#bruises fade trauma remains

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

SILLY LITTLE BAT

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-Hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ In the shadowed halls of Wayne Manor, a girl lost among the darkness seeks the connection she never had. Her mother, a kleptomaniac with a broken heart, vanished, leaving only echoes of empty promises. Surrounded by a family that never sees her, her pain turns into a deafening silence. The void left by her past traps her in a limbo of solitude and sorrow.

One dark night, seeking her own way, she became what she once despised. Now, like the albino bat rejected by its own flock, she flies alone in the twilight. Her pale skin glows in the dark, but her heart still yearns for the warmth of a home she never came to know.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Suicide, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation

Chapter Guide! Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is—so there might be some grammar or spelling mistakes here and there. This is the first part of a story I’m writing for a friend (Isabel, I love you, you brat), and also an experiment to see what it’s like to write on Tumblr. Please support me! :"((

Nobody is coming to save you

Get up.

Your mother was not a good woman, and that was an undeniable fact, heavy as the shadow that covers Gotham City at nightfall. She was a creature of the underworld, one among the specters that wandered under the yoke of crime, walking among dangerous names like Selina Kyle or Harleen Quinzel, yet always remaining in the background, never reaching their fame or infamy.

She was nothing more than a kleptomaniac and a mythomaniac, doomed to live by cunning and deceit. She took advantage of the men who crossed her path, from the lowest criminals, like The Penguin, to the most powerful man in the city: Bruce Wayne.

You never called him Dad. To you, he was always Bruce, and on the rare occasions you addressed him, you did so with distant formality, "Mr. Wayne." Richard, your adoptive brother, found in him a father figure, while to you, he was just another shadow in the mansion, that huge, cold house you arrived at after your mother’s death.

You remember how, time and again, you tried to warn your mother to stop stealing, to stop lying, that those dark paths would inevitably lead her to Arkham Asylum, surrounded by all the lunatics you feared so much, or even worse: to death. But she always responded with a playful smile, stroking your head with her delicate hands, adorned with stolen jewelry and crude tattoos. "Those are just fantasies of an eight-year-old girl," she would say sweetly, while her ring-laden fingers assured you that you needn’t worry, "I will always come back for you," she promised, "because you are the only thing more valuable than any diamond I’ve ever held."

But the cruel truth was that was the last time you saw her. That night she left, and she never returned. It was then that the last vestiges of innocence faded with her absence. From that moment on, you ceased to be a child.

And that was one of the few things you understood with absolute clarity. There were no more empty promises, no more caresses tinged with lies. All that remained was the silence of a life fading away, like a stolen jewel that never returns to its rightful owner.

The only thing you knew after calling the police when your mother didn’t show up after two days was that they found her corpse in a back alley far from Gotham, showing signs of having been beaten and bruised by some underground gang.

Commissioner Gordon searched the entire house for illicit substances and signs of debts to mobsters, but he only ended up finding documents, stolen jewelry, and letters from your mother that were never sent, and most importantly, DNA evidence implicating that the city’s millionaire was your biological father.

From then on, your life was stained with eternal gray, that muted shade that erased all traces of light or shadow. There was no more white or black, only a silent fog that, day by day, enveloped you and dragged you into a madness that seemed inevitable. Gotham itself seemed more alive than the place you called home, although "home" was never the right word.

You didn’t love any of the Wayne family members. Bruce, your biological father, never listened to you. To him, you were always just another shadow, a ghost in the vast mansion that he prioritized over his other children, his "true" heirs. There was always something more important, something more urgent, and your presence faded among the cold walls and the echo of his hurried footsteps. With each passing day, you became more invisible to him, as if your very existence were a mistake he preferred to ignore.

Richard, the perfect brother, was kind on some occasions. He spoke to you courteously, but when you needed him, when you asked him to attend one of your performances, there was always an excuse, something that kept him away, as if your passion and accomplishments were insignificant details in his heroic life.

Jason, on the other hand, despised you from the start. He saw you as an intruder, a child of gold—but not of that pure and valuable gold, but of a dirty and false one, which he always mocked with disdain. And although you never cared for him, when he died, silent tears rolled down your face. It wasn’t out of love, but out of respect for what he represented, for the brutal reality of his fall.

Tim, in contrast, was the most indifferent. To him, you were a nobody, so irrelevant that you weren’t even worth a glance. Spending time with his friends or being the Robin of the moment mattered more than you did. You lived on his periphery, in a limbo where neither your name nor your face seemed to exist.

Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara… at least they treated you with politeness, but you knew they didn’t really remember who you were. They saw you, smiled at you out of obligation, but deep down you knew they had no idea of your name, your story, your struggle to be more than a shadow in that world.

The worst of all was Damian, your younger half-brother. When he arrived at the mansion, Alfred introduced him to you with that serene formality he always had, and you, driven by an almost desperate impulse, tried to reach out to him. You wanted to offer him the support and affection of an older sister, that warmth you would have longed for in his situation. But all you received in return was a cold response: a katana piercing your abdomen. I wish I could say it was just a metaphor, but no, that wound was as real as the blade that cut your skin.

You would have liked to think that the pain was symbolic, that Damian had only rejected your affection with harsh words or his usual arrogance. But no, it was much more than that. The only thing you received in exchange for your attempt at fraternal love was a stab, a scar you still carry not only on your body but also in your soul. Because in that brutal gesture, you understood that the blood that united you also separated you, sharper than any weapon. And that was how you tried to connect.

You strived to stand out, to learn, to shine in your own ambitions, wishing that your success would be enough to earn you a place, a bit of affection. But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Your talent crashed against indifference, your achievements faded into the air, as if they had no weight in the lives of others.

The only light, the only beacon in that storm of gray, was Alfred. The only one who smiled at you with genuine tenderness, the only one you truly loved. To you, he was the real father, the one who was always there, expecting nothing in return, offering you a silent but firm love. You did call him father, and his presence was the only thing that kept your sanity, the only thing preventing the gray from consuming you completely.

But even that love, so genuine and deep, was not enough to fill the void that your own family left you. And in that void, you continue to float, trapped between the girl you were and the woman you are trying to be, searching for a place you can truly call home.

Y/n's small room, though modest, had always been her refuge. The walls were adorned with unfinished sketches, trophies from various activities, and some paintings she had completed with dedication, showcasing her passion for both manual and performing arts.

The dawn light filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the space in golden tones, giving it a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the rest of Wayne Manor.

On the desk, a small cake rested on a plate, simple yet made with love. Beside it, Alfred, with his usual understated elegance, watched Y/n with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. He, the only one who seemed to remember her birthday, offered her a delicate professional drawing set, wrapped in smooth, elegant paper.

"Happy birthday, Miss," Alfred said with a gentle smile, although his eyes reflected a sadness that was hard to conceal. "I know how much you love art, so I thought this would be helpful for your new projects."

Y/n took the gift in her hands with a genuine smile. It had been so hard for her to find moments of joy lately, but Alfred's gesture filled her with a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She placed the gift into one of the many brown boxes she had prepared for her upcoming move.

"Thank you, Alfred. It's perfect," she said, examining the set carefully, as if each detail were a reminder of the affection he held for her. "It will help me a lot... although, well," she sighed, as if searching for the right words. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Alfred raised an eyebrow, attentive, as she continued, glancing at the small space that had been her home within the vast mansion.

"Today... today is not just my birthday. It's the day I leave here." Her voice was firm, yet there was a sense of liberation in it, as if this were a long-awaited step. "I am finally no longer a Wayne. I go back to being a L/n."

Silence filled the room for a moment, heavy and dense. Alfred clasped his hands, striving to maintain his composure.

"Miss, I can't help but feel a certain unease hearing this. Are you sure this is what you want? This house, though empty in many ways, has always been your home..."

"Home?" Y/n looked at him with a mix of sadness and determination. "This house has never been my home, Alfred. Not like it was for Dick, nor even for Bruce. I have always been a stranger here, the daughter of a woman who never fit into this world, the bastard child. My mother taught me to find my own path, to not cling to what doesn’t belong to me... and being here, being called Wayne, has never belonged to me." Alfred sighed softly, turning his gaze toward the window. He knew there was truth in her words, but that didn’t lessen the pain of her leaving. "I know it’s hard to understand," Y/n continued, "but for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, Alfred. I’ve graduated, college is just around the corner, and I want to start anew. I want to find what truly makes me, me... not what others expect of me."

The old butler remained silent for a few moments, nodding slowly. He knew he couldn't retain her, that it was not his place to interfere in the young woman's dreams. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart at the thought of the house being even emptier without her. "I just wish you find what you’re looking for, Miss. And if you ever need a place to return to... this door will always be open for you."

Y/n stepped closer to him, gently hugging him, something she had rarely done. "Thank you, Alfred," she whispered against his shoulder. "You will always be my family, but I need this. I need to discover who I am outside of this last name."

The old butler felt the lump in his throat as he tightened the embrace a little longer before letting her go. He knew that deep down, she was doing the right thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less to see her leave.

"Alfred, can you call the movers? I’ll be leaving tonight," Y/n said as she closed the last box with trembling hands, her gaze lost in the empty corners of the room she once considered her refuge. The butler, ever serene, nodded with his unwavering calmness.

"Don't worry, Miss, I assure you they will be here on time." His voice was soft, almost an echo of the ancient walls of the mansion, as if he himself were part of that structure that had seen so many comings and goings, so many lives broken and healed in silence.

Alfred turned halfway to leave, but Y/n's voice stopped him, broken yet sweet, like a melody at sunset. "Alfred..."

The man turned slowly, his eyes filled with paternal warmth, though always contained behind a formal gesture. "Yes, Miss?" he replied, with that tranquility that had always brought Y/n peace in her worst moments.

She took a breath, feeling how the words she had kept for so long fought to come out, to break the shell she had built since childhood. "I’ve never told you, but... thank you. Thank you for being the father I never had, for being there when no one else was."

For a moment, the silence in the room was heavier than all the accumulated boxes, deeper than any word. Alfred, who had been a witness to so many confessions and secrets in that house, stood still, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed. "Miss," he murmured, his voice slightly choked, "it was an honor and a privilege to take care of you. If I ever gave you anything close to what you deserved, then my life has had true purpose."

Y/n smiled sadly, nodding slowly. "You did, Alfred. You did. And for that, I will always carry you with me, even if I leave here."

The butler slightly bowed his head in respect, swallowing any emotion that might betray his composure. "Wherever you go, you will always have a home here, Miss."

"I know," she said, though in her heart, she knew she wouldn’t return.

And as Alfred left the room to make the call, Y/n let out a long sigh, as if with it, she were leaving behind a part of herself, a part she could no longer carry with her.

Life in Gotham is like constantly walking on the edge of a razor blade. The city never sleeps, always alert, always dangerous, and for someone with the Wayne surname, the risks multiply. It has been a year since you left the mansion, trying to erase any ties that bound you to that life, desperately wishing the name would fade into the echo of the dirty streets and crumbling buildings. But it's not that easy. The name Wayne remains an indelible mark that the media and the people of Gotham refuse to let fade. The forgotten child, the silent accident of billionaire Bruce Wayne. And although you try to live as if you don’t exist under that shadow, the weight of the legacy haunts you.

You left with little, barely enough money to rent a small apartment in one of the worst corners of the city. You share the space with a friend, a plant-loving girl who has filled every nook of the place with leaves and pots, as if trying to make green defy the constant darkness of Gotham. You get along well with her; her love for nature is almost an antithesis to the chaos of the city, and she has taught you that even in the hardest concrete, something can bloom. She always accompanied you on the coldest, loneliest nights, giving you a warmth that, although ethereal, was very welcome. But still, life is not easy. You barely survive, spending the little you have on cheap food and paying the rent. There are days when the cold seeps through the poorly sealed windows, and you wonder if it was really better to be in the mansion instead of this little trench. However, you prefer this rough freedom to the soulless luxury of Wayne Manor.

Freedom, however, comes at a price. It wasn't enough to distance yourself, to change your life, or even to always carry a knife for defense. Gotham does not forget. People recognize you in the shadows, whisper your name, and approach you, sometimes with curiosity and other times with disdain. You have been beaten more than once. Some just for being a Wayne, others because they think they can extort you, even though they have no idea you can barely get by. The scars on your body bear witness to those beatings, but you refuse to give up. You get up every morning, despite the pain, and continue on your way. You don’t need Batman. You don’t need Bruce. You learned long ago that he wouldn't come to save you.

That night, like so many others, you were heading to the subway for your night shift, with the hood of your coat covering your face, trying to go unnoticed. The sound of the tracks echoed in your ears, a constant reminder of the city's hustle. You had gotten used to walking fast, avoiding eye contact, as if each step was a small battle won against the city. But this time, something was different.

"So it was true, the little Wayne girl is roaming the city... how lovely." The raspy, mocking voice rang out beside you, cutting through the heavy air of the train station. The man speaking wore a suit that, at first glance, seemed elegant, but there was something about his extreme thinness, his skin clinging to his bones and his disheveled hair, that made him look more like a specter of Gotham than a distinguished figure. A ghost from the shadows that had stalked you since you set foot on the streets.

If it weren't for his gaunt appearance and unsettling aura, you might have mistaken him for one of your father's employees. "I'm not a Wayne anymore," you said disdainfully, your voice sharp like the edge of a dagger refusing to be touched. "If you want money, I don’t have any. And Mr. Wayne wouldn’t give a cent for me either."

Your gaze drifted to the station clock. 8 minutes until the train that would take you away from this corner of Gotham, far from the shadows and faces that always seemed to recognize you.

The man let out a dry, raspy laugh that sent chills down your spine. "I don’t want your money, pretty girl," he replied, moving closer, invading your space with the same familiarity that Gotham’s filth slipped into every corner. "You’re worth more than that." You felt his calloused, scarred hand rest on your hip, with a pressure that was neither violent nor friendly. The contact filled you with disgust.

7 minutes.

You clenched your fist, your jaw tight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I don’t want sex either, idiot," you spat, your words loaded with contained fury. Your hand subtly slid toward your bag, where your knife lay, waiting to be used.

6 minutes.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "And I don’t want that either, little girl," he murmured, his cold, deep blue eyes scrutinizing you as if they could read every dark corner of your soul. "I want something more from you."

5 minutes.

"What do you want then?" you asked, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even as the ice of fear began to creep down your spine. Your eyes scrutinized him, searching his gaze for any hint of his true intentions, but all you saw was darkness.

4 minutes.

He let out a long, chilling laugh, tightening his grip on your hip. "Do you know what I want, Y/n?"

3 minutes.

His voice dropped, as if his words were a cursed secret the wind refused to carry away. "I want you."

2 minutes.

The world seemed to stop. You knew there was no time to run. There was no time to pull out the knife or to scream. It was as if the clock itself had conspired against you, reducing those last minutes to mere seconds.

1 minute.

The blow was sharp, a flash of excruciating pain at the back of your head. The cold metal of the station, the hum of the city, everything faded abruptly. The last thought that crossed your mind, before the world vanished into darkness, was that this time, you didn’t expect Batman to save you. It wasn’t a mere thief or a street threat that was taking you.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, always had new ways to remind you that there is no escape.

That night, when the Gotham subway stopped at the station, there was no one to pick up.

The mansion felt emptier than ever, like a deserted and cold labyrinth, where each hallway seemed to stretch into an infinite tunnel, devouring the light.

The silence was overwhelming, an oppression that enveloped every corner, as if even the ancient walls had run out of words. It was so heavy that the few who remained in the mansion couldn’t help but move uncomfortably, trying to fill that void with something, anything.

Bruce Wayne walked through those same hallways with a strange feeling, as if something was missing, though he didn’t know what. An unease, a persistent discomfort that he couldn’t shake off.

He had been like this for months, with that absence haunting his mind, a gap he couldn't identify. And then, suddenly, like a gust of icy wind, the truth struck him.

You.

His daughter.

His little daughter.

How long had it been since he last saw you? When was the last time he heard your laughter, the one that always seemed too sarcastic, too filled with resentment? He stopped abruptly, frowning. Why couldn’t he remember you? He couldn’t bring to mind a clear image of your face, not even how you used to look at him... why? How could he have forgotten you like that?

Damn.

It was as if time had stopped. It had been a year, maybe more, since he had really thought about you. He felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest, a heavy, silent guilt that dragged him into the abyss of his own negligence. Not knowing what else to do, he began to check the rooms, one after another.

Each door he opened was another blow to his conscience. Where was your room? The more he searched, the more confused he felt. The mansion was enormous, but how could he have forgotten where you slept? How was it possible that he didn’t know where you lived in the house where both of you grew up? Had you been here all this time?

Each door he opened was identical to the last, as if all the rooms had fused into one.

None showed a trace of you.

None seemed to have a hint of your presence. Didn’t you decorate your room? He thought frantically, didn’t you even mark it as yours? Panic began to take hold of him. Anxiety wrapped around him like a fist tightening on his chest. Were you still living in the mansion? Or had you left without saying a word, like a shadow fading at dawn? But... no, you hadn’t mentioned anything. You hadn’t said you were leaving. Or had you? And if you had, why didn’t he remember? How could he have ignored you for so long that now he didn’t even know if you were still under the same roof?

“Ah!” he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to contain the dread he felt.

Frustration consumed him from within. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and the echo of his voice faded into the empty walls. He tried to remember something, anything about you, about the last time they spoke, about how you were... but everything was blurry, as if his mind was betraying him, hiding you behind an impenetrable fog.

How could he have forgotten so much?

He brought his hands to his head, trying to calm himself, but only felt more confusion, more desperation. The mansion, which had once been his home, now felt like a strange and foreign place.

Had you been the one who made it feel like home? The question echoed in his mind, but he had no answer. Just more questions. More uncertainties. Finally, he let his arms fall, exhausted. He had checked almost all the rooms and had found not a trace of you. Not a clue. Not a sign that you had been there. And at that moment, something dark and painful began to settle in his heart.

Had you ever really been there?

Then something caught his attention as he passed by the cleaning room. In a dusty corner, next to a forgotten bag, something was protruding. Something small, old, and faded. He bent down and pulled it from the dirty clothes. It was a stuffed animal, or what was left of one. The faded black of its suit left no doubt. It was a figure of Batman, but worn down by time, battered to the point of looking forgotten.

Bruce's eyes were fixed on the small piece of fabric hanging from the doll's neck. A tag.

Your name.

Your name, handwritten, in ink that was already fading.

Bruce felt a lump in his throat, a mix of guilt and rage. How could he have forgotten something so important?

He clutched the doll tightly, as if doing so would return a piece of you to him, but instead of comfort, he only felt more emptiness. Where were you? He ran to Alfred, who looked at him with a mix of concern and pity.

"Alfred..." Bruce said, his voice breaking. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"

The butler, with his always serene face, seemed to age suddenly. A long silence settled between them, as if time was fading away. "Mr. Bruce, I didn’t mean to..." Alfred lowered his gaze. "I didn’t want to burden you with that truth, but... it’s time you know."

Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. Truth? What truth?

"She left almost a year ago. She didn’t say where. She just... she took all her belongings, though they weren’t many, and left. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. That you and the other family members had too many things to worry about."

Bruce took a step back, as if the words had physically struck him. Did she have enough age to leave? A burden? Never, not for a second, did he think that of you, of his little daughter who, even though she wasn’t wanted, he embraced under his wing just like Damian.

You were never a burden.

...or were you?

No, he refused to acknowledge it; he just... he hadn’t spent time with you because Gotham needed him!

But when you needed him, where was Batman?

Where was Bruce Wayne when his only biological daughter needed him?

"Alfred, do you know anything about Y/n?" the hero asked, worry clear on his face.

Alfred didn’t look at him; he only stared into nothingness. "...I haven’t heard anything about her for two months...

And honestly... I'm starting to think...

that she might be lost to us forever..."

A/N — This is definitely apart from being my first official Tumblr post, it is also my first DC post and especially the first from the Lord of the Night xD

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

Isabel, I dedicate this to you, my love. Eat more to be well, you fucking anorexic, don't suck.

take a bath!

inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

[itacats]

Rain of Shadows

FT: Simon x gn!reader

Warnings: Emotional detachment and isolation, Conditioning and dehumanization, Mentions of violence and combat situations, Subtle introspection on trauma and identity, use of code name for reader, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

SUM: You are thrust into an unfamiliar world filled with new faces and unspoken challenges. As you navigate the tension between duty and something deeper, questions begin to surface—about loyalty, purpose, and the bonds that tie people together. Change is in the air, but whether it’s for better or worse remains uncertain.

A/N: This story is my attempt to blend introspection with action, exploring the psyche of someone forged into a tool but yearning for something more. Rain’s journey is both literal and metaphorical, as they navigate the challenges of missions and emotions alike. Also, writing Soap's quips was dangerously fun, and if you can imagine his voice while reading, you deserve a biscuit. 🌧️🪖

Rain of Shadows Masterlist

Part 1 - A New Assignment

A familiar coldness curls around your heart, a constant presence you’ve carried for as long as you can remember. It doesn’t stab or ache—it suffocates, a frost that numbs the shards of longing you don’t fully understand. What is there to long for when you’ve been raised to forget?

Your earliest memories are a patchwork of harsh fluorescent lights, echoing orders, and the sterile tang of disinfectant. The concept of a childhood is as foreign to you as warmth or family. Those luxuries were stripped away before you could form an attachment, replaced with a relentless regimen of drills and exercises designed to carve you into something beyond human. A weapon. Efficient, unyielding, and devoid of unnecessary emotion.

And yet, in the quiet spaces between missions, that hollow ache lingers. It’s not enough to distract you—distraction is a failure in your line of work—but it gnaws at the edges of your purpose, whispering of something missing.

Your code name is Rain—chosen with precision by those who forged you. Fluid, relentless, unobtrusive. Like the rain, you move quietly, leaving destruction in your wake. But unlike the rain, you bring no renewal.

The sky above the training grounds burns with the last remnants of sunlight, the horizon painted in bruised hues of purple and gold. Shadows creep over the facility, deep and sprawling, mirroring the ones within you. The whispers of your handlers cut through the stillness, sharp and deliberate, carrying the weight of yet another mission.

This one feels different.

Task Force 141.

The name carries an air of infamy, even among the circles you operated in. Their reputation is sterling, their methods unorthodox, their success rate unparalleled. They are a unit forged in battle, bonded not just by skill but by a camaraderie you can’t begin to comprehend. And now, your handlers have decided to throw you into their ranks.

It’s not the first time they’ve embedded you with other operatives, but there’s an unfamiliar edge to their instructions this time—a hesitation, perhaps, or an unspoken expectation. You don’t bother speculating. It isn’t your place to ask questions, only to obey.

Captain John Price stands at the forefront as you approach, his silhouette backlit by the fading sun. He doesn’t move like a man weighed down by rank or responsibility. Instead, he carries himself with an ease that speaks of experience, of surviving where others didn’t.

His face is lined, weathered by years of battle, but his eyes remain sharp, assessing you with the precision of a tactician. You’re used to being appraised, but Price’s gaze feels different—not cold or clinical, but weighted, as if he’s not just measuring your skill but your soul.

“This is Rain,” Price announces, his voice steady and commanding. “They’ll be working with us from now on. I expect you to show them the ropes—and learn a thing or two in return.”

There’s no fanfare, no embellishment in his tone. It’s clear that, to him, you’re a soldier, not an experiment. The thought is… unusual. Unsettling.

Before you can dwell on it, another figure steps forward, breaking the tension with a grin as wide as the horizon.

“Show ‘em the ropes?” says Soap—John MacTavish, his Scottish accent curling around the words. “I was thinkin’ more like throwing ‘em in the deep end. Sink or swim, eh?”

Soap radiates energy, his mischievous expression framed by a mess of auburn hair. He doesn’t seem to view you as a threat—or if he does, it’s in the way one warrior sizes up another before a friendly spar.

Beside him stands Gaz—Kyle Garrick, his posture more subdued but no less confident. His dark eyes sweep over you, assessing with quiet intensity. “Don’t underestimate them just because they’re new,” he says, his tone measured but edged with a subtle challenge. “You might be the one sinking.”

The banter feels alien to you. Familiarity between teammates is not something you’ve been taught to expect—or value. Among the operatives you’ve worked with before, loyalty was transactional, fleeting. Here, it feels… genuine.

And then there’s Ghost–Simon Riley.

He stands apart, a silent monolith in the gathering shadows. The skull-patterned balaclava he wears is stark against his dark uniform, lending him an air of menace that seems almost deliberate. His posture is relaxed, but his presence is anything but.

Simon doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, but you feel his eyes on you, cold and unyielding. Unlike Soap’s teasing or Gaz’s quiet scrutiny, Simon’s gaze feels like a scalpel, peeling back layers to expose what lies beneath. It’s unsettling, but not unfamiliar.

You’ve been watched your entire life—studied, measured, judged. And yet, Simon’s scrutiny feels different. It’s not clinical or calculating. It’s… human, somehow.

As Price continues to speak, laying out expectations and protocols, you find yourself glancing between the men who will now be your teammates. They laugh and rib each other with a warmth that feels out of place in the world you know. You wonder, briefly, what binds them together. Shared experience? Mutual respect?

When Price mentions camaraderie, the word catches in your mind like a thorn. You’ve read about it, observed it in others, but never felt it yourself. It’s a bond that doesn’t fit into the cold, efficient world you inhabit.

Soap nudges Gaz with his elbow, whispering something you can’t quite make out, and the two share a quiet chuckle. Simon doesn’t join in, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture, a tilt of his head that suggests he’s listening. Even in their silence, there’s an understanding between them that you can’t begin to fathom.

For the first time in years, a flicker of doubt worms its way into your mind. These men are not like your handlers, nor like the operatives you’ve been paired with before. They don’t see you as a tool to be wielded, a weapon to be pointed at a target.

You don’t know what they see.

The thought lingers as the sun disappears completely, leaving you standing in the growing darkness with strangers who might one day call you their own.

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Make Me Forget | tasm!Peter Imagine

Summary: After Harry nearly strangled you, things can never be the same again. (A follow on from Crushed)

Warnings: 18+ Only, smut, cheating, guilt, violent boyfriend, trauma, angst, hurt/comfort

A/N- I never planned on making a follow up to crushed but this just came into my head and I needed to get it out. This is a quick one before bed, but smutty because I’m trying to get my head back into the smutty game to complete some of my other WIPs. Also I haven’t written for Peter in a while and thought he deserved some love.

You: Hey…

You: Can we talk?

You: Please?

You: ….

You: Peter?

You: Please Peter, don’t ignore me.

You: ….

You: Please….

You: I need you.

It had been nearly two weeks now since the night Harry almost killed you. The night that Peter saved your life. The night you kissed him and asked you to stay. When you had woken the next morning, he had already gone and he’d clearly been avoiding you ever since.

You tried to push the whole thing to the back of your mind. Tried to play along with Harry and pretend nothing had ever happened. But ever since that night, it was like something had died inside you.

You didn’t want to look at Harry in a different light, but you couldn’t help it. Although you both tried the bruises around your neck, the one clear reminder of Harry’s little episode remained; and although you covered them with a scarf until they disappeared, you still felt them as if they were burned on your skin. Every time you breathed, it was like the scarf that covered them, grew tight and brought you back to that moment every time.

All you wanted to do was talk to someone about it. As Peter was the only other person who knew, you wanted to talk to him about it, but you hadn’t seen or heard a single word from him since that night. You dared not ask Harry about Peter either, for fear it would trigger something. So you just sat and let it eat you from the inside out alone.

In all truth, the moment it had happened you knew you wanted to leave Harry, but every time you tried to do it, you couldn’t, guilt eating at your insides like a parasite. Guilt for knowing it wasn’t truly Harry’s fault. Guilt for knowing his illness would kill him before long and not being able to make him go through it alone. Guilt for kissing Peter, Harry’s best friend…. and of course for wanting to do it again.

You: Peter, please talk to me!

It was no use. No matter how many times you tried, he just seemed to ignore any attempt you made to contact him.

2 weeks turned into 4. The bruises faded completely. Harry was trying to do everything he could to make it up to you. You knew Peter had been around because Harry began to bring him up in conversation again; but it was clear he was making sure to see Harry only when you weren’t around.

At 6 weeks, things began to turn again. Although he never laid a finger on you, Harry became spiteful again. He would rant about work. Rant about random people he’d run into on the street. When he grew extra heated you would see a flash of green in his veins at his neck or he’d smash a glass and it would take you straight back to that night. But he’d always see you flinch. Always realise when he’d gone too far… until one night, he didn’t.

“WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS?” Harry screamed, the highball glass in his hand collided with the marble floors and shattered into a million pieces. “I MEAN I-“ he said storming towards you, his finger prodding at his chest, “I!” He reiterated louder, “PAY FOR HIS FUCKING SALERY!”

You shrank back against the wall as he stomped passed you, crossing to the bar in the living room to fix himself another drink. You knew it was a bad idea to let him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop him, worried it would only anger him more.

“The ONLY reason he’s still even on the board is because he was my father’s best friend.” He seemed to laugh at that. “As if you could imagine anything so ridiculous as my father having a best friend. SOME BEST FRIEND, LETTING HIM DYE ALONE!” He knocked back the last of his drink, before that glass collided with the wall. Suddenly it became all too clear this wasn’t about the guy on the board at all- but Peter.

“Harry-“ you said tentatively as you stepped forward, wanting to know what exactly had happened, but the closer you got, the clearer the green in his veins showed. When his eyes locked on yours, you knew he was gone.

“DON’T HARRY ME, SWEETNESS! WE BOTH KNOW THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!” He spat as he crossed the room towards you. “You in your little SLUT dresses! Fluttering your WHORE LASHES all over the place.”

It was like walking into a lions den wearing the famous Lady GaGa meat dress, you knew you’d fucked up, quickly trying to step back and run away before you got eaten, but it was no use as he charged at you. “Harry- stop- please!” You cried, “I don’t know what you’re taking about. I haven’t seen Peter in weeks. HARRY! PLEASE LISTEN TO ME!”

You raced around the room, attempting to place large pieces of furniture between you. To give yourself enough space to get out. At the memory of what happened before, your throat grew tight. Words began to fail you. You knew you were on your own this time. You had to get out. You needed to distract him. You used the only thing you could think of that Harry hated more than anything else lately- Spider-Man.

You made your eyes dart towards the window behind him and back again. Then you did it a second time, catching his focus before you said, “Hey, is that Spider-Man?”

“SPIDER-MAN!” Harry fumed, his anger dialling up a notch, but with his new hatred peaked, he turned his back on you to face the window. As he stalked towards the rooftop doors, ready to fling them open in search of the masked vigilante, ready to curse him out, you ran. He barely had time to realise what you had done and come back and curse you out for it, when you were already in the elevator and on your way back down to the lobby.

🕷️ 🕷️ 🕸️🕷️🕷️

When Peter got back to his apartment, the last thing he was expecting was to find you, curled up in a ball on his doorstep waiting for him.

“Y/N?” He asked confused. When you looked up at him, he immediately knew something was really wrong. Your eyes were red and puffy from crying. He immediately knew it was because of Harry. Peter frowned, remembering what had happened last time, sudden fear coursed through him. Fear… and guilt. He should have never ignored you. Never left you alone. No matter how hard it hurt to see you with him. “What did he do?” He almost snarled, but knew it was the wrong move as he saw the panic and fear in your eyes.

He quickly softened and you picked yourself up off the floor so he could get to the door to open it for you both. Neither of you said anything more until you were inside. The silence as you both made your way through the tiny apartment, Peter dumping the bag of groceries that had been in his hand on the small kitchen side, gave you time to compose yourself, to wipe at your face and the last traces of tears on your cheeks, as you took in the boxy studio apartment. You sat yourself down on the end of his bed.

“Do you want anything?” He asked as he quickly put away his groceries; a carton of milk, a box of sugary cereal, eggs and three frozen pizzas- all pepperoni. “A glass of water or-“

“I want you to make me forget.” Your small voice said as you looked down at your hands.

His hand hesitated a moment, half frozen on its way to get a cup out of the cupboard. You mustered up some confidence and stood again, moving across the floor towards him. He slowly lowered his hand from the cupboard as your hands reached for him. Your fingers clawed at his shirt with need as you came to a stop and stared up into his soft brown eyes. The only eyes you had thought of for the last 6 weeks. The ones that had got you through. You then lowered your eyes to his lips. “Please, make me forget.” You spoke to them, your eyes heavy, your need for him now you were stood before him once more growing too great.

“Y/N, I can’t. You know- Harry- I”

“It’s over. Me and Harry are done. I’m not going back- I can’t- just… please.” You said, your eyes meeting his once more, softly pleading with him. He hesitated as he stared at you, clearly weighing up the right thing to do in his head. “Please, Pete,” you whispered as your hands ran back up his sides, your eyes falling back to his lips, “please just make me forget.”

You reached up on tiptoes to capture his lips in yours. When his hands gripped hold of your arms you stopped, moving your head away. Sure he was about to push you away. You watched closely as he fought to push away, to do the right thing- but he just pulled you in closer.

His mouth was on yours hungrily as you both leaned into the kiss, your arms flying around his neck, his arms twisting around your back as he lifted you off the floor, walking you both towards the bed. As he tried to place you back down on it, you refused to let go of him, pulling him down on top of you, your tongue reaching to lick into his mouth. He tasted of coffee and sugar, far from the bitterness and whiskey Harry tasted off.

His fingers were gentle as he pushed your hair back away from your face, his fingers tangling with it behind your ears, the safety and security of his touch making you soften beneath him. The realisation made you well up and when Peter wiped his thumb across your cheek and it came away wet, he quickly moved back.

“You’re crying.” He said.

“I know.” You replied as you reach to pull him back to you.

“Wait-“ he said.

“It’s okay. You replied, they’re happy tears.” You said softly, but he didn’t quite believe you.

“Pete, please, you just-“ you swallowed away your tears, willing him to believe you, “you make me feel safe.”

“And that made you cry?” You didn’t say anything, but he could see the truth in your eyes- and it made him soften. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, as he wiped away at the trail your last tear had left behind. “I’m sorry he did this to you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there-“

“You’re here now Pete,” you reassured him, “please, Peter, I don’t want to talk about him anymore. I don’t want to think about him. I just want you,” you said, breathing the last words into him. “Please… make me forget.”

He paused for a moment, letting you know with his eyes that he understood, a silent promise that he would. He had already let you down once- had been letting you down these past 6 weeks. He wouldn’t let you down again.

When he leaned back down to capture your lips with his again, they were softer, his kisses slower, more gentle, with more purpose. Lazily pulling every little tingle, relaxing every tight pent up muscle from you, one kiss at a time. He moved from your lips, to your jaw, down your neck, your fingers curling into the strands of hair on the back of his head. He suckled and licked his way all the way down the exposed skin on your chest. When he reached the neckline of your top he stopped, moving away and shuffling himself back, his fingers reaching for the fastening of your trousers.

He paused only for a second to double check this was truly what you wanted and when you silently nodded your head at him, too relaxed, too dreamy and drunk on him, he finally pulled down your trousers and your underwear, exposing your lower half to him.

When he knelt down and parted your legs, you barely had time to acknowledge the cold air against your sex as he covered it with his warm tongue, slowly licking and kissing his way between your folds. He relished every sigh and moan that escaped your mouth. You wanted him to make you forget, but he took his time, savouring every second so he would always remember.

When he sucked your clit between his lips, your back arched off of his bed, body squirming with over stimulation, breath hitching and squeaking in your throat. He hoped to all gods it was healed enough and that you’d let him slide his cock down it later.

When he began to work two of his fingers into your now dripping cunt, curling them, begging for you to give him all you had, you sighed his name and he swore he almost came in his pants.

He seemed to drag out your pleasure for nearly an hour, building you up, letting you cool back down again until you were a pleading puddle, putty in his hands with nothing on your mind other than him.

When you whined, “Peter, please,” after your third lazy orgasm, he finally obliged, climbing back up on top of you, safe in the knowledge that the only thing you will ever have on your mind now, for the rest of time, will be this moment and him.

[jungwnies]

wreckage - charles leclerc (3/4)

୨ৎ : pairing : charles leclerc x wife!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis : as charles fights for his life, his wife faces the hardest decision: let go or fight for him. a small miracle gives hope for recovery.

୨ৎ : genre : emotional fiction, very... very... emotional, again ୨ৎ : tws : car accident/injury, arguments/conflict, anxiety/panic, trauma, medical trauma. ୨ৎ : wc : 1676

part one | part two | part three | part four

They say that the hardest part of love is knowing when to let go. The decision to hold on is easy—it’s the decision to release, to trust that the other person will be okay without you, that’s the hard part.

You’ve been sitting in the sterile, white hospital room for hours, each minute feeling like a year. Charles’s body is hooked up to so many machines, monitors flashing with numbers that seem foreign to you. His face, once so full of life, now looks pale, bruised, and still. They told you to prepare yourself for the worst, but you haven’t let yourself believe it. Not yet.

Not while there's still hope.

You’re not even sure what you're hoping for anymore. Some miracle, maybe. But deep down, you know the odds. They’ve been giving you the numbers—stats you can’t quite process, numbers you can’t make sense of. His condition is critical, and they’ve told you, over and over again, that his survival chances are slim. His organs are struggling, his internal injuries severe. The brain scans were grim at first, showing little to no activity.

But you can’t let yourself fall into that darkness. Not yet.

The room feels too cold, too empty.

"How are his stats?" you ask quietly, though you already know the answer.

The nurse glances at you, her face trying to remain neutral. "Not good. His heart rate’s been fluctuating. His oxygen levels aren’t improving, either. We’re doing what we can, but his body’s fighting against us." She hesitates, looking back at the monitors. "We’re not sure how much longer we can keep him stable."

You nod, feeling the weight of every word, but you can’t give up. Not yet.

Minutes turn into hours. You stay by his side, holding his hand, whispering to him. Every time you speak, you tell him how much you love him, how much you need him to come back. You’re not sure if he can hear you, but it doesn’t matter. You need him to know.

And then, just as you’re beginning to feel the overwhelming weight of your decision, something unexpected happens.

The steady beep of the heart monitor suddenly begins to accelerate, growing faster and faster. You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. Something’s wrong.

The nurse rushes over, her face pale as she watches the monitor. "His heart rate’s spiking," she mutters. "It’s too fast. His blood pressure’s dropping."

The room erupts into action as doctors rush in, all moving in synchronized chaos. You’re shoved aside as they begin adjusting the equipment, calling out orders, but your mind goes blank. You try to focus, but it feels like everything is spinning.

"His stats are crashing," one doctor says, his voice tense. "We need to stabilize him now."

"Is it time?" you ask, barely able to speak over the noise. "Should we—"

But before you can finish, a loud, sharp sound cuts through the room—the unmistakable alarm of a failing heartbeat. The doctor turns toward you, his eyes filled with grim determination. "I’m afraid we’ve reached the point where his body might not be able to hold on much longer."

Your breath hitches in your throat. Everything feels like it’s slipping away. You squeeze Charles’s hand tighter, as if willing him to come back to you.

But then, as if the universe is playing some cruel game, the chaos calms, just for a moment.

The alarms start to fade into silence, and the doctor presses his fingers to the side of Charles’s neck, feeling for a pulse. Your heart lurches, praying for any sign of life. The seconds feel like hours.

Suddenly, the doctor looks up, his eyes widening. "Wait… there’s something." He leans in, checking the monitors again. "His blood pressure’s stabilizing. His heart rate’s slowing down to a more normal rhythm."

You barely dare to breathe, your eyes never leaving Charles’s face.

The nurse who’s been working on him moves closer, shaking her head in disbelief. "It’s like he’s coming back."

You don’t know what to think. The last few minutes have felt like an eternity, and now, you’re afraid to believe it. "What’s happening?" you whisper, your voice trembling.

The doctor looks up at you, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of hope in his eyes. "It seems like he’s fighting. His body’s responding… it’s too early to say for sure, but this is a good sign."

You stare at Charles, trying to process the sudden shift. Is this the miracle you’ve been waiting for, or just another false hope?

The minutes stretch on, and then, just as you begin to allow yourself a small breath of relief, the monitor lets out another shrill, jagged alarm—the unmistakable sound of a fatal arrhythmia. A shocking wave of panic shoots through you as the machine flashes with an erratic, spiking rhythm.

"V-fib!" The doctor shouts, his voice urgent. "We’re losing him. Get the defibrillator ready."

The nurse scrambles to prepare the machine, and you feel your stomach drop out. This can't be happening. Not now.

"Charles!" you whisper, gripping his hand harder, your eyes welling up. "Please."

The doctors are already on him, paddles in hand, but it feels like time is standing still. Your eyes dart from the monitors to Charles’s face, feeling as if your heart has stopped with his. Then, the shock.

The force of the defibrillator sends a jolt through his chest, and the monitor flickers. Nothing.

You close your eyes briefly, bracing for the worst.

"Again," the doctor orders, and another round of defibrillation. This time, there’s a slight blip, a change. It’s not much, but it’s something.

The doctor presses the paddles down once more, adjusting the settings. "One more time. We need him back."

The seconds stretch as they try again, and then finally, the heart monitor begins to beat again—slowly, but steadily.

"Heartbeat stable," the nurse breathes.

Your breath escapes your lips in a shaky exhale. You look at Charles again, feeling a rush of relief flood through you as the panic of the past few minutes settles into a wary calm. But it’s still not over. His fight isn’t done.

Just as you think the worst is behind you, Charles’s mother bursts into the room, her eyes frantic as she surveys the scene. Her voice cracks as she calls out his name, "Charles!"

You feel a flash of guilt. You should’ve called her sooner, but there had been no time. The doctors had been focused, and you’d been too overwhelmed to think clearly.

You step aside, giving her space, but you can’t look away from the man you love, still unconscious, his body fighting to survive.

The doctor steps over to you both. "We’re stabilizing him, but we’re not out of the woods yet. We need to make some decisions."

Charles’s mother looks at you, her face pale with concern. She reaches for your hand. "Whatever it is… I trust you. You’re his wife, and you know him better than anyone. What do you think we should do?"

You swallow hard, your voice barely above a whisper. "I… I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to do. He’s… he’s still fighting. But we’ve been here for so long, and I don’t know how much longer we can wait."

Her gaze softens. "You don’t have to do this alone. I trust you. We’re a family. We make these decisions together." She squeezes your hand tightly. "But if you think there’s still a chance for him, then we have to keep fighting too."

You look back at Charles, uncertainty and fear clouding your judgment. How do you even begin to make this decision? His body is failing him, but his heart—his spirit—is still trying.

"Let’s give him more time," you decide, your voice shaking with fear but firm with resolve. "But if his chances are too slim… if we’re just keeping him alive on machines, then we need to think about letting him go."

The doctor nods solemnly. "We’ll run more tests. But if things don’t improve soon, we may need to consider other options."

As the minutes pass, the machines continue to monitor Charles’s every movement, every breath, and the room remains tense, every decision weighed in silence. But then, something begins to shift.

"His blood pressure’s coming back up," the nurse announces quietly. "And… there’s more brain activity. His oxygen levels are improving too."

You feel like you might be dreaming. "Is this really happening?"

The doctor steps forward, shaking his head in disbelief. "I’ve never seen anything like this. His vitals are stabilizing. I think… I think he’s fighting."

"Fighting?" you ask, still not quite believing what you’re hearing.

The nurse, who’s been checking his monitors, speaks softly, her voice a little hopeful. "He knows you’re here. I think he’s holding on for you."

And in that moment, you realize: you’re not alone in this fight. Charles is fighting for you too.

The room fills with a cautious optimism, but the road ahead is still uncertain. Will he wake up? Will his organs continue to improve?

Only time will tell.

Then, the unthinkable happens.

"His breathing," the nurse says, voice shaky, "it’s improving. He’s trying to breathe on his own. We can extubate him. He doesn't need the tube anymore."

You stare, wide-eyed, as they carefully begin the process of removing the intubation tube, your heart in your throat.

Everything changes in a moment.

There’s still a long way to go, but for the first time in hours, you feel a flicker of hope.

He’s still here. And he’s fighting.

But you know deep down that the next few days will be critical.

You stand there, feeling like you’ve crossed a line between despair and hope. But Charles has always been a fighter. And if he’s fighting, so will you.

For him. For the life you built together. For love.

You look down at him, and the smallest of smiles begins to tug at your lips.

Maybe… just maybe… he’ll make it through.

And for now, that's enough.

taglist: @emryb , @htpssgavi , @aleatorio1234 , @ayap4paya , @prttylight , @meadhbhcavanagh , @iluvnewtie , @hiireadstuff , @armystay89 , comment to be added

© 2024 jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[defiblover27]

Simulation

In the bustling corridors of the underfunded hospital, a faded flyer catches the eye of passersby, its corners curling with age. "Volunteers Needed for Trauma Training Exercise," it boldly proclaims, beckoning those with a sense of adventure or altruism to step forward and lend their aid.

Among those drawn to the call is a 24-year-old woman, her determination evident in the set of her jaw as she approaches the hospital's trauma director. They exchange a brief but earnest conversation, the young volunteer expressing her willingness to participate in the training exercise while voicing her concerns about her comfort level with certain procedures.

"I'm eager to help in any way I can," she explains, her voice tinged with a mix of nervousness and resolve. "But I'll admit, I'm a bit apprehensive about some of the more invasive procedures. I'm comfortable with basic first aid and CPR, but I'm not sure I'm ready for things like intubation or defibrillation."

The trauma director nods understandingly, his expression one of reassurance rather than judgment. "That's perfectly understandable," he replies, his tone gentle yet firm. "Your safety and comfort are our top priorities. We'll tailor the scenario to suit your preferences and ensure you're only asked to participate in tasks you feel comfortable with."

With a sense of relief washing over her, the young volunteer nods gratefully, grateful for the understanding and support offered by the trauma director. Together, they discuss her role in the upcoming training exercise, mapping out a scenario that challenges her skills without pushing her beyond her limits.

Preparing the volunteer for the trauma training exercise is a meticulous process, undertaken with care and attention to detail to ensure her safety and comfort throughout the simulation.

As she arrives at the hospital, the volunteer is greeted by a team of trained professionals who guide her through each step of the preparation process. They lead her to a private changing area, where a set of hospital scrubs awaits her. With gentle encouragement, they assist her in disrobing, providing her with disposable undergarments to wear beneath the scrubs for modesty and hygiene.

Once dressed, the volunteer takes a seat as a makeup artist meticulously applies special effects makeup to simulate the injuries she will portray during the exercise. With a steady hand and an artist's eye for detail, they create realistic bruises, lacerations, and abrasions, transforming the volunteer's appearance into that of a trauma patient in need of urgent medical attention.

As the makeup artist works their magic, other members of the preparation team gather the necessary equipment for the simulation. They retrieve a backboard from its storage location, laying it out on a nearby gurney in anticipation of the volunteer's arrival. Alongside the backboard, they arrange a cervical collar (C-collar) and an inflatable orange brace designed to stabilize her right leg.

With the makeup application complete, the volunteer is guided to the gurney, where she lies down with a sense of trepidation mingled with excitement. The preparation team surrounds her, their movements practiced and precise as they secure her to the backboard with straps, ensuring she remains stable and secure throughout the simulation.

Next, they carefully position the cervical collar around her neck, adjusting it to provide support without impeding her breathing or movement. With gentle yet firm hands, they slide the inflatable orange brace into place around her right leg, inflating it to the appropriate level to immobilize the limb and prevent further injury.

As the final touches are made, the volunteer takes a deep breath, steeling herself for the challenges that lie ahead. Though she may be nervous, she knows she is in capable hands, surrounded by a team of professionals dedicated to her well-being. With a nod of affirmation, she signals her readiness to begin, eager to play her part in the training exercise and contribute to the hospital's ongoing mission of saving lives.

The simulation begins with the trauma team gathered around the gurney, their expressions grave as they assess the condition of the patient lying before them. The young woman, named Emily, is 24 years old, her face drawn with pain as she struggles to maintain consciousness amidst the chaos of the emergency room.

Emily's injuries are extensive, the result of a harrowing car accident that left her trapped in the wreckage for hours before help arrived. She presents with multiple traumatic injuries, including a deep laceration on her forehead, contusions and bruising across her chest and abdomen, and a visibly deformed right leg.

As the medical team conducts their initial assessment, Emily groans softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she describes the events leading up to the accident. She recalls the screech of tires and the sickening crunch of metal as her car careened off the road, the world spinning in a dizzying blur before everything went dark.

Her breathing is shallow and labored, punctuated by gasps of pain as she struggles to draw air into her damaged lungs. A rapid pulse races beneath her clammy skin, a testament to the body's instinctive response to trauma as it fights to stay alive against overwhelming odds.

The trauma team works quickly and methodically, their movements a synchronized dance of urgency and precision as they address each of Emily's injuries in turn. They apply pressure to the gaping wound on her forehead, staunching the flow of blood with sterile dressings and medical tape.

Meanwhile, others attend to her chest and abdomen, palpating for signs of internal injury while monitoring her vital signs for any indication of deterioration. X-rays are ordered to assess the extent of her injuries, with the medical team bracing themselves for the possibility of life-threatening complications hidden beneath the surface.

Throughout the simulation, Emily remains conscious but disoriented, her grip on reality tenuous as she grapples with the enormity of what has happened. She reaches out for reassurance, her eyes searching the faces of the medical team for a glimmer of hope in the midst of her darkest hour.

As the simulation progresses, the trauma team springs into action with renewed determination, their focus unwavering as they fight to stabilize Emily's condition and save her life. Though the road ahead may be long and fraught with uncertainty, they refuse to give up hope, drawing strength from their collective commitment to excellence in the face of adversity.

As the simulation progresses, the trauma director approaches Emily with solemnity, his voice gentle yet firm as he explains the next phase of the exercise. "Emily," he begins, his tone tinged with empathy, "in just a moment, we'll be simulating a critical event. We'll need to simulate your heart stopping. We'll need to cut open your shirt to begin chest compressions, and we'll place an ambu bag over your mouth and nose. You should remain still and 'lifeless' during this process. You may choose to close your eyes or keep them open."

Emily nods in understanding, her heart pounding in her chest as she braces herself for what's to come. With a deep breath, she closes her eyes, surrendering herself to the immersive experience of the simulation.

The trauma team springs into action with practiced efficiency, their movements choreographed to perfection as they simulate the onset of cardiac arrest. With a swift motion, they cut open Emily's shirt, exposing her chest to the harsh glare of the overhead lights. A sense of vulnerability washes over her, but she remains steadfast in her commitment to the exercise.

Chest compressions begin in earnest, the rhythmic thud echoing through the trauma room as the medical team works tirelessly to restore circulation to Emily's failing heart. An ambu bag is placed over her mouth and nose, delivering precious oxygen to her struggling lungs with each squeeze of the bag.

Amidst the chaos, Emily lies perfectly still, her body limp and unresponsive as she embraces the role of a patient in cardiac arrest. Though her mind races with adrenaline-fueled anticipation, she remains focused on maintaining the illusion of lifelessness, drawing upon her training and instincts to convey the gravity of the situation.

As the simulation unfolds, Emily finds herself enveloped in a surreal sense of suspended animation, her senses heightened as she navigates the fine line between reality and simulation. With each passing moment, she grows more deeply immersed in the role, her commitment unwavering as she plays her part in the collective effort to save lives and improve patient outcomes.

In the tense silence of the trauma room, Emily waits with bated breath, her entire being poised on the precipice of uncertainty. Though the outcome remains uncertain, she knows she is surrounded by a team of dedicated professionals committed to her well-being, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice to ensure her safety and success in the simulation.

As the simulation progresses and Emily remains in her role, the trauma director approaches her once more, his demeanor compassionate yet resolute. "Emily," he says softly, "we need to simulate defibrillation and the removal of the rest of your clothing. Are you okay with that?"

Emily meets the trauma director's gaze with a steady nod, her determination shining through the mask of simulated injuries. "Yes," she replies, her voice steady despite the rising tide of nerves coursing through her veins. "I'm ready."

With Emily's consent secured, the trauma team prepares to take the simulation to the next level. The room hums with a sense of purpose as equipment is brought forth, including the defibrillator paddles and a privacy screen to shield Emily from prying eyes.

With practiced hands, the trauma team carefully removes the remainder of Emily's clothing, revealing her body in its entirety to the stark fluorescent lights of the trauma room. Emily feels a pang of vulnerability wash over her, but she remains steadfast in her commitment to the exercise, drawing strength from the knowledge that she is surrounded by a team of professionals dedicated to her well-being.

As the final pieces of clothing are set aside, the trauma director approaches Emily once more, his expression one of reassurance as he prepares her for the next phase of the simulation. "Emily," he says, his voice gentle yet authoritative, "we're going to simulate defibrillation now. You'll feel a brief shock, but it's perfectly safe. Are you ready?"

Emily nods, her heart racing with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. "I'm ready," she affirms, her voice a whisper in the stillness of the trauma room.

With a sense of purpose, the trauma team positions the defibrillator paddles against Emily's bare chest, their gloved hands steady as they prepare to deliver the simulated shock. A hush falls over the room as the trauma director counts down, his voice a steady cadence in the tense silence.

"Clear," he calls out, his command echoing through the trauma room.

In the next instant, Emily feels a jolt of electricity course through her body, sending a shiver down her spine as her muscles twitch in response to the simulated shock. Though the sensation is fleeting, it leaves her breathless with adrenaline, her senses heightened as she remains poised on the brink of uncertainty.

As the simulation continues, Emily finds herself drawn deeper into the immersive experience, her commitment unwavering as she navigates the challenges presented by the training exercise. Though the road ahead may be fraught with obstacles, she knows she is surrounded by a team of dedicated professionals ready to guide her every step of the way, ensuring her safety and success in the simulation.

As the simulation progresses, the trauma team continues their relentless efforts to resuscitate Emily, their movements a blur of urgency as they alternate between chest compressions, defibrillations, and the administration of resuscitation drugs.

With each compression, Emily feels the pressure against her chest, a rhythmic reminder of the tireless dedication of the medical team fighting to bring her back from the brink. The defibrillator paddles crackle with energy as they deliver simulated shocks, each one sending a jolt of electricity coursing through her body in a desperate bid to restart her faltering heart.

Amidst the chaos, the trauma director calls out the duration of Emily's cardiac arrest, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of uncertainty. "Five minutes," he intones, his words a stark reminder of the precious seconds slipping away with each passing moment.

The medical team works with practiced efficiency, their movements synchronized as they administer resuscitation drugs in a last-ditch effort to revive Emily's failing heart. The air is thick with tension as they watch for any signs of response, their collective gaze fixed on the monitor displaying Emily's vital signs.

Minutes stretch into eternity as the trauma team refuses to yield to despair, their determination unwavering in the face of overwhelming odds. With each passing moment, Emily feels herself drawn deeper into the immersive experience of the simulation, her senses attuned to the ebb and flow of life and death unfolding around her.

Though the outcome remains uncertain, Emily knows she is in capable hands, surrounded by a team of dedicated professionals committed to her well-being. As she lies in the midst of the simulated cardiac arrest, she draws upon her training and instincts to convey the gravity of the situation, embracing her role with a sense of purpose and determination that belies the simulated injuries adorning her body.

In the stillness of the trauma room, Emily waits with bated breath, her entire being poised on the razor's edge of uncertainty. Though the road ahead may be fraught with obstacles, she remains steadfast in her commitment to the simulation, ready to face whatever challenges lie in store with courage and resilience.

As the simulation intensifies, a sense of unease washes over Emily, a peculiar sensation prickling at the edges of her consciousness. Though she tries to push aside the feeling, dismissing it as a product of the immersive experience, a growing sense of dread gnaws at the pit of her stomach.

Unbeknownst to Emily or the trauma team, a medical student, eager to prove themselves in their new environment, has made a critical error. In their haste to assist with the simulation, they mistakenly administered a vial of real epinephrine instead of the simulated medication, a grave oversight that goes unnoticed amidst the chaos of the trauma room.

As the potent drug courses through Emily's veins, she feels a surge of adrenaline flood her system, her heart racing with an intensity that surpasses the bounds of the simulation. A sense of disorientation washes over her, her senses overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of physiological responses triggered by the real medication.

Despite the mounting alarm bells ringing in her mind, Emily says nothing, her voice lost amidst the cacophony of the trauma room as the medical team continues their efforts to resuscitate her. With each passing moment, her condition deteriorates, her heartbeat growing erratic as she teeters on the brink of true cardiac arrest.

In a cruel twist of fate, Emily's worst fears are realized as she plunges into the depths of a genuine cardiac arrest, her body succumbing to the deadly grip of arrhythmia. The trauma team, unaware of the unfolding crisis, presses on with their simulated interventions, their attention focused solely on the task at hand.

As Emily's consciousness fades into darkness, she realizes with a sinking heart that she is no longer a participant in a training exercise but a patient in desperate need of salvation. Though the realization comes too late to alter the course of events, she clings to a flicker of hope, praying for a miracle to save her from the abyss of death that looms ever closer with each passing second.

As the trauma director attempts to speak to Emily, a sense of urgency grips him as he notices her lack of response. His brow furrows with concern as he leans in closer, his voice tinged with desperation as he calls out her name. "Emily, can you hear me? Emily?"

There is no response, no flicker of recognition in Emily's glassy eyes as they stare blankly ahead. Panic begins to rise within the trauma director's chest as he realizes something is terribly wrong. With trembling hands, he reaches for Emily's wrist, his fingers searching for the reassuring throb of a pulse beneath her skin.

His heart sinks as he feels nothing but stillness, his worst fears confirmed in the absence of the vital sign he had hoped to find. In a state of shock, he checks for a pulse again, this time beneath the cervical collar, but the result remains the same—Emily is in cardiac arrest.

A sense of urgency washes over the trauma director as he springs into action, his training kicking in as he directs the medical team to shift their focus from simulation to reality. "She's in cardiac arrest!" he declares, his voice cutting through the chaos of the trauma room. "Start chest compressions, now!"

With practiced efficiency, the trauma team pivots to the new reality before them, their movements swift and sure as they initiate CPR in a desperate bid to revive Emily's failing heart. Each compression is a prayer whispered into the void, a plea for a miracle to breathe life back into the stillness that surrounds them.

As the trauma room buzzes with frenetic energy, the trauma director's mind races with a million questions, each one more pressing than the last. How could this have happened? What went wrong? But amidst the chaos, there is no time for answers, only action as they fight to save Emily's life against overwhelming odds.

In the midst of the turmoil, Emily lies motionless, her body a canvas for the frantic efforts of the medical team as they work tirelessly to bring her back from the brink. Though the road ahead may be fraught with uncertainty, they refuse to give up hope, drawing upon their training and expertise to navigate the stormy seas of cardiac arrest and guide Emily safely back to shore.

As the resuscitation attempts continue, the trauma room pulses with urgency, the rhythm of chest compressions driving the frantic tempo of the medical team's efforts to revive Emily. With each compression, her body sways from side to side, the force of the compressions causing her breasts to shake in a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation.

Amidst the chaos, the trauma team remains undeterred, their focus unwavering as they prepare to escalate their interventions in a desperate bid to save Emily's life. With a sense of grim determination, they gel the paddles and charge them with electricity, the anticipation hanging heavy in the air as they prepare to deliver a shock to Emily's bare chest.

In a moment fraught with tension, the paddles are placed on Emily's skin, their cold metal surface a stark contrast to the warmth of her flesh. With a silent prayer on their lips, the medical team braces themselves as they prepare to unleash the full force of the defibrillator in a last-ditch effort to restart Emily's faltering heart.

A heartbeat later, the trauma room is awash with blinding light and crackling energy as the paddles deliver their shock, coursing through Emily's body in a desperate bid to jolt her heart back into rhythm. The room holds its breath as the monitor displays the outcome, the fate of Emily's life hanging in the balance with each passing moment.

But despite their best efforts, the monitor remains stubbornly flatline, a grim testament to the stubbornness of death in the face of human intervention. With a heavy heart, the trauma team presses on, their resolve unshaken as they refuse to yield to despair.

In a final act of desperation, the medical team moves to intubate Emily, their hands steady as they guide the endotracheal tube into her airway, securing her breathing and allowing for the administration of life-saving medications

As the resuscitation efforts persist, the passage of time weighs heavily on the trauma room, each minute stretching into eternity as the medical team fights desperately to revive Emily. Over thirty agonizing minutes tick by, marked by the relentless rhythm of chest compressions and the mechanical whir of life-saving equipment.

Despite their tireless efforts, Emily's condition continues to deteriorate before their eyes. Her once rosy complexion fades to a pallid shade of gray, her skin growing cold to the touch as the chill of death creeps inexorably into the room. The gel from the defibrillator paddles glistens on her bare chest, a stark reminder of the futile battle being waged against the icy grip of mortality.

A bruise blossoms between Emily's breasts, a grim testament to the force of the chest compressions that have been administered in a desperate bid to restore her failing circulation. Her eyes remain wide open, staring blankly into the void as if searching for answers that will never come.

Sensing the gravity of the situation, the trauma team pauses momentarily, their hands hovering over Emily's motionless form as they perform a vital signs check. With a heavy heart, they prepare to confirm what they already fear to be true—that Emily is beyond saving, her journey on this mortal coil drawing to a tragic and untimely end.

A cardiac ultrasound reveals the harsh reality of Emily's condition, the images on the monitor painting a bleak portrait of irreversible cardiac damage. Her heart lies still within her chest, a silent sentinel to the finality of death's embrace.

[porcelainseashore]

Ghosts from the Past (1)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Agent! Leon Kennedy x Dancer! Informant! Fem! Reader

Summary: 7 years after leaving behind everything you’ve known, you’re suddenly thrust into facing a ghost from your past, Leon. Navigating where you stand with him brings up old memories, painful truths and countless questions. At the same time, you have to deal with a bunch of strange occurrences at your dance company. Set after Resident Evil 4 Remake.

Warnings: 18+ Swearing, Recreational Drug Use, Alcohol, Eventual Smut, No (Y/N), Canon-Typical Horror and Violence, Blood, Injury, Torture, Infection, Medical Experiments, Psychological Trauma, Nightmares

Content: Post-Resident Evil 4, Exes to Lovers, Partners to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lack of Communication, Romance, Fluff

Author's Note: This fic takes place after Part 1 Teenage Headache Dreams so feel free to give that a read first. Note that I might get a little creative with RE lore and chapter updates could be longer than before, so please bear with me. Thank you to all those who gave feedback and followed me on this journey so far! 🫶

AO3 Link

Chapter 1: The Invitation

7 years.

7 years since you last saw him. 

But he hasn’t stopped haunting you.

You were stumbling your way through the sweaty crowd in one of the nightclubs you usually patronized. The thumping electronic beats resounded in your ears, as throngs of people writhed and shook to the music, raising their open palmed hands towards the DJ, like they were praying to some demigod. The room was bathed in a swathe of dark red light, and you were parting it like a sea of blood.

Dark kohl liner accentuated your eyes and your lips were the color of bruised plum, smudged slightly due to the humidity of the place. Your body was slick with perspiration, glittering under the lights, and it was barely covered by pieces of lace and a leather harness. A random guy pulled up next to you, whispering lewd nothings in your ear as you shoved him aside nonchalantly.

You were drugged up, high out of your mind, but everyone else was anyway, so why did you even care? Something instinctual told you to get to the middle, no matter what. So here you were, pushing your way through unapologetically, like you were on some unspoken mission.

And there he was. In the center. Blonde hair, blue eyes, t-shirt and jeans, just like you remembered him, as if time had not passed at all. As if it was only yesterday.

He stared at you intensely, wearing a scowl on his face, unspeaking. You noticed how tired he looked, like he just wanted to end it right there and then. So tired.

Maybe it was like those indigenous myths you had read about in class when you were young. The saying was that if one faces death, death has no choice but to grant them a final dance. Were you now in the shoes of death, frozen to the spot, watching him so he could cross over to the other side? Except, he wasn’t dancing. He remained there, completely still, eyeing you emotionlessly.

“Leon…” you mouthed, as your voice was drowned out by the blaring sound system.

The next moment, he disappeared into thin air like a shadowed specter, a faded memory of what you once had. 

Suddenly, everything around you erupted in flames, the bright light dazzling you and the scorching heat against your skin causing you to shrink away in fear. Your lungs felt like they were suffocating as you coughed vehemently due to the thick smoke that enveloped you. What the hell was all of this?

As you attempted to make a run for the exit, you noticed piles of bloodied-up bodies lying on the floor, surrounding you in a tight circle. Tripping over them, your eyes widened in shock as you began to recognize who they belonged to. There lay your parents, Leon’s parents, Kayla and the rest of the cheerleaders… the count went on as you frantically tried to shuffle yourself backwards, away from the source of terror, until you heard a deafening screech tearing through your eardrums.

BRRRNNGGG!!!

The sound of your alarm clock jolted you from your sleep. Hitting the ‘off’ button in response, you cursed out loud as your body shuddered uncontrollably. Your blanket and sheets were wet and clammy with puddles of your sweat. Trying to calm yourself, you took a quick gulp of water from the glass sitting on your bedside table and started to slow your breathing down.

Why were these dreams getting more and more frequent? You’d see Leon each time and then everything would turn to shit. There was just so much carnage and destruction back there, it nearly felt real.

You turned accusingly towards the framed photo of you and Leon back when you had posed together for your college graduation, still standing upright on your bedside table. Gripping it tightly till your knuckles were white, you opened one of the table drawers and chucked it inside, watching it clatter into the darkness as you shut the drawer back roughly.

Fuck, Leon! Why? You cried out internally, begging him to stop with the nightmares. Cradling your head in your hands, you broke out into sobs, whilst at the same time chiding yourself for not moving on from him all these years.

Bzzzt bzzzt. The burner phone on your desk interrupted your thoughts abruptly.

You sighed, picking yourself up from the bed and groggily trudging towards it. Flipping the phone open, you were greeted by yet another cryptic text from your handler.

The Chancery. Cocktail event. Tonight 7pm.

Right. Not like she would give you any more information on what this was about. As an informant, you were on a need-to-know basis and had to be happy with whatever scraps you got.

Your mind took a trip down memory lane of how you even landed in such a position in the first place. Ever since that fateful day where you decided to leave and never turn back, you used up whatever savings you had and ran all the way from the Midwest of America to the capital of Germany. There, you naturally fell into the arms of the renowned Silje Völker dance company, who had welcomed you so warmly you even forgot about her peculiar, icy demeanor back when she had scouted you from the dance showcase.

You thought moving to another country and making a new life there would help ease the pain of losing Leon, but you were wrong. Still, it couldn’t be worse than remaining in the place where the catastrophe happened and everything reminded you of him.

Then, about a year ago, some men in black suits handed you their card, reaching out with a proposition. Work for the US government as an informant. We need people like you, they said. There was something fishy going on with Silje, a wealthy, eccentric heiress, and artistic director of the dance company you were part of. She even owned the theater where your training and performances were conducted, and that venue was now under suspicion. As you had worked your way up to become one of her principal dancers, you were now in a prime position to gather the information they needed.

They were just so convincing. It reminded you of what Leon had said when he was younger. About wanting to protect the innocent and make a difference in the world. With that, you didn’t even think; you just said yes. 

Yes. To honor the memory of the boy you loved. Yes. If only you could have just said that one word to him, and to whatever he wanted. Yes.

So now you sought to betray the woman whom you saw as your surrogate mother. Your mother who had helped you find your way in a foreign country, where you were all alone, afraid and distraught. The one who nurtured you into the woman you were standing here today - bold, cunning and adaptable. It felt like life was playing a cruel trick on you. One you could not win.

After rushing through your daily routine, you gathered your things, slipping off an elegant, black cocktail dress from your hanger and stuffing it into your day bag, before heading out to the theater where you normally spent your waking hours training.

You greeted Silje, or Frau Völker - as she preferred to be called by the other dancers, except you and a select few - on the way in. Silje was a tall and wiry lady, with an aristocratic air about her. She consistently wore her platinum white hair in a tight bun, which pulled tautly against the skin along her jawline. For as long as you’ve known her, she never once took off her pitch black sunglasses, whether outdoors or indoors. Her dull-colored clothes covered her arms and legs fully and expensive leather gloves lined her hands at all times. Despite her fragile figure, she commanded authority and projected an intimidating presence.

As you entered the dance studio, she stopped you, gesturing to the dress peeking out of your bag. “Going somewhere special tonight?” 

Nothing could remain hidden from her astute gaze for long.

“Oh, just an international exchange at the embassy,” you lied through a perfect smile.

“How patriotic,” she crooned. You had gotten used to her dark humor and sarcasm by now, so you didn’t pay much attention to it as you shrugged in response.

“Well, enough chit-chat. We have a lot of work to do.” She clapped her hands twice to raise the awareness of the rest of the dance company. “Let’s go through the second part of the Rite, shall we?”

“You-” She pointed a bony finger in your direction. “Need to make those jumps lighter.”

You nodded, acknowledging her criticism that she dished out to you in front of everyone.

“Be in the air, not tied to the ground, my dear.” 

As she flashed over a wide, toothy grin, for a split second you were sure that you saw razor sharp fangs emerging from them. However, they were gone the moment you looked back again.

━━━━━━━━━━━

That evening, you exited out of Friedrichstraße station, one of the main shopping districts in central Berlin. The bustling streets were brightly lit against the darkening sky, as you darted in and out of the swarm of human traffic to get to the embassy. Your heels clacked along the pavement as you made a right, hurrying towards a closed off street, which was heavily fortified with barriers and fencing. 

From afar, you could make out the five-storey, gabled building with beige stone slabs, and the American flag hanging over its front entrance. One of the guards checked in with you, jotting down some notes against your name on his clipboard as he ushered you indoors. 

Dropping off your winter coat and day bag at the makeshift cloakroom, you slipped a couple of spare coins into the tip jar and headed up to the function room. Lively chatter and background music spilled out from its open doors into the corridor you were in. 

You checked yourself anxiously in a reflective surface nearby to make any last minute adjustments. Since your handler hadn’t revealed much of why you had been requested, you wanted to make sure you looked the part and fit in, in case you needed to do some sweet talking with, what you might guess, the elite members of society.

Your hands were trembling ever so slightly as you smoothened out imaginary creases in your shimmery, black satin dress which clung snugly to your body, emphasizing your curves. It had a low, backless design that teased just the right amount of bare skin without raising a scandal. Despite that, you were still debating whether it was too little or too much. In fact, the length of the dress reached so close to the floor, it was a wonder you hadn’t had an accident while walking around in it yet. Maybe you should alter the hem of it in the near future.

The sound of the hallway clock chiming at 7 sharp disrupted your inner monologue, as you realized you should adhere to your punctuality. Making the final touches to your loose, tousled bun and swabbing your lips with a light layer of rouge stain, you finally broke away and entered the function room.

Drinks and canapés lined the long, white banquet tables to the side, while men in snazzy suits and women in fine threads gathered around in their cliques, conversing with each other. It felt like you had gone back in time and were thrown into some 70s gala party, where you didn’t know a single soul. 

A waiter stopped in front of you carrying a tray of bubbly champagne in tall flute glasses. “Madame?” He offered you one from his delicate hand.

You nodded gratefully, taking it before situating yourself at a corner of the room, sipping your drink slowly. Glancing at your watch, you observed that 15 minutes had passed since the supposed meeting time of 7pm. Scanning the room proved fruitless as you didn’t find anything of note.

Where was your handler, Bergmann? What was this party for? You wondered.

At some point, you felt a shadow loom over you from your left shoulder, but you didn’t have a chance to react until it spoke.

“Talk about seeing a ghost from the past.”

Your ears perked up at the voice that you would recognize anywhere, except it sounded deeper and gruffer this time.

No, it couldn’t be… 

Alarm bells started to ring in your head, as you tried to convince yourself that this was one of your nightmares again. Maybe you had fallen asleep on the U-Bahn and now you were lucid dreaming. 

You pinched your arm, not daring to look in the direction of the source of the voice. This was just a dream. 

“Yeah, that’s not gonna help.” 

Or not.

Your breath hitched as you turned sharply to your left, coming face-to-face with a pair of electric blue eyes set in a hollow stare, the dark circles under them giving away his fatigue. His chiseled face was marred by a cut he was nursing on his bottom lip, and his mop of blonde hair was almost like how you remembered it, but longer at the bangs and lighter in color as if it had been bleached in the sun. He was also suited up, black this time, but you could tell he had grown bulkier and more muscular underneath.

How was this possible? What was going on?

You couldn’t even begin to comprehend the scene in front of you, as everything around the room began to spin and your vision blurred. There was the sound of a glass breaking, and the last thing you were conscious of was a strong set of arms wrapping around you, followed by a yell, “Give her some air!”

Then darkness came to claim you.

━━━━━━━━━━━

There was something wet on your face and what felt like a cold breeze, causing a shiver to run through your spine. Then, you sensed a light tapping against your cheek.

“Hey, hey. Wake up.”

Your eyes fluttered open and you were met again with those vivid blue eyes. As you came to, you realized that you were out on one of the balconies, your head propped up by his suit jacket while you lay on the ground. 

He held out a glass of water in his hand. “Here.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbows until you came into a sitting position, before taking it from him gingerly. Your body was still shaking as you drank from the glass and at this, he took his jacket and placed it over your shoulders to cover you.

“Thanks,” you managed weakly.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, while carefully helping you to your feet.

There was a moment of silence as both of you eyed each other without a word. However, it seemed as if he wasn’t surprised to see you, which was weird.

“Leon,” you stuttered. “How-”

The balcony door slid open.

“Ah, there you are!” A young man with a communication earpiece, whom you assumed was one of the staff members, called out.

He glanced between the two of you knowingly. “I see you’ve gotten acquainted.”

“Bergmann will see you now.” He signaled towards the elevators past the crowd.

Leon gave him a quick nod. “We’ll talk later,” he whispered in your ear as you followed the man leading you towards the top floor of the building.

Passing by an unassuming door on the fifth level, he rapped it thrice and you heard the distinct tone of Bergmann informing you to come in. He pushed the door and held it open for both of you before he left.

A woman in her late 40s with curly, auburn ringlets and donning a light gray pantsuit greeted you and Leon.

“Kirsten Bergmann,” she introduced herself while shaking Leon’s hand.

“Leon Kennedy.”

“Of course,” she smirked. “USSTRATCOM’s golden boy.”

You were confused, but started to piece together bits of the conversation. Leon had been alive and working for the government this whole time?

“So you’ve met my informant.” Bergmann motioned at you. “She seems to have a flair for making a spectacle of herself recently.” She frowned disapprovingly, referring to the incident that happened earlier that evening. 

You bowed your head in embarrassment, but Leon appeared completely indifferent.

“Anyway, Hunnigan will be joining us on comms shortly.”

With that, she turned to one of the screens in the room which had been switched on and was showing a connecting symbol. A few seconds later, a bespectacled lady with her hair neatly tied back appeared on it.

“Hunnigan here. Shall we get to it?”

Bergmann took the lead on the discussion. 

“My informant will be an invaluable asset to Agent Kennedy’s mission. She has nestled herself deep within the target company and gained the trust of Ms Silje Völker, who has started to, on her own accord, disclose further information in confidentiality to my informant. All the intel has been fed back to HQ.”

Pressing a button, Bergmann brought up a blueprint map of the theater on another screen, except this had additional markings on it in your own handwriting.

“As you can see, exploration of the target site has shown multiple hidden passageways, false doors and even additional depths absent in the original plans. A copy of this has already been forwarded to all of you.”

This time, Bergmann turned to face you, folding her arms as she continued.

“In addition, my informant has secured various key connections that will prove the validity of our findings and help Agent Kennedy gain a foothold on getting access into the target site easily.”

“We are certain this is the base of operations,” she added, almost triumphantly. 

“And I shouldn’t have to remind you how this case needs to be handled with the utmost discretion,” she warned, gazing strictly at Leon and Hunnigan. 

“We have to ensure that US-German relations remain solid and the last thing we want is for this thing to blow up in the public. Much less in the capital.”

“Understood,” came Hunnigan’s unwavering reply. “I’m sure Leon will be able to manage that.”

“Perfect,” Bergmann replied, looking rather satisfied with herself. “My informant will work closely with you on this. There are sights to see, people to meet, and she will accompany you-”

“With all due respect, I don’t need a babysitter.” Leon suddenly piped up from the middle of the room.

You watched in astonishment, your jaw falling ajar, as he insulted you in front of your colleagues. His harsh words stung you inside. It seemed as if he hated you, and wanted nothing to do with you. But why?

“I am more than capable of finishing this myself,” he continued firmly.

Bergmann’s brows furrowed and her nostrils flared, as she looked at Leon like she was about to reprimand a child. “I assure you, she-”

“Take her off the case,” he demanded.

“Agent Kennedy!” Bergmann raised her voice. “That’s not your decision to make.”

From the intercoms, Hunnigan concurred, “I’m sorry, Leon. It’s been endorsed by the higher ups.”

“This is fucking bullshit.” He smacked his hand on a nearby table in defeat.

A tiny smile appeared on Bergmann’s face and you knew she had a trick up her sleeve. “Besides, Agent, how good is your German?”

He glared at her pointedly. “Good enough.”

She laughed mockingly and proceeded to speak with him in German, using a mixture of complex and colloquial sentences, which you noted that Leon was having a fair amount of difficulty processing. Then she turned to you, indicating that you should answer, and you complied with her order obediently.

“She’s fluent, even passable as a native.” Bergmann remarked smugly. “You, on the other hand, won’t last a day with that grasp of the language.”

Leon didn’t respond, but instead resorted to shooting daggers at her.

“Well, now that part’s over and done with, let’s move on to the logistics.” Bergmann stated simply, as if the previous altercation had never occurred.

She pushed forward, briefing you and Leon on the capacity in which you two should work together, how to approach comms, backstories and the like, including the next steps required in the task ahead.

At the end, she requested you to step outside and wait for Leon on the ground floor, as she relayed further details to him that you were not privy to. You had grown accustomed to this sort of treatment, even if you didn’t like secrets being withheld from you. So you waited patiently on one of those stiff, high-back wooden chairs in the lobby, for the man you thought had been a ghost all this while to find you.

How did he survive? Why didn’t he say anything? Was he still upset about the past? Is that why he had treated you with such venom at the meeting? You had a million questions running through your head. Nothing made sense. Maybe the only reason why you weren’t having a mental breakdown at the moment was because you knew you had a job to do.

“Something on your mind?”

You whipped around, startled by the unexpected intrusion. It was Leon, regarding you with curiosity despite the constant scowl on his face.

You sighed, catching your breath and lowering your hands that had been clutched at your chest. “Wanna start talking?”

“Not here,” he replied. “Somewhere less open.” He glanced around before adding, “More rowdy.”

You nodded, understanding that he wanted a place without prying ears. “There’s a grimy bar that’s always packed to the brim in Neukölln. No one will give a shit there.”

He scoffed. “Sounds like my type of bar.”

Pointing at his attire, you commented, “You gotta get out of that suit though. Not unless you want to attract some attention.”

He leaned against the wall, allowing his bangs to fall over his eyes as he folded his arms and smirked at you. “Suits me.”

[becky-resus]

Against the Clock

The wail of sirens pierced the cold night air as the ambulance screeched to a stop outside the ER. The back doors flew open, revealing paramedics hunched over the still form of a young woman. Becky, 25 years old, was barely clinging to life after a head-on car collision. Blood smeared her face, and her chest heaved irregularly beneath the oxygen mask strapped to her pale face.

“Female, 25, restrained driver, head-on collision. Unstable vitals, GCS is 6. Possible internal injuries. BP dropping—70 over 40. She’s fading fast,” the lead paramedic barked as the gurney was pulled out.

The trauma team, led by Dr. Miller, rushed to meet them. Every second counted. Becky’s limp body was wheeled into Trauma Room 2, where the bright overhead lights exposed the full extent of her injuries. Blood had soaked through her torn clothes, pooling around the gurney.

“Strip her down!” Dr. Miller commanded, his voice sharp and decisive. A nurse cut away her shirt and pants with a pair of scissors, exposing a bruised and battered torso.

“Suspected rib fractures—looks like blunt force trauma to the chest. Check for a pneumo,” Dr. Miller ordered. Becky’s abdomen was distended, her pale skin mottled with purpling bruises that hinted at internal bleeding.

A nurse called out Becky’s vitals, her voice clipped. “BP is dropping—62 over 38. Heart rate 130 and climbing.”

“She’s circling the drain,” muttered one of the junior residents as Dr. Miller assessed her pupils.

Becky groaned faintly, her lips twitching as if trying to speak. “Becky, can you hear me?” Dr. Miller asked, shaking her shoulder. Her eyelids fluttered, but there was no response. Moments later, her head lolled to the side, her body going completely limp.

“She’s unresponsive. Let’s intubate,” Dr. Miller said, already donning gloves. The room erupted into action as the team prepared to insert an endotracheal tube. Becky’s breathing became shallow, her chest rising and falling unevenly.

“Is this head trauma or internal bleeding? We need a fast ultrasound—now!” Dr. Miller demanded.

The hum of the ultrasound machine filled the tense air as the resident slid the probe across Becky’s abdomen. The black-and-white image confirmed what they had feared: free fluid. She was bleeding internally. Before the team could act, the heart monitor emitted a single shrill tone.

“Flatline. Asystole!” a nurse shouted.

For a split second, the room froze. Then chaos erupted.

“Start compressions!” Dr. Miller barked. A nurse climbed onto the gurney, positioning her hands over Becky’s sternum before pressing down in rhythmic, forceful compressions. Becky’s chest caved under the pressure, her broken ribs grinding audibly beneath the nurse’s hands.

“Epinephrine. Now!” Dr. Miller ordered. Another nurse grabbed a syringe and injected the drug into Becky’s IV.

“Charging to 200!” the resident with the defibrillator called out.

“Clear!” Dr. Miller shouted. The team stepped back as the paddles discharged, sending a jolt of electricity coursing through Becky’s body. Her torso arched slightly, then fell back to the table. The monitor remained flat.

“Resume compressions!” Dr. Miller snapped. The nurse returned to the relentless cycle of chest compressions, her hands moving with precision as sweat dripped down her temple. Another round of epinephrine was administered, but the monitor stayed silent.

“Come on, Becky,” Dr. Miller muttered under his breath.

The minutes stretched on like hours. Compression, defibrillation, drugs—the process repeated again and again. The room was thick with tension, the steady rhythm of compressions punctuated by the sharp tones of the monitor and clipped commands from Dr. Miller.

“Let’s go again. Charge to 300. Clear!” Another shock was delivered, the force jerking Becky’s body upward. For a brief moment, the monitor flickered.

“Sinus rhythm!” someone cried.

A weak but steady pulse appeared on the screen. Relief flooded the room as the nurse slowed her compressions, her arms trembling from the effort.

“She’s back,” Dr. Miller said, his voice tight with focus. “Let’s not lose her again. Stabilize her for the OR. We need to get that bleed under control.”

Becky’s breathing was shallow but steady as the team secured her airway and connected her to a ventilator. The nurses adjusted IV lines, pushing fluids and blood products to stabilize her pressure.

“Ultrasound confirms a ruptured spleen,” the resident reported.

“Prep her for emergency surgery,” Dr. Miller said.

Becky was wheeled out of the trauma room and toward the OR, her life still hanging by a thread. Dr. Miller stood by the door, watching as the team disappeared down the hallway. His gloves were streaked with blood, his scrubs damp with sweat. The room was a battlefield—discarded gloves, empty syringes, and wrappers scattered across the floor.

“She made it this far,” Dr. Miller murmured to himself. “Let’s hope she keeps fighting.”

The trauma room was silent now, save for the faint beep of the monitor and the murmur of distant voices. Outside, the night carried on, but for Becky, the fight was far from over.

This is a perfect scenario for me. Where does it go is surgery successful or do I code on the table.

[shelbystales]

Best Aid - Part Seven

Modern Tommy Shelby x Reader - Masterlist

Previous parts: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6

Summary: you are a young doctor in Birmingham. After a crazy incident, Thomas Shelby shows up at your hospital. You don’t know much about the man everyone seems to fear, but you definitely will.

Warning: swearing, mention of torture and panick attack

A/N:  Comment and interact, tell me what you think! it means a looot.

English is my second language so I apologize in advance for the grammar mistakes.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

"Hey, you good?" Jeremy asked, easing into the break room for hospital staff.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" you replied, not looking up from the trauma textbook you were reading.

He pulled up a chair and sat down beside you. "You think it was him?" he asked in a hushed tone, as if it were some kind of top-secret stuff.

"Can we not go there, please?" you requested, turning the page of your book.

"Come on, seriously?" He paused, waiting for a response, but you stayed tight-lipped. "Y/n, seriously, what's going on? You usually spill the beans about everything, even your weirdest quirks. Even when you were peeing green for fucks sake. Youre making me worry here. Did he do something to you? Hurt you?" he asked, his voice all business, a tone he rarely used with you.

"No," you shook your head, "he didn't do anything to me," you replied calmly and took a deep breath. "Not directly."

"What does that mean?" He frowned.

You sighed deeply and told him everything about the apartment, the bomb. It felt good to get this off your chest. As you spoke, it was as though weights were being lifted off your shoulders one by one.

When you finished, Jeremy gave you a tight hug, and before you knew it, you were tearing up. These last few days, living in fear, with so much anxiety, had been consuming you. Being able to share and be comforted by someone was all you needed.

"What are you going to do now?" he asked. "Are you going to stay at his aunt's hotel for how long?"

"I don't know," you shrugged, moving away from the hug and wiping your tears.

"You can come to my place," he offered.

"Are you crazy? I'm not putting you and your fiancé at risk," you said.

"Okay, but if you need anything, I'm here," he said

"Thank you, Jer. I needed this," you smiled as Jeremy left, allowing you to focus on your studies.

Later, you decided to check on the man Thomas had brought to the hospital. As you entered the room, your heart skipped a beat. The patient's face was heavily bruised and battered, his body showing signs of severe torture. It was a grim sight, and you couldn't help but feel a wave of sympathy for the man, imagining the horrors he might have endured.

You approached him and began your examination, checking his vitals, the medications he was prescribed, and the results of his blood tests. Your eyes fell on the schedule at your tablet, he was set for surgery tomorrow, likely to fix his jaw.

While you were listening to his lungs with a stethoscope, you sensed a presence at the door. Looking up, you saw Thomas, and a lump formed in your throat.

Your eyes locked with his, and for a moment, everything else faded away. You couldn't help but confront him, your tone laced with sarcasm. "Came to finish the job?" you mocked, removing the stethoscope from your ears.

He remained silent, his gaze fixed on you, his jaw clenched tightly. His presence, once so comforting, now made you sick. Ignoring him, you resumed your examination of the patient's lungs, doing your best to focus on the task at hand.

As you continued your examination, the tension in the room was palpable. Thomas walked to the small sofa in the room, still watching you in silence. It was as though an invisible wall had erected itself between you, separating the two of you in a space filled with unspoken words and unresolved emotions.

You couldn't ignore his presence, nor the turmoil it stirred within you. A mixture of anger, fear, and a hint of lingering attraction made your heart race.

He had crossed a line by coming here, by defying your wishes to stay away. And yet, part of you was somehow relieved that he was standing there. 

“I’m finished. I need you to leave” Thomas frowned and raised an eyebrow, refusing to budge. "You think I'm going to leave you alone with him? Are you delusional?"

He chuckled and shook his head. “And what do you think I’ll do if you leave?” he challenged, looking at the injured man on the bed.

“Do you really want me to say it?” you asked, but he ignored you. After a few moments, you couldn't bear the silence any longer. "So, is this some kind of sick game to you?" you asked, your voice quivering with a blend of frustration and vulnerability.

Thomas's gaze burned onto you, an intensity you'd never seen before. "What kind of man do you think I am?" he retorted, the heat in his eyes making you shiver.

“The kind of man that could have done this” you pointed at your patient and he chuckled, rolling his eyes at you.

You struggled to find your voice, your own fear and doubt surfacing. "Did you?" you managed to ask, your words drawn out as though pulled from the depths of your throat.

"What?" he replied with a hint of mockery in his tone, challenging you. 

"Torture him?" you whispered, your head nodding involuntarily. Your hands shook, and your entire body quivered with the intensity of the situation.

Thomas's gaze remained locked onto yours, his blue eyes unwavering as they bore into your soul. "No," he asserted, his voice firm 

Your uncertainty remained, and you found it difficult to trust his words. "Why do I not believe you?" you whispered, your voice barely audible

“if I wanted him dead, I wouldn't have brought him here, eh?” he stated. His response was cold, a frigid wall that seemed to surround him. "But you believe in whatever you want,"he continued, making no attempt to soften his words “can you just walk out? pretend you didn’t see me".

"What? Why would I do that? What are you doing here, Thomas?" you inquired, your eyes narrowing as you regarded him.

He met your gaze, his expression unyielding. "I came to visit," he replied curtly. Your skepticism grew as you couldn't help but wonder what had truly brought him here, you just watched him. Then, he made a request that caught you off guard. "Can you check him out?"

Your initial reaction was a resolute refusal. "There's no way he's leaving this hospital," you retorted, your voice firm.

Thomas, however, didn't seem fazed by your refusal. He gazed at you with a stark intensity and asked a question that sent a chill down your spine. "Will he die if he does?"

"Yes!" you nearly yelled in response, your voice laced with frustration and indignation

Thomas's resolve didn't waver. He spoke with a calm determination that sent shivers down your spine. "Look, I need to check him out. He can’t stay here. He needs a safer location."

You couldn't hide the frustration in your voice as you firmly stated, "He can't leave! he has a severe infection and a surgery tomorrow"

“If he stays, he’ll die” he said, his voice firm “do you want that?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course not! But, If he leaves he dies” you said, feeling your heart race in a weird rhythm “Why do you do this to me?” you whispered

“I’m doing nothing” he shook his head and shrugged “you are here because you want to be. You can leave and have nothing to do with this, y/n”

“This man is my responsibility, Thomas” you said, your voice shaky as your breathing got harder “... he can’t be discharged” 

Thomas's expression remained resolute, and his tone didn't waver. "Then what's the alternative?"

The tension in the room reached its breaking point, and you couldn't contain your frustration any longer. The pressure and uncertainty of the situation pushed you to the brink, and you snapped, your voice rising with exasperation. "How the fuck am I supposed to know?!!" you demanded, your words coming out in a rush, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your shoulders. 

You tried to take a deep breath to calm, but somehow you felt like there was no air around you.

Your heart raced, pounding in your chest like a drumbeat, and you could hear the blood rushing in your ears. 

Your hands trembled uncontrollably, and you clutched at your chest as if to quell the suffocating pressure that had settled there.

Your thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, and you struggled to hold onto a semblance of control.

In the midst of the chaos, you desperately attempted to take a deep breath, but the air around you felt thin and elusive, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand.

Panic had taken hold, and you were caught in its relentless grip, unable to break free.

Your vision blurred as tears welled up in your eyes, blurring the edges of the room and making everything seem distant and surreal. 

The room, once filled with tense conversation, had now transformed into a suffocating void. You longed for a way out of this paralyzing panic that had seized you.

It was as though the walls were closing in, and the world had grown smaller, more claustrophobic.

With trembling fingers, you reached out for anything to ground you, clutching onto the edge of your patient’s bed. But the room continued to spin, and your legs felt unsteady beneath you

In the midst of your overwhelming panic, you suddenly felt a hand on your arm. It was a firm yet gentle touch. You looked up and Thomas' face slowly formed in front of you. 

"Y/N," he said, his voice steady and reassuring. "Focus on your breathing, ey. In and out. You're going to be okay. You're going to ok"

His words cut through the chaos that had enveloped you, and you struggled to follow his guidance. He caressed your arms as he insctructed you.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

It felt like an eternity, but gradually, your breathing began to steady, and the world around you started to regain its shape.

Thomas continued to speak to you in hushed tones. His presence, once a source of tension, had now become a lifeline in your moment of need. He remained there, a calming presence, until your panic attack began to subside, and you could once again see the room clearly.

As the storm of panic receded, you felt a mix of emotions… embarrassment, relief, and a strange gratitude toward Thomas. You hadn't expected him to come to your aid, but in that moment, he had shown a side of himself you hadn't seen before.

After your breathing had steadied and the panic had subsided, Thomas remained by your side, his gaze filled with concern. He asked in a soft, genuinely worried tone, "Are you okay?"

You looked into his eyes, still filled with uncertainty and turmoil. You didn't have a straightforward answer. "I... I don't know," you admitted, your voice trembling.

Thomas regarded you with a mixture of concern and guilt. He had brought this unsettling chaos into your life, and it was evident in the way you now struggled to find your footing.

"I'm sorry," he confessed, his voice heavy with remorse.

You furrowed your brows and asked, "Are you?"

Thomas locked eyes with you, and for an instant, you glimpsed a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze. "Yes," he replied, his voice filled with sincerity. "I didn't intend for any of this to happen to you." He gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, caressing your cheek. But as if awakening from a dream, he abruptly withdrew a step, putting distance between you.

You watched as he retreated. Instantly missing his touch. The tension in the room was palpable, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. There were questions about you two that hung in the air, unspoken but heavy with meaning. You wanted him to stay away. This was your wish. right? 

Finally, Thomas broke the silence, his voice softer than before. "I'll leave you to your work," he said, gesturing towards the patient you were examining. It was clear that he was stepping away not just physically but emotionally as well.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you... for helping."

As Thomas turned to leave, you couldn't help but question your own desires. Did you want him to stay away, as you had insisted? Or did you secretly crave his presence, despite the chaos and danger he seemed to bring into your life?

“Thomas” you called and he turned to you

“I’ll leave in two hours'” you said and took a deep breath “at least take him somewhere with a heart monitor… If he means anything to you… hire a nurse… i don’t know” 

he took the longest deep breath you’ve ever seen him take and then he nodded, before leaving the room.

taglist:

@deanlovescassie @hellstears @randomfanfics02 @literishdegree99 @watersquirtpewpewboomm @hellstears @rito4ka @alexxavicry @atomicsoulcollecto @Violet_19999 @lyarr24 @woofgocows @milkshakelol @knowledgefulbutterfly @watercolorskyy @redhead7799 @star017 @stuckinmylittlebubble @bat-luna-cat @babaohhhriley @scullys—alienpussy @kassieesworld @deepangelstudentsworld @batgurl42 @starlitjellyfish @velenzia @lyarr24 @Sweetiecake180 @musicsweetie21 @lostgirl219 @slaypussypop-21 @nyenye @izzwizz774 @ooldcardigan @kielsegur @nikkialex @1nterstellarcha0s @mariamx1 @swingingmusicalfunnydragon @illuminwtesz @lazyylover

[veronicaphoenix]

Author's note: It's finally rewritten. The first time I wrote this 5k words I had no idea I'd be writing a novel-length fanfiction about Noah Sebastian, but here we are. Thank you for sticking with me through this wild ride that it's been me posting chapters with no order whatsoever. We're finally on track and ready to move onto Zutto. <3

Chapter tags & trigger warnings: best friends to lovers, alcohol consumption, sexual content, p in v (protected), dubious consent (they're both drunk), references to bondage. | Word count: 4.9k | Cross posted on AO3. | Series masterpost. ✧.*

General trigger warnings: This work addresses and depicts issues related to addiction and violence, contains explicit sexual content, and explores themes of childhood trauma. Reader discretion is advised. +18

This shouldn’t have happened, but it did. 

The movie playing on the TV had taken a backseat as all my attention was captivated by Lia and the way her smile illuminated her entire face with each laugh. For the past ten minutes, her laughter had not ceased, and the overwhelming warmth in my heart made me wish to freeze time, to remain forever in that moment with Lia beside me, her hand intertwined with mine resting on my thigh, sharing in the joy of a joke I had cracked in my drunken state.

Despite the strong wind stirring outside, inside the house, Lia and I were totally oblivious to it, unconcerned aboutthe storm brewing from the west, unaware of the different tempest awaiting us the next morning.

Lia’s contagious laughter showed no signs of abating, and eventually, I found myself unable to contain my own laugh. I was swept up in her contagious happiness, in the glow of her flushed cheeks, in the way her hair danced around her as she moved. 

As she caught her breath and opened her eyes, I noticed them glistening with tears of laughter, and there was nothing more beautiful than witnessing her drowning in that happiness. 

In the middle of our laughing fit, I spotted two glasses on the small table next to the couch, each with a splash of whiskey and a melting ice cube. When did those get there?

When I asked Lia, she leaned forward to see what I meant. She shrugged, but her breath exuded the unmistakable smell of the same drink. She suggested, between funny gestures, that she would take them back to the kitchen, as if that would get the drink out of our system. 

But as soon as she stood up on the thin mattress of the pull-out sofa, she stumbled. I grabbed her calf, pressing my fingers into her skin. Lia, by inertia, grabbed onto my shoulders to stabilize herself, unsuccessfully. Her hair fell over my face as she giggled. And finally, she plopped right back down where she’d been sitting.  

Two seconds later, her laughter flooded the studio. It took me a while to react. The part of me that still had the voice of common sense was telling me that I should be concerned and do something before Lia got worse. Before we got worse.

Since I had brought her home weeks before and she had started therapy, she’d been medicating herself practically every day to calm her restlessness and keep her nights from breaking down with nightmares of her being back at Mitch’s house and of her mother, a figure in the distance that still chased her.

I let go of her leg. Lia said something about how hard I’d grabbed her and looked down at her calf, where there were now red marks where my fingers had been. Her hair was loose and tousled, but even through her locks you could see her smile fall, and for a moment I thought Lia would look at me with terror in her eyes and run away. 

While the bruises on her arms and face had faded days ago, the permanent scars were elsewhere on her body. 

“What are you made of?” She asked then, taking me slightly by surprise. 

I frowned and then raised my hands, acknowledging that she hadn’t had any dark thoughts running through her mind. 

“I just wanted to keep you from taking a nosedive,” I replied. 

“That wasn’t going to happen,” she replied, a half-smile reappearing on her face. 

“Of course it was.”

Offended, she picked up the nearest cushion and threw it at me somewhat clumsily. It didn’t hurt me, but I threw her an amused warning anyway. 

“Hey!”

“I wouldn’t have taken a nosedive! I’m...!” She paused for a second, her eyes on mine, as if she had suddenly forgotten what she wanted to say. On the TV, where the movie was still playing, someone had just died, although the truth was that neither Lia nor I had been paying attention to the story for a while, and the sound was just background music. “I’m fine!” 

“Oh, yeah? If you’re so sure, prove it,” I challenged her. I leaned back against the cushions, head back, and was tempted to cross one ankle over the other, but I didn’t because I knew Lia was going to fall.

Grumbling, she braced herself with her hands on the mattress and made an effort to stand up. When I raised a hand to ready myself in case I had to catch her again, Lia pointed at me and told me not to even think about it.

Stubborn girl.

She struggled, and wobbled a few times, but managed to get to her feet and as she stood up there, she looked down at me with her chin raised and brought her hands to her hips, wrinkling the fabric of the t-shirt and making it ride up a tad, revealing more skin from her thighs. My eyes wandered there for less than a second. I couldn’t stop smiling. 

“See?” She muttered proudly.

“Good, Captain” I replied. “Now get down from here and take those glasses to the kitchen. I don’t want to keep seeing your underwear.”

A flicker of confusion passed through her eyes. She blinked repeatedly. 

“What’s wrong with my underwear?” She asked, simultaneously tugging the hem of her —mine— t-shirt upward, revealing her panties and navel. 

My thoughts jumbled in my mind.  

“Lia,” I struggled to say, feeling an unexpected pang of hunger.

What was wrong with me?

“Be a good girl and take those glasses back to the kitchen,” I insisted, seizing her wrist to coax the t-shirt back into place, albeit only halfway. “And if you can’t manage, I’ll do it myself.” 

“You underestimate me, comrade,” she retorted haughtily, lifting her hand to point skyward. “I can do that and much more.”

I would’ve been lost in the sight of her looking all adorable if it weren’t for the fact that she was drunk, and drunk Lia was not the healthy, happy Lia I wanted to see. 

“Which philosopher said that thing about balance...?”

She was beginning to ramble. Absentmindedly, she scratched her chin.

I squinted at her from my position. Lia was looking around, as if the sentence she was trying to find in her brain was etched in some corner on the walls around us, in the room where the guys and I had so much stuff piled up, from various computer screens to guitars to countless wires and plastic vines that crossed from one end of a wall to another.

“The balance…” she began in a whisper. “The balance is perfect, I think. Or maybe... Wait.”

“Lia, you’re making no sense.”

“No!” she exclaimed, raising a finger again, this time to stop me. She was off balance again, as the softness of the mattress and her inebriated state didn’t match, and she made a couple of clumsy, automatic jumps to the end of the sofa, inadvertently stomping on the TV remote and causing the TV to turn off. 

My body immediately rose up. I grabbed her arm and pulled her up to keep her from finally going face-first onto the floor, and in doing so, I was the one who fell backwards. I took Lia with me, who let out a squeal as her body met mine. 

She fell on top of me, her chest against mine, and her legs over mine. She shifted until she was prostrate with her forearms resting on my chest. My hands found hold on her hips. 

“I remember!” She exclaimed. Her eyes were wide open. Her breath fell on my face. Any other time I would have rejoiced in it, but tonight it was pure alcohol. Not much different from mine. 

I couldn’t remember what the hell we were doing, or what the plan had been for that night. I felt dizzy and out of place. Lia’s alcohol breath whipped over me, and it mingled with the vanilla scent of the shampoo she was using and that had found a place in my bathroom since she was living with us. 

“Perfectly baaaaaalanced, as all things should be. It was Thanos who said it! We went to see the movie together at the cinema, remember?!"

She smiled. She looked pretty comfortable on top of me. 

I didn’t know how she was able to remember those things given her state. 

I didn’t give a damn who said what. I had long since stopped watching Marvel movies. The only thing I could focus on now was the light brown color of Lia’s big eyes, a lighter brown than mine and sometimes, depending on the angle of the light, turning the shade of sand at sunset on the beach. It was not only that that enchanted me. The closeness made me lose myself in the universe that was in her orbs, in the grandeur of them, the long, thick lashes that framed them and the flicker of them like the wings of a butterfly, the little wrinkle at the side corner that was pronounced every time she laughed, and the way Lia’s gaze itself was softening.

Until I realized that she was looking at me as if she was feeling the same thing I was feeling. 

A minute before, we had been looking at each other with the confidence we had always looked at each other with. Two friends enjoying an evening together. A good movie and a bowl of popcorn. Nothing more.

Now, there was something else that hadn’t been there before, (or maybe it had been... but I had tried to keep hidden for both our sakes).

Whatever we had been discussing had been forgotten. It had been lost in some corner of the room until it had managed to escape through some slot leading to the outside and had mingled with the wind increasing in the streets. 

That amusement and yet confusion that had been present in Lia’s eyes had dissipated. What was in them was now unfamiliar to me, but at the same time almost well-known.

Her gaze had always been my shelter, although this time, what seemed different was that Lia looked at me as if....

She looked at me as if she had had me in front of her all her life but hadn’t noticed; as if she had just found something she had been looking for for years; as if she had been given her breath back even though for a few moments we both held our breath when our faces met mere centimeters from each other.  

As the maddening beat of her heart softened, her light breathing intertwined with mine. I could feel against my chest the rise and fall of her own; how it slowed as our smiles fell and our gazes met in an instant that hung in time. 

Lia’s eyes dropped for an imperceptible second. 

They looked at my lips. 

Her lips parted. 

It didn’t go unnoticed to my gaze because my eyes also went to her mouth.

My hands were resting on her hips, her hair falling on the sides of my face, and the thought that crossed my mind at that instant was that I wanted to have her lying under me, her hair spread out on the sheets like a pile of silk, and my fingers itched as I wanted to reach out and touch her face, her cheeks that were burning from the alcohol and the commotion we had formed in the room minutes prior.

I sensed her hands seeking support on my chest, her fingers wanting to cling to the fabric of my black t-shirt, which clung to my skin as her fingers began to press gently. It was as if she wanted to pull me closer to her without giving it all away, as if she wanted to make me believe that maybe it was just my imagination. 

The more daring part of me was the part that made me roll on top of her to have her where and how I wanted her. Lia held her breath. It was only two seconds.

One of my legs was between hers, and my knee was very close to the spot between her legs. I was reminded that Lia was only wearing my T-shirt, which was huge on her, but in that position, and having fallen on the couch and now having me on top of her, the fabric had slipped up her stomach and the only thing separating the wettest part of her body from my knee was the fabric of her panties and the fabric of my sweatpants. 

The thought nearly made me lose my mind. I felt dazed and weak-willed, (at least in regards to the kind of will that made me make sound decisions), and I cursed myself for allowing myself to drink so much; for allowing her to drink so many beers that night and not even have the memory of watching her pour us two glasses of whiskey up to the top.  

My vision blurred momentarily. As it cleared again, I saw a gleam in Lia’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. Outside, the wind howled, whipping tree branches and sending objects flying around the yard and down the street. It was as if the chaos we had created between the two of us inside the house had replicated outside, and the exhilaration I felt inside me was also a reflection of what was going on outside the house walls. The sky had been shrouded in clouds for hours, and rain was imminent.  

I didn’t care, because at that moment, all I wanted was to be frozen in time, with Lia beneath me, her huge eyes locked on me, her breath attuned to mine, her vanilla scent flooding every one of my senses, enveloping me, and the slight flicker of her eyelashes making me lose the last ounce of sanity I had left. 

Lia slightly flexed one of her legs. Her whole body reacted. I didn’t know if it was on purpose or if it was unconscious. My knee brushed against her core. The next thing I saw was her tongue moistening her lower lip. I felt her hands press hard against my back, pressing me to her, and then she raised her head a little and her mouth caught mine. 

The flare of fire she ignited shot through me from head to toe, and before I could reconcile how dangerous that was, what we were doing and under what conditions, my hands were already on her face, on her cheeks, in her hair, and my mouth devouring hers as if outside there was a hurricane and we didn’t know if we would ever see the sun again. 

I was acutely aware that without Lia there was no sun, and after that night, I was certain that without her, there wouldn’t be any sun at all. I needed her beneath me, captive, surrendering herself to me. 

Her kisses were desperate, as if she had just emerged from the depths of a drowning sea. I met her urgency with equal fervor, kissing her hard, tasting the intensity coursing through her veins.  It was likely that the alcohol was fueling our passion, but rationality eluded me. I convinced myself that Lia was the one in control, that she craved my presence as much as I craved hers even as the wind outside intensified, mirroring the aggressiveness of her mouth on mine.   

I slid one hand up to the back of her head, to the nape of her neck, and angled her face upward so that I could kiss her deeper, cocking my head to the side at the same time. My tongue brushed against hers, and once they touched, there was no turning back. Our breathing became ragged and labored. Little exhales began to escape from her mouth, tiny noises in which her body begged for air but to which she refused to pay attention, and as the seconds, or minutes, passed, the exhales turned to moans, and the choked sound of them almost had me there and then. 

Despite the alcohol, Lia had to be aware of what she was doing. She had to be aware of how much she was turning me on, of the hardness that was crescendoing in my pants and would soon press hard between her legs. 

Fuck. 

Her hands moved desperately up and down my body. They went from my back to my neck, to the chain around it,to my face, to my hair. Then they sought the warmth under my shirt, and an electric current coursed through me as her fingers stroked the skin of my back and rib area. I shivered, and almost jerked as her body pressed tighter against mine. This time I was sure it had been on purpose. My erection slapped the spot between her legs and Lia gasped over my mouth, eyes closed. I grunted as I saw her expression. A surge of pleasure had just swept across her face, and I could hardly believe it. 

If the intensity of it all continued, I feared it would overwhelm me to the point of losing consciousness. I resisted succumbing to that primal version of myself, the one that more often than not emerged when I was on stage and captivated the audience with its raw energy. I didn’t want to be that person with Lia despite the number of images that began to fill my head. 

Lia naked on my bed. 

Lia tied up to the headboard.

Lia taking me hard and deep.

Lia screaming my name, screaming for more. 

Lia letting herself come undone around my cock.

She started pulling my t-shirt up, and I let her take it off me, shaking it off to get rid of it as it went over my head and down my arms. The two seconds our mouths spent apart felt like forever, and when I was naked from the waist up, I descended on Lia again vehemently, holding her face, my fingers tangling in her hair. I moved my body so that I was completely over her. My erection throbbed in my sweats, and it was beginning to ache from being held under the fabric.

Unable to restrain myself despite the voice telling me to stop and get away from Lia, I slipped a hand under Lia’s t-shirt, my own t-shirt, the one she had appropriated days before and had been torturing me with day and night, every time she walked around the house showing off her legs and revealing the curve of her ass every time she stood on her tiptoes to reach the cups and the tea boxes in the kitchen cabinets.

Damn you, Lia. 

Her skin was soft, and I sensed it bristle under the touch of my fingers. When I reached for her bra, I slipped my fingers under the seam until I reached her breast and felt under my fingertips the feel of her pierced nipple, which became hard as a pebble. Lia let out a moan into my mouth, and when I pinched her, her nails dug into the skin of my lower back, making me feel a pain that pleased me. 

Lia’s body was tiny under mine, and I didn’t want it any other way. I could lie to myself all I wanted in the daylight and tell myself the opposite over and over again… but Lia was made for me.

And I was made for her.

The next morning her lips would be dry and sore, but I had no intention of stopping kissing her as long as her lips sought me out. 

I played with her nipple between my fingers, enraptured by the little noises coming from her mouth. When she pulled her head back and rubbed against my erection, I attacked her neck, nibbling at the sensitive skin there. There were so many things I wanted to say to her... The voice in my head wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, tell her that I was losing it and that we should stop, that we were each other’s best friend, that we had made a promise… 

As I kissed her on the neck and branded her, I considered the semantics of our promise. We had promised we wouldn’t fall in love with each other, but we had never talked about sex, and people had sex all the time without being in love. 

Keep hiding it as much as you want, Noah....

I shifted my hips toward Lia to quiet the voice drilling me, and let myself go. 

I thought I heard my name on her lips. A whisper. A moan. Her hands dug into the band of my sweatpants, and pressed the skin of my ass, drawing me to her.

We would only stop under one circumstance, and that was if Lia decided she didn’t want to go forward. 

Because I definitely did want to.

One of Lia’s hands slid down the side of my hip and groped the front of my waist. She hastily unbuttoned the knot of my sweats, and probably would have slipped her hand inside without preamble had I not neglected her nipple and grabbed instead her wrist, stopping her.

I lifted my head. Lia opened her eyes, and what I saw in them did not please me. 

I was afraid that wasn’t my Lia there.

“Lia,” my voice escaped hoarse and raspy from my throat. I was trying to catch my breath, my sanity and my willpower. It was too much, and Lia’s body was still under mine, clinging to mine, soft and warm. Lia’s eyes darkened, her lips moist, and her cheeks flushed. 

She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, scars and all. 

I could have told her anything, reminded her that we were two friends about to cross a line from which there was no return, that she was drunk, that I was a little way too tipsy if not totally drunk as well, and that my head was spinning and I was scared. 

Instead, I asked her if she was sure, and her answer was my undoing. 

“I’ve been waiting for this my whole life,” she whispered.

I kissed her fiercely, as if I couldn’t breathe without her. I told her to give me a minute. I stood up and walked out of the studio, stumbling over my own feet and bumping into the wall on the way to the bedroom. Everything seemed different around me, and as soon as I entered my room I had to stop for a few seconds and lean against a piece of furniture to remember what I was doing there. I walked over to the nightstand on my side of the bed. The fact that I already saw my bed as a shared place with Lia should have set off alarm bells days ago, but I hadn’t wanted to assume that, because I liked that one side was hers, that her things were on the other nightstand, her smell on the pillow.

The boys were right. How long it would take for me to acknowledge it in front of them, I didn’t know. 

I opened the bottom drawer and rummaged through the shit I’d stored there until I found what I was looking for. Just before I left the room, I heard Lia grow impatient. Her voice carried down the hallway and reaching my ears, almost making me laugh despite my state.

“Noowaaah!”

There it was, that stupid and adorable way of calling me since she was six.

“I’m here,” I replied as I returned to the studio, trying to keep my balance. I had to put on a fucking condom and I had to do it right. At least that had to be done right.

Lia was propped up on her elbows, and looked at me with eyes full of impatience and lust. There was, at the same time, something like childish anger in them, as if by leaving for those thirty seconds I had taken a toy away from her. 

I glanced at her from under my eyelashes. Seeing her there, waiting for me, rubbing her thighs because there was no other way to satiate the heat she felt between them, had me on the verge of bursting. 

I got rid of my sweats and boxers, and when my cock jumped into Lia’s view I saw her eyes widen even more if possible, darken, and her lips part. I opened the condom wrapper and put the rubber on, and it didn’t take two seconds before I was back on the mattress. Lia dropped down, submitting, her hair creating a halo around her. She let out a little cry of surprise when I grabbed her below the knees. 

“Come here,” I said. 

I pulled her a little towards me, and hooked my fingers into the sides of her panties to pull them off. 

Lia was fucking gorgeous, and I don’t know what I’d expected, or what I’d imagined in my dreams, but she was a gift I’d held in my hands forever and hadn’t dared to unwrap. 

I lay on top of her. Her hands went to my shoulders, to my hair, and she pulled at me by the nape of my neck.

“Need you,” she said. 

And kissed me again. 

My cock brushed against her entrance. She was wet. I rubbed against her repeatedly, slowly, feeling her, reveling in the heat emanating from her and how slippery she was. If only the latex barrier hadn’t been there... I needed to find out if her insides were just as slippery in the next sixty seconds or I would die right there. 

“You’ll be the death of me,” I whispered over her mouth, the words a barely audible breath.

She spread her legs further apart, giving me access, and I moved my hips slightly away to position myself at her entrance. I held my cock with one hand and stopped kissing her to direct my gaze to the point where our bodies were about to merge. Lia clung to one of my shoulders. I pushed. She held her breath, her chest swelling against mine. I looked at her again, and as I sank into her, I wordlessly begged her not to look away from me. I wanted to be a bystander in how her pupils dilated, how her lips parted, how she held back the first moan of our union and then let it escape as she relaxed and settled into my length, into the sensation of having me inside her. Her muscles molded to mine so quickly that I considered whether everything we had been through boiled down to the fact that we were meant for each other.

From the time I had found her that spring morning sitting on the sidewalk in front of her ramshackle house to the time I had saved her from that bastard Mitch while I was battling an unknown disease, —every single twist and turn, every moment in between—  had inexorably led us to this moment, to Lia and I lying on the sofa bed in the house I shared with Jolly and Jesse, naked, drunk, and lost in our own and each others’ pleasure. 

In my delirium, I refused to think about any other possibility. I didn’t want to think about tomorrow, the inevitable moment when Lia would wake up, the alcohol dissipating from our veins like morning mist. The moment when realization would dawn upon her, the awareness that she had given herself to me, that she had allowed me to sink into her,and that we had both touched heaven when we came. First her when I traced feather-light circles upon her clit with two fingers, and then me, following her to a peak from which I never wanted to descend. 

When I started to move, I was sure I had found Paradise. I remember Lia’s body under mine, trying to move in sync with mine, the moans escaping her mouth and sneaking into my ears as her hands caressed my arms and back. I remember my name on her lips, and how that was a drug I knew I wouldn’t be able to live without if I didn’t take it again soon. 

Although a part of Lia was far from there, Lia, my Lia, was everything I’d ever dreamed of. Those dreams where I had crossed the line and imagined what it would be like to feel Lia naked under my hands, trembling with my fingers inside her, with my tongue caressing her most erogenous parts, had been just that, dreams, but this was so much better. This was real. 

When she asked me to go faster, I replied with a ‘shh’ in her ear. I pulled her hand away from my back and moved her arm until I held it above her head. I intertwined the fingers of our hands and continued to torture her in a leisurely, delicious rhythm, my face sinking into her neck, feeling the caress of her hair on the side of my face. 

We didn’t last long. Or maybe we did. 

The last thing I remember was lying on top of Lia, in her arms, both of us trying to catch our breath. I heard her little laugh sneaking under my skin. 

Her fingers touched my hair, moving it away from my face and trying to tuck it behind my ear. I fell asleep a while later to the tender touch of her digits tracing delicate shapes on my cheek and a kiss to my sweat-layered forehead. 

[yellowbunnydreams]

Mechanised Devotion (Part 10) ~Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader~

~My first chapter is reaching 100 notes, so I might as well keep going! Also, I am obsessed with writing this story atm~

Word count so far (all parts:) 19,504

Tag List!: @ruh--roh-raggy @likoplays

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

CW: Minors DNI, (18+ ONLY), Female Reader, afab reader, legal age gap (Reader- 20's, William - 40's), mention of crimes and violence, blood, mentions of child death (it's FNAF, what did you expect?), past trauma; abusive relationships. Stalking.

Your shift at Freddy's started as usual. Arriving and greeting the animatronics like somewhat friends, you noticed a shape in the corner and peered at it with suspicion, eyes widening as you recognised the yellow fur of the suit and the imposing height. The Spring Bonnie in the corner seemed so out of place, but you assumed it had been roaming about again and was prepared for the bastard that time. Giving it an evil eye before making haste to your security office, plopping yourself down on the chair, making sure to close and lock the door this time since you knew it was lurking about.

Flipping the breaker as per usual, it wasn't long before Freddy arrived to take his shift as your guard again. Making sure that you passed a drawing to him on the way past, resulting in happy wiggling ears from him as he stood at the end of the hall, staring down at the cute drawing of him and you playing together in the pizzeria. There was something so unexpectedly child-like about him sometimes that it made you smile. Sure that he was popular with the kids when the restaurant was functional.

The night crawled by slowly, your fingers occasionally returning to your lips and smiling as you recalled kissing Steve Raglan and leaving him speechless, the taste of his kiss lingered on your lips, and you wished somewhat that he had reciprocated more, you thought that he was surely a good kisser. Something told you that he was the kind of man you would cup the back of your head and leave you breathless with them if he was so inclined. Letting your thoughts slip towards fantasy until a 'thud' at the door caught your attention, looking up and screaming slightly as you spotted the skeletal grin of the Spring Bonnie pressed against the small glass pane.

Standing up, you made sure that you double checked the door jam, stepping to one side and gesturing to the newly covered vent, making a cross with your arms to gesture to it that it wasn't going to pull the same stunt as a few nights before. The eyes remained unmoving, but the head moved slightly, as if it was observing what you were saying. The thick, articulated fingers banged against the glass in frustration. An eerily human motion, but you remembered that it was animatronic, that both Mr. Raglan and the owner had assured you of that fact.

"Go away." You hissed at it, watching it remained pressed up against the glass, you got the distinct feeling that it was there to stay for the night with a sigh. Taking your seat back up and curling in on yourself as you tried to ignore the mascot that didn't seem to want to leave you be.

Inside the mask, Steve Raglan shuddered hungrily at your disapproving gaze. He'd seen you smiling and touching your lips, knowing that you were thinking of him lit a fire that burned brightly in his core and made him ache. There was the concern that his breath would fog up the glass of the window, but in that moment, he just wanted to watch you. He regretted the fact that the sugary sweetness of your lips had faded so quickly, but there was some soft part of him that was glad he hadn't scared you away by giving in to his instincts then and there.

To take your head in his hand, fingers in your hair and claim your mouth, claim all of you for himself. To ruin and unravel you then and rather in public, on the hood of his car that you had been bleeding in days before. To bite at your neck and instate the bruises he had decorated you with before but this time with his teeth. He wanted to hear the noises you made when you struggled to escape his hands roaming your body and feeling all that was his.

Because whether you knew it or not, or even whether you wanted it.

You were his.

Eventually however, he moved away from the door, keeping the blade in his hand out of sight and carving a subtle heart in the door just at his hip height. Small enough that you wouldn't notice it unless you were looking, but he knew it was there, marking you as his to the others should they disobey him. Looking down the corridor to Freddy, his most obedient child, nodding approvingly as the bear looked up quizzically from the drawing you had given him. Steve found himself somewhat jealous that they received presents and he didn't, but he knew he would always have the upper hand on them. They were weak, controllable things to him.

He wanted to stay, but he had plans to set into motion. A grin spreading across his face as he wondered what you would think to them, chuckling to himself as he headed for the shadows, eager to climb out of the suit and act on this new-found passion of his.

~~

After the Spring Bonnie moved, you opened up your door and allowed Freddy to check in on you. The hours passed quickly by when you were no longer being stared down, but they still passed by slowly in your mind as all you could think of was Steve Raglan.

Heading home after your shift however, you began to wonder if you had done the right thing. He was, in a round-about way, your boss, and you didn't think that it was appropriate, but the way he looked after you kissed him lingered on your mind and made you smile giddily, feeling like you were experiencing your first ever crush all over again. The rising Utah sun casting long shadows as you half-expected to see his car driving up behind you. Though no such thing occured.

You didn't phone him when you got home, nor at any point that day. The walk home had let you think and you had begun to doubt what you had done, fearing that he was pissed at you for being inappropriate. You wanted to give the man time to process and come to his own conclusions about what had transpired between the pair of you. Every time the phone rang however, you let your house-mates answer it, hoping secretly that they would say it was for you.

He did not call that day.

The next, however, he did. But you found yourself nervous to talk to him, anxiety welling up in your chest as you found panic settling in that it was the call to tell you that you were out of line, that you were fired. Your housemate held the phone to their chest, raising an eyebrow before you shook your head, letting them tell him that you were unavailable in that moment. The same thing repeated the next day even, letting the housemates tell him that you were unavailable at that moment, which you heard led to the phone being slammed down angrily. Something turned in the pit of your stomach as you tried to work normally, the fear that your key would no longer work or perhaps that your termination papers would be on your desk lingering in your mind.

You decided to walk to Sparky's the morning of Friday, the last shift of the week being later that night. Entering the quiet restaurant, you sat at the counter and waited to be served, one of the only patrons inside in the early morning. A young man coming over to you in the classic white and blue shirt that you now associated the the place, he was more to your age, boyishly good looking and had sandy blonde hair in curls around his head. If you hadn't had an older man on your mind, you might have found him cute.

"What can I get you this morning, buttercup?" He asked, surprising you enough to recieve a raised eyebrow and a head-tilt, looking quizzically at him.

"Buttercup?"

"Sure, you're like a little ray of sunshine! You work night right? I see you come in sometimes and it's like a little ray of sunshine when you come in because that means I get to go home soon." He laughed, making you giggle in return as you realise it was a harmless nickname he had given you. Brushing some strands of hair behind your ear, you decided to order whilst he was nearby, laughing at the puns he cracked whilst you were doing so, watching him from the corner of your eye as he leaned against the counter to peer at the menu and help you with your choices.

Outside however, Steve Raglan was just about gone. William Afton however, stewed with white knuckles gripping the steering wheel of his different than usual car. Watching through the windows as the young man clearly flirted with you. He'd been following you since you kissed him. Changing which car he drove, making sure you never spotted him as he made sure that nothing happened to you, although he had felt his rage boiling up as he had watched through binoculars as you stood in your kitchen and refused his calls that he made from his car. His hands had clenched tightly into fists as he wondered why you were avoiding him.

But seeing you being flirted with had hit some button inside of him that left him shaking and desperate for a more violent release. He waited until you had left the diner, taking a to-go box back home with you for him to pull a pair of thick, leather gloves on. Opening the glove box and pulling out a wickedly sharp knife, the same one he had cut you with before infact. Looking into the backseat, he smiled coldly as he made sure his bag was there, filled with bottles of water, cologne, soap and a change of clothes. The edge of a rope appearing from under the pile of items.

Turning his attention back to the diner, he began to wait. A grim expression on his face as he focused all his energy in that moment in holding back for the right time to strike.

~~

Later that afternoon, you were surprised when one of your house-mates knocked on your door and informed you that you had a visitor. You had been moping in bed, knowing you had ruined your chance to know Steve by kissing him. Your eyes were slightly blood-shot from tears spilling down your cheeks, and you had dressed down in an oversized hoodie. So large it would have fitted Steve as well fitting item of clothing. The hem coming down to your knees and hands entirely swallowed up by the soft, dark blue fabric. The hood would have engulfed your head if you had put it up, but you told your house-mate to guide your guest through whilst you pulled on a pair of shorts. Your eyes tearing up as you realised they were Steve's boxers that you had forgotten to give back to him after you washed them.

Opening your door again after you were decent, you gasped as you almost walked into a wall of shirt and muscle. Glancing up and paling as you realised it was Steve stood infront of your door. His sharp, handsome features somewhat strained into a smile, dressed in a yellow plaid shirt and a purple tie as well as some dark slacks. Adjusting the glasses on his face, he seemed as if he was smiling through you, rather than at you.

"Hi..Mr.Raglan, sir." You swallowed nervously, feeling your body shaking softly as you realised he was pissed at you. Your hands suddenly sweaty as the much larger man spoke coldly, evenly in a way that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up slightly.

"Hello, it is nice of you to finally decide to answer me."

Without another word, he pushed inside your room and forced you to step back to accomodate for his hulking stature in the smaller room. Practically forced onto your bed as he closed the door behind him with an air of finality before turning to you, his usually pleasant features dark and ominous as you found yourself backing against a wall, trying to put some distance between you that he simply closed easily with his large strides.

"I...I'm sorry ,sir, I-I know I-"

"Know what? Why have you been avoiding me, little girl? Do I make you nervous?" He asked icly, one hand leaning against the wall and boxing you into his arms as he stared you down. Tilting his head to one side with a dark intensity in his gaze that made you afraid, and you didn't want to admit, made your knees weak too.

"N-No I-"

"Do you think it's cute when you ignored my calls for days? Or perhaps you wanted to string me along all along? Kissing me like that and then fucking off into the night like some little slut who wanted to make me angry." His voice was hot and cold at the same time, lacing your heart in fear and making you want to melt at the same time. This wasn't your Steve Raglan, this was somebody darker, more demanding of you as you tried to find the words that were stuck in your throat.

His large calloused hand reached for around your throat, making your heart race so fast you thought you might pass out, wondering if you were about to be strangled to death before you felt the feather-light touch of his fingers against your skin. Leaning in and letting his cologne wash over you, hot breath against the side of your face as he whispered to you, his hand moving to grab your jaw and force your to look at him.

"The least you could have done was let me show you what a proper kiss feels like." His voice still burned darkly, eyes briefly meeting together before his lips slammed onto yours with bruising intensity.

A squeak escaped you at the impact, your hands reaching out and pushing at his broad shoulders, trying to push away the large man which only served to spurr him on more. Growling against your lips, his large hands moved, one moving to the back of your neck and pushing his fingers into your hair, gripping it tightly as the other reached for your thigh, easily pulling you up against his larger body.

You couldn't help but groan as he slammed you into the wall, pressing his body weight against you as your legs instinctually wrapped around his waist. His beard tickled your skin as you tried to catch breaths between his hungry kisses, feeling your core heating up at the rough treatment somewhat ashamedly and gasping as he bit your lip. Hard enough to make you bruise slightly on the delicate skin, but not to break it. You could feel his body shaking as he pressed himself fully against you, feeling his body responding equally to your presence as your arms wrapped around his neck, one hand moving shyly into his hair and hearing a guttural growl as his hips pressed into your core and he began to kiss again with a renewed passion.

Eventually he pulled back, looking at his handiwork as your lips trembled, almost purple with the intensity of which he had kissed you. His bite mark inside your lip, pupils dilated, breathing ragged as your delicate body trembled deliciously against his. He could also feel your heat burning against his cock, making it twitch and harden, aching to bury himself inside you then and there. But he took a deep, shaking breath as he moved the hand from the back of your head and stroked the side of your cheek tenderly. Looking at the beautiful mess you had become in his hunger.

"Now, doll, wasn't that a much better kiss?" Chuckling as you managed to weakly nod and he smiled, planting a much softer, easier kiss on your lips with his tongue flickering across the bottom one, requesting more should you open up to him.

"Are you going to fuck off like that again?" He asked, his voice sweet and warm again, almost cooing as he continued to stroke your face, holding you against his body.

"N-No sir." you managed to breathe, and felt your heart leaping with elation as his expression softened, letting him manoeuvre you easily as he sat on your bed, the mattress complaining under his bulk as he positioned you in his lap, letting you feel him beneath your own arousal.

"Good girl. Now, how about we continue that kiss from where we should have left off? Wouldn't that be nice?" Cooing softly and barely waiting for your approving nod before his lips joined yours again. Softer, more sweet this time than the bruising possessiveness that had been started with.

"Now if you want kisses again, you just have to ask sweetie, okay? You don't need to go anywhere else or think when you're with me."

And those words seemed all the more possible as than man who you didn't really know's lips captured yours with a sweetness that made your heart soar, and a passion that would tattoo you as his.

[solarmorrigan]

Under My Skin - Stranger Things - steddie

[Ao3]

In spite of the extensive skincare regimen that Steve will not admit to having, the fight with Jonathan Byers leaves its marks.

The cut on his lip heals no problem, and the bridge of his nose is left without much more than a faint line, easily dismissed. The split on his left cheekbone, though – that one sticks. It probably doesn’t help that he’d never sought proper medical attention after that fight, had never had any of the cuts or bruises properly seen to (he’d been considering going to a doctor once he finished cleaning up his mess, but then an interdimensional monster had dropped out of the ceiling of the Byers’ living room and Steve had kind of forgotten everything else).

It's not the world’s worst scar, just a little starburst of shiny skin stuck in just on the far side of the apple of his cheek, but it’s enough to make Steve frown whenever he catches it in the mirror. His looks are his best asset, he’s always been told; hell, aside from athletics, he’s been informed that his looks are pretty much his only asset, so it really won’t do to be messing them up.

He takes to wearing sunglasses whenever he can. They don’t really hide the scar, but they direct attention away from it, and he realizes quickly that the sunglasses also tend to lessen the number of headaches he gets (lights have been brighter since he got his clock cleaned, and they’re likelier to trigger a nasty pain right behind his eyes, and Steve thinks now and then that he probably really should’ve been to see a doctor, because he’s pretty sure he’d had a concussion). This works for a little bit, but Nancy keeps telling him to take them off, that they look silly.

Steve doesn’t want to tell her that they help with the headaches he hasn’t even told her he’s been getting (he doesn’t want her to worry, or to see him as any less) and he definitely doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact he’s sensitive about a little scar (nor does he particularly want to remind Nancy of how he got it in the first place), so he stops wearing them.

After all, Nancy’s opinion has become devastatingly important to him (and it remains so, long after it should).

Billy Hargrove does a far more thorough job of wrecking Steve’s shit than Jonathan had.

Steve’s last coherent thought before he succumbs to pain and then darkness is that he’s going to die here, and that he’s fucking failed to protect the kids.

(His first coherent thought upon waking, incidentally, is that he apparently hasn’t died, but that the kids are going to fucking kill him.)

When all is said and done, he doesn’t see a doctor this time, either (why start now?), just spends a few days throwing up and swaying dizzily any time he tries to move while under the watchful eye of Hopper and Eleven in their cabin in the middle of goddamn nowhere, before he’s deemed healthy enough to go home.

(Steve might fudge the truth a bit and insinuate to Hopper that his parents are definitely home and that they will definitely make sure he doesn’t slip into a coma in his sleep, but he thinks Hopper and Eleven deserve to spend some bonding time together that doesn’t involve Steve and his head trauma.)

Someone (he suspects the joint effort of Dustin and Max) had done their best to close Steve’s wounds with colorful cartoon bandages they’d dug out of the Byers’ medicine cabinet, but in the end, it doesn’t seem to have done much. The cut on his forehead had been short but deep, but it fades into something that doesn’t look like too much more than a dramatic pockmark. The gash on his jaw, though—which, he can’t say for sure, but he thinks was caused by the broken porcelain of the plate Dustin says Billy had hit him with—that one is noticeable.

Even after it heals, it looks pink and raw and stands out as it curls up over the sharp edge of his jaw, a glaring flaw on his face and a glaring reminder of his failure to look after the people he’d promised to keep safe.

He tries not to think about it—tries really, really hard—but Dustin inevitably catches him poking at it while looking in the mirror of his sun visor.

“You just make it redder when you mess with it,” Dustin says.

Steve snatches his hand away. “I do not.”

“Okay, but you do. You should just leave it alone. It’ll fade eventually.” Dustin shrugs. “But in the meantime, it looks, like… kinda badass.”

Steve turns to face Dustin, one brow raised in patent disbelief. Dustin tosses his hands up in defense.

“I mean, yeah, you got it getting your ass kicked, but it looks pretty cool. You could make up any story about it!” he says. “Besides, chicks dig cool scars, right?”

Chewing the inside of his cheek for a moment, Steve manages a smile (a real one, even) for the kid. “’course they do, Henderson.”

Steve tries making up various cool stories about the scar, but he’s never been the most creative, and when people ask about it—and they do, inevitably, because even after it fades, it’s still noticeable, and people are nosy bastards—he just brushes them off by saying it was a stupid accident with a broken plate.

Close enough.

It hasn’t even been a year since his last encounter with someone’s fists when Steve becomes acquainted with a particular brand of Russian hospitality.

The ugly j-hook of a cut that his interrogators leave under his lip is small potatoes compared to… literally everything else that happens that night (and for having been, y’know, technically tortured and all, Steve figures he got off pretty lightly; sure, his headaches have grown worse, and his hearing and vision are a little fuzzier on one side than the other, and he’s having a little trouble remembering fine details sometimes, but aesthetically speaking – yeah, he got off pretty easy). Still, in quieter moments, Steve can’t help but run his fingers over the texture of the scar and ruminate.

He can’t say he regrets how he got it, not when he’d at least been able to keep most of the heat off of everyone else, but he regrets that they’d gotten into that situation at all. He should have done better than to let it happen, he should have come up with a better solution to getting them out of there, he should have fought harder, he should have, he should have, he should have.

Besides that, combined with all the other marks Steve has been collecting over the last couple of years, he’s pretty sure the scar on his lip tips the scale from “badass” to “unpleasant to look at,” with regards to his face. He certainly doesn’t like looking at it.

He tries expressing this to Robin one evening, driving home after the closing shift at the video store, when the sky is dark and close, and the streetlights make everything seem softer– safer.

“Oh my god, you are not unpleasant to look at, you insecure dingus,” Robin insists, reaching over and giving him a shove, ignoring his protest that he is driving right now. “The scars make you look… rakish.”

“That’s not a word,” Steve says.

“It is so.”

“It is not. Don’t make shit up just to make me feel better.”

“I’m not! It means, like, sorta disreputable, but also dashing. Like a gentleman robber or something,” Robin says.

Steve shoots her a look before turning back to the road. “You’ve been reading too many of those romance books they sell at the checkout.”

“I am super offended you think I read those. That’s rude,” Robin says, but she sounds like she’s trying not to laugh.

“Anyway, I’m not saying that I’m unpleasant to look at as, like, a whole, it’s just… they don’t add up to an inviting picture.” Steve shrugs.

Robin reaches over the center console again, but this time she just pats his arm. “I promise your face is still perfectly inviting, Steve.”

He knows she’s not trying to be dismissive, he just can’t properly articulate why he’s so bothered, so he just doesn’t bring it up again.

He successfully doesn’t bring it up again for nearly a year, until after the deep scrapes from getting dragged across the dry lakebed and the cuts and bites from the demobats have put the final nail in the coffin of whatever physical appeal he’d probably had left. Steve can definitely say goodbye to swimming at public pools ever again, but keeping his shirt on isn’t going to do much for the ugly laceration that damned bat’s tail left around his throat.

It doesn’t heal pretty, and Steve would have said given up on the dating scene—on the prospect of a relationship—entirely if it hadn’t been for Eddie.

Eddie, who, in spite of Steve’s many obvious physical flaws (not just the scars, but the symptoms that accompany getting a certain number of knocks to the head, which, by virtue of simply being around all the goddamn time, Eddie has been privy to), seems to be completely into him.

And Steve’s not going to question it, the way Eddie always wants to be in his space, the way Eddie never seems to tire of him, all the ways he invites Steve’s touch, the way he seems to have room for all the affection Steve wants to give him – Steve just wishes he’d cool it with the pet names.

Some of them aren’t too bad (things like sweetheart and baby are standards that Steve finds he doesn’t mind at all) and some are so ridiculous that he can’t really hate them (he won’t pretend to understand Eddie’s obsession with fantasy books, but if he likes calling Steve sweet things in fucking Elvish or whatever the hell it is, Steve isn’t going to make him feel bad for it), but there’s one that never fails to rub him the wrong way.

“Good morning, pretty boy,” Eddie murmurs into the scant space between them, leaning up to press a kiss directly to the scar that runs over Steve’s jaw.

Steve goes tense, but does his best not to flinch. “Can you not?” he grumbles, shifting against the pillows. “It’s too early for that shit.”

“Too early to say good morning to my boyfriend?” Eddie asks, dark eyes sparkling in the morning light. “Because if I wait too long to do that, it’s gonna turn into good afternoon.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Too early to be calling me that.”

“What, pretty boy?” Eddie’s grin grows as Steve squirms a little. “But you are. Even covered in pillow creases and drool.”

Self-consciously, Steve reaches up to swipe at the corners of his mouth, and Eddie snickers.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but even this early in the morning, you’re still pretty.”

“Eddie…”

“But if you’d prefer something else, I could go with beautiful,” Eddie says, pressing another kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth.

“Eddie.”

“Or handsome.” Eddie pecks a kiss to Steve’s cheek, just below the starburst scar, and Steve presses a firm hand to his chest, stopping short of shoving him away.

“Eddie, stop,” Steve grits out.

And Eddie does.

He stops and he pulls back a bit, looking entirely confused and more than a little worried. “Steve, what’s wrong?”

With a huff, Steve rolls so he’s not facing Eddie’s wide-eyed bewilderment. “Look, I don’t know if you think you’re only teasing, or if you’re trying to make me feel better, or what, but can you just stop?”

“Hey.” Eddie’s hand is gentle but very assuredly present on Steve’s shoulder. “Give me a little more to work with here, what the hell am I doing?”

“Calling me shit like that. Pretty. Handsome,” Steve spits out. “Whatever. It’s – you don’t have to keep saying it.”

There is a long, heavy moment of silence.

“Do you seriously think you’re not?” Eddie finally says, incredulous.

Twisting back around, Steve sneers at Eddie. “You cannot possibly have failed to notice that my face is kinda fucked up, Eddie.”

“Your face is perfect,” Eddie blurts, and Steve resists the irritable urge to shove at him again.

“My face is covered in scars, jackass.”

“So? Those are, like, surface-level imperfections. Literally skin-deep! Structurally speaking, your face is definitely perfect.”

When Steve moves to roll away from Eddie again, Eddie pounces, straddling Steve’s hips and using all his weight to keep him where he is. “No, no, I’m definitely right about this,” Eddie insists. “Besides this square jawed shit you have going on, your eyes are gorgeous.” He reaches up, cupping Steve’s cheeks and brushing his thumbs gently beneath Steve’s eyes. “And your smile is probably my favorite thing to look at.” Eddie lets his hands drift down to Steve’s jaw, then trail further, to his neck, his shoulders, his chest. “And the rest of you? I mean, are you kidding me with this?”

Steve is very much not kidding Eddie with this, but he can’t quite bring himself to say as much. His throat has gone tight for some reason; he’s been living with all these marks for years, so he’s not entirely sure why he’s getting choked up now.

“You don’t really think the scars make you ugly, do you?” Eddie asks softly, and Steve can only nod. “Steve… sweetheart, come on. I mean, look, I’m not gonna lie to you and say they’re not noticeable – and yeah, one or two even stand out, but they don’t take away at all. They add to the picture. I swear I am not fucking with you on this, you’re beautiful.”

Finally, Steve finds his voice. “They’re ugly because of what they stand for. It’s all my fucking failure carved into my fucking face.”

Eddie’s expression does something weird, getting stuck somewhere between anger and sadness. “That’s what you think they are?”

“Every time–” Steve’s voice grinds to a stop for a moment, but he pushes on. “Every time I’m supposed to be looking out for people, protecting them, they still get hurt. I get the shit kicked out of me and it isn’t even worth anything and–”

“You can’t take that all on yourself. You can’t,” Eddie breaks in. “You got all of these scars looking out for the people you love. Looking out for us. And I hate that you had to get them, but I gotta say – I love what they stand for.”

Steve doesn’t have a chance to get another word in before Eddie is leaning down and pressing a kiss to Steve’s throat. Steve flinches, just a little, because the skin there is sensitive now, but Eddie keeps it light – so soft it’s nearly reverent.

“This one was me, and Buckley, and big Wheeler,” Eddie murmurs, sitting up a little so he can brush his hands down the spiderweb scars on Steve’s sides. “And so were these. And I also kinda like ‘em because they match mine, if I’m being honest.”

One short sob of a laugh comes out of Steve at that, and he reaches up to run his fingers over the places on Eddie’s sides where the demobats had gotten a few good bites in before Vecna had been destroyed. Eddie smiles, then leans back down and kisses the scar that hooks under Steve’s lip.

“Buckley again, and Henderson, and Sinclair the younger,” he says. “I was terrified just listening to that story, but you– you kept their attention on you and off of everyone else.”

“I…”

Eddie doesn’t wait for Steve to find his words. Instead, he presses his lips to the gash on Steve’s jaw, where he’d started that morning. “Sinclair the elder. Red.” He moves up and kisses the smaller gouge in Steve’s forehead. “Henderson again. Small Wheeler. Standing up to a bigoted piece of shit who took his issues out on kids.”

You make it sound so much more heroic than it really was, Steve wants to say, but Eddie’s already moved on to the faded line on the bridge of his nose, and then to the little starburst scar on his cheek.

“You can’t possibly love that one,” Steve manages. “I didn’t get that one saving anyone, I got it for being a shithead.”

“Are you kidding? This one’s my favorite. This one was the eye-opener.” Eddie kisses the scar again. “This one saved you.”

If asked, Steve would say with a reasonable amount of confidence that he’s pretty thick-skinned. Harsh words don’t trip him up. Rough treatment might knock him down, but he’ll always get up, and he’ll come back for more as many times as he’s able. Steve can take a hit.

He can take many, many hits.

But it’s softness—the gentleness of Eddie’s hands and his mouth and his words—that finally manages to break him.

(“You’re even pretty when you cry,” Eddie says later, falsely aggrieved. “That’s not even fair!”

This time Eddie is definitely teasing him—nobody looks pretty when they cry—but Steve finds he doesn’t mind as much. It doesn’t seem as important, just at the moment. Instead of denying it, Steve simply sighs, “It’s a gift.”

Eddie snorts and presses a kiss to Steve’s cheek, where he’s scarred, and blotchy, and sticky with tears, but also entirely loved.)

[qweenofurheart]

i’m pretty much through with developing these specific characters (most of the story came about when i was 15-17) but I still love their designs and I certainly wrote some interesting stories about them so I wanted to share it?? lol??

Below the cut is an excerpt from one of these stories, set during the aftermath of the main story, so it might not make much sense. (tw for some described gore and depression.)

Started to get nightmares at the hospital, Kitty wrote. She was discharged after four days. A mild concussion, bruises and the remainder of the dehydration and mild starvation from being in the cage. Everyone else was worse. 

Veel had two gashes across her face, one across her nose and one splitting her chin open, and she had a bullet wound in her neck, but horribly, it had healed itself, pushing the bullet out of the puncture and closing into a gnarled, fleshy knob on the side of her throat. Luckily the tumor was benign and got removed in surgery, and the cuts were stitched, but now she had these frankenstein-esque scars, that would probably fade a little, but never really go away. 

Anneke had a stab wound from Winghead’s makeshift rebar spear. Luckily there was no tetanus, and Harpy had disappeared through the hole in her side, causing it to begin closing up. By the time they had gotten to the ER, it had regressed to maybe a half inch deep on both sides. 

Sunny was fine aside from some bruises. He and Anneke were texting and calling pretty much the entire time she was in the hospital. 

Luke’s father, once he wasn’t ingesting a slow but steady supply of antifreeze, stopped seizing and regained his mental abilities, though he remained disorientated and nauseous. 

Winghead had several gashes from Harpy, bite marks from the Guests, and his curse mark had turned into a second degree burn. With lots of antibiotics and two weeks of hospitalization, he did not develop infection. Seven deep cuts required stitches.

Krishna was fine due to his usage of the pulse, but he was held in the ICU for a couple of hours to make sure he wasn’t suffering from internal bleeding or bruised bones, as he said he was extremely achy post-trauma. 

Kitty, of course, had these nightmares for two reasons. She could now freely admit to both of these: She had gotten bacterial meningitis as a child, and she had gotten suicidal after her best-friend started treating her differently than before. This had resulted in two near-brushes with death. And there was the car crash too, where she had seen Yariulvus’s dead body on a stretcher. She did not want to be around any hospitals. She felt like she could feel the hospital in her sleep, some part of her was tethered to the walls around her. She dreamed of gashes and the caustic, seismic sound of a body slamming into a web of metal bars. Wings coming out of eye sockets and feet covered in blood. She had some internal realization that these were partly Winghead’s nightmares. In fact, one night, they woke up at the same time from a nightmare and ran into each other in the hallway on the way to the bathroom. 

So when she got discharged, she didn’t visit Winghead. She went home and changed her clothes, from the light tan hospital garments to a pink baby tee and sweatpants. Instantly, she already felt more like herself. Ever since Harpy had gone away, the town had felt a little more like itself. No more scuttling things in the darkness or bodies floating in the water. She only had one heart, and that meant that she felt less, but she was feeling more…like things weren’t going to fall apart right in front of her. Or, things always felt like they were falling apart, but at least she could navigate it. 

She brushed her hair, which was long enough to braid neatly down her back. She ordered Mcdonalds through DoorDash, just a Big Mac and fries. The driver was John Vaudan, which startled her. But it made sense that no one else was working except for the people who lived paycheck to paycheck. She tipped him with a five dollar bill. 

She stood in the hallway outside her room, the floors so brown they were nearly black. The seams between the walls and the wood lining were freshly caulked. She checked the oily paper bag. She ate a fry. Her back hurt from lying down and sitting for so long. She went into her tiny room. Greta Gu Ma was still at work. Public defender case. 

Her feet were cold, so she put on socks. Then she called Veel, who now always carried a Razor flip phone. She never used it unless Kitty called or texted. She picked up right away. 

“Hello?”

“I’m home. I got a cab. Where are you?” 

“I’m at the music store. I stepped out for a bit. Do you need something?” 

Veel had started working again three days after the escape, helping Mrs. Choi fix her merchandise and throw away the debris caused by the whirlwind of Guests coming through her shops. Most of the expensive instruments survived because they were kept in the private sound proof room, and no Guests got inside. But outside, smashed ukeleles, acoustic guitars, cheap rental violins, violas, and music stands lay in a crumpled heap. Veel carried everything out with the help of Leo, Gemini, and Artemis, and then they swept the floors, vacuumed, beat out the dust, caulked, spackled, primed, painted, applied a light detergent to the upholstery, and scrubbed the counters and hardwood. They had to replace a handful of windows and one hanging light as well. Now Veel was tending the register again. There were practically no customers, aside from a gig band passing through whose lead guitarist needed new steel strings. Kitty suggested Veel learn the violin if she was bored. 

“Can you come here? Or, I can go there. Whatever works. I - want to see you.” God, it was still so hard to admit that. She could barely choke it out, and cringed at her incompetency and chronic emotional constipation. 

“Oh my god yeah get over here. I’m so-oo freaking bored.” Veel laughed, her voice crunchy through the terrible mic. Kitty could here a Bach concerto in the space between her loud laughs. She still had a thing for childish, guffaw-adjacent laughs. Veel and Winghead both laughed like “Ha! ha ha ha ha ha!” and it was great. She told Veel this.

“Charmed.” Veel’s grin was audible. “Get over here.”

Kitty knew she could walk, even with her fucked up atrophied legs, but she took the bus instead. It was impressive how fast public services returned back to normal. Buses, mail, police, fire department, city council, etc. Then again, they were somewhat more prepared to deal with the emergency after the FBI clued them in. Kitty felt strange now that she was no longer the go-to source for Harpy and Winghead-and-Veel-related news. 

She got to Cordelia and took a left from the fountain, or, what was left of the fountain. Now it was just a gaping hole with caution tape around it and construction workers already going to work on it. 

Choi’s Music was small and narrow at the front and opened up in the back. Kitty had been going there since she was fifteen to rent her clarinet. Veel was waiting at the counter, swiveling around in the high chair, visibly perking up when Kitty stood right in front of her. 

Her face was amazing, as usual, but looking at the purplish bumpy edges around the pale brown scars was painful. Kitty could tell it hurt when she smiled. 

“Kiss me?” she said. Kitty hummed and leaned in, giving her a little kiss on the corner of her mouth. She could feel the ridge of her chin scar under her fingertips where she cupped her face. 

“Oh. Sorry - lip gloss.” She pointed at the corner of her own mouth as soon as they parted and Veel wiped her lips. 

Veel hopped down from the chair and ducked under the counter door, coming out on Kitty’s side. 

“I’m gonna ask Mrs. Choi if we can close up early - no one came in anyways.” Veel told her, and Kitty followed her up the stairs to Mrs. Choi’s apartment, where she was probably napping or sorting out finances.

Kitty inhaled deeply and exhaled. She accepted the cup of Oolong tea when Mrs. Choi offered it. 

-

Winghead got out a week later, and this time, Kitty, Veel, Inez, and Sunny were waiting for him. Inez had flowers and a balloon in the shape of a heart. Sunny had brought him his clothes. Kitty didn’t bring anything, so she offered to buy Winghead tea when he was rolled out on a wheelchair by the attendant. He shrugged and said sure. He changed in the back of the car, into the Adidas hoodie and jeans Sunny brought. Then they all got in and drove to the nearest tea house. Wing fell asleep almost immediately against Inez’s shoulder, giant bouquet of pink tulips in his lap. The flower-perfume smell was really strong, so Sunny rolled down a window.

They got tea, and then they also went to Wingstop.

“How’s Ani?” Winghead asked when he seemed fully awake. Sunny pursed his lips.

“She’s OK.” He said, evenly. “Studying for the AP tests.”

They had all taken those already, but Kitty supposed Anneke’s memory was too scrambled or missing for her to remember what she had learned.

No one said anything for a while. Winghead shivered slightly, a movement that even reached his wings, and Inez wrapped an arm around him. 

--

A week later, and Veel found Kitty sitting blankly in the hall outside her room. On the hardwood floor. If she sat with her back perfectly pressed against the wall, and extended her feet, they reached the other side and she could snugly wedge herself within the width of the hall. The pressure felt nice, and it was always a little dim in the hallway because there was only one lightbulb. 

Veel hesitated. “Hey.”

Kitty remained silent, unmoving, unseeing, slowly blinking. Veel couldn’t tell how long she’d been at this. Her eyes looked red-rimmed and dry.

Then, she croaked. “Hi.”

Veel sat next to her, not quiet hugging her knees to her chest but wrapping her arms loosely around herself. 

“I’m good.” Kitty said before Veel could speak. Veel nodded slowly. 

Kitty was tired. She could feel a faint buzzing in her head. She kind of wanted to die. She was wearing jeans and they felt weirdly loose around her ankles. Her feet were bare. She could feel the texture of the drywall underneath them. The pressure was both condemning and a lifeline. 

“I don’t like my room.” Kitty said. 

“It’s a bit small,” Veel nodded, picking up what she was putting down.

“I don’t feel like I live here.” Her stomach hurt. Painful press in her lower abdomen, probably from eating a heavy lunch and going straight to bed afterward. “I can’t relax at all. I feel like a houseguest, or - or like a couch crasher. I want to go home.” She explained. “But not home home. I don’t know. I don’t really feel right anywhere.”

Kitty knew she scared Veel sometimes with how she talked. During their worst fight, Veel screamed that she was afraid Kitty was going to disappear or die the moment she stopped willing herself to be alive. That really hurt Kitty, and that night, when Veel had forced Mon to return to the Silverlands with her, Kitty had tried to go to sleep forever, outside in the forest, lacking the strength or will to walk home. She hoped she could will herself to go missing. It was only Winghead’s good conscious that saved her that time. She couldn’t help feeling evil after that, like some terrible selfish person, especially not when Winghead was giving her that angry, hollow, concerned look as she tried to explain to Greta what she was doing. 

“I have a flat affect.” She said. “The doctor in the psychiatric wing said so. It’s caused by depression.”

She could see Veel trying to understand, rolling the words around in her head. “A flat affect.”

“Yes. It means I don’t feel emotions as strongly. They’re being suppressed.”

“You are…talking a bit flatly.” Veel noted. Kitty nodded.

“I felt so much when I had yours and Wing’s hearts. I couldn’t stop feeling these powerful waves and waves of emotion. It was - fascinating, and kind of amazing, but it was obviously too much - and I broke. That’s when the spell broke. And then I was just left with my own feelings. My own heart. Which is already - it’s already ruined. I don’t know if I can fix it, or if a therapist can fix it. I might be like this forever.”

“You’ve always talked like this.” Veel said. “Ever since the spell broke, you’ve been like this. At least for as long as I’ve known you. Was it like this before you came to the U.S.A.?”

“It started when I was thirteen I think.” Kitty mumbled. “Well, I’m not sure, I think people started noticing my lack of reaction when I was about to leave. Fourteen, then, maybe.”

“My dad - he was like this. Even before my mom disappeared.” Veel said, surprising Kitty. Veel wasn’t touching her, but they were sitting so close that Kitty could feel a bit of warmth from where their shoulders were adjacent, and it tickled. She rubbed her own bicep aggressively, trying to slough the feeling off of herself. “You could tell there was something wrong with him. It was the stress, I think. He was the weakest in our family, and so people ragged on him about that his whole life. I couldn’t fix him. No one could…but no one tried, either. He was - exhausting. But I didn’t want him to die.”

“Exhausting. You said - you said that I was - exhausting, right?” It had been during their fight.

Veel grimaced. “I’m so sorry, Kitty. I was projecting, I think. You reminded me of him. Your symptoms lined up with his. I got scared. I didn’t want to see you destroy yourself.”

Kitty said nothing for a while. “You said not to apologize -”

“Baby.”

“I didn’t know - I …”

“Kitty, no, it’s my fault.”

Kitty waved a hand and shook her head. “I forced you into my mess - I made it your responsibility to care for me…I made you afraid for me - when you shouldn’t even have known I - existed.”

“You said sorry. I forgive you.” Veel said. “You’ve done so much for me, Kitty.”

Kitty sighed. “It’s never going to be enough.”

“You’re speaking in extremes.”

“I know I am. I know …”

She trailed off, getting silent again. She knew. Of course she did. She was the smartest person in her whole school, and she definitely didn’t pioneer the field of Biology by being unobservant. She knew every faucet of her sickness, intimately. She just…forgot sometimes. 

They sat like that for 70 minutes, Veel lightly dozing off and on, and then they heard Greta Gu-Ma’s key in the door. Kitty gingerly bent her legs, and began to stand up. Slowly, moving wrongly. Face blank. Veel must have been worried, because she placed a hand on Kitty’s lower back and helped her straighten out. Kitty let herself be maneuvered.

“I need to sleep.” Kitty said, voice broken. Veel nodded. She took her to her bedroom and helped her get under the covers. 

“You’re so-.” Kitty whispered, tracing Veel’s chin scar with her finger as Veel tucked her in. “It’s amazing. You’re so steady. I don’t deserve you.”

Veel kissed her forehead. 

They slept in the same bed that night. Kitty put her arms around Veel’s waist like she was a giant teddy bear. Veel’s stomach was astoundingly flat and hard. The nape of her neck smelled like pears. Kitty thought about what they had talked about and she cried as softly as possible. Veel breathed heavily.

[shintin]

Gunpowder Dreams

Chapter 3 (Storm)

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

They didn't know a wounded man would show no mercy when they took the best thing he ever had away from him. What did they say? Don't poke the dragon if you can't take the heat; if you do, expect the flames.

Genre: explicit smut, toxic relation, romance, angst (Mafia au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, Alternative Universe/Modern Setting, no spoilers from manga and anime, dominate Vash the Stampede, sexual situations, dub-con, graphic violence, gore, angst, toxicity, gun-play, manhandling, cunnilingus + fellatio, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, too many smut scenes, emotional trauma, and etc.

Song Recommendation: Måneskin - THE LONELIEST

Note: You can find pictures of Vash's household here.

Chapter Index - Next Chapter

Nails scratched the hardwood, and a creak roused you from the deep slumber you'd been wading in for what felt like years. In a cold sweat, you startled awake, disoriented and confused. All you saw was blackness. As it was yesterday, and the days before. The only sound that could be heard belonged to the pounding of your heart and the faint whisper of your breath. With an overwhelming urge to save your sanity, you tried to scream, but the voice got trapped in your throat, and the fear gripped your limbs, making it impossible to move.

You felt like someone was watching you. Oh, Gods! They must be trying to kill you. They must be doing it on purpose. To torture you, to torment you, to keep you from sleeping ever again.

Gradually, you sat up, squinting as you struggled to make out anything in the darkness that had nested around you. The truth was, you had no idea where you were or how you had gotten here. All you remembered was fainting in the fucking dungeon of Knives and waking up in this pitch-black abyss, your hands restrained by cold, metal handcuffs.

Despite the haze of confusion and fear capturing your mind, you had managed to recall fragments of your recent past. You could still remember being tended to by a bald doctor while you were unconscious, his skilled hands repairing the wounds and bruises that marred your body. You could remember your father not discovering your whereabouts and that … you had cried a lot.

Time had lost all meaning in this black hole, leaving you feeling disoriented and alone. But despite the uncertainty, you knew you had to remain strong and find a way out of this nightmare.

The haunting melody of a piano drifted once more through the cold, unyielding walls, its mournful strains reaching you from some unknown location above. You gazed up at the ceiling, captivated by the heart-wrenching yet undeniably soothing notes that flowed from the keys. In this wretched place, you couldn't fathom how anyone could find solace in music.

Despite the bleakness of your surroundings, the music provided a small measure of comfort, a reminder that even in the depths of despair swamp, life could flourish. The pianist's nimble fingers danced across the black and white claviers, conjuring a bittersweet symphony that stirred something deep within your soul.

As you listened, you were transported to a different realm, one where the harsh realities of your current existence faded away. For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to be swept up in the pure, unadulterated emotions, finding solace in your imagination.

The crack of thunder jolted you from your thoughts, reminding you that the world outside might be engulfed in a storm like yours. The bright, yellow ball of the sun might be obscured by thick, gray clouds that carried a sense of forlornness and empty promises of reliving old memories, reclaiming lost dreams, and indulging in comforting breakfasts of fluffy pancakes drenched in maple syrup. Even in a hellhole like this, you couldn't help but reminisce about the time your mother's warm smile could light up a world that seemed lost forever.

Perhaps the day was gloomy and damp, with a piercing wind that would sting the bones of the bastard twins. The temperature could drop to freezing, and hail could pelt down to a hurricane threatening to transform into a tornado just to rip those mother fuckers' bodies apart. It would be amazing if the earth could tremble and split open, creating a gateway for your escape from this oppressive reality.

Deprived of any external sensory input, you could not gauge your surroundings. With no window or view to the outside world, you were trapped in perpetual confinement. The walls seemed to close in on you, leaving you gasping for air as the weight of claustrophobia bore down on your chest. It was clear that hiding from this stifling existence was beyond your reach.

Looking around, you realized no one was in there —at least not the one you could see.

Had you taken up residence in cloud-cuckoo land? Goddammit! You cursed under your breath, frustrated at how your mind had turned into a traitor. Because your deepest fears had crawled out of you with darting eyes, sweating palms, and nervous giggles that sat in your chest, built in your chest, threatened to burst through your chest.

The pressure was mounting relentlessly, squeezing tighter and tighter and tighter around you. Was it a panic attack? No, you could still breathe, and your limbs were still functioning. But you felt paralyzed, unable to find the right words to express the turmoil within you. It was as though all of your pieces had shattered irreparably. Your brain had stopped functioning properly. Nothing would ever be able to glue you back together. The notion of optimism felt like a cruel deception in the face of such overwhelming melancholy.

Slapping your forehead, you reminded yourself that you were alone, but somehow you couldn't shake the sensation of eyes boring into you, leaving your skin tingling as though a searing hot iron was burning a silky dress.

You tried to speak, shaping your lips around the familiar words that felt foreign to your mouth. "W-ho's the-re?" you whispered, struggling to get the words out. Your throat felt parched and unaccustomed to use, making it difficult to form even a simple sentence.

Silence greeted your whispered inquiry, and you turned to the door. Carefully feeling your way towards it, your fingers sought out the tally marks you had etched into the wood to keep track of the days. Twelve marks, a testament to the times they had deigned to slide a bag of cold sandwiches and water bottles through the narrow opening.

How thoughtful of them to keep you from starving to death, even as they left you with nothing more than a filthy toilet in the corner to serve as your bathroom in this unlimited void of darkness. Fuck them! The frustration and anger bubbled up inside you again, directed at the fuckers who held you in this wretched place.

You let out a resigned sigh, realizing that another day had passed. Determined not to let the dizziness overtake you as it had during countless other waking hours, you reached out and scratched a new line onto the cheap surface of the door. The soft wood yielded easily to your touch, marking the passage of time in this godforsaken place.

As if misery could have an end, your stomach started its symphony, a reminder of the hunger that plagued you constantly. Based on your endless sleeping hours, you couldn't shake the suspicion that they were drugging your food, and you knew you could refuse, but what was the point? After all, there was no way you could escape if you were weak from starvation and dehydration. Also, you'd found you didn't mind swallowing whatever poison they might be feeding you. There was no need to keep yourself awake and suffer more.

Another soft creak from the corner of the room caught your attention, and you turned your head toward the disturbance. "Who're you?" you asked, though the words didn't come out any better than the first time. Holding your breath, you strained to hear any response from the darkness.

Several stilted seconds passed before you heard another faint creak, like someone shifting their weight from one foot to another. The sound emanated from where the old and dilapidated wooden floor had been eaten away by bugs, leaving jagged edges that had sliced your bare feet open on more than one occasion.

"What do you want?" you called out, feeling a hand reaching towards your breasts. Before you could react, a jolt of electricity coursed through your body, causing you to fall backward and land painfully on your tailbone. The shock left you gasping for breath and unable to scream for help, too consumed by terror to do anything but kick your feet frantically and scramble toward the wall.

There, you pressed yourself against the rough surface, your chest rising and falling. Welcome to the freak show!

As the pounding in your ears continued, you felt your nails digging into your palms as another low creak echoed through the room. Could they see you now, tucked into the corner of the room? Sucking in a deep breath, you held it, waiting for something to happen. It felt as if your head was shoved into a guillotine, trapped in that heart-stopping moment of anticipation for the blade to drop.

Watching the planks, you waited for the sudden appearance of a frightening demon, bent on its hands and feet and crawling towards you at an unnaturally fast pace. The thought of it would have been amusing under different circumstances, but in this place, you were anything but safe.

The door opened suddenly, flooding the room with bright light and a loud crack of thunder. You flinched, expecting to see the creature staring at you, but found nothing.

A sound slipped free from your throat, a mix of a wheeze and a laugh, as you felt like you were losing your mind. You had to be going insane.

Trying to shield your eyes with your hand, you climbed to your feet, your knees nearly clacking together from your fried nerves. The pain in your body momentarily faded as you thought about how foolish you were to believe someone could be hiding in that corner. However, your smile disappeared as a sobering realization set in.

Right! You were going crazy.

Your loud creaks emphasized each step as you cautiously tiptoed around each corner of the room, the person by the door watching you with widened eyes. You needed to be sure that no one was lurking and watching you like a creep if you ever hoped to sleep again.

Apart from you and the man standing in the doorway, no one else was present. You placed a hand on your chest and let out a choppy, uneven laugh. Making your way back to the bed, you realized that the person was still there, not carrying any food and not appearing to be leaving anytime soon.

You stood frozen, staring at the man in the gray suit with silver hair tied back into a bun, his eyes burning like fiery suns. As you stepped back, even the imaginary monsters in your mind began to retreat, afraid of what might happen next. Fear licked your nerves, and you tipped your head back, taking a deep breath through your nose.

Another man, older than the previous one, suddenly appeared by the door and announced, "The boss wants to see you." His words hit you like a bullet, striking your chest and knocking the breath out of your lungs. It seemed like this was to be your final, glorious end.

The silver-haired man aimed his double Colts at your chest, leaving you petrified and forgotten to inhale.  Despite feeling like you should be screaming, you remained frozen like a stone. "HANDS UP, FEET APART, MOUTH SHUT. FOLLOW THE ORDERS, AND I WON'T SHOOT YOU," he commanded.

You heard him, yet you remained still in place. You knew you should move, lift your arms, spread your feet, and remember to breathe, but you were unable to do so.

The one barking orders slammed the butt of his gun into the corner of your brow, causing your knees to buckle and hit the floor. You finally tasted oxygen, along with a metallic tang of blood. An acute agony ripped through your skull, unlike anything you had experienced before. You were utterly immobilized and unable to move.

"What part of 'follow the orders' don't you understand, you filthy Gasback spawn?" The intensity of his animosity was such that he spoke with a venomous tone, as though you were responsible for something awful, despite having no prior acquaintance with him.

You squinted to the side and saw the barrel of the gun mere inches away from your face.

"GET UP."

You were swallowing nothing but strangled gasps, which were choking your body. You were unable to cry out or make any sound.

Get up! Get up! If you don't, he'll shoot you.

You heaved yourself up onto your knees and fell back against the wall behind you, stumbling forward in an attempt to catch your balance. Your head was throbbing like a bitch, making you feel nauseous. Even lifting your hands was unbearable torture. Your body felt lifeless, your bones were cracked, and your skin was a canvas for the sharp pins and needles of pain.

Looked like the boss finally wanted to kill you. That must be why he wanted to see you. Perhaps he had made a mistake by not killing you earlier, or maybe your moment had simply passed. Your years on this earth had been too heavy for this world, and now he was going to end your life. Since the day you opened your eyes here, you had often wondered how it would happen and if it would bring happiness to your father or if your mother would be waiting for you on the other side. The thought of leaving your sister, Amelia, behind made you feel the saddest.

Someone was laughing. "Well, aren't you a little shit?"

You were unsure if they were even speaking to you as you struggled to keep your arms raised. Your mind was hazy, and you could hardly focus on anything.

"She's not even crying," the other one added. "The girls are usually begging for mercy by now."

The walls were starting to blend with the ceiling, and you wondered how much longer you could hold your hands up. You couldn't discern the words spoken or understand the sounds around you.

The blood rushed through your head, and your lips felt like blocks of concrete that you couldn't open. With a gun pressed into your back, you stumbled forward, feeling like the floor was falling upwards. Your feet dragged in a direction that you couldn't comprehend.

"Walk behind me." The other man's voice was thick and deep. Your feet moved forward on their own, and you remained silent, knowing no words could describe this moment. You blinked against the brightness of the light that you hadn't seen in so long, but it didn't matter. You were nothing but numb, a world of nothingness, and a little blinding light wouldn't kill you.

As the guard opened the door at the end of the murky corridor, a chilling draft greeted you, causing you to shiver from the freezing sweat still clinging to your skin and the cold, stale air.

The house's interior was mainly cast in shadows, with only dim light filtering through the large windows. The sunlight had faded away with the storm clouds gathering in the sky. As you looked up, you frowned at the sight of the black ribbed ceiling made up of hundreds of thin, long pieces of wood. Above you, a grand chandelier hung like a tree with multiple branches, its bronze design intricate and adorned with Rhodolite Garnet crystals that dangled from the tips. It was so stunningly beautiful that it almost made you feel sorry it had to get dusted in this slaughterhouse.

The brown walnut floors led directly to the black grand staircase, which was large enough to accommodate a royal black piano sitting sideways. The staircase flew into the living room, and your bare feet squeaked against the parquet floor as the gun barrel urged you further inside.

The open concept of the floor made the house feel like a monstrous entity that could swallow you whole. The living area was located to the left of the staircase, and as you looked around, a sense of loneliness hit you straight in the gut.

In the center of the living room, on the far left wall, was a large black stone fireplace flanked by two sizable mirrors, and leather couches were arranged around it in a square. An ornate wooden dining table sat in the middle of the room, with several unlit white candles atop its dark wooden surface.

The walls were covered in black paisley wallpaper, offset by heavy maroon curtains. The large bay window at the front of the house provided a view of the forest beyond the manor. The parquet flooring extended into the kitchen, which boasted beautiful black-stained cabinets and marble countertops, with a massive island standing in the middle. The kitchen's windows reminded you of a church with its Cathedral glass. It must be heavenly and delightful to cook and hum songs here on a sunny day.

You were walking mindlessly, not knowing where to stop, until a blow to your back crippled you. Your eyes began to tear up as you squinted against the bright lights of the abatjours, illuminating the Persian rug beneath your palms.

"Here she is," someone announced, and a heavy boot pressed into your back. Your outcry of anguish seemed to slow down the world for a moment. The sounds became muffled, the colors blurred, and the floor appeared to be tilting to its side. You thought to yourself that you were actually going to die, that you were going to drop dead then and there.

Then, you saw him, standing in the corner of the big room, watching silently as you writhed in agony while he did nothing. He just stood there and watched, pursing his lips as he ended his phone call.

The thought was so simple when it slipped into your head.

So calm.

So easy.

So, so easy.

You were going to kill him.

Once again, his was shrouded in darkness, but you knew the devil. You had met him personally before. He widened his stance as if getting comfortable, plunging a hand into his pocket and pulling out something you couldn't quite see. As he walked closer, you noticed a glint of silver in his palm as he put it around his neck. A cross? Are you fucking kidding me? You couldn't believe that he was pretending to be a man of faith after all the evil deeds he had committed.

As if he could hear your thoughts, he stopped and hid the cross beneath his shirt. Then he stared at you, and you didn't look away. Later, you would question why the gods made you the way you were, but right now, all you could do was keep your eyes fixed on his chest and allow yourself to register the defined muscles under his shirt. You knew that only a psycho would focus on that right now, and you might be one. The behemoth of a man didn't move an inch. He didn't speak, react, or do anything. He just stared at you, and it felt like a silent battle.

Your whole body began to vibrate from anger and fear, but also from something so disturbing that you refused to put a name to it. He didn't speak, but he did grin—a slow, sinful twist of his lips that sent sparks skittering down your spine. With deliberation, his tongue darted out and licked his bottom lip. Your eyes followed the movement, and the act felt primal, animalistic, and fucking terrifying.

Your heart started to claw its way up your throat, but you swallowed it back down, narrowed your eyes, and opened your mouth to yell at him. Before you could, however, he started approaching you, and you immediately lowered your head.

You were wholly immobilized beneath his stare, unable to move or even think straight. You could only imagine the look on your face when you saw him standing close to you, waiting for you. He sat down on the armchair a few feet away from you, and the boot on your back added more pressure, forcing you to lower your head even further.

Not a single word was spoken. He didn't offer any explanation or even acknowledge your presence. You were kneeling in front of the devil himself, hoping he would retreat and return to whatever portal from hell he crawled out of.

Having nowhere to look, you stared at his dark matte shoes, the dim light offering you enough chance to get a clear view of him. He was fully clothed. No boots today, yet his black pants still wrapped tightly around his broad thighs, and a dark crimson shirt that looked a size too small with the way he filled it out. You couldn't dare to see much of his face.

What the fuck was this? A fancy lamb-sacrificing ceremony?

You began to contemplate if you really had lost your mind and if you were just imagining the whole thing. Indeed, your imagination would never put you in such a scenario, trapped with a lunatic, but maybe it went out of its way and created a hunter licking his lips at you as if he was planning to feast on you.

Oh no, what if he was going to violate you? The thought made dread sink into your stomach like a stone in a lake. Your heart was back in your throat, and you pressed your lips together to hold back the fear that threatened to consume you. The situation was getting more and more terrifying by the second, and you didn't know what to do or how to escape.

His tone was collected, like a blanket thrown over a fire. "Such a delightful scenery," he said, leaning back in his armchair and rolling his neck, the muscles cracking loudly.

Your heart cracked, and your eyes flashed with anger, horror, humiliation, and raw indignation. It was like a fire was raging within you, a wildfire of decimated hopes, and you wanted to crush his spine in your hand. You wanted him to know what it was like to wound, to inflict such unbearable agony on others. You wanted him to feel your pain and understand the depth of your suffering.

"I understand you're mad at Gasback, Livio," he said. "But it wouldn't benefit you if your foot stays there!" His command was superb and strong like steel, dangerously calm and effortlessly assertive. The imprint of the boot was still carved into your back, but it was no longer pressing into your spine. The man called Livio walked a few steps back, and you dared to lift your head and look up at him.

The boss's left arm was covered in tattoos like those on his neck. With his sleeves tatted to his elbows, you could almost see lines of another tattoo on his right elbow. His eyebrows were thick and dark brown, his eyes a deep mountain lake blue. He had blond hair, a beauty mark beneath his left eye, and a lean frame. He was undeniably gorgeous, but, at the same time, dangerous, terrifying, and horrible.

Despite his beauty, his crooked smile was calculated and evil. He sat on what he imagined to be a throne, but was nothing more than an armchair, and his eyes were illuminated with a type of evilness that you would only find in Satan's Bible. It was clear that he took pleasure in your fear and suffering, and the thought made your blood run cold. You knew that you were in the presence of someone truly malevolent and needed to find an egress before it was too late. Because humans didn't need to decorate themselves in gory makeup and fake blood to be scary. It was the darkness that lurked beneath the surface, the evil that they carried within them, that was fucking terrifying.

Unlike you, he looked amused, troubled, interested, and confused all at once. He shook his head, patted his shirt, and reached for the holster around his chest, pulling out a gun with a silver hilt that glinted in the shadowed room. You took a sharp breath, fearing he would use it on you. He inspected the gun in a way you wouldn't understand, presumably to check whether or not it was ready to fire. He slipped it into his hand, his forefinger poised directly over the trigger. But instead of pointing it at you, he placed it on the side table next to the glass of water. He turned and finally read the expression on your face, almost laughing. "Don't worry. It's not for you," he said, holding himself down enough to see your face. "I'm not going to hurt you." He grinned. "Not yet."

You would never believe him, and he must have guessed it because you heard his irritated exhalation of breath. He sighed and rubbed his hand down his face, already growing frustrated. You knew that it wasn't your fault, and if the roles were reversed, he would also be freaking out and questioning his sanity.

His eyes never strayed from you, and he kept them fixed on you as you sat beneath his feet. He ran his hands through his spiked hair, and his shoulders probably started to burn from his hunched-over position. His eyes grew bleary from keeping his gaze on you, and you could see the moment's intensity taking a toll on him too.

A new headache bloomed in your temples, worsening your vision. Several seconds later, he tucked his hand into his pocket and slid out a cigarette from a pack. You saw him flick the lighter, enunciating his impossibly sharp jawline with a cigarette sticking out from his mouth. He puffed on it, and then the flame went out, leaving nothing but his disgusting silhouette before you. You could tell he was a chain smoker. Gross!

He snorted as you looked away and scuttled your eyes. "Princess doesn't like smokers?" he said.

You flinched without intending to, and he looked unexpectedly entertained, which only added to your mortification. So many thoughts were tangling in your head that you couldn't untie the insanity knotting itself together. You didn't know what to do or how to react.

His eyes scanned the map of your structure, and the slow motion made your heart race even faster. You were wearing a thin, dead cotton gown on your limbs, and you caught the rose petals as they fell from your cheeks, floated around the frame of your body, and covered you with something that felt like the absence of courage. The moment's vulnerability made your skin crawl, and you wished you could just disappear.

The tilt of his head cracked gravity in half, and it felt like time was suspended. You blinked and bottled your breaths, unable to tear your eyes away from him. He shifted, and your eyes shattered into thousands of pieces that ricocheted around the room, capturing a million snapshots and moments in time. Flickering images faded with age, frozen thoughts hovering precariously in dead space, a whirlwind of agony that sliced through your soul. His body was erected 6 feet of perfect, well-shaped muscle, and his profile strong and steady. What the fuck?!

One sharp breath and you were shocked back to reality. No more daydreaming!

"Why am I here?" you asked, your gaze trying hard to avoid his perfectly crafted face. The area around you was suffocated, and your hopes were all exhausted. Your eyes were unfocused and aching, and your finger traced a lazy path across the patterned carpet that smelled like smoke, gunpowder, and blood.

He was sitting across from you, his legs folded, and the tip of his shoes was just a few inches away from your face. You could feel his presence looming over you, filling you with nothing but emotions you had never experienced.

"You're afraid of me." His voice had no shape.

Your fingers found their way into a fist, and he laughed, the sound echoing in the dead air between you. You didn't lift your head or meet his eyes; instead, the taste of smoke lingered on your tongue, wasted oxygen, and you gulped it down. Your throat burned with something familiar to you, something you had learned to swallow recently, and you didn't know how much longer you could keep it in there.

"I'm afraid you're wrong, Bugger!" The words escaped your lips before you could think them through, and suddenly someone's gun slammed into your spine. You fell to the carpet with a broken whimper, wheezing into the antique carpet. The pain was excruciating, and you could feel the weight of the situation bearing down on you. You knew you had made a mistake speaking that way, but it was too late to take it back now.

"That wasn't necessary, Livio." His voice was saturated with mock disappointment. "Enough is enough!" A pause. "All. Of. You. Get. Lost. NOW!"

Without an iota of hesitation, you heard the sound of footsteps and the closing of the door. Your heart sank as you realized you were alone with him once again, left to deal with your actions' aftermath. The pain in your spine was still throbbing, and you could feel the anxiety creeping in.

You were past the sickening feeling that stirred in your gut and made you want to vomit—you were seeing red now. The red of his blood, leaking from his throat as you sliced into it. The red flowing from his mouth as he slowly suffocating. You saw so much red. "What do you want from me?" you hissed, clawing your fingers into the carpet, trying to abate the shaking. You didn't know how much more of this you could take and needed answers.

It took him a few seconds to answer you. "Can you please get up and sit on the sofa across from me?" he said, pausing for a moment, presumably to take a long drag out of his cigarette. "My spine gonna hurt from looking down at you."

Fucker cracked his neck, probably enjoying the feeling of his bones popping. Tension was released, and you could see his shoulders relax.

Without protesting or paying attention to the pain that was about to cripple your body, you slowly backed away and sat on the couch, trying to hide as much skin as you could under your loose gown. You knew that you needed to be careful and keep your guard up, but at the same time, you didn't want to provoke him any further. The ache in your spine was blossoming new buds, so you tried to calm yourself down, knowing that you needed to stay focused and alert to survive.

The house was the court of darkness, but you could see the smoke drifting in the still air. His eyes were distant and unfocused, and he seemed lost in his thoughts, a man caught in his own private hell. You remembered how his face was a mask of tragedy and sadness in the dungeon, too, as if he had seen more than his fair share of suffering. It was a sobering thought, making you wonder what had brought him to this point.

He took his final drag and gently put the cigarette in the ashtray beside him. The red embers faded and disappeared among the gray ashes. He raised his head, and his eyes locked with yours briefly. Then, an empty smile bloomed on his lips. One that made it hurt to look at him as if he was hurting and grinning just to bear it.

What the fuck was wrong with you? Why were you looking for traces of humanity in this monster?

You pressed your lips together and turned to look out from the big window. The rain outside had grown stronger, droplets slamming into the window with a ferocity rivaling your heartbeat. The cigarette was gone, yet that smile would stick around your memory forever.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said, and you turned your head to see his fingers grazing the revolver on the table, the gun glinting as if to mock you. Any courage you felt dissipated like butter in a hot skillet, and instead, all the fear you'd been feeling tripled. You couldn't help but feel like you were walking on thin ice, and any wrong move could lead to a deadly outcome. But then, to your surprise, he grabbed the glass of water instead of his gun and handed it to you. "Drink slowly," he instructed.

You hesitated momentarily, unsure what to do, but slowly took the glass and sipped the water, feeling the cool liquid soothing your parched throat. Now that your brain had calmed down a little, you noticed how he could probably see the evidence of how cold it was here through your gown. You felt exposed and vulnerable and couldn't help but feel deeply ashamed for being in this situation. You tried to cover yourself up as much as possible, but it was useless.

Noticing where your eyes were trained, he spoke up. "Don't worry about your clothing. I have no interest in your perked-up nipples," he said, loud enough for you to pick up on through the near-constant fear swirling in your bones. Your heart thundered in your ears as you tentatively looked at the glass, inspecting it as if it was a Magic 8 Ball that would reveal a murder plan.

You faced the window again, the beginnings of the storm rattling against the glass. In a few minutes, it'd be a downpour. Thunder would roll and build to a crescendo before a loud crack shook this house's foundation. It would match your mood perfectly.

Suddenly, you realized he was standing before you, his strong perfume tickling your nose. You gulped and kept silent, watching him walk around you. His stare sharpened as he spotted the ugly bruises coloring your neck and collarbones. They were everywhere, and you had a sickening feeling he was going to make it his mission to find every single one. You raised your head, a sharp gasp piercing the still air when he spotted the large gash on the corner of your brow.

"Stupid boy," he muttered, and you wanted to turn your eyes down on his black shoes, but you couldn't look away from his blue eyes, swirling with anger yet an apologetic expression on his face. "Did Livio do this to you?" he asked, his voice low and controlled.

You sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, biting hard as another crack of thunder tore through the atmosphere. With the uncertain consequences of your answer, you chose not to respond to his question.

Two tips of gloved fingers grazed your cloth-covered shoulder for less than a second, and every muscle, every tendon in your body was fraught with tension and tied into knots that clenched your spine. You closed your eyes. You stayed very still. You didn't move. You didn't breathe. You could feel his breath on your neck, and you knew that any sudden move could prove fatal.

"Are you hungry?" His voice was lower now, a little worried.

Your lips trembled as you mistakenly opened your eyes, and you saw him staring at you, studying you. His mouth was barely parted, his hands on his waist, his lashes blinking back confusion. Something punched you in the stomach, and you couldn't help but feel like you were walking on eggshells.

God! His face was unlike anything you'd seen. That was the thing—you had seen him before, in the fucking dungeon, but you were coughing blood back then, and now that you could see his pieces as a whole, he was devastating. Despite the fear and danger you were in, you couldn't help but notice how striking he was. It was like he was carved from marble, and his features were chiseled to perfection.

His eyes. There was something about their droopy shape that was both alluring and intimidating. They were the perfect shade of cobalt, blue like your blossoming bruises, hues that could tell tales of the sky and angels hiding behind the clouds. You couldn't look away from them. You didn't want to. And then you noticed the scar starting from the middle of his chest, slashing straight down through his torso to the middle of his abs. Despite the ugly scar, it only served to heighten his utter beauty. His lips were full, and his sun-kissed blond hair was long enough to run your hands through.

WHAT?!

This was wrong. So wrong. You shouldn't find this beast attractive! But his presence was so overwhelming; it felt as if he was ten feet tall with a shadow crawling up the ceiling, slithering toward you. This giant floor felt tiny with him in it, and you couldn't help but feel small in his presence.

He stepped toward you, a smirk remaining on his face—just the slightest curl in his lips. Your shoulders sagged back. Finally, your instincts weren't completely thrown off, and you made your first smart move.

"Cat got your tongue, love?"

You felt goosebumps as his voice washed over you. The sound was as deep as his ocean eyes. Another swallow nearly caused you to choke on the very muscle. You didn't know what to do, as if your tongue had swelled to double its size.

"What do you want from me?" you choked out. He prowled towards you. Despite the gallons of fear pumping through your heart valves, your spine tightened, and you stayed still. You'd bite him if he got too close.

All thought escaped you as your eyes locked with his. As his thumb brushed your lips, he forced it into your mouth. No shame. No shyness. No, let me buy you a drink before I play with your tongue with my dirty gloved finger. Astonished by his boldness, you nearly slapped yourself.

"I see you still have a tongue, a poisonous one as well."

It took several seconds for your body to unlock. Before you could think about what you were doing, you pressed your teeth together with all your might but met no scream of pain.

Confused, you looked up only to see a satisfaction waving on his facial features. Blood pooled in your mouth, a small trail heading straight towards your chin. A gasp escaped you, your eyes widening and snapping back to his. They were devoid of any hint of pain. Not even a glimmer.

The room was quiet. The static of silence was broken only by your heavy panting. A vortex of his presence slowly drained the oxygen from the room and your brain. Maybe that's why you couldn't think straight with him so close to you. The force of the fear coiled tightly around you, turning your body stone.

You were useless.

Powerless.

The inability to fight raged in your head, your survival instincts told you to spit his finger out, but your body refused. It wasn't until he did it himself that his bloody hand wrapped around your neck and brought your head close to his. You cringed as you felt the essence of his life dripping from his hand. Blood crawled down your spine like menacing fingers, staining your skin as if to mark you. Your horror was heightened when he leaned his forehead against yours and pressed his hand around your throat. 

With his bitten thumb pressing against your air hole, he forced your chin up further. Your breath stalled at the slightest curl in his lips. There was something intimidating about the act. Something condemning. "You're a savage one, aren't you?" he murmured, his sinful eyes devouring your face.

A scowl etched onto your face as you placed your hands on his chest, disregarding the unyielding steel beneath his skin, and tried to push him away. However, he defied your effort, resisting the force and curling his lip into a snarl.

Tears rimmed your lids as frustration grew. "Please, just let me go. I-I don't want to be here," you begged, your voice trembling with fear. It felt like someone was reaching into your chest, yanking out your pride, and throwing it onto the floor. But you couldn't afford to give a fuck about it in this situation. All you wanted was to be away from this man.

He leaned closer, his taunting words cutting through the air. "Are you going to cry, love?" he asked, his voice laced with malice. You could feel his heart racing beneath your palms as they remained pressed firmly against his chest, revealing his pulses. Despite his words, you couldn't help but feel that he was not as unaffected as he appeared to be.

"No," you lied, refusing to show him any more weakness. It was none of his business whether or not you were going to cry. Of course, you absolutely had no problems crying your eyes out after he left, but you wouldn't let him see you break down in front of him.

He released his hand with a feral, toothy grin, allowing you to break free. As he stepped back, you experienced a mixture of relief and coldness. However, he promptly grasped your arm and lifted you to your feet. His intense gaze held you in place while his body brushed against your arm, emitting a fragrance of leather, smoke, and something familiar that was utterly mesmerizing. Fear had a distinct flavor: an acidic, burnt metal that numbed your entire being, not just your tongue. Despite feeling extremely frightened, you were inexplicably… drawn to him, consumed by his presence.

You maintained a steady gaze, keeping him within your field of vision. He drew nearer, pressing his body against yours, but you didn't yield. Instead, you seemed to meld into him, resisting his strength and succumbing to his closeness. His warm breath caressed your skin as his lips approached the edge of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

In a hushed tone, he uttered, "I bet crying would suit you." His words caused your lip to quiver, but you quickly bit down on it, determined not to reveal any vulnerability. As you stole a glance at him, you noticed his gaze was fixated on your lips.

 "Are you here to kill me?" you asked in a low voice. Despite your efforts to conceal the tremors coursing through your body, you were unsuccessful.

Slowly, he shook his head. "Why would I do that?"

You were not sure how to answer that.

"That would be a waste, love," he replied, his forefinger tracing your collarbone. "Moreover, losing such a pretty face would be a shame. I want to keep you," he added, his words dripping an unsettling possessiveness.

"What if I don't want you to?"

He smiled. "Nobody asked for your opinion."

"You're a maniac," you spat out, attempting to wrench yourself away from his grasp. However, he caught hold of your hip bone and gripped it tightly, causing you to suppress a scream.

"Don't struggle, love. You'll only make things more difficult for yourself."

Despite the anger welling up within you, your voice remained eerily mild as you spoke, "Your poor mother." your words were soaked in venom.

He almost choked, his eyes wide, alarmed. "What did you say?"

Your stomach churned with mixed emotions as you watched the man's expression shift. There was an unguarded strain, flinching terror, and sudden apprehension etched on his features. You were trying to mock him because you felt sorry for his poor mother, who had to deal with such a pathetic son.

He seized your arms roughly; his gaze locked onto yours with a sense of urgency pulsing at his temples. "What did you mean?" he demanded, his tone insistent.

Your temper had gotten the best of you, a new feeling that had arisen since your recent circumstances. Typically, you were not a reactive person, but you could not control the emotions that were now surging through you. "N-nothing," you stammered, your voice breaking in half. "I didn't mean anything by it. I didn't—it was just a—"

He released your arms abruptly, as though they had scorched him, and walked away. You took a tight breath, attempting to compose yourself, but found it difficult to even look at him. You tried to explain yourself, but the words that tumbled out made no sense in the vast room. Your fingers clenched your gown as you thought about how your time here had turned you into a person with a foul mouth and degrading behavior. It was humiliating to disappoint yourself more than anyone else.

You glanced over at him, but he had already folded his arms and turned his face towards the tall windows, to the raindrops streaking down the glass. "I know this must be difficult for you," he spoke, his voice devoid of any empathy. "But, I have no fucks to give." His callous words stung, reminding you again of your captor's cruel and indifferent nature.

You desperately took a deep breath and tried to stifle any words that threatened to escape. He turned towards you, pretending not to notice the red rims around your eyes and your nails digging into your almost bare dress. His gaze carefully avoided your face, and he cocked his head in your direction, although it seemed like he was staring at a spot behind you. "Do you know what your father has done, toy?" he asked, his lips wet as he circled your body before disappearing from view. The question hung in the air, leaving you to wonder what he was getting at and what your father's actions had to do with your current predicament.

His sudden disappearance made you even more nervous, and your mind raced as you tried to anticipate his next move. The uncertainty of the situation was torture in itself, not knowing if or when he would strike. "Don't call me a toy," you snapped, seething with anger as you sensed him standing behind you. Your body was tense, ready to react to any sudden movements.

He circled back to the front, and you felt slightly relieved as your shoulders loosened. "Then why don't you tell me your name, love?" he asked, leaning forward towards you. You froze, unsure how to respond, as the man's proximity was both welcoming and unsettling.

You thawed. "You know my name."

He raised a brow. "When I ask a question, I demand an answer, not bullshits."

You gulped down the lump in your throat and whispered your name. His lips softened into a smile that made your stomach churn. He repeated your name, savoring it as if it amused him, entertained him, and delighted him all at once. In all your years of living, none of your past lovers had ever said your name like that.

"Now answer my question, toy," he pointed out, deliberately using the name. You snarled at his defiance, but didn't reply. "Don't make me ask again," he warned, his voice lowering to convey his seriousness.

"I don't know what you want me to say!" you shouted, frustrated. "Why don't you stop being a pussy and solve your problem with him personally?" The words burst out of you in a fit of anger, fueled by the stress building up inside you.

His laughter filled the room, and you braced for what he might say next. "Bold one, huh?" he chuckled. "I can't wait to break you apart, shatter you into pieces and then arrange those pieces in the most fucked up way possible to suit my taste. And I promise, I won't care if they don't fit. I'll fucking make them. You're too feisty for your own good."

"You can't touch me," you spat through clenched teeth, your voice shaking with fear and anger.

"Wrong," he chanted, his tone mocking and cruel.

"My dad will cut your arm!" you countered, hoping to intimidate him with the threat.

"Oh, really?" he said in a conspiratorial whisper, his words cutting through your bravado. "Then why hasn't he done it? You being here is not a big secret with all the men swirling around this household."

The truth of his words hit you like a ton of bricks, and your skin turned cold with sweat. Your fingers trembled, and your lungs struggled to draw in air as you realized the reality of your situation.

"See, he has left you alone with us to skin you alive and play with your bones till you beg to die," he said calmly.

You couldn't believe that your own father had abandoned you to this fate. Honestly, you couldn't help but wonder why you had been stupid enough to expect him to act differently. The memories flooded your mind, and you closed your eyes in a subconscious effort to block them out. But the effort only backfired as the memories grew more vivid. The fights, the screams, the curses, your sister's cries, the hits, the pain, and you begging your father to stop. The vivid images of the blood. Dead, dead red, burgundy and the richest shade of your mother's favorite lipstick all smeared on the floor. You had deceived yourself into thinking that your father, a man of numbers and benefits, would have any incentive to rescue you.

You waited in silence for him to speak, your mind still reeling from the memories that flooded your consciousness. As he began to speak, you struggled to focus, his words bouncing around in the haze of your head and fogging your senses. A sense of hopelessness and helplessness pricked your thoughts. Nevertheless, you forced yourself to pay attention, knowing that any information he might provide could be crucial to your survival.

"Technical bugs don't allow me to confront your father," he said. "Also, death would be a gift for him, don't you agree?"

You looked at him, tears gathered in the corners of your eyes, and you struggled to maintain your serenity.

"I have a proposition for you."

You managed to lift your head since you weren't sure you heard correctly. "I don't understand," you told him.

He took a deep breath and began to pace the length of the room. "You are kind of a pet project of mine," he said, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. You couldn't stand the sight of his smug, arrogant demeanor, and the urge to break that grin off his face was almost overwhelming. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face you. "I want you to help me," he said, his tone insistent.

"What?" A broken whisper of surprise.

"You are in my possession," he said a little impatiently. "Maybe you can put the pieces together."

"I don't—"

"Don't pretend dumb! How about you reveal some of your dad's dirty laundry so I can force him out of his hiding hole?" The following pause was filled with a deafening silence, and you felt like the air had been knocked out of your lungs. "Yet, I would like to give you an option." He offered you a smile that said you should be grateful for the chance he was offering. Someone must be ripping your skin off.

"And if I don't accept?" you asked, catching your voice before it cracked in fear.

He looked genuinely disappointed, and his hands clasped together in dismay. "Did I give you any impression that you have a choice?" he asked, his tone cold and menacing. "If you stand by my side, you'll be rewarded," he continued, his words filled with a sense of threat. He pressed his lips together, and you could feel his eyes boring into you. "But if you choose to disobey? Well...I think your little sister, what was her name? A-m-e-l-i-a, hm? She looks rather lovely with all her body parts intact, right?"

You were breathing so hard that your frame was shaking. "You're threatening me with my sister? What has my father done to you?"

"You'll find out if you manage to survive." He raised a brow.

"And you want me to willingly help you take your revenge?"

His face broke into a brilliant smile. "That would be wonderful." The world was bleeding. You didn't have time to form a response before he started talking again.

"I would never be your rat!" you snapped. "Your men beat me! You keep me here like a slave! You threaten me! You give me no freedom and say you want me to help you hurt my family?" You were about to throw the glass of water at his face. "Why are—"

"Nothing your father hasn't done already to you." His voice was tight, just like his lips, and you were shocked to learn how much he knew about your relationship with your father. "You, if you are insinuating that I am an evil being, I would recommend you take a closer look at your own family," he said the last few syllables with a little too much emphasis, a little too much fire as if it was reminding him of something from his own life.

He spoke the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You knew it, but the anger you felt was like a living thing, a raging inferno that threatened to consume you. You felt it wrapping around your fingers like you could fling it at his face. You felt it coiling around your spine, planting itself in your stomach and shooting branches down your legs, arms, and neck. It was choking you, suffocating you with its intensity.

You wanted to scream and lash out at this man who seemed to enjoy opening your old wounds. The anger inside you needed release; it needed relief. "You," you told him, and you could hardly spit the words out. "You're not any better than my father! You are a monster!"

A dangerous smirk tugged at his lips when he heard his new nickname. "You do not want to upset me, love." His voice was far too calm to match the storm in his eyes. He turned away, so you were staring at his profile. He changed his mind, clasped his hands, and touched his lips. "You're so ungrateful. I was trying to make your stay pleasant."

"Liar!"

 He seemed to be considering that. Nodding, he said, "Yes. Most of the time, yes."

"I don't want to be here. I don't want to be your toy. Let me go!"

He didn't answer right away. His finger played around his tattooed neck. "Don't underestimate me, love. If I wanted to have toys around this house, I would do that," he said, his tone cold and calculating. "Wait! Actually, people would volunteer for me to play with them. I'm very good at it, and certainly, I don't need someone as boring as you to entertain me. Just keep this in your mind," he continued, his words filled with arrogance and entitlement. "I need information, love, and I have my very own ways of taming pretentious brats like you."

You could see how he knew that this hard look was only your front show and that his desires were interested in what you had hidden under your brittle shell. He wanted something you didn't have, but you knew he wouldn't believe it until he broke you and found out.

Feeling sick to the stomach, the thought of being in this man's presence for another moment made you want to kill yourself. So, you started laughing, stopping the tears from falling. "You're disgusting!"

The emotions swirling inside you were like a raging storm, and you felt like you were about to break under the weight of it all. It was like you had been stuffed full of twigs, and all it would take was a single bend to snap you in half. The guilt, anger, frustration, and pent-up aggression inside you needed an outlet, and it was getting out of control.

What were you thinking?

This was all your fault. It was your fault you were here. It was your fault you were in danger. It was your fault this man-whore wanted to use you for his sick purposes, and his brother wanted to perform some new torture rituals on you. FUCK THIS SHIT! If only you had grabbed your sister's hand and walked away from your father years ago, you could have been safe and far away from these psychopaths. But you didn't, and now you were paying the price for your mistakes.

All you could do was try to keep your head above water and hope you wouldn't get drowned.

Because, after all,

It was your fault. It was your fault. It was your fault. It was your fault. It was your fault.

*

He had been standing by the window for an hour now, his gun back in the holster, looking out at the rain falling softly outside. He had said nothing; his back turned toward you all this time as if you weren't even there.

You tried to control your emotions, holding back tears even though you were overwhelmed by the sadness and grief building up inside you. It felt like you were in the presence of a predator, and the thought of being at his mercy was almost unbearable. You didn't know what he was planning but knew it couldn't be anything good.

You felt completely alone and lost in the emptiness of the giant house, and his presence only made you feel more isolated and disconnected than ever before. You could still feel eyes on you, as if someone was watching your every move, waiting for you to make a mistake.

You glanced at him. He seemed to be patiently waiting for you to gather and get your shits together, but you could tell that his patience would wear thin very soon. He would demand your response to his proposition.

You took a shaky breath and started taking inventory of your new surroundings, trying to distract yourself from the uncertainty that was choking you. The acceptance of your situation was starting to set in, and you couldn't help but feel sorry for yourself.

He walked toward you one hour and forty-five minutes later, waiting until you finally looked up at him. You could still see that lingering glint of delight as if you were a mouse trapped in a cage with a cat, and you knew that it was only a matter of time before he pounced.  

He cocked his head for you to follow him.

And you did.

He was walking ahead of you, jerking his head towards the stairs, signaling for you to walk behind him like a well-trained pet. The thought made you want to cry. He was sure with your injured body, you could barely stand upright, let alone attempt a funny business. "Where are you taking me?"

He didn't respond immediately, and you fell in step behind him, feeling the urge to cry deepening as you made your way further into the belly of hell. It felt like a bungee cord was strapped around your waist, pulling you back towards the exit, and the longer you walked, the stronger it became.

He shot a look over his shoulder. "Your room."

Your mouth went dry as you realized that you were heading downward, into a basement. You guessed you shouldn't be surprised because… well, where the fuck else were you expecting him to lock you?

As you descended the stairs, the darkness seemed to swallow you whole, the air becoming musty and damp, the thud of your footsteps on the stairs echoing. You tried to keep your breathing even, but it was a struggle. The weight of the new information had suffocated you.

Through blurred eyes, you clung onto insignificant details. He was leading you to an unfamiliar location through dark, narrow corridors that seemed to grow darker and more oppressive as you walked. Eventually, you found yourself at the base of steep wooden steps that creaked ominously under your weight. Everywhere you looked, there seemed to be secrets hidden behind locked doors and shadowy corners, but no answers to be found.

"Obedience is the number one thing I ask of you. This means you'll be punished if you disobey me or fail to do as I instruct."

You averted your gaze before he could see the emotions churning within you, feeling as if they were spitting out like grease in a hot skillet. Swallowing down the rock in your throat, you choked out, "Yes, Master." You hated yourself for submitting to him in this way, but you had no fight left in you after everything you had gone through. And you knew that it was only the beginning of your ordeal.

He made a sound of aversion. "Never call me that. Reminds me of my brother," he snapped, muttering the last part.

Summoning your courage, you looked up and met his gaze once more. "How would you like me to address you?" you asked, making a conscious effort to keep any hint of anger out of your eyes. Deep down, you knew exactly what the fuck you'd like to call the evil creature, but you held your tongue for the time being.

He trained his narrowed gaze on you, seeming to contemplate something. "Just call me Vash," he responded, though his tone implied that he didn't expect you to comply. "Although judging by the hatred in your eyes, I doubt you'll call me by my name. Will ya?"

Your heart shriveled when you realized he could read you like an open book. You weren't sure why you were surprised, but the knowledge sent a fresh wave of panic coursing through your bloodstream, twisting your gut painfully. The feeling of hopelessness was deepening.

"Yes, I'll do whatever you want me to," you forced out, your body hunching forward under the weight of the intense emotions coursing through you. It felt as if they were powerful enough to disintegrate your spine and send you crumbling to the floor at his feet.

Despite the temporary nature of your compliance, the man appeared pleased with your response.

"As long as you promise to stay away from my sister," you added and stared into his eyes.

He dipped his head, staring at your sad eyes, studying you in an entirely new way. “My promises aren’t worth much, love,” he whispered. “Or have you forgotten?” He ran his hand through his hair. “I’m an exceptional liar.”

Realization slammed into you like pounds of common sense. You shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t be making deals with him. Your fists were balled at your sides, and you were shaking everywhere as he led you through a series of metal doors, each guarded by his henchmen. Their eyes followed you everywhere, appraising you with fear and something else you didn't want to consider. You wanted to rip the carpets and curtains and sew them to your skin.

The men were all armed to the teeth, their guns slung around their necks, while others were strapped to their belts. You couldn't help but feel a sense of dread as you saw the weapons, knowing that any of these men could end your life with a single pull of the trigger.

Yet, they all betrayed a look of terror when they saw their boss's face — a flash of fear that was quickly replaced with a mask of obedience. You could see it in how they gripped their weapons a little tighter as he walked by — they were afraid of him and for good reason.

He was proud of himself. "Their fear will work in your favor," he muttered while walking by your side.

"Why?" You no longer had the energy to think.

He stopped abruptly, his eyes calling you an idiot. He closed the few inches between you, and your words fell on the floor. "You really are naive, aren't you?" he said, his voice harsh and low, the words a grating whisper against your skin. "If they don't fear me, they'll hunt you. Your father is not very popular around here." He backed away from you, his laughter mirthless and chilling. Then, he resumed walking down the hall, but you found yourself rooted to the spot. The realization hit you like a bucket of ice-cold water emptying down your back.

As he noticed that you weren't following him, he stopped, and a strange glimmer appeared in his light eyes. "I am not the one you should be concerned about," he said before walking back towards you until his lips scarcely brushed across your nose while hot breath fanned against your cheek. "Better hope Kni's goons don't come looking for an easy meal," he whispered, adding another fear to your collection.

A pool of emotions constricted your throat, leaving it clogged. Disgust, anger, and terror churned within you, at the thought of men taking advantage of your body while you were injured was sickening. Your stomach twisted in response, and it took all your self-control to hold back vomiting. "You would let that happen?" you whispered, your voice hoarse and strained.

He retreated an inch, observing your expression closely. You stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his soulless eyes. "Why should I stop them?" he asked, pausing for effect as a vicious grin spread across his lips. "You're just a leverage; soon enough, you'll be nothing."

You clung tightly to your composure, but your body shook with the effort of keeping your emotions in check. A tear slipped loose as his gloved hand brushed your jawline. "Stop crying," he ordered quietly. You obeyed, knowing that your survival depended on appeasing him.

"Good girl," he praised. Your rage boiled to the surface, but you bit your tongue. Fuck you.

As he brushed a finger lightly down your spine, leaving a trail of chills in his wake, you couldn't help but feel a sense of revulsion. You were trapped in his clutches.

"Don't worry, love. I'll be taking good care of you when they come sniffing," he murmured, offering a shred of hope you refused to cling to.

You snarled and glared at him through blurred vision. "And you'd be any better?" you hissed, challenging his twisted sense of morality. His values were as opaque as frosted glass.

Slowly, he straightened his spine and shot you a cryptic grin. "I guess there's only one way to find out. You want to try me?" he said before turning and walking away from you. The second the distance between you two grew, several more tears escaped, and once those were set loose, a flood followed. You couldn't bear the thought of staying in this place, of being used as a pawn or a plaything by the man and his associates. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you tried to stifle a sob, but it broke free anyway. You knew that you had to escape, that you would rather die trying than be passed from hand to hand like an object.

So you turned and started running.

You bolted down the hallway, your feet pounding against the cold, hard floor as you ran past the doors. You didn't know what you were doing or where you thought you could go, but all you knew was that you had to get away from this place, from this man and the perverts around him.

Your heart was racing, and your breath came in short gasps as you ran, fueled by adrenaline. You didn't know what lay ahead of you, but you knew it had to be better than what you left behind.

With no clear plan in mind, you pushed yourself to reach the front door, hoping it would provide an escape route. The only thing driving you forward was the hope that you could find a way out and away from the danger that lurked behind you.

His commands echoed off the walls, exploding in your eardrums with a deafening force. He didn't need to chase you. He had his men do the work for him. They were lining up before you, beside you, and behind you, forming a wall that seemed impenetrable, trapping you in this place of terror. You were surrounded, with no apparent outlet.

You couldn't breathe. You were spinning in a circle of your own stupidity, panicked, pained, petrified by the thought of what he was going to do to you against your will.

"Catch her," he said softly. "Don't you dare shoot her!" Silence had stuffed itself into every corner of this house. His voice was the only sound in the room.

One of his men stepped forward. Your eyes were flooding, and you squeezed them shut, then you pried them open and blinked back at the crowd. Every inch of your body was covered in pang. Your bones began to buckle, snapping in synchronicity with the beats of your heart. You crumbled to the floor, folding into yourself like a flimsy crepe. You felt so painfully exposed in this ragged gown.

"Don't—" you held up a tentative hand, pleading with your eyes, staring into the face of the man. "Please don't—" Your voice broke.

You were defenseless, with no protection. The man grabbed your arms, and your body tensed in response. "NO, NO, NO!" you gasped, struggling against his hold. Like a raging river, your blood surged through your veins, with waves of heat lapping against your bones.

A surge of adrenaline rushed through your veins, giving you a burst of energy and strength. Desperate to escape his grasp, you pushed yourself back and kicked his leg, hoping to create enough distance to break free. As he stumbled back, you saw an opportunity to reach for his gun.

You grabbed the weapon with a quick and decisive movement, feeling its weight in your hand. It was a risky move, but you were willing to do whatever it took to defend yourself. You held the gun at arm's length, pointing it at the man before you, hoping it would be enough to make him back off and give you a chance to escape.

Your triumph was short-lived as the man reacted quickly, moving in to tackle you. Your lungs constricted, and a wave of ice-cold cruelty washed over you.

Then everything happened so fast.

A shooting sound.

The man's weight fell on your petite frame, his body collapsing against yours. You struggled to breathe as the air was forced out of your lungs, and the gun slipped from your grasp.

Your screams echoed throughout the room as you tried to see past the sheet of tears that blurred your vision. You were hiccuping, hysterical, horrified by the frozen look on this man's face, his paralyzed lips wheezing gasps through his lungs. You broke free and stumbled backward.

The multitude of armed men behind you parted ways, their faces etched with shock and unfiltered terror.

"Somebody help him!" you screamed. "Somebody help him! He needs a doctor— he needs to be taken—he needs—he—oh—what have I done—"

You heard Vash calling your name.

"DON'T TOUCH ME—DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH ME—"

Vash was trying to comfort you, holding you together and smoothing back your hair. The tears continued to flow down your cheeks, and he was trying to wipe away your tears while you wanted nothing more than to lash out at him, to scream and murder him.

"You need to calm down—"

"HELP HIM!" you cried, falling to your knees, your eyes glued to the figure lying on the floor. The other men were creeping closer. "Please—you have to help him! Please—Vash!" His name rolled over your tongue, and for a second, you saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

"Livio, Rollo—TAKE CARE OF THIS!" he shouted to his men before scooping you into his arms. Your skin was cold and clammy with sweat, your fingers trembling with disgust, your heart unable to withstand him.

Despite his strength, you felt a sense of powerlessness and vulnerability in his grasp. You wanted nothing more than to run as far away from him as possible, but your body was weak and trembling, unable to withstand the trauma and terror you had experienced.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" you cried desperately. Then the pain you had suppressed for so long finally crushed you. You broke, your body cracking from the pain you'd swallowed so many times, heaving with sobs you could no longer suppress, your dignity dissolving in your tears, the agony of the past weeks ripping your skin to shreds.

You cried out all the pain and fear you had been holding inside, the emotions ripping through you like the storm outside. You felt like you were being torn apart, piece by piece, as the memories of what had happened to you flooded back.

You couldn't even breathe. You couldn't catch the oxygen around you. You couldn't see or hear anything anymore, leaving you unable to perceive the world around you clearly. Your thoughts were scattered and jumbled, and you couldn't even be sure if you were still fully conscious. You wondered if you had finally lost your mind.

In the midst of this confusion, you found yourself lifted off the ground, feeling weightless. The world spun around you in a dizzying blur, making it difficult to keep your bearings. You were lost in a fog of uncertainty, unsure of what was happening to you or where you would end up.

You were a bag of feathers, a fragile crystal in his arms. Despite everything that had happened, his embrace felt warm and safe. You shouldn't want this so much. For now, you wanted to forget that you were supposed to hate him, that he kidnapped you, that he was here just because he wanted to use you against your father. But at the minute, you wanted nothing more than to forget all and just be held and comforted.

Your face was buried in the soft material of his shirt, and your cheek was pressed against the cross dangling on his chest. You had felt this before, but when you breathed in his scent, you smelled your mom's pancakes, joyful peals of laughter, and happy Sundays. The nostalgia of simpler times.

You tried to push those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the warmth of his embrace and the sense of comfort that he provided. You didn't want him ever to let go of your body, but then the reality slapped you in the face, mortification muddled your brain, desperate humiliation clouded your judgment, red painted your face, and bled through your skin.

You clutched at his shirt, not letting go of the cross, your voice trembling as you spoke. "You can kill me," you told him, your fear and desperation evident in your words. "You have a gun!"

You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he tightened his hold around your body, his face still stoic and impassive. However, you could see a sudden strain in his jaw and an unmistakable tension in his arms, indicating that your words had struck a nerve.

Despite your fear, a fiery sense of defiance rose within you. "Just kill me!" you pleaded. "My father—he—he doesn't care about me." you were numb, powerless all over again. "Please—"

The world went black before you could say anything else, and you felt yourself slipping into unconsciousness. The last thing you remembered was the sound of his voice, telling you something cold and emotionless.

This monster had no heart. Your father had eaten it.

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[chirp-a-chirp]

Ikemen Prince: Breaking Point

Description: A chance encounter with a young boy forces Leon to confront his past. Spoilers from Leon’s route. Quotes from Leon’s route are in bold text.  

Ikemen Prince: Leon

Other Characters: Nokto; Yves; Sariel; Jin (briefly)

Word Count: ~2,700. 

Tags: Angst and comfort; mentions of slavery, abuse, trauma, and parental loss

*Lion picture generated using Art AI App Gencraft

…

“He’s replaceable.” 

The voice was dismissive, petulant. The Duke gestured irritably at a young boy hastily picking up a pile of silverware that had scattered across the floor. The boy was no older than six, the youngest servant at the Duke’s gala. The boy’s amber eyes flickered at the Duke’s outstretched hand; he flinched reflexively, his body prepared for the blow that was sure to follow. 

Leon’s eyes opened in shock. The servant boy was a virtual replica of him as a child, down to the sunken hallows beneath his eyes and the mop of dark hair that refused to be tamed. Leon winced internally as he saw what appeared to be bruises on the boy’s wrists beneath his jacket. But it was more than that—though the boy’s body’s flinched as an automatic response, his arms hung listlessly at his sides. The boy’s eyes were dull and flat. Leon knew what that feeling of resignation was like, perhaps more than anyone. 

Instinctively, Leon stepped in front of the boy. “Every life has meaning, Your Grace.” A growl emanated from Leon even as he plastered a smile on his face. “He’s not replaceable.”

“And he has a name. Charles.” Emma crouched beside the boy, helping him pick up forks and spoons. Her eyes flared at the Duke. The Duke laughed dismissively. “He’s here upon my charity. The urchin’s mother was one of my maids; she died several months ago. He has a roof over his head as long as his does his job competently. He has failed to do that so—“

“So let us remedy that for you.” Leon’s eyes narrowed. “We will take Charles back to the Castle.” Leon gestured gently for the boy to get up. With some quiet encouragement from Emma, Charles scampered behind Leon, clinging to his cloak like a lifeline. Leon grab Charles’ hand and began to turn around. The Duke’s voice brought Leon back to the conversation.

“I believe you’ve forgotten something.” The Duke held out a hand. “Compensation for the clothing the boy wears. A coin would do.” The Duke’s attempt at a power play was painfully transparent. Leon barely heard the Duke’s sneer—it faded into a blur as Leon was pulled back into his childhood past. The sound of feet trudging through mud, whips lashing and breaking against his skin when work was not done fast enough, his life bought with a single coin. Jin, who had seen the verbal exchange between Leon and the Duke, stepped in. “Of course, Your Grace.” Jin dropped a small bag of coins in the Duke’s hand before Leon could respond. The Duke had powerful friends and trade connections. The princes could not afford to make him an enemy. Jin guided the Duke away, handing him a glass of wine. As Jin walked past Emma, he mouthed to her, “Go with Leon. Please.” 

Emma quickly picked up the remaining pieces of silverware, placing them on a nearby table. Leon and Charles had already left. As she began to leave the gala, Emma felt a tug on her elbow as an arm encircled her waist. 

“That was quite the performance just now.” Nokto’s breath tickled against Emma’s neck. His red eyes sparkled in mischief. 

“You could have intervened any time,” Emma glared. Nokto shrugged, “Jin beat me to it. But, on to more important matters.” Nokto lifted his eyebrows and whispered in Emma’s ear. To anyone watching, it would look like no more than a man flirting with a pretty girl. “Do you recall the conversation you and I had while you were Belle? About Leon’s kindness?” Emma’s cheeks flushed. Nokto chuckled, “Play along, my dear. You’re doing well.” 

Emma huffed and stepped back a pace. “Yes,” she hissed. “But this kindness is not cruel. Kind people want to help everyone. Leon wants to protect Charles, like he does with all the people in Rhodolite.” 

“But at what cost?” Nokto studied Emma, a smirk on his face. “Leon can’t hide a thing, especially now that’s he’s with you,” Nokto murmured. “His eyes give him away. Leon will break tonight. Too many memories brought back to the surface.” Nokto stroked his chin and added; “his kindness is the ultimate cruelty to himself. When you care for everyone, there’s nothing left for yourself.” Nokto adjusted his white and gold jacket and sauntered towards Jin and the Duke, leaving Emma with her thoughts. 

Damn Nokto’s perceptiveness. He could read people as easily as she read books. Leon had always been cheerful with everyone, friendly, charming. He was the smiling stranger with a ready laugh, the charismatic but distant hero, the man surrounded by others but somehow just out of reach. It was a kindness removed from emotional intensity; to be future king, it had to be so. Leon’s love for Emma had changed that perspective; he had become more approachable, more honest with his feelings, his heart lighter. But it left him vulnerable—to love was to risk suffering, and he loved Emma, Rhodolite, and its citizens more than anything. When they suffered, Leon suffered. And now, he did not have the emotional distance to preserve himself.    

Emma sprinted out of the Duke’s villa. She found Charles and Leon on the side of a road, Charles staring at the prince in disbelief. Emma hid behind the villa’s gate, watching the scene before her. Charles lifted his hands towards the sky, gesturing at the fourth prince. It was as if the boy was pleading to Leon, daring to ask more of him. “You’re so big.” 

Oh no. 

For an instant, Leon’s eyes widened and trembled. Dark memories of him reaching out towards the sky as a slave boy, bleakness and resignation his only companions, enveloped him. Leon blinked a few times, willing himself back to the present. “You’ll be big like me one day.” Leon ruffled Charles’ hair. “And you’re not alone. Not anymore.” The prince picked the boy up and perched him on his shoulders. “Race you to the Castle Charles!” Leon ran at breakneck speed, a determined smile on his face. Normally, Leon’s smile shown brighter than the sun, providing warmth and strength on even the chillest of days. But now, Emma saw this smile for what it was—a shield protecting fragile feelings.  

Emma walked as quickly as the cobblestone road would allow—she wondered if the heroines in her stories were capable of sprinting in heels. Thankfully, the Duke’s residence was a manageable distance to the Castle by foot—the carriage that brought Emma to the gala would not be back for several hours. After nearly getting lost, she arrived at the Castle, Sariel greeting her inside. 

“Prince Leon and the boy are with the palace mutt in the kitchen.” Sariel looked unsurprised to see Emma back so early. He peered at Emma’s feet—she had unceremoniously kicked her heels off, rubbing blistered toes. Sariel lifted the corner of his lips in amusement. “Given your and Prince Leon’s escapades in town, I would have thought you’d wear more practical shoes.” His eyes shown wickedly. “Perhaps there is a sadistic side to you after all, Emma.”    

Emma inclined her head and left, not wanting to acknowledge Sariel’s comment. As she approached the kitchen, Emma popped her head through a crack in the door. Emma was startled to see only Yves, slicing apples to place in a nearby pie-tin.

“Yves?”

Yves howled in surprise, nicking himself with the knife. He jumped back so quickly he nearly hit his head on a series of pots and pans hanging nearby. 

“GAH! WHAT THE—!” 

“Yves! I didn’t mean to startle you!” 

“I wasn’t startled!” Emma and Yves barreled over one another with repeated apologies and Yves’ insistence on not being agitated. Yves calmed down enough to allow Emma to wrap a strip of cloth on his bleeding finger. Emma took a peek at the pie-tin. Next to it was a picture of several stick figures gathered around a pie.

“Charles likes apple pies. His mother used to make them.” Yves looked sadly at the photo. The black marks on top of two of the stick figures identified them as Leon and Charles—the figures held hands and were smiling. The other two figures—Yves and Rio—had yellow marks on their heads and held apples. Yves’ eyes flickered back to Emma’s, his haughty glare returning. “I’m sure his mother was a good baker—but my pie will surely be better.”

“Where’s—“

“Charles is with Rio. Rio is setting up an extra bed in his room so Charles doesn’t sleep alone. Leon said he had something he needed to take care of.” Yves’ voice trailed at the mention of Leon. “Leon was smiling but…he wasn’t here with us somehow. It was like he was away, deep in his own loneliness.” 

Yves and many others had worked together seamlessly to save a little boy tonight—and watch over Leon. It was the nobler side to the princes’ beastly natures. Emma placed a hand on top of Yves’ shoulder. “Yves, don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s OK.” As Emma walked away she heard Yves call back. “Emma?”

“Yes?”

“I…I have a soldier in my ranks with a brother who has been wanting to adopt. Charles would be very happy with him and his wife. N-not that I care, of course!”

“Of course not, Yves.” Emma shook her head and closed the door.           

Leon was not in any of his usual haunts within the Castle—the rose garden, training grounds, the Domestic faction’s room. Now more worried, she ran to his room and jiggled the door knob. Locked. A clear signal he wanted to be alone. No. He’s so used to helping others he doesn’t know how to ask for help. Emma reached inside her dress pocket for a bobby-pin to pick the lock. She knew Clavis’ breakfast parties would pay off. After a few moments, Emma heard a click and opened the door. 

The windows to Leon’s room were cracked open, gossamer curtains fluttering in the breeze. Leon was laying in bed, on top of the covers, his back facing Emma. His body was curled inward, one hand clinched to his chest, the other reaching out towards the window. His breath was loud and ragged, his shoulders shaking. 

My God, thought Emma. He’s crying.   

Her eyes shimmered with tears—he looked more alone in this moment than any other she could recall. He was not standing regally, staring at the sky, like she had found him numerous times before, lost in thought. These thoughts devoured him, debilitated him, the enormity of them so strong he could not stand, or even sit. He was broken and had locked himself in his room until he could fix himself again. 

Emma closed the door quietly. She glided to the bed, laying behind him. Emma nuzzled her head against the back of Leon’s shoulders, hiding the wave of emotions hitting her at once. Leon gasped, tensing. 

“Don’t be alone like this. Please…let me stay with you.” Emma hoped she wasn’t pushing him too hard. After a moment, she heard a reply. 

“You’ll stay with me…like this?”

With one hand, Emma grazed the back of Leon’s head, scratching lightly. She draped an arm around Leon’s torso, finding his clinched hand, laying her fingers on top of his. Slowly, Leon’s body unfurled at Emma’s touch. His sighs became a series of baritone purrs, a rhythmic buzz releasing stress and nerves. 

Emma sensed a need for Leon to collect himself. She pressed her forehead against the back of his neck and hugged him from behind. The duo breathed in sync with one another, finding mutual peace in the stillness of the room. Eventually, Leon turned to face Emma, burying his head in the crook of her neck. 

“You always find me. The real me.” 

Emma sighed, threading her fingers in Leon’s hair. “Seeing Charles like that must have triggered memories for you.” A silence hung in the room as Emma continued to stroke the back of Leon’s head. Finally, Leon murmured, “Yeah, it did. But…I’m fine now. How was the rest of the gala?”

It was a classic Leon move—pivoting the conversation from himself. Emma moved slightly away; Leon leaned towards Emma, missing her warmth. Emma put a hand up between them. 

“Don’t try to distract me, love.” Emma stared intently at Leon, taking his wandering hand away from her waist. “You’re not fine. You pretend you are, but those days still affect you. How could they not?” Emma brushed away locks of unruly hair covering Leon’s eyes. “You always wake up before dawn. An instinct learned through hard labor I suppose.” Emma stopped briefly as Leon’s eyes widened. “Every time Silvo comes to the palace, you flinch at the sound of his jangling jewelry. Does the sound remind you of the chains you wore?” She heard Leon catch his breath, his body still with shock. “Whenever Sariel talks with a group of children, you always stand in front of him. Is it so they won’t be scared by seeing the whip he carries?” 

“I...I do that?” Leon’s voice shook slightly. Emma closed the distance between them, caressing a cheek with the pad of her thumb. “You do. You’re also the only prince that rides a horse without a riding crop.” 

“Physical pain doesn’t motivate. It teaches fear, nothing more.” Leon’s voice was harsh. Emma unconsciously rubbed Leon’s ribs, which bore subtle signs of unhealed whip marks. “Charles knows that truth.” 

“And now Charles is away from that fear.” Emma pulled Leon close, arms encircling him.   

“Charles was all but a slave. Here, in Rhodolite.” Leon’s voice shook with frustration. “For every boy like Charles, there are countless others. I can’t…I can’t protect them all.”

“It’s not just you protecting people. You have a pack of brothers and friends wanting to help. Men who did help tonight—Charles was saved by you, but he has a warm bed tonight thanks to Rio, a full belly and a potential family thanks to Yves, and he is no longer under the thumb of that Duke thanks to Jin and Nokto.” Emma cradled Leon’s face between her hands. “And you may not want to hear this, but I bet Chevalier has a plan for stopping elites like the Duke from taking advantage of people like Charles.” Wanting to lighten the mood, Emma added. “If not, Clavis’ traps will finally be put to good use for those elites.”

Leon’s booming laugh echoed in Emma’s ears. “Yves will appreciate that.” 

How Emma missed Leon’s laughter. But, Emma felt the need to press her point. “Yves would also appreciate you talking to him more. Jin too. It’s not good to keep things bottled up inside.” Emma’s voice was gentle. “And I’ll always be here if you want to talk.”

Leon absently rubbed Emma’s lower arm. After a while, he quietly uttered. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry—“

“I should have gotten you that bracelet.” Leon’s fingers caressed the inside of Emma’s wrist.

“What are you talking about?” 

“The merchant had a matching bracelet for your ring.” Leon gestured to the silver ring on Emma’s hand. “It had a silver plate you could engrave an inscription onto. The plate was held by a chain. I…couldn’t bear the look of it.” Leon held Emma’s hand tightly. “It reminded me of the insignia bands slaves wore on their wrists.”

Emma gasped. This was the first time since her time as Belle Leon volunteered information about his childhood. “I told you I never knew my actual name before assuming Prince Leon’s identity. I had a number though. Fourteen. Marked on that insignia on my wrist.” 

“Leon…” Emma held Leon tightly, the warmth of her touch telling him she was there for him. And with that, Leon found himself speaking. A trickle of words at first, then a flood. Memory after memory of his early childhood tumbled out, like the rocks he rolled out of the quarries. Leon spoke until exhaustion overtook him and Emma both. 

…

Emma woke the next day to the sounds of birds chirping. Light poured through the windows, the sun well above the horizon. Emma turned to see Leon asleep, an arm wrapped tightly around her. 

Emma smiled. For the first time, Leon slept past dawn. The healing had begun.  

[courtneygacha]

Reflections

Part 2

Tw: flashbacks, trauma, Eisoptrophobia, panic attack, past Pet Whumpee

Whumpee couldn’t look at themselves anymore. They couldn’t look at themselves without Whumper’s voice popping into their mind and calling them names… those horrible pet names that they knew Whumpee hated. But they called them it anyways, all to make Whumpee suffer.

It had been a long time since they had been saved, and a long time that Whumper had been locked up. But they reacted the same way every time they looked at their reflection now as they did when seeing themselves for the first time after their rescue. Long, thin cuts and scars were seen across their cheeks, there was bruises on their chin from where Whumper grabbed them whilst calling them names, the indent of the collar Whumpee forced them to wear that Whumpee thought would be there forever, and the bags under their eyes that reminded Whumpee of the nights they were fearful to fall asleep, afraid Whumper would do something to them.

All of those things were gone now, thanks to the love and nurturing of their rescuer, Caretaker. But while their physical appearance was passable, their mental state was nowhere near.

The mirrors, the reflections in every glass, metal, and porcelain object threatened to throw Whumpee back into the dark pits of their mind where it made them think they were back with Whumper. Because every time they looked at themselves, they would see Whumper’s “pet” staring back.

Thus, Caretaker had every mirror removed from their home, and covered everything with a matte finish so there was no shine. And it worked, Whumpee couldn’t see themselves in anything. And it was blissful not having to worry about staring into the sink for too long, because by then they would have recognized their figure among the glass.

Caretaker took Whumpee out for the weekend once. They rented a little beachside cabin where they could watch the sunrise together in the morning. Whumpee was excited, for they hadn’t seen the beach in forever.

That excitement faded quickly when the two walked into the kitchen of their cabin and discovered the countertops gleamed a shiny marble. Caretaker went immediately to place all their stuff on the counters, trying to cover up as much space as possible. They succeeded slightly, though some spaces remained bare.

“We’ll just be careful, it’s gonna be fine.” Caretaker told them, and Whumpee trusted.

Caretaker left Whumpee in the kitchen to go check the rest of the house. When Whumpee got the chance to look around, every shiny item in the house was covered. The bathroom mirror had a jacket covering it, the dresser in the bedroom had a purple blanket laid across it, and Caretaker made makeshift rugs out of towels across the floor. And it worked, making Whumpee feel safe and like they were home.

Whumpee began removing things off the counter so Caretaker could cover them too. As they were doing that, Whumpee brought their luggage to the room.

“You can start unpacking if you want!” They said as Whumpee left the kitchen.

“Okay!” Whumpee replied, unzipping the suitcase to reveal all their clothes.

“We didn’t bring hangers…” Whumpee talked to themself. “Maybe they’ll be some in the closet.”

Whumpee swung open the closet doors and froze. Bile crept up the back of their throat and their hands began to shake uncontrollably as they stared at their reflection in the mirror that suddenly appeared.

My beautiful pet… My precious… My favorite thing… Mine…Mine…

Whumper’s voice emerged once again from the dark corners of their mind, their voice filling Whumpee’s ears and making them unable to ear anything else. Their hands clasped over their ears, trying to shut the noise out, but it was inside their head, so it failed.

The voice went away, and left a horrible ear ringing, giving Whumpee an awful headache instantly. They squeezed their eyes shut so tight their vision was fuzzy when they re-opened their eyes. Whumpee backed up, away from the mirror and into the wall. Their back hit it hard and they slid down onto the floor, still covering their ears.

But then it stopped. All the noises. All the voices. All the thoughts, leaving a dullness in their mind. Whumpee sat on the floor, holding their legs, still able to see themselves in the mirror. Every part of their body shook with fear as they fell down the dark holes in their head, tears rolled down their cheeks and chin wishing for it all to stop.

Whumpee was gone, leaving a traumatized shell of themselves behind.

Taglist: @whumpy-whump-fanfics @bookbutterfly9 @whatwhumpcomments @whumpdreamz @diamond-flavored-whump @zoethehead @annoyinghairdoranchhumanoid-blog @astr0-mj

[ughtoomanyfandoms]

Preacher's Daughter (The Last of Us - Joel Miller): Hard Times

PREACHER’S DAUGHTER Hard Times

series masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x OC

CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI, DEAD PIGEON unprotected sex, religious trauma, gore, violence, swearing, explicit content, sexual violence.

Word Count: 7.3k

Read on AO3 and Wattpad

SPRING 2008

The warm air of the changing season was thick against their skin. The trees had budded their green leaves, rebirthing themselves after a tiring winter. 

Joel had taken Lianne to a nearby river away from the rest of the group to clean up after their day's journey. The others stayed back to start a fire and set up a camp area, the spot they found surrounded by brush and out of sight. He had perched himself on the bank of the river, keeping his focus on her as she waded in the water, the pile of her clothes next to him on the bank. 

The sun shone through patches of the trees, lighting a golden cast on her skin. Joel watches the muscles of her back ripple under her skin, just as the water ripples around her waist. The scars had faded from her back, only the slightest tint of pink remained. But her long hair covered the brand between her shoulder blades that still remained a blistering red. She still kept Joel in the darkness of what happened, and he never pushed her to talk. It filled Joel with a chest full of dread, a dread he wasn’t sure would ever dissipate. 

Lianne cupped her hands in the water and brought it up to spill down her face, the coolness of the water quenching the oiliness of her skin. She let out a sigh, the water refreshing her senses. She goes again to bring more water to her face, but when she opens her eyes to look at the water in her hands, her gut coils and her heart stops. The water has turned into a thick red liquid that trickles from her fingers, spilling down into the river and staining the river red. 

It starts as a bubble in her chest, boiling through her veins as it grows and trembles through her limbs. It pushes through her teeth, a wretched, broken scream bursting from her as she vigorously wipes at her hands. It only spreads the liquid, causing a greater panic to raise in her voice. She’s unaware of the splashes behind her, and doesn’t see Joel immediately appear at his side with a scowl of panic. 

Her fathers face appears in the water below her, distorted and broken and leaking. It pulls another scream from her chest, and it cracks in her throat. Her legs push to send her away from the water, but Joel catches her in his grasp. 

She’s inconsolable, gasping for air and mumbling words of nonsense as she screams. Joel sees her wiping herself down, and his eyes begin scouring her skin for any sign of injury, or perhaps she’s been bitten by something in the water. But there’s nothing, save for the various scratches and bruises that have become memorized by him. 

He cups her face, trying to get her eyes on him, but it was as if she was slipping through his hands, becoming part of the water that surrounded them. He pulled her to him, out of instinct, and her screams muffled against his flannel as her body shook with sobs. He begins leading her out of the water, away from the space that had filled with her screams, and the ground at the bank of the river crunches under footsteps. 

His gaze snaps towards the noise, his face hardened as he holds her impossibly closer to keep her safe. He turns near her, shielding her body with his own. Tess and Tommy appear at the river’s edge, faces pale with worry. Their guns are ready, just as they are to fight off anything that causes harm.

“What’s goin’ on? What’s wrong?” Tommy calls to them quickly. 

Lianne grips at Joel’s flannel, her screaming now quiet as she continues to breathe in heavy gasps. Joel immediately goes to remove his flannel, still keeping her close to him, and he drapes it over her shoulders. He grabs at the front of the flannel, pulling it tight around her before bringing her back into his embrace. 

“Joel,” Tess calls to him now. Tommy’s eyes scan the area, eyes alert but still full of alarm. “What’s going-”

“It’s fine!” Joel barks at them, his grip tightening on Lianne. “She’s fine, we’re fine. Just - turn around, go back to camp.”

Tommy and Tess exchange a glance, hesitant to leave the river bank. Joel gives them a menacing glare, his eyes glazed with a harsh glow of protection.

“Go,” Joel says again, his voice having less bark to it now. “I got her.”

Tess glances in Tommy’s direction, her eyes shining with a fierce hesitancy as she waits for Tommy’s movements. He only stands there for a moment, still as he becomes frustrated with guilt and worry. Finally, he pulls himself away from the sight of the pair in the water, trudging through the grass as he leads Tess back to camp. 

“Right, angel?” Joel says softly into her hair, the water now slowing to stand still around them. “I gotcha. I always got you.”

His hands run up and down her body, swallowed by his flannel, to mend her shivering. 

“Come on, baby,” he says, voice heavy and low. “Gotta get you cleaned up.”

He leads them out of the water, slowly and carefully to not trip on the rocks beneath them. Once reaching the bank, he sits her down on a nearby boulder and leaves her briefly to return with her clothes that rested on the bank. He starts with her legs, carefully taking them one at a time to slip her underwear back up her legs.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly, voice soft. Joel stills, gazing upon her with soft eyes as his fingers become still and lingering against her skin.

“Hmm?” He hums, and he almost thinks he made her voice up in his head.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, voice stronger now as she shakes her head. She straightens, eyes clearer now, but still adverts Joel’s gaze. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what that was.” 

Joel remains silent, eyes locked onto her in fear that she’ll disappear in front of him. He uncontrollably reaches a hand out to run down her hair, resting against her neck as he moves forward to learn his forehead against hers.

“You’re alright,” he whispers. He only leads the two of them back to their group when the color begins to return to her cheeks. 

When they get back to where their group made camp, everyone’s voices are buzzing frantically. 

“What’s going on?” Lianne asks, and Tess is the only one to turn to her. Tommy continues instructing the others, passing out guns and telling them where to go. 

“Signs of raiders about two miles out,” Tess starts to explain. “We’re going out there to see what’s up.” 

“Alright,” Lianne states. “Let us get ready and tell us where you want us.” She turns quickly, but Joel catches her arm. 

“You’re not going out there in your condition,” Joel says flatly, holding her by the elbow.

“My condition?” Lianne retorts. “You say that like I’ve got a disease or something.” 

“You’re still healing from…” Joel sighs, at a loss for words, as he stares into her piercing gaze. “And what just happened in the river, it’s too much for you goin’ out there.”

She sighs in a frustrated disbelief, giving a look to Tess and Tommy that pleads for some backup. 

Joel moves away to gather his things, readying himself to journey out with the group. Lianne hasn’t appeared by his side, instead lingering in the corner of his vision. When he turns to look at her, her stare is vacant and weighs heavily on a large boulder in front of her. 

“Whatcha thinkin’?” Joel asks as he makes his way to approach her.

“I-” Lianne starts, not wanting to meet his gaze at first, but forces herself to look up at him. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Then I’ll stay with you,” he replies immediately, eyes melting softly as he looks at her. He feels guilty that he had even thought about leaving her here by herself. 

“No, they’ll need you out there.”

“I’ll ask Tess to stay with you,” he responds quickly, his voice almost desperate.

Tess’s ears perk up at the sound of her name coming from Joel’s lips, the tips of them burning red as she drags her attention to where he stands with Lianne. His broad shoulders stand wide and confident, almost blocking Lianne from her view. His shirt pulls at the muscles of his arms and back, and she yearns to reach out and drag her hand down his spine. 

Joel and Lianne’s hushed voices snap her out of her miniscule daze, and she finds herself unknowingly moving towards them. When she appears from behind Joel, Lianne’s eyes catch her and her voice falls silent. 

“Heard my name,” Tess says, her voice strong as she makes her presence behind Joel known. 

“Just decidin’ that I’m gonna stay here with Lianne,” Joel states as he shifts the weight of himself on his feet. “Keep watch over the camp.”

“Joel-” Lianne argues, face red with guilt.

“Sounds like a good plan,” Tess nods. Her gaze lingers warily on Lianne’s tight expression. “You good?” She finally asks.

“I’m good,” Lianne assures with a nod. Her eyes are washed with guilt and disappointment, but Tess knows if she presses any further it won’t get her anywhere. So she nods again, turns on her heels, and joins Tommy and the others to update them and make their way away from camp.

When Joel turns to face Lianne again, her back is to him, stiff shoulders blocking the sight of her from him. It chips at his heart again, that tightness returning to his chest, but his feet are moving forward to follow after her. 

He had laid her down under grass and the dipping sunlight, and touched her forehead with fragile fingertips, knowing by the knot in her brow that the ache and the hurt have gone to rest there. He laces his fingers with hers, for just a moment, to tangle and sweeten the air around them. The birds cry nearby, finding their roosts for the night.

The sound of nearby grasshoppers almost drowned out the distant gunfire, the sounds of the bugs and the weight of the thick air making her eyelids heavy. 

It was her birthday, suddenly. 

Sounds of singing voices fluttered through the air, the strongest coming from Joel. He stood at the head of the table, cheeks red and pulled back in a bright smile. His eyes crinkled at their corners, no longer from worry and anger, but from endless moments of a lifetime of laughter. 

Sarah stood next to him, her strong curls bouncing as she clapped her hands together. But her face was featureless, only the memory of her joy and naivete radiating around her. 

And Lianne felt at home. 

Lianne had opened her mouth but her words fell silent. The singing continued, and she had forgotten what it was she meant to say.

In the corner, Isaiah sits in a rocking chair. His gaze is empty and his eyes are hollow as he sits still in the dim corner. A cool sickness grows in her stomach, crawling its way up her throat and raises in goosebumps along her arms.

She spins herself away, turning into a new room that had almost been unfamiliar to her. The small bed and creaky floor are reminiscent of her apartment in New York. She lays on the bed, Joel appearing at her feet to kiss up her legs. She tangles her hands in his hair as he crawls his way up the bed towards her, his hot mouth leaving marks along her skin.

His eyes are warm and dark as he pears up at her, her breaths falling in need from her mouth.

She sat up suddenly, perching on her elbows against her sleeping bag under a starry sky. Exhaustion still stuck to her, a heavy weight dragging her to turn her gaze. She could still feel him tied to her, and it weighed her eyelids down.

Her father was still there, sitting on a boulder that protruded from the earth. They studied each other for a moment as she lay there. He turned slightly from her, the side of his profile barely appearing over his shoulder. 

“You were looking for me,” he said. He hadn’t sounded like himself, his voice gentle and no sign of calculation.

Lianne only looked at him.

“In your dream,” he continued. “You were looking for me.”

“I’m always looking for you,” Lianne whispered.

2010

Boston QZ

The four of them had been at the Boston QZ for about a year and a half. A year and a half of rationed meals, a year and a half sneaking out of the walls, a year and a half of being constantly watched and having skin that crawled. She was exhausted, but Joel said that it would be better there for them, the promise of keeping her safe and taken care of. 

She hated it. 

It was her that started smuggling, a way to escape out of the walls and away from the watchful eye of the guards. It was a way for her to get away from the strict rules and work for rationed meals. She’d been able to smuggle goods in and out of the QZ to people in the area, similar to their time in Chicago. It was Joel and Tommy that still stayed in the QZ to trade with the guards and other smugglers for ration cards and equipment. 

Joel hadn’t caught on to her smuggling business until Tommy let slip his suspicions, and Tess had confirmed that she’d joined Lianne on a couple of trips. It had made his blood boil, but only at first. He thought she’d been working shit welding and construction jobs, which kept him at ease knowing that she was safe within the walls of the QZ. Once knowing what she was truly doing, he immediately made the decision that he would join her. She hadn’t refused, only appreciative of the extra muscle that would come in handy. A new constitution of trust had been built between the two of them, and only grew with each day.

As much as she hated the QZ, Lianne only kept the smuggling jobs within a few mile radius, never wanting to stray too far from the homebase the four of them had created. Any further, her chest would tighten and she would long to be hidden in the dreary apartment her and Joel resided in. The walls had remained empty during their time there, the wallpaper slightly peeling at the corners. But Joel had tried his best to make it a home for her, wanting her to want to stay put, even if just for a little while. 

She had awoken early one morning before Joel, who had reached out across the bed to find her spot cold and empty. He found her aimlessly staring out their side kitchen window, leaning on crossed arms in the open window frame, the morning sunlight casting a warm glow around her. A purple hue shimmered its way onto the floor of the kitchen from the butterfly suncatcher that hung in the window, a piece of home that Joel had brought with him from Austin. It never left his backpack until they settled down.  

He appears close to her side, and she naturally slides over to allow room for him in the window sill. He mirrors her, leaning against his folded arms on the window sill. When he turns to face her, her eyes are closed in the morning sun, soft skin warm in the glow of it. He drinks her in, the dark tank top she’s in tight against the built frame of her body, and he can’t stop the hand that reaches out to brush soft fingers against the strong muscles of her arm. 

Slowly, she turns to look at him, eyes finally opening to allow the sun to bounce off of them, the smallest upturn of her lips catching his eyes. He reaches forward to ghost a kiss on the skin of her shoulder, his hand wandering up to the back of her neck to rest its weight there.

“Hi,” she whispers softly, the softness of her voice soaking into him like a long forgotten melody to raise goosebumps on his skin.

“Hi,” he responds just as softly, the simplicity of the moment in the morning haze seeping deep into the depths of him.

“I got you something,” she says, voice still as soft as the morning sun. Joel gives her a quizzical look, and she nods towards their kitchen. “Top shelf, above the fridge.”

He pulls himself away from her, but now before he presses a kiss to her temple and runs his hands down her hair. Opening the top shelf, he’s met with a singular tin can that he pulls down. Opening it, the smell hits him instantly and his legs go weak as his mouth waters. The aroma of the ground coffee in the can fills the air, and he closes his eyes at the scent.

“Where’d you get this?” He asks, eyes soft as he looks back to her, the sun silhouetting her and bouncing through her hair. An angel of the morning, present in front of him in the flesh.

She shrugs, a small smile on her lips. 

“Traded for it,” she responds. “Didn’t wanna make any for you yet, wanted to show you first.” 

He can only rest his eyes on her, mouth hung open slightly before he sets the can of coffee on the counter. He takes a step towards her, but stops when a rhythmic knock against the door breaks the air.

“A bit early for her to be comin’ ‘round, ain’t it?” Lianne asks, pushing herself away from the sunlit spot of the window. Outside noises of the surrounding areas of the QZ finally break into their sunlit bubble, and Lianne’s shoulders deflate as she sighs.

Joel removes the chain lock on the door, turns the deadbolt, and unlocks the door handle before opening it, Tess leaning in the doorframe awaiting a welcome.

“Morning, sunshines. Surprised you two are up,” Tess says as she greets them.

“Surprised you’re here so early,” Lianne responds. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been talking to a guy about twenty miles west of here,” Tess starts, fully entering the kitchen to lean herself against the counter, folding her arms over her chest. “Says it’s just him and another guy looking to trade. I’ve been telling him about the QZ and the supplies we have here for a few weeks now, and he’s invited us to dinner.”

“To dinner?” Joel asks, brows scrunching in surprised confusion.

“That’s what he said,” Tess confirms, an amused light in her eye. “Says they’ve got a nice place set up out there, good walls to keep out the bad. And apparently has the means to cook a hell of a meal.”

Lianne and Joel stay quiet, looking at their friend expectantly.

“I told him we’d meet them the day after tomorrow,” Tess finally says.

“That doesn’t give us a lot of time,” Lianne says flatly. “What all do they need from here?” 

“Not much right now,” Tess says. “Figured this would just be us testing the waters with them, see what they need and what they have to offer. If it works out, gives us a connection out of the walls and a safe house.”

Lianne only nods, agreeing silently.

“There’s only one condition for this first time around,” Tess says. “They just want two of us going. Says that’s all they can handle for now before they trust us.”

“Joel’ll go with you,” Lianne states. Joel casts her a glance, but she only nods to him. “If it’s two men out there, better to even the playing field. If one of them already knows Tess, it’s best if Joel goes this time.” 

Her tone is flat, no cadence to its normal rhythm. Joel’s hard stare remains on her, a tension building in his chest that he holds in with baited breath. 

“Works for me, boss,” Tess says as she pushes up and off of the counter. “Tommy and I are meeting some guy later to work a deal, told him I’d meet up with him soon. I’ll see you guys later.” 

Lianne nods a goodbye, and Joel follows Tess to the door to bolt and lock it once again. He makes his way back to his spot at the kitchen table, Lianne working at the counter with her back already to him.

“Why ain’t you goin’?” He asks as he takes his seat.

“Already told you,” she responds, voice lacking in life. “You’ll go.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Joel suggests. 

“I picked up some extra shifts at the metalsmiths,” she responds again, back still facing him as she prepares his coffee. 

She felt herself becoming more like her father, losing herself in work and leaving a taste of bitterness in her wake. Her father’s blood had become her blood, and will be her blood until they’re both rotting in the ground. When she finds herself staring lifelessly in a mirror, his face will be the one glaring back at her with the utter disdain and disappointment only a father can truly have. It would fill her with rage.

She could see the similarities of her father in her reflection, the new and scarce lines of age and survival fading onto her skin in the same pattern as her father’s. She felt more alike to him now than she would ever care to admit, and it would fill her with rage. A rage so pure that she became certain she knew she was her father’s daughter.

She’d been working a lot. Joel barely had the time to see her these past few weeks it seemed. She’d drawn into herself since the group of them arrived at the QZ, but recently Joel had noticed she’d become more distant. She’d begun excluding herself from the smuggling trips that she planned, only sending the three of them without her instead. She would seclude herself in the apartment, and the lights were always off when Joel got back. Or, she’d lose herself in various shifts of work, whatever it was, always the excuse for more pay and more ration cards. 

When she turns to face him, two cups of coffee in hand, his thoughts of worry increase slightly at the tight draw of her lips in a forced, small smile. 

“You’re alright with just me and Tess going?” Joel asks as he takes his first sip of coffee, forcing a humto stay buried in his chest. “I don’t wanna leave you here alone.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says in partly fake assurance. “I got Tommy to keep me company. And I got work.”

—--

Bill, the older of the two men, had prepared nothing light of a feast for when Joel and Tess arrived. He was reserved and grouchy, hand on his gun as his silent gaze tracked the two visitors like a predator to its prey. Frank, the one that Tess had been in contact with over the radio, was a stark contrast and a breath of fresh air. Joel doesn’t remember meeting someone this chipper and optimistic. Frank had immediately greeted Joel with the name of Texas, having only heard him referred to that from Tess.

The older couple is a mirror to Joel and Tess, Tess thinks. Brooding and stoic, friendly and inviting, no matter how fake the “friendly” might be. Tess and Frank tried their best to ease the tension between Joel and Bill, attempting to make the introductory process as smooth as possible. 

The four of them had settled around a patio table on the couple’s front lawn, a delicious meal of rabbit and greens paired with a delicate red wine served under the clear sky. Frank had invited Tess into the house to show her something, despite Bill’s persistent pleas that they don’t go in, leaving Joel and Bill to their disgruntled selves. 

“I understand,” Joel says, voice strong in the tense silence. “If my, uh… If mine … brought strangers into our situation, I wouldn’t be happy either. But of all the people you could’ve found on the radio, we’re actually decent people just trying to get by.”

“Oh,” Bill snorts. “Well, aren't I the lucky one.”

A moment passes, and Joel debates continuing the conversation.

“You sayin’ you two ain’t together ?” Bill asks, eyes squinting in the sun. 

“Me and Tess?” Joel asks, a small laugh of surprise slipping from him. “No, no. I, uh, I got a wife back in the QZ.” 

“Oh, shit?” Bill says in a sudden burst of surprise. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Joel bristles at that, not liking the implications of the older man. His brows furrow, shoulders stiffening in defense, when Frank and Tess return from the house, their drunken laughter filling the air. Joel’s leg began to bounce under the table, his fingers flexing in and out of a fist as he became anxious to leave. The sun began to dip in the sky, and he longed for the warmth of Lianne pressed to his back. 

“It’ll be dark soon,” Frank beams as he approaches the table. “We have a guest room all set up downstairs, you two are more than welcome to stay the night.”

“That would be great,” Tess says with a cheery smile, her cheeks blushed with slight intoxication. The same time that Joel declines the offer and states they should be on their way. 

“He’ll probably wanna get back home to his wife ,” Bill says, urging the pair to get off their property. 

“Your wife?” Frank asks excitedly, surprise written in the arches of his brows. “Why didn’t you bring her with? I’d love to meet her next time.” 

“I'll be sure to mention that to her,” Joel responds, lips tight in a flat smile. “But I think we’ve overstayed our welcome for today. We’d better head out.”

Joel didn’t trust the couple, not yet. Frank was more than welcoming, and his warm gestures put Joel at ease. But he didn’t want to overstep the boundaries that Bill had placed. Which meant they would be leaving that night.

It wouldn’t be until late in the next afternoon that he would unlock the door to the apartment in the QZ, chest lightening with easier breaths as soon as his foot stepped over the threshold. It was dark, the buzzing of the refrigerator the only sound in the entire apartment. A note laid on the kitchen table, scribbled in her handwriting. 

If you’re back, I’ll be out til the evening. X

He folded it neatly and slipped it into his pocket after trailing his fingers over her penmanship.

He’d only been unpacking for a few minutes before the door rattled open, and he finally was in her presence again, gaze softening in comfort as his eyes fell on her. He stayed silent as he watched her kick off her boots with a long sigh, splashing her face with water from the sink, and grabbing a drink of water.

“You do that a lot,” she says quietly, the slightest hint of a tease in her voice.

“What?” Joel asks quietly.

“Just watchin’ me,” she says as she finally turns to face him. 

“Always,” he responds instantly, the simple word slipping heavily from his lips like honey. She chuckles softly at him as she finally makes her way over to him.

“How’d it go with the guys?” She asks, the tips of her toes touching his, and he finds it equally as hard to pull his eyes from her as it is to reach out and touch her. 

“Was fine,” Joel says, the soft of his breath brushing against her face as he gazed down at her. 

“And Tess?” She asked, the smallest smile still on her lips. He was silent for a moment before letting out a short sigh. “What?” Lianne asked again.

“She was kinda drunk on the way home,” Joel finally starts. “She was sayin’ some stuff.”

Lianne’s eyes pierced into him, pressing for more as her head tilted softly to the side. 

“Sayin’ that-” he stops as soon as he starts, and pulls away from Lianne, walking to his side of the bed to create a distance between them. His feet ached with the distance he’d traveled as he sunk into his spot on the mattress, resting the back of his hand over his eyes. “I don’t know. She got real brave and started sayin’ all kinds of stuff. She’s got feelings for me, but more than that. Things were kinda weird between us once she sobered up.” 

Lianne chuckles again at the blush that rises in his cheeks as she begins pulling her jeans down her legs, finally causing Joel to peek out at her from under his hand. 

“Well, I mean,” Lianne starts. “Are you surprised? I see the way she is around you, how she looks at you.” 

Joel is propped up on his arms now, looking at her as she continues to undress herself, sliding herself over him to straddle his lap.

“Even though you’re an old man,” Lianne begins to tease. “You’ve still got it.” 

He doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes at her comment, his hands reaching out to rest softly on her hips, squeezing the flesh there to hold her in place. 

“It doesn’t bother you?” He asks, forcing his eyes to connect with hers. Lianne shakes her head.

“Tess is as close a friend any of us have,” she says gently. “I trust you, and I trust Tess. With my life.” 

—-- 

2023

The room is dark and silent, as expected, when she slinks into its darkness. She’s careful not to let the floorboards creak under her boots as she locks the door behind her, knowing full well that any sound she makes won’t awaken the passed out Joel that lays on the bed. The half empty bottle of pills and whiskey glass were proof enough of another restless day for him. 

The bruising around her eye had grown swollen, the split in her lip pulsing with pain, but she didn’t care. Joel was completely slumped, unaware of her approaching footsteps. He was asleep on his side, his now graying hair reflecting in the moonlight that seeped in through the window. His good ear was exposed to listen for her entering their apartment, but he only woke when her knee first hit the mattress. His eyes barely opened, relief settling in his chest when he saw her darkened silhouette. She pushed at his shoulder, rolling him to his other side so she could nestle up against his back and into the crook of his knees. Her hand sneaked its way over him, settling on his chest to rest over his steady heartbeat. He falls back asleep before he can even think about pulling her hands to his mouth to kiss her knuckles.

She had woken before him, the clinking of her spatula on the pan finally pulling Joel awake. The scream of a baby was muffled through the walls of the apartment complex and the buzzing of a siren at the edge of the QZ had Joel’s head pounding. It was the smell of the sizzling eggs on the stove that finally had Joel on his feet and out of bed. 

He was at Lianne’s side in a few small strides, walking the length of their small apartment in just a few seconds. He rested his hand on the back of her neck, the warmth of it spreading through her. He pressed a soft kiss above her temple, lingering there as he closed his eyes. She only leaned her head into him as she continued scrambling the eggs, not turning to meet his gaze.

It wasn’t until Joel sat at his spot at their table, ran a hand over his tired face, and let his gaze follow up Lianne’s arm as she placed a plate of eggs in front of him that he saw the red and purple bruises that painted her skin. His face immediately hardened into a scowl as he reached up to cup her jaw, inspecting the swelling of her eye and the split in her lip. Lianne takes him by his wrists with a gentle grip, the pads of her fingers rough and grimey. 

“Tess and I got jumped by a couple of guys,” Lianne begins, a gentle voice leaving on a heavy sigh. 

“What guys?” Joel asks, his voice surprisingly gentle with concern. He’s only met with a long sigh from Lianne as she removes his hands from her face, taking them to lay gently in her lap as she traces the lines of his palms.

“I need you…” she says slowly. “To take a breath.”

Joel stiffens at that, eyes searching her face as she looks up at him. The creases of her forehead run like treads on a wire. Singular pieces of silver had twisted their way into her dark hair. He tries to read her eyes; eyes that didn’t shine as bright as they used to, eyes that used to crinkle in laughter now creased with years of frowns, eyes now crinkled in the corners with the age of survival. 

“What,” Joel grunts, not even a question, his voice barely gentler than a bark. 

“I just need you to think slowly about this, okay?” Lianne starts, and Joel doesn’t even blink at her. “The guys that jumped Tess and I were with Robert.”

“Son of a-” Joel hisses as he pulls away from her, sitting back in his chair as his hands run through his hair. 

“Joel,” Lianne says, her voice stern in warning. She explains all too quickly that Robert, a fellow smuggler, had sold the car battery that they needed in order to go out west to find Tommy to someone else. Joel began to seethe, and Lianne’s plan of him helping Tess get it back lacked in reassurance. It wasn’t until he realized that Lianne hadn’t mentioned herself in said plan that snapped his attention back to her.

“What about you?” Joel says, brows furrowed in confusion. 

Lianne takes a breath, her words hesitant as she says,  “I took a job, gonna relocate some stuff to a QZ out west.”

Joel just blinks.

“There’s a group goin’ out,” she says flatly. 

“If you say it’s the fuckin’ Fireflies-” Joel exasperates. 

“It’s not, Joel,” Lianne interrupts, voice unwavering and just as stern. 

“You ain’t goin’,” Joel says as he crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes burning into hers.

“Joel…” she sighs, and the look on her face had the wall around his heart shaking in its structure. “I don’t want to stay here anymore, I’m tired of being in these walls. Been here for damn near fourteen years. I’m tired, Joel…”

He tries to focus on her words, eyes focusing on her lips, but the buzzing in his head muffles the sound of her voice. A tight grip fisted its way around his chest, the tightness almost making him light headed as he tried to keep his breathing even. He felt like the room was spinning around him, the edges of his vision going blurry. His gaze became tunnel-visioned on her mouth, watching the silent words spill from them until her last words snapped him back.

“Tess has some shit goin’ on with Robert. You gotta stay here and help her,” her words finally melt their way into his ears.

“Are you tired of me?” Joel says suddenly, not aware of the fact that he interrupts her, not bothering to hear her fully.

She flinches slightly at his words, her gut clenching at the subtle quiver of his lips. She takes his face in her rough hands, gently brushing her thumb along the bone of his cheek.

“No,” she says quietly. “I’m tired of it here . This is just something I gotta do.”

His eyes meet hers, his heart tightening in his chest. Again, there is no light in her eyes, a void of feeling lingering in the depths of them. The years in the QZ hadn’t been kind to any of them, working shit jobs just to get by. Tommy had left a while ago, stating he’d never want to see Joel’s fucking face again. Joel, Lianne, and Tess had made a quiet name for themselves, successfully smuggling various cargo in and out of the QZ. They were a powerful trio, almost feared by others around them. The three of them together smuggled more shit in and out of the QZ than regulated imports, working with stragglers on the outskirts of the QZ to get to them what they wanted in exchange for something more. 

He wants to be selfish, to do anything in his power to keep her from going. He’d lock her in their apartment if he had to. He would go to Hell and back if it meant she’d stay there with him, to stay in his arms and be safe and warm and hidden. They had melded into one person in their time in Boston, and the thought of the two of them now being alone ripped at his skin. He wants to be selfish, but he can’t. 

“Okay,” Joel says finally, the warmth of her hands finally seeping their way in to thaw the cold grip of his chest. He could never want to control her fire, all he needed was to be near it.

“Okay,” Lianne sighs, a hint of relief lingering in her breath.

“When do you leave?” Joel asks.

“Tonight.” 

His breath hitches in his throat before it escapes him in a defeated sigh. 

“When do you come back?” He follows, trying his damn hardest to keep his voice from cracking.

Her eyes fall from his, to rest again at the sight of their hands together, and his blood stands still.

“Are you coming back?” He asks again, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course,” she says, her voice gentle as her eyes meet his once again. “Of course I’m coming back.”

The day continued as if it were any other. Almost. The two of them barely saw much of each other, or so Lianne thought. Joel had lingered around her, trailing her in the shadows of the QZ, not wanting her out of his sight. She could feel his presence in the darkness of the walls, and she let him follow her while she worked. 

She spent the day making last minute trades with other low-level smugglers, tying up a few loose ends with some traders and guards as she readied for her travels. It wasn’t until the mid afternoon when Joel made his presence known and joined her at her side, the temptation of being close to her overpowering his lurkish movements in the shadows.

The sun had set and darkness fell over their apartment, Lianne rummaging through her things and taking what she needed to be set in a small pile on their bed. Joel took from the small pile and packed her items into her backpack. He had already cleaned and readied the guns she’d be taking with her, removing them from their hiding spot in the floorboards of their room. Her movements slowly became more hesitant, her gaze avoidant of Joel’s helpful tendencies. 

“I’ll be stoppin’ at Bill and Frank’s,” she finally speaks, slinging her backpack over her shoulders. Joel approaches her, but only to carefully clip a bulky satellite radio onto one of the straps of her backpack. 

“Check in,” he grunts. “Every mornin’, every night. I’ll be waitin’ for you.”

“Got it,” she says quietly, adjusting the straps of her pack.

Joel stares at her, his mind reeling with thoughts coursing through him at the speed of light. 

“I-” Joel starts, but his voice falls flat with a croak as his silent words hang in the air.

“I know,” Lianne says softly, eyes glistening briefly as she looks over him. “I’ll be back.”

“I know,” Joel nods. 

She slinks out their apartment door, the dim light of the hallway casting a dark shadow over her silhouette, the dark hair of Joel’s braid work disappearing as the door shuts behind her. Her stomach remains hungry, and she remains unseen and unheard. 

And he will be waiting for her, and she knows he will be. That if she were to return home, to him, weary, with blood on her hands, he would be waiting there. She could rest her head in his lap, and he would kiss her burning forehead and wash the blood from her.

He will be waiting, and that string that knits the two of them together will only stretch. 

He waits for her to radio him the next morning, pacing impatiently down the hallway that leads to the room designated for radio messages. When he’s called into the room, his fingers tremble as he’s read the message she had left for him. 

Just got to Bill and Frank’s.

All is good. There’s coffee here.

Tell Tess they say hi.

It’s short and sweet, and leaves him releasing a held breath in relief. He relays a message to be transferred back to her, saying he’s glad she made it and hopes she enjoys her coffee.

The messages are just as short and sweet over the next few days. Lianne updates him on her location and well-being, and lets him know there’s no more coffee. 

On the fifth day she’s gone, Joel leaves a message to be sent to her in the middle of the night. He and Tess are leaving the QZ with a young girl, no longer having use of the radio base there. He’s not sure she’ll get the message, or when he’ll be able to contact her again, and he grinds his teeth to pray away the nausea. 

Lianne never received that message on her fifth day out, the only noise that was able to be picked up on her radio this far out in the middle of nowhere was nothing but static. She continued to attempt to reach out to Joel every morning and every night just as she had promised, and it was a measly attempt at keeping her hopes up from the silence on the other end. 

As the weeks passed, the silence grew louder. Not a single sound had been picked up on the radio before its battery died, and the group of travelers had dwindled in numbers. She wanted to believe that he was still alive, that Tess would have gotten a message to her somehow if something happened. But all she got was silence. 

Months had passed when she reached Nebraska, that emptiness gnawing its way through her and making a home in her ribcage. She was the last remainder of her group and had been left to her own thoughts for weeks on end, the sound of her own voice becoming a stranger to her. If she could find the safe house that her, Joel, and Tommy set up all those years ago in the beginning of the outbreak, she could be okay. 

Daydreams of setting up a homestead and removing the boards on the windows to replace them with lace curtains pushed her further through the vast state. Joel had mentioned once that he would like to retire on a farm, just the two of them with their sheep. Cooking warm meals on the fire, drinking their coffee on a wrap-around porch. A dream of domestic bliss that could only aid in their sanity. 

The air was warm and dewy as she reached the safe house as the sun began to rise. If she had to go on without Joel, she could at least honor his memory. Maybe with a few sheep.