#i just kinda got good at stubbornly continuing anyways within the past year and a half or so?????

[syn4k]

DEPRESSION IS SO FUCKED UP I WILL BE OUT HERE LOOKING AT THE CLOUDS IN THE SKY WITH A GENTLE BREEZE IN MY FACE AND THE AIR FILLED WITH THE SWEET PERFUME OF SPRING AND I WILL REGISTER THAT THE WORLD IS BEAUTIFUL AND I WILL SAY, OUT LOUD, WITH MY MOUTH, "DAMN IT IS PRETTY OUT HERE." AND MY BRAIN DOESNT TAKE THE DAMN CUE TO TRANSLATE THAT INTO ANY EMOTIONS EVER. IVE BEEN DEALING WITH THIS SHIT FOR AT LEAST FIVE YEARS NOW. WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL DUDE????? WHO SANCTIONED THIS????????????

[sugarmaplewings-fics]

I'm Yours

Pairing: Kirishima x reader

Warnings: There's kissing. A lot of kissing. Just some teenagers being dumb really. No canon characters were harmed in the making of this fic. I didn't include a cheating aspect since I don't write for that kind of stuff, but there's still some jealous!Kirishima here >:3

Author's Note:

Uhhhh I kinda forgot to make this fluffy . . . .

Thanks to uwuwuwuwuwuwuwuwuwi from Wattpad for requesting! (that's a really fun username hehe)

Enjoy!

-Sugar

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Swamped.

That was the only way he could describe it. Kirishima didn’t think he’d ever been so busy, and he wasn’t the only one.

Finals had the entirety of the hero course stressed, especially the second-years like himself. Between training, doing homework, and going to class, there wasn’t exactly room for being social. Any time he was able to hang out with his friends, they were studying together. Nothing he'd really describe as 'fun'. And that’s what had him feeling the worst about all this.

He’d started dating you a few weeks ago—going on three months now, actually. Things had been going well between the two of you. You liked him and he really liked you, so to him, there hadn't been any type of problem.

Even so, there was something a little unique about your relationship: no one knew about it. You yourself were never one for letting others get too involved in your business. And besides, you also knew the nature of most high school relationships. Maybe you’d announce yourselves as a couple and make a big fuss only to grow tired of the other and end it all within the first month. But clearly, that hadn’t happened.

There was a strange thrill to keeping your relationship a secret; a novelty your boyfriend hadn't expected. Though he wasn’t much for dishonesty, Kirishima practically lived for the stolen glances across the classroom you’d share, and the way he’d sneak you behind the school for impromptu makeout sessions with no one ever the wiser. You were his little secret, and he was yours.

Until it had all come to a grinding halt with the extra schoolwork.

He still tried to make time to spend with you in one of your dorm rooms, but the both of you finally had to admit to yourselves that neither of you could get any work or studying done when you were alone together. And so it was back to study groups; holding hands under the table as either Bakugou or Yaoyorozu went over the newest batch of hero laws that needed to be memorized.

God, how he wished this could all be over. Kirishima just wanted things to be normal again. When was the last time he’d even seen you? He could remember watching the back of your head duck out of the classroom at the end of the day, but after? . . . Nothing.

He frowned at the physics worksheet laid before him, mind wandering to thoughts of you as one of his sharp teeth sunk into the eraser at the end of his pencil. Kirishima supposed he should go check on you later, once he’d finished up his assignments for the evening.

…

“Did you see (L/N) yesterday?”

Kirishima’s ears unconsciously perked up at the sound of your name. He stood with his tray in the lunch line directly behind some of his female classmates. They were chatting amongst themselves as they slowly stepped forward. Kirishima wasn’t generally one to listen in on conversations he wasn’t a part of, but now they’d captured his interest. Had one of them seen him sneaking into your room?

“No, I didn’t,” Uraraka said in response to Ashido. “Is she alright?”

“Of course she is,” the pink-haired girl said, rolling her abnormal black and amber eyes as she reached for a clementine. “Actually, she may be doing more than alright.”

Kirishima swallowed. Uh-oh.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jirou asked, sounding largely uninterested in gossiping about her fellow classmate.

“Well,” Ashido began, bouncing a little on her toes, “I saw her on the tech floor yesterday and you won’t believe who she was talking to.”

“Who?” Jirou asked dryly, probably hoping to get the discussion over with as quickly as possible.

“Kobayashi Tatsuo. The third year,” Mina announced proudly.

The redhead behind them quietly sighed. Thank goodness. They still didn't know.

“And?” Uraraka questioned.

“They were totally flirting!” Ashido said. “(L/N)’s bagged a cute upperclassman boy! They’ll be dating soon, I just know it! If they aren’t already.” She smugly leveled her shoulders, grinning with an odd look of satisfaction.

What?

“I guess that’s good for her,” Jirou commented, picking up her tray from the lunch bar in order to follow her friends to a table.

“I know, right?” Mina said excitedly as they walked off. “And he’s totally cute too! I wish a hot guy would pay attention to me for once.”

Kirishima watched them leave, almost forgetting to grab lunch for himself after being so absorbed in what they were saying.

The majority of him knew he shouldn’t pay any mind to it. This sort of thing was bound to happen. Of course his peers try to figure out who was involved with who, even if it wasn’t really accurate or from the most credible source. The girls didn’t know that you were already taken by someone else, in fact, the very person behind them in line.

At least now he knew where you’d gone after class yesterday . . . but why? What were you doing on the tech floor? And who was this third year you were talking to?

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of Kaminari’s voice. Kirishima returned the greeting, sliding into his seat next to his friend. As he settled into the atmosphere of his usual table, he couldn’t help but scan the cafeteria for your face, just as he had done every day, even before you were dating.

But for the first time, his search came up empty. You were nowhere to be seen.

…

Kobayashi wasn’t exactly the person you wanted to be spending your lunch with.

Really, a part of you wondered why you had to skip going to the cafeteria at all today. But then you remembered the stack of work that sat on your desk. It stubbornly refused to ever shrink, no matter what you did. Recently, it felt like as soon as you got one thing done, two more assignments would find their way right back at the bottom. And this was just another one you had to deal with.

While reviewing your materials for your upcoming finals, you’d begun to take note of other heroes’ costumes and support items. Particularly, you’d taken interest in a hero from Ukraine who’d debuted a few decades ago. Your quirk was wildly similar to his and you couldn’t help but further research his techniques, costume, and gadgets that enhanced his abilities.

You weren’t one to copy. Actually, you quite liked the way your current costume functioned and looked, with its own unique style of your own. Even so, you’d read things about him and his quirk that you honestly hadn’t even thought of for yourself, and you’d begun to make a special section in your notebook for improvements to your hero ensemble. Was it the best use of your time? Perhaps not, but you did have a practical exam coming up, and a part of you couldn’t help but wonder if these improvements you were sketching might make all the difference in your performance . . . .

You decided you could use an upgrade. Which is exactly why you went to the second-year in the support course who was in charge of making adjustments to your costume. Until your hopes were immediately dashed when you found out he was sick. Determined, you went to the next best option: Kobayashi.

He was a nice enough boy. Tall, witty, and a whole year older. You hadn’t expected to be spending so much time with him over the past week, but for whatever reason, he kept calling you back to his workspace in the shop for ‘daily check-ins’. At least he was making good progress.

But now you were spending your lunch hour eating with him. It felt strange, being alone in a different classroom with the guy—not an uncomfortable strange, merely “I’m not used to being here”. You’d let him borrow your notebook full of sketches for your costume, and that’s what he was going over with you now.

He’d ask you for clarification on one of your notes before jotting something down of his own right next to your handwriting. He had also been eager to show you his process, explaining the steps of what he was doing while you ate from your bento.

To be honest, it was kind of nice being in a different setting. Kobayashi was fun to listen to; it was clear he was passionate about what he was doing.

But still, he ran out of things to talk about. That was, when it came to your hero suit. Figuring it was too late to go back to the cafeteria anyway, he ate his own lunch with you, striking up a new conversation.

At first, you didn’t pay any mind to it. But then you began to take notice of how close he sat. Then you realized how eager he was to make you laugh, how smoothly the casual chatter flowed between you. And then it struck you just how much he peppered in compliments to you. Finally, it clicked.

Uh-oh.

You refused to meet his gaze when he waved you off after the bell rang. Dashing away, you wondered how serious he might be. Did he actually like you? No, perhaps you were overthinking the situation.

Then again, he had been being awfully nice to you ever since you’d met. But what if that was just how he was? Kaminari could be like that at times, and you knew he didn’t usually mean anything too serious behind it. Or—well—perhaps Denki the Flirt was a bad example for your case. Still . . . how were you supposed to make it clear to Kobayashi that you weren’t interested?

You shook your head to clear it of these thoughts. He hadn’t actually done anything, so what was the point of worrying about it? You were loyal to Eijirou, you knew that. You’d made a commitment to him just as he had to you, and that was all there was to it. No matter what, you’d continue whatever it was you had with him. Kobayashi wasn’t an issue you should be losing sleep over. Besides, you were probably reading too far into things anyway.

Content with the conclusions you’d made, you walked back into your homeroom class for fifth period. Settling into your seat, you faced the chalkboard in front of you, awaiting the return of Aizawa-sensei, unaware of the pair of ruby eyes fixed on your back.

…

Kirishima shot up from his desk the moment he heard a soft knock on his door. As soon as he opened up his room, you came barreling into his arms. “Hey!” he greeted you, reciprocating the hug.

“Study break!” you announced quietly, not wanting to alert his neighbors of your presence.

He tittered happily to himself, leading your bodies back to his desk where he could sit you on his lap in his chair. Settling comfortably on his thighs, you were quick to slot your lips against his. Kirishima melted into your touch.

How many days had it been since he’d last gotten a chance to kiss you? Two? Three? Either way, it had been far too long.

“Shall we take this to the bed?” he joked after a few minutes of kissing.

You chuckled at his harmless allusion. “You know I’m going to fall asleep as soon as I lay down.”

He brushed a stray strand of hair out of your face, concern morphing his features. “Have you been getting enough rest with all this going on?”

“No,” you admitted. “I was up last night with my English flashcards. I swear Present Mic is trying to kill me with this new vocab, it’s like I can’t get it in my head at all.”

“I could help you study it,” your boyfriend offered, his hands resting lightly on your waist.

“That would be productive,” you said sarcastically with a roll of your eyes. “What was it last time? ‘If I get a set right, I’ll get a kiss’ and then next thing I know, we’re making out on your bed for twenty minutes.”

He grinned up at you coyly. “At least I made studying fun.”

“That wasn’t studying!” you protested with a grin. “Speaking of, my timer’s going to go off soon—” you pressed your lips against his for a moment, “—and I want more kisses.”

Kirishima let you have your way with him, threading your fingers through his hair while you savored the taste of his lips. But there was something still nagging at the back of his mind.

“(Y/N)?” he asked when your phone buzzed and you pulled away. “Where were you during lunch today?”

You shrugged, pulling your phone out of your pocket to silence it. “I’m getting improvements on my hero costume. My regular guy got sick so I’m working with this third-year dude.”

“Ohhh.” Kirishima’s worries dissipated almost instantly. “So that’s why you were on the tech floor.”

Confused, you frowned. “Did you see me there or something?”

“Oh, sorry! I just overheard Ashido saying that she saw you down there.” He laughed. “She thought you were flirting with him or something and that you were going to end up dating.”

“Ah, well,” you mumbled, “I wasn’t sure if I should say anything or not but he, um, actually might have been flirting with me.”

Kirishima’s smile dropped, his arms subconsciously squeezing you tighter to him. “What?”

“I only noticed it today—it totally could be nothing—but I think he’s caught feelings? I mean, why else would he ask me to have lunch with him like this? Not to mention how he was smiling at me, and looking at me, and touching my hand—” You bit your tongue, stopping yourself from saying anything else. Maybe this was more serious than you realized.

Your boyfriend was silent, staring at the floor below you with a troubled expression. His ruby eyes traced over the rectangular patterns on his floor, seemingly lost in thought.

“You know that nothing’s going to happen,” you attempted to reassure him, lifting his chin with one of your fingers so he could look into your eyes. “Those feelings aren’t reciprocated and I’m not going anywhere. I’ve already picked you, Eijirou. There’s no one out there like you.” You pressed a kiss to his forehead, sealing your statements, not only to him but to yourself. “We’ll sort this out. If I have to tell Kobayashi I’m taken, then so be it. Maybe keeping our relationship a secret isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be.”

When you pulled back, you noticed that there was still a pout on Eijirou’s face.

“Aw, what is it?” you asked, tucking one of his fallen sticky spikes back under his bandana.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, pulling you even closer to him.

“Talk to me, baby.” You ran a hand down his back.

“I don’t like the thought of him being around you,” he confessed into your shoulder. “I . . . don’t want him smiling at you like that, or touching you, or letting people think that you belong with him. You’re . . . mine.” He paused before laughing dryly, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. “I’m sorry. That sounded . . . totally selfish of me and probably not very manly at all—”

“No,” you said simply. “It’s actually kinda hot.”

He pulled back to look at you, perhaps to see if you were joking. Your expression was intrigued, maybe a little flustered. “Really?”

“Yeah.” You swallowed. “I . . . like when you call me yours. It’s cute. And besides, it’s okay that you feel that way. Feelings don’t have to make sense. I'm frustrated about this too.” Pecking his lips a final few times, you regretfully stood from his chair. “I wish there was something more I could do right now, but I should get going. I promised Tsu and Uraraka I’d meet up with them. We can talk about this later.”

“See you, (Y/N),” Kirishima said.

You smiled and waved, turning to the door and checking to see if anyone was in the hall before slipping back out. Kirishima watched you go, wondering what he should do.

Kirishima hadn’t even met the guy and he already hated him. Sure, Kobayashi wasn’t aware you were taken, and he had every right to show interest in you, but that was supposed to be Eijirou. It was Kirishima’s job to flirt with you and be there for you and sweep you off your feet. Your classmates should be shipping you with him, not this random guy from another year.

The redhead sighed. He shouldn’t let himself get so caught up in this. He knew you were capable of sorting this out on your own, and if you really needed him, Kirishima would help you. He couldn’t start getting whiny like some kind of child.

Besides, your friends could think whatever they wanted. It couldn’t affect your relationship. They were just high school kids. They didn’t even know what they were talking about.

Despite the fact he was trying to get back into focusing on his work, Kirishima’s mind couldn’t help but wander. Maybe once exams were over you could finally announce that the two of you were together. Then you wouldn’t have to sneak around so much anymore. He could hug you whenever he wanted, and you could sit on his lap during movie night. He’d be able to kiss you in front of his friends, no problem. Maybe, just to see the look on his face, he’d kiss you in front of—

No, no. Japanese Literature. That was what he was supposed to be thinking about right now. The sooner he finished his work, the sooner he’d be able to see you again.

…

Finally it was Saturday afternoon, and you knew you had an entire day to take things a little easier tomorrow. Maybe you’d even try to take the evening off and spend some time with your boyfriend. But of course, you had to meet with Kobayashi about your hero costume first. Hopefully it would be quick, and perhaps even the last time.

You walked down to the tech floor, heading straight for the workshop. You needed your suit for the practical exam next week, so you hoped he was ready for you.

Peeking into the room, you spotted him putting something into a very familiar case.

“Oh, are you finished?” you asked, walking in.

“Yeah,” he said brightly. “You’re all set, (L/N).”

“Thanks,” you said.

“Here,” he popped the little box open, showing off the finalized improvements he’d done and the changes he’d made that you’d spoken about together. He walked you through everything and you listened politely, asking the occasional question. Even with the newfound bitter taste in your mouth at being around him, you had to admit he'd done a spectacular job.

“That should be everything,” you said, ready to go. “Thanks for working with me.”

“No problem.”

Satisfied, you began to walk away.

“Wait, (L/N).”

Apprehensive, you stopped, turning back to him. “Yeah?”

“I was just wondering,” he began, bashful, “if you’d like to grab lunch with me sometime.”

You frowned, apologetic. “I can’t, Kobayashi senpai.”

“Why not?” He looked hurt.

You winced. “I’m already involved with someone else.”

“You’re just ‘involved’?” he asked dubiously, the expression on his face changing. “Please give me a chance. I can see that you feel something for me too. Whoever you’re with, I could be better.”

“I’m not interested,” you said firmly, any momentary sympathy you might have felt evaporating. “Goodbye, Kobayashi.”

He let you go, watching as you walked stiffly out of the classroom. As soon as you rounded the doorway, you felt something grab you. Gasping, you startled, but you were quick to register a familiar head of red hair. You saw Kirishima put a finger to his lips, pulling you further down the hall and towards the empty stairwell for some privacy.

He pushed you up against a blue-gray wall, grinning at you with hooded eyes.

“Eiji, what—?”

“I heard the whole thing,” he murmured, leaning in and capturing your lips for a quick kiss. “I thought that guy might make a move on you so I followed you down here. You held your own.” He kissed you again; this one longer, his tongue sneaking its way into your mouth. “You’re really mine, aren’t you?” he murmured against your lips, a stubborn trace of hesitancy still present and quavering in his voice.

“Of course I am, Eiji,” you whispered, touching your forehead to his. “I’m yours.”

He surged against you again, kissing you hungrily and pinning you even harder against the solid surface behind you.

You gasped against his force, eyebrows drawing together as you struggled to keep up. “Ei—” you tried. “Not here, let’s go someplace else.”

“Who cares?” he murmured, uninterested in stopping.

“Me. I don’t want to get caught by a teacher or a random fifteen-year-old. We could get in trouble.”

Kirishima sighed, finally drawing back for a moment to meet your eyes. “Okay, fine. But we’re going straight to my room, right?”

You snorted. “Where else do you think I want to be?”

He smirked, taking your hand again. “Good answer.”

Kirishima briskly walked you back to the dorms, his hand migrating ever lower down your back. It wasn’t long before he was sitting you on his lap in his bed, mouth once again connecting with yours right where it belonged.

You weren’t sure he’d ever kissed you like this before, in all the time you’d been together. His passion blazed before you, unrelenting as your teeth and tongues crashed together. He nipped at your lips until they flushed and swelled, and you knew they’d be noticeably bruised by morning but neither of you stopped. He kept going, trailing more kisses from the corner of your mouth, to your jaw, and all the way down your neck only to return right back to your parted lips whispering his name.

Kirishima’s room had never felt so hot and stuffy, even as he pulled off his uniform jacket and helped you out of yours. His cheeks burned red as his eyes, so caught up in what he was doing, the only thoughts his mind was still capable of having were simply You.

It went by in a haze. He wasn’t sure when exactly he’d lowered you onto his pillow, or how long he’d been hovering over you and caging you in with his arms as he cherished you.

But he knew one thing. His love for you wasn’t something he could hide anymore. No, he’d never let anyone think they stood a chance with you again while he was around.

One day soon, he would kiss you good morning at breakfast. One day, you’d hold hands in the halls on the way to class. One day, he’d pull you in close after school, slinging an arm around your hips just so he always knew you were there at his side.

But he was happy to be here with you now. He was happy to be your secret. He was happy, even as his kisses began to soften and slow, content with the way your body melded against his as he laid himself at your side and hugged you closer. All that mattered was that you were here with him now, and he was yours.

And you were his.

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Taglist: @aahilovetheatre @basicalyrandom @bumbyslair @f0leysgurl @hyunmin-1404 @kqtsukii @nabo39 @pyrofanatic​ @rainy-skys-and-bright-stars @sendhelpimstupid @ure-a-sunflower @xoxopam4​

[jinmukangwrites]

Whumptober Day 11

Defiance | Struggling | Crying

Ao3

For @sassydefendorflower. I hope you like it!!!

Warnings: prolonged captivity, kidnapping, non consensual toughing / groping / drugging, gaslighting, Stockholm Syndrome, restraints, isolation, threats, panic attacks. Please keep warnings in mind, this is a VERY dark fic.

-o-o-o-o-

If there's one thing Dick can confidently say that he absolutely hates, it's being restrained. He's learnt to repress his hatred for the total and complete lack of movement and control of his own body over the years—because the last thing you should do while locked up or tied down is show the captor that you're uncomfortable. And yes, it did get  easier over the years. Waking up with his wrists above his head, locked in chains, or his back pressed to a metal chair with coarse rope hardly bothered him anymore. He's even experimented with bondage during sex, and while it wasn't the biggest kink of his, it was somewhat enjoyable with the right partners. 

But deep down, when it came down to it, losing control of his movements and senses rubbed him in all the wrong ways. 

Which is why when he wakes up on his sides his arms wrapped around his chest and hugged around towards his back by stiff sleeves he's instantly on edge. He shifts, and swallows down a grown when his legs keep connected together at the ankles by what feels like thick, padded shackles. Again, Feels like, because when he opens his eyes, he finds them bound by something soft and cloth-like. The cloth wraps around the entirety of his head and over his ears. And speaking of his ears, it almost feels like someone pushed extra cotton into the canals, making it exceptionally difficult to hear. 

He tries to shift, frustration crawling into his gut when the straps of what’s definitely a straight jacket presses harshly into multiple places of his body. There's no give. He can immediately tell that this is an honest to God straight jacket. Not a fake one with makeshift straps sewn on to simply look real or do the job. This is the kind of straight jacket the Joker would be put in. And Dick—while he's flexible and trained to escape binds like this—knows that something like this might be out of his league.

Now that he knows he's not getting out of this, at least not while laying on the ground, he takes stock of his memories. He doesn't feel groggy or drugged. Honestly, it feels like he's just woken up from a nap. Which is strange because he could have sworn the last thing he remembers is driving home from work, mentally planning out his night routine for patrol. 

Which brings up the question if he's Dick Grayson… or Nightwing. 

He shifts again and tries to pay attention to the fabric against his body—under the straight jacket and around his limbs.

He quickly becomes aware that the parts of skin all under his knees are bare, and when he tugs his arms and twists his fingers he can feel the straight jacket directly on his fingertips. The collar of the straight jacket lays loosely around the base of his neck, but the clothes he's wearing sits skin-tight just below his jaw. 

Okay, Nightwing then. Nightwing, but without his gloves and boots. Which is good and bad in a multitude of different ways. 

The on edge feeling inside his chest grows as he slowly begins to work himself up so he's sitting. The straps of the jacket rub raw against him, especially on his biceps and groin. His back hits a hard wall, and he leans against it while bringing his legs up so his knees are kissing his chest. He can't hear or see anything—which leaves him severely vulnerable, especially when you consider that he is restrained rather professionally. He tests the give between the shackles on his ankles, and he finds there's hardly any. Maybe just an inch of cord. Not enough to walk, hop, or shuffle. He needs his hands, or at least his eyes, to know more about the likelihood of him picking them. Right now though, the likelihood sits stubbornly at zero.

Okay. So not all of his senses are taken from him. His mouth isn't gagged, so he can speak and taste. He might be restrained, but leaning against the wall and placing his bare feet on the ground gives him a chance of at least feeling someone coming before they interact with him. 

Besides that… there's not much going for him. He doesn't know where he is, or even if there's someone in the room with him that would get upset if he begins to more seriously tug at the jacket. Abductions like this are always stressful in completely unique ways because of that. 

Okay. Okay, Nightwing. You got this. 

He rolls his shoulders, grunting at the pressure that immediately intensifies on his arms and sides. He tugs his arms and tugs again, shifting to try and alleviate the yanking straps on his nether regions, but it all is too well put together. Too tightly buckled. There's absolutely no give on any strap, and continuing to tug and struggle like this will just make him look like a pathetic, flopping fish trapped outside of the water. He's a good escapist. You don't go into his line of nightlife and not know how to slip your share of binds. But he's no Houdini. He's not getting out of this jacket any time soon. 

Suddenly, there's a heavy vibration under his feet, and he's just able to tense before a hand wraps itself around his chin, softer than what Dick was expecting, and forces his face to look slightly upwards. 

He just manages to repress a jump when the sound of static erupts in his ear. Unexpected. Interesting. The static shifts into words. Was… a small communication device stuffed into his bound ears? 

"Hello, Nightwing," says the voice. Male. Young, maybe Bruce's age. Calm. Gentle. Like he's making a genuine greeting. "Nod if you can hear me."

Dick doesn't nod. Maybe, if he pretends this rather clever idea for communication while he's deafened doesn't actually work, his captor will take the tape off from his face and Dick would be able to actually see where he is. 

His captor waits a second, then sighs. "I want to help you, and I can't if you don't cooperate."

Dick has to resist frowning or scowling. What is this guy playing at? Normally, by now, bad guys are beating him up and torturing him. 

The man hums and Dick jerks his chin away, curling up defensively when the man simply lets go. 

The static chirps in his ear. "I see you want to be stubborn. But that's okay. I'll be back later, with food too. Try to think about working with me next time."

Then the static leaves, as does the presence of the man. Dick doesn't hear any closing doors, or see anyone walking away, but he's pretty sure he's alone now.

He swallows. That was weird. 

He takes a second to calm his heart and quiet his head. He can't think about what his captor wants and what ploy they're playing at. He has to escape before something more happens. He tugs on the straight jacket sleeves, choking off his growls of frustration when he goes nowhere quickly.

-o-o-o-o-

Hours pass. Enough hours to where his lips feel chapped and his stomach growls. His tailbone aches, sitting against the wall like this, but he doesn't want to purposely place himself in a more vulnerable position. He can only be grateful that he doesn't need to use the restroom- and nevermind. Now that he's thinking about it he does kinda need to go. 

Great. This is just great. Now that strap growing right between his legs is going to be so much more fun to deal with. 

Just great. 

Loud static erupts in his ears suddenly, and he could hardly repress the flinch at the sudden noise within the hours of silence he's been stewing in for the past several hours. He grinds his jaw as the same voice as before speaks up, the tone way to smug and happy for Dick's tastes. 

"Ah, so you do hear me!" 

Dick wants to ignore him. But clearly this man is confident that Dick can hear him and Dick really needs to find out what's going on. 

"Who are you?" Dick growls, bunching his hands into fists within the sleeves of the straight jacket. "What do you want?"

"Oh, Nightwing," the man sighs, and Dick has to physically restrain himself from kicking out when a hand places itself on his knees. He tugs backwards though, not wanting to be touched. The man removes his hand and doesn't return it. "I don't want anything, I just need you to eat."

Dick's stomach growls at the mention of food and he hopes it wasn't loud enough to be heard. He's hungry. Thirsty. But Dick knows giving him food isn't the only reason he was captured. "No, there's more than that. Why am I here?"

The man hums. "How about, we make a deal. You eat some of this hot, homemade potato soup I've made and then I can answer some of your questions. How does that sound? Will you let me help you?"

What is up with this guy. He sounds... Genuine. And Dick hates that. He sounds like he really does just want to get Dick something to eat, and that he'll honestly answer some questions after hand. But… Dick can't play along. The soup could be drugged. Or these questions of his might not even be answered anyway. And what is this guy going to do? Take off the jacket to give him potato soup? No, he'll most likely attempt to spoon feed Dick and Dick's not a fan of that.

So, even though he's hungry, he sets his jaw. "I'm not hungry."

"Yes you are, sweetheart," the man coos, setting something twisting in Dick's gut. "I know you're hungry. Thirsty. And I want to help you." Dick flinches when a hand cups his left jaw, but this time the hand doesn't leave. "Please let me help you."

Dick presses his lips shut. 

The man sighs. 

"Okay, you're okay. I'll let you be for a little longer. The food can just be reheated later, alright?" 

Dick doesn't answer. The static shuts off, and Dick's pretty sure the man leaves. 

He's left alone to lick his lips; to ignore his grumbling stomach and the pooling weight in his bladder. He tugs on the jacket, and becomes even more irritated when it doesn't give like he didn't expect it to.

-o-o-o-o-

It's… several more hours by the time the man returns again, and within that time Dick has found himself barely keeping awake. If it wasn't for his hunger and thirst… if not for the added intense need to relieve himself… he would have fallen asleep out of pure boredom. This entire situation is tearing at his nerves. Fraying him at the core of his tolerance. He hates being rendered completely helpless like this. Starved and deprived. It chills him to the bone even though it's a comfortable temperature in the room. He wants to know what his captors game is—he hates not knowing.

But, even though he cannot help but desperately hate this entire everything, it felt almost like a relief when the static once again began in his ear, and the presence of the man returned. Dick stirred slightly, recognizing and almost feeling the man kneeling down to his side. He could easily smell the thick and hot potato soup that he was talking about earlier. He must have brought it down in a closed container or something last time, but left it open this time. 

It made him want to curl up just to lessen the stabbing pain in his empty gut. It's strange how he can be so hungry when he's sure not even 24 hours have passed yet. He's gone days without food before. Weeks with little nibbles here and there during his most intense depressive episodes. But there's something about being forcefully deprived of food that makes it so much more awful than if it was under his own will. 

He wants to eat. He should eat. He should keep up his strength. The soup smells so good. Like... Alfred level good. And he's not sure of that's because it might actually be as good as Alfred's famous steak and potato soup he liked to make around Christmas time while they were on a rare vacation at the ski house... or if he’s just so starved that anything would smell heavenly. 

He swallows. The man finally speaks.

"Are you ready to eat?" The man asks.

And why shouldn't he eat? If this guy wanted Dick poisoned or drugged, he could have done it easily hours ago. His stomach gurgles, which in turn puts pressure on his ballooned bladder, which makes him painfully aware of the strap still pressing between his legs. 

He has so many discomforts right now. If he could just ease one...

"If I eat..." Dick begins, and his voice sounds as tired and haggard as he feels. He licks his dry lips. "If I eat, you'll answer my questions?"

There's a moment of silence, then a small chuckle. "That was the deal last time, silly," the man replies, sounding like a parent gently scolding a rambunctious child. Dick didn't like that. "Right now, you just need to eat. If you eat, then we can maybe talk about the future. How does that sound, sweetheart?" 

It doesn't sound good. But Dick is so… hungry. He can either just let himself eat and maybe learn something or just let himself starve and sit alone for more hours until his captor decides to visit him again.

Dick bites his lip. Weighs his options. His rumbling stomach reminds him that he doesn't really have any.

"Okay," he breathes. "Okay."

"I'm happy that you're letting me help you, sweetheart," the man says, then settles down somewhere in front of Dick. "Open up!" 

And as embarrassing as it was, he opened his mouth and allowed the first spoonful of warm soup to enter. 

Now that he's tasted the heavenly smelling soup, he's not really sure if he can confidently say if it was the hunger that made it smell so good. It didn't taste awful… but it definitely tastes… alright? 

He eats the soup in generously small bites, and the man allows time between each bite to let the warmth settle in his gut before offering another spoonful. Soon enough, the soup is gone and the man is gently putting a bottle of water to Dick's chapped mouth with encouraging words that Dick tries not to listen too intently to. 

In a short matter of time, his stomach feels contently full. Thirst a far-off memory. Now… the only problem is his bladder, no doubt about to feel even more full considering he's just drunk down a sizable amount of distilled water. 

"Do you need to use the restroom, honey?" The man asks, and Dick almost flushes. He really, really needs to pee. 

"I need answers," he says instead, because he's complied with eating. Drinking too. He didn't fight or lash out during any of it. 

"Yes," the man says, which shocks Dick. "Yes I suppose you've earned it. One question, sweety. Then we can move on."

Dick took a deep breath. Okay. One question. He can work with this. 

"What do you want from me?"

The man hummed. "I've already answered that, sweetheart, remember? I don't want anything from you. I just want to take care of you. You need to be taken care of."

Dick shook his head. "No, I don't need taken care of. I can take care of myself. What's your plan? What's your endgame?"

"I believe I told you just one question, yes?" The man scolds, then exhales. "I know you're scared, sweetheart. But believe me, I have your best interests at heart-"

"Then untie me!" Dick snaps, tugging on the sleeves of the straight jacket. "Let me see you! If all you wanted to do was give me a meal, then you could have just invited me in."

"No," the man says, and for the first time he sounds… angry. Irritated. It almost gives Dick whiplash. "No. You're safer like this. The outside world… it just uses you. No one appreciates you out there. You're all on your own... getting hurt… and I can't watch it any longer. I'm going to take care of you. I'll untie you once you understand that."

Dick clenches his fists within the restraining sleeves. Of course. A complete psycho has taken him. This makes things difficult. 

"You're delusional."

A moment of silence. Then; the constant static in his ear suddenly cut out. Immediately, his anxiety level sparks. He's forgotten how quiet this was. How lonely. He's sat here for hours, and he's already latched onto the only person around to have company with. 

He represses gasp when a hand curls around the side of his head, the palm resting just besides his ear, fingers curling in his hair. 

Then, the hand leaves, and Dick is left sitting in the dark, his bladder swelling to the point of pain. 

"W-" he begins, about to demand a way to relieve his bladder, but he stops himself and let's the presence go. Asking for things will encourage this man's delusions. Which can be just as dangerous as defying. 

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to think of the meditation practices Bruce put him through as a kid. He'll find a way out of this. He always finds a way.

-o-o-o-o-

Just before Dick's bladder is about to explode, a hand falls on his shoulder. He jumps at the contact, almost letting go of his nether problem, but he manages to keep his dignity as the hand squeezes slightly. It must have been an hour, but somehow, he found himself looking forward to that little buzz of static that announced that he'll be able to hear for a little bit. 

It comes, and for the first time in a while, he feels like he can breathe.

"How about we get you to the bathroom, sweety?"

And Dick knows he shouldn't comply. He should ignore it. He shouldn't play into the man's fantasies. But it's either use the restroom or… or wet himself probably in the next five minutes. 

"Fine."

"Now that's not very polite," the man says, back in that scolding voice. "If you want to go, you have to say yes please!" 

Dick grinds his teeth. His bladder hurts. "Yes please."

"Well, we can work on your tone later…"

Then, unexpectedly, fingers fall to the padded shackles on his ankles. He fights the urge to lash out, but he naturally relaxes when he feels the shackles begin to loosen. 

This… this is good. This is really good. He's letting Dick's legs free so he can walk to wherever he needs to go. 

Dick's known how to fight blinded and deafened since he was a kid.

Dick's always known how to use his legs. 

Escape is a hair's breadth away. He can practically taste it. 

The man brings his hands up to Dick's chest, and Dick allows him to get that close. The man grunts as he helps Dick to his feet. It takes a moment for Dick to find his balance, especially with the straight jacket still tightly wrapped around his upper body, but eventually he manages to steady himself on his feet. 

Now or never. 

The strap between his legs pulls awfully as he brings his leg up to kick the man. His foot meets a gut, and he hears an oof before the sound in his ears cut out and silence replaces his world. But this is fine. He can work with this. It's a good thing his feet are bare, because it makes it easier to keep track of the man as he stumbles back a few steps.

Dick doesn't allow him to recover. He darts forward and brings his leg up, aiming for the man's head. 

He misses. Which is fine. This is all fine. He just needs to get in one good hit. One good hit and he get get out of this pl-

Suddenly, his entire world erupts in pain. A gurgled scream forces its way out of his throat as the familiar feeling of pure electricity sparks from his thigh up to the rest of his body. Everything becomes that. The agonizing sensation of bolts slicing their way through every nerve and cell he has. 

It lasts years. Or maybe moments. When the electricity stops and he's left breathless, choking on his strained breaths, crumpled on the floor. There's stabbing pain in his thigh, and he realizes he's just been tased with some sort of gun that can pierce through the kevlar of his suit. 

How the fuck did this guy manage to get something this high tech?!

However, he doesn't wonder that long, because he's suddenly hit with the mortifying feeling of wetness between his legs, dripping down the inside of his thighs. 

Shit. 

And he can't do anything about it besides groan and try to get his limbs to stop twitching with lingering effects of a taser. 

He doesn't get anywhere far, because hands fall onto his ankles and he's too weak to fight as the shackles are slipped back on with fast and practiced movements. In a matter of seconds, Dick's left on his stomach, his arms awkwardly curled around his chest and his legs now held back together. 

The static in his ear turns on. The man sounds breathless. "That was uncalled for. Apologise, and I'll help you clean up."

Dick feels a spike of anger crawl up his esophagus. Fuck. You."

There's a sigh. "I do not know why you insist on struggling. I'm trying to help you. If you don't apologise, then I'm going to be forced to leave you here to think about the kind of behavior expected from you."

Dick snarls. Doesn't say anything. Just snarls. He's so angry. And tired. And humiliated. 

The man huffs. "Alright then. It seems you need time to cool down. I'll be back, sweetheart. If you apologise when I return, then I'll have another warm meal for you. And I'll help you get clean."

"Fuck off," Dick snarls. "I don't know what you want-" the static shuts off and irrational panic swirls in his stomach. "Let me go! Fuck- let me go-" 

Pain stabs into his soaking thighs, but it's not electricity. He feels the stabbing pins of the taser gun leave the meat of his thigh. He swears and kicks, but he hits nothing. 

"Get back! Untie me! Shit-"

There's no answer. Only silence. Dick's pretty sure the man exited the room in the middle of Dick's irrational yelling. He takes a deep breath, swears, and curls up slightly, wrinkling his nose at the smell of his own urine that covers his aching thighs. 

The silence in his ears is deafening. The sudden loneliness crushing. 

He needs to figure out a way out of this. Before he goes completely insane.

-o-o-o-o-

Dick's unsure of how much time has passed. 

Enough for him to feel hungry and thirsty again though. Long enough for the dampness of his lower body to turn dry and irritating. The inside of his legs have been rubbed raw against the fabric of his suit. He hates to think of the kind of rash he probably has. 

But the hunger? The thirst? The discomfort? He can deal with that. That's all okay. It's nothing new, even if wetting himself is embarrassing beyond most comparisons. 

What's getting to him is that he's... completely alone. Rendered helpless to the point where he can barely wiggle around on the ground like a worm. He's tired. Exhausted. But terrified to sleep. He hates this… loneliness. The hours spent in isolation with no one to talk to. No one to hold him. 

He could really go for a hug right now.

He almost wishes the man would come back soon so Dick can have someone around. 

The hours tick on. And no one comes. Dick curls up tighter, because that's the only thing he can do. He curls up tighter and finds himself pretending the straight jacket was an actual person, holding him as he desperately fought to keep awake. 

-o-o-o-o-

"Oh dear, you poor thing."

Dick wakes to the half pitying, half cooed sentence. He hasn't… realized he's fallen asleep. He's still not sure if he's even awake. Everything… is so woozy. Groggy. A hand goes into his hair and he finds himself leaning into the soft touch. Bruce does this. Bruce does this whenever Dick got himself in trouble, and therefore into a medical cot. This is safe. Dick sighs.

"Are you ready to apologise?" The voice asks, and Dick frowns.

Apologise? What has he… 

Oh. Oh yeah. Dick flinches and tries to scramble back. His captor's hand leaves his hair and Dick tries not to hyperventilate. 

How… how could he seek comfort like that? How could he have let his guard get so low? So quickly? With a panicked, thumping heart he mentally lists everything he knew about Stockholm Syndrome. Could… could it be happening? Could his constant need for a physical comfort be causing this? Could the hours spent on end completely alone and helpless have triggered-

No. No Stockholm Syndrome doesn't work that quickly. He's just tired. And probably having some PTSD from his time spent captive with Deathstroke back when the mercenary was more determined to have him as an apprentice. 

Dick's definitely not about to gain any kind of false feelings for his captor any time soon. 

He needs to escape though, and quickly, before they can begin.

Because, no matter how strong you are, if you're forced into any kind of long term captivity like this, it's only a matter of time.

Dick still can't bring himself to truly fight Slade Wilson, and it's been over a decade. 

"Sweetheart?" His captor asks, sounding concerned, and Dick forces himself to keep his breaths even. 

Even though it felt like he couldn't breathe at all.

"W-what do you want?" Dick wheezes. 

The man sighs into his ear. "I have more soup. And some towels to clean you up. Remember the deal I told you?"

Oh. That's right. 

He wants Dick to apologise.

And Dick wants to. Just to get the burning soreness between his legs gone. 

But... He doesn't… want this man anywhere near him right now. Not when he's just come down from an internalized panic attack about the fucking Stockholm Syndrome. 

But he also doesn't want to be alone again. He's hungry and thirsty and tired despite his apparent nap he's still tired to his bones. 

And he doesn't want to be alone. 

And suddenly, the choice is so much harder to make. And maybe it really is just his PTSD with Slade acting up. He doesn't want the company of this man specifically. He just wants... Someone. Bruce. Barbara. Jason. Tim.  Cass. Steph. Damian. And Dick might now know him very well, but Duke would be appreciated too. All of them would be great. Fantastic actually. God, he really wants a hug from every single one of them.

But he doesn't have them. It's definitely been more than a day now. Maybe close to two. If they were searching for him… they would have found him by now. 

So he needs to save up his strength. He needs to eat. He can't fight to the fullest of his abilities to escape with an irritated rash between his legs. 

He takes a deep breath, tells himself he's okay, and nods. "I'm... sorry."

"For what?" The man asks and Dick wants to crawl into a hole and die. 

"For… trying to escape."

A sigh. A hand in his hair. Dick forces himself to believe that he didn't immediately flinch away because he's an expert actor. 

"For trying to run away," the man corrects. And man, that's manipulative. Gaslighting. "Say you're sorry for trying to run away."

Dick nods anyways. "I'm sorry for trying… to run away."

"There we go," the hand in his hair gently combs through the strands. "Was that so hard?"

Yes.

He doesn't answer. The man sounds too happy to care as the smell of potato soup erupts into the air with the pop of a lid. 

Dick allows himself to be fed without complaint. It takes less time than before. He's given more water this time too. 

The food is warm and the water soothing, that by the time they're done he's almost forgotten about the second half of the agreement and fallen into a state of almost unwitting sleep.

He remembers the moment hands land on his knees, going to spread his legs. Immediately, lightning fast thoughts of fight or flight invade his mind. 

Fuck. God. Shit. The rash. 

He didn't… he didn't even think of what it would mean to be cleaned up. His suit stretched enough to roll up his legs all the way to his crotch, but the thought of hands touching him in those places sent his heart haywire. 

"Wait-" he wheezes, scooting back and forcing his legs closed. Because know what? He can deal. He'll live. He doesn't need anyone fondling any sensitive parts of his lower body, even if it's to clean off any uncomfortable, dried, stench ridden messes. "Stop!"

"I know, it’s okay" the man tuts. "It's only going to hurt more, sweetheart. It has to get clean."

"Don't touch me!" Dick kicks out, panic flaring in a whole new way. A whole new way that he hasn't felt in a fucking long ass time. A whole new way that makes his skin feel wet with rain water. Warm with blood. Too cold with the wind. On fire with the trailing hands and body straddling him around his hips.

He tries to keep his legs closed, but the man digs his fingers into Dick's sore thigh where the puncture wounds of the taser gun were and soon Dick finds himself pinned on his back, foot on the tether between his ankle cuffs, a body between his knees, and hands tugging at the hemlines of his suit around his legs.

Dick chokes on his panic now, almost flashing back to the rain dripping on the roof of Blockbuster's building, the harsh yellow light of the roof entrance reflecting like melting stars. 

He takes a gasping breath, digging the nails of his fingers into his palms, focusing on the body between his spread legs and how easy it should be to bring his legs up and choke the life out of his captor. This guy wants to touch his thighs so much, he can touch them with his concave windpipe. 

He almost does so, but then the man tuts and presses something against his leg. "Please calm down, sweetie. I don't want to punish you again."

The taser. Of course he has the taser. 

A hiccup escapes his throat without his permission as he slowly forces himself to lay back. He could fight. He could move anyways and at least go down fighting. But, if he's tasered this whole experience will be so much worse and he… he just wants to go to sleep. He just wants to go home.

He doesn't know how to get out of this one. He doesn't know what he should do with this one. Nothing, no precautionary plan, no in-case-of's, no lesson that he's had stuffed in his brain since his suit was red, green, and yellow instead of black and blue has taught him how to deal with these kinds of villains. The kinds that did things not for any material gain, but because they genuinely felt like they needed to. 

Dick knew, as the material of his pants were finally bunched up to his groin, that if his knuckles were free he'd be biting teeth marks into them just to keep from screaming, especially as a warm, wet cloth begins to rub his now exposed skin. 

He hated this. He hated this. He hated this hated this hated this so fucking much. It was all he could focus on. How much he hated this. How much he hated the rough fibers of the cloth scraping against his sensitive thighs. How much he hated the water dripping down towards his crotch. How much he hated the bare hand on his other leg, keeping his legs spread. How much he hated being so helpless to a taser pressed into his side. 

He didn't want this. He thought he could get over it. The feeling of someone between his legs, him pressed on his back, hands where they shouldn't be. He thought that if he pretended it didn't bother him, that it didn't send him back, he could still have fun in bed. He could still enjoy the things he did with the people he came to love enough to intrust that side of himself to. 

Now, he's reminded of how much he never wants to be touched again. 

Which is entirely not a typical Dick Grayson thought. 

He's so focused on how much he absolutely loathes and hates everyone and everything and himself included that he hardly even notices that it’s done until he’s curled up on his side, the water on his thighs beginning to cool, tightened up in the smallest ball he could get into with the restraints. 

He gasps. It's stuttered. Wet. 

Wet. Why...?

"It's okay sweetheart," the man says, bringing his hand into Dick's hair and Dick wants to unravel. "I know it was scary. Don't cry. Let's calm down-"

Crying. Dick's crying. 

How…

How pathetic.

Has he already broken? Brought down to tears because of a little loneliness, homesickness, and unwelcome touches? And the thing is, he doesn't even think more than a day or two has passed. 

And he tries to tell himself everyone has an achilles heel. With Bruce, it's when his family is threatened. With Jason, it's crowbars. With Tim, it's being left behind. With Cass it's a morally compromising decision. With Duke it's the crazy unknown. With Damian, it's his past. 

Dick's always told himself his achilles heel was always baseball bats. Or a threatened circus. Or maybe even just tiny, white, powdery pills designed to paralyze the heart. 

But it's really always been being rendered helpless. 

Helpless to move. Helpless to see. Helpless to hear. Helpless to fight. 

Helpless to push the body on top of him off before they violate him.

And he's crying. He's sobbing. He's curled up and pathetically weeping as the man coos and hushes and whispers comforts as he brushes his hair like Bruce had always used to. 

He didn't even do anything bad to Dick. He didn't touch any private parts, he didn't linger in his touches. He had worked with a singular goal just to clean up the horrible, degrading mess between his legs and left it at that. 

And he knows triggers can be a finicky thing. The smallest, barely related item can set off the trauma that's been hiding deep under his skin for so long. 

But he still feels stupid. Childish. Impulsive and like he's overreacted. 

He feels like he'd rather sink into the ground and just… not exist. Not die. Never die. Just… stop.

He doesn't know how long he lays there, a hand in his hair and whispered comforts in his ear, tears streaming down his face. All he knows is that eventually his exhaustion wins over him. Sinks it's claws in. Grabs his lashes like they're curtains and drags them down. 

He doesn't notice when he eventually falls asleep. Only that everything blessedly… stops.

-o-o-o-o-

Dick doesn't know how much more time passes. Only that it does. It does and a whole lot of it ticks away. The man works Dick into a reluctant routine. Leaving him in deafness and darkness until it's time to eat—mostly that shockingly good but getting boring potato soup, replaced here and there with random other meals that the man must have had left overs of—or use the restroom. Using the restroom for the first time in this current captive episode was almost as traumatic as getting… cleaned. There’s apparently a bucket not too far from where Dick is normally laying, which digs at Dick's brain with the question of how big is the room anyway? The only issue is that, restrained as he was, he couldn't pull down his pants and… aim. 

But as the days definitely began to number, he didn't necessarily get used to it, but numb was a good synonym. 

He feels dirty. Abused. Used to the point of uselessness. 

And so very alone. So alone that every time the man leaves, Dick's more and more tempted to beg him to stay a little longer. 

And he can definitely tell that the beginnings of Stockholm Syndrome are showing in his psyche. Which is strange. To know you're being brainwashed. Fully aware of it. 

Yet being helpless to your own thoughts and feelings. Helpless to make it not matter. Trapped in your own body, watching helplessly as everything in your brain slowly begins to betray you. 

And Dick knows he doesn't care for his current captor. Not in the way Dick cared about Slade. Dick doesn't seek out his touch or his comforts like he used to with Slade; desperately do all that he could to get Slade to tell him he did a good job. He didn't realize how deep in that hole he was until it was made possible for Dick to finally escape and he was finally faced with the option that was fighting for his freedom. 

It took every cell in his body to fight Slade down towards the point Slade had to retreat. 

It still takes every cell in his body to treat the man like an actual villain, and not some could-have-been father. 

But his current captor? This unknown man who visits him after hours of isolation, insists he's "taking care" of him? Dick couldn't care less about him.

He's touched starved. That's all. 

That's all.

The time slips away like fine silk on dry skin. Dick doesn't cry again, not even when the man apologises before drugging him to the point he's barely conscious so he could safely strip him out of his suit and jacket to wash him in a tub of lukewarm water. He could barely hold onto his thoughts, let alone remember the entire experience. But he knows he didn't cry. 

Because he cries in his nightmares now. Cries in the quiet hours he's alone. 

Because, at least, when he's being bathed and touched in ways that send every fiber of his being reeling with the need to get away, he’s not alone.

He hates being alone. 

And yet, time ticks by. He's given food. Taken to the restroom. Bathed every so often. Filled with mind numbing hours and hours and hours of nothing in-between. 

This lasts forever. 

Though, he finds out, once the pounding of multiple pairs of feet erupts around him and hands grab at the tape around his eyes to return his vision and hearing, he finds it's been about two weeks.

The first face he sees is Tim. 

Then, he passes out from relief. He passes out from fear too, fear that it’s all a dream. 

But, the next time he wakes, he wakes in a bed at the hospital, in a medical gown and the lights dimmed low to not agitate his sensitive eyes. There's a hand in his hair, and for a moment he's terrified it's the man. But then he blinks his eyes and sees for the first time in forever, and what he sees is a snoring Bruce Wayne, leaning over the edge of the medical cot with his limp hand in his hair like he's always done. 

Dick doesn't close his eyes. He focuses on Bruce's breathing and the small beeps of his heart on the monitor besides him. He slides his gaze to his fingers. His thin fingers and bony wrists which are laying against his blanket covered legs, of which look thinner than what he remembered. 

He doesn't feel starved. But he's sure he looks it. 

He doesn't close his eyes. Because if he does, the hand in his hair will no longer be comforting. It will be vile.

The stay at the hospital isn't as long as it could have been. 

Physically, he's better than what he could have been.

Mentally though? Dick feels like he's taken one hit too many to his stability. Damian tries to hug him, and Dick almost falls over panicking because Damian's short and his arms wrap around his waist, his chest bumping into his hips, unknowingly pressing into places he doesn't want touched. 

He bought a nightlight. And a fan. Just to keep his room bright enough to see and loud enough to hear. Enough visual and noise to convince him he's alive. 

Sleep comes like the rabbit on Alice In Wonderland. 

Nightmares come fashionably on time.

And he doesn't feel himself getting better. Even when he's back to a healthy weight and has been out of captivity longer than he's been there. The man who tortured him is in jail, to be tried privately with judges the Justice League trusted. Dick's identity won't be exposed to the public, but it was only a matter of time before it got out that Nightwing was tortured, humiliated, and held captive.

Only a matter of time… 

But that… Dick can live with this. Because he's alive. And alive meant he can get better. And… and his family saved him. He’s not alone anymore.

He will get better. 

No matter how long it takes. This will all just become a story to be filed in the same folders as all the other times he's been tortured or kidnapped. 

He'll get over this. 

Dick always gets over these things. 

He just wishes it didn't sound so sad, no matter how true that statement is. 

[thewriterwhowrites]

In the Shadow of Dreams

@vivithefolle

@warriorlid14

So, here it is, Part 2. (It may have come out to be a lot longer than I intended. Oops)

During the week I came up with a title for the whole story, as you can see above. It’s probably really corny, but this is my first fanfiction so have mercy.

If you haven’t read the first chapter yet, or have forgotten what it was about because it’s been so long and you have read better stories in the meantime, you can find Part 1 Here.

For those of you who remember Part 1, I commend you for your memory and hope that you enjoy this next instalment.

I pray to every deity that it is as good as the first part. It probably isn’t, but it’s a Ron Weasley fanfiction, and Ron can make anything better. Am I right?

Don’t forget to give feedback. Let me know if this is what you expected or not. Tell me what you liked about it or what you didn’t like about it. I like constructive criticism. It’s what I live for.

I’ll also apologise in advance if the characters are OOC. Like I said, it’s my first ever fanfiction and I’m also new to Tumblr so I’m still learning.

Now that I’ve shut up, you can go forth and pull apart my work. Happy Reading.

———————————————————————————————————

And so, I ask you, what’s it like to be alone?

Harry doesn’t go back to sleep. Not with his best friend absent from the tent. He knows he should go out and look for him, make sure he’s alright. Mrs Weasley and Hermione would never forgive him if something were to happen.

But he can’t find it in himself to move. Ron was really rattled and he didn’t know why. What he did know, however, was that if he asked him, Ron would probably brush it off, pretend it didn’t matter, act like it wasn’t important.

But Harry hadn’t seen Ron look like that for months now. Not after they finally laid their demons to rest and managed to move on. Sure, they had the odd nightmare every now and again, but they, especially Ron, always managed to push passed it.

After a few minutes went by, and Ron hadn’t returned, Harry decided to go out and make sure he was alright. Even if they didn’t end up talking about whatever it was that was bothering him.

With his mind made up, Harry grabbed his wand and his coat, and made his way out of the tent. They were on an Auror assignment. Simple surveillance that wasn’t all that exciting. But that’s what Harry liked about it. After eight years of nothing but danger, Voldemort, Death Eaters, and wars, everything was seemingly peaceful.

Now standing outside, his wand lit with Lumos, he looked around, searching for any sign of Ron. It wouldn’t normally take long. With the Weasley red hair and Ron’s height, it would practically stand out in the dark, green landscape of the forest they were camping in for the night.

However, even with his eagle eyes - eyes that could spot the snitch in no time - he couldn’t see Ron anywhere.

Alright, now Harry was worried. Even now, nearly three years after the war, Ron never wandered very far. It was this internalised fear that something bad would happen if he wasn’t around. Harry thought it was sort of stupid.

But the argument in a tent, the locket horcrux, and the war, were always in the back of his mind, reminding him that Ron had left. It made Ron’s reasoning of never wanting to be too far away, understandable. Just because everyone else forgave Ron for leaving - even if it wasn’t completely his fault - doesn’t mean Ron forgave Ron for leaving. It’s true what they say, a person is their own worst enemy.

Deciding that he wasn’t going to find his best mate just standing around thinking of those useless months wandering aimlessly around with a cold tent, he began walking in a random direction, hoping the Potter luck was with him as it always had been.

As he neared the small river that they had decided to camp by, Harry heard a strained voice. And the closer he got, the louder the voice became.

It sounded like Ron was having a conversation with himself, and Harry didn’t like the uneasy feeling that gave him.

Quickening his pace, Harry called out, attempting casualness, “Ron?”

The voice stopped immediately and, through the darkness, Harry saw Ron’s tall frame rise and turn to face him.

“What are you doing out here, Harry?” Ron asked, his voice cracking slightly, before clearing his throat.

“Uh...” Harry was now at a loss for words. He knew Ron wasn’t mad. He didn’t sound it, at least. But he also didn’t sound like he wanted company either.

He felt Ron’s expecting gaze pierce through the night, and so, coughing awkwardly, Harry ploughed onwards, “I just wanted to make sure you’re alright. That must’ve been some dream.”

“It was.” Ron’s voice sounds distant now, like he’s somewhere far away.

His answer only causes more worry because Ron’s always the first one to try and laugh it off, act like it didn’t affect him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

They’re silent for a long, drawn out minute. It feels almost like they’re playing a game, seeing who’s the first to speak and break the silence. Harry hopes it’s Ron because he hates silence, but he hates trying to fill the void just as much, if not, more. Ron’s always the one to initiate discussions, no matter how pointless or distracting. And he’s always great at it.

It sort of makes Harry wonder if there’s an extracurricular course that could be taken to teach a person how to do that. It would’ve made this so much easier.

Finally, Ron speaks up, seeming to sense Harry’s discomfort, “It was just a stupid dream and by morning I’ll probably forget I ever had it.”

Harry doesn’t believe him, and he admits as much by asking, “Then why are we out here and not in the tent, sleeping?”

Ron is stubbornly quiet, and Harry knows that he has no response to give that wouldn’t be a lie.

“You know I’m pants at this sort of thing,” Harry reminds him.

“And you think I’m not?!” Ron retorts. Though his voice is loud, he sounds more miserable and frustrated than actually angry. “I wish Hermione were here,” he sighs out after another stretch of silence.

Harry scoffed, “Like it wouldn’t go the exact same way.” Ron, once again, doesn’t respond. “Look,” he attempts a third time, “I just want to know why this dream has you up when you’ve managed to push past them before.”

Ron mumbles something that sounds like, “Stame,” but that couldn’t be right because ‘stame’ isn’t a word, and Harry doesn’t need Hermione to know that. (Despite what most people want to believe).

He looks at Ron and gently asks, “What?”

“It’s not the same,” Ron repeats clearly. “I’ve had nightmares about the locket, Malfoy Manor, Fred’s death, your death... Hell, I’ve even had nightmares about the chess match back in first year.”

Harry would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised about that last one, but he remained quiet, knowing that Ron needed to get his thoughts and emotions together in his mind before he began to verbally explain it all.

“And my dreams...” Ron hesitates before continuing purposefully, “My dreams, as uncommon as they are, are about happy things. I won’t say what, you’ll probably just laugh. I know I would if it were you. But this dream...this...this nightmare...it was different.”

Harry longs to ask how this time was different. He wants to understand what Ron saw while he was asleep. But cutting into Ron’s speech is something Hermione would do. Asking question after question, badgering him until his metaphorical guts are spilled out on the floor for her to logically examine and take apart is something Hermione would do.

Harry’s not like that, though. Which is why he stays silent, allowing Ron to grasp hold of all his scattered thoughts before he continues to explain.

“It was just...so very different, Harry.” Ron’s voice cracks on Harry’s name and he hangs his head.

Harry knows he’s on the verge of crying, and this alarms him. Ron’s never this open with his emotions. Not really.

And he can’t get over how similar this feels to that of when Ron had just destroyed the horcrux that basically sent Ron away when they were seventeen. When they were literal kids in a war that adults had wagered years ago, but expected them to fight anyway.

“It was real,” Ron managed to say with a shaky breath. “I know it was real.” He lifts his head to look Harry right in the eye, as if daring his best friend to call him crazy.

Harry sees tears within the blue gaze of his best friend, and he wonders why he looks so vulnerable all of a sudden. They’ve all had dreams, nightmares, that felt real. How does this fact make the one Ron had just had any different?

“Ron, we’ve all had dreams that felt-”

“No!” Ron cuts in desperately. “This didn’t feel real, it was real.”

Now Harry’s confused. How could something be real when Ron hadn’t even left his bed?

“I don’t-” Harry stops, words slipping from his grasp quicker than he can speak them until he has nothing to say that wouldn’t sound stupid. That wouldn’t make Ron angry. That wouldn’t cause a fight. ...That wouldn’t make Ron leave again...

More silence passes, and though it feels like eternity it’s only been a few minutes, and Harry notices Ron’s regained his composure. He doesn’t look like he’s about to fall apart. Like he’s going to break down in tears.

Harry feels sort of selfish for being grateful for that. No matter how old he gets, he knows he may never be fully comfortable with people showing so much emotion.

“Let’s just forget it, Harry,” Ron decides, “It was just a stupid dream and it’s over now. No point worrying about it.”

If Harry were anyone else, like Hermione, he would probably continue to press the matter. But he was Harry. The boy-who-was-kinda-maybe-sorta-afraid-to-talk-about-feelings. Ron was his best mate and nothing could ever change that, but he wouldn’t push the matter. It was obvious Ron didn’t want to talk about it.

So, Harry decides to let it go. “Alright, we’ll go back to the tent.”

The sun is starting to rise by the time they enter the tent, so they don’t go back to sleep. Harry doubts they’ll be able to, anyway. Especially Ron. He still seemed pretty shaken about whatever it was he was dreaming about.

They wait until the sun has fully risen for the day before they pack up and continue on their simple mission. Harry thinks Kingsley just gave it to them because they hadn’t had a proper week off since they joined the Aurors, but he’s not going to say that out loud.

Ron took his job as strategist and tactician very seriously, and if he was sent out on a wild goose chase for the sake of it, well then, no one was safe.

Harry grins at the thought. Maybe he should voice the idea. It might distract Ron from whatever was on his mind right now. But he decides not to. Ron already seemed on edge. There was no point making him even more so or he might just fall off the figurative cliff.

“Do you really think there’s a werewolf out here?” Ron asks after a few hours of walking through the forest they were in.

“I doubt it,” Harry answers. “I mean, there probably was, but I bet they’ve gone back home. Y’know, seeing as werewolves only transform during a full moon.”

Harry knows Ron knows this. Hell, Ron knew this long before Harry did. But Harry just hates how quiet Ron is and he just wants to start a damn conversation. Even if it’s one they had back in third year.

“You don’t have to do this, Harry,” Ron tells him, adjusting the pack on his back.

“Do what?” Harry asks, half-turning to glance at the redhead who seemed to be lagging behind.

This wasn’t normal. Normally Harry was practically jogging to keep up with Ron’s long-legged gait. Maybe the pack was too heavy? Unlikely, Harry thinks, Ron was doing just fine the previous day. Before they went to sleep and everything got ruined by a stupid dream Ron didn’t even want to talk about.

“You don’t have to distract me,” Ron responds simply.

“And what makes you think I’m not trying to distract myself, eh?”

Ron goes to retort, but his mouth shuts and he frowns, “Alright, you got me there.”

Harry can’t help the grin of victory that crosses his face. Sure, maybe he shouldn’t be so smug, but he couldn’t help it.

“I’m sorry,” Ron apologises, and Harry’s smile is replaced with a wrinkled brow of confusion.

“What for?”

“I haven’t been much company this trip.”

“You’ve been plenty company,” Harry assures quickly. “You’re just a little...distracted, that’s all.”

“But still,” Ron replies, “Just because I woke up from a stupid, meaningless dream, doesn’t mean I have to be such a drag.”

Harry shrugs, “I guess not all missions can be fun.” His words are flat, he knows, because he doesn’t mean them.

Missions, no matter how dull, are always fun when Ron’s around. But he doesn’t want to make Ron feel bad or put pressure on him, or make him feel like he has to be happy because Harry’s bored and needs to be entertained.

Harry isn’t a child, and Ron isn’t a court jester. He isn’t a babysitter, and he most definitely isn’t some clown that was born just for the sake of making Harry Potter smile. That would be stupid and selfish.

Just because Rita Skeeter makes it sound like Harry only keeps Ron around for the laughs doesn’t mean Harry actually keeps Ron around for the laughs. They’re best friends. Equals. And if anyone has a problem with that, well, they can face the wrath of Harry’s wand. He knows more than just expelliarmus, you know?

“Ron?” Harry addressed after nearly an hour of silence.

“Yeah?”

“You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you? I don’t want you to think that just because you’re not an orphan, or the chosen one, or you haven’t had a connection to some evil wizard for most of your life, that your problems don’t matter. Because they do.”

He’s not one for being sappy. Neither of them are. But Harry felt compelled to say it. And once he did, he felt better. Because what he said was true. Just because Ron wasn’t hunted down by an evil wizard who strived to be immortal doesn’t make his problems invalid. It doesn’t mean they don’t matter.

“I know,” Ron nods, “But I’m fine. So there’s nothing to worry about.”

Harry’s doubtful. But if Ron wants to pretend that everything’s fine, Harry’s not going to stop him. They only have today left and then they’ll be back home in their small flat, complaining about the report they have to write, and reading the Daily Prophet to see what bogus articles have been written now. And then everything will be back to normal. Like there was no dream that woke Ron up and shook him to his very core.

Harry wonders if it’ll be that simple.

Something tells him it won’t be.

———————————————————————————————————

Harry was right, it wasn’t that simple. They had returned to their muggle flat, got cleaned up, and ordered takeout for dinner. Ron was too tired to cook and they didn’t have anything decent anyway.

They watched TV while they ate Chinese — Ron loved trying all of the muggle foods, but Chinese was his favourite — and Harry made sure that he kept his eyes resolutely on the screen so he doesn’t glance at Ron every few seconds to see if he would relax.

He had been rigid and on edge all day and it was rather alarming because, out of the Golden Trio, Ron was probably the most laidback. It’s a fact.

Maybe when they meet Hermione for lunch tomorrow, Ron will snap out of his funky mood, Harry thought hopefully. It’s not normal for Ron to be all quiet like this.

Or maybe, Harry reasons, he’s just really tired? He didn’t exactly have the perfect sleep last night.

Deciding that’s all it was and that Ron will certainly be back to his old self after a good night’s rest, Harry fully relaxes on the couch and enjoys his dinner, returning his attention to the movie that was playing.

They have an early night. After the dishes have been done and takeout boxes have been cleared away, they go to their bedrooms and go to sleep.

Harry is optimistic that everything will be like it always had been when he wakes up, ready for a new day. He expects Ron to be back to his chipper and talkative self, ready to tackle the intimidating task of writing up a detailed report on their investigation of a werewolf that has long since disappeared because it’s nowhere near being a full moon, Kingsley.

However, his optimism proves futile when, at 3:27am, Harry is jolted awake by a shout and a thud. Without even blinking, he grabs his glasses and his wand, running out of his bedroom as he shoves his glasses on his face.

He crosses the hall, pushes the door to Ron’s bedroom open, his wand raised, ready to attack or defend, or both, and finds Ron on the floor, breathing heavily.

“What happened?” Harry asks as calmly as he can despite his heart hammering in his chest and his hands shaking from the adrenaline that rushed through him like a drug.

“Nothing,” Ron denies stubbornly, glaring down at the floor he was seated on.

“So you’re on the floor because you miss camping, then?” Harry asks snarkily.

He receives a glare from the redhead, and Harry has to admit, he deserves it. But if Ron almost gave him a heart attack over nothing, then by Merlin, Harry‘s allowed to be, even a little, angry.

Harry sighed and crouched down beside Ron, who doesn’t look comfortable but also doesn’t look like he wants to move anytime soon either.

“Do you want to talk about it or do you want to pretend it didn’t happen?”

“You mean I have a choice?” Ron asks, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow.

Harry shrugged, “I’m not like Hermione who tells you what you should feel.” Ron snorts, returning his gaze to the floor. “Don’t go telling her I said that, though,” Harry quickly adds warningly.

“Course not,” Ron replies, “It’ll only make her ask why you said it in the first place. And then I’d have to tell her, and then she’d do exactly what you said she does, even though she’ll go on denying that she doesn’t.”

Harry’s too tired to follow what his friend just said, but he’s amazed that it somehow makes sense. So, he simply responds, “So, we won’t tell Hermione?”

Ron shook his head, “She’s the last person I want to know about this.”

“So it means that it’s something?” Harry voices the question pointedly.

“No,” Ron protests, “It means that it’s not important enough to bother her with.”

“So we’re just going to pretend you didn’t fall out of bed just now and shout like someone had stabbed you with a hot knife?”

“Something tells me a hot knife would be better than what I just felt,” Ron mutters, looking away from Harry as he did so.

“You make it sound like you were under the Cruciatus Curse,” Harry remarks.

“I’m sure that would have been a walk in the park compared to this,” Ron mumbles, and that makes Harry worry.

“This?” he repeats questioningly.

Ron quickly shakes his head, “I meant that. I’m sure it would be a walk in the park compared to that.”

“And what is ‘that’ exactly?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ron states, finally pushing himself up from the floor, “I’m going to try sleeping again before we have to leave for work. I think you should do the same.”

Harry stands up as well, and, as he walks to the door, calls teasingly, “Just make sure you stay in the bed this time.”

“Hardy. Har. Har,” Ron shouts back sarcastically. “Next time a curse heads your way, I’ll make sure it hits you.”

Harry just laughs and shakes his head, closing the door behind him, before returning to his own room.

He knew Ron wouldn’t do that. He’s more likely to jump in front of it than anything. It’s more likely that a curse heading for Harry hits Ron than a curse heading for Ron hits Ron. That’s not to say that Harry’s terrible at shield charms, he’s just not good at self-preservation. Not that Ron’s any better. What with him jumping in front of curses that were meant for Harry. But he knows when to jump into a situation feet first, when to jump into a situation carefully, and when to just not jump into a situation at all.

That’s the difference between them. Ron assesses the situation while Harry...well...Harry just doesn’t. He’s more likely to run into the fray and hope he doesn’t die.

When he’s back in bed, he drifts off to sleep almost immediately. He briefly wonders if Ron managed to do the same.

Unbeknownst to Harry, however, the answer is no. No, Ron does not manage to go back to sleep because he’s haunted by what had found him in his dreamworld. He’s haunted by what else could find him in his dreamworld.

How can dreams feel so real that it’s almost like he’s living them?

Ron shivers as he curls up in bed, a single candle on his bedside table, the flame flickering slightly.

He stares at it, hoping that if he stared at it long enough, it would burn the memories and the dreams right out of his mind and everything will be like it was before.

But he knows that’s not how it works. Even in the wizarding world.

He finds it amazing how alone he feels even when Harry is right across the hall. But he can’t tell Harry what he’s experiencing. Can’t tell him about the dreams. About the woman that keeps following him wordlessly. The woman who rarely speaks, even when he tries to talk to her.

Occasionally, she looks like she’s in a lot of pain. And sometimes, if he concentrates hard enough, he thinks he feels it too.

How could he explain that to Harry without sounding like a complete nutter? The answer is, he can’t. Because Ron Weasley isn’t the hero, Harry Potter is. Ron Weasley isn’t he one who has strange, memory-like dreams, Harry Potter is. And Ron Weasley isn’t the one who’s haunted by a person he only knows from dreams, Harry Potter is.

So why, then, is it Ron Weasley, and not Harry Potter, that is forced to witness the pain and torture of two people he has never seen in his life, and yet, feels such a connection to that it hurts the very essence of his soul?

How can he tell Harry Potter, his best friend, that when he closes his eyes, he’s living another person’s life? That he sees, hears, smells, tastes, and feels everything they do? That when they speak it feels like he’s the one who’s opening his mouth? That he’s the one who is forced to endure the hours and hours of torture that are inflicted by Death Eaters from the first wizarding war who should be dead by now? How do you explain this to someone without having the off chance of being locked up for being mental? Because, surely, that’s what he is?

Ron closes his eyes and thinks back to the dream — no, memory, for there is no doubt in his mind that that is what it is — and recalls every little detail of it. And as he does so, he wonders what it all means...

———————————————————————————————————

Elin was curled up to Phoenix in the darkest corner of the cell, trying to keep warm. It was nearing the end of winter, but that didn’t mean the days would automatically be warmer. And even if it did, it wouldn’t matter because it was always cold and draughty in the basement.

Phoenix was unconscious; like he was most of the time now. And Elin was resting against him, her head on his chest to ensure his heart was still beating.

She had two greatest fears in that silent moment. The first, was for the baby, and the second, was for Phoenix.

She had no doubt that, if there was a boggart right in front of her, it would take the form of her family, lying dead on the floor.

She was afraid neither would survive. That she’ll be left alone. Alone and lost in a cell where Colt Malfoy could do whatever he wanted and no one would be able to stop him. No one would be able to save her.

She inhaled deeply through her nose before slowly releasing the breath through her mouth in a silent sigh as she opened her eyes. She lifted her gaze to Phoenix’s peaceful face.

These were the only times he seemed to be at peace nowadays. It’s sort of sad, Elin thinks, she can’t recall him ever being this relaxed when conscious. The thought nearly breaks her heart.

These were the only times he seemed to be at peace nowadays. It’s sort of sad, Elin thinks, she can’t recall him ever being this relaxed when conscious. The thought nearly breaks her heart.

How long must they suffer at the hands of a madman?

If only she knew the answer to that.

She slowly lifts her hand and gently brushes her husband’s hair from his closed eyes.

“You always had such beautiful eyes,” she whispers to him.

She proceeds to trail her fingertips down the side of his face, tracing every line, every scar, every freckle... “I hope our child has your eyes. And your hair. I want a piece of you to be with me always, no matter how far apart we are.”

Her fingers stop when they brush against the new scar Malfoy had added to the collection. It was a jagged line going from just above Phoenix’s left eye, down to the middle of his cheek. It was the cause of a cursed knife and the wound had bled heavily. Elin was afraid that he would be blind in that eye, but he wasn’t. Of that she was very grateful.

“You may not think so,” she continues to whisper softly, “But I think you are still as handsome as the day we were married.” She’s not lying. He really is as beautiful now as he was back then. Time and scars could hardly change that.

“When we get out of here,” she goes on casually, “You are going to draw me a family portrait. I don’t care how long it takes you. You can take years if you’d like. But you’ll draw it and I’ll love it. Maybe not as much as I love the real thing, but I’ll still love it.”

Despite how foolish she must sound, she doesn’t feel foolish, not in the slightest. Because, no matter how bleak the situation, there is always hope.

There will always be hope. And that’s what she has to remember. That’s what she has to hold on to.

She’s tired, her body aches, and yet, she cannot bring herself to sleep. She knows why, of course. It’s rather obvious, really. She’s afraid. She’s afraid that, if she closes her eyes, even for a moment, something bad will happen and she’ll lose everything.

She knows it’s ridiculous, but she can’t help what she fears. She has to prepare herself for what might happen or she just might never recover from it.

Phoenix and the baby are all she has left. If she loses them, then she loses everything.

It’s the final day of winter. Elin knows this because Malfoy told her before she was escorted from his bedchamber and returned to the arms of her husband.

“Are you telling me this because we’ve been here for nearly five months and you want to gloat?” Elin asks from the door. “Or are you just trying to have polite conversation?”

Malfoy chuckles softly, “My dear,” he begins, rising from the bed, and walked towards her. “I thought you deserved to know that it’s your dear husband’s birthday tomorrow. In case you wanted to celebrate or something equally ridiculous,” he finishes with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Elin eyes him warily as she replies, “How do I know you don’t have something planned for him already?”

Malfoy shrugged non-committedly, “You don’t.”

After his usual disgusting kiss goodbye, Elin is dismissed.

She doesn’t feel anything when she’s with Colt. She’s numb. Making everything that’s happening, every sound, every touch, feel like it’s far away. Like it’s not happening to her, but to someone else.

However, the moment she passes through the doorway of the basement where Phoenix is waiting for her, she feels sick. She feels violated and dirty. But that doesn’t stop Phoenix from wrapping his arms around her. It’s his attempt at comfort as he tells her that it’s not her fault. That it could never be her fault.

The depressing part of this, though, is that a part of her never truly believes him. Yet, she knows that he feels the same way every time he comes back from his time with Malfoy and the Death Eaters. So, it doesn’t seem so different after all.

They’ve settled in for the night. They’re as comfortable as they can get, all things considered, and they talk quietly to each other. As if sharing a secret in their bed back in their bedroom, in the house they had built together.

“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” she whispers, hardly believing how fast the time has gone.

“Is it?” he whispers back lightly, “I hadn’t even noticed.”

“Well,” Elin continues just as lightly, “It’s not like we have a calendar in here.”

“Something tells me that if we did, Malfoy would keep changing the dates so we’d end up celebrating Christmas on Easter.”

Elin knows he’s trying to be funny, but she wouldn’t put it past Colt for such a vile trick.

“I’m clearly losing my touch,” Phoenix voices after a moment, “You haven’t said anything.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologises, lifting her face to meet his, “It was clever,” she assures, “It was. I just can’t find it in myself to laugh.”

“I know,” he nods, beginning to stroke her hair with his broken fingers, “I just miss the sound of it, that’s all.”

“I think I’ve forgotten how to laugh,” she admits solemnly.

“You’ll find it again,” he whispers, “I’m sure of it.”

And Elin smiles sadly, because she knows that, no matter what logic tells her, she believes him.

It’s two hours after they fall into an uneasy slumber when Elin’s eyes snap open and she sits up, causing Phoenix to stir beside her.

“What is it?” Phoenix asks groggily, forcing himself to straighten from the wall he had been slumped against.

Elin presses a hand to her stomach as she answers quietly, “I think the baby’s coming.”

“What?”

Elin looks at him over her shoulder, her eyes full of panic, “The baby’s coming.” The pain that ghosts across her abdomen leaves no room for doubt.

“But it’s three weeks early,” Phoenix points out, now alert.

“It is,” she confirms shakily.

“Then why-”

“Babies can come early,” Elin cuts in factually.

“I know that,” he replies gently, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, and Elin suddenly tenses through her first contraction. “What can I do?” Phoenix questions, his voice cracking with desperation to help. To ease the discomfort and pain Elin will surely feel.

Elin stares at him imploringly once the pain has past, and takes his hand, “Help me stand?”

With a wordless nod, Phoenix helps her rise from the floor.

Once Elin is leaning heavily against him, they walk the length of the room with slow, purposeful steps, before they turn around and go the other way. They do this for what feels like hours, hoping to alleviate the pain Elin is now in.

She breathes deeply; in through her nose and out through her mouth. Phoenix is sure to breathe with her as he holds her close to him, plodding around their prison with unsteady strides.

Knowing he’s there beside her gives her more comfort than Elin could ever possibly express. She wants to speak. She wants to say words that could, at the very least, show how she feels. But she knows it’ll be pointless. Because all Phoenix has to do is look into her eyes and he’ll just... He’ll just know. Like he seems to know everything.

Their eyes are the main, if not, only way they communicate nowadays. And it amazes her how much can be said in such a short time. It amazes her how much can be said without even needing to say anything at all.

Looking into his eyes gives her comfort and encouragement because they are telling her that he’s there. That he will always be there. He’s telling her that she’s not the only one who’s afraid right now, and that’s okay. It’s all going to be okay. Because they have each other. They’ll always have each other. And his eyes are so certain of this belief that she can’t help but believe it too.

More hours pass of silent shuffling from one end of their cell to the other before the contractions are so close together and the pain is so intense that Elin can barely stand. Can barely breathe through the oncoming agony that only promises to get worse.

Phoenix slides down the cold, stone wall, helps Elin lower herself to the floor, and then pulls her against his chest, ready to help her in any way he can, so that it makes the birth of their child just a little bit easier for her. Even if it’s just a fraction.

“You can do this,” he whispers against her, already, sweat soaked hair, “I know you can do this.”

Elin manages a nod through another contraction as she brings her legs up into the birthing position that she’s become so familiar with.

“I’m right here.” He takes her trembling hand with his bruised, broken, and battered one.

“I know,” she breathes out, “I know.”

It isn’t long until she’s forced to push.

Phoenix holds her as she screams, her entire body tensing as she puts all of her strength into the action. Once the contraction has past, Elin takes the chance to relax and breathe before a second later another contraction comes hard and fast.

Phoenix closes his eyes, the sounds of her screams and cries of agony hurting his very soul. She shouldn’t be here. She should be having this baby at home in the presence of professionals. With a healer, his mother and sister, there to help. Why was she forced to give life to this child in a place like this?

Feeling her relax against him, signalling the contraction’s end, he murmurs, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“What for?” she asks confusedly, her voice cracking slightly from the strain.

“I’m sorry you’re alone.”

To his surprise, Elin laughs. It’s a weak sound. It cracks and breaks, but it’s still a laugh, It’s still her laugh. “I’m not alone,” she replies softly, stroking her thumb over the back of his hand, “Because you’re right here. You’re right beside me. And when I’m with you, I’m standing with an army.”

Through his feelings of helplessness, he manages to smile, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” she responds before her breath hitches and another contraction rips through her.

This one, to both their horror, is so strong that, when Elin screams, it seems to shake the very walls of the cell. She grips his hand tighter as she pushes, knowing there is nothing else to do as she screams through the pain, trying to breathe when she can, for fear of passing out.

Finally, the contraction comes to an end, and Elin can breathe. She heaves in gulps of air, scared that it will never be enough. That it could never be enough.

She has only just caught her breath when another one, unmercifully, tears through, stealing the breath she had only just recently gained. Her eyes are shut tight, her hand trembling as it held fast to Phoenix’s own. Tears leak out beneath her shut lids, the pain unbearable as her jaw clenches, trying to hold in her cry. However, it is proving futile when another wave of agony crashes upon her and she cannot keep from screaming.

Phoenix is breaking inside. He can’t bear seeing her in pain, and, if he could, he would take this burden from her in a heartbeat. But he knows he can’t. So, he holds her, runs the fingers of his left hand through her sweaty hair, and prays that it will be over soon.

It is, however, not to be as, long into the night, the contractions keep coming, Elin keeps pushing and screaming, but nothing comes from it.

It’s a few hours before sunrise. Neither need a clock to know this. The baby hasn’t arrived yet, and Elin is exhausted.

Per Phoenix’s suggestion, she closes her eyes, resting as much as she can.

The contractions have stopped coming and Phoenix doesn’t know whether he should be relieved or worried. What he does know, is that he’s grateful that she’s not in any pain in this moment.

He presses a kiss to her sweaty temple, hoping she doesn’t wake up, only to have to go through more hours of agony.

He raises his eyes to the dark ceiling and whispers, “Please don’t take her away from me. Please don’t take her away from me.” Tears fill his eyes as he repeats the mantra pleadingly. “I can’t lose her,” he cries, looking down upon her peaceful face, “I wouldn’t be able to bear it.”

His tears slowly slide down his face unabashedly and he traces his thumb along her cheek, committing it all to memory before she is forced to wake and the pain returns.

There was so much he wanted to say in this moment. So much he wanted her to hear. But it would be pointless because she knew already. She knew how much he loved her. How much he was willing to do for her. Because he had proven it, had shown it to her so many times.

Through his sacrifice, his willingness to be hurt if it meant she would be spared. She knew it all. And so, there was no reason to repeat it all. She didn’t like being told something she already knew. It was just how she was. And Phoenix loved that about her.

It isn’t long and she’s awake again, squeezing his hand, stiffening through each contraction, and pushing with all her might as the room, once more, fills with her agonised cries and pleas. And all he can do is be there for her, hoping his support is enough to get her through this new kind of torture.

It’s a long night, and they both wonder if it will ever end. If they’ll ever get to see the child they have been waiting so long for.

Phoenix rests his forehead against Elin’s shoulder, massaging her back, whispering meaningless words of comfort, and praying to some deity he doesn’t even know exists.

The sun is just beginning to rise, welcoming the first spring morning of the year, when an infant’s cries fill the room.

Elin is soaked in perspiration, Phoenix is barely conscious as his headache has returned from little rest, but they are both so overwhelmingly happy that it hardly matters.

Phoenix hands her their baby, wrapped in an old coat they had set aside for this very purpose, and she gazes down upon the face of their child. The face of their son.

Elin has tears of joy sliding down her cheeks as she looks up at Phoenix, a big smile on her face, to see that Phoenix has tears shining in his own green-blue eyes. This was the moment, they both knew. This was the moment they were fighting for.

Phoenix lowers himself beside his wife and newborn child, his smile so broad it hurts his face. But he can’t help it. After a whole night of endless agony, his wife, his Elin, managed to bring their child into the world.

With his left arm wrapped around her protectively, his hand resting on her shoulder, his right caressed the soft, smooth cheek of the piece of perfection heaven had chosen to gift them with.

“He’s perfect,” Phoenix whispers.

“I told you we were having a boy,” Elin teases with a grin.

Phoenix chuckles, “Looks like Trelawny was right about you having the third eye.”

Elin rolls her eyes and shakes her head affectionately, “You’re just jealous that I have the gift and you don’t.”

“Oh, I am terribly jealous,” he agrees humorously.

“We’re still calling him Ronald, aren’t we?” she asks, returning her gaze to the baby.

“If you want him to hate us for the rest of his life, I’m sure Ronald is perfect,” Phoenix drawls sarcastically, earning a disapproving glare from his wife.

“We could call him Ron for short,” she suggests helpfully, looking back down at the bundle she was cradling. “Or Ronnie.”

“He’ll grow out of the nickname by the time he’s eight,” he points out.

“Well, he’ll be Ronnie until he’s eight and Ron until he’s old enough to carry the name Ronald with pride,” Elin decides.

“Something tells me that will never happen.”

Elin shrugs softly so as not to jolt the newborn, “Then he’ll be known as Ronald on a piece of paper only. He’ll be Ron to everyone else.”

“I’m sure he’ll have some respect for us after this.”

“I hope so,” Elin laughs. “No child of mine is going to be spoilt or disrespectful.”

“A true gentleman then?”

Elin smiles softly, though it’s also a tad mischievous, Phoenix notices, as she nods, “Just like you.”

Phoenix snorts, “You think I’m a gentleman?”

Elin grins up at him, “The perfect gentleman.”

Phoenix chooses to ignore her teasing, asking instead, “So it’s agreed?”

“It’s agreed,” she answers, looking down at their child. “Welcome to the world, Ronnie,” Elin greets in a whisper, “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

Phoenix smiles lovingly at his wife before looking down at his son. “You’ll be sharing your birthday with your dad,” Phoenix admits, “I hope you don’t mind?”

Elin’s eyes widen in surprise, having forgotten, and looked at her husband, ready to apologise before she stops herself, saying instead, “Happy birthday,” and gives him a quick kiss.

“It’s the best birthday I’ve ever had,” he replies.

And he’s not lying. Because he had just received the most beautiful, most perfect gift anyone could have given him. And it, of course, could only have come from the most beautiful woman who had ever walked this earth; his wife.

“I love you so much,” he whispers.

“And I love you,” she returns, before they move in to share another kiss.

It was March 1st 1980 when Ronald Garson was welcomed into the world. It was the day Phoenix turned thirty-one. It was the day Elin realised how much there was for her to lose. And it was also the day they both became determined, now, more than ever, to get out of there.

Ron will not be raised in captivity. Of that they could promise.

———————————————————————————————————

And there you have it.

So, as I said above, give me some feedback and I just might continue this. I’m kidding. Even if I only receive one comment, I’ll keep writing this because, now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.

I will, hopefully, post the next part next week, but we shall see how it all goes.