simon riley #call of duty #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x wife!reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x wife!reader #simon riley x f!reader

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ampreh · 1 year ago

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[TRF] Norma II

• Related to this : The Rust Factory - Norma (<- comics)

• Related to this : The Rust Factory - Norma (<- comics) I had SO much fun doing the vintage style of flash backs and imagination: I would have kicked myself for ignoring this very impactful style for its time.

Audrey pic: Context - Extract from the 2022 RP "It was the story of a corporate that had made a great scientific revolutionary invention! It was called D-Sire, a simple, medicated, fabulous everyday object that people couldn't live without. But during the process of improving the product, which was intended to target wider markets to make more profit, the D-Sire had unfortunately gone awry, causing a great catastrophe unparalleled among mankind. All cities had been wiped off the map, leaving only willless mutant humans and animals. The heroine had to flee her city, survive and fight her way back to the creator of the D-sire, who had abandoned his company and changed his identity. Coal was terrified of this cheap soap opera with its terrible special effects made of modelling clay and the saturated offbeat sound of the black-and-white picture on the small TV screen." A more than obvious reference to the AU Truffula Flu. And a huge reference to @audtreegrace, @miru667 's character. So of course, I don't have all the context since it's a vast AU with lots and lots of details, but I've got enough of a basis for my friends to recognize and that's good enough for me :> Nathan has already confused Audrey Grace with Audrey, the actress from their series HAHA. Alas, the Audrey and Ted of his world won't be born for several years. He didn't find the actress, but he did find a good friend with whom to talk for hours about anything and everything ♥

Norma Bellini pic: Well, Norma pin-up, because why not! In vintage calendar mode, because I love vintage aesthetics. And yes, those are the right dates I went to check on good old calendars haha. At first I wanted to do it in a swimsuit, but then I preferred the picnic. I love picnics.

Too big to fail pic: I had to do it! Of course I had to! The only time I've redone such an iconic portrait was for the first version of Cashtea-ler in the Let It Flow fanzine, in 2022 (I should do a new one with his new head). Nathan Cole (@1940s-onceler | @nalak-bel 's), in black and white in his best soot-colored suit!

Compilation : Just Normaler, to appreciate Normaler. On a more serious note, I like the idea that Nathan was guided throughout his first times by ladies, and not the reverse. I love this not-so-little whining man.

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ponyguru · 3 days ago

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The Black Light Littlest Pet Shop bags, opened! I got very lucky to find two boxes at Target, but slightly less lucky that even between two boxes there wasn’t a full wave! I’m still missing the poodle and the pony, but I’m lucky that I didn’t end up with two pandas! The quality overall is pretty good, but I can still see some pretty clear smudges and printing errors, which is the risk with blind bags. I said in my last post, but these bags were 219249226-240ES (not including the panda who came with the box), but I’ve found that Reddit LPS groups are pretty good about sharing the codes as well, if you get a different code you need to decipher! But make sure to google it in the store, because my receipt had an interesting addendum this time: no returns accepted! I know they wouldn’t accept an opened bag, but even an unopened one? Hmmm. 👀 Also, be aware, these guys had a moderate chemical smell, and felt kind of tacky to the touch; I expect they have some mold release still left on them from the factory, so after their photos it was off to the bath with them! I just gave them a quick scrub with some Dawn dish soap, and they smell/feel better. Still, very excited to have found them!

#littlest pet shop #lps #lpsblr #lps toys #lpscommunity #basicfun

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ksfoxwald · 11 months ago

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I think the Murderbot show needs to open with like, right after the title sequence of some black and white sci fi montage that sort of evokes the Murderbot factory, just rows of faceless human-shaped machines with parts being welded on to them to call up the question of what i means for a person to be treated as a machine, and what it means for a machine to be treated as a person.

And then.

The opening scene of the first episode.

Is Sanctuary Moon.

Specifically, it is a dramatic romance scene of soap operatic proportions, some grand declaration of love (possibly with a few bodies in the background). And the characters start making out.

The scene pauses.

Then starts to fast forward through the characters taking off their clothes, etc. etc.

And then is interrupted by a ping from one of Murderbot's drones, and we hear a deep sigh, and slowly zoom out to see the rest of Murderbot's feeds, with Sanctuary Moon minimized in the corner. We zoom out further to see the helmeted Murderbot keeping watch over the scientists in the crater (we don't see its face yet).

And then the monster attacks.

#murderbot diaries #not thrilled about the casting but im at least hoping it won't suck

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ceilidho · 1 year ago

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prompt: horror au where soap is dishonourably discharged/falls on hard times and he's forced to move into this really creepy apartment building because it's the only thing he can afford. and ghost is his weird neighbour and soap's not completely convinced that he's not a serial killer. (ghostsoap)

Misery takes him to a place covered in litter and dust, and old dirt.

Maybe he thought it couldn’t happen to him. Famous last words. Anything can happen to anyone; lightning has to strike somewhere. Johnny makes the mistake of driving once under the influence and they throw the book at him when he’s caught—bad conduct discharge stamped on his record for the rest of his life. Through the investigation and trial and the subsequent stamp on his record, Johnny goes through the motions numb, head buzzing like there’s a fog that he just can’t get out.

It takes a while for Johnny to admit that he might not have wanted this outcome in the slightest, but actions have consequences. In the first few weeks, the shame warps him into something unrecognisable. He sleeps on his sister’s couch until she all but begs him to get his own place. The month passes like he’s in a fugue, the bags under his eyes dark and his hair matted down, unwashed.

The apartment building in North Barlanark is the best he can afford on his meagre savings—not much squirrelled away over the years, always the thought that the well would never dry up. Now it’s dry; now it’s standing on the embankment staring down into nothing. The bad conduct discharge stamped on his record also means that he isn’t entitled to VA benefits and it’ll show up on every background check going forward when he finally finds the energy to get off his ass and apply for jobs.

From the outside of the building, there are cracks in the stone walls, window panes red with rust. Black scorch marks climb up the walls like someone tried and failed to burn this place down. Stone chipping away in other places; there are air conditioners hanging from several windows that look dangerous close to falling out.

When he moves in, there’s no one to help carry his bags up the long flight of stairs up to the seventh floor. Johnny hadn’t bothered to ask either of his sisters, not too keen on being in this neighbourhood himself, never mind inviting them over.

The elevator’s broken, of course. Each step creaks under his weight as he lugs the garbage bags filled to the brim with his only earthly belongings up the stairs. An uneven, loosened tile nearly makes him brain himself on the stairs. It would be a depressing, but fitting end.

The corridors are lit by an ambient yellow light, the walls at the far ends a dusky blue when they ebb into darkness. Johnny’s stared down gun barrels raised to his face plenty of times before and still he stands at the other end of the hall vaguely unsettled. Gut clenching over nothing.

This whole endeavour feels inauspicious. Living, that is. He toys with the thought like a delicate glass bauble, staring at it indifferently as it rests in the palm of his hand. He might still break it.

Some nights his heart feels so heavy that he thinks it’ll sink right out of his chest, through the mattress and onto the floor below. Melt through the floorboards until it trickles down into the bowels of the building, down into the entrails where the furnace roars and there’s a damp cold that pervades everything it touches. He hasn’t cried since he was a boy, but his eyes hurt when he blinks.

Johnny doesn’t see a single other person in the building the day he moves in, nor any of the following days during his first week in the building. He doesn’t have it in him to grieve the loss of his former life anymore—he did that over the month that he lived on his sister’s couch and barely showered or shaved. There’s a factory within biking distance where he gets a job as a die cast operator and spends his days making carburetors and engine blocks. It’s not glamorous work, but it’s better than what he expected.

There are signs of life in the building though. The sound of a door creaking open when he’s sitting on the couch in his flat, only to peek out through the peephole to an empty hallway. Passing a door on his way home from work and pausing at the sound of someone groaning from within. Trash bags out in the hall when there weren’t any earlier.

It makes his skin crawl. The suggestion of occupancy that never materialises. People that live like rats in the walls.

He hurries home with his head down in the evenings, walking straight past the other flats. No one needs to know his business just like he doesn’t need to know anyone else’s business. If he hears the rattling of dishes or feet shuffling along the floorboards, what’s it to him?

There’s only so many times he can tell himself that though.

The coming of winter deepens the night, dragging it further into the day. The sky has long gone black by the time he leaves the factory after his shift, pulling his hood up to seem marginally less appealing to anyone wandering around at night. Hardly anyone wanders with good intentions. At least, that’s what Johnny’s taught himself. He’s still got all of the muscle mass from his years of service, but he’s not interested in fucking around and finding out, so he speedwalks to his bike and pedals home as fast as possible.

There’s something in the air. He sees only a single light on from outside when he reaches the front doors and it quickly shuts off when he dismounts the bike. A curtain rustles like someone was just there. It turns his blood to absolute ice; something in him is hissing at him to stay out, but there’s little else he can do. He rolls his bike in and up the seven flights of stairs.

He rolls the bike down the hall as always, only the squeaky sounds of the wheels echoing down the length of the corridor. The exhaustion eats away at his bones; he’s so tired that it’ll be a dream even to collapse on the bed with the weird stain on it that he inherited from the previous tenant.

Something makes him pause in the hall.

There’s a scratching sound coming from the door to his left. The faintest rasp of a fingernail against steel. Johnny goes so quiet that even the sound of his blood disappears. Just staring at the door.

It comes again like someone’s standing there on the other side of the door. Scratching softly with a single fingernail. When he glances down, there’s a slight shadow just under the doorframe, no wider than a person.

His vision tunnels in on the shadow beneath the floor.

“What are you doing crouched there?” a deep voice growls from behind him.

“Steamin’ Jesus!”

When he whips around, his heart about jumps into his throat. A man in a skull balaclava stands not two feet from him, a wall of muscle and bone. The eyes that stare down at Johnny seem almost hostile in their hollowness at first, the darkest blue he’s ever seen.

Johnny freezes for a second, old instincts taking over. Something feels deeply wrong. He’s never seen the man before and he takes up space like no one he’s ever met. Even in a black hoodie and jeans, Johnny can see the muscle definition just barely visible underneath. The mask makes it worse somehow, obscuring the only part of him that might’ve been comforting.

“Sorry, mate,” he says with a grin, sheepish. Wary. “Lost my train of thought.”

The man stares at him. “Go back to your place.”

Johnny furrows his brows. “Excuse me?”

“Back home, puppy.”

There’s a second where Johnny thinks he might do something rash. The anger that rises up from his core is swift and sudden, furious at being ordered around like a dog. He pauses though. There’s something wrong here. The man angles himself towards Johnny like he expects a fight, and it’s there in his eyes for a split second, so fast that Johnny almost misses it. Anticipation.

He’s lived long enough to know his limits. He gives a brittle smile instead and nods, backing up a few paces before turning around, wheeling his bike home. He doesn’t hear anything from behind him, but the next time he looks around before stepping into his flat, the man is gone.

#dont talk to me about “that wouldn't have gotten soap kicked out” I KNOW #I MADE IT UP #cod mw2 #ceil writing #ghostsoap #ghoap #soapghost #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #soap mw2 #soap cod #soap call of duty #simon ghost riley #cod simon riley #ghost cod #ghost x soap

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fryingpan1234567 · 10 months ago

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let’s talk mornings. cause it’s early rn. and I had to get up an hour earlier because I didn’t meal prep last night.

anyways soapghostroach getting up WOO

Ghost. is not a morning person. but he gets up at literally 5:30 to go for a run every single day. if he is given the opportunity to sleep in with his boys, he will take it and sleep until 2 in the afternoon

Roach is a morning person! he can sleep for a long time, sure, but he can also get up early. and no matter what, he’s bouncing out of bed with full energy and that’s BEFORE coffee oml

Soap is NOT a morning person. he has the hardest time getting up out of the three of them. he needs three cups of coffee before he’s up to functionality, and oftentimes the other two have to leave him in the room for breakfast and bring back coffee for him

ahem something about Ghost being a dog person but Roach does the full cat stretch every morning— ass up, pillow kneading, flopping unevenly over sideways and nuzzling into his pillow, the whole bit— and then Ghost wonders if he really is a dog person

SPEAKING OF dogs Soap loves to invite Riley up onto the bed with them and use her as a weighted blanket I don’t make the rules

Soap is incapable of speaking decipherable English in the mornings (before his coffee), so Ghost and Roach have gotten pretty good at guessing what the meaning behind all his groaning is

Ghost goes to sleep freezing but wakes up hot. so he’ll insist the other two snuggle in on either side like personal bf heaters every night. but then when he wakes up in the middle of the night, hot as balls, the other two are so cute tangled up over the top of him he doesn’t have the heart to move them until he gets up to run

Roach does not snore. Ghost snores when he sleeps on his side. Soap snores like he’s sawing logs and it’s unavoidable

(they’ve gotten used to it, but more than once Price and Gaz have considered smothering him in his sleep when they’re SUPPOSED to be on a stealth mission but it sounds like a lumber factory over here)

listen I think Ghost hates coffee, because. British. but the tea he drinks has enough caffeine in it to make up for like four pots of coffee so—

Roach is allowed NOWHERE NEAR energy drinks. ever. last time he had a Red Bull and then went on a mission he ended up breaking his arm and didn’t feel it for three hours. he got the most kills of the mission by more than double the second highest. time before THAT he had a Monster and he was cartwheeling around their fucking room at two in the morning Roach PLEASE go to sleep it’s too eaRLY FOR THIS SHIT

and then yk Soap’s coffee thing. he drinks regular old black coffee on base, but off-duty he goes to Starbucks all the time and he’s that asshole who gets like 40 add ins and his total ends up being $30 for the one medium drink

it’s the way both Roach and Ghost were severe insomniacs until they got with each other and Soap—

(inconsolable sobbing)

that’s all I got for now good (early) morning/ night/ 4am❤️

#cod #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #gary roach sanderson #soapghostroach #ghostsoaproach

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pisupsala · 1 year ago

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Of All The Stars in The Sky | 16 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 9.1k

Library

Chapter 16 - The End of The World

That summer of 1943 that you spent with your parents will be the last light before the long and dark night that follows. The war is going badly — for your occupiers, that is. The Allies have taken Sicily, and the Soviets have booked a major victory at Kursk. News coming in is sporadic, the censors working overtime to downplay military setbacks, but rumors persist. The pincer is closing from the south and east; they whisper: Stalin’s Red Army will punch through the Eastern front after winter, and the Allies will be crossing the Alps.

More tangential proof of how the war is going is how more and more men disappear from public life — Hitler must be getting desperate, drafting reinforcements from the traitorous country that assassinated his right-hand man. And where the men disappear, women take their place.

Registered as unemployed, you received a summons in the late fall of 1943 to report for labor in support of the war effort. At the outskirts of the capital, a car factory has been converted to produce army trucks — massive 3-ton personnel carriers. Every morning, when the sun is barely up, you get on a bus with about fifty other women of all ages, all dressed in the same drab, dirty blue coveralls. The only splash of color in the early morning twilight is the scarves everyone ties around their head to protect their hair.

Your nimble fingers earn you a position wiring the dashboard and ignition systems; your once soft hands and manicured nails are definitely a thing of the past now. Your fingertips start forming blisters and calluses from twisting the copper wires into place; your nails are chipped and broken, caked in dirt and thick black grease. The harsh degreaser soap cracks the skin on your palms, leaving them sore — the cold winter air stinging the raw skin.

You haven’t heard from anyone in the resistance since your last encounter with Jan — he probably reported you as compromised to Emil, and everyone has been steering clear of you since then. Rationally, you know it’s not personal. But in your heart, you cannot help but be bitter: after all you’ve done, after all the risks you have taken, you end up on the assembly line building trucks for the enemy. And not a peep from your comrades.

But you don’t need them, you think sourly. You took your first steps into resistance activities by yourself, stealing food stamps here and there to help the people you knew. It grew from there, but it wasn’t until late 1941 that you actually got in contact with the resistance proper and your activities were scaled up. And now that you’re on your own again, you’ll just do what you always did: as much as you possibly can.

The factory is run tightly. Hawk-eyed supervisors check every aspect on the line, writing up workers for faults, deficiencies, and mistakes. They are supported by the armed guards — young boys with large guns and on an even larger power trip — that patrol the grounds and the factory floor and gleefully punish poor performance.

Poking and prodding, trying to find cracks in the system, you knew you’d push the envelope too far at some point. It’s a risk you’re willing to take — you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you didn’t at least try. So you experiment: wiping sand on the fine gears behind the fuel gauge, making the cursor stick. It’s simple and subtle enough not to get noticed during inspection. The first time you get caught, it’s for cross-wiring to the headlights with the windscreen wipers — which, in terms of sabotage, is mostly harmless, at most an inconvenience. A warning and compulsory study of the manual is all you get. But you know you probably overstepped when you get caught not tightening the contact cables in the ignition system, which would cause them to fall out sooner rather than later, stalling the whole machine.

“With me, missy,” Your supervisor sneers, her red-painted lips twisted into a scowl, knuckles whitening as she clutches her clipboard. It hasn’t escaped your notice how your supervisor has dressed quite nicely daily: makeup, well-fitted dresses, nylons.

“It was a mistake,” You lie, defending yourself. “It’s cold, and my fingers-”

You don’t finish your sentence as the supervisor grabs you by the collar of your coveralls and pulls you out of the factory hall. “Are you insane?” She hisses. “Sabotage is treason.”

“They’re going to kill us anyway,” You choke out, stumbling after her.

Harshly pushing you out the factory door into the snowy courtyard, she stares after you, coiled with anger. “I’ll take my chances,” She spits after you. “Stay there until I come get you!” She adds, yelling.

Folding your arms, you shuffle your feet in an attempt to get warm. It’s still early in the day, and it’s freezing cold. Your breath is coming out in puffs of opaque smoke, and within a minute, you are shivering. Opportunistic bitch, you seethe.

You nearly scream out when you are suddenly doused in ice-cold water, your sopping coveralls now so cold it’s practically burning on your skin. From the boyish laughter behind you, you know these are the guards, joking in German — there’s nothing you can do.

You stand frozen in place, the cold water trickling from your wet hair down your spine — it’s like you’ve just run a marathon; you struggle to catch your breath, thoughts running through your head in a blind panic. Finally, you sink into a squat, your legs almost giving out from under you — you need to hunker down, tucking your hands under your arms, desperately trying to preserve your core temperature. You are shivering so hard it’s making your stomach hurt, like your intestines themselves are violently shivering too.

It’s impossible to say how long you sit there. You notice it starts snowing again, but you can’t feel it. It’s like you’re frozen into place, your insides still quaking. The snowflakes stick to your lashes, making your lids heavy and your movements even more sluggish. It feels like your blood flow has slowed down to a crawl. You want to cry from pain, from humiliation. From anger. But your tears are frozen solid with the rest of your body.

When you are forcefully pulled up back onto your feet, no sound makes it out of your mouth. Your lungs hurt — your throat is so dry it’s numb. Whatever sound of pain or protest you try to make only comes out as a puff of air past your ice-cold lips. Your legs are stiff and barely cooperating, but the supervisor, who is holding you by your arm, nails digging through the layers of freezing fabric, doesn’t stop pulling until she shoves you down by the coal furnace near the offices.

The moment she lets go of you, your legs immediately give out again — your knees skid over the concrete floor. The warm air is like relentless pinpricks on your skin.

“Let this be a lesson for you and everyone that has any ideas,” She hisses at you venomously, grabbing your chin to force you to look up. “Warm up and return to your place on the line.”

It’s a lesson, alright.

Next time, you won’t get caught.

The winter of 1943 into 1944 is long, and the cough you’ve developed doesn’t disappear until late spring. Miraculously, you never really got sick after your punishment besides the persistent coughing, but as your grief wanes, a wave of new anger emerges in you. You never wished ill, hurt, or even death on specific people — your ultimate goal was always freedom. But now you find a macabre kind of glee as you sprinkle sand on the fuel gauge and fray the cables in the ignition.

I hope your truck stalls as you run. I hope you run out of fuel. I hope it kills you.

When you catch sight of the supervisor, you smile sweetly at her. You’ll get yours too, you think.

At night, you sit with your ear pressed against the radio, listening to the BBC news on the lowest possible volume, running Bradley’s bracelet between your fingers like rosary beads. You are desperate for any news of the advance. Southern Italy is so far away — is Bradley there now? The reports say the fighting is heavy; progress comes at great cost. You stopped being scared for yourself, but the more you are scared for Bradley. Alone in the dark apartment, tears roll down your tired face.

Talking during work is forbidden, but on break, huddled together in the corner of the factory courtyard, whispered rumors swirl out of the earshot of supervisors and guards. When one of the armed guards passes, everyone dissolves in a fit of giggles, not from nerves but as a carefully honed defense mechanism. The bored guards don’t bother with women’s gossip.

Soon, rumors and gossip are the only things to go around: rations are tightening, and more and more is getting diverted to the war effort. Cigarettes get passed around after a single puff, soup becomes more water than anything else, and you even resort to sharing mugs of ersatz coffee. The less there is, the more you care for each other. During breaks, you brush each other’s hair, braiding it or pinning it into curls. Sometimes, someone procures some hand cream, and you take turns massaging it into each other’s sore hands. It establishes a strange sense of normalcy in a world that steadily feels like it’s in free fall.

***

Every key Bradley touches on the creaky piano seems to be the wrong one. He can hear the melody so clearly in his head, but when he tries to play it or even just hum or whistle it, it’s like he cannot find the right tone. It sounds off.

He can remember the moment so clearly: the starry spring night along the river bank, the melody floating down from the open window. Flexing his hand, he can almost feel your fingers threaded through his, your body pressed against his as you followed his lead. Just like he tries to remember the melody, Bradley tries to remember your smile.

He knows he remembers, but he just can’t recall it. When Bradley tries, he is unsure if he remembers you correctly. It’s like it all happened in a dream, and he remembers shapes and colors, but the more he tries to grasp the details, the vaguer they become.

It’s January 1944, and the last six months have been one frustration after another for Bradley. At least he’s no longer grounded, but he hasn’t felt like himself since returning to England. It’s like Bradley woke up, and reality wrapped around him like a coat he had outgrown — constricting his movements, leaving him uncomfortable in his own skin. He can forget that only when he flies, at least for a moment.

Except it’s making him forget everything, he desperately wants to hold onto.

“I thought I’d find you here, Rooster,”

Bradley sighs lightly before turning to the voice. Mav stands at the door opening, in his crisp dress uniform, an easy grin on his face. As he saunters into the empty pub, a gust of cold air follows him from outside.

“Long time no see,” Mav continues as he pulls out a chair, still grinning, plopping himself down across from Bradley.

“Yeah, good to you again, Mav,” Bradley responds neutrally as he closes the lid on the piano, slowly turning around to face Mav. “How are Penny and Amelia?” He asks conversationally.

For a moment, the older man’s looks soften, his cocky grin faltering. “Good, good,” He nods. “Amelia sent you a letter to thank you for the postcards. Did you get it?”

“I’m not sure; it might have gotten lost in the mail,” Bradley replies vaguely. It’s probably somewhere in the packet of unread mail piling up in Bradley’s footlocker. Writing letters has been a chore because he cannot talk about what he wants to. The censor would not allow it, so putting pen to paper and pretending that everything is just okay is something Bradley rarely can summon the energy for.

He feels guilty. He knows this makes him a terrible friend, and he cannot explain why he can’t just write a short message home.

Mav just nods but doesn’t reply. An uneasy silence falls between the two men. They haven’t seen each other in a good two years, since before Bradley went on detachment to the UK. For a while, Bradley thought it would do them good — the distance would soften the sharp edges of their fraught relationship a bit more. Maybe he put too much stock in it.

“So,” Bradley starts, tone forcefully light. “What brings you here, Mav?”

“Mass mobilization,” Mav shrugs in response. “You know that something big is afoot.”

“I meant here,” Bradley’s voice is a little bit sharper as he gestures around him vaguely. He ignores the jab of guilt in his gut. “In this empty pub.”

“Oh, yes-” Mav pulls an envelope from this heavy woolen navy coat. “You are getting recalled to the US Navy Fleet.”

Bradley reaches out and plucks the envelope from Mav’s outstretched hand. He scans the letter's contents — he’s due to report at Navy command for the European theater in five days. There’s nothing odd about the order in the larger scheme of things.

“Why are you the one delivering it?” Bradley looks at Mav, eyes tight. Is he getting picked up like a small child?

Mav’s eyes widen for a split second, before his easy grin returns. “Wouldn’t want to get this lost in the mail,”

Another moment of silence.

“And I have shore leave, so I thought…” Mav trails off, face suddenly serious. He looks at Bradley intently, who meets his gaze almost defiantly. “I wanted to check in on you. See you are doing okay.” Mav adds levelly. Bradley sighs.

“I’m fine,” He replies softly. Even to his own ears, it sounds like a lie.

“So I thought…” Mav starts again.

“It’s funny,” Bradley cuts in, unable to stop himself. The burden of guilt is weighing him down — leaving you behind, failing his friends and family, forgetting — so he lashes out. From guilt. From shame. From pain. He wants to pretend it makes him feel better. “It’s really funny how you always tell me not to think, and yet that’s all you seem to do.”

Mav stares at him, face neutral, unimpressed. The lack of reaction is making Bradley angrier. “So you thought — you thought what? That you know better? That you know what I need?”

“Calm down, lieutenant,” Mav simply replies, suddenly and simply pulling rank, effectively ending the conversation. Knuckles white, Bradley grits his teeth. Deep breaths.

Mav gets up, dusting himself off, not a tremor of anger in his movement. He is the picture of calm, not sparing him a single look. Bradley stands up automatically, as he would for any ranking officer.

“Something is in the works,” Mav simply says. “Something big — bigger than we’ve ever seen.”

Finally, he meets Bradley’s eye again. Mav’s expression betrays little, but his eyes are full of hurt. “I th- I had hoped we could make amends,”

Before it’s too late.

Bradley nods — the guilt now like a stone around his neck. No one knows what is happening, only that ship upon ship of American armed forces is being unloaded and stationed in England. There are whispers of an attack on a scale never seen before. A landing. A suicide mission.

“I trust no one in the air more than you, Mav,” Bradley finally admits, the last of the frustration finally ebbing away. Why does he keep getting so angry? “It’ll be an honor to fly with you again.”

Mav cracks a smile — a genuine one. “Thank you, Bradley, and welcome back to the fleet.”

Bradley chuckles, but inside, he knows he’s not ready. Forgiveness is more difficult than a few words.

But does it really matter?

In the end, when he will inevitably fly to his death, the very fate Mav tried to shield him from — will it matter?

“How long are you staying, Mav?” He asks instead, grabbing his coat. “Enough time for a drink or two?”

***

It’s dark in the small, crowded room. You sit on the floor, packed in like sardines. The bare bulb that had been burning in a harsh yellow light earlier spluttered before softly popping out of life. The noises from the outside are disorientating — you hear screaming and yelling, doors slamming and shots. You have your arms around a girl younger than you, softly stroking your fingers over her hairline as she cries into your shoulder. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the whine of Stukas as they fly towards the capital. You think.

The thing is, you haven’t been allowed to leave the factory for over a week now. After the news broke that Berlin had fallen and the Führer was dead, all the guards, the young boys with rifles too big for them, went into a blind panic. They locked the gates, screaming orders, pointing their surely loaded guns at the sacred factory workers.

Since then, you’ve been sleeping on the hard concrete floor as the next shift picked up. You suppose you should be happy it’s May, so the floor is not so cold anymore.

The winter of 1944 into 1945 had been the harshest you’ve seen in years: it was bitingly cold, rations were lower than they’ve ever been, and there was no bread, milk, or flour. Soup was more water than anything else, more potato peel than vegetable. Even if you still had extra ration books, they wouldn’t do you any good — there simply wasn’t anything to trade them for. Gas and coal became a rarity, turning the city into an unforgiving ice-cold hellscape. You had never been so cold for so long in your life.

The ugly blue coveralls were increasingly ill-fitting, hanging off your frame awkwardly.

It shouldn’t have brought you joy, but as production was being pushed into overdrive, supervisors were forced to join the line, leaving behind their clipboards and clean clothes. More shifts were added, the factory now roaring day and night — sometimes shifts were scheduled in such quick succession there was no time to go home. You would huddle up with the other girls in the corner of the factory on the cold floor (because god forbid you’d use the now-empty offices), so exhausted you couldn’t even hear the noises of the line anymore.

The guards were getting rotated out quickly, replaced by seemingly younger and younger boys — some almost dwarfed by the rifle on their back; their too-large uniforms make it look like they're playing dress-up.

In the end, this also meant that since winter, all regulations were out the door — no more clipboards, no more testing before the trucks as they joined the motor pool, ready to be distributed over the rapidly approaching front. It made sabotage a lot easier: the majority of trucks that rolled off the line in your factory were faulty in one way or another. Knowing looks were exchanged: nuts and bolts were not fully tightened, hoses were not fully screwed in, and contacts were not fully connected.

Everyone is doing their own part — their own small resistance. There was no discussion; there was no structure or organization. Just a hope that every little bit helps bring the war to an earlier end as the Allies and Soviets are approaching.

You hear gunshots now — the wave of terror that moves through the room is almost physical, as everyone recoils as one. You tighten your arms around the girl as she chokes out a sob.

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetie,” You console her softly despite wanting to cry yourself. You’ve been cut off from the world, and there’s no guessing what has been happening since the fall of Berlin. Are the Allies here?

Naively, your heart feels a little bit lighter at the thought. Far from any sea or ocean, Bradley wouldn’t be there, but — and you hate yourself for hoping it so fiercely — maybe you could ask someone to contact him? Tell you where to send a letter. If only to find out that he is still alive. To let him know you are still alive.

That you are waiting.

In the dark room, shaking from fear, the small fantasy brings you comfort.

More shots ring out — you hear shouting, but you cannot make out what language through the thick concrete walls of the factory. When the heavy door suddenly rattles violently, like someone is trying to force it open, the room suddenly erupts in a flurry of chaotic and panicked movements; the air is pierced by crying and screaming. Everyone is scrambling up, trying to get away from the door. In the crush, you fall back, awkwardly wedged between bodies—the girl you had been holding before has disappeared in the darkness. The door rattles again; it sounds like someone is trying to break it down.

More screaming, the mass of people moves back even more. It’s getting hard to breathe and the uncomfortable angle of your body—upper body leaned back, feet barely touching the ground—makes it hard to push back. It’s getting hot.

The door explodes open—the last oxygen is pushed from your lungs��light streams into the room. You aren’t sure if the spots in your vision are from the sudden blinding brightness or it’s your consciousness slipping. Just when you think you’ll lose grasp, eyes fluttering closed, the bodies disperse. Stumbling forward, you follow the flow of the crowd out the door. All the noise seems far away as you try to catch your breath.

A tall figure is motioning sternly at the door opening, commanding everyone to come out. You do your best to keep pace with the rest, coughing dryly, trying to keep yourself from tripping over your own feet.

Hurrying out the door, tearing up from the bright May sunshine stinging your eyes, you��re stopped dead in your tracks by someone calling out your name.

“Anya? - Anya!”

You haven’t heard that voice in so long, for a moment, you are confused. You should know who that is. Turning toward the voice, eyes still struggling to focus — your breath stocks mid-cough.

“Emil!” You choke out. It’s been almost two years now since you last saw him. Blinking, you stare at him — he’s dressed in his pre-war military uniform, looking more clean-cut than you have ever seen him, two rifles slung over his back. It’s making you acutely aware you are standing there in dirty coveralls and messy hair after sleeping on the floor for the past week.

He pulls you into a hug, clapping his hand a little too hard on your shoulder, rattling your skeleton.

“I’m so glad you made it,” He admits.

“I’m glad to see you well,” You reply with a smile. “What’s the occasion?” You motion to his uniform as you pull away, awkwardly straightening your coveralls as if that would hide the grease stains.

Emil smiles at you — and it’s probably the most genuine smile you’ve ever seen on him. “We’re liberating the city.”

“I want to fight too.” The words are out of your mouth before you fully realize the implication — but you are determined.

“I didn’t expect anything less from you,” Emil laughs, not in an unfriendly way, but in the way a big brother humors his younger sibling. “And I could use your help right away.”

A dizzying amount has happened since the fall of Berlin, since you’ve been locked away in the factory — the Allies under Patton are crossing the border into Bohemia, while the Soviets have punched through the eastern defensive line at the Dukla pass. The Wehrmacht and SS are retreating from the oncoming fronts on both sides — which is, unfortunately, driving them straight into the valley of central Bohemia and straight into Prague.

“We will not allow them to have their last stand here,” Emil concludes as you follow him through the motor pool. You nod fiercely. If the Nazis are allowed to build a final stronghold here, the Allies and Soviets will not hesitate to raze the entire city to the ground if it will end the war.

“But first, we need trucks,” He states, looking around pensively. “Unfortunately, the guards were probably warned of the government army mutiny in the city, and they’ve gotten rid of all the keys.”

“You need mechanics first,” You cut him off. “Most of these trucks were sabotaged in one way or another.” You add sheepishly. Emil shakes his head, laughing.

“Again, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you in a factory where they had the misfortune of putting you to work.”

“How many do you need?” You get straight to business. “I can put together teams to check the trucks and-”

“And how will we start them, Anya?”

“Lucky for you,” You frown, trying not to sound arrogant as you pull the cabin door of the truck open. “I’m quite the expert on ignition systems now.”

Clambering in, you waste no time ramming the heel of your boot repeatedly into the metal plating under the steering wheel. The ongoing shortages of almost everything meant that the overall quality of factory parts had decreased. The screws are weak — you’ve turned so many of them just but simply trying to affix the plating, you know that a few well-placed kicks will shake them right out of their holes.

Emil has climbed up the steps and is looking at you skeptically. But you are right; at the fourth kick, the metal plate practically pops out of place. Prying it away with your fingers, the small screws scatter over the cabin floor. Now for the best part. Reaching into the hollow under the steering wheel, you gently tug at the contact cables. One comes out so easily; you know it would have probably disconnected at the first large bump in the road. The other one needs a little bit more cajoling before it releases from the ignition.

Triumphantly, you show the two cables to Emil, stepping on the clutch as you twist the exposed copper ends together. The truck roars to life.

“So, how many did you need?” You reiterate lightly. Emil claps you on your back as he laughs again. You cough uncomfortably. Spending several years traveling in partisan groups has robbed Emil of some of his gentler habits.

You have a renewed energy as you pull out your toolbox and direct the women who decided to stay, check over any trucks in the motor pool and ready them for rollout. You work until your fingers bleed — but it doesn’t matter. Liberation is close, and you're determined to speed up the process in any way you can.

It’s late afternoon as the last of the trucks rolls out from the motor pool. Emil climbs into the cabin; you are hot on his heels.

“What’s next?” You ask almost breathlessly, so wired in anticipation you can barely feel the pain in your hands and the tiredness prickling behind your eyes. Emil smiles down at you from the passenger seat, as you balance on the bottom step of the truck cabin. “Go home, Anya,” He tells you, in that same borderline patronizing voice that a big brother would use for their annoying sibling.

“I want to help,” You defend yourself. Haven’t you proven again and again that you are capable enough? Why are you being sent home like some small child? “I can help.”

“Go home, eat, and rest up,” Emil re-iterates, undisturbed by your acerbic tone. The truck rumbles impatiently. “When you are ready, come find me.”

You deflate a little. “Find you where?” “Do you remember where old Vineyard Street is?”

“Of course I do!” You bite out, almost offended. It’s one of the main streets on the eastern side of town, leading from the river valley over the large hill and ending somewhere on the far outskirts of the metro area. It was renamed to Schweiner Street at the start of the occupation, like so many streets, but you never forgot.

“Then I’ll see you there!” He grins, hand on the door, slowly pulling it close. You jump back onto the ground.

“Wait!” You call out over the roaring engine sound. “Where on Vinyard Street?”

The longest fucking street in the city, half of it steeply uphill.

“You’ll know it when you see it!”

Fuck. As the trucks roll away, the energy leaves you, too. Dragging your heavy feet, you finally start getting ready to get home.

You’ll know when you see it? Fucking riddles are the last thing you need now.

***

It’s pitch dark when you finally reach the bottom of Vineyard Street. A warm shower, hot gruel, and fitful sleep strangely make for the best few hours you’ve had in weeks. Dressed in fresh clothes, hands buried deep in the pockets of your increasingly threadbare green wool coat, you keep your gaze down.

It’s chilly for a night in early May when the sun takes all the warmth with it as soon as it goes down. But you can smell the blooms in the air, and the first lilacs are dotting the streets in happy colors. There are no stars in the sky; only an occasional flicker of the moon peeks out between the heavy clouds rolling by.

It’s eerily quiet. The streets lights are off, and most buildings are dark. The whole city looks like this. As a precaution, you have been moving through side streets, keeping out of sight from patrols. Small groups of people are moving through the dark — you can’t tell if they are friend or foe, so you’re not staying around to find out.

There is a strange buzz in the air. It has you on edge.

Before leaving home, you emptied the old cardboard box you had wedged deep behind the heavy wooden armoire in your bedroom. It’s where you kept everything you never wanted anyone to find: the old fake identities, your gun, and Bradley’s identification bracelet. The cold metal of the gun presses uncomfortably against the small of your back.

Ironically, what feels even stranger is the foreign weight of Bradley’s bracelet on your wrist. You’ve never worn it before — it was always tucked in your pocket or twisted around your fingers. It feels odd as it’s a bit big on you, almost sagging down your hand. But more than anything, it feels right. There’s a reason you still have it; there’s a reason you put it on tonight. If anything, it makes you feel less alone as you make your way through the darkness, preparing for the battle ahead. The road ahead of you goes up at a steep angle. From your vantage point at the bottom of the hill, the street disappears into the darkness before you. It’s eerie, like you are looking at a ghost town. Not a single light is on as far as you can see, the buildings flanking the road looming.

You’ll know it when you see it.

As you trudge up the street, you can’t help but feel hesitant. See what? What are you on the lookout for? What if you miss it?

You hear the faint echo of voices. It stops you dead in your tracks, heart beating frantically. Hands sweaty, you can fumble open your coat, reaching back for the gun tucked in your waistband. Back flat against the wall, you edge up the street.

You can’t see over the top of the road, where it flattens out for about a block before it the way pitches up at a severe angle again. But the flicker of lights, reflected in the dark windows around you, catches your eye. Someone or something is just over the edge.

Holding your breath, afraid to make the smallest sound, you shuffle up the sidewalk. The light becomes brighter, growing from small sparks reflected in the dark windows, to a soft flickering glow cast on the walls. You hear the echo of whispers. It’s hard to pinpoint where they are coming from, the sound strangely, hauntingly, bouncing down the barren street. Craning your neck, trying to peer up, catch a glimpse of some movement at the top of the road. The closer you get, the more you expect to see over the bend, see where the voices and lights are coming from.

But there is just darkness. If it weren’t for the surrounding buildings, you’d be sure the way up was simply vanishing in never-ending darkness. Your hands are shaking, fingers gripping the gun tightly. The more you try to calm yourself down, the harder the tremors become. The strange sense of impending terror has been creeping up on you with every step, slowly completely devouring you, until your breath is stocking in your throat, your chest is tight, and your legs feel like they are filled with jello.

You can’t stop the small whimper escaping your lips. You have to keep going. Standing on an unlit street, by yourself, with a gun in your hand in the middle of the night, is bound to get you into trouble. You have to trust that you will find Emil.

Willing your legs forward, almost tripping as your ankle gives out as you put weight on it, but it doesn’t deter you. If anything, it makes you angry enough to keep going.

It’s only another minute before you reach the top of the road, and it’s like a bubble pops and you’re stepping into a completely different world.

The cobblestone street is dug up, the stones built high in three-line deep barricades — cars, trams, and furniture are haphazardly piled between the cobblestones. The whispers are clear now, yet as unintelligible as before — there is no one source of light, just flashes of lanterns between the barricades.

You are stunned. For sure, there is no way you could have missed that, but of all the things you were expecting to find — this, whatever this is, wasn’t it. Even after years of living under occupation, bombings, and soldiers marching down the street, Bradley; you feel wholly unprepared for walking into, well, a battlefield.

Aimlessly standing before the first barricade, eyes wide, you only belatedly notice you are starting down the barrel of a rifle perched just over the top of the pile of stones.

Shit.

“I - I,” The words barely make it out of your mouth between the shaky breaths. You put your hands up more by instinct than by rational purpose. Bradley’s bracelet is heavy on your wrist.

“Get down!” A voice hisses from behind the barricade. You practically fall to the ground, your knees buckling. Breaking your ungraceful movement downward with your hands, the gun you have been holding all this time clatters loudly against the stones. A few moments of silence pass before a hand, holding a burning cigarette between the fingers as the only source of light, beacons you with a simple wave.

“Stay low!” The voice hisses again. You scramble, clumsily cramming the gun in your coat pocket, before crawling on hands and knees to a lower spot in the barricade. Just when you start crawling over, someone grabs you by the arm and pulls you over forcefully. You yelp as you vault over the pile of rocks, landing on your elbow.

“I almost thought you wouldn’t make it, Anya,” Emil grins at you, a lit cigarette loosely hanging from his lips. His uniform still looks crisp but has a vague whiff of mothballs. Rubbing your elbow, you sit up, frowning.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” You deadpan, trying to save some of your dignity. Looking around, there are a lot more people than you anticipated. Now that you are inside the barricade, small groups of people are crouched down, huddled together. You realize that the flickering ghostly lights you have seen are matches lighting cigarettes.

Keeping low, you follow Emil to the far end of the barricade.

“Did you sleep before you came here?” He asks, shrugging the rifle off his shoulder and sitting down, leaning against the smooth wooden surface of a dinner table jammed into the barricade as structural support.

“A couple of hours,” You reply, still glancing around, trying to understand what is happening around you.

“Good,” Emil yawns as he hands you the rifle before making himself comfortable. “You’re on night watch.”

Hesitantly, you reach for the rifle. You notice Emil’s eyes flash towards your wrist as you grab it from him. A little bit too fast, you pull the rifle from his hands, covertly trying to pull the sleeve of your coat further over your wrist before he can ask.

You’ve done nothing wrong. You have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s your business and yours alone, you think tersely. So why are you so afraid of getting questioned?

Mercifully, Emil has already pulled his cap over his eyes.

Before you manage to settle, trying to find a comfortable spot while leaning into the high barricade, rifle aimed over the top, you hear soft snoring.

Peering into the darkness over the river valley, distressingly few lights spread throughout the city; these are the last moments of peace and quiet you will know for a long time. Before the sun comes up, someone comes to relieve you from the watch. Emil is still fast asleep. Handing the rifle on, you huddle beside Emil, burrowing in your coat.

You don’t feel tired at all, you think. You are wired with anticipation. This is it. This is the last stand.

Freedom or death.

Your body catches up before your brain does — you don’t know how long you have been asleep. It could have been a catnap or hours. Whatever it is, it wasn’t enough. Your eyes feel so heavy. So much so it’s a struggle to open them. You sigh tiredly. Around you, voices are chattering — you can’t really hear what they are saying, just the shape of words and sounds that reach your ears.

When you realize that you won’t fall asleep again, your brain finally starts up, and you become much more aware of your surroundings. There’s something heavy on your head, pulled over your eyes. Lazily shrugging it off, you blink heavily against the sun, still bleary-eyed.

“Anya, are you awake?” Emil materializes next to you, crouched down. He deftly picks up his cover from your lap, where it fell, neatly setting it on his head again. Did he put that on your head to shield your eyes from the morning sun?

As aloof as Emil always has been, awkward in friendly gestures, he is kind.

However, following Emil as a shadow is Jan. He’s hard to miss, but you didn’t notice him last night. You look at him pointedly, daring him to say something. He meets your gaze shortly before huffing and turning away. Emil doesn’t notice, or isn’t interested in noticing, as he unfolds a map in front of you.

The battle is beginning.

***

You are running. The ground is shaking under your feet; you’ve never felt something like it. Things you are pretty sure shouldn't move, like whole buildings, are quaking. The sound of the artillery shells tearing through stone and flesh is deafening, but somehow, your heavy breathing is louder than anything else in your head.

As a shell hits so close, you almost skid down the stairs you’re running up, as it turns the whole world into jello for a moment—the paper map of the city in your pocket crinkles as your hip collides with the wall. Between the explosions and screams, it’s such a mundane sound it sticks out. You clutch onto the railing for dear life.

Is it possible to be so scared you just stop being scared?

You are not sure if you’re feeling anything right now.

All you can think about is that you need to get to the roof. High up on the hill, you and several others were sent sprinting up the road, looking for an even higher vantage point to see where the guns are. You hesitate to really think why some doors to buildings are open: the windows smashed, the facades charred. The silence, the complete lack of human sound in the buildings, is far more chilling than the hellfire raining down on you.

It’s quiet now.

You wait for almost half a minute, frozen on the stairs you almost slipped down, hands still around the railing so tightly your knuckles have turned white. The explosions don’t return.

They may be recalculating their trajectory, picking new targets.

You scramble up, not even bothering to dust yourself off. Part of you wants to start running again to get to the top of the building as fast as possible. But your gut tells you to tiptoe, not betray your position.

Trust your gut.

It has gotten you this far.

Threading lightly in your heavy boots, holding your breath intermittently as you make your way up the next two flights of stairs. Outside, it’s still quiet; you can even hear the birds twitter in the trees again — it’s completely surreal.

But then you hear it. At first, so softly, you think you must be imagining it. There is no one here. But it sounds like a voice. Not like someone in conversation but someone dictating — flat inflection, clipped tones.

You tiptoe up the next flight of stairs. On the landing, you see one apartment door open. Someone is here — no one should be here. This is dangerous. Should you be scared? But try as you might, you can’t really recall the feeling: the icy grip on your heart, the knot in your stomach. Is it because you haven’t felt anything but fear in the past few days? Is it just part of you now?

You pull out your gun with a calmness you hardly thought you could possess in a moment like this. Carefully, you click the safety off. The soft click echoes through the hall, but the voice drones on undeterred.

Creeping past the entry door, the house you enter is in disarray. Whoever lived here fled — afraid of the Nazis feeling from the east, afraid of the Soviets following them or the Allies closing the pincer from the west. Who knows.

People spent the war in many ways. Someone was always going to lose. Those who chose to support the Nazi regime are already being rounded up—those who flee run west. The Americans are kinder captors than the Russians, they say.

A small twinge in your soul. Will the Allies beat the Red Army to Bohemia? Could it be that…

You bury the thought as you move deeper into the apartment.

Now is not the time for dreaming.

You hold the gun pointed at the ground — grip firm, not frantic. Breathing steady, not panicked.

The voice becomes louder. The door between you and the voice is slightly ajar, muffling the sound. It’s definitely a man’s voice. And he’s speaking… German?

You falter for a moment, coming to a standstill in the hallway.

What are you about to walk in on? A scout? A spy? A group left behind?

Holding your breath for a moment, you close your eyes. Focus.

You can only hear one voice — that much you are sure about. But as you listen, that is not what stands out. It’s that low buzz, the crackle of static. It’s a sound so etched into your mind you are almost surprised you didn’t hear it earlier.

You’re only hearing one voice because whoever is in there is relaying something through radio in German.

With the tip of your boot, you gently push the door open. The hinges whine softly. You slink through the opening.

It looks like a bomb went off in the sitting room. The floor is covered in books and broken glass. The windows are wide open, the curtains billowing into the room. And there, by the window, crouched between the chaos, is a figure dictating coordinates he is reading from a map.

Suddenly, it all makes sense, but you also don’t understand anything about what you see.

Glass breaks under your boot.

Jan turns around, eyes wide. Within a fraction of a second, his face turns red, like a kid that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

That moment might have been less than a second; it might have been ten. You don’t know. You can’t feel. You can’t think.

You just raise your arm, pointing your gun at his head.

Not a single tremor in your aim. Not a hitch in your breathing. You squeeze the trigger.

The recoil is the only thing you feel. Jan slumps against the wall, the radio still buzzing. Blood gushes from this head, quickly pooling around his lifeless body.

Methodically, like it’s just your physical form going through the motions, you simply brush past the body, turning off the radio and wrenching the Nazi map Jan had been holding.

Every barricade on the hill is marked on it. Jan had been calling in the positions of the uprising strongholds to the artillery battery on the other bank.

Your blood should run cold. You should be angry. One of your own.

Instead, you tear off the tricolor resistance armband off Jan’s arm. He’s not one of you. He will not be remembered as one of you.

When you return to the barricade Emil is commanding, he’s waiting for you already. Wordlessly, you hand him Jan’s map and armband. Emil doesn’t say anything — he just looks at you. At first, you think it’s with pity. When he claps his hand on your shoulder a little too forcefully, somewhat awkwardly, you realize it isn’t pity in his eyes. It’s sympathy.

Someone hands you tea in a chipped enamel mug. Sitting down on an upturned apple crate, the enamel too hot against your fingers, you catch sight of Bradley’s bracelet on your wrist. In just a few days, the weight has become so familiar, such a constant, you almost forgot it’s there.

Your stomach twists. It’s the first thing you’ve really felt in hours. Bradley was the first person you ever pointed a gun at. It’s very vivid in your mind how much your hands shook, how breathing in the icy mountain weather hurt your lungs, and how the terror coursed through every fiber of your body.

You felt so much, you felt so deeply then.

It’s strange. Alien. You know it happened to you but in a different lifetime. It’s like you’re fragmented. The you who was a student wasn’t the you who met Bradley. The you who said goodbye to Bradley wasn’t the you who sabotaged trucks. The you that has killed… you’re not even sure if there’s anything left of you, really.

In the hours and days to follow, you barely get the time to ponder the changes in yourself when the world is rapidly changing around you. A world born from flames and blood. The artillery batteries pound resistance positions and soon get support from the air. The high whine of Stukas, in broad daylight, rain bullets and incendiary bombs down on the city. The plumes of smoke obscure the sky. The smell of fire, burning houses, fabric… bodies, permeates.

When a breeze picks up, you think, you hope you can still smell lilacs. Just to assure yourself that the putrid smell of burnt rubber, scorched flesh, and hair has not settled in your nose permanently.

“Why aren’t the Allies coming to help?” A young man, his old uniform jacket dirty, sleeves slightly too short, peers out of the broken cellar window into the street as a sortie passes low overhead. Emil, after days of fighting, is not looking as crisp anymore — streaks of dirt cover his face, his uniform dusty, tired look in his eyes. “After all we’ve done -” The young man turns angrily. “Where is the RAF?”

You don’t bother looking up; instead, you inspect your dirty fingertips and broken nails. Idly, you wonder if your hands will ever be clean again. Mindlessly, you tug on your coat sleeve — the seam is fraying — gently brushing your calloused fingertips across Bradley’s nameplate. Every ridge and divot of his embossed name and the insignia are a comfort, a constant. Every time you remember to feel the weight on your wrist, your heart skips a beat — it’s still there, it’s still real. It’s your final tether to him. Your final tether to you.

“The weather over the channel still hasn’t cleared up,” Emil finally replies, voice monotone.

“And the Americans are stopped at the demarcation line in the west,” You add, closing your eyes and leaning your head back against the bare cellar wall. When you first heard that Patton’s army crossed the border and liberated the city of Pilsen, you were so sure it was only hours until they’d make it into Prague.

That was two days ago.

“And we are stuck here, in hellfire, no air support, and cut off from supply lines by an entire Army Group and the SS,” The young man spits. “We are left to die while the Red Army takes its sweet time — they skipped liberating us to get to Berlin first, and now we’re the last defense for every Nazi in Europe!”

“To fight is to die, soldier,” Emil intones mildly, in that same bored tone as he plays with his lighter. “You knew that, and yet you picked up a gun.”

Silence falls in the cellar. Outside, the explosions rumble, sending tremors through the ground. You are not scared of dying. If you ever were, then you can’t even really remember anymore. Fear, anger, happiness, you know what they are, you know you’ve felt them, but now it’s like a thick fog has taken its place. All you feel is kind of nauseous, tired, and the chill from the wall behind you.

Before you know it, you are back on your feet, clambering into a truck, tearing down the hill toward Resistance HQ in the old town. Someone dumps a glug of clear alcohol over your hands, in a vain attempt to clean them. You wince as you desperately wipe down your hands with a rag, the alcohol penetrating every crack and cut in your skin. There is no running water anymore. This will have to do.

The uprising is only a few days old, but the horrors you’ve witnessed are more than you have seen in the years of occupation. The carcasses of burned-out residential buildings barely stop smoking before a new salvo of artillery lands. Bodies — fighters, civilians, enemies, limbs — litter the street. Fireballs light up the night sky so brightly it almost looks like daytime in a terrifying, incredible display. The smell is unbelievable.

A jumped-up schoolgirl playing at war.

Maybe there was more truth in that than you’d like to admit.

However, you don’t have time to dwell on it as the truck finally comes to a violent halt. In the first few seconds, you barely recognize where you are. It’s like walking into a wasteland that was once the old town. You used to walk down this street every day, from the tram to class. The town hall, which was used as the HQ for the uprising, is… no there anymore. The air is thick with smoke and dust. The ground is strangely hot, and everything is cast in a strange orange glow from the surrounding fires.

Pulling a rag from your pocket, you tie it around your face. It does little against the smell, but it at least stops some dust and smoke from choking you completely. After that, you move on autopilot.

Save whom can be saved.

Note who didn’t make it.

Get out before the Luftwaffe returns.

Your heart is beating a mile a minute, adrenaline coursing through your veins. But you aren’t scared, focusing only on your task: pushing away rubble, helping victims up, trying to stop the bleeding on a too-deep leg wound, grunting in exertion as you push the stretcher with the man above your head so he can get pulled into the back to the truck—a flash.

You blink, disorientated. Colorful spots fill your vision.

Turning, you try to find the source of it in the chaos and the smoke. More flashes. Finally, your sight refocuses — someone is taking pictures. Through all the noise, you hear it clear as day.

“Let’s go; we need to get out of here.”

It’s an American.

Your feet start walking before your brain catches up. The man is walking quickly to another truck with a Red Cross. The Red Cross is here? Your breathing is rapid now. You need to talk to them. You have no idea what you will tell the photographer, but you need to speak to him.

You pick up your pace. The Red Cross photographer is disappearing quickly through the smoke.

“Wait!” You yell out, pulling the rag from your face. He is already climbing into the truck cabin. “Hey! Wait!” You yell louder, more desperately.

He looks over his shoulder, straight at you. It looks like the Red Cross photographer waits for you to catch up for a moment, but then he slams the truck door shut. You break out into a sprint, almost reaching the truck before it tears away.

“Fuck you!” You scream, tears suddenly stinging in your eyes. Breathing heavily, you stay behind, seething, on the torn-up street, watching the Red Cross truck disappear in the mess of the medieval maze of the old town.

The desperate anger is the first thing you have felt in days. It’s overwhelming. Suffocating.

Distracting.

It’s only when someone almost knocks you over as they run past you in a mad dash, it’s like you wake up from the wash of madness that had you rooted in place.

A high-pitched whistle pierces the air, closing in on you at frighting speed.

You run, scrambling over the broken pieces of stone, slipping over pools of blood.

Don’t look back.

The truck with the wounded is behind you.

Don’t look back.

You need to get out of here, find any place to hide.

Don’t look back.

It must be a mere second before impact now; the whistle of the bomb is so loud your eardrums scream along with it.

In a fatal moment, you turn your head.

A sea of flames melts the truck from sight. The pressure wave, so hot your mouth is drier than cotton on the first breath, is powerful it lifts your feet from the ground and carries you up like a feather in the wind.

“I’m flying,” Is all your brain manages to conjure up in the split second, almost with a sense of wonder and joy, before your body is flung against a wall. Crashing to the ground, you lose consciousness as fire rains down on you.

note | good news: war is almost over. bad news: everything else

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x female reader #rooster bradshaw #top gun maverick #rooster fanfic #rooster top gun #rooster x oc #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster x you #rooster x female reader #top gun fanfiction #bradley bradshaw imagine #rooster bradshaw x female reader #rooster bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x oc #rooster bradshaw x oc

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borathae · 2 years ago

Text

↳ Index [Chapter 04 - Backseats]

Pairing: Jungkook x Taehyung

Warnings: very graphic Smut, angsty Romance, hatred *wink wink*, cursing, angry sexual tension, sub!Jungkook, hard Dom!Taehyung, sadistic!Taehyung, masochist!Jungkook, Sir kink, car sex, size kink, they both have massive fucking cocks, frotting, major blood kink, using blood as lube (don’t actually do that irl), rough blood drinking, rough anal sex, rough edging, this just really rough yk, graphic dirty talk, degradation, degrading nicknames (bitchboy, slut, whore, fuckhole, cum dump), forced?stripping (he rips off his clothes), rough choking & breathplay, slapping, spanking, face fucking with fingers, drool & tears, Tae quite literally fucks Kook stupid, talks about fisting, mentions of voyerism, fang examination, creampies, biting, peeing from pleasure, Taehyung is a literal demon like wtf my dude, subdrop & regret, but the sweetest aftercare!!, cuddles, post-sex emotional talk, talks about lgbtq+ & vampire struggles, hints to grief & loss, descriptions of past torture, the bonding in this is chef's kiss

Wordcount: 13.7k

a/n: honestly i am 😶 i don't even know what to say other than bruh 😶 disclaimer: this is a work of fiction and does not portray their actual relationship.

Munich. That’s where your journey is taking you next. You left in the grey of the morning, sharing the cars Yoongi’s contact managed to deliver to you. Two black SUVs with their back windows tinted and enough space to house each of you comfortably. You shared the car with Yoongi and Jungkook, while the rest shared the other car.

The drive was quiet, except for the music you played on the radio. Jungkook took on the job as DJ and the songs he picked out were all very nice. He also filled the car with his singing, which you and Yoongi enjoyed greatly. If he wasn’t singing, he either looked out the window or chatted with you. After all, you and he had a lot of catching up to do.

He told you about his progress and you praised him for being so hardworking. He also told you about his guitar lessons with Yoongi and you made them promise you that they would play something for you very soon. While you told him about the progress with the estate to which he said that he can’t wait to see it. You also chatted about your shared time at the university to which both vampires said that they would never try again as the experience was less exciting than they thought it would be.

Upon arriving, you had just about enough time to check into your rooms before your schedule already dragged you out of the comfort of your temporary home again, to instead meet in the lobby. You were hungry, so Hoseok agreed on taking you out for late lunch to the hotel restaurant. Yoongi agreed to accompany Seokjin on his search for Emma as his contact in Munich didn’t have time today and he would have had free time either way. Which left Taehyung and Jungkook with the duty to follow a trail to a supposed meeting of Namjoon’s followers. Jungkook volunteered and somehow Taehyung wanted to come with him, which earned him a weird look from Jungkook.

They are taking one of the SUVs to the location. An abandoned soap factory a little outside of Munich with its windows boarded up and the gates chained up. Yoongi showed them a picture. Jungkook drives while Taehyung tells him the way. The drive was silent for the first third of it. Tension hangs in the air. It is heavy and thick.

“Do you listen to music?” Taehyung asks into the uncomfortable silence. The sound of his voice almost startled Jungkook. He was so used to the suffocating quiet.

“Yes”, he answers him dryly.

“Do you want to listen to music?”

“I guess.”

Taehyung turns the radio on.

“News”, he says.

“Change the channel.”

Taehyung does exactly that. The newest pop song is playing. They tuned in on it in the middle of its verse. The singer sings about breaking up with her boyfriend to get back with her ex. It’s a stupid song and neither vampire enjoys it. It’s better than radio news however. Or tense silence.

“That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, better than news."

“I agree”, Taehyung says, “you have to take the next turn left.”

“Mhm.”

Jungkook changes into the correct lane after looking over his shoulder. The red light stops them at the junction. There are three cars behind them and a small car is right next to them. They tower over it.

Jungkook stares at the light obsessively, while Taehyung glances at Jungkook. The latter feels his eyes on him with such intensity that he wants to scream. The tension between them feels suffocating to Jungkook.

“I think of what we did often”, Taehyung confesses.

Jungkook clenches his jaw, tightening his fingers on the steering wheel.

“I sometimes wish that our situation would have been different. That we did what we did because we wanted it to happen”, Taehyung says, running his eyes up and down the side of Jungkook’s face. The frown on it doesn’t confuse him.

“I have this fantasy with you”, he says.

“Keep it to yourself.”

Taehyung ignores him.

“I have this fantasy with you. That we were at a kink party instead of the prison cell and that you did what you did to me because we wanted to engage in kink with each other.”

The light switches to green. Jungkook drives off quickly, taking the turn with a certain kind of anger. Taehyung’s body sways from left to right because of it.

“You have to take the second right turn now.”

“Mhm.”

“And afterwards we would have fucked on the floor”, Taehyung continues, soaking the air with more and more heavy tension.

Jungkook shifts into fourth gear. Taehyung watches how his tattooed fingers close around the gearstick. He presses his legs together because of it. The view reminds him of what he did to him.

“Why did you refuse to fuck me when I offered? I was helpless, you could have taken me however you wanted to. You could have done so over and over again until I would have been reduced to nothing.”

Jungkook glances at Taehyung from the corner of his eyes. The explicit nature of Taehyung’s words flusters him.

“You could have ruined me. Why didn’t you?” Taehyung asks him.

“Because I didn’t want to fuck you.”

“You didn’t want to?”

Jungkook frowns. Taehyung follows his hand as he slips it back onto the steering wheel.

“I don’t want to”, Jungkook grumbles.

“Are you certain?”

“Very.”

“Truly?”

Jungkook stays quiet, taking the second turn right.

“You have to keep driving until the street ends. We should be there then.”

“Mhm.”

Taehyung lowers his phone to his lap, turning his knees to Jungkook.

“Do you know how to fuck?”

“Why should I tell you that?”

“Because I am trying to figure out why you didn’t take me.”

“You’re so fucking self-obsessed. Maybe I just didn’t want to be close to you.”

“So why did you kiss me?”

Jungkook grinds his teeth.

“Why did you suck my cock?”

Jungkook almost breaks the steering wheel.

“Those things are both very intimate.”

“They weren’t. I just wanted to show you what I could do.”

“So you wanted to show off?”

“No”, Jungkook hisses, “listen man. I did what I did because you deserved it. You needed to know how it is when someone forces you to lose control. What I did to you meant nothing to me.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“That’s your own fault then.”

Taehyung studies his face.

“Also, I know how to fuck.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I’m not a fucking idiot.”

“I never said that you were”, Taehyung scoots closer to Jungkook, making the latter shift nervously, “how good are you?”

“Very.”

Jungkook has no idea why he tells Taehyung such details about his life. And most importantly, why he lies. He and Taehyung both know that Jungkook can’t fuck people because of his curse. Jungkook still lies. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s pride. He doesn’t know.

“Do you take cock or do you give it?”

Jungkook shifts, glancing at Taehyung.

“Why should I tell you?”

“I wasn’t the one who continued to talk about it.”

Jungkook frowns, pressing his lips together just so he couldn’t talk again. He said too much. Stupid fucking competitiveness. Why does he always need to prove to anyone that he is the best at everything? Now Taehyung probably thinks that this was his invitation to fuck.

“You should have showed me back then”, Taehyung says.

“Keep dreaming”, Jungkook grumbles and turns off the engine, “we’re here”, he says, leaving the car. He slams the door on his way out.

Taehyung watches him stomp to the closed gate and then begin tugging at it. Taehyung enjoys today. He doesn’t feel as sad in Jungkook’s presence as he does on other occasions. The thrill of getting Jungkook to confess his attraction to him distracts Taehyung. Just like a good hunt does, it fills him with endorphins. That is why he volunteered to go with him. Because being with Jungkook distracts Taehyung from the fact that his best friend died.

Jungkook begins ripping at the thick chains which keep the gate locked. He seems to be struggling, which surprises Taehyung as he expected Jungkook to be able to rip through chains. A training Ripper of his age should be able to break chains. Taehyung’s eyes flit to the exposed tattoos on Jungkook’s arm. Unless those tattoos mean… Taehyung widens his eyes. Jungkook lost his arm as a human. That is why he is struggling. Because he still has a human arm.

Taehyung gets out of the car and hurries to Jungkook, feeling the need to help him.

“May I help you?” Taehyung asks Jungkook, resting his hand on his shoulder.

Jungkook shakes him off with a hiss.

“No. Piss off”, he hisses.

“Are you struggling?” Taehyung asks him, stepping closer again.

“No”, Jungkook growls and tugs harder. The chains don’t budge. Jungkook curses, dropping them, “it’s fucking useless, they’re rusted shut”, he spits, taking a step back and colliding with Taehyung’s chest.

“Careful”, Taehyung gasps, holding Jungkook’s waist.

“Fuck off”, Jungkook spits, writhing out of the touch, “why do you keep touching me?”

“I wasn’t. You ran into me.”

Jungkook studies Taehyung’s features with a frown. There is this desire to punch him deep inside his chest. Even deeper however, there is the desire to take him and press him against this gate to kiss him just so he would finally shut up. Jungkook hates that feeling.

“Fuck, let’s just leave. It’s useless trying”, he says in hopes of diffusing the tension.

“Let me”, Taehyung says, pushing him to the side. With one tug, the chains fall open, pooling by their feet, “done.”

“Tch. I could have done that too”, Jungkook says, looking to the side in embarrassment.

“And yet you didn’t”, Taehyung says, giving him a flirty grin, “that’s what I’m here for.”

Jungkook feels tingly in his stomach. Involuntary tingles, but tingles nonetheless. He forces them down, tries to ignore them, tightens his jaw.

“Fuck, you’re so annoying. I never should have jerked you off”, Jungkook murmurs and turns to leave.

Taehyung feels butterflies in his stomach. Jungkook addressed it. He initiated it. Oh, the game is getting more and more fun. Taehyung turns with a giggle, looking at Jungkook with a fluttering tummy.

Jungkook stops, opening the car door. He looks at Taehyung.

“What are you staring at? Are you coming or not?” he asks coldly.

“Drive without me. I am going to check it out”, Taehyung says and disappears, leaving Jungkook behind.

“Seriously?” Jungkook says, “fucking prick. Of course you wanna steal all the glory”, he mumbles and gets into the car to drive up the short road to the factory.

Jungkook knew that the situation between him and Taehyung would be awkward once they see each other again. Back when they left you at the motel so you could talk it out with Yoongi, they almost shared a kiss. Taehyung followed Jungkook all the way outside and pressed him against the car and till this day, Jungkook can’t get that moment out of his head. He hates how much he wanted to kiss Taehyung back then and how much he still craves his kiss. He hates it. Hates it so fucking much. He is supposed to loathe him, but he wants to kiss him. Jungkook is so angry at himself for feeling that way.

And now Taehyung is back and it seems that he wants to continue right where they left off. With Jungkook trying his hardest to deny his stupid attraction to him and Taehyung trying way too hard to break his composure.

Jungkook parks the car in front of the factory’s main doors, turning off the engine. The factory doors are ripped out of their hinges and he can hear yelling inside. Jungkook stays seated, staring at his own hands. He needs to think.

There were many nights where he replayed what they did in the prison. He does it right now too. Involuntarily, but still, it’s in his head which makes it too relevant. He repeats Taehyung’s moans and sighs, the way his cock sat in his fingers and how heavy it was on his tongue. Jungkook replays their shared kiss and the taste of the blood they shared. He replays it and fucking hates that he gets off to it. On most nights when those thoughts hit him, Jungkook looked for a distraction by letting Yoongi fuck him until he was dumb and brainless, but the distraction only helped for a little while. Jungkook was attracted to Taehyung ever since the night they shared. There was no denying that. And no amount of distraction could help him get rid of it.

Jungkook gets out of the car. He has to help Taehyung. If he wanted to or not. Taehyung was still part of the team and Jungkook shouldn’t slack on protecting his teammates. He closes his leather jacket and puts on his gloves. He needs to make sure his tattoos are covered. It could end badly for him otherwise. His thoughts are racing as he gets ready for the fight.

He should have known that something like sharing blood with Taehyung would establish a bond between them. It’s Jungkook after all and Jungkook doesn’t have enough control over his nature yet to distinguish between honest attraction and the attraction a blood bond forms. And right now the attraction they share feels way too goddamn real to him.

He slams the car door shut. Stupid Taehyung. Why did he have to tempt him so much? Jungkook stomps up the short path and enters the factory, squeaking in shock when a person collides with the wall next to him.

They turn into dust on impact, leaving Jungkook to cough and stumble away.

“What the hell is going on here?” he says, eyes flitting to Taehyung chasing after the last remaining vampire. The grounds are covered in dust. At least ten piles of them. Maybe even more. Jungkook can’t tell. The factory grounds are too dirty.

“Please don’t. Why are you doing this?!” the vampire screams as they flee.

Taehyung jumps and uses the momentum to rip off the vampire’s head. He lands skilfully, dropping the head of the vampire he just killed. Their body turns to dust within seconds.

“Stay dead”, he says coldly and wipes the blood off of his face.

This felt good. It felt better than last time. Last time left him out of control and in pain. This time around, he was in complete control and it felt healing to rip through Namjoon’s followers. One vampire at a time he will avenge Jimin’s death. Taehyung felt great killing if it meant that his best friend will be avenged.

Sharp pain shoots through his hand. Taehyung looks at it. His knuckles are bruised from breaking them on a vampire’s face. He moves his fingers, hissing in discomfort, “fractured.”

It will heal, so Taehyung doesn’t really care. He does care about his clothes however. A grey suit with a white button up. It was tailored to his figure. The fabric is soaked in black blood. Some of it is his own, most of it is the blood of the vampires he just murdered.

“This suit is ruined”, he murmurs, using his handkerchief to clean his chest even if it was beyond saving. “Oh, how terrible. I won’t ever get this clean again. How terribly annoying.”

“Ahem.”

Taehyung turns to Jungkook upon hearing him clear his throat. The young Ripper is staring at him in a mixture of disbelief, awe and disgust.

“Finally you are here”, Taehyung says, strutting to Jungkook, “I already took care of it.”

“I can see that. What the hell, man? What if they weren’t even Namjoon’s followers?”

“Trust me, they were”, Taehyung says, running his eyes up and down Jungkook’s body, “you look mad. I’m sorry, did you want to join in on the fun?”

“No, I’m actually-”, Jungkook pushes Taehyung to the side.

“Oh? Dear”, Taehyung gasps, grasping Jungkook’s arm for support. He feels disoriented for a moment until his eyes land on the unknown vampire jumping at them.

Jungkook stops him before he could latch himself onto Taehyung by grabbing him by his throat and slamming him down onto the ground.

“No wait. Wait. Wait, please. No. Plea-”, Jungkook rips out the vampire’s heart, silencing him for all eternity.

He exhales shakily, staring at the vampire’s face and watching as it turns to dust beneath him.

“Fuck”, he presses out. Killing doesn’t get easier. Yoongi always says that he shouldn’t feel bad if the person he killed was trying to harm him. That it was self defence and that he did what he needed to do to protect him and the group. But the killing doesn’t get easier. Jungkook still feels disgust at himself whenever he ends someone’s life.

He stands up, looking at his hands. They are shaking. He balls them to fists, trying to calm himself that way. It helps a little.

One deep breath. Another breath. One more because it helps. Then he turns, eyes locking onto Taehyung.

The older vampire is looking at him. Awe and gratefulness.

“Well, thank you. I must have missed him”, Taehyung says.

“I didn’t do it for you”, he hisses and then his eyes flit to the stake in Taehyung’s shoulder, “oh my god”, he gasps, hurrying back to Taehyung, “you’re hurt”, he says, tugging Taehyung closer by his waist.

“What? Ah!” Taehyung yelps, writhing in pain as Jungkook pulls out the stake. He didn’t even notice it. His adrenaline is way too high. He does feel the stake right now however, as Jungkook pulls it out of him with a strong arm around his waist.

“Careful, ah careful.”

“I’m already done. Quit whining”, Jungkook says, dropping the stake on the ground.

Taehyung hisses in discomfort, touching his own shoulder.

“I didn’t even notice it. He must have aimed for my heart, but missed when you pushed him away.”

“Probably.”

“Ah, it really aches.”

Jungkook rips Taehyung’s hand away to inspect the wound. Taehyung allows him with bated breath. Jungkook is still holding his waist.

“Do you feel splinters?” Jungkook asks, furrowing his brows in concentration.

“No.”

“You’ll heal.”

“Yes, lucky me”, Taehyung says, glancing down at Jungkook’s arm. Strong and protective. That’s how his touch feels. Taehyung places his hands on Jungkook’s chest, “thank you, Jungkook”, he whispers, bashful eyes flitting to his lips.

Jungkook gulps. Taehyung’s touch feels intense. He only realises now that he is holding his waist. What the hell is he doing here? He is holding Taehyung’s waist. What the fuck’s wrong with him?

He pulls away to escape whatever situation they were in.

“You’re so fucking annoying, stop trying to flirt with me”, he hisses, bumping shoulders with Taehyung as he runs away.

Taehyung however runs after Jungkook, catching up with him once they are outside.

“Hey”, he says, reaching for Jungkook’s wrist.

“Let go of me”, Jungkook hisses, shaking Taehyung’s hand off.

Taehyung circles Jungkook, studying the younger vampire from head to toe whilst walking backwards.

“What’s wrong?” he asks him.

Jungkook stops, pushing at Taehyung’s chest. It makes the latter take a step back before he catches himself again. He touches his own shoulder. The wound is almost healed, but the impact of Jungkook’s hands still made it sting.

“Stop acting like this. Stop acting like I’m into you”, Jungkook hisses.

“So you’re not?”

“No?” Jungkook laughs in disbelief, “you’re a freaking prick, I prefer nice guys.”

“I can be pretty nice too.”

“Yeah sure, keep dreaming.”

Taehyung steps closer, making Jungkook stumble back.

“Shall I show you how nice I can be?” Taehyung asks in a flirty rasp.

Jungkook pushes at Taehyung’s chest.

“Leave me alone. You’re so weird”, he spits with his voice pitched.

And with that he stomps off to the car.

But Taehyung isn’t having it. He runs after the younger vampire, rounding him in big steps until they are facing each other again.

“Fuck off”, Jungkook spits and turns so Taehyung was gone from his vision again.

Taehyung however follows.

“Why did you hold me that way?”

“Fuck off.”

“Is it because you wanted to protect me?”

“No. It was instinct.”

“Instinct? So you care for me enough protect me instinctively.”

“Stop twisting my words. I never said that.”

Taehyung steps closer. Jungkook stumbles away with his eyes glued to Taehyung’s lips.

“Go on, Kook. Say that you want me.”

“I want you to scurry off, that’s what I want.”

Another twirl. In perfect synch, almost as if the two men were in an angry dance of who can hold out longer. Jungkook, who is hellbent on believing his own lies. Or Taehyung, who is hellbent on pushing Jungkook’s buttons to the point of no return.

“Leave me alone.”

Another turn. Taehyung follows, keeping close to Jungkook.

“Go on Kook, tell me that you’re into me.”

“I’m not. I hate you.”

“You may hate me, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t want to fuck me.”

Another twirl. Taehyung seems to be closer than ever. Their lips are almost touching, their breaths are intermingling.

“Well, you’re wrong. I don’t wanna fuck you.”

“Of course not”, Taehyung smirks, grips Jungkook’s hips and presses the man against the car.

Jungkook gasps, fighting Taehyung’s grip by squirming, “you want to be fucked by me.”

Jungkook stops squirming, gawking at Taehyung with widened eyes.

“Mhm? Be honest Jungkook. You’re not thinking about fucking me. No, you are thinking about getting fucked by me. Hard and good.”

“N-no”, Jungkook stutters, blinking his eyes rapidly.

“I know what you’re into. I know you’re only getting off when someone fists your tight ass.”

“What the hell? How, how do you know that?”

“I listened.”

“What the fuck?”

“Trust me, standing in a cell gets rather boring. I had to find something to pass the time. Granted, listening to you scream like a whore wasn’t my first choice, but it’s better than silence.”

Jungkook convulses in Taehyung’s tight grasp in both disgust and excitement. He hates being exposed just as much as he loves it.

“You’re fucked up.”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“And I don’t fuck with people like you”, Jungkook tries.

“Now, now I’m pretty sure you do.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I know you”, Taehyung smiles menacingly, “I know the cravings people like you have. The bigger the better. Bigger and bigger because nothing truly fills you up how you would want it to.”

“So? Even if I do, what’s that got to do with you?”

“Have you seen my cock?” Taehyung asks and laughs tauntingly, “my real cock, I mean?”

Jungkook can’t stop himself from looking down. He heard about that, he heard about how some vampires can get their cocks to grow. His own does it too when he is too excited. He didn’t think that Normals could do it. But then.

Jungkook looks at Taehyung’s bloodied face. Strands of his dark hair are soaked in it too, hanging into his features messily.

Taehyung has never been normal. He may be vast of cursed blood in his veins, but he is just as twisted as any other Ripper Jungkook knows. Maybe he is even worse.

“Course I did”, Jungkook croaks, “or have you already forgotten who got you creaming yourself like a chained up loser?”

Jungkook thought that this would do the trick, but he was wrong. Taehyung loves it. Oh, he is living for this, laughing loudly whilst forcing Jungkook harder against the car with a thrust of his hips.

Jungkook stumbles, whimpering quietly.

“You’re amusing me, Kook”, Taehyung rasps, massaging his hips, “I want to tell you a secret.”

Jungkook gulps when Taehyung breaks the distance between their faces just so he can whispers against the shell of his ear.

“I want you like nothing else”, Taehyung confesses and moans, “you have been running through my mind ever since you played with my cock. I just can’t seem to get you out of my system.”

Jungkook swallows down a moan. Taehyung did what Jungkook hated doing. They both thought of it. And while Jungkook hated it, Taehyung loved it. He got off to him. Jungkook actually managed to be someone’s jerk off fantasy. Fuck.

Jungkook lets Taehyung take his hand and then place it on his crotch. He forces down the moan threatening to escape.

“Feel it?” Taehyung asks, “feel how you’re messing with my mind?”

His slacks are stretching around his massive bulge. Jungkook feels how Taehyung twitches as he begins rubbing his hand over it. His deep moan tickles his ear, sending a shiver down his spine.

“I’m so hard, Jungkook. So hard because of you.”

Jungkook falters for just a second. For just one second he touches Taehyung and then realisation washes over him. How he is pressed against a car and touching the cock of the one man he swore to never touch again.

“Fuck off”, he spits and tries to push Taehyung away.

“What’s wrong? Did you realise how good I get you too?”

“No? I realised what I was doing.”

Taehyung turns his head, forcing Jungkook to tilt his head back in order to escape his lips.

“And what were you doing, Jungkook?” Taehyung rasps, pulling Jungkook’s hand back on his hard cock.

The moan slipping from his lips taunts Jungkook just as much as it turns his knees weak. He can’t lie anymore. Taehyung is messing with his mind. Talks about big cocks and getting fucked by them was all it took. And now that he is actually feeling just how big Taehyung already is, his skin is prickling in arousal.

“I, I”, he stutters, forgetting everything he wanted to say. What was he going to say anyway? He can’t think, not when Taehyung’s cock is straining so much against his slacks.

He dares to look down.

“Fuck”, he presses out.

“See that?” Taehyung says, squeezing his cock with Jungkook’s hand, “that’s not even close to what I can actually give you.”

“I, I don’t…I…”, Jungkook falters, feeling his knees wobble. He keens quietly, making Taehyung chuckle.

“Open the door Jungkook and get inside. Or leave and I won’t address it again. The choice is all yours.”

Jungkook hates that he follows Taehyung’s order without hesitation. He hates that he gives in so easily. He hates that just seconds later he is sitting on the backseat of the car while Taehyung climbs on top of his lap and forces his head to tilt up.

“I knew it”, Taehyung says and cups his face.

The kiss they share is rough. Taehyung controls the tempo even if Jungkook tries to take the lead. He fails miserably, having to give Taehyung the win despite his mind hating every second of the loss. Fuck, he thinks, I’m so weak, it’s pathetic. And yet he grabs for Taehyung’s hips and despite that, he begins opening his belt and later pants.

It is not long and both vampires are missing their pants. Jungkook’s gloves are on the floor as well. Next to his leather jacket and Taehyung’s suit jacket. Their shirts are messy on their torso, tugged to peculiar places from the desperate groping they did.

Taehyung grabs Jungkook’s cock and presses it against his own. He begins jerking them off, doing so fast and calculated.

Jungkook gasps, grabbing the edge of the seat. He never did something like this before, let alone had someone make him hard that way. Jungkook is rather proud that he wasn’t hard yet, but the pride is of short avail because Taehyung is doing an incredible job at getting him to the point of having to throb. Not long and Jungkook can feel how his cock is growing bigger and bigger.

“Ah”, he lets out, fighting the urge to close his eyes. The touch is so good. Taehyung’s cock is big and hard, rubbing against his frenulum each time his big hand is around their tips.

“You feel it, don’t you? Feels fucking incredible, doesn’t it?” Taehyung taunts, watching in delight how the younger vampire is writhing underneath him. Their cocks look incredible now that they are frotting. Taehyung is quite impressed actually. Jungkook’s cock is bigger than he thought it would be. His fingers are long enough however, that holding both their massive cocks is an easy task for Taehyung. He loves it, speeding up to the point that Jungkook arches his back.

“Oh Kook”, Taehyung moans, throwing his head back, “I know, it feels incredible.”

Jungkook can’t stop staring. It feels good and he hates that it does, because that means that Taehyung has enough power over him to get to him. He shouldn’t be hard, he shouldn’t thrust into his touch, he shouldn’t feel so charged in pleasure. He should punch in Taehyung’s face and call him a cunt. But he can’t. He can’t because Taehyung is touching him so good that he doesn’t want it to stop.

Taehyung, who is watching Jungkook stare at their cock with eagerness, has to smirk.

“It’s fascinating isn’t it?” he rasps, “look at it”, he says.

He stops his touches, holding their cock by their base to compare sizes.

Jungkook gulps.

He knows that he was way over average himself, but fucking hell, next to Taehyung’s cock he looks so small.

“What do you think? Isn’t it so big?” Taehyung taunts, rolling his hips so his cock would glide up and down Jungkook’s shaft.

“Shit”, Jungkook presses out under his breath, gripping Taehyung’s hips.

“Mhm, feels good doesn’t it?” Taehyung sighs and begins jerking them off again. Fast and sloppy.

Jungkook has to groan, but swallows it down as best as possible. Taehyung may have gotten him to the point of whipping his cock out, but he won’t break him further. He won’t make sounds for him, not for him.

“I must say”, Taehyung is struggling with his speech, “I’m impressed. Your cock’s marvellous too. I’m sure people love getting fucked by it.”

“Shut up”, Jungkook growls in anger, “you know exactly that I can’t fuck people.”

“Aw poor baby”, Taehyung feigns pity, “worry not Kook. That’s what I’m here for. I’ll fuck you so good, you won’t even miss a human touch.”

“No, you won’t.”

Taehyung growls deeply and in one swift movement he has the entire position flipped. Jungkook couldn’t even blink and he is already on top of Taehyung’s lap while the older vampire is holding him down with a strong grip.

“You don’t get it, do you? I can smell how into this you are, I know you want me. I know you are aching for it, don’t lie to me even now you’re clenching like a little slut.”

Jungkook stops what he was doing, frowning at Taehyung while his cheeks feel on fire.

“Don’t stop now Kookie, just because I called you out on it”, Taehyung taunts, embarrassing Jungkook oh so much that he feels his entire body shudder.

“You’re a cunt”, he spits.

“No, I’m not. I’m your fucking epiphany.”

Taehyung has such a big ego. Fuck. Jungkook is tensing in both anger and arousal.

Taehyung forces his fangs to the light of day, digging them into his own wrist deeply.

He rips himself open, watching in delight as Jungkook gulps in surprise.

Blood gushes everywhere. Dark red, bordering black. It covers Taehyung’s torso and parts of his thighs. But most of all it runs down his big cock, snaking along his throbbing veins and soaking his dark pubes.

Jungkook gulps again, squeaking when a second later he gets dragged on top of Taehyung’s lap by the older vampire. It is moments like these which remind Jungkook that he was only able to do the things he did to Taehyung because of the chains which held him back. Taehyung was ten times older than him and now that his strength has returned, Jungkook knows that Taehyung is hellbent on showing him.

“A-aahngn”, Jungkook gets out then silence takes control of his voice.

Taehyung is sitting him down on his cock. Slow and using the slip of his blood as lube.

“So fucking tight”, Taehyung growls, holding Jungkook’s hips tightly.

The latter is squirming, trying to fight him off. Not because it hurts, no Jungkook is stretching his hole too regularly for that, but because Taehyung decided it for him. He decided that this right here would be Jungkook’s moment where he is once again reminded that he will always be a pretty hole to fuck. Nothing more. Just a good, little hole useless unless it’s for taking cock.

“Don’t fight me, Kook”, Taehyung orders, pressing Jungkook’s hips down until he bottoms out.

Jungkook peels his eyes open only to widen them. He gasps for air and widens his eyes even more. He squirms, but Taehyung pins him down.

He quite literally pins him down. Jungkook is being held hostage while his ass is stuffed with the biggest cock he ever took.

“I said don’t fight me”, Taehyung rasps, “you little bitchboy are going to stay and take it.”

Jungkook squirms because those words are working. They are fucking working and he hates it. He hates it so much because it excites him so much to be treated with such little respect. He shouldn’t be excited to be treated like this by Taehyung. He should be angry at Taehyung, not feel ecstatic to get his cock.

Taehyung begins moving, having to struggle fairly little in doing so despite being on the bottom. Jungkook’s body is nothing but a little speck of dust in his hands. He feels no strain from holding him. Jungkook might be strong and his body might be muscular, but Taehyung sees no difference in it.

He is here to show Jungkook who will always be stronger, who has the upper hand, who controls the tempo and whose body is going to crumble at the end of the night. He fucks hard and he fucks loud.

Jungkook is supposed to hear how their bodies connect. He is supposed to hear how his hole gets fed bloodied cock. He is supposed to hear whose blood makes that fuck so fucking good.

Taehyung’s hard thrusts force his head to fall back and then kind of tangle weakly. It was also the moment Jungkook finds his voice again. He uses his new power to wail in bliss.

“Yes, scream for me slut. You little, slutty bitchboy are supposed to scream for me”, Taehyung growls, keeping Jungkook’s hips still. They want to fuck back, but they aren’t allowed to. They are supposed to stay still and accept the fuck Taehyung gives them.

And it is brutal. Fast. Punishing.

The car is shaking and croaking. It probably looks terribly amusing from outside, but inside there was no reason to laugh.

Inside the smell of Taehyung’s hot blood was in the air and the lingering scent of past death made both their heads dizzy. The adrenaline of killing is running through their veins. The bond of blood gets stronger the deeper Taehyung fucks his blood into Jungkook. They’re closer to animals than humans right now.

Jungkook arches his back, throwing his head back even more. His mouth is agape, giving view to his fangs being free.

Jungkook stopped hating it. This is religious. The scents, the feeling of Taehyung’s punishing grip and the size of his cock. That fucking cock. That big, girthy cock which stretches him out so well that it feels as if he is being shaped anew. This is it, Jungkook thinks as he trembles, this is the closest he will get to know how it would feel like to get fucked stupid by a fist.

It may be a confusing thought to some, but to Jungkook it makes perfect sense. He knows that once Taehyung stopped using his body as a ragdoll and pulled out, his hole will be gaping. He also knows how it feels to have a fist up his ass. Not the closed one because that feels even more intense, but the slick one. The one that slips in easily and which allows way to the smooth thickness of a forearm.

Taehyung’s cock makes Jungkook feel the same.

He knows that it is also because Taehyung just forced himself into Jungkook without preparation and decided that getting fucked roughly was the preparation Jungkook deserved. He wouldn’t feel that fucking thick if Jungkook had a few minutes of preparation beforehand.

Jungkook doesn’t mind. Big things up his ass don’t hurt these days. They just excite him.

And they make him feel like the biggest slut in history.

“You’re moaning so much”, Taehyung taunts, “you’re literally such a whore. Listen to you, you sound like a whore.”

Jungkook moans louder and nods his head. Yes he is a whore. He is nothing but a whore.

“I knew it. I knew you’re nothing but a fuckhole acting strong. Admit it Jungkook, the only reason you did what you did was because I was tied up.”

The clench Jungkook does around Taehyung’s cock is all the answer he needed.

“Of course, you know it too. You know that in any other situation, I would have had bend you over the next best surface and fucked you into obedience.”

Jungkook gurgles, arching his back in a sensual movement. He tries to fuck back, but Taehyung holds him down. Jungkook is truly nothing more than his sexdoll. And Jungkook loves that thought. He loves it too much.

Taehyung hooks his hand in the front of Jungkook’s shirt and rips it open. Jungkook’s torso is on full display and his secret of just how hard his nipples became from getting fucked is revealed.

“There we go, now you’re looking the part. Naked like a whore.”

He slaps Jungkook’s nipple as he speaks, grabbing his throat afterwards. With one harsh tug he forces Jungkook’s head to bounce to the front.

Jungkook gurgles out moans, fighting for air.

“Remember when you tried to do that to me, mhm?” Taehyung taunts, keeping an iron grip around his throat, “it told me everything I needed to know. It told me just how ill-fitted you are for taking the lead.”

Jungkook stares at Taehyung with half-lidded eyes and his lips parted in squeaky gasps.

“That’s how you steal someone’s breath, Kookie. So next time you want to act a role too big for you, play it right.”

Jungkook begins squirming. He is going to pass out. This is actually going to make him black out. Taehyung controls his air and there is none in his lungs.

Taehyung watches in delight as Jungkook’s cheeks become pink in too little oxygen and how his eyes become all big and glassy. He basks in how tight his hole becomes around his massive cock now that Jungkook is fighting him in panic. And he fucks him harder, showing off his long fangs in a maniac smirk all while his hand closes around Jungkook’s throat tighter, turning Jungkook’s voice into gags and squeaks.

“That’s how you do it, Kookie”, the taunts.

Jungkook squeaks, trembling in panic.

Taehyung releases Jungkook’s throat then, holding Jungkook’s hips because he knows the next few seconds will be bumpy. And he was right. Jungkook is squirming and shaking in his fight for air, clawing at Taehyung’s chest while his moans turn into coughs and gags. He rips his shirt open, but Taehyung doesn’t care. On the contrary, he is loving it.

“That’s how you do it Kookie. You’ll get them to believe that they’re about to die and only then you release them.”

Jungkook cries silently, “you’re, you’re so fucked up”, he croaks, holding onto Taehyung’s shoulders.

“I know and you’re a whore. So where’s the difference?” Taehyung taunts and picks up intensity. His cock is producing enough slick to make it possible.

“Hngn”, Jungkook presses out and drops his head, twisting his fingers in Taehyung’s hair while his forehead rests against his chest.

“Sit up”, Taehyung barks, tugging him up by his hair.

Slap.

Right across Jungkook’s face.

Slap.

And again. Hard enough to redden his skin.

Jungkook is squirming, gasping for air.

Slap.

“You’re supposed to look at me.”

Slap.

“Think you can get out of that easily? Of course not, you’re my fucking whore and I want my whores to look me into my eyes as I fuck them”, Taehyung growls, grabbing Jungkook’s face. He squeezes it, forces his cheeks to puff out and for his lips to pout.

Jungkook just looks kind of out of it, soiling Taehyung’s fingertips with his tears and sweat while barely keeping his head up right.

“I want to see your sweet little face light up in bliss when you realise that”, Taehyung tugs Jungkook closer, “I’m only fucking you like this because I deemed your ass worthy”, he whispers with poison in his voice.

Jungkook mewls, grasping for Taehyung’s face to kiss him.

One kiss. It is sloppy and more licking than anything. One kiss and then Taehyung tugs Jungkook away.

“Don’t kiss me”, he growls, shaking his head with a harsh grip on his hair. His hips speed up, forcing Jungkook’s body to tremble in not only bliss but also as a result of the intensity.

“Did I give you permission, mhm? Did I give you permission to put your slutty mouth on mine?” Taehyung asks, staring Jungkook right into his glassy eyes. He shakes Jungkook’s head for him, making the younger vampire mewl at the sensation, “no Sir, no you didn’t”, Taehyung speaks for Jungkook, mimicking his voice.

And Jungkook feels dumb. He feels so incredibly dumb. Not because Taehyung makes him feel that way. But because at this moment he can’t think. Holy fuck, he’s never been treated like such shit during a scene and it’s driving him so insane that he feels dumb in bliss.

“No, Jungkook?” Taehyung makes sure.

He shakes Jungkook’s head again.

“Mhm? What was that? Speak up.”

“No”, Jungkook croaks, “no Sir, you didn’t.”

Taehyung smirks darkly.

“And what are we saying now?”

Jungkook mewls and gurgles.

“I’m sorry Sir”, Taehyung mimics Jungkook’s voice again, grabbing the latter’s chin tightly.

“I’m…I’m sorry Sir”, Jungkook presses out.

“Good”, Taehyung praises and decides to push three of his fingers into Jungkook’s mouth.

With his eyes widening and his body convulsing, Jungkook accepts the feed. His eyes are focused on Taehyung’s, trying to find a reason but finding none. His instinct is to suck, but he gets very quickly denied when Taehyung begins fucking them in an out of him in time with his hips.

Jungkook’s eyes roll back and close. His big cock throbs, hitting his own stomach.

“See? That’s what you’re good for. Getting spit roasted like the good fuckdoll you are. That feels good doesn’t it, Kook? It feels good to know that your holes are getting fucked the way they deserve to be fucked.”

Jungkook can’t even deny it. He just makes dumb sounds and drools all over Taehyung’s fingers. It runs out of his mouth and down his chin, dripping onto Taehyung’s chest.

“I’ve always loved you guys. You Ripper just know how to make a mess of yourselves”, Taehyung rasps, watching in delight as Jungkook drools with his eyes all rolled back and his ass making the sluttiest of sounds. And all while Taehyung basks in Jungkook making a mess of his hand, his hips are drilling into him. More of his slick has joined his blood, making the slip oh so much easier. He also feels that Jungkook lost some of his tightness. He finds it beyond amusing just how easily the young vampire loosens up. A slut. Just as Taehyung thought. Jungkook is such a slut.

Taehyung slips his fingers free and holds them over his own mouth, letting Jungkook’s drool drip from his fingers right on top of his tongue.

Jungkook swears he has to drool even more at the view.

“Fuck”, Taehyung moans deliciously, curling his lips back in a drugged up smile, “I can taste the fucking acid.”

One swift movement and Taehyung has Jungkook’s face in a tight grasp, forcing his fingers into his mouth to tug his lips back and expose Jungkook’s massive fangs. Jungkook can’t fight it, just as he can’t fight his fangs squirting acid as Taehyung finds his glands and presses down hard.

It spills everywhere, golden and with fiery intensity in it. Taehyung’s chest is covered in it, as is Jungkook’s. It burns and Jungkook wonders if it burns Taehyung as well. He watches him with widened eyes and his nails trying to dig for support on Taehyung’s shoulders.

“I have always loved that you guys can do that”, Taehyung lulls and presses down again.

“Ahngn”, Jungkook feels his eyes roll back as the feeling of his fangs releasing the built-up acid courses through him. It feels so good. Jungkook’s head was pounding because of it and Taehyung helped him find relief.

“That feels good doesn’t it?” Taehyung taunts, massaging Jungkook’s gums, “I can imagine just how much pressure builds up in your head. To have so much acid but no fresh body to pump it into. It must feel like hell.”

Jungkook is rewriting his definition of Taehyung right this moment. He is fucked up. Way more fucked up and twisted than he ever thought he could be. And it turns him on. It makes him literally shake, because Taehyung gives him an opportunity to feel like the animal he is supposed to be.

Jungkook convulses, releasing the last wave of his acid all over Taehyung’s torso. He feels it on his cock as well. The burn digs deep, oh so deep that Jungkook has to open his eyes and wiggle in discomfort.

“There we go. That’s better”, Taehyung pretends to be caring, but his voice drips in mania. And Jungkook wonders if Taehyung is immune to the pain. His once ivory chest is covered in red burn marks and yet Taehyung shows no ounce of discomfort. On the contrary, his cock is filling up Jungkook with such grandiosity that he fears having to rip apart.

“Oh? Oh dear, it’s all over your cock”, Taehyung feigns concern, “that must burn.”

He wraps his spit slickened fingers around Jungkook’s throbbing cock and begins jerking him off.

“Aah!” Jungkook convulses, throwing his head back, “ah! Ah! Ah god!”

“I know it hurts. Don’t worry Kook, you’ll heal soon. Just a few more seconds, I know you can do it.”

Jungkook sobs, scratching down Taehyung’s burned chest. It fuels the latter. His hips punish him while his hand squeezes around Jungkook’s cock.

“A-ng-ah ngng ah, ah”, Jungkook gets out.

“There we go. Look at you. That’s better isn’t it?” Taehyung speaks softly, rolling his hand around Jungkook’s leaking tip.

“I’m c-cum-cumming”, the younger vampire squeezes out, convulsing around Taehyung’s thick cock.

“You are such a slut!” Taehyung exclaims and laughs, “you’re cumming? I don’t think so.”

He not only lets go of Jungkook’s cock but also lifts him off his lap.

Jungkook mewls, convulsing in Taehyung’s hands. He fucking breaks into a million tears. It hurts so much to be denied.

“Please”, he wails, writhing in Taehyung’s hands, “please, please, please.”

“Huh? Did you say something?” Taehyung taunts, shaking Jungkook’s nimble body.

“Please Sir”, Jungkook croaks, opening his eyes. He spills tears instantly with his lower lip trembling, “please Sir, please Sir, please Sir”, he chants, barely getting the words out.

Taehyung smiles in amusement.

“There we go“, he says, sitting him back down on his massive cock.

Jungkook stretches around him, taking him with a gurgled out moan.

“Thank you Sir”, he croaks and begins moving all on his own. It is clumsy and fast. This is a man so dumb by getting railed that his only instinct is to fuck, “thank you, holy fuck, thank you. Sir! Sir! Thank you Sir!”

“Fucking shit, Kook”, Taehyung twists Jungkook’s hair roughly, “you sound incredible like this”, he spits and finally lifts his hips to meet Jungkook’s rhythm.

It makes the younger vampire wail up and fall against Taehyung. He sobs miserably, barely fucking back because of how much he trembles.

“Weak bitch”, Taehyung spits, grabbing his hips to fully take over, “you can’t even fuck yourself properly.”

“Please”, Jungkook wails, “please, please, please.”

“Please what?”

“Cum. Please Sir”, Jungkook croaks and sobs, convulsing in a painful shake.

“Fuck, you slut. Fine. Cum for me”, Taehyung orders angrily, spanking his ass with so much force that the sound is almost deafening.

The scream Jungkook lets out as he finally cums overshadows it. Taehyung feels pain in his neck and he knows it is because Jungkook in his trance is digging his fangs into him. Jungkook shoots acid into his body, Taehyung feels the incredible pain rush through his veins. He laughs and tilts his head back.

“Yes, fuck”, he growls, letting the tight knot in his stomach burst.

Jungkook’s fangs dig deeper upon tasting Taehyung’s high in his blood, his entire body freezes up, becoming victim to Taehyung’s forceful thrusts while his hole is turned into nothing but his cum dump. And he feels sacrilegious, hoping that the feeling of being pumped full of hot cum never stops.

But it does stop. It stops once Taehyung fucked Jungkook’s overstimulated and creamed hole to the point where the trembling vampire is peeing himself because he possibly couldn’t cum any more. And then, only then he finally begins begging, clawing at Taehyung’s shoulders. Their bodies are ruined by Taehyung’s blood. Jungkook actually feels sick to the stomach from how much he drank. He can’t move because of his nature, but wants to.

“Please stop, no more, please”, he begs, gagging from being too stimulated.

“I thought you’d never beg”, Taehyung spits and drops Jungkook’s limb body, “fuck, you’re such a good fucktoy”, he praises, keeping Jungkook atop his recovering cock and hugging his waist against his stomach.

Jungkook falls, drops, collides. He can’t do anything against how hard he collapses against Taehyung. He is frozen up and weakened and can’t do anything except sit on Taehyung’s cock and think.

“That was incredible”, Taehyung rasps. He takes deep breaths, calming himself down that way.

And while Taehyung is basking in the afterglow, Jungkook feels empty. His brain is clearing and that means he has to face the reality. He gave himself in such a vulnerable, embarrassing state to the one man he swore to hate. He is so embarrassed. Now Taehyung knows how weak he is. Because Jungkook was so blinded by his animalistic needs, he exposed himself as a weak, little man. Taehyung will never take him seriously again. Jungkook decided his fate. He will be nothing more than a willing fuckhole for Taehyung from now on and that thought ruins him.

He is embarrassed, hates himself so much. He spills silent tears and wishes for time to turn back.

“Good boy”, Taehyung speaks softly, pulling Jungkook back to reality with a gentle touch to his back.

“W-what?”

“You were such a good boy. You took me so well.”

Jungkook lifts his head, staring at Taehyung in disbelief. What did he just call him? Good boy? Taehyung called him a good boy. No taunting words, but praise. Jungkook doesn’t understand. Why is he so nice to him? Jungkook doesn’t understand and he cries because of it.

“Now now, don’t cry”, Taehyung speaks in a soothing voice, cupping Jungkook’s face to wipe his tears away, “are you hurting? Should I pull out?”

Jungkook whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut with trembling lips.

“Okay, I will. Hold onto me, I’ll pull out”, Taehyung soothes him, lifting him off his cock. Jungkook cringes at how much cum spills out of him. This is it. The proof of what he did. He is marked as a dirty cum dump for all eternity.

“God, it’s everywhere”, Taehyung laughs, sitting Jungkook’s weak body atop his lap, “I apologise for orgasming so much. Gosh, you’ll leak for hours. I’m so sorry”, he says and giggles, pulling Jungkook in to kiss his cheek.

Jungkook flinches back, opening his eyes. He feels so confused. What is happening? Why is Taehyung not making fun of him?

“What is the matter?” Taehyung asks.

“Why are you not making fun of me?”

“Fun? For what?” Taehyung laughs in disbelief, furrowing his brows.

“For, for what I did.”

“Why should I? You were so good”, Taehyung says until suddenly his face lights up in realisation, “do you truly think me that cruel that I would make fun of you because of how much you enjoyed what we did?”

Jungkook feels too embarrassed to answer. Instead he spills silent tears and feels his lower lip begin to tremble.

“Wow”, Taehyung lets out an offended chuckle, “it hurts me that you truly think that lowly of me.”

Jungkook lowers his head.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll just have to convince you”, Taehyung says and then pulls Jungkook against his chest in a soothing hug. He runs his fingers through his hair, drawing circles on his back.

“I know how you feel Jungkook. I had…someone…in my life not that long ago, who fucked me to put me back in my place and on many nights I felt so dirty and worthless afterwards while my spirit laid broken and in those moments I regretted ever consenting to what he did.”

Jungkook listens intently.

“And the worst part was that I still gave myself to him the next time he asked. Even if I knew how awful I would feel afterwards, I still gave myself to him the next evening and the next evening and the evening after that. And I let him fuck me until I was crying and then afterwards I laid still and regretted ever being so vocal or climaxing or enjoying it.”

Jungkook sees a lot of himself in Taehyung. He feels like that too right now. Just a little bit at least, because Taehyung’s hug keeps him safe from all those really painful thoughts.

“But I don’t want you to feel that way. You are not worthless”, Taehyung whispers, soothing through Jungkook’s hair, “and I don’t see you any less because of what you did. On the contrary, allowing another person to fuck you so roughly takes a lot of courage. I’m so impressed by you.”

Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling so shakily that Taehyung tightens the hug.

“You got fucked too?” Jungkook is quiet in the way he asks the question.

“Yes I did. I still do. Jungkook dear, there is no shame in getting fucked. Why are you even asking this question?”

“I don’t know, I just…” he exhales shakily, “…I don’t know.”

“Okay, I can see that you don’t want to tell me and that is fine. Just lean on me and I’ll hold you.”

Jungkook feels so tense. He knows that he should relax, but he can’t. Well, he could, but he doesn’t know if he finds it in himself to allow his body to relax.

“Why did you even fuck me if not to show me just how much weaker I am?” he asks in a whisper and for just a second he thinks that Taehyung didn’t even hear him. He feels relieved that he didn’t, until Taehyung inhales in a way that lets him know he will answer him. Jungkook begins feeling anxious then.

“Because I’m attracted to you”, Taehyung says, “and I wanted to fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked. Good and rough. And honest for once without you having to hold back on your feral side.”

Jungkook lifts his head, locking eyes with Taehyung. So that is why he pressed down on his acid glands and why he allowed him to bite so deep and feast on his blood until his tummy ached. Because he wanted Jungkook to be able to let go without control. Jungkook feels both grateful and scared.

“But all the stuff you said”, Jungkook whispers.

“Was because I listened in too many times to know that you get off on degradation. Come now Jungkook, do you truly think I feel that way about you?”

Jungkook nods his head.

“Well, I don’t. I think you to be quite sweet actually.”

“You do? Why?”

“Your eyes”, Taehyung whispers, running his thumb under Jungkook’s left eye softly, “they carry no evil in them. I could stare at them forever.”

Jungkook has to look away, lower his gaze.

Taehyung kisses his lips, making him gasp and flinch back.

Their eyes meet solely because Jungkook was so shocked that he needed to look at Taehyung.

“May I take you out?” Taehyung asks, “I’ll take you back to the hotel, we’ll clean up and then I’ll take you out.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to change your mind about me.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“So? We can change that over some coffee and conversation.”

Jungkook turns his head away, looking outside. It is raining. He didn’t even hear when it started. It is pouring down on the world, letting a wild stream of water run down the car windows. The edges of the windows were already fogged up, blurring out the world beyond the closed doors.

“It’s raining.”

Taehyung checks for himself.

“It is”, he says and chuckles, “I didn’t even hear when it started.”

Jungkook glances at Taehyung.

“Yeah, neither did I.”

Taehyung sneaks a look at Jungkook, locking eyes with him. He smiles, caressing Jungkook’s hips.

Jungkook wants to retort it, but doesn’t really dare.

“I always loved the rain”, Taehyung says, cupping Jungkook’s cheek, “especially in a car. The sound is so relaxing.”

Jungkook turns his head away, slipping out of Taehyung’s grasp.

“The others will look for us soon.”

“No they won’t. They are too busy.”

Jungkook sneaks a glance at Taehyung again.

“Come, let me take you out. I’ll pay and we’ll watch the rain somewhere.”

Jungkook lowers his eyes.

“Fuck”, he presses out, “fine, you won’t take no as an answer either way.”

And so it happens that Taehyung drives Jungkook back to the hotel with his hand on his thigh while Jungkook napped to recover from the fuck. And so it happens that the two men wash up and then later Taehyung drives Jungkook through town. They get cups of hot beverages. Jungkook gets coffee while Taehyung orders tea. And they get bagels too and after some driving around, they park the car by the river and watch the rain from the backseat.

Jungkook didn’t say a lot during that time, mostly because he felt too awkward to try. Taehyung looked at him a few times, but didn’t speak a lot either.

They sit on the backseat of the car by now, sharing their already cooled down drinks. Taehyung has his shoes off, resting his feet on the seat. Jungkook is pressed into the furthest corner, right against the door. He has his shoes on and stares outside with his head resting against the window.

He flinches when Taehyung stubs him with his foot.

One look to his left and he realises that Taehyung is staring.

“Why are you not talking?” he asks.

“Why aren’t you?”

“I have no idea, maybe I’m a little nervous”, Taehyung confesses and chuckles.

Jungkook furrows his brows in confusion.

“You still think me to be an evil cunt. I’m scared to start with the wrong thing.”

“Maybe start with an apology”, Jungkook murmurs.

“An apology?”

“Yeah. For all you did to me.”

“I didn’t do anything to you.”

“Yeah you did. You let them torture me and ___.”

“You know that I had no choice but to.”

“We always have a choice. You just chose the easier route.”

Taehyung stays silent. Jungkook sends him a dark look and turns away.

“Namjoon likes peeling off fingernails”, Taehyung breaks the silence.

Jungkook glances at him in confusion.

“He said that it is satisfying to watch the skin tear off the nail and that he especially likes the moment where he can pull out the root.”

Jungkook pulls a grimace of disgust.

“I know because he showed me how he does it the night they failed to kill ___.”

“What the fuck? What happened to the person? We have to make sure they’re okay.”

“He’s sitting in the car with you.”

Jungkook closes his mouth, gawking at him with widened eyes.

“He said that he likes doing it with me because of how quickly I heal, so he has infinite fun.”

“This is…”

“I didn’t choose the easier route, Jungkook. I chose the route which ripped me apart inside, but which assured my safety. You met Namjoon on a nice day, believe me. He could have done things far worse to you than just force feed you blood.”

Jungkook looks at his own lap. His thumbs have managed to rip parts of the cup. Just on the part where the plastic top meets the paper cup. The paper is curled and ripped in from all the fumbling he has been doing.

“I’m sorry”, Jungkook whispers, “I didn’t know that he treated you like this. I thought you were friends with him.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

Taehyung stubs his foot against Jungkook’s thigh again.

“I’m sorry too. I know that the right thing would have been to safe you and ___, but I didn’t. I didn’t because I was scared of Namjoon and, and Jim…” Taehyung looks into Jungkook’s eyes, “I truly regret that I couldn’t keep you safe.”

Jungkook wanted this apology for months. Oh how many nights he spent imagining how it must feel like to have Taehyung apologise to him. And now he finally has it. Jungkook can hear the honesty in Taehyung’s voice and smell the guilt in his scent. But it doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would feel. He imagined himself to bubble in triumph and to use the opportunity to gloat over Taehyung, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to gloat and he doesn’t feel as if he won some silly battle. He feels relief because he can finally look at Taehyung as an equal person and not as someone in front of whom he needed to put up a strong front.

“It’s okay”, he hears himself say, “we’re still here, aren’t we? You did what was best for yourself. I think I would have done the same if I knew that the consequences were Namjoon and his fucked up mind.”

“Are you truthful?” Taehyung gasps, “do you truly understand me?”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Oh Jungkook”, Taehyung lets out a relieved laugh, stumbling to his knees. He closes the distance between him and Jungkook, placing his hand on Jungkook’s thigh.

Jungkook looks at it, then at Taehyung’s face. The touch feels warm and strong.

Taehyung carries tears in his eyes, but relief on his features.

“Thank you”, he says.

“Mhm”, Jungkook lets out, giving him a small tooth-less smile, “was Namjoon the someone who fucked you?”

“No, I never fucked him.”

“Who was it then?”

Taehyung looks at Jungkook with great sadness in his eyes. He lets out a painful laugh and looks the side.

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t see him anymore.”

“I’m happy for you. I’m sure that must have been a relief.”

Taehyung clasps his thigh so tightly, Jungkook wonders if he wanted it to crush it. He eyes his hand then Taehyung’s sadness stricken face.

“I don’t know”, he whispers, eyes racing between nothing.

Taehyung takes a deep breath and laughs, rubbing his hand over his eyes. Then he looks at Jungkook with a smile.

“Let’s not talk about this anymore. Shall we hold each other?”

“Huh?”

“Come”, Taehyung scoots closer to Jungkook, “let’s hold each other for a while.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Just so.”

Jungkook eyes Taehyung with a cocked up brow.

“I don’t know”, Jungkook mumbles.

Taehyung’s smile grows. He reaches out for Jungkook.

“Please”, the word is so quiet in the silence that Jungkook almost missed it.

Jungkook studies the sad desperation deep in Taehyung’s eyes and he wonders if the request to be held carries far deeper meaning behind it than Taehyung may want to show.

“Fine”, Jungkook gives in. He leans down to undo his shoelaces and slips out of his shoes, then he pulls his feet on the seat, tensing up when Taehyung claims the emptiness between his legs and rests his cheek on his chest.

Jungkook watches with a clenched jaw as Taehyung closes his eyes and places his hand on his chest. He wonders why Taehyung is acting that way.

“Tell me something about you”, Taehyung says.

“I don’t know what I should tell.”

“Okay, then let me think of questions”, Taehyung says and for quite some time he is silent.

He traces Jungkook’s pec in the silence they share. He also touches his side and dares to dance his fingertips over his arm.

Jungkook lets it happen with so much confusion in his stomach. The touches feel nice. They are the type of innocent skinship he hasn’t felt in ages and it confuses him because it is Taehyung who gives it to him and he truly thought that he would be the last person to do such a thing.

“Do your tattoos have meaning?” Taehyung asks then.

“Yeah, some of them.”

“Did you get them before or after turning?”

“After.”

“So that means that you lost your arm, doesn’t it?”

Jungkook hesitates. There is still a part of him which is scared to admit that fact to Taehyung.

“Yes”, he whispers in the end.

“I see. I’m sorry, that must be really painful to live with.”

Jungkook feels tension in his chest upon being understood.

“I guess”, he says quietly.

“I understand. I’ll try to stay on your right side from now on.”

“Why?”

“So people can’t hurt you.”

“Oh.”

Taehyung glances at Jungkook.

“Tell me something else.”

“I don’t know what you want to know.”

“I’ll think of more questions”, Taehyung says and falls silent.

And as Taehyung thinks of what to ask, Jungkook tries to calm down his racing thoughts. Taehyung is going to look out for him now. He didn’t laugh at him like Jungkook thought he would, instead he is willing to keep his weak side protected. Jungkook feels deeply moved by the gesture. Moved, but also very confused.

“Did you always know you liked men too?” Taehyung asks then.

“Huh? That’s your question?”

Taehyung nods his head, looking up at Jungkook.

“I don’t…know? I don’t think I did. I was really happy with a woman before I became a vampire.”

“I see. I always knew”, Taehyung says, “as a matter of fact, I believed myself to be gay for the longest time until I had sex with a woman. Then I believed myself to be straight.”

“You did?”

He nods his head, “that was during a time where it was safer to sleep with women than it was with men. Not that they could have actually killed me, but you know, I was still scared because at this time I didn’t know if I would wake up again if somebody killed me and I didn’t want to die.”

“When did you die your first death?”

“I think it was 1343. A farmer killed me with a pitchfork because they saw me drinking their cow’s blood. I woke up buried in their dung heap a few hours later.”

Jungkook snorts.

“Don’t laugh. I had no idea what I was doing back then, I just tried to survive”, Taehyung says and chuckles.

“Really? I thought you had so many friends back then.”

“Not like me. Not vampires. I met my first vampire almost two hundred years later. His name was…” Taehyung’s face falls, his gaze becomes empty.

Jungkook studies the sadness in Taehyung’s eyes then watches as the latter rests back against his chest and squeezes his eyes shut.

“…I can’t remember”, Taehyung whispers. His fingers twist in his shirt, trying desperately to pull him closer.

“I died my first death in 1968 after I got high on LSD and then fell down the stairs. I broke my neck”, Jungkook says, hoping that it can cheer Taehyung up.

“Truly?” Taehyung asks, “you took drugs?”

“Too many. The sixties were a wild time for me.”

“Yes? Tell me, did you visit Woodstock too?”

Jungkook shakes his head, “I tried to avoid crowds of people for obvious reasons.”

“I see. I went and it was so much fun. Oh Jungkook, if we knew each other back then, I would have taken you. We could have had so much sex and danced and sang and gotten high.”

“You say that so easily. I wasn’t fun back then, just murderous.”

“That never bothered me. I can handle you guys.”

Jungkook scoffs.

“I am truthful. I was out of control for many decades and I taught myself control. I know exactly how you feel.”

“No you don’t. You’re a Normal.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. You’ll never know how we feel.”

“Of course I do. Your body tenses up the moment you smell blood and there is this rational part in your brain, which keeps telling you, begging you, to stay in control. But no matter how much this voice is begging and pleading and crying for your control, you can’t give it to yourself. And then you black out. You black out because of how much pleasure you are feeling until suddenly it stops and you feel empty.”

Jungkook is holding his breath.

“You have all those bodies lying by your feet. All ripped apart and disfigured. And it hurts so much because you have no recollection of killing any of those poor souls and now you are left living with the knowledge that your demons won and you murdered too many people whilst fucking enjoying it.”

“Yeah”, Jungkook croaks.

“I know how you guys feel, Jungkook and I’m sorry that such a reaction is your default reaction. It must be so exhausting.”

“It’s so fucking exhausting”, Jungkook presses out, lowering his head.

“Hey”, Taehyung whispers, turning in the embrace so he could cup Jungkook’s cheek, “it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. It’s so hard”, Jungkook whispers shakily, “I want to be like Yoongi or like you, but I’m not.”

“But you are on the path to.”

Jungkook sniffles, locking eyes with Taehyung.

Taehyung wipes away Jungkook’s tears, “it is a rocky road, long and exhausting, but you should turn and look at all the distance you already put between your beginning and your now. ___ told me that you couldn’t even stay in the same room as her when you first met and these days you can kiss her and hold her. Now tell me Jungkook, what about all of this isn’t progress?”

“I guess”, Jungkook lowers his gaze, “I guess, if you put it like that, I made some progress.”

“You did”, Taehyung says and smiles.

Jungkook retorts it this time around. Taehyung looks at his smile and for just a second Jungkook believes that he would kiss him. But he doesn’t, instead he rests back against Jungkook’s chest and begins caressing his side.

“So when did you realise that you were still into men?” Jungkook asks.

“Oh pretty soon after I died my first death. I couldn’t deny it, I loved sex with them too much”, Taehyung says and laughs.

Jungkook chuckles too.

“So what are you these days?” Jungkook asks.

Taehyung rolls to his back, pulling one of Jungkook’s arms around his waist. He intertwines his fingers with him and begins tracing his knuckles slowly.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t possibly define myself. Everyone is attractive to me, no matter what they identify as. I rather find myself drawn to personalities than certain genitalia.”

“Mhm, that’s good. That’s what truly counts in the end.”

“Yes, I agree”, Taehyung says and caresses Jungkook’s knuckles, “what do you define yourself as?”

“I just like nice people. I haven’t really thought about labelling myself. Maybe bi? Or pan? Or just queer? I don’t know though.”

“I see. Well, that’s good”, Taehyung says and shifts into a more comfortable position, “labels are way too constricting either way.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do. Labels aren’t for myself, they are for other people to put me into certain boxes”, he says, running his eyes over the rain outside, “people work this way. Things they can’t quite understand get easier to grasp once you put certain labels on them. Unknown food loses its intimidation once you know what it is, a stranger gets lets frightening once you realise you know this person and feelings get easier to understand once you know their origins. That is what is good about labels, but I don’t like them for myself.”

“You don’t?”

Taehyung shakes his head.

“I know myself better than anyone, I know what I enjoy and what I dislike. I don’t need to tell other people how they should label me. Because if I do, they will force their ideas on me, connect stereotypes with me and expect me to act according to the silly label they put on me. I can’t stand it when people tell me how I should be and how I should behave.”

Jungkook nods his head in agreement.

“I never even thought about it this way, but I get it. I really hate this feeling too. I had people tell me that I wasn’t a correct bisexual because I didn’t act the way they expected me to act. And I had vampires tell me that I wasn’t a true Ripper because I’m trying to better myself. Both really hurt me.”

“Those people were fools and had a very narrow mindset”, Taehyung says coldly, “I hope that you don’t have to interact with them anymore.”

“No, they’ve been out of my life for a long time.”

“Good. As they should.”

“Mhm yeah”, Jungkook agrees, watching the droplets of rain run down the window, “I think labels helped me too.”

Taehyung sneaks a curious glance at him, “yes?”

“Mhm yeah”, Jungkook nods his head, “I like defining myself as someone who is queer or someone who is a training Ripper. At least I don’t feel so alone knowing that there are so many people out there who feel the same way I do or who work on the same goals as me.”

“Yes, I must say that feels very nice indeed.”

“Mhm yeah.”

Taehyung sits up and nudges Jungkook’s chest.

“Now be honest. This is fun.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, “fine, yeah maybe it’s fun.”

“See? I told you, I can be pretty nice.”

“Yeah, I guess you can”, Jungkook gives in.

At that Taehyung giggles, pulling his shoulders to his ears almost as if he was shy. Jungkook watches it with awed confusion. He must admit, he had such a wrong image of Taehyung in his head. He is kind and sweet and maybe even cute and Jungkook actually likes being in this car with him.

“Do you enjoy music?” Taehyung asks.

“Of course I do.”

“What kind of music do you enjoy?”

“All sorts of stuff. I like slower songs though. R&B is really good.”

“Mhm yes, it’s good. I agree. I really enjoy jazz, I think it to be so romantic.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

Taehyung pulls out his phone then, scrolling through his music with sparkling eyes.

“Shall we put some music on?” he suggests, “we can listen to R&B if you want to.”

“Yeah we could. I have this playlist which I made. It’s really good.”

“Indeed? What’s its name? Is it public? Let’s play it.”

“Give me your phone.”

Taehyung hands it to him, using the time it takes Jungkook to find the playlist to turn on the bluetooth of the car radio.

The phone connects with a robotic female voice telling them about a successful connection.

“Here”, Jungkook hands the phone back to Taehyung, “that’s the playlist.”

“Starry Nights and Long Hugs”, Taehyung reads out loud. He smiles, meeting Jungkook’s shy gaze, “that’s a good name”, he says and presses play.

The music starts playing, filling the car with slow melodies and sweet lyrics. The two men just kind of look at each other for a while, being so close and yet so far away. Taehyung shifts, resting on his knees and placing his hands in front of him on the seat. Like this his hands are so close to Jungkook’s crotch. Jungkook fumbles with the empty cup of coffee, wondering what Taehyung may be thinking.

“Do you enjoy long hugs?” Taehyung asks him.

“Yeah, I do.”

“I enjoy them too, they comfort me quite a lot.”

“Yeah, I think so too.”

“I bet you can’t have them often, can you?”

Jungkook shakes his head, “they make me…”

“I know”, Taehyung interrupts him, “they make you want to murder the person. Well, at least your instincts kick in, I am sure that you don’t actually want to kill them.”

“Yeah”, Jungkook whispers, feeling flabbergasted once again just how accurately Taehyung gets him.

“Is it with everyone you meet or just humans?”

“No, just humans.”

“I see”, Taehyung nods his head, “shall I give you a long hug?” he offers with the sweetest innocence in his dark brown eyes.

Jungkook flusters, “no uhm…” he looks to the side, touching the side of his neck.

“I apologise. I’m way too pushy, please forgive me”, Taehyung says, putting distance between their bodies. He lies back against the car door, keeping his legs parted for comfort reasons, “I’m normally not like that, I don’t know what is wrong with me lately.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

Taehyung lets out a shy laugh, playing with the fluffy strands of hair at the back of his head.

“This is, uhm…” he begins, “…this is a good song, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, it’s one of my favourite songs at the moment”, Jungkook answers him, but his brain is busy with something else.

Taehyung offered him a long hug. He hasn’t had a long hug in so long that he can’t even remember the last time he actually had it. He really wants to be hugged. He loves hugs. Especially long ones, warm ones, the kind which makes him happy to be alive.

“I can see why it is. The melody is very good”, Taehyung says, fumbling with his own hands, “do you make music?”

“Sometimes. It’s not good.”

“I’m sure that this isn’t true. How do you make music? Do you sing or play instruments?”

“I can sing”, Jungkook says and flusters.

“You can? I can sing as well”, Taehyung smiles shyly, “we must sing together one day.”

Jungkook looks at Taehyung, gnawing on his lower lip.

Ah fuck it, he thinks and gets on all fours to crawl to Taehyung. He plops down with his head turned to the side in embarrassment, falling into Taehyung’s chest with a soft huff of air.

“Oh?”

“Don’t say anything”, he mumbles.

“I won’t”, Taehyung says, draping his arms around Jungkook’s body. He buries his left hand in his hair, running his fingertips over Jungkook’s scalp slowly.

“Can you play instruments?” Taehyung asks him, having his eyes closed now that he is hugging Jungkook.

“Yoongi is teaching me how to play the guitar”, Jungkook answers him with his eyes closed in comfort. So that’s how it feels like. A long hug. That’s how it feels like.

“Oh, that is a good instrument. I am sure that you are very good at it already.”

“No, I’m not. It’s so hard.”

Taehyung chuckles, “indeed. I tried playing the guitar once, but gave up because it was way too difficult.”

Jungkook chuckles and Taehyung does too.

“Can you play something?” Jungkook asks Taehyung.

“Yes. The violin and the saxophone. I can also play the trumpet, but I am not very good at it. And at one point I was a very popular cembalo player.”

Jungkook has to laugh.

“Cembalo? Really?” he asks, looking up at Taehyung.

“Why are you laughing? Cembalos were very popular once upon a time. I was the most exciting person at parties”, Taehyung says with widened eyes.

“I’m sure you were”, Jungkook snickers.

Taehyung studies Jungkook’s features and slowly his face morphs into a fond smile before a warm laugh shakes his body. And Jungkook feels the need to laugh right with him, hands placed atop Taehyung’s chest and feet under the weight of his own butt.

Their laughter fades out in synch with the song fading into the next one. Taehyung’s eyes race between Jungkook’s. Jungkook’s do the same to Taehyung’s.

“I uhm”, Taehyung begins and sits up.

Like this, his legs are around Jungkook while the latter is kneeling right between them with his hands slipping down Taehyung’s torso as gravity pulls them down.

“Jungkook, I”, Taehyung whispers, placing his hands on Jungkook’s waist.

“Yeah?” Jungkook breathes.

“I really want to kiss you. Do you want the same?”

Jungkook exhales shakily, lowering his eyes. His hands finally come to stop on Taehyung’s lower tummy. It is bend in a little inwards slope because of the position the two vampires find themselves in. Jungkook traces the shape of it before his fingers naturally slip to his waist.

His eyes flit up, meeting Taehyung’s nervous gaze. He is holding his breath, not daring to move even if Jungkook’s gentle touch makes him shiver oh so much.

“I think”, Jungkook begins. His eyes flit to Taehyung’s lips. “I think I want the same”, he confesses and moves in.

Taehyung meets him halfway with his eyes already closed and a soft sigh slipping off his tongue. Their lips touch. Taehyung places his hand on the back of Jungkook’s neck instantly, fingers grasping him with such desperate emotion that Jungkook finds himself drawing closer to him if he wanted to or not.

He exhales shakily during a moment where their lips break apart, but neither of them decide to break the kiss any further. They fall into it again, wrapping their arms around the other until their chests melt into one and their hands bury themselves deep in the other’s hair.

A long hug and deep kisses. They won’t tell each other, but both know that this is all they needed tonight. They may both have different reasons, but they don’t mind because in this moment right here on the backseat of this car while outside the rain kisses the world, they were okay.

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stararch4ngelqueen · 1 year ago

Text

Clouded Conscience (18+)

Part 3 of Ghosts and Mirages

Warning: Mentions of blood/gore/violence. Escaping fiery explosions, slight reference of alcoholism, guided masturbation, Humvee sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation.

!Please Beware!

Summary: It was well known by now that you needed saving quite often. It turned into a joke within the team every now and then. However, this time, it was your turn to save your savior. The fiery explosion you pulled him from did something to him, making him react towards you in a way you’ve never, ever expected to see.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A loud boom rumbled the ground you laid on, making you jolt at the piercingly loud rumble that erupted from the far-left side of the oil factory. Raising your head from your scope, your eyes frantically searched along all parts of the building you could see from your vantage point.

It wasn't long before thick, rich black smoke began spewing out from any available door, window or crack in the walls, cascading upwards to the night skies.

"Shit!! Price, Ghost!! You copy!?" Soap shouted out in terror from the sight from his own vantage point.

Another harsh explosion erupted from the building, forcing your burning heart to drop deep into your stomach from the sight. Your team was in there, Price was in there, Ghost was in there.

Rigorous hacking and coughing erupted from your earpiece, rattling every single bone in your body.

"B-Bloody hell! Soap!" The familiar, raspy voice of your Captain finally came through, the connection sounding chopped and contorted.

"Captain! What the hell happened?!" Dropping all formal speech code, Soap shouted from the grasses he laid in, smelling the pungent odor of burning fuels as a harsh breeze blew past.

"This damn room was rigged! Christ, the whole place was rigged! We've got injured! We need backup now!!" Any further possible sentence was cut off by more coughing before it grew silent, urging Soap to insistently persist in calling his captain again, but no reply came.

"Shit! We have to go in there!" Soap officially announced, rising from his position on a high hill looking over large, flat grassy plains. The abandoned oil rig factory was built on solid concrete foundations, proving to be the perfect place for a hideout spot in the middle of nowhere.

"I'll go!" You stood off the ground, abandoning your rifle to reach for the thick, hidden clasps of your ghillie suit. "You need to call for evac, Soap!"

"No! I'll go in, It's too dangerous!"

"Fuck dangerous, our team is in there!" You yelled back, tugging the heavy coat off of your shoulders. "Split the team we have! Half of us goes in to get the survivors out of there!"

Various rustling came from the landscape far around you, multiple disguised soldiers rising from their own personal vantage points, hastily tugging off their own falsified grass suits to join you.

Pulling off what was left of your ghillie suit as fast as you could, you picked up your rifle, calling for half the team to be on you and raced towards the factory, catching a further assist in your frantic pace from the sloping hill.

While at first, you were unsure where to go once you entered, a horrid sulfurous stench began polluting the air, growing stronger with each step you took in the right direction. A bright, orange light began glazing over the walls, gray smoke fogging up your vision once you got closer and closer.

"Captain!" Catching sight of Price, finding him slouching against the closest wall, his hands clutching onto the wall and his rifle. Four other soldiers from his team quickly appeared from around the corner, struggling to breathe whilst supporting each other to stand, their injuries visible through their bloodied uniforms.

"What happened!?" You yelled out before you could refrain yourself, a few soldiers from your makeshift squad quickly assisting the suffering survivors.

"Bombers! A trap!" He coughed, clutching his throat, "That damn room was rigged the moment we stepped in, this whole building's gonna blow if we don't leave now!"

"Where's the Lieutenant?? The others??" You quicky rushed past the captain, blinking rapidly from the burning smoke in your eyes, the toxic air quickly souring your throat. "Back in the room! Shit," His voice cut off with another cough, sounding strained with intense emotion from the reality of what he witnessed, "Don't think they made it!"

No, no you didn't want to believe that one bit. Tugging off your mask, you clutched your rifle closer to yourself, looking towards the direction they came from.

"Get them out of here now! I'll go look for more survivors!" You ordered the nearest soldiers that made up your team, quickly taking off before anyone, not even Price, could stop you.

You found a man weakly slouched against the wall in a narrow hallway leading towards the room where the explosion occurred, every inch of available surface completely engulfed in flames. Rich, black smoke came from the entryway, filling the ceiling high above your head, painting every surface black by the second.

"Simon!" You got to his side once you recognized the mask, your voice croaked from the dry, polluted air destroying the moisture in your mouth. A rich, intense heat filled the area, seeping into every ounce of black fabric he wore, leaving him incredibly warm to the touch.

He was conscious, yet visibly frozen, almost unable to make out any emotion from those painted eyes as they stared straight into the flames.

The upper left corner of his mask was cracked as if he was struck in the head, various blood splatters staining his false face. A patch of blood continued to darken the material of his balaclava sticking to his face, leaving you worried if he was currently suffering from blunt force trauma to his head.

"Mirage!" Soap's frantic tone came through your earpiece. "Get the hell outta there, the building's gonna collapse at any second at this rate!"

“Soap! I found Ghost but he’s unresponsive! I can't move him!”

"Shit! You've got to try! I'm comin' right for ya!"

Setting your rifle to the side by the strap, you grabbed onto his left arm, trying your hardest to use what strength you had to sit him up from the wall.

His hand clasped a tight grip on your wrist, making your arm tense from his fingers squeezing against your bones, shooting a fierce pain along your hand.

The look in his eyes burned brighter than the flames, having you freeze like a deer in headlights, like he’s seen something no man, no human, should ever see in their existence.

Never before has a glare from him make you feel so afraid, so terrified.

"Come on, we need to get you out of here!" Bracing yourself on your knees, you pulled your hand from out of his constricting grip, tucking both your arms under his to try to maneuver him to his feet. He was able to sit up properly, but didn't move any further, his head stuck in the direction of the growing fire.

"Come on, Simon! We need to go!" Struggling further, you hoisted one of his arms over your shoulders, clutching onto his tactical vest in an effort to get him to stand.

Unaware to you, it was difficult to make out anything you said from the potent ringing in his ears.

Getting harder and harder to breathe, you held your breath while struggling, the intense heat on your back making you sweat profusely. It took a bit until he managed to shuffle himself to his feet, making you take a choking sigh of relief. Trying your hardest to get him moving with you, you assisted him out of the hallway, seeing that Price and the wounded soldiers were long gone, blood splattered along the floor from someone's severely injured leg.

Breathing as hard as you were, it grew more of a challenge trying to carry a man of his weight and size to safety. Your feet staggered along the concrete floor, the weight throwing you off balance as you fell to your knees, trying to get any form of proper air into your lungs with little avail. Intense heat trickled throughout your entire body, your nose burning and dry, your throat tainted from pollution.

Your mind, however, was only focused on your Lieutenant by your side, your strength quickly wavering as you struggled to keep his upper body from touching the floor out of fear of risking further injuries to his head.

“Mirage! Where the hell are ya, lass?!” Soap yelled into your earpiece; your hands too occupied to press the buttons to respond. So, you resorted to the next best thing, screaming out his real name in hopes that the echo would travel him to the right direction.

"Mirage!" Soap yelled to you upon sight, seeing you struggling on the ground, sweat dripping down the sides of your face as it grew harder and harder to breathe.

"Help me!!" You yelled at him, the man quickly sliding towards Ghost's other side, using his strength to help hoist the man off the ground, rushing you both to the exit out of the building.

A harsh wind blew in your direction by the time you got outside, fresh, full air filling your lungs. The blades of the C-130 filled the ambience, the ramp wide open displaying everyone inside, a few soldiers from your team remaining outside per orders.

The both of you rushed Ghost up the ramp inside, Soap quickly taking over to sit the Lieutenant down in a seat. You stepped back and sat yourself down in a seat opposite from them, coughing and taking in deep breaths of clean air, your throat dry and desperate for moisture.

"He's bleeding from his head!" You exhaled loud for him to hear, watching Soap look into Ghost's dazed eyes, examining what he could with the cherry red lighting. "He must've gotten struck from whatever the hell happened in there, we've got to get him checked when we get back!"

"Where's the medic!?"

"Dead!" Price spoke up, quickly rushing towards Soap’s side to examine Ghost. "We lost 'em in the explosion, we're down four men, two wounded!"

Looking over at the view of the burning factory, you watched bright flames peeking out from the high ceilings. The craft rose from the ground, giving you a perfect view of the entire factory grow further and further submerged in flames, the stench filling the entirety of the plane. Standing from your seat, you approached the edge, keeping a fair distance to get a better look at where you once were hiding before chaos ensued.

Harsh, heavy footsteps against the metal flooring came from behind, grabbing your attention just enough for your head to turn, seeing the large shadow of a man treading closer and closer towards your direction.

“Ay, Ay! Ghost!” Soap pressed a hand against his chest, forcing the man to stop before getting any closer, heavily concerned by this sudden change in demeanor. The sudden raise in his tone had Ghost abruptly pausing, the ringing in his ears reinforcing from that loud, irritating tone, causing him to snap.

Ghost swung at Soap, his right fist making contact with the left side of his jaw. You jumped at the action, alerting every eye in the craft towards the shocking scene.

Soap quickly recovered from the blow, quickly catching sight of his next punch, blocking him with both hands. He yelled out Ghost’s name to get him to settle down, but Ghost couldn’t listen, raising his other fist until Price quickly intervened, catching a firm, restraining grip on him.

“Get a hold of yourself, Simon! That’s enough!!” Price yelled at the man, assisting Soap with holding him back. His eyes grew wide and frantic, shoulders raising high and low with his quick, unsteady breathing. Soap shoved the tall man back in his own burst of anger, watching two more men who witnessed the attack quickly grab ahold of Ghost, forcing distance between the four of you.

“The hell is going on?!” You pulled Soap by the arm back, seeing him grunt in irritation from the pain in his jaw, shoulders tensed. “Don’t know, it looked like he was tryin’ to come after ya or jump out. He was just headin’ your way.”

Your heart stopped at those words. What…?

All the shock from before immediately morphed into rage.

“You tried to WHAT?!” You shouted in pure alarm, quickly taking a few fast steps forward towards Ghost.

“Hey!!!” Price shouted, watching Soap quickly grab hold of you, keeping you from approaching Ghost any further while he was apprehended, being moved to the far towards other side of the craft.

“That’s enough! All of you!” Price demanded from everyone, watching your angry face struggle to comprehend his orders, shoving yourself away from Soap before facing away, running your black stained hands over your face.

You were at a complete loss at the scene happening behind you, hearing the constant shuffling on the entire way back. Soap tried calling your name, putting his hand on your shoulder only for you to shove it off, feeling your heart racing in your chest.

It made absolutely no sense. You went through the liberty to save him, all for him to what, harm you? Push you out of the craft? Throw himself out of it?

He could kill you so easily if he wanted to. You never forgot those very words that struck your mind ever since.

That whole incident happened three months ago. As officially written in the reports, from what you could remember, an intel operation gone horribly wrong.

The oil had been rigged with charges in the walls of the room they had been in. They were further set off by hidden suicide bombers, instructed to destroy the evidence followed by those who were in the building.

Your clothes and equipment smelled like smoke for days, feeling paranoid every time you showered to scrub the stench from your skin with anything you could use, your fingernails leaving angry lines before you officially gave up.

Every burning memory of that night always led back to that look in Ghost’s eyes; Wild, crazed, frantic, deadly. You couldn’t forget them, thinking over and over why he would do such a thing.

He refused to acknowledge you for quite some time after that happened. Understandably so.

It took you two and a half months to finally learn why he reacted the way he did: Something to do with his past, mixed with the trauma to his head, his dissociated state going from non-responsive to absolute violence. Telltale signs of severe PTSD with an easily trigger-able fight response. You weren’t sure what struck it however, making you bite and pick at your nails while pondering the details of that night over and over.

It finally occurred to you why after one night, staying up in bed until four in the morning. You stood at the edge of the aircraft, simply looking out to the view of the oil factory, but to him, it didn't appear that way at all.

You felt ashamed for reacting the way that you did before you let go of the anger. It was a dreading sink of your heart towards your stomach, feeling terrible for blaming him over something he couldn’t control. Despite being treated and disappearing for a while to recover, once he was released, you never saw him anywhere you went. The feeling was quite similar to how you would try to look for boyfriend along the halls in high school, but he wasn’t there, purposefully avoiding you.

It wasn’t like he was your partner, in that sense anyway, but you cared for him. Truly.

The last time you saw him was in the early evening, during a mission where you arrived in as backup support and extraction. Never have you had such an awkward ride ever in your life, sitting beside Ghost in the Humvee. It was silent and uncomfortable, his new mask refusing to even tilt in any way towards your direction. He was always quiet, but this time, the air was so tense a bullet would’ve been stuck and suspended in place if fired. Only thing you did was keep your head down and stay quiet, knowing he wouldn’t look your way for another day.

"How many are we at so far?"

"Eight to twelve."

"You liar, it's even. Eight to Eight."

”Ah, thought you weren't payin' any attention. Could’ve sworn I saw ya close to slanting off to the side."

”Nice try, I haven't even drank a thing. Unlike you." You couldn't help but smirk at the chuckle that came from the other side of the table. "Just checkin, lass. Maybe that soda bottle earlier wasn't just a soda?"

"You wish, MacTavish." You muttered, keeping focused on your hand.

"You two goin' at it again? Who lost what bet this time?" Gaz spoke up, a tinge of amusement in his tone while peering over the two of you at the table, clutching three new bottles of beer.

"Mirage over here thinks she's got the upper hand on me."

Failing to bite back any further amusing, yet unnecessary commentary, you double checked the cards you held close to your chest. “It’s cause you suck at this game, John.”

Now, what does your task force do after a successful job well done, a target properly apprehended, and every soldier was able to come home safe? Celebrate. Loudly, but responsibly.

A drink was almost in every hand from the squad you could recognize, each soldier taking this night after the successful mission to have a moment to cut back and enjoy themselves. While leaving to head towards any bar in the world was definitely some better form of option, many of you still had to wake up quite early in the morning, or in a few hours, in some cases.

While incredibly rare, it definitely helped with the Moral around here every once in a while, that was for certain.

Multiple groups of men and women huddled to themselves with bottles or cans in hand: Water, juice, soda, alcohol even. Every now and again, a new member would join into the group or change places. Loud rock music came booming from multiple stereos placed outside of the large steel walled supply warehouse that had been transformed into a makeshift hangout spot. The large doors were left wide open, letting the cool night air circulate inwards every time a calming breeze blew by.

As crude as it looked, it gave a more open, welcoming atmosphere than being huddled up in the mess hall.

“Here you are.” Gaz smacked the cap off the bottle on the edge of the table before placing it by your right hand. You thanked him and maneuvered your cards over to your left, picking up the bottle.

Staring at the bottle brought forward some rather interesting memories. When was the last time you've really seen a bottle like this that wasn't under flashing lights and loud music? Shit, when was the last time you had beer? Did you even like beer?

Well, why not? Couldn't hurt.

You exhaled before taking the first sip. A strong tingle followed by a pungent, sour note almost made you wince at first, quickly reminding you why you didn't like beer, or whatever the hell this brand was. You never even touched a drop of anything ever since you joined the army, a small part of you wanted to keep it that way.

"Here, somethin' to cleanse the palate." A narrow paper bag was pushed over, housing inside a white paper boat with small, miniature churros, nestled comfortably beside a small cup of chocolate sauce. Crystals of cinnamon covered your fingers as you picked up a piece, ripping apart a sizable chunk for yourself.

Soap's attention was elsewhere when you quickly grew occupied by the well-needed snack, his head focusing on someone while you fully ripped off another piece for yourself, munching on it quickly.

“Now, tell me something, Y/n. What I don't get is how did you manage to survive falling out of a chopper?” You could only shrug at the answer, almost feeling that lingering pain in your left shoulder returning momentarily from the mention alone.

“You should’ve seen when it happened, All I got from it were the reports." Soap downed at least half his beer once he brought his attention towards the conversation. "You must be the luckiest woman alive, and unluckiest. Betcha Ghost gave ya quite the talkin' to about that."

You chewed slowly, your mind pondering over your racing thoughts while rolling the crystals of sugar in between two fingers. Looking back up at Gaz, you gave him another measly shrug, swallowing your food before turning to Soap.

“Are you still mad at him?” You asked, watching him cross his arms on the table, neglecting his cards as he looked down in thought before shaking his head. “No. Got no reason to be.”

“You sure? Have you guys talked?”

Soap looked you in the eye with a firm nod. “We shared a few words, but even durin' that whole shitshow, I could recognize the shell shock even with that damn mask of his on.” Soap mutters, exhaling after.

"So, what's with the mask of his anyway?" You refrained making eye contact with that question, your fingers slightly shaking while tearing away another piece of your snack.

"Eh, that's a story you shouldn't be askin' from me. All I can say is he doesn't take it off for anything, or anyone." Soap huffed a bit, a smile slowly stretching across his face. "Don't think even to sleep. Definitely takes it off to eat, you see the muscle on him?"

Gaz chuckled, taking a swig of his beer while you munched along silently, wondering over something entirely new. Doesn’t take his mask off for anyone, huh? That’s something.

Finishing your bite, you licked the sugar off your fingers before running your hands along your pants, rising from your seat.

“I think I’m gonna go for a walk, I actually wanna wake up early tomorrow.” You stepped away from the table, giving a nervous smile before turning away.

“You barely even had anything to drink!” Soap called you out, Gaz reaching across the table to swipe at a churro and pick up your abandoned cards.

"I wanna make sure my aim will always be better than yours, Seargent!" You called out to him, picking up a water bottle on your way out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Enjoy the chapter so far? Full (smut) version on my ao3!

Read here as well on my Wattpad!

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley smut #ghost x reader smut #ghost x reader #ghosts & mirages

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sepptember · 7 months ago

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there's a post about Pro-Palestine small businesses on instagram by @.counseling4allseasons and i wanted to share that post here.

mentioning businesses that aren't on this post are encouraged!! I'll reblog them to my account or add them to the post. If any of the links don’t work, please let me know.

note that all of the businesses in the insta post might not be included because I struggled to find the link, and some links may lead to an instagram account instead of a website.

Apparel:

Chérine Caftans - Moroccan traditional wear

Hirbawi - Kufiya factory in Palestine

HULM Kicks - Palestinian-owned shoe store

Watan Worldwide - Cultural clothing/merchandise store

Ayan Resources - Palestinian-owned clothing brand

herababyco - Baby clothes

Modestveencouture - Palestinian-owned boutique with wedding, prom, and engagement dresses

Zaytoonas Stitches - Palestinian-owned embroidery store

Dignitii - modest active wear

Nöl Collective - Palestinian-owned traditional wear

RUUQ - Hijab body suits

Dar Collective - Cultural merchandise

Shopdehma - Modest clothing brand

Nayabhijabs - Hijabs

House of amiri - Children's clothing

this business is currently not stocking their inventory because they are working on broadening their brand. support by following them is still highly encouraged.

Yemen Wear - cultural Yemen apparel

Pali Power - Palestinian athletic apparel

Le dressing de moon - Palestinian thobes

La Farrah Boutique - Palestinian thobes

Skincare/Makeup/Fragrances:

Farsalicare - Skincare brand

Yaskinnatural - Skincare brand

Dyfbeauty - Makeup brushes

Mora Cosmetics - Muslim-owned clean makeup

Kadi perfumes - high-quality perfumes and fragrances

Alwafa Shop - Natural skincare

Abumiskperfumes - oil-based fragrances

Dr. Sebaa Co. - Muslim-owned skincare brand

Savana Goat - Natural and artisanal goat soaps

Lerenu - Scalp & haircare

Inika Organics - Organic makeup

Tuesday in Love - Wudhu-friendly nail polish

Home Goods:

Inspire me home decor - Interior design/home decor

The Little Bulbul - Islamic puzzles/mugs/prints

Olive & Heart - Palestinian owned candle shop

Candlescape & Co. - Palestinian owned candle shop

Create & Crescent - event kits and crafts

Kilim Design Store - carpet and flooring.

With a Spin - Home decor

Lifestyle:

Feyre Creations - events merchandise

Khair Designs - Interior design

Soul Detox - Palestinian-owned black seed oil mix and health capsules

Sophologynic - Palestinian-owned wellness-kits and organic honey

Creations By Sal - Custom wedding products and gifts

Crescent Moon Bookstore - Palestinian-owned children’s bookstore

Little Muslim Craft Store - Crafts for Muslim children store

Modefa - Home decor

Sitti soap - Natural soaps and more.

Vidamin Wellness - Organic vitamins

Mysalah Mat - Interactive prayer mat

The Happy Bakers - Egyptian-owned cookies

Little Busy Hands - Customized themed sensory bins

Shahrin Azim Henna & Jagua Artist - Henna Services, New York/NJ

Accessories:

Oroboros Watches - Egyptian-owned watch store

Kiro - Egyptian Jewelry Brand

Elegant Bijoux Jewelry - Lebanese-owned jewelry

Canava Handmade - Luxury Arab handbags States NYC

Deeya Jewellery - Luxury gold plated bridal/formal jewelry

#free palestine #palestine #free gaza #gaza #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #business #makeup #self care #home goods #aesthetic #gaza genocide #palestine genocide #palestinian culture

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runawayonryo · 1 year ago

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In the beast's den

Chapter 4: become more than just a kid {Karl Heisenberg x GN!reader}

Content warning for this chapter!!: brief descriptions of gore

_______________

When you awake, the smell of coffee and cherry cigar-smoke fills your senses; a feeling of relaxation filling your tired body. Turning your head, you see Heisenberg himself sitting on one of the counters, coffee mug in one hand, cigar in the other.

“Ah, you’re awake~... thought you were in a coma, ‘kid”

He smirks before taking a sip of his black coffee. He isn’t wearing his hat or sunglasses; his full face and his features on full display. The few scars on his face are prominent, the deep one across his nose-bridge sticking out the most. His tired hazel eyes scan your body, before he speaks in a gruff tone:

“Get ready, kid. Today gon’ be tough. Especially for you”

Groggily, you stand from your lying position; making your way over to the sitting Lord. With his signature smirk, he hands you his half-empty mug of coffee. He urges you to drink it; though sharing a drink with a man you only met the night before isn’t something you’re overly fond of. With a slightly annoyed grumble, he snatches the mug from your hand, finishing the coffee himself.

After a quick pause, he motions to the bathroom door; telling you to get ready and-

“Go uh- do your thing…”

With an awkward nod, you move towards the ajar door; entering the surprisingly clean and neat bathroom.

Though, he didn't have hand soap, so fishing through the box under the sink is your next option. No success in finding soap, you check the shower. There is a half empty bottle of body wash that presumably, Heisenberg uses. No other soaps in sight, you make due with his soap.

Meanwhile, Heisenberg still sits on the counter; whistling a tune whilst flipping through some of his sketches for machines. Minutes pass and you return a bit more fresh and awake. He pays you no attention for a second, before he places his things down and stands before you with a neutral expression.

"Right, kid- follow me."

It's hard to follow his quick steps through the barn; when he leads you down a flight of stairs, it's then that you remember him mentioning an 'underground factory'. Is he leading you there? What are his potentially harmful plans? Not wanting to question him; you follow close behind like the good ‘little thing’ you are.

At the bottom of said stairs, there’s a large yellow-painted metal door with at least four scattered warning labels on it. Once again, Heisenberg doesn’t have to lift a finger, the door opens for him. Gulping and feeling a sense of dread, you follow with your head down as some sort of weak defence-mechanism.

He leads this ‘underground factory’ he spoke of yesterday; the surroundings were messy, old, scrappy, rusty, loud and most importantly

It was made of metal. The walls, floors, chairs, gadgets… nearly everything.

Though, this is nothing compared to the main-area; the inner workings and purpose of this factory explains itself. Rows of conveyor belts hanging from the ceilings, countless hooks with human bodies attached. They are far off, the area utterly huge and intimidating to your unexpecting eyes.

“This, kid- is my masterpiece, my tool to kill that bitch”

There is nothing you can or even dare to say; however seeming uninterested is not the best way to go around an inventor and engineer-

“What…is…this?”

Heisenberg stops dead in his tracks, and for a moment you think you’ve angered him. Though, it’s quite the opposite. He provides a full explanation of the inner workings, mechanics, how he obtained the bodies, what is going to happen to them, the modifications,

And his grandiose plan of killing Mother Miranda.

He explains this all whilst having his usual wide smirk on his scarred lips; expecting a horrified or even disgusted reaction at all this. But you, you didn’t react like that at all; you are in awe… in AWE at the work and dedication for his plans of revenge against this supposed awful woman you’ve never had the misfortune to encounter.

For a moment, his cocky and arrogant mask slips; he seems genuinely surprised that you aren’t horrified. Maybe he’s even a little… happy? Refocusing his mind, the cocky demeanour slips back on as he keeps leading you to wherever he was heading.

Footsteps echo the loud factory as he leads you to another, much smaller room.

His workshop.

“Here’s where it all starts, kid. My ideas, my master-plan! And you…”

He leans against the wall behind his cluttered desk, staring at you with burning eyes whilst (again without lifting a finger) moving a chair for you to be seated on.

“You, kid… are a firecracker! Nearly died, brushed it off. You aren’t put off or horrified by this god forsaken place! Given, it was out of fear, yes? Doesn’t matter to me; you’re young, smart and have… potential. With a bit of work, you could assist me in taking down that bitch.”

He smirks, watching you look at him confused and still afraid of exactly what he means by ‘with a bit of work’. Would he turn you into one of those… THINGS?! You gulp in fear.

“What I’m trying to get at, I’ll train ‘ya- you’d become one-hell-of a killing machine, kid!”

#karl heisenberg x reader #resident evil village #resident evil #karl heisenburg fanart #karl heisenberg #karl heisenburg x reader #neil newbon

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ironcladrhett · 1 year ago

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TIMING: Current

LOCATION: Still an abandoned soap factory

PARTIES: Inge (@nightmaretist), Siobhan (@banisheed), Emilio (@mortemoppetere), & Rhett (@ironcladrhett)

SUMMARY: On the night that Rhett is to lose his second foot and probably his life, Emilio makes a daring entrance and tries to bargain with his captors for his freedom.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Suicidal ideation (of the life exchange variety)

—

It wasn’t really like Inge was short on nutrition at the moment, with Rhett providing a steady supply of snacks, but there were still those human cravings. Besides, Siobhan presumably did require human sustenance (or did Banshees sustain themselves on screams?) and so a grocery store run seemed fitting. The mundanity of overhead lights and inflation were a stark contrast to the blood that had just coated Siobhan’s fingers, but it came with important rewards. Lollipops.

As the pair walked to Siobhan’s non-conspicuous car, Inge was sure to continue the point she’d been trying to make. “I think you’ve– we’ve had our fun. The longer go on like this, the riskier it gets.” She pulled open the passenger side door, tossing the groceries in before taking a seat. “Someone’s bound to look for even such a sorry sod at some point.” She pulled the door close, muffling any other words from any sharp ears, looking at Siobhan sharply. “I want him dead before sunrise. Can you settle with that?”

—

Torturing Rhett had given Siobhan an emotional and creative fulfillment that she’d never felt before. It had also—though she would never admit it—given her a friend. A friend she hated and a friend that was an abomination and a friend that, perhaps, didn’t see her as a friend at all but a friend nonetheless. It would be embarrassing to admit that she had prolonged Rhett’s torture not just because it was fun but because she was having fun with Ingeborg. She thought they were really bonding. Violence was what made true friends; so it had been in her aos sí, so it was in that soap factory.

“Oh.” Siobhan leaned against the driver’s side door; one arm spread on top of the hearse, which she rested her chin upon. “What risks? He’s hardly a danger. Risks of having too much fun?” Following Ingeborg—could she just call her Inge now? They were friends, after all—lead, Siobhan ducked into the car. “You’re such a bore. I wish someone would come for him. That’d really make it interesting. I could use one of the other saws on them. I was thinking about the circular one; it’s brand-new.” Siobhan turned to her accomplice and noted the lack of amusement. “Fine.” The car sputtered to life, wheezing and coughing up black exhaust. “Dead tonight, meanie. Give me one of the candies.”

—

Ever since he’d found Rhett’s cane abandoned on the street, Emilio had been a flurry of activity and nervous energy. No time had been taken to pause for stupid things like sleep or meals, and any responses to texts or messages from friends had been brief and curt. He wasn’t stupid. He knew how this was likely to end, knew he was probably looking for a corpse more than he was looking for a man, but even so, he searched tirelessly. If a corpse was all that was left of his brother, he’d still bring it home. He’d still do for Rhett what Rhett had done for Juliana and Flora in Mexico two years ago, even if he was the only one who’d care enough to visit the patch of dirt he planted him in.

And he’d still make sure whoever was responsible paid for it.

That anticipatory grief in his chest was matched only by the anger, the rage that warmed him like a furnace in the dead of winter. On some level, he knew it was a stupid thing to feel. Rhett had been reckless since coming to town, had gone after too many people and let too many go. The fact that most of them were people who didn’t deserve it ached in a different sort of way, but it wasn’t relevant to the point. This town was probably full of people who’d like to hurt Rhett, and Emilio shouldn’t have been surprised that one of them took a shot. But the grief was there anyway. The rage was there anyway. So he did the only thing he’d ever really been good at — he followed the trail.

Javier heard from Lara who heard from Beto that a professor at the college hadn’t been in in a few days. The professor was one with a familiar name — if anyone would go after Rhett, Emilio thought, it would be the mare he’d locked in his bunker. But wherever she was hiding, she was hard to find. In a way, that gave him hope; it meant Rhett might still be alive, though it promised he’d be in bad shape. Still, Emilio did his best to douse the feeling. Hope would do nothing but get him killed here.

It was funny; when he finally found her, it wasn’t even intentional. He stopped by the store to pick up a protein bar when his stomach finally began to cramp in protest of its emptiness, and there she was. It was something of a surprise to see her with Siobhan; maybe it shouldn’t have been. He hadn’t heard anything about Rhett going after the banshee, but a fae would have every reason to want a warden dead regardless. Neither of them spotted him. He wasn’t sure either of them would know to look for him. It was easy enough to fall into step behind them, far enough away to avoid detection but close enough to keep from losing them. Inge’s presence helped with that; all he had to do was follow that pull in his gut towards the undead thing ahead of him, ignore the way it mingled with the dread there.

One way or another, he’d get his brother back tonight.

—

Siobhan’s complete apathy to the risks was something that made Inge feel inferior. She was not overreacting, was she, in assuming that this could lead to more trouble? Violence begot violence. That was why they were here now. That was why she tended to run rather than face the people who chased her tail. She dug around for a lollipop of a flavor she liked and unwrapped it with a note of frustration, telling herself she was wary and that was good and that it wasn’t really that Siobhan was better than her, she was just … unhinged. Yes. That was a good term.

She popped the lollipop in her mouth and got a cola-flavored one for the banshee (this was, in her opinion, the worst flavor), undoing the wrapping for her as well before holding it out. “The best hunter is a dead one,” she said sagely, wondering if Siobhan would simply bite down on the lollipop or if she’d reach for it with her hand. Inge kicked up her legs, licking her own candy merrily. “We can have our fun another way.”

The drive was quickly over and done with, the hearse pulling up to the abandoned factory with fitting noise. The place had grown familiar, but the sight that was Rhett the Warden hadn’t. Inge’s torments and her horrors existed somewhere else, on a plane not bound by earthly harm. Or so, at least, she had told herself. So Sanne had told her, eons ago. It was different. It was more sophisticated. It was a gift. Her eyes flicked over the sight of him before tossing the bag of groceries on the ground. This was hardly a gift. The only thing left was to kill him in a poetic manner and move on. “Told you we’d be back soon,” she said to Rhett, wondering if he’d want a lollipop. “Do you like artificial sweeteners?”

—

The best hunter is a dead one. Inge’s simple statement rattled in Siobhan’s head; bouncing around with each rumble of her hearse and each jump over cracked concrete. The clever retort that she felt obligated to have didn’t leave her mouth—it hadn’t even been formed. Instead, Siobhan watched the shifting landscape as they approached the factory. There was a time where she believed in the practical minimizing of harm; a time when Fate’s course seemed linear. Life existed in a tangle: webs and threads interwoven, pulled through space-time, woven again, transported into unknowable, unthinkable dimensions. When she’d tried to minimize harm, when she’d tried to be kind, she cost her people seven other lives. The best hunter was a living one, until Fate came. And Fate had not yet called for Rhett.

Lost in her thoughts, Siobhan hadn’t realized that she’d entered the factory at all. Had she remembered to turn the hearse off? Park it in the overgrown bushes where it couldn’t be seen from the road? She shook her head. She tried to bring back the face of the woman who adored violence, who only knew it, but instead a woman who mourned controlled her features. She saw Rhett as he was: bloody, broken, miserable. She wondered if he’d ever forgive her one day—then she castigated herself for thinking that. And, anyway, he would be dead soon. But she hadn’t screamed for him yet, and until then, she wondered if he would forgive her and if he’d think it was silly that she cared about that at all.

Siobhan knelt to the bag, crinkling plastic cutting through the air thick with the acrid scent of old blood. Off to the side, the bits of Rhett’s lost leg buzzed with a swarm of happy flies. “What flavour do you want, Rhett?” She smiled for him; dead men deserved kindnesses, sometimes. “We got everything because I said—well, it won’t be funny now if I retell it—but I wanted all of them. And there’s jellybeans…” Siobhan held up the little bag full of them—a plastic bag inside of another plastic bag. Did humans hate the world this much? “I don’t know anyone that likes jelly beans. They’re an abomination.” She pointed to Inge. “Worse than her, actually.”

—

He couldn’t be absent for everything, unfortunately. While his tendency to slip into altered states of consciousness had done him some favors over the last few days, sending the two creatures off in the wee hours of the morning to resume their activities the next day, he always came back out of it. The first time they’d decided to take a break, they’d left him secured to a pole that ran from floor to ceiling so he didn’t excuse himself without their consent. He’d been stuck there since, sitting with head bowed and long hair framing his face, silent until he heard the sound of them returning.

Rhett drew a long, shaky breath as their footsteps grew louder. They’d taken his leg, cut it off just above the knee and cauterized it about as well as you’d expect, and he was pretty sure he had an infection on top of the constant, agonizing pain of nerve endings being ripped to shreds by less than surgically precise methods. He stared down at it, down at the bloodstain where his limb should have been, at the frayed edges of pants hurriedly cut away, stained a blackish-brown. His right leg, while still attached to him, wouldn’t be for long. Siobhan had started in on the toenails of that foot last night, which meant that tonight, if she was working in a pattern... It was a miracle he hadn’t died from blood loss already, but maybe that’s what the breaks were really for. And maybe, he thought as his captors questioned him about sucker flavors, that was the only reason they were giving him any kind of sustenance.

Rather than answer on the subject of his liking of artificial sweeteners or his preferred synthetic flavor, he just lifted his chin and stared. If you didn’t count all the tormented hollering, he hadn’t spoken a word to them in two days. He just shivered, underdressed for the frigid weather, and blinked blearily at them.

“You ain’t screamed,” he finally said pointedly and in a hoarse voice. That meant he wasn’t going to die… yet. He knew the amount of time that could pass before the banshee let one rip was highly variable—it could happen days before he departed from this mortal coil, or it could happen seconds before what remained of the light in his eyes was snuffed out. It would happen, but there wasn’t much comfort in that unless he was on his way to someplace safe. This was not someplace safe. This was… hell.

His gaze jumped to Inge.

“Why am I here? This about you? This about revenge?” he growled, lowering his chin again. His hands, now more loosely tied behind his back and keeping him from wandering far from the pole, twisted against each other at the wrist. His frustration was building, unexpectedly, since he’d more or less been floating through the last few days in a quiet haze or full dissociative state. He was frozen half to death, he was starved, exhausted from lack of sleep and blood loss, and everything hurt. How long were they going to drag this out? Even he didn’t torture fae for this long. Once they told him what he wanted to know, he killed them.

“What d’you want?” the warden snarled before giving them time to actually respond. “Just fucking—get it over with. Just fucking get it over with.” He wasn’t begging. Rhett would never beg for his own life. But maybe that was only because he tried to mask the desperation with anger. He snapped his head up to look at Siobhan, looking furious. “Scream, already!” he commanded, like that would help anything.

—

It was agony, following them. Keeping back, suffocating that rage in his chest to something that had him acting tactical instead of lashing out… it wasn’t in his nature. Emilio had always been a flurry of fury, with a style of fighting that could only really be described as animalistic. His advantage always came in the way he kept fighting until consciousness left him, not in anything resembling planning. He knew he was no good at that. He’d proven it time and time and time again. And, right now, everything he had wanted to launch himself at these women who’d taken his brother from him, wanted to rip them into pieces, wanted to tear their throats out with his fucking teeth.

But then, he stopped to listen.

He eavesdropped, he let their conversation wash over him. They spoke about Rhett like he was still alive, and Emilio knew he’d never get his brother back before it was too late if he killed his captors now. The way they spoke implied that Rhett was in bad shape; there would be no time to look for him, especially not when he knew he’d have to do it alone. He couldn’t ask anyone to help him with this. Not Wynne, who had good reason to hate him. Not Teddy, who he’d seen having pleasant conversations with Siobhan online. Not Jade, who was so interconnected with Regan that going after the other banshee in any way was bound to cause complications. The only person he could realistically expect assistance from was Parker, and he was pretty sure his rage at him matched his rage towards Rhett’s tormentors at this point. He’d never be able to trust the other warden in a fight.

And so, Emilio was on his own. It was hardly a rarity, hardly an experience he was unfamiliar with. He’d spent two years on his own after he and Rhett parted ways in Mexico, would have kept at it if not for Wicked’s Rest and its citizens’ strange habit of giving a shit about people they shouldn’t. Emilio was fine on his own, could handle himself in a fight just fine. He’d get his brother back or he’d die trying, but either way, at least he’d be saved the grief of losing him.

So, he followed. To the parking lot, watching what car they slipped into. It was recognizable, hard to mistake for anything else on the road. Not many hearses driving around. That was good. He slipped into the driver’s seat of the car he’d once again ‘borrowed’ from Teddy, maintaining a slight distance behind the hearse as he drove with his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. His heart stuttered uncomfortably. Left turn. Nausea tugged at his gut. Right turn. He saw a flash of Edgar’s body on the road, crumpled and bloody. Stoplight. Victor sat beside him in the passengers’ seat, sporting every injury his mind could imagine since he’d been spared the knowledge of knowing what killed him. Accelerate. Edgar’s corpse again, but his hair was longer now. Gray. His head tilted, and it was Rhett’s face there instead. Victor, in the seat beside him, morphed in a similar manner.

The hearse pulled off the road, and Emilio did the same. Into a parking lot, with no one else around. He switched off the headlights, parked a ways away. He watched them enter, and he waited. One heartbeat. Two. He couldn’t stomach the thought of a third, moved from the driver’s seat and onto the concrete. The ache in his bad leg was a long-forgotten thing, his mind forcibly pushing it aside. Pain is a message, his mother told him once. Messages can be ignored. He was getting better at it with practice.

He unpacked the trunk. Iron blades, weapons borrowed from Teddy’s basement. He grabbed a knife Rhett had gifted him years ago, the handle worn but the blade kept sharp. He thought it might be poetic to kill one of them with it. Both of them, maybe. Everything in the damn factory, if Rhett was dead inside of it.

The closer he got to the door, the clearer he could hear the murmurs. The sensation of the dead thing inside made his stomach turn just as much as the smell of blood did. The two of them combined had his mind reeling, skipping back and forth between here and there. The factory was a living room was a street. Long dead corpses rotted scentlessly in the corner. His daughter’s body was crumpled in the center of the room. Rhett was missing a leg. Juliana was screaming. Siobhan was silent.

For a moment, he thought he was too late. He thought he’d gotten here just to collect a corpse, just to give himself something else to bury. But then, Rhett shifted. He spoke. He sounded rough, sounded more pained than Emilio had ever heard him, and the world fell apart and fell back together at the same time. It was strange, seeing his brother this way. For so long, he’d thought of Rhett as invincible by necessity. Victor was dead. Edgar was dead. So Rhett couldn’t be. His other brothers died screaming, too young or too old, so he made Rhett a monument to them in their absence, created an immortal thing out of a husk. He’d been proven wrong before, of course; Rhett was already down an eye, had needed a cane even before the monsters in the shadows had taken his fucking leg. But even so, Emilio had never seen him like this.

He looked small. Emilio wanted to tear the world apart with his bare hands.

There was no time to waste, he knew. The first thing he needed to do was take care of the mare. Prevent her from using the astral to her advantage, keep her from slipping into the shadows to attack him from behind. If she got one hand on him, put him to sleep, this whole thing would be over. The banshee’s scream was a concern, too, but the mare needed to be grounded first. Fighting deaf would still be easier than fighting unconscious.

Slipping the sword off his back, he tested its weight momentarily. Balanced. High quality. If he survived this, he’d have to thank Teddy for letting him borrow it. He waited until Inge moved a little, waited until she was lined up the way he needed her to be with the wall. And then, in a flurry of rage, he went in for the strike.

He made no sound as he stormed into the room, offered none of his usual dry humor as he shoved the blade through the mare’s stomach and into the wall behind her with all the strength he had. It went in deep, stuck hard. It would take enhanced strength to pull it out again. Otherwise, she’d have to peel herself off it by slicing through herself, sliding to the side. It would hurt either way. Emilio was glad for that.

—

She never stuck around to see the results of her actions when it came to her sleepers. She visited them on a schedule, slowly pushing further and further into their minds to make it her own playground. Sometimes she witnessed them wake, but that was it — Inge always disappeared until they could fully react. And here was Rhett, tied like a stray, wounded dog with blood sticking to him and the surface below him. He was reduced in a multitude of ways.

It was a strange thing, to be so confronted with her actions. To have the harm done by her collaborator (not her — for all her assistance, Inge remained convinced it was Siobhan responsible for that missing leg) so clearly on display. It wasn’t that it gave her pause, but it was a sensation she wasn’t sure she’d intend to experience again. Even if she’d gained material for new works. She turned the lollipop around in her mouth while considering the sight, distantly glad that it would be done before dawn. It was not a feeling she had any interest in investigating.

So she simply stared back at him, popping the lollipop from her mouth to answer his growled questions. Questions. He had barely spoken these past days, an impressive feat that Inge would not have achieved had the places been reversed. They had been, once, though not for as long. Humans were easier to trap. “Well, the idea started when you hurt a mutual …” She thought for a moment, “Student of ours. I’m not generally one for vengeance like this, but Siobhan is an inspiring woman and well, I really would like to see you and your experimental ways out of this world.” It would be bad praxis to reveal that Siobhan and her hadn’t really agreed on what had occurred, but Inge wasn’t tactical, nor was Rhett long for this world. “So we agreed to put our differences aside to kill you. We’ll get there.”

She had judged him, hadn’t she? For locking her in that bunker. For putting Ariadne in that van for a week. For the cruelty of it — not just a quick axe to the head, but something drawn out. But this was different. This was retribution. “I don’t like to limit my fellow creatives, though.” With the way he was asking for it, for that inevitable end, Inge almost felt inclined to let Siobhan follow her whims and let this draw out. Even if she was growing antsy from this space, her mind bending in strange ways, leaving her giddy and nervous and wondering if she should start packing, wondering if she should try to help Siobhan with the next toe and whether she could even handle such a thing. Whether she was weaker, for not being able to fight or maim in such a way, or whether it just made her more sophisticated. Whether she was worse than the hunters for this. Whether it mattered.

She’d blame that spiraling mind for not noticing what came next until it was too late.

The blade reached her only a few seconds after she’d caught sight of Cortez, eyes widening and mind preparing to reach for her beloved astral — but she couldn’t. The sword ran through the full depth of her and a sound fell from her lips, somewhere between a scream and a roar. Her fingers let go from the lollipop, which shattered like glass onto the ground. Eyes dropped to what had been slid through her insides, wide and frightened and furious. She tried to focus, not entirely convinced that this should lock her in place but it wasn’t there, her connection to her favored place of existence.

Panic was an emotion spread easily, especially when it went hand in hand with adrenaline, and Inge reached forward to try and claw at the now-free hilt, but she only cut herself deeper. Another wail of pain, eyes dancing through the room, “Do it, Siobhan.” Surely the banshee knew what she meant by that.

—

It was interesting being told what to do. Siobhan had spent so much of her life listening, obeying, deferring. She was, by her very nature, a vehicle for choices that weren’t hers. Rhett wanted her to scream, as though his death was up to her—well, it was up to her but it wasn’t up to her. Another banshee would understand (but not Regan, Regan understood nothing). Inge also wanted her to scream and that one tickled in the back of her throat; she almost did it reflexively, just because some woman told her to. She thought it was all a little funny.

Emilio burst in like a rabid dog—remarkably silent—and honed on Inge as though she had personally eaten the kibble from his bowl. Siobhan watched it all in slow motion: Inge’s expression, the sword, the wall. The sword was a nice touch, Inge obviously trying to blink away from the scene wasn’t. Did she plan on leaving her here? With the hunters? And she was telling her what to do? Yes, do it. She ought to do it. It was always about her and needing to do it; all her life, a series of things to do. All it would take was one scream, in a matter of seconds, to rid the world of Emilio, Rhett and Ingeborg. Did they understand that? Did they ever once think about her generosity? Or, perhaps, why was it that she just didn’t go around screaming? Was any intelligent thought spared for her? Considering the people surrounding her, probably not. It was embarrassing that she’d considered Ingeborg a friend for a moment; she’d be blocking that memory out.

Siobhan knelt to Rhett’s level, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Any of you move and I scream,” she said. “Except you, Ingeborg, feel free to squirm.” She looked along the bloody factory ground to Emilio, and the pinned mare; he was bundled up, she was oozing glitter. “I shouldn’t have to remind you, Emilio, that all it takes is one breath for Rhett to turn into pudding. Rhett, you tell him.” With her free hand, she rummaged around the grocery bag, freeing a lollipop. Ripping the plastic with her teeth, she slid the treat against her tongue. “Ugh.” She frowned. “Grape.” The plastic stick danced from one end of her mouth to the other as she thought about their situation.

Ingeborg probably felt very good about herself, impalement aside; she should have listened to her and killed Rhett on that first night. Emilio seemed very upset. Rhett seemed….pale and sticky; torture had that effect. Was he relieved? Scared? He still hasn’t told her what flavour he liked best; she guessed lemon. “I think we should relax.” Siobhan smiled sweetly. “Get acquainted. Emilio, this is Rhett, maybe you know him: he’s a child torturer. That’s a Ingeborg, you can kill her if you want but keep in mind that you will be robbing the world of her attractiveness—she has material value. In addition, she does smell strangely nice.” Siobhan turned to look at Rhett. “Are you sure you don’t want candy, darling?”

—

A mutual student? The girl, then. The blonde with the flower. He frowned, his gaze dancing between the two of them as that momentary spike of adrenaline seeped away again, leaving him hollowed and hurting. They wanted him dead, but they wanted it done slow—maybe for each day he’d held that young mare in his van. Maybe more. For as long as it was interesting to them. Well, he could try to keep it uninteresting by being mute again, taking their abuse without complaint. They’d get bored eventually.

He was just about to slump back against the pole when there was a sudden explosion of movement, and the warden jerked away from it on reflex before realizing it wasn’t Siobhan. In fact, she was crouched in front of him now, hand on his shoulder, and—

His one-eyed gaze fell on Emilio and was fixed there as the banshee voiced her threats. She was right, he knew—Emilio probably didn’t. Why was he here? He should have been home, he—

“No,” Rhett moaned woefully. Tears sprang unbidden to his eye and he shook his head, staring at his brother. “Get out of here. You shouldn’t be here.” He could hardly speak above a whisper, throat raw from all the screaming he’d been doing, worsened by his outburst only moments before. He sucked in a gasping breath, glancing away from the other hunter to meet Siobhan’s gaze. “Let him go, he’s not—he ain’t like me. He’s good. He’s a good person, please, let him go, he made a mistake—” He looked back at Emilio sharply with that final word, teeth bared in a grimace. “A mistake,” he repeated. “Go home.”

He would never beg for his own life, but he'd be the first to beg for Emilio’s.

Logic and reasoning was not something he’d ever had a strong grasp on, but that was even farther from the truth now. In some desperate attempt to appeal to Siobhan’s chaotic nature and hopefully get his brother out of there in one piece, Rhett gave her a stoic nod. “I like lemon,” he confirmed unknowingly. He spared one last quick glance at his last remaining family, feeling sick to his stomach. “We’re fine here, hua. Havin’ a great time.”

—

It was hard to focus. His mind was still bouncing, still half in the present and half in the past. Flora’s body was still in the corner, crumpled and bloodless and so small. Juliana’s was a few feet away. Edgar was there, too; Rosa, his mother. Even Lucio’s ghost haunted the scene, staring on with the same stricken expression he’d worn when Emilio buried his knife in his gut. None of it was right, he knew; everyone he loved was two years gone, rotting in holes someone else had dug for them.

Everyone but Rhett.

His eyes darted to his brother, who was clearly far more out of it than Emilio himself and with far better reason. It was hard not to focus on the place where his leg ended, on the too-long pant leg and the bloodied concrete beneath it. He wanted to think, what kind of a monster does that to a person? He wanted to condemn it, wanted to think that it was an unforgivable thing. But Rhett had locked a kid in a van for days just to see what would happen. Emilio had tortured so many vampires that he’d lost count now, had done worse than this to them for days and days on end until even their already-dead bodies couldn’t hold on a moment longer and gave out under his hands. There were monsters in this room; there were nothing but monsters in this room.

In the far corner, his daughter’s body continued to rot.

The mare was screaming. Her — Its blood touched the edge of the sword, sparkling in the dim light of the factory. In a way, it grounded him a little. The screams, the glittery substance. He tried to focus on it instead of Rhett’s blood, tried to ground himself in the present as best he could. Edgar was dead. Victor was dead. Rhett wasn’t. Rhett wouldn’t be. Not as long as there was breath left in Emilio’s lungs.

His chest heaved as he glared at the banshee. The mare was forgotten now, an afterthought; no longer a threat, and therefore no longer worth looking at. He gripped Rhett’s iron knife in his hand, tight enough to stop it shaking. He wanted to slice the banshee open, wanted its guts to spill on the floor as if that might somehow cover up his brother’s blood that stained it, as if the presence of one would chase away the presence of the other.

The banshee put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. It made threats. Emilio continued to glare. “Si haces eso te mataré,” he growled. Juliana laughed, a harsh and unnatural sound. He blinked once, hard, trying to remind himself of where he was. When he was. He pushed his tongue against the bottom of his canine, tasting blood in his mouth. Opening it, he tried again. “If you do that, I will kill you,” he said, the words slow and heavily accented as he forced them out in the language that still felt unnatural behind his teeth. “I promise, I’ll kill you if you do that.” Rhett would hate that. You weren’t supposed to make promises to fae; Emilio knew that. But this promise was one he intended to keep, anyway. It didn’t matter if Rhett was a monster; Emilio loved him all the same. He’d do anything for him. He’d tear the world apart with only his teeth.

His eyes darted back to his brother as he spoke, surprised to see him aware. Not quite himself — Emilio was fairly sure he’d only seen Rhett with tears in his eyes once, in the woods just outside Etla — but here all the same. His chest ached as Rhett ordered him to leave, and he wondered if this was what his brother had felt in those woods when Emilio begged him to let him die. He’d give the same answer to Rhett as Rhett had given him back then: “Fuck off with that shit.” There was nothing in the goddamn world that would convince him to leave Rhett here. If Rhett died here, Emilio would either kill the things responsible or die trying. His glare made that much pretty clear.

Said glare returned to the banshee now, eating its candy like none of it mattered, like it hadn’t mutilated his brother in the floor of an old factory, like all of this was a joke. Like Rhett wasn’t the only family Emilio had, like he wasn’t the last piece of a unit that was otherwise irreparably broken. “I’m not leaving here without him. Whether you’re alive or not when I go is up to you.”

—

She felt like a fly that someone had swatted and left to die stuck to the wall. Not fully dead but incapacitated in a way where there was little to do for her but watch in growing agitation and continued pain what played out before her. Inge wanted to scream, but only if the scream could have the impact that a banshee’s would have. In stead she followed Siobhan’s instruction (when she should be following hers!) and squirmed, fingers trying to grasp at the blade but getting nothing out of it.

The warden was crying. Putting up a show of emotion, cracking the way he’d not been cracked before despite the horrors Siobhan and her had put him through. This could be perfect. This could be perfect. If the banshee only used her head and did what needed to be done, this could be two birds with one stone — or rather one scream.

But the banshee was impossible to understand, a strange combination of motivations that Inge didn’t get. (Not that she got her own.) They were all talking as if there was something to talk about. Why wasn’t she doing it? She grasped the blade once more, the metal cutting into the palm of her hand as she tried to gain purchase. But to get to the hilt she’d have to bend over and to bend over was to slice into herself deeper. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure what kind of organs remained inside her and if they had any function. She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out today, here.

She was shrieking, though not with any intention. Just out of instinct. Her hands were covered in that useless glittery solid now and she was useless. A fly on the wall, left to observe the inaction of a banshee who had once proclaimed to love murder. “Siobhan!” It was a bellow more than a scream, lower than the previous expressions of panic and pain. “Get it over with!”

—

Amusement fluttered inside Siobhan’s chest: this was the sort of situation that reminded her of her greatest hobby. Emilio’s anger delighted her—his gaze could become so sharp, his words could drip with such acid, he could promise her silly things just to keep himself from charging at her (he was like a dog right now, but with just enough sense to keep himself alive). Ingeborg squirmed on the sword—how wonderful it was to watch her expressions dance, flickering with rage (was that fear under the red glow of her eyes or more anger?). And Rhett—as silly as it was, she’d come to like the man. Over the last two nights she studied his expressions: anguish, sadness, fatigue, acceptance. Her greatest hobby was to watch the ways life existed. What made torture fun was seeing how far she could push an emotion, seeing how she could twist a feeling. And here was something she coveted, something she hardly understood: affection, the most curious of human conditions.

She waved Emilio’s words away. “I don’t accept your promise. You’ll end up hurting yourself with that one: it’s too vague.” Siobhan’s gaze then flicked to Ingeborg. “That sword looks really cute on you, it brings out your eyes. You should consider it as a permanent look.”

Siobhan smiled, rummaging through the plastic grocery bag: orange, cherry (her favorite), cola, watermelon, peach, something neon green. “I knew you were a lemon man.” Eventually, she found a bright yellow lollipop and tongued hers into the other side of her mouth so she could rip the plastic wrapping open with her teeth. She held the piece of candy out by Rhett’s mouth. “You are a very astute man. I like this awareness: you’ve always understood how pitiful you are, haven’t you?” She looked at Emilio. “But that’s not a ‘good man’, that’s a selfish one. He holds more compassion for you than he does for poor Ingeborg on the nice sword. Who, for all my knowledge, has never tortured any anxiety ridden blonde children. Emilio’s selective, isn’t he? You don’t charge in here, promise to kill someone to save someone else, unless you’re selectively compassionate. Of course, most humans are like this, but it hardly makes him ‘good’ does it?”

Her grip tightened on Rhett’s shoulder. “I don’t like selfish men, Rhett.” And Siobhan knew she was cruel enough to kill Rhett only to anger Emilio. Then she’d tie him up and…well, maybe she’d go for the arms this time. And who would come to save him? Would this be a never ending cycle of interrupted torture? The idea exhausted her. “Emilio, are you aware this is a terrible man? Objectively terrible. He won’t argue—tell him, Rhett. Why don’t you? Tell him all the terrible things you’ve done…or does he already know?” She looked at him, wondering if he was the sort of man to share his secrets or if he had any shame for his duty. Did Emilio want to save him regardless? Why? Why?

Why would anyone want to save this wretched man?

“Emilio.” In her curiosity, Siobhan’s head cocked to the side. “Why should I let you go? Why should I let Rhett go?” She blinked. “Don’t try to threaten me again, or threaten Ingeborg, it’s juvenile. If I cared about staying alive, I wouldn’t be here. If I cared about Ingeborg staying alive, I would have screamed already. Use your brain, I know you have one.”

—

Wincing beneath her tightened grip, Rhett stared at the lollipop still held aloft in front of him as he spoke. “Emilio. Shut up,” he ordered his little brother, knowing that the man’s temper would not do them any favors in this situation. Then, with the smallest tilt of his head in Siobhan’s direction, he began speaking to her, answering her questions slowly, making sure he didn’t miss anything. If he missed something, she might think he was trying to ignore it, and she might do something rash. Something unhinged, like she was. He had to be careful about what he said for once in his stupid life.

“Pitiful, aye. N’ he knows all ‘bout all the things that make me like that.” Most of them, anyway. “He is bein’ selfish, right now. He should’ve let me go days ago. But he’s family, n’ he don’t let family go easy.” His head was swimming, vision blurred. He felt like passing out, but he had to keep going. “He’s the one that got her out. The blonde girl, the mare. He’s the one that let her out of the van, the one that made me promise… not to go after her again. No one else woulda been able to convince me, so… if ya… care about ‘er, ya got Emilio to thank. Ya should… let him go ‘cuz he’s got more green than red on his ledger. Does more good than bad. Only does bad when… when it involves me, or the people that took away our family.” It was surprisingly introspective for Rhett, but he’d had a lot of time to think about it. The warden sucked in a wavering breath, squinting his eye closed. “I don’t wanna leave here.” He’d tried to run once, back before it had gotten really bad, but now… “But that don’t matter, ‘cuz ‘Milio ain’t gonna leave this place without me.” He finally brought his gaze up to look at Siobhan, and for all the world, he looked genuinely apologetic.

“I get why ya did what ya did. But don’t make my brother pay for the wrong shit I done. I know he’s bein’ selfish right now, but he is a good man. I promise he is. I promise.” That’s how sure he felt, despite what Emilio might say, what he might think. He knew the last living Cortez was a better person than he himself believed. “I’ll be dead next year anyway. He just wants a few more months.” With that, Rhett deflated from the effort of remaining coherent, bending forward to bite the sucker from Siobhan’s grip and then lean back against the pole, closing his eye like he was relaxing into a nap. He should’ve still been worried for Emilio, and he was, but he was too damn tired to do much more about it. As it was, his grip on consciousness felt weak—held only by one pinkie finger. He hoped that he’d still have a pinkie finger as he slipped away from them, his mind carrying him elsewhere just in case things went wrong and they all had their guts liquified by a pissed off banshee.

—

The mare was screaming; Emilio ignored it. With the threat of its escape through the astral plane eliminated, it would be simple enough to take its head off when he finished with the banshee. Or he’d leave it here to starve, focus more on getting Rhett to safety instead. He needed some kind of medical care, though Emilio wasn’t sure how to provide it. (If he took his brother to the hospital, what questions would he have to field? Would Zane help him out, understand that Emilio’s presence would need to be an under the radar thing?) Either way, the mare wasn’t important at the moment. Its screeching, its pleas for the banshee to act and its fear disguised as rage. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered at all was sitting in the floor with a goddamn lollipop stuck in front of his face.

The banshee spoke, and Emilio kept his steely gaze on it, body tense and ready to strike at any moment. It would do him no good, he knew. The iron knife in his hand could be thrown with accuracy, but it wouldn’t be faster than a scream if the banshee chose to release one. The most he could hope for was for the blade to find the banshee’s throat just a moment after its scream obliterated him. Maybe if the sound was focused on him, Rhett would survive with only his eardrums ruptured. Maybe someone would come looking, would find him before infection took him. Or maybe they’d both turn to mist with the echo of the banshee’s cry. Maybe they all would. It still felt better than the thought of walking out of here alone.

There were insults, there were implications. This was about the other mare, the kid. Wynne’s girlfriend, the one who hadn’t deserved what Rhett had done to her. But the kid hadn’t even wanted to speak poorly about Rhett; Emilio doubted she would approve of someone being tortured in her name, of someone being killed. He thought of Flora, of the blood he’d spilled and the dust he’d stirred up because she was gone and he was here and things like that needed retribution. Maybe she wouldn’t have approved, either. Maybe she’d never gotten to be old enough to understand the idea of approval. Either way, the blood on his hands remained just as present as his brother’s blood on the floor. His eyes flickered briefly to the corner. She was rotting. She was always rotting.

The banshee kept saying his name, and he wished it would stop. The syllables exiting its tongue felt wrong, felt different. Even when Rhett said it — that fond, shortened version, the one only Rhett was still alive to use — it didn’t feel right. The name reminded him that he was a person, and he didn’t feel like one now. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be one. People ached. People struggled with the things Emilio needed to do. People hurt when you hit them, and he thought something was probably going to hit him soon. He stayed quiet as the banshee spoke, eyes darting to Rhett as his brother joined in. I’ll be dead next year anyway, he said, like it didn’t matter. Like there weren’t little girls rotting in corners and long-dead wives screaming in the distance, like he wasn’t the only family Emilio had who hadn’t decayed long past the point of recognition. Emilio wanted him to shut up, but he was afraid of what might happen when he stopped talking. He was afraid that if Rhett stopped speaking now, he’d never hear his brother’s voice again. The thought made him nauseous.

He let the silence stretch, periodically looking from the banshee to his brother to the empty corner where his mind conjured up long buried corpses and long silenced screams. He knew he should say something. He was supposed to. He knew that.

“I’m not good,” he confirmed, looking at Rhett as he said it. “Neither is he. Neither are you. Or that.” He gestured to the mare like an afterthought, like he’d almost forgotten it was there at all. (Would Teddy want the sword back? He should leave it in place until he’d killed the thing, at least, but he probably ought to clean it after. The thought felt laughably mundane, even as his mind clung to it.) “But he’s my brother. And I’m not the only one who needs him. He’s got a kid who wants him around, who wants to know him. She’s good, and she deserves to keep him. To get to know him, to decide for herself if she wants him in her life. You can —” He looked to Rhett, to the empty gap on the floor where his leg should have been. “You can do what you want with me. Let me call an ambulance for him, and I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. Take my lungs, my liver, my heart, take whatever, but not him. You can take me apart like a goddamn puzzle, but let my brother go. Please. Just let him live, and I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

—

Siobhan was accosting her with a compliment that made Inge just shout an expletive her way, “Kutwijf!” Her mother tongue, because maybe that would shield the truth of her frustration. The truth of her dread, her — well, her fear, really. It was an ugly thing to admit, but as she was stuck on the wall and her ally in all this seemed to be negotiating with the two hunters rather than killing them, she was afraid. She tried to lean into her anger more. Even as Siobhan revealed her hand. She cared not about what might happen to either of them, had no intention as of yet to commit the murders that seemed to Inge as the only logical next step.

Why were they here? Why had Rhett put her in that basement, Ariadne in that van? What was the point? Inge had thought that perhaps this all could lead to one less hunter, that a proactive stance against a monster like Rhett would lead to the erasure of him — but here she was, pinned to that wall, waves of cold pain radiating from that wound. She and Siobhan had done what she condemned all hunters for. Played with their food and not pulled through.

And then there was the revelation that Emilio had been the one to save Ariadne. The man with the murderous eyes of his mother had saved a girl better than them all. It didn’t add up. There was an angle to it. There was some motive she didn’t understand.

What was the point? Emilio may have saved Ariadne and Rhett may not have killed her, but there was still blood on all their hands. Emilio had a point — none of them were good. But Inge didn’t want to die, whereas these hunters seemed all to ready to lay themselves down to rest out of some kind of sentiment that she’d perhaps never felt. Her siblings were like strangers. Her late partner she had let die so she could get out. (A price deserved, considering she’d killed her once.) And even now, she had no interest in dying for another. “Well, I guess that makes it simple, doesn’t it?” Her voice was shrill and ugly, directed at Siobhan only. She would be damned if she would stop trying to make her demands. “They’re both down to die for the other, so why not do them that favor?” She wasn’t quiet after she stopped speaking, another shriek of pain accompanying her words from the strain her words had put on her abdomen. She wanted this to end.

—

Siobhan wasn’t sure it made anything simple. The word ‘family’ caught in her head, stuck in a warped loop. The bloody factory floor morphed into long, soft blades of green—the fields of Ireland. Muffled cries echoed behind her ears—smothered, she knew, by biting down into the flesh of her palm, sweet blood filling her mouth. Mother hated it when she cried. She turned to Rhett and waited for the pain that would follow his broken promise—Emilio wasn’t a good man—but there was nothing but fatigue and honesty. He believed it and that was enough. She looked at Emilio, listened to his plea. He really would have given her anything, just like that. And why? Why? Siobhan’s hand trembled against Rhett’s shoulder; under her gloves, under the myriad of scars on her palm, was the half-moon carved by her small teeth and it throbbed. “I don’t understand.” Her voice dropped to an almost whisper. “I don’t understand.” And then her grip tightened all at once, and she crushed Rhett’s tired body under her fingers. “What does family matter? You knew! This is a bad man!” Her voice rushed over itself, vibrating through her. “Family isn’t above punishment!”

The scars down her back throbbed as her body trembled. The grass and the crying withered away and instead it was her own screams, her own blood and her mother’s heel between her shoulder blades. Siobhan still remembered what the dirt tasted like the day she lost her wings: sulfur, wet clay and saliva. It was a temporary loss, she reminded herself. The same essence of family that Rhett and Emilio were on about was the one that meant her mother was waiting for her, keeping her wings safe, eager to reattach them and be with her daughter again. Yet, even as Siobhan told herself this, her face continued to twist. Her back was on fire; her mother had insisted on pulling them out like a weed, roots and all. “You knew… You knew and you let him live. You know and you come here demanding his life? This man?” She jostled him. “This putrid man?” She heard one of her own bones pop in her hand as she squeezed his shoulder. “What does it mean that he’s family? What does that mean?” How could he be saved? How could he be loved? How could he be forgiven?

Siobhan’s watery gaze snapped to Rhett. “What does it mean? How can he want to save you? How can he give himself away to save you? You, who are not worth saving. How can he? Why? What is—what is that? I don’t—I don’t understand.” She looked at Inge, still stuck on her wall, and blinked rapidly at her, trying to ask without words. Inge was a mother, so she must understand better than these men. If Inge child’s betrayed their family, she would rip their wings out, ruin their beauty, cast them out and strip them of familial title—no longer a daughter. She would. She had to. Good mothers did that. Family would watch it happen too: grandmothers, cousins, aunts. Family was just. “I don’t understand, Inge.”

—

He was only marginally aware of what was happening in the room after he’d stopped speaking. He could hear Emilio talking, probably refuting everything he’d said in some stupid attempt to swap their positions—they didn’t want Emilio, they wanted Rhett, for the shit he’d done to that girl. For the shit he’d done to the one pinned to the wall, still screaming her threats and pleas. But of course, just because a plan was stupid didn’t mean that would stop Emilio from trying it. He knew that much about his little brother.

That is, until the banshee’s grip on his shoulder threatened to break his collarbone and he snapped back into the moment, groaning and weakly trying to tug himself away from her as her words caught up to his addled mind. She shook him, sparking the anger that had fizzled out to little more than embers. She was demanding to know what they meant, to know how someone like Rhett could still have someone like Emilio who cared for him, in spite of everything.

He was annoyed. He spit out the lollipop to better speak.

“Rack off,” he barked angrily, sinking lower to try and relieve the pain that was her fierce grip on him. Something snapped, and he roared the next words in response. “This ain’t a fuckin’ therapy session, you stupid bitch. It ain’t a negotiation, neither! Fuck, all’ah you, just—” His words caught in his throat as Desmond crouched beside him, a large hunting knife protruding from his back. In his arms was little Flora, eyes vacant as the day he’d buried her. The warden stammered, gasping for breath as his fury was diluted by fear and sorrow. “Ya choose family, ya dense slag. Yer mama ain’t got no skin in the game. Fuck’s sake, let go.” Of his shoulder, of her fucked up relationship with her mother… or both. He didn’t really care. He just wanted this over.

—

The banshee was angry. Yelling (but still not screaming), tightening its grip. And it was hurting him, hurting Rhett. Emilio could see it in his brother’s eyes, in the way he came back to himself. He wished he’d stay in his head, stay out of the conversation. It would be easier to convince the banshee that Emilio was the better toy to play with if Rhett went silent. He doubted a hunter who was already broken would be nearly as much fun to pick apart as one still standing, and that was what the banshee was after here, wasn’t it? Fun. The thought of it — that his brother was a game they’d played for days now, that everything he’d gone through had been for the entertainment of the creatures in this room — made him a little sick. The thought that Wynne’s girlfriend in that van had been the victim of a similar game with Rhett as the creature entertained didn’t help.

The banshee was still talking and Rhett was yelling and Emilio couldn’t make out any of it, couldn’t pick apart the words over the rush of blood in his head. Flora was dead and here and rotting. Juliana was glaring and decaying and gone. Rhett was on the living room floor with blood all around him. The banshee had sharp teeth. The mare was shedding dust. Victor had been dead for twenty years now, and Emilio still heard him laughing.

“Stop.” He didn’t know who — what he was talking to. To Rhett, who was going to make things worse for himself in some misguided attempt to make things better for Emilio? To the banshee, whose grip was too tight? To the mare, whose voice was too shrill? To the ghosts that existed only in the confines of his own mind, or to his mind and itself and its awful method of time travel that he’d never consented to? He took a step forward, and it was a risky move. The banshee only needed to scream. But it had Rhett locked in its grip, and if it was going to kill him, Emilio thought it might as well kill him, too. If Rhett was going to die, he wasn’t going to die alone.

Another step, and then another. His feet made a sickening squelching sound as they moved through the blood, his brother’s blood, that soaked the ground. He kept walking anyway, until he was right in front of them, until he was reaching out and grabbing the banshee’s wrist where its hand held his brother’s shoulder, until he was squeezing it to loosen that grip in any way he could.

“It doesn’t matter why,” he said hoarsely. “It — there is no why. He’s my brother. He’s my brother, and I love him. Let him go, and I’ll do anything you want. I promise, I will. I’ll stay here with you. Or I’ll go with him, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone anymore. I’ll make whatever fucking promise you want me to make, just let him go. Please. He’s my brother. He’s the only family I have. You don’t have to understand. I don’t know how to make you understand. But that doesn’t matter. I’m — Christ, I’m fucking begging here. Anything you want, I swear. Just let him go.”

—

They were talking of family and punishment and Inge squirmed on her sword with no stakes in the game. Her parents had been distant and quiet in their love. Her siblings had been companions of silence, each of them haunted by the dead sibling most of them had never met and none of them spoke of. She must have loved them, once, when they were kids. She never really stopped loving them, maybe — but there was no liking them. No sacrifice. No grand gestures. They were not parts to hold over her, they were just abandoned limbs from a past life she didn’t think of much. They weren’t to her like Rhett was to Emilio. So she didn’t understand, either.

And the ones that mattered, the truly familial – chosen and blood – that had once existed had already been severed. She’d watched both her daughter and partner die. For Vera she would have done what Emilio was doing, but there was no comparing Rhett and her child. There was no common ground, besides perhaps the love that existed. And Inge didn’t much care for such sentiments as a sword throbbed in her belly. She didn’t much care for it because love was a wound that could not be tended to. It remained bleeding and raw much like her abdomen.

And above all, there had been no space for heroics in the face of the disease that had taken her daughter. There had been no space for morals or punishments, no use for them. They’d made up and they’d waited it out, the spread of disease. There had been no people to plead with, unless you accosted the doctors who were already on your side. Did Emilio understand how lucky he was, that he got to at least try? That there was at least something to do? That he could drive a sword through an antagonistic body and carry his weapons and make an attempt to sway a woman who could not understand the love he wielded? He was so lucky. He was so undeserving of it.

“I don’t care,” she retorted, mostly to Siobhan, “You don’t have to understand. It doesn’t matter. The love doesn’t matter. The punishment doesn’t matter unless you do what you gotta. Just end it. It doesn’t fucking matter, Siobhan.”

—

“Bitch? Slag?” Siobhan shook Rhett violently, rattling his body against the rusted pipe, ringing it like a gong. “A slag? I hold your life in my hands and you’re calling me a slag? Where’s the respect? I’m twice your age!” She leaned to the side and spat out her grape lollipop, which had been mostly crushed under her hurried conversation. “A promise?” She perked up, then, self conscious about how typical of her species she was being—it was just like a fae to lunge at the first chance for promised favors—and in front of a warden, she cleared her throat. The tendrils of the Gaes, warmed up her stomach. She exhaled on the memory of Emilio’s words—I promise. He would do anything she wanted, he promised. She snapped her jaw shut, clamping down on his words. “I accept your promise.” She had claimed something more valuable than a leg and yet, where she expected and waited for glee, ice knocked through her body.

In her head, her tearful words still cried out for answers: I don’t understand. Siobhan’s gaze fluttered between the bodies: Emilio, so certain and sacrificing in his love; Ingeborg, who understood something that she wasn’t sharing; Rhett, who had given up on himself but not once on his brother. Hollowed out, she was observing something beyond her; each of them spoke an unknowable language. Rhett said family was chosen—Siobhan didn’t understand. Emilio and Ingeborg said it didn’t matter if she understood, but their idea of what did matter was opposed—Emilio wanted Rhett free, Inge wanted them both dead. How could both opinions exist in the same space? How could someone be loved this much? To be begged for? What was love? How did it relate to being a family? What did these words mean other than nonsense? Emilio and Ingeborg were right, what did it matter to her? Why did she care? She ought to kill them; all three.

She stared at her accomplice, still stuck on the damned wall. If she found herself missing a leg, tied to a pole, would Ingeborg beg for her life? Of course not, they were hardly friends on a good day and after this, she was certain that would have many, many bad days. And if Ingeborg happened to be stuck on a wall, what would she do? “I want promises from you both,” Siobhan said, rising from the floor to grab nearby bolt cutters—she’d been hoping to use it to chomp through Rhett’s toes. “Neither of you will personally end or help to end Ingeborg’s undead existence. You may hurt her, I don’t care, but you will not kill her; give me promises.” This was a kindness and she hoped to feel something; a sudden invitation into their secret language. With this act of what she assumed to be love, she waited for the sudden clarity of family and affection. Instead, her arms trembled holding the bolt cutter to Rhett’s ropes. “And promises not to disclose the identities of Rhett’s torturers with anyone—you will not tell anyone about Ingeborg or myself. I want this too.”

—

All he could do was stare up at Emilio miserably as his brother made promises he shouldn’t have, but all the fight had left him with those final insults in Siobhan’s direction. He dropped his head, resigning himself to whatever was to come.

The mare stuck to the wall was doing her best to get them both killed, and Rhett couldn't blame her. But as blind luck would have it, the banshee wasn't interested. He didn't move as she requested promises from them, feeling himself start to slip away again. And as tempting as it was to give in to the out of body experience, he couldn't bear the thought of Emilio suffering for his inability to remain in the present moment. He didn't want to promise the banshee anything, that went against everything he'd ever stood for since Mariela had used it against him, but… this wasn't about him. He knew that. It was about making sure Emilio got out of here safely, and if he had to abandon his principles to do that, he would. He always would.

“I promise I won't kill Ingeborg,” he muttered without looking up, his voice raw. There was no emotion in it, nothing snide nor sad, just a statement of fact. “N’ I promise I won't tell no one who so generously hacked off half my bad leg for me.” Okay, there was a bit of sarcasm in that one, but it couldn't be helped. Finally, the warden angled his chin up at Siobhan again, realizing that he couldn't see her at all — she was nothing more than a silhouette against a dim background in his limited field of view.

He smirked, letting his gaze wander uselessly. He knew Emilio wouldn't have any issue promising these things; he'd already given the fucking thing a freebie, after all. Idiot.

—

It took the promise; he figured it would. It didn’t matter, anyway. All that mattered was the man trapped in the banshee’s grip, the only family Emilio had left. Emilio kept his eyes locked on Rhett’s, expression still and icy as the banshee took the promise. He wondered, almost distantly, if Rhett was disappointed in him. If he still thought Emilio was worth it, even now, or if whatever remained of the respect he held for him vanished the moment he started to beg.

The banshee would use the promise, he knew, but only if it allowed him to survive the experience. He thought that might still be in question, thought it was the kind of thing he ought to be worried about. He wasn’t. He didn’t care what happened to him, meant every word of his stupid pleading. If the banshee let Rhett go, he’d do whatever it asked. He’d pull his heart out of his chest and hand it over. He’d put the saw it had used to hack off his brother’s leg to his own throat. He’d do anything, anything if it meant Rhett got to leave here, if it meant he could go home. Rhett, after all, had a daughter waiting for his return. Emilio had nothing.

Another promise was asked of him, and his eyes darted over to the mare stuck to the wall. He’d almost forgotten about it there; it wasn’t a threat anymore, and it had been written off as a result. An afterthought, a concept not worth his attention. Distantly, he thought it was interesting that the banshee cared enough to request such a promise. There was no request that they not kill the banshee, after all; only that the mare’s head stay on its worthless corpse. Emilio regarded it for a moment but, in truth, he knew it didn’t matter. He said he’d give anything, and he’d meant it. This was included in that.

“I promise I won’t kill your mare,” he replied, letting his eyes move back to the banshee, “or tell anyone who did this, just as long as neither of you hurts him again.” Tacked on the end, a condition of his own. He wouldn’t make a promise only for them to track Rhett down as soon as he was gone to slit his throat. It was a fair enough trade, he thought, especially since he didn’t bother including himself in the conditional. Something like that might have threatened the other promise the banshee had taken; he doubted it would go for that. But Rhett… They’d had their fun there. Emilio wouldn’t risk the chance of them having any more.

—

“She’s not my…oh whatever.” Siobhan sighed, taking her promises from Emilio and Rhett with a forced smile. “Yes, I agree to your deal: I will not physically harm Rhett again.” She waited for Ingeborg’s voice, confirming, before she pulled the final thread of magic and bound them all together; for better or for worse, though usually, it was worse.

The bolt cutter went through the rope, sawing and snapping at the threads; there was something to be said about her insistence on using the wrong tools for every job. Eventually, Rhett was free. Siobhan stepped back, leaned up against her table of supplies and watched them. Love was no more clear to her seeing Emilio take Rhett away. Something, however, sparked watching Rhett’s blanket drop from his shoulder and Emilio’s rough hands pull the fabric over him again. In seeing the man’s arm steadied so carefully on his brother’s shoulder; their steps done in time together, Emilio’s limp and Rhett’s tired hops. Emilio’s body angled towards them, using his body—his life—as a shield. Their soft voices—or was it just Emilios?—too quiet for her to understand. Despite the bloody floor, Rhett’s haphazardly bandaged stump and the pieces of his leg, buzzing with flies, there was a strange peace; a delicate pace. Until the edges of the factory stole the family from her view, she considered if that was love: if it was those two broken men, tethered, going on to live another day knowing they’d both be in it. If it was Rhett’s weight on Emilio, Emilio’s arms around him. If it was knowing that they both would have given their bodies—limbs, ligaments, organs—just to be certain the other would breathe for one more night. Love seemed to be violent in its sacrifices and selfish in its stubbornness.

She didn’t understand it, but she knew they did.

Siobhan looked at Ingeborg, still on the wall. She wondered if anyone loved her—maybe they were the same, in that sense. Silently, she gripped the saw beside her, painted with Rhett’s dried blood, and approached the mare. Her strides were long and deliberate, the blade knocking against her thigh. She made it halfway across the factory floor before she dissolved into laughter. “You should look at yourself; it’s hilarious.” Siobhan bent down and picked up Rhett’s rotten foot. “This one’s for me….” And his rotted calf. “And this…” She pointed at the pile of bloody toenails. “You can have those.” Blowing Ingeborg a kiss, she was gone, not feeling much of anything: not remorse, not confusion, and certainly not love.

—

She was puzzled by these developments, confusion washing over her face as Siobhan made the moves to keep the two hunters from killing her down the line. Inge wondered why she wasn’t throwing her own life into the promise — did she care so little for it? Or did she think herself so invincible? Though she had gotten to know Siobhan a little more intimately over the past few days, this shed another light on the banshee. She squirmed on her sword. Three promises were made and she spoke in a quieter tone as she too, agreed, “I promise not to harm him again.” It was hard to hide the defeat in her voice.

So the banshee, the harbinger of death, was letting them all go. Was keeping them from killing one another in revenge, even. What a miserable turn of events. What a worthless twist. Inge had expected this to end with a corpse to get rid of, but in stead there was the stains of blood that Rhett left as he and his brother moved away. She watched them for a moment, then looked at the blood and flesh, then at Siobhan. Her cruel ally. Her protector, in a way. But also her traitor. She’d wanted a corpse. She’d made that abundantly clear. All she had was her ripped open gut.

She watched her near closer, toying with her saw like a child holding scissors. Not rushing over to come to her rescue, to peel her off the sword. Menacing. “You —” Inge’s face grew furious. “What was – why are you not – you …” She was laughing. The high ceiling made the sounds echo, round and round and round. Was a banshee’s cackle also magical? It had to be, with how miserable it made her feel.

It dawned on her when the kiss was blown that Siobhan was not just pulling her leg and Inge inched forward, eliciting a scream of pain as she hurled words at the other, “Get me off here, you can’t just leave me here, you absolute — SIOBHAN!” The name was repeated a few more times, losing volume every time and Inge remained. Like a fly stuck on the wall, with no purpose and no accomplishments, made witness to a scene that had already ended.

#. thread ;#. with ; emilio cortez #. with ; siobhan dolan #. with ; ingeborg endeman #. the rhescue mission ;#suicidal ideation tw

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