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hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall · 2 days ago

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For Rome - Chapter 1

Summary: A weary Roman General, Marcus Acasius, sets out to find the so-called "Angel" his soldiers speak of—a woman with a gentle touch and an even softer voice. What he discovers is far more extraordinary than he ever imagined.

Pairing: General Marcus Acasius x F!Reader

Warnings: a description of injuries (I'm not a doctor or do not have any medical education so apologies), nothing here yet. English isn't my first language so all mistakes are mine for which I apologise.

Words: 6K

The life of a soldier was never an easy one, but the life of a Roman soldier? It was a crucible of steel and blood. General Marcus Acasius knew this better than most. War had carved its lessons into his flesh and seared them into his soul. He had lived through campaigns that churned the earth with rivers of blood, watched comrades fall like broken reeds, and seen hope flicker and die in the eyes of too many men. This was not a life he would have wished upon his worst enemies—let alone himself.

And yet, here he was. Bound by duty, chained to Rome’s legacy, and crushed beneath the weight of serving not one, but two emperors whose names would forever leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

Two boys drowning in power they neither earned nor understood. They were spoiled by their station and cruel in their ignorance, wielding authority like a child might a blade—clumsy, reckless, and devastating. Marcus had long since lost count of the orders he had executed on their behalf, justifying them under the banner of Rome. Yet he knew the truth. He had not fought for Rome in years. He fought for their whims, their games. And the cost? Endless bloodshed. Endless grief.

The screams haunted him most—the keening wails of mothers clutching lifeless sons, the choking sobs of widows, the silent, hollow-eyed children whose futures he had stolen with the sweep of a sword. He had grown sick of it all. Sick of blood-soaked glory, of starving masses, of men reduced to mere tools in the grotesque machinery of imperial ambition.

Perhaps that was why he found himself here now, in the shadowed underground of the subcity. The stench of rot and despair clung to the narrow alleys, and the skeletal frames of the impoverished haunted every corner. It was a place forgotten by the sun and abandoned by Rome, yet it thrummed with whispers.

Whispers of you.

An “angel,” his soldiers had called you. At first, he had dismissed their reverent tones as the drunken ramblings of battle-weary men. What could an angel possibly look like in a place like this? But the way they spoke of you lingered in his mind, drawing him down into this forsaken part of the city.

It was not the talk of your beauty that intrigued him. He had seen beauty before—false and true, fleeting and eternal. What struck him was the way his men, hardened and stoic, described your hands, your voice, your presence. They spoke of the way your touch could ease pain, how your smile softened the sharp edges of their suffering, and how your words, simple and kind, could light the darkest of days. They described you with an almost childlike awe, as though you were something beyond their comprehension, something Rome itself could not tarnish.

Marcus wanted to scoff at their adoration, but the weight in their voices told him otherwise. Could someone like you truly exist in this ruined city? A city bloated with greed, corroded by power, and built on the bones of the desperate? He needed to see for himself.

You were said to help those Rome had cast aside—the soldiers, the beggars, the orphans, and the broken. While the wealthy insulated themselves from the rot, you faced it head-on. Even Lady Lucilla, a shrewd and guarded aristocrat, spoke of you with an uncharacteristic fondness. “A stubborn creature,” she had called you with a rare smile. “She takes only what she needs, no more, even when I insist. She’s maddeningly selfless, like a fool chasing the wind.”

It was those words that lingered as he descended into the subcity. They painted an image of someone unyielding, someone who refused to be swallowed by the darkness around her. Someone who, perhaps, could remind him of what it meant to fight for something greater than power.

The streets grew narrower, the air thicker. His boots crunched against the broken cobblestones as he approached the small gathering place where you were said to tend to the sick and weary. His heart, hardened by years of war, beat faster, not with fear but with something he couldn’t quite name.

The room was not what he expected.

Makeshift beds lined both sides of the narrow space, occupied by men, women, and children in various states of weariness and healing. Yet, unlike the countless barracks and field hospitals Marcus Acasius had seen in his lifetime, this place radiated an unusual serenity. The faces of the sleeping bore no trace of the gnawing fear he had come to associate with suffering. It was as if some invisible spell had been cast here, lulling their troubled souls into a rare and precious peace.

He inhaled deeply, preparing for the sharp sting of blood and rot so common in places of injury and despair. Instead, the air was clean—remarkably so. It smelled faintly of herbs, maybe lavender, and something subtler, something soothing. It reminded him of the private quarters back at his villa, of the rare nights when he could sleep without the shadows of war pressing against his chest. A ridiculous thought, he chastised himself.

And then, he saw you.

You stood with your back to him, entirely focused on the child sitting on the small, battered chair in front of you. Marcus had made no attempt to move quietly—he was a soldier, not a thief—but you hadn’t turned at the sound of his boots on the stone floor. It wasn’t fearlessness; it was trust, an unshakable calm that marked every movement of your hands as you adjusted the sling cradling the boy’s injured arm.

The child couldn’t have been older than eight. His tear-streaked face glistened under the dim light, and yet his lips curved into a smile—soft, hesitant, but undeniably genuine. A smile on the face of an injured child. Marcus stared at the sight, unmoored. He had never seen such a thing before. In the chaos of war, even when children were treated, their screams and sobs were met with indifference, their pain an afterthought. But here, this boy laughed—a pure, light sound that bounced off the walls like a small rebellion against misery.

“General.”

Marcus turned to his right, startled from his reverie. One of his men lay in a bed nearby, his head wrapped in clean bandages, his arm in a sling not unlike the boy’s. He bore the marks of battle but looked far better than Marcus had expected. There was color in his cheeks, and his voice, though tired, carried a note of gratitude. “I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

With a quick wave of his hand, Marcus silenced the man’s attempt to rise and salute. Before he could reply, a burst of laughter drew his attention back to you.

The boy was laughing again, his small body shaking with mirth. From where Marcus stood, it seemed you were scolding him, your finger jabbing lightly into his tiny chest. But the smirk tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you. Whatever you were saying, it was no reprimand. It was a game, a tease, an effort to pull the child out of his fear and into the safety of his own joy.

You lifted the boy off the chair with ease, steadying him as his bare feet touched the floor. His brows knit together as you handed him a small cloth bag, but his frown vanished the moment he peeked inside. His wide, shining eyes spoke volumes. To him, whatever lay within was a treasure.

“Food,” the soldier beside Marcus murmured, his voice low as if sharing a secret. “She always sends them off with something to eat and a few bandages, in case they need more later.”

Marcus turned to him, his expression unreadable.

“We soldiers don’t take the bags,” the man added, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s our way of helping her, in a sense.”

Marcus’s gaze shifted back to you, just as the boy flung his arms around your waist. The child’s face pressed into the fabric of your tunic, and for a moment, Marcus expected you to flinch, to recoil from the dirt and grime clinging to him. But you didn’t. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him as though his small embrace was a gift you treasured.

The light in your eyes was unguarded, pure, as though you had managed to unearth something sacred in this forsaken world. And in that instant, Marcus understood. It wasn’t just the calm you brought to the room or the kindness in your actions. It was the way you saw them—not as burdens, not as broken things to be fixed, but as people.

His gaze landed on you then. You had paused in your work, looking at him with a flicker of curiosity. For a moment, your eyes studied him, piecing together who he might be. Then came the realization, settling over your face like a shadow. Marcus braced himself, expecting anger, distrust, or even fear. He was, after all, the embodiment of the Rome that so many here had suffered under—a man of war, destruction, and discipline.

But no such emotion crossed your features. What he saw instead was recognition and something that startled him even more: worry.

You moved toward him with a grace so natural it seemed deliberate, your steps soft and careful, as though you were wary of waking the injured souls around you. Not that the child’s laughter hadn’t already done so—it rang through the space like a bell, impossible to ignore. Yet your gentle tread felt like a habit born not of necessity but of respect.

“General Marcus Acasius,” you greeted him, your voice low but warm, your lips curling into a soft smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The worry lingered there, quiet but unmistakable. “Whatever brings you here? I hope you’re not injured?”

Your voice was something else entirely. It carried a tenderness he had not heard in years. It reminded him of a mother soothing her child after a nightmare. No wonder his men had spoken of you the way they had; he could see now how easily they must have fallen under your spell.

“Nothing to worry about,” he replied, surprised at the gravel in his voice. “Just a few bruises—annoying more than painful.” He didn’t know why he admitted it out loud. Perhaps it was the way your eyes held his, unwavering and full of quiet concern, or the way your tone invited truth without demanding it.

“I can take a look at them, if you’ll let me.”

You stepped closer then, as if reaching out to touch him, but your hand hesitated mid-air before falling back to your side. It was almost imperceptible, that moment of pause, but Marcus saw it. It wasn’t fear. It was something else—an acknowledgment, perhaps, of who he was and what he carried. You were cautious, yes, but not timid.

Your attention shifted to the soldier in the nearby bed, and the smile on your face broadened into something softer, brighter. “Emascus,” you murmured, moving to his side. Your hand brushed gently against his forehead as you checked his temperature, your touch featherlight. “You’re not running so hot anymore. That’s a relief.”

The soldier nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Marcus watched the exchange, a strange mixture of emotions stirring in his chest. Gratitude was chief among them—gratitude that someone cared for his men in a way he no longer could. Your hands, your voice, your presence—it was a balm for these battle-weary souls. But beneath that gratitude was a deep sadness. It pained him that such care could only be found here, in the forgotten corners of Rome, among those cast aside by the empire he had given his life to defend.

Your voice drew him from his thoughts.

“Would you be so kind as to wait for me in that room there?” you asked, gesturing toward a door at the end of the corridor.

For a moment, Marcus didn’t register that you were speaking to him. When he did, his brows lifted in surprise. There was an unexpected firmness in your tone—not commanding, exactly, but resolute. Though your words were phrased as a request, there was no mistaking that you fully expected him to comply.

“I like my patients to have an ounce of privacy while I take care of them,” you continued, your smile returning, this time with a hint of mischief. “If you allow it, my lord.”

Something in your tone almost made him laugh. He hadn’t been spoken to like this in years—not with such quiet authority, not by someone who seemed utterly unshaken by his presence. You didn’t seem to see the weight of his title, only the bruised man standing before you.

His lips twitched, amusement threatening to break his stern facade, but he merely nodded and turned toward the door. He left the soldier in your care and entered the room you had indicated.

The space was small but neat, with a wooden bench against one wall and a table holding an assortment of salves and bandages. It smelled faintly of herbs, the scent even stronger here than in the main room. As he sat, Marcus felt a strange sense of anticipation, as though crossing the threshold of this room had marked the beginning of something he couldn’t yet name.

He leaned back, his gaze drifting to the door as he waited. For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking of battles or emperors. Instead, his mind was filled with you—your quiet confidence, your steady hands, and the unexpected strength in your voice.

He hadn’t even noticed when his eyes closed. The stillness of the room wrapped around him, lulling him into an unfamiliar calm. It was unlike him to let his guard down. Years of war had taught him to remain vigilant, always aware of his surroundings. Yet here he was, letting his defenses crumble in the quiet warmth of this strange place.

The great General Marcus Acasius, lulled into a fleeting peace by a mere slip of a woman. He almost chuckled at the absurdity of it. Somewhere in the heavens, the gods were surely laughing.

When he woke, the room was darker than he remembered. The soft glow of a single candle now lit the space, casting flickering shadows across the walls. He blinked, his eyes adjusting, and realized the other candles had been extinguished. The lone flame illuminated a desk cluttered with papers, small jars, and bundles of herbs.

You sat there, leaning over a parchment, your brow furrowed in concentration. The light caught the curve of your cheek and the faint smudge of ink on your fingers. There was an endearing focus to the way you worked, your nose scrunching slightly as if deep thought required such a gesture.

A strange thought crossed his mind—you looked almost...adorable.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

His voice was rougher than he intended, and he regretted it when you jumped, startled by the unexpected sound. Your hand flew to your chest, but the alarm faded quickly, replaced by that familiar, calming smile.

“You seemed like you needed the rest, my lord,” you replied, standing to light the other candles. The room grew warmer, brighter, the flickering light chasing away the shadows and revealing more of the space. You moved with practiced ease, each motion deliberate yet unhurried.

Moments later, you handed him a cup of wine. “It may not be as fine as what you’re accustomed to, but my father always said it’s good manners to greet a guest of high rank with wine rather than water.”

There was a playful lilt to your voice, a teasing cheerfulness that felt out of place yet oddly welcome. It caught him off guard—not just the tone, but the fact that you spoke to him as if he were merely a man, not a general burdened by the weight of Rome’s empire. There was respect in your words, yes, but also a grounding quality that made him feel human, rather than the untouchable figure most people treated him as.

He took a cautious sip of the wine, raising a brow in surprise. It wasn’t the finest vintage he’d ever tasted, but it was far from the worst. Given your introduction, he’d expected something barely drinkable.

His surprise deepened when he noticed you pouring yourself a cup of water.

“I prefer to keep my wits about me,” you said, catching his expression. “A clear head is important, especially if someone comes in need.”

But when he didn’t respond, still staring at you with mild bewilderment, you reached for his cup and took a small sip of the wine yourself. The casualness of the gesture startled him. You drank as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then placed the cup back in his hands with a smirk.

“See? I’d make a terrible healer if I poisoned my patients.”

“And since when am I your patient?” he asked, his tone caught between amusement and disbelief. Few dared to address him so directly, let alone with such nonchalance.

“Since you admitted your bruises,” you replied, settling onto the edge of your desk with an easy grace. You leaned forward slightly, your gaze locking with his. “Speaking of which, will you let me see them? I might be able to make them less...annoying.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a smile. The way you quoted his own words back at him carried a lightness he hadn’t felt in years.

For a moment, he simply looked at you. In a world that demanded so much pretense, you were refreshingly unguarded, completely at ease in your skin. There was a peculiar strength in your openness, a quiet defiance of the world’s harshness that left him disarmed.

And against all odds, he found himself nodding.

“Let me help you with this,” you said softly, gesturing to his armor.

Your tone was steady but not commanding, leaving the choice entirely to him. Marcus hesitated for a moment before nodding, a small gesture that carried more weight than you realized. You hadn’t moved an inch until he gave his permission, a restraint he found rare and striking. You valued dignity, it seemed—not just your own but that of others—and in a world like his, where power often crushed such considerations, it felt like a delicacy.

Your hands, though small, moved with confidence. It wasn’t the first armor you had removed, that much was clear. Yet there was a care in the way you handled the clasps and buckles, as if you weren’t simply working with steel but touching him directly. That thought made Marcus uneasy, though not unpleasantly so. You were a mystery, a curious creature that didn’t fit into any category he knew.

When you finally peeled away the layers of armor and his tunic, leaving him in his undergarment, your sharp intake of breath didn’t escape him.

“Those look a bit more than just annoying bruises,” you chided, your voice carrying both concern and a quiet reprimand.

Marcus felt strangely exposed—not just physically but in some deeper, more vulnerable way. He had been treated by healers before, but those were men, soldiers like himself, who patched him up with brisk efficiency and little ceremony. This was different.

Your fingers brushed over his scars and bruises, light and careful, yet purposeful. Some of the older wounds bore the telltale signs of sloppy care: reddish bandages, poorly healed scars, and swelling around the stitches. Your grimace deepened as your gaze settled on two scars that had become infected.

He watched your face, noticing the way your lips pressed together in frustration, your brows knitting with disapproval. It wasn’t directed at him, though. That much was clear.

“You don’t look too happy,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.

You sighed, your fingers continuing their examination. He winced when you pressed gently against one bruise, testing for deeper damage. But when your hand moved to the large bruise near his ribs, the pain was immediate and sharp. Marcus flinched, a curse slipping through his clenched teeth as his hand shot up to grab yours, stopping you from pressing further.

“Forgive me, General,” you said, your tone clipped, “but at least now I know you do feel pain. You’re just a complete moron for ignoring it.”

“Excuse me?” Marcus exclaimed, genuinely taken aback. For the first time in years, someone had spoken to him with such boldness, and he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed. “Do you care who you’re speaking to?”

Your expression didn’t waver. In fact, you seemed entirely unbothered by his title or his irritation. “You can sentence me to death for my words if you wish, my lord,” you said, your voice firm but laced with a frustration he could only describe as maternal, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you have multiple broken ribs. And you’ve neglected them. Not to mention whoever last treated your wounds should be stripped of any right to practice medicine. Two of these scars are infected, and I’ll need to reopen, clean, and stitch them properly.”

You glanced up at him then, and his breath caught. The anger in your eyes wasn’t for him—it was for his neglect and whoever had failed to care for him properly. There was something about that look, fiery and determined, that melted something in him he hadn’t realized was frozen.

“So you can do whatever you wish with my head,” you continued, your tone softening slightly but still resolute, “but only after I’ve taken care of you, my lord.”

Marcus stared at you, speechless. No one had ever cared for him enough to risk their own well-being for his. You had to know the danger of speaking to him this way, yet here you stood, unwavering.

And, to his surprise, he didn’t mind. He found that when it came to you, he didn’t care about his status or authority.

“Where do you want me?” he asked at last, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

You blinked, caught off guard for the first time. Your reaction was subtle—just a few moments of hesitation—but it was enough to make him smirk. A small, childish triumph stirred in his chest, a victory that felt sweeter than any battle he’d won.

You were good. Really damn good. It didn’t take long for Marcus to understand why his men preferred you over the hardened healers in the camps. Your hands were smaller, gentler, moving with a precision that was both calming and mesmerizing. But it wasn’t just your touch—it was the way you talked him through each step, explaining what you were doing as though giving him a measure of control. It was a strange thing for him to find comfort in, but it steadied him in ways he didn’t expect.

When the time came to reopen his infected scars, you hesitated. Your expression faltered, guilt flashing across your features like a crack in the calm façade you wore. “Brace yourself,” you said softly, almost pleading. And when the scalpel touched his skin, you winced, as though the pain you inflicted was your own to bear.

It hurt, of course, but it was nothing Marcus hadn’t endured before. Yet the way you worked, with such care and purpose, made it impossible to look away. Your movements were swift but deliberate, your focus unwavering. You cleaned each wound with an attentiveness he had never experienced, as though the scars on his body were more than just marks of survival—they were something sacred.

“You’re better behaved than your men,” you teased as you began cleaning the second wound.

Marcus raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh?”

“I remember Euthris once proposing that a kiss would make him feel better,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips.

He chuckled, the sound surprising even himself. He had known women who would have slapped a man for such a comment without hesitation. And yet here you were, laughing about it.

“I do apologize for my men,” he said, his tone warm, amusement lacing his words. Truthfully, he understood the poor soldier’s sentiment. He surprised himself by realizing he wouldn’t mind a kiss from you either. But he was no longer as bold as he once had been—age and experience had tempered him. “I assume he left thoroughly disappointed?”

You shook your head, a playful glint in your eye. “I kissed his cheek to thank him for donating his food bag to someone else.”

Marcus blinked, taken aback by your words. His expression softened as he processed them. Perhaps his men were flirtatious, even bold, but they were also honorable.

“They’re good men,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “I’ve noticed the way they leave their bags behind, or how they slip coins into places they think I won’t see. They could spend those coins on something for themselves, but instead, they choose to help. You should be proud of them, my lord.”

“I don’t believe I’ve had much to do with their actions…” Marcus began, but his words faltered as you began stitching the reopened scar.

Your apologies came soft and quick, almost teary, as the needle pierced his skin. He wanted to tell you it was fine, to reach out and brush the concern from your face, but he remained still, letting you work.

“I didn’t know about your existence,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “I came here because I overheard my men talking about you during one of their drunken nights.”

You flushed at that, your laughter turning awkward and small.

“They spoke of an ‘Angel,’” he continued, his eyes fixed on your face. “And I had to see for myself.”

“You must be disappointed then, my lord,” you whispered with a hint of humor, turning to the next wound. Again, you apologized softly when the needle broke through his skin.

“I never had an image in mind of what an angel might look like,” he said. His voice dipped, becoming almost reverent as he reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was instinctive, unplanned, and when your body froze beneath his touch, he hesitated. Had he crossed a line?

“But if someone were to ask me now,” he continued, his hand retreating slowly, “I would give them your description.”

Your breath hitched, and your wide eyes lifted to meet his. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

You had heard of General Marcus Acasius. His name carried weight, whispered among soldiers and citizens alike. He was a formidable force, a man whose strength and cunning had turned the tide of many battles. But more than that, he was spoken of as a good man—merciless in war but fair, unwavering in his duty.

When he had walked into your space earlier that day, the first thing you noticed was how unfairly handsome he was. You had wondered, fleetingly, how a man like him could ever be sent to a battlefield. But now, as you stitched the last wound and felt the weight of his words sink in, you realized he was more than his reputation. He cared for his men, even as he neglected himself. He spoke without arrogance, treated you with respect, and carried a depth that made you want to know more.

“Forgive me, my lady. It seems I’m as ill-behaved as my men,” Marcus chuckled, the sound warm yet apologetic. His gaze dropped to your hands, which had frozen mid-motion after his words and touch. You swallowed hard, regaining your composure, and quickly returned to stitching the last wound.

When you finished, your voice was soft, almost hesitant as you asked him to remain lying down. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he might have missed it entirely. Without waiting for a response, you turned to your table, busying yourself with a small bottle and herbs.

The smell that wafted from your work was unlike the harsh medicinal odors he’d grown accustomed to—sharp, biting scents that clung to battlefields and camps. This was different, a subtle and soothing aroma that seemed to fill the space with peace. He found himself breathing it in deeply, drawn to its unfamiliar comfort.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my lord,” you said after a moment, your voice steadier now. When you turned back to him with a medium-sized bottle and a piece of gauze, he noticed the faint flush on your cheeks. His lips curved into a small, unbidden smile, his ego growing slightly at the sight.

“Rather than ill-mannered,” you added, a shy smile tugging at your lips, “it was quite charming, I must admit.”

Marcus chuckled again, his gaze resting on you as though you were some kind of art—something rare and unexpected in his world of violence and chaos.

“But I am no lady,” you continued, meeting his eyes briefly before glancing away. “I’m just a girl from the lower classes, trying to carve out a place for herself in this cruel world.”

“You are the reason my soldiers are still standing,” he replied, his voice steady and sincere. “If anyone is worthy of the title, it’s you.”

His words took you off guard. There was a weight to them, a charm so effortless it almost felt unintentional. “Not to mention,” he added with a faint smirk, “you still haven’t told me your name.”

Your reaction was almost comical—your hands paused mid-action, and your mouth opened as if to reply, only for you to close it again, too embarrassed to speak. Marcus couldn’t hold back the laugh that burst from him. It was deep, genuine, and so free of burden that it surprised even himself. He hadn’t laughed like that in years, and you, caught in the sound of it, found yourself smiling despite your flustered state.

Finally, you managed to stammer out your name. The way he repeated it, soft and deliberate, made your heart skip a beat.

“I…” You cleared your throat, willing the warmth in your cheeks to fade. “I’ll apply this oil to the bruises on your ribs, then wrap them with bandages. I assume you won’t accept the bandages from me.”

When he nodded, the smirk on his face grew, earning a roll of your eyes.

“Fine,” you said with mock exasperation. “But I insist you take the oil and use it before bed each night.”

He hesitated for only a moment before accepting the bottle. He knew well enough he couldn’t find anything like it elsewhere. But as you began to pull your hand away, his fingers closed gently over yours, stopping you.

From beneath the folds of his armor, Marcus retrieved a small leather bag. Without hesitation, he placed it in your hand. The weight of the coins surprised you, and you immediately began to shake your head.

“I cannot accept this,” you said firmly. “I won’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument, “and you will, my dear.” His smirk softened into something warmer, his voice quieter as he added, “You’re doing an incredible job—not just for my men but for everyone who comes to you. If not for yourself, then take it to help them.”

You looked down at the bag, then back at him, your throat tightening as the emotions you had kept at bay finally broke through. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over before you could stop them.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “From the bottom of my heart.”

Marcus, sensing your discomfort at showing such vulnerability, simply nodded and looked away, giving you a moment to collect yourself.

Steeling yourself, you poured some of the oil onto the gauze and began to gently apply it to his bruises. Your touch was soft but deliberate, your movements careful as you worked. The warmth of the oil seeped into his skin, its soothing scent filling the space between you.

As you finished and prepared the bandages, Marcus watched you with quiet fascination. He hadn’t expected to find someone like you in a place like this—someone who treated others with such care and dignity, no matter their station. He couldn’t help but admire you. There was a quiet strength in everything you did, a resilience that didn’t demand attention but couldn’t be ignored. Yet, alongside that strength, you carried a gentleness that was rare in a world like his—a softness that didn’t falter, even under the weight of the pain and chaos you confronted daily.

“I want this oil to be gone in three days,” you said at last, your voice steadier now, though the lingering care in your eyes hadn’t wavered since he first saw you. “Every night, it should be applied.”

You looked at him then, something sterner flickering behind your gaze, and for a moment, he saw the fierce determination that lay beneath your calm exterior. “And please,” you continued, the words firm but kind, “do not overwork yourself. Those ribs need time to heal, and they won’t get it if you keep pushing yourself.”

He smiled at that, a quiet acknowledgment of your concern, and nodded. His eyes never left you as you worked, wrapping his torso with bandages. Despite the size of your hands, your touch was confident, and your movements were precise. To his surprise, when you finished, he found himself able to breathe a little easier.

“The dressing of broken ribs is crucial for your health,” you explained, as though anticipating the thoughts running through his mind. “Even if it hurts a little, it needs to be done tightly enough to provide support.”

You glanced up at him, your smile gentle but teasing. “My biggest concern was that one of the ribs might puncture your lung. And, well, no one wants that.”

He chuckled at the light humor, his chest rising and falling more easily than it had in days.

“I won’t waste your hard work on me,” he said sincerely, his voice warm with gratitude. There was something in his gaze—a softness, an intensity—that made your breath catch for just a moment.

You nodded, stepping back and surveying your work with a satisfied expression.

“Do you need help dressing?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Marcus moved his arms tentatively, testing the bandages’ hold. To his relief, the sharp pain had dulled significantly. “No, I think I’ve got it,” he replied, shaking his head with a small smile.

“Good,” you said, turning back to tidy your workspace. “I want to see you again in three days for an inspection.”

He pulled his tunic over his head, watching you as you worked, your movements fluid and purposeful. He couldn’t help but notice the care in even the smallest gestures—the way you arranged the jars, the precise manner in which you cleaned your tools. His gaze lingered, and a soft smile touched his lips when he realized how intently he was observing you.

You continued speaking without looking at him. “Of course, if you decide not to take my head before then.”

At that, Marcus frowned. But when you turned to him with a playful smirk, his confusion gave way to quiet laughter.

“And who would take care of my soldiers the way you do?” he replied, his tone gentle but sincere.

Your expression softened at his words, and you rolled your eyes in mock exasperation. “Three days, General,” you murmured, turning to leave.

As you disappeared into the hallway to check on your other patients, Marcus remained where he was, his mind lingering on the sound of your voice and the way you had looked at him—not as a general, but as a man. He was already counting the hours until he’d have an excuse to see you again.

#marcus acacius #marcus acacias x reader #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius gladiator II #marcus acacius x you #gladiator 2 fic #gladiator #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius fic #general marcus acacius #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedrohub #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader

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nosyp · 9 hours ago

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i would LOVE. a gentle smut with player 120, where cho hyun-ju had been feeling off due to the feeling of everyone looking at her weird in the games for being trans, but the reader yk just loved her for her, and wanted to show her that and basically just have intimate lovey dovey sex with her!? LIKE SORRY IF THIS IS CONFUSING.. IM JUST ALL FOR THE GENTLE SMUTS OF HER ESPECIALLY THEY DRIVE ME NUTS BRO

I'm so sorry if it took so long I had to sift thru requests sooo... hope you enjoy tho :)

Here are soime pics as well as compensation

Title = A Small Token of Appreciation

Warnings = smut🔞, touching, kissing, blowjob, gentle sex, cumming in mouth

Pairing = Hyun ju (Player 120) x GN! reader

Word count = 1.7k words

The tension in the air was palpable as Cho Hyun-ju sat in the corner, her gaze distant, lost in her own thoughts. Ever since entering the games, she had felt the weight of every pair of eyes on her, every whisper and judgmental stare. People had made their assumptions, and it made her feel like she didn’t belong, not just in the game, but in the world around her. Everyone was questioning the fact that she looked so much like a boy despite acting feminine.

The insecurity started to simmer beneath her calm exterior and had been growing, creeping in quietly with each passing day, until it was almost impossible to ignore.

But you could see it, the way she held herself a little more tightly, the subtle frown that tugged at the corners of her mouth, and the sadness in her eyes that she tried so hard to hide. No one else seemed to notice, or maybe they were too afraid to acknowledge what was happening beneath the surface. But you noticed. And you knew exactly how to show her that none of that mattered to you.

You loved her, not for any reason other than the fact that she was Cho Hyun-ju. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought. To you, she was perfect, every little part of her. Her strength, her vulnerability, the way she cared so deeply for others. It was all so beautiful.

You approached her slowly, your steps soft against the floor as you closed the distance between you two. Your heart hurt to see her like this, but you wouldn’t push her. You knew she needed to come to you when she was ready. As you reached her, you knelt down beside her, your fingertips gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She flinched slightly at the touch, but you could see the tension in her body begin to ease just a little.

“Hey,” you whispered, your voice soft and full of warmth. It was more than just a greeting, it was a reminder. A reminder that she wasn’t alone in this. “Y’know… you don’t have to carry all of this alone, you know?”

Her eyes flickered up to meet yours, and for the briefest moment, you saw the walls she had built around herself crack just enough for you to glimpse her true feelings. Vulnerability. Doubt. Fear. She was a fighter on the outside, but in this very moment, she was simply someone who needed comfort. Someone who needed to be reminded that they were loved, just as they were. And you were the person to remind her.

You reached out and cupped her face with both hands, your thumbs brushing over her soft skin as you gazed into her eyes. “I love you,” you said, your voice a quiet but powerful declaration. “I love you for who you are, not what others think of you. You’re perfect just the way you are, and I need you to believe that.”

She didn’t say anything at first, but her lips parted slightly, a breath escaping as her eyes softened, the tears threatening to spill but held back by sheer will. You could see the way her breath hitched as the walls around her heart finally began to crumble, just a little.

And then, without another word, you leaned in, pressing your lips to hers with all the tenderness you could muster. It was a kiss that spoke of reassurance, of love that was unwavering. Slowly, you pulled back just enough to speak again, your voice now a soft whisper against her lips.

“I’m here for you, Hyun-ju,” you murmured. “And I always will be.”

Her arms came up to wrap around you, pulling you closer as if to say everything she couldn’t in that moment. The feeling of her embrace, the way she melted into you, trusting you, was all you needed to know that, no matter how hard the world outside was, you would always be there for her.

The kiss lingered for a moment, soft and full of meaning, but the tension between you two wasn’t just emotional anymore. It had slowly become something deeper, something that pulsed between your bodies, unspoken but undeniable. The way her body pressed against yours, the way her hands moved to your back, pulling you closer, it was clear she needed more. She needed to feel loved in every way, to be shown that she was desired just as much as she was valued.

You pulled away slightly, your breath coming out in soft, steady puffs. Her eyes were closed now, her cheeks flushed from the intensity of the kiss, and you could see the desire building in her. She was slow, steady, as if she was testing the waters. You reached down to brush your fingers along the sides of her arms, feeling the goosebumps rise on her skin.

“Are you sure?” you whispered, your voice a soft murmur. You wanted her, but you also knew she needed to feel safe, to feel like she was in control of this moment, even if just a little.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she gazed at you with a quiet intensity. “I trust you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but the sincerity in it made your heart skip.

That was all you needed to hear.

You leaned in again, kissing her more deeply this time, your hands moving to trace the curve of her back, feeling the warmth of her body against yours. She responded almost immediately, her hands sliding up to your shoulders and then down to the fabric of your clothes, tugging at it gently as if asking you to remove the barrier between you two.

You paused for a moment, pulling back just enough to undress her slowly. Every piece of clothing that came off revealed more of the woman you adored, and with each layer she shed, you saw not just her physical beauty, but her soul, the woman who had faced so much and still managed to smile.

When she was finally bare before you, she looked up at you with such raw vulnerability, a quiet desire in her gaze that made your heart ache. “I need to feel you,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need.

Your response was gentle, tender, as you cupped her face again, kissing her softly before guiding her to lay back, your hands running down her body in the most soothing way. “I’m here, Hyun-ju. You’re safe with me.”

You moved over her slowly, your body hovering just above hers as you kissed her once more. It was slow, languid, filled with the love you wanted to show her. Your hands explored every inch of her skin, tracing the curves you adored, feeling the warmth of her body beneath your fingertips. You could feel her shivering slightly as you moved lower, your lips following the path your hands had taken, pressing gentle kisses to her chest, her stomach.

She gasped softly as you moved between her legs, your fingers tracing the lines of her body, asking her permission with every touch. When you felt her nod, her hands gripping the sheets beneath her, you lowered your mouth to her, your lips brushing against her with such tenderness. You wanted to show her how beautiful she was, how much she meant to you in every possible way.

You were slow, slow because you knew she needed this gentleness, this tenderness, to remind her that she was desired for more than just her physicality. As you moved against her, your lips trailing soft kisses across her body, she responded with soft moans, her fingers gripping your hair, urging you to continue.

“I love you,” you whispered against her skin, your voice full of emotion. “I’m never letting you go.”

The two of you moved together, every touch, every kiss, every caress, meant to remind her that she was wanted, not just in this moment, but always.

Your hands tugged at her pants, and your eyes were looking up at her for approval. She looked towards you, meeting gazes and nodded her head, giving you the permission you needed. Gently, you slipped your finger between the waistband of her pants and her skin, letting it stay there before lightly pulling it off.

It revealed her red cock, it was a shade of pink that was so intense it must’ve hurt. You couldn’t let her go through it anymore so you quickly slipped it in your throat, shoving her whole length into your mouth.

“A-ah… slowly…” she moans.

You start moving your head up and down her cock, your tongue providing a warmth to her cock. The sudden warmth from your mouth heightened the pleasure even more, causing her to roll her eyes all the way to the back of her head.

“U-ugh more…” she begged, hand now on the back of your head, gripping it tightly.

Her hand didn’t do anything beside gripping it, allowing you the freedom to go at your own pace. At first it was slow, intimate… but it grew quicker as her grip tightened.

Your head bobbed up and down faster, saliva coating her member even further. Her grip around you tightened even further, her fingers tangling in your hair as she pulled you closer. The pressure of her hands was a silent command, urging you to keep going. And you did.

Your mouth wrapped around her so beautifully she couldn’t stop staring. Her eyes eagerly followed yours, enjoying the sight of you. It didn’t help that your hands were gripping her hips so strongly, increasing the experience even more.

It didn’t take long for her to finally reach her climax, allowing her fluids to spill into your mouth. Your mouth felt so full that spit… and some of her cum was flowing out of the small gap between your mouth and her. Then, you pulled away, trying to save all the cum.

Without warning, you swallowed it all in, surprising her, but the look in her eyes told you everything, you had given her exactly what she needed, and she appreciated it more than words could express.

#hyun ju #squid game #squid game fanfic #player 120 #hyun ju x reader #player 120 x reader #squid game x reader

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hotchs-bitch · 1 day ago

Text

Cold December Night- Part 1

AN: Here it is, folks! I hope you have as much fun reading this as I did writing it <3 In true T fashion, it's named after a Michael Buble song (yes, a Michael Buble Christmas song. I'm done defending him). Find it on ao3 here, or under the cut!

Happy reading <3

Stockings are hung with care The children sleep with one eye open Well, now there's more than toys at stake 'Cause I'm older now but not done hoping

“No, Marcus! Fuck you!”

Hotch’s gaze darts towards the clock on the wall opposite his desk. 7:28pm. He’s usually the only person in the office at this hour, but he’s certain that he just heard an exclamation from the bullpen.

He straightens up in his seat to go investigate the noise; the motion-sensor lights of his office flicker on, and the bright LED is harsh compared to the warm orange lamplight he’s been working under. How long has it been since he last moved around?

Instead of thinking about that, he stands up with a stifled groan. He isn’t as young as he used to be, and these long nights of doing paperwork hunched over sitting on office chairs is certainly starting to catch up with him.

What else is he supposed to do? Go home and be alone during the holidays? Jack is old enough to have some say in the custody agreement, and he made it clear that he wanted to spend the next few weeks with Haley.

It had hurt, especially when Jack refused to tell his dad why he made the choice. It was like a knife through the heart, but it didn’t compare to the feeling in Aaron’s chest when he spoke to Haley about it.

“He’s afraid you’ll have to work. He doesn’t want to be alone on Christmas,” she had told him, as warm and empathetic as she had ever been, but it didn’t stop Aaron from feeling the knife in his heart as it twisted around.

He didn’t want to think about that, so he worked. He stayed late, worked long hours and took on extra consults, doing whatever he could to avoid his empty apartment that didn’t even have a Christmas tree or any decorations up.

And apparently, he isn’t the only one staying late tonight.

“You’re a piece of shit, do you know that?”

The voice rings out again, and Hotch approaches his office window. His door is wide open, but he can’t see anyone in the bullpen below. When he steps out of his office, he starts following the voice as the tirade continues. Down the steps into the bullpen, towards a cluster of desks tucked out of view of his office.

“We were supposed to go tomorrow. Tomorrow, you asshole. What the hell am I supposed to tell my family? What should I say to my mother?” There’s a brief pause, followed by a scornful laugh. “You wish. Merry fucking Christmas.”

Just as Hotch turns the corner and sees you drop your phone on the desk, he hears a sob. A weak sound, like you aren’t sure you want to make the noise but have to let it out anyway.

Oh, great.

Hotch prided himself on the interpersonal relationships of the BAU, between the other agents and with himself. Maybe he wasn’t exactly friends with the agents on his team, but that was fine. There was still a mutual respect and trust, one that he relied on in the field and did his best to maintain.

Except with you.

He didn’t really know why, truth be told. You had been warm and receptive upon first starting at the BAU, and it had been a nice few weeks. But overnight, for a reason Hotch didn’t understand, a switch had flipped. You started brushing off his greetings, ignoring his offers of coffee when he made a fresh pot, and generally leaving him feeling disrespected.

The exception, and the reason he hadn’t filed any kind of complaint about your behaviour, was fieldwork. The two of you worked like a well-oiled machine, and you never disregarded his theories the way you brushed off his opinions on things as simple as the weather.

In the field, you could read each other’s minds. But the second your bulletproof vest came off, Hotch felt like he transformed back into someone you couldn’t care less about. Like the unit existed in Cinderella, and he turned into a pumpkin at midnight.

Despite it all, Hotch still tried to respect you and even to get along in the office. He didn’t treat you any differently in or out of the field, but with time and your repeated rebuffs of his attempts at friendliness, the attempts faded away and were replaced with a quiet acceptance that you just didn’t like him. As long as you didn’t disrespect him in the field, he knew it would be fine.

So when he comes across you in the bullpen, tucked away and sobbing into your hands, he has no idea what to do. Should he try to comfort you? Sneak back to his office and pretend he never heard a thing?

The decision is made for him when he shifts slightly and his knee pops audibly, a result of sitting the way he has been for hours.

The sound gets your attention, and you barely turn your head. It isn’t the confrontation he was expecting from you finding him eavesdropping, but your reaction makes more sense when he hears your voice.

It’s ragged, and tired. You sound defeated. “How much did you hear?”

Hotch keeps his voice low, quiet, hoping that his tone can calm you a little. “Not much. Cursing aside, just that you have to go somewhere tomorrow and don’t know what to tell your mother.”

He must be right, because you heave out the sigh of the century. “She’s always right. Do you have any clue how annoying that is? She hates every guy I date, and we fight about it, and then he turns out to be an even bigger douchebag than the guy before him. I was an idiot for thinking she’d be wrong about Marcus.”

That’s one family annoyance Hotch has never had to worry about; his father wasn’t right about a single thing in his life. “Marcus… is that your boyfriend?”

“He was. And then he got arrested for having sex in public.” It takes a half-second for Hotch to put together the pieces, but you fill him in just to be safe. “And it was with someone else. Obviously. He just called me to bail him out, and I told him to go to hell.”

Aaron can’t hold back his wince. “I’m sorry. Are you going to be alright?”

The scornful laugh he heard earlier punches out of you again, and you shake your head. You’re still turned away, but it’s easy to see when you rub your eyes. “We were supposed to visit my family for the holidays. They always make such a big deal out of it, too. I didn’t bring someone two years in a row, and you would have thought the world was ending. They were so happy I was bringing Marcus. They’ve never met him, only heard stories, and they were excited to actually get to know him. Now I have to go there alone, tell my mother she was right about him, and get silently judged by my extended family for a week. I’m in hell.”

If there’s something Aaron can relate to, it’s family judgement. Later, when he thinks back on this moment, he might blame his next sentence on that. He might blame it on the late hour and his recent lack of sleep, or he might blame it on something more subconscious, like how he doesn’t need to be home for Jack this year. No, not that. He doesn’t want to think about that.

Well, it doesn’t matter what he’s going to blame it on, because he still says it. “You could bring someone else.”

“Right, totally. I’ll just finish up this report and head over to Boyfriends-R-Us.” The sarcasm is dripping off of you, a thin layer to shield the vulnerability and hurt in your voice.

Aaron definitely isn’t going to think about this moment later, when he starts playing the blame game with his past self. But if he were to think about it at all, he would recognize the way his stomach clenches when he hears your voice crack, exposing the raw hurt under it. The way he sympathizes with that hurt, and wants to make it go away.

“I could help you out.”

It’s the first time in all the conversation that he sees your entire face; you turn around in your desk chair, giving him an incredulous look. You look vulnerable, upset, and he thinks he can detect a flash of hope in your eyes before you blink.

“What?”

“I can come with you. I’ll pretend to be Marcus–you said no one has met him yet—and you don’t have to tell anybody what happened for a few months, if you like. It’s a win-win.”

If you’re curious about how it’s a win for Aaron too, you don’t question it just yet. Later, when you think back on this moment, you might blame it on that. On your own curiousity, wanting to know why he’s willing to be out of the state on Christmas and why he looks so vulnerable while he waits for you to answer.

It doesn’t really matter what you can blame it on, though; not when you stick out your hand to shake his, think ‘consequences be damned’, and say, “Deal.”

Next part >

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vindicated-truth · 2 days ago

Text

“Why are you smiling at your phone?”

Dongsik pries his gaze away from the screen to look at the older and infinitely more handsome version tilting his head curiously.

Joowon looks over Dongsik’s shoulder, and his eyebrows fly to his hairline. “Why do you have that photo?”

Dongsik grins at him. “Your brother sent it to me.”

“I don’t have a brother,” is the automatic knee-jerk response, which just makes Dongsik grin wider. Joowon sighs. “When did hyung send that to you?”

Dongsik watches as Joowon gracefully returns to the Western-style pasta he’s been cooking in his kitchen—an acceptable compromise between Joowon’s preferred cuisine and Dongsik’s love for noodles. Dongsik has yet to completely endear Joowon to noodles with broth, and he’s just thankful Joowon is gamely willing to try anything Dongsik offers him, so this is just him returning the favour—even though Dongsik has never understood the appeal of pesto.

“Prosecutor Kwon sent it to me just now. He was clearing away some of the stuff at your house and chanced upon this photo album.” Dongsik waves the phone screen. “Said this was his favorite.”

Joowon looks up from the sauce he’s been mixing in the pot. “Why did he send that to you, then?”

When did the two of you become close is the true, unasked question, and Dongsik smirks. “Because Prosecutor Kwon wanted to gush about how cute you were as a baby without you killing him for it.”

Dongsik laughs out loud when Joowon just glares at him. “Clearly I was not a baby in that photo,” Joowon huffs. “I was seven years old when that was taken.”

“Oh?” Dongsik’s interest is piqued now. “So you remember exactly when this was taken?”

“Yes.” Joowon lifts the tasting spoon to his lips and seems to find the sauce satisfactory. “My mother took that photo when the school called to ask about my piano recital, which I never got to participate in because my father sent me to England right before the concert.”

Dongsik stills.

Joowon turns off the heat from the stove and looks up when the silence stretches for far too long. “Dongsik-ssi?”

A million questions come to Dongsik’s lips and he doesn’t know what to address first. He wants to ask about Joowon’s mother and how much of a presence she had been in Joowon’s life. He wants to ask about the bastard of a father who sent an innocent child thousands of miles away to live alone without even a support system.

But he doesn’t want to dredge up any more painful memories that Joowon might not be ready—or even want—to face again, so instead he asks about the most fascinating discovery of all:

“You play the piano?”

Joowon seems startled by the question, as if it’s one that he hasn’t expected Dongsik to ask. “Yes,” he answers simply.

Dongsik watches as Joowon moves to set the table, and normally Dongsik would help, except at the moment Dongsik is too captivated by the way Joowon’s features are fighting to stay neutral as he speaks. “I was able to continue the practice in England. When I did not yet know the language, music was the only way I could express myself.”

There’s a significant pause before Joowon deliberately returns to the stovetop to fiddle with the noodles so Dongsik can’t see his expression. “My father didn’t come to any of my performances, even though I called home several times to invite him. After that, I just—stopped trying.”

Dongsik is grateful that Joowon’s back is facing him, so he’s able to quell the white-hot rage that flares within him with alarming swiftness. The hand that is gripping his phone tightly returns it to his pocket as he closes his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath.

Fucking bastard I hope the fires of hell burn you a thousand times over.

He opens his eyes, pastes a smile on his face, and walks up to the kitchen counter. “Let me help you with that, Joowon-ah.”

Joowon blinks as Dongsik lifts the pot from beneath Joowon’s hands, which are left hanging in mid-air, and begins transferring the pasta to two bowls. “I’ll start grating the parmesan then,” Joowon comments with a hint of amusement in his tone.

They lapse into comfortable, companionable silence as they finish preparing dinner side by side—practiced and familiar—just as they have for so many nights that they have spent together in Joowon’s apartment, like this.

“White?” Dongsik peers at the wine bottle Joowon places on the table when they both finally settle down to eat. “You prefer red.”

“White wine goes with this type of pasta better,” Joowon explains as he takes the seat adjacent to Dongsik.

Dongsik’s mouth quirks. “I see,” he muses as he twirls the pasta on his fork. “And here I thought it’s because I prefer white.” He pops the pasta into his mouth—and pauses.

Ever attentive, Joowon immediately asks: “What’s wrong? Do you not like it? I can prepare something else if you—”

Dongsik raises a hand to forestall Joowon’s spiraling concern—and transparent insecurity—as he chews thoughtfully. “Huh,” Dongsik says as soon as he swallows. “You know, I never liked pesto.”

Joowon looks visibly crestfallen and opens his mouth, presumably to once again offer another fare, when Dongsik shakes his head and continues. “I’ve just now figured out that it’s not the sauce itself that I don’t like, but the way it’s cooked.”

He meets Joowon’s eyes and smiles. “And I like the way you cook.”

Joowon blinks, a vision of adorable confusion, before his features settle into something akin to mild chagrin. “There is no need to be polite with me, Dongsik-ssi, I would rather have your honesty. How else would I improve my skills?”

How else can I be better for you is the true, unspoken statement, and something inside of Dongsik’s chest twists.

“Joowon-ah.” Dongsik reaches out and clasps Joowon’s hand. “I like it.”

Dongsik holds Joowon’s gaze just as determinedly, and Dongsik is delighted to see Joowon’s ears redden at the unwavering attention.

“I’m glad,” Joowon returns just as softly, before he clears his throat. “So am I also allowed to eat now?”

Joowon looks pointedly at his dominant hand that Dongsik is tightly holding, and Dongsik sees on those lips the smile that Jowoon is fighting against—and failing.

“Of course,” Dongsik says amiably as he lets go and returns to his own plate. “Can’t have my little prince go hungry.”

“I am not a prince,” Joowon huffs as he digs into his own plate, and Dongsik bites the inside of his cheek to stop the grin threatening to form at how Joowon has not protested Dongsik’s possessive use of ‘my’.

They eat in contented silence for a while—the pasta really is delicious, and white wine does go well with it—and when Dongsik is down to the last few bites, he takes a deep breath.

“Yuyeon-ah plays the piano too.”

Joowon peers at Dongsik over the wine glass, the rim touching his lips as he processes Dongsik’s revelation.

Belatedly, Dongsik realizes he’s made use of the present tense.

Slowly, Joowon sets the wine glass back down on the table. Dongsik watches the way Joowon’s fingers—slim and long the way a pianist’s fingers are, heartrending in the familiarity—fiddle with the stem.

“Does Yuyeon-ssi perform at recitals too?’

Dongsik swallows against the sudden lump that forms in his throat as Joowon makes use of the present tense, too.

“Yes,” Dongsik answers softly. He smiles, eyes crinkling against the sudden blurring of his vision. “And we never miss a single one. Our mother, our father, and myself—we always sit front and center at every single one of her recitals.”

Dongsik lifts his head to look at Joowon, expecting the familiar pity he’d see in people’s eyes whenever he talks about his sister, or—although thankfully less frequent now—the familiar underlying guilt he’d always see shadowing Joowon’s incandescent gaze.

Instead, Dongsik is met with a gaze as warm as the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream, wrapping him in a sensation that’s distinctly similar to an embrace.

It takes Dongsik’s breath away.

“She must be very good,” Joowon murmurs with a gentle smile, and Dongsik has to fiercely fight against the sudden urge to cry.

“She is,” Dongsik affirms, voice watery and breath shaky, as he unfurls his palm on the table and this time—it is Joowon who interlaces their fingers together.

“She is.”

—

“What are you doing here?” Joowon bursts out.

“Why yes I’m fine, Joowon-ah,” Hyeok answers wryly as he steps up and grips Joowon’s shoulders affably. “Thank you so much for asking, especially since it’s been so long since we last saw each other.”

“We had lunch together at work last week,” Joowon deadpans.

“And a week is an incredibly long time!” Hyeok throws his arms wide. “Come here.”

“Do not—!”

Dongsik grins widely as he meets Joowon’s sullen gaze from across the room as the younger man finds himself hoisted into Hyeok’s bear hug—very much against his will, Dongsik can amusedly see.

“… embrace me.” Joowon glares at Dongsik over Hyeok’s back and silently mouths, ‘Why is he here?’

Why did you invite him is the true, unasked query, and in response, Dongsik instead turns towards the living room where the rest of their visitors are waiting.

From the entryway, Joowon follows Dongsik’s gaze—and his eyes widen.

Hyeok releases him just then, and Joowon stumbles both at the sudden action—and in shock.

“What are you all doing here?”

Jihoon waves enthusiastically from his seat. “Hi Joowon-hyung!”

This time, it’s Hyeok who catches Dongsik’s gaze and silently mouths in disbelief: ‘Hyung?’

Dongsik grins. Hyeok and Joowon are more alike than either of them will ever admit at gunpoint.

“Dongsik-ah had us all have this date blocked in our calendars for a while,” Jihwa explains from her seat beside her brother.

“Said we had no excuse for not coming since we could file for official leaves early on,” Gwangyoung adds at Joowon’s befuddled expression.

“Which was a hell of a thing to explain to the supervisors at work,” Ohsub grumbles from his seat at the head of the table.

“Chief Nam Sangbae won’t mind,” Dosoo pipes up brightly, catching Dongsik’s attention at how he, too, makes use of the present tense. “Especially now that his residence has become our official reunion house.”

Little Huimang burbles happily from her father’s knee, and Seonnyeo rests her head contentedly on her husband’s shoulder as she strokes her daughter’s hair.

“But why?” Joowon exclaims as he looks at each new person with increasing degrees of bewilderment as Hyeok moves to take his seat as well. “What’s the occasion?”

His seeking gaze finally lands on Jaeyi, who bestows upon him a knowing little smile.

“I believe,” she muses, “we were promised a special performance.”

Joowon stares at her. “What are you talking about?”

From his vantage point near the newly-installed upright piano, Dongsik finally pushes himself away from the wall he’s been leaning against while watching everything unfold before Joowon.

He holds out a sheaf of paper, and Joowon looks up at him questioningly.

“I’ve never been that good at reading sheet music,” Dongsik admits ruefully as his fingers lovingly caress the paper. “So I’ve never really managed to interpret Yuyeon-ah’s original compositions.”

Joowon, to his credit, has always been one of the smartest people Dongsik has ever known, and has always been preternaturally fast at picking up clues.

And with the way Joowon’s beautiful eyes have widened in utter shock, Dongsik knows Joowon has pieced together all the clues now, too.

“Joowon-ah,” Dongsik tells him softly. “I would love to hear my sister’s music once again.”

The papers audibly rustle as Joowon takes them with trembling hands. He shakes his head swiftly as he grasps for one final missing piece to the puzzle.

“But why are you all here?” Joowon breathes as he looks up at the sea of expectant gazes staring back at him. “Why would you all file official leaves at work for—this?”

Why would you do this for me is the real, desperate question, and Dongsik moves to take his seat beside Hyeok.

Front and center.

“Because, Lieutenant Han,” Seonnyeo smiles at him, “you always make time for family.”

Dongsik closes his eyes then. He senses movement as the audience settles behind him with bated breath.

He hears a seat being pushed back, a piano being opened, a music sheet being settled into place.

And for the first time in more than twenty years—

Yuyeon has finally returned.

—

모두 함께 노래 부르자 힘찬 노랫소리 슬픔 가려지도록 괜찮을 거야 시계의 바늘처럼 다시 돌고 돌아 제자리로 오겠지

Let's sing together To cover the sadness with the powerful song It's gonna be okay, like the hands on the clock They'll go in circles back to their places

—

Title and lyrics from "Circles" by SEVENTEEN

Happy New Year, my beloved Beyond Evil fandom ❤️

—

Also posted at AO3

#beyond evil #괴물 #my fic #happy new year my beloved beyond evil fandom ❤️#jwds #주원동��#이동식 #한주원 #lee dongsik #han joowon

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steppin-on-the-last-train · 3 days ago

Text

The End of Love continued

Had to split this because it was too long for one post

If for some reason you find this first, here is the first bit

There is blood on the snow, still seeping down to the frozen dirt underneath like a spilled bucket of paint on a fresh canvas. But this is no creation. The blood is so bright and so fantastic in this place where there is no color. The trees are brown and dull, the sky is overcast in the early afternoon. The clouds are an ashy reflection of the ground below. The boy thinks it should be darker out. Because how could something like this happen in the light of day.

The infant is small and lifeless and wrapped in a coat not meant for swaddling. The wasteland has been silent for the past couple of hours, save for the whistle of the wind and the heavy breathing of the girl. Any prayers that may have been sent up were silent. Maybe that’s why they weren’t answered.

The young agents have failed their mission.

The girl clutches the bundle of flesh and cloth in her arms. She thinks about when the Headmistress told them all about the parasitic nature of children. How they should be grateful for the chemicals in their blood that have sent their immune system into hyperdrive. No sort of toxin or poison or otherwise foreign substance would survive.

She shouldn’t have even had this chance. And still, it is not enough.

She struggles to her feet. She is dehydrated. She forces her legs to march forward.

The boy tells her she shouldn’t be walking. She ignores him. Let me come with you then. No, she snaps. Stay here.

Because if he comes closer she thinks she might crumble into dust. She cannot let him near this vortex of grief she is holding inside her. This is a battle she must face alone.

The boy stops because he has always heeded her. At least take the gun, he says. He retrieves it and holds it out toward her. She cannot look back. Cannot meet his grief that she hears so plainly in his voice.��

He tosses it out by her feet. She picks it up and slings it around her shoulder.

She trudges off into the unbroken snow.

—

Natasha strikes the punching bag. Her knuckles are split, her feet are tired, and a voice in her head screams “again.” Except the voice isn’t screaming, and it’s not in her head. Not really. Because she can hear Madame B’s demands like she never left the dance studio in that boarding house. She is still that girl stripped bare of emotion and weakness. That vessel to be used in the most vile of ways.

She whirls when she senses a presence behind her because even though terrible things crowd her mind she is still alert. She wouldn’t be alive if she couldn’t entertain both.

For a second she thinks–stupidly–that you have come to pull her out of her mind. She feels your hands, which have only ever been taught to form fists, open to gently hold her own. You have always had a way of reminding her she was a person. One who had to feel and breathe and live in this body. This body which she has never had claim to, except for when she was with you. You gave her back to herself. And fuck she needed that.

But the man standing a few feet away isn’t you. Because you had finally shown your true colors. She was blinded by your kindness to realize it had been fake all along. You were just like the rest of them. Like the guards who hit her and the men whose throats she slit so easily only because they were too busy groping her.

You had tried to warn her all those months ago when you’d just arrived at S.H.I.E.L.D. You’d told her who you were, who you were loyal to. But in her ignorance she’d wanted to believe you’d come for her. Not to drag her back to hell. But because you cared whether she lived or died.

She was a moth to a flame because you were warm and she did not want to freeze to death.

“Hey,” Clint says. “You want to think about giving that poor bag a break?”

She finally puts her fists down. She knows how she must look. But he doesn’t care. He’s a mess too.

“Let’s get out of here. It’s late.”

But her heart is still racing and there’s sweat on her hairline that won’t be drying anytime soon. She doesn’t want to sit still. “Do you want to spar?” She asks.

Clint runs a hand through the short hair on the back of his head. “You think that’s the best idea right now?”

“Scared to lose, Barton?”

He sighs. “Fine. One round. But you have to promise to go easy on me. I’m still banged up from the Caracas mission.”

“I always go easy on you,” she says.

“And after you’re coming back to my place. I got beer and we can order pizza.”

“You’ve got to be classier than that,” she smirks. “Take me out to eat at least.”

He looks at her like he doesn’t appreciate her joke. Which is odd because he is rarely serious. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

She doesn’t answer, just goes to the mat and puts her arms up to stretch her back out. Clint slips out of his jacket and shoes and warms up opposite her. She tells him he should actually stretch instead of just doing half-assed toe touches and arm circles but he’s never listened. Now he’s shadowboxing and making stupid sound effects with his mouth.

“You ready?” She asks.

“Born ready,” he replies.

She advances quickly, throwing a couple of punches that force him to back up. He ducks under a kick and answers with his own. But she jumps up and flips away.

“Show off,” he huffs.

She play fights with him and tries not to think about how it was one of her favorite things to do with you. She had never known how to be gentle. She’d been the first in her class to kill, and she had no problem kicking down at the others trying to take her spot. But for you the movements came easier, softer.

But then Clint lunges a little too fast near her face. The sleepless nights, the rage she’s been wrestling catch up to her. You weren’t supposed to make that move. It was against the agreement you’d made to never fight each other. Because fighting the rest of the world was more than tiring enough. Except there had been no agreement, just her own faith. The jab throws her off anyhow. She’s mad for letting you this close.

Natasha lunges and pins you down. She has you by the throat beneath her. “You were supposed to be different,” she hisses. “You were supposed to be the best. Better than them. You’re a liar. You’re a fucking liar. Do you have no shame?”

You speak back, struggling to get the words out. “Natasha, I can’t breathe.” Natasha? She thinks. And why does your Russian sound so American?

She blinks and Clint’s face is red beneath her forearm. She releases him immediately and staggers back off the mat. He gasps for air. Her hands tremble. Her hands have never trembled. She was made of marble.

“Fuck,” she breathes. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Clint rolls onto his stomach, pushes himself to his knees. He heaves over, still breathing hard. “It’s okay.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Nat, I’m okay.”

She hurries to leave. The bright fluorescents make her nauseous. Clint was the last person she wanted to hurt but she hurt him anyhow. She really was just a weapon. She burned everyone who came too close. How stupid to think violence was a choice. Because it’s not. Not for her. For Natasha, violence has always been the bottom line.

“Nat,” he calls. His voice is stronger now. “Please don’t go. We can get out of here. But you have to wait for me.”

Her feet drag and she stops in the exit. Like he has cast some net to hold her back. She doesn’t think she can take one more night alone. Even weapons need a partner.

She lets him gather his things and hers too. The walk out to his truck is silent, and so is the drive to his apartment off-campus. Although it’s not far, she has to catch herself from falling asleep a couple of times. His smell has started to feel like safety. She is wrapped up in it and the soft sound of his humming and it is good enough. It warms her.

She showers while he orders pizza and there’s a mug of tea waiting for her on the coffee table when she gets out. He doesn’t have a blow dryer so water from her hair drips down her back, making rivulets in the t-shirt he has given her to borrow.

He doesn’t bother her until the food arrives.

“I’m not hungry,” she says when he offers her a slice. Because he can’t be bothered with a plate.

“Sure,” he says, taking a bite for himself instead. He devours the piece and washes it down with a swig of beer. He doesn’t offer her a drink.

She nods to the case, which is sitting on the floor by his feet away from her. They are on his couch, which has a few too many stains but is all right because it is also soft from use.

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head, mouth full. “Not until you eat.”

She glares at him but takes a slice of pizza anyhow. She eats mechanically and tries to ignore the hole in her stomach. She is rewarded with a cold bottle of alcohol. She takes even less time to finish that.

“You want to talk about what happened?”

Natasha doesn’t dignify him with an answer.

“Who were you fighting back there?”

She doesn’t look at him.

“I can do this all night, you know.” He kicks his feet up and cracks open another beer. “I have nowhere to be.”

She can’t believe this is the guy they sent to kill her. She can’t believe she’s sitting in some apartment in New York drinking cheap American beer. The living room is dark, just the light from outside seeping in through the curtains and the soft glow of a lamp in the corner. But she knows every nook in this place because she’s canvased it a dozen times and she’s started to picture this living room when she needs to remind herself where she is after she wakes up from a life in a Russian wasteland.

But it’s not everything. There’s a piece missing. And she knows she shouldn’t have even had it to begin with but now that it’s gone she’s bleeding and no stitch will hold. And she knows why.

“I wasn’t good enough,” she whispers. She can feel Clint’s eyes on the side of her face. She is still except for her mouth and her feet are planted on the floor like she may need to bolt. “He was the most sensitive kid, believe it or not. Back in Russia,” she clarifies.

“Who?” He asks if she means you.

“Yeah. He cried a lot. Threw tantrums at the simplest requests. They were rough on all of us, but I think it was different for him because of what he could do. They expected something from him in a way they never expected anything from the rest of us.” She takes a shaky breath because she will not cry. She has still not looked at Clint for the same reason. “And the rest of us were rough on him too, at first. Because it was kill or be killed and it was obvious they wanted him alive. It seemed like he had it easier. Like he got away with more.

Then we got older and more bitter and I regretted being so mean. I started to try and draw that part of him back out. I think I needed it. I needed him.” Natasha runs a hand through her hair, forgetting it’s still wet. She wipes her palm off on the–also borrowed–pair of sweatpants. “I thought he needed me too. You know I actually thought he came here because he cared about me.” She laughs, and it sounds like an ice pick on a frozen lake. “Turns out all he saw was a deserter. He was just here to fetch me after all. I wasn’t good enough. I couldn’t keep him from turning out just like them.”

Clint is quiet. She didn’t think he could go this long without talking. He is peeling the label from the beer bottle like they had been discussing the weather and he had lost interest. This was the first time she’d talked about you to anyone here. But she thinks she needed to, even if he has nothing to say. Someone else had to know. She couldn’t carry this alone anymore.

After what seems like a very long time, Clint sets the bottle aside and takes his feet from off the coffee table. He looks at her, his expression open. “Thank you for telling me all of that,” he starts. “I can’t begin to understand what it was like for you. But I think it’s a miracle you’ve both ended up here. And I think it’s obvious he does care about you.”

She bristles. “You don’t know that.”

“I take it you guys had a fight,” he says. The compassion in his eyes makes her want to get up and leave.

“I guess.”

“Did he say he didn’t care about you?”

“He said he didn’t trust me.” How did she explain that that was so much worse. Care was a feeling. Feelings were whimsical, trivial. But trust ran deeper. You could hate her but still trust that she wouldn’t hurt you.

“And you think he was telling the truth?”

“I don’t see why he wouldn’t be.” She shrugs like the moment hadn’t felt like a stab wound. “I’m not trustworthy.”

“I trust you,” he says without hesitation.

She scoffs. “Yeah, right. I tried to kill you like two hours ago.”

“I knew you wouldn’t. Look. You’re hurt, Natasha.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are. And it’s okay,” he says. “No one’s asking you to be perfect. But I still trust you.” Clint nods his head fervently. “You didn’t try to kill me even after you knew I had been sent to kill you. You’ve saved my ass out there more times than I can count. You’ve changed me.”

“But I couldn’t change him!” She says, slamming her hand against the couch. “Don’t you understand? I thought he was turning himself around because of me. That he might value my words over the peoples’ who don’t give a damn about anyone but themselves. But I wasn’t enough. And he lied to my face about it.”

“I think you’re missing a big part of it.”

“So now you’re taking his side.”

“No,” he says. “All I’m saying is if he came to take you back then why hasn’t he tried yet?”

“He has. He’s been asking me every other day to leave since we got here.”

“There’s other ways to go besides asking,” Clint says, his gaze darkening. “You and I both know that.”

“It would be too hard.” She shakes her head.

“But not impossible.” He counters.

She is quiet. “No, not impossible.” Because you were capable of everything.

“In the end it’s your decision.” He says. “But you’ve both been through a lot. I think you guys deserve a second chance to figure things out. Everyone fights with their partner. Not everyone comes out the other side.”

“We’re not partners.”

He raises his eyebrows and smiles like he knows something she doesn’t. “Okay.”

“Thank you, Clint.”

“Of course. I’ve never given anyone advice before, so. Thanks for being my guinea pig.” He gets up, groaning like an old man.

“Your what?”

“Guinea pig.” He gestures. “Like, uh, test subject.”

“Oh,” she smiles. “That’s a dumb expression. English is so weird.”

He yawns. “You want to set up here for the night?”

“Yeah. If that’s okay.”

“Always. Let me grab your shit.”

There is still a hole in Natasha’s heart as she tries to fall asleep on Hawkeye’s couch. But for now, it has stopped bleeding. She is glad to know good people really do exist.

—

The weeks after your fight with Natalia pass slowly, like when you’ve reached your limit and each step feels like pacing a mile. There are missions and you return to them with ease because this is what you’re good at, what you’re made for. Violence has always been the answer to every problem.

You don’t see Natalia anymore but you do have to keep going to see Willem. You worried the first time after he had told you to leave, but he was still him and you were still you. He told you more stories about his family and about how he was trying to make amends now. He thanks you, which is odd because you are the patient and he is the therapist.

He tries to talk to you about sports and music and movies but you say you don’t know a thing about any of it. He tells you to get a hobby. Then, he gives you his guitar.

You tell him you can’t possibly take it. Then you yell at him. You don’t want it.

The morning after that session you wake up and the guitar is sitting outside your door. There’s a note. It reads, Just take it, asshole. So you bring it inside and polish the dust off with a rag and spend all day thinking about playing it. Then, you think, fuck. Willem was right.

One day you’re on the way to his office when you hear shouting from behind his door. You stop and listen. It’s him and Kremer. You’ve never heard Willem so angry.

“You’re going to run him into the fucking ground!” Says Willem.

“I wouldn’t have to if you would just do your job. I can’t believe we even keep you kooks around. You’re not good for nothing.”

“He’s not a machine, Dick. He’s a kid. And you know what? No matter how much you’d like to control everything, I’m not going to let you ruin his life because you regret how you lived yours.”

“I don’t regret anything. But this boy has the potential to reshape the fucking world for us. And you’re letting him run you in circles.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be your tool. He’s been used his entire fucking life. I’m not going to ship him off to die in someone else’s war!”

Kremer lowers his voice. “You better start doing your job real fucking quickly.”

Then there’s footsteps coming toward you and you back up just before a red-faced Kremer opens the door.

“Your friend is here, Willem,” he says over his shoulder. “Agent,” he says to you before stalking off.

You stand in the hall for a minute, thinking about what you heard.

“You can come in,” Willem calls. You go inside, shutting the door carefully behind you. He’s leaning against the desk, looking like he always does. “You heard some of that, I take it.”

You nod.

“You shouldn’t be worried. It’s not about you. Well, some of it is, of course. But, uh, Kremer and I knew each other a long time ago. Part of it’s about that too.”

You nod again, standing across from him.

“He was angry because I gave him my six month report about you. He didn’t like what I had to say.”

You smile, hoping it’ll make him a little less serious. “You didn’t fail me, did you?”

“You can’t fail here.”

“You’d be surprised,” you say. He’s quiet today. No rocketing off with a story, no lecture. He’s just standing there in his sweater with his arms crossed and a contemplative look on his face. “So what did you write? That I’m a nutcase who’d be better kept inside?” You laugh, just a short breath. You’re nervous. You hate it but you care what he thinks.

“You want to know?” You nod. “I said I think you’re carrying a lot of anger. And that that anger comes from unresolved grief. Probably from a rough childhood. I said I couldn’t make a judgement about your loyalty to S.H.I.E.L.D., just that you’re restless. I said I needed more time. He said I wasn’t here to make friends.” He shifts and looks up at you. “But he did make me realize something. I don’t know anything about you. I told you all those weeks ago I couldn’t help you if you didn’t talk to me. And it’s been good. But you have to give me a little more.”

You feel your face heat up. You don’t want to talk about what he wants you to talk about. “You want to know the name of my first pet? The make and model of my father’s car?”

“Could be. Listen, I’m not asking for your life story. But usually when I talk to people their file’s got a few things. Date of birth, hometown, names of their parents, previous occupations, medical history, criminal record. That kind of thing. You want to know what yours had? Name, estimated age, nationality, and title. That’s it. I had nothing to go on.

My condolences if this comes as a surprise to you, but it’s obvious you don’t come from a house with two parents, a sister, and a dog. In my experience all angry people are grieving something. You yell at me because someone yelled at you. And I can take it. But if you keep on yelling at everyone because they get too close you’re going to die alone. Is that what you want?”

You think about Natalia, about the things you said to her. About all the lying you’d done to keep her thinking you didn’t see her. You used that gash of uncertainty she held for you–because they’d told you not to trust anyone–and ripped it wide open. And Willem was right. Now you are alone. And you hate it. She was the one person who saw you. And now you’d made sure she would never look at you the same again.

“You want to know about me? I’m not–” You cut yourself off because it sounds pathetic now that you’re about to say it out loud. So you start somewhere else. “You’re wrong. I don’t have a reason for being so, uncooperative. I’ve always been like this.”

“I don’t believe that. No one is born mad. Someone else has got to come along and give you a reason.”

“I was raised in, uh, a boarding school. Of sorts.”

“In Russia?” You nod. “Were you born there?”

“In the school?” You ask, even though you know what he’s trying to get at.

“In Russia,” he clarifies.

You purse your lips, thinking about the place that used to be home. Now the memory is so far removed you wonder if you dreamed it up as a child seeking comfort. Love was for children and fools, they’d told you. You think you were loved, once. But that memory is a memory of a memory of a memory distorted by long years of separation. Finally, you answer WIllem. “No.” You let him think about what that means. You don’t think you can explain it. So you continue the story. “I didn’t speak a word of Russian when I got there. They tried to teach me, but I wouldn’t learn. I forced their hand. They had to resort to harsher corrective measures.”

“It couldn’t have been easy.”

“That’s the thing. It was for me. Language is like the music. I can hear a speech in a language I’ve never heard before and recite the entire thing back perfectly. I can mimic voices. It was a simple request. But I refused. I wouldn’t speak Russian even though I knew most of them couldn’t communicate with me otherwise. I made everything harder for everyone. I deserved everything I got.”

“No child is perfect,” he says. “Doesn’t give you the right to hit them. They were wrong for that. You hear?”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t so bad. And it was the only way to get through to me. It was my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Willem says, like he knows. There’s finality in his voice and it makes you angry. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t. “No one has ever told you that before, have they?”

You begin to pace because the walls are closing in like they used to on those nights you were so scared you couldn't breathe. Your chest is tight like someone has tied a band around you and won’t stop pulling. “Don’t,” you say around the lump in your throat. “Don’t fucking lie to me, WIllem. Not you.”

“Whatever happened, whatever they did to you, you didn’t deserve that. No one does. Especially not a kid.”

You stop a safe distance away. You raise your voice because if you are the loudest one in the room then he has to listen to you. “You don’t know that. You can’t say that! Don’t say that shit when you don’t know!”

He is aggravatingly calm. “I don’t have to know exactly what happened to know that it was wrong. Those people who put you down and then tell you it’s your fault. You can’t listen to them. And whoever was in charge there should be in prison for letting it all happen.”

“No,” you say. General Dreykov controlled the Red Room but the Headmistress was the one who ran it. You liked visiting her when you were younger. You used to go to her office almost every week. And you were special because she told you you were the only one she invited up. But then you got older and she stopped asking after you. You were sure you had said or done something wrong. “She was nice.”

“Who?” He asks.

“The Headmistress. She was probably the only nice one.”

“What makes you say this?”

You shrug, because it’s hard to put into words. It was just a feeling. “She never hit me even when I deserved it. She let me in her office to read with her. She would speak my own language with me as long as I didn’t tell anyone. I was supposed to be forgetting about it.”

You remember, almost hazily–which is odd because you’ve always had a perfect memory–walking up to that big wooden door on the third floor.

“You don’t have to call me Headmistress. My name is Nina, why don’t you call me that?”

You nodded, still so small and confused but glad because she was talking to you and not at you. Your feet dangled off the chair she had pulled up for you. She was older, maybe about your 姑姑’s (aunt’s) age.

“Oh,” she said. “I forgot. No one is supposed to know this. Can you keep this secret? I would hate to be in trouble. Can you help me out?”

You nodded again, fervently. You didn’t want that.

She smiled and put a hand on your leg. “Such a sweet boy.”

Willem looks at you with a strange expression. Like he’s judging something, but not you this time. Then it clears and he says, “Sometimes people aren’t all that they seem. Especially people who pretend to be saints in the face of great violence. Complacency is just as bad as being the one swinging.”

You look at your feet. You don’t know why you’ve told him so much. You don’t want to talk about this anymore. You think you might be sick.

“You were right about me ending up alone,” you say. “About chasing away all the good things in my life. I yelled at someone I shouldn’t have. I think I pushed her too far this time.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

You don’t answer. You just had to confess. At least someone else knows now. Someone who maybe knows why you did it. Who knows maybe you didn’t mean all of it.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You snap your head up and slowly shake it side to side. “There’s nothing you have to be sorry for.”

“No, maybe not. But you need to hear it from someone. Because there’s a whole lot of apologies you’re never going to get.”

You move back over closer to him. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not. But you’ve done good, you hear?”

“I know,” you say.

“And you’re not a bad person,” he says with that same finality from earlier. But you don’t have the energy to fight him on it anymore. You’re done.

“I know,” you say again.”

“You’re not a bad person.”

“I know,” you say more emphatically.

He steps toward you. You want to back away but you’re already up against a cabinet by the wall. “You’re not a bad person.”

You point at him. “Fuck, I know.” Your heart slams against your ribcage. But there’s nowhere to run. Your face heats up and tears form in your eyes. You wipe at them like you are throwing punches.

“You’re not a bad person.”

“I know,” you say but it’s hard to around the blockage in your nose and throat. You want to fall to the ground but Willem is right in front of you so you fall into him instead. You cry like you haven’t for a long time and it feels terrible but it also feels like you’re forcing something infectious out of your body.

You feel his arms tighten around your back and it makes you think of the last time you had seen Zhenya. She had offered her hand and said, nice working with you partner, and you’d grabbed it not to shake it but to pull her in instead. She had been surprised but eventually held you back and even though you were probably crushing her it felt like she was the one holding you together and it feels the same now.

The tears come faster because you haven’t seen her in four years and have no idea if she was even alive.

When you finally let go you feel terrible but better at the same time. You wonder how this is possible. To feel like you want to both live and die. You wish you could ignore all the bad shit in the world, wish you could go back to shutting it all out and not feeling. But you can’t because you don’t want to anymore and it’s like you’re about to plummet from a cliff. You just hope your grip is strong enough to hold on a little longer.

—

You peel open the window and crawl back inside the house. It’s getting colder out now. Ekaterina is still in your room. Anastasia has already left. “I’m back,” you greet.

“It’s freezing out there,” she says.

You shrug. “It’s all right. I kind of like it, actually. It slows everything down.” You slide down against the wall to sit on the floor. “I am starving though.”

Katya stares at you. She is blonde haired and blue eyed and used to scare the shit out of you when you were younger. She still kind of does, if you’re honest. But you’ve come to an agreement and she hasn’t been so mean since.

She pulls out a chunk of bread from nowhere. “Here,” she says, tossing it to you. “You always come back hungry.”

You take a bite and toss it back. “Thanks.”

“What do you do out there anyway? And please don’t tell me you’ve got a gross peeper hole somewhere in here.”

You make a disgusted face. “That’s what you think of me? I run. There’s a grove of trees and a creek about a mile from here. I like that spot. It’s good for finding peace.”

She smiles a sad smile. “Peace,” she echoes. But then that mask of indifference you’ve all learned to wear as a primary skin falls back into place. “Not that I don’t appreciate these little escapades,” she starts. “But I still don’t quite understand why.”

You glance at her where she is perched on your bed. “I told you why. It helps all our appearances.”

“I don’t get why you think you need to keep this appearance. Not when you could make it real with just about anyone else in here.” She narrows her gaze at you. “Are you gay?”

“No,” you respond quick and indignant. “I am not a homosexual.” There is an uncomfortable pause. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

She snorts. “Nice save.” But she is still looking at you. “Is this some sort of weird game you have going on with Natalia?”

“Why would this be about her?”

“Because she likes you.”

Now it is your turn to laugh. “No she doesn’t.”

“Are you kidding me? You are so dense sometimes I wonder how you are still alive.” She throws the piece of bread at your head. You scramble to catch it before it can hit you in the face.

You glare at her. “Leave Nastya in here next time. She’s nicer.”

She rolls her eyes. “Seriously. Have you seen her face after we pull one of these stunts? I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to murder me.”

“It’s about strategy,” you say around a mouthful of bread. “The closer you all are to me the better you figure your chances of survival are.” You dare Katya to tell you differently. When she is silent you go on. “She’s mad she’s losing.”

She shakes her head. “It’s more than that. I know that look in her eyes. It’s the same one I use whenever people look at Anastasia for too long.”

You don’t look at her as you toss her the last bit of food.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” she says. “I know you like her too. You’re shit at hiding it. You will lose her with this dishonesty.”

“You’re wrong,” you say. Because Natalia is flirty but that doesn’t mean anything. Because you are trying so hard to be cold and callous.

“Sure,” she says as she leaves.

You thump the back of your head against the wall.

—

After your fight with Natalia you begin to do something you haven’t in a long time. When the mess in your head has become too large and too loud there is only one way to calm it down. Coincidentally the Headmistress taught you this too.

But you don’t tell Willem that. And you don’t tell him that maybe you are now a danger to yourself. But you wear long sleeves and because you heal fast nothing scars anymore.

The nightmares take on a new form as if they are aware there is a possibility of you overcoming them. Like a parasite they mutate, warping old demons with new faces. You’re strapped down to the chair in the basement and you can’t even crane your neck to see what the doctors are busy preparing. The hard plastic is cold against your bare back. There’s a band around your arm and it’s pinching your skin but you know there’s so much worse to come.

You try to take deep breaths but the heart monitor is still beeping like crazy and it only gets worse when the masks come to hover over you. But even behind the masks and despite the light shining right in your eyes you can make out their faces. It’s Doctor Cho and Kremer and Willem, all blinking silently down at you. You twist and seize but can’t stop them from putting the needle in your arm and watching you writhe like a bug they’ve set aflame. But it’s not the pain that’s got you worried. You’re not scared to die. You’re horrified of waking up as someone you’re not. You can’t let them change you. Not again. Not again. Not again. Not again.

You jolt up panting and Natalia is there beside you, a cool hand on your cheek. It’s okay, she whispers. You’re safe with me. Then her other hand is high up on your leg and undoing your belt.

She tells you to look at her and when you do you’re looking up at the Headmistress. You can’t speak even though you really want to scream because you don’t like this. Just keep reading your book, she says. And remember, you can’t tell anyone or I can’t let you up here anymore. It would be unfair to the others.

Then you wake up alone and sweating in a bed that’s not yours. But you know the room so when you realize you’re going to puke you hurtle across the bed and just barely make it to the sink. When you’re done you wash your face off and that’s when you realize you’d been crying.

You slide to the bathroom floor and bring your shaky hands to your face. Just like your nerves so too is your mind jumbled. But you know what you need to do. The stolen scalpel is hard to hold tonight. The first cut is too deep, the next too long. Eventually the present comes back slowly, in chunks as you make your way down your arm. You remember you are in your room but not in the Red Room. You’re in New York because of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Natalia who is Natasha now.

You are alone. The room is shrinking, suffocating.

On your way out you grab a shirt to wrap around your bleeding arm. You go up because you don’t think you can make it all the way downstairs since you are on the eighth floor. The stairwell has roof access and you burst outside like a bird ready to take flight. The night air is cool and the wind begins to dry the sickly sweat on your forehead. You stagger to the edge where there’s a small guard rail. You brace yourself on it and look out at the city.

The buildings and the light make you feel adrift. You don’t like the city. There’s too much going on and too much of it is bad. You can’t think. There’s no room to breathe even up here. You can’t keep up with it. Not the cars down below or the people in this building or even yourself. You look up at the sky and can’t even see the stars. The moon and the stars were always the brightest thing back where you grew up. Something to focus on when the ground beneath your feet started to swell and shift.

You’re just so tired. There is a heaviness in your head, in your chest, deep in your bones. What if you can’t beat it.

You pull yourself up onto the railing. The metal bar is somewhere between five and ten centimeters across. You balance there, close your eyes, and spread your arms. You pretend you are somewhere else, like you are floating away. The scarred skin on your back pulls and stretches tight. You are used to the pain. It reminds you who you are.

The t-shirt you had draped over your forearm unravels and plummets toward the ground. The wind ruffles your hair and bites at the slits in your arm. You can feel the empty air out in front of you. For a moment its singing drowns out the noise below and the noise in your head.

You fill your lungs with air. You don’t think you want to die. But you do wonder if during the fall you might find what you’ve been looking for.

—

One night as you are crouched over the bathtub you realize there is nothing keeping you here anymore.

So you pack a bag and leave your room like no one has been living in it for the past six months.

The compound is quiet and still. Most people have gone back to homes or apartments and the few that stay here are fast asleep. But as you walk through the commissary there is a man there, in the dark.

He is nursing a cup of coffee which is odd but you continue to walk out like you are not fleeing. But he knows you, and stops you when he says your name.

You narrow your eyes and look over your shoulder at Clint Barton, codenamed Hawkeye. “Agent Barton.”

“I know what you’re doing,” he says.

“You also know you can’t stop me, right?”

“I know. And I won’t try to, but I want to talk to you.”

You are silent, about to walk away.

“If you walk out now I’ll put this whole place on red alert. I’m really annoying, which means I can convince a lot of people to help me very quickly.”

You dip your head, and slowly make your way over to the table he’s sitting at. “What do you want?”

“Sit down. Let me get you some coffee.”

He gets up and brings you a cup and the whole pot of coffee.

“What are you doing sitting up alone in the dark drinking coffee?” You ask. This man is strange. He is an excellent marksman, but you’d never guess it from looking at him. He is all-American with wheat blonde hair and lean muscles. He is talkative, which is odd for a spy, and likes to pretend nothing is as serious as it is.

“Can’t sleep,” he says, simply. He pours himself more coffee. “Look, I know what it’s like. To feel like you don’t belong here.”

You stare at him. At his hair that sticks up every which way and the bruise around his left eye.

“I tried to run away when I first got here too. I was given the same options as you. Fight for S.H.I.E.L.D., die, or rot. And I stayed until they quit monitoring me like a baby and then cut and run because I thought I didn’t need this.” He looks at you. You don’t think you are very much alike. “But someone came after me. Made me realize I had more than just myself to think about.”

“So what? You’re going to be that person for me? I don’t know you.”

“No, you don’t. And I don’t know you. Although to be honest my mental picture isn’t all that positive. But I’m trying to give you a chance. Because you mean an awful lot to Natasha. And she’s come to mean a lot to me since she’s been here.”

“Natasha’s never needed anybody's help,” you say. You had argued with her but you could still give her credit for that.

“Everybody needs help. And as much as you think you live in a bubble, you don’t.” He takes a drink of his coffee. “I know you guys had a fight. She’s been in a bad way. And if you disappear–” Clint looks at you and you know he’s called Hawkeye because of his aim but now you’re thinking his gaze is sharp like a bird of prey’s too. “You’ll regret it.”

“I can’t.” You inhale through your teeth like this conversation has pained you. “I can’t stay here, Barton.” You don’t know if you’re talking about S.H.I.E.L.D. or about life in general.

“Don’t do it for yourself. Do it for her.” He stands up and announces, “I’m going to bed.”

You sit there for an hour with the coffee pot and the moonlight and Barton’s words. Then, you go back to bed too.

You stay and more nights pass and you still don’t see Natalia. You don’t think you can approach her after the things you’ve said and she doesn’t come to you. Maybe Barton had been embellishing.

But you can’t sleep again so you toss and turn like you can buck away the anxiety eating a hole in your stomach before you finally get up to get coffee. Because now you know where Barton has his stash.

You open the door and it swings in a little too fast because someone is leaning against it. You know it’s Natalia instantly because you’d know her anywhere. Even though now she’s curled up in a little ball at your feet. She’s still asleep, or at least pretending to be.

“Natalia,” you say, not quite at normal volume. You squat down and gently shake her shoulder. Because she doesn’t like her face touched when she’s sleeping.

She jumps up and takes a couple defensive steps back when she wakes. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter even though she never used to flinch waking up next to you. But then she winces and you notice she isn’t standing up straight.

You stare at each other for a moment. Like she is holding a gun to your head. Like you’ve just met for the first time. Neither of you had expected to see the other. Neither of you had really thought about what to say.

You could kill a man in half a hundred ways but no one had ever taught you to apologize.

“Are you okay?” You ask, even though you know she’s not.

“Yes,” she says reflexively. But she doesn’t walk away.

“Do you want to come in?”

She nods, and crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed like she’s on the verge of collapsing.

“Are you hurt?” You ask. She’s favoring her right side, still hunched over like she has a bad stomach ache.

She is still, and you are both very quiet. Then, she nods again, the smallest dip of her chin.

And suddenly this feels a lot like you are back in the Red Room, too scared to admit you were wounded. Because when you were eleven Olga had torn her ACL, and they’d shot her.

You ask if you can see and she eyes you for a second as if you’re going to start yelling like you had last time she’d been here. So you try to make yourself look small and a little guilty because you really do regret what you had said.

So she slips her shirt off, which takes great effort because there is a bandage wrapped around her upper back and right shoulder. The front is clean, but the back is stained a dark color. You unwrap it with great care to move slow and gentle because you know why she hadn’t gone to the medic. This is one of her things which she can’t speak about.

There is the exit side of a bullet wound high up on her back in a spot she cannot reach. It looks painful and ugly and huge and you are worried about infection.

So you retrieve the stash of medical supplies you keep so you can nurse your own wounds and take care of it. Because that’s what you’ve always done. She is silent and static as you flush and clean what is almost still a through-and-through hole. You stitch her up with steady, practiced hands and there is not a single hitch in her breathing. Finally you wrap her in a new bandage and help her back into her shirt.

After you put everything away and sit down next to her on the bed she puts a hand on your cheek and kisses you. And you kiss her back because you’ve missed the taste of her lips. But this is not the way to restart, so you are the one to break it.

“We should talk,” you say in Russian. Because you need to be clear. And it is easier to hide in a foreign language.

For a moment you are worried she will get up and leave because this is not what she came for. Because she is a widow after all. The best of them.

She stares at you when you say this, like the words have surprised her.

But then she answers you back in Russian. “Yes,” she says.

She is human too, when you give her the chance to be. You’ve forgotten you liked her because she is both.

So you get in bed and she lays on her left side with her head on your chest, right over your heart. It’s been so long since you’ve done this. Too long, you think. But it’s okay because you’re both here now, and you still fit together like this is where you’ve always been meant to end up.

And you talk. You tell her all the things you’ve been too scared to say. About what Svetlana told you about Dreykov and the Red Room. She tenses when you mention her because they’ve never liked each other but she doesn’t berate you for letting her go. She tries to understand.

You tell her you were never here under any orders. That you really did choose her over them. Her breathing hitches when you say this, like she can’t quite believe it.

She tells you about how lonely she’s been. Not just here but her entire life. That you’ve helped, you’ve always helped, but that she couldn’t go on living like a ghost anymore. Creating and killing new versions of herself just to survive. Because then it was just survival without life, you know?

So yes when she ran into the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with the bow and arrow she was going to let him put it through her heart. But when he brought her back instead and offered her a chance to define herself without limit she couldn’t say no. She had to choose herself for once. She apologizes for being selfish, and you are silent because it means something. Then, because you do not want her to think you are mad, you say you forgive her. Although really there is nothing to be forgiven. You are glad she is alive.

Very slowly, because there are knots of anger in your chest and holes in your throat, you tell her you really do want to be at S.H.I.E.L.D. You try to explain how hard you are trying even though it sounds pathetic because your best is far from enough. You tell her the truth, which is difficult because the truth leaves you tender and ready to be skinned wide open. About how you didn’t want to be here at first, and your anger which you think had been for yourself blew onto her because she was doing better and you weren’t.

You tell her it’s not so bad here after all.

She asks again, tentatively, if you could try just a little bit more. Because you are still on the edge of the ship’s plank, and the water below is deep and freezing.

You say you don’t know how.

She says she can show you.

You agree. You will take her hand and let her lead you inside.

You tell her about your conversation with Barton. Not the why or specifically the what, but just that it happened. She calls him Clint and tells you more about him. About how he has been patient and not scared of her like she is some monster. About how he is funny, and a little self-deprecating, and how he is so good with a bow you might not even be able to match him.

Nonsense, you say. Then you are quiet because you could feel her smile when she was talking about him. Is he your best friend then? You immediately regret asking because you think you know the answer and would rather live with the not knowing.

No, she says, looking up at you. You are.

Now it is your turn to smile, because it feels good to hear. She leans forward and asks if she can kiss you. When you say yes she closes the distance and kisses you softly. You are full of affection. It is much better than being full of rage.

Then, you say you’ve been thinking about the Red Room, and about how maybe she was right when you fought that odd number of weeks ago. But you didn’t want to admit it. Because if they were wrong, so were you. And then you really were bad and evil and broken, just like she said. And there was no place in the world for those without purpose.

But she says she was wrong. That she hadn’t meant it when she said that they had broken you. Because you are the strongest person she knows.

And you fall asleep with her half on top of you and half pressed into your side. And it’s okay not because all has been solved, but because you are on the same page once again.

—

You fill the next few months with different expressions of trying. Some days it looks like just getting out of bed. Most of them look like more.

Since you’ve been here they’ve been asking you questions. They want to know what you know. About how the Red Room operates and the movements of the widows and the political motives of various Russian military officers. You’ve told them very little on the foundation you are young. They did not trust you with so much information yet.

But that was a half lie. Because it’s true you don’t know all about Russian politics but you do know about how the Red Room is kept alive and kept secret. You were supposed to be its new head after all.

So part of trying looks like telling them things they can use to disassemble the engine that is the Red Room. You settle because it’s not the entire arm of Russian intelligence, just the worse part. You know this because you had a friend once. She was part of the Russian SVR and served as the link between your two agencies. You wonder if Evgenia would like it here. Or if at the very least it would be a safe enough place to meet again.

So you tell them about how the widows’ missions are assigned, but not about the locations of the safehouses because your loyalty to the kids you grew up with is still stronger than your loyalty to S.H.I.E.L.D. You don’t know where the Red Room is, not exactly, and they say that’s okay because they only really want Dreykov. You want to say taking him out won’t be enough, that they really should be looking for the source. But you don’t because you think this is your mind making another excuse to protect him a little longer.

You give them the locations of two offices you’ve been to. One is in Moscow. Unthinkable. The other is remote in Budapest. They decide, yes. The ambush will be here.

The other half of your new mission is to participate. So when Natalia says she and her team are going out for drinks and that you should come you don’t say you are busy.

For as long as you’ve been here you still haven’t really explored New York so you put on a shirt with a couple buttons at the top and the four of you, because Coulson and May were out, squeeze into a cab and go downtown. Natalia is gorgeous as always with her hair braided back and a black leather jacket over her shoulders.

Barton and Hill, who you are working on referring to as Clint and Maria, bicker about which bar to go to. Eventually they settle on one called Lone Dog Pub. It is cold outside but warm in there and so are the lights and your stomach after you’ve had a couple beers. You can’t get drunk anymore but Clint says you have to at least have a couple so you can decide whether his preferred brew or Natasha’s is better. You don’t really care for beer, and Natasha knows this so she only smirks when you say hers tastes better.

Hill laughs and the noise startles you because it is so unlike what you thought you knew about her. She is hair in a tight bun and uniform pressed in a way that screams ex-military but her laugh is boisterous and unapologetic. She has water because she says she does not drink but is unwound anyhow. She finds amusement in making Clint the butt of the joke and the two of them argue like little children.

She suggests a round of darts which is dangerous because you are all competitive and a little drunk–if not on alcohol then on the music and the company. Because their laughter is infectious and you don’t think you’ve spoken this much to anyone your whole life.

It’s guys versus girls, but really you are on Clint’s team because he is the drunkest and you are sober. To make it interesting you challenge each other to trickshots, throwing from behind your back and trying to throw three at once. The score is quickly forgotten and Clint wants you to throw with your eyes closed to see if you really are magic like everyone says.

Not one to back down from a challenge, you take the darts and shut your eyes. You decide you’ve been at this long enough for the movement to have ingrained itself in your muscle memory so you launch them all one after another.

When you open your eyes there is a smiley face in the dart board staring back at you. Clint is staring at you with his mouth open and even Maria looks impressed. Because the face is perfectly symmetrical and perfectly centered. Natalia walks around the table and takes your hand in hers. Her eyes are shining when she looks up at you and mouths, I adore you.

Then Clint has you in a bear hug from behind and whoops so loud the entire bar goes quiet because this has to mean your team has won, right?

The bartender comes over and tells you all you’ve had the darts for too long and besides he’s worried because earlier he saw Natasha in the farthest corner of the bar landing them centimeters from Clint’s head.

And there’s a moment where he looks at you and you almost square up for a fight because strangers never look at you for a good reason. But then he sweeps right over you and addresses you all as a group again and you untense. Because this man doesn’t know you or what you’ve done.

And it’s nice. To just be a person.

You leave the bar and get pizza from a place Maria likes a couple blocks away. Clint groans because it’s wrong to have Chicago style pizza when you’re in New York but eats four slices anyway. Maria says Chicago is a lousy place, and she would know because she grew up there, but one thing they did get right was the pizza. And he doesn’t get a say because he’s not from either city.

And you agree with her, it’s not half bad.

When you leave the parlor there is a dusting of snow on the ground and the four of you leave a trail of footprints as you walk in search for a cab. There are flurries of snow sticking in Natalia’s hair and you are thinking about how much it used to snow in Russia. But you also think this snow is different. Because now you are surrounded by lights and life and Clint is trying to gather enough snow to blow in Maria’s face.

Natalia rests her head on your shoulder as you look up at the sky which is framed by so much light from the reflections of all those skyscrapers.

And you think to yourself, maybe this is the freedom S.H.I.E.L.D. claims to fight for. It’s certainly not the worst thing.

Then it’s later but it’s still winter and there’s an end of year holiday mixer where everyone is encouraged to come in the name of camaraderie and helping human resources check another box. You don’t really want to go because the only thing worse than a bunch of drunk people is a crowd of drunk people and you think you’ve been to enough of these things to know you don’t like shaking hands and making fake smiles.

But for some curious reason Natalia seemed excited to go even though she tried to play it off like she too was just checking a box. You sat in her room with her while she got ready because the whole process has always fascinated you and because you like her company, even if sometimes you just talk about how crazy the city is or how the other day you heard a song you liked.

Her hair is curled and she’s found this deep red dress that only looks as fantastic as it does because she’s the one wearing it. You tell her this and she comes over to kiss you on the cheek because you are friends and that leap is big enough for now. Then you ask her what color the dress is because it’s red but also purple like wine and you don’t have the word for it. She tells you it’s maroon and that Clint’s girlfriend but not girlfriend Laura helped her pick it out. You’d like her, she says. She asks if you’re still sure you don’t want to go. You say yes even though it dims her smile a little.

Then it’s back but looks more like a coy smirk because she is dealing with emotions in her own way just like you. Day by day. Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone, she says. Then she is sashaying her way from the room even though she has to know you’d watch her whether she did that or not. But old habits die hard.

Then you are left alone because everyone is at this stupid party. You try to read but it gives you this weird feeling in the pit of your stomach so you turn on the TV but there are only more fake smiles. One news anchor is grinning so wide you think it must hurt her face. And maybe it did one day a long time ago but she kept showing up and people kept telling her to smile and now her face is stretched so wide the skin sags a little when it’s not pulled tight.

Maybe that’s what life is. Telling yourself everything is normal until one day you can’t get out of bed because you are a racehorse past its prime.

You don’t want to be that dog from that cartoon who runs over the cliff’s edge and doesn’t realize it until he falls.

So you shut off the TV and head to your room to change.

S.H.I.E.L.D. has rented out some space at a hotel downtown so you get a cab and head out. You could walk but the drivers are usually talkative and you need something to distract you from your thoughts right now.

He lets you out out front with a wave and a “good luck” because he saw the way you were dressed and how you couldn’t stop rubbing your hands together and he told you he knows the feeling when the world starts to revolve around a girl.

You make sure your tie is straight and your jacket is fixed before you enter the ballroom that is filled with the loud hum of a hundred people all trying to be heard at once. There is music too, playing from speakers in the ceiling. It is like the room is vibrating with a medium level of noise.

You assess the room like there are threats hiding in the corner because you still don’t feel like you belong here and the lighting is dim like you are at a club and not a hotel. The first person who spots you is Grant Ward who waves you over to where he and your team and a dozen other supplemental strikers are standing and drinking.

He asks where you’ve been and what you think about all this glamour and hands you a bottle of beer. You take it just to do something with your hands and you tell him S.H.I.E.L.D. is trying way too fucking hard but you’ll take the free booze. They all laugh like the agency really is just a big joke and Rumlow slaps you on the back. What did I tell you about this guy? He says.

You hang around them because talking to them is easy. They talk about their days in the army or police force and about missions they’ve been on like violence is something to boast about. And you fit in because you have stories that are new and that can rival theirs.

They were in Afghanistan watching men get torn apart by machine guns and entire camps go up in smithereens like they had never been there at all. But they got their revenge. Yeah those dumb animals got as good as they gave.

So you tell them you were in Afghanistan too, once. Because you think they will appreciate this story. You don’t tell them the why or who or when but you say they were terrorists and you had been unleashed like a human missile to tear through their compound. They like how you fought with a sword because it’s cool and Oriental and like the movies. The praise gives you power because it reminds you that your violence and rage is worth something. It’s not something to be ashamed of or to “be better than.”

You are the best because you are unforgiving, not because you talk about your feelings.

Then there is a voice from behind you that you have not heard this close before. “Agent.” He says. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of speaking yet.”

You turn and there is the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury himself. A couple of your squadmates whistle low and there is a chorus of tense laughter.

“Don’t worry about him,” Rumlow says in your ear.

“Sir,” you greet, extending a hand.

He doesn’t take it. “Let’s go somewhere quieter,” he says, turning with a swoop of his trenchcoat. You guess he really does wear that everywhere. Even to Christmas parties. You admire the commitment.

He leads you to a corner of the room where the people are more sparse. There is a group of people around a high table but they take interest in leaving after Fury glares at them with his eye. Part of you wonders if the patch is just another part of the costume. You decide against it. Limiting half his field of vision in exchange for some mystique was not a good trade.

“I’m going to get right to it,” he says in a voice that makes it obvious he’s going to be doing most of the talking. “I don’t make it a habit to trust people. In fact, I make it a habit not to. Because everyone is just looking for a way to let other people down. You understand?”

He looks at you in a way that says you do not want to test him. And you haven’t lost a fight in years, but you believe him. Because even if you got him in this life you’re sure he’d come haunt you in the next.

You nod and he goes on. “But let’s say there are a few people that I have to rely on for various things. And you are not one of those people.” Now you understand why Natalia had been so desperate for you to try harder. You hope it’s not too late.

“I’m sure you’re aware we’re out to get your old boss,” he says, side-eyeing you as he says “old boss.” “And we will. Your intelligence about the office in Hungary is good. We’ve surveilled him there once and we have a window for when he’ll be back. Thing is, I’m still on the fence about whether you’re going to screw us over. From my experience there’s still time for that until we’ve got his body in the ground.

I have mixed reports. Kremer tells me I should axe you. That you’re obviously biding time for something, although he doesn’t know what. You’re combative toward authority and you’ve been doing enough just to scrape by. You’re not cooperative enough to really be a dissenter. Rumlow likes you. Says you’ve been stellar out in the field, that I’d be wrong to look a gift horse in the mouth. To be honest with you though Brock has never been a great judge of character.

So, that leaves me with one option. To talk to you myself. What do you think? What should I do with you?”

You’re quiet because you’re conflicted. You’re sure he’d be able to gauge whether you’re telling the truth, and you’d be lying saying you’ve completely accepted the trade you’ve made from commander to agent.

“Now’s the time for you to say something,” he says.

“It’s been an adjustment,” you finally say.

“Well no shit. You going to tell me the color of the sky next?”

You glare at him, but it only makes you feel like a petulant child. “I’m trying.”

“Well I’m telling you to try harder. This isn’t your local police force. We don’t get by on doing things halfway. I need your full commitment.”

“You have it,” you say. And it’s scary because it might be true. You haven’t thought about leaving at all in weeks and it’s been longer since you’ve wanted to go back to where you came from. They have broken you and reassembled the pieces into something they can use after all. They have fed you an ounce of freedom and now you are hooked like some drug addict in the street. Even though you are still an object, a weapon, something to be possessed they have weakened your resolve with comfort and safety and sentiment so you have no choice but to submit.

Fury appraises you for a moment like he’s making tallies in his head. Eventually he says, “Good. Because we’re gonna need you.” Then, he shakes your hand.

He walks away and right before he reaches the door he turns back. “Oh, and one more thing. I’ve got my eye on you.” And just like that he’s gone.

You stand there for a minute, not really sure if you said the right thing. Not really sure Fury had been here at all. But then Clint appears from the crowd with a woman who you’ve seen around by his side and you remember why you came here.

“What are you doing all by yourself, hotshot?”

You don’t want to talk about your conversation with Fury. You smile, because smiles are infectious and disarming. No one wants to question a smile. “Looking for you,” you say. “You clean up nice Hawkeye."

“No you’re not,” he replies with a mirrored expression. “You’re looking for Nat.”

“Maybe,” you admit. “She’s not with you?”

“She was, but she slipped off. You know how she is.” He shrugs. “But before I let you go I want to introduce the two of you.”

“So formal, Barton,” you tease. You turn to the woman with curled brown hair. “Agent 19, I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”

“Please,” she says, smiling. “You both are acting like you’ve never been around a woman before.” She nudges him in the ribs. You can see why Barton likes her. ”Although it is nice to see you do have manners after all.” She extends a hand. “Laura. If you call me Agent 19 while we’re off the clock again I will throw this drink in your face.”

“Noted,” you say and introduce yourself. “Your reputation precedes you.”

She waves you off then turns to Clint. “Kid is more of a gentleman than you are.”

He laughs. “What did I tell you? All business, this one.”

You look around the room, indiscriminately looking for Natalia.

“Go on,” Clint says. “And come back here when you find her. I’m about ready to get out of this suit.”

You pat him on the shoulder. “Okay.” You look back at them as you start to weave through the crowd. “Nice to meet you Laura.”

You think it is odd you haven’t found Natalia yet. Because you had first found each other in the dark. You would find her even if you were blind. You circle the room twice, looking at every face. You match the ones you’ve seen before, memorize the new ones. On instinct you size them all up, calculate how to best take them down in a fight. You see the ones with guns on their hips or under their coats even here. Because in a room of spies you can never be too careful.

You see a group of people come inside from a door leading out to a balcony. Maybe she is outside. She has never been a fan of crowds.

You step outside and find her down at the end of the balcony like a dancer under the moon’s spotlight. But she is not alone. Matthew Hunter is there with her. They do not see you because they are too busy looking at each other. He kisses her. You watch her kiss him back, make sure she has chosen him. Her hands come to rest on his shoulders. You have seen enough.

You go back inside and make sure to avoid Clint and Laura and Rumlow as you leave the main room. You push the door open and take a deep breath. Your heart rattles in your ribcage. It is much quieter out in the hall but also much brighter. You need to live in the dark. So you walk down the stairs and out of the hotel altogether. It’s getting hard to breathe so you claw at your tie to get it loose.

It is cold outside but your face is hot from the tears you are holding back. You pace down the sidewalk and bring your hands to your face because you will not cry. You’ve done too much of that recently. “Блядь,” you curse. “Stop,” you mutter, like a plea, like a demand. “Stop crying.” You take a deep breath but can’t get all the way through before another sob wracks your body. You push the heels of your hands into your eyes like you can dam the tears up.

You crouch down because suddenly standing requires too much focus. “Shit. Stop, stop, stop.” You have no right to feel this way. You know this but still you cannot breathe. They had all been right. Love is a sickness. It is why your heart is beating much too fast and why you are gasping for air like a fish on a hook out of water. It is why you cannot make one move without thinking of her. Why you are behaving like a child even though you told her to go.

You said it once to her in that snowy hell and you have been running away ever since. But no matter how fast you go, no matter how hard you kick it away, it comes back. Like a shadow. Like a ghost.

“Shit,” you say again and stand up. A car passes you and you watch it go. Another passes and you walk in their direction because you are marooned on an island and the waves seem to know where they’re going. You move your hands from your face and thread your fingers through your hair instead. You don’t get very far before you hear the unmistakable click of heels behind you. Then you hear her, saying your name, and it burns like snow melt on your hands.

You shake your head. You can’t turn around to face her. She is your greatest loss, your greatest mistake. “No,” you say. You sound like you’ve been crying. It’s awful.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” she says, like she is devastated too.

You keep walking. You don’t want her to see you like this. You don’t want her to know she is the cause.

She says your name again. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Just go back inside.”

“I don’t want to go back inside. Not when you’re out here.”

“I’m fine,” you say even though you’re not and you think she knows this.

“I didn’t know you were there. I didn’t want you to see. I thought we were friends.” You can tell, even without looking, that she is flustered.

“We are,” you say, then put a hand over your mouth to stop more from coming out.

She is quiet. You watch your breath fog in the air. Then, very softly, she says, “I never would’ve kissed him if I thought I had a chance with you, you know.”

You finally turn around to face her. She is beautiful and intangible and you can’t believe you are on this earth at the same time she is. She is also crying. Not like you are. You are sure your eyes are red and your hair is a mess. There is a single rogue teardrop drifting down her face.

“I thought we had something going on,” you say, because you let her in your bed and she asked you to have drinks with her friends. “I can’t talk to anyone like I talk with you. And I’m sorry, I’m sorry I yelled at you. And I’m sorry I made you feel awful about being here. I really didn’t mean any of it. I think I just missed you. But I thought maybe you’d forgiven me. I thought maybe you’d want to be with me.”

She looks at you with pity in her eyes. And you die a little inside because you think it means she has moved on. She is on that boat watching you with your head buried in the sand. “Why didn’t you say this earlier? I thought you didn’t want me. Not like that. I thought I wasn’t good enough.”

“No,” you say. The word chokes you with its density. “I never thought that. Never. You have always been good. Too good for me. The best, really.”

“Then how come half of the time I’m with you I feel awful? Why did you always make a show of sleeping with the other widows but rarely let me touch you? Why don’t you want me?”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel awful. I never wanted that. You have to believe me.” And it’s the truth but only half of it because you never actually had sex with any of the others you just let everyone think that to keep people from asking questions. And Natalia is right because the first time she came onto you you panicked and threw her across the room when things started to move below the waist. And you got it under control for her because she was worth everything to you but how could you explain it was still not so enjoyable for you. You couldn’t. Not when she felt so good and not when this act of chosen intimacy was included in her definition of love.

You know you are selfish for feeling this way. Because she has gone through much worse yet she is fine. Why are you not fine.

“I don’t know if I can,” she admits. “I want to. Believe me, I do. But all of my pain that has stuck around is around because you are at the center of it. I need to know you’re not going to hurt me again. Because I think I would let you kill me. And I can’t. I can’t live with not knowing if you’re here to hold me or to kick me down.”

“Natalia,” you say, your voice breaking. “I want you.” You take a step toward her.

“Don’t,” she says, her voice stifled. She steps away. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it. Don’t look at me like that.”

“I mean it.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re keeping me at arm’s length?” Her eyes are so sad.

You take another shuddering breath. You are so close yet so far away. And you have to be the one to take a leap across the chasm. You drag a hand down your face. You can’t. “I’m not the one who’s seeing another person right now. Why are you with Hunter? It feels like you’re the one who doesn’t want to be with me.” You cannot answer her question so you will shift the blame. You would rather pick a fight than bare this part of your soul.

“I told you. I don’t want him. Not in the way I want you.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

“Do you think I want to be like this?” She gestures to herself like she is something disgusting. “You know what? I’m sorry I’ve never been good enough for the prince of Russia. I’m sorry you think I’m just some whore.” She turns and stalks away.

“I don’t think that,” you hurry after her. “I don’t.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.” She looks beautiful under the warmth of the streetlights but she also looks exhausted. And it hurts because you know you are the reason why. She says your name like she is letting it go. “Be honest with me and I will stay. Otherwise I don’t want to talk to you again. Do you understand? You will break me.”

“I love you,” you say. “I really do.” She is not yet convinced and you understand because words lie. Especially yours. So you look down and fidget with your hands like you are eight years old again. “I’m sorry I couldn’t say it before. It was never the right time.”

“And there won’t ever be a right time,” she says. “Not for us.”

You offer a hand. She takes it, but still doesn’t look up at you to meet your eyes. “I, um. I thought I had this reputation to uphold. Back then. I had this picture of myself I wanted to paint. So Dreykov would respect me. So no one could question me or talk down to me anymore. And it worked so well that I couldn’t let it go. I think I let it become who I was. But none of it was real. None of it. You are, and have always been the only real thing in my life.”

“You could’ve had me too though.”

“I did.”

“Not as much as you chose them.”

“It wasn’t real,” you say again. She looks at you. Slowly, you shake your head. “I mean, it really wasn’t real. It was rumor. People saw only what I wanted them to see.” Hesitantly, you reach out and tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You were the only one I ever snuck around to visit on missions. You are the only one I search for in every crowd. You are the only person I would leave everything behind for. I thought you knew what that meant.” You are crying again but not the same ugly crying as before. It’s quiet and light and you feel like you are no longer being crushed.

“But why?” She whispers.

“I was scared. I couldn’t let myself be hurt again. And the easiest way to do that was to shut out the one person who might destroy me. I’m sorry that had to be you.”

“Are you scared now?”

“I don’t think I ever won’t be. But I want to be by your side. If you’ll have me.”

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. If that’s true you think you could drown in the depths of hers in search of that deepest, truest part of her. “Always,” she says. “Don’t make me regret this.” Then she puts one hand on your cheek and the other on the back of your head and kisses you.

You are afraid your knees might buckle then and there with relief. Because she told you you could be the death of her and you know it’s true the other way around as well. You don’t know how to live without her. She’s all you need. You’re done running. You’re done hurting yourself by hurting her. You don’t deserve to be happy. But she needs you, so for her you will cobble together all the broken fragments of your soul. For her, you will try.

You kiss her back and don’t care about the cars passing by on the street or the people in the buildings with the windows all around. Your lips clash like you are fighting to breathe through the other’s mouth. Like you are starving. It is messy, but so are the both of you.

When you break apart it is like you are seeing her for the first time again. She is all you knew about her, smart as a whip and twice as fast and unforgiving with her action. And there is still so much more to know. This is a new world, a new existence and she is still growing into it like you. You want to trek this new life with her. You can’t imagine doing it alone.

She is shivering a little so you take your jacket and put it around her shoulders. She tells you she came in a car and that the two of you should get out of here. What about Clint, you ask, and she waves you off. He’ll be fine.

So she drives and you sit in the passenger seat and watch the lights blur through the window. The city is charming in its own way, you suppose. How it teems with life and opportunity. How it can fit people from all over the place. The ones who grew up here and the ones coming from a different nation.

You have no idea where you’re going until she stops at a park. You have seen this place in pictures but haven’t yet been here. Central Park lies dark and empty at this time of night and this time of year when everyone would much rather be tucked at home with family. But you were raised out in the cold and forged in the nighttime. But there is light enough from the lamp posts and the never ending shine of the city so the trees cannot swallow you whole. It’s the perfect spot to walk, the perfect shelter away from the city but still in its embrace.

You don’t talk. There is so much to wrestle with in your own mind and you think Natasha feels the same. But it’s better to think, easier with her by your side. The trees are dead and the ground is bare and the pond you come upon is well on its way to being frozen over.

You stop at its edge and admire how it glows. Natasha puts her head on your shoulder. “She would be six years old now,” she whispers. You go stiff because you know exactly who she means and this is something you’ve never once spoken about. She came into this world in silence and you’ve been carrying that silence ever since.

You wrap her arms around her and rest your chin on her head. She shudders beneath you. This is a life worth protecting.

—

The boy lies on his back in the snow, trying to sink beneath the dirt. There is blood on his knuckles and frozen clumps of dirt under his nails. All he had on him when he began digging was a small pocket knife. He used it to break the earth’s crust and cleaved the rest of the ground away with his frostbitten hands.

It is so dark he can no longer see the breath from his own mouth. Perhaps he is dead too. He can’t really feel his limbs. It is snowing. Just a dusting, like ash from a fire. With enough time it will bury him.

He hears footsteps dragging through the snow but cannot bring himself to care. It takes all his strength just to keep his chest rising after each fall.

The girl has returned. She collapses on the ground next to him.

The boy rises to meet her where she kneels, suddenly remembering the little grave. A violent shiver wracks his body. They search in the dark and the girl almost falls in when she happens upon the hole in the ground.

After the charge has been lowered and the dirt shoved back in they both succumb to the cold and the wind. They curl up on themselves, back to back. Like infants.

They are found and taken two hours later with pale lips and snow in their hair, alive.

—

You wake in the morning with the sun outside the curtains and drowsiness that you might reluctantly describe as pleasant in your limbs. Natalia tells you to get up, that Clint wants you both over at his place for breakfast.

Fine, you say. She looks different in the light of day. More confident. Almost like she’s at peace even if you know she’s not. She is happy though, and that’s more than you could ask for. Peace is an unrealistic expectation anyway.

You had sex last night and it was okay because she felt good and you were the source of that goodness.

Now you shower and get dressed and take the subway to Clint’s apartment because that is something you are allowed to do now. There are some people on the train that make you think you aren’t the weirdest one in this city.

Then Natasha is knocking on Clint’s door with you behind her and inside smells like coffee. Laura is in the kitchen and says she is going to make pancakes and eggs and Natasha berates Clint for not helping. Laura says no, he’s actually not allowed in the kitchen because there will be a fire if he gets near the stove. Natasha offers to help and now it is your turn to say no. Because one time you had stayed in a house for a mission and you think she had almost given you food poisoning. She tells you you’re being dramatic but goes to play video games with Clint anyhow. You let Laura teach you how to cook and you are eager to learn because the food in the Red Room was so bland and you want to know how to be better.

You eat and it is wonderful and you cannot believe your luck. Natasha tells you she beat Clint in every round and he insists she must have been cheating because no one is that good on their first try.

You are glad for this man and his kindness and his messy apartment. So while Natasha and Laura chat in the living room because Clint has to learn how to do the dishes, you tell him thank you for sparing her life and for looking out for her. He blinks at you, eyes wide. You don’t have to thank me, he says. You think serious emotions are new for him too. You’d like to know what kind of world he comes from.

But now when the sun is shining and your stomachs are full is not the time. So instead you angle the faucet so it splashes his shirt and you end up with bubbles in your hair.

You wish you could pocket this warmth and save it for a rainy day. Because knowing you there will be plenty more of those. But you can’t so you just enjoy the time as it comes. And besides, now you have something to fight through the hard times for. A light at the end of the tunnel.

—

You are surprised when you are woken in the middle of the night and told that it is time. Dreykov has been spotted at his office in Budapest. It’s time to go. You knew this moment was coming at some point. You gave them the location and a rough approximation of the building layout. You sat in meetings discussing the best angle of ambush and how everyone inside was to be killed except for Dreykov if possible. S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted to talk with him. You spoke to the captain of the Hungarian Special Forces unit who would assist and the mayor of Budapest. Yes, this was going to be quick and ruthless. But a small part of you will never be ready. And because the timeline was uncertain you thought maybe this day would never come. It had felt so far away to the point of being surreal.

Kremer is handling the mission because he is a senior officer and Clint will be in the field with you. Natalia is coming too, of course, and so are various members of STRIKE. You think it is good that Kremer is in charge. He will be ruthless.

On the jet ride over Clint says he has something for you. He opens a locker and inside are your swords. You take the scabbard out and strap it to your back. It’s been too long since you’ve felt this powerful. “Should I be worried?” He asks.

“Don’t worry,” Natasha replies. “He’s always been like this about his swords.”

Even her teasing cannot dim the smile on your face. “Do you know how long I have been waiting for this?” You ask. You want to take the blades out and twirl them in your hands, to feel once again these extensions of your body. But the plane is crowded, and you will get your chance soon.

Natasha rolls her eyes but she is smiling too. “Now I’ve got one dork with two pointy sticks and another with a stick and a string watching my back. I want new partners.”

Clint laughs. “If it ain’t broke, am I right?”

You meet his gaze and high five. “Can’t outdo the original thing.”

“Hell yeah.”

You touchdown at a small airstrip that is less likely to be under surveillance and take nondescript cars to the office building. You’re in the back of a van with a group of agents who will be in the first wave to storm the building. After today you’ll officially be a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. You’re still not sure exactly what to think.

The Red Room needs to go down. You know that. But you’re not sure you can back S.H.I.E.L.D. with full confidence either. Maybe you had too much Lenin drilled into your brain when you were young. But the world’s resources were vastly unfairly distributed, and you don’t believe S.H.I.E.L.D. is looking out for the interests of those without money and power. You don’t want to be the face of hegemony. Maybe this is something you can talk to Willem about.

Your van pulls onto the curb by the front entrance. There are two more vehicles, one at the back and one at the side. Natalia is inside one of them. You listen to all three team leaders check off, then, like birds from a bush you emerge from the car.

The building is three stories tall, and not very big inside. You take them by surprise, and you take them easily. You are glad none of the widows are here. You are sure you could not kill any one of them. But the guards who raise their guns like they used to raise batons and shout at you are all too easy to plunge your sword into. Seeing their faces again reignites old anger like it never went away.

They swarm to you as word gets out who S.H.I.E.L.D. has brought with them. Four of them barge into the room you’re clearing, shouting your name. You turn to them and see the shock on their faces when they finally see yours. Then, they start shooting.

You duck under a barrage of bullets and roll toward them. You slash at their shins, catching one before the others can step back. He goes down on one knee and you knock the gun from his hand and arc a blade toward his exposed throat. His head is almost cleaved from his body.

Use his body to block the next storm of bullets then throw it to scatter the three remaining enemies. You take a knife from your belt and embed it into the forehead of the man on the left, then rush toward the two on the right. They both shoot at you and you slice through the bullets with your swords. Their eyes widen. That’s right, you think. This is your consequence for making me.

You are glad they can see your face as you kill them. This is the look of revenge. There is a crack as you kick at one of their wrists then sweep his feet out from beneath him. You put your sword through his heart.

The last guy puts his hand up and drops his rifle. “Hey,” he says. “Comrade. What are you doing?” But you can tell from the set of his shoulders and the angle of his hips that he’s going to pull his side arm on you. You’re ready when he shoots, dodging the rounds. You rush him, impaling him through the stomach and ramming him all the way into the wall. You twist the blade once it’s inside him up to the hilt. Blood spurts from his mouth. “Dreykov,” he splutters. “Wants. You.”

You wrench the katana back and let him fall to the ground. Then you jog upstairs into the main office. The building has been cleared, the office empty apart from S.H.I.E.L.D. agents tearing it apart. There’s his desk by the window and the liquor cabinet by the far wall. No sign of the man himself.

You head back to the first floor and stop at an odd spot along one of the walls. You look back and forth. You can hear people talking around the corner in the room over. The next people are all the way down the hall, their voices getting quieter as they walk away. So you place your hands at two specific spots along the wall and push with your fingertips. The wall swings inward, and you step inside.

General Dreykov is there in a black suit and black shirt with his hands clasped behind his back. He’s facing away from you, studying a spot on the wall. The secret room is small and bare. It’s only there as an escape hatch. A set of stairs leads down beneath the ground and into a tunnel that will take you to the sewers.

“My child,” he says. “I’ve been waiting.”

“General,” you greet, your voice stiff. You cannot bring yourself to be impolite. Not with him. “It’s over.”

He hums, like he knows this and doesn’t care. It makes you uneasy. He’s always been the smartest person you knew. “Is it?” He asks. He turns toward you and you tense, almost expecting him to be pointing a gun at you. “That’s why you didn’t tell them about this room? Because it’s over?”

You gulp. “I just wanted to be the one to tell you.”

He grins. “Did you now?” He takes a step toward you. You have to fight the urge to step back. Your heart begins to race. “Look at you. What a disappointment. I thought I raised you better than this, hmm? I gave you everything. I’m the reason you’re not toiling away in some field harvesting rice you’ll never eat because it’s gone to some rich American’s trash bin. And this is how you repay me.” He grabs your arm, tilting it so he can see the S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem on your shoulder. “By turning traitor to your country.”

You told yourself you wouldn’t let him get a rise out of you but how could he not? “I know who I am,” you say, drawing a sword. “And I’ve never needed you.”

He laughs. “You won’t kill me.”

“I will,” you grit, tightening your hold on the hilt.

“You still have so much to learn. You think because I raised your station you know everything? Boy, I told you nothing. And what has S.H.I.E.L.D. had you running around doing? You’re nothing but a flashy pawn to them. They don’t care about you. Not like we did. You’re a fool if you think otherwise.”

“This isn’t about S.H.I.E.L.D.,” you say. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You’re running around like an idiot because of that whore with the red hair,” he spits.

“You don’t get to talk about her like that,” you say, an edge creeping into your voice that you’ve always seemed to lose around him.

He rubs at his chin. “I should’ve had her killed a long time ago. I put too much faith in you. You were always too emotional but I thought you might actually choose your duty over fawning over some insignificant woman.”

“She’s the reason you’ve lost everything. You underestimated her.”

“Perhaps so,” he drawls. “But then so have you. She’s also the reason you’ve lost everything too.” He turns away, walking back a couple of steps.

“I haven’t lost anything,” you say, trying to keep your voice measured.

“Oh really?” He shakes out his wrist, his watch glinting with every turn. He is amused. “You don’t really think that. You were about to have everything. Now you’re at the bottom. One with all the recruits who’ve done nothing with their lives. You have nothing. Unless you mean to tell me Nick Fury has divulged all his secrets to you.”

You grit your teeth because he’s right. You were stripped of all your power. And now they’ve got you to turn on everything you’ve fought for your whole life by dangling before you the promise of becoming a lowly agent. You were capable of so much more. And the man before you has always known that.

“I’ve always told you the job I have isn’t easy,” he says, like you are ten years old again. “It takes incredible strength to do the hard thing, especially when the rest of the world would rather bury their heads in the sand and let society crumble to dust around them. The Red Room is the safeguard that keeps the world from tearing itself apart with war and corruption and complacency. People are animals. They have to be kept in line.”

You shake your head. “We can’t control everything.”

He scoffs. “Is that the poison S.H.I.E.L.D. has been feeding you? ‘We can’t control everything.’ What a joke. What do you think it is they do, boy? They have more surveillance capabilities than any other organization on this planet!”

“To keep people safe,” you say. “They also don’t kidnap little kids and force them to fight their wars!”

“No, but they’ve got the art of indoctrination down to perfection. They’ve got a million people thinking they enlisted in their military machine by free will when they’ve been fed the same patriotic jargon since before they could walk. Nothing anyone does in that country is because of ‘free will.’ The government has them all eating out of the palm of their filthy hand.”

You used to think Dreykov knew everything there was to know about the world. But you don’t think he’s right about this. Not anymore. Not when people there can speak their minds freely, where there are protections from officers abusing their power, where you can confess your love in the street. “You have so little faith in people because you’re not a good person.”

“That’s all you’ve got? I know what kind of person I am.” He points at you. “And you’re not any better.”

You raise your sword and level it with his face. The tip hovers in the air just a few inches away. “I am better than you,” you say, chin held high.

“You and I, we’re the same,” he says, unafraid. “You think I don’t recognize that anger you try so hard to keep at bay? This world is a lousy place. We both know it. What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m only angry because you gave me a reason to be,” you say, your voice hard so he doesn’t see how close you are to breaking. “Because you never gave me a chance to be anything else. I’m done. I’m choosing to be more than what you’ve made of me.” Your hand trembles as you stare him down.

“Then do it. Kill me. Show them who you are. But,” he says, “let me say this one thing first. Your place in Russia, at the Red Room is still yours to take, if you want. I don’t care if you kill me as long as you end up where you’re supposed to be.”

“You’re lying,” you hiss. You hate that you are tempted by his offer.

“I’m not,” he says, reaching into his pocket. You flinch, eyeing his hand. He takes out a phone and throws it to you. “The number on there will connect you directly to General Petrov. I may have lost power when you left but I still have more connections than you would know. He’s agreed to pardon you and grant you asylum back home. The Red Room is still strong. And it’s yours for the taking.”

“Why would you do this?” You ask, tucking the phone in your pocket. “I thought you wanted me dead.”

“I let my anger get the best of me sometimes. But you know that doesn’t mean anything. I took you in with the ultimate goal of you becoming my replacement someday. Why would I throw that away in the name of some selfish conquest? I still want what’s best for my country. The widows will listen to you. Who knows. Maybe you can be better than me.” He nods at the stairwell leading into the dark. “You wanted to be free, right? No one will be able to stop you. You’ll have the power to shape the world as you alone see fit.”

Blood roars in your ears. You narrow your eyes because you think he’s telling the truth. And oh how you wanted this. It was only retribution for all the blood you’ve paid with. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t miss you. And you were done getting kicked around. You were going to show them all. Your breathing speeds up. You brace yourself for the swing.

And then, you lower your weapon.

Dreykov cannot mask the surprise on his face. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you in,” you say.

Because Fury and Barton and Willem had shown you mercy when you know you wouldn’t have afforded them the same luxury a year ago. Because you could settle for trying to make change from within, even if it took time.

You won’t let yourself become like the man before you. You were raised in his shadow, and now you are finally stepping out of it. Power corrupts. You know if you went down this road your anger would consume you and there would be nothing stopping you from unleashing your pain onto the world. You won’t let this violence become you. You won’t hurt others the way you were hurt.

Natalia is waiting for you. This is the choice she would make. You once told her you would do anything to keep her safe. You want to stay true to that.

The bombs are not supposed to go off for another five minutes. But the building has emptied around you, and Kremer is impatient.

“Do it now,” he orders.

The technician points to the screen where one red dot is still blinking inside the office. “Sir, we’ve still got an agent inside.”

“I don’t care. Blow it. Before they get away.” One ex-Russian inside S.H.I.E.L.D. was already one too many.

He gives the order again as you sheath your sword.

Then, before you can take your next breath, the building you’re standing in implodes.

—

You stand at the top of the baseball stadium, looking down at all the people and the lights and the spectacle. Your palms are sweaty despite the moderate temperature outside. You think you could make this climb in the cold and the rain but you would rather not be balanced this high up. The girl beside you with red hair and a knack for getting you to do what she wants is the reason you’re perched up here instead of sleeping back at the safehouse.

You’d been assigned a mission out here in Los Angeles and Natalia insisted you explore the city despite explicit instructions to stay put until the car came for extraction in the morning. But she was restless as she usually is and her mean independent streak flared up as the sun went down. Come on, she said. What they don’t know doesn’t hurt them.

They’ll know, you replied.

How would they possibly know. She said, unamused and so sure of herself. We’ll be back in plenty of time.

What is your obsession with breaking the rules?

What is your obsession with being so scared all the time?

I’m not scared.

Then let’s go explore.

You didn’t think this was what she meant by exploring. “Can we please go down now?” You ask. Not because you are scared. Not at all. “I don’t understand this game.” Because you’ve watched the man in the middle throw the white ball at the guy with the bat enough times to know you could hit it every time. You are frustrated. If the goal was to hit it away, why were they so inconsistent.

“Fine,” she says, and clambers over the edge. She grabs hold of a pole and slides down into the uppermost level of seating. That is not what you meant. But she’s staring up at you expectantly with those inquisitive eyes of hers and the next thing you know you’ve dropped down beside her.

“You’re the worst,” you say.

“You know you like it.”

You head away from the seats and deeper into the stadium where there’s people selling food and the ground is sticky from spilled drinks. People mill about all around you like they too have become bored with the game outside. You pass a shop selling clothes and Natalia grabs two hats off a rack and runs. You run after her as some guy runs after you but she is slippery, and the two of you are gone into the crowd like fish in a river.

She hands you one of the hats. “Dodgers,” you read. “What does this mean?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Just put it on.”

“Why.”

She looks at you impatiently. “You don’t want to get caught, right? We need to look like everybody else.”

You put the hat on. You continue to walk around the stadium, collecting shiny cans of unguarded alcohol as you go. Then you leave because no one pays attention to two fifteen year olds in LA and walk along the roads though the city.

You walk and walk, pointing out strange shops and street signs you struggle to pronounce. You leave a trail of empty cans behind you. The drinks are foul tasting but they make you feel light and you need that right now. You watch the people around you, mimicking the carefree way they hold themselves. You hold onto their laughter and the way they talk over each other in a flurry. You wonder what life would feel like to be so simple. To think the world consists of just the people around you.

You talk to Natalia about these people, ask her what she thinks they’re doing with their lives. “Why do you care?” She asks, a little defensive.

You shrug. “I don’t know.” You leave it at that.

You walk in silence away from the great concentration of light and up hills where the houses are sparse but grand. You admire each one with its unique imposition. The driveways are long and some are made of fancier material than concrete. It is quiet up here compared to the city and a light breeze has picked up.

You come upon a grassy spot overlooking the city. You close your eyes, feel the air around you, feel the ground beneath your feet. You don’t know what compels you to draw upon these old motions, but you know it’s been too long.

You should’ve paid more attention back then. But you were young and didn’t want to get up with the sun just to stand in a circle and move in slow motion. You didn’t know it would all be taken away from you in a flash. But you have kept with you the movements from the few times you were wrangled in.

You start with your arms by your side and slowly raise them up over your head in motion like you are going to fly away. You do this a couple of times before dropping into a lunge and leaning forward with your arms out, like you are pushing through water. You sway back and forth, trying to focus on the energy around you like you were taught by your elders.

But you can’t ignore the feeling of being watched. You can feel her intensity even with your eyes closed.

“What are you doing?”

“Tàijí,” you respond because you don’t know the English or Russian for it.

“You look stupid.”

You transition into another move, ignoring her jab. “It’s for meditation. You should try it.” You move your arms about as if you could control the wind, minding the bend in your knees. “Make sure you take deep breaths.”

You feel Natalia settle in beside you. She is no longer judging, but trying to learn. The two of you move together on that hill with what feels like the entire world before you.

There is an old saying about the end of life. They say death is like returning home.

So when you sleep you dream. And in that gentle moment you live forever.

#thank you sincerely if you made it to the end #just realized i wrote a small novella #hopefully this was all right #even without edits because my brain is fried

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 11 hours ago

Text

To Those Who Wait 2

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as non/dubcon, virginity loss, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are tired of being the safe one so you decide to pay for some excitement.

Characters: escort!Ransom Drysdale, Curtis Everett

Note: yeah, I couldn't resist.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Tony loves himself. Take care. 💖

“Busy?” Vivica hums with doubt. “Again.”

“Sorry, Vic, I just... can’t,” you roll your eyes at your reflection. No, the eye liner is too much. You think mascara’s fine.

“What’s going on?” Her voice rises from your phone as it rests amid the mess of your bathroom counter. “Ever since your birthday, you’ve been kind of a bitch.”

She isn’t wrong. You twist the wand of the mascara and pop it from the tube. You sigh.

“I know, I’m sorry. Better reason for you all to go without me,” you say. “I don’t want to bring you down.”

“Hm, fine,” she lets her disappointment through. “But you’re getting coffee with me soon. I’m worried.”

You nod and brush through your lashes. “I’ll let you know what I’m free.”

You sniff as she tuts noisily. “Fine, I’ll wait.”

“Go, have fun,” you insist. “Text you later.”

“Right, sure.”

You tap the red button and the call ends. You slide the wand into place and twist the mascara shut. You fighting a losing battle here. You drop the tube and throw your head back, heaving out a breath.

You don’t even know why you’re doing this. It’s a joke. A date? You’ll just be letting down one more person. You hate to waste Curtis’ time. Hence, why you haven’t told anyone about it. You don’t need them to know about another fuck up.

The phone buzzes. You roll your eyes and press your fingerprint to the screen to unlock. You expect another long lecture typed out by Vivica, instead, it’s Curtis. Is he already here? No, you’re not ready. You bend to read his message.

‘Hey, if you got em, wear sneakers or hiking boots.’

You squint. Huh? Is he taking you on a hike? Wow. Well, you suppose you deserve that kind of effort. Besides, you’re really not in the mood for a crowded restaurant where you have to pretend to know the appetizer sharing etiquette.

‘I can dig some out’ you type back.

You step back and sift through your sparse make up. You pick out a shade of lip gloss closest to your natural hue. Is it really necessary? Why are you even trying? You know how this ends. You pop your lips and snap the cap into place.

Maybe he’s a murderer. Somehow, that doesn’t scare you. Even as the pieces seem to fall into place. He’s taking you out alone. Somewhere he’s kept a surprise, and he told you to bring sporty shoes. You expect you might be running from an axe in the woods soon enough. Not such a dire end considering.

You shake off the absurd thought. You don’t want to look like you went overboard. Curtis has been so casual about all of this. Yeah, casual. Just put on something simple.

The black jeans could easily be mistaken for nicer pants. The turtleneck isn’t too much either. Blue cotton with little white daisies. You’ll put a cardigan over it and pull on your hiking boots. Wow, a dream come true. A date in Sorel avant garde.

Your nerves begin to go wild. You don’t know why. It’s not a real date, it’s a courtesy. He asked so you might as well just go. You grab your phone and wait on the couch, a youtube video babbling unheard from the television.

Your phone vibrates. You sit up. It’s Curtis.

‘Here. I think.’

‘I’ll come down’. You type back.

You get up and hurry around. You grab your crossbody bag and your keys. You shoulder out the door and lock it behind you. Your phone buzzes once more.

‘Right by the door.’

You come out and look around, searching the cars parked along the curb. Your attention is drawn back to the motorcycle between an SUV and Honda Accord. You approach Curtis as he hugs a second helmet under his arm.

“Hope you don’t mind.” He offers the helmet.

You take it as you process the full picture. The matte black tank, the leather saddle bags in the same shade as his jacket and gloves, the steel gray exhaust and thick tires. You nod.

“Not at all.”

“I shoulda warned you,” he says.

“I’ve been on one before,” you assure him as you pull on the helmet and loop the strap under your chin.

“Oh?”

“I know, I don’t look like the type. I’m not.” You flip the visor down.

“Ah, well, whoever he was, hope he didn’t spoil the ride completely,” he says, “get on.”

He turns and straddles the bike, kick back the stand. You hesitate then reach for his arm. You climb up behind him and swing your leg over. You wince as you land on the seat. Ouch, you’re still a bit sore down there.

“Gonna have to hang on tight,” he pats his side.

“Sure, uh... right.”

You hook your arms around him. This is an easy gag for a man. Get a woman nice and close under the fear she might become road kill. Slick.

“You ready?” He rolls the bike towards the street.

“Ready,” you assure him.

He starts the motor and revs. He angles around and speeds off down the road. You pull yourself closer as the wind tunnels around you. The smell of leather fills your nose as you close your eyes. It’s not awful, is it?

When you look again, you’re head towards the town line. You watch the trees grow thicker as he steers along the country roads. That paranoia rises again. It would be just your luck. Look what happened the other night.

You lift your head and peek over his shoulder. He rides up to a farm and comes a halt. He plants his feet in the dirt and kills the engine. A thrum lingers in your muscles as the roar of the bike dulls your hearing.

“We’re here,” he proclaims.

You take his cue. You get off first and he parks the bike with a kick of the stand. You wiggle the helmet off and look up at the farmhouse and the barn further back. Your brows pinch together curiously.

“It’s not that lame, I promise.” He takes your helmet and hangs it with his on the handle bar. “Friend of mine owns the place. He let me have it for the night.”

“Mhm, good friend.”

“Yeah, he can be,” he removes the saddlebags from the back of the bike and waves you on. “That way, just around the back.”

You nod and turn away. You stride up along the side of the house. It’s an old-fashioned place. Faded wood and peeling paint. You pause before you can pass it completely. You look back at him as he nearly runs into you.

“Everything alright?” He asks.

You look him in his stormy gray eyes, “you’re not going to kill me, right?”

He snorts and his cheek dimples. “I can’t guarantee no blood but that’s far from the plan.”

You frown. What a strange answer.

You shrug and turn back to your path. You come out around the back of the house, sown fields in the early stages of growth behind a large board painted with circles. A ply wood target. A picnic table across from it with a clutter over one half. You cross your arms as you near.

“Hatchet throwing,” he puts the saddle bags on the table. “Thought it would be fun. Something a little less... crowded.”

“Oh?” You tilt your head like a squawking crow.

He lifts one of the axes and holds it up. “Good stress relief.”

“Mm,” you reach for one, less confident in your grasp.

He turns to the target and extends his arm towards it. “You wanna keep a light but sturdy grip,” he says. “You don’t want it to catch.”

He bends his arm back and swings it ahead again, letting the hatchet fly with easy. You flinch as it thunks into the target, just off-center. Your lips slant.

“You got a lot of experience?”

“Well, I started with darts at the bar but didn’t like all the drunks. There’s a place you can pay to do this in town but it’s pricey and loud,” he says. “So... I put this together.”

“Yeah, probably not worth the money.” The words hang in the air, a question whether you mean the activity or yourself.

“Go ahead.”

“Uh, oh,” push your bag behind you and look at the target. “I...” You raise your arm, try to line up your aim, then drop it down. “I can’t.”

“You want a few tips?”

“Think I need them.”

“Alright, no problem. It’s no biggy. Worst that happens, it lands in the dirt.” He comes close and lightly guides you by your shoulders, standing you perpendicular to the target. “Alright, bring it up.”

You raise your arm and he helps you line up. He gets even closer and nudges your feet with his scuffed boots to get you in position. “That’s it, just like that.”

You grip the axe tighter and your eyes widen. Those words hit you like the blade, slicing deep. The body on top of yours, his rasping cooes, and his cruel thrusts. You blink away the vision of Hugh and shudder.

“Here,” Curtis touches your hand, “loosen up. Pull back. Yeah, you got it.” He steps back, “when you’re ready, let it fly.”

He stands away from you and watches. You bite down and stare at the target. All your frustration and fear bubbles in your chest. You narrow your eyes and take a breath. You fling the hatchet without restraint. The thunk in the wood is deafening.

Curtis whistles, “wow, good shot.”

You turn straight to examine the board. Your shot is opposite of his, right on the line with the bullseye.

“Lucky,” you say.

“I dunno, you seem like a natural,” he crosses the ground and pulls out the hatches. “Wanna toss a few more? Build up an appetite?”

“Uh, sure,” you agree. “It is kind of fun.”

“I think so. Even more when you have company,” he approaches and offers the hatchet. “I packed a picnic so we won’t have to chew on seeds.”

You glance at the sprouting fields. You laugh. It was a little fun.

“Got one,” he spins the hatchet in his hand. “You go first. Since you won first round.”

“What? No I didn’t.”

“You were closer so... that’s a win. Champ.”

“Alright, no need for the sarcasm,” you shake your head.

“I’m a sore loser,” he winks. “So, take it easy on me and I might lighten up.”

🎯

The rumble of the engine stays with you as you climb off the bike. Curtis cuts the engine and flips down the stand. He takes off his helmet as you descend back to earth. Literally. Somehow in those last three hours or so, he kept the world from invading your mind.

“That was nice,” he says. “I think.”

You hold the helmet in your hands, a good way to keep them still. You look down and crack a smile. He hangs his on the bike.

“Another one huh?” He says and you pop your head up. “Got another smile.”

You blush and shake your head, “I don’t know. I guess.”

“You had fun?” He asks.

“I did,” you contend and hand over the helmet. “Thanks. For everything.”

“No, thank you.” He holds the helmet at his side and stares at you. The streetlights cast ominous shadows over him. He shifts so his sole scrapes the ground. “I hope maybe we can do it again.”

“Er...” you’re struck by the suggestion. Again? Like a second date. That can’t be real. Not after everything. Oh bitter irony. “Sure, Curtis. I think next time I could let you win.”

“Yeah, next time,” he rasps. He leans in and you realise what’s happening. He’s going to kiss you. Oh.

“Ugh, oh,” you trip on nothing and hop up on the curb. “Oops, sorry, it’s so dark out here.”

He recoils and clears his throat, “yeah, uh, you want me to walk you to the door?”

“Uh, no, no,” you put your palms up. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“Alright,” he says despondently. “Have a good night.”

“Yeah, you too.”

“I’ll text,” he mutters.

“I’ll answer.”

You spin and cringe at your building. You suck. You're a dork. Ew. Ew. Ew.

You march up the walk and don’t stop until you’re inside. You blew it. So close but so far. Just like you expected. Well, then you can be that disappointed.

You retreat to your apartment and slam your phone down. You won’t think about it. He has to drive home and he won’t text tonight anyway. You just hate a date. A date!

Was it really real? After everything? You think so.

You sink onto the couch. You hold your chin and pick your lip. Just another day and you’d be in la la land. This would be heaven. One more day and you may have let him kiss you. Before you were used up and tarnished.

Ugh. Why couldn’t you have just let it happen? Because those things don’t happen to you. Romance isn’t for you. It’s for other people. And people lie. Even Curtis. Maybe he won’t text after all.

You lean back and turn on the television in resignation. You put on an early 00s sitcom with a sadly departed main star. That’s how life is. When it’s good, it goes wrong, or it’s just over. When it’s bad, that’s when it seems eternal.

You cross your legs then think better of that. Even with all the lube, there’s a lot of damage done. Nothing serious, just sensitive. It was your first time. You don’t imagine it gets better.

Your phone buzzes at the end of episode two. You nearly jump off the sofa. Don’t be stupid.

You get up, patiently, and get your phone. You sit down again before you unlock it. The message that comes up isn’t from Curtis. Or Vivica. Or Mila. Or Jerrod.

It’s from WhatsApp. You only ever used that for...

‘You lookin’ for another weekend fling?’

You stare at Hugh’s message. You deleted the conversation but you recognise the number. The two checkmarks turn green to show you’ve read the message. God dammit.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re mortified. You crash back to earth with startling speed. You can’t undo that. Worse, you don’t think you’ll ever get past it.

You clear all your apps and put your phone on do not disturb.

You stretch out on the couch and focus on the TV. Not really. It just glares in your vision as you stare through it. As you can hear nothing but a distant whistle. You stay like that, fractured, until your consciousness slowly falls away.

You’re back in the hotel room. Alone one minute then pinned to the bed. The ceilings tear open as Hugh fucks you. You’re gushing around him, the smell of blood fills the air with iron. You meld with the blankets, shrouded in them, then suddenly thunder roars through the space.

Curtis rides in on his motorcycle. How? A hatchet flies and hit the headboard, glancing by your cheek. You look past Hugh’s writhing body, completely oblivious of the other’s man disgusted glares.

“Slut.”

The word wakes you. You jolt up and hold your head dizzily. The windows are glazed over with the soft tones of morning. You groan and turn your legs over the edge of the couch.

You get up to make your coffee. The dark roast brew and the aroma eases your nerves. You grab you phone out of habit and sit down. You have another message. You put the phone down.

You go back to the kitchen and fill a mug. You drink in silence. You take the cup into the bathroom and shower before you finish the dregs. As you sit to pee, you wince. It’s been a week. It’s still painful but you’re sure it’s all in your head. After all, your pride hurts worse than anything else.

You rinse your cup, pick up your phone, and determine to delete the message. As the chat opens, you’re stopped by the image there. You nearly drop it. Instead, you lean on the counter is gasp.

‘Thot I was ur 1st' the message reads beneath the photo of you and Curtis in the yellow cascade of the streetlight.

The checkmark fills and three bubbles pop up. Fuck. The next text comes quickly.

‘How would ur bf feel about u fucking strangers?’

‘Not my bf. Leave me alone.’ Your thumbs tap furiously and you hit send.

He sends a laughing emoji and the dots appear again. ‘I got a discount. Just 4 u.’

‘No thx. Not interested’

‘Didn’t ask don’t care but think I know who would’

You huff and hang your head back. You don’t get it. Why is he doing this? He got his fee and you got what you paid for.

‘No. Pls don’t message again.’

You bring down the menu and delete the conversation and block the sender. It isn’t until after that that you realise. He took that picture outside your building. He knows where you live. How?

The police? Would they do anything? Would they believe you? You just deleted the evidence.

He’s bluffing right. He just wanted more money. You’re not stupid. Come on. You are a wallet to him, nothing more. You’re not naive enough to think he enjoyed it any more than you did. It’s business to him. He did his job and he got a pretty penny. If you could get that much for a few hours, you’d be hustling too.

It’s just a poor attempt at blackmail. A hail mary for any extra pay check. Too bad for him, you don’t have that type of money. You already splurge on regret.

You’ll keep an eye over your shoulder but you really doubt it’s anything more than greed. He must have a dozen clients. Hm... that thought doesn't make feel you better. You don’t know that you’ll ever really feel good again. Did you ever before?

📱

“I know it’s cliche but I told you, I’m not exactly the creative type,” you settle in at the table and look through the cafe window.

“I told you, I trust your judgment. And can’t go wrong with coffee,” Curtis says.

“Guess not, but I’ve had some shitty coffee in my day.”

His cheek dimples and he tilts his head in agreement, “me too. I’m not some coffee snob but some of the water they serve around town.”

“You’re talking about Smokey’s, right? They serve ash-flavoured piss. Oh, sorry, I...” you give a sheepish smile. “I got carried away.”

“You’re right though,” he snorts.

“Ha, thanks. Mila disagrees. She keeps trying to convert me.”

“Sounds like Jensen but with those acid energy drinks. I told him, he’s going to have a heart attack.”

“Ew, those things are worse. It’s like someone made mountain dew worse.”

He chuckles. That doesn’t happen often. “Wow, I should bring you in as backup. Then he might actually listen.”

The barista comes with your drinks and you thank her. You ordered a tea latte, not your usual fare. Curtis eyes it as he cradles his cup of dark roast between his large hands.

“I’m not much of a tea person but that looks interesting.”

“London Fog. Just very foamy Earl Gray,” you explain.

“Ah,” he nods thoughtfully. Your bag vibrates and you elbow it back on your hip. Not right now, Mila. “Not to be socially awkward but you like horror movies?”

“I like them but they still scare me,” you say.

“Really? Something actually scares you?”

“What do you mean?” You scoff.

He stares at you. “Do you really not know?”

“Know... what?”

“You’re terrifyingly hard to read,” he says. “You’re so lock and key that it’s hard to tell what you’re thinking. Easy to assume you want to scoop my guts out with a plastic spoon.”

“I’m not much for slashers, I’m more into psychological scares,” you counter then catch yourself. You smile. “Sorry. I’m not... you know, I can be a bitch but I’m not really one.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“I know, I just don’t know how else to say... if I look at you like a rabid dog, I swear, I’m just thinking.”

“Yeah, Jensen says I have RBF too.”

“RBF?” You wonder.

“Resting Bitch Face, although he started calling it Raging Curt Face.”

You laugh. He does too. The last bit of ice melts away.

“I’m on a roll today,” he says. “So I may as well ask, wanna come over and watch scary movies?”

🍿

The mood is set. The curtains are drawn to darken the room and the television glows as the only source of light in the space. Not much of a beacon as the images on the screen remain in shadow as the grinding soundtrack drones from the speakers.

You sit on the couch, enthralled by the manic horror of the character’s shallow breaths.

You jerk as something brushes over your shoulder. You quickly still yourself as you realise what it is. Curtis stretches his arm over your shoulders.

“Scared yet?” He asks.

You giggle, “only a little.”

He stays close and you don’t push him away. It’s such a weird feeling. To have someone in your space but you don’t mind it. To be honest, it’s comforting.

You stare at the screen as the tension builds. As a loud noise frightens you, you jolt and lean into Curtis. He curls his arm snug around you. Then the next startling twist comes and you turn your face into his shoulder.

“You didn’t say you were a baby,” he teases.

“Oh, hush,” you speak into his shirt.

“Hey, it’s alright,” he grits and brings his hand up under your chin. “I’ll protect you from the boogeyman.”

You glower up at him and he sighs, “don’t look at me like that.”

“How can you tell how I’m looking at you?”

“I can feel it,” his thumb rubs your chin and he leans closer.

You swallow as he keeps coming. You don’t stop him. You’re stuck. Your body won’t answer the screaming in your head. He presses his lips to yours and you let out a soft noise. He presses his mouth against yours for a moment then pulls away.

He’s quiet as you puff you, your heart racing. “Was that okay?”

You cough, “uh, yeah... sorry, I... I’m surprised.”

“Can I do it again?” He asks.

You quiver and nod, “sure.”

He kisses you again. This time his tongue traces the crease of your lips. You open to him, unsure what you’re supposed to do. He delves within as he cradles your head and squeezes you closer.

A warmth creeps up your body. Cozy at first. Intoxicating either. But it keeps burning. Hotter and hotter as his hand slithers down your back. His groan triggers a tickle in your brain and nearly bite down.

You touch Curtis’ chest and urge him away. He reluctantly parts and slackens his hold on you. You stand up without a word.

“Everything alright?” He asks.

“I need your bathroom. Sorry.”

You hurry away, staggering through the dark, and close the bathroom door behind you. You flip the light on and stomp to the tub, sitting on the porcelain as you drop your head into your hands. What the fuck? What is wrong with you?

That wasn’t bad. It was great. You were getting somewhere. You were having a normal experience. It’s like you just can’t let yourself win.

You smack your cheek, then your other. You do it a few more times before you sit up straight. God! What a disaster. What a stupid woman you are. You can’t even blame anyone but yourself. You did this to yourself.

You ran away from Curtis. You came in here to mope. And you hired Hugh.

No, don’t-- that’s not relevant. You’re forgetting that. It didn’t happen. You’re trying to move on. You can move on. Curtis doesn’t have to be your penance; he can be your antidote.

There’s a knock at the door. You stare at the wood.

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?” Curtis asks.

“Yep.” You call back.

“I’m sorry if... if that was too much. If I went too fast,” he says.

You huff and stand. You drag your feet to the door. You make yourself open it and face him. He turned the lights on. You ruined the night.

“I think maybe I should just go. I’m sorry I spoiled the movie,” you say. He doesn’t move.

“What? I paused it. It’s fine. We can finish it.”

“No, Curtis, I’m just... I keep... aren’t you tired of me yet?”

He shakes his head, “no, are you tired of me?”

You clamp your lips and pop them in exasperation. “No.” That makes this harder. Because you aren’t tired of him. Because you do like him.

“So why are you running away?”

He grips the door frame. He’s a big man. He doesn’t have to let you leave but you know if you say you want to go, he will. For a moment, his size reminds you of another person. One who didn’t listen. One who didn’t hear your 'stop'.

“This is really embarrassing but I’m just going to be honest otherwise you’ll just think I'm insane,” you throw your hands up. “I’ve never, uh, never... had... someone before. You know? Never been on any dates, er, until you.”

He nods and his expression stays the same, “alright.”

“So yeah...”

He narrows his eyes, “is that it?”

You stare at him. “Yeah, I guess that’s it.”

“I don’t care about that. I care about us, you know? About right now. So then or whenever, it’s not important. But right now I can be patient. I can take it slow.” He drops his hand from the frame. “We can just watch the movie. That’s it.”

You look down and slump, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he gently touches your arm. “I don’t want you to be sorry because you did nothing wrong. Thank you for telling me.”

You don’t say anything else. You’re too mortified to muster more than a grumble. You reach for the light switch but he stands as a wall between you and escape.

“One more thing though,” he says, “I’m not just someone. I'm your boyfriend.”

You falter and clasp your hands in front of your stomach, “boyfriend?”

He smiles, “I can wait for my girl. That’s half the fun, isn’t it?”

He offers his hand and you consider it as your lips curve without a thought. You accept the offer and latch onto his large hand.

“Guess I’ll find out,” you say.”

#curtis everett #dark ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale #curtis everett x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #dark!ransom drysdale #knives out #to those who wait #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #snowpiercer

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bunbun-mochi · 2 days ago

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Broken Melody

Sylus x MC (angst with comfort)

warning: main character death, torture, prison, pregnancy, birth, myth spoilers

word count: 1369, no proofreading

preview: Sylus looked into MC's past after his passing...Slightly based on this

Spoilers: MC saw Sylus' history when their souls were bound, so here's the question, would Sylus see her history as well?

"Look at me... You're not allowed to close your eyes!"

Sylus remembered those words. He remembers everything she says. He remembered kissing her forehead before leaving. It hurts him just as much to leave his beloved.

"Sylus... I cursed your soul..."

She sobbed, he wanted to cradle her face and kiss her one more time.

"I cursed your soul... to never fade away... "

He wanted to come back to her, to hold her, to love her the way she loved him.

"You'll always be tied to me. Forever."

His last remaining soul watched as she gripped the black petal as if her life depended on it before she finalized her curse.

"This is my curse... Only I can...Grant you a true death."

He feels like this is more of a blessing than a curse. He rather die in his lover's arms than die in someone else's arms. At least he's able to see his lover a last time before departing.

As soon as she finished her curse, she took half of his soul and bounded with hers, inheriting his characteristics.

Sylus is confused. Although this happened in his past life, he had long let go of the memory. He is enjoying his second life, a blessed life where he found his beloved again and shared their love together. He is living a blissed life, where he get to hold his lover without any barrier, without having to worry about hurting her with his claws, able to become human for her. So why? Why did this memory come back to him? Why would his mind remind him again of his past life?

The scene slowly changes. He watches her lover, inheriting his horns, tails, and wings, scrambling away from something, someone. He can see in the distance, that arrows pierced through the air. He wanted to scream, he wanted to jump to her, to protect her, but he couldn't move.

That's when he realized, he was living in a nightmare. A nightmare he always wanted to prevent from happening in real life. That's why he always wanted to become stronger. Be the best, be the top. He wanted to give his beloved all she ever wanted and be able to protect her.

And here he is, witnessing this nightmare.

He allowed her to take his life just so he wouldn't kill her but left her alone in this cruel world where she had to fend for herself with no one there to protect her.

He watched her as she was being dragged away. She is bound by ropes and chains. She has bruises and wounds all over her body, covered in blood. He felt his chest tighten, heartbroken at how his beloved was being treated.

"Sylus..."

He heard her whisper as she was dragged away. Her voice sounded partly hopeful partly dejected. Part of her hoped that her lover would come back but part of her knows he is gone.

The scene changed, he saw her in the prison cell. There was water dripping on the corner. Mold grows at all corners of the cell. Only a small window on the top corner where the moon peaks out. The prison is worse than his prison. It looks inhabitable, so small. His beloved sat on the floor and clearly lost a lot of weight. He can practically see bones through her skin. Her eyes, were dark, lost of all lights, as if she long lost the will to live.

He heard footsteps. A group of guards arrived at her prison cell, listing all her sins and her execution date.

He should've killed them. He should've killed them all. None of those humans ever deserved to live.

He looked back to his beloved. As if the time had sped up, she is now caressing her swollen stomach. He saw some lights return to her eyes. Teardrop rolled down her cheek, onto her hand as she carasses her stomach. Only a single word escapes her mouth.

"Sylus..."

Her voice sounded so weak so defeated. Sylus felt his heart shattered.

Then she was dragged away again. He wanted to chase them. He wanted to protect her. But his feet are sealed onto the ground. He wanted to scream but no sounds came out of his mouth.

The scene changed again. He is standing outside the cave. The same cave that was his prison and his home. He saw his beloved frantically flying away while clutching her stomach, trying to protect it as much as she could. A group of soldiers chasing her, throwing weapons at her, trying to hurt her, kill her. It was as if they rallied an entire army just to catch a single person. It was truly laughable.

She was screaming in pain as tears rolled freely down her face. Then she stumbled into the liar, and gently laid herself on the bed, screaming in agony. He wanted to soothe her, to take away her pain. Then he saw it. His beloved birthed their child all by herself.

And he wasn't there for her.

His beloved cradled their baby in her embrace, sobbing and apologizing. He wasn't able to hear her because of the yells and screams from the soldiers outside. Then there was fire. His lair that he once called home, was engulfed in flames. A soft melody sang, the same melody that his beloved sang to him before.

Then a soft voice called...

"Sylus..."

"Sy... Sy... lus..."

"Sylus!"

Sylus flung his eyes open and immediately sat up. He was panting. He couldn't tell if it was his tears or sweat rolled down his cheek. He touched his face and he confirmed that he was indeed crying.

"Sylus?" His beloved was next to him, concerned. "What happened? A bad dream?" She gently rubbed his eyes and cheek, drying his tears. "You're ok, I'm here, darling."

Sylus slowly turned toward his beloved. Her gentle eyes... He saw the eyes in his dream, it lacked light, as if she gave up on living. Now, her eyes are full of light, full of life. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. Trying to assure himself that it was only a nightmare.

His beloved drew soothing circles on his back and she gently kissed his cheek and forehead, comforting him. He never felt so vulnerable.

He failed to protect her. He failed to protect their baby. He failed.

"It's ok, darling. I'm here," She whispered, as if she could read his mind. "It's ok, I'm here. That's all it matters."

Yes, that's all it matters.

Sylus took a deep breath. "I'm fine now." He inwardly cringes at how his voice cracks. He used to believe that he won't be able to cry. He is strong enough to hold in his emotions. But tonight, he proved himself wrong. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"It's ok," she reassured her husband.

They stayed in each other embrace for a while before he finally breaks off. "You should go back to sleep."

"Will you be able to sleep?" She asked, worryingly.

Sylus didn't respond. His beloved smiled, "It's ok. We can read a bit and calm our minds before we go to sleep. Perhaps that way, we will have a better dream." She rolled over and grabbed a children's book. "We can read to our child."

Sylus smiled and nodded. She scooted closer toward him. He wrapped his arms around her, resting on her swollen stomach while she rested her head on her chest.

She reads the book, and the more she reads, the more sleepy she gets. Until she stopped reading, her breaths evened. He smiled to himself and gently lowered his beloved back in the pillows, rearranging the pillows around her head and body, making her more comfortable. He watched her sleep so peacefully. He slowly moved the blanket down, revealing her stomach. He gently kissed her stomach and whispered, "I'll protect both you and your mother."

He failed to protect both of them in his past life, then he shall protect them both in this life.

He settled down beside her, wrapping his arms around her, and holding her close.

Perhaps living is the best way to protect people he loves.

@madam8

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus #sylus fic #qin che #sylus fluff #sylus angst

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intoxfolklorex · 2 days ago

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"Well I'm somewhat happy to not be alone on that uphill battle." Opening herself up to one person was a lot easier than a hundred and he wasn't going to be concerned about making Sabrina talk about things before she was ready. "Well they should have known that looking terrified is the way to go." Honestly she didn't know if she wanted the answer to this but it was going to sit in her mind if she didn't. "When I was-- there-- I was made to feel like I'd been there so long because no one bothered to look for us. Was that true? At least as far as you know?"

"We both have some acclimating to do." He did know that there was a lot about him that she didn't know and her him, but there wasn't enough room for pity to be between them. "All of them, some of them even got stabbed because they didn't listen," he said with a smirk before turning into a confused head tilt. "Ask away."

#oppulcnce #sabrina speaks #sabrina x gesper

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onskepa · 2 days ago

Text

Left behind: Soft heart

Helloooooooooooo everyone! Here is another chapter of the on going series! Sit back, relax and enjoy!

Left behind series

-------------------

Rain trickled down the sides of the sully family home. The children huddle together as they read one of Neytiri's old childhood books. Jake was sharpening his blade while neytiri does some light cleaning.

“The duckling was crying. For he was all alone, no one to call mama, no one to call papa…” neteyam was reading softly. He was reading the old classic ‘The ugly duckling’. He reached a sad part of the story, and it tugged little kiri’s heart. She was easily emotional and began to cry herself.

Jake and neytiri were quick to be at Kiri's side, calming her down.

“Hey, its ok sweetie, its just a story” Jake treasures. But kiri only cries more.

“N-n-noooo….!!! H-he is a-alone and…and h-has no ooooooooone!!”

Neytiri pulls kiri to her lap and rubs her back.

Neteyam was quick to turn the page to get to the happy ending.

“Kiri look! He isn't alone, he has someone to be with” he shows her a picture of the little duckling surrounded by others that look just like him. Smiling and happy. Kiri wipes her eyes to get a better look at the book. True to neteyam’s words, the ugly duckling had a happy ending.

“S-still….” she mutters.

“Oi, kiri, why do you gotta have a soft heart?” lo’ak asks a bit annoyed.

“Ey, nothing wrong with that” Jake tells his second son. Neytiri agrees with him.

“Indeed, a soft heart is just as the same as a strong heart” she tells her children.

“AGAIN!” quaritch shouts.

And again, little sully missed her shot.

They were in the middle of a shooting practice. With how terrible little Sully's aim is, they have a long way to go. Though, her aim isnt what concerns Quaritch.

“Alright, let's take 5” he says. Little Sully happily puts the gun down and walks away from it. Clearly, shooting does not entice her. And that is not good.

The old colonel sits down on the cold metal benches, “hey kid, come here. Don't worry, you're not in trouble” he says.

Little sully nervously sits down beside him. The body size being a huge difference between the two. There was a small gap of silence between them until quaritch broke it.

“Don't like guns?” he asks.

Instantly little sully shook her head.

“Never liked them” she softly replies. Fiddling with her thumbs, something playing with the hem of her shirt.

“That is A ok to not like them. I get it, they are loud, heavy to hold. Gotta make sure not to pull the trigger, all that stuff” quaritch lists out. Though, by the look of little sully, it wasn't exactly what she agreed on.

“It made my dad lose his legs….” little sully said.

She remembers clearly. One day little sully got curious as to why her dad used a wheelchair while everyone else was able to walk on their two legs.

“A bullet struck me. Couldn't walk ever since…” her dad would answer.

Oh how she misses her dad so much.

“Can I be excused?” she asks abruptly. Quaritch nodded, it's her first day with a gun, it's going to take time for her to get used to using a gun. And even more when it's time to shoot live targets.

Little sully leaves the room and makes her way to her temporary room. Suddenly thinking of her dad makes her want to cry.

“This is going to take a whole lot longer. Permission to add a bit of pressure?” Quaritch asks as Tatianna walks into the practice room. Ever professionally dressed, and ever annoying with the clicks of her high deadly heels. This time however, the clicks sounded different. Sounded heavier.

“Permission highly denied. This is literally her first day holding such a weapon. We must be patient and take great delicate time with her. Remember, this is a long term project, I want this to become perfect in every way. Rushing it will not be perfect, "Tatianna says.

She eyes on the gun little sully was practicing with. Its a simple revolver with single use bullets.

“Always the perfection with you..” quaritch mutters.

“Well, you are considered a perfect clone of the REAL miles quaritch. If you weren't,then you wouldn't be sitting your sorry but here” tatianna smirks.

“Perfection takes its time, patience, lots of it. Consider this as part of your training as well. I know you are eager to get back to pandora, however there is work to be done here before you get your chance”

With a click of her heels, tatianna turns towards the exit, “feel free to practice on your aim or head back to your room We are done for today”

“Stupid blue guy, stupid taty, stupid rick wanna be!” little sully paces back and forth as she huffs out her anger. Stuck in a cold, boring white room that is now her ‘room’, she has the privacy to vent out her true feelings.

“Everyone is stupid….”

She lays ons her white sheet bed, staring up at the cold white ceiling. Would it hurt them to add color?

Closing her eyes, her mind summons the old memories of her times with her dad.

The now war criminal, Jake sully.

As easily as breathing, fresh tears fall from her face.

Despite being told what he did, little sully still hopes. She hopes that one day, he will fulfill his promise and come back. Even better, come back with uncle tom. All she hears is stuff that Jake sully did, but never Tom sully.

What happened to her uncle?

She never got to say goodbye to him.

“I hope they are together….Sully’s stick together. No matter what” a motto that she keeps close to her heart. Really the only thing she has left from her family.

Her dad better come soon, to take her away from all of this.

“I found you!” Jake announces with a playful growl.

He tickles tuk as they end their game of hide and seek.

Tuk squeals in happy delight.

“Hahaha! You found me!”

Jake picks her up and spins around, sharing a happy moment together.

“I knew it dad! I knew you find me!” tuk says happily. Rubbing her little nose against her dads. Jake accepts her loving gesture.

“You kept your promise!”

Jake felt his body become slightly chill, just a bit.

He held tuk tightly in their embrace, not letting his youngest see his expression.

“Yeah….yeah, I kept my promise”

“She is not progressing,” Dr. Sanchez tells tatianna. Neither are happy about this.

Its been 3 months and not a single microscopic improvement. Her fear of guns are still present, her reluctance to even pull the trigger is annoying, and now she begs to return to her school life.

“We need to add some form of pressure…” Tatiana thinks out loud.

Before Dr. Sanchez can offer a suggestion, an alarm went off on tatianna’s watch.

12:00 pm

“Think of something while I go give her the medicine”

“Noon already…”

Little sully can only guess what time it is by the food she receives from tatianna.

“Delicious beef stew with your favorite crackers and veggies on the side”

Little sully should be grateful, even fresh veggies are scarce in her school. To have this level of luxury is something only few can ever afford. Yet this is a luxury that feels more like a transaction for some reason.

“Don't forget your tea first”

Tatianna offers her a white porcelain cup with a red liquid inside.

Hibiscus tea.

Might as well be drinking gold at this point.

“Drink it all, don't let a drop go to waste”

Little sully does so, taking in the warm, sour tasting drink.

The young girl thinks of nothing, while the high heel woman holds in her breath as she watches the young sully drinks in every last bit of the medicine.

“NO!” lo’ak looks away in stubborn anger. Kiri rolls her eyes and sighs tiredly.

“How are you going to get better if you won't drink it?” she asks. Her silly brother got sick. Again. Normally their grandmother would be the first to give any of them medicine if they ever fall ill. This time however, she was too busy so she relied on kiri to give lo’ak his medicine.

But his stubborn ass refuses.

“I don't want it!” lo’ak rejects.

His head hurts, eyes are slightly red and cant sleep. He is suffering on his own will yet hates it.

“Then take this medicine!” kiri pushes. And again lo’ak shakes his head.

“NO! If its not from grandma! I dont want it!” he states. Does he doubt his sister?

“Grandma did make it! She told me to just give it to you” kiri explains with her patience wearing thin.

Lo’ak slowly turns to face her, “you promise she did it?”

“YES! Now take it!” without missing a beat, kiri shoves the medicine into his mouth. Lo’ak tried to spit it out, but kiri held his mouth shut making sure he digests it good.

“Always has to be a struggle with you…” kiri mutters.

“Again kiddo” the recom says for the millionth time.

It's been 5 months and not a lick of progress. Quaritch is starting to think the kid is doing it on purpose.

And again the kid misses the target.

“Again”

Miss.

“Again”

Another miss.

“Again”

She shot way off of the range

“AGAIN!!”

The bullet barely scraped his left ear and into the solid wall.

Time froze. Heart beats were skipped.

There he was, the sully quaritch knew. Standing in front of him with those angry blue eyes.

He blinked, and instead of jake, he saw his spawn. Her eyes mirrored the traitor. Her hands gripping tightly onto the gun, aiming at his head.

Now this was more like it.

“Im done” little sully said coldly. Dropping the gun she leaves the room.

Quaritch gently touches the spot of his ear, a thin scratch, nothing much but it meant a great deal to him.

“That little shit…” Dr. Sanchez looked through the cameras. Tatianna already left to speak with the girl, leaving both of them in awe.

So she was pretending and had enough.

“HAHAHAHA!! Oh she is cracking” he twirls around in the room, shoving more candy into his mouth as he goes around like a lunatic.

“One crack is all it takes to branch out! HAHAHA! Take that old man!” sanchez mocks to the man that still haunts him.

“Leave me alone!” young sully shouts as she starts to pack what little she has.

Tatianna ignored her demand and went inside either way.

“I said leave me alone!!” young sully throws a pillow at the female scientists to which she dodges effortlessly.

“Where are you going?” tatianna asks cooly. Not bothering to stop the girl.

“Back to my school! I hate it here! I hate holding that gun, I hate that blue ball asshole! I hate Sanchez and I hate YOU!”

Tatianna lets a few seconds go before sitting on the naked bed, “back to school? Ok, let me know when to pick you up” she said casually.

Still packing, young sully asks, “what are you talking about? I'm going back and staying there! With my room mates and friends!”

As if nothing, the scientists just examined her nails, “do you really think they are going to accept you back?”

This halted the young girls movements, she looks at the bored looking lady.

“What are you talking about…?”

“Naive little sully, think about it. That school is RDA funded, every kid had or has a family member working for the RDA. Much like your dad, they work for the RDA and in returned kids like you get education”

This was not news to the young sully, everyone knew that.

“And thanks to your dad, almost more than half of the student body is now an orphan. Your dad killed theirs. Since you saw what happened, everyone did as well. Tell me, how will they think or feel when the child of the human traitor walks in their halls while they won't see their family ever again?”

Tatianna begins to see the shift in the girl's blue eyes, her hands stopped picking things. So she continued to plant her seed.

“Dear, right now, as much as you hate it, this is the safest place for you. Back at school, no doubt many are wishing you dead”

“B-but my friends…”

“Are no longer friends. The whole world is against you. But we arent. You have to trust us in helping you. That is all we want, to help you. To make sure you understand everything, yes its complicated but as you get older, things will begin to make sense”

Tatianna places a hand on the girls shoulder, slowly guiding her away from her half full bag.

“But the gun! I hate using it, I dont like violence” young sully protested.

“Its not violence if its for self defense. Remember, everyone hates you. Enemies will try to find you, at some point, you have to learn to defend yourself, even if it means carrying a gun or other weapons”

Young sully looks at her own hands and thinks back to her training.

“I dont like hating….I dont want anyone to hate me…hate is a bad thing to feel…” she mutters.

Tatianna gently places her hand on young sully’s chest, “that is a kind yet soft thing to say…”

“What's wrong with that? What's wrong with being soft?”

Tatianna smiles, trying her best to not laugh, “being soft means having a soft mind, and a soft heart. And having a soft heart is as good as a dead heart”

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand that is it for this one! Now for the next chapter there will be a huge time skip! Look forward to that! Until next time! See ya!

Liking the story? Click here to put your name!

--------

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zoesshortstories · 2 days ago

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All's Fair (part one)

Natasha Romanoff x Avenger!fem!reader

Words: 2.0k, probably going to have two more parts! Would write more if requested!

TW: slight discussion of reader's body and a body positive/neutral mindset

Seeing Earth through the window of your ship always took your breath away. Since you weren’t in open space while Earth was still in sight when you left four months ago, you couldn’t see it. But you made sure you couldn’t miss it this time. It only took an hour to make it to the United States, and half an hour from there to make it to the Avengers compound.

Bruce called Steve from the comms console of the ship. He cleared you for landing and you found an empty dock.

Seeing most of the Avengers standing at the waiting area was a shock to you and then you reminded yourself they were probably here from Bruce. You hadn’t known them that long before you went on your first mission, which was supposed to be only two weeks. It ended up being four months.

Of course you already knew Steve; he was the one who had picked you for your promotion to Avenger. That and your water bending powers pretty much sealed the deal. And you knew Scott too. You had babysat his daughter through high school and a little bit in college when you were home. He was the one who wrote your recommendation for your application to SHIELDs Academy. Special forces, even.

You had started regular training and “team bonding” with the Avengers in the week you were there before you left, but the team bonding felt more like team integration.

Tony had reached out while you were on your mission, and in the long stretches between planets in search of the device, you had gotten to know each other. He was impressed by your academic resume but your comms thread turned into space memes not even a month into it. Nat you hadn’t even met at all. She was on an undercover recon mission for a month when you joined the team and neither of you had reached out to the other. All you knew was her reputation.

Last but not least, you knew Bruce. You knew him pretty well, as he did you. There were typically at least three days in between planets where you could coast on autopilot after setting the route. You liked to read books you brought on your Kindle and he liked drawing up scientific theories. That’s not true, but he wished it was. He did draw up quite a few, but most of the time when he wasn’t actively working he was meditating or journaling. Or talking to you. After four long months on that mission you had talked about everything as mundane as favorite colors and first memories to deep questions like what happens after death and your respective nightmares. It wasn’t uncommon to wake up from a good sleep because the other was murmuring (or screaming) in their bunk. It was nice to wake him up and offer him some hot chocolate or coffee, as he often did for you.

The door opened down and you stepped out with your duffle to walk down the path to the compound. The mid-December air was crisp and sharp against your face and bare arms. You had forgotten about local weather because it didn’t really matter when you were coming home. So unfortunately you were just wearing an athletic navy tank top and reflective but dark utility pants. You folded your arms over your stomach and shook in your place, shaking out each of your legs. In doing so you unknowingly pressed your boobs up against themselves and you were showing a considerable amount more cleavage than you had planned on.

You ran back on to the ship to grab one of the bright green fur coats from planet Oregazze 4 and put it on. You followed the team, who had started walking without you, down the path. It wasn’t bad walking alone. It gave you the time to look around and really take it all in. The way Steve relaxed more when walking next to Natasha or Bucky, how Tony spoke with his hands and his watch flashed around. Natasha slowed down to walk in step with you.

“Hi I’m Y/N Y/L/N” you said and stuck our your hand. She shook it.

She said “I know who you are” with a friendly smile at the same time as you said: “I don’t think we’ve met yet”

You exhaled through your nose, amused.

“Well I’m Natasha” She said.

“ I know who you are” you said in the same way, smiling a little.

“So” she continued, clearing her throat. From what you could tell, something in her wanted to continue talking to you but she didn’t know what to say. “That coat is…”

She trailed off and you jumped in. “Really something, right? We each got one on Oregazze 4 because that planet was way colder than we anticipated.”

From there the conversation turned more natural and flowing when she shared a story about buying a really ugly coat on a mission just to keep eyes on her mark. You both let it drift whichever way it wanted after that and before and you were halfway back to the compound and in the middle of discussing your favorite breakfast foods (your was a bagel with peanut butter and hers was a granola bar with fruit) when the Sky clapped loud with thunder followed shortly by a strike of lightening. You both mutually took a step closer to each other as you watched the wind whip the leaves of the trees. Then came the downpour of rain. It was hard and sharp and pounding all around you. She started to jog towards the compound and you followed suit.

Inside with everyone else you remember you had water powers. Well, after Bruce mentioned them.

“Y/N, care to help us out here?” He asked and you nodded. You took in a breath and then with a slight flick of your hand you pulled the water off of everyone and into a huge blob in the middle. Another flick and you directed it towards the door, and just for fun you had an arm shape out of it and freeze so that it could open the door itself. You let it splat onto the already soaked concrete and the door closed on its own.

The team was shocked silent. You already knew Steve had read your file and resume, he was the one who made the final decision on who could be promoted to this level. You smiled weakly as everyone stared at you. This was just plain uncomfortable.

“Uh thanks” He said and the group started to disperse.

“Welcome,” you told him and headed towards Bruce. You took your mission log journals out of your bags and followed him through the long, sterile hallways to the business side of the compound. In the middle it was a busy headquarters. And from the headquarters each department had its own section. There was a wing for desk duty and retired agents, a corporate and government wing, there was the department for new cadets and recruits, there was the average agents quarters, and then the Avengers portion. Of course there were also doors where you didn’t know what was behind them. But as you opened the glass ones from the Avengers hallway and into the lobby of headquarters, you felt at peace when it closed and you heard the lock click behind you.

The meeting took hours. You pulled your knees into yourself in a spinning chair next to Bruce and talked through everything that happened, all the intel you gained, and put the device in the box. Then you had to digitalize every journal into electronic files (which was stupid because if told, you would’ve just made them like that in the first place). It was eleven o’clock when you made it back to the Avengers general living room.

You headed down another hallway but it was less sterile than the last. Tony had made sure it was wooden floors with crown molding around the doorways and on the ceiling. The plaster walls were painted a warm, homey egg shell color. Everyone had their own room at the compound, but most people had their own apartment or house for when they wanted to spend time there. You had your own apartment but you didn’t want to drive all the way there now.

In your room you found your duffle bag already sitting on your bed. There was a vase of fresh flowers on the nightstand and a welcome note from Natasha that quite literally just said “welcome. -Nat”. Before you closed your door behind you, you waved goodnight to Bruce. You couldn’t fall asleep. You tossed and turned and gave up all together. Next you tried to read but none of your books could hold your attention.

“Screw this” you though and pulled the covers off of yourself. You pressed your bare feet into the cold wooden floor and left your room altogether. In the kitchen you took out ingredient after ingredient, making sure you had enough. Just as you started to mix together the batter, a silhouette appeared in the hallway. You looked at them and they took a few steps more into the light. Natasha smiled back when you smiled at her and took a few strides to close the gap between herself and the other side of the kitchen island.

“Watcha making?” She asked.

“Muffins. Do you know if we have muffin wrappers? I don’t necessarily need them but they would be nice.” You said and Natasha fished them out of a drawer for you. She placed them in your upturned palm but let her hand linger before pulling it back. You finished putting the muffins in their tins silently. You worked like a well oiled machine but you had really only known her for a day. For every tin she oiled you put the batter in and you sprinkled them with sugar before you put them in the oven.

You sat back and hopped up on the counter, unafraid that your thighs spread out where you sat but the part off the counter didn’t. Natasha, who leaned against the counter with her forearms, looked at you. She stared at you. You pretended not to notice even though you felt like you were burning everywhere she looked. Despite your best efforts, you were softly blushing.

Her eyes started at your torso and worked themselves up to your hair. You looked away when you thought she was staring at your chest and tried not to be self conscious about how low cut your tank top was. Or how it hung tight at the arms but crinkled in on itself at your waist, giving the impression of a curve you had gone years fine without. You, thinking you were going to sleep, had taken all of your minimal makeup off before you climbed into bed.

Your lips fell open slightly as you kept your eyes trained to the wall clock when Natasha looked at your face. It wasn’t long, probably around three seconds, which you should’ve known from looking at the clock, before you looked at her too. You looked straight to her eyes because she was looking at yours. The twitch of upward motion in the corners of her lips was enough to keep your vision and focus trained on her. Neither of you said anything out loud and you didn’t need to. The silence wasn’t quiet, really, because of how loud your thoughts were. Because of how loud your heart was beating in your chest.

Minutes later the clicking timer dinged and Natasha pushed herself forward off of the counter. She continued walking towards the the hallway where she came from (not the same hallway as your room) and you watched her walk away. The content swing of her hips led her to the doorway, where she turned to say goodnight and instead saw you checking out her ass.

“Only fair.” She said with a shrug over her shoulder and a wink. “Goodnight, Y/N”

It was most definitely a good night.

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winchestersisterimaginessss · 1 day ago

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request: can you do one where she’s breaking and she explodes on her brothers because they are trying to get her to open up but she doesn’t want to seem weak and scared. It’s not like her to yell or be aggressive towards them so they know something is wrong and it ends up in a meltdown.

A/N: Hope you like this! Requests are always open. Thanks!

Sam and Dean Winchester x Sister!Reader

The bunker felt like a suffocating cage, the walls closing in around you with every breath you took. You'd been holding it together for so long—weeks, months, years—but tonight, everything came crashing down. Every ounce of fear, guilt, and exhaustion, the constant strain of keeping up the facade, it all boiled over.

You were barely aware of the words tumbling out of your mouth, raw and jagged, a release of everything you’d been burying deep inside.

“Will you two ever leave me the hell alone?” The words exploded from your chest, jagged and ugly, as if you were trying to slice through the tension in the air. You turned, wild eyes flashing between Sam and Dean, your body shaking with a combination of anger and fear. "I don't need your fucking pity! I don’t need your damn help! Just leave me the fuck alone!"

It wasn’t like you to lash out like this. Dean and Sam both knew that. They had seen you angry, but never like this. This was different. The outburst, the harshness—it was as if all the years of bottling up every fear and every grief were finally coming undone, and they were getting the brunt of it.

Dean took a step back, stunned. Sam’s face mirrored that same shock. They knew you well enough to know this wasn’t you. You never cursed like this. You never screamed. You were the quiet one, the one who kept everything inside, who held it together even when the world felt like it was collapsing around you.

But now? Now you were unhinged, unraveling before their eyes. Your breath came in sharp, jagged gasps, and your fists clenched tight, but you couldn’t control the way your body was shaking.

"Sweetheart, hey," Sam said, his voice soft but filled with concern. "It’s okay. You don't have to keep it inside. If you need to scream, to yell, let it out. It's okay. We're here for you."

But those words—those damn words—just made you angrier. They saw through you. They always did. They knew you were breaking. And it made you furious. The vulnerability, the fear—it made you want to run from it. You wanted to fight it, to scream and shout until it went away, until you could pretend like everything was fine again. But it wasn’t. And it was suffocating.

Dean stepped forward, his voice low, trying to calm the storm inside you. "Let it out, kid," he said, his tone as steady as he could manage. "If that’s what you need, scream, yell, curse—whatever it is. We’ll take it. We can handle it. But you don’t have to bottle it up anymore."

It was too much. You couldn’t keep holding it back. You spun to face Dean, your hands slapping against his chest, frantic, desperate, angry.

“I’m NOT scared, okay? I’m not!” you shouted, your hands slapping his chest again, harder now, as if you were trying to force the words out of your body. "I’m fine! I don’t need you to fix me! I’m fucking fine!”

But it wasn’t true. You were so scared. The fear was clawing at your insides, and no matter how many times you screamed it wasn’t, the truth was still there, boiling beneath the surface.

Dean didn’t flinch. He didn’t get angry. He just... grabbed your wrists. His grip was tight, not painful, but firm enough to stop your slapping. You tried to pull away, to break free, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he held your wrists tightly, his hands steady against your skin, as if he knew you needed something to anchor you.

"Y/N...,” he said softly, the words filled with an understanding you weren’t ready to face, yet it was exactly what you needed. "I know you’re scared. I know you’re trying to fight it, trying to pretend you’re not. But you’re scared, and that’s okay. It’s okay to feel that way."

The words sent a shockwave through you. You hadn’t realized how much you needed to hear that until he said it. But even then, the rage was still there, burning. You didn’t want to be weak. You didn’t want to feel small in front of them.

“I’m not scared, okay?” You repeated, but it came out weaker, shakier. You tried to wrench your wrists free, but Dean’s grip only tightened. He wasn’t letting you go.

“Stop,” he said, his voice a little sharper now, his grip on your wrists unyielding. "You’re not fine. You’re scared, and that’s okay. You’re not alone. You don’t have to hide it."

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you pushed them away, frustrated with yourself for even letting them come. "I’m not scared," you tried again, your voice cracking with desperation. "I’m NOT!"

Dean didn’t answer. Instead, his hands slowly moved from your wrists to your shoulders, gently but firmly pulling you toward him. And that’s when it happened—the floodgate opened. You melted against him, your body trembling as the walls you’d built came crashing down.

You let out a strangled sob, and the anger dissolved into fear, into pure, raw terror. Your chest heaved as you collapsed against his chest, trembling uncontrollably.

“I’m so scared, Dean,” you whispered, your voice broken and small. It was the first time you’d admitted it, the first time the truth slipped out. "I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to handle it. I’m scared I won’t be enough. That I’ll lose everyone. That I’ll let you down. That I’ll lose myself."

Dean’s grip on you tightened, and he pulled you closer. His hand moved to the back of your head, gently guiding you into his chest, his chin resting on top of your head.

“I know, kid,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, soft but firm. "I know you’re scared. I know... but you’re not alone. We’ve got you. You’re not gonna lose us. You’re not gonna let anyone down. You’re gonna be okay, Y/N. We’re here. We’re here for you."

The words felt like a lifeline, like you were clinging to the only thing keeping you from sinking. Your tears came harder now, soaking into the fabric of his shirt as you buried your face into his chest. You felt his arms tighten around you, his heartbeat steady beneath you, grounding you, pulling you back from the brink.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you finally let yourself be vulnerable. You finally let the fear show. And as much as it scared you to break in front of them, to show them that you weren’t invincible, you knew deep down that you didn’t have to be. Because, for the first time in ages, you weren’t alone.

“I’ve got you,” Dean whispered again, his voice low, steady, and filled with a quiet strength that seemed to seep into your bones. “You’re not alone, kid. You don’t have to carry it all on your own. We’re here. I’ve got you. We’ve got you.”

And somehow, in that moment, you believed him.

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waynes-multiverse · 2 days ago

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Polaris – Chapter 12

Series Summary: When Beau Arlen moved to Montana, he left behind a past he wasn’t proud of. But when a series of murders requires the FBI’s help, Sheriff Arlen‘s ghosts come back to haunt him one by one. With a wrong turn waiting at every crossroads, it’s hard to make the right choices and find his way back home – back to you.

Pairing: Beau Arlen x FBI Agent!Reader

Warnings: 18+, a heavy dose of angst, kidnapping, violence, injuries, serial killers, death, an awful cliffhanger

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! 🥳 We jump straight into 2025 with an angsty banger 👀

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 12: Through

On one of the sunniest mornings Helena had seen in recent days, the peaceful quiet of the early risers in the Sheriff’s Department was disturbed by one restless sheriff.

Beau was taking his office apart – bit by bit, nail by nail, panel by panel, brick by brick.

The search for you had gone on all night and yielded zero results. You were nowhere to be found. For all Beau knew, you could be dead by now and buried in the vast woods of Montana.

A computer mouse flung against the wall and only missed Jenny’s head by an inch as the blonde peeked inside his office. The rest of the station had selected her to talk to the big boss, his outbursts even being heard from miles away.

“You okay?” Jenny checked carefully.

“I’m tryna find that stupid camera!”

“Thought you already found that hours ago,” Jenny noted with a raised brow.

“Can’t be too careful…” the sheriff murmured, his focus landing on the pile of pens on his desk. The silver one – had that always been there? He picked it up. “Does this look normal to you?”

Jenny only offered a shrug.

“Never mind,” Beau muttered and reduced the pen down to its individual parts. Nothing. Just a plain, old pen.

“Did you get some sleep?”

“What d’you think?”

At five in the morning, Beau had promised Jenny he’d snooze for half an hour on the couch in his office. He did lie down, stared at the suspended ceiling tiles for about a minute, and then remembered the damn camera.

It wasn’t just about what he had done in there but also about he’d said. No wonder Diane had gotten so easily under his skin. She probably had heard every insecurity he had ever uttered. To you. And to imaginary Randy.

How was he supposed to sleep in a place where he felt exploited, exposed, and unsafe?

“Well, uh, I just wanted to tell you that Randy went into Interrogation Room 2 with Diane…”

“WHAT?!”

“Yeah…” Jenny exhaled a deep sigh and leaned against the door frame. “He said you’d deputized him and authorized it, but I had a feeling that wasn’t true.”

Beau ran a hand across his face, rubbing his beard.

Rule #3: She’s my wife. I get to decide how we proceed.

Rule #4: You’re not the boss of me.

“Well, I did deputize him,” Beau admitted. He had given his former partner a long leash, not expecting he’d bolt through the backyard.

“Beau…” Jenny clearly didn’t approve.

“He left me no choice, alright?!”

Well, no choice his guilt could deal with.

The sheriff then left his destroyed office and thundered into Interrogation Room 2 down the hall. Randy wouldn’t get to do this alone. Beau knew there was an ulterior motive – if only Randy saved you, he could also miraculously save his marriage. Randy was a persistent motherfucker. He wouldn’t give up.

And if the roles were reversed, Beau wouldn’t either. He’d probably be even more annoyingly persistent than Randy.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Beau charged in with steam coming out of his ears. For a moment, his anger was so focused on his friend, he didn’t even notice the rising smile on Diane’s lips.

“Good morning, Sheriff Arlen.” Even if Diane’s voice sounded melodious, to Beau it was still chalk on board. “Remodeling the office, are we?”

“You mind?” Randy prompted stand-offishly, glancing up at the sheriff. “Kinda in the middle of something here.”

“Outside. Now,” was all Beau said.

Defiantly and miffed by the authoritative tone, Randy followed him to the hall.

“Play nice, boys!” Diane’s voice echoed through before the door fell into its lock.

“What d’you think you’re doing? You can’t just talk to our prime suspect without my presence!” Beau roared.

Randy rolled his eyes back. “Didn’t know I needed a babysitter…”

“This isn’t a game, Randy! We need to find Y/N before it’s too late,” Beau argued furiously. They didn’t have time for petty competitions.

“Yeah, which is why I’m talking to the only lead we have! That bitch knows where she is,” Randy countered with an equal amount of fury.

“She’s not gonna tell you!”

Randy only shrugged – cocky in nature and completely unlike him. And Beau then realized something that had changed: His friend wouldn’t back down anymore and bend. Those days were over, and it was probably Beau’s own fault.

“We’ll see,” Randy said stubbornly, his hand wandering back to the door handle. “You comin’?”

Beau inhaled and exhaled a deep breath before nodding – and back into the lion’s den they went.

Diane welcomed them with a sneer. “All made up?”

“Tell us where Turner took her,” Randy demanded with a stern expression and firm voice.

If Randy wanted to play bad cop, the role of good cop fell to Beau by default. And although they had never ever played it that way before, Beau figured Randy carried more anger than even him right now. He might as well let him make good use of it.

“Can’t.” Diane twitched her shoulders. “Hal doesn’t tell me.”

“Oh, and we’re just supposed to believe that?” Beau lifted a brow in mock. “C’mon, Diane…”

“It’s true,” she said, smiling. “Call it an insurance policy in case one of you Neanderthals decides to go rogue on me – looking at you specifically, Sheriff Arlen. If you leave your own partner to die in a filthy warehouse, I don’t wanna know what you do to your enemies.” She then looked at Randy, whispering behind her palm, “You know, I think he did it on purpose.”

Beau clicked his tongue and snorted humorlessly. “Alright, Diane, you’ve had your fun. You’ve wreaked havoc… You’ve won, okay? Fair and square. Just give up your partner, tell us where Y/N is, and end this once and for all. Might even get a better deal if you do. Think about it. Murdering an FBI agent doesn’t look good in front of a judge and jury. We have iron-clad proof you killed at least five people in Texas. Capital murder, death penalty… See where I’m going with this?”

“Oh, I’ve thought about it, Sheriff. And I’ve told you: I don’t know where she is now,” Diane reiterated with the same infuriating smile. Her gray eyes then wandered to a wall clock behind the men. “At least not yet.”

Randy and Beau both followed her gaze and stared at that same clock. Their eyes widened.

“Then when?” Randy prompted.

“Don’t worry. You’ll see her soon.” Diane smirked. “If she makes it out alive, she can tell you in person she’s choosing the rugged sheriff here over you, Detective Nichols.”

Randy’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching and unclenching under the metal table.

“I gave her a fighting chance.”

“Oh, you mean like the others?” Beau had known from the start that it would be useless talking to her.

“They all could’ve gotten out,” said Diane as if she blamed the victims for not being smarter and more durable. “‘Sides, why would I give up my favorite part? I’ve waited a while for this one. Killing her? While you two idiots watch helplessly and throw feces at each other like monkeys in a zoo? Gotta say, it’s better than killing twenty-four people combined. Ever since I met Deputy Popcorn, I’ve been actually craving a snack.” Upon Beau’s facial twitch, Diane leaned closer and whispered with a smirk, “Yeah, I know about the cute little nicknames for your deputies too, Sheriff. I wonder how many bugs you’ve found yet in your office. Sure it can’t be all of them. Maybe I’ve bugged the whole station. Who’s to say? Have you checked your trailer yet? The lovely agent’s motel room? No?”

Beau couldn’t pinpoint the exact feeling that clutched his heart and twisted it like a boa constrictor. Pain, fear, anger, sadness – a deadly cocktail for anyone. Was this throbbing sting in his chest what a heart attack felt like? Only recently, he’d read an article in the paper about a guy his age who just dropped dead. Was this it for him?

Would it mean he'd get to see you again, though?

“Enough of that!”

Randy’s voice rang in his ears, but Beau couldn’t refocus. He needed fresh air to breathe, his lungs dried up and clinging to every molecule like he’d been deprived of oxygen for days. The small room felt suddenly suffocating as the monster across from him sneered joyfully.

“Look, I don’t know if you’re saying all that horseshit ‘cause you wanna hurt him or me,” Randy said, his voice laced with a darkness Beau had never seen before.

“Little bit of both,” Diane teased with a shrug.

“Yeah, well, I don’t care either way,” Randy huffed, the deep creases in his brow casting threatening shadows on his face. “Do your worst to me or him. Hell, burn us at the stake if it makes you feel any better, sweetheart, but all I wanna know is where that bunker is. Where is she? Your beef’s clearly with us. Men, right? You know she doesn’t deserve this. Just let her go.”

Diane seemed unamused by the suggestion, leaning back in the metal chair. “You’re right. She doesn’t deserve this. I actually like her. She reminds me of me. But you two did this to her. It’s out of my hands at this point. You don’t deserve her, sheriff,” she said and looked at Beau before her cold eyes shifted to Randy. “Neither do you, detective. I know a lot of things – and not just about the sheriff here. I know what you did to her, too.”

Randy forced a tight smile. “You’re bluffing. I didn’t do anything.”

“Am I?” Diane quirked a brow and then sent him an innocent smile. “About four years ago, she wrote a rather lengthy email to her sister Sophia in Seattle. She seemed very upset. Said there was a little something you wouldn’t give her. Ring any bells?”

With a thick swallow and a glare swimming in his hazel eyes, Randy nodded. “We’re done here.”

Diane let out a long, suspenseful sigh, not bothering to engage further. Her icy heart wouldn’t melt. Her eyes flickered around the bleak, depressing room. “I miss windows. Haven’t seen the outside for days.”

“Yeah, and you ain’t gonna,” Beau huffed. He had quietly listened, his heart rate slowing down as his head started spinning with questions. You had never told him anything. He had never asked. It had been an unspoken rule to not talk about your marriage. Beau always figured knowing too much would only make it worse.

“Too bad. I always liked the autumn sunsets. When it gets dark sooner…” Diane then stretched out her neck. “Anyways, nice chatting with you boys, but it’s time for my beauty nap now. Which one of you two cowboys is gonna accompany me back to my cell, hm?”

The men shared a look and then wordlessly rose, leaving the room. In the safety of the hallway, Beau ran a hand over his face and took his first deep breath.

Air. Lungs. Brain. Without toxicity, he could finally think straight again.

“Well, this was pointless and a waste of our time. Happy now?” Beau huffed with his newfound lung capacity.

But Randy’s brow was furrowed. He was thinking. “Actually, yeah… Didn’t you hear what she said?”

“Yeah, bunch of narcissistic bullshit. She’s not gonna tell us where Y/N is,” Beau muttered bitterly. If possible, he wished to never converse with that psychotic witch again. There was only so much he could handle before snapping her neck.

“She said that she doesn’t know where Y/N is now,” Randy pointed out. “Maybe she wasn’t lying. Maybe Y/N’s not in the bunker yet. Turner might keep her somewhere else and wait till he can move her.”

“At sundown,” Beau mused, Diane’s words haunting his mind. “He’ll move her when it’s dark.”

“Which means we still have a couple hours to find her,” Randy finished the thought.

“Popcorn!” Beau yelled down the hallway. The sheriff found himself in better spirits. He hadn’t used a silly name for his most loyal deputy in days, although it ached a tiny bit to say it now. “Any properties in Newton’s name?”

“Yes, sir, several,” Mo replied.

“I need a list of all in the area. Get a team together and search ‘em. One by one,” Beau ordered. “Warehouses, cabins… Take it all apart. I don’t care.”

“And also see if any properties are in Hal Turner’s name and add them to the list,” Randy suggested.

Poppernak shot Beau a look, and only when the latter gave his agreement, did the deputy nod. “Yes, Sheriff Arlen.”

The obnoxiously loud sound of birds woke you from a deep slumber. Groggily, you pried your eyes open and found the first few beams of sunlight warming your face. For a peaceful moment of dazed bliss, you had no clue where you were or how you got here.

There was a thumping, searing pain in your skull, hammering away at your sanity like the ticks of a clock. Your neck and shoulders hurt from tension till you realized you were bound to an old wooden chair, a harsh and creaking surface underneath you. Your behind felt both sore and numb.

Glancing around the room, you noticed you were in the living quarters of a small cabin. A fireplace sat to your right. Above it, a cuckoo clock that showed shortly past noon, and you realized that must’ve produced the bird noise that woke you. The stinging sunlight reached your eyes and filled you with hope.

Hal Turner hadn’t locked you into a bunker yet.

“You’re awake. Good.” Turner entered the room with a bottle of water and a sandwich, throwing the items unceremoniously onto your lap. “You need to eat. We’ll leave soon.”

“Where are we going?”

“Where they all went,” he said and came up behind you. Turner wasn’t a man of tall stature. Small, middle-aged, nervous. Non-threatening.

Diane’s little ant.

He cut your ties, and you could tell his hands were shaking. They didn’t treat the others like that. Entertaining a victim had never been his job before.

Sedated, dumped, marooned.

That had been the pattern, and you hoped this little off-course adventure would pay off with your freedom. Your gaze drifted down to a lonely brown belt buckle.

Unarmed.

With free hands and Turner still vulnerably behind you, your arms shot up and wrapped around his neck. Fortunately, he wasn’t as heavy as Beau in training when you jolted him forward, jumped up, and rammed his face straight into your knee.

Unconscious for the moment, Turner tumbled to the ground, and you sprinted through the front door. You hoped it would give you enough time to find an exit.

But all you found was a vast sea of trees – towering pines that reached heavenward with no neighboring houses or roads in sight.

There was a shed to your left. Tools. You needed weapons.

And, most of all, you needed more goddamn time to think your way out of this one.

It wasn’t long till you heard the front door of the cabin slam open, heavy and angry footsteps aimlessly searching before they slowly circled closer to the shed.

Fortunately, your little hide-out had proved itself useful – and fully stocked. Turner had arranged his tools in a neatly organized manner. Nothing seemed to be out of place, screwdrivers hanging on the wall from small to big, pliers, drills, hacksaws… Your weapons of choice, however, fell on a hammer and the heaviest, biggest wrench.

Lurking behind the small barn door, you lay in wait till the old door creaked open and Hal Turner walked through. He only blinked at you wide-eyed before your first hit with the wrench landed across his right cheek. It was hard enough for blood to spew out of his mouth, and as he tumbled forward, you delivered your second blow – the hammer, this time, slamming against the back of his head.

Dropping the tools, you decided to take your chances and make a run through the woods for it. You still had a few fleeting hours till dark. If you just kept going, maybe you’d make it to a road or a town somewhere before you froze to death.

What a great outlook…

However, you didn’t even get farther than a few yards from the house before a sharp pain seared from your ankle throughout your entire body. Falling harshly and bracing yourself on the cold, wet leaves, you screamed out and looked down at the culprit – a bear trap.

Well, points for Hufflepuff!

Apparently, you had underestimated Turner. Ahead of you, you also spied some tripwire. Great. This place was a giant death trap – and you had already hated the woods before all of this.

Getting back onto your feet was not only hindered by the giant claws in your flesh but also the iron chain attached to the trap that tethered you to the ground. So, with your freezing hands, you dug out the metal stake that served as your anchor.

Then, the fucking bear trap – you knew this one would hurt like a son of a bitch. Carefully, you inspected the oozing wound, the razor sharp edges deeply clutching your skin at your lower calf and ankle. For a moment, you even swore you could feel the tips of their pointed teeth drilling into your bone. You tried to pry them apart with your hands but gave up on that idea rather quickly once the jaws cut your fingers.

Glancing at the shed, you saw the door was still ajar. It was quiet in there. Either Hal Turner was gone, solely unconscious, or currently bleeding to death. The shed was your Schrödinger’s cat. As long as you didn’t know which one it was, you still had time.

Taking several deep breaths, you closed your eyes and remembered the trip you took with Beau when you were back in Houston. The two of you drove camping in Piney Woods. For a few days, you were gone and unknown to everyone around you. You could just be you and him. No one had to hide anything. No one had to feel guilty. In those short days, you realized you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

“Did you know bear traps are actually pretty easy to get out of?” Beau babbles a random fact in his usual manner when neither of you has said anything in a minute. He glances at you, a happy smile on his face as he intertwines his fingers with yours during a stroll through the green and lush forest.

“Huh.”

“Yeah, all you gotta do is not panic, get up on your feet, and press your weight down on the springs at the bottom. Just pops open and you can pull your leg out,” he explains with a popping sound, turning the little lesson into a show-and-tell.

“Don’t panic…” you mumbled to yourself and sat up. “Get up…” With a strained groan and your palms supportively on the ground, you heaved yourself to your feet. You winced as you put pressure on your injured leg and, therefore, tried to shift your weight to your good one. The main problem was the next step: “Press down.”

Mentally, you braced yourself before you slowly started to put pressure on the leg again. The jaws moved and wiggled in your flesh, but the pain was too much too bear. You bit down on your tongue as tears strangled your eyes.

Alright, next try.

If slow was too painful, then maybe the bandaid method was the way to go. Quick and painless, as they say. You inhaled and exhaled through your nose as you raised your foot a few inches above ground, making sure the springs would hit the uneven surface properly. Then, you kicked down.

The trap sprung open, you pulled your foot out, and released a primal scream that echoed through the quiet woods, surely disturbing whatever lived there.

And then, suddenly, Hal Turner stood in front of you with a shovel.

Diane’s listed properties came up empty. There was still no sign of you. Turner, on the other hand, had only booked a motel room in his name but hadn’t been seen there in weeks. So, Beau figured he had to be staying somewhere if he wasn’t sleeping in his room.

At four o’clock, the sheriff was close to a breakdown when all leads petered out and the daylight was almost gone. But then Cassie and Denise stormed the station, both out of breath, and brought forth a document that showed a property north of Helena in the name of a Diane Turner. It was a remote cabin in the middle of the woods, which also happened to be close to the location where the ambulance had picked up Randy.

Ding, ding, ding!

Beau gathered the whole cavalry and raced there as fast as he could. By the time he was ten minutes out, the sky had grown dark, the woods pitch-black around him. Switching on the Jeep’s headlights only added to the uneasiness in his stomach. His passenger was quiet next to him, but Beau could tell how worried Randy was by the way his left leg anxiously drummed against the floor mat.

Both of them thought it was too late to save you.

An access road, all dirt, led up behind the cabin, only making it a short hike. Turner’s vehicle had been parked at the fork where it reached pavement. They seemed to be on the right track. After all, if Turner was here, then hopefully so were you.

Beau and Randy were the first to arrive, the cabin inside dark without a single light on, not even a candle burning in the smudged windows. Carefully, the men stepped on the porch, the property around them quiet and undisturbed, but the front door was an inch ajar. Pulling out their weapons, the two shared a look without speaking a word before entering the house, a feeling of familiarity rising in Beau’s chest.

They were still partners, somewhere deep down.

The floorboards creaked under Beau’s boots as he treaded down the hallway. The cabin was small, only consisting of one bedroom, a living area, a kitchen and bath. While the men checked each room, Beau already knew you weren’t here anymore – if you’d ever been here to begin with. Maybe Diane had sent them on a wild goose-chase, another sick game created by the mind of psychopath, while you had been locked in a bunker all along, waiting for him to find you.

How much air did you still have left? Would he get to you in time?

“Beau!”

His partner’s voice drew him from the bedroom to the living space, his mind still rattling with the unspoken fear of losing you. His green eyes then focused on the beam of Randy’s flashlight as it shone on a wooden chair in the middle of the room, a set of cut plastic ties on the floor next to it. There was also an uneaten sandwich and an unopened bottle of water scattered on the ground.

And then, there were the trails, the little drops, and the sheer pools of blood everywhere that made his gut churn. Was it all yours?

“We need to get forensics here,” Beau said with a thick swallow, already pulling out his phone to call Jenny.

“That’s a lot of blood,” Randy said with a lump in his throat, his eyes transfixed on the little red pond by the tips of his feet. And although it was dark, Beau could see the color drain from his partner’s face.

“I know.” Beau bobbed his head quietly, gently clasping his friend’s shoulder as he held his phone to his ear.

The sheriff then informed Jenny of their findings, telling her to hurry any lab results along. The sooner they knew whose blood it was, the better. As he hung up, he noticed Randy following a trail of blood to the door, leading further outside. He shone his flashlight through the dense foliage before it landed on a little working shed to the right.

As Randy creaked the door of the shed open, with Beau behind him, both thought there was a high probability they’d stumble upon a body in there – if not two.

Instead, the shed was disappointingly empty.

Beau whistled lowly as the light hit the neatly arranged wall of tools. “Well, that’s some freak level organization.”

But Randy’s brow furrowed as his light landed on the ground behind the door. “There’s a hammer and wrench on the ground.” He knelt down to inspect it closer. “Got blood on it. Lot of it.”

Beau chuckled lightly and ran a palm over his face to keep the stinging tears of hope inside, which only confused Randy.

“What’s so funny? Y/N might be dead,” Randy said sourly.

“That’s not Turner’s doing,” Beau argued and gestured at the tools on the ground, his heart flooding with a tiny bit of relief. “Look at the wall. Why would he kill her with tools? It’s way too bloody. Guy like this can’t handle the mess. He had a perfectly fine gun. Would’ve been way cleaner if he wanted to.”

“So, you think this was Y/N?” Randy thought for a moment before nodding. “The ties inside were cut. The food and water on the floor… Maybe he cut her loose and she took advantage of it? I mean, it does sound like her.”

“Yeah…” Beau’s eyes then musingly drifted back to the wall. “Is there a screwdriver on the ground somewhere? There’s one missing here.”

“Nope, nothing on the ground,” Randy replied once his flashlight search was complete. “You think she took it with her?”

“Let’s hope so…”

“But if Y/N managed to overpower Turner, why isn’t she here? And where’s Turner? And if it happened out here, why is there so much blood inside?”

Beau licked his chapped lips, his brow returning to their initially creased position. “Maybe she didn’t take him out for good.”

“You thinkin’ she knocked him out and escaped?”

“Yeah, and then Turner woke up, went back into the house before taking off after her through those woods,” Beau shared his theory. It would explain the vast amounts of blood inside.

“So, your theory is she’s lost and being hunted?” Randy cocked a brow.

Beau only offered him a shrug. “Best possible scenario.”

“Great.” Randy scoffed. “What’s the worst possible scenario then?”

Beau’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I think we both know.” Licking his lips, he patted Randy’s shoulder. “But let’s not think about the worst right now. I’ll get a team going to search these woods. We’ll find her. You’re not losing her again, alright?”

Randy could only nod and hope, but a little tug on his heart told him something different as he glanced at his former friend.

“It’s been three hours,” Randy huffed frustratedly as they passed the same street sign to Helena down the mountain once more, driving up and down the roads around the cabin in an endless loop, hoping and praying a miracle would happen. “Don’t you think we would’ve found her by now? If she’s hurt and inside those woods, we should be in there looking for her.”

Beau passed another sigh between his lips. There had been three hours of that, too. Patience was a not only an eight-letter word but a bitch as well.

“Neither of us is any help there. We don’t know those woods. You don’t even a phone, Randy,” Beau said with a bit more firmness in his voice, causing his partner’s frown to deepen. Saved by the bell, Beau’s phone chimed in his pocket with Jenny’s angelic name popping up on the screen. He pulled over on the side of the road before picking up.

“What you got? Uh-huh… You sure? What did they say about the cabin? Okay… Both of ‘em? How far? Which direction? Alright… We’re close. Driving back up there now.”

Randy held his breath till Beau hung up, trying to guess the content of the phone call by the various facial expressions of the sheriff. Then, he asked, “Good news or bad news?”

“Hard to say,” Beau replied, his eyes fixed on his hands gripping the steering wheel. He swallowed the lump in his throat, gave himself an encouraging nod, and started the engine, trying to sink every bad theory that surfaced in his mind. “Forensics came back. Our theory was partially correct. The blood inside the cabin was mostly Turner’s.”

Randy raised a brow, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. “Mostly?”

“Evidence points to her not escaping. Turner might have gotten to her before she could even leave the property. They found a bear trap with her blood on it,” Beau explained slowly, his grip on the wheel tightening. “Dogs picked up a trail, leading into the woods. Forensics confirmed both of their blood on that trail.”

“Doesn’t mean anything. He could’ve followed her. She still could’ve escaped,” Randy replied and knew full well it was only sugarcoating the truth swimming in the lower pits of his belly.

“Could’ve…” Beau nodded and swallowed heavily. “But then again, if she did manage to escape, how did her blood end up inside the cabin?”

Defeated, Randy licked his lips, expelling a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, guess my hopes are little too high. I mean, how the hell would you get out of a bear trap?”

Beau knew the question was mostly rhetorical, but true to himself, he still answered, “It’s actually pretty easy. Just press down on the springs, and the thing opens right up.” A smile formed on his lips as a memory popped back into his mind. “I told Y/N that once when we took a camping trip back in Houston. She probably didn’t remember it. I mean, honestly, I doubt she was even listening. I was kinda ramblin’, you know?”

“Uh-huh. I remember. I’ve spent a lot of time with you…” Randy smacked his lips, fingers tapping his thigh. “You guys went on a trip together?”

Beau’s mouth opened on reflex, but he stopped himself from replying, shooting a scrutinizing look at his partner. “Yeah, uh, just the one, really. Shoulda been more…”

Regrets seeped to the surface. If Beau had known he had only a finite amount of time with you, he would’ve enjoyed and appreciated every last second of it. He should’ve spent less time in his head. He should’ve taken you out on more dates. He should’ve been the best he could be. Instead, he wasted so much time and couldn’t even remember why in retrospect.

“What makes you say that?” Randy’s question rang both with curiosity and pain. His brown eyes stared stubbornly ahead and focused on the dark road.

Beau blew a long sigh. “Well, I wasn’t always the best–,” he hesitated a moment before saying the word, “–boyfriend, I guess.”

If Randy was upset by the term, he didn’t let it show. Maybe he was sticking to Rule #2. He quirked a brow and glanced at Beau in the driver’s seat. “So, on top of stealing my wife, you’re telling me you didn’t even treat her right?”

“Guess so,” Beau admitted quietly, poking the inside of his cheeks with his tongue and ignoring the subtle jab. “And I didn’t treat her badly, by the way. Just could’ve tried harder. Felt guilty because she was your-, well, you know… And the divorce got kinda messy, too. I just wanted to stay clear of complications.”

Exasperated, Randy scoffed, shaking his head. “This is not really making me want to give you my blessing…”

Beau huffed a chuckle. “Didn’t know that was an option.”

“Well, it’s not. You don’t deserve her.” Randy clicked his tongue, pensively bobbing his head. He then finally admitted, the words sounding almost sour, “Neither do I. You might be as big of an idiot as me.”

Beau’s eyes widened in surprise, his focus briefly swaying from the road. “What d’you mean? You guys were perfect together. Is this about what Newton said?”

Randy’s lips curved into a bitter smile. “Y/N never told you?”

“Told me what?”

Randy chewed on his lower lip before pushing out the words that had plagued him for three years. “She wanted to leave me.”

Beau shook his head. “Nah, I don’t buy it. She loved you. You should’ve seen her after she thought you’d died.”

Randy inhaled sharply, his head spinning with regret and heart filling with hope. For the past years, he had wondered if he’d ever get another chance to fix things with you.

“Yeah, well, it’s true,” he said, his gaze cast downward as if he were confessing his sins to a priest. “She wanted kids, and I told her I didn’t. Neither of us was backing down. The night the cartel kidnapped me, we were supposed to have dinner and talk about it when I got home. Part of me already knew where it was headed.”

Beau listened and nodded. He remembered the set dinner table, the lovingly prepared food, the candles – it didn’t seem like something one would do if they planned on leaving.

“No, I don’t think she would’ve left you,” Beau noted, although his heart stung when he said it out loud.

“I overheard her asking Carla for a divorce lawyer. Pretty sure she was,” Randy retorted. “Seems silly now. She was already out of my league. I should’ve just given her what she wanted. I don’t even know why I didn’t. I should’ve just shut up and been grateful.”

“That’s what I would’ve told you to do,” Beau muttered, his brain trying to keep track and process everything. Why had you never told him any of this? And more importantly: “Why have you never told me?”

“Guess I was embarrassed.” Randy shrugged. “And I already knew what you would’ve said.”

Secretly amused, Beau cocked a brow. “What? That you’re an idiot?”

“Exactly.”

“And Carla knew?”

“I guess.” Randy gave another shrug of his shoulders. “I mean, they talked all the time. Well, mostly it was Carla complaining about you, but still…”

Beau’s brow furrowed into deep lines. He should’ve been more surprised than he was. The only thing that really baffled him was the fact you had still agreed to date him after hearing all of that. What else didn’t he know?

“I thought they met once a week for book club?”

Randy shot him a pitying look. “Dude, there was no book club. Only three bottles of wine.” He then exhaled a long sigh, stretching back into his seat. “Maybe it’s good she didn’t pick anyone. She deserves someone who can give her what she wants.”

“What makes you think I can’t?” A little offended, Beau raised his brow. “You know, when she came back a few weeks ago, I swore I’d make things right. I wouldn’t let her go this time.”

But Beau broke that promise. He pushed you away to stay clear of complications. His heart twinged.

“And you think she wanted to live in a trailer in the woods of Montana?”

“Doesn’t matter. I would’ve given her anything she wanted. No questions asked,” Beau stated simply. “I was happy when I was with her. Didn’t matter where we were or what we were doing.”

“So, what? You planned on marrying her? Kids?”

Beau twitched his shoulders, his eyes not drifting from the street. If he glanced at Randy only for a beat, he couldn’t ignore his friend’s reactions any longer and still remain honest. “We never talked about it, but... If that’s what she wants, then yeah. Don’t even have to think about it. You really were an idiot, you know?”

“I know that. Thank you,” Randy huffed sarcastically and rolled his eyes. “Still not getting my blessing, though.”

“Good thing you’re not her father,” Beau snapped. He could only muster so much patience. “You don’t really have a say in who she’s datin’.”

“You’re one to talk.” Randy scoffed mockingly. “I met your friend Denise at the station. We had a long chat. She almost talks as much as you. Sounded like you tried to have a say in who Carla should marry. Little hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“That’s different,” Beau retorted defensively. “We have a kid together. Whoever Carla’s seeing is also gonna be in Emily’s life.”

“So, you don’t even care a little about Carla’s well-being? ‘Cause Denise said you killed her new husband,” Randy countered cleverly.

“Of course I care,” Beau admitted frustratedly. What did Randy want to hear? That he was right about everything? Well, except one thing: “And I didn’t kill Avery, by the way. Might have been slightly responsible for his death, sure, but I didn’t kill the idiot.”

“Seems to be a pattern for you. Maybe Diane was right,” Randy muttered wryly.

Beau licked his lips and sighed. “Listen, I know that devil woman is good at getting into someone’s head, but you gotta believe me, man. I did not leave you to die. If I had known–”

“Whoa, I know,” Randy interrupted him with an amused chuckle and two placating hands. “I was just joking. I knew you didn’t hand me over to the cartel on purpose in some evil ploy to get with my wife. That would be insane.”

Beau gave a nod, accepting his answer with relief. “Well, good.”

“Look, I’m not delusional, contrary to what everyone’s thinking. I know things happened while I was away,” Randy admitted. “I figured she had moved on. For three years, I actually hoped she did. I wanted her to be happy. Just didn’t think it be you, I guess. Probably shouldn’t have been surprised, though. I kinda knew you always liked her. Just didn’t think any more of it, you know?”

“And there wasn’t more, alright? I promise,” Beau assured him, his cheeks reddening from embarrassment. He never thought Randy would’ve suspected anything – not that there really ever was anything. But had his tiny crush really been that obvious? “One of those things, you know? Just ‘cause I find Michelle Rodriguez attractive doesn’t mean I seriously expect to date her. I didn’t know it was more than that till I spent some time with her.”

“Good to know,” was all Randy said, crossing his arms with an uncomfortable clear of his throat. “Definitely surprised Y/N likes you, though. She always had a pretty low opinion of you. Said you were doing shitty police work and I should be more careful. Guess she was right..." Beau shot him a darkened look but refrained from taking the bait. Randy pursed his lips. "Look, I know I’m a pain in your ass right now. You’d probably love to get rid of me.”

“Well, hey, that’s not–”

“What, true?” Knowingly, Randy lifted a brow. “I would if I were you.”

Beau only nodded, not admitting out loud the thought had certainly crossed his mind. “So, what are you thinking now?”

“Still want her to be happy,” Randy said quietly.

All of a sudden, Beau then slammed on the brakes, both men jolting forward into their seatbelts. A loud thud echoed through the car as something heavy hit the Jeep’s hood. For a moment, the sheriff thought he’d run into a deer before blinking his eyes at the bloodied and muddied image of Hal Turner.

“What the hell?!”

Turner was in rough shape, pantingly and deliriously stumbling around the car and onto the road, shielding his eyes from the blinding headlights with his palm. Blood dripped from various places from his head and body before Beau’s eyes narrowed on the metal tool stuck inside his neck.

“Guess we found our missing screwdriver,” Randy noted as the two men jumped out of the car, guns drawn.

“Where is she, Turner?” Beau prompted sternly, his finger itching to pull the trigger for everything he’d done to you. But knowing where you were was more important than a vendetta. Turner could only speak while he was alive.

And the man seemed to know it, too. Before the sheriff could call for back-up and an ambulance, Turner sneered and raised a hand, gripping the screwdriver tightly.

“No, don’t!”

Beau’s plea came too late. Hal Turner pulled the makeshift weapon out of his throat and collapsed to the ground, bleeding out within seconds.

Randy’s fingers landed on the man’s pulse point. He glanced up at his partner with a shake of his head. “He’s gone.”

Throwing his gun angrily into the rustling brushes, Beau gripped his temples and screamed into the void of the dark woods. Desperation clawed on his mind and heart. The fear of losing you for good took him prisoner. With labored breaths, he squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and rubbed his tired eyes. Turner had been his last lead. He knew more wouldn’t be coming.

What now?

A sanctimonious beep of his phone drew his attention. A small part of him prayed it was Jenny, informing him you’d emerged a few miles up the road – bloody like Turner, but otherwise fine. Alive.

But his green eyes only found an email and darkened at the sender’s name. “Diane just sent me a link.”

Randy, caught in his own spiral, suddenly glanced up. “To what?”

“Livestream.”

Chapter 13: Sure And Certain – JANUARY 10

Another cliffhanger, and it looks like Diane's still having the last laugh 🙈

What did you think of this part? Were you surprised by Randy's revelation? He might've changed his mind on a few things 😉

See ya next week for the freaking finale 🤍

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asvterias · 3 days ago

Text

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟫: 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖮𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗅𝖾 𝖧𝖺𝗌 𝖲𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇

the cast // series masterlist

chap. 1 || chap. 2 || chap. 3 || chap. 4 || chap. 5 || chap. 6 || chap. 7 || chap. 8 || chap. 9

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Some Cursing, Hardcore Lesbian Angst, Clarisse is hopelessly swooning over Reader (honestly so real), Some More of Our Fav Couple Bonding, Clarisse is unbelievably DOWNBAD for Reader (like so respectfully 🤭), Kinda!OOC!Clarisse, Simp!Clarisse, Mention of Drugs (Marijuana), Implied Mentions of Illegal Drug Trade & Possession, Kinda Stoner!Adrianna

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Younger Brother!Percy Jackson ✘ Older Sister!Reader, (Brief) Chiron ✘ Daughter of Poseidon!Reader, Adrianna Smith ✘ Daughter of Poseidon!Reader, Clarisse La Rue ✘ Daughter of Poseidon!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: For final confirmation and eventual prophecy, the Jackson-Matthews siblings go to the Oracle. At the selection ceremony, Y/N and Percy must carefully choose their own two quest-mates.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.7k+

𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭: @starvviss @lov3rgiiirl @random-girls-loves @coolgirl458 @kjisbae17 @s0r0ws @a-fucking-sappho @lvc-lv @watchesstuff @marve1stranger @m00nd0v3 @lexasaurs634 @monaisbroke

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Tell a friend to tell a friend; SHE’S BACK!! Please don’t be a silent reader and interact within the chapter! If you wanna be tagged in this book, comment below and say ‘future tag’! Sorry, I had writer’s block and was on a hiatus for this book, school has been hectic.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 (𝟐): Also relax and enjoy because it’s a long one (👏😁)!! Idk why but I feel like Clarisse is still out of character, so please tell me if that’s true or not! 🙏🏾 Reader’s intuition is strong as hell and she stays on her A-Game!

🐚 ✘ 🗡️

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟫

𝖲𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖮𝗇𝖾: 𝖤𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗈𝖽𝖾 𝖳𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾

──── ⭑ ☆ ⭑ ────

The next day, Grover guided you two to an attic, telling you that the Oracle was the final confirmation to officially set out on a quest. As stated by the satyr protector, if the quest was to be fully completed, the Oracle would grant the quest-mates a prophecy.

Percy hesitantly stared at the attic, and you couldn’t blame him for it either. It looks like a sketchy attic, but at least it was still daylight so that settled some nerves, right?

Not for your brother though, he’s a scaredy-cat and you’re the reason he’s currently surviving. It’s a wonder how he managed to survive this long, even with your help.

Once Grover had left the two siblings alone, Percy began to panic. “I’m not going in there, I don’t care what you say,”

You rolled your eyes, “C’mon Percy, stop being such a baby, and let’s get this over with,”

“Doing this for our mother, right?” You encouraged him.

His expression faltered slightly at the mention of his mom and he nodded, determination replacing fear.

“For mom,”

You nodded at his confirmation, opening the door, and entering inside the attic with your brother close behind.

Walking up the stairs, the stairs creaked underneath the mixed weights of the two siblings as you surveyed the many items lingering around. Careful not to touch anything, you looked behind and swatted Percy’s hand away from a weird-looking object. Your brother released a pained yelp, quickly yanking his hand, and mustering the meanest glare ever at you.

“Are you crazy? Don’t touch anything in here, this place is already creepy as is,” You huffed as the blonde boy embarrassingly tended to his wounded hand.

“Message received,”

Further exploring the abandoned attic, a round window being the only light source, casting below on an old crooked woman sitting down.

What in the absolute fuck is that thing? Did Grover fuck us over or something? How is this old woman’s Halloween decoration supposed to give us advice on our quest?

“You see this shit too, right?” You asked your brother.

“What else could I be seeing?”

“Good, I thought I was going batshit crazy for a second there,”

“Talk to it…or her,” You nudged him forward.

“Talk to her?! Why don’t you do it?”

“Fuck no, I’m not talking to her!”

“You’re older,”

“And as the older sibling, I’m telling you to talk to it,”

“No,” He shakes his head, “Look we’ll flip for it, you’re heads and I’m tails.”

“I don’t have a quarter, dumbass.”

“Fine. Rock, paper, scissors,” He chose another alternative.

“Never mind, I’ll do it,” You rolled your eyes, pushing him out of the way, and slowly coming closer to the crooked old woman. “Hi, I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

At that, the woman in the chair remained quiet, and unmoving too. You glanced at Percy, urging him to move forward and start speaking to the so-called Oracle as well.

“We were told a quest isn’t a quest until you’ve said so?”

Yet again, the woman stays silent, not moving an inch.

“Which is weird considering you’re a Halloween decoration,” Percy mutters, turning to you, “Look this is stupid, can we just leave, please?”

“As much as I want to leave, we have to get confirmation from the Oracle if we actually want to complete this quest,”

You grabbed a stick, poking the old woman with it, testing to see if she was alive or responsive at best. Your heart jumped out of your chest when the woman finally moved, fixing her neck posture, and sitting upright in the chair.

“Oh fuck,” You murmured, discarding the stick and distancing yourself from the woman.

“Oh geez,” Percy groaned, stepping backward. “You seem busy, we’ll come back,”

Percy reached out to grab your wrist, seeking your compliance then quickly followed your acceptance. Turning around to leave the creepy attic, you heard her breathing getting louder and more intense, earning your undivided attention.

Upon looking at the Oracle, she breathed out a green fog, which evolved into a large green cloud. In the midst of the green cloud, a man’s face appears, slightly startling the two siblings.

“Come on, really?” You retorted, unimpressed.

“You shall go west and face the god who has turned. And you shall find what was stolen and see it safely returned.” The Oracle, or rather the green smokey man states. “You shall also be betrayed by the one who calls you friend and fails to save what matters most in the end.”

Your eyes widened in astonishment at the revelation. There’s nothing like a bruising betrayal to make this quest more complicated and interesting.

Betrayed by a close friend? Who could it be? You’ve made a countless number of friends at Camp Half-Blood. Luke, Chris, Adrianna, Clarisse, Annabeth, or even Grover? Only time will tell and time isn’t on anyone’s side.

Okay, Y/N, time to eliminate the list of suspects you devised.

Starting easy, let’s assume it is Adrianna?! Hmm…fuck no. Not because you’re completely biased with her, it’s just because you trust and love her. Sometimes love and trust aren’t enough to stabilize a person, possibly only enough for them to spare that person. If there was a scenario where Adrianna was the lightning thief, you’d ignore it as if it was nothing. But god, just think of the betrayal you’d experienced from her, your first best friend doing that, where you’d never have the heart to suspect her at all. Hopefully, she isn’t the thief or you’d be losing your first real friend.

Maybe it’s Clarisse. God, you hoped it wasn’t her, you don’t date criminals. Even if there was a slight possibility of it being her, and technically you couldn’t blame her. Yet, she wouldn’t upstage a heist this life-threatening, putting her siblings in danger, much less her own father. As you said before, she isn’t stupid, she’s smart and once again you’re not underestimating her. She isn’t the lightning thief, you simply refused her to be, your love story isn’t ending before it starts.

Or is it Annabeth? Yeah right, you’re not underestimating her or anything, because surely that girl has some skills. But, you knew the young girl was her mother’s biggest fan and wouldn’t potentially want to disgrace Athena. Her dedication to winning over her mother was far greater than the temptation of stealing Zeus’s master bolt. So she checks out!

Grover?! No, it can’t be, he doesn’t have the heart for betrayal. He’s the literal embodiment of an innocent goat, you doubt he’d cause any harm whatsoever. That’s it, all you got for Grover! With one look at this satyr, it’s plain as day, he isn’t the lightning thief and he has no reason to be.

And then there were two more. Surprisingly, Luke and Chris were at the top of your suspect list so you kept your guard up around the brothers. Makes sense when you truly understand it. They’re the sons of Hermes, a god known for stealing, they have the natural ability for it and the perfect alibi to remain unsuspecting. They have the weapon, the alibi, and the motive, so what’s the true motive? The masterbolt is the beginning of a war, not the ending of one. There was a bigger picture to the problem, and people somehow seemed to forget.

It’s always the ones you never suspect which makes the betrayal even worse. Too bad, you were never close with them anyway, you wouldn’t be remorseful if it eventually was them.

Perhaps, the real lightning thief isn’t even on your suspect list. One way or another, someone at this camp is the lightning thief, and their reveal wasn’t going down without a fight.

──── ⭑ ☆ ⭑ ────

Now it was time for the selection ceremony as Chiron called it. Back at the dining pavilion with all the tables and chairs placed aside, an array of compatible demigods stood surrounding it. In the front and center, you stood alongside Percy, Chiron, and Dionysus.

“The Oracle has confirmed what we expected that this quest will proceed toward the Underworld where you will confront the god who has rebelled against his brothers, Hades,” Chiron announces to the other demigods, “The entrance to Hades’ domain lies under the city of Los Angeles. This is where you will journey to,”

He looks down at the two siblings, an uncertain expression settled across his face, “Time is short, and I only hope you two can manage against it,”

Looking down at the ground, a sense of hesitation formed in your stomach as you tried to push the doubts away.

Now is not the time to second guess. You needed to do this. This is all for your mother, Sally, right? Doing this for your mother, Y/N, the parent figure who’s possibly alive and loves you immensely. You can’t give up on her, not after she sacrificed herself for your safety.

“I have selected our most compelling candidates from which both siblings will each choose two to join you on this quest.”

Your eyes glanced over to the familiar faces of your friends, a small smile overtaking your lips.

“And ensure that we succeed–“

“Adrianna,” You calmly stated, staring at your blonde best friend. She internally cheered, smirking at Clarisse’s sudden jealousy of the girl. “I choose Adrianna as–“

Chiron squints his eyes at you, “Customarily, one waits to at least hear a name or two before choosing, are you sure you don’t wanna hear more?”

“Yep, I’m good with that. While we’re at it, can I choose my next person?”

Adrianna stifled a laugh at your statement and eagerness to quicken this process. This entire ordeal was getting quite boring and the sun was spanking, definitely not a great combination.

The older man looked speechless, allowing you to choose, “Of course, why not.”

“And…Clarisse,” You pondered, missing Percy’s frightened expression at your statement. Now it was Clarisse’s time to smirk at Adrianna’s annoyed face.

“Are you sure about your choices, Y/N?”

“Very much so,”

“No, I don’t think you are,” Percy gaped in bewilderment, roughly shaking his head.

The Matthews girl chuckles at her blonde brother’s suggestion to rethink choosing another quest-mate, preferably one who didn’t bully him.

“So be it,” Chiron smiles down at you, “The first quest mate will be Adrianna Smith and the second quest mate will be Clarisse La Rue.”

“Now it’s your turn,” You nudged Percy. “Choose wisely, we don’t need any stupid people tagging along, everyone’s accountable for their asses and actions,”

“…This thing, Zeus’s master bolt, we need to get it back, right?” Percy inquired of Chiron.

“Yes.” Chiron agreed.

“And it’s gonna be hard to get, yes? Even with a double amount of quest mates?”

“Extraordinarily,”

“And if the mission required someone to push me down a flight of stairs for it to succeed…you’d want someone who won’t hesitate when they do it.”

You don’t know why Percy acts like you wouldn’t fight him for the last poptart, much less push him down a flight of stairs. Swear he wants to be different in front of his future girlfriend so badly. Eh, can’t blame him either, you’d impress your future girlfriend at any given opportunity.

For a moment, Chiron seemed almost proud of Percy’s wishful thinking and turned to face the other demigods.

“Then I choose Annabeth.”

“The third quest mate will be Annabeth Chase.��

──── ⭑ ☆ ⭑ ────

Once the selection ceremony was finished, Chiron departed everyone to their daily routine. Percy briefly informs you of his next quest-mate, going off to search for the familiar satyr protector. Your friend, Adrianna went to talk to Luke, telling you to later meet in her cabin.

Deciding to head to Athena’s cabin, hopefully, to brighten up your mood and talk with Annabeth. Okay, was it totally obvious?! You didn’t have that many friends at Camp Half-Blood. Annabeth kept mostly to herself, yet showed her willingness to be a close friend. Soon enough, the bond between the two girls will be formed through effort and mutual likeness, amongst other things.

On your way back from Athena’s cabin, you recognized a familiar presence lurking behind you. Surprise, surprise, it was Clarisse and she wasn’t even being the tiniest bit of discreet. You caught a glimpse of her, eliciting a tiny chuckle, and halted your movements.

“A little word of advice, next time you try to sneak up on someone, be more discreet.” You advise cooly, eyes narrowing in irritation.

“I’ll keep that in mind,”

“What do you want Clarisse?”

Somehow, Clarisse managed to catch up to you. This conversation should be good unless it might end as your previous argument, and it wasn’t pretty.

“Can we talk?”

“No,” You deadpanned, resuming your walk away from her. Annoyed by her persistent behavior, she followed closely behind, highly dedicated in a conversation.

“Please, it’ll only be for five minutes,”

“So could my walk,”

“Five minutes, that’s all I ask,” She pleads.

Sighing in reluctance, giving Clarisse the benefit of the doubt, you faced her again.

What else could she possibly say to add more fuel to the fire? At least, you should hear her out.

“For what you said, I shouldn’t even give you 1 minute.” You agreed, shaking your head.

“Understandable,”

“I’m not talking to you,”

“That’s good because I wanna talk and hopefully you’ll listen to me,”

“Okay,”

“What’s wrong? Just last night, everything was good between us? What’s with the sudden switch up?”

“Last night wasn’t good…horrible, even…ok, I may have exaggerated that part. Whatever, last night was supposed to be extremely furious to you, but then I saw your saddened expression and my whole perspective changed. That’s why I listened to your worries and comforted you.” You explained to her, “Then I thought to try again tomorrow. You know what they say, everyday is a new day,”

“So you faked being sympathetic? Kinda say I didn’t expect that from you.”

“No, I didn’t, my concern was real and I regret doing so now.”

“Hmmm, kinda wish you kept that to yourself,”

“Oh, because you’re one to talk,” You reminded her in a flat tone. “Get to the point, Clarisse, why’d you truly want to talk to me?”

“Firstly, why did you choose me to go on this quest? Percy doesn’t like me at all and after our argument, I’m sure you don’t either.”

“Correct. Don’t feel flattered because I chose you as a quest mate, it’s common sense.”

“Then, why did you choose me?”

“Because you’re resourceful and a damn good fighter, I must admit.”

“Are you sure there isn’t anything else?” She persists, fidgeting with her hands.

“No, there isn’t. Would you like there to be something else?”

“No,” She sighed, casting her eyes downward. It was obvious to anyone that guilt was written all over her face. “What I said to you during our argument was–“

“Beyond repair, absolutely demeaning, extremely hurtful.” You listed off your thoughts with a shrug, “Gee, thanks,”

“Y/N–“

“Is that all?” You hastily cut her off. “Because you’re just wasting my precious time!”

“Yeah, I guess,”

“That’s the only good thing I heard leave your mouth since this conversation started,” You huffed in annoyance, spinning on your heel and storming off again. Just then, your mind clicked in remembrance of your other thoughts, probably knowing to hit Clarisse’s nerves. “Oh, and I almost forgot, guess you deserve a thank you for last night,”

She winced, “About last night.”

“Erase it. Scratch it. I don’t care whatever you do to just delete it from your memory, because it’s not happening again.” The Matthews girl interrupted with a faux smile, “It was a moment of weakness for the both of us. Unlike you, I feel sympathy for others so I disregarded my vendetta for a few minutes and comforted you.”

“But I don’t want to forget it. I swear, you have to believe me it’s been plaguing my mind ever since–“

“I don’t know what to believe from you nowadays, everything you say is a fucking lie.”

“Okay, I deserve that.”

“In all honesty, you deserve a lot more and you’re lucky I’m deciding to be peaceful.”

“I know what I said, you don’t have to remind me–“

“Too bad, I can do whatever I damn please, and that’s always reminding you! To quote a certain girl, “Our kiss didn’t mean anything. Never mind the fact that you stole my first kiss or your harsh declaration of never liking me.”

“I only said that out of anger, I wasn’t thinking straight.” She defended herself, backtracking when comprehending your statement, “Wait- what, I was your first kiss? I thought all those jokes were about my inexperience. As for your first kiss, you seemed pretty experienced to me.”

“Obviously I lied!”

“Why lie about not experiencing a first kiss?”

“So, I wouldn’t seem pathetic!”

“Y/N, you’re not pathetic!” She disagreed.

“Yes, I was, don’t try to convince me otherwise. I was pathetic for giving away my first kiss to some stranger, all because of some stupid game plan?” You chuckled, the bitterness easing into your tone, “When I envisioned my first kiss, I wanted it to be with someone I can completely trust and love wholeheartedly, not a girl who has daddy issues and is unable to communicate her emotions properly.”

“You’re gonna throw my daddy issues in there?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. I don’t dislike you for having daddy issues, everyone I know has daddy issues so that’s normal for me,” You shrugged, brushing aside the very common detail, “Luckily for us, I’m the one with the brains here and my mind is clear. The fact that you’re a good kisser only halfway makes up for that fuckery you trash-talked about my moms’ deaths.

“I’m a good kisser?” Clarisse shyly asked, rocking on her feet. It was a sight to behold, the current aggressive Ares girl now reduced to a blushing mess.

Were you going to let her live this memory down? Of course not, why should you?

Your head tilted, urging her to elaborate on, whether it’d be pure nonsense or logical sense.

“Am I? Because if we’re being honest, you were my first kiss too,”

“I think you being too honest got us on the outs now,” You recalled, clicking your tongue.

“Yeah, but like…” She shuffled on her feet, “Am I a good kisser?”

Out of all the things she chose to be focused on right now? Also having the outright audacity to plaster a giddy expression, her arrogance shining through, curiously waiting for an answer. What’s exactly stopping you from slapping her silly, just to reset her brain memory at the very best? No questions asked, just your action fulfilled.

However, you restrained from the temptation, “You can’t be serious right now! This isn’t about whether you’re a good kisser or not,”

“It’s not?”

“No, it’s not?! Focus please!”

“Right, sorry,” She sheepishly shakes her head, clearing her throat.

“If you want me to forgive you; try harder. So stop it with the shitty excuses and do better. Convince me that you’re worth forgiving about your harsh words. Chase after me if you want my forgiveness or even grovel if necessary. If you can’t do the simplest of things, then don’t even bother,”

“That’s all it takes?”

“Yes,” You nodded firmly, not a twitch of uncertainty in your expression.

“Give me my mother’s bracelet back too, I was stupid to give it to you in the first place,” Your hand eagerly stretched out, expecting the jewelry back in your claim.

She sighed, obliging to your fair request, solemnly glancing downwards at the bracelet. Taking off the jewelry, she placed it in your palm, hesitantly closing your hand to ensure your claim.

The exchange was awkward, to say the least. The quicker this quest goes by, the quicker you and Clarisse can forget about the entire affair. Or whatever she used to describe your fleeting situationship.

“Here, take your mother’s regret bracelet back.” You shoved your wrist, urging her to take it off.

She came closer, pausing momentarily once her hand rested on yours, holding and admiring it softly as you would disappear within seconds. A lazy smile overtakes her face, releasing a small hum when your approval continues, and rather melting into her touch.

However, all great fleeting moments must come to an end.

Blinking once, snapping from your trance-like state, giving her a once-over, and instantly yanking your hand. The Ares girl’s reaction time was quicker, reaching out to grab your hand before letting it drop to your side. Releasing a small gasp, Clarisse pulls your hand back on hers and finally meets your now-hardened gaze. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she frowned, ignoring the empty feeling in her stomach, and continued her statement, “No, I meant it when I said it,”

“Don’t pity me, Clarisse. The last thing I want is pity. After our argument and seemingly before our argument, all you did was pity me and make me look like an idiot!”

There was no kind undertone behind your words, only expressing the raging anger you truly felt.

“I’m not pitying you, I swear,” She frowned, attempting to reassure your outburst, “You’re not an idiot either. Please just keep it for now,”

“Fine, okay, whatever,” You sighed, giving up, glimpsing downward at her hand. A small subtle tingle rushes through your hand, observing how her hands fit perfectly onto yours.

Clearing your throat, straightening your body posture as your gaze reconnects with her, retracting your hand back. “I’ll hold on to it for now,”

“Thank you,” Her voice settles down into a gentle easy-going whisper.

“Don’t expect a congratulatory kiss either,” You commented, folding your arms.

“I’m not…look, can we talk later in private?” She noticed other campers peering around, trying to gain access to your conversation. Anywhere. Somewhere with you, so she can finally openly express her true feelings without the suffocating tense atmosphere of others. “Where there are less people around?”

“No! Whatever you wanna say, speak freely!” You exclaimed, gaining many bystanders’ attention.

“What are you doing? I thought we were making up.” She hushed, slightly tilting her head in a perfect mixture of annoyance and confusion.

“I changed my mind, what’s a little more drama?” You shrugged, earning a tiny scoff from the other girl.

A random camper dared to shout out, “Y’all our entertainment live is on, don’t miss it or you’ll regret it!”

Upon his loud announcement, another crowd of campers stormed over, joining the already-formed audience of campers.

“Does someone have the popcorn?”

“Yeah, it’s right there, don’t spill any!”

“Anyone want a pack of Oreos?”

“I have a chocolate bar.”

“Sure, wanna trade?”

“You heard that kid right?! Please tell me you heard that kid?!” Clarisse protests, pointing to the crowd of children. “They gathered a fucking audience, privacy is limited at this camp,”

“I heard him, loud and clear. Gonna give the people what they want since this camp doesn’t own a fucking television!”

“This had nothing to do with camp being on a low budget!” She argued, annoyed by your complete dismissal, “This conversation is between me and you. I would like to remain that way.”

“Since you had no problem disrespecting my moms’ deaths for the whole camp to overhear, this shouldn’t be too easy to repeat.”

Was that a bit harsh? Maybe. But that doesn’t matter, she disrespected your moms’ deaths and you weren’t going to forgive her because of a solemn apology. If Clarisse La Rue wanted to make things right with you, she’d do it and put in the effort without so many excuses.

At that, she stayed silent, contemplating her options on a further approach. Yet, she couldn’t do that with half of the camp watching her every move, and not very silently too. There was a beat of silence, her eyes analyzing every facial feature, attempting to understand your true emotions. An unknown knot formed in her stomach, noticing the slight strain on your forehead.

Then her eyes glanced over to the crowd of children, eagerly awaiting the next action. “Everyone scram!” She yelled, frustratingly at the audience of campers. Glancing at the crowd of campers, nobody moved and mumbled around to themselves.

“You think I’m playing?!” Her eyebrows raised in disbelief, daring the campers to challenge her.

She turned to you, her annoyed expression instantly dissolving at the sight of the other girl, glimpsing at the scrunchie around your wrist. “Can I…?” She motioned to the hair accessory.

“Yeah, whatever, it’s yours.” You roughly removed the scrunchie off your wrist and shoved it in her hand.

“Thanks,” She mumbles, lowering her head before returning to her aggressive persona and jogging closer over to the crowd. Weary of Clarisse’s presence, simultaneously shuffled backward with each step, ultimately distancing themselves further away.

Ironic how there’s strength in numbers yet they all seem to be terrified of her.

“You know what,” She clicks her tongue, tying her hair with the scrunchie. “Who wants to go first?”

Finally, the crowd of nosy campers disperses, everyone running away in all different directions.

“You’re so fucking unbelievable, La Rue!” You scoffed, getting ready to storm away once again. There she was, following after you, desperate to finish your conversation and not end in another argument.

“That was necessary, they wouldn’t leave!” She argued, a defensive tone increasing.

“So you threatened to fight them?!”

“Not all of them, I’m not stupid,”

“You sure?” You smirked, tilting your head.

Her mean expression instantly falters, your sarcastic remark creating doubtful thoughts. “Y- yes I am sure!” She stutters, finalizing an answer.

“Mhm…as much as our conversation had been torturous, I must go,” You nodded in agreement, starting to walk away, only realizing when she continued after you. “Will you follow me around until I talk?”

“If that’s what it takes, then yes, I will,” She insists with a firm head shake.

Rolling your eyes, you crossed your arms unimpressed and scoffed before continuing your walk.

That’s bullshit, she doesn’t have the energy to do that.

Hot on your heels behind you Clarisse acted, she followed after you.

You thought she was being immature, but she didn’t exactly prove you wrong either.

“You can’t be serious, Clarisse.”

“I am, I just wanna talk,”

“And how many times do I have to say it? I don’t wanna talk to you, not now and not ever!” You picked up your pace, irritated enough to flee from this impending argument.

“Camp Half-Blood isn’t that big, pretty girl. You can find places to hide but I will always find you,”

You chuckled at her statement, stopping your movements, turning around to face her, sending an evil glare in her direction. For a second, Clarisse looked almost hopeful that you stopped, finally giving her the chance to explain herself.

She internally gulped as you stepped closer, instantly regretting enlightening her hopes up too quickly.

“Listen to me well, Clarisse. What you said was completely unforgivable, so whatever I said about liking you is now gone!! Any kind of affliction I had with you is diminishing by every syllable I speak. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, just like my mother, Sally, right?”

“Y/N–“

“If you’re so determined to chase after me, let’s see how sorry you really feel,”

“What does that mean?” Her eyes widened.

You tilted your head to the side, observing both her facial and body movements, wanting to see her crumble underneath your powerful gaze.

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough,” Was all you said, venturing over to the cabins in sight.

At first, Clarisse was confused at your sudden arrival but once she viewed exactly what cabin you were sauntering toward, she immediately stopped in her tracks.

The Hephaestus cabin. The sworn rival of her father, so her enemy’s cabin by default. Most likely, Adrianna will be there. Clarisse is highly aware that Adrianna will enjoy this little spectacle between her new best friend and her sworn enemy. She hated when the blonde girl got too smug, especially if it was at Clarisse’s expense.

Suddenly, regaining the strength she had, grabbing onto your wrist, spinning you around to face her, and stepping closer to you. Close enough that your noses are touching, breathing intermingling with each other and your accelerating heartbeat betrayed the solemn expression. Meanwhile, your inner motions hinted at lingering thoughts so did your perspective of each other. Her gaze intently focused on your lips, admiring them while yours directed on her eyes, observing the dilation in them.

Slowly, she makes eye contact again, “Are you gonna tell her everything about us?” Her tone was calm and lighter, trying to remain understanding.

You breathed in slowly, drinking into her facial features, eyebrows furrowed in irritation.

The Matthews girl scowled, shoving her touch away from your wrist, ignoring how a frown immediately took over her face at your action. She hurt you way worse so don’t feel bad for her now, she deserved it.

“Us?!” You exclaimed, “There is no us! There will never be an us! Isn’t that what you said?!”

“At the time I was frustrated and acting so stupid,”

“Damn right, you were acting stupid!”

“I know that! I don’t need a constant reminder! What I did was fucked up, I get that–“

“No, I don’t think you get it! Too bad, Clarisse, I don’t care what you don’t need. And you fucking up doesn’t even cross the line of what you said. You’re so far past that white line, that you can’t even see it anymore, by now that line is a dot to you!”

“Don’t you think I feel guilty about what I said?! When I saw it written all over your face that I disrespected you I wanted to take everything back in an instant because the pain on your face could never compare to anything I’ve felt in my entire life.”

“So, congratulations on deciphering your emotions, next week, we’ll talk about your communication or commitment skills.” The Matthews girl sarcastically replied.

“I’d admit my part in our argument wasn’t my finest work,”

“That’s the difference between us, risse. Even if I knew your mom had died trying to save you, I would have never used it against you and disrespected both of you! I would have never ever said that against you, even if I was at my angriest, that’s called consideration of others’ feelings. But surprise, Clarisse La Rue doesn’t fucking know that or how to do that, she only knows how to hurt and take without feeling any goddamn remorse or sympathy and shame. I can’t believe I thought I had a crush on you.”

“Y/N, I said–“

“I told you to be quiet!” You yelled, weakly maintaining the shaky gasps escaping your mouth. Yet, even with your saddened voice cracks, effectively silencing The Ares girl.

“That’s the worst fucking part, Clarisse! Sorry doesn’t disregard someone’s death! Sorry is for an actual fixable mistake.”

“Y/N…” Her eyes were teary now, her cold mean demeanor vanishing within seconds, ultimately catching you by surprise. You’ve never seen Clarisse act like this, during the two days of knowing her. Often, she’s aggressive, suppressing her emotions, well the positive ones, but she seemed like another girl since this argument started. Staring at her waringly, your heart skipping a beat as she tries to latch onto your hand for comfort. “Please…stay. I’m so sorry,”

“No, no, no,” You shook your head, quickly forming unshed tears, causing a glossy vision and dismissing her comforting hand.

She couldn’t lure you in like that. If she didn’t want your argument to happen.

It was the consequences of her actions, a life lesson that Clarisse would firsthand experience. You would gladly show her but wished your current emotions weren’t also being dealt with by her entire being overall.

“I don’t want you here. I don’t want your fucking excuses. I don’t want any of your sick twisted versions of ill-sympathy.” With one last step forward, you stood ahead of Clarisse, noses now touching, and breaths intermingling into the hot summer air. For a while, you didn’t even know what your intentions were after this, but something in you didn’t want to pull away.

You scowled with a tense jaw, maintaining eye contact, and being certain to get your point across. Maybe, her stubborn mind will finally listen to her impatient heart.

“More importantly, I don’t want you anymore, so listen when I say this; stay the fuck away from me and we can coexist in harmony. Or else, I would go to Chiron and tell him I’m switching you out for another questmate, probably Luke or Chris.”

“I understand your anger toward me but don’t choose Luke or Chris. They’re not a good decision, not now or ever,”

“Why not? Are you jealous?”

“Why would I be jealous? You’re a lesbian, you don’t like boys overall,”

Okay, maybe that wasn’t your best comeback, but it gained a timely response.

“You don’t know who I like,” You took slight offense to her words, knowing she was ultimately right, but refusing to give her that satisfaction.

She stares at you unconvinced, sending a pointed gaze. “That lesbian pin on your shirt says otherwise.” Just like that, she stole her satisfaction away.

“Oh,” You bite your lip in embarrassment, glancing at the lesbian pin on your shirt, “Never mind that. What I say still stands!”

“You just shouldn’t trust them is all!”

“Way ahead of you, and now I have a new person to add to the ‘Don’t Trust’ List! Congratulations, Clarisse, you landed in the first place!”

“What–?” Confusion laced her features as you slammed the door in her face. From the amount of sheer force used in slamming the door, possibly alerting any of the Hephaestus children inside of their new guest.

Her footsteps were still heavy outside the door, contemplating whether to give you the necessary and asked space or to ignore your commands. A soft defeated sigh escapes her mouth, hearing the loud locking click and deciding to walk away from the cabin entirely, leaving you with unsettled thoughts.

Why was this so complicated? Why was Clarisse La Rue so complicated? Why is your love life already experiencing rocky times despite just starting? You’d expect the dramatics if one of you were dying, and the fragile bond grew immensely between the two. But not so soon and especially not by insulting your parents?

Everything was already a rollercoaster and you haven’t even left Camp Half-Blood as yet. Gods, is it only getting worse when you leave for the quest?

──── ⭑ ☆ ⭑ ────

You closed your eyes in frustration, rubbing your temples, trying to make the impending headache disappear. Adrianna comes into view, certainly not snooping and overhearing your fight with Clarisse.

“Yikes, what was that all about?” She joins you on the bed, flopping onto her stomach.

“Stop pretending like you didn’t overhear everything, Adri,” You exhaled, sluggishly walking towards her bed. The mattress was soft as you melted into the bedsheets, consumed by sudden tiredness. Sighing in relief, you laid on your back, gently shutting your eyes, certainly putting comfort first.

The intense feeling of Adrianna’s gaze fixated on her best friend didn’t go unnoticed as you peeked an eye open. Adrianna curiously peered down at you, expecting more information to include her insight.

“Yeah, you’re right,” She sighs, giving up the clueless act. The blonde girl noticed your saddened state and frowned at your gloominess, “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” Repeating the same dreadful conversation with Clarisse to Adrianna was a headache in itself.

There was no need to be sad and spiteful.

“I just wanna forget about all of it. The past argument and now the recent argument with Clarisse! It seems all we do is fight and I hate it, even if we’re not on good terms!”

“Wow, you two are like an old cranky lesbian married couple trapped in a loveless marriage,”

“Don’t compare us to people being in a loveless marriage. Between me and Clarisse, I’m the most lovable girl, and last night was a prime example,”

“What do you mean by that?” Her tone was sharp and studious, quickly interrogating you for more.

You flinched at her harsh tone, “Forget I said that!”

Sometimes, you talk before your brain can properly process it and confess anything that slips past your mouth. It’s been biting you in the ass recently.

“Y/N!”

“It’s not that big a deal!”

By your chirpy tone alone, your best friend figured out your true encounter with Clarisse.

According to her disappointed reaction, you assumed that indeed it was a bigger deal than expected. So this entire time, your best friend thought you were progressing slowly with Clarisse, but rather regressing quickly. Going back to your old ways only created more problems than solutions. In this sense, your words should’ve outshined your actions, possibly resolving your Clarisse problems by now and not further driving a wedge between the two of you.

If tensions were high enough, how would it be on the quest? It’s imperative to make up with Clarisse before the quest, hopefully putting your personal issues aside and focusing on the crucial quest. For the sake of the other quest mates and yourselves.

“You made out with Clarisse?! Again?!” She groaned incredulously, eyes widening in surprise.

“Be grateful you didn’t walk on us this time!” You attempted to salvage your weak actions, being reminded of the forest incident and her overexaggeration.

“Trust me, I am! Explain everything beforehand, and keep the details of your makeout to yourself,”

“She was sad when I went into her cabin.”

“You emotionally took advantage of her?!”

“Okay, I wouldn’t say that. She kissed me first! And is it bad if I wanna do it again?”

“And you kissed back because you felt sorry for her or because you actually wanted to?”

You scratched your head, avoiding her gaze, “To me, that sounds like the same thing,”

“I’m not gonna blame you for being addicted to a guilty pleasure, we’re half humans after all.” She shrugged her shoulders, understanding your point.

“But…the kiss wasn’t a guilty pleasure…at least not to me,”

“Y/N, Y/N, have you learned nothing from our talk last night?”

“Well…she’s chasing after me, so technically…”

“Working in your favor.” She acknowledged the benefit but returned to the main focus. “She was sad? What was she crying about? Was her red eyes and all that shit?”

“About her dad, Ares, and don’t tell her I told you that,”

“Who would I tell?” She disagreed, scrunching her eyebrows. “Is it wrong if I say it’s humorous when someone is crying?”

“Adri!” You lightly chastised her with a tight-lipped smile, “It’s not funny to laugh at someone else crying,”

“It is when it’s Clarisse La Rue! I don’t think nobody ever saw her cry before!” She continuously laughs, clutching her stomach, much to your dismay.

“Well, I’m certain she wants to keep it that way!”

You muttered, flipping over, using your elbows for balance as you lay on your stomach and Adrianna repeated the same action.

“Why do you still care for her even after all she did?!”

“I don’t know…maybe a part of me still cares for her despite her harsh words.”

“Ok, making out with La Rue twice can not have you whipped already.” Another eye roll is earned with the statement, her face contorted in pure disbelief.

“It’s working now.” You mused.

“Did you let any of Aphrodite’s or Hecate’s kids use you as a test subject these past few days?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then your stupidness is of your own accord.” She concludes, flicking your forehead in disappointment. A sharp yelp of pain escapes your lips, clutching your head in pain, awaiting the passing pain.

“Not helping Adri.” You mutter before a glare is sent her way.

“This is perfect blackmail material, with this, you can make Clarisse La Rue your bitch. Oh, this is so golden!” She cackles, blonde curls tickling her face.

“And since she’s coming on the quest, me and Percy can have front-row seats of her groveling for your attention. Oh, that’ll be a quest to remember.”

“You had this plan ready for how long?!”

“Since the day of the argument.”

“Wow…just wow,”

“I’m not even sorry, I can’t let my best friend go unscathed but she embarrassed and humiliated you, in front of everyone. Campers are still talking about the argument.”

“Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,”

Advice isn’t your strongest suit, and neither was hers. You realized that, but it didn’t stop you from saying it.

“You already ensured that from your makeout sessions with La Rue,” She retorted, earning a wry laugh from you.

“We’re best friends, our minds are mostly identical and full of sarcasm,”

“You’re right,”

“Bitch, you’re my soulmate, totally platonic,” She chirped, taking hold of your hand, the soft grip as you squeezed your grip on her hand.

You chuckle, “Did you just quote Maddy from Euphoria?”

“Who’s Maddy from Euphoria?”

“She’s played by a talented gorgeous actress,”

“It sucks camp doesn’t have internet, I can’t even have celebrity crushes,”

“Forgot this camp doesn’t own technology or cable.” You huffed, fidgeting with your braids, “One of these days, I’m making you watch all of my favorite shows and movies,”

Silence overwhelmed the cabin, the outside activities being drowned out, and a calm atmosphere lingered around. “Do you wanna…get high?” She hesitantly asked, wanting to ease the sudden tension rising.

It definitely took your mind off of Clarisse, but her ideal approach wasn’t her best work. Using drugs to distract your aching heart, entirely confused about Clarisse’s feelings about you.

“Adri!” You yelled, eyes widening in astonishment at her brazen suggestion.

“What?” She shrugged her shoulders, “Don’t worry, I’ll do it too so you won’t feel alone!”

“What? You’re offering me drugs in my time of need?”

“Yes, and…? You may feel better about this whole Clarisse situation.”

“Hard pass on the drugs, I’m sad, not stupid,”

“Okay, whatever you say,”

“Besides where did you get drugs from?”

“The older Demeter kids started an illegal drug trade and I happen to be a good employee of them,”

“What do you pay with? Aren’t you broke?! Isn’t everyone at this camp broke?”

“We pay them in gold drachmas.”

“Octopus-looking coins?”

“Yep,”

“Of course, my best friend is a stoner,” You shake your head in disbelief.

“Hey, you say that like it’s a bad thing!” She scoffs at your accusation, “I just get high when I’m stressed! I’m not insanely addicted and will go fucking crazy if I lacked weed,”

“How often is that? Daily or weekly?”

“Depends if many campers bother me,”

“So, daily then!”

“Relax, I have total self-control,”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,”

“Please tell me, you’re not planning on smuggling drugs on our quest.”

“Of course not. Let me just take them out of my bag,” She trailed off, avoiding eye contact, reaching out to grab her packing bag. A well-packaged stash of marijuana in a ziploc bag hidden floorboard underneath her bed. The blonde girl mustered a weak smile, holding your attention.“Can’t I just sneak a tiny bit of it?”

“Absolutely not,” You rebutted, blankly staring as the serious demeanor never faded despite the uncontrollable smile creeping onto your face.

“Why not?”

“Because I said so,”

“You’re not the boss of me!”

“But I am on this quest. Anything else, Adri?”

“Nope,” She exhaled, defeated at your statement.

You hummed, crossing your arms, quite content with the given response. “My thoughts exactly.”

“If this quest is so super boring, I will blame you.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Right, you’re Poseidon’s youngest daughter, we’re gonna be fighting for our lives, aren’t we?”

“Percy is my brother.”

“Yeah so?”

“He’s also a forbidden child, like me.”

“So double the trouble? In all honesty, my survival rate wasn’t even that high to begin with. I’m just here for the thrill of adrenaline, not the cold chill of death.”

“…I’ll do my best to not put your life on the line.” An immediate eye roll was quickly followed by a hard backhand slap to Adrianna’s head.

Quickly tending to her wounded head, fighting through a smile with gritted teeth, “Ah, you’re such a great friend.”

“I know,” You smiled, eyes sparkling in triumph and playfully bopping her nose.

“What would I do without you?” The blonde girl narrowed her eyes as the head-stinging sensation disappeared.

“Save the semantics for later,”

Adrianna fought another snarky remark, “Wow, how thoughtful of you.” Sarcasm was that sentence. She made sure of it.

For sure, this quest was going to be an unforgettable experience.

──── ⭑ ☆ ⭑ ────

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