#cuts and lacerations tw

[jacklynchh]

So Eden Sank to Grief • Self-Para

➥ TRIGGER WARNINGS: Grief, loss, blood, drinking.

Bravery has never been Jack's finest quality. His white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel serves as a reminder of this as he passes the sign out of town. 'You are now leaving Blue Harbor. Come again soon!' The words barely even register. Every mile added to the odometer is another mile put between him and his fear, unravelling his guilt and leaving it roadside to rot.

At least that's what he tells himself.

Outside twilight merges the gloom of the sky with the blur of trees as they pass and the world becomes a bleak tunnel through which he travels with no light waiting at the end. He ignores the buzzing of his phone. He ignores the quiet voice in the back of his mind telling him to turn around. With every minute that passes by he tells himself that this is necessary. He tells himself that it's okay. That it will help.

It isn't. It doesn't.

It won't.

DECEMBER, 2022.

Two days after the funeral Jack sits amidst the destruction that used to be the kitchen, blood seeping through the formerly white cloth wrapped around his hand as a makeshift bandage. Sunlight glitters from the sharp edges of broken glass scattering countertops and one of the cabinet doors hangs off its hinges revealing a sad set of empty shelves, the plates which they used to hold now strewn across the floor in jagged shards. He's not sure what made him do it. It's all a blur now. All he knows it that one moment he was standing there, looking numbly at the collection of lasagnes and various other foiled dishes delivered by well-meaning neighbours, and the next he was moving, shoving them all off the edge in a wave of fury and pain, breaking, kicking, destroying, until there was nothing left to throw.

Grace had hated lasagne.

Now, in the aftermath of that thought, he leans back against the counter empty as the cabinet. He thinks he should care more, maybe want to kick himself for doing it. He's going to have to clean it all up, and how will he return the empty dishes to their owners when they're in pieces? But he can't. He can't bring himself to care. He can't bring himself to feel anything anymore. Since the moment he watched the coffin sink into the ground, since he stood over it to toss the first handful of earth into the grave, there's been nothing left inside of him. It's like he's been set adrift.

The house is too quiet. Too empty. No one comes to check on him.

His stare is blank as he lifts the bottle of whiskey to his lips with his good hand. If her voice isn't there to fill the silence, then he'll drink until the empty feeling goes. There's no one there to stop him. After all, what does it matter what Grace did or didn't like anymore? She's not here.

AUGUST, 1997.

"Whatcha doing?"

Jack startles, dropping the wrench with a loud clang against the garage floor. He hadn't noticed the shadow falling over him, too absorbed with what he was doing, and for a moment he stares at its owner with his mouth slightly agape, like a fish.

He's seen the girl only once before; an hour ago, out on next door's front lawn, hanging around on the low wall, listening to a Walkman while movers hauled boxes out from a van and carted them up the driveway into the house. It's been a noisy affair. An older couple—to whom he assumes the house now belongs—have been darting in and out all morning, trying to coordinate what goes where. An aura of stress radiates from the vicinity, but the girl in front of him seems unbothered by the mayhem.

His tongue appears to have tied itself in a knot, words refusing to come out, but that doesn't seem to bother her either. When he says nothing, she keeps talking.

"I saw you looking at me earlier, in the window. I guess we're neighbours now, huh? That's pretty cool. I didn't know if there would be any other kids on the street."

Embarrassment warms his face at the realisation that she'd noticed him. He thought he'd gotten away with it, watching the proceedings from the kitchen at breakfast. But she doesn't seem to be bothered by his spying. If anything, she looks intrigued. She steps further into the garage to see what he's doing and without the sunlight bouncing from it, her hair turns from shining gold to an ashy blonde. It's pulled back in a haphazard ponytail and dotted with little plastic butterfly clips. In their later years, Jack will be forced to admit that he was enamoured with Grace from that moment, and she'll tease him for his oh-so-eloquent reply.

"Uh…"

His lack of conversational skills don't seem to matter, though. The motorcycle has caught her attention, distracting her from any awkward stuttering. It sits half dismantled in front of it, parts scattered across the floor alongside various tools. Jack's supposed to be waiting for his dad to come out and help him, but the old man was waylaid by a phone call from his sister about thirty minutes ago and it'll be at least another hour before Aunt Lucy runs out of things to say, so he's taken it upon himself to get started on fixing the clutch. Or at least trying to fix the clutch. He's pretty sure he can do it himself. Maybe.

"Whoa, is this yours? Is it a bike? Are you fixing it? Cool! My mom would never let me do anything like this, she doesn't like mess. She already gets way too mad about my sewing, she says I leave too much stuff around the house, but I think houses look better that way, you know? It's weird if a place is too neat. Hey, what's that?"

Jack blinks, then looks down at the part laying by his knee.

"A pressure plate?"

"What's it for?"

"Um… it holds the clutch in place. Sort of."

"Cool. You'll have to show me what that is at some point. I'm Grace by the way. What's your name?"

She sticks out her hand expectantly, a wide smile in place, and Jack only feels slightly dazzled as he wipes off his smudged fingers on his shirt and reaches out to shake it. He's never met anyone like her before—a sentiment that will be repeated over and over for the next twenty five years.

MARCH, 2024.

The yard is dead. No new spring blooms poke their head out of the ground to greet the world, no freshly turned dirt adorns the flower beds along the edge. The door hinges on the shed have rusted shut from disuse and something with claws has dug holes all over the previously well-kept lawn. Jack doesn't even look at anymore, but his mom peers out the kitchen window at it with a worried crease in her brow as he drinks his coffee at the table. That crease has been there a lot lately, a featured act in every appearance at his front door. He knows she's working up to saying something, but he doesn't know what. That seems to be the vibe with all of the people in his life lately; the hesitance, the hovering. Like he's some sort of china doll that will break if they move too suddenly around him.

He wishes they wouldn't. His surroundings are filled with enough reminders of his grief as it is. The very walls of the house hold the ghost of Grace's laugh, the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, the lingering image of her saying good morning from the kitchen doorway. It's been two years and the numbness is still there, cloying and all-encompassing, and when he's alone it threatens to swallow him whole.

"Oh, honey," his mom says, brushing the hair out of his eyes with that painfully concerned look on her face. "I don't think staying in this house is good for you, you need to be able to move."

She's right. He knows she's right. But he's not quite ready to admit that just yet, so he shrugs her off and sips his coffee, and wishes he could add something a little stronger to it without having her tut over his shoulder. Under the table, he reaches a foot out like he would have done back in the day, to bump it against Grace's, a quiet confirmation of solidarity. It meets nothing but empty air.

Whoever says that grief gets easier over time is a goddamn liar.

THE MOMENTS IN BETWEEN

The moments in between are a golden confetti of laughter, magic, and heartbreak. Grace is by and large the strangest person Jack's ever met. She's also the kindest, and the funniest, and the most beautiful. He doesn't know what to expect after their meeting in the garage, but the life that follows is more perfect than anything he could've dreamt up by himself.

He remembers the way she rested her head on his shoulder the first day of high school, the strawberry scent of her shampoo tickling his nose as the pair of them listened to her Walkman together on the bus. He remembers the day she got into college and the pride mingled with that horrible ache, the knowledge that she was leaving weighing heavy on his shoulders, only lifted when she asked him to go with her. He remembers the taste of rum on her lips the first night that she kissed him, they were nineteen and the muffled sounds of the Halloween party in their apartment threatened to burst through the bedroom door as she called him an idiot and asked why he hadn't made a move yet, wasn't it obvious they were supposed to be together?

He remembers the fear and the excitement. The way waking up with her every day felt like the start of some new kind of adventure. How she made him laugh so hard it felt like his ribs would crack and the warmth of her cradled in his arms after a bad day, when all she needed was a hug. Her hand in his as they made their vows and their loved ones cheered in celebration.

He remembers the blood tests coming back and the doctor saying 'I'm afraid I have some bad news', and the painful static that'd filled his head moments later. The tears on her cheeks, her hand squeezing his so hard she left nail indents in his skin, and his own promise that 'we'll get through this, everything will be alright.'

And he remembers that promise breaking, every piece of confetti left lying wrinkled and faded on the ground, the rain spattering his shoulders as mourners swathed in black surrounded him.

He remembers every. single. bit.

NOVEMBER, 2024.

So it goes like this: Jack, tired of his parents' fretting, tired of the pitying looks from his friends, neighbours and clients, and tired of the way his bedroom walls feel like they're closing in on him every night, finally bites the bullet and takes his mom's advise. The house in Burlington is stowed away in boxes piece by piece, shoved into the back of his truck, and hauled out to the town his grandfather grew up in, the only parts of which Jack remembers being the impossibly giant trees and an old fashioned candy store on a street corner. That turns out to be a blessing.

He doesn't expect much from it, but when he arrives on the doorstep of his new house he finds that he can almost breathe for the first time in two years. There are no ghosts lingering in the walls and he hears no long-dead laughter, and though that absence makes him reach for the beer it doesn't make him want to sink into oblivion quite so deeply as he has been.

The yard is large and full of potential. Again, there is a lack of ghosts. He did not spend mornings sitting out on the porch with Grace here, or warm afternoons out planting the weirdest seeds they could find at the nursery out in the flower beds. It's a place of his own untouched by the past and his fingers itch to do something with it, a familiar feeling gone foreign, now revived.

Routine settles in. Though the traces of Grace that haunt him in Vermont are non-existent here, habit has him setting out two mugs of coffee in the morning. One he drinks and one goes cold, but somehow it helps. Like it's a reminder that though he's left Vermont behind, he hasn't left Grace entirely, and the guilty feeling in his chest unwinds. He accepts it as part of his day and moves on to check his emails. Working is surprisingly busy in this town. It's good. It keeps his mind busy.

And though he is content with his own company, swearing to himself that he's fine alone, he attends a grief support group so that his parents won't worry so much. It feels like a waste of his time and listening to the grief of others makes him uncomfortable, but it becomes as ever-present in his week as the coffee. Somehow, somewhere along the line, he finds himself surrounded by neighbours who want to talk to him. There's something in the air in Forest Lake, maybe it's catching. There are dinner parties and nights at the pub, and somewhere along the way the most beautiful man he's ever seen looks back at Jack and turns his stomach over with his smile.

Rory Anderson is like coming up for air after drowning. There are very few people in this world that Jack feels totally, utterly comfortable around, and Grace was always the only one he felt knew him truly, but it seems as though Rory might too. Despite this, Jack tells himself it's not serious. It's not serious and they'll both get bored soon, probably, and move on. This spark he feels between them, the one that threatens to ignite and burn, that's all it is. A spark. Easily dampened. Nothing to worry about.

But with Rory comes Annie, and the two of him welcome them into their inner circle like he's supposed to be there. Their company is like a warm blanket engulfing him on a rainy day. Comforting, so much so that he doesn't ever want to move. The longer he spends around them the more he finds himself smiling, something he thought he'd forgotten how to do. And then he finds himself planning ahead, which… what? When did the future come into play? There isn't supposed to be a future, not without…

But he pushes those thoughts away and ignores the squirming, guilty feeling in his gut that tells him he's committing the ultimate act of betrayal. He'll deal with that later. Always later.

The world brightens. The air becomes easier to breathe. He looks forward to waking up again. The warmth of somebody else in his bed is no longer a distant memory and laughter stops feeling like it belongs in another life altogether. The yard isn't dead. Nothing in his kitchen is broken. There is no graveyard dirt under his fingernails.

And then, one morning, he comes downstairs and unthinkingly he pulls out only a single mug for coffee. Just the one. It's not until an hour later when he comes back for a refill that he realises.

He forgot.

And it all comes crashing down.

PRESENT DAY

Bravery has never been Jack's finest quality. It is swamped by an endless sea of guilt, mourning, and self-loathing. The single coffee cup sits abandoned on his kitchen counter as Blue Harbor fades into a distant dot in his rear-view mirror and the buzz of his phone is drowned out by thrum of the engine. Ahead, Burlington awaits like a looming ghost, calling him home. Running is easier than falling. If he doesn't fall, he can't get hurt.

[beeli-art]

Goretober Day 21 - Lacerations

' Akihiko Ishihara. Ultimate Bad Luck. '

[sp4ceboo]

SNIPPET FOR MY UPCOMING BAKUGOU FIC!!

genre: merfolk au, fantasy au, merman!bakugou x witch!reader, strangers to lovers, bakugou x f!reader, smut and angst and fluff

summary: in a world infested with purgers of magic, neither a clandestine witch nor a lone merman can remain safe for long.

tw for snippet: gore, blood, mention of death (fic will be 18+)

UPDATE: READ IT HERE

With a rusty squeal, the door swings wide, and with it comes the same influx of light that always spills greedily through, stinging your eyes and making them ache - the doing of a tiny, wayward star moulded from precious lamp oil. You blink away the tears that well up at your lash line, testament to your accustomation to the dark, and then blink again. Back when you took for granted the warmth of the sun on your face, you lived too far inland to ever see one in the flesh. You were still a witch under the disguise of a healer, though. You’d heard tales, seen artists’ renderings and gorey body parts wrenched off as trophies. None of those could have ever come close to preparing you for the sight before your eyes. A merman. Deep in enemy territory - so deep, in fact, that all those surrounding him, bar you, have murdered more than dozens of his kind each. He is on a galleon rammed bow to stern with killers. And yet, despite it, he has not fallen victim to the purge. Yes, there is a splintered harpoon sunken into his side, yes, he is limp and broken, but even so, shallowly, his chest rises and falls. He breathes. He breathes, and even that is beautiful. The lamp’s light reflects off his scales; he is mainly jet black, but broad swathes of orange run across the length of his powerful tail like they were drawn with the loving stroke of a painter’s brush. In parts, they darken into a ruby red that glitters and winks as the lamp light dances. Or maybe that’s just blood. There’s a lot of it. It soaks into the sheet they strain to carry between them, pools in the dip his weight makes, streaks in smears down his chest and face, coats his hands and is embedded under his sharp nails. You hope that all of it is not his, that he made them regret whatever they must have done to get a merman vulnerable enough and far enough from his pod to capture him. Deep lacerations cut all along his chest and tail, and one of the spines that extend from his sail-like dorsal fin is bent in a way that must mean it is broken. A smattering of scales reach wide across his shoulders and back and down his arms, some of them twisted and bent out of shape. Your eyes fall to the harpoon buried just below his hip, and you feel the bite of your nails digging into your palms. “Heal it,” commands the man holding the corner of the sheet closest to you. “We’ve been ordered to bring back a merfolk to be studied. It must be in peak condition.”

and yeah. so that's what i've been working on recently, it will be over 10k and most likely under 20k and im sO EXCITED!!

there will be a taglist, so if you want to be on it just reply to this post or message me or whatever is easiest :))

praying this reaches the right audience

[micahwrites16]

Not Even the Force - Anakin Skywalker

TW: smut!

3.3k words

One thing about Anakin Skywalker is that he is possibly the most protective person you will ever meet.

If there were even the slightest bit of danger, he would lock you up if he could.

It's not necessarily out of possessiveness or over-protectiveness, but more fear of losing someone he loves. After his mother died, a part of him broke and no matter how hard you can try to love it better, you can't, and that's something you have had to come to terms with for a while now.

Just like his unwavering defensiveness, the wish that you could take all his worries away doesn't leave. All you can do is love him, and hope that it is enough.

Although you are just about as good with a gun as Anakin is with a lightsaber, you somehow end up stuck inside his ship every time he goes off on a mission. And of course that isn't enough, he has to leave Artoo with you just in case. So, you spend hours on end rambling to Artoo and listening to his sassy robotic replies, trying not to think about what Anakin is doing.

If either of you have one thing in common, it's worrying about the other.

As the only person out of you, Anakin, Obi-Wan, and Ahsoka who knows the slightest bit about medicine, you're pretty much always dragged along. You really wouldn't mind if they would allow you to do something, anything, but no. You're not a Jedi, so apparently the only thing you can do is wrap injuries and check bruises.

Even if you couldn't fight or use the force like them, you were still part of their team and they treated you like it.

Currently, you're on Hoth, a planet of complete coldness and ice. You don't know the complete specifics of the mission yet, you just came to be with Anakin like always. It made you feel better that if he were to ever be hurt you could help him, even if you had to go through up to hours of boredom to do it.

You spin around as you hear the ship's door open, Artoo beeping and moving in front of you. You slowly back up and pull out your gun. Your finger moves to the trigger, ready to fire at whatever creature or droid or sith that might pop out. The door to the cockpit opens and right as you are about to fire, the gun is propelled out of your hands, hitting the wall of the ship with a loud clunk.

"Just me, my love," a deep voice calls, a shaky breath finally leaving your lips as you realize who it is. You relax as you see familiar waves of dark honey and the Jedi robe that you have stripped him of countless times before.

"Maker, Anakin!" Your breaths come out as soft pants as your heart calms down. "You can't just scare Artoo like that! Look at him, practically shaking." Both of you look at Artoo, and if a droid could roll its eyes that's what he would be doing right now. He beeps quietly, the sound almost annoyed as he rolls away from us. Anakin chuckles, closing the distance between you and cupping your face in his hands as he kisses you softly.

"I'm sorry for scaring Artoo, that was very inconsiderate of me."

"Yes, very," you mumble quietly as you melt against his lips. Damn him and his perfectness. He brushes hair behind your ear as you pull away, the soft gesture warming your heart. As you finally get a clear view of his face, you gasp when you see a large gash stretch from his hairline to the middle of his cheek, mirroring the scar on the other side of his face. The skin around the cut is irritated and red, blood dripping from the laceration.

Anakin sees the intense worry in your eyes and quickly says, "It's okay, just a small cut. I can clean it up after we get off this dreadful planet." He kisses your forehead as he sits down in the pilot seat, turning the ship on.

"Wait- Anakin, it might need stitches," you follow him, him brushing off your concern as he lifts the ship off the ground. You let out a noise of protest, but quickly sit in the seat next to him, not wanting to be standing as he takes off.

"It can wait a few minutes, y/n."

You roll your eyes at his negligence, Anakin buckling you in with the force and blasting into space.

Once he sets the ship into autopilot you unbuckle and grab supplies to clean his wound, along with bandages and a needle and thread. You walk back to Anakin and straddle his hips, facing him so you can get a good look at his injury. He automatically rests his hands on your hips, shifting you closer to his chest.

"What happened?" You ask as you start cleaning the blood with a damp towel, being cautious not to hurt him further.

"Wampa. It got lucky. I was distracted," His eyebrows furrow slightly and you smile softly, the expression on his face almost looking like a pout. Sometimes you have no idea how this man is the most powerful Jedi in existence.

"Hm, okay. Well, it doesn't look like you'll need stitches, but it might leave a scar for a little while." He nods slightly and you grab something to clean his cut, pouring it on the cloth. "This might sting a bit," you warn as you press along his cheek. The only signs of his pain are his hands squeezing just the slightest bit harder on your hips.

As you continue cleaning his gash, you feel his eyes burn into your skin. His hard gaze used to make you uncomfortable, the intensity of it making you itch and want to crawl inside yourself. It was always like he was staring into your soul, taking every mark on your face to memory. Over time you got used to it, though, and learned to let him do what he wanted. You used to always hide from him, digging your face into the crook of his neck so he couldn't see. He would always pull you back and kiss your jaw, reassuring you with whispers of how beautiful you were. How he would stare at you all day if you would let him, just because he was so mesmerized by you. Then he would make love to you, once again taking every inch of your skin to memory and showing how much he appreciated you with every kiss and caress of his fingers.

Through your concentration, you don’t notice the sudden shift in Anakin, how his eyes gloss over and his hands tighten on your hips even further. You don’t notice how he seemed to have gotten lost in his mind, something in his head swirling darkly.

You finish and bandage his cut, giving it a soft kiss and putting your supplies back in your med kit. "All better," you smile and move to get off his lap, but instead you get pulled back into his chest, Anakin's face digging into the crook of your neck and his arms wrapping around your waist.

His hold is tight, almost desperate. A different kind of worry and surprise hits you at his sudden movement, your arms wrapping around his neck. "Ani?" Your eyebrows furrow, your fingers holding onto the ends of his hair. "Hey, talk to me," you say softly, his arms securing you tighter against him. You feel a shaky breath hit your shoulder, dread curling in your gut as the possibilities of what could've happened swirl in your mind.

"Y/n..." Anakin murmurs against you, his eyelashes fluttering softly against your skin and his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. You can practically see dark swirls twisting around his body, emanating the emotion pouring through him. You always felt like you could understand and feel him on a level that's deeper than you should, especially in times when something is bothering him. And when something's truly bothering Anakin, it's deep and dark and it's almost as if you can feel it infecting his mind and blood. You have absolutely no idea what happened or what changed in the past five minutes, but you can almost feel him sinking into darkness.

It's so unbelievably scary.

"Anakin. Look at me, please," you plead in the gentlest voice you can manage. You tilt his head up, your eyes finding his.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me," Anakin murmurs, avoiding your gaze.

"Nothing's wrong with you." You search for words that could get him to open up to you, but you come up empty. Instead, you kiss his jaw and keep your gaze locked on him. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I..." His eyebrows furrow again, a look of genuine confusion crossing his face. He shakes his head like he's forcing something out of it. "I felt something."

"Felt what?"

"I don't know," Anakin murmurs, almost like he's lost in his head. "It felt so real. It felt like a memory, but I didn't see anything. I just... you..." You notice his eyes start shimmering and you rub your thumb back and forth on his cheek, waiting patiently for him to continue talking. "It was like grief. Like I was feeling grief for something that hadn't happened yet. Like the nightmares I had of my mother, except a feeling."

"Grief?"

"Yes. I just knew not to let you leave. Not... not now," Anakin mumbles, his face falling back into the crook of your neck. You feel a wetness hit your skin, a piece of your heart cracking for him. If Anakin's really getting a premonition like what he got with his mother, then it's definitely not good.

"I'm not leaving. I never will," you whisper, hugging him even tighter than before. "I'm right here." You feel him sigh and his lips against your shoulder, his teeth nipping and sucking softly at the sensitive skin as his tears continue to drop onto you.

"Need... need to feel you," Anakin pleads quietly, his hands roaming up and down your back, along your hips, and up to cup your neck as he places kisses on your throat. "Need to know you're here."

"Ani..." You sigh as his lips find the sensitive spot under your ear. And although you want him just as he wants you right now, you're not sure this is the best idea. You can tell something serious just bothered him, and brushing it off with sex might not be the right thing.

"Please, y/n." His hips roll up to yours gently, a small gasp leaving your lips as you feel his growing hardness against your softness. "Need to feel all of you."

You can feel the lust radiating off of him with every brush of his lips and dominating grab of his hands, but more than that you feel his yearning and desperation for not specifically intimacy, but closeness. You decide you'd do whatever it takes to make him feel better.

You try not to dwell on the fact that it seems like it was you who he was grieving.

You pull his lips to yours, rolling your hips against his and pulling moans out of both of you. His lips are conquering and the swipe of his tongue against yours is needy, begging silently for something that you would give him over and over again if that's what he needed. His hips rut up into yours, causing your fingers in his hair to tighten and the boiling lava in your stomach to burn brighter.

Anakin's hands pull up the fabric of your shirt, his metal hand causing you to gasp at the coldness as it roams across your uncovered skin. "Now. Need to fuck you now, y/n," he begs against your lips, his fingers hooking on your pants, quickly lifting you up and pulling them down.

His dirty words stopped surprising you long ago. Now, all they do is fill you with an indescribable heat.

You quickly find the belt on his Jedi robe and take it off, throwing it on the floor beside where he carelessly threw your pants. His flesh hand presses against your clit through your panties, causing you to moan and buck your hips into his hand.

"Already so wet for me, baby. So fucking perfect," he mumbles as he sucks on your jaw and pulls his boxers down, his aching cock springing up and hitting his abdomen. You slam your lips against his again, him grunting sharply as you swipe your thumb over his tip, spreading the bead of pre-cum leaking desperately from him.

"So pretty," you murmur absentmindedly as you take in the sight of his rock-solid cock standing proudly, the tip slightly flushed and begging to be touched. You watch as his cheeks bloom into a dark red, his head falling onto your shoulder once again.

"Baby..." He sighs as his dick twitches, desire and the need to be connected to you overwhelming every one of his thoughts. He presses his thumb against your clit again, sending a shockwave of pleasure through your veins. He hooks his fingers in your panties, pulling them down and brushing his cock against your naked core, causing both of you to shudder. "Are you going to ride me, my love? Going to take me like the good girl I know you are?"

"Mhm," you whimper, your voice filled with lust as you position yourself above his cock, sinking down just so his tip is inside of you. Anakin grunts, his head head falling back against the seat. You slowly slide down, taking him in inch by inch until he's buried all the way inside of you, your walls stretching pleasurably at the intrusion.

"Oh fuck," he groans loudly, holding on to your hips tightly, no doubt leaving marks. "Your pussy was made for me, y/n. Taking me so well."

You moan, rocking your hips against his and reuniting your lips. Your walls clench at his words, causing another grumble to fall from his lips and in turn make your arousal grow at the sound. He guides you up and down his cock slowly, your pussy squeezing around him like a vice as he fucks into you, hitting that spot that only he knows.

Even after the many, many times before that you have been connected like this, you never get used to the size of him. Of being absolutely full, almost feeling like you could explode because of pleasure and completeness. And even though lust is overwhelming both of you, the thing both of you are enjoying the most is being so close to each other. Loving someone so deeply sometimes isn't enough, you have to be one with the other to achieve the level of intimacy you both long for.

"Anakin," you cry out, your fingers desperately gripping onto the ends of his hair as he fucks abandonedly into you.

"I know, I know, y/n. Doing so- so well for me," he praises softly, placing encouraging and loving kisses on any part of your skin he can reach. Your forehead, cheeks, nose, lips, neck. He would devour you whole if he could. Sweat glistens on his forehead as he puts all his energy into making you feel good, wanting nothing more than to replace every one of your senses with pleasure. With him.

You latch your mouth onto his throat, feeling his Adam's apple bob beneath your lips. Fire burns beneath your skin, every pulse of your heart meeting his. His groans and your whimpers bounce off the walls of the cockpit, the dirty, wet sound of you connecting causing a deeper flush to paint your skin.

"Look at you, so unbelievably beautiful on top of me," Anakin mumbles as his cock slams into that deliciously pleasurable spot inside of you over and over again. He reaches his thumb in between you, rubbing in small circles over your clit and making you cry out sharply. Your insides tighten and tighten, your toes beginning to curl as the stars are no longer just in space but behind your eyelids. He speeds up to a bruising pace, your legs faltering as you no longer have the strength to continue rocking your hips. Sweat makes your hair stick to your forehead, your throat going raw with the amount of strangled noises that he's pulling out of you.

Anakin could get drunk off the sound of you lost in pleasure. Every noise and slap of his skin against yours causes his heart to beat frantically and desire to flare inside of him painfully. You could stab him in the heart and he would thank you just for even touching him at all, and the fact that he gets to have you in this way never fully seems real. The way your perfect pussy sucks him in like it's trying to swallow him whole, how it seems like you burn for him just as much as he burns for you, makes everything in him roar with love and lust and every feeling you could ever feel for someone. Every thrust of his hips into yours makes him feel alive, almost like he's finally whole after a lifetime of missing something. Of missing you.

Your head falls forward onto Anakin's shoulder, his hand cradling your head and rubbing your scalp soothingly, holding you through the intense waves of pleasure the both of you are experiencing. His hips stutter as you whimper, your release coming closer and closer.

"Gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna let me feel you?"

"Yes," you whine, your eyes squeezing shut. His head rolls back again, his mouth opening and letting out the most beautiful groan as his cock swells inside of you. His hips twitch again, letting you know he's exactly where you are. "Wanna- wanna come with you, Ani."

"I know, baby. I'm right- right there with you," Anakin gasps, bucking upwards into you, his breathing ragged and his face flushed as he staggers towards blissful oblivion. You cry out Anakin's name loudly, your walls fluttering around him as your core throbs painfully.

And all it takes is one more unsteady, forceful thrust of Anakin's hips for both of you to fly off the edge.

Both of your bodies tremble and quiver with the intense force of your release, your noises mixing into a song of ecstasy and desire. Anakin spills himself inside of you, filling you to the point where thinking is no longer possible. The only thing you can feel is Anakin. Pleasure floods through your veins, every limb in your body going still as you ride out your release.

"F-fuck, y/n. There you go baby," he praises encouragingly as you continue to cry out. You hold onto Anakin tightly until your senses start returning and the white light fades from behind your eyes. You press your lips to his again, this time softly and as an act of complete love. He murmurs gentle "I love you's," into your ear as you both come down, both of your hearts swelling as you clutch onto each other for dear life.

"Thank you," he whispers as he kisses your forehead, rubbing his thumbs on the tops of your thighs.

"For what?

"I just... needed to have you. To know you're here, with me." Anakin's eyes fall shut like he's trying to rid something from his mind, and you press your puffy lips against his again, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"Don't think about it, okay?" You search his eyes as they open again, pulling his hand to rest over your heart. "Do you feel that? I'm here. Right here, with you. I'm not leaving. I won't let anything take me from you, Anakin. You know that, right?"

His eyes lock on to where his hand is feeling your heartbeat, his eyebrows pulling together softly. His eyes meet yours again, the worry in his face fading.

And at that moment Anakin knew that nothing could take you from him, not fate, not force. You wouldn't let it, and Anakin would die a thousand deaths before he let it. You were his, and he was yours, and if the force was going to take you from him, they would rip it from his cold, dead, "chosen” hands.

"I know."

[chaosandmarigolds]

siedem 🚑🚑

EMS AU thingyyy!!!

summary: Simon is hopelessly in love with the newest paramedic on base, however he just has the social skills of a five year old…plus what could he deserve someone like you? tw: mentions of a shitty bf and girl code kicks in strong

For the record you had two relationships in your past, however one was from kindergarten and the other was a little high school relationship so weren't sure if those could count lord knew with paramedic school and then the military you weren't exactly...seeking a romantic partner.

however, the terrifying lieutenant seemed to catch your interest. Much to your dismay because he seemed interested as well and that would be a bad thing but- well, you were sure if he did actually or if…maybe he’s just weird.

"Men are shit." The girl next to you had down at least five beers in the past ten minuets, however she seemed somewhat stable. So from where you kept your face buried within your arms you look up from the bar counter.

she looked around your age, if not you if you had the guts to wear a dress like hers- never thought a little black and shiny dress would do you any good. Either way, off topic, you were more concerned with the laceration on the side of her head- habit you supposed.

see person = trauma assessment or something like that so with a little grumble you push the vodka soda had been nursing for the night and look at her. “What happened to your face?” That…sounded so much meaner than you intended it too. The words a bit grumbled together and sleepy.

the girl looks at you and flashes a giddy smile, “You should see the other guy!”

you blink slowly, “There’s a other guy?”

She tilts her head to your remark and then brings the glass to her perfectly painted lips, “You’re not bright, are ya? No, my boyfriend sucks ass and threw my purse at me-“

“that’s mean.”

“men are mean.”

To that you hum and grab a napkin, splitting it in half as you move to stand to the side of her. “M a paramedic, m gonna help you.” she lets you dab the napkin on the small cut, the cloth sticking to it, “Honey bun, how many have you had?”

that was weird question, so you blink and then turns slowly to the glass, “Tw…thrr…four? No…I dunno. A few.”

the bartender chimes in- two vodka sodas and a shot of tequila. So the girl gives a laugh and then hops off of her seat, her heels making her a foot taller than you. And she pats your shoulder, “Let’s get you- oh.” As she tried to redirect you back to your seat and turned she was met with a man.

you let out a laugh, a beaming and giddy grin on your face, “Oh my god!! Lieutenant freaking- oh I shouldn’t say freaking, sorry uh- Lieutenant Riley! Hi!!”

the girl glances to you and slowly moves to make a small barrier, his overall deamor not exactly putting her to ease, “Hi. I’m Genny- and my cousin, Allie.”

What?

to that the lieutenant leans over to catch your eyes and to that you give an exaggerated look of confusion, and he speaks, “You have a cousin?”

you huff and shake your head, tapping the girl on the arm, “She’s jus being nice; this is- this is my boss, kinda sorta but he’s super weird but like…I dunno, but I’m his boss and he’s my boss.”

“You’re not my boss.”

“But Mary-!”

Simon looks to Genny and then gives a brief explanation on who he was and who you were, “Thank you for trying to protect her. But we have a meeting’ at 0600 tomorrow nd’ I need to get ‘er home.” He then looks to you, “C’mon.”

(I’m just yapping. Idk. Idk. Comments and feedback mean so so much, tootles!!)

[moronkombat]

Straight to it, Bi Han finds his wife dead 😘🥰😍

tw: character death, afab pronouns used

god this ask is blessed

Wind blows lightly, the breeze is warm and pleasant. Loose strands of pure ebony wisp past the curve of a cheek bone while eyes just as dark look to a gathering of flowers so perfectly planted. Bi-Han watches as petals fall limp and wrinkled, flora beginning the end of its life. There's a hand holding his, so much smaller than his own, yet the weight heavier than any mountain.

He hears her speaking and notices her adoring smile. She is beautiful, really, a grand masterpiece of humanity's kindness. Bi-Han loves her more than he can love anything else. She knows this, he never has to say it. He need only look upon her and his heart shines through his gaze.

They stood together in their garden as they always did before Bi-Han had to go. This their own little sanctuary where time stops. They should have never left that place.

Heart pounds in his chest, legs carry him faster and faster. Blood has spattered and drenched him while he runs through hallways that seem almost endless. It wasn't supposed to be like this. This meant to be between him and the Tengu and yet they have pulled that which is most precious to Bi-Han in its horrible grasp.

Ice continues to pierce those who stand in his way and the blood is so heavy upon his skin. He cannot stop, he must find her. Bi-Han knows the Tengu have her, they had told him as much. Their bodies are ripped and torn as the frantic man searches for his kidnapped wife.

The corpses have led him to some place dark but her light still shines through. There she stands, held by hands Bi-Han wishes to slice. Her eyes...she is terrified. She quivers and shakes while tears dirty her face. Bi-Han rages, an internal war erupts. Beast like eyes stare at the one who holds her from him and fingers twitch and become frigid.

"I'll kill you..." Bi-Han rasps through his bloodstained mask and everything within him begins to shake.

The Tengu looks at him, unafraid and resilient. He hums something that Bi-Han doesn't catch before eyes begin to crinkle into a smile.

"I know." He says. "But I will destroy you."

No! Bi-Han lunges forward, the ice that runs in his veins manifesting into life. Life really is a fickle thing. Blades catch the dimmed light of the room and beam with the strength of the sun. Sharpened and refined metal cuts through the air before it embraces flesh. Ribs begin to crack, blood begins to pour and her shriek lasts only but a moment before lungs are lacerated by a Tengu's wrath.

Blood flies through the air and paints a man most terrified. Droplets of her warm and scalding blood find themselves colliding onto Bi-Han's cheek as he reaches forward for her. Eyes widen while hers begin to fade dim. There's a scream. One inhuman and broken apart. As she falls, ice cuts through her attacker's throat and a life is ended.

Before that wretched Tengu body and even hit the floor, Bi-Han is cradling his dear wife who gasps and writhes in pain. His eyes look over her, blood is pooling from her wound even as his hands attempt to stop it.

"No, no, no, no-" Bi-Han panics, cold hands covered in burning crimson as a palm lays against her chest. "It's going to be alright, it's going to be okay-"

She knows he is lying but her words cannot form. Too trapped by the gasps for breath and cries of pain. Her blood is spilling faster now, it falls from her lips and runs down her chin like a flowing stream. The visage of him begins to blur until there is nothing but an obscured void.

"Stay with me now...!" his words all she has left to cling to but even they begin to echo and fade.

Her gasps, her pained whines...they are gone now. She is gone. An empty body is left in her place, limp and heavy. Bi-Han's eyes dart around her, a hand coated in red cups her cheek. He called out her name but she merely stares back at him with hazy eyes and bloody lips. Bi-Han's trembling body now crumbles apart and he cradles her just as he did when they were alone in that very special garden. The garden they never should have departed from.

He cries, he wails, begging her to speak to him, to hold him like she always did. She cannot, her body no better than the corpses he left behind. There's hurried clatter, the sound of footsteps approaching. Two younger brothers stand in the doorway, staring at the sight they should have never seen.

They stand together, Tomas and Kuai Liang looking at each other. Both are unsure of what to say as they watch their eldest brother sob and hold onto an empty husk of what was once the love of his life.

Bi-Han's mind is lost to him. He begs and pleads for her to awaken; he screams in the agony of pure destruction. The one he cries for cannot hear him. The wind blows lightly, the breeze cold and haunting.

[sinsinsininning]

A little bit softer

Chapter 2.

Eustass Kid x crew mate!fem!reader

TW: depictions of DV, descriptions of medical terms and procedures, not as smutty

A/N: I don’t know why but l always have to make my reader inserts or OCs a medic in some way……It’s probably bc I’m a vet tech.

~~~~~~

Kid felt… guilty, which wasn’t a normal thing for him. Suspecting you were scared of him was one thing. But knowing you were scared of him was another entirely.

He wanted to shake himself some days, you were just a rookie. Not his lover. Not his partner. He didn’t owe you anything. But then he’d ruin his own pep talk by thinking of you and your face.

After your conversation with Heat, Kid walked on eggshells around you. The entire crew was still trying their damnedest to meddle with him, so encounters with you had ramped up a lot. You both still did your best to avoid eye contact or speak to him. But it was clearly starting to wear on the crew’s patience.

“You need to handle your shit.” Killer said to him one day in his workshop. Kid couldn’t even pretend not to know what he was on about.

“You need to fuck off!” He shouted, feeling his shoulders shake.

“Just talk with her, you never know, maybe she likes you as well.”

Kid burst out in hysterical laughter, needing a few moments to catch his breath.

“She’s terrified of me Killer,” He coughed. “She thinks I’m gonna hit her or something. I heard her telling Heat.” Killer cocked his head, thinking.

“All the more reason to clear the air. What’s more is I can’t have the crew keep trying to pair the two of you up, it’s getting in the way of their tasks.” Kid fixed him with a glare.

“Newsflash, asshole! You were the one who started that shit!” He turned back to his table. “Besides the fuck am I gonna say to make her feel better? Huh?”

“That’s true, you’re not good with words.” Killer nodded and began approaching him. “You’ll just have to use your actions.” Kid laughed.

“Oh yeah? How am I gonna do that?” He asked sarcastically before a sharp pain flared in his right arm. “Ow what the fuck?!”

Killer had cut his arm, a deep laceration at least 5 inches long. The masked man shrugged at his shouting.

“She’s in the med bay, go up there, tell her you got cut while working. Ask her to patch you up.”

“Fuck you this stings!” Kid pressed a used rag to his arm. “I’ll fucking stab you.”

“She won’t be there much longer. Tell her you can’t find me and you can’t stitch yourself with one hand.” Killer took that moment leave, Kid stood there fuming for a moment. Part of him wanted to just stay down here and fix it later, just to piss Killer off.

But a stronger part of him wanted to see you, hopefully you wouldn’t run or hide. He made his way slowly to the med bay, almost hoping you’d be gone. As he entered he saw how unlucky he was.

You had your back to him, wiping down the machines that sterilized the suturing materials and other rudimentary instruments. He coughed to get your attention, keeping his injured arm hidden behind the doorframe.

“Hip are you don- oh!” He hated how tense you became, you soft stomach clenching in worry. “Sorry captain, I thought Hip was done with the mop. What can I do for you?” He showed you his arm and felt a small bit better as you gasped with worry.

The rag he’s used to staunch the bleeding made it look worse than it was, but it had dried a little and was now stuck to his skin. You motioned for him to sit on the chair by the table.

“How’d that happen?” You asked, trying to gently peel the rag off.

“Was working and it just kinda happened.” He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to lie to you. “Don’t know where Killer is and I can’t sew with only one hand.” Still not lies technically.

“Gotcha.” You’re all business and he feels a little flush at the sight of you zipping around the room gathering materials. “Well it’s not too bad, really deep though. I’ll numb it, suture it really quick and you should be on your way.” Any trace of fear or anxiety was gone, your posture alert but relaxed, you soft face was focused.

“Take your time.” Kid drawled, enjoying the view, didn’t hurt that your ass looked good as you bent over to grab something under the desk. Your ass always looked good he decided. “Got nowhere to be.”

“Not true,” You return with a small syringe, some type of numbing drug he assumed. “You’re the captain, you probably got plenty of stuff to be doing.”

He didn’t respond, the injection you gave him stung so he had to bite back his swears about it. Neither of you spoke as you worked. You had to stand pretty close to place the sutures, your hands cold but soft as you touched him.

You shivered at one point and Kid realized, horrifically, that he’d leaned to far forward to watch your hands. You glanced up at him, caught his gaze and shuffled a bit further back. He wanted to growl as he saw how tense you’d gotten, your soft apology only making him more frustrated.

You were halfway done and he couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“So.” You tensed again, he could see it in your neck especially. “I never did ask… who was your old captain?” You jabbed the needle a bit harder at the question, obviously not on purpose as you profusely apologized. He ignored and continued to stare until you answered.

“His- um. His name is um… It’s Badger. Captain Badger.” You try to focus once more.

“How long did you sail with him?”

“2 years.”

“How big was the crew?”

“About 15.”

“Where’d you sail?”

“West Blue.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“Um.” You were almost shaking, he almost hesitated.

“Why’d you leave his crew?”

“What does it matter?” Oh that was a response, he grinned, anger was better than fear. At least in his book.

“Answer the question. It’s important for me to know.”

“You never needed to know before. Why now?”

“Because I’ve been watching you.” He leans forward more, meeting your heated glare as you tied the final knot. “You’ve got some peculiar habits, I’d like to know more about that.”

“You’ve been watching me?”

He nodded.

“Like on deck or like…. In my room?”

“Not like that you pervert!” He can’t help but shout, you don’t flinch though. A small grin on your face as you successfully get him off the topic.

“So not my room or the showers? Just to clarify.” He knows he’s blushing but he still growls and stands to his full height. You step back but he follows you, a look of fear in your eyes takes over the glee. But he can’t stop himself from continuing.

“You’re clever, but I still need an answer.” He crowds your space, placing both hands on the counter behind you, caging your body with his. He leans forward, letting his breath fan over your ear. “Why did you leave?”

You stay silent, face red and a little sweaty, he pulls back just enough to admire the sight. He can’t make a reassuring face to save his life, but he tries as tears fill up your eyes. Still, he can’t stop, he needs this. You need this.

“If you are unhappy with my performance or skills, tell me and I will fix them. I haven’t brought any bad habits on board. I assure you.” You finally answer, your words felt warm against his face, he grinned some more.

“Uh-uh you see, one of those habits, the only one really,” His grin drops from his face. “Is that you’re scared of your captain.” You pale at his words and start to shake a little. He continues, drawing back slightly.

“That’s something he taught you, right?” He tilted his head a little. “To be scared of your captain. Because you never know when he’ll just up hit you, right?” He parroted your words from the bar back to you. Your eyes are wide with recognition.

“I’m sor-“

“Save it,” He cuts you off. “I know I’m scary, it’s my whole deal. I’m a scary pirate who murders and pillage. But my crew is mine. Understood. I don’t let anyone harm them, especially not myself.” You lean back into the counter more.

“You hurt Wire. You made him need staples and you didn’t even seem sorry. You didn’t help patch him up.” Kid knew this was coming, he still didn’t know what to say.

“It was a mistake,” He said. “I didn’t mean to hit him, but you’re right. I should’ve check on him and made sure he wasn’t hurt.” It was hard to admit he was wrong, but in the small medical room, to you, it was a little easier.

Both of you stayed quiet for a while. He made no move to let you go. And you made no move to try. He wasn’t sure if he would’ve actually stopped you if you did. Finally, the tension in you jaw and shoulders eased, just a little.

“Badger… was bad. He didn’t just hit us. He stole from us and wouldn’t let us leave, even if some managed to escape they’d have no Beris. It’d be like starting from scratch, but worse because if he caught you he’d kill you.” You paused, taking a big breath, turning to stare at the wall. “I was secretly saving Beris, to hopefully run off and be able to hide from him. I didn’t have much, barely anything. One day he came and told me he wanted me to be his… wife.” Kid stood up straight, leaning back like he’d been struck, you continued barely noticing him.

“I told him no, I should’ve said yes and bided my time. Maybe I could’ve taken more people with me, but I was an idiot.”

“No that’s not-“ You cut him off.

“He threw a fit, tried to kill me. His devil fruit power nullifies weapons, so I couldn’t fight back. I tried to stage a mutiny, but everyone was too afraid, he’d never lost a fight. Eventually I jumped over board and swam to shore. I hid on a marine ship, I never had a bounty so I just pretended to be some girl who wanted to travel. I flirted with some of them and got a ride to a port a few islands over.” You sighed, a long exhale that seemed to deflate you. “I had no Beris or even clothes. But I overheard some rookies talking about joining your crew. I figured it was the safest option. So I spoke with Killer and here I am.” You trailed off quietly, tears still hadn’t fallen yet, it was almost impressive.

Kid didn’t speak for several long minutes, just watching you hold your breath. Finally he pushed off the counter, giving you both some breathing room. He began to exit when you called out.

“Captain what are you doing?”

He turned with a scowl.

“I’m setting a course to go murder that asshole.”

“What? Why that’s so far off our course.”

“I told you, you’re my crew. We’re gonna go murder him, then if any of your old friends wanna join the crew they can.” He laughed at your shocked face. When he’d caught his breath he turned again to leave.

[cj-etc]

Uncommon injuries for your characters

This is just a small collection of injuries that I don’t see often/haven’t seen in writing! TW: This post may contain subjects/descriptions of blood, gore, and other uncomfortable subjects

Kicked by a horse/other large animal

Appendages run over by skate blades

Laceration via high heel

Choking (food, foreign object, etc.)

Teeth knocked out

Animal bites (namely by a pet)

Accidental poisoning

Falling/tripping resulting in skinned knee

Vehicle accidents

Injury via friends/family

Burns via cooking

Cut by glass

Impaled by fishing hook

Body parts crushed by heavy objects

Frostbite

Heatstroke

Poison ivy

Concussions

Dehydration

Medical side effects

Ancient weaponry

Curses(?)

[usedsweatersandcigarettes]

May 9- prompt: blood- @rosekillermicrofic - words: 350

tw: blood

“Barty,” Evan hums, barely above a whisper. Barty glances up from the cauldron he’d been stirring. Honestly, he doesn’t even remember what they were meant to be making, too busy watching as the particles of pixie wings had dissolved into it, turning it from a lavender to a shimmering bright green. It was truly hypnotic-

“Bartemius.”

“Yes, Rosie?” 

“I’ve cut my finger.” Evan says. He’s staring at Barty with those pale eyes again,and you see to the untrained eye, Evan had the same blank face he always did, but Barty could tell. He had an eye for idiosyncrasies. Especially when it came to Evan, who’d tilted his chin down ever so slightly, so the sun shone through his pale blonde lashes. Evan, who’s lip was turned down, just slightly. The slight raising of an eyebrow, so miniscule, so calculated, because Barty notices Evan, but Evan notices everything and he knew what he was doing, and Barty is a lot of things, but he is not a coward. Still, his voice comes out thicker than he means it to,

“Show me.”

Evan rests his hand on the table between them, and sure enough, at the end of one of his long, thin fingers is a small cut. It’s not serious, just a small laceration, really not a big deal, still Barty was transfixed on it, the thin stream of blood seeping over pale, pale skin. It was beautiful. thrilling.

It was ritualistic, what happened next. Barty’s hand slid down from where it rested on Evan’s elbow, till he was cradling Evan's wrist in his hand like a communion goblet, and lifting it to his lips. Pressing his lips over the cut. The taste of iron and salt on his tongue, and then skin. Evan’s eyes locked with his, unblinking. 

It was over as soon as it happened, he released evan’s wrist, and as it fell it skated over his lips, his neck, his shoulder and then finally returned to the table. 

“Better?” 

The corner of Evan’s mouth twitched slightly, “much.”

He could still taste the blood on his lips.

[hayleythecannibal]

Twisted Minds: Act II- Chapter Nineteen Futamono

TW: Crime scenes, Gore, Implied Death, Death, Talks of Attempted Murder/Assassination, Cannibalism, SMUT!!!, PnV, Oral(Fem recieve), Cheating

Warning this is Fem!reader. You can also find this on Wattpad and A03 under the name @HayleyMarieOfficial. Comment if you want to be added to the taglist.

Taglist: @punkin-time @miaowkitty @gabriella-aesthetic @urlocalfanficwriter @dilfdemolisher

Twisted Minds Masterlist

“You're moving smoothly and slowly, Jack, carrying your concentration like a brimming cup.” Will says as Jack approaches his cell. "Hannibal Lecter, And Y/N were almost murdered by an employee of this hospital. An attendant we believe killed the bailiff and judge in your trial." Jack says with a cold tone. "He killed the bailiff. He didn't kill the judge. That was the Chesapeake Ripper." Will says standing when jack comes into view. "You know this?"

"He told me."

"And then you told him to kill Hannibal Lecter and Y/N. "

“Wait did you just say Y/N? Nothing I said made that happen, Jack. It just happened. Is Y/N okay? Please tell me she's okay Jack.” Will says panicked about his Girlfriend. Does she think he had her killed? Are her Injuries life changing?

“Y/N is okay. Few deep cuts and lacerations. Some blunt force trauma. But overall she’s out of the hospital and stable. But you dont seem as broken up about Hannibal as you do for Y/N.” Jack says as he watches the curly haired man panic. 

“There is a common emotion we all recognize and have not yet named. The happy anticipation of being able to feel contempt. I love Y/N. I would never. Wish her harm.” Will says seriously. “You have contempt for Hannibal.” Jack says, its no a question its a statement. “I have contempt for the Ripper. I have contempt for what he does.” Will says as he starts to pace. 

“What does he do, Will?” Jack asks, curious to what the man will say. “What does he do? What is the first and principal thing he does? What need does he serve by killing?” Will says with a chuckle, not a funny chuckle, but one of irony.

“He harvests organs.” Jack says confused. 

“No. That's only the action of what he does. Why does he need to do? The Ripper kills in sounders of three or four, in quick order.  Do you know why? I know why. Y/N certainly knows as well.” Will is confident in his thinking because it's the only option. 

“Tell me.” “Because if he waits too long, then the meat spoils.” Will says as he steps closer to the bars. “He's eating them? Hannibal Lecter is Garret Jacob Hobbs? A cannibal?” Jack says, its almost humorous. Comparing Hannibal to Garret Jacob Hobbs. Its comical. Its like comparing a Lion to a leopard. One hunts for fun while the other Hunts to eat. And the eating is just the dessert for Hannibal. The main course was the hunt.

“Not like Garret Jacob Hobbs. Hobbs ate his victims to honor them. The Ripper eats his victims because they're no better to him than pigs.” Will says, oh how he wished to be at home with His dogs and Y/N. Hannibal would most likely try to turn her against him. But Will knows that would never happen. Y/N is a lot smarter than she looks, she always has a plan. Always thinking. “With the exception of Beverly Katz, there's no connection between Hannibal and any Ripper victims.” Jack says, “No immediate connection. He likely identifies his meals years in advance, earmarks them, then waits with the patience of a python.” Jack looks at Will in frustration.

“Hannibal Lecter is not the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“Who else do you know with unusual culinary tastes? If the Ripper's killing, you can bet Hannibal Lecter's planning a dinner party. You and I probably sipped wine while swallowing the people we were trying to give justice, Jack. Who does he have to kill before you'll open your eyes?” Will says, but we all know who. 

HANNIBAL LECTER'S HOUSE - KITCHEN - NIGHT-

Y/N watches Hannibal cut the heart into morsels for the skewers. We can see the bandages on his arms as he cuts. He scrapes pieces of meat into a bowl of marinade, one by one.

“Funny how we revere and romanticize a simple pump. Merely a muscle. Yet such a potent symbol of life and the things that make us human, good and bad. Love and ache.” Hannibal says as I take the pieces of heart meat from the marinade and skewers them with pieces of vegetables between each morsel. The bandages around our arms bind us together in our experience. “All of them skewered.”  I say, the irony honestly.

“It's a thematic dish. My heart certainly feels skewered.” Hannibal says as he turns to me.

“You have the scars to prove it.” I say as I touch the marks on Hannibal's neck where he was hanged. As he grips my Forearm softly, careful not to hurt me. He admires the bandages that cover my sutured arms. “So do you, I feel as though that noose were still around my neck. It's strange to have nightmares. Never used to.” He says as he grazes my hand with his thumb. The nightmares. Mine are different from his. I killed a man. Yes, he wouldve killed me and Hannibal but its different. Its been so long since i shot someone. Almost 12 years since I Killed, Took my first life.

“Don't make the mistake I've made.” I say softly, “Which is?”

“Being your own psychiatrist. I'm always psychoanaylzing myself. Its always one step forward and three steps back.” I say as i stare at our matching wrappings. “It's the safest course. I'm metabolizing the experience by composing a new piece of music.” He says as he sighs. 

“Harpsichord or theremin?” I ask politely,  “Harpsichord. Stravinsky said, "A true composer thinks about his unfinished work the whole time; he's not always conscious of this, but he's aware of it when he suddenly knows what to do." Hannibal says fondly, “Do you know what to do?”

“I need to get my appetite back.” He smiles at her and raises his glass. Sips red wine.

PARKING LOT - DAY-

the man-tree on the horizon, asphalt stretching toward. a PD CRUISER, then another, an AMBULANCE and then an FBI CRIME SCENE VAN. An ever-increasing cordon of flashing lights and POLICE OFFICERS. Finally, a BLACK SUV rolls in.

Jack takes in the scene. Looks at the tortured figure built into the tree, his frozen scream. JIMMY PRICE and BRIAN ZELLER are starting to assess the tableau. They talk. Jack just stares. “He's been literally grafted in place -- these are living roots.” Jimmy says in awe of the Rippers artistry. “He's got varicose vines. Threaded through from his heels, under his legs, his back, through his torso and out his fingertips. Followed some pretty tricky endoscopic surgical paths.” Zeller points out. 

“Chesapeake Ripper usually cherry- picks his organs. He took every last one. Except for the lungs.” Jimmy says as he hears a car pull up, A black SUV.  “Stocking his shelves.” Zeller says turning his head to look at the car.

“There'll be something about the lungs. Why else leave them?” Jack says as he  steps forward and looks at the corpse. The artfully-arranged flowers. It offends him. “The time he devotes to what he does. He takes real pride. Belladonna for the heart, a chain of white oleander for the intestines, ragwort for the liver.”

“The flowers are all poisonous.” I say stepping on scene. The looks i get are ones of surprise. “This is judgment. Ripper believes his victim was toxic. A poisonous man. Who is he to moralize?” I continue, It feels weird to be back so soon but I have lives to save. I watch as Jack stares at the body like it speaks just to him.

“He's the eye of a storm. Working in a place of calm while the winds blow us all over. He's so damn certain, it makes me sick.” Jack says as he turns to me, I give him a soft smile. I know hes been through a lot lately.

BAU - MORGUE - DAY-

Standing on a foot ladder, Brian Zeller runs a small CHAINSAW through the branches rising out of the Tree Man's head.  Y/N L/N, Jack Crawford, and Jimmy Price  All wearing PROTECTIVE EYEWEAR, speaking over the chainsaw BUZZ. “His name is Sheldon Isley. Baltimore city councilman.” Jimmy says as Zeller ceases chainsawing to add: “Ripper's a politician now.”

“At least a conservationist. Five, six years ago, Isley brokered a woodlands development deal despite the disapproval of the EPA.” Jimmy says, he himself is a conservationist. “Councilman Isley paved paradise and put up a parking lot.” Jack shrugs. “What he paved was an important nesting habitat for endangered songbirds. The son of a bitch.” Jimmy says as we watch  Zeller reach into the branches and pulls out a nest.

“Autopsy gave us what you'd expect from the Chesapeake Ripper. Pre-mortem surgical dissection, latex glove impressions, body posed before rigor set in.” Zeller says, and I nod, the veins in the legs clearly well- at least to me. Point out the cause of death. Drowning. “What have those lungs coughed up?”

“Water. Councilman drowned. Lungs are filled with aspirated water.” Zeller points out the Tree Man's legs. I smirk internally, still got it. Today I’m alone on this case, well besides jack. “He was standing in water up to his thighs for forty-eight to seventy-two hours prior to his death.”

“To feed the tree?”

“It's possible.” Zeller says as Price guides Jack to a microscope with a video feed. “Here's the exciting part. Tree Man actually bears fruit.” A PLASMA SCREEN: Curious, geometric single-cell creatures flick back and forth. “Diatoms. Unicellular colonies. Good as fingerprints. No two water sources have the same diatom population.”

“The water in his lungs gives us a location of death. Show me.” A map of Virginia. “Fifty-mile radius -- here.” He traces a circle in the Virginia woods. Jack stares at it, contemplating his next move.

BSHCI - WILL GRAHAM'S CELL - DAY-

“You understand the reality of Beverly Katz's death. You understand your role in that.” Hannibal asks the emotionless Will. “What was my role?” Will tilts his head in question. “Beverly died at your behest. You're as angry with yourself as you are with whoever murdered her.” Hannibal claims.

“Actually, I'm not. I'm singularly angry at whoever murdered her.” Will says confidently.  “You tried to kill me, Will. It's hard not to take that personally. However, if I were Beverly's murderer, I'd applaud your effort.” Hannibal says, He knows how to hurt Will. He wont hurt someone per say but it will Anger Will. “I'm no more guilty of what you've accused me of than you are of what I have accused you of.” Will says Defiantly.

“Jack Crawford believes you were responsible.” Hannibal says almost in a reasoning sense. “Where does responsibility begin and end, Dr. Lecter? With a final act or the events that led to it?” Will asks with a raised brow. “I don't expect you to feel self-loathing or regret or shame. You knew what you were doing and you made your own decisions. Decisions that were under your control. And they got someone you love Hurt. “ Hannibal says in a darker tone. 

“You think I'm in control? I would never Hurt Y/N. Not Intentionally.”

“I think you're more in control now than you've ever been. You found a way to hurt me, Will. I wonder how many more people are going to be hurt by what you do.”

“I'll give Y/N your best.” It's a veiled threat and they both know it. “Good-bye, Will” He turns his Back to Will, not amused...

BAU - MORGUE - DAY-

TECHNICIANS wheel a sheet-covered body into the morgue where Tree Man now lies on a gurney.

Another gurney is wheeled into the swiftly-filling space. Zeller and Price waiting to receive it.

Jack Crawford watching this escalation of bodies through the glass.

HANNIBAL LECTER'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT-

The STRING QUARTET plays Mozart's "Dissonance" as a party is in full swing with well-heeled GUESTS. Four SERVERS emerge from the dining room, one then the other coming INTO FOCUS as they pass through FRAME, like dancers in a chorus line, and head into the room. The servers spread through the crowd with platters thatguests turn to take food from, creating a swirl of movement through the room.

 amidst the crowd and through them. As servers move on and two guests turn to chat, they

reveal Jack Crawford, newly arrived. Jack surveys the room.Hands take morsels of food from the servers' trays and pop them into their mouths. Teeth bite and gnash. Jack watches as they chew and swallow -- going SLO-MO as they chew and then back to NORMAL SPEED for the swallow.

He can see Hannibal talking to two guests. Y/N is nearby. She’s talking to Alana.  Alana takes an hors d'oeuvre from a passing tray, a morsel of meat on a pick, and eats it.

Dr. Chilton approaches and saddles up alongside Jack, eyeing the hors d'oeuvres as they move through the room. “Prosciutto roses. Heart tartare. Beef roulade. Needless to say, I won't be eating the food.” Chilton says uneased with the dishes. “Dr. Chilton.”

“Hannibal the Cannibal. That's what they'll call him, you know.” Chilton says amused. 

“Not according to Abel Gideon.” Jack says weery. “Gideon's caused me enough trouble today. The fact that he lied to you makes me even more certain he was telling Will Graham the truth.” Chilton eyes the roast pig's head on the buffet table. “Why did you come here tonight if you're so convinced?” Jack says 

“Darwinism. I don't want him to think I suspect anything. Keeping my mouth shut on the whole affair.” Chilton says as Jack watches Hannibal. The server returns with a Tupperware

with a lid. Jack takes it in his hands. “Help yourself.” Jack takes a latex glove from his pocket and uses it to place food into the Tupperware. Hannibal glances across the room to see Dr. Chilton watching the exchange curiously. As Jack seals the container, Hannibal smiles sadly.

“Eat it soon or it'll spoil.”

BAU - CORRIDOR - NIGHT-

Jack holds the food container as he greets Brian Zeller and Jimmy Price who are emerging from evidence processing. “Test this.” A DISTINCTIVE NOTE of a harpsichord punctuates the exchange.

HANNIBAL LECTER'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT-

The room has been tidied, but evidence of the party remains. Y/N sits at Hannibal's harpsichord, doubling the KEYS she's playing until it becomes clear she's performing a slow, dreamy version of "The Swan." Hannibal slides next to her. She smiles and he watches her for a moment, then starts playing his composition at the opposite end of the keyboard.

“The ending to my composition has been alluding me. You may have solved my problem with "The Swan."” They smile as they play, hands crossing over the keys, pushing their shoulders together.

“If only all problems could be solved with a simple waltz. Jack's treating you like a suspect.

He's pointing fingers in the dark.” I say, I wish i was scared of what i knew Hannibal was capable of. I know what he is and who he is. “I've walked away from Will, but I'm still trailing his accusations.” Hannibal says.

“I cant walk away. No matter how much I wish I wanted to. He’s my partner.” I say softly as my fingers grace the keys. “What does walking away leave us?” 

“Each other.” Hannibal looks at Y/N, admiring her, appreciating her. Y/N turns to face Hannibal. He feels her gaze and turns to her, their hands stilled on the keys. His hand reaches up and grazes her cheek softly, she leans into his touch. He kisses her softly, leaving her room to pull away. And pull away she did.

“This- This is wrong.” I say softly, though my body says otherwise. My hands rest on his chest. “What is so wrong about ones affection for another.” Hannibal says as he cups my face in his hands. “I’m with Will…” I say as I close my eyes. “Will needs to learn how to share.” He smirks. And Kisses me. One of his hands trail down to hold my waist. As my hands slide up to his hair. 

HANNIBAL LECTER'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT- We stumble into the Bedroom, Hands clawing at each others clothing. Desperate to be relieved of them. He kicks the door behind us closed. I smile into our lustful bliss, He leads us to the bed without his lips ever leaving my skin. His touch scourches my soul, leaving handprints that shall never leave my being.

He pushes me down onto the bed. He’s in control. He possesses my body, mind, and soul in this very moment. I'm afraid he'll never release me. I sit up, my hands going to the buttons on his dress shirt. His lips leave a trail of bruising marks on my neck. His hands unzip my backless dress. I kick off my heels that should've been discarded earlier. The straps of my dress fall down my shoulders.

Hannibal’s dress shirt, suit jacket, and vest have been discarded to the floor by now, leaving him in his belt, pants, and what's underneath. He pulls the straps of my dress to reveal the skin beneath. I quickly go to cover myself, but he grabs my wrists gently but tight enough to stop me.

Hannibal gazes down upon my body, my dress now joining my heels on the floor. I advert his burning Gaze. “Perfect, you are a masterpiece dear. A Living piece of Art” He says as he takes both of my wrists into one of his hands, the other lifts my chin to meet his Gaze. I flush red, feeling the heat in my cheeks and the pooling in my panties. Glad i'm wearing lace. He unpins my hair from its style, my curls fall framing my face. I bite my lip, he pulls it free with his thumb and kisses me hungrily. I moan into the kiss, Hannibal takes the opportunity to bite my lip drawing Blood from it. I gasp and look up at the much older man, He smirks and strokes my cheek. My hands go to his belt, my eyes never leave his. One of Hannibal’s hands trails down my body, coaxing shivers from my body. His fingers dip into my panties, my Breathing hitches. “So wet. Does Will ever make you this wet?” He asks darkly, I nod softly. There had been a few occasions where Will had Aroused me to this extent. 

He looks at me like I'm Prey. Like he could eat me alive. And let's be honest, He probably could. He pushes me down, and Tears my panties off me swiftly. I gasp as he spreads my legs and kneels before me. The sight of it makes me somehow wetter.

Its like the Devil kneeling before an Angel. I lean onto my elbows to watch as he kisses up my legs, my head falls back as he softly blows on my heat. I softly Whimper. He litters my inner thighs with kisses and hickeys. Then finally he brings his mouth to where i need it most.

Hannibal's tongue licks a stripe up my pussy. He groans at the taste; “You taste Divine.” He smirks and then attaches his mouth to my cunt, drinking me in. My hand tangles in his hair as the other grips the comforter tightly.  “Fuck…” I moan out the profanity, I feel him smirk against my heat. He grips my thigh with one hand as the other trails its fingers along my entrance. He pushes two long fingers into me, causing me to buck and moan out other unintelligible profanities and words of praise. 

He hikes my leg over his shoulder, my hand tangled in his hair softly tugs him closer. Im a moaning mess, He sets the pace with his fingers and curls them, expertly hittling my g-spot as he attaches his lips to my clit. 

“Oh Fuck! Hannibal.” I moan loudly, Alerting him that he found it.  If he had neighbors they'd surely hear me. I quickly feel the familiar burn of an oncoming orgasm, my pussy clenches around his fingers and he pulls way causing me to let out a pathetic whimper.

“Not yet Butterfly.” He says softly as he removes my leg from his shoulder. He leans over me and Kisses me softly, I moan softly at the taste of myself on his lips and tongue. I Kiss along his jaw and down his neck. Politely not leaving any marks. My hands unbutton his pants and i bite my lip. I knew it wasn't right. I Love Will. But there's just something about Hannibal that coaxes the dark and dangerous part of me out. 

I flip us over and straddle his thighs as he watches me with a dark smile. I kiss up his stomach, abs and chest, until I reached his lips. He grips my waist and kept me pressed to him in our passionate kiss. Until i pulled away. I tugged at his pants and he allowed me to take them off. I hear him chuckle darkly.

“What?” i ask innocently, I look up at him softly. He cups my cheek and his thumb strokes my cheek bone. “Such a good Girl.” He praises, I whimper at said praise. I focus on my task at hand. I look back up at him silently asking permission. My hands needy, grasping at his boxers. He shakes his head with a smile as he strokes my cheek. My eyebrows furrow confused. “Not tonight Butterfly.” He flips us back over. Hannibal chuckles. He strokes my hair and kisses me. I relax and sigh into the kiss. His hands explore my body, mapping out the soft skin. My arms wrap around his neck, and pull him closer. He kisses along my neck, his tongue tasting the salt on my skin. He pulls back and admires the work he has done on my neck. I reach up and brush the hair from his face. Hannibal looks back up at me and kisses me passionately. I wrap my legs around his waist, grinding up on his bulge, desperate for friction.

Hannibal moans at the action and pulls back to look at me. My face flushed. I bite my lip as he strokes my hair and tucks it behind my ear. I grind up again and he kisses me roughly.

His hands pin mine above my head, he grips them both with one hand. He lines himself up with my entrance. I moan and whimper, wanting nothing more than for him to be inside me. His other hand holds my hip, his thumb strokes the skin there. I feel his tip tease my entrance, I let out a pathetic whine. He looks into my eyes and then slides into me. We both moan, and he lets out a low growl. He bottoms out inside of me and I gasp. My back arches and my eyes roll back.

My hands grip the pillow, Hannibal releases his grip on them. He leans down and kisses me softly as he pulls back and slowly thrusts back in. I moan into the kiss and my nails drag across his scalp, making him growl into the kiss. His hands hold onto my hips tightly, I know they'll leave a mark. He thrusts into me at a slow pace, letting me feel every inch of him. He groans and moans, I love the sounds he makes.

His thrusts start getting rougher, more animalistic. My legs wrap around his waist and my heels dig into his lower back, pushing him further into me. The sound of our skin slapping is music to my ears, and i know that I can't hold back anymore.

I gasp and moan. I claw at his back, and he buries his face in the crook of my neck. His breath is hot against my skin, his teeth scrape my skin and I whimper. Hannibal thrusts harder and faster, hitting deeper with every thrust. I cry out as the all too familiar burn starts to form, my toes curl. Hannibal groans, his cock twitches inside me. I can tell he's getting close, too. His pace gets more erratic and less rhythmic.

He bites my shoulder, marking me. Claiming me as his. I scream out, the pain and pleasure overwhelming my senses. I feel him cum inside me, hot and sticky. The sensation of it sends me over the edge, my orgasm hits and i cum on his cock. We ride out our orgasms together, he slows his pace and kisses along my neck. He releases the skin of my shoulder from his teeth. He licks the blood and cleans the wound.

HANNIBAL LECTER'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT-

Her skin is in stark contrast to the crimson bedding. Hannibal sleeps soundly next to Y/N. After a moment, he opens his eyes. He watches Y/N. He finally stands. He takes Y/N's wineglass from the bedside table. With a white cloth, he wipes the rim, then sets the glass back down. He snaps his fingers close to her ears; she doesn't stir. He looks again at Y/N’s sleeping, then leaves.

HOSPITAL - DR. GIDEON'S ROOM - NIGHT-

l he lies propped up in a hospital bed, curtains drawn all around on an oval frame. His face is bruised. IV drips and monitoring are hooked up to his body. A THICK BANDAGE around his TORSO. We HEAR the door to the room open and then slowly close. Gideon's eyes open as FOOTSTEPS squeak on the floor. He sees a tall SHADOW behind the CURTAINS as it approaches.He watches as the shadow moves toward the foot of the bed. SLOW and TENSE. The curtains are drawn back and a tall figure in surgical scrubs, gloves and a MASK stands before him. He pulls down his mask to reveal Hannibal Lecter. “Hello, Dr. Gideon.”

“I knew you'd come.” Hannibal smiles at Gideon.

HOSPITAL - DR. GIDEON'S ROOM - DAWN-

Early morning light begins to creep through the windows.the curtains surrounding Gideon's bed, a GHOULISH SILHOUETTE hangs beyond them. A FLASH ignites behind the curtain, the silhouettes of TWO MEN examining the body. Jack Crawford as he approaches. He opens

the curtains to find Brian Zeller taking forensic photos of the body as Jimmy Price dusts for fingerprints.

THE BODY It seems to be floating on his belly, horizontally suspended two feet above the bed. His skin is pinched/stretched/pulled many different directions by WIRE FISHING LEADERS. Each line ends in a handcrafted HOOK -- the barb pushed through the skin of the dead man's back, arms and legs. But that dead man is not Abel Gideon. Instead, it is a BALTIMORE POLICE OFFICER, his gun belt still around the waist of his uniform pants. His torso is BARE and opened, the skin held back in flaps attached by fishhooks. The contents of his abdomen on the bed below, his badge sits on top. The finger clip from the MONITORS is attached to his hand. “Put a heart monitor on the guard so no one'd know Gideon was missing, least for as long as it took the guard to die, which wasn't long.” Zeller says.

“Long enough.” Jimmy indicates the dead police officer. “Fishhooks. Hand-tied flies. Like the ones Will Graham used to make. This one has human hair. A tooth.” Jimmy says as he indicates the parts in the flybaits. “There's no way Gideon could have done any of this with his injuries, much less get out of bed.” Zeller clarifies.

“Last time Gideon escaped custody, he was trying to find the Chesapeake Ripper. Found him all right. And tonight, the Ripper found Gideon.”

HANNIBAL LECTER'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - EARLY MORNING-

Y/N asleep in Hannibal's bed. She stirs slightly and slowly opens her eyes. Hannibal sleeps quietly next to me. I stare peacefully at the ceiling, the morning after sleeping with a friend. What the Hell have I done?  As I begin to think too much, I realize Hannibal has opened his eyes and is watching me.

“You're awake.” I say with a soft sigh and a smile. “So are you.”

“Was thinking about What we did. How I betrayed Will. My heart is torn. And I don't know why.” I say softly as my smile starts to drop. He Caresses my cheek and brushes away a stray hair in my face.  “Of course your heart is torn. You love Will. But you also care for me as well.” 

“But I feel that is unfair. Not to me but to the both of you.” I say softly  “It isn't unfair, I know how to share. And I'm certain Will does too.” He kisses me, then stops and looks at me reassuringly: I kiss him back. BING-BONG. The doorbell rings. BING-BONG.  “Last time someone rang my doorbell this early, it was a census taker.” He goes in to kiss me again before BING-BONG and begrudgingly Hannibal rises from the bed, shrugs on a robe. Hannibal goes to the curtains and draws them -- revealing the morning sun and allowing it to spill into the room.

“I'll see who it is.”

HANNIBAL LECTER'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - MOMENTS LATER-

three loud RAPS on a heavy oak door. The peephole goes dark, then -- Hannibal opens the door to find Jack Crawford standing outside.

“Hello, Jack.” Hannibal says as he  leads Jack into the living room. “What can I do for you?”

“Gideon took a fall down a stairwell last night. Was hospitalized. Security guard standing watch was killed in what looks to be another Chesapeake Ripper murder. Now Gideon is nowhere to be found.” Jack explains and looks at him expectantly.

“He escaped?”

“We know he didn't walk out of the hospital. His back was broken. Someone took him. Someone he knew. Where were you last night?”

Hannibal Hesitates “I was Here.”

“All night?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone besides you can verify that?” Hannibal's quiet a moment. Then, from behind Jack: “I can.” I say wrapped in one of Hannibal's Button-ups, it goes down to my mid-thigh. Jack turns. He flashes surprise, but tamps it quickly.

“I was here with Hannibal all night, Jack. What are you accusing him of?” I ask as Hannibal reads Jack's frustration and perhaps relief. But there's a chance he woke up. Why the Hell am i not upset that i most likely Fucked the Chesapeake Ripper. “I'm not accusing him of anything. Only asking his whereabouts.”

“That's not all you were asking.” Jack looks evenly at them, nods, forced to accept that

Hannibal isn't the Chesapeake Ripper...

BAU - EVIDENCE PROCESSING - DAY-

Brian Zeller stands in front of a monitor. Jimmy Price and Jack Crawford look on. “Not cows. Wagyu beef. I'd say, a hundred dollars worth right there.”

“Sure it wasn't Kobe?” Zeller asks his fellow tech. Jimmy rolls his eyes: “All Kobe is Wagyu, but not all Wagyu is Kobe. Least we know Dr. Lecter wasn't serving up people.”

“Want people? The Chesapeake Ripper was tying flies with them. Just like Will Graham allegedly did.”

BAU - MORGUE - MOMENTS LATER-

Brian Zeller, Jimmy Price and Jack standing over a row of FISHING LURES taken from the security guard's back.

“Hair woven into the monofilament is Beverly's. Bone fragments from Miriam Lass. Veining from Sheldon Isley. Optic nerves and arteries from Judge Davies. A toenail from James Gray, our Muralist.” Zeller points to the DNA matches. A fly hook. Cleverly crafted, with bits of dark, organic material woven into the monofilament. A bone fragment. Veining coiled around hook and feather. An optic nerve entwined with bark.

“All Chesapeake Ripper victims.” Zeller says as Jimmy indicates four lures, in partial stages of

deconstruction, in individual grids. “These four lures here are almost identical to the ones we found at Will's house, made with materials from the exact same human remains. Abigail Hobbs, Marissa Schuur, Donald Sutcliffe, Georgia Madchen.” Jimmy points out.

“Will didn't kill any of them. There was no Copycat. It was always the Ripper. He's finally taking credit for those murders.” Jack realizes Will never killed anyone other than Garret Jacob Hobbs.

“May be taking too much credit. We found something else in the lures.” With tweezers, Jimmy plucks a curled, wispy wood shaving from one of the deconstructed fly grids.

“Madrona bark. It's a tree almost nonexistent on the East Coast. But this bark was peeled recently.”

Zeller gestures to the map of the area. “There's a small stand of madrona in Virginia.”

“Inside your diatom search area.” Zeller zooms in with his hand, à la an iPad. “Here.”

VIRGINIA BARN - NIGHT-

Moonlight on crisp white snow. The hulking black shadow of a heavily-built wooden barn stands stark against the white. we hear the low rumble of a car engine, to find a black sedan pulling up on the opposite side of the barn. JACK CRAWFORD and  DR. Y/N L/N Exit the car. Takes in the barn; the two heavy gate doors barred on the outside. Jack pulls out his gun and a Maglite and walks toward it, his feet crunching on the snow. Their breath frosts the air. Jack walks up the wooden ramp to the heavy doors.

Blackness, except for slivers of faint moonlight shining through the wooden beams. We hear the sound of the heavy bar eing thrown. And then the door opens and a piercing FLASHLIGHT BEAM.. Jack and Y/N silhouetted behind it as he enters the barn slowly. He plays the flashlight around the space, cautious. Tense.

.

Cobwebs and old wood. Heavy old machinery and hand tools. Dust in the air. A SKITTERING SOUND and Jack swings the light and gun -- catching a RAT scurrying for cover... Jack  and Y/N move on. Something shines in the beam and Jack moves toward it. A new steel padlock on an old door. Incongruous. Y/N looks around to be cautious of her surroundings.

A rending sound of wood and metal. A door opens to reveal a flight of wooden stairs, looking up

at Jack and Y/N.

 Y/N throws down the iron bar she used to force the lock. Jack Shines his light right at the bottom as they start down the stairs -- Jack moves down the wooden stairs, gun and flashlight before him. Y/N shines her own light to reveal a dark, low cellar space, the concrete floor dominated by the tops of two circular WATER CISTERNS.

Jack and Y/N scan the room, Their flashlight beams our only light source, casting harsh shadows and movements. Jack checks the room for danger -- light reflecting off dirt-smeared windows in the far wall; blackness reflecting back from the other side.

MOVEMENT Y/N stills as she hears it. Heart thumping. A scraping sound. BELOW HER…She moves to the cisterns, the old stone topped with much newer METAL LIDS. she pulls the first one off -- flashes the light into it – dark water rises a third of the way up the steep slick sides.

SCRITCH – The sound again. Y/N moves to the other cistern. Can definitely hear something inside... (AN: BTW i wrote the SMUT scene while listening to "I am not afraid anymore" by Halsey, and whew it really goes with the scene)

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Assassin Rescues Prisoner from Target's house part 1

TW: blood, intense torture, recovery, pain, death, assassination, severe whump, etc.

PROMPT: an assassin breaks into their target's house and kills them, easy enough, a job they've done a dozen times before. But as they're leaving, they realize that the target wasn't alone in the house – whumpee has been kept there in captivity, and is in a bad state. The assassin considers leaving for a moment before making up their mind to get whumpee out and do whatever they can to help them – they've never been so happy to have killed someone after seeing what the target did to whumpee.

MY WRITING:

The mission itself was easy enough. Get in, kill Target, get out. Jax was a professional assassin, the best one in town. Killing was what he did best.

Dressed in his black outfit and cloak and armed with his favorite daggers and throwing knives, the assassin effortlessly infiltrated the extravagant mansion his target lived in. Using the throwing knives, he took out every guard he came upon, quickly and efficiently, making his way deeper into the building, his footsteps quiet as death as they ghosted over the floors, unnaturally silent. He had scoped the place out ahead of time, mentally mapping out every entrance and exit that he now knew by heart. Jax made his way to the private living quarters of his target, taking a deep breath before kicking down the door to the bedroom.

The target never saw it coming. They didn't even have time to gasp in surprise before Jax leapt gracefully forward and slashed their throat open with a wickedly sharp dagger, watching impassively as they crumpled to the floor, twitching feebly and clutching the gushing wound. Choked gurgling was all that escaped them as they tried to speak. It was over in under a minute, a quick, clean kill. The assassin wiped the blood from his blade on his target's own clothes before sheathing it, preparing to make his escape now that his task was complete. But something made him pause.

A strange, muffled sound reached his ears, that almost sounded like... crying? Whimpering? Jax's curiosity was piqued, and he debated whether to investigate. He didn't like to stay in one place for too long, lest he be caught, but something about the sounds intrigued him. He cursed himself for the hesitation, knowing that curiosity often kills cats.

But eventually he decided that there couldn't be any harm in snooping around his now-dead target's house. He realized that the sounds were coming through a wall, so he left the bedroom and went to the next room over, picking the lock in seconds and stepping inside. It was the absolute last thing Jax would have ever expected to find. It was the complete opposite of the lavish, excessively-decorated mansion.

No, this room was solid concrete top to bottom, cold and dark like a prison, or some twisted sort of dungeon. And against the back wall... chained up in a standing position... was a person? Almost unrecognizable, covered in dirt and blood and bruises. Was it a dead body?

The assassin warily crept closer, cautious, taking it all in. The prisoner was a young man, no more than a teenager, with wrists chained spread out to either side of him, the only things holding him up as he slumped forward limply against them, head lolled against his chest. And the boy was blindfolded with a piece of thick black cloth. The poor kid's breaths were broken and hitched with pathetic sobs and sounds of pain and suffering.

Jax's eyes roamed across his beaten body, all he was wearing was shorts and a ragged shirt. He was horrified to see the hundreds of vicious gashes and lacerations shredded across his entire form, some older but a lot much fresher, still oozing blood. Lash marks, burns, the cuts made from unkind blades... it was a miracle the boy wasn't dead already.

The prisoner's bones were highly visible beneath his bloodied and bruised skin from starvation, his appearance haggard and broken. It was hard to believe Jax's target could have been so cruel. It was clear this captive had been brutally tortured for weeks, if not months. And the boy's face was deathly pale from obvious blood loss, his whole body trembling with fear.

"What on earth did they do to you...?" Jax breathed aloud, hardly believing the brutality.

The teenager flinched hard at the sound of his voice, barely mustering the strength to weakly lift his head, still blindfolded.

"P-Please sir... n-no more..." he croaked. His voice was no more than a raspy whisper, throat bloody and raw from screaming. Then a racking cough shook his frail form.

Jax felt a sharp twinge of pity, and slowly unsheathed his dagger, hesitantly bringing it to the boy's throat. Perhaps it was better to put the poor mangled creature down, end his suffering. The prisoner let his head droop back down against his chest in defeat when he felt the cold metal rest against his artery, giving himself up to the mercy of welcoming death. Like a puppet with strings cut his body lolled forward against his restraints, going limp and submissive.

A few seconds of heavy silence passed, before Jax pulled his blade back and re-sheathed it, cursing under his breath. He couldn't bring himself to kill him.

"I'll get you out of here...." Jax reluctantly grumbled. What was he doing? Was he going soft? This was definitely not part of the plan. Jax shoved the thoughts out of his head and focused on the task at hand, picking the locks on the cuffs holding the teenager to the wall. He was barely able to react in time as the prisoner pitched bonelessly forward, and Jax caught him in surprised arms. The boy was feather-light from malnourishment, and he felt a hot flash of pure rage at how brutalized he was, barely alive.

Jax lowered him to the floor, resting his broken body in his lap as he eased the blindfold off.

The prisoner let out a pained groan that was dipped with the purest agony, blinking up at the assassin several times with sunken, hollow eyes full of pain. "...You're not... (Target's name)..." He wheezed softly, before more coughing racked his weak frame.

Jax could only nod, too speechless with horror and anger. He could feel the sorry soul shivering violently, skin ice-cold to the touch with blood loss, as his head rolled weakly against Jax's chest. Shallow breaths wheezed in and out of his lungs, a struggle to even draw air.

Wordlessly, Jax slowly got up and as gently as possible slung the teenager over a shoulder to carry him out of the wretched place.

The boy let out a weak, strangled, rattling cry of sharp pain as he was picked up, injuries singing with excruciating agony at even the most simple movement. He didn't even have the strength to struggle, or jerk away from the pain. He remained a limp weight over the assassin's shoulder as Jax carried him out of the mansion, to a new life.

It was a long journey back to his hideout, and with the dead weight over his shoulder, it slowed him down. The whole way, Jax was highly aware of the warm blood sliding down his shoulder, flowing red over his black stealth suit. Part of him wondered if the prisoner was even still alive, or if he was now carrying a lifeless body. But at last, he arrived. He slipped silently into his secret hideout, which was no more than a small underground dwelling built under the city to conceal him. His personal base of operations.

Jax was aware of every second ticking by, every second that the teen lost more blood with each sluggish heartbeat. He felt his adrenaline rising as he carried him over and set his broken body on the couch. The kid's head rolled lifelessly to the side, and his breaths were shallow and wheezing as he writhed and twitched weakly in pain.

Why am I doing this? Jax asked himself. Why do I care whether this kid lives or dies? I've ended plenty of lives myself...

Saving this captive could bring him trouble in the near future, maybe more trouble than he was worth, but Jax didn't have time to dwell on that. He whisked over to a corner of the room and dug through a wooden chest, gathering some medical supplies he often used on himself after missions gone wrong. He brought it to the side of the couch, placing fingers on the boy's pale neck. There was still a pulse. Barely. Fading more with every passing moment.

Quickly, Jax reached over to cut open the center of the prisoner's shredded, tattered shirt to check the extent of the injuries and prioritize the worst of them.

And he couldn't help a small horrified gasp when she saw what was beneath the ruined shirt. The captive's skin was mottled black and purple and red with hundreds of bruises and cuts and lacerations, all in various stages of healing, a grotesque mosaic carved into his flesh. It was cruel beyond belief, and to do something like this to someone so young... it made Jax's blood boil with rage.

His wide eyes roamed across the damage, taking it all in. Deeper gashes laced across the prisoner's chest, and larger bruises had formed over his ribs, some of them no more than a day or two old. The poor teen was covered in so many vicious injuries that it was hard to believe he was even still alive at all.

Jax's eyes flicked over to his wrists, chest twisting in knots as he spotted the inflamed chafe marks there where the skin was rubbed raw and bloody, signs of a futile struggle. It was clear he had been held captive for a long, /long/ time. He let out a shaky breath and rifled through the medical kit, quickly finding his suture kit, the same one he'd used on himself countless times to fix up battle injuries.

With trembling hands, he slipped on a pair of gloves and turned his focus to a particularly deep, oozing gaze. He had seen a lot of injuries in the past, but this was one of the worst.

His practiced skill came to aid him as he started stitching up the wound as fast as he could. Then the prisoner suddenly came back to semi-consciousness with a jolt, a weak scream of agony tearing loose from him as Jax brought the needle to his skin again and again. He started blindly lashing out in pure panic and terror, clumsily trying to push him away with failing strength, which was about as effective as pounding on solid rock. He was desperate and frantic, doing anything he could to escape the terrible agony racking his body with every breath, with every stitch Jax made. The teenager's breaths were strained and labored, coming in gasping pants, and the cries of pain were only broken up by breathless sobs as he writhed weakly on the couch, unable to out-scream the pain. Tears rolled down his filthy face, mixing with blood.

Jax winced as another gurgling scream wrenched from his mouth, making his ears hurt. He paused for a beat to reach over into his basket of supplies, pulling out a bundle of gauze.

"Quit making so much noise, it's giving me a headache," Jax growled, growing annoyed. "Bite down on this." He stuffed the roll of gauze roughly into the prisoner's mouth, muffling his cries of pain as he resumed stitching his side, tying off the thread at the end. He did the same for several other wounds he found, until finally it seemed he had gotten them all closed up. And not a moment too soon. The prisoner's face was deathly pale from blood loss, and his breathing kept growing weaker with every passing second. He was in terrible shape. And he had stopped trying to scream, falling silent, having finally passed out from the pain and physical distress.

Jax loosed a heavy sigh, and set to work covering up all the places he had stitched with gauze and medical wraps, before shifting focus to the smaller injuries. It was astonishing that the boy had survived so much physical trauma. He must have endured so many unspeakable horrors during his time at Target's house.

When Jax was finally done patching him up, he sat on a chair adjacent to the couch with another weary sigh, giving him a chance to reflect on everything that had happened. This was a stupid idea, he told himself. Even if the teen survived his grievous injuries, what would he do with him? He worked alone, that was how it always was. Keeping track of another person would be... hard. He knew this from experience.

Because a long time ago, he'd had an apprentice he worked with. Together, they were the two most dangerous assassins the world had ever seen. At least... until his apprentice had been executed in front of him as an act of revenge. Assassin had sworn to work alone ever since that day, the pain still sharp and fresh despite the years. He winced at the memory.

Exhaustion tugged at Jax's limbs, and he got up to check the teen's breathing, which had finally steadied a bit. He was too tired to worry about cleaning up all the blood in his hideout, so he just grabbed a blanket to pull over himself as he sat in a chair next to the couch, letting himself doze off for the night.

Next ⏩️

Masterlist

[serickswrites]

Make Me Your Villain master list

Hiraethian is a city guarded by the greatest superhero of the day, Jude, and his young apprentice, Liam. But when Liam learns of the reality of Jude and how he manages the city, he makes a decision that changes the trajectory of his life and the lives of other civilians, including Henry and Nova.

This series is, as of right now (eleventh of May, 2024) plotted out for 28 chapters. We will see if more get added. But please feel free to drop asks/requests/dms about the story. I will put tags next to each chapter, but know that there will be some whumpy and not whumpy chapters.

Here are links to character bios and I will link each chapter here after the post (starting twelfth of May, 2024).

Chapter 1--TW: emotional manipulation, threat of destruction

Chapter 2--TW: referenced emotional manipulation, referenced death, referenced murder, grief, isolation

Chapter 3--TW: destruction, loss, devastation, fire, burns, threat of death, physical violence

Chapter 4--TW: cuts, blood, wounds, injury, head injury, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

Chapter 5--TW: stabbing, blood, explosions, presumed dead, guilt

Chapter 6--TW: threat of death, power exhaustion, blood, stabbing, character brought to brink of death, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

Chapter 7--TW: threat of death

Chapter 8--TW: broken bones, threat of injury, threat of death, asphyxiation, choking, strangulation, hurt/recovery, hurt/aftermath, hurt/comfort

Chapter 9--TW: violence, threat of violence, abduction, threat of drowning, hypothermia, water inhalation, lacerations, exhaustion, power exhaustion, fire, threat of death

Chapter 10--fluff chapter

Chapter 11--TW: violence, threat of death, self sacrifice, falling from a great height, broken bones, crush injuries, blood, injury, gore, character death, unconsciousness, power exhaustion, heart break, shock

Chapter 12--TW: referenced heart break, referenced near death experience, pain

Chapter 13--TW: physical violence, unconsciousness, drowning, near drowning, cpr, temporary character death, hurt/comfort, hurt/recovery; nsfw, consensual sexual activities, idk how to tag this lol

Chapter 14--fluff chapter

Chapter 15--fluff chapter

Chapter 16--TW: threat of violence

Chapter 17--TW: fire, left for dead, burns, attempted murder, power suppression, implied murder

Chapter 18--TW: destruction, violence, kidnapping, drugging, burns

Chapter 19--TW: captivity, restraints, torture, electrocution, drugging, self sacrifice, rescue attempt, blood

Chapter 20--TW: captivity, restraints, torture, blood, wounds, electrocution, cuts, unconsciousness, forced to watch, physical violence

Chapter 21--TW: captivity, restraints, torture, blood, wounds, injury, unconsciousness

Chapter 22--TW: captivity, torture, restraints, blood, wounds, injury, self sacrifice, gore, blood from the mouth, character death, potential mcd, temporary character death

Chapter 23--TW: captivity, rescue attempt, failed rescue, blood, wounds, mcd, potential temporary character death, grief, heartbreak, cruel whumper, public display

Chapter 24--TW: captivity, restraints, torture, referenced character death, rescue

Chapter 25--TW: referenced character death, threat of death, physical violence, broken bones

Chapter 26--TW: unconsciousness, restraints, blood, wounds, gore, cpr, mcd, grief

Chapter 27--TW: death, blood, gore (brief mention), broken bones, grief, mcd, funeral, grief rituals, heart break

Epilogue--TW: referenced death, referenced grief

Asks: 1, 2

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

i assume you'll be coming for blood (that makes two of us)

Chapter 6

Ao3 | 3.1k Words | Sweetheart's POV

The consequences, physical, emotional, mental, ect.

TW: blood and injury, eye injury, disembowlment, throat injury, trance, panic, referenced blood lust, the aftermath of injury, reveal of disability.

You didn’t know how he found you, but the next time you opened your eyes, Milo was crouched over you, his face drawn and silver eyes nearly red in the low light. 

“There you are,” he breathed. One of his cold hands was pressed around your neck as though to choke you. The pain was dull and distant in a way that concerned you. “You keep those eyes open, you hear me, Sweetheart? You stay with me. Fuck me , fuck, fuck, fuck!”

You opened your mouth to respond, to spit back some snappy retort about him calling you sweet nicknames, but you sputtered around another mouthful of blood. Your body jerked and twitched, desperate for air and unable to draw any. 

“Fuck,” Milo breathed like it was the only word he knew. You tried to gasp, your hand twitching to try and reach for him. You needed to tell him. You needed to tell him that you were sorry, that you had been such an idiot, that it was all your fault. You didn’t have the strength. “Fuck. God, Dimitri… no he won’t… he wouldn’t let me.” Milo was flicking his eyes, blown wide with panic, over your body. His free hand fluttered over you helplessly, unsure where to apply pressure. He eyed the slash wound over your stomach with something between horror and hunger. This much blood, especially blood he wanted, blood he said he craved when you went too long between sessions, must have been difficult for him. Your throat closed and opened uselessly around itself.  You jolted as the hand around your throat shifted and another caressed your face, covering your right eye and spanning from your hairline to the middle of your cheek. His fingers were so long. You wanted him to thread them through your hair, to caress them gently across your lips, to force them into your mouth and down your fluttering throat. You wanted him to never stop touching you. 

An impression of healing magic whispered against you; the warmth, the sting. It brushed over you like hot breath, barely there at all. A whimper of exertion left Milo as he forced his magic into you. You felt the wound on your neck try to close, the sinew of your torn skin try to tighten, and then fail and all flat again. 

“ Fuck!” Milo spat. You thought he was crying. As he lost his grip on his magic, he crumpled, bending at his waist to rest his head against your still bleeding stomach. You felt him shake with sobs. “What do I do? Ma, what do I do?” 

You must have blacked out, because the next thing you knew, you were moving and fast. Milo had used his speed while holding you before, but the head rush of it was made even more intense by the blood kiss. You gasped and choked, twitching in his arms. “I know,” he huffed, coming to a sudden halt. I know, Sweetheart, stay with me.” 

You cracked an eye open and found yourself out of the heart of Dahlia, in a quiet, suburban neighborhood. Milo was stood on the porch of a beautifully maintained, two story brick house. You were bleeding all over the pretty welcome mat. He used his foot to knock so he didn’t have to set you down. 

After a tense few seconds, while Milo muttered those stupid, sweet things into your ear, the door creaked open. 

“Milo?” A deep voice cut through the fog in your brain. It sounded strained, close to heart broken. Milo didn’t wait to be invited in, just pushed past a hulking figure and into the quiet of a darkened living room. “What happened?” 

“Deep lacerations to the face and neck, I think the right leg is broken, bruising, blood loss- I don’t even know how long they were out there before I found them. Davey, it’s bad.” Milo’s voice was high with panic, and this seemed to shut down any questions the other man might have had. 

“Couch,” the deep voice, Davey, ordered. “Angel, please call Asher.” 

“I didn’t know where else to go.” Milo admitted, sounding more like a lost little kid than you’d ever heard him. You felt gutted. He seemed surprisingly vulnerable, surprisingly open. Old friend, he’d said of Davey from that phone call. Pack. You could feel Davey’s aura, so strong it strangled yours out. Shifter. 

“You did good, Milo.” Davey said softly. “You can always come here. Always.” You groaned as you were laid out on an unfairly plush couch. You were going to bleed all over the delicate throw pillows and knitted blankets. You were going to ruin it. “Let me take a look.” 

Hands were on you suddenly, big and hot and prodding at your wounds. You cried out, your voice gurgled by the blood in your throat. You thrashed violently and found the strength to fight back. You didn’t know those hands. You couldn’t stand the feeling of them on your skin. 

You swung out an arm and clawed at the figure over you, cutting into the skin of his forearm with your blunt nails. You didn’t want anybody to touch you, to explore your wounds, to dissect your weakness with your guts open like this. 

“Fuck, hold them-” 

“Shit! Sweetheart-”

Desperate cries cut together as Milo and Davey tried to contain you, tried to pin your down. Your magic, what was left of it, tried to defend you. You phased in and out, your arms passing through them as they tried to keep you still. 

“Milo, they’re bleeding, you need to-” 

“-gotta calm down, Baby, fuck-” 

“Milo, now!” 

Hands framed your face, cold and long and familiar. You gasped at the feeling of them. 

“Sweetness, look at me.” Milo’s voice sliced through your panic and drew your focus. Those hot, unfamiliar hands captured your own and pinned you down, held you in place. You managed to pry your right eye open. The left must have been caked dry with blood. When you met Milo’s eyes, they were glazed over black. You wondered if he was frightened or angry. 

The trance fell over you like a blanket. Immediately, your muscles loosened and your mind slowed. All thoughts of fighting dissipated into nothing, Milo’s face twisted painfully as he spoke. 

“I’m so sorry, Sweetheart. Please, just calm down. Let Davey work. Just keep looking at me and rest, okay?” You found yourself nodding dreamily, disturbing the wounds on your neck and face. One big hand came up to rest on your forehead, the other barely bruised over your throat. With a grunt and a pulse of magic, the cuts closed over. You felt your skin stitching back together, but the pain was far, far away. All you could focus on was Milo’s wide, black eyes, brimming with tears. 

A sharp fist dug into your sternum and rubbed. You coughed once, blood flooding your mouth. Air rushed into you all at once. 

“Okay,” Davey breathed, “that’s the worst of that. Stomach now. I’m gonna lift your shirt, is that okay?” Your mind twitched to respond, but your body refused, laying limply, mouth slack as you stared at Milo. 

“You can answer.” Milo instructed. “Honestly, please.” 

“Yeah,” you croaked.

Davey thanked you softly and peeled back your coat and shirt, leaving as much of your torso covered as he could. He hissed as he got a look at you. 

“Jesus fuck,” he breathed. Milo’s gaze flicked away from yours to Davey, down to your stomach. He swallowed harshly. “Do what you need to do.” He instructed, one hand floating up to card through your hair. “Sweetness, you just focus on me. Don’t pay any attention to what he’s doing. Don’t feel a bit of it. Just keep those-” he stumbled over his words, but recovered quickly, “-those pretty eyes on me, understand?” 

“Yeah,” you replied. 

Time passed slowly, but you could only focus on Milo, on his severe face, on the crease of stress between his eyebrows. He had positioned himself over the arm of the couch, probably kneeling painfully on the hardwood floors so he could support your head and hold your gaze. He was tense, every muscle in his body taught and not letting up. He looked to be in a considerable amount of pain. You wanted to reach out to him, to run your hand along his neck, to knead your fingers into his shoulders and chase away the stress. But your body didn’t have permission to move, so it didn’t. 

You didn’t become aware of yourself again until Davey shifted the bones in your leg back into place. It seemed that that particular pain was enough to break through even the trance. You cried out, gripping at Milo’s waiting hands, and arched your back against the heat in your thigh. Davey’s big hands circled it easily and poured magic into it. You felt every shift of your bones, and most likely woke the neighbors making it known. 

“ Please!” You cried out, scrambling for purchase against the pain and confusion. 

Milo turned your head forcefully and caught your eye again.

“ Sleep!” He ordered. With a simple word, your body stuttered to a stop. Darkness encroached on your vision as you were plunged into an uneasy, dreamless sleep. 

__

“-it off. You know him. He pushes himself too hard. He should have done triage and then come back to heal more of the damage later.” 

“I was worried he was gonna keel over or something.” 

“His mate has a good read on him. They know when to pull him away.”

“Thank God for that.” 

The conversation filtered into your awareness slowly, words merging together and pulling apart until they formed something resembling sentences. You scrunched up your brow and tried to tune in, to place the voices, to place yourself . Where the fuck were you?

“Milo, what have you gotten into?” 

You knew that voice. You’d heard it before. You tried to dredge up any memory from the past few weeks. Everything melted together into a mess of sleepless nights and stupid ideas made manifest. 

“There’s something about them, Ash,” the other voice, Milo, replied, “I just… I can’t stay away.” A pause, a deep breath. This Ash seemed to be the sort of man who chose his words carefully. 

“I know you’re not a shifter anymore, Milo.” He said. Definitive, a statement of fact. “But every indication you’re giving me-” 

“They don’t want me, Ash.” Milo snapped, all respect that the Alpha garnered absent from his voice. Alpha. Talbot. Asher, he had insisted. Your brain started turning again, started moving. “They’ve made that abundantly clear.” 

Footsteps echoed through the quiet house. With gargantuan effort, you opened your eyes- eye, something was keeping your left eye shut with gentle pressure- and found yourself in a dim living room. Soft yellow curtains were drawn over the windows, blocking out the sunlight that blushed the thin fabric. You managed a twitch out of your fingers but nothing more. 

“You’re awake.” Milo’s voice caught your attention. You craned your neck to peek over the side of the couch. He was wearing someone else’s clothes. His tight fitting, silken button up was replaced with an oversized, soft blue tee-shirt. He wore too-big sweatpants and socks with little cats on them. He looked younger somehow, despite the ageless quality of his face. You couldn’t help but smile. 

“I am.” You said, blurted. You shook your head lightly, trying to find your words. “Interested. In you.” 

Milo was quiet. He crossed his arms over his chest and cast his eyes down. They were silver again. He must have fed. 

“Is that so?” He huffed. “You have a very unique way of showing it.” 

“I’m just…” you considered wrapping yourself up in the comfort of a lie. You considered throwing something cutting at him, something to send him running, sunlight be damned. But you didn’t. You opened your mouth, and the truth came out, no matter how much it made your insides squirm. “I’m scared.” 

Milo’s eyes flicked to yours, held your gaze hostage. You didn’t flinch away. 

“Okay.” He said. 

“Okay? What… what does ‘ okay’ mean?” 

“It means ‘ okay!’” A hollow imitation of a laugh left him as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “It means we’ll see. It means I don’t trust you, not as far as I can throw you. But I can throw pretty far, so…” he shrugged. “I want you. I have wanted you since the second I saw you. But you’ve got some shit to dig through before you’re ready for that.”

“Yeah.” You nodded. “I… I’m really sorry. I’m sorry I said… Milo, if I could- ”

“Stop.” He waved his hand and stepped towards you. He surveyed your body quickly before plucking your hand from where it rested against your stomach. He pressed a chaste kiss against your knuckles “I think you’ve suffered enough, huh?” 

You groaned and tried to shift, tried to assess your body. 

“What all…” you pursed your lips as Milo helped you sit up. The muscles in your stomach creaked and protested, but he took your weight effortlessly. “What’s the damage?” 

“You’ve got some scars.” Milo reported. “From your stomach up to your face. Davey did what he could, but most healers would have struggled with this sort of damage. You were…” his face went sour, like he might be sick, “you were about half a minute from being a memory, Sweetness. We still haven’t figured out how you survived so long. Davey’s guess is sheer force of will.”

“ Fuck.” You breathed. 

“Yeah.” Milo agreed. He pushed your hair back from your forehead gently. “What… just- how much do you want me to tell you? Because it wasn’t a pretty experience.” 

“All of it.” You replied immediately. “I know why you tranced me, I’m grateful for it.” You gripped his arm in your shaking hand before he could pull away. “But I want to know what happened to me while I was out.” 

“I get it, Sweetheart.” Milo nodded. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled your back to rest against his chest. He was cool and plush, and you melted into him. One of his hands trailed down your torso and pressed against your stomach. Somebody had changed you too. You were clad in a light tee-shirt, so big on you it hung from one shoulder. Milo lifted the bottom of it to reveal deep, craterous scars cutting through your skin. They looked painful, even if you didn’t feel it. Milo trailed one finger over the first of four, one for each of the shade’s long fingers. “Your large intestine and stomach were falling out of this one. Davey was… he was wrist deep getting everything back into you. He said that he would usually take the time to sorta… lay everything back where it’s supposed to go, but you were likely to bleed out if he took too long. So… yeah. Everything’s inside of you, but it’ll take a while to get back to where it’s supposed to go. He said you’d feel… weird. Like your insides are shaking.”

You swallowed the nausea that threatened to overtake you. After a few deep breaths, you nodded for Milo to continue. His hand trailed up to the second cut, right above your heart. 

“This one breached your chest wall. Your left lung collapsed twice because of the air that managed to get past your ribs. You’ve got some nasty needle marks where he drained the air." He pulled down the collar of your shirt to reveal two large pricks surrounded by angry bruising just under your third rib. “Davey said chests are complicated. Lots of muscle and bone and important organs and shit. If you’re gonna have a complication in the next forty-eight hours or so, it’ll be here. He wants to keep you here until then just to be sure, or ship you off to another healer.” 

“Okay.” You said. You weren’t exactly comfortable here, but you could at least hide from the consequences you were sure were awaiting you at D.U.M.P.. If Milo’s former pack would have you, you would gladly use them as a shield. “What else?” 

Milo’s hand trailed up to your throat and face. 

“Two of the cuts made it to the throat. One nicked your trachea and started flooding your airway with blood. You swallowed a lot of it, which Davey had to pump from your stomach before… putting it back in you. When I got to you, your throat had only just collapsed. You were without adequate oxygen for around four minutes before Davey got it healed. That’s right on the edge of brain damage territory, so he wants to keep an eye on that too. He might send you out for an MRI.” 

“Well, I’m about to be fired, so I hope he’s paying for it.” 

“What?” Milo balked. 

“Nothing.” You waved a lazy hand. “Keep going.”

“Oh…kay. Um. Your face. It’s… Sweetness, I’m really sorry.” 

“My eye.” You said softly. 

“Yeah.” He muttered. “It was necrotic by the time we got here. He took it out as safely as he could with what he had in his medical pack. We might be able to see about the optic nerve-”

“It’s fine.” You shook your head. “It’s fine. What else?” 

“Sweetheart-”

“What else, Milo?” 

He paused, took a steadying breath. 

“Your femur was broken. Badly. I don’t know how long you were out there before I found you. Judging by the blood loss… a while. Davey was functioning without an x-ray. He set it and healed it, but it's… he says that it’s crooked. It would take several re-breaks and surgeries to get it aligned again. And even then, you’re… Sweets, you might not walk again. And if you do, it’s gonna hurt. Forever.” 

You closed your eyes- your eye- and rested your head back on his shoulder. His arms wrapped around you, pulled you closer. The muscles in your abdomen shook as the tears came. You fought to keep them in, to shut them down. 

“I know.” Milo whispered into the crown of your head. “I know, Baby. Let it out. You let it out. I’ve got you.” He said it over and over again as the shakes and cries overwhelmed you. He didn’t stop as you sobbed into him, as you wailed like your father in that hospital a million years ago. You doubted anyone in this house, on this block, in Dahlia, in the world, was spared from your sobs. He didn’t stop until your throat cracked and gave out, until your tears slowed, until your body pulled you back towards sleep. He didn’t stop as you drifted away again, pressed into his firm, unyielding chest. 

“I know. I know. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Sweetheart.” Milo chanted like a promise, like a prayer.

[communicationthroughlyrics]

I Like Your Blood On My Teeth Just A Little Too Much - 16

You're a former military, career oriented security executive who has made quite the living for yourself- but it has always been lacking. Your non-committal attitude has led you down a playgirl lifestyle, never really settling. What happens when your new boss throws you a curveball, and as a result? You end up hopelessly involved with a Hollywood starlet.

A/N: Shorter chapter, as I work through some of the thick stuff. TW- torture/abuse, brief mention of coma, blood. Definite angst.

2.2K Word Count

CH 16: You’re Gonna Get What’s Coming to You

“Now, aren’t you glad that you moved into these luxury apartments, that have… Every. Unit. Soundproofed?” He punctuated each word by cinching the knots on your hands and feet tighter before he tied your waist down to the base of the chair. “I’m not even going to bother trying to keep you quiet, no one will hear you anyway.”

“What do you mean, Waters…” you tapered off as he disappeared behind you. You grimaced as you felt cold steel at the base of your neck, a shiver being sent down your spine as he trailed it down your neck and he walked back in front of you. You could feel a slight warmth and a drip, so you knew he drew blood. “Waters, what are you doing? Do you think this is going to change anything?” You asked, watching as he took his time tracing some of your visible tattoos with the blade in his hand. At this point, you were glad you told Kris an hour. “This is only going to make things worse for you, Waters.”

“Shut. UP.” He snarled at you, before hooking the buttons of your shirt with the end of the knife, and slowly working it up, popping the buttons and sending them flying in various directions across your kitchen. “How about, you just keep that disgusting mouth of yours shut, hmmm?” He leaned in a wry smile on his features. “I think it’s been long overdue for you to get your last lesson, what do you think?” He ran the blade along the side of your face, giving you a cut that mirrored the scar that now ran along his face. In your research, you found out he had been involved in a nasty prison brawl that resulted in him receiving a large laceration on his face. 

“Fuck off.” You growled back.

“Tsk tsk… such a shame.” He ran the blade again along your cheek, a sharp pain emanating as he cut from the bridge of your nose to the apex of your cheekbone. “You could have been good. Really good.” He continued to run the blade over various parts of your body but was concentrating on your face and neck, which made you extremely nervous. He suddenly grabbed your face, roughly, squeezing your jaw in a vise-like grip, forcing you to look at him. You watched as he brought the 12-inch blade up and felt him trace your jawline, before bringing the blade up and digging it into the scar on your eyebrow from all those years ago. 

“Fuck!” You yelled as he dug the blade deeper, cutting further than your original scar had. You felt the blood begin to run down your face, burning as it pooled in your eye, blurring your vision. He laughed maniacally as you wiggled in the chair, working your wrists together to try and loosen the rope, which felt like it was only getting tighter. “Waters, just leave her alone. She was…she was just doing what she was paid to do. She isn’t even Russian, Waters. Just…just get your retribution with me… and leave her out of it…”

“Ohhh… Y/L/N. You cannot seriously believe that this is purely because of some character she played…” he paced in circles around you, so you let your head fall backward to keep the blood out of your eye. “This, this is a message, Y/L/N. We’re sending a message to the scum that everyone calls ‘Hollywood Elite’, that they are all tarnishing the image of this country you and I fought to protect.”

“What image is that, Waters?” You growl, your head hanging low as the blood from your face drips onto your knee, you watch it out of your good eye as it seeps into the fabric of your pants. He let out a maniacal laugh as he continued to walk around the chair you were tied to. You hoped to get him going on a tangent, to get him talking so it would take longer before he presumably did to you what he did all those years ago- and if you got him to talk enough, to stall enough, then I would be long enough for Kris to hopefully send someone to you. 

“Hollywood, the film industry, has always portrayed this convoluted image of what this country is, what it stands for…” your laugh, disrupting his rant, and causing him to stop pacing. “SHUT. UP.” He points the knife in your direction, giving you a crazed look. 

“Mmhmm. Okay. Continue.” You respond.

“As I was saying…They portray this nation through a lens. We are never the aggressor- always passive. The ways we are portrayed, it's like they want us to look… weak. Like we are too wrapped up in ourselves to care about what anyone else is doing. ”

“You’re delusional, Waters. We are literally like that.”

“SHUT. IT.” He screamed, slamming his hands onto the countertop behind you. You throw your hands up in defeat.

“Fine. Shutting it.”

“See?! You’re part of the fucking problem! You can’t honestly believe that we are oblivious to everything. We have threats from the inside, out. Your little project is one of them. You may believe that she is some poor little movie star, but she is part of the problem. You may believe she’s innocent in this, but she is just as guilty as the next guy. These movies your ‘client’ plays in, are popular, and they’re colorful. But they portray a simple, almost basic, and nonviable notion of what our combat looks like. What our hell  looks like.”

“Waters, you and I have a different sense of what hell looks like.”

“I don’t want to hear it, Y/N. You sent me to a literal hell on earth. You RUINED my life.”

“No, I didn’t do a damn thing, Steven. I merely existed, and YOU… you decided to act in the way you did. You ruined your life, I didn’t.”

“I was helping you.” 

“Helping me, my ass.”

“Oh don’t pretend that a small part of you didn’t enjoy it. You know that part of you yearned for that kind of attention. To be normal.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I am normal. You’re the sick one in this equation.”

“Mhmm… keep telling yourself that. That is why this assignment is so… perfect. I can take care of the one who ruined me, and one of the largest celebrities ruining this country. You scoff, rolling your eyes. “STOP with the attitude.” He stands in front of you, lowering his gaze to your level. He runs the backside of the knife up your face, before placing the tip parallel to the scar over your eye. With a quick flick, he adds another cut. “Now, time for me to…finish what I started.” 

You felt like it had been sufficiently long enough that someone should be here by now. You could feel the blood running down the right side of your face. You were about to look up, but the sudden force to the side of your face knocked you unconscious. 

***KRIS POV***

“Fuck!” You screamed as the phone went straight to voicemail for the third time. You knew better, you really did. You knew she wouldn’t answer. She had put the phone in airplane mode. You knew that. You just hoped that she would answer. Slamming the phone onto your desk, you ran to the elevator, repeatedly pushing the button to Cliff and Paul's floor. “Cmon, cmon cmon… fucking slow ass elevator! I just need to get up there!” As soon as the door opened, you ran down the hall to Paul's office, barging into his office without knocking. The look of shock on his face says it all. 

“Ms. Smith, what seems to be the issue?”

“It’s Y/L/N. Something is wrong.”

“Well, yes. That’s why we sent her home. She’s not right, right now.”

“No, no, NO! That’s not what I mean. She left, and I got a text from her. She said something wasn’t right, to bump Johanssons security, and if I didn’t hear from her in an hour that he was at her apartment. Something. Isn’t. Right.” You punctuate each point. 

“Who is at her apartment, Smith?” Another voice asks. You turn, seeing Zlatkov sitting across the room. 

“Waters, boss. They have a history. He isn’t just hunting Scarlett anymore. When he found out that her team was going to hire us, and that Y/N is our head of all major projects, he started following her too.”

“What makes you so certain Y/N was being followed?” Cliff asked.

“Shit… she, uhhh… she told me. Kind of. ”

“That makes no sense, Kris.” Paul chimed in. 

“It started with someone watching from across the street from her apartment here. She was followed from her house in Montana, and she’s been getting calls. Each time, they’re not long enough to trace. All from different numbers. But they’re from him.”

“What am I missing here?” Cliff asked you and Paul. Paul sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I think it’s time we make a little field trip,” Paul says, gathering his coat from the back of his chair. Cliff shoots you a confused look, and you just shrug. 

“Hold on, I need to know what’s going on!” Cliff yells, causing both of you to look his way.

“Cliff, do you remember when we were in the process of hiring Y/N, and her military file was partially redacted?”

“Yes.”

You let out a deep sigh, knowing where this was going. You knew some of the details of what had happened to Y/N during her time in the Army, deep discussions that had been held in twilight hours, nights where there had been full of lust and passion. Nights that trust had been built, and you have a sneaky suspicion that the trust you had built was about to be shattered. You hadn’t been made privy to all the details, but enough that you knew why she did what she did, and what made her tick. 

“Okay, we’ll keep that in mind. Now, let’s go. It doesn’t sound like we have much time. ” Paul looks your way, before turning and walking out of his office. You quickly followed Cliff right behind you. 

“Where do we need to go?” Cliff asked, as Paul fished the keys to his work vehicle out of his pocket, and headed towards the elevator. 

“We’re going to pay a visit to the one person besides Y/N who can give us some answers.”

The drive was silent and short, but to say that you and Cliff were both utterly confused when you pulled up in front of the hospital was an understatement. 

“The only person who can give us some answers is Grange,” Paul answered the questioning look in the rearview mirror. 

“But Grange is in a coma.” You respond eyebrow quipped as you climb out of the SUV. 

“Nope. He was woken up this morning. I hadn’t gotten the chance yet to tell Y/L/N.” Paul responded as Cliff stood nodding his head. 

“Ahh. So let's bombard him with the news that somebody that he regards as a daughter is likely being held by a psycho. And ask about her past. Awesome.” Paul cringed at the sarcasm, understanding your hesitance with this scenario. 

“It’s not ideal, no. But it will give us an idea of who this guy really is… and why Y/N is so rattled.”

You all shuffled into the hospital, flashing your work badges to gain entry past the two guards standing by the elevator to the level Jim was on. Your company had set up multiple checkpoints, particularly with Jim being unconscious. The very real possibility of a retaliatory attack loomed, so guards and undercover were scattered throughout the hospital. The elevator door dinged, and you three walked down the corridor, towards the guarded room where Jim was. He was staring out the window as they approached, the sounds of their heels and shoes clicking down the hallway causing him to look their way. He had a smile, but it quickly faded as he realized how serious they were.

“Where’s Y/N?” He asked as soon as everyone was in his room. Your stomach dropped as he looked right at you. 

“That’s why we’re here, Grange. It would seem that a certain someone from her past has made an appearance. We wanted to ask you to fill in the blanks.” Paul unbuttoned his sports coat, sitting in one of the chairs at the end of the bed. Jimmy scoffed, rolling his eyes. 

“Yeah, you could say that sick son of a bitch is back. This isn’t just an appearance. But I’m confused as to why you need to ask me. It’s Y/N that needs to tell you. If she hasn’t, then she doesn’t want to tell anyone.” 

Whew. He said what you were thinking the entire way over here. 

“Well, unfortunately, it is now interfering with this project, and her work. So we need to know what you do.” Cliff chimed in. 

“Why don’t you ask her yourself, then?” He looked between the three of you. 

“That’s the thing, Jimmy. We think that he has her right now.” You finally spoke, Jim’s face going pale when he realized the weight of what was just said. 

“Then…” he sighed, rubbing between his eyes. “You need to be helping her. Finding her. You can ask us after the fact. You shouldn’t be here asking me to tell you what only she can tell.”

CHAPTER 17

[zaebeecee]

To Sever a Loveless Bond

••RadioDust Soulmate AU••

Part 3/?

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

Read on AO3

Chapter 3 Art by @fletchingbrilliant

•••

TW for Valentino typical violence under the cut. I make up for it with Angel and Alastor talking again at least? Note: I headcanon Alastor as the same kind of ace that I am, so he IS STILL ACE and this is STILL A SHIPPING FIC.

•••

“Who is it, amorcito?”

Angel Dust’s hand froze over the brush laid on his vanity, the light sound of his dressing room door clicking shut somehow feeling as loud as if Valentino had just slammed it. Angel curled his fingers slightly, then committed to trying for casual, picking up the brush and beginning to touch up his hair and his chest fluff. “Who’dya mean, Val?”

Long, cold fingers came to rest on Angel’s shoulders, practically burning through the thin material of his silk robe. Valentino leaned down until his head was level with Angel’s, and he exhaled a thin stream of pinkish smoke, the scent rich and heady as always. Immediately, Angel felt dizzy, and he drew a shaken breath as he met Valentino’s eyes in the mirror.

“Surely you didn’t think I wouldn’t notice?” Valentino purred, one of his free hands touching Angel’s cheek and stroking gently along the line of his jaw up towards his cheek. Angel’s eyes fluttered as he resisted closing them or jerking away, his breath stuttering briefly as he remembered the last time those claws had been so close to one of his eyes. “It’s always been such a ghastly flaw in your otherwise impeccable appearance. And now, to see it so… garish? How could I not notice my precious araña had been marred?”

Angel made himself smile a little. “I wasn’t hidin’ it, Val,” he said, keeping his tone flirtatious and his demeanor relaxed. He’d only been able to come up with one possible excuse that his boss might buy, and even then, it relied on Valentino wanting to believe it. “If you’re askin’ me who activated it, I couldn’t tell ya. Happened when I went clubbin’ the other night and I guess I bumped into somebody. Didn’t really care enough to find out.”

“Hmm…” Valentino kept watching him in the mirror as Angel resumed his primping, silently pleading with the moth to take the excuse and leave. Finally, Angel saw the other sinner smile.

It was not a good smile.

“Bullshit.”

That was Angel’s only warning before Valentino grabbed him and tore him from the vanity bench, throwing him across the room and into the glass coffee table that sat in front of his comfy pink couch. Angel went straight through the table top, which burst around him in a horrific shattering scream and immediately tore through his robe and his flesh. Angel gasped, the pain that flooded his body only vaguely dulled by the fact that Val had done it at all.

Valentino was violent. Angel had known that since they were first getting acquainted. But he never, never hurt Angel badly enough to make him bleed before a shoot. It was too hard to cover up with makeup, he said. No, bruises were made to be given before a shoot, but breaks and lacerations were made to be given after.

Angel couldn’t speak as Valentino hauled him up out of the pit of shattered glass and splintering wood, holding him by the front of his robe and leaving him to dangle helplessly as the fabric tightened around his throat. “You ungrateful little bitch,” Valentino spat, his eyes narrowing dangerously behind the lenses of his sunglasses. “After everything I have done for you, this is how you repay me? You cheating whore!” he shouted, throwing Angel into the wall over the couch. The spider demon hit the wall with a heavy thud and fell onto the cushions, his momentum so great that he bounced off of them and right back onto the glass-covered floor.

Gasping with pain, Angel peered up at the other sinner, trying to push himself up onto his hands and only managing to dig shards of glass into his palms. “V-Val, I’m sorry…!” The tears that fell from his eyes stung the open cut on his cheek. “I didn’t mean… I swear, I didn’t mean for it to happen!”

Valentino’s face was cast in shadow as he stood over Angel’s prone body, his lip curled in a snarl and his fists clenched. “Fix it.”

Angel shook his head. “…wh…what…?”

“Fix. It,” Valentino repeated sharply. “You have a month. After that, I will take care of it myself.” He turned, sweeping towards the door. “We’re working your blood into the shoot. Get up and get out here.”

Angel’s breath came out in a quiet sob as his boss slammed the door behind him, and he managed to roll off of the glass and shove himself onto his knees. He didn’t have time to do real damage assessment, but he did his best to quickly pick shards of glass out of his hands and what of his back he could reach before he staggered to his feet and hurried along behind Valentino.

The shoot was one of the worst he had ever endured. Angel’s state seemed to shock the entire studio, but under Valentino’s watchful eye, no one said anything; even Travis seemed to think it was excessive, but after a long beat, he simply called for places. The scripted scenario had been scrapped in favor of something improvised to match Angel’s injuries, which meant none of his coworkers were allowed to avoid them and more than one of them ripped open and bled on the floor. He even accidentally cut Rocky open with a shard of glass he hadn’t managed to remove, but to the big oaf’s credit, he didn’t say anything. They all knew what Val would do if anything interrupted filming while he was in such a mood.

After only one round of filming, Angel felt numb. He was aware of someone saying something to him, but he couldn’t make himself parse the words, much less respond. A hand grabbed him roughly by the forearm, hauling him to his feet, and Angel’s brain struggled to connect to his surroundings as he was pulled out a door and down a hallway. He realized it was Val at the same time as another door opened and Angel was thrown in, landing hard on a plush carpet that smelled like smoke this close.

“What do you want?” Val asked, and Angel tried to figure out how to answer such a strange question.

“What do you think?”

…a strange question that, it seemed, wasn’t for him.

Angel managed to raise his head enough to register that he was lying on the floor of Valentino’s office, and a short distance in front of him, he could see very well-polished black and electric blue spats.

“I am handling this,” Valentino said.

“Oh, no, that isn’t what I would call this.” Angel watched, perplexed, as Vox took one of his hands and pulled him to his feet, then set him down in one of the chairs near Valentino’s desk. Vox didn’t bother addressing Angel, however, only giving him the focus required to move him before he turned back to Valentino. “I would call this throwing one of your fits.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Valentino snarled. “He is my property and I will do what I like with him.”

“…within reason,” Vox amended. “Val, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this. What you do inside the studio is your business. The moment you drag it out into the hallways, it becomes public, and therefore, it is the company’s business. And the company is not in the habit of parading around very expensive and very bloody whores while behaving like a jilted lover who just caught their wife with the milkman. I will not have it. Am I clear?”

Valentino was so angry he was shaking. He didn’t argue; he didn’t say anything at all.

Vox seemed to take that well. “Good!” he said brightly, and Angel heard the applause of a studio audience somewhere. Vox stepped forward and began physically guiding Valentino out of his own office with a hand on the small of his back. “Now, you let me take care of this and get back to the studio.”

“But—”

“Go, Val, I won’t damage your investment.”

Angel was shocked to see that Valentino listened, though he did slam the door again to get his point across. Angel looked from the door to Vox’s back, and he heard the CEO make some kind of disgruntled noise before he turned enough to cast his eyes down to Angel. “So,” Vox began, his voice cold and his smile no longer in place. “I hear you have an activated soul mark.”

Angel cringed and looked away. “…word travels fast.”

“Mm.” Vox went to the desk and opened a box Angel hadn’t noticed before. It looked like a first aid kit. He slid it over to Angel expectantly, and after a moment of hesitation, Angel began retrieving material to clean and bandage the wounds he could reach. “You knew this would happen eventually.”

“It’s not my fault,” Angel said, his protest weak. “It ain’t like I wanted to find ‘em.”

Vox sat in the chair across from him, looking him over critically. Angel knew that Vox didn’t like him—that wasn’t exactly a big secret, since Vox had never tried to hide it and Angel had never seen a reason to attempt to ingratiate himself to the television-headed demon—but he also knew that Vox was the most even-tempered of the Vees as long as Alastor wasn’t a factor, which frequently made him the easiest to deal with. “But you did. Now what?”

“Whaddya mean?” Angel asked, sucking in a breath through his teeth at the sting of antiseptic in his palm.

“I can at least gather you didn’t try to use this to beg your way out of your contract, since you don’t seem to have any broken bones,” Vox observed. Angel almost laughed. “What do you plan to do about it?”

“Nothin’,” Angel said. “Ain’t nothin’ I can do.”

Vox made a noise like a soft and thoughtful hum filtered through television static. “It wouldn’t be good for our brand,” he said. “Our premier porn star tied to a soulmate.”

“Look, whaddya expect me to do about it?” Angel asked, looking up at Vox again. “I already ain’t seein’ the guy, like, at all. I can’t get more far removed from him than I already am.”

Vox rolled his eyes. “You could sever it.”

Angel froze. “…sever?” he asked, his stomach flipping oddly.

“Yes. Sever,” Vox repeated, his smile returning and getting uncomfortably close to his public relations smile. “Now that you’ve found him, it’s possible to cut the connection. Your mark will disappear, Valentino will stop bitching, and your quality of life will doubtless improve greatly with him no longer worrying about it.”

Angel shook his head. “We don’t have a connection,” he said. Vox’s eyebrow lifted. “I mean, I know, there— there’s that,” Angel said, gesturing roughly at his leg, “but we ain’t got anythin’ else. There’s nothin’ to cut, how the fuck am I supposed to sever what doesn’t exist?”

“Well, frequently, death,” Vox said. “The exorcists have gotten many a sinner out of an undesirable soulmate bond. But… well, unless you have an angelic weapon and want to kill him yourself, I don’t think Val will wait for the next extermination.”

“So… what, then?”

“From what I hear?” Vox smiled again. “Heartbreak.”

Angel stared at him for several seconds before he started laughing. “Oh, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” he cackled. “I already told you, there ain’t nothin’ there.” As Angel’s mirth died down, he realized Vox was still smiling. “…Vox, look, I want this gone, too. But that ain’t gonna work.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to find something else.” Vox got to his feet and walked around behind Angel. The spider jumped when he realized that Vox was… treating the injuries on his back. It felt dangerous. It felt like a threat. I can hurt you so easily, and there would be nothing you could do to defend yourself. “I recommend you find something quickly.”

Angel swallowed. “What if I can’t?”

“Then it becomes a company problem.” Angel could clearly hear the smile in Vox’s voice. “And you can always trust VoxTek to deal with its problems.”

•••

By the time Angel arrived at the hotel again, it was late, so late that even Husk had gone to bed. Honestly, Angel didn’t mind it quite so much, since it gave him a full night of recovery before he saw anyone else and got more of their fucking questions.

He decided he did, at least, owe Husk when he saw a small bottle of malt liquor had been left unlocked behind the bar; Husk wouldn’t admit it was because he knew Angel always needed a drink after work, but he did. Angel almost smiled as he picked it up and carried it over to the private lounge that sat off the main lobby, because if he was caught with a liquor bottle in his room it would mean ‘a good talking-to’ and he wasn’t in the mood to put up with it. The door wasn’t locked, but he had barely taken a step inside when he realized that the room wasn’t empty. There was no one else inside, not that he could see, but there was a fire going and jazz playing on the radio.

Alastor.

“Sorry,” Angel said to the room at large, wondering if Alastor had gotten spooked by the door suddenly opening. “Didn’t know anyone was in here.”

Angel turned to go, but the moment he did, a shadowy figure manifested on the wall and placed its hand on the door to close it.

“Angel Dust. Wait.”

The shadow vanished, and Angel watched it go before he turned back into the room. Alastor was standing beside the high-backed armchair he seemed to favor, his attire as neat and proper as ever and both of his hands on his microphone as it stood in front of him. The only clue Angel had to his demeanor was his smile, which was… off, in a way Angel couldn’t describe. Instead of trying, Angel adopted as casual a pose as he could and shrugged at him. “Whaddya want, Smiles?”

Alastor didn’t answer immediately, which was strange, because the Radio Demon was never at a loss for words. Finally, he said, “You’re injured.”

“…yep,” Angel said slowly. “Well spotted. That what you wanted?”

“No,” Alastor said, and Angel almost felt himself flinch. Oddly, Alastor almost seemed to hesitate. “You don’t have to leave, my good man, it is hardly polite for me to toss you out of the hotel’s public spaces.”

Angel frowned a little. There was something Alastor wasn’t saying, but fucked if Angel knew what it was. “…kay.” Alastor just watched him as he padded over to the nearest couch and then tipped forward over the arm, face planting into the cushions. There was still so much pain, but just being horizontal was a relief. Angel reveled in the feeling before he turned his head enough to look at Alastor. “Are you just gonna stand there? It’s fuckin’ creepy.”

Alastor shrugged, then vanished into his shadow, re-emerging sitting in his chair a scant half foot away.

Angel almost laughed. “Dramatic bitch. Do you ever walk anywhere?”

“Why commit myself to such a mundane form of transportation when I possess something so much more efficient? And I’ve been given to understand it’s quite unsettling.”

“Uh-huh.” Angel pushed himself up enough to roll over onto his back, settling into the cushions with a contented sigh. He uncorked the bottle and took a pull from it, cringing at the terrible flavor and the burn, then repeated the process. He lowered the bottle, saw Alastor was watching him, and offered it out. “Want some? It’s gross.”

The corner of Alastor’s lip curled just slightly as he looked at the liquor. “Not a compelling sales pitch.”

“Usually, free doesn’t require a pitch.” Angel took it back anyway, putting one arm behind his head and looking at the ceiling.

“You aren’t usually this injured after your… work,” Alastor observed.

“You’re still on that?”

“Simply curious. I don’t exactly have a handle on how the industry works.”

Angel looked at him. “And you’re, what, interested?”

Alastor’s smile widened a little. “I wasn’t, but if it’s as bloody as it now appears, I might be.”

It took effort for Angel not to smile at that, rolling his eyes and looking at the ceiling. “Val was pissed off. We worked the bleeding into the shoot, but it ain’t typical.”

“I see.” Alastor sounded thoughtful. “What a scandal, one of the Vees lashing out so blatantly. Hardy in line with their image of perfection.”

Angel smiled and turned his head again. “You can always be baited with gossip, can’tcha, Smiles?”

“Good gossip,” Alastor corrected, one finger raised. “So much of it is so… tedious and uninteresting. Overly complicated romantic entanglements seem to be everyone’s absolute favorite,” he added with a sneer, waving one hand dismissively and rolling his eyes.

“Seems like everyone’s got a badly written love story in ‘em,” Angel said with a shrug.

“Hardly.” Alastor sounded more than just dismissive now, he sounded outright disdainful. Immediately, his tone shifted to something brighter. “So! Do tell, what could possibly have gotten the little bug so terribly worked up as to potentially damage his boss’s reputation so?” Angel’s smile slipped and he raised an eyebrow at Alastor. He watched the Radio Demon tip his head, his eyes narrowing, before they flicked to the side and landed on— “Ah,” Alastor said, his smile growing strained. “…yes. That. …no, I imagine he would be quite displeased, wouldn’t he?”

“Understatement.” Angel sighed and closed his eyes, raising one hand to rub his fingers along where the bridge of his nose had been. “He and Vox are on my fuckin’ case about it.”

Nearby, the music on the radio stuttered, and Angel heard the briefest burst of microphone static before the sounds continued as though nothing had happened. “You spoke with Vox?” Alastor asked, his voice almost overly casual.

“Yeah. I mean, he’s kinda my boss’s boss, we talk sometimes,” Angel said, casting Alastor a look.

“And the two of them are in agreement. How odd!” Alastor said brightly. “What could they possibly want you to do?”

“Apparently, you can sever a soulmate connection. Didja know that?”

Alastor hummed, looking thoughtful. “I will admit, there is something of a gap in my education when it comes to what they call ‘matters of the heart’. The idea of soulmates held very little interest for me, I’m afraid.”

Angel snorted. “You weren’t just champin’ at the bit to find your government issued significant other?”

When Alastor laughed, the canned radio audience laughed with him. “I had every mind to simply destroy mine, should I ever find them, and I gave very little thought to it outside of that.”

“So… what, you’re plannin’ on killin’ me?”

“Don’t be silly, dear fellow, Miss Charlie would be positively livid if I so dramatically decreased our tenant population due to an emotional inconvenience. Besides, I’m given to understand Niffty has formed something of an attachment to you, and one cannot go around upsetting Niffty.”

“No, one can’t,” Angel agreed.

“So, then, what other options lie before us?” Alastor asked. “I presume you were given an ultimatum.”

“Yeah. Take care of it or they would.” Angel sighed. “Only other way they told me a connection could be severed was heartbreak.”

It felt strange, saying that out loud here. It had seemed so ridiculous when Vox had said it, but now, it felt weirdly… heavy. Angel didn’t like the way it made him nauseous, either, and he took a drink to give himself something else unpleasant to concentrate on. The worst part, however, was Alastor’s reaction… or lack thereof. He seemed to be processing Angel’s words, but what part he was stuck on, Angel couldn’t imagine.

“That implies we are in love, doesn’t it,” Alastor said thoughtfully. He didn’t sound like he felt any particular way about the statement.

“It does.”

“But we aren’t.”

“I’m aware of that, Alastor,” Angel said, tossing a small pillow at the Radio Demon. It vanished before it touched him and dropped out of the ceiling, landing on Angel’s face. “Hey!”

“So, then, how does one go about breaking a heart that is not invested in the first place?” Alastor asked, as though nothing had happened. “Seems that it would be much more simple if the connection realized I didn’t care and severed itself.”

“Nothin’ is simple in Hell.” Angel let the bottle rest on the ground, staring at the ceiling. “Look, I don’t got any more idea about this shit than you. I never had any intention of findin’ my soulmate. I don’t do relationships.”

The static in the air was the distinctive sound Alastor made when he was attempting to process information that went against whatever he had learned about normal human behavior. “…but you are quite promiscuous.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Is that not a relationship?”

Angel snorted. “No. Fuckin’ is fuckin’, Al. A relationship is like… they had the concept of dates and goin’ steady in whatever outer dimension you were raised in, didn’t they?”

“Ah, of course,” Alastor said. “So you disconnect the idea of physical intimacy and emotional intimacy.”

“…yeah,” Angel said, squinting at Alastor, who looked genuinely fascinated. “What, did you really think I had some kinda deep emotional connection with everybody I bang?”

“Admittedly, I know very little about this subject by choice, but I suppose that made sense at the time. I didn’t think much about it.”

Angel shook his head, laughing a little. “Fuck’s sake, Smiles. You’re ridiculous.” Alastor squinted, the radio noises growing a little perplexed. Angel didn’t let him ask. “I ain’t never been in a relationship. It ain’t my bag. I’m guessing you ain’t either.”

“Of course not,” Alastor said, like it was obvious and Angel was an idiot for even asking. “I dislike casual physical contact and can’t fathom the point of seeking out more. I have never once found myself interested in any person in such a capacity.”

Angel thought about that for a second, then sat up on his elbows. “Wait, you’re ace?”

“There’s that word again,” Alastor muttered to himself. “I have no idea what that means, my good man!”

“Ace,” Angel said. “Like… asexual.”

Alastor stared at him. “…I don’t think I can reproduce on my own, no.” He then laughed. “Heaven help the other sinners if I ever discover I can undergo mitosis! An entire hoard of Radio Demons. Our benevolent king will be positively beside himself.”

“No no no,” Angel said, laughing too. “Asexual means, like… you ain’t got no interest in sex.”

“Oh, is there a word for it?” Alastor seemed interested once again. “How fascinating.”

“Huh.” Angel moved enough to settle himself against the arm of the couch. “That explains… so much. Okay, so, how d’ya wanna do this?”

“Do what?” Alastor asked, and it looked like he was returning to the conversation from a completely disconnected train of thought. “Oh! Yes, the soul mark issue. I do believe I have an idea, if you would be willing to entertain it. Are you free tomorrow?”

“Uh… yeah,” Angel said suspiciously. “Why?”

“Well, then, you and I shall have an outing tomorrow. There is a very dear friend of mine who knows just about everything there is to know about matters of romance. If anyone would know what would sever a connection, it would be her.”

Angel stared at Alastor. He looked so damn proud of his idea, and… Angel almost thought he looked excited about the idea of going out somewhere with someone else. It was almost— Angel mentally stabbed the word ‘cute’ before it could attach itself to Alastor of all fucking people. “Okay,” he said, after a moment. “Tomorrow, then. What, uh, what should I wear?”

“Oh, anything you have that would be considered stylish will do,” Alastor said. “She has a great love of fashion, something you two seem to have in common. She does love her tea, so shall we convene in the lobby at, say, half past three?”

Angel shrugged. “Sure. Sounds great, Smiles.”

“It’s a date, then,” Alastor said. He was suddenly on his feet, and Angel wasn’t sure when that had happened. “Sleep well. You will need the rest.” And, with that ominous warning and a widening smile, Alastor vanished into the shadows.

Angel watched him go, then finished the bottle of liquor all at once. This felt like a mistake, and he didn’t want to know what part of it he was going to regret.

[xelasrecords]

Locus of Pain

Kim Jihyun x MC

NSFW

MC doesn't tell Jihyun she's hurt. He finds out anyway.

I'm back with smutty and messy ambiguous relationships! With GE Jihyun's personality. I will forever campaign for his GE personality until it becomes mainstream in fics and I don't have to put a disclaimer anymore.

TW: discussions on adult child abuse, self-destructive thoughts and actions, brief mild gore imagery, self-harm

Words: 4.5k

Masterlist Read on AO3

She stumbled into the apartment with a pained grunt.

She ought to feel bad for staining the floor with her blood, but she had more important matters to attend to. Her back was burning with lacerations and every step she took was straining the bruises that had burrowed into her muscles.

She tried not to swing her hands too much as she headed for the bathroom, disposing of her jacket at the foot of the bed. For once she was thankful for Rika's cramped apartment. It could be suffocating at times, but it was easy to live in. Jihyun said Rika had a taste of unassuming minimalism. She thought building a gilded emerald cult with thousands of followers was pushing the definition.

Gripping the edge of the sink, she clenched her jaw and started peeling off her blood-crusted shirt. The injuries shouldn't be too deep since the blood had stopped flowing down her back like a free-flowing motherfucker. But as she pulled the shirt over her head, it tore the barely knit skin apart, and warm blood started to trickle down again.

She cursed her thin epidermis. It was not supposed to tear over a mere picture frame thrown at it, even if the frame was large enough to cover half of the bedroom wall.

Her father had excellent aim and strength. He had proven that to her many times.

Sometimes she fantasised about breaking his skull in with a scorching hot pan, wondering if his hair would melt from the heat or if his eyes would bulge out of their sockets. Would he scream for her help? Would he plead for mercy or curse her for being a demon spawn? Then, she could blame him for fathering such an evil inside her.

Her stomach curdled with guilt. The resentment was hers alone, and he had loved her despite her selfishness. She couldn't shed away the primal care she had for him. She was her mother's daughter, after all.

Twisting her body in the mirror, she made a quick work of cataloguing her injuries. Two long gashes that dipped into her flesh but wouldn't require stitches, one blackening bruise near her ribs, and several cuts and bruises that stippled across her back. She tested her breathing. No wheezing. No punctured lung. An improvement from the last time. Jihyun wouldn't need to know.

She stepped into the shower and washed off the blood. The cold water chilled her bones. But it had to. It was better to feel all of it. She had asked for his wrath and now she dealt with the consequences. Besides, it helped with closing the wounds.

After she put on a pair of shorts, she reached for a bottle of alcohol from the medicine cabinet. Sharp gasps escaped her mouth every so often as she tried to pour just enough. Medicine was costly and she shouldn't waste it. The burn blinded her vision white and she hunched over the sink, focusing on the cold ceramic under her fingertips and the slicing of tiles beneath her bare feet.

When her sight had stopped swimming, she took a deep breath and bent her arm behind her in awkward angles to slap adhesive bandages to the wounded area. She grunted in frustration. It was tougher than she'd thought. She was nauseous from constantly looking up to check her reflection, the evening autumn draft was pricking at her exposed skin, and the plasters kept sticking to the wrong place.

She glared at the mirror. Do not faint.

How many nights had she spent patching herself up? And yet she still struggled. Her lack of progress was almost laughable.

She didn't think there were any glass shards embedded in her though. One good thing that came out of this. She tried not to think about the larger shard she had pocketed when the picture frame glass shattered, now buried under the bloody heap of clothes.

She froze when she heard someone punching in the door passcode.

She was about to kick her bathroom door close when Jihyun entered and switched on the lights from down the hallway. Their eyes locked, and he stopped in his tracks. Her throat constricted.

This was not how she wanted him to ever see her.

His face grew horrified, and he dropped his satchel in his rush to get to her. She had a fleeting worry that his satchel might have dropped onto the blood-stained floor and she might have ruined his fine leather bag.

Jihyun stood before her, his mouth opened and closed. She schooled her face into indifference and waited.

"You—" he started, "what happened?"

The impulse to lie was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't find a good reason to when he had caught her like this. She doubted he would believe her excuses. The day had been long and she was so tired.

"A jolly good ol' catch-up with my parents." Her tone was casual.

Jihyun watched her with a worried frown, then squeezed into the small space and ran the tap water through his hands. He was moving with a surprising efficiency as he lathered his hands with soap before scanning her injuries and her first aid supplies.

"Please let me help." His teal eyes were desperate. She had forgotten how luminous they were from up close. "You can't do this alone."

"You shouldn't have come here tonight."

"I'm well-versed in healing people," he urged. "I used to heal my own injuries when I was with Rika. I treated hers as well. I know enough, so you can trust me." His fingers twitched, almost reaching for her before dropping to his side. "Please."

More than the fact that she was found out, she hated that she had made Jihyun worry about her. The only thing she excelled at was to instil negative feelings in people who cared about her. Always wrath in her parents, sometimes concern in Jihyun.

Jihyun had never lost his head at her, but she was waiting for it to happen. No one had the patience of a saint, not even him.

It was a pity she had condemned him to another relationship where he had to play the caretaker. Letting him treat her would be an appropriate compensation for his scare. "Go on," she said. "But I should probably lie down."

Relief flooded his face. "That would be the best. Can you walk on your own?"

She nodded, but he held her arm and assisted her to the bed. He sat her down, slowly, and helped her settle into a comfortable position to lie prone in. She buried her face into the pillow that smelled faintly of mint leaves. It was Jihyun's side of the bed. It comforted her that he was permanent enough in her life that she could find traces of him in her private space.

"Has it always been this bad?" Jihyun asked quietly. The feeling of his lithe fingers inspecting her skin with clinical precision was unfamiliar. His touches were always loving, adoring, not stiff with anxiety. He had never seen her with weeping wounds. She had never let him into the truth.

"Only when I deliberately provoke them. Mother goes off the rails, father blames me for not caring about my own parents, I try to save myself before things escalate." She raised her head and smirked at him. "I don't always succeed though. Got a picture frame to my back, as you can see. Took being backstabbed by your family to the next level. They were supposed to hang it where their guests could see, but I doubt they'd hang it without the glass now. People would ask."

There was a brief silence before he spoke. "That's terrible." His voice was soft, barely a murmur. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know they are violent."

She shrugged. "You're not the one who should apologise. And they will anyway, once they think I've iced them out for too long. Not that it means anything."

He shook his head, and strands of aquamarine hair fell across his forehead. They softened the distress that wrought his features. "You're not a mouse they can play with."

"No, I'm just their daughter they can hurt," she said. Jihyun pressed a bandage against the grisliest gash across her back and she winced. "Do you think it'll scar?"

"It most likely will. Had it been any deeper, you would have needed stitches." He paused, his palm resting on her spine. "Why didn't you call me?"

"It didn't occur to me," she lied. She wanted to lay down her defences and curl into his arms. She didn't want to keep fighting for herself. There were times when escaping was better than fighting for nothing, but it wasn't something she could ask from him. Her cage was her own.

Jihyun's fingers curled against her skin, and she could sense the waves of sorrow unfurling around her. "Can you think of me from now on? It doesn't have to be all the time, moments when you are hurt will do. If you call, I will come."

"I think of you all the time, Jihyun."

"Oh. I didn't know that." The surprise was evident in his tone. He applied another bandage to her back, smoothing it cautiously over the raw wound. "But I know no one is meant to bear their burden alone. You have been through so much."

"So have you, love. I'm not special." She gave him a bitter smile. "Now, why did you come here unannounced?"

Jihyun studied her for several seconds. "I wanted to see you," he said. "You've been withdrawn lately, so I thought something had happened."

She chuckled. "I suppose this counts as something."

"I never had to imagine you in my position before," he said. "I thought you'd confide in me when you're hurt. It's what you always urge me to do. You taught me to be more trusting. But seeing you like this makes me realise how much fear you and Jumin must have felt when I took matters into my own hands." He let out a ragged sigh. "I don't know how I would cope if I came here one day and saw you unconscious on the floor."

Lucky he wasn't here when she blacked out from a concussion a few months ago.

She made a dismissive gesture. "Do as I say, not as I do."

"Only if you let me do the same thing."

She levelled a glare at him. "Definitely not."

Jihyun snorted but worked silently after. The stinging pain was dulling into low throbs. She had lost count of the bandages he used, but it must have been more than necessary. She felt the adhesives even on the spots that didn't require them. Jihyun was being excessive. After everything she had gone through, she was confident that a small, uncovered cut wouldn't be her reason to die.

He should know. He had been stabbed and was still alive fretting over her.

She heard him uncapping an ointment and felt a cool sensation on her skin. He carefully massaged the salve into the bruises, sending shivers throughout her body. How nice he was. How patient. How kind.

When he pushed her hair aside to tend to the base of her neck, her breath caught. His fingertips sent fire down her synapses. It had been so long since they did anything. The distance she put between them was growing taut. The farther she pulled, the harder she would crash back into him.

Her arm moved on its own accord when she grabbed Jihyun's fingers and pressed her lips to the back of his hand. The strong herbal scent from the salve burned her nose, but this smooth hand was his. Hers.

Jihyun was always there for her to come back to.

He was not home. Home, to her, was not something that she ever longed to go. It was the misery that strangled her into obedience and shrunk her world into a dark, bleak place to survive in.

He was her sanctuary on a far-off island. Nothing could get to them when they were together.

Jihyun let out a light chuckle that sang to her heart. "Let me wash my hands. I don't want to make you any more ill."

She squeezed his hand. "I missed you too, you know. I'm glad you're with me."

He stilled, then crouched beside her head. He tucked the hair that obscured her face behind her ear and kissed her temple before gently wrestling his hand out of her grasp. The shape of his lips was just as she remembered it.

She watched him rinse the blood from her clothes and exhaled in relief when he didn't stray to her trousers' pocket. She watched him clean his hands with water trickling down his forearms, the brown sleeves of his sweatshirt pulled up and collecting water at the elbows. She watched him storing the first aid kit and medicines in the cabinet to her preferred arrangement. She watched him doing useless things for her.

When Jihyun climbed into the bed and rested against the headboard, she asked, "Do you know what the worst part of this is?"

He stared down at her, eyes carrying a heavy sorrow. "That your parents don't know how to love you?"

"Not even close." She rolled her eyes. "I've known that all my life. Not being able to lean against anything is the real tragedy. Look at me, I can't even sit comfortably beside you."

"But you can come closer," he said slowly.

She raised her brows but let him guide her to lie on his chest, his fingers resting on her bare shoulders.

He was clothed and she wasn't and it was something she needed to rectify.

She tangled her leg around his and relaxed her head against his beating heart. It was thrumming to a rising tempo that mirrored hers. She toyed with a loose thread on the neck of his sweatshirt. "I wish you weren't so good at fixing up injuries like mine. I wish you never had to learn."

"It's all in the past now." He slipped his fingers into the gaps between hers and clasped them. "I'd go through it again if I had known it would help alleviate your pain."

She snapped up at him. "Your martyr streak needs to stop."

"I have stopped. Just allow me this one exception." He planted a chaste kiss on her mouth, then cleared his throat. "Will you meet your parents again?"

She tightened the thread around her forefinger until it looked like diagonally dissected blocks of meat and she could barely feel its existence. "I know they do horrible things sometimes, but I can't cut them off. It's not that easy. I still love them. When they're not mad, they can be easy to love."

Jihyun frowned at her finger and gently untangled the thread before snapping it off. "That's what makes leaving harder, isn't it?" The haunting in his face revealed the extent of horrors that he had experienced. An angel with a darkened, torn soul who was still rising high above. He was not her. She liked that about him. "It's easier to hate someone when they have only been awful to you. It's their residual goodwill that gives you hope that they will change. When I look back to how stubbornly I stood beside Rika, I understand. Left in the dark, we cling to the light. We forget who trapped us there in the first place."

She didn't want to admit that Jihyun was right. That he was right, yet it would not change anything.

She wondered if she had been drawn to him because the subconscious part of her knew he would understand. Jihyun knew how to make her feel less alone in the guilt and resentment and twisted love that she couldn't untangle herself from. Most people were not like him. She learned from a young age that if people found out about the abuse, they would either urge her to leave—which added unnecessary pressure on her because it was never an option—or give her pitiful looks while stumbling over their words.

"Jihyun," she said.

He drew his thumb over her chin. "Yes?"

"Don't go." She pushed herself up and crashed her lips into his.

It was fervent, maddening, and she poured all the tension from their time of separation into it. The yearning to see him. The stress from her parents meddling with her happiness. Everything she had been missing after being alone for so long.

Jihyun reciprocated with more caution, treading her lips like they were a treasure trove. He gave in eventually when she didn't show a sign of discomfort, his kiss matching her intensity.

She bit his lower lip and slipped her tongue into his mouth. He gripped her shoulders, pulling her closer until she was pressed against him. His hands were not sliding down her waist and everywhere else like he tended to. He kept his hold staunchly on her arms even as he deepened the kiss.

It hit her what he was doing. He was being considerate of her battered body.

She let out a sob into his mouth. Nobody had ever cared for her like this. She could stand all the violence flung at her, but one act of kindness felled her to her knees.

Jihyun pulled away in an instant, his glazed eyes searching across her face and body. "Are you all right? Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head. "I was just thinking about you. You're wonderful. I missed you." Jihyun's expression was guarded, appraising her, and she let him. She had spoken the truth. She offered the truth so rarely that she would not omit more of it if it concerned his regard for himself. "I'm fine, Jihyun."

He gave a slow nod, and she tugged off his cashmere sweater. With a tender touch, she ran her hand through the ragged red patches of skin that stood out against his pale torso. Burn scars from a house fire. Both of them had childhood wounds woven into their very being. The past was made permanent on their skin.

Jihyun squirmed, seemingly self-conscious, despite her being familiar with the scars, but he made no attempts to stop her. He was beautiful, body and soul, she thought. He had more love and forgiveness in him than anyone she had ever known.

She trailed kisses along his jaw and sucked on the juncture behind his ear. He moaned and curved his body against her, and she smiled into his neck. It was amusing, the reactions that she could elicit out of him. No one could touch him as she could. He did not let anyone else know him intimately like this. He was only for her.

She suspected all of this played into his pleasure as well.

She twined her fingers around his hair, marvelling at the softness of it, and pulled it back to bare his throat. He had such a beautiful throat.

She didn't apply much pressure as she wrapped her hand around it, but his breath hitched. Her lips curved into a sly smile, her other hand wandering down his hard bulge. "I don't know why being choked always turns you on."

Jihyun held his gaze on her despite his reddening complexion. "I can feel you wanting me when you hold me like this."

"I do want you." She swung her leg astride him, straddling his hips and rested her forehead against his. The hard-on beneath her was hard to ignore. "It drives me out of my mind when I can't be with you."

"You shouldn't have pushed me away," he murmured. "I'll still want you, however you are, whatever condition you are in. You're always just you to me. Nothing can make me want you less."

"I'm sorry," she said. Jihyun closed his eyes, and she kissed his eyelid with a gentleness that she reserved only for him. "I'm sorry I left you alone."

He cradled her cheek, and she basked in the warmth of it. The safety of him. He was here and she couldn't fight the temptation to lose herself in him. "You didn't leave me alone. I belong with you. Anywhere you run to, you take me with you. I'm yours."

She tightened her hold on his throat to see his reaction. "You're mine," she whispered.

A slow smile graced his delicate face. "I am. I'm yours."

Jihyun drew her closer by the elbow and peppered kisses on her mouth, her chin, her throat, and her collarbones. He palmed her breasts and sucked her nipple while tweaking the other with his fingers. They hardened at his touch and she moaned his name, demanding him to be harder, rougher.

She needed to feel everything.

He bit her nipple and her hand slipped to the base of his skull, grasping at his hair. He was hers. His action and devotion were hers. It sent a deluge of pleasure down her core. Jihyun could be gentle, but he was also earnest to give her the satisfaction she sought.

She wanted him. She wanted him. She wanted him more than the freedom from her wretched life.

"I love you." She tipped his chin back. "I love you, Jihyun. Remember it."

He smiled up at her, his pupils blown wide with lust. "I love you, too."

She reached down and unbuckled his trousers. She had done more strenuous activities in a worse state, so fucking him wouldn't damage her already mangled body. But Jihyun stilled her wrist when he saw through her intention.

She narrowed her gaze. "I'm on the pill."

"You're hurt," he said. "I don't want to worsen your injuries."

"Have you not treated them?"

His grip wasn't loosening. "You need more time to heal. The wounds may open again."

"Then go slow."

Jihyun hesitated.

"Please," she croaked.

As soon as she uttered the word, she knew she had him. He sighed, but let go of her wrist. "You'll have to be careful. I'm stopping this if you push yourself too far."

"Brilliant."

Jihyun pulled down his trousers while she discarded her shorts. She lowered herself into him, relishing in the feel of him filling her. He ran his hands up and down her waist tentatively until he was sure that he wasn't touching any of the injuries on her back. Only then did he allow himself to move into her with practised ease. She held onto his shoulders and rolled her hips in tandem, burying her face into his neck and letting him control the pace. Jihyun had meant his warning and she was not eager to risk it.

It felt new. It felt familiar. It was what she had yearned for. His low grunts, her body slanting forward to hit the right spot, their skin sticking to each other in sweat and slick wetness.

Jihyun was slow, unhurried, with faint caresses down her back. His concern for her was easy to read. He was tracing back the pain that he couldn't protect her from. He might no longer bear a debilitating guilt, but she didn't think he could ever eradicate his need to shield her from misfortunes.

She couldn't blame him. It was the same with her, though the abuse done to her wasn't something that anyone could simply take away, and they both knew it.

She bit his earlobe, mumbling, "It's not your fault."

Jihyun tilted his face, and his lips brushed her cheek. "It's not yours either."

She stopped caring whose fault her source of agony was and thrust into him, picking up the pace while she dug her nails into his arms. He didn’t stop her, his hand snaking down to find her bundle of nerves instead.

She gasped and arched her back when he rubbed her. She was vaguely aware of the sharp jabs of pain in her back, but she welcomed them. Pain grounded her into him.

Jihyun's fingers were vigorous, and his thrusting was getting rougher that it twisted the coil in her lower abdomen. She writhed with need, whispering to him not to stop, and he listened, and it brought her higher and higher until the coil snapped.

She cried out in ecstasy.

Jihyun kept to his pace as she rode out the climax, not stopping despite her trembling legs and clearing haze. She focused on him overwhelming her in a way that annihilated her need for anything else. The alkaline tang of paint that lingered on him. His tightening grip on her bottom as she felt him reaching his climax. Him twitching inside her when he finally did, his muscles tensing as he came inside her. His pleasure-struck face that entranced her every time.

He was a marvel to look at, to have. He was hers. He had proclaimed it. He was the forest that shrouded her from the vultures circling above, the soft sand that sank her deeper into him with each pull of the waves, the hearth that kept her warm through the barren cold. With him, she could breathe.

She would give him everything he wanted. She would not let him go.

She slumped against him, their mixed fluids seeping down her thighs. He slipped out of her and she kissed the underside of his jaw. "I love you."

Jihyun's breath was still racing as he drew circular patterns on her shoulder blades. "Your parents didn't hurt you because you provoked them. They hurt you because they're abusive. It's not your fault."

She sighed. She had hoped he would let it go, but nothing could stop him once he made up his mind. "Knowing it doesn't make it any better."

"Do you really think so?" He ran his thumb up her inner forearm. She flinched and tried to jerk away, but he held onto her. The deepest scars had faded to silver, but the fresher ones were raised ridges along her skin. She had been careful, small cuts scattered on an easily hidden spot. She didn't realise he would notice. "Isn't this your form of penance?"

Her chest tightened. "It's the only thing I have control over. If I blame them and direct all my anger at them, I will hurt them. This way, the only person I hurt is myself. I'm not a weapon. I'm not a threat."

"Don't you think you've been hurt enough?"

She wore a thin smile and looked away. "Sure."

Jihyun's hands slid up her jaw and tilted her head back to him, his fingers resting on the pulse points on her neck. "You can be angry around me. It's natural to want to express your emotions. They're not something you're supposed to keep to yourself. Talk to me when you feel like turning to self-mutilation. I'm yours, remember? My ears are yours to talk to. My shoulders are for you to lean on."

She surveyed his pleading gaze with a twinge of pity. Jihyun was asking for more than he was supposed to receive. In time, he would see it.

Another waiting game had begun. She almost did not want to see the ending.

"All right. I'll do that."

-

Footnotes:

I went with Jihyun because I thought he'd be an interesting choice. The role reversal and all. He's forced to confront how he is seen through MC's eyes when he's involved in dangerous situations and refuses help.

MC's relief for living in Rika's suffocating apartment at the beginning parallels her feeling trapped in the familial cage that she doesn't want to leave. There's a reason why she doesn't move out of the apartment even after the cult drama is over. She's a bird caged too long that she can't take flight even if the door is open. She's not capable of leaving things behind, so she hoards everything she can (Jihyun) to herself.

MC thinking that her father "had loved her despite her selfishness" is the product of her parents' manipulation. Her belief that she's selfish if she feels negative emotions and wants anything at all is what drives her self-destruction, and ironically, her possessiveness.

With Jihyun, it's easy to make him fall into the rescuer role when the partner self-harms, so I was very mindful of depicting the discovery scene. I didn't want to romanticise it and make MC feel like if she got hurt more, she'd get more attention from him. Since this is GE Jihyun, he wouldn't default back to his old enabling methods.

I was dubious about making MC self-harm since I don't want this to be a gratuitous checklist of trigger warnings, but it makes sense for her to turn to cutting. If she has to be hurt, it might as well be by herself. Might as well be on her terms.

The nature metaphors are to show Jihyun's and MC's common interest in nature.

Are they actually in love or is it just oxytocin and loneliness? Who knows?

I felt pressured to write a romantic fic, but I haven't been able to these days so I turned to this. It brought relief somehow. This was cathartic.

I used to think I'd never write a possessive character in a non-antagonising light yet here we are. I compared this MC to the one from Wedge the Knife Under My Skin, but this one is blunter with her words and well, more possessive. She's bitter and sarcastic and resigned to her suffering. Fortunately, Jihyun is secure enough to see through her sharp defences.

The title is a twist on the locus of control concept in psychology, which is about a person's degree of belief on how much of their internal force governs their external life.

I don't know why I like to throw Jihyun into ambiguous relationships either.

Header Corner:

A quick process breakdown! Add a directional blur to the base footage > duplicate the footage, slightly shift the position and change the blur direction to get the hazy look > add a red filter overlay to fit the fic's bloody mood but retain the magenta in the background to resonate with the romance aspect > choose the appropriate angsty text and font!

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